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THE INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE

Of Literature, Art, and Science.

Vol. II. NEW-YORK, FEBRUARY 1, 1851. No. III


Transcriber's Note: Minor typos have been corrected and footnotes moved
to the end of the article.




THOMAS CHATTERTON.

[Illustration]


In the history of English literature there is no name that inspires a
profounder melancholy than that of the "marvellous boy" Chatterton, of
whom it must be said that in genius he surpassed any one who ever died
so young, and that in suffering he had larger experience than almost any
one who has lived to old age. Shelley says of him:

      "'Mid others of less note came one frail form,
        A phantom among men; companionless
      As the last cloud of an expiring storm,
        Whose thunder is its knell; he, as I guess,
        Had gazed on Nature's naked loveliness,
      Aclaeon-like, and now he fled astray,
        With feeble steps o'er the world's wilderness,
      And his own thoughts along that rugged way
    Pursued, like raging hounds, their father and their prey."

And Wordsworth, Coleridge, Keats, Byron, Southey, Scott, Kirke White,
Landor, Montgomery, and others, have laid immortal flowers upon his
tomb, to make the heart ache that we did not live in time to save the
"sleepless soul" from "perishing in his pride."

Of the genius of poor Chatterton, Campbell says, "I would rather lean to
the utmost enthusiasm of his admirers, than to the cold opinion of those
who are afraid of being blinded to the defects of the poems attributed
to Rowley, by the veil of obsolete phraseology which is thrown over
them. If we look to the ballad of Sir Charles Bawdin, and translate it
into modern English, we shall find its strength and interest to have no
dependence on obsolete words. The inequality of his various productions
may be compared to the disproportions of the ungrown giant. His works
had nothing of the definite neatness of that precocious talent which
stops short in early maturity. His thirst for knowledge was that of a
being taught by instinct to lay up materials for the exercise of great
and undeveloped powers. Even in his favorite maxim, that a man by
abstinence and perseverance might accomplish whatever he pleased, may be
traced the indications of a genius which nature had meant to achieve
immortality. Tasso alone can be compared to him as a juvenile prodigy."

Mrs. S. C. HALL gives us, in her "Pilgrimages to English Shrines," in
the _Art Journal_, the following interesting sketches of scenes
connected with his history:--


THOMAS CHATTERTON.

CHATTERTON--poor Chatterton! We had been brooding sadly over his
fragment of a life, ending at seventeen--when ordinary lives begin--and
turning page after page of Horace Walpole's literary fooleries, to find
his explanations and apologies for want of feeling and sympathy, which
his flippant style, and heartless commentaries, illustrate to
perfection; and we closed, with an aching heart, the volumes of both the
parasite of genius, and him who was its mightiest creation and most
miserable victim:--

    "The marvellous boy who perished in his pride."

It was only natural for us to recall the many instances we have
ourselves known, during the past twenty years, or more, of sorrow and
distress among those who sought distinction in the thorny labyrinths of
literature;--those who

    ----"waged with Fortune an eternal war,
    Checked by the scoff of Pride, by Envy's frown,
    And Poverty's unconquerable bar;"

and those who, after a brief struggle with untoward fate, left the
battle-field, to die, "unpitied and unknown!"

We have seen the career of a young literary man commenced with the first
grand requisite of all excellence worth achieving--ENTHUSIASM; high
notions of moral honor, and a warm devotedness to that "calling" which
lifts units to a pinnacle formed by the dry bones of hundreds slain. We
have seen that enthusiasm frozen by disappointment--that honor corrupted
by the contamination of dissipated men--that devotedness to THE CAUSE
fade away before the great want of nature--want of bread--which it had
failed to bestow. We have seen, ay, in one little year, the flashing eye
dimmed--the round cheek flattened--the bright, hopeful creature, who
went forth into the world--rejoicing like the sun to run his
course--dragged from the waters of our leaden Thames, a discolored
remnant of mortality--recognized only by the mother who looked to him
for all the world could give!

This is horrible--but it is a tragedy soon played out. There are
hundreds at this moment possessed of the _consciousness_ of power
without the _strength_ to use it. To such, a little help might lead to a
life of successful toil--perhaps the happiest life a man can lead. A
heritage of usefulness is one of peace to the last. We knew another
youth, of a more patient nature than he of whom we have just spoken. He
seemed never weary. We have witnessed his nightly toil; his daily labor;
the smiling patience with which he endured the sneers levelled, _only_
in English society, against "_mere_ literary men." We remember when, on
the first day of every month, he used to haunt the booksellers' shops to
look over the magazines, cast his eyes down the table of contents, just
to see if "his poem" or "his paper" had been inserted--then lay them
down one after another with a pale sickly smile, expressive of
disappointment, and turn away with a look of gentle endurance. The
insertion of a sonnet, for which perhaps he might receive seven
shillings, would set him dreaming again of literary immortality; and at
last the dream was realized by an accident, or rather, to speak
advisedly, by a good Providence. He became known--known at once--blazed
forth; something he had written attracted the town's attention, and
ladies in crowded drawing-rooms stood upon chairs to see that poor,
worn, pale man of letters: and magazines, and grave reviews, and
gayly-bound albums, all waited for his contributions--charge what he
pleased; and flushed with fame, and weighed down with money--money paid
for the very articles that had been rejected without one civil line of
courtesy--the great sustaining hope of his life was realized; he married
one as worn and pale with the world's toil, as himself--married--and
died within a month! The tide was too tardy in turning!

Who shall say how many men of genius have walked, like unhappy
Chatterton, through the valley of the shadow of death, and found no
guide, no consolation--no hope; if, the one GREAT HOPE had not been most
mercifully planted early in their hearts and minds?

It was with melancholy pleasure that, during the past summer, our
Pilgrimage was made to the places connected with the boy's memory, in
Bristol; first to Colston's school, in which he was educated;[1] next to
the dull district in which he was either born or passed his boyhood;
then to the Institution, where his "Will," a mad document, and other
memoranda connected with his memory, are preserved with a degree of
care, that seems--or is--a mockery, when contrasted with the worse than
indifference of the city to all that concerned him when alive; next to
the house of Master Canynge, and next to the monument (Redcliffe Church)
with which his name will be associated as long as one of its stones
remains upon another; chewing the cud of sweet and bitter fancies
through its long-drawn aisles; pondering sadly in the muniment-room,
where the cofres that suggested the forgeries, still lie rotting; and
gazing with mingled sorrow and surprise on the "Cenotaph to Chatterton,"
which now, taken to pieces, occupies the corner of a damp vault--

    "A solemn cenotaph to thee,
    Sweet Harper of time-shrouded minstrelsy!"

Ah! such books as we have been reading, and such memories as we have
been recalling, are, after all, unprofitable--a darkness without light.
We closed our eyes upon the world, which, in our momentary bitterness,
we likened to one great charnel-house, entombing all things glorious and
bright. We walked to the window; the rain was descending in
torrents--pour, pour; pattens clattered in the areas, and a solitary
postman made the street echo with his impatient knocks. A poor
organ-boy, whom we have long known, was moving, rather than walking, in
the centre; his hat flapped over his eyes by the rain, yet still he
turned the handle, and the damp music crawled forth: he paused opposite
our door, turned up the leaf of his hat, and looked upward; we missed
the family of white mice which usually crawled on the top of his organ:
poor child, he had sheltered them in his bosom; it was nothing more than
natural that he should do so, and the act was commonplace enough--but it
pleased us--it diminished our gloom. And we thought, if the great ones
of the land would but foster the talent that needs, and deserves,
protection from the storms of life, as that lonely boy sheltered the
creatures intrusted to his care, the world would be all the better. We
do not mean to insult the memory of such a genius as Chatterton by
saying that he required a PATRON--the very sound is linked with a
servility that degrades a noble nature; but we do say he sadly wanted a
FRIEND--some one who could have understood and appreciated his wonderful
intellectual gifts; and whose strength of mind and position in society
would have given power to direct and control the overleaping and
indomitable pride which ultimately destroyed "the Boy." His career
teaches a lesson of such rare value to all who seek distinction in any
sphere of life, that we would have it considered well--as a beacon to
warn from ruin.

    "Oh! what a tangled web we weave,
    When first we practise to deceive!"

Despite his marvellous talents, his industry, his knowledge, his
magnitude of mind, his glorious imagination, his bold satire, his
independence, his devotional love of his mother and sister--if he had
lived through a long age of prosperity, Chatterton could never have been
trusted, nor esteemed, _from his total want of truth_. His is the most
striking example upon record of the necessity for uprightness in word
and deed. Where a great end is to be achieved--there must be
consistency, a union between noble daring and noble deeds--there must be
Truth! No man has ever deviated from it without losing not only the
respect of the thinking, but even the confidence of the unwise.
Chatterton's earliest idea seems to have been how to deceive; and, were
it possible to laugh at youthful fraud, there would be something
irresistibly ludicrous in the lad bewildering the old pewterer, Burgum.
Imagine the fair-haired rosy boy, the brightness of his extraordinary
eyes increased by the covert mischief which urged him forward--fancy his
presenting himself to Master Burgum, who, dull as his own pewter, had
the ambition, which the cunning youth fostered, of being thought of an
"ancient family"--fancy Chatterton in his poor-school dress presenting
himself to this man, whose business, Chatterton's biographer, Mr. Dix,
tells us, was carried on in the house now occupied by Messrs. Sander,
Bristol Bridge,[2] and informing him that he had made a
discovery--presenting to him various documents, with a parchment
painting of the De Burgham arms, in proof of his royal descent from the
Conqueror.

[Illustration: BRISTOL BRIDGE.]

Mr. Dix assures us, "that never once doubting the validity of the
record, in which his own honors were so deeply implicated, he presented
the poor bluecoat-boy, who had been so fortunate in _finding_ so much,
and so assiduous in his endeavors to collect the remainder, with _five
shillings_!" Blush, Bristol, blush at this record of a citizen's
meanness; the paltry remuneration could have hardly tempted even so poor
a lad as Thomas Chatterton to continue his labors for the love of gain;
yet he furnished Burgum with further information, loving the indulgence
of his mystifying powers, and secretly satirizing the folly he duped.

It is quite impossible to trace back any circumstance which could, to
speak advisedly, have led to such a course of deception as was practised
by this boy; born of obscure parents, his father, a man of dissolute
habits, was sub-chanter of the Cathedral, and also master of the free
school in Pyle-street; this clever, but harsh, and dissolute man died in
August, 1752, and the poet was born on the 20th of the following
November.[3] Such a parent could not be a loss; he would have been, in
all human probability, as careless of his son as he was of his wife;
and, at all events, Chatterton had not the misery of early cruelty to
complain of, for he had a mother, tender and affectionate, although
totally unfit to guide and manage his wayward nature. Her first grief
with him arose, strange as it may seem, from his inaptitude for
learning--as a child he disdained A B C, and indulged himself with his
own thoughts. When nearly seven years old he "fell in love," to use his
mother's phrase, "with an illuminated French manuscript," and thus
learned his letters from the very sort of thing he spent his early days
in counterfeiting. His progress was wonderful, both as to rapidity and
extent, and his pride kept pace therewith. A friend, wishing to give the
boy and his sister a present of china-ware, asked him what device he
would choose to ornament his with. "Paint me," he said, "an angel with
wings and a trumpet, to trumpet my name over the world." Here was a
proof of innate ambition; if his mother had had an understanding mind,
this observation would have taught her to read his character. Such
ambition could have been directed,--and directed to noble deeds.

[Illustration: BIRTHPLACE OF CHATTERTON.]

[Illustration: CHATTERTON AS DOORKEEPER.]

He was admitted into the Blue Coat School, commonly called "Colston's
School,"[4] before he was eight years old, and his enthusiastic joy at
the prospect of learning so much, was damped by finding that, to quench
his thirst for knowledge, "there were not books enough." When he took in
rotation the post of doorkeeper at the school, he used to indulge
himself in making verses,[5] and his sister, who loved him tenderly,
presented him with a pocket-book, in which he wrote verses, and gave it
back to her the following year. There was nothing in this species of
tuition or companionship to create or foster either the imitations or
the satire he indulged in, he had neither correction nor assistance from
any one. Even before his apprenticeship to Mr. John Lambert, he felt he
was not appreciated or understood; perhaps no one ever _acted_ a greater
satire upon his own profession than this harsh attorney, who deemed his
apprentice on a level with his footboy. He must have been a man utterly
devoid of perception and feeling; his insulting contempt of what he
could not understand added considerably to the sarcastic bitterness of
Chatterton's nature, and it is easy to picture the boy's feelings when
his productions were torn by this tyrant and scattered on the office
floor! He has his reward. John Lambert, the scrivener, is only
remembered as the insulter of Thomas Chatterton![6]

[Illustration: TOMB OF CANYNGE.]

It is impossible not to pause at every page of this boy's brief but
eventful life, and lament that he had no friend; reading, as we do, by
the light of other days, we can see so many passages where judicious
counsel, given with the intelligent affection that would at once have
opened his heart, _must_ have saved him; his heart, once laid bare to
friendship, would have been purified by the air of truth; it was its
_closeness_ which infected his nature. And yet the scrivener considered
him a good apprentice. His industry was amazing; his frequent employment
was to copy precedents, and one volume, in his handwriting, which is
still extant, consists of three hundred and forty-four closely-written
folio pages. There was in that gloomy office an edition of Camden's
"Britannia," and, having borrowed from Mr. Green, a bookseller,
Speight's "Chaucer," he compiled therefrom an ingenious glossary, for
his own use, in two parts. "The first," Mr. Dix says, "contained old
words, with the modern English--the second, the modern English, with the
old words; this enabled him to turn modern English into old, as an
English and Latin dictionary enables the student to turn English into
Latin." How miserable it is, amongst these evidences of his industry and
genius, to find that all his ingenuity turned to the furtherance of a
fraud. He seems to have been morally dead to every thing like the
disgrace attending falsehood; for, when struggling afterwards in London
to appear prosperous while starving, he wrote home to Mr. Catcott, and
concludes his letter by stating that he intended going abroad as a
_surgeon_, adding, "Mr. Barrett has it in his power to assist me
greatly, by _his giving me a physical character_; I hope he will." He
seems to have had no idea that he was asking Mr. Barrett to do a
dishonest action.

But the grand fraud of his short life was boldly dared by this boy in
his sixteenth year. Why he should have ever descended to forge when he
felt the high pressure of genius so strong within him, is inexplicable.
Why, with his daring pride, he should have submitted to be considered a
transcriber, where he originated, is more than marvellous. The spell of
a benighting antiquity seemed around him; it might lead one to a belief
in "Gramarie"--that some fake spirit had issued forth from the "cofre of
Mr. Canynge,"[7] so long preserved in the room over the north porch of
this Bristol church of Redcliffe--a "_cofre_" secured by six keys, all
of which being lost or mislaid, the vestry ordered the "_cofre_" to be
opened; and not only "Canynge's _cofre_," but all the "_cofres_," in the
mysterious chamber: not from any love of antiquity, but because of the
hope of obtaining certain title-deeds supposed to be contained therein.
Well, these intelligent worthies, having found what concerned
themselves, took them away, leaving behind, _and open_, parchments and
documents which might have enriched our antiquarian literature beyond
all calculation.[8] Chatterton's father used to carry these parchments
away wholesale, and covered with the precious relics, bibles, and
school-books: most likely other officers of the church did the same.
After his death, his widow conveyed many of them, with her children and
furniture, to her new residence, and, woman-like, formed them into dolls
and thread-papers. In process of time, the child's attention being
aroused by the illuminated manuscripts, he conveyed every bit of
parchment he could find to a small den of a room in his mother's house,
which he called his own: and, when he grew a little older, set forth,
with considerable tact, in answer to all questions asked of him as to
how he obtained the poems and information, that he himself had searched
the old "_cofres_,"[9] and discovered the poems of the Monk Rowley.
Certainly he could not have had a better person to trumpet his discovery
than "a talkative fool" like Burgum, who was so proud of his pedigree as
to torment the officers of the Herald's College about his ancestors; and
he was not the only one imposed on by Chatterton's talent. His
simple-minded mother bore testimony to his joy at discovering those
"written parchments upon the covered books:" and, of course, each
discovery added to his antiquarian knowledge; for, though no trace
exists of the Monk Rowley's originals, there is little doubt that on
some of those parchments he found enough to set him thinking, and with
him to think and act was the same thing; indeed, there is one passage in
his poems bearing so fully upon the fraud, that we transcribe it. He is
writing of having discharged all his obligations to Mr. Catcott:--

    "If ever obligated to thy purse,
    _Rowley discharges all, my first chief curse!_
    For had I never known the antique lore,
    I ne'er had ventured from my peaceful shore,
    But, happy in my humble sphere, had moved
    Untroubled, unsuspected, unbeloved."[10]

[Illustration: MUNIMENT ROOM.]

A Mr. Rudhall[11] said that, when Chatterton wrote on a parchment, he
held it over a candle to give it the appearance of antiquity; and a Mr.
Gardener has recorded, that he once saw Chatterton rub a parchment over
with ochre, and afterwards rub it on the ground, saying, "that was the
way to antiquate it." This _expose_ of Chatterton's craft is so at
variance with his usual caution that we can hardly credit it. A humble
woman, Mrs. Edkins, speaks of his spending all his holidays in the
little den of a room we have mentioned, where he _locked_ himself in,
and would remain the entire day without meals, returning with his hands
and face completely begrimed with dirt and charcoal; and she well
remembers his having a charcoal pounce-bag and parchment and letters on
a little deal table, and all over the ground was a litter of parchments;
and she and his mother at one time fancied he intended to discolor
himself and run away to the gipsies; but afterwards Mrs. Edkins believed
that he was laboring at the Rowley manuscripts, and she thought he got
himself bound to a lawyer that he might get at old law books. The
testimony she bears to his affectionate tenderness towards his mother
and sister is touching: while his pride led him to seek for notoriety
for himself, it was only to render his mother and sister comfortable
that he coveted wealth.

It is not our province to enter into the controversy as to whether the
MSS. were originals or forgeries: it would seem to be as undecided
to-day as it was three quarters of a century ago; the boy "died and made
no sign:" and the world has not been put in possession of any additional
facts by which the question might be determined: the balance of proof
appears in favor of those who contend they were the sole offspring of
his mind, suggested merely by ancient documents from which he could have
borrowed no idea except that of rude spelling; yet it is by no means
impossible that poems did actually exist, and came into his hands, which
he altered and interpolated, but which he did not create.

In aid of his plans, Chatterton first addressed himself to Dodsley, the
Pall Mall bookseller, once with smaller poems, and afterwards on behalf
of the greatest production of his genius--the tragedy of "Ella;" but the
booksellers of those days were not more intellectual than those at the
present: they devoured the small forgery of the great Horace Walpole,
"The Castle of Otranto," and rejected the magnificence of a nameless
composition. This man's neglect drove the young poet to the "Autocrat of
Strawberry Hill." In reply he at first received a polished letter. The
literary trifler was not aware of the poverty and low station of his
correspondent, and so was courteous; he is "grateful" and "singularly
obliged;" bowing, and perfumed, and polite. Other communications
followed. Walpole inquired--discovered the poet's situation; and _then_
he changed! The poor fond boy! how hard and bitter was the rebuff. How
little had he imagined that _the_ Walpole's soul was not, _by five
shillings_, as large as the Bristol pewterer's!--that he who was an
adept at literary imposition could have been so harsh to a
fellow-sinner! The volume of his works containing "Miscellanies of
Chatterton" is now before us. Hear to his indignant honesty! He declares
that "all the house of forgery are relations; and that though it be but
just to Chatterton's memory to say his poverty never made him claim
kindred with the richest, or more enriching branches, yet that his
ingenuity in counterfeiting styles, and I believe hands, might easily
have led him to those more facile imitations of prose--promissory
notes." The literal meaning of this paragraph stamps the littleness of
the man's mind. A slight--a very slight effort on his part might have
turned the current of the boy's thoughts, and saved him from misery and
death. We do not call Chatterton "his victim," because we do not think
him so; but he, or any one in his position, might have turned him from
the love of an unworthy notoriety to the pursuit of a laudable ambition.
Following in the world's track (which he was ever careful not to
outstep), when the boy was dead, Walpole bore eloquent testimony to his
genius. The words of praise he gives his memory are like golden grains
amid the chaffy _verbiage_ with which he defends himself. If he
perceived this at first, why not have come forward hand and heart, and
shouted him on to honest fortune? But, like all _clique kings_, he made
no general cause with literature; he only smiled on his individual
worshippers, who could applaud when he said, with cruel playfulness,
"that singing birds should not be too well fed!"

His master, Lambert, dismissed the youth from his service, because he
had reason to suppose he meditated self-destruction; and then he
proceeded to London. How buoyant and full of hope he was during his
probationary days there, his letters to his mother and sister testify;
his gifts, also, extracted from his necessities, are evidences of the
bent of his mind--fans and china--luxuries rather than necessaries; but
in this, it must be remembered, his judgment was in fault, not his
affections. In all things he was swayed and guided by his pride,--his
indomitable pride. The period, brief as it was, of his sojourn in the
great metropolis proved that Walpole, while he neglected him so cruelly,
understood him perfectly, when he said that "nothing in Chatterton could
be separated from Chatterton--that all he did was the effervescence of
ungovernable impulse, which, chameleon-like, imbibed the colours of all
it looked on it was Ossian, or a Saxon monk, or Gray, or Smollett, or
Junius." His first letter to his mother is dated, April the 26th, 1770.
He terminated his own existence on the 24th of August in the same year.
He battled with the crowded world of London, and, what was in his case a
more dire enemy than the world, his overwhelming pride, for nearly four
months. Alas! how terrible are the reflections which these few weeks
suggest! Now borne aloft upon the billows of hope, sparkling in the
fitful brightness of a feverish sun, and then plunged into the slough of
despair, his proud, dark soul disclaiming all human participation in a
misery exaggerated by his own unbending pride. Let us not talk of
denying sympathy to persons who create their own miseries; they endure
agonies thrice told. The paltry remuneration he received for his
productions is recorded by himself. Among the items is one as
extraordinary as the indignant emotion it excites:--

    Received from Mr. Hamilton, for 16 songs,            10s. 6d.
    Of Mr. Hamilton, for "Candidus" and Foreign Journal   2s.!!

We are wearied for him of the world's dark sight: yet in the same book
is recorded that the same publisher owed him L10 19s. 6d.! This sum
might have saved him, but he was too proud to ask for money; too proud
to complain; too proud to accept the invitation of his acquaintances, or
his landlady, to dine or sup with them; and all too proud to hint, even
to his mother and sister, that he was any thing but prosperous. Ardent
as if he had been a son of the hot south, he had learned nothing of
patience or expediency. His first residence was at Mrs. Walmsley's, in
Shoreditch, but, doubtless, finding the lodging too expensive, he
removed to a Mr. Angell's, sac (or dress) maker, 4, Brook Street,
Holborn. This woman, who seems to have been of a gentle nature, finding
that for two days he had confined himself to his room, and gone without
sustenance, invited him to dine with her; but he was offended, and
assured her he was not hungry. It is quite impossible to account for
this uncalled for pride. It was his nature. Lord Byron said he was mad:
according to _his_ view of the case, all eccentricity is madness; but in
the case of unhappy Chatterton, that madness which arises from "hope
deferred," was unquestionably endured. Three days before his death,
pursuing, with a friend, the melancholy and speculative employment of
reading epitaphs in the churchyard of St. Pancras, absorbed by his own
reflections, he fell into a new-made grave. There was something akin to
the raven's croak, the death-fetch, the fading spectre, in this
foreboding accident: he smiled at it, and told his friend he felt the
sting of speedy dissolution:--

                  "Then black despair,
    The shadow of a starless night, was thrown
    Over the earth on which he moved alone."

At the age of seventeen years and nine months, his career ended; it was
shown that he had swallowed arsenic in water, and so--

    "perished in his pride!"

An inquest was held, and yet though Englishmen--men who could read and
write, and hear--who must have heard of the boy's talents, either as a
poet, a satirist, or a political writer--though these men were guided by
a coroner, one, of course, in a more elevated sphere than those who
usually determine the intentions of the departed soul--yet was there not
one--NOT ONE of them all--with sufficient veneration for the casket
which had contained the diamond--not one with enough of sympathy for the
widow's son--to wrap his body in a decent shroud, and kneel in Christian
piety by his grave!--not one to pause and think that, between genius and
madness,

    "What thin partitions do their bounds divide!"

In a letter from Southey to Mr. Britton (dated in 1810, to which we have
already referred, and which Mr. Britton kindly submitted to us with
various other correspondence on the subject), he says, "there can now be
no impropriety in mentioning what could not be said when the collected
edition of Chatterton's works was published,--that there was a taint of
insanity in his family. His sister was once confined; and this is a key
to the eccentricities of his life, and the deplorable rashness of his
death." Of this unhappy predisposition, indeed, he seems to have been
himself conscious, for "in his last will and testament," written in
April, 1770, before he quitted Bristol, when he seems to have meditated
suicide--although, from the mock-heroic style of the document his
serious design may be questioned,--he writes, "If I do a mad action, it
is conformable to every action of my life, which all savored of
insanity." His "sudden fits of weeping, for which no reason could be
assigned," when a mere child, were but the preludes to those gloomy
forebodings which haunted him when a boy. His mother had said, "she was
often apprehensive of his going mad."

And so,--the verdict having been pronounced, he was cast into
the burying-ground of Shoe Lane work-house--the paupers'
burying-ground,--the end, as far as his clayey tabernacle was concerned,
of all his dreamy greatness. When the ear was deaf to the worship of the
charmer, he received his meed of posthumous praise. Malone, Croft, Dr.
Knox, Wharton, Sherwin, Pye, Mrs. Cowley, Walter Scott, Haley,
Coleridge, Dermody, Wordsworth, Shelley, William Howitt, Keats, who
dedicated his "Endymion" to the memory of his fellow-genius; the burly
Johnson, whose praise seemed unintentional; the gentle and most
Christian poet, James Montgomery,--have each and all offered tributes to
his memory. Robert Southey, whose polished, strong and long unclouded
mind was a treasure-house of noble-thoughts, assisted Mr. Cottle in
providing for the poet's family by a collection of his works; and,
though last, not least, excellent John Britton has labored all his long
life to render justice to the poor boy's memory. To him, indeed, it was
mainly owing, that the cenotaph to which we have referred (and which now
lies mouldering in the Church vault), was erected in the graveyard of
Redcliffe Church, by subscription, of which the contributions of Bristol
were very small.[12]

Chatterton was another warning, not only

               "Against self-slaughter
    There is a prohibition so divine--"

but that no mortal should ever abandon Hope! for a reverend
gentleman,--who was, in all things, what, unhappily, Horace Walpole was
not,--had actually visited Bristol, to seek out and aid the boy while he
lay dead in London.

    "Beware of desperate steps; the darkest day,
    Live till to-morrow, will have passed away."

[Illustration: CHATTERTON'S MONUMENT.]

The knowledge of these facts cheered us as we set forth to the
neighborhood of Shoe-Lane to see the spot where he had been laid. Alas,
it is very hard to keep pace with the progress of London changes. After
various inquiries, we were told that Mr. Bentley's printing office
stands upon the ground of Shoe-Lane Workhouse. We ascended the steps
leading to this shifting emporium of letters, and found ourselves face
to face with a kind gentleman, who told us all he knew upon the subject,
which was, that the printing office stands--not upon the burying-ground
of Shoe-Lane Workhouse, where he had always understood Chatterton was
buried--but upon the church burial-ground. He showed us a very curious
basso-relievo, in cut-stone, of the Resurrection, which he assured us
had been "time out of mind" above the entrance to the Shoe-Lane
burying-place "over the way," and which is now the site of Farrington
Market. This, when "all the bones" were moved to the old graveyard in
Gray's Inn Road, had come "somehow" into Mr. Bentley's possession.

We were told also that Mr. Taylor, another printer, had lived, before
the workhouse was pulled down, where his office-window looked upon the
spot pointed out as the grave of Chatterton, and that a stone, "a rough
white stone," was remembered to have been "set in a wall" near the grave
with "Thomas Chatterton" and something else "scratched" into it.

We strayed back through the damp chill of the city's evening fog to the
market-place, hoping, even unconsciously, to stand beside the pit into
which the marvellous boy had been thrust; but we grew bewildered. And as
we stood upon the steps looking down upon the market--alone in feeling,
and unconscious of every thing but our own thoughts--St. Paul's bell
struck, full, loud, and clear; and, casting our eyes upward, we saw its
mighty dome through the murky atmosphere. We became still more "mazed,"
and fancied we were gazing upon the monument of Thomas Chatterton!

FOOTNOTES:

[1] Of Edward Colston, well and beautifully has William Howitt said,
"You cannot help feeling the grand beneficence of those wealthy
merchants, who, like Edward Colston, make their riches do their generous
will for ever; who become thereby the actual fathers of their native
cities to all generations; who roll off, every year of the world's
progress, some huge stone of anxiety from the hearts of poor widows; who
clear the way before the unfriended, but active and worthy lad; who put
forth their invisible hands from the heaven of their rest, and become
the genuine guardian angels of the orphan race for ever and ever:
raising from those who would otherwise have been outcasts and ignorant
laborers, aspiring and useful men; tradesmen of substance; merchants the
true enrichers of their country, and fathers of happy families. How
glorious is such a lot! how noble is such an appropriation of wealth!
how enviable is such a fame! And amongst such men there were few more
truly admirable than Edward Colston! He was worthy to have been lifted
by Chatterton, to the side of the magnificent Canynge, and one cannot
help wondering that he says so little about this great benefactor of his
city."

[2] Our engraving shows this house, and Bristol Bridge, both memorable
as being connected with the earliest of Chatterton's fabrications.
Bristol Bridge was finished in September, 1768, and in the October
following Chatterton sent to "Felix Farley's Bristol Journal," the
curiously detailed account of the ceremonial observances on opening the
ancient bridge at Bristol, 'taken from an Old Manuscript,' and which,
being his first printed forgery, led, by the attention it excited, to
the production of other work, and among them the Rowley Poems. At this
time he was in his 16th year; but some years before he had fabricated
Burgum's pedigree, and some poetry by a pretended ancestor of his, of
the alleged date of 1320, called "The Romaunte of the Knyghte." The
house where Burgum lived, and where Chatterton first tried his powers of
deception, is the central one of the three seen above the bridge in our
cut.

[3] The place of Chatterton's birth has been variously stated: Mr. Dix,
in his "Life of Chatterton," has mentioned _three_. His first being that
"he was born on the 29th of November, in the year 1752, in a house
situated on Redcliff Hill, behind the shop now (1837) occupied by Mr.
Hasell, grocer," and which has since been destroyed. But in the appendix
to his volume is a communication stating that Mrs. Newton (Chatterton's
married sister) left a daughter who "died in 1807, in the house where
Chatterton was born; I believe in the arch at Cathay," a street leading
from the church-yard to the river-side. But the most certain account
seems to be that of Mrs. Edkins (also printed by Dix) who "went to
school to Chatterton's father, and was present when the son was born, at
the Pyle School." Now, as Chatterton was born about three months after
his father's death, and he had been for some years master of the school,
it is unlikely that his wife would be removed from the house she
inhabited until after her confinement, "when," says Mrs. Edkins, "she
went to a house opposite the upper gate on Redcliff Hill." The house
appropriated to the master of Pyle Street School is shown in our
engraving, it is at the back of the school, which faces the street, and
is approached by an open passage on one side of it leading into a small
court-yard, beyond which is a little garden. Over the door is inserted a
stone, inscribed, "This house was erected by Giles Malpas, of St. Thomas
Parish, Gent., for the use of the master of this School, A. D. 1749."
The house has but two sitting rooms, one on each side of the door, that
to the right being the kitchen; and in one of them the dissolute father
of the Poet is said by Dix to have "often passed the whole night roaring
out catches, with some of the lowest rabble of the parish." He was
succeeded in the office of Schoolmaster by Edmond Chard, who held it for
five years; and he was followed in 1757 by Stephen Love, who was master
twenty-one years, and to whom Mrs. Chatterton first sent her son for
education; and who, "after exhausting the patience of his schoolmaster,
was sent back to his mother with the character of a stupid boy, and one
who was absolutely incapable of receiving instruction."

[4] This School, founded in 1708 by Edward Colston, Esq., is situated in
a street called St. Augustine's Back, behind the houses facing the
drawbridge. It is the mansion in which Queen Elizabeth was entertained
when she visited the city; and was purchased by Colston, because of its
applicability to his charitable purposes. Here the scholars are boarded,
lodged, and clothed, and are never permitted to be absent--except on
Saturdays and Saints' days, from one till seven. They are simply taught
reading, writing, and arithmetic. The school-room is on the first floor,
and runs along the entire front of the building; the bed-rooms are the
large airy rooms above. Behind the house is a paved yard for exercise.
Chatterton remained here about seven years.

[5] The gate seen at the side of Colston's School in our cut, is that by
which the school is entered; a narrow paved passage beside the house
conducts to the angle of the building, when you turn to the left, and so
reach the house by an open court-yard. In the corner of this angle,
commanding a view of the entrance to the school, and also of the outer
gate, is placed the doorkeeper's lodge delineated in our cut. It is a
small building of brick, covered with lead, about six feet in height. It
has within an iron seat, and an iron ledge for books. The windows are
unglazed; and in winter it must be singularly uncomfortable,
particularly as the occupant must traverse the length of the yard in all
weathers. It is said to be the intention of the authorities to remove
this little building; this is to be regretted, as it is almost the only
unchanged memorial of her poet-boy which Bristol possesses. It was
customary for the boys to take the office of doorkeeper in rotation for
the term of one week; and it was in Chatterton's twelfth year, when he
was doorkeeper, that he wrote here his first poem "On the Last Epiphany,
or Christ coming to Judgment."

[6] Lambert's first office was on St. John's Steps; but the unceasing
spirit of change, which has more or less destroyed all the Bristol
localities connected with Chatterton, has swept this one away; "the
Steps" have now been turned into a sloping ascent, and the old houses
removed or renovated. Shortly after he had entered Lambert's service,
his office was removed to Corn Street, and here, from the house
delineated in our cut, he dated his first communication to Horace
Walpole. It is immediately in front of the Exchange, and although the
lower part has been altered frequently within remembrance, the upper
part remains as when Lambert rented it. It may be noted, that the upper
floors of the adjacent houses are still devoted to lawyers' and
merchants' offices.

[7] The great Bristol merchant, William Canynge, jun., is buried in
Redcliffe Church, to which he was a great benefactor, as he was to the
city of Bristol generally. He entered the church to avoid a second
marriage, and was made Dean of the College of Westbury, which he had
rebuilt. There are two monuments to his memory in Redcliffe Church, both
of which are seen in our engraving. One is a raised altar tomb with an
enriched canopy; and upon the tomb lie the effigies of Canynge and his
wife in the costume of the fifteenth century. The other tomb is of
similar construction, and is believed to have been brought here from
Westbury College; it represents Canynge in his clerical robes, his head
supported by angels, and resting his feet on the figure of a Saracen.
Here Chatterton frequently ruminated; indeed, the whole church abounds
with memorials which call to mind the sources of his inspiration; near
the door is an effigy inscribed "Johannes Lamyngton," which gave name to
one of his forgeries. He was never weary of rambling in and about the
church, and all his early works originated here.

[8] The muniment-room is a large low-roofed apartment over the beautiful
north porch of Redcliffe Church, which was constructed by Canynge. It is
hexagonal, and lighted by narrow unglazed windows. The floor rests on
the groined stones of the porch, strong beams of oak forming its roof.
It is secured by two massive doors in the narrow passage leading from
the stairs into it. Here were preserved several large chests, and among
them _Canynge's cofre_; from which Chatterton assured the world he had
obtained the Rowley MSS.; and from which MSS. were carried away and
destroyed, but the old chests still remain. There are seven in all, and
they bear traces of great antiquity. Many have been strongly bound with
iron, but all are now in a state of decay. This lonely cheerless room,
strewn with antique fragments and suggestive of the boy-poet's
day-dreams, is certainly the most interesting relic in Bristol. Its
comfortless neglect is a true epitome of the life of him who first
shaped his course from his reveries within it.

[9] The house said to be that of Canynge is situated in Redcliffe
Street, not very far from the church. It is now occupied by a
bookseller, who uses the fine hall seen in our cut, as a storehouse for
his volumes. Chatterton frequently mentions this "house nempte the rodde
lodge;" and in Skelton's "Etchings of Bristol Antiquities" is an
engraving of this building, there called "Canynge's chapel or Masonic
Hall," showing the painting in the arch at the back, representing the
first person of the Trinity, supporting the crucified Saviour, angels at
each side censing, and others bearing shields. This was "the Rood" with
which Chatterton was familiar, and which induced him to give the name to
Canynge's house in his fabrications. This painting is now destroyed, but
we have restored it from Skelton's plate in our engraving.

[10] The monk Rowley was altogether an imaginary person conjured up by
Chatterton as a vehicle for his wonderful forgeries. He was described by
him as the intimate friend of Canynge, his constant companion, and a
collector of books and drawings for him. It has been well remarked, that
although it was _extraordinary_ for a lad to have written them in the
18th century, it was _impossible_ for a monk to have written them in the
15th. Indeed, it seems now both curious and amusing that his forgeries
should have deceived the learned. When Rowley talks of purchasing his
house "on a repayring lease for ninety-nine years." We at once smile,
and remember his fellow-forger Ireland's Shaksperian _Promissory_ note,
before such things were invented. Our fac-simile of the pretended
Rowley's writing is obtained from the very curious collection of
Chatterton's manuscripts in the British Museum. It is written at the
bottom of some drawings of monumental slabs and notes, stated to have
been "collected ande gotten for Mr. William Canynge, by mee, Thomas
Rowley." There are, however, other autographs of Rowley in the
collection, so entirely dissimilar in the formation of the letters, that
it might be expected to have induced a conviction of forgery. Many of
the manuscripts too are still more dissimilar; and the construction of
the letters totally unlike any of the period. Some are written on little
fragments not more than three inches square, the writing sometimes neat
and clean, at other times bad, rambling and unintelligible. The best is
the account of Canynge's feast, which has been engraved in fac-simile by
Strutt, to the edition of Rowley's Poems, 1777. The writing is generally
bolder than Barrett's fac-simile; and that gentleman, in endeavoring to
revive the faded ink, has greatly injured the originals, which are now
in some cases almost indistinguishable. The drawings of pretended
ancient coins and heraldry are absurdly inventive: and the
representations of buildings exactly such as a boy without knowledge of
drawing or architecture would fabricate; yet they imposed on Barrett who
engraved them for his history of Bristol. Many of his transcripts show
the shifts the poor boy was put to for paper; torn fragments and backs
of law bills are frequently employed. Among the rest is a collection of
extracts from Chaucer to aid him in the fabrication of his MSS. The
whole is exceedingly instructive and curious.

[11] This gentleman was the proprietor of the "Bristol Journal," to
which Chatterton sent his first forgery; and with whom he afterwards
became intimate.

[12] The cenotaph erected to Chatterton, in 1838, from a design by S. C.
Fripp, has now been removed; it stood close to the north porch, beside
the steps leading into it. One of the inscriptions, which he directs in
his will to be placed on his tomb, has been adopted. "To the Memory of
Thomas Chatterton. Reader, judge not, if thou art a Christian. Believe
that he shall be judged by a superior Power. To that Power alone is he
now answerable."




Authors and Books.


Of personalities, &c. a few words: Every man or woman coming before the
public voluntarily--especially every man or woman placing his or her
name upon the title of a book--submits so much of his or her being and
character to the general criticism. It is crime to make public use of
private conversation; it is crime, under most circumstances, to disclose
the secret of an anonymous authorship; it is crime in all cases to
invade any privacy, or comment on any purely personal matter, that has
not by the interested party been offered for the world's examination. If
any one publish a work of pure art, it is entirely inexcusable to
suggest any illustrations of it from his life or condition, unless by
his own express or implied permission. For example, if "The Princess,"
by Tennyson, had been printed anonymously by some notorious thief,
burglar, forger, or murderer, he would be as great a villain as the
author, who, in reviewing the poem, should in any manner whatever allude
to the author's sins. The extent to which this law may be applied can
easily be understood. To a gentleman the law itself is an instinct.
Personal rights are frequently violated by praise as well as by censure,
and sometimes applause is not in any degree less offensive than
denunciation, though commonly men will forgive even the most unskilful
and injudicious commendation. In both ways the writers of this country
are apt to err.

While we agree with the most fastidious, in asserting that inviolability
of one's individualism, not by himself submitted for public observation,
we contend for the right and duty of the utmost freedom in the
dissection of what is thus submitted. Public speech, public action,
public character, are adventures upon the sea of the world's opinion,
and they must brave its winds or be sunk or wrecked by them,--the
person, so far as he is not involved, meanwhile safely watching from the
shore for results.

In the most careful applications of this principle, it is inevitable
that wrong is done sometimes; but when the wrong is not personal, it is
for the most part susceptible of remedy. The author may challenge
investigation of his book, the artist of his picture, the officer of his
administration. If there has been unfair severity of criticism, they are
likely to gain by it in the end, for every critic must justify upon
challenge.

There is a distinction in the cases of the dead. The world in an
especial manner becomes the heir of a life which is abandoned by its
master. This has been held by the wise in all ages and all states of
society. The justice of the distinction is very apparent: An invasion of
the individualism of the living destroys, or to a greater or less extent
affects, the freedom, and so the right and wrong, of his conduct, while
the secrets of the dead are to the living only as logic.

There are very few men who are not more willing to praise than to blame.
The better portion of men prefer to hear the praises even of strangers.
Therefore censors are held to stricter account than eulogists. But a
natural love of justice is continually at war with feelings of personal
kindness. It is impossible to see insolent and vulgar pretension in
noisy triumph, while real and unobtrusive merit is neglected. When we
see a creature strutting in laurels that have been won by another, human
nature--much as it has been abused--prompts us to grasp them from
undeserving brows and place them where they will have a natural grace.
For trite examples, who would not rather elect Columbus than Americus to
the place of Name-Giver for this continent? who does not rejoice that
finally Hadley is proved a swindler of the fame of Godfrey, in the
matter of the quadrant? How many such wrongs do men daily hope to see
righted!

The writer of these paragraphs will never willingly violate the just
conditions of criticism. If he offers, as often is necessary,
conclusions rather than arguments, he will in no case withhold arguments
when conclusions are held to be unjust. The true value of every sort of
journalism, and of discussion also, is in its integrity much more than
in its ability. Integrity is violated as much by the suppression of
truth as by the suggestion of falsehood. In all cases that interest us
sufficiently, and which are legitimately before the public, we shall
write precisely as we think, without the slightest regard for
consequences.

       *       *       *       *       *

OERSTED, the great natural philosopher, has lately published at Leipzic,
under the title of _Der in Geist in der Natur_ (Spirit in Nature), a
collection of remarkable essays which he has written, at various times,
during a series of years. The purpose he has followed through his entire
scientific career, has, perhaps, its most complete expression in this
book. It is the demonstration of the same laws in physical nature as in
the higher spheres of the reason and intelligence. On the principle of
the essential unity of all things, he seeks not only to lay the
foundation of a universal science, but to afford some views of the
superstructure. The work contains eight distinct essays: the first, "The
Spiritual in the Corporeal," is in the form of a Dialogue, and aims at a
reconciliation of the conflicting modes of thought, by which the
universe is assumed to be essentially material, or essentially
spiritual; the second, "The Fountain," treats of the impressions of
beauty produced by the great, sublime, and powerful; the third considers
the relation to the imagination, of the apprehension of nature by the
understanding, and shows that it is only imperfect culture and ignorance
which can suppose any dissonance between the two. He shows that the
progress of science enriches, aggrandizes, and elevates the imagination.
The fourth essay is, perhaps, the most interesting of all. Its theme is,
"Superstition and Skepticism in their relation to Natural Science." The
notion that superstition is favorable to poesy, he dissipates with
masterly conclusiveness. The true realm of beauty is the realm of
reason. It is true that science deprives the poet of the use of sundry
unnatural conceptions, but while it more than compensates him by the
substitution of nobler ideas, it opens to him a new, affluent, and
little explored poetic world. "It can," he says, "not be charged as a
crime upon natural science, that it has destroyed materials hitherto
used by the poets. Such losses are of small consequence to the true
poet, but may, indeed, be painful to the many dabblers in the poetic
art, who think they have rendered the insignificant poetic by tricking
it out in gewgaws from the poetic armory of a vanished era." The fifth,
entitled, "The Existence of all things in the Domain of Reason," is the
profoundest and most significant of these essays, and more than the
others brings out in form as simple and popular as could be expected,
the fundamental idea of the author's system of thought. It asserts that
there is, throughout the universe, a radical unity between the laws of
beauty, and man's moral nature and intellectual powers, and that there
must therefore exist for the mind, a perfect community of nature and
analogy between different worlds, and a rational connection between all
thinking beings, not only of the earth, but of other planets and
systems. The final essay is on "The Culture of Science as the Exercise
of Religion," and is mainly an attempt to show that the very nature of
science requires its culture to be made a religion, and that _the good
which we ought to seek must be that which is imperishable in its truth_.

This work has been rapidly followed by two other publications of the
same author, intended to explain or defend the positions of their
predecessor. The first is called, "Natural Science in its Connection
with Poetic Art and Religion." It was written in reply to the criticism
of a learned and respected friend of the author, Bishop Mynster of
Seeland. The second has for its title, "Natural Science and the
Formation of the Intellect."

Oersted is now seventy-three years old. It is admirable to see a man of
such years and distinction in the world, putting forth the same grand
and elevated ideas that marked the generous enthusiasm of his youth. It
is only in the genial and unselfish pursuits of science that such
freshness of mind can be thus preserved.

       *       *       *       *       *

NEW DRAMAS.--Among the new dramas of any value, produced in Germany,
_Herodes und Mariamne_, a five act tragedy, by Hebbel, deserves
particular mention. The persons are too numerous, and the action too
complicated, but there is great fire and energy in the general
treatment, and the gradual development of the interest of the story is
managed with skill. Herod, the ruler of Judea, is a tyrant by both
nature and position. He was appointed to his office by the Roman
triumvir Antony, who can turn him out or cut his head off at any moment,
and who is strongly inclined to follow the urgent solicitations of
Herod's many enemies. In order to secure himself, Herod has married
Mariamne, a descendant of the Jewish royal family, and is deeply in love
with her. The chief of his foes is Mariamne's mother; the Pharisees also
hate him for his notorious disregard of the Jewish religion. A
conspiracy is formed against him, at the head of which is the brother of
Mariamne. This brother is killed in consequence, and Herod is summoned
before the triumvir. Meanwhile, as soon as the murder was known,
Mariamne had refused to see her husband. But the evidences of his
attachment are still so convincing, and her admiration for the force of
his character so great, that she becomes reconciled to him. He is about
to leave her to appear before Antony, and asks if her love is great
enough for her to commit suicide, in case he should not return. Finally
he asks her to take an oath to that effect. But she refuses, saying that
such an oath would give him no pledge that he might not have already
from insight into her heart. He is not content with this, and before he
leaves, engages an assassin to kill her in case Antony should put him to
death. After his departure, Mariamne declares to her mother that in case
Herod perishes, she has determined to kill herself. The report arrives
that he has been executed; and the assassin appears; from his bearing
Mariamne guesses the truth, and draws from him a confession. Just as she
is in the deepest agitation at this discovery, the king appears, having
been acquitted by Antony. She meets him with coldness, and at once lets
him know that she has learned all. He puts to death the man, but at the
same time a suspicion arises in his mind that Mariamne has discovered
the secret by betraying her honor. Against this her pride will not allow
her to defend herself. A second trial soon arrives. Herod receives the
order--shortly before the battle of Actium--to go on a dangerous
military expedition for Antony. He now requires no oath, at which she
rejoices; for she still loves him, and forgives him for the past. But
she does not reveal herself to him. He misunderstands the joy which she
cannot conceal, as satisfaction at his departure, and charges a faithful
servant to put her to death in case he shall fall. The report of his
death is renewed, but the appointed assassin, revolted at his office,
discloses all to Mariamne. This drives her to despair. She is confident
that her husband will soon return, and determines that he shall be led
to put her to death unjustly. Accordingly she gives a splendid feast, as
she says, to celebrate the death of her husband. He comes and brings her
before a court, not for having rejoiced at his death, but for
infidelity, supposing that to be the only way in which she could have
discovered the secret of the assassin. She is condemned and executed,
but before dying, she reveals the whole mystery to a friend, who
afterwards informs Herod. The king devoured by rage and remorse and
driven to desperation, becomes merciless as a fury. It is at that
moment, that the three wise men from the East arrive, and inform him of
the birth of Christ; whereupon he orders the slaughter of the children.
One of the peculiarities of this tragedy, is the introduction of a
character, who takes no part in the action, but observes and
philosophizes upon it, somewhat after the manner of the old Greek
chorus. This innovation cannot be said to be successful; moreover there
is generally too much philosophizing and moralizing in the piece.

Another new German tragedy is called _Francisco da Rimini_, by Cornelius
Von der Heyse, but we know nothing more respecting it than is
communicated by the publisher's advertisement. The title is promising.

The French dramatists produce more comedies than tragedies. Indeed, in
the weekly notices which for the last few weeks our Parisian papers have
given of the new works brought out at the various theatres of Paris, we
have not observed one tragedy of importance enough for us to remark upon
it. But in the lighter range of comedy, the French playwrights are
unequalled and inexhaustible, as is proved by the constant transfer of
their productions into both the English and German languages. They do
not think it necessary to have a plot of much intricacy, or even of
great interest. The point and brilliancy of the dialogue, and the
perfection of the actors, render that a matter of subordinate
consequence. _The Two Eagles_, by Bayard and Bieville (these
partnerships are frequent among the dramatists of Paris), was brought
out at the _Theatre Montansier_. Hippolyte Vidoux, clerk in a cap store
and lieutenant in the National Guards, is a charming fellow, and the
idol of the women in the whole quarter. He sings, jokes, and dances the
polka in every style. He is introduced into the salons of his superior
officer, Count Chamaral, but meets with no sort of success among the
marchionesses and duchesses. On the other hand, these ladies are dying
for the young Baron Albert, who dances the contra-dance with a mien of
languishing resignation worthy of a funeral. The Baron falls in love
with the daughter of a rich baker, but in vain. Here Hippolyte carries
off the honors and the heiress according to the French proverb, _the
eagle of one house is a turkey in another_. At the _Opera Comique_, a
piece in one act, _The Peasant_, by Alboize, music by Poisat is one of
the latest novelties. A proud and obstinate German Baron refuses his
daughter's hand to her lover, whose great merit nevertheless causes him
to be ennobled. Still the Baron refuses his daughter. "What!" he says,
"shall I marry my child to a new-baked nobleman?" But as good luck would
have it, the Emperor Joseph happens along in disguise, on one of his
excursions for relieving virtue and unmasking vice. The Baron receives
him, but has nothing to set before him. Hereupon a gardener furnishes a
deer, which saves the honor of the house. The Emperor is delighted with
the venison, and makes the donor sit down at the table. He is the father
of the suitor, and as he has thus had the honor to eat with the Emperor,
the Baron can say nothing more against the marriage. The good Emperor
blesses the happy pair, and sets off again to see if there are no more
comic operas in his dominions to which he can contribute a happy
denouement. At the _Theatre des Varietes_ has been produced the _Ring of
Solomon_, in one act, by Henry Berthoud. The scene is laid in Holland,
in the winter, which affords an excellent opportunity to the
scene-painter and property-man. Threa, a poor and silly girl, is so
passionately in love with Hans, who has saved her from death, that she
climbs a wall to see him as he is going by. The wall tumbles down with
her, and among the fragments she finds the ring of Solomon, and puts it
on. At once she is surrounded by fairies, in the well-known ballet
costume, who carry her off into a Dutch paradise, where she also becomes
a fairy, and undergoes a remarkable improvement in her wits. But this
does not bring any change in her passion for Hans, and she prefers to be
unhappy with him to floating for ever through the aerial joys of
fairydom without him. Accordingly, she renounces the privilege conferred
on her by the ring, and is rewarded for so much virtue by passing
through a new transformation, after which she appears as a most lovely
peasantess, and marries Hans to the universal satisfaction.

       *       *       *       *       *

GERMAN NOVELS.--The bookstores of Germany now swarm with new novels,
some of which we have already noticed. _Modern Titans: Little People in
a Great Epoch_, from the press of Bookhaus, seems to be written with the
express purpose of introducing all the notabilities of Berlin, Breslau
and Vienna, and is not successful. The name of the author is not given.
_Der Tannhausen_ treats of suicide, republicanism, the identity of God
and the universe, faith, skepticism, Christ, marriage, the emancipation
of woman, and whatsoever new-fangled and startling ideas and phrases the
author has met with in the activity of this busy age. This book is also
charged with outrageous personalities. _George Volker_, a Romance of the
year 1848, by Otto Mueller, 3 vols., is of course, a revolutionary story.
The hero is so unfortunate as to be in love with two women at a time,
the one a country, and the other a peasant girl. He engages in the
Badian insurrection, is about to be arrested, and thereupon gets out of
all his difficulties by shooting himself. _Der Sohn des Volkes_, by
Leoni Schucking, takes its subject and plot from the French Revolution
and its influence on Germany. It is written with talent, and is
altogether in the interest of the aristocracy. _Der Bettler von James's
Park_ (the Beggar of James's Park), by Alexander Jung, is not
revolutionary but tragic and sentimental. At the same time, it is
didactic, and sets forth sundry ideas with reference to love, God, and
liberty. But the story deserves more than a line in these columns, were
it only as a literary curiosity. The hero is haunted by the notion that
a great misfortune will fall upon his family, whenever a travelling
dealer shall offer an _ecce homo_ for sale to any one of its members.
Unluckily, such a picture is offered to himself, and he almost loses his
wits at it. Hereupon he goes to see the young lady with whom he is in
love, and finds her dying. This quite upsets him, and he goes crazy,
and, in this condition, becomes a beggar in the London streets. At the
beginning, he is very lean, and is so well suited to this trade, that he
is even made a member of the beggars' guild. But ill luck still pursues
him; he becomes excessively fat, and gains a belly of most aldermanic
proportions. Here a lord takes him up as an object at once of study and
philanthropy, but not with sufficient interest in him to provide for his
support. Alms he gets none; next, he is turned out of the guild, and, at
last, is taken to a hospital, where he loses his flesh, and regains his
reason. Finally, after passing through a variety of other strange
experiences, he dies in tranquillity, wept by the same lord, and by the
lady he had himself supposed to be dead; but who, instead of this, had
become a nun in France. _Schnock_, a picture of life in the Netherlands,
is by Frederich Hebbel, a man of some distinction, as a dramatic writer,
as we have noticed elsewhere. The general idea of this book is borrowed
from Jean Paul's _Journey of the Chaplain Schmelzle_. The hero is a man
of weak and timid character, married to a woman of unsparing energy and
resolution. The style and execution of the work are clumsy, exaggerated
and abominable. _Handel und Wandel_ (Doings and Viewings), by
Hacklaender, is worthy of all praise, as a faithful and vivid picture of
German rural and domestic life. The characters are all human, the action
simple and direct, and the tone healthy and agreeable. Hacklaender is an
exception to the mass of modern German novelists, of whom, taking them
together, as may be judged from the brief remarks above, no great good
can be said.

_Ein Dunkles Loss_ (A Dark Destiny), by L. Bechstein, is a socialist
book, which, in the form of a novel, discusses questions relating to
art, not without genuine insight and original power of thought.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE COUNTESS HAHN-HAHN, the bravest and decidedly the cleverest of the
women who have written books of Oriental travel, and whose
"latitudinarian" novels constitute a remarkable portion of the recent
romantic literature of Germany, we perceive has entered a convent. The
_Ladies' Companion_ exclaims hereof:--

     "When will the wild and the restless learn self-distrust
     from the histories of kindred spirits? And, observing how
     the pendulum must vibrate (as in Madame Hahn-Hahn's case)
     from utter disdain of social laws, to the most superstitious
     form of association under authority--how, almost always, to
     defiance must succeed a desire for reconciliation. When will
     they become chary of pouring out their laments, their
     attacks, their complaints, seeing that similar protestations
     are almost certainly followed by after repentance and
     recantation!"

The Countess Hahn-Hahn unfortunately has but one eye, and she is
otherwise astonishingly ugly. So we may account for a very large
proportion of the eccentricities of the sex. Had she been in this
country she would have presided at the late Woman's Rights Convention.

       *       *       *       *       *

No modern man has been more written about than GOETHE, and the end of
books concerning him seems to be still distant. The last that we hear of
is called _Goethe's Dichterwerth_ (Value of Goethe as a Poet), written
by O. L. Hoffman, and published in the quaint old city of Nuremberg. It
treats first of the poet's relation to natural science, art and society:
next takes up the complaints of his antagonists; his poetic character;
his youthful productions; his lyrics; Goetz von Berlichingen; the Sorrows
of Werter; the influence of Italy on his mature mind; Egmont; Iphigenia
at Tauris; Tasso; the influence of the French Revolution; his relations
with Schiller; his Ballads; Hermann and Dorothea; the Natural Daughter;
Wilhelm Meister's Apprenticeship; and finally the productions of his
mature years, as Wilhelm Meister's Wander-years, the Elective
Affinities, and Faust. The work forms a complete commentary on the works
of Goethe, and is written in the warmest spirit of admiration for his
genius and influence.

       *       *       *       *       *

HAGEN'S _Geschichte der Neuesten Zeit_ (History of Recent Times) is
worthy a place in the library of every historical student. It begins
with the downfall of Napoleon and is to come down to the present day.
The first volume has been published; it exhibits thorough mastery of the
materials, and great calmness and judgment in their use. The style is
clear, terse and graphic. The author, who is a professor of the
University of Heidelberg, is a decided republican.

       *       *       *       *       *

COTTA'S splendid illustrated edition of the Bible (Luther's version) is
now finished. It is perhaps the best Illustrated Bible ever published.
The typography and woodcuts are admirable. Of the latter there are
eighty, after original designs by Jaeger, Overbeck, Schnorr, and others.

       *       *       *       *       *

FALLERMAYER, the distinguished German traveller, is about abandoning the
fruitless polemics which have gained him so many foes, to devote himself
to more useful labors. He himself desires to be at peace with all the
world, and the antagonists which his trenchant pen has so often
unsparingly scarified, need fear him no longer. He is about to complete
and print the third volume of his Oriental Impressions of Travel. This
is reason for rejoicing. Fallermayer is one of the most charming and
instructive of travel-writers.

       *       *       *       *       *

WALLON'S _Histoire de l'Esclavage dans l'Antiquite_, just published at
Paris, is a work of high value to those who wish to look into a branch
of history hitherto comparatively little cultivated, but destined to
attract the most profound attention. M. Wallon, who is one of the
candidates for the vacant seat in the French Academy, discusses in an
exhaustive manner the origin of slavery in the antique world, the
condition of bondmen in the various nations, and the gradual development
of the institution under all circumstances and in all countries. His
book is excellent for its manner, while in respect of matter the author
has drawn information from all accessible sources, and digested it with
judgment and impartiality. Thus he has produced a worthy contribution to
that great but yet unwritten work, so full of both tragic and epic
elements, the Annals of Labor. What a noble book might be made by some
competent writer who should grapple with the whole subject.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE NARRATIVE of the United States South Sea Exploring Expedition, is
being translated into German, and published by Cotta of Stuttgard. The
second volume is just completed. Probably all the supplementary volumes,
as Hale's "Ethnology," and Pickering's "Races of Men," will follow.

       *       *       *       *       *

MISS BARBAULD'S "God in Nature" has been translated into German by
Thecla von Gaupert, and illustrated by that most fertile and charming of
designers, Louis Richter. The translation is made from the thirtieth
English edition, and the price put within the reach of the poorer
classes, at fifty cents.

       *       *       *       *       *

FREDERIC BODENSTEDT, the author of the successful book on the Wars of
the Circassians, has just published the conclusion of a new work, called
"A Thousand and One Days in the Orient."

       *       *       *       *       *

A COLLECTION OF HUNGARIAN MYTHICAL TRADITIONS AND FAIRY TALES, has
lately been published in German at Berlin, translated from the Magyar of
Erdily, by G. Stier.

       *       *       *       *       *

The first part of the third and last volume of HUMBOLDT'S Cosmos has
been published at Stuttgart. It is on the Fixed Stars, and makes a
pretty stout book.

       *       *       *       *       *

HUMBOLDT, having furnished for his friend, Dr. Klencke, materials for a
memoir of his life, such a work was announced at Berlin, and so great
was the interest excited by its advertisement, that before the first
edition was all printed a second one was commenced.

       *       *       *       *       *

DR. KARL AUGUST ESPE, who for many years has filled the post of editor
to Brockhaus's _Conversations-Lexicon_, the work which forms the basis
of the Encyclopedia Americana, died near Leipzic on the 25th November
last. He was a man of great acquirements and unwearied industry, and was
well known and esteemed in the literary and scientific circles of the
continent. He was born at Kuehren, in 1804, and went to Leipzic in 1832.
Beside the great work above alluded to, he had charge of the annual
memoirs of the German Society for the study of the native language and
antiquities. Nearly two years ago he was attacked by a fit of apoplexy,
from the effect of which his mind did not recover. He has since been in
a lunatic asylum.

       *       *       *       *       *

NEANDER'S Church History is printed as far as the year 1294. He had
continued the work in manuscript up to the beginning of the fifteenth
century, so that Wiclif, Huss, and other important precursors of the
Reformation have found a place in it. This last volume of this great
work will shortly be printed. Neander's various posthumous works are of
remarkable value, though very few of them are in a finished state.
According to the _Methodist Quarterly_, always well informed upon such
matters, his exegetical Lectures upon the New Testament are of even
greater merit than his compositions in history. They are soon to be
published at Berlin, from notes taken by his students.

       *       *       *       *       *

NEANDER'S Practical Expositions of St. James and of St. Paul's Epistle
to the Philippians, are in process of translation by Mrs. H. C. Conant,
the wife of Professor Conant, of Hamilton, and one of the most
accomplished women in this country. A translation of Hagenbach's
_Kirchengeschichte des 18 und 19 Jahrhunderte_, may also be expected
from the same hand, and so will be done admirably.

       *       *       *       *       *

SCHLEIERMACHER'S "_Brief Outline of the Study of Theology_" has been
translated by Rev. W. Farrar, and published by Clark, of Edinburgh, in a
single duodecimo.

       *       *       *       *       *

DR. KARL ZIMMERMANN has edited and published, at Darmstadt, "The
Reformatory Writings of Martin Luther, in chronological order, with a
Biography of Luther," in four volumes.

       *       *       *       *       *

Two new volumes of _L'Encyclopedie du Dixneuvieme Siecle_ have just
appeared at Paris. Geoffroy St. Hilaire, Becquerel, Buchez, Delescluze,
Michel Chevalier, Philarete Chasles, and other literary and scientific
notabilities are among the contributors.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE HOUSE OF DIDOT, at Paris, have just issued a most interesting volume
of the great work they have for some time been publishing under the
title of _L'Univers Pittoresque_. This volume is occupied with Japan,
the Burman Empire, Siam, Anam, the Malay peninsula, and Ceylon. The
letter-press is furnished by Col. Jancigny, who was formerly aid-de-camp
to the King of Oude, and has a thorough personal acquaintance with the
countries in question. To show how great is the multitude of elephants
in Ceylon, Col. J. speaks of an English officer who resided there, and
who had with his own hand killed above two thousand of these monsters.
The book, like all the rest of the series, is illustrated by numerous
engravings. The series is to consist of forty-five volumes. Only one or
two are now wanting to complete it. It is intended to afford a complete
description of all the countries, nations, religions, customs, manners,
&c. of the world.

       *       *       *       *       *

M. NISARD has been elected a member of the Academie Francaise, in the
room of the late M. Droz. He is known to the public chiefly by his
translations of the Roman writers, poetical and prose, and by sundry
able critical papers in the _Revue des Deux Mondes_. Opposing candidates
were Beranger, Alfred Musset, Jules Janin, Dumas, and others. Another
vacancy was to be filled in January, and among the candidates were
President Bonaparte, and the Count Montalembert, who are certainly more
conspicuous in politics than in letters, though one did write a book on
gunnery, and the other one on Elizabeth of Hungary.

       *       *       *       *       *

Two collections of interesting and valuable official documents have just
been given to the Parisian public. One is called _Archives des Missions
Scientifiques et Litteraires_, and consists of the most remarkable
reports sent to the Government by travellers charged with scientific and
literary missions. The other is the _Bulletin des Comites Historiques_,
and embraces articles relative to history, science, literature,
archaeology, and the fine arts. It is issued by the Committee of the
written Monuments of the History of France, and the Committee of Arts
and Monuments. The most eminent names of French science and literature
are among the contributors to these works.

       *       *       *       *       *

M. GINOUX, who was sent by Guizot on a scientific mission which required
him to traverse the globe, but who was recalled by the government of
General Cavaignac, has returned to Paris, having been absent several
years. He will soon publish the narrative of his travels, which have
been in Oceanica, Polynesia, Brazil, Patagonia, Chili, Bolivia, Peru,
Equador, New Grenada, Jamaica, Cuba, and the United States.

       *       *       *       *       *

BERANGER, at the last dates was, and for several weeks had been,
dangerously ill, at his house at Passy.

       *       *       *       *       *

VERON, the editor of the Paris _Constitutionnel_, is a transcendent
specimen of the voluptuary. He is a large, fleshy, sensual, though by no
means coarse-looking man, with the marks of high living and animal
enjoyment on all his features. He first made a fortune by selling a
quack medicine, after which he became proprietor of the
_Constitutionnel_. His paper is conducted on the quack medicine
principle, with a shrewd view to the profits, and represents the
ultra-conservative side on all public questions. Latterly Veron has made
an arrangement with Louis Napoleon, by which it has become in some sort
the special organ of that functionary. This has made the editor doubly
famous, and in consequence of the crowd desiring to see him which
surrounded the Cafe de Paris, where he had long dined regularly every
day, he has been compelled to abandon that elegant establishment, and
set up a table for himself. He has done this in a princely manner, and
from his position, and the Apicius-like dinners which he gives, finds no
difficulty in assembling at his daily banquets the elite of Parisian
_viveurs_. Among his guests are M. Roqueplan, of the opera; M. Scribe,
the dramatist; Jules Janin; M. Bertin, editor of the _Journal des
Debats_; M. Romieu, Mlle. Rachel, and Mlle. Brohan. In all some fifty
persons have a standing invitation, and come when they choose. Covers
are laid every day for twelve, and those who are there at the time,
which is six o'clock, take their places. At half-past eight the host
puts on his hat and departs, but the guests remain, and prolong the
festival at their pleasure. It is said that these dinners not only
combine every thing in the perfections of gastronomy, but that they are
equally piquant for the wit and brilliancy of the conversation that
attends them.

       *       *       *       *       *

EUGENE SUE is now a member of the French Assembly; but he still finds
time to labor for democracy and socialism with his pen. He has commenced
the publication in one of the journals of a new romance, called _La
bonne Aventure_. From a few chapters, it is evident that it will possess
the enthralling interest of most of his works, and will display his
varied and vast talent in the portraiture of character and the invention
of incident. He is as intent as ever Mr. Cooper was, upon making the
novel a teacher and illustrator of opinions.

       *       *       *       *       *

GEORGE SAND has completed a new drama, which, from the title, _Le
Famille du Charpentier_, we suspect to be taken out of her delightful
_Compagnon du Tour de France_. She appears to be following in the
footsteps of Dumas, in arranging her novels into plays. She has met with
a severe check in the refusal of the authorities to allow a play from
her pen to be produced at the Theatre St. Martin, entitled "Claudia."
Every thing had been prepared for it, and considerable expense incurred,
when the Censor refused to grant a license.

       *       *       *       *       *

ALPHONSE KARR, the French novelist, published for the late holidays a
very successful book called _Voyage autour de mon jardin_ (Journey
around my garden). It is a prose poem in honor of nature and the joys
which nature gives to the heart. Prince SOLTIKOFF has also brought out
his travels in India and Prussia in a splendid style. One of the most
elegant and universally admired works of the season at Paris, is
_Aix-les-Bains_, by Amedee Achard, illustrated by Eugene Ginain.
Aix-les-Bains is a favorite watering place in Savoy, and this book is an
account of a summer passed there.

       *       *       *       *       *

In the number for the first of December, of the Paris _Revue des Deux
Mondes_, a writer introduces and dissects poems, unedited until now in
the _Romance_ tongue, of the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries. Two new
publications from their collection of manuscripts, by the Toulouse
Academy of Floral Games, perfectly exhibit the state of the Romaunt
tongue and poetry from 1324 to 1496.

       *       *       *       *       *

In the _Revue des Deux Mondes_ is an amusing paper by HENRI BLAZE, on
_Verona and Marshal Radetzky_, where, among other matters, he touches
upon _Romeo and Juliet_. The house where Juliet was born, lived, and
loved, is now turned into a vast warehouse for merchandize by the
pitiless prosaism of Time.

       *       *       *       *       *

In Paris we see advertised _Lettres d'Amour_. The Author, M. Julien
Lemer, has the idea of collecting in one volume the most celebrated love
matters--the _chefs-d'oeuvre_ of tender correspondence--a style of
composition in which France has always been eminent.

       *       *       *       *       *

EDMOND TEXIER has written at Paris _L'Histoire des Jeraux, ou Biographie
des Journalistes,_ described as very piquant. Such a book would do in
this country.

       *       *       *       *       *

IDA VON DUERINGSFELD has published a new novel, _Antonio Foscarini_,
said to be entertaining, and to contain a good picture of Venetian life
in the fifteenth century.

       *       *       *       *       *

LAMARTINE has commenced in the _Siecle_ newspaper a new novel entitled
_Le Tailleur de Saint Pierre et Saint Point_.

       *       *       *       *       *

GARNIER DE CASSAGNAC has taken ground against Lamartine and his history,
in a work entitled _Histoire du Directoire_.

       *       *       *       *       *

A NEW POET, John Charles Bristow, of whom no one ever heard before, has
come out in London with five thick volumes of his "Works."

       *       *       *       *       *

A NEW HISTORY OF MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS has just been issued at Paris.

       *       *       *       *       *

The first volume of Sir Francis Palgrave's History of England, has just
been published in London.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE CATHOLIC CHURCH AND PIUS IX.--The Jesuits' printing establishment at
Naples has lately issued a quarto volume of 773 pages, consisting of the
addresses and letters sent to the Sovereign Pontiff, from Catholic
prelates and eminent laymen within the past two years. There are 297
different letters. Among the names of lay writers may be mentioned
Montalembert, Charles Dupin, D'Arlincourt, Poujoulat and De Falloux. The
country which furnishes relatively the fewest documents to this
collection, strange to say, is Italy, owing no doubt to the confused
state of the country politically. Asia, America, and even Oceanica here
give proofs that the Church has a hold among their populations, and that
they have sympathies ready in her behalf. It is well known, too, that
their sympathies do not end in words merely, but were often, as in the
case of Mexico, splendidly and solidly evinced in behalf of the fugitive
Pius. Nothing could give a more striking idea of the great extent of
Catholicism and the influence of the Church, than this book. From the
Turkish empire it gives a letter of the Archbishop Primate of
Constantinople, one from the Armenian Church in the same city, one from
the Apostolic Vicar of Bosnia, the Armenian Patriarch of Celicia,
resident in Lebanon, the Archbishop of Laodicea, at Gazir in Lebanon,
the Syrian Patriarch of Aleppo, the Patriarch of the Melchitian Greeks,
and the Patriarch of Antioch. From distant Asia the Apostolic Vicars of
Pondicherry and Bombay, the Apostolic Vicar of Japan, resident on the
island of Hong Kong, and the Superior of the Catholic community of Agra,
in the Presidency of Calcutta, all have letters. North America furnishes
a good many; in the United States, the Archbishop of Baltimore leads the
list, in which the Bishops of Oregon and Natchez are included with
others. From Canada, the Archbishop of Quebec furnishes the principal
letter. Mexico is remarkable for the number of its addresses; besides
the Metropolitan Chapter of the Capital, the Bishops of Guadalaxara,
Michoacan, Yucatan, Sonora, Oaxaca and many others, are represented in
the book. The contributions from South America are few. The Archbishops
of Lima and Santiago, in Peru and Chili, and the Monastery of Merze del
Cuzco alone furnish letters. From Brazil there is a letter of the
Archbishop of Bahia only. The addresses from Australia and Oceanica are
from the Archbishop of Sidney, and the Bishops of Melbourne and
Auckland.

       *       *       *       *       *

The History, Condition and Prospects of Hayti, have been largely and
ably discussed lately in the Paris _Revue des Deux Mondes_, and in the
New York _Tribune_. Of an article in the former publication, the first
thirty-three pages form an able survey of the history of Hayti since its
independence, and of the rule of Emperor Soulouque. Nowhere is there, in
the same compass, more of authentic information and acute remark upon
the subject.

       *       *       *       *       *

UNDER the title of _L'Architecture du Cinquieme au Seizieme Siecle et
les Arts qui en dependent_, M. JULES GAILHABAUD is now producing at
Paris a work of high value to the architect and antiquary. Many years
spent in travels and special studies, and an extensive collection of
interesting documents, qualify him beyond all contemporaries for such an
undertaking. He treats not merely the architecture of the middle ages,
but sculpture, mural painting, painting on glass, mosaic work, bronzes,
iron work, the furniture of churches, &c. The book is to be published in
fifteen parts, quarto, with engravings on steel, or  lithographs.
Eight parts are already published, containing remarkable specimens of
the Carlovingian, Roman, and _Renaissance_ architecture, a Templars'
church, Moorish buildings, &c. The whole, when finished, will cost, at
Paris, from sixty to one hundred dollars, according to the kind of paper
on which the engravings are printed.

       *       *       *       *       *

AMONG the periodical publications of Italy, the _Rivista Italiana_, a
monthly review issued at Turin, occupies a high place. Its list of
writers includes Mancini, Balbo, d'Ayala, Carracciolo, Farini, &c.
Subjects of the first importance are treated with marked ability in its
pages. Its political tendencies are toward constitutional monarchy.

       *       *       *       *       *

A correspondent of the _Athenaeum_ says that an extraordinary and
valuable collection of letters illustrative of the life, writings and
character of the poet Pope has just "turned unexpectedly up,"--and has
been secured by Mr. John Wilson Croker for his new edition of the poet's
works. The collection consists of a series of letters addressed by Pope
to his coadjutor Broome--of copies of Broome's replies--and of many
original letters from Fenton (Pope's other coadjutor in the Odyssey),
also addressed to Broome.

       *       *       *       *       *

LORD BROUGHAM gave notice some six months ago, of his intention to visit
the United States, during the present month of February, but if it is
true, as stated in the Liverpool _Albion_, that he has lost his sight
(partly in consequence of some painful bodily infirmity with which he
has some time been afflicted), he of course will not come.

       *       *       *       *       *

OF ALICE CAREY'S ballad entitled "Jessie Carol," printed in the last
number of the _International_, J. G. Whittier says, in the _Era_, that
"it has the rich tone and coloring and heart-reaching pathos and
tenderness of the fine old ballads of the early days of English
literature." Miss Carey is passing the winter in New-York, where a poem
by her is in press, which one of the most eminent and time-honored
literary men in America has declared to be, in all the best elements of
poetry, decidedly superior to any work yet published from the hand of a
woman.

       *       *       *       *       *

MRS. THERESE ADOLPHINE LOUISE ROBINSON, the wife of the distinguished
Professor and traveller, is best known in the literary world under the
name of _Talvi_, and is indisputably one of the most prominent of the
few profoundly learned and intellectual women of the age. She is the
daughter of the German savan, L. H. Jacob, who was long a Professor at
Halle, where she was born on the 26th of January, 1797. In 1806, her
father was called to a professorship at the Russian University of
Charkow. Here the family remained for five years, and the daughter,
though deprived of the advantages of a regular education, laid the
foundation of that acquaintance with the Slavonic languages and
literature, which she has since so profitably and honorably cultivated.
During this time she wrote her first poems, songs full of the girl's
longing for her German home, which the strange half Asiatic environment
of Southern Russia rendered by contrast only dearer and more attractive.
In 1811 her father was transferred to St. Petersburg, and there her
studies were necessarily confined to the modern languages. But her own
industry was intense and incessant; she devoted a great deal of time to
historical reading, and privately cultivated her poetic talent. Her mind
pursued the same direction, when, in 1816, her father returned to Halle,
where she first made herself mistress of the Latin. Though her friends
beset her to give some of her productions to the public, she long
resisted. Meanwhile she wrote several tales, which were published at
Halle in 1825, under the title of _Psyche_, with Talvi as the name of
the author. This pseudonym is composed of the initials of Mrs.
Robinson's maiden name. In 1822, she translated Walter Scott's
_Covenanters_ and _Black Dwarf_, under the name of Ernst Berthold. About
this time there fell into her hands a review, by Jacob Grimm, of the
collection of Servian popular songs, published by Mark Stephanowich.
This increased her interest in that literature to such a degree, that
she determined to learn the Servian language. Hence arose the
translation of _Popular Songs of the Servians_, which, with the aid of
some Servian friends, she brought out at Halle, in 1825-6, in two
volumes. In 1828, she became the wife of Professor Robinson, and after a
long journey with him in different parts of the old world, came to
America. Here she was for some time engaged in the study of the
aboriginal languages, and prepared a translation into German of
Pickering's Work on the Indian tongues of North America, which was
published at Leipzic, in 1834. At the same time, she wrote in English a
work entitled _Historical View of the Slavic Languages_, which was
published in this country, in 1834, and translated into German, by Karl
von Olberg, in 1837. This work gives evidence of most remarkable
literary attainments. In 1837 she again visited Europe with her husband
and children, and remained in Germany till 1840. During this time she
wrote and published at Leipzic, in German, an _Attempt at a Historical
Characterization of the Popular Songs of the Germanic Nations, with a
Review of the Songs of the extra-European Races_. This is a work of a
most comprehensive character, and fills up a deficiency which was
constantly becoming more apparent, in the direction opened by Herder. It
evinces an unprejudiced and catholic mind, a just, poetic, sensible,
clear and secure understanding, as well as the most extensive and
thorough acquirements. Before her return to America she also published,
in German, a small work on _The Falseness of the Songs of Ossian_. An
article from her pen, entitled _From the History of the First
Settlements in the United States_, published in 1845 in Rumei's
_Historiches Taschenbuch_, is also worthy of notice. In 1847 she brought
out at Leipzic, a historical work on the _Colonization of New England_,
which has received the deserved applause of all the German critics, and
which abundantly merits a translation into English. An elaborate
reviewal of it appeared lately in the "Bibliotheca Sacra," in which
justice was rendered to its character for research and judicious
handling. In 1849 she published in New-York, with a preface by Dr.
Robinson, a _Historical Review of the Languages and Literature of the
Slavic Nations; with a Sketch of their Popular Poetry_. It is in one
volume, from the press of Mr. Putnam, and it has been generally admitted
that there is not in any language so complete and attractive an epitome
of the literature and various idioms of the great Sclavonic Nations,
north and south. Last year Mrs. Robinson gave to the world (through the
Appletons) a novel, entitled _Heloise_, in which there are admirable
pictures of social life in one of the minor capitals of Germany, and a
very able one of the administration of the Russian government in the
Caucasian provinces, and of the nature of Caucasian warfare. The last
work (just published by the same house), is _Life's Discipline, a Tale
of the Civil Wars of Hungary_. As a tale it is to us more interesting
than _Heloise_, and it has no less freshness of incident, scenery and
character. Though Mrs. Robinson's distinction is for scholarship and
judgment, rather than for invention, these works entitle her to a very
high rank among the female novel writers.

       *       *       *       *       *

MRS. H. C. KNIGHT (we believe of Portsmouth in New-Hampshire) has just
given to the public a very interesting "New Memoir of Hannah More, or
Life in Hall and Cottage." It is a book of genuine merit, displaying in
a pleasing style the most striking scenes in the history of one of the
noblest of the women of England. (Published by M. W. Dodd.)

       *       *       *       *       *

PROFESSOR H. B. HACKETT, of the Trenton Theological Institution, has in
press a "Philological and Exegetical Commentary on the Acts of the
Apostles," which will be published in the spring. It will embrace
various critical discussions in an appendix.

       *       *       *       *       *

MADAME ANITA GEORGE, the authoress of the very clever books entitled
"Memoirs of the Queens of Spain" (recently published by Baker &
Scribner), is not, as some suppose, an American, though she began and
has thus far advanced upon her literary life in this country. She is a
native of Spain, and is the daughter of a French gentleman--an officer
of the Empire--who married there. Her early life was passed in Cuba,
where her father settled when she was about three years of age. In her
seventeenth year she was married to Mr. George, who is an Englishman.

When Mr. FENIMORE COOPER published his Life of Commodore Perry, which
the sober second thought of the people endorses as entirely candid and
just, we remember that it was urged by the Philadelphia critics (who
constitute a class, as much as the Philadelphia lawyers do), that even
if every thing he advanced were _true_, Mr. Cooper had no right to
disregard the "settled and satisfactory opinions of the country upon the
subject." We could never so appreciate as perfectly to admit the truth
of the canon in criticism here involved, and to this day we cannot help
agreeing with Gibbon, that "Truth is the first virtue of history." Mrs.
George seems to concur with Gibbon and Cooper, and disregarding the
poetry and romance woven about the name of Isabella the Catholic, has
painted her according to the documents, which by no means warranted the
common good report of her.

Queen Isabella, according to Mrs. George, owes to some agreeable
qualities, but most of all to her patronage of Columbus, oblivion of
remarkable faults, which were prolific of evil to Spain. She escaped at
the expense of her husband Ferdinand, who has been charged with her sins
as well as his own. She was not a person to yield to any one where her
power and rights were in question, so that in all matters concerning
home policy, she is at least entitled to an equal share of the
discredit; and in the establishment of the Inquisition, and the
persecution of the Jews and Moors, she stands alone. Ferdinand was
always disposed to put his religion behind his interest, and was urged
by his wife into measures of which he disapproved; sometimes, indeed,
she ordered or permitted persecutions of which he was altogether
ignorant. Beside the wickedness of these things, their impolicy was not
less conspicuous. The oppression of the Moors, and the expulsion of both
Moors and Jews, destroyed the mechanical and commercial industry of
Spain; the overthrow of the feudal power and privileges of the nobility,
and the establishment of despotism in the crown, checked the growth of
civil freedom, as the introduction of the Inquisition induced religious
bigotry, and withered mental independence and intellectual cultivation.
Nor is Mrs. George disposed to allow weight to the excuse, urged in
favor of Isabella upon such facts as undeniably tell against her. The
Spaniards of the age, she says, were not so bigoted; the Kings of
Aragon, supported by their subjects, had set the Popes at defiance; the
Cortes of Aragon and of Valencia resisted the introduction of the
Inquisition; some of the clergy, with Fray Francisco de Talavera
Archbishop of Granada at their head, were opposed to all persecution;
even the Pope remonstrated against some wholesale slaughter; and when
persecution had provoked an insurrection, Ferdinand himself was wroth.
Nor does the biographer even see an excuse in the Queen's conscience.
When religion or churchmen stood in the way of her power or interests,
they were blown aside. There is in these conclusions, something of the
woman and of the Spaniard, anxious to excuse in any way the historical
degradation and present weakness of Spain. If the Spaniards were really
enterprising and industrious, there seems no reason why they might not
have engaged in commerce, agriculture, and the useful arts, although the
Jews and Moors were expelled: the Jews were ousted from England long
before they were driven from Spain, yet the English got on in the
absence of the house of Israel. The destruction of the enormous power of
the nobility was absolutely necessary, not only to the establishment of
order, but almost to the existence of society itself. It could only be
brought about by throwing the power of the common people into the scale
of the crown; and so far as Ferdinand and Isabella were concerned, it
seems to have been a wise and politic measure. The real despotism of the
crown was established by Charles the Fifth, and he might not have been
able to effect it, had he been only King of Spain. For the religious
tyranny, cruelty, and want of faith of Isabella in violating
stipulations, Mrs. George is sparing in the quotation of authorities,
and she often rather asserts than narrates in the account of facts that
would prove the case. A strict analysis might also show that temporal
power was the object aimed at, and religion a disguise for ambition. We
think, however, that the case of relentless and cruel persecution is
established against Isabella the Catholic; and that it was aggravated by
the power which the priesthood exercised over her mind in things
indifferent or which agreed with her inclination. In the graces of
person and manner, and in suavity of temper towards her own party, or
those whom she wished to gain, Isabella of Castile far excelled her
granddaughter Mary of England. In tenacity of purpose, in obstinacy, and
in indifference to the misery arising from their orders, it is possible
they were more alike than the world has supposed. And Isabella might
have had a similar cognomen, had not the Spaniards continued as bloody
as her age and as bigoted as herself.

The style of Mrs. George is in the main very good; but occasional
defects in diction and in the structure of sentences, are matters of
course in a woman who writes in a foreign language. There are some
points in the Queen's history passed over too lightly, and the
narrative is not always continuous. Isabella's relations with Columbus,
are barely noticed, on the ground that they had already been so largely
illustrated by Irving and Prescott. Miss Pardoe, who has edited an
English impression of the book, has supplied its most obvious defects
induced by this consideration.

Mrs. George has just left this country for Madrid, and we have reasons
for believing that she will devote the remainder of her life to
literature. She has in contemplation two works, both relating to Spain,
which can hardly fail under her spirited and ingenious treatment of
being eminently attractive. Since she is no longer in America, we may
gratify curiosity by remarking that she is some years under thirty, and
is one of the most beautiful and brilliantly-talking women of the
present day.

       *       *       *       *       *

WE are gratified to learn that there is a prospect of the appearance of
the Memoirs and Inedited Works of our late eminent countryman HENRY
WHEATON, the ablest and faithfulest and worst-used diplomatic servant of
the United States in the present century. The last time this great man
visited New-York he passed several hours in our study, and we remember
that he said then that his Letters to the Secretary of the Smithsonian
Institute, his various Tracts, Reviews, Historical Essays, &c., which he
would wish to collect, would make some three or four volumes as large as
his work on "The Law of Nations." He had also nearly or quite finished a
new work on the History of the Northmen, being a translation and
improvement of his _Histoire des Peuples du Nord_, published in Paris,
which was an extension of the volume he contributed originally to the
Family Library, in 1831, upon the same subject. This important work was
advertised, we believe, before the death of Mr. Wheaton, to be published
in two octavos, by the Appletons, but it has not yet been printed.

       *       *       *       *       *

R. R. MADDEN'S "Infirmities of Genius," a very pleasant book, is in the
press of Mr. J. S. Redfield. Madden is an Irishman, and he first became
known to the public by his "Travels in Turkey," published about
twenty-five years ago. The "Infirmities of Genius" appeared in 1833, and
two American editions of the work have heretofore been printed. In 1835
Mr. Madden came to the United States, and in 1836-7-8-9, he filled the
office of Superintendent of Liberated Africans, and Commissioner of
Arbitration in the Mixed Court of Justice at Havana. His various
experiences and observations, during eight years of official and private
life in America, the West Indies, and Africa, led to the composition of
several tracts on the slave-trade, and a volume printed we think some
two years ago on "the Island of Cuba, its Resources, Progress, and
Prospects." The "Infirmities of Genius" is, in a literary point of view,
his best production; and it is likely to retain a place among the
contributions of the age to standard English literature.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE REV. E. H. CHAPIN, whose effective elocution and brilliant rhetoric
attract crowds to his ordinary discourses at the Universalist Church in
Murray-street, has in the press of Mr. J. S. Redfield, a volume upon
"Womanhood, Illustrated by the Women of the New Testament"--not treating
of these characters in the offensive style of the small rhetoricians,
but rather in that of Emerson's Representative Men, presenting Martha as
a type of the women of society, &c. We believe we have not before
referred in these pages to the fact, that Mr. Chapin was commonly
regarded as by far the finest orator in the recent Peace Congress at
Frankfort, in which were a large number of men from several nations
eminent for eloquence.

       *       *       *       *       *

A DISCOVERY OF IMPORTANT HISTORICAL DOCUMENTS, according to a Chicago
paper, has recently been made among the manuscripts which were saved
from the pillage of the Jesuits' College in Quebec. "It is well known by
those familiar with the resources of early American history, that the
publication of the Jesuit Relations, which furnish so much of interest
in regard to the discovery and early exploration of the region bordering
on our northern lakes, was discontinued after the year 1672. Some were
known to have been written, but the manuscripts were supposed to be
lost. The Relations from 1672 to 1679 inclusive, have lately been
discovered, and among them a manuscript containing a full account of the
voyages of Father Marquette, and of the discovery by him of the
Mississippi river. It was undoubtedly this manuscript which furnished
Thevenot the text of his publication in 1687, of 'The voyages and
discoveries of Father Marquette and of the Sieur Joliet.' The latter
kept a journal and drew a map of their route, but his canoe was upset in
the falls of St. Louis, as he was descending the St. Lawrence in sight
of Montreal, and he lost them with the rest of his effects. What
increases the value of the present discovery is, that the original
narrative goes much more into detail than the one published by Thevenot.
The motive which prompted and the preparations which were made for the
expedition are fully described, and no difficulty is found in tracing
its route. There is also among the papers an autograph journal by
Marquette, of his last voyage from the 25th of October, 1674, to the 6th
of April, 1675, a month before his singular death, which occurred on the
eastern shore of Lake Michigan. Also, a chart of the Mississippi drawn
by himself, illustrating his travels. The one annexed to Thevenot's
account, above referred to, a copy of which is contained in the third
volume of Bancroft's History of the United States, is manifestly
incorrect, as there is a variance between the route of the Jesuit as
traced on his map, and that detailed in his text. The manuscript chart
now rescued from oblivion, reconciles all discrepancies, and constitutes
a most interesting historical relic."

       *       *       *       *       *

AMONG the publications of the past month, _A copious and critical
Latin-English Lexicon_, royal octavo, pp. 1663, from the press of the
Harpers, is especially deserving of praise. We congratulate Professors
Andrews and Turner on the honorable close to their long and arduous
labors. They have earned thanks of all beginning students and riper
scholars in the Latin tongue. These, and the advancement of sound
learning, are the only adequate rewards for labors so untiring and long
continued; so wearisome and beneficial. The highest and only just praise
of this admirable volume, would be given by a plain statement of its
merits, but these are too extensive and varied to be even catalogued
within brief limits--we can only touch upon a few of them. For a year
past we have had opportunity and occasion to examine parts of the work
as it was going on to completion, and to compare it with others of
similar design. We speak then advisedly when we say that it far
surpasses any such Lexicon hitherto in use among us, and should
supersede them all. Since the works of Forcellini, and Facciolati, and
Gesner, very great advances have been made in all departments of
classical Philology; many of the best results of these advances were
embodied in Freund's great Lexicon, the first volume of which was
published in 1834. But since then, and even since 1845, the date of the
last volume, the thirst for antiquarian research has slaked itself at
newly discovered sources. The present editors, to a discriminating
selection from all that the zeal and activity of others have gathered,
up to the latest time, have added valuable knowledge from their own
varied stores, and at last furnished to American students a work
superior in its kind to any that has preceded it here or abroad. It
combines in a remarkable degree the copiousness of a Thesaurus with the
brevity and convenience for ready reference of a school-dictionary.
Citations abundantly sufficient to meet the wants of ordinary readers
are given in full, while distinct references guide the more exacting
scholar over a much wider field of original authority. In this way space
is economized, and the book is made cheap without a sacrifice of
learning. Its first general merit is its singular correctness. In a
verification of the almost numberless passages quoted, and a correction
of time-honored blunders, committed by subordinates, but sanctioned by
names of great writers employing them; in a distrust of authority at
second-hand, and persistent fidelity to the cause of learning, we
recognize the diligence of Prof. W. W. Turner. Those who have never
tried this kind of work have but an inadequate idea of its demands on
the brain, and on the conscience too. _Reading through_ a dictionary is
an after-dinner pastime in comparison. The vocabulary is more extended
than in other lexicons. But the peculiar and highest merit of this work
appears in definitions, remarkable for clearness, fulness, and
distinction of the subtle shades of meaning. Colloquial, technical, and
other special uses of words, here receive their share of attention, and
are felicitously rendered or illustrated by corresponding English terms.
The arrangement is admirable. The words of the vocabulary are
distinguished by an appropriate type. The etymology, the primitive and
derivative, the general and special, the proper and tropical
significations of a word; its meaning before the courts, in the temples,
at the games, among the Roman mob or the Roman exquisites; its
anti-classical, golden-augustan, neo-degenerate or patristic use--all
this is given in a regular order, by changes of type and an ingenious
system of abbreviations, so that the whole origin, history, value and
application of any Latin word may be taken in, almost at a glance. The
amount of archaeological learning--compressed indeed but never obscured
by abridgment--scattered through these pages is immense. Finally there
is an appendix, containing the XII. Tables, and other specimens of
Archaic Latin; and another, giving a list of Italian and French words,
varied by euphonic changes from the Latin origin. There are also a
translation of Freund's original preface by Prof. Woolsey, and a modest
preface by Prof. Andrews, the editor in chief.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE REV. F. W. SHELTON, minister of an out-of-the-way parish on Long
Island, and known in literature hitherto only by two or three wise
lectures which he addressed to the young men of his village, (though his
intimate friends have guessed all the while that his hand was in some of
the wittiest and most unique contributions to the _Knickerbocker_,) has
published during the last month one of the best specimens of allegory
furnished by this age. It is entitled "Salander," and has for its
subject the backbiting dragon sometimes called by similar name. It makes
a neat duodecimo, illustrated with wood cuts, and is published by Samuel
Hueston.

       *       *       *       *       *

PROFESSOR BUSH is editing and will soon publish (through J. S.
Redfield), the pious and ingenious Heinrich Stilling's celebrated
"Theory of Pneumatology." It is a remarkable book, and in this sea of
silliness about knocking spirits, &c., which in so remarkable a degree
has shown that the infidels who cannot receive the Bible, because it is
"incredible," are the most credulous fools in the world, the German
psychologist will command attention. Dr. Bush adds to the work a preface
and notes.

       *       *       *       *       *

MISS MARTINEAU and a Mr. Atkinson have just published a volume entitled
"Letters on Man's Nature and Development," in which they handle very
boldly the subjects of Mesmerism, Clairvoyance, Phrenology, &c. It is
altogether and avowedly materialistic.

       *       *       *       *       *

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL has written a satire upon "The Rappers,"--a
humorous and witty poem of a thousand lines or so, which will be out, we
believe in _Graham's Magazine_, during the month.

       *       *       *       *       *

MR. HENRY C. PHILLIPS, once, we understand, a companion of the traveller
Catlin, proposes to publish from his note-book and portfolio, "Sites for
Cities, and Scenes of Beauty and Grandeur, to be made famous by the
Poets and Painters of Coming Ages: observed in a Pedestrian Journey
across the middle of the North American Continent, in 1850." This is a
good title, and such a book will be interesting a thousand years hence,
for its prophecies. Surveying the vast chain of mountains, which rises
midway between the oceans, a poetical Jesuit said, "They are in labor
with nations." Mr. Phillips might easily have fancied, as he pursued his
summer journey through the wilderness from Oregon and California, among
regions more lovely and magnificent than any that were seen by the
fathers of art, that of such sights should be born nobler works than
have yet been addressed to the senses or to the imagination; and it is
not improbable that many a London, and Moscow, and Berlin, and Paris,
will some time have their busy populations, where now the ground is
hidden by the falling leaves of forests, and trampled by wild horses and
buffaloes.

       *       *       *       *       *

ONE of the most eminent of the living English historians, lately
discovered, as he thought, that "Old Sam Adams" was a _defaulter_, and
that he was opposed to Washington; and not choosing to wait until the
exposure could be made in his forthcoming work, he communicated it to a
very distinguished American, by letter. Now this is all sheer nonsense.
It is not necessary to deny the justice of the suspicion that Samuel
Adams was unfriendly to Washington, and all the facts as to his conduct
as collector for his Majesty's port of Boston, are perfectly familiar to
our historical students. He did not indeed pay into the exchequer every
shilling with which he was _charged_: well understood circumstances
prevented the _collection_ of a large amount of duties; but whatever he
received was paid over, and his accounts were squared to a farthing.

       *       *       *       *       *

MR. WILLIS--the best artist in words, we have now, perhaps--is preparing
a new volume for Baker & Scribner. His "People I have Met," "Life Here
and There," and other books published by that house, have sold
remarkably well--better, we are inclined to think, than any literary
works reprinted in America for a long time--though the public was
previously familiar with them under other forms and titles. This proves
that the popularity of Willis is genuine and _permanent_. In his way, he
is unrivalled,--in any way, he has among the authors of this country but
some half dozen peers.

       *       *       *       *       *

J. G. WHITTIER has commenced in _The National Era_ the publication of a
new prose work, entitled "My Summer with Dr. Singleterry." It will
probably be about as long as his admirable "Leaves from Margaret Smith's
Journal," which appeared first in the same paper.

       *       *       *       *       *

OF CHRISTMAS STORIES, the last season has been unusually prolific.
Thackeray published one called "The Kickleburys upon the Rhine;"
illustrated with fifteen of his own designs. Both the illustrations and
the story are liberally praised by the journals. The authoress of "Mary
Barton" published another, under the title of "Moreland Cottage," not,
like her former work, a story of social wrong, but of gentle domestic
life. At the same time it is, if we may judge by extracts in the papers,
marked by the admirable peculiarities of her writing. There were some
dozen others, most of which were by less distinguished writers.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE LIFE OF CALVIN, from the German of Henry, by the Rev. Henry
Stebbing, is to be republished in this city immediately by Messrs.
Carter, and we purpose making its appearance an occasion for some
observations upon that extraordinary person, whose various and
astonishing learning and genius, exhibited in speculation, and affairs,
and wit--the small arms of his controversy, as terrible as the artillery
of his logic--and really gentle and altogether noble nature, present a
spectacle which, redeemed from sectarian prejudice and perverse
historical misrepresentation, challenges in the most eminent degree the
admiration of mankind.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE pleasantest book of travels forthcoming from an American press is
"Nile Notes of a Howadje," an anonymous record of a voyage upon the
Nile--not at all statistical or learned, but a diary, and sketches of
personal impressions, aiming to give the _picturesque_ of the country,
and not vexing the reader with the mooted Egyptian questions. We have
glanced over a few sheets of it, and are confident that if success
depends upon quality, it will prove one of the most successful books yet
published, upon a region which is illustrated by a larger amount of
literature than any other in the world. (Harpers, publishers.)

       *       *       *       *       *

MR. PUTNAM has just published a third and very much improved edition of
his excellent work, "The World's Progress." We have already expressed in
this magazine the opinion that "The World's Progress" is the most
interesting, valuable, and altogether indispensable manual of reference,
for the student or general reader, that has been published in this
country. It is a hand-book of facts, so perspicuously classified and
arranged, as to suit the necessities of persons of every degree of
intelligence, and so full, upon almost every sort of subjects, as to
serve the purposes of a universal manual. The new edition is augmented
by a supplement embracing the most recent statistics, etc.

       *       *       *       *       *

THREE eminent scholars and authors, Dr. Lushington, Mr. Falconer, and
Dr. Twiss, are appointed by the British government, arbitrators to
determine the boundary between the provinces of Canada and Nova Scotia,
which has for some years been in dispute.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE FOURTH VOLUME OF MR. HILDRETH'S HISTORY OF THE UNITED STATES, being
the first volume of the post-revolutionary history, will be published
immediately, we believe, by the Harpers. We look for an exceedingly
interesting book. Of the earlier volumes of the History, the London
_Spectator_ observes:--

     "The distinguishing literary characteristic of this history
     is a careful succinctness. The convenience of a summary
     notice of the gradual discovery of America, and the
     necessity of singly narrating the foundation of each
     separate colony, render any substantial novelty of plan in a
     history of the United States impossible, except upon some
     scheme where fitness should be sacrificed to fanciful
     strangeness. Mr. Hildreth has judiciously refrained from
     attempting any thing of the kind: but perhaps he has pushed
     the mere chronological arrangement to an excess, and given
     undue prominence to the discoveries and settlement of North
     America by foreigners, in proportion to the scale of his
     work. In the execution, Mr. Hildreth has carefully read and
     as carefully digested his various authorities, and presented
     the results of his studies succinctly, closely, and
     comprehensively. In many cases the compendious style is apt
     to fall into a vague generality, or the pith of the matter
     is liable to be missed; but such is not the case with Mr.
     Hildreth's. He states all that he sees, though he would see
     more if he possessed a loftier and imaginative mind. We know
     not his profession, but there is something lawyerlike in his
     work. One subject seems the same to him as another: it is
     not so much that he wants variety of power; as that he does
     not seem to feel the variety in nature. His book is as much
     a digest as a history. The parts in which Mr. Hildreth
     succeeds best are those that relate to the social and
     religious opinions and practices of the colonists. In fact,
     it is as a social history that it possesses character and
     value. The author's quiet unimpassioned style presents the
     strange peculiarities that obtained among the New England
     colonists till within little more than a generation of the
     Revolutionary war, and some traces of which still remain."

       *       *       *       *       *

"THE MEMORIAL, _written by friends of the late Mrs. Osgood_," to which
we have heretofore referred in these pages, is the most beautiful book
published in America during the season, and as an original literary
miscellany it surpasses any volume that ever appeared in the English
language. The _Albion_ says of it:

     "Seldom has a more graceful compliment been paid to the
     memory of departed worth, than is exhibited in this handsome
     volume, which is edited by Mrs. Mary E. Hewitt. It
     originated at a chance meeting of a literary coterie, soon
     after the death of the gifted and amiable woman in whose
     honor it has been put together. When the conversation turned
     upon the many claims which she possessed on the affections
     and the esteem of those present, it was resolved that a
     souvenir volume should be made up from their voluntary
     contributions, and that the profits arising from the sale
     should be devoted to erecting a monument over her grave, in
     the Cemetery of Mount Auburn, near Boston. Many writers of
     distinguished merit have engraved their names upon this
     preparatory tablet, not all being numbered amongst her
     friends and acquaintances, but all appreciating the many
     virtues of the deceased lady, and the kindly motives of her
     sorrowing friends. The table of contents shows indeed such a
     list of names as should insure the speedy attainment of the
     object in view. We can but mention half-a-dozen--Hawthorne,
     Willis, G. P. R. James, the Bishop of Jamaica, John Neal,
     Stoddard, Boker, G. P. Morris and Bayard Taylor, amongst the
     men, and Miss Lynch, Mrs. Whitman, Mrs. Oaksmith, Mrs.
     Sigourney, and the Editress to represent the sisterhood of
     authorship. An admirable likeness of Mrs. Osgood, from a
     portrait by her husband, serves as a frontispiece, and, with
     some charming vignettes on steel and other illustrations,
     enhances the value of this choice and creditable book."
     (Putnam, publisher.)

       *       *       *       *       *

FORTUNE-TELLING is as much in vogue as ever in Paris. A book, which is
said to have caused much observation, appeared there lately, which is
thus described in the correspondence of the London _Literary Gazette_:--

     "It consists of extracts from the voluminous writings of a
     poor _gentilhomme_ of Brittany, during a period of upwards
     of sixty years, and each extract is a prediction of some one
     of the great political convulsions which have occurred in
     this country during that time. Never was there a more
     correct _Vates_; but Cassandra herself was not more
     disregarded than he. The downfall and execution of Louis
     XVI., the horrors of the Terror, the power and overthrow of
     Napoleon, the revolution of 1830, and the republic of 1848,
     were all predicted years before they came to pass; but the
     poor prophet was set down as a madman by all his literary
     contemporaries, and during his lifetime not a single
     newspaper would consent to say any thing about his
     predictions. What is the most singular thing of all is, that
     he foretold (years ago, remember--when Louis Philippe was at
     the height of his power), that the proclamation of the
     republic would lead to the domination of a member of
     Napoleon's family, and so it has; though if any one only six
     months before Louis Napoleon's election had predicted the
     same thing, he would certainly have been set down as a
     lunatic. In consequence of this extraordinary foresight of
     our prophet, people have looked with no little concern to
     what he says for the future. And alas! they have met with
     nothing very consolatory. We are, it seems, on the brink of
     a fearful social crisis, the consequence of which will be
     the complete destruction of European society as at present
     constituted; and this destruction is only to be effected by
     the shedding of rivers of blood, and the weeping of oceans
     of tears!"

       *       *       *       *       *

WE are pleased to perceive that the writings of Hartley Coleridge are
soon to be collected and suitably published. Mr. Moxon advertises as in
press, his _Poems_, with a Memoir of his life, by his brother, the Rev.
Derwent Coleridge; _Essays and Marginalia_, in two volumes; and _Lives
of Distinguished Northerns_, a new edition, in two volumes.

       *       *       *       *       *

LAMARTINE receives for his _Histoire du Directoire_--the sequel of _The
Girondists_--at which he works from fourteen to sixteen hours every day,
only 12,000 francs, equal to about $2,400.

       *       *       *       *       *

AMONG the "books in press" advertised in London at the beginning of the
year, by Bentley, are _The Correspondence of Horace Walpole, Earl of
Orford, and the Rev. William Mason_, now first published from the
original MSS., and edited, with notes, by the Rev. J. Mitford, author of
"The Life of Gray." This work will contain the last series of Walpole's
unpublished letters. A _History of Greek and Roman Classical
Literature_, with an introduction on each of the languages, biographical
notices, and an account of the periods in which each principal author
lived and wrote, so far as literature was affected by such history, and
observations on the works themselves, by R. W. Browne, one of the
professors in King's College, London. And _The Literary Veteran_,
including sketches and anecdotes of the most distinguished literary
characters, from 1794 to 1849, by R. P. Gilles.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE REV. HENRY T. CHEEVER has just published a volume entitled "The
Island World of the Pacific," (Harpers,) which for various personal
interest, fulness and accuracy of information, and right feeling, is to
be preferred to any book on the subject since the appearance of Cook's
Voyages. We know of no traveller in Polynesia who has had better
opportunities for observation than Mr. Cheever. His abilities as a
writer were illustrated by "The Whale and his Captors," published two or
three years ago. The style of the present performance is not at all
inferior, and it is especially commendable for a perspicuous
compactness. So much misrepresentation of the Sandwich and other Islands
has appeared lately, that we are glad of an opportunity to commend a
book so authoritative and satisfactory upon the whole subject.

       *       *       *       *       *

M. J. MOREAU of Paris, has completed a new version into French of the
_Imitatio Christi_, and has accompanied it with select passages from the
Fathers and other pious authors. The same writer has also published
under the title of _Le Philosophe Inconnu_, an essay on the ideas and
writings of the celebrated theosophist Saint-Martin. This remarkable
mystic, who in his lifetime was surrounded by so many disciples and
admirers, is now known only to the curious seekers among the dusty
shelves of libraries. M. Moreau attempts to show that his heresies
contained a spice of orthodoxy, and this he endeavors to develop for the
benefit of whom it may concern.

       *       *       *       *       *

BISHOP ONDERDONK of Pennsylvania is a person of large abilities; he is
one of the strongest writers of the Episcopal Church in the country; and
it is unjust that the unfortunate circumstances of his ecclesiastical
position should prevent the recognition of his merits as a scholar and
dialectician. We are pleased, therefore, that his friends have taken
measures for the publication of a collection of his _Theological Works_,
including sermons and Episcopal charges.

       *       *       *       *       *

NEW GERMAN POEMS.--Louise von Ploennies has published two new books of
poetry, one under the title of _Neue Gedichte_ (New Poems), the other
_Oskar und Giaunetta_. They are spoken of as superior to her former
productions, and worthy of a most honorable place among the productions
of German poetesses. Oscar and Giaunetta is a love story in verse. The
purpose of the writer is to exhibit the masculine and feminine
principles, Thought and Beauty, as mutually completing each other in the
passion of love. The _Monates-Maehrchen_ (Tales of the Month), by Gustar
von Mayem, are poems of another sort. Instead of sentimentality, the
stock in trade of this writer is patriotism and politics. His inspiring
thought is the unity of Germany and the national greatness which must
result therefrom. Unfortunately this thought does not find so welcome a
reception with statesmen as with poets.

       *       *       *       *       *

A PRODUCTION of the most indisputable German plodding and erudition is
the _Satzungen und Gebraeuche des talmudisch-rabbinischen Judenthums_, by
Dr. I. F. Schroeder, lately issued at Bremen. It gives a complete account
of the religious notions, doctrines, and usages of the Jews. To
theologians it is of high value for the light which it casts upon the
formation and institutions of the Christian Church. The author has
employed in its composition the writings of every sect, and has
condensed in it the result of a thorough study of the entire literature
relating to the Old Testament and the rabbinical writings. He writes
with the greatest impartiality, and in the interest of no particular
creed or tendency.

       *       *       *       *       *

M. ARAGO said lately in the Academy of Sciences, upon the suggestion of
some possibilities in aerostation, that a long time since the whole
subject had been treated in a masterly manner by Mousnier, a celebrated
member of the Academy of Sciences. His treatise had remained in
manuscript in the public library of Metz, and if it should be committed
to the press, it would prove to those who think they have discovered new
methods of aerial locomotion, that what is plausible and rational in
their ideas was already perfectly well known, expounded and appreciated,
in the last century.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE government of Naples constantly increases its list of prohibited
books. Among the works now excluded, Humboldt's Cosmos, Shakspeare,
Goldsmith, Heeren's Historical Treatises, Ovid, Lucian, Lucretius,
Sophocles, Suetonius, Paul de Kock, Victor Hugo, E. Girardin, G. Sand,
Lamartine, Valery's L'Italie, Goethe, Schiller, Thiers, A. Dumas,
Moliere, all the German philosophers, and Henry Stephens's Greek
Dictionary.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE ABBE LACORDAIRE has published an introduction to a work entitled _Le
Monde Occulte_--an exposition of the mysteries of magnetism, by means of
somnambulism.

       *       *       *       *       *

A BOOK which contains some excellent sketches relative to MAZZINI and
the Roman Republic, has been published at Bremen, with the title, _Des
Republikaner's Schwerdfahrt_, (The Republican's Sword-Pilgrimage). The
author is a German, Ernst Hang, who held a high post in the Roman army.
He is now in Asia Minor, where his work was written. It is eloquent
sometimes, and entertaining and sensible always. His remarks on the
mutual relations of Germany and Italy, are admitted to be sound and
judicious.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE HON. CHARLES A. MURRAY, author of a volume of Travels in America,
and of three or four novels, is now the British Consul-General in Egypt,
and with his newly-married wife was to depart for Alexandria, to resume
his consular duties, towards the close of January.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE first volume of a most valuable and interesting work has just made
its appearance at Frankfort-on-the-Main. It is called _Geschichte der
Frauen_ (History of Woman), and is from the pen of G. Jung. The volume
now issued contains the history of the oppression of woman, and her
gradual self-emancipation down to the Christian era. It is written with
great talent, and comprehensive learning, but without pedantry. The
author believes that the emancipation of woman is not yet completed, and
she has a right to a free development of her faculties, and a perfectly
independent position in society. Two more volumes will complete the
work.




The Fine Arts.


RICHARD WAGNER, well known as an artist, has brought out at Leipzic a
book called _Das Kunstwerk der Zukunft_ (Art in the Future), which
excites a good deal of attention, and is soundly assailed by those who
dislike it. Wagner adopts the philosophical ideas of Feuerbach, and
treats his subject from that stand-point. Into modern art he pitches
with all the force of a genuine iconoclast. He says it is a sexless,
sterile product of dreams, not art, but merely manner, &c. With him art
must come out of the people, and be the apotheosis of the people. The
people are immortal and ever young. With the poets and novel-writers of
the day, Wagner has no more patience than with the artists. They are, he
thinks, dilettanti, sentimentalists, who coquet with the misery of the
masses, in order to serve the same up well spiced and warmed to their
luxurious and fashionable readers. The ideal and absolute in art he
finds in the drama, which is the sum and type of all other artistic
creations. But no drama yet produced satisfies him, and he tells the
reasons why without hesitation. Those who wish to be entertained and set
thinking by an author who is in earnest even when most paradoxical, may
look at Wagner's book with advantage.

       *       *       *       *       *

THORWALDSEN.--The Danish Government some time since sent Mr. Thiele, a
competent person, to Rome, for the purpose of collecting every thing
that could be obtained toward a history of the life and works of this
illustrious sculptor, whose early life is so obscure that even the date
and place of his birth are unknown, as well as the employment he made of
the first years that he was in Italy. Mr. Thiele has found a number of
casks in the cellars of the Tomati Palace at Rome, filled with letters,
addressed to Thorwaldsen, and among them a long and constant
correspondence between him and his mother, who lived part of the time in
Denmark and part of the time in Iceland, her native country. It seems
that Thorwaldsen had the habit of preserving his papers, even to the
most trifling, by flinging them confusedly into a cedar box in his room;
when that was full they were emptied into the casks where they have now
been found; these casks were not noticed when all the other contents of
the palace were removed to Copenhagen. Whatever is interesting in these
papers will, of course, be published. Mr. Thiele has also discovered in
the same cellar the model of a bas-relief by the same great artist,
representing the Muses dancing by Helicon. It will be added to the
collection of his works at Copenhagen.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE artist HEIDEL has published at Berlin a series of Eight
Illustrations to Goethe's Iphigenia. He aims in them to preserve unmixed
the spirit of antique art, and thus to prove that the Germans are the
true successors of the Greeks. The subjects of his designs are:--The
Fall of Tantalus; the Departure of Agamemnon; the Sacrifice of
Iphigenia; the Death of Agamemnon; the Death of Clytemnestrae; the Flight
of Orestes; the Meeting of Orestes and Iphigenia; and the Return of
Iphigenia. The designs are praised by the German critics. They say that
in beholding the Flight of Orestes, pursued by the Furies, who dare not
enter the sacred temple of Apollo where he seeks refuge, one imagines
that he hears the fearful chanting of a chorus of AEschylus.

       *       *       *       *       *

A NEW ART called _Metallography_ has been discovered by Nicholas Zack, a
lithographer at Munich, by means of which designs that have hitherto
been engraved on wood can be put directly upon metal, and in such a
manner as to be printed from. The plate is prepared beforehand, and the
artist draws his design upon it with a pencil or a needle. Without any
further labor, by means of the preparation alone, the plate will be
ready for printing. Worn-out plates may be restored with very little
expense.

       *       *       *       *       *

A BOOKSELLER of Munich has published Albert Duerer's sketches from the
prayer-book of Emperor Maximilian I., with the original text, 
initials, and an introduction. Price eight thalers, about $6,00.

       *       *       *       *       *

MORITZ RUGENDAS, a German artist, who has lately spent a considerable
time in Mexico and the countries of South America, is now engaged at
Munich, in arranging the pictures for which his journeys in those
countries furnished him the materials. A work of such magnitude has
never before been undertaken by any artist. He intends to treat each
country in a continuous series of views. The Mexican series is now
nearly completed, consisting of about 100 landscapes, in oil. It begins
with Vera Cruz, where the artist landed, and goes through the whole
country to the Pacific. First is the coast seen from the sea; next we
behold the coast with the sea as it appears inland; then we mount to the
plains, noticing the gradual change of the mountain formations, and the
vegetation, with views in every direction from each interesting point;
we pass through the great plateau, ascend the volcanoes and survey their
craters, and admire the beauty of the region about the city of Mexico.
From the city there are sketches of journeys in every direction, and at
last we traverse the palm forest of St. Jago, and stand upon the heights
whence the eye reaches to the Pacific. Every picturesque scene is
finished with the greatest care and with special regard to the natural
features of the landscape. Buildings and human figures are either
avoided altogether or used as merely subordinate. When Mexico is
completed, Rugendas will use in a similar manner the sketches he has
taken in other countries. It is not known whether his pictures will be
engraved or not. They will, we believe, become the property of the Royal
Pinakothek, at Munich.

       *       *       *       *       *

The painters at Vienna have formed an Art-Union, which is succeeding in
its first exhibition, which is now open. Some well-known artists of
Germany have sent pictures. Foltz, of Munich, has a landscape with a
flock of sheep; Zimmerman a landscape with effect of sunlight; Huelner,
of Duesseldorf, a boy reading the Bible to his mother, Vienna. Koeckoeck,
of Holland, has two landscapes. The artists of Vienna have also not been
backward. Among the names of the exhibitors we notice that of
Waldmueller, who is known in this country for his picture of the Children
leaving School, which was drawn a year since by one of the subscribers
to the International Art-Union, and was regarded as one of the chief
attractions of its collection.

       *       *       *       *       *

We hear from Berlin that KAULBACH has painted in miniature the Four
Evangelists, in a copy of Luther's translation of the New Testament,
which is destined for the World's Fair. The book is a folio; the leaves
are of vellum, and the printing is done in Gothic letters and in various
 inks by four accomplished masters of calligraphy. These artists
have also ornamented their work with numerous vignettes. The book is now
being exhibited at the Royal Library in Berlin.

       *       *       *       *       *

MR. PRESCOTT, Mr. Ticknor, and other Boston gentlemen of high
cultivation and artistic taste, have prepared a memorial to Congress
that POWERS should be commissioned by government to put into marble his
statue of America. For less than twenty-five thousand dollars,
probably--for a sum not larger than that which was paid by the
government for the two specimens of commonplace by Mr. Persico, this
admirable production might be obtained in colossal size for the capitol.

       *       *       *       *       *

The GERMAN _Arch[=a]ologische Institut_, at Rome, celebrated the
birth-day of Winckelmann on the 13th of December. Dr. Emil Braun read an
essay on the two chief groups of the frieze of the Parthenon. These
groups have hitherto been supposed to represent the twelve gods of
Olympus; Dr. Braun attempted to show that they represent, in a double
point of view, the native heroes of Attica. The physical development of
the country is expressed in the genealogy of a royal race, beginning
with Cecrops and his wife Agraulia, continued in Cranaus and Amphictyon,
and finally passing into Erichthonius, the son of Atthis, and foster son
of Pandrosos. The social organization of the state begins with
Erechtheus, who is aided by his wife Praxithea, and his daughter Creusa.
He annexes Eleusis to Athens, the former being here represented by
Demeter and Triptolemus; finally Theseus with his friend Pirithous
completes the civil organization of Athens, and establishes it upon a
firm basis. Essays on subjects connected with antique art and history
were also read by Dr. L. Schmidt, Dr. H. Brunn, and Dr. W. Heuzen.

       *       *       *       *       *

The paintings of the Chapel of the Virgin in the Church of Notre Dame de
Lorette, a vast work, which has hitherto remained unknown to the public,
and which has been interrupted by the recent death of the painter, M.
Victor Orsel, are now attracting attention. M. Perrin, intrusted with
the execution of a similar chapel in the same edifice, will undertake
the pious task of terminating the work of a friend, with whom he had
lived on terms of the closest friendship, cemented by a community of
ideas and talent. Orsel was making rapid strides towards a great
reputation.

       *       *       *       *       *

We had occasion lately to notice in the _International_ the
illustrations of Hood's "Bridge of Sighs," by Mr. Ehninger. This young
artist has just published in a large quarto (through Putnam) a series of
Outline Illustrations of Washington Irving's "Dolph Heyliger," which are
an improvement upon his first performance. Many of the scenes are
admirably rendered. We believe Mr. Ehninger is now pursuing the study of
art abroad.

       *       *       *       *       *

The German sculptor, WOLFF, has added to, his many admirable works a
figure of _Paris_, which is much praised.




THE AUTHORESS OF "JANE EYRE," AND HER SISTERS.[13]


Miss Bronte has just published in London the literary remains of her
sisters, "Ellis" and "Acton Bell," with interesting sketches of their
histories, including some glimpses of her own. We copy a portion of the
reviewal of the work in the _Athenaeum_:

The lifting of that veil which for a while concealed the authorship of
'Jane Eyre' and its sister-novels, excites in us no surprise. It seemed
evident from the first prose pages bearing the signatures of Currer,
Ellis, and Acton Bell, that these were _Rosalinds_--or a _Rosalind_--in
masquerade:--some doubt as to the plurality of persons being engendered
by a certain uniformity of local color and resemblance in choice of
subject, which might have arisen either from identity, or from joint
peculiarities of situation and of circumstance. It seemed no less
evident that the writers described from personal experience the wild and
rugged scenery of the northern parts of this kingdom; and no assertion
or disproval, no hypothesis or rumor, which obtained circulation after
the success of 'Jane Eyre,' could shake convictions that had been
gathered out of the books themselves. In similar cases, guessers are too
apt to raise plausible arguments on some point of detail,--forgetting
that this may have been thrown in _ex proposito_ to mislead the
bystander; and hence the most ingenious discoverers become so
pertinaciously deluded as to lose eye and ear for those less obvious
indications of general tone of style, color of incident, and form of
fable, on which more phlegmatic persons base measurement and comparison.
Whatever of truth there may or may not be generally in the above
remarks,--certain it is, that in the novels now in question instinct or
divination directed us aright. In the prefaces and notices before us, we
find that the Bells were three sisters:--two of whom are no longer
amongst the living. The survivor describes their home as--

     "A village parsonage, amongst the hills bordering Yorkshire
     and Lancashire. The scenery of these hills is not grand--it
     is not romantic; it is scarcely striking. Long low moors,
     dark with heath, shut in little valleys, where a stream
     waters, here and there, a fringe of stunted copse. Mills and
     scattered cottages chase romance from these valleys; it is
     only higher up, deep in amongst the ridges of the moors,
     that Imagination can find rest for the sole of her foot: and
     even if she finds it there, she must be a solitude-loving
     raven,--no gentle dove. If she demand beauty to inspire her,
     she must bring it inborn: these moors are too stern to yield
     any product so delicate. The eye of the gazer must itself
     brim with a 'purple light,' intense enough to perpetuate the
     brief flower-flush of August on the heather, or the rare
     sunset-smile of June; out of his heart must well the
     freshness that in later spring and early summer brightens
     the bracken, nurtures the moss, and cherishes the starry
     flowers that spangle for a few weeks the pasture of the
     moor-sheep. Unless that light and freshness are innate and
     self-sustained, the drear prospect of a Yorkshire moor will
     be found as barren of poetic as of agricultural interest:
     where the love of wild nature is strong, the locality will
     perhaps be clung to with the more passionate constancy,
     because from the hill-lover's self comes half its charm."

Thus much of the scene:--now as to the story of the authorship of these
singular books:--

     "About five years ago, my two sisters and myself, after a
     somewhat prolonged period of separation, found ourselves
     reunited and at home. Resident in a remote district where
     education had made little progress, and where, consequently,
     there was no inducement to seek social intercourse beyond
     our own domestic circle, we were wholly dependent on
     ourselves and each other, on books and study, for the
     enjoyments and occupations of life. * * One day, in the
     autumn of 1845, I accidentally lighted on a MS. volume of
     verse in my sister Emily's handwriting. Of course, I was not
     surprised, knowing that she could and did write verse; I
     looked it over, and something more than surprise seized
     me,--a deep conviction that these were not common effusions,
     nor at all like the poetry women generally write. * *
     Meantime, my younger sister quietly produced some of her own
     compositions, intimating that since Emily's had given me
     pleasure, I might like to look at hers. I could not be a
     partial judge, yet I thought that these verses too had a
     sweet sincere pathos of their own. We had very early
     cherished the dream of one day becoming authors. This dream,
     never relinquished even when distance divided and absorbing
     tasks occupied us, now suddenly acquired strength and
     consistency: it took the character of a resolve. We agreed
     to arrange a small selection of our poems, and, if possible,
     get them printed. Averse to personal publicity, we veiled
     our own names under those of Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell;
     the ambiguous choice being dictated by a sort of
     conscientious scruple at assuming Christian names positively
     masculine, while we did not like to declare ourselves women,
     because--without at that time suspecting that our mode of
     writing and thinking was not what is called 'feminine'--we
     had a vague impression that authoresses are liable to be
     looked on with prejudice; we had noticed how critics
     sometimes use for their chastisement the weapon of
     personality, and for their reward, a flattery, which is not
     true praise. The bringing out of our little book was hard
     work. * * Ill-success failed to crush us: the mere effort to
     succeed had given a wonderful zest to existence; it must be
     pursued. We each set to work on a prose tale: Ellis Bell
     produced 'Wuthering Heights,' Acton Bell 'Agnes Grey,' and
     Currer Bell also wrote a narrative in one volume. These MSS.
     were perseveringly obtruded upon various publishers for the
     space of a year and a half; usually, their fate was an
     ignominious and abrupt dismissal. At last 'Wuthering
     Heights' and 'Agnes Grey,' were accepted on terms somewhat
     impoverishing to the two authors."

The MS. of a one-volume tale by Currer Bell had been thought by Messrs.
Smith & Elder so full of promise, that its writer was asked for a longer
story in a more saleable form.--

     "I was then just completing 'Jane Eyre,' at which I had been
     working while the one-volume tale was plodding its weary
     round in London: in three weeks I sent it off; friendly and
     skillful hands took it in. This was in the commencement of
     September, 1847; it came out before the close of October
     following, while 'Wuthering Heights' and 'Agnes Grey,' my
     sisters' works, which had already been in the press for
     months, still lingered under a different management. They
     appeared at last. Critics failed to do them justice."

The narrative may be best concluded in the writer's own words.

     "Neither Ellis nor Acton allowed herself for one moment to
     sink under want of encouragement; energy nerved the one, and
     endurance upheld the other. They were both prepared to try
     again; I would fain think that hope and the sense of power
     was yet strong within them. But a great change approached:
     affliction came in that shape which to anticipate, is dread;
     to look back on, grief. In the very heat and burden of the
     day, the laborers failed over their work. My sister Emily
     first declined. The details of her illness are deep-branded
     in my memory, but to dwell on them, either in thought or
     narrative, is not in my power. Never in all her life had she
     lingered over any task that lay before her, and she did not
     linger now. She sank rapidly. She made haste to leave us.
     Yet, while physically she perished, mentally she grew
     stronger than we had yet known her. Day by day, when I saw
     with what a front she met suffering, I looked on her with an
     anguish of wonder and love. I have seen nothing like it;
     but, indeed, I have never seen her parallel in any thing.
     Stronger than a man, simpler than a child, her nature stood
     alone. The awful point was, that, while full of ruth for
     others, on herself she had no pity; the spirit was
     inexorable to the flesh; from the trembling hand, the
     unnerved limbs, the faded eyes, the same service was exacted
     as they had rendered in health. To stand by and witness
     this, and not dare to remonstrate, was a pain no words can
     render. Two cruel months of hope and fear passed painfully
     by, and the day came at last when the terrors and pains of
     death were to be undergone by this treasure, which had grown
     dearer and dearer to our hearts as it wasted before our
     eyes. Towards the decline of that day, we had nothing of
     Emily but her mortal remains as consumption left them. She
     died December 19, 1848. We thought this enough; but we were
     utterly and presumptuously wrong. She was not buried ere
     Anne fell ill. She had not been committed to the grave a
     fortnight, before we received distinct intimation that it
     was necessary to prepare our minds to see the younger sister
     go after the elder. Accordingly, she followed in the same
     path with slower step, and with a patience that equalled the
     other's fortitude. I have said that she was religious, and
     it was by leaning on those Christian doctrines in which she
     firmly believed that she found support through her most
     painful journey. I witnessed their efficacy in her latest
     hour and greatest trial, and must bear my testimony to the
     calm triumph with which they brought her through. She died
     May 28, 1849. What more shall I say about them? I cannot and
     need not say much more. In externals, they were two
     unobtrusive women; a perfectly secluded life gave them
     retiring manners and habits."

Though the above particulars be little more than the filling-up of an
outline already clearly traced and constantly present whenever those
characteristic tales recurred to us,--by those who have held other ideas
with regard to the authorship of "Jane Eyre" they will be found at once
curious and interesting from the plain and earnest sincerity of the
writer. She subsequently enters on an analysis and discussion of
"Wuthering Heights" as a work of art;--in the closing paragraph of her
preface to that novel, insinuating an argument, if not a defence, the
urgency of which is not sufficiently admitted by the bulk of the world
of readers. Speaking of the fiendlike hero of her sister's work, she
says:--

     "Whether it is right or advisable to create beings like
     Heathcliff, I do not know: I scarcely think it is. But this
     I know; the writer who possesses the creative gift owns
     something of which he is not always master--something that
     at times strangely wills and works for itself. He may lay
     down rules and devise principles, and to rules and
     principles it will perhaps for years lie in subjection; and
     then, haply without any warning of revolt, there comes a
     time when it will no longer consent 'to harrow the valleys,
     or be bound with a band in the furrow'--when it 'laughs at
     the multitude of the city, and regards not the crying of the
     driver'--when, refusing absolutely to make ropes out of
     sea-sand any longer, it sets to work on statue-hewing, and
     you have a Pluto or a Jove, a Tisiphone or a Psyche, a
     Mermaid or a Madonna, as fate or inspiration directs. Be the
     work grim or glorious, dread or divine, you have little
     choice left but quiescent adoption. As for you--the nominal
     artist--your share in it has been to work passively under
     dictates you neither delivered nor could question--that
     would not be uttered at your prayer, nor suppressed nor
     changed at your caprice."

It might have been added, that to those whose experience of men and
manners is neither extensive nor various, the construction of a
self-consistent monster is easier than the delineation of an imperfect
or inconsistent reality--with all its fallings-short, its fitful
aspirations, its mixed enterprises, and its interrupted dreams. But we
must refrain from further speculation and illustration:--enough having
been given to justify our characterizing this volume, with its preface,
as a more than usually interesting contribution to the history of female
authorship in England.

Pertinently of these biographies, the _Athenaeum_ remarks that "some of
the most daring and original have owed their parentage, not to defying
_Britomarts_, at war with society, who choose to make their literature
match with their lives,--not to brilliant women figuring in the world,
in whom every gift and faculty has been enriched, and whetted sharp, and
encouraged into creative utterance, by perpetual communication with the
most distinguished men of the time,--but to writers living retired lives
in retired places, stimulated to activity by no outward influence,
driven to confession by no history that demands apologetic parable or
subtle plea."

FOOTNOTES:

[13] _Wuthering Heights and Agnes Grey._ By Ellis and Acton Bell. A new
Edition Revised, with a Biographical Notice of the Authors, a Selection
from their Literary Remains, and a Preface. By Currer Bell. Smith, Elder
& Co.




DAVIS ON THE LAST HALF CENTURY.[14]

ETHERIZATION.


In 1802, the late reverend and venerable DR. MILLER of New Jersey, then
an active minister of the Presbyterian church in this city, published
here, in two large octavo volumes, the First Part of _A Brief Retrospect
of the Eighteenth Century, containing a Sketch of the Revolutions and
Improvements in Science, Arts and Literature, during that Period_. Six
other volumes were contemplated, to cover grounds since occupied by the
great work upon the Eighteenth Century, by Dr. Schlosser, but they never
appeared. The facts embraced in Dr. Miller's Retrospect illustrated an
extraordinary and successful intellectual activity in the preceding
hundred years; but the fruits of investigation and reflection in that
time were less remarkable and important than those which have marked the
first half of the Nineteenth Century, of which the Rev. EMERSON DAVIS,
D.D., has attempted to give us a survey in a single duodecimo. Within
such brief limits completeness and fulness were out of the question, but
we had a right to ask a judicious selection of topics, and--however
brief and imperfect,--a careful and an honest statement of facts. We are
sorry to perceive that brevity is the only redeeming quality of Dr.
Davis's performance. It is altogether worthless, in almost every
respect, and unless it tempt some competent person to the composition of
an Account of the Progress of Society from 1800 to 1851, its appearance
will be a public misfortune, as well as a private disgrace. Perfectly to
justify this condemnation we will copy a single section--the one
treating of the discovery of

     "LETHEON, OR SULPHURIC ETHER, &c.

     "In the autumn of 1846, it was announced in the public
     journals that a dentist in Boston, W. T. G. Morton, had
     discovered a method of extracting teeth without pain. Dr.
     Morton, it seems, was satisfied that he could increase his
     business to any extent he pleased, if he could only discover
     a method by which he could extract and insert teeth without
     any pain to the patient. Having some knowledge of the fact
     that, by inhaling the vapor of ether, a state of
     insensibility could be produced, he applied to Dr. Charles
     T. Jackson to know if it could be done with safety. It
     occurred to him that it might produce such a degree of
     stupor that a tooth might be extracted without a
     consciousness of what was doing [_meaning_ being done]. On
     the 30th of September, 1846, he inhaled the vapor himself,
     and found that he remained in an unconscious state eight
     minutes. On the same day, he administered it with success to
     a man who called to have a tooth extracted. The man, on
     recovering his consciousness, did not know that any
     instrument had been applied to his tooth. On the 16th and
     17th of October, at the suggestion of Dr. Morton, ether was
     administered to two patients at the hospital, who were to
     have surgical operations performed. The experiment was
     successful. As soon as the fact was known, it was generally
     applauded by the newspapers as a wonderful discovery, and
     the question came up, To whom belongs the honor, and who
     shall reap the reward? Dr. Jackson, in a letter to M.
     Beaumont, published in Galignani's Messenger, in Paris,
     January, 1847, says, 'I request permission to communicate to
     the Academy, through you, a discovery which I have made, and
     which I regard as important to suffering humanity.' It
     appears that the idea of using ether to render a person
     insensible _to pain_, was original with Dr. Morton, and that
     Dr. Jackson did no more than give Dr. Morton some
     information respecting the nature of ether, and the best
     mode of inhaling it. But as Dr. Jackson was better known as
     a man of science, Dr. Morton consented to take the patent in
     the name of both, and Dr. Jackson sold out his share to Dr.
     Morton for ten per cent. of the income that might be derived
     from the sale of rights to use the discovery.

     "In February, 1847, another letter appeared in Galignani's
     Messenger, from Dr. H. Wells, of Hartford, Connecticut, in
     which he claimed to be the discoverer of the fact that the
     respiring of gas would produce insensibility to pain. Dr.
     Wells had been about the country for a few years previous,
     _lecturing upon gases_, and had often administered the
     exhilarating, or nitrous oxide, gas. There is _no evidence_
     that he ever administered ether. He might, in his
     experiments, have found that persons under the influence of
     the nitrous gas were insensible to pain, but he had no right
     to claim that he discovered that the vapor of ether would
     produce that effect. The French Academy, however, conferred
     rewards of merit upon both Jackson and Wells, and, in 1848,
     the American Congress awarded to Morton the honor of the
     discovery.

     "In 1847, several sharp articles appeared in the Boston
     papers, some favorable to Morton, and others to Jackson.
     Wells committed suicide that year, and nothing more was said
     respecting his claims. Some spicy pamphlets were written.
     The result has been that, under the shelter of the smoke of
     controversy, every one that chose has made use of the
     discovery without paying Morton for the right, and that he
     has been actually impoverished by the attention he gave to
     the subject."

This statement is a tissue of falsehood and absurdity. To deny to Dr.
Wells the _entire_ credit of this discovery, argues simply gross
ignorance or insolence. Whenever any matter deserving of historical
commemoration is submitted to controversy, and the evidence is not full
and absolute, and the decision is not unanimous or nearly so, the
historian must _himself_ enter into the investigation, and in his own
person pronounce judgment. Therefore Dr. Davis has no excuse for so
scandalous a misrepresentation of these events, in any communications or
suggestions by unknown parties. It was easy to be rightly informed, and
under such circumstances, ignorance is scarcely less criminal than
designed falsehood. In this case, the decision has plainly been in favor
of Dr. Wells, wherever there was authority of action. By means which we
do not care to state, but which are well known to us, Drs. Jackson and
Morton did indeed procure of the Academy of Sciences in Paris, a
recognition of their joint claims to be regarded as the discoverers of
etherization. The Academy of Sciences is not a fit tribunal. The Paris
Medical Society (of which the celebrated Chevalier Ricord is President)
is; and this society, after an elaborate investigation of the whole
subject, during which it listened to a speech of several hours by Mr.
Warren, the agent of Drs. Jackson and Morton, decided with the utmost
unanimity that Dr. Wells made the discovery, and awarded him therefor
the sum of 25,000 francs.

The statement that Dr. Wells "went about the country lecturing upon
gases," is characteristically false. He never delivered even one
lecture, upon any subject whatever, in his life. It is equally false
that "the American Congress awarded to Morton the credit of the
discovery." Congress has never made any decision or award at all in the
premises. A committee was hastily appointed, and it presented a report,
probably prepared in Boston. The friends of Dr. Wells were not advised
of any such attempt, and it was thought this report, with agreeing
resolutions, could be smuggled through the House. But a counter report
was immediately offered, nevertheless, and so the game stopped.

We cannot, in these pages, enter into any detail of the history of this
important discovery; but those who wish to investigate it, are referred
to a pamphlet lately issued at Hartford, entitled, "_Discovery by the
late Dr. Horace Wells of the Applicability of Nitrous Oxide Gas,
Sulphuric Ether, and other Vapors, in Surgical Operations, nearly two
years before the Patented Discovery of Drs. Charles T. Jackson and W. T.
G. Morton_." This pamphlet was prepared by Mr. Toucey, recently Attorney
General of the United States, and nothing can be more conclusive and
satisfactory, to a fair inquirer, than the evidence contained in it,
that Drs. Jackson and Morton had never even the slightest thought of any
thing like etherization, until Dr. Wells, some time after the discovery,
proceeded to Boston, in the hope that Dr. Morton (who was under especial
private obligations to him, and therefore was regarded by him as a
friend) would assist him in procuring for it larger publicity and
recognition. Poor Wells was only laughed at by these gentlemen, who, two
years afterward, claimed the discovery as their own!

How complete the discovery, and how successful the application of it,
will appear from the affidavit of Dr. Marcy. Mr. Toucey says:

     "Dr. E. E. Marcy, formerly of Hartford, now of the city of
     New-York, was present at the rooms of Dr. Wells, by his
     special request, to witness the operation upon Mr. F. C.
     Goodrich, and witnessed it with the strong sensations
     produced by a new and wonderful discovery upon a scientific
     observer. He says, not only was the extraction accomplished
     without pain, but the inhalation of the gas was effected
     without any of those indications of excitement, or attempts
     at muscular exertion, which do commonly obtain when the gas
     is administered _without a definite object or previous
     mental preparation_. 'By this experiment,' says Dr. Marcy,
     'two important, and, to myself, _entirely new facts_ were
     demonstrated: 1st. That the body could be rendered
     insensible to pain by the inhalation of a gas or vapor,
     capable of producing certain effects upon the organism. And
     2d. When such agents were administered, to a sufficient
     extent, for a definite object, and with a suitable
     impression being previously produced upon the mind, that no
     unusual mental excitement, or attempts at physical effort
     would follow the inhalation.

     "'Witnessing these wonderful phenomena, these new and
     astounding facts, the idea at once occurred to me whether
     there were not other substances analogous in effect to the
     gas, and which might be employed with more convenience and
     with equal efficacy and safety. Knowing that the inhalation
     of sulphuric-ether vapor gave rise to precisely the same
     effects as those of the gas, from numerous former trials
     with both these substances, I suggested to Dr. Wells, the
     employment of the vapor of rectified sulphuric ether--at the
     same time detailing to him its ordinary effects upon the
     economy, and the method of preparing the articles for use.
     Our first impression was, that it possessed all the
     anaesthetic properties of the nitrous oxyd, was equally safe,
     and could be prepared with less trouble, thus affording an
     article which was not expensive, and could always be kept at
     hand. At the same time, I told Dr. Wells that I would
     prepare some ether, and furnish him some of it to
     administer, and also make a trial of it myself, in a
     surgical case which I expected to operate upon in a few
     days. Not long after this conversation (to which allusion is
     made by Mr. Goodrich, in his affidavit) I administered the
     vapor of rectified sulphuric ether, in my office, to the
     young man above alluded to, and after he had been rendered
     insensible to pain, cut from his head an encysted tumor of
     about the size of an English walnut. The operation was
     entirely unattended with pain, and demonstrated to Dr. Wells
     and myself, in the most conclusive manner, the anaesthetic
     properties of ether vapor.'

     "We have narrated this important experiment in the language
     of Dr. Marcy, to whose affidavit we take leave to refer, as
     no part of it can, with any propriety or justice, be
     overlooked by any one who proposes to subject this matter to
     a searching examination. It shows the progress and the
     successful result of these inquiries and experiments of Dr.
     Wells, and of those skilful and liberal professional
     gentlemen who co-operated with him. It shows that the
     opinion was then entertained by Dr. Marcy, that the
     constituents of the gas were more nearly allied to the
     atmospheric air than were those of ether vapor--that the
     former was more agreeable and easy to inhale than the
     latter, and upon the whole was more safe and equally
     efficacious as an anaesthetic agent--and that this opinion
     was fully confirmed by numerous experiments subsequently
     made by Drs. Ellsworth, Beresford, Riggs, Terry, Wells and
     himself. It shows further, that _Dr. Wells visited Boston in
     1844, for the purpose of communicating his discovery to the
     faculty of that city, and that, on his return, he informed
     Dr. Marcy that he had communicated it to Dr. C. T. Jackson,
     and to Dr. Morton, and received from the former, and from
     other medical gentlemen of Boston, nothing but ridicule for
     his pains_."

We have no room for testimony. Mr. Toucey concludes his statement in the
following manner:--

     "More than a year and a half after Dr. Wells had personally
     made known to Dr. Jackson, and to Dr. Morton, his former
     pupil, the result of his experiments, more than one year
     after the announcement in the Boston _Medical and Surgical
     Journal_, published at their doors, we find Dr. Jackson and
     Dr. Morton confederating together, taking out a patent for
     this principle, and attempting ineffectually to appropriate
     it to their joint pecuniary benefit! Dr. Jackson as the
     philosopher, Dr. Morton as the operator! And shortly
     afterwards, differing in almost every thing else, agreeing
     nevertheless in one thing--each affirming of the other that
     he was not entitled to the merit of the discovery!

     "Such is a brief statement of the proof, by which the mere
     matter of fact is established, which induced the Legislature
     of Connecticut to hail the late Dr. Horace Wells as a public
     benefactor. With this accumulation of evidence on one side,
     bearing directly upon the point, and _nothing to countervail
     it on the other_, it is impossible to resist the conclusion
     that he was the fortunate author of this great discovery,
     unless one or the other of two propositions can be
     established, namely, either that such a paralysis of the
     nervous system as would render the subject insensible to
     pain during the process of extracting teeth, would not
     embrace the principle of it, or on the other hand, that
     nitrous oxyd gas is arbitrarily to be excluded from its
     proper place in a class of agents, all of which are nearly
     identical in their operation. And even if this difficult
     task could be accomplished, there would still remain another
     equally difficult to be encountered; because it has already
     been shown that Dr. Wells went beyond these limits, and that
     Dr. Marcy, in conjunction with him, subjected the use of
     sulphuric ether in a larger surgical operation, to the test
     of successful experiment. But either of the foregoing
     propositions would be too absurd to require a moment's
     consideration. The principle is as fully developed by the
     painless extraction of teeth, as by the painless amputation
     of a limb; by the successful use of nitrous oxyd gas, as of
     rectified sulphuric ether. In the language of Dr. Marcy:
     'The man who first discovered the fact that the inhalation
     of a gaseous substance would render the body insensible to
     pain under surgical operations, should be entitled to all
     the credit or emolument which may accrue from the use of any
     substances of this nature. This is the _principle_--this is
     the _fact_--this is the _discovery_. The mere substitution
     of ether vapor or any other article for the gas, no more
     entitles one to the claim of a _discovery_, than the
     substitution of coal for wood in generating steam, would
     entitle one to be called the discoverer of the powers of
     steam.'

     "It is unnecessary to pursue the subject further. It would
     be one of the greatest marvels of this wonderful age, if the
     world, with these facts before it, did not confirm the
     decision which it has already pronounced, and award to Dr.
     Wells the merit of a discovery, which will be remembered and
     appreciated as long as mankind shall be exposed to
     suffering, or have occasion to apply an antidote."

The section upon etherization, we presume, will serve as a specimen of
Dr. Davis's _History_ of the First Half of the Eighteenth Century.

FOOTNOTES:

[14] _The Half Century; or a History of changes that have taken place,
and events that have transpired, chiefly in the United States, between
1800 and 1850_; with an introduction by Mark Hopkins, D.D. By Emerson
Davis. D.D. Boston: Tappan & Whittenmore.




POPULAR LECTURES.


Thus far this season, there has been even more than the usual amount of
lecturing in our principal cities. The mania lasts longer than was
thought possible. The "phenomenon" has really become a feature of the
times. It absorbs a great share of the current literary enthusiasm--much
of which it has created, and will, it is to be feared, entirely satisfy.
Professor Pease, of the University of Vermont, in an essay upon the
subject, seeks to determine its import and value; to trace the feeling
which gives it birth to its source, and to determine as accurately as
possible the grounds of promise or of fear which it affords. "These
interpretations," he says, "vary between the widest extremes. On the one
side is heard the exulting shout of those who whirl unresistingly in the
vortex--'Does not wisdom cry and understanding put forth her voice?'
behold the 'progress of the species' and the 'march of mind!' And, on
the other side, the contemptuous murmur of those who will be overwhelmed
rather than gyrate against their will, they know not whither--'What
meaneth this bleating of the sheep in mine ears?'"

This mania for lectures, taken in connection with the prevailing
literary taste (of which it is in some sort an index), is regarded as
pointing, more or less directly, to a want of the human spirit--to its
cry--strong and importunate, though often stifled and but dimly felt,
for light--the light of science and of truth. Many feel this want only
as a _traditional_ need--one which their fathers before them have felt
and have taught them to feel--and _they_ are apt to be satisfied with a
traditional supply. Others ask for science because it will help them
make, or work, and perchance _become_ machines, whereby they may earn
bread: and oftentimes, says the writer, "does this mere irritability of
the coating of the stomach pass itself off as the waking up the life of
the soul, and the sublime and pure aspirations of the spirit, for high
and ultimate truths, pure as itself." Then, it is the fashion to be
learned, and the <DW2>s of literature, who must "follow the fashion," of
course, get wisdom as quickly and easily as possible. These are the main
features of that demand for science, which is now so clamorous. Mr.
Pease divides the lectures of the day into three classes; first those of
which the object is instruction, then those designed to amuse, and last,
those which profess to serve both these purposes; and he thinks it may
be said of all, that they have no _vital, form-giving, organific
principle_, running through them, developing properly each separate
part, and uniting them all by its own power.

In these discourses he says: "The carpenter is the actual model; for
like him the discourser cuts and fits his timber according to rules the
grounds of which it concerns not him to understand, with little labor
beyond that of hacking and hewing--materials being ever ready at his
hand: for the world is full of books as the forest is of trees and the
market of lumber. And this is done to instruct us; to build us up
inwardly; to administer food to our intellect; to nourish our souls; to
kindle the imagination and awaken to energetic action the living but
slumbering world within. But, alas! this inner world cannot be kindled
like a smouldering fire, by a basket of chips and a puff of wind! This
inner world is a world of spirits, which feed on thoughts full of truth
and living energy. And thought alone can kindle thought: and truth alone
can waken truth: not veracity, not fact, but truth vital,

        'Truth that wakes
    To perish never.'

This is the bread for which the soul is pining, and such are the husks
with which its calls are answered."

There is in this statement of the predominant character of our popular
lectures much that is true, as we could easily show by a definite
examination of the most popular discourses to which our audiences
listen. Every one can see that their aim is, not to announce great
truths, which are essential to the well-being of society, and the
instruction of the soul, but so to shape their sentences, so to point
their paragraphs, and to give such a turn to their expressions, as to
tickle most effectually the fancy of those who hear them, and to call
down that round of applause which tells them they have made a _hit_. Now
just so far as this is the case, popular lecturing not only seeks to
supply the place of the theatre, but actually becomes theatrical; and
lacking the essential worth and dignity of the drama, assumes its tricks
and shallow vanities.

Nevertheless, the author whom we have quoted sees in this fashion signs
of promise, for it signifies the existence and the struggling toward the
light, of the absolute want of the soul--which will soon rectify the
public taste, and teach men that pleasure lies only in the life-giving
and the true.

"In this," he says, "lives an abiding ground of hope and cheerful
confidence; for it teaches us that every human heart has those depths
and living powers in it, the healthful action of which is the true life
and well-being of the soul--and in none, we hope, are they forever
dormant; and no heart, we hope, is wholly closed. Light, though in rays
feeble and scattered, may shine in upon it, and it shall awake--for it
is not dead, but sleepeth.... The feeling of wants that lie deeper and
farther inward than the sensual appetites, must be supplied or
suppressed; and hence arise a struggle and conflict between the
antagonist principles of our being. Firm peace, and healthful, quiet
energy of soul, are the fruit of victory, and of victory only.
Therefore, though attended with a 'troubled sea of noises, and hoarse
disputes,' the contest, with its hubbub and vain clamor, is the door to
quietness and clear intelligence. Pedantry and pretension, quackery and
imposture, shall, in spite of themselves, conduct to their own exposure
and extinction; for a higher sway than ours guides all affairs, causing
even the wrath of man to praise Him, and making folly itself the guide
to wisdom. Hooker characterized his own times as 'full of tongue, and
weak of brain;' and Luther said to the same effect, of the preachers and
scholars of his day: 'If they were not permitted to prate and clatter
about it, they would burst with the greatness of their art and science,
so hot and eager are they to teach.' But the noise and dust having
subsided, there is left us, of those very times, works which men will
not willingly let die. Noise and smoke causeless do not come. There is a
force at bottom which will ultimately work itself clear, and produce
good and substantial fruits. There is a force somewhere, or no foam and
dust would rise: but there is little force in the foam and dust
themselves. And the immediate instruments are _only_ instruments,
working without knowledge what they do, like puppets, dancing and
swinging their arms, while far behind resides the force that works the
wires. All wonder bestowed upon _them_ is, most certainly, foolish
wonder. But there is no ground for discouragement, or for any but good
hopes, although ignorance and pretension stand in high places, and
vainly babble concerning things beautiful and profound. This uproar
comes only from the troubling of the stream--the foam and roar will not
continue always; the smooth plain lies below, along which it shall soon
flow, quietly, but strongly, murmuring sweet music. And for the
ambitious rainbows painted in the mists above, there shall be the sweet
reflection of earth and heaven from its calm bosom."




OLD TIMES IN NEW-YORK.


Governor William Livingston, of New Jersey, "poet, philosopher and
sage," in a letter written November 17th, 1744, gives the following
insight into life, as it then was, in New-York. He is describing a
"party:"

"The feast as usual was preceded by cards, and the company so numerous
that they filled two tables; after a few games, a magnificent supper
appeared in grand order and decorum--the frolic was closed up by ten
sunburnt virgins lately come from Columbus's Newfoundland, and sundry
other female exercises; besides a play of my own invention, which I have
not room enough to describe at present; however, kissing constitutes a
great part of its entertainment."

In 1759, Livingston's father died, and his funeral obsequies were
performed in all the pomp and attended with all the expense customary in
colonial times. These took place in New-York. The lower apartments of
most of the stores in Broad-street, where he resided, were thrown
open--a pipe of wine was spiced--there were eight pall-bearers, and to
each was presented a pair of gloves, a mourning ring, scarf and
handkerchief, and a spoon. These services were repeated at the manor,
his country-seat, and a handkerchief and pair of black gloves presented
to each of the tenants.




ROSSINI IN THE KITCHEN.


The last accounts of Rossini, if we are to credit the pleasant stories
told of him by the Parisian wit, Louis Huart, are highly characteristic
of the great _maestro_. The following _canard_ is one of the most
_veritable_ and amusing:--

"The newspapers announce that Rossini has shut himself up at Bologna
with the celebrated tenor Donzelli, and that they pass their days in
rehearsing a new opera, of which Rossini is finishing the score. After
the sea-serpent, I know of no story which returns more periodically than
the announcement of a new opera by Rossini. It is now fifteen years
since this pleasantry began to be invariably reproduced at the
commencement of every winter, and always with the same success. One
begins to meet in society a few Parisians who shrug their shoulders with
an air of incredulity when you speak to them of the sea-serpent, but no
one dares to evince the least skepticism touching the new opera of
Rossini. We received this morning a letter from our correspondent at
Bologna, and he furnishes us with details which explain the
announcements in the newspapers.

"Rossini is living in rather a retired way just now; and only receives
the regular visits of one person; there is an error, however, in the
orthography of the appellation of this visitor. Instead of Donzelli, he
is named Pastafrollo. He is no tenor! he is a cook! Rossini, in company
with Pastafrollo, is now busily occupied in endeavoring to discover a
new way of dressing turbot. Rossini has invented, up to the present day,
sixty-two different ways of dressing this fish, but he repeats to
whoever will listen to him, that he will not die content until he has
discovered a sixty-third method, which will satisfy him completely--then
he will divulge his secret, and have inscribed on the _cartes_ of all
the _restaurants_ in Europe--_turbot a la Rossini_. On that day, but
that day only, Rossini will make up his mind to open his piano and
compose a _cantata_ in honor of fish in general, and turbot in
particular. The passion of Rossini for cooking has been rendered more
ardent from the fact that the family of this illustrious personage do
all they can to cross him in it. The relatives and friends of Rossini
wish to make him believe that it is unworthy of a musician, and more
especially of a musician of his genius, to occupy himself with turbot;
but Rossini replies, history in hand, that a whole senate once devoted a
long sitting to find out what sauce would eat best with this fish.
Rossini's family do not consider themselves beaten as yet, and they have
organized a sort of _cordon sanitaire_ round the house of the composer,
to prevent the cooks from getting to him. Before this determination was
arrived at, Bologna overflowed with _chefs_, who arrived from every part
of Italy, to consult Rossini on the best methods to be employed in
dressing salmon, skate, carp, eels, and gudgeons.

"This furnishes us with an explanation of the reason why Pastafrollo was
forced to employ a stratagem in order to prevent his being stopped in
the hall by the family of Rossini. Pastafrollo arrived at Bologna, under
the name of Donzelli, and took care to have inscribed on his passport
_tenor_ instead of _cook_.

"We cannot conclude without giving expression to an earnest hope, that
the conferences established between Rossini and Pastafrollo may give
birth to the sixty-third mode of dressing turbot."




THE FIRST PEACE SOCIETY.


In an entertaining article on "The Abbe de Saint-Pierre," in the last
_Gentleman's Magazine_, there is this curious account of a "Peace
Society."

"The Abbe de Polignac took Saint Pierre with him to the Congress of
Utrecht. Witnessing all the difficulties which stood in the way of
reconciliation between the contending parties, Saint-Pierre conceived
that the truest benefit which could be conferred on mankind would be the
abolition of war. He at once proceeded to embody his idea, and published
in 1713, the year in which peace was concluded, his 'Projet de Paix
Perpetuelle,' in three volumes. The means by which he proposed that this
perpetual peace should be preserved was the formation of a senate to be
composed of all nations, and to be called _The European Diet_, and
before which princes should be bound to state their grievances and
demand redress. The Bishop of Frejus, afterwards Cardinal de Fleury, to
whom Saint-Pierre communicated his plan, replied to him, 'You have
forgotten the most essential article, that of sending forth a troop of
missionaries to persuade the hearts of princes, and induce them to adopt
your views.' D'Alembert has made one or two just remarks on
Saint-Pierre's dream of universal peace, which are as applicable now as
they were a hundred years ago: 'The misfortune of those metaphysical
projects for the benefit of nations consists in supposing all princes
equitable and moderate, in attributing to men whose power is absolute,
and who have the perfect consciousness of their power, who are often
exceedingly unenlightened, and who live always in an atmosphere of
adulation and falsehood, dispositions which the force of law and the
fear of censure so rarely inspire even in private persons. Whosoever, in
forming enterprises for the happiness of humanity, does not take into
calculation the passions and vices of men, has imagined only a beautiful
chimera.' Rousseau thought that, even if Saint Pierre's project were
practicable, it would cause more evil all at once than it would prevent
during many ages."

The writer of this memoir of Saint Pierre presents the character of that
remarkable person in a more favorable light than that in which we have
been accustomed to regard it. The author of "Paul and Virginia" was very
likely a far better man than has been supposed.




EGYPT UNDER THE PHARAOHS.

MR. KENRICK'S HISTORY.[15]


All nations turn to Egypt, as to the mother of civility, and the
Christian sees there the prison where are detained, until the end of the
world, the witnesses of truths which vindicate his religion. How much
the Holy Land is our country, appears from this, that to all Christians,
however remote the places where they live, the scenes about Jerusalem
are more familiar than those about the capital of his own nation; and
with Egypt we are scarcely less intimately, though much less perfectly,
acquainted. Within the last half century, great researches have been
made, by individual or national enterprise, into the poetry and
antiquities of Egypt, by the enterprise of travellers and the diligence
of archaeologists, among whom England claims the names of Young,
Wilkinson, and Vyse. But comparatively few know what has been the result
of these researches. They lie scattered over a number of works in
different languages, beyond the reach even of the ordinary student, much
more of the general reader. Mr. Kenrick (of whose "Ancient Egypt under
the Pharaohs" we copy below the main portion of a reviewal in the London
_Times_) has undertaken the task of supplying a synopsis, and this task
he appears to us to have accomplished excellently well. Mr. Kenrick is a
very estimable as well as a very accomplished man. Like the great
majority of the abler historical, philosophical and religious writers of
England at this time, he is a _Dissenter_, which perhaps lessens
somewhat the warmth of the critic's commendations. We hope to see his
work, as well as that of Mr. Sharpe, relating to Egypt under the
Ptolemies, reproduced, by some of our own publishers. Of Mr. Kenrick,
the _Times_ says:--

"He commences with the land of Egypt. In the East great rivers are the
parents of civilized nations. A great river, which by its deposit forms
a long valley and a broad delta of rich alluvial soil in the midst of
deserts, was the parent, the nourisher, and the god of the oldest
civilized nation of the earth. The Nile is Egypt; the Egyptians were
those who lived below the cataracts and drank of the Nile. Above the
cataracts they pushed their arms into Ethiopia, and left there the
monuments of their dominion. To the west they were at once defended and
confined by a desert impassable to armies, but which the oasis rendered
passable to the caravan. On the north was an almost harborless sea. On
the east was another desert, through which roads led to the ports of the
Red Sea and the mines of Sinai. On the north-east the Arabian desert
formed an imperfect barrier. It was traversed by the hosts of Sesostris
and Sheshonk, of Nebuchadnezzar and Cambyses, and across its sands Egypt
communicated commercially and politically with the other seats of
ancient civilization which, broken by the recurring desert, formed an
irregular chain from Philistia to China.

"Of the singular productions of Egypt, the hippopotamus, the crocodile,
the ibis, the papyrus, we need not speak. There were few beasts of
chase, and the Egyptian conquerors did not begin like those of central
Asia by being mighty hunters. It was a land of corn, and of the vine, of
fruit trees, and all herbs. The nations sought its granaries in famine;
the Israelites in the wilderness thirsted for the cooling vegetables of
its gardens. Fish abounded in the Nile, waterfowl in the marshes. Nature
yielded freely, but perhaps for that very reason the mind of man was
less exercised and less active. And the unvarying landscape, the
unchanging sky, the small number and unpoetic or even grotesque forms of
the plants and animals, may partly account for the lack of imagination
evinced by the most formal and most stationary of nations, scarcely
excepting the Chinese.

"Who and whence were the Egyptians? This question Mr. Kenrick has to
ask, and, like others, to leave unanswered. This is the secret which the
grave of the Pharaohs will not yield. Physiology supplies no clue. The
mummy cases, the paintings and sculptures, depict a race short, slight,
with low foreheads, high cheek bones, long eyes, hair now crisp now
curled, and a complexion which the conventionality of the painter's art
makes to differ in men and women, but which probably was brown with a
tinge of red, dark compared with that of the Syrian, black compared with
that of the Greek. Thick lips are frequently seen, but they are supposed
to indicate intermarriage with Ethiopians. From the <DW64> the Egyptians
were far removed, nor can they be connected with any other known race.
If we turn to language, a surer guide perhaps than physiology, we are
again completely baffled. The Coptic has been identified through many
etymologies with the old Egyptian; and of the Coptic, though it became a
dead language in the twelfth century, much literature remains. It is an
uncultivated and formal tongue, with monosyllabic roots and rude
inflexions totally different from the neighboring languages of Syria and
Arabia, totally opposite to the copious and polished Sanscrit. The last
fact at once severs Egypt from India, and destroys every presumption of
affinity that may arise from the presence in both countries of caste, of
animal worship, and of a religion derivable from a primitive adoration
of the powers of nature. The hypothesis of an Ethiopian origin sprang
from the notion, natural but untrue, that population would follow the
course of the descending river. And no tradition among the Egyptians
themselves told of a parent stock or of another land.

"Respecting the mighty works of Egypt, little mystery remains. The great
Pyramids had been rifled by the Caliphs, if not by earlier hands, and no
inscriptions have been found. But no doubt exists that they were the
sepulchres of the Kings of Memphis. The Queens and the "princes of
Noph" reposed in smaller pyramids beside the Kings. These mountains of
wasted masonry belong to the earliest ages of the Pharaonic monarchy,
before the time of the Sesostrian conquests, and therefore they bespeak
the toil and suffering, not of captives, but of native slaves. Before
them couches the Sphinx, hewn from the rock, to spare, as a Greek
inscription says, each spot of cultivable land. His riddle--for it is _a
male_--is read. He represents, perhaps portrays, the reigning King, and
the thick lips may indicate Ethiopian blood. The lion's body represents
the monarch's might--the human head his wisdom. The rock, from which the
figure is cut, broke the view of the Pyramids, and to convert it into
the Sphinx was a stroke of Egyptian genius. Pyramids were, in the
Pharaonic times, peculiar to Memphis. The countless tombs of Thebes are
excavated in the rocky face of the Libyan hills. Those of the Theban
Pharaohs stand apart, and we approach through a narrow gorge called the
"Gate of Kings." The paintings, sculptures, and inscriptions on these
tombs, literally the eternal _houses_ of the dead, are the Pompeii of
the Egyptian antiquary. At Thebes are the magnificent and temple-like
palaces of the greatest of the Pharaohs, the halls of their assemblies
and their counsels, the records of their wars and conquests. At Thebes,
too, is the Memnon, a mutilated statue of Amnoph, which never was vocal
except by trick or in imagination, and the Obelisks, whose form is
sufficiently explained, without obscenity or mystery, by the fancy for
monolithic monuments and the possession of large blocks of granite. The
remains of the Labyrinth do not enable us to pronounce whether its
twenty-seven halls were a burial-place for kings or crocodiles, or a
place of assembly for the provinces of Egypt.

"Very various and very extravagant notions have been formed of the
population of ancient Egypt. That it was dense may well be inferred from
the length of time through which it multiplied in a limited space, and
from that evident parsimony of land which drove tombs and monuments to
the rocks, and cities to the edge of the desert. Calculations based on
the number of cities, and on the number of men of military age, have
plausibly placed the sum at about five millions.

"Agriculture was the chief business of the Egyptians, and the chief
business of agriculture consisted in distributing and detaining, by
canals and dams, the precious waters of the Nile. The sheep and cattle
were numerous. A grandee of Eilytheia possessed one hundred and twenty
two cows and oxen, three hundred rams, twelve hundred goats, and fifteen
hundred swine. Lower Egypt contained the great pasture lands, and was
the abode of the herdsmen--a lawless race, and, _therefore_, an
abomination to their more civilized countrymen. The ass was the beast of
burden. The horse was bred for the war-chariot--that great attribute of
ancient power. The breed was small but fine and peculiar to the country.
They were kept in stables along the Nile, and hence they do not appear
in the landscapes. Horticulture was extensively and elaborately
practised, both for use and pleasure; and the Pharaohs, like Solomon,
'made them gardens and orchards, planted trees in them of all kinds of
fruit, and made them pools of water to water therewith the wood that
bringeth forth trees.'

"When forced to serve on shipboard by the enterprise of their own
Monarchs or by their Persian conquerors, the Egyptians appear not to
have made bad sailors. They fought well at Salamis. But their natural
tendency was to shun the sea, which they regarded as the element of the
Destroyer Typhon. Their navigation was on the Nile, which formed the
highway of their commerce, the path of their processions and their
pilgrimages, and their passage to the tomb. The river being thus the
universal road, and being moreover without bridges, must have swarmed
with boats of all descriptions--the heavy bari of the merchant, the
light papyrus or earthenware skiffs of the common people, and the
sumptuous barge of Royalty, whose golden pavilion, masts, and rudder,
fringed and embroidered sails, and sculptured prow, remind us of the
galley of Cleopatra. The caravans of surrounding nations visited Egypt
with their precious and fragrant merchandise to exchange for her corn
and manufactures. But the Egyptian trader appears seldom to have visited
other countries either by land or sea.

"The army was a warrior caste. Its might consisted in its chariots. No
mounted cavalry appear in any of the monuments. With this exception they
had every kind of force and every weapon known to ancient warfare. They
used the long bow and drew the arrow, like the English archers, to the
ear. Their armor was imperfect, and more often of quilting than of mail.
They had regular divisions, with standards, and regular camps. Their
sieges were unscientific, and their means of assault scaling ladders,
sapping hatchets, and long pikes brought up to the walls under a sort of
shed. Of their battles no definite notion can be formed. All is lost in
the King, whose gigantic figure, drawn by gigantic horses, crushes,
massacres, or grasps by the hair scores of his pigmy enemies, whose
hands after the victory are laid in heaps before him and counted by
attendant scribes. Thus it is that Rameses the Great and the other
Pharaohs are seen warring against the Assyrian, and Chaldean against the
Jew, the Edomite, the Ethiopian, and the 'nine bows' of Libya, and
assailing the 'fenced cities' of strange races that have long passed
away.

"In the lower parts of civilization and the mechanical arts, the
Egyptians had attained high perfection. Their machinery and tools appear
to have been defective, but the defect was supplied by skill of hand,
traditional and acquired, as it is among the Chinese. They were cunning
workmen in metals, in jewelry, in engravings, in enamel, in glass, in
porcelain, and in pottery. Their fine linen and embroidery were famous.
For their chariots Solomon gave 600 shekels of silver; and they
fashioned into a hundred articles of luxury the ivory of Africa, the
mahogany of India, and the cedar of Lebanon. As no specimens remain of
their domestic architecture, it is supposed rather than ascertained that
their houses were of a single story with a terraced roof. The rooms of
great men at least were richly and elegantly painted, and furnished with
tables, chairs, and couches, which have supplied models for the
upholstery of modern times.

"Architecture is the most material of the arts. It was the art in which
the Egyptians most excelled. They seem to have understood in some degree
the grandeur which results from proportion and arrangement, as well as
that which results from size. The profuse and elaborate sculpture with
which their temples are covered, does not mar their majesty. Their
heaviness is relieved by the glowing sun and the deep sky. But the
impression produced must always have been that of cost and power rather
than of art. Some changes of style are noticed. The golden age was that
of the Pharaohs of the 19th dynasty, when the power and greatness of the
nation were at the highest. More florid and less majestic forms mark the
era of the Ptolemies. But in this respect, as in others, the Egyptians
seem to have maintained their stationary character, and the remains of
Meroe, which are now known to be among the latest, have been taken for
the earliest of all the monuments.

"In sculpture the summit of manual skill was reached. But religion, the
mistress and tyrant of Egyptian art, prescribed for the images of the
gods her unalterable and often hideous forms, and the rules of an
hereditary craft, which fixed certain proportions for each part of the
statue, and gave the execution of the several parts to several workmen,
laid another chain on the genius of the artist. Painting seems not to
have advanced beyond the barbarous excellence of brilliant colors.
Drawing and design were monstrous, and the laws of perspective and even
of vision unknown or disregarded. Of music, we learn from Plato that it
was restricted to certain established tunes of approved moral tendency,
and the wayward Athenian thought all restraint wholesome as he saw that
some license was pernicious.

"If we pass to science, we shall find no reason for supposing that the
advances of modern times were anticipated by the mysterious wisdom of
the Egyptians. Something they must have known of astronomy to practise
astrology, to divide the ecliptic, and to effect the exact orientation
of the Pyramids. Some knowledge of chemistry is implied in their
manufacture of porcelain; some knowledge of physiology, pathology,
pharmaceutics and surgery, in their division of the medical art;
something of geometry in their measurement of land; and something of
mechanics in their enormous buildings and monuments. But their great
engines were multitudes of laborers, aided by such natural expedients as
the lever, the roller, and the inclined plane, which can scarcely be
called machines. In other sciences there is evidence of long and careful
observation, but nothing to prove an acquaintance with the _laws_ of
nature. Progress in the medical art was precluded by the necessity of
adhering to the precepts of the sacred books. Science was monopolized by
the priests; and it is said that by them the King was regularly sworn to
retain the old and unintercalated year. The want of decimal notation,
and the consequent clumsiness of the system of numeration, would go far
to preclude the improvement of arithmetic, or any science into which
calculation entered.

"Literature the Egyptians appear to have had none, except of the
monumental or sacred kind, including under the latter head the sacred
books of science. But the art of writing was practised by them, or at
least by the learned part of them, more extensively than by any
contemporary nation. Mr. Kenrick gives us a full history of the
interpretation of hieroglyphics, the key to which was first given by the
parallel inscriptions in hieroglyphic and Greek found on the famous
Rosetta stone, and metes to Young and Champollion their due shares in
that discovery, of which each uncandidly claimed the whole. The
hieroglyphics are now known to be of three kinds, all of which are
generally mingled in the same inscription--the pictorial, the
symbolical, and the phonetic. The pictorial hieroglyphic is the simple
picture of the thing signified. Symbolical hieroglyphics are, among
others, a crescent for a month, the maternal vulture for _maternity_,
the filial vulpanser for _son_, the bee for _a people obedient to their
king_, the bull for _strength_, the ostrich feather with its equal
filaments for _truth_, the lotus for Upper and the papyrus for Lower
Egypt. To these we may add the bird, which denotes a cycle of time (in
Coptic _phanech_), and about which such wild fables were received by the
credulity of Herodotus and by that of the Fathers. But the greater part
of the hieroglyphics are phonetic like our alphabet, and are being
slowly and precariously deciphered into the words of a language which is
identified with the ancient form of Coptic.

"The religion of the Egyptians must be gathered chiefly from the
sculptures and paintings. The religious inscriptions and funeral papyri
remain undeciphered. The account of Herodotus is rendered suspicious by
his solicitude to force the Pantheon of Egypt into a conformity with
that of Greece. The accounts of the later Greeks are tainted by their
philosophizing and mysticizing spirit. That the Egyptian theology
embodied no profound physical or metaphysical system is evident from the
fact that it was not formed at once, but by gradual addition and
development, and that it was to the last partly local. It appears to
have been, like the other religions of the Pagan world--of Greece and
Italy, of Phoenicia and India--a worship of the powers of nature
represented by great natural objects, such as the sun and moon, or by
forms bestial or human, which were selected as symbolical of their
attributes.

"On this groundwork imagination wrought, as among the Greeks, though to
a less extent and in a different way. We cannot tell how far the more
reflective minds may have advanced towards the conception of a single
God, either independent of or permeating the material world; but contact
with the philosophic Greeks in the age of the Ptolemies can hardly have
failed to lead to some speculations of this kind, and the accounts
derived from Greek sources of Egyptian mysticism, though false of early,
were no doubt, in part at least, true of later times. Amuna or Ammon
appears to have been nominally the chief of the gods. His attributes are
to some extent identified with those of the sun; but they are not easily
distinguished from the attributes of several subordinate deities. His
ram's head is still a mystery. Thoth was the god of intellect and
learning. His representatives were the ape and the ibis: the former, it
is supposed, because it approaches nearest in intellect to man; the
latter, because its black and white feather resemble, or may be imagined
to resemble, writing. The _popular_ divinity was Osiris, the god at once
of the Nile and the realms below. Typhon, the scorching wind of the
desert which dries up the waters of the Nile, was the antagonist and the
murderer of Osiris; and at a more advanced stage of religious
speculation the two may have represented the conflicting powers of Good
and Evil. Sacrifices were offered for the ordinary purposes--to
conciliate the favor of the gods, to requite their benefits, and to
avert their wrath. Typhonian, that is, red-haired men, were immolated
when they fell into the hands of the natives in honor of Osiris, whose
name is concealed in that of the fabled Busiris. That the practice of
offering human sacrifices is compatible with a high degree of
civilization we know from the examples of Greece, of Rome, and Mexico.
There were great gatherings in honor of the gods, in the nature of
pilgrimages or holy fairs, which were celebrated with festivity, with
noisy music, with illuminations, and with license. There were mysteries,
which were not, in Egypt at least, initiations into any thing different
from the popular religion; but merely representations--celebrated amidst
nocturnal gloom--of the sufferings of Osiris. If strangers in Egypt
underwent painful initiation, it was an initiation into the knowledge of
the priests, and not into their mysteries. The Egyptians believed in the
existence of the soul after death; they believed that it would be judged
in Amenthe by Osiris and his forty-two assessors, before whom it was
brought by Analis; they had an Elysium, surrounded by waters, where the
Osirian--that is, the happy dead--ploughed, sowed, reaped, and threshed,
as on earth--a singular want of fancy. Retributive pains, by fire and
steel, are also supposed to have been detected among the paintings. At
the same time they held and taught to the Greeks the doctrine of
metempsychosis. It is difficult to reconcile with either of these
notions their belief that the spirit dwelt in the body so long as the
body could be rescued from decay, and the reason which they give for
bestowing such prodigality of labor on their sepulchres--that the tomb
was man's eternal home. The darkness of uninterpreted hieroglyphics
still rests to a great extent on the religious creed and practices of
the Egyptians. But three things we think we can discern from the
information which Mr. Kenrick has collected:--1. That the Egyptian
religion was in all essential respects like the other religions of
Paganism, and traceable to the same sources; and consequently that
whatever may be Egypt's 'place in universal history,' she is not likely
to assume an extraordinarily important place in the history of theology,
or to affect, in any material respect, our views as to the origin of
religion. 2. That no connection is to be traced between the religion of
the Egyptians and the religion of the Hebrews. A more decided polytheism
than that of Egypt cannot be imagined. So far from recognizing any thing
like the _supremacy_ of a single Divine Being in their theological
system, we can scarcely even trace any thing answering to that primacy
of Jupiter which preserves at least a vestige of monotheism in the
religion of the Greeks. The rite of circumcision, which is supposed to
have been borrowed by one nation from the other, was not practised by
the Egyptians as a religious ceremony, nor upon infants, nor
universally. And it is remarkable that the belief in the conscious
existence of the soul and a retributive state after death--a doctrine
hardly to be lost when once imparted--seems to have been so prominent in
the one faith while it was so much the reverse of prominent in the
other. 3. That there was no connection between the mythology of Egypt
and that of Greece. Subtract what is common to all polytheistic systems,
and what is common to all systems of natural religions, and absolutely
no similarity remains. On the one side are forms of human beauty,
majesty, and passion, in which the original groundwork of nature-worship
is as much as possible concealed by the working of a plastic
imagination; on the other side are forms bestial or grotesque,
featureless and passionless, exhibiting nature-worship in one of its
lowest stages. But in every respect, in language, in physiognomy, in
mind, in political tendencies, in manners, as well as in religion, the
contrariety between the Egyptian and the Athenian is complete. There is
nothing on the other side except the vain pretensions of the priests of
Thebes, the credulity of Herodotus, and the wildest legends of the
mythical age; and we are surprised that so strict an ethnologist as Mr.
Kenrick should be inclined to admit even the general fact of an
Egyptian colonization.

"The most degrading part of the religion of the Egyptians was their
animal worship, which they carried to a higher pitch than any other
people, not excepting the Hindoos. Almost the whole animal and some part
of the vegetable kingdom enjoyed either a national or a local sanctity.
Gods it was said grew in the gardens. The most cogent reasons of policy
and the terrible name of Rome failed to save from death the Roman who
had killed a cat. Fancy had first assigned to each god his favorites or
symbols among beasts or plants. Then the beasts and plants themselves
were reverenced, and at last worshipped. Stately avenues of colossal
statues, magnificent porticoes and columned courts ushered the
awe-stricken devotee into the sacred presence of an ibis or an ape. The
highest object of this superstition, the bull Apis, was regarded as an
actual incarnation of Osiris. No rational account of such a system can
be given. The serpent cannot have been respected for its utility. The
ibis cannot have been honored as the destroyer of the sacred serpent.
Nothing divine can have been perceived in the beetle or the ape. The
connection between the god and the beast was originally the offspring of
a grotesque imagination, and priestcraft and the superstitious tendency
of the people did the rest.

"The political constitution of Egypt was based on caste. The privileged
castes were those of the warriors and the priests, who, with the
Pharaoh, held in fee all the land of Egypt. The Government was an
hereditary monarchy. When election was necessary the two privileged
castes chose from among their own numbers; the people enjoyed only the
right of acclamation. If the choice fell on a warrior, he was at once
received into the order and initiated into the wisdom of the priests.
Legislation was the prerogative of the King; but he was bound to rule
and judge according to the law. He was much in the hands of the priests,
who imposed strict rules upon his life, and by a daily homily made the
duties and virtues of sovereignty familiar, perhaps too familiar, to the
royal ear. The priests, in fact, were the lords of Egypt. Exclusively
possessed of science, and even of letters, numerous, wealthy, united, in
a single polity, a confined territory and an isolated people, unchecked
by any literary, philosophical, or foreign influence, they must have
exercised a dominion unrivalled by any priesthood in the history of the
world. The result was a land of temples, of deified apes and consecrated
onions, a literature of religious inscriptions and funeral scrolls, a
Government apparently mild and humane, an enduring polity and long
internal peace, and intense and stubborn nationality, a civilization
wonderful but low, which in every department, from the act of government
to the art of writing, appears to have remained as nearly as possible at
a fixed point for about two thousand years. The mummy, as it is the
characteristic product, is the fit emblem of ancient Egypt. Yet material
happiness appears to have been enjoyed. From sports, from caricatures,
from the fanciful decorations of their houses, from their use of music
as a daily recreation, we should judge that the Egyptians were not a
gloomy people; and that their social and political system aimed, though
imperfectly, at a high standard, may be inferred from the reverence,
however exaggerated, which was entertained for it by the Greeks.

"Egyptian history is the 'dynasties' of Manetho partly filled up and
illustrated, and in time it is to be hoped to be filled up and
illustrated still more from the monuments, paintings, and inscriptions.
For this, with its thirty dynasties, its twenty centuries, and its
chronological difficulties, still formidable though much reduced, we
must refer the reader entirely to Mr. Kenrick's second volume, of which
it occupies nearly the whole. The slight sketch above given indicates
the contents of what will be to the general reader the more interesting
part of the work. In conclusion, we once more cordially commend the
book. It displays not only the ordinary merits of a good synopsis, such
as clearness of style and of arrangement, but also a high power of
combination, and, where the author treats of philosophical questions, a
sound and sensible philosophy. On some points, perhaps, Mr. Kenrick
might have spoken with more authority had he personally visited Egypt,
and the imagination of his reader would be assisted by a well selected
volume of plates. We are glad to see that Syria and Phoenicia are to
form the subject of another publication by the same hand."

FOOTNOTES:

[15] _Ancient Egypt under the Pharaohs._ By John Kenrick, M. A. In two
volumes. London: B. Fellows.




CAMILLE DESMOULINS.


In an admirable life of Camille Desmoulins, recently published in Paris,
by M. Edmond Fleury, his summing up of the character of the _Vieux
Cordelier_, presents a type of some of the heroes of the revolution of
1848:--

"Such was Camille Desmoulins. I have traced his portrait without pity,
without hatred, I dare not say without passion. In him I wished to mark
the truest and most finished type of those _enfans perdus_ of anarchy
who, without ever attaining illustration in history, or serious
influence in a government, thirst after distinction and renown;
ambitious of credit and importance, scourges of their country, torment
of their relatives, traitors to their friends, their own executioners,
flambeaux that burn without light, vain and mediocre spirits consumed by
the most intense jealousy--presumptuous fools, irritated by their own
impotence, intrepid in a pamphlet and pusillanimous in action, they,
nevertheless, carried away by the flood which they have let loose,
stake, in this terrible game of revolutions, not only their lives, but
the honor of their posthumous fame."

How different the aspect of these fiends, as they are presented to us
"sicklied o'er" with the sentiment of a Lamartine!




THE BATTLE OF THE CHURCHES IN ENGLAND.


The _Westminster and Foreign Quarterly Review_, for January, 1851,
contains a great article on the controversies occasioned by the recent
movements of the Roman Catholics in Great Britain. It is very long
(making sixty pages), and very able. Reviewing the battle, from an
unusual, and to most people perhaps a not very accessible, point of
view, it throws a startling light on many matters forgotten or ignored
by the more immediate combatants. It may, therefore, be perused with
interest and advantage by partisans of every shade. Protestant and
Catholic will find their account in it, especially as helping them to
information of which they are greatly deficient--a knowledge of each
other's strong points, as well as their weak ones. There is much in the
views of the writer, with which we cannot ourselves concur; but we are
not insensible of the force and precision with which he has mapped out a
large part of the field, and given saliency to some of the great
principles at stake; which it is the natural tendency of discussions,
involving so much of the conventional and formulistic, calamitously to
obscure. The battle in the foreground may be about candlesticks,
surplices, and genuflexions. But there are involved many things
infinitely more vital, as the author of this "Battle of the Churches"
will be admitted to have illustrated with great success. Many ponderous
volumes might be named, which have not contributed a tenth part as much
to a clear understanding of the question, as this one article in the
_Westminster_. We have not space for a complete _resume_ of it. We can
only present an extract or two. The following brings forward tendencies
too little noticed by the antagonists of the papacy:

"A true British Protestant, whose notions of "Popery" are limited to
what he hears from an evangelical curate or has seen at the opening of a
Jesuit church, looks on the whole system as an obsolete mummery; and no
more believes that men of sense can seriously adopt it, than that they
will be converted to the practice of eating their dinner with a
Chinaman's chop-sticks instead of the knife and fork. He pictures to
himself a number of celibate gentlemen, who glide through a sort of
minuet by candle-light around the altar, and worship the creature
instead of the Creator, and keep the Bible out of every body's way, and
make people easy about their sins: and he is positive that no one above
a "poor Irishman," can fail to see through such nonsense. Few even of
educated Englishmen have any suspicion of the depth and solidity of the
Catholic dogma, its wide and various adaptation to wants ineffaceable
from the human heart, its wonderful fusion of the supernatural into the
natural life, its vast resources for a powerful hold upon the
conscience. We doubt whether any single reformed church can present a
theory of religion comparable with it in comprehensiveness, in logical
coherence, in the well-guarded disposition of its parts. Into this
interior view, however, the popular polemics neither give nor have the
slightest insight: and hence it is a common error both to underrate the
natural power of the Romish scheme, and to mistake the quarter in which
it is most likely to be felt. It is not among the ignorant and vulgar,
but among the intellectual and imaginative--not by appeals to the senses
in worship, but by consistency and subtlety of thought--that in our days
converts will be made to the ancient church. We have receded far from
the Reformation by length of time; the management of the controversy has
degenerated: it has been debased by political passions, and turned upon
the grossest external features of the case; and when a thoughtful man,
accustomed to defer to historical authority, and competent to estimate
moral theories as a whole, is led to penetrate beneath the surface, he
is unprepared for the sight of so much speculative grandeur, and, if he
have been a mere Anglican or Lutheran, is perhaps astonished into the
conclusion, that the elder system has the advantage in philosophy and
antiquity alike. From this, among other causes, we incline to think that
the Roman Catholic reaction may proceed considerably further in this
country ere it receives any effectual check. The academical training and
the clerical teaching of the upper classes have not qualified them to
resist it. At the other end of society there are large masses who cannot
be considered inaccessible to any missionary influence, affectionately
and perseveringly applied. Not all men, in a crowded community, are
capable of the independence, the self-subsistence, without which
Protestantism sinks into personal anarchy. The class of weak, dependent
characters, that cannot stand alone in the struggle of life, are
unprovided for in the modern system of the world. The cooperative
theorist tries to take them up. But somehow or other he is usually a man
with whom, by a strange fatality, cooperation is impossible; intent on
uniting all men, yet himself not agreeing with any; with individuality
so intense and exclusive, that it produces all the effect of intolerant
self-will; and thus the very plans which by his hypothesis are
inevitable, are by his temper made impracticable. He appeals, however,
and successfully, to the uneasiness felt by the feeble in the strife and
pressure of the world; he fills the imagination with visions of repose
and sympathy; he awakens the craving for unity and incorporation in some
vast and sustaining society. And whence is this desire, disappointed of
its first promise, to obtain its satisfaction? Is it impossible that it
may accept proposals from the most ancient, the most august, the most
gigantic organization which the world has ever seen?--that it may take
refuge in a body which invests indigence with sanctity--which cares for
its members one by one--which has a real past instead of a fancied
future, and warms the mind with the coloring of rich traditions--which,
in providing for the poorest want of the moment, enrolls the disciple
in a commonwealth spread through all ages and both worlds! Whatever
socialistic tendency may be diffused through the English mind is not
unlikely, in spite of a promise diametrically opposite, to turn to the
advantage of the Catholic cause."

Here is another valuable contribution to the philosophy of this
controversy. There are few positions more relied on by Roman Catholics,
or more thoroughly unsound and fallacious, than the assertion that there
are no essential differences between the position of Roman Catholics and
of Protestants as regards the state and the English established church.

"If we had to deal simply with a form of worship and theology, there
would be no ground for distinguishing between the case of the Catholics
and that of the Dissenters." And practically perhaps, in the actual
condition of Europe, the question now in agitation might be permitted to
rest there. But, in fairness to the Protestant feeling, it should never
be forgotten that the Roman Catholic system presents a feature absent
from every other variety of nonconformity. It is not a religion only,
but a polity; and this in a very peculiar sense. Other systems also--as
the Presbyterian--include among their doctrines an opinion in favor of
some particular church government; which opinion, however, professing to
be derived from Scripture by use of private judgment, stands, in their
case, on the same footing with every other article of their creed. You
might differ from John Knox about synods, without prejudice to your
agreement in all else. But with the Romish church it is different. It is
not that her religion contains a polity; but that her polity contains
the whole religion. The truths she publishes exist only as in its
keeping, and rest only on its guarantee; and if you invalidate it, they
would vanish, like the promissory notes of a corporation whose charter
was proved false. Christianity, in her view, is not a doctrine,
productive of institutions through spontaneous action on individual
minds; but an institution, the perpetual source of doctrine for
individual obedience and trust. Revelation is not a mere communication
of truth, not a transitory visit from heaven to earth, ascertained by
human testimony, and fixed in historical records; but a continuous
incarnation of Deity, a permanent real presence of the Infinite in
certain selected persons and consecrated objects. The same divine
epiphany which began with the person of the Saviour has never since
abandoned the world: it exists, in all its awfulness and power, only
embodied no longer in a redeeming individual, but in a redeeming church.
The word of inspiration, the deed of miracle, the authority to condemn
and to forgive, remain as when Christ taught in the temple, walked on
the sea, denounced the Pharisee, and accepted the penitent. These
functions, as exercised by him, were only in their incipient stage; he
came,--to exemplify them indeed, but chiefly to incorporate them in a
body which should hold and transmit them to the end of time. From his
person they passed to the College of the Twelve, under the headship of
Peter; and thence, in perpetual apostleship, to the bishops and pastors,
ordained through legitimate hands, for the governance of disciples.
These officers are the sole depositaries, the authorized trustees of
divine grace; whose decision, whether they open or shut the gate of
mercy, is registered in heaven and is without appeal. Not that they can
play with this power, and dispose of it by arbitrary will. The media
through which it is to flow have been divinely appointed: its channels
are limited to certain physical substances and bodily acts or postures,
selected at first hand for the purpose:--water at one time, bread at
another, oil at a third, handling of the head at a fourth. But the
infusion of the supernatural efficacy into these "alvei" depends on an
act of the appointed official; through whom alone the divine matter--no
longer choked up--can have free currency into the persons of believers.
To this inheritance of miracle is added a stewardship of inspiration.
The episcopate is keeper of the Christian records: and as those records
are only the first germ of an undeveloped revelation, with the same body
is left the exclusive power of unfolding their significance, and
directing the growth and expansion of their ever fertile principles.
Whatever interpretation the hierarchy may put upon the Scriptures,
whatever doctrine or discipline they may announce as agreeable with the
mind of God, must be accepted as infallible and authoritative. The same
spirit of absolute truth which spoke in the living voice of Christ,
which guided the pen of evangelists, still prolongs itself in the
thought and counsels of bishops, and renders their collective decisions
binding as divine oracles. The people who form the obedient mass of the
Catholic body are not without a share of this miraculous light in the
soul; not indeed for the discernment of any new truth, but for the
apprehension of the old. The moment the disciple is incorporated in the
church, faith bursts into sight; he passes from opinion into knowledge;
he perceives the objects of his worship, and the truth of his creed,
with more than the certainty of sense; and as he bows before the altar,
or commits himself to the "Mother of God," the real presence and the
invisible world are as immediately with him as the breviary and the
crucifix. Through the whole Catholic atmosphere is diffused a
preternatural medium of _clairvoyance_, which at every touch of its
ritual vibrates into activity, and opens to adoring view mysteries hid
from minds without.[16]

"Now, with the spiritual aspects of this theory we are not here
concerned. Reason has no jurisdiction over the inspiration that
transcends it. But there is a humbler task to which the common intellect
is not incompetent. We may plant this system in a political community,
set it down beside the state, imagine it surrounded by families, and
schools, and municipalities, and parliaments, by the prison and the
court of justice; within the shadow of law and in the presence of
sovereignty; and we may ask how it will work amid these august symbols
of a nation's life, and how adjust itself in relation to them? Will it
leave them to their free development? Can it tranquilly coexist with
them, and be content to see them occupy the scope which English
traditions and English usage have secured for them? We are convinced it
cannot; that every step it may make is an encroachment upon wholesome
liberty; that it is innocent only where it is insignificant, and where
it is ascendant will neither part with power, nor use it well; and that
it must needs raise to the highest pitch the common vice of tyrannies
and of democracies--the relentless crushing of minorities."

The above are only two paragraphs out of a dozen we had marked, but they
will suffice to show the value of this very able and impartial essay.

FOOTNOTES:

[16] Adequate authority for these statements will be found in Dr.
Mochler's Symbolism, part i. chap. v., and in Newman's Lectures, iii. p.
66, and Lecture ix. passim.




KILLING OF SIR ALEXANDER BOSWELL.


Among the new books in England is one entitled "Modern State Trials" by
William C. Townsend, in two octavos. In the _Times_ of the second of
January we find a reviewal of it, characteristically pungent. "Why Mr.
Townsend conceived it necessary to dignify his collection with the above
solemn title," says the critic, "we are at a loss to conjecture. Madame
Tussaud does not invite a curiosity-seeking public to her museum of
horrors by disguising the naked hideousness of her groups, or by lending
them a factitious grace which it is hardly their interest to borrow. The
publication is essentially popular, was meant for general perusal, is
made up of any thing but technical details, and gives nothing to, as it
receives nothing from, purely professional lore. A batch of interesting
trials is very commendable, and need not be afraid of occupying its own
ground. That of Courvoisier for the murder of Lord William Russel, of
the Wakefields for the abduction of Miss Turner, of Lord Cardigan for
shooting in a duel, and of John Ambrose Williams for a libel on the
Durham clergy, cannot by any stretch of fancy be converted into _state_
prosecutions, though they fairly enough find admittance into a book
which treats of our _causes celebres_. The 'state' trials of the volume
before us are the ha'porth of bread to the gallons of sack. The
legitimate is paraded to call attention from the spurious, the vulgar is
to find respectability by walking arm in arm with the classical. There
was really no necessity for the 'sham.' A crooked stick on a heath has
its picturesqueness as well as the Corinthian column. We may be very
interesting rascals though we do not poke our walking-canes into the
face of majesty, or go out on a fool's errand against the Queen's lieges
with Mr. John Frost." The author's style is described as very
unsatisfactory, though full of pretension. He is "very bombastic, very
inexact, and strangely independent in the current of his thoughts and in
the arrangement of his words." But the _Times_ admits nevertheless the
interesting quality of the work, and in its own better language gives
the following _resume_ of one of the most celebrated cases stated in
it:--

"Of all the trials contained in these volumes none have a more
melancholy interest, perhaps, than that of Mr. Stuart, who was tried on
the tenth of June, 1822, before the High Court of Justiciary at
Edinburgh, for killing Sir Alexander Boswell in a duel. Mr. Stuart was,
of course, acquitted. He had been the aggrieved party; he had found it
necessary to the vindication of his honor to call his unfortunate
antagonist to account; he had been forced, by the cruel exaction of
public opinion, to expose his life to the weapon of a man he had never
offended, and who, indeed, in his heart, bore his involuntary murderer
no malice; and public opinion, expressed in the verdict of a jury, knew
better than to sentence to death the wretched victim of its own brutal
and unwarrantable edicts. Fortunately for the interests of humanity, we
have at length reached a period when it becomes unnecessary to protest
vehemently against the iron rule of an authority more despotic than that
of absolute kings, and far more cruel and oppressive than the laws which
but a few years ago attached the penalty of death to the commission of
almost pardonable offences. Society, with the acquirement of other
useful knowledge, has learned to appreciate the iniquitous folly of
murder perpetrated in cold blood, without the slightest excuse. The
nation which above all the countries of the world takes credit for
adapting its laws to the requirements of a rapidly advancing
civilization, has had courage to inquire why the savage vestige of an
exploded system should still dishonor its history and interfere with its
social progress. Duelling, as part and parcel of the national manners,
has ceased in England. No doubt random shots will yet from time to time
be heard, and weakness in its despair will occasionally seek refuge in
cowardice, which it mistakes for valor; but the mind of the majority is
made up. Duelling henceforth must be the exception, not the rule. Public
opinion will harmonize with the law, and honor it. It will protect the
injured, and hand over the offenders to the legitimate consequences of
their own misdeeds. It will not call upon a man first to endure wrong,
and then to lay bare his breast to the bullet of his aggressors.

"Our fathers were less fortunate than ourselves in this respect. Their
dilemma was fearful. The law took no account of those delicate injuries
under which sensitive honor pines, though no bruise or wound appears to
indicate the mischief; and, in self-defence, refinement set up the
bloodiest code brutality under the guise of chivalry could imagine or
invent. A quiet gentleman, sitting from morning till night in his
library, interfering with the pleasures and pursuits of none, amiable in
every relation of life, a stanch friend, a fond husband, a devoted
father, as useful a member of society as you might find in a day's
journey, and obnoxious only to political opponents, who fear him more
than he dislikes them, is called a 'liar,' a 'coward,' and a 'heartless
ruffian.' He is nothing of the kind; he is proudly conscious of this
fact; his accusers do not even believe it; the world--that portion of it
in which he moves--is satisfied that he is a remarkable instance of
truth, of courage, and extreme tenderness of spirit. The revilers have
made a great mistake or committed a disgraceful outrage. In either case,
since they are not amenable to law, you would think they might safely be
left to acquire better information and improve their manners. Not a bit
of it. The quiet gentleman's enemies have aimed a blow at his
reputation. They are good shots--which unfortunately he is not--and now
they must aim another at his life; society 'allows it,' and society
'awards it.' The quiet gentleman makes his will, kisses his children,
shuts up his books, sighs, and 'goes out.' The quiet gentleman is
killed; a million men could not restore the life one man has taken.
Society is distressed beyond expression; so is the murderer, who is all
sorrow and tenderness for the departed. There is general weeping, and
great unavailing regret, and much commiseration for the widow: and then
a mock trial, and no end of speechifying, beautiful remorse on the part
of the survivor, lovelier tributes to the memory of deceased, a verdict
of not guilty, and a dismissal of the murderer and his accomplices into
the world, which is worthy of them as they are worthy of it. The picture
represents a common event of the time of George the Third. Let us
confess that, degenerate as we are, we have changed, in some respects,
for the better since those 'good old days!'"

"Let us also bear in mind the main cause of our improvement! It is due
to the majesty of law, to state that, had she been less faithful,
society would have grown more reckless. Public opinion and the law of
the country have had a hard fight for the mastery, and had the latter
given way but an inch, the former would have found us to-day in the
hands and at the mercy of the bullies. Judges have never hesitated to
declare that murder which juries by their verdicts have as perseveringly
regarded as justifiable homicide. In vain have eloquent counsel risen to
prove that the prisoner bore his antagonist no ill-will; that he did not
'wickedly and maliciously' challenge his victim to fight; that he had
recourse to the sole means within his power to right himself with the
world; that society would have branded him eternally for a coward had he
held back; that he took up his weapon in self-defence precisely as a man
levels his gun at the house-breaker or the midnight assassin;--the
expounder of the law has still been proof against sophistry which, once
accepted, must tend inevitably to social disorganization. The
_deliberate resolution_ to kill a fellow-creature has nothing to do with
self-defence. To destroy another in cold blood is murder in the sight of
the law, and can assume no other aspect. But what availed it that the
judge stood firm by the statute, when juries as pertinaciously backed
the sentiment of the world and refused the law permission to take its
course? It availed much. The unseemly conflict has been carried on until
at length civilization has become shocked by the spectacle. The effect
of the ever-recurring encounter is something worse than ridiculous. It
has taken years to bring us to our senses, but we are rational at last.
Public opinion exercises its good sense, and since it cannot bring the
law into harmony with its desperate folly, deems it expedient to shape
its own views in conformity with unbending law. To slay in a duel is to
commit murder, though men do not hang for the crime. To be a murderer
with benefit of clergy is but an odious and irksome privilege after all!

"Sir Alexander was the eldest son of Dr. Johnson's Boswell. The
inimitable biographer was fortunate in his offspring. His sons inherited
all the virtues of their father, and none of his foibles. The social
good humor, the cleverness, the appreciation of learning, the
joviality,--every good quality, in fact, of Bozzy was reflected in his
children, who had the sense to discern and avoid the frailties that had
rendered the sire ridiculous in his own day, and illustrious for all
time. James Boswell, the youngest son of the biographer, an accomplished
scholar, superintended several editions of his father's great work, and
was held in high esteem by his contemporaries. He was a Commissioner of
Bankrupts when he suddenly died in London, in the prime of life, on the
24th day of February, 1822. Sir Alexander, who had been created a
baronet in 1821, attended his brother's funeral in London, and returned
to Scotland to meet his own death immediately afterwards. Sir Walter
Scott, warmly attached to both, was, we are informed, much affected by
the unexpected death of the baronet, who had dined with the novelist
only two or three days before the catastrophe, and, as usual, had been
the life and soul of the party assembled. 'That evening,' writes Mr.
Lockhart, 'was, I think, the gayest I ever spent in Castle-street; and
though Charles Matthews was present and in his best force, poor
Boswell's songs, jokes and anecdotes had exhibited no symptom of
eclipse.' Four years afterwards Sir Walter dined in company with Charles
Matthews again. The event is commemorated by a singular and
characteristic entry in Scott's Diary. 'There have been odd
associations,' he writes, 'attending my two last meetings with Matthews.
The last time I saw him before yesterday evening, he dined with me in
company with poor Sir Alexander Boswell, who was killed within a week.
I never saw Sir Alexander more. The time before was in 1815, when John
Scott, of Gala, and I, were returning from France, and passed through
London, when we brought Matthews down as far as Leamington. Poor Byron
lunched, or rather made an early dinner with us at Long's, and a most
brilliant day we had of it. I never saw Byron so full of fun, frolic,
wit, and whim; he was as playful as a kitten. Well, I never saw him
again. So this man of mirth has brought me no luck.'

"Sir Alexander had made the final arrangements for his duel the very day
he dined with Sir Walter. The circumstance in no way interfered with the
flow of spirits of a man who had, indeed, invited a violent death by
nothing more criminal than an over indulgence of ill-directed mirth. The
details of the duel are of the usual kind. In the early part of 1821, a
newspaper called the _Beacon_, destined not to survive the year, was set
up in Edinburgh in the Tory interest. The object of the publication was
to counteract the effect of Radical doctrines, which were making great
way in the northern metropolis under favor of the agitation that had
been set up on behalf of Queen Caroline. Sir Walter Scott himself had
been consulted upon the propriety of establishing the journal, and had
offered with others to help it by a gift of money at starting. The
_Beacon_ served any purpose but that of directing the public mind in the
path desired. The management of the paper, with which by the way the law
officers of the Crown foolishly connected themselves, was in all
respects disastrous. The proprietors shrank from the responsibility
which the bitter invective and satire of the more youthful and
unscrupulous editors hourly accumulated on their shoulders; the articles
of the paper were made the subject of Parliamentary discussion; and to
avoid consequences which it was not difficult to anticipate, the
concern, which had opened with flying colors in January, was suddenly
and ignominiously shut up for ever in August.

"Glasgow took up the weapon which Edinburgh dropped. A newspaper
appeared in the former city as the avowed defender of the cause and
assailant of the persons previously upheld and attacked by the defunct
Edinburgh journal. The _Sentinel_, as the Glasgow paper was called,
would hold his ground though the _Beacon_ was put out. It is much easier
to bequeath hatred and rancor than to communicate talent and genius. The
_Sentinel_ was abusive and licentious enough, but it had little to
recommend it on the score of ability. The _Beacon_ had made a personal
attack upon Mr. Stuart, a gentleman connected with some leading Whig
families, and the _Sentinel_, in pursuance of its vocation, fastened
upon the same luckless gentleman. The libel of the Edinburgh journalist
had been arranged. Mr. Stuart found out its author, and libeller and
libelled were prevented from doing further mischief by being bound over
to keep the peace. To keep the peace, however, in those days was to be
wanting in the very first element of chivalry, and, accordingly, Mr.
Stuart was pronounced by the _Sentinel_ a 'bully,' a 'coward,' a
'dastard,' and a 'sulky poltroon.' Furthermore, he was 'a heartless
ruffian,' 'a white feather,' and 'afraid of lead.' To vindicate his
character Mr. Stuart raised an action of damages, and, curiously enough,
he was twitted in the very court of justice to which he appealed for
protection, for not having recourse to the hostile measure which in his
despair he at last adopted, and for pursuing which he was tried for his
life. Abuse went on in spite of the action of damages; Mr. Stuart
finally addressed himself to the agent for the printer of the newspaper,
and the agent gave up the manuscripts from which the libels had been
printed. Mr. Stuart went to Glasgow to inspect them. He discovered his
assailant. The author of the worst calumnies against him was Sir
Alexander Boswell, 'a gentleman with whom he was somewhat related, and
with whom he had never been but upon good terms.' Mr. Stuart appealed to
a friend. He called in the advice of the Earl of Roslyn, who obtained an
interview with Sir Alexander Boswell, to whom he submitted two
propositions. One was, that the baronet should deny that the calumnies
were his; the other, that Sir Alexander should confess that the libel
was but a poor joke, for which he was sorry. 'I will neither deny nor
make apology,' answered Sir Alexander.

"A duel was now a matter of course. Sir Alexander left a paper behind
him, confessing that the meeting was inevitable, and Mr. Stuart made all
his preparations for death. One stands amazed in the presence of such
horrible play, such terrific childishness. The parties met; they fired
together, and Sir Alexander fell. Boswell, who would not allow that he
had written a squib, proudly fired in the air; Mr. Stuart took no aim,
and yet killed his man. When the deed was done, the murderer, frantic,
and 'dissolved in all the tenderness of an infant,' reproached himself
with exquisite simplicity that he had not taken aim, '_for if he had, he
was certain he would have missed him!_' whilst the dying man expressed a
corresponding anxiety lest 'he had not made his fire in the air appear
so decided as he could have wished.' So men speak and act who take leave
of their reason to play the fool in the high court of honor! A line
tells the rest of the history. Sir Alexander is removed from the field
and taken to the house of a friend. Mr. Stuart flies to the house of his
friend, runs into a room, shuts the door, sits down in agony of mind,
and bursts into tears. In due time he is put on his trial for murder,
the jury unanimously find him _Not Guilty_, and Lord Chief Justice Clerk
congratulates him on the verdict, although five minutes before he had
deliberately stated that 'duels are but illustrious murders,' and that
'no false punctilio or notion of honor can vindicate an act which
terminates fatally to another fellow-creature.'"




THE LATE DR. TROOST.


We recently noticed the death of the excentric German professor, Dr.
Troost, of Tennessee. His passion for all animals of the serpent kind
was well known, and we find it illustrated in this anecdote, related by
Sir Charles Lyell:

"Every thing of the serpent kind he has a particular fancy for, and has
always a number of them--that he has tamed--in his pockets or under his
waistcoat. To loll back in his rocking-chair, to talk about geology, and
pat the head of a large snake, when twining itself about his neck, is to
him supreme felicity. Every year in the vacation he makes an excursion
to the hills, and I was told that, upon one of these occasions, being
taken up by the stage-coach, which had several members of Congress in it
going to Washington, the learned Doctor took his seat on the top with a
large basket, the lid of which was not over and above well secured. Near
to this basket sat a Baptist preacher on his way to a great public
immersion. His reverence, awakening from a reverie he had fallen into,
beheld to his unutterable horror two rattlesnakes raise their fearful
heads out of the basket, and immediately precipitated himself upon the
driver, who, almost knocked off his seat, no sooner became apprised of
the character of his ophidian outside passengers, than he jumped upon
the ground with the reins in his hands, and was followed instanter by
the preacher. The 'insides,' as soon as they learned what was going on,
immediately became outsides, and nobody was left but the Doctor and his
rattlesnakes on the top. But the Doctor, not entering into the general
alarm, quietly placed his greatcoat over the basket, and tied it down
with his handkerchief, which, when he had done, he said, 'Gendlemen,
only don't let dese poor dings pite you, and day won't hoort you.'"




MADAME DACIER.


The husband of this celebrated woman (Andre Dacier) was born at Castres
in 1651, and studied at Saumur, under Tanneguy le Fevre, whose daughter
Anne he married in 1683. Both the husband and wife became eminent among
the classical scholars of the seventeenth century. They were employed
with others to comment upon and edit a series of the ancient authors,
for the Dauphin, which form the collection "Ad usum Delphini." Madame
Dacier's commentaries are considered as superior to those of her
husband. She edited "Callimachus," "Florus," "Aurelius Victor,"
"Etropius," and the history which goes by the name of "Dictys
Cretensis," all of which have been repeatedly reprinted, with her notes.
She published French translations of the "Amphitryon," "Rudens," and
"Lepidicus," of Plautus, with a good preface, of the comedies of
Terence, of the "Plutus," and "The Clouds," of Aristophanes, and of
Anacreon and Sappho. She also translated the "Iliad" and the "Odyssey,"
with a preface and notes. This led to a controversy between her and La
Motte, who had spoken slightingly of Homer. Madame Dacier wrote, in
1714, "Considerations sur les Causes de la Corruption du Gout," in which
she defended the cause of Homer with great vivacity, as she did also
against Father Hardouin, who had written an "Apology of Homer," which
was more a censure than an apology. The warmth, however, with which both
the Daciers resented any thing that was said against the ancient writers
was carried to the extreme, and had, at times, something ludicrous in
it. But Madame Dacier's enthusiasm was real, and unaccompanied by
pedantry or conceit. She died in 1820.




Original Poetry.


DUTY.

BY ALFRED B. STREET.

    In changeless green, and grasping close the rock,
      Up towers the mountain pine. The Winter blast
      May like an ocean surge be on it cast;
    Proud doth it stand, and stern defy the shock,
      Unchanged in verdure and unbroke in crest,
      Although wild throes may agitate its breast,
    And clinging closer when the storm is gone,
    Tired, but unbent upon its granite throne,
    Not always doth it wrestle with the storm!
      Skies smile; spring flowers make soft its iron roots;
    Its sturdy boughs are kissed by breezes warm;
      And birds gleam in and out with joyous flutes.
    Duty proves not its strength unless defied,
    But pleasure has it, too, bright as have hearts untried.


"SOUNDS FROM HOME."

BY ALICE B. NEAL.

    Last night I dreamed of thee, beloved!
      I held that tiny hand,--
    Encircled by my clasping arm
      Once more I saw thee stand,--
    The blush so faint, yet fairly traced,
      Rose to thy changing cheek--
    As when upon thy brows were placed
      Farewells I could not speak.

    Thine eyes were filled with softened light,
      But welcomes now I read,
    As to my heart, by love's fond sight.
      I gently drew thy head;
    And oh, so eloquent were they--
      So full of earnest truth,--
    I knew what fain thy heart would say,
      The promise of thy youth.

    I knew that thou hadst faithful been
      To vows of long ago:
    That speeding time, and changing scene,
      No change in thee could show,
    That absence had but bound thy love
      More firmly to its choice--
    It needed not one word to prove,
      One sound of thy loved voice.

    Yes, silent was that long embrace,
      Though tears flowed fast and free.
    As gazing down in that dear face,
      I read thy love for me;
    And thought of all the lonely hours
      When I had wildly yearned
    To press thee thus unto my heart,
      And feel my kiss returned.

    Those midnight hours! by sea and land!
      How heavily they sped!
    Sometimes upon a surf-beat strand
      My weary feet would tread,
    And when the stars looked calmly down
      From cloudless foreign skies--
    Their soft light seemed a radiance thrown
      From these pure, earnest eyes.

    'Twas but a dream! the light breeze swept
      Soft touches o'er my brow;
    The spray's cold kiss my lips had met,
      Oh, still afar art thou!
    'Twas but a dream! and yet I heard
      Thy murmured--"_Art_ thou come!"--
    Then woke, to feel my spirit stirred
      With these dear "sounds from home."




SCANDALOUS DANCES.

BROUGHT FROM FRENCH CASINOS TO AMERICAN PARLORS.


We have constantly reflected in our "good society" and "fashionable
world" every baseness and vulgarity that is invented _outre mer_,
particularly in Paris. One woman returns to smoke cigars, in a
magnificent home erected by a lucky mechanic or shopkeeper, as if such
an indecency had ever been tolerated among the well-born and well-bred
people of the social metropolis. Others, copying from their probable
associates abroad, introduce obscene dances, and other licentious
amusements, which for a season have baffled the police of foreign
cities, and boast of their superiority to "low prejudices." All the
travelled readers of the _International_, except clerks, agents,
_chevaliers d'industrie_, and fugitives from justice, know very well
that in all the world there is a show at least of moral where there is
real social elevation; that these abuses are not anywhere tolerated
among families which have kept their carriages for three generations.
But we proposed an introduction to a passage written from Paris to the
most aristocratic of the London magazines:--

"A new species of dancing, unknown to the Alberts, the Anatoles, the
Brocards, the Hullins, the Pauls, and the Noblets, has come into vogue
at the Jardin Mabille, and at the Grande Chaumiere, situated on the
Boulevard du Mont Parnasse, not far from the Barriere d'Enfer. This
dance is called the _Cancan_ and the _Chahut_. It is unlike the waltz,
the gavotte, the country dance, the Scotch reel, the Spanish Cachucha,
the Hungarian mazurka; is far worse than jota Arragonese, or the most
lascivious of Spanish dances of Andalusia. You may remember that in the
early days of Charles X. the police of Paris attempted and succeeded in
putting down gross and immodest dances; but under the reign of Louis
Philippe the spirit of libertinage and _degingandage_, to use a French
term, again broke out among the class of _debardeurs_, and towards the
close of 1845 became terrific to behold. You, who know me well, are
aware that I am the last person in the world who would seek to put an
end to any innocent amusement, or who would contend that the French
people should not dance. They have always danced, and will always dance,
to the end of time. They danced under Saint Louis, under Henry IV.,
under Louis XIV., under Napoleon, and why should not they dance now?
There is no reason in the world why they should not dance, if in dancing
they do not shock public modesty, and offend against public decorum. In
the time of Louis XIV. there were public dances at the Moulin de
Javelle; in the time of Napoleon there were dances in the Rue Coquenard,
and at the Porcherons, near the Rue St. Lazar. In the time of Louis
XVIII. and Charles X. there were dances at the Jardin de Tivoli. But at
none of these were decency outraged or morality shocked. At Tivoli, the
national pastime was indulged with decency and decorum, and although the
price on entering was so low as fifteen sous with a ticket, and thirty
sous without a ticket, and albeit the dancers were chiefly of the
humbler classes, yet, I repeat, in 1827, 1828, and 1829, public decency
was not shocked. But from the _bal masque_ of the Theatre des Varietes
in 1831, when, towards the close of the evening the lights were put out,
and the _ronde infernale_ was commenced, obscene and disgusting dances
were becoming more and more common in Paris, and continued to make
progress till February, 1848. They had attained the most unenviable
notoriety in 1845, when at the Bal Mabille a dance was introduced called
"La Reine Pomare." Then there was the "Cancan Eccentrique," introduced
by a personage called "La Princesse de Mogador," a feigned name, as you
may suppose, assumed by some _fille perdue_. These dances, commenced at
the Chaumiere and the Bal Mabille, were also introduced at the Bal
Montesquieu, at the Bal de la Cite d'Antin, and, if I mistake not, at
the Bal Valentino. The principal performers were students in law, in
medicine, in pharmacy, clerks, commis voyageurs, profligate tradesmen,
and lorettes, grisettes, _et filles de basse condition_.

"I must do the Provisional Government, so much abused, the justice to
say, that towards the close of 1848, when these disgusting dances were
again revived, the Gardiens de Paris interfered, and proceeded to clear
the room if they were persevered in. If this had been done in 1845 and
1846 by that austere minister, who so much boasted of his independence
and morality, events might have taken a different turn. But it is now
too late to speculate, and it is easy to be wise after the event. But M.
Guizot, his prefet de police, and the members of the Government, were
warned long before 1845-6 of the profound immorality and indecency of
these dances, and they made no effort to put a stop to them. It is
because these scandals are now in a course of revival that I advert to
this matter at such length. The subject is worthy the attention of M.
Carlier, the Prefet of Police, and of wiser heads than M. Carlier.
"_Selon qu'il est conduit_," said Richelieu, and he knew his nation
well; "_Selon qu'il est conduit le peuple Francais est capable de
tout._" I am no enemy of innocent recreation, as you are well aware, or
of harmless, convivial, social, or saltatory enjoyment. But if
lasciviousness, obscenity, or _des saletes_ be tolerated in public
places, a blow is struck at the very foundations of society. I may not,
even in a letter, enter into a minute description of these dances.
Suffice it to say, they would not be endured in England, even by women
who had fallen from the paths of virtue, unless their minds and hearts
were wholly debauched. You see, after so much light gossip, I end with a
sermon--a sermon which the least strait-laced would preach under the
circumstances."




THEATRICAL CRITICISM.


The following dramatic bulletin which appeared in a Dublin newspaper on
the first appearance of the celebrated Mrs. Siddons in that city, is
quite as good a critique and as free from blunders, as some which have
appeared in our own journals more recently:--

"On Saturday, May 30, 1784, Mrs. Siddons, about whom all the world has
been talking, exposed her beautiful, adamantine, soft and lovely person
for the first time, at the Smock Alley Theatre, in the bewitching,
tearful, and all melting character of Isabella. From the repeated
panegyrics in the impartial London newspapers, we were taught to expect
the sight of a heavenly angel; but how were we supernaturally surprised
into the most awful joy at beholding a mortal goddess. The house was
crowded with hundreds more than it could hold--with thousands of
admiring spectators who went away without obtaining a sight. This
extraordinary phenomenon of tragic excellence! this star of Melpomene!
this comet of the stage! this sun in the firmament of the muses! this
moon of blank verse! this queen and princess of tears! this Donellan of
the poisoned bowl! this empress of the pistol and dagger! this chaos of
Shakspeare! this world of weeping clouds! this Terpsichore of the
curtains and scenes! this Proserpine of fire and earthquake! this
Katterfelto of wonders! exceeded expectation, went beyond belief, and
soared above all the natural powers of description! she was nature
itself! she was the most exquisite work of art! she was the very daisy,
primrose, tube rose, sweet-briar, furze blossom, gilliflower,
wall-flower, cauliflower and rosemary! in short she was a bouquet of
Parnassus. Where expectation was raised so high, it was thought she
would be injured by her appearance; but it was the audience who were
injured--several of them fainted before the curtain was drawn up.

"When she came to the scene of parting with her wedding ring, ah! what a
sight was there! The very fiddlers in the orchestra, albeit unused to
the melting mood, blubbered like hungry children crying for their bread
and butter; and when the bell rang for music between the acts, the tears
fell from the bassoon player's eyes in such plentiful showers that they
choked the finger stops; and making a spout of that instrument, poured
in such torrents on the first fiddler's book, that, not seeing the
overture was in two sharps, the leader of the band actually played in
one flat. But the sobs and sighs of the groaning audience, and the noise
of cork drawing from the smelling bottles, prevented the mistakes
between flats and sharps being discovered.

"One hundred and nine ladies fainted, forty-six went into fits, and
ninety-five had strong hysterics! The world will hardly credit the
truth, when they are told that fourteen children, five women, one
hundred tailors and six common councilmen were actually drowned in the
inundation of tears that flowed from the galleries, the slips and the
boxes, to increase the briny pond in the pit; the water was three feet
deep, and the people that were obliged to stand upon the benches, were,
in that position, up to their ankles in tears!

"An act of parliament against her playing any more, will certainly
pass."




THE FRENCH GENERALS OF TO-DAY.


A clever writer in _Fraser's Magazine_, dating at Paris, writes:--

"Of Changarnier I shall not say much. He is as taciturn as M. L. N.
Bonaparte, _et possede un grand talent pour le silence_. Changarnier is
a man of great nerve and energy, and is perfectly up to street warfare
and to the management of the unruly Parisian population. He is popular
with the soldiery and with the higher officers. As to his having any
decided political opinions to which he would become a martyr, I don't
believe a word of it. He wishes to preserve order, and to save France
from anarchy; but, apart from this, would be guided by his personal
interests. If royalty, hereditary or elective, become the order of the
day--not a very likely occurrence within two or three years--he would
adjust himself to the national arrangement on the best terms, and throw
his sword into the scale that kicked the beam. But if the game of a
president is to be played for in 1852 and 1856, Changarnier may put
forward his own pretensions, as, at heart, he has neither love nor
reverence for the Tenth of December. In the event of a war, however,
Changarnier is more likely to look to the highest command, in which he
might win the marshal's baton, and thus become still more important,
personally, professionally, and politically. Military men, more
especially of the African school, seem to allow that Changarnier
possesses a rare combination of military qualities. Decision, energy,
bravery, and the _coup d'oeil_, he exhibits in the highest degree; but
he is, on the other hand, wholly without civil talents. He is no orator,
no speaker even, and seems to entertain as great a contempt for
_ideologues_ and deliberative assemblies as Napoleon himself. If
Changarnier were ever invested with supreme power, it would go hard, so
far as he was concerned, with the constitution and liberties of France."

There is in no country a more honorable, high-principled, and
conscientious soldier than Cavaignac. Of all the men produced by the
Revolution of 1848 (Lamartine and Dufaure were known as political men
before), Cavaignac appears the most single-minded, honorable, and
conscientious. Though a Republican _pur sang_, he yet rendered more
important services to order in June, 1848, than any one of the
Moderates, Royalists, or Burgraves, or generals of order, or than all of
them together. It is significant that Cavaignac has openly declared to
his friends--indeed, under his hand, that he will not support the
candidature of Louis Napoleon, should he present himself in 1852, or
become a party to any head of the Constitution.

Lamoriciere is, as a man and as a general, of infinite talent, and of
brilliant courage. He is a good man of business, a brilliant speaker,
and certainly has carried himself as a public character with
independence and honor.

Bedeau is a general of very considerable literary and scientific
talents, and perhaps of higher attainments in his profession than any
other of the generals of the African school; but he is said to be
deficient in energy, and unresolved, and of late he seems to be less
thought of as a man of action than as an organizer and administrator. In
the event of a war, it is likely the four men I speak of will play
brilliant parts; and in civil affairs, it is possible, if not certain,
that a great part may be reserved for Cavaignac.




WILLIAM PENN AND MACAULAY.


We find in the London _Times_ a reviewal of Mr. Forster's "Observations
on the Charges made in Mr. Macaulay's History of England against the
Character of William Penn," and transfer it to these pages, as likely to
be not less interesting to Americans than to Englishmen, since Penn's
name is most intimately connected with the history of this country. The
book reviewed has been republished in New-York by Mr. John Wiley.

"Mr. Macaulay will not be likely to take offence at a comparison of his
history with Burnet's, and certainly in one particular point the two
productions have been attended with remarkably similar effects. The
number of historical writers and pamphleteers who were called into being
by the honest Bishop's account of his own times was astonishing. Every
chapter in his narrative created a literary antagonist, and the spirit
thus called into being was really instrumental, to a very considerable
extent, in changing the whole style and tone of English history. It is
too early to predict a precisely similar issue of Mr. Macaulay's labors;
but things are certainly tending that way. There have been more
discussions upon points of English history within the last twelve months
than have usually occurred in as many years. The social and political
condition of our ancestors, the motives of great acts, the characters of
great men, and the general course of our national life for the last
century and a half, have of late been perpetually brought before the
public, and seldom without instructive results. It is not, of course,
every joust which yields a respectable show, but Mr. Macaulay's shield
has been once or twice struck by antagonists who have shown a title to
the encounter, and one of these is now in the lists with the pamphlet
specified below.

"Mr. Forster's challenge is on behalf of the personal character and
political conduct of the famous William Penn--"the arch-Quaker," whom he
conceives Mr. Macaulay to have treated with an injustice which, if it
did not result from deliberate prejudice, was at all events chargeable
to unbecoming negligence of inquiry. The cause thus asserted he defends
in fifty pages of not unreasonable argument, and supports by the liberal
quotation of accepted authorities. Unfortunately, the character of the
controversy is such that it is almost impossible either to arbitrate
conclusively between the parties or to convey an adequate idea of their
respective positions. Mr. Macaulay's fashion of writing, too, makes
sadly against any minute or critical investigation of his resources or
his deductions. His habit is to throw off a single complete sketch of a
character or a transaction, and at the foot of it to quote altogether
the various authorities, from certain passages of which he derived the
warrant for his own several touches. By this means we are incapacitated
from closely following his observations, and we can only infer, with
greater or less probability, what particular portion of a particular
authority served for the foundation of any particular statement. To some
extent this method of proceeding is inseparable from Mr. Macaulay's
style, and its obvious disadvantage must be set off against that
brilliancy and effect of the general picture which commands such
universal admiration. Mr. Macaulay writes as it were from impressions.
He consults and peruses the original records of the times he is
describing, and out of the general deductions thus instinctively drawn
his conception is formed. We believe this to be the best way of arriving
at general truths, but it is a practice which greatly limits the
application of ordinary tests of accuracy. Indeed, in many portions of
Mr. Macaulay's history, a reader can do little more than compare his own
previous impressions of the facts and scenes described with the
impression of the writer who is describing them. Many of his
descriptions are compounded of such numerous and minute ingredients,
picked here and there from such a variety of quarters, that they can
only be verified by a similar process to that in which they originated.
A signal exemplification of our meaning will be found in his delineation
of the character and position of the English clergy before the
Revolution. We not only believe ourselves that this sketch is
substantially correct, but we would even venture to say that the
impressions of well-informed and unprejudiced minds as to the general
truth would, in a majority of cases, coincide with our own. Yet of this
we are perfectly certain--that it would not only be possible but easy to
collect so many particular examples of a contrary tendency as would
wholly bewilder the judgment of an ordinary reader. Mr. Macaulay, in
fact, can too frequently only be judged by those who have followed, at
however humble a distance, his own track of study. The temptations to
this kind of writing will be considerably weaker in the case of the
volumes which are yet to come, and we may there, perhaps, hope for a
little more severity of quotation. Yet in the portraitures of
individual characters these inducements will still remain, nor can they
be very easily, or indeed very properly, overlooked.

"It is not enough to say that the character of an historical personage
is to be drawn from the authentic record of his actions. No doubt it is
so; but there are a thousand minute and almost indefinable suggestions,
arising from the perusal of these actions with all their circumstances,
which will exercise a most material influence upon the judgment. The
motives, for instance, of an action, must be almost always matter of
surmise, and yet upon these surmises the conclusion will mainly depend.
It is to this cause we must attribute the contradiction which such
conclusions occasionally exhibit, as in the conflicting characters drawn
by various hands of Archbishop Cranmer, of General Monk, of James II.,
or, as in the case before us, of William Penn. Nevertheless, Mr. Forster
does supply us with some means of estimating the justice and accuracy of
Mr. Macaulay's decision; but as our limits preclude any thing like a
comparison of the two theories in detail, we must confine ourselves to
communicating a general idea of the disputed points in continuation and
illustration of what we have already premised.

"William Penn, the Quaker, as we need hardly state, passed the early
part of his life under heavy persecutions on account of his religious
opinions. In the resolute spirit of fortitude with which he sustained
these sufferings he gave utterance to many rigid and uncompromising
doctrines. Things then took a turn with him, and from a poor persecuted
pietist he became a close client of Royalty, and almost the chief of
court favorites in an age of favoritism. That some of his sayings and
doings in these two strangely-contrasted scenes of his life should be a
little contradictory is, to say the least, no matter of wonder. Mr.
Macaulay, accordingly, giving him full credit for religious principle,
but not much for strength of mind, depicts the stubborn and fanatical
Quaker of former days as having become in the reign of King James the
compliant and, though well-meaning, not over-scrupulous agent of a
monarch, whose designs were directed against the civil and religious
liberty of his people. Mr. Forster, on the other hand, would ascribe
Penn's appearance in these scenes exclusively to his good and charitable
intentions. He would represent him solely as a peacemaker (which is,
perhaps, not far from the truth), and he would exculpate him from all
motives except those of charity; attributing to him a thorough and
undisguised repugnance to the king's evil designs, and a resolution
simply to realize out of these evil doings the great and permanent
blessing of religious liberty for his countrymen at large.

"The first bone of contention is the participation of Penn in that
nefarious transaction by which the Royal Maids of Honor extorted ransoms
from the poor Taunton girls who had welcomed the arrival of Monmouth. It
seems that the chief, if not the sole authority for Mr. Macaulay's
remarks on this head is contained in a letter of Sunderland's, preserved
in the State-Paper office, and addressed to "Mr. Penne." Mr. Forster,
therefore, disputes the identity of the two persons. Now, we think that
very few people, after a careful exercise of their judgment, would doubt
either that this letter was addressed to Penn, or that another,
subsequently alluded to, was written by him. Still we admit that its
phraseology does not bear out all Mr. Macaulay's circumstantial details
of the transaction, and it certainly cannot be denied that his conduct
was, to say the least, _susceptible_ of an interpretation which should
have called rather for the approval than the censure of the historian.
The principal subject, however, of the controversy is the share taken by
William Penn in the dealings of James with the Fellows of Magdalen
College, Oxford. We feel it very difficult to give any sufficient
statement of this case, not only by reason of our narrow limits, but for
want of words so to express ourselves as not to assume what one or other
of the disputants deny. Yet Mr. Forster must not complain if we assert
that William Penn, in this as in other questionable transactions, was,
if not an agent of the king, at least a kind of go-between, and
generally with an inclination towards that conclusion which James
desired. Perhaps he often interfered because nobody else could interfere
so beneficially--this we are very willing to allow, but, to take the
case now before us, it surely cannot be gainsayed that in his mediation,
if Mr. Forster will accept the term, between the king and the college,
he really did wish that, with as little unpleasantness as might be, the
college should submit to the king. And even if we accept as not proved
the allegation that he directly tempted the Fellows to perjury, yet Mr.
Forster must not ask us to believe that Penn would not have been a great
deal better pleased if the Fellows had quietly dropped the consideration
of their oaths, and surrendered their foundation to the <DW7>s without
further struggle.

"We suspect the truth to be, that Mr. Macaulay has somewhat exceeded his
specified warrants, not in the design, but in the coloring. We believe
that many of Penn's acts were strangely inconsistent, if rigorously
noted, with his principles as previously professed, but we doubt whether
they will bear quite such hard words as Mr. Macaulay has given them.
Nevertheless, to recur to an expression which we employed before, we are
persuaded that in a majority of cases the _general impression_ of an
unbiassed inquirer would be more nearly in accordance with Mr.
Macaulay's sketch than with that flattering and stainless portrait which
Mr. Forster, at the conclusion of his remarks, would fain have drawn.
Mr. Macaulay may have painted his story a little too highly. His faults
are less in his verbs and substantives than in his adjectives and his
adverbs. Penn never in all probability became such an obsequious and
pliant-principled courtier as he is represented in this history, but the
simple facts which are authentically recorded of his court-life preclude
any notion of the high-souled and spotless character which Mr. Forster
would fain depict."

The subjects discussed in this volume have been much handled by our own
writers, and in several cases with very decided ability. We incline to
the side of Mr. Forster, throughout. An attentive study of the life of
William Penn reveals to our view a character of singular purity, and in
nearly all respects admirably composed. The judgment of Macaulay we hold
in very little esteem. It was said of Voltaire that he would sacrifice
Christ for an epigram; it may be said of Macaulay that he would
sacrifice as liberally for an antithesis. He labors always for effect,
and it must be admitted that he has evinced very extraordinary abilities
for this end; he never fails in variety, contrast, or grouping; hence
his popularity, and the absence from his pictures of the highest
elements of history.

Although in State Papers and in the Transactions of Societies in this
country, there is a large amount of important historical material in
relation to Penn, we have no creditable memoir of him; which is
remarkable, considering the attractive interest of the subject, and the
jealousy which has been displayed in various quarters respecting every
thing affecting his reputation.




A STORY WITHOUT A NAME.[17]

WRITTEN FOR THE INTERNATIONAL MONTHLY MAGAZINE

BY G. P. R. JAMES, ESQ.

_Continued from Page 216._


CHAPTER X.

The two horsemen rode on their way. Neither spoke for several minutes.
Sir Philip Hastings pondering sternly on all that had passed, and his
younger companion gazing upon the scene around flooded with the
delicious rays of sunset, as if nothing had passed at all.

Sir Philip, as I have shown the reader, had a habit of brooding over any
thing which excited much interest in his breast--nay more, of extracting
from it, by a curious sort of alchemy, essence very different from its
apparent nature, sometimes bright, fine, and beneficial, and others dark
and maleficient. The whole of the transaction just past disturbed him
much; it puzzled him; it set his imagination running upon a thousand
tracks, and most of them wrong ones; and thought was not willing to be
called from her vagaries to deal with any other subject than that which
preoccupied her.

The young stranger, on the other hand, seemed one of those characters
which take all things much more lightly. In the moment of action, he had
shown skill, resolution, and energy enough, but as he sat there on his
horse's back, looking round at every point of any interest to an admirer
of nature with an easy, calm and unconcerned air, no one who saw him
could have conceived that he had been engaged the moment before in so
fierce though short a struggle. There was none of the heat of the
combatant or the triumph of the victor in his air or countenance, and
his placid and equable expression of face contrasted strongly with the
cloud which sat upon the brow of his companion.

"I beg your pardon, sir, for my gloomy silence," said Sir Philip
Hastings, at length, conscious that his demeanor was not very courteous,
"but this affair troubles me. Besides certain relations which it bears
to matters of private concernment, I am not satisfied as to how I should
deal with the ruffian we have suffered to depart so easily. His assault
upon myself I do not choose to treat harshly; but the man is a terror to
the country round, committing many an act to which the law awards a very
insufficient punishment, but with cunning sufficient to keep within that
line, the passage beyond which would enable society to purge itself of
such a stain upon it; how to deal with him, I say, embarrasses me
greatly. I have committed him two or three times to prison already; and
I am inclined to regret that I did not, on this occasion, when he was in
the very act of breaking the law, send my sword through him, and I
should have been well justified in doing so."

"Nay, sir, methinks that would have been too much," replied his
companion; "he has had a fall, which, if I judge rightly, will be a
sufficient punishment for his assault upon you. According to the very
_lex talionis_, he has had what he deserves. If he has nearly broke your
arm, I think I have nearly broken his back."

"It is not his punishment for any offence to myself, sir, I seek,"
replied the baronet; "it is a duty to society to free it from the load
of such a man whenever he himself affords the opportunity of doing so.
Herein the law would have justified me, but even had it not been so, I
can conceive many cases where it may be necessary for the benefit of our
country and society to go beyond what the law will justify, and to make
the law for the necessity."

"Brutus, and a few of his friends, did so," replied the young stranger
with a smile, "and we admire them very much for so doing, but I am
afraid we should hang them, nevertheless, if they were in a position to
try the thing over again. The illustration of the gibbet and the statue
might have more applications than one, for I sincerely believe, if we
could revive historical characters, we should almost in all cases erect
a gallows for those to whom we now raise a monument."

Sir Philip Hastings turned and looked at him attentively, and saw his
face was gay and smiling. "You take all these things very lightly, sir,"
he said.

"With a safe lightness," replied the stranger.

"Nay, with something more," rejoined his companion; "in your short
struggle with that ruffian, you sprang upon him, and overthrew him like
a lion, with a fierce activity which I can hardly imagine really calmed
down so soon."

"O yes it is, my dear sir," replied the stranger, "I am somewhat of a
stoic in all things. It is not necessary that rapidity of thought and
action, in a moment of emergency, should go one line beyond the
occasion, or sink one line deeper than the mere reason. The man who
suffers his heart to be fluttered, or his passions to be roused, by any
just action he is called upon to do, is not a philosopher. Understand
me, however; I do not at all pretend to be quite perfect in my
philosophy; but, at all events, I trust I schooled myself well enough
not to suffer a wrestling match with a contemptible animal like that, to
make my pulse beat a stroke quicker after the momentary effort is over."

Sir Philip Hastings was charmed with the reply; for though it was a view
of philosophy which he could not and did not follow, however much he
might agree to it, yet the course of reasoning and the sources of
argument were so much akin to those he usually sought, that he fancied
he had at length found a man quite after his own heart. He chose to
express no farther opinion upon the subject, however, till he had seen
more of his young companion; but that more he determined to see. In the
mean time he easily changed the conversation, saying, "You seemed to be
a very skilful and practised wrestler, sir."

"I was brought up in Cornwall," replied the other, "though not a Cornish
man, and having no affinity even with the Terse and the Tees--an Anglo
Saxon, I am proud to believe, for I look upon that race as the greatest
which the world has yet produced."

"What, superior to the Roman?" asked Sir Philip.

"Ay, even so," answered the stranger, "with as much energy, as much
resolution, less mobility, more perseverance, with many a quality which
the Roman did not possess. The Romans have left us many a fine lesson
which we are capable of practising as well as they, while we can add
much of which they had no notion."

"I should like much to discuss the subject with you more at large," said
Sir Philip Hastings, in reply; "but I know not whether we have time
sufficient to render it worth while to begin."

"I really hardly know, either," answered the young stranger; "for, in
the first place, I am unacquainted with the country, and in the next
place, I know not how far you are going. My course tends towards a small
town called Hartwell--or, as I suspect it ought to be, Hartswell,
probably from some fountain at which hart and hind used to come and
drink."

"I am going a little beyond it," replied Sir Philip Hastings, "so that
our journey will be for the next ten miles together;" and with this good
space of time before him, the baronet endeavored to bring his young
companion back to the subject which had been started, a very favorite
one with him at all times.

But the stranger seemed to have his hobbies as well as Sir Philip, and
having dashed into etymology in regard to Hartwell, he pursued it with
an avidity which excluded all other topics.

"I believe," he said, not in the least noticing Sir Philip's
dissertation on Roman virtues--"my own belief is, that there is not a
proper name in England, except a few intruded upon us by the Normans,
which might not easily be traced to accidental circumstances in the
history of the family or the place. Thus, in the case of Aylesbury, or
Eaglestown, from which it is derived, depend upon it the place has been
noted as a resort for eagles in old times, coming thither probably for
the ducks peculiar to that place. Bristol, in Anglo Saxon, meaning the
place of a bridge, is very easily traceable; and Costa, or Costaford,
meaning in Anglo Saxon the tempter's ford, evidently derives its name
from monk or maiden having met the enemy of man or womankind at that
place, and having had cause to rue the encounter. All the Hams, all the
Tons, and all the Sons, lead us at once to the origin of the name, to
say nothing of all the points of the compass, all the colors of the
rainbow, and every trade that the ingenuity of man has contrived to
invent."

In vain Sir Philip Hastings for the next half hour endeavored to bring
him back to what he considered more important questions. He had
evidently had enough of the Romans for the time being, and indulged
himself in a thousand fanciful speculations upon every other subject but
that, till Sir Philip, who at one time had rated his intellect very
highly, began to think him little better than a fool. Suddenly, however,
as if from a sense of courtesy rather than inclination, the young man
let his older companion have his way in the choice of subject, and in
his replies showed such depth of thought, such a thorough acquaintance
with history, and such precise and definite views, that once more the
baronet changed his opinion, and said to himself, "This is a fine and
noble intellect indeed, nearly spoiled by the infection of a corrupt and
frivolous world, but which might be reclaimed, if fortune would throw
him in the way of those whose principles have been fixed and tried."

He pondered upon the matter for some short time. It was now completely
dark, and the town to which the stranger was going distant not a quarter
of a mile. The little stars were looking out in the heavens, peering at
man's actions like bright-eyed spies at night; but the moon had not
risen, and the only light upon the path was reflected from the flashing,
dancing stream that ran along beside the road, seeming to gather up all
the strong rays from the air, and give them back again with interest.

"You are coming very near Hartwell," said Sir Philip, at length; "but it
is somewhat difficult to find from this road, and being but little out
of my way, I will accompany you thither, and follow the high road
onwards."

The stranger was about to express his thanks, but the Baronet stopped
him, saying, "Not in the least, my young friend. I am pleased with your
conversation, and should be glad to cultivate your acquaintance if
opportunity should serve. I am called Sir Philip Hastings, and shall be
glad to see you at any time, if you are passing near my house."

"I shall certainly wait upon you, Sir Philip, if I stay any time in this
county," replied the other. "That, however, is uncertain, for I come
here merely on a matter of business, which may be settled in a few
hours--indeed it ought to be so, for it seems to me very simple.
However, it may detain me much longer, and then I shall not fail to take
advantage of your kind permission."

He spoke gravely, and little more was said till they entered the small
town of Hartwell, about half through which a large gibbet-like bar was
seen projecting from the front of a house, suspending a large board,
upon which was painted a star. The light shining from the windows of an
opposite house fell upon the symbol, and the stranger, drawing in his
rein, said, "Here is my inn, and I will now wish you good night, with
many thanks, Sir Philip."

"Methinks it is I should thank you," replied the Baronet, "both for a
pleasant journey, and for the punishment you inflicted on the ruffian
Cutter."

"As for the first," said the stranger, "that has been more than repaid,
if indeed it deserved thanks at all; and as for the other, that was a
pleasure in itself. There is a great satisfaction to me in breaking down
the self-confidence of one of these burly bruisers."

As he spoke, he dismounted, again wishing Sir Philip good night, and the
latter rode on upon his way. His meditations, as he went, were
altogether upon the subject of the young stranger; for, as I have shown,
Sir Philip rarely suffered two ideas to get any strong grasp of his mind
at the same time. He revolved, and weighed, and dissected every thing
the young man had said, and the conclusion that he came to was even more
favorable than at first. He seemed a man after his own heart, with just
sufficient differences of opinion and diversities of character to make
the Baronet feel a hankering for some opportunity of moulding and
modelling him to his own standard of perfection. Who he could be, he
could not by any means divine. That he was a gentleman in manners and
character, there could be no doubt. That he was not rich, Sir Philip
argued from the fact of his not having chosen the best inn in the little
town, and he might also conclude that he was of no very distinguished
family, as he had not thought fit to mention his own name in return for
the Baronet's frank invitation.

Busy with these thoughts Sir Philip rode on but slowly, and took nearly
half an hour to reach the gates of Mrs. Hazleton's park, though they
stood only two miles' distance from the town. He arrived before them at
length, however, and rang the bell. The lodge-keeper opened them but
slowly, and putting his horse to a quicker pace, Sir Philip trotted up
the avenue towards the house. He had not reached it, however, when he
heard the sound of horses feet behind him, and, as he was dismounting at
the door, his companion of the way rode quickly up and sprang to the
ground, saying, with a laugh--

"I find, Sir Philip, that we are both to enjoy the same quarters
to-night, for, on my arrival at Hartwell, I did not expect to visit this
house till to-morrow morning. Mrs. Hazelton, however, has very kindly
had my baggage brought up from the inn, and therefore I have no choice
but to intrude upon her to-night."

As he spoke the doors of the house were thrown open, servants came forth
to take the horses, and the two gentlemen were ushered at once into Mrs.
Hazleton's receiving-room.


CHAPTER XI.

Mrs. Hazleton was looking as beautiful as she had been at
twenty--perhaps more so; for the few last years before the process of
decay commences, sometimes adds rather than detracts from woman's
loveliness. She was dressed with great skill and taste too; nay, even
with peculiar care. The hair, which had not yet even one silver thread
in its wavy mass, was so arranged as to hide, in some degree, that
height and width of forehead which gave almost too intellectual an
expression to her countenance--which, upon some occasions, rendered the
expression (for the features were all feminine) more that of a man than
that of a woman. Her dress was very simple in appearance though costly
in material; but it had been chosen and fitted by the nicest art, of
colors which best harmonized with her complexion, and in forms rather to
indicate beauties than to display them.

Thus attired, with grace and dignity in every motion, she advanced to
meet Sir Philip Hastings, frankly holding out her hand to him, and
beaming on him one of her most lustrous smiles. It was all thrown away
upon him indeed; but that did not matter. It had its effect in another
quarter. She then turned to the younger gentleman with a greater degree
of reserve in manner, but yet, as she spoke to him and welcomed him to
her house, the color deepened on her cheek with a blush that would not
have been lost to Sir Philip if he had been at all in the custom of
making use of them. They had evidently met before, but not often; and
her words, "Good evening, Mr. Marlow, I am glad to see you at my house
at length," were said in the tone of one who was really glad, but did
not wish to show it too plainly.

"You have come with my friend, Sir Philip Hastings," she added; "I did
not know you were acquainted."

"Nor were we, my dear madam, till this evening," replied the Baronet,
speaking for himself and his companion of the road, "till we met by
accident on the hill-side on our way hither. We had a somewhat
unpleasant encounter with a notorious personage of the name of Tom
Cutter, which brought us first into acquaintance; though, till you
uttered it, my young friend's name was unknown to me."

"Tom Cutter! is that the man who poaches all my game?" said the lady, in
a musing tone.

Nor was she musing of Tom Cutter, or the lost game, or of the sins and
iniquities of poaching; neither one or the other. The exclamation and
inquiry taken together were only one of those little half-unconscious
stratagems of human nature, by which we often seek to amuse the other
parties in conversation--and sometimes amuse our own outward man
too--while the little spirit within is busily occupied with some
question which we do not wish our interlocutors to have any thing to do
with. She was asking herself, in fact, what had been the conversation
with which Sir Philip Hastings and Mr. Marlow had beguiled the
way--whether they had talked of her--whether they had talked of her
affairs--and how she could best get some information on the subject
without seeming to seek it.

She soon had an opportunity of considering the matter more at leisure,
for Sir Philip Hastings, with some remark as to "dusty dresses not being
fit for ladies' drawing-rooms," retired for a time to the chamber
prepared for him. The fair lady of the house detained Mr. Marlow indeed
for a few minutes, talking with him in a pleasant and gentle tone, and
making her bright eyes do their best in the way of captivating. She
expressed regret that she had not seen him more frequently, and
expressed a hope, in very graceful terms, that even the painful
question, which those troublesome men of law had started between them,
might be a means of ripening their acquaintance into friendship.

The young gentleman replied with all gallantry, but with due discretion,
and then retired to his room to change his dress. He certainly was a
very good-looking young man; finely formed, and with a pleasing though
not regularly handsome countenance; and perhaps he left Mrs. Hazleton
other matters to meditate of than the topics of his conversation with
Sir Philip Hastings. Certain it is, that when the baronet returned very
shortly after, he found his beautiful hostess in a profound reverie,
from which his sudden entrance made her start with a bewildered look not
common to her.

"I am very glad to talk to you for a few moments alone, my dear friend,"
said Mrs. Hazleton, after a moment's pause. "This Mr. Marlow is the
gentleman who claims the very property on which you now stand;" and she
proceeded to give her hearer, partly by spontaneous explanations, partly
by answers to his questions, her own view of the case between herself
and Mr. Marlow; laboring hard and skilfully to prepossess the mind of
Sir Philip Hastings with a conviction of her rights as opposed to that
of her young guest.

"Do you mean to say, my dear madam," asked Sir Philip, "that he claims
the whole of this large property? That would be a heavy blow indeed."

"Oh, dear, no," replied the lady; "the great bulk of the property is
mine beyond all doubt, but the land on which this house stands, and
rather more than a thousand acres round it, was bought by my poor father
before I was born, I believe, as affording the most eligible site for a
mansion. He never liked the old house near your place, and built this
for himself. Mr. Marlow's lawyers now declare that his grand-uncle, who
sold the land to my father, had no power to sell it; that the property
was strictly entailed."

"That will be easily ascertained," said Sir Philip Hastings; "and I am
afraid, my dear madam, if that should prove the case, you will have no
remedy but to give up the property."

"But is not that very hard?" asked Mrs. Hazleton, "the Marlows certainly
had the money."

"That will make no difference," replied Sir Philip, musing; "this young
man's grand-uncle may have wronged your father; but he is not
responsible for the act, and I am very much afraid, moreover, that his
claim may not be limited to the property itself. Back rents, I suspect,
might be claimed."

"Ay, that is what my lawyer, Mr. Shanks, says," replied Mrs. Hazleton,
with a bewildered look; "he tells me that if Mr. Marlow is successful in
the suit, I shall have to pay the whole of the rents of the land. But
Shanks added that he was quite certain of beating him if we could retain
for our counsel Sargeant Tutham and Mr. Doubledo."

"Shanks is a rogue," said Sir Philip Hastings, in a calm, equable tone;
"and the two lawyers you have named bear the reputation of being learned
and unscrupulous men. The first point, my dear madam, is to ascertain
whether this young gentleman's claim is just, and then to deal with him
equitably, which, in the sense I affix to the term, may be somewhat
different from legal."

"I really do not know what to do," cried Mrs. Hazleton, with a slight
laugh, as if at her own perplexity. "I was never in such a situation in
my life;" and then she added, very rapidly and in a jocular tone, as if
she were afraid of pausing upon or giving force to any one word, "if my
poor father had been alive, he would have settled it all after his own
way soon enough. He was a great match-maker you know, Sir Philip, and he
would have proposed, in spite of all obstacles, a marriage between the
two parties, to settle the affair by matrimony instead of by law," and
she laughed again as if the very idea was ridiculous.

Unlearned Sir Philip thought so too, and most improperly replied, "The
difference of age would of course put that out of the question;" nor
when he had committed the indiscretion, did he perceive the red spot
which came upon Mrs. Hazleton's fair brow, and indicated sufficiently
enough the effect his words had produced. There was an ominous silent
pause, however, for a minute, and then the Baronet was the person to
resume the discourse in his usual calm, argumentative tone. "I do not
think," he said, "from Mr. Marlow's demeanor or conversation, that he is
likely to be very exacting in this matter. His claim, however, must be
looked to in the first place, before we admit any thing on your part. If
the property was really entailed, he has undoubtedly a right to it, both
in honesty and in law; but methinks there he might limit his claim if
his sense of real equity be strong; but the entail must be made
perfectly clear before you can admit so much as that."

"Well, well, sir," said Mrs. Hazleton, hastily, for she heard a step on
the outer stairs, "I will leave it entirely to you, Sir Philip, I am
sure you will take good care of my interests."

Sir Philip did not altogether like the word interests, and bowing his
head somewhat stiffly, he added, "and of your honor, my dear madam."

Mrs. Hazleton liked his words as little as he did hers, and she 
highly. She made no reply, indeed, but his words that night were never
forgotten.

The next moment Mr. Marlow entered the room with a quiet, easy air,
evidently quite unconscious of having been the subject of conversation.
During the evening he paid every sort of polite attention to his fair
hostess, and undoubtedly showed signs and symptoms of thinking her a
very beautiful and charming woman. Whatever was her game, take my word
for it, reader, she played it skilfully, and the very fact of her
retiring early, at the very moment when she had made the most favorable
impression, leaving Sir Philip Hastings to entertain Mr. Marlow at
supper, was not without its calculation.

As soon as the lady was gone, Sir Philip turned to the topic of Mrs.
Hazleton's business with his young companion, and managed the matter
more skilfully than might have been expected. He simply told him that
Mrs. Hazleton had mentioned a claim made upon her estate by his lawyers,
and had thought it better to leave the investigation of the affair to
her friend, rather than to professional persons.

A frank good-humored smile came upon Mr. Marlow's face at once. "I am
not a rich man, Sir Philip," he said, "and make no professions of
generosity, but, at the same time, as my grand-uncle undoubtedly had
this money from Mrs. Hazleton's father, I should most likely never have
troubled her on the subject, but that this very estate is the original
seat of our family, on which we can trace our ancestors back through
many centuries. The property was undoubtedly entailed, my father and my
uncle were still living when it was sold, and performed no disentailing
act whatever. This is perfectly susceptible of proof, and though my
claim may put Mrs. Hazleton to some inconvenience, I am anxious to avoid
putting her to any pain. Now I have come down with a proposal which I
confidently trust you will think reasonable. Indeed, I expected to find
her lawyer here rather than an independent friend, and I was assured
that my proposal would be accepted immediately, by persons who judged of
my rights more sanely perhaps than I could."

"May I hear what the proposal is?" asked Sir Philip.

"Assuredly," replied Mr. Marlow, "it is this: that in the first place
Mrs. Hazleton should appoint some gentleman of honor, either at the bar
or not, as she may think fit, to investigate my claim, with myself or
some other gentleman on my part, with right to call in a third as umpire
between them. I then propose that if my claim should be distinctly
proved, Mrs. Hazleton should surrender to me the lands in question, I
repaying her the sum which my grand-uncle received, and--"

"Stay," said Sir Philip Hastings, "are you aware that the law would not
oblige you to do that?"

"Perfectly," replied Mr. Marlow, "and indeed I am not very sure that
equity would require it either, for I do not know that my father ever
received any benefit from the money paid to his uncle. He may have
received a part however, without my knowing it, for I would rather err
on the right side than on the wrong. I then propose that the rents of
the estate, as shown by the leases, and fair interest upon the value of
the ground surrounding this house, should be computed during the time
that it has been out of our possession, while on the other hand the
legal interest of the money paid for the property should be calculated
for the same period, the smaller sum deducted from the larger, and the
balance paid by me to Mrs. Hazleton or by Mrs. Hazleton to me, so as to
replace every thing in the same state as if this unfortunate sale had
never taken place."

Sir Philip Hastings mused without reply for more than one minute. That
is a long time to muse, and many may be the thoughts and feelings which
pass through the breast of man during that space. They were many in the
present instance; and it would not be very easy to separate or define
them. Sir Philip thought of all the law would have granted to the young
claimant under the circumstances of the case: the whole property, all
the back rents, every improvement that had been made, the splendid
mansion in which they were then standing, without the payment on his
part of a penny: he compared these legal rights with what he now
proposed, and he saw that he had indeed gone a great way on the generous
side of equity. There was something very fine and noble in this conduct,
something that harmonized well with his own heart and feelings. There
was no exaggeration, no romance about it: he spoke in the tone of a man
of business doing a right thing well considered, and the Baronet was
satisfied in every respect but one. Mrs. Hazleton's words I must not say
had created a suspicion, but had suggested the idea that other feelings
might be acting between her and his young companion, notwithstanding the
difference of age which he had so bluntly pointed out, and he resolved
to inquire farther.

In the mean time, however, Mr. Marlow somewhat misinterpreted his
silence, and he added, after waiting longer than was pleasant, "Of
course you understand, Sir Philip, that if two or three honest men
decide that my case is unfounded--although I know that cannot be the
case--I agree to drop it at once and renounce it for ever. My solicitors
and counsel in London judged the offer a fair one at least."

"And so do I," said Sir Philip Hastings, emphatically; "however, I must
speak with Mrs. Hazleton upon the subject, and express my opinion to
her. Pray, have you the papers regarding your claim with you?"

"I have attested copies," replied Mr. Marlow, "and I can bring them to
you in a moment. They are so unusually clear, and seem to put the matter
so completely beyond all doubt, that I brought them down to satisfy Mrs.
Hazleton and her solicitor, without farther trouble, that my demand at
least had some foundation in justice."

The papers were immediately brought, and sitting down deliberately, Sir
Philip Hastings went through them with his young friend, carefully
weighing every word. They left not even a doubt on his mind; they seemed
not to leave a chance even for the chicanery of the law, they were
clear, precise, and definite. And the generosity of the young man's
offer stood out even more conspicuously than before.

"For my part, I am completely satisfied," said Sir Philip Hastings, when
he had done the examination, "and I have no doubt that Mrs. Hazleton
will be so likewise. She is an excellent and amiable person, as well as
a very beautiful woman. Have you known her long? have you seen her
often?"

"Only once, and that about a year ago," replied Mr. Marlow; "she is
indeed very beautiful as you say--for a woman of her period of life
remarkably so; she puts me very much in mind of my mother, whom I in the
confidence of youthful affection used to call 'my everlasting.' I
recollect doing so only three days before the hand of death wrote upon
her brow the vanity of all such earthly thoughts."

Sir Philip Hastings was satisfied. There was nothing like passion there.
Unobservant as he was in most things, he was more clear-sighted in
regard to matters of love, than any other affection of the human mind.
He had himself loved deeply and intensely, and he had not forgotten it.

It was necessary, before any thing could be concluded, to wait for Mrs.
Hazleton's rising on the following morning; and, bidding Mr. Marlow good
night with a warm grasp of the hand, Sir Philip Hastings retired to his
room and passed nearly an hour in thought, pondering the character of
his new acquaintance, recalling every trait he had remarked, and every
word he had heard. It was a very satisfactory contemplation. He never
remembered to have met with one who seemed so entirely a being after his
own heart. There might be little flaws, little weaknesses perhaps, but
the confirming power of time and experience would, he thought,
strengthen all that was good, and counsel and example remedy all that
was weak or light.

"At all events," thought the Baronet, "his conduct on this occasion
shows a noble and equitable spirit. We shall see how Mrs. Hazleton meets
it to-morrow."

When that morrow came, he had to see the reverse of the picture, but it
must be reserved for another chapter.


CHAPTER XII.

Mrs. Hazleton was up in the morning early. She was at all times an early
riser, for she well knew what a special conservator of beauty is the
morning dew, but on this occasion certain feelings of impatience made
her a little earlier than usual. Besides, she knew that Sir Philip
Hastings was always a matutinal man, and would certainly be in the
library before she was down. Nor was she disappointed. There she found
the Baronet reaching up his hand to take down Livy, after having just
replaced Tacitus.

"It is a most extraordinary thing, my dear madam," said Sir Philip,
after the salutation of the morning, "and puzzles me more than I can
explain."

Mrs. Hazleton fancied that her friend had discovered some very knotty
point in the case with Mr. Marlow, and she rejoiced, for her object was
not to emulate but to entangle. Sir Philip, however, went on to put her
out of all patience by saying, "How the Romans, so sublimely virtuous at
one period of their history, could fall into so debased and corrupt a
state as we find described even by Sallust, and depicted in more
frightful colors still by the latter historians of the empire."

Mrs. Hazleton, as I have said, was out of all patience, and ladies in
that state sometimes have recourse to homely illustration. "Their virtue
got addled, I suppose," she replied, "by too long keeping. Virtue is an
egg that won't bear sitting upon--but now do tell me, Sir Philip, had
you any conversation with Mr. Marlow last night upon this troublesome
affair of mine?"

"I had, my dear madam," replied Sir Philip, with a very faint smile, for
Sir Philip could not well bear any jesting on the Romans. "I did not
only converse with Mr. Marlow on the subject, but I examined carefully
the papers he brought down with him, and perceived at once that you have
not the shadow of a title to the property in question."

Mrs. Hazleton's brow grew dark, and she replied in a somewhat sullen
tone, "You decided against me very rapidly, Sir Philip. I hope you did
not let Mr. Marlow see your strong prepossession--opinion I mean to
say--in his favor."

"Entirely," replied Sir Philip Hastings.

Mrs. Hazleton was silent, and gazed down upon the carpet as if she were
counting the threads of which it was composed, and finding the
calculation by no means satisfactory.

Sir Philip let her gaze on for some time, for he was not very easily
moved to compassion in cases where he saw dishonesty of purpose as well
as suffering. At length, however, he said, "My judgment is not binding
upon you in the least; I tell you simply, my dear madam, what is my
conclusion, and the law will tell you the same."

"We shall see," muttered Mrs. Hazleton between her teeth; but then
putting on a softer air she asked, "Tell me, Sir Philip, would you, if
you were in my situation, tamely give up a property which was honestly
bought and paid for, without making one struggle to retain it?"

"The moment I was convinced I had no legal right to it," replied Sir
Philip. "However, the law is still open to you, if you think it better
to resist; but before you take your determination, you had better hear
what Mr. Marlow proposes, and you will pardon me for expressing to you
what I did not express to him: an opinion that his proposal is founded
upon the noblest view of equity."

"Indeed," said Mrs. Hazleton, with her eyes brightening, "pray let me
hear this proposal."

Sir Philip explained it to her most distinctly, expecting that she would
be both surprised and pleased, and never doubted that she would accept
it instantly. Whether she was surprised or not, did not appear, but
pleased she certainly was not to any great extent, for she did not wish
the matter to be so soon concluded. She began to make objections
immediately. "The enormous expense of building this house has not been
taken into consideration at all, and it will be very necessary to have
the original papers examined before any thing is decided. There are two
sides to every question, my dear Sir Philip, and we cannot tell that
other papers may not be found, disentailing this estate before the sale
took place."

"This is impossible," answered Sir Philip Hastings, "if the papers
exhibited to me are genuine, for this young gentleman, on whom, as his
father's eldest son, the estate devolved by the entail, was not born
when the sale took place. By his act only could it be disentailed, and
as he was not born, he could perform no such act."

He pressed her hard in his cold way, and it galled her sorely.

"Perhaps they are not genuine," she said at length.

"They are all attested," replied Sir Philip, "and he himself proposes
that the originals should be examined as the basis of the whole
transaction."

"That is absolutely necessary," said Mrs. Hazleton, well satisfied to
put off decision even for a time. But Sir Philip would not leave her
even that advantage.

"I think," he said, "you must at once decide whether you accept his
proposal, on condition that the examination of the papers proves the
justice of his claim to the satisfaction of those you may appoint to
examine it. If there are any doubts and difficulties to be raised
afterwards, he might as well proceed by law at once."

"Then let him go to law," exclaimed Mrs. Hazleton with a flashing eye.
"If he do, I will defend every step to the utmost of my power."

"Incur enormous expense, give yourself infinite pain and mortification,
and ruin a fine estate by a spirit of unnecessary and unjust
resistance," added Sir Philip, in a calm and somewhat contemptuous tone.

"Really, Sir Philip, you press me too hard," exclaimed Mrs. Hazleton in
a tone of angry mortification, and, sitting down to the table, she
actually wept.

"I only press you for your own good," answered the Baronet, not at all
moved, "you are perhaps not aware that if this gentleman's claim is
just, and you resist it, the whole costs will fall upon you. All that
could be expected of him was to submit his claim to arbitration, but he
now does more; he proposes, if arbitration pronounce it just, to make
sacrifices of his legal rights to the amount of many thousand pounds. He
is not bound to refund one penny paid for this estate, he is entitled to
back rents for a considerable number of years, and yet he offers to
repay the money, and far from demanding the back rents, to make
compensation for any loss of interest that may have been sustained by
this investment. There are few men in England, let me tell you, who
would have made such a proposal, and if you refuse it you will never
have such another."

"Do not you think, Sir Philip," asked Mrs. Hazleton sharply, "that he
never would have made such a proposal if he had not known there was
something wrong about his title?"

Now there was something in this question which doubly provoked Sir
Philip Hastings. He never could endure a habit which some ladies have of
recurring continually to points previously disposed of, and covering the
reiteration by merely putting objections in a new form. Now the question
as to the validity of Mr. Marlow's title, he looked upon as entirely
disposed of by the proposal of investigation and arbitration. But there
was something more than this; the very question which the lady put
showed an incapacity for conceiving any generous motive, which
thoroughly disgusted him, and, turning with a quiet step to the window,
he looked down upon the lawn which spread far away between two ranges of
tall fine wood, glowing in the yellow sunshine of a dewy autumnal
morning. It was the most favorable thing he could have done for Mrs.
Hazleton. Even the finest and the strongest and the stoutest minds are
more frequently affected unconsciously by external things than any one
is aware of. The sweet influences or the irritating effects of fine or
bad weather, of beautiful or tame scenery, of small cares and petty
disappointments, of pleasant associations or unpleasant memories, nay of
a thousand accidental circumstances, and even fancies themselves, will
affect considerations totally distinct and apart, as the blue or yellow
panes of a stained glass window cast a melancholy hue or a yellow
splendor upon the statue and carvings of the cold gray stone.

As Sir Philip gazed forth upon the fair scene before his eyes, and
thought what a lovely spot it was, how calm, how peaceful, how
refreshing in its influence, he said to himself, "No wonder she is
unwilling to part with it."

Then again, there was a hare gambolling upon the lawn, at a distance of
about a hundred yards from the house, now scampering along and beating
up the dew from the morning grass, now crouched nearly flat so as hardly
to be seen among the tall green blades, then hopping quietly along with
an awkward, shuffling gait, or sitting up on its hind legs, with raised
ears, listening to some distant sound; but still as it resumed its
gambols, again going round and round, tracing upon the green sward a
labyrinth of meandering lines. Sir Philip watched it for several moments
with a faint smile, and then said to himself, "It is the beast's
nature--why not a woman's?"

Turning himself round he saw Mrs. Hazleton, sitting at the table with
her head leaning in a melancholy attitude upon her hand, and he replied
to her last words, though he had before fully made up his mind to give
them no answer whatever.

"The question in regard to title, my dear madam," he said, "is one which
is to be decided by others. Employ a competent person, and he will
insure, by full investigation, that your rights are maintained entire.
Your acceptance of Mr. Marlow's proposals contingent on the full
recognition of his claim, will be far from prejudicing your case, should
any flaw in your title be discovered. On the contrary, should the
decision of a point of law be required, it will put you well with the
court. By frankly doing so, you also meet him in the same spirit in
which I am sure he comes to you; and as I am certain he has a very high
sense of equity, I think he will be well inclined to enter into any
arrangement which may be for your convenience. From what he has said
himself, I do not believe he can afford to keep such an establishment as
is necessary for this house, and if you cling to it, as you may well do,
doubtless it may remain your habitation as long as you please at a very
moderate rent. Every other particular I think may be settled in the same
manner, if you will but show a spirit of conciliation, and----"

"I am sure I have done that," said Mrs. Hazleton, interrupting him.
"However, Sir Philip, I will leave it all to you. You must act for me in
this business. If you think it right, I will accept the proposal
conditionally as you mention, and the title can be examined fully
whenever we can fix upon the time and the person. All this is very hard
upon me, I do think; but I suppose I must submit with a good grace."

"It is certainly the best plan," replied Sir Philip; and while Mrs.
Hazleton retired to efface the traces of tears from her eyelids, the
Baronet walked into the drawing-room, where he was soon after joined by
Mr. Marlow. He merely told him, however, that he had conversed with the
lady of the house, and that she would give him her answer in person.
Now, whatever were Mrs. Hazleton's wishes or intentions, she certainly
was not well satisfied with the precise and rapid manner in which Sir
Philip brought matters of business to an end. His last words, however,
had afforded her a glimmering prospect of somewhat lengthy and frequent
communication between herself and Mr. Marlow, and one thing is certain,
that she did not at all desire the transaction between them to be
concluded too briefly. At the same time, it was not her object to appear
otherwise than in the most favorable light to his eyes; and
consequently, when she entered the drawing-room she held out her hand to
him with a gracious though somewhat melancholy smile, saying, "I have
had a long conversation with Sir Philip this morning, Mr. Marlow,
concerning the very painful business which brought you here. I agree at
once to your proposal in regard to the arbitration and the rest;" and
she then went on to speak of the whole business as if she had made not
the slightest resistance whatever, but had been struck at once by the
liberality of his proposals, and by the sense of equity which they
displayed. Sir Philip took little notice of all this; for he had fallen
into one of his fits of musing, and Mr. Marlow had quitted the room to
bring some of the papers for the purpose of showing them to Mrs.
Hazleton, before the Baronet awoke out of his reverie. The younger
gentleman returned a moment after, and he and Sir Philip and Mrs.
Hazleton were busily looking at a long list of certificates of births,
deaths and marriages, when the door opened, and Mr. Shanks, the
attorney, entered the room, booted, spurred, and dusty as if from a long
ride. He was a man to whom Sir Philip had a great objection; but he said
nothing, and the attorney with a tripping step advanced towards Mrs.
Hazleton.

The lady looked confused and annoyed, and in a hasty manner put back the
papers into Mr. Marlow's hand. But Mr. Shanks was one of the keen and
observing men of the world. He saw every thing about him as if he had
been one of those insects which have I do not know how many thousand
pair of lenses in each eye. He had no scruples or hesitation either; he
was all sight and all remark, and a lady of any kind was not at all the
person to inspire him with reverence.

He was, in short, all law, and loved nothing, respected nothing, but
law.

"Dear me, Mrs. Hazleton," he exclaimed, "I did not expect to find you so
engaged. These seem to be law papers--very dangerous, indeed, madam, for
unprofessional persons to meddle with such things. Permit me to look at
them;" and he held out his hand towards Mr. Marlow, as if expecting to
receive the papers without a word of remonstrance. But Mr. Marlow held
them back, saying, in a very calm, civil tone, "Excuse me, sir! We are
conversing over the matter in a friendly manner; and I shall show them
to a lawyer only at Mrs. Hazleton's request."

"Very improper--that is, I mean to say very unprofessional!" exclaimed
Mr. Shanks, "and let me say very hazardous too," rejoined the lawyer
abruptly; but Mrs. Hazleton herself interposed, saying in a marked tone
and with an air of dignity which did not always characterize her
demeanor towards her "right hand man," as she was accustomed sometimes
to designate Mr. Shanks, "We do not desire any interference at this
moment, my good sir. I appointed you at twelve o'clock. It is not yet
nine." "O I can see, I can see," replied Mr. Shanks, while Sir Philip
Hastings advanced a step or two, "his worship here never was a friend of
mine, and has no objection to take a job or two out of my hands at any
time."

"We have nothing to do with jobs, sir," said Sir Philip Hastings, in his
usual dry tone, "but at all events we do not wish you to make a job
where there is none."

"I must take the liberty, however, of warning that lady, sir," said Mr.
Shanks, with the pertinacity of a parrot, which he so greatly resembled,
"as her legal adviser, sir, that if----"

"That if she sends for an attorney, she wants him at the time she
appoints," interposed Sir Philip; "that was what you were about to say,
I suppose."

"Not at all, sir, not at all," exclaimed the lawyer; for very shrewd and
very oily lawyers will occasionally forget their caution and their
coolness when they see the prospect of a loss of fees before them. "I
was going to say no such thing. I was going to warn her not to meddle
with matters of business of which she can understand nothing, by the
advice of those who know less, and who may have jobs of their own to
settle while they are meddling with hers." "And I warn you to quit this
room, sir," said Sir Philip Hastings, a bright spot coming into his
usually pale cheek; "the lady has already expressed her opinion upon
your intrusion, and depend upon it, I will enforce mine."

"I shall do no such thing, sir, till I have fully----"

He said no more, for before he could conclude the sentence, the hand of
Sir Philip Hastings was upon his collar with the grasp of a giant, and
although he was a tall and somewhat powerful man, the Baronet dragged
him to the door in despite of his half-choking struggles, as a nurse
would haul along a baby, pulled him across the stone hall, and opening
the outer door with his left hand, shot him down the steps without any
ceremony; leaving him with his hands and knees upon the terrace.

This done, the Baronet returned into the house again, closing the door
behind him. He then paused in the hall for an instant, reproaching
himself for certain over-quick beatings of the heart, tranquillized his
whole look and demeanor, and then returning to the drawing-room, resumed
the conversation with Mrs. Hazleton, as if nothing had ever occurred to
interrupt it.


CHAPTER XIII.

Mrs. Hazleton was or affected to be a good deal flustered by the event
which had just taken place, but after a number of certain graceful
attitudes, assumed without the slightest appearance of affectation, she
recovered her calmness, and proceeded with the business in hand. That
business was soon terminated, so far as the full and entire acceptance
of Mr. Marlow's proposal went, and immediately after the conclusion of
breakfast, Sir Philip Hastings ordered his horses to depart. Mrs.
Hazleton fain would have detained him, for she foresaw that his going
might be a signal for Mr. Marlow's going also, and it was not a part of
her policy to assume the matronly character so distinctly as to invite
him to remain in her house alone. Sir Philip however was inexorable, and
returned to his own dwelling, renewing his invitation to his new
acquaintance.

Mrs. Hazleton bade him adieu, with the greatest appearance of
cordiality; but I am very much afraid, if one had possessed the power of
looking into her heart, one would have a picture very different from
that presented by her face. Sir Philip Hastings had said and done things
since he had entered her dwelling the night before, which Mrs. Hazleton
was not a woman to forget or forgive. He had thwarted her schemes, he
had mortified her vanity, he had wounded her pride; and she was one of
those women who bide their time, but have a strong tenacity of
resentments.

When he was gone, however, she played a new game with Mr. Marlow. She
insisted upon his remaining for the day, but with a fine sense of
external proprieties, she informed him that she expected a charming
elderly lady of her acquaintance to pass a few days with her, to whom
she should particularly like to introduce him.

This was false, be it remarked; but she immediately took measures to
make it true. Now, there is in every neighborhood more than one of that
class called good creatures. For this office, an abundant store of real
or assumed soft stupidity is required; but it is a somewhat difficult
part to play, for with this stupidity there must also be a considerable
portion of fine tact, to guard the performer against any of those
blunders into which good-natured people are continually plunging. Drill
and discipline are also necessary, in order to be always on the look out
for hints, to appreciate them properly, to comprehend that friends may
say one thing and mean another, and to ask no questions of any kind.
There were no less than three of these good creatures in this Mrs.
Hazleton's immediate neighborhood; and during a few moments' retreat to
her own little writing-room, she laid her finger upon her fair temple,
and thought them well over. Mrs. Winifred Edgeby was the first who
suggested herself to the mind of the fair lady. She had many of the
requisites. She dressed well, talked well, and had an air of style and
fashion about her; was perfectly innocuous, and skilful in divining the
purposes and wishes of a friend or patron; but there was an occasional
touch of subacrid humor about her which Mrs. Hazleton did not half like.
It gave an impression of seeing too clearly, of perceiving much more
than she pretended to perceive.

The second was Mrs. Warmington, a widow, not very rich, and not indeed
very refined; gay, talkative, somewhat boisterous, yet full of a sound
discretion in never committing herself or a friend. She had also much
experience, for she had been twice married, and twice a widow, and thus
had had her misfortunes. The third was a Miss Goodenough, the most
silent, quiet, stilly person in the world, moving about the house with
the step of a cat, and a face of infinite good nature to the whole human
race. She was to all appearance the pink of gentleness and weak good
nature; but her silence was invaluable.

After some consideration Mrs. Hazleton decided upon the widow, and
instantly dispatched a note with her own carriage, begging Mrs.
Warmington to come over immediately and spend a few days with her, as a
young gentleman had arrived upon a visit, and it would be indecorous to
entertain him alone.

Mrs. Warmington understood it all in an instant. She said to herself,
"Ho, ho! a young gentleman come to stay!--wanted a duenna! Matrimony in
the wind! Heigho! she must be six and thirty--six and thirty from two
and fifty leave sixteen points against me, and long odds. Well, well,--I
have had my share;" and Mrs. Warmington laughed aloud. However, she
would neither keep Mrs. Hazleton's carriage waiting, nor Mrs. Hazleton
herself in suspense, for there were various little comforts and
conveniences in the good will of that lady which Mrs. Warmington was
eager to cultivate. She had, too, a shrewd suspicion that the enmity of
Mrs. Hazleton might become a thing to be seriously dreaded; and
therefore, whichever side of the question she looked at, she saw reasons
for seeking the beautiful widow's good graces. Her maid was called, her
clothes packed up, and she entered the carriage and drove away, while in
the mean time Mrs. Hazleton had been expatiating to Mr. Marlow upon all
the high qualities and points of excellence in her friend Mrs.
Warmington. She was too skilful, moreover, to bring her good taste and
judgment into question with her young friend, by raising expectations
which might be disappointed. She therefore threw in insinuations of a
few faults and failings in dear Madam Warmington's manner and demeanor.
But then she said she was such a good creature at heart, that although
the very fastidious affected to censure, she herself forgot all little
blemishes in the inherent excellence of the person.

Moreover, upon the plea of looking at the ground which was the subject
of Mr. Marlow's claim, she led him out for a long, pleasant ramble
through the park. She took him amongst old hawthorn trees, through
groves of chestnuts by the banks of the stream, and along paths where
the warm sunshine played through the brown and yellow leaves above,
gilding their companions which had fallen earlier than themselves to the
sward below. It was a very lover-like walk indeed--one where nature
speaks to the heart, wakening sweet influences, and charming the spirit
up from hard and cold indifference. Mrs. Hazleton felt sure that Mr.
Marlow would not forget that walk, and she took care to impress it as
deeply as possible upon his memory. Nor did she want any of the means to
do so. Her mind was highly cultivated for the age in which she lived,
her taste fine, her information extensive. She could discourse of
foreign lands, of objects and scenes of deep interest, great beauty, and
rich associations,--of courts and cities far away, of music, painting,
flowers in other lands, of climates rich in sunshine and of genial
warmth; and through the whole she had the art to throw a sort of magic
glow from her own mind which brightened all she spoke of.

She was very charming that day, indeed, and Mr. Marlow felt the spell,
but he did not fall in love.

Now what was the object of using all these powers upon him? Was Mrs.
Hazleton a person very susceptible, or very covetous of the tender
passion? Since her return to England she had refused some half-dozen
very eligible offers from handsome, agreeable, estimable men, and the
world in general had set her down for a person as cold as a stone. It
might be so, but there are some stones which, when you heat them,
acquire intense fervor, and retain it longer than any other substance.
Every body in the world has his peculiarities, his whims, caprices,
crochets if you will. Mrs. Hazleton had gazed over the handsome, the
glittering and the gay, with the most perfect indifference. She had
listened to professions of love with a tranquil, easy balance power,
which weighed to a grain the advantages of matrimony and widowhood,
without suffering the dust of passion to give even a shake to the scale.
Before the preceding night she had only seen Mr. Marlow once, but the
moment she set eyes upon him--the moment she heard his voice, she had
said to herself, "If ever I marry again, that is the man." There is no
explaining these sympathetic attractions, impulses, or whatever they may
be called; but I think, from some observation of human nature, it will
be found that in those persons where they are the least frequent, they
are the most powerful and persevering when they do exist.

Not long after their first meeting, some intimation occurred of a claim
on the part of Mr. Marlow to a portion of the lady's property--that
portion that she loved best. The very idea of parting with it at all, of
being forced to give it up, was most painful and distressing to her. Yet
that made no difference whatever in her feelings towards Mr. Marlow.
Communications of various kinds took place between lawyers, and the
opposite counsel were as firm as a rock. Mrs. Hazleton thought it very
hard, very unjust, very wrong; but that changed not in the least her
feelings towards Mr. Marlow. Nay more, with that delicate art of
combination in which ladies are formed to excel, she conceived and
manipulated with great dexterity a scheme for bringing herself and Mr.
Marlow into frequent personal communication, and for causing somebody to
suggest to him a marriage with her own beautiful self, as the best mode
of settling the disputed claim.

O those fine and delicate threads of intrigue, how frail they are, and
how much depends upon every one of them, be it in the warp or the woof
of a scheme! We have seen that in this case, one of them gave way under
the rough handling of Sir Philip Hastings, and the whole fabric was in
imminent danger of running down and becoming nothing but a raveled
skein. Mrs. Hazleton was resolved that it should not be so, and now she
was busily engaged in the attempt to knot together the broken thread,
and to lay all the others straight and in right order again. This was
the secret of the whole matter.

She exerted all her charms, and could Waller but have seen her we should
have had such an account of the artillery of her eyes, the insidious
attack of her smile, and the whole host of powerful adversaries brought
to bear against the object of her assault in her gracefully moving form
and heaving bosom, that Saccharissa would have melted away like a wet
lump of sugar in the comparison.

Then again when she had produced an effect, and saw clear and distinctly
that he thought her lovely, and very charming too, she seemed to fall
into a pleasant sort of languid melancholy, which was even more charming
still. The brook was bubbling and murmuring at their feet, dashing clear
and bright over its stony bed, and changing the brown rock, the water
weed, or the leaf beneath, into gems by the magic of its own brightness.
The boughs were waving over head, covered with many- foliage, and
the sun, glancing through, not only enriched the tints above, but
checkered the mossy path along which they wandered like a chess-board of
brown and gold. Some of the late autumn birds uttered their short sweet
songs from the copse hard by, and the musical wind came sighing up from
the valley, as if nature had furnished Eolus with a harp. It was in
short quite a scene, and a moment for a widow to make love to a young
man. They were silent for some little time, and then Mrs. Hazleton said,
with her soft, sweet, round voice, "Is not all this very charming, Mr.
Marlow?"

Her tone was quite a sad one, but not with that sort of pleasant sadness
which often mingles with our happiest moments, giving them even a higher
zest, like the flattened notes when a fine piece of music passes gently
from the major into the minor key, but really sad, profoundly sad.

"Very charming, indeed," replied her young companion, looking round to
her face with some surprise.

"And what am I to do without it, when you turn me out of my house?" said
the lady, answering his glance with a melancholy smile.

"Turn you out of your house!" exclaimed Mr. Marlow; "I hope you do not
suppose, my dear madam, that I could dream of such a thing. Oh, no! I
would not for the world deprive such a scene of its brightest ornament.
Some arrangement can be easily effected, even if my claim should prove
satisfactory to those you appoint to investigate it, by which the
neighborhood will not be deprived of the happiness of your presence."

Mrs. Hazleton felt that she had made a great step, and as she well knew
that there was no chance of his proposing then and there, she resolved
not to risk losing ground by any farther advance, even while she secured
some present benefits from that which was gained. "Well, well," she
said, "Mr. Marlow, I am quite sure you are very kind and very generous,
and we can talk of that matter hereafter. Only there is one thing you
must promise me, which is, that in regard to any arrangements respecting
the house you will not leave them to be settled by cold lawyers or
colder friends, who cannot enter into my feelings in regard to this
place, or your own liberal and kindly feelings either. Let us settle it
some day between ourselves," she added, with a light laugh, "in a
tete-a-tete like this. I do not suppose you are afraid of being
overreached by me in a bargain. But now let us turn our steps back
towards the house, for I expect Mrs. Warmington early, and I must not be
absent when she arrives."

Mrs. Warmington was there already; for the tete-a-tete had lasted longer
than Mrs. Hazleton knew. However, Mrs. Hazleton's first task was to
inform her fair friend and counsellor of the cause of Mr. Marlow's being
there; her next to tell her that all had been settled as to the claim,
by that tiresome man Sir Philip Hastings, without what she considered
due deliberation, and that the only thing which remained to be arranged
was in regard to the house, respecting which Mrs. Hazleton communicated
a certain portion of her own inclinations, and of Mr. Marlow's kind view
of the matter.

Now, strange to say, this was the turning point of fate for Mrs.
Hazleton, Mr. Marlow, and most of the persons mentioned in this history.
It was then that Mrs. Warmington suggested a scheme which she thought
would suit her friend well.

"Why do you not offer him in exchange--for the time at all events--your
fine old house on the side of Hartwell--Hartwell Place? It is only seven
miles off. It is ready furnished to his hand, and must be worth a great
deal more than the bare walls of this. Besides it would be pleasant to
have him in the neighborhood."

Pause, Mrs. Hazleton! pause and meditate over all the consequences; for
be assured much depends upon these few simple words.

Mrs. Hazleton did pause--Mrs. Hazleton did meditate. She ran over in her
head the list of all the families in the neighborhood. In none of them
could she see a probable rival. There were plenty of married women, old
maids, young girls; but she saw nobody to fear, and with a proud
consciousness of her own beauty and worth, she took her resolution. That
very evening she proposed to Mr. Marlow what her friend had suggested.
It was accepted.

Mrs. Hazleton had made one miscalculation, and her fate and Mr. Marlow's
were decided.

FOOTNOTES:

[17] Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1850, by G. P. R.
James, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States
for the Southern District of New York.




CHARLES MACKAY'S LAST POEMS.


We always read the poems of Charles Mackay, who, though not of the
highest class, even of the living poets of England, is yet earnest,
sensible, and good-hearted, and has always a point, and generally some
happy fancies, in his least considered pieces. He has published two
collections of short poems, one entitled "Voices from the Crowd," and
the other and last, "Egeria, or the Spirit of Nature," &c. from which we
take the following specimens:


    WHY THIS LONGING?

    Why this longing, clay-clad spirit?
      Why this fluttering of thy wings?
    Why this striving to discover
      Hidden and transcendent things?
    Be contented in thy prison,
      Thy captivity shall cease--
    Taste the good that smiles before thee;
      Restless spirit, be at peace!

    With the roar of wintry forests,
      With the thunder's crash and roll,
    With the rush of stormy water,
      Thou wouldst sympathize, O soul!
    Thou wouldst ask them mighty questions
      In a language of their own,
    Untranslatable to mortals,
      Yet not utterly unknown.

    Thou wouldst fathom Life and Being,
      Thou wouldst see through Birth and Death,
    Thou wouldst solve the eternal riddle--
      Thou a speck, a ray, a breath,
    Thou wouldst look at stars and systems,
      As if _thou_ couldst understand
    All the harmonies of Nature,
      Struck by an Almighty hand.

    With thy feeble logic, tracing
      Upward from effect to cause,
    Thou art foiled by Nature's barriers,
      And the limits of her laws.
    Be at peace, thou struggling spirit!
      Great Eternity denies
    The unfolding of its secrets
      In the circle of thine eyes.

    Be contented with thy freedom--
      Dawning is not perfect day;
    There are truths thou canst not fathom,
      Swaddled in thy robes of clay.
    Rest in hope that if thy circle
      Grow not wider here in Time,
    God's Eternity shall give thee
      Power of vision more sublime.

    Clogged and bedded in the darkness,
      Little germ abide thine hour,
    Thoul't expand in proper season,
      Into blossom, into flower.
    Humble faith alone becomes thee
      In the glooms where thou art lain:
    Bright is the appointed future;
      Wait--thou shalt not wait in vain.

    Cease thy struggling, feeble spirit!
      Fret not at thy prison bars;
    Never shall thy mortal pinions
      Make the circuit of the stars.
    Here on Earth are duties for thee,
      Suited to thine earthly scope;
    Seek them, thou Immortal Spirit--
      God is with thee--work in hope.


    YOU AND I.

    Who would scorn his humble fellow
      For the coat he wears?
    For the poverty he suffers?
      For his daily cares?
    Who would pass him in the footway
      With averted eye?
    Would you, brother? No--you would not.
      If you would--not _I_.

    Who, when vice or crime repentant,
      With a grief sincere
    Asked for pardon, would refuse it--
      More than heaven severe?
    Who to erring woman's sorrow
      Would with taunts reply?
    Would you, brother? No--you would not.
      If you would--not _I_.

    Who would say that all who differ
      From his sect must be
    Wicked sinners, heaven-rejected,
      Sunk in Error's sea,
    And consign them to perdition
      With a holy sigh?
    Would you, brother? No--you would not.
      If you would--not _I_.

    Who would say that six days' cheating,
      In the shop or mart,
    Might be rubbed by Sunday praying
      From the tainted heart,
    If the Sunday face were solemn,
      And the credit high?
    Would you, brother? No--you would not.
      If you would--not _I_.

    Who would say that Vice is Virtue
      In a hall of State?
    Or that rogues are not dishonest
      If they dine off plate?
    Who would say Success and Merit
      Ne'er part company?
    Would you, brother? No--you would not.
      If you would--not _I_.

    Who would give a cause his efforts
      When the cause is strong,
    But desert it on its failure,
      Whether right or wrong?
    Ever siding with the upmost,
      Letting downmost lie?
    Would you, brother? No--you would not.
      If you would--not _I_.

    Who would lend his arm to strengthen
      Warfare with the right?
    Who would give his pen to blacken
      Freedom's page of light?
    Who would lend his tongue to utter
      Praise of tyranny?
    Would you, brother? No--you would not.
      If you would--not _I_.

"A people among whom Charles Mackay is a popular writer," says the
Dublin University Magazine, "must possess largely the elements of
greatness and the reality of goodness."




THE COUNT MONTE-LEONE, OR, THE SPY IN SOCIETY.[18]

TRANSLATED FOR THE INTERNATIONAL MONTHLY MAGAZINE FROM THE FRENCH OF H.
DE ST. GEORGES.

_Continued from page 229._


Second crime: A cold and deliberate attempt upon the life of Stenio
Salvatori, on the public square of _Torre-del-Greco_. The Count listened
to this harangue without emotion. "Bring in," said the judge, "both the
witnesses and the plaintiffs, for they have a double quality."

At this summons, a man of stern and moody aspect appeared, with his hair
and dress in great disorder. He was sustained by two others, and the
group paused at the foot of the balcony, where the judges sat.

"Your name?" said the Grand Judge, to the eldest of the three.

"Stenio Salvatori," said one.

"Your names?" asked the Grand Judge, of the other two.

"Raphael Salvatori--"

"Francesco Salvatori."

"You swear before God to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing
but the truth."

"I swear," said each of them.

"Do you persist in your accusation against Count Monte-Leone?"

"I do," said they.

"The Count," continued Francesco, "presided over the _Venta_ at Pompeia,
where he was seen by my brothers and myself. In our presence he
administered the oath to two of the neophytes of the society. They
promised to contribute by every means in their power to the dethronement
of our well-beloved sovereign Fernando IV., and to destroy monarchy
forever in our country. The associates of the Count," added Raphael and
Francesco, "discovered us listening to them, and our energy and strength
alone preserved us from their poniards."

"And my energy and strength," said Stenio, with an accent of rage, as he
sprang unexpectedly from the bench on which he sat and pointed to
Monte-Leone, "were able to contend with difficulty against the iron hand
and poniard of this man." Then tearing up the cuff which hid his wound,
he showed the judges a deep and blood-stained stab. A feeling of horror
took possession of all the assembly. Every eye was fixed on Monte-Leone,
who seemed unconscious of the sentiment he inspired.

"The Count avenged himself on one of us, because we did our duty in
denouncing him," said Francesco Salvatori.

"He would have murdered us all had he been able," said Raphael.

"Stenio," resumed Francesco, "has atoned for all the family."

"And we ask," said Stenio, with a terrible voice, "we ask justice on the
assassin! We demand it of God, the king, and the judges."

The tall stature of Stenio, his pallor heightened by anger, and the
bloody arm he intentionally exposed, made such an impression on the
spectators that a murmur of approbation ran round the room. More
numerous voices, however, soon drowned it.

"Count Monte-Leone, have you prepared yourself to reply to these
accusations, or have you chosen a defender?"

"I have."

"Name him," said the Grand Judge.

"My defender is Stenio Salvatori, my accuser."

Nothing could exceed the surprise caused by these words, not only in the
minds of the three witnesses, but of the court and public.

"Count," said the Grand Judge, solemnly, "you must remember this
accusation is a solemn one; that you are accused of two crimes, the
punishment of which is known to you. Such an answer testifies your small
respect to this court, and must injure a cause which needs to be ably
defended."

"Signor," replied Monte-Leone, "it is because I recognize the great
importance of the cause, that I confide to this man the duty of
exonerating me from it. He alone can do so: his mouth alone, his lips,
will demonstrate my innocence. Stenio Salvatori says, he saw me preside
at the Venta of Pompeia."

"I did," said Stenio, rising again.

"He says I stabbed him at his threshold in the town of
_Torre-del-Greco_."

"I do," said Stenio.

"You see clearly, Signori," continued the Count, speaking to the court,
"that this man is establishing my case distinctly, as he saw me neither
at Pompeia nor at _Torre-del-Greco_. The day on which he, his brothers,
and the people of the latter town, say they saw me, I was imprisoned in
a cell of the Castle _Del Uovo_, an impenetrable prison whence it is
impossible for any human creature to escape, and whence none saw me go."

Bravos filled the hall. The Count was triumphing.

"Signori," said the Grand Judge, rising, "such applause is an insult to
the court, and if it be renewed, the trial will be continued with closed
doors." Silence was restored.

"Do not believe him," said Stenio, turning towards the auditors and
showing his bloody arm. "He was the person who wounded me."

"Justice shall be done," said the Grand Judge. "Signori, a series of
secret and minute inquiries instituted in the Castle _Del Uovo_, the
examination of the employers of the fortress and the confronting of the
gate-keeper, a man of known piety, and the head jailer, one of the most
severe and incorruptible of Naples, have been unable to show how the
Count Monte-Leone contrived to escape from prison. In the face of such
complete evidence of his having remained in the prison, in the face of
the report of the minister of police who visited the prison a few hours
after the commission of the crime at _Torre-del-Greco_, we could not
but recognize the innocence of the Count, and fancy that something had
led to a mistake in his person. A strange and providential circumstance
makes us doubt the innocence of the Count, and though the means of his
escape from the castle be unknown to us, we persist in thinking him
guilty as accused."

The interest and emotion of the audience was as great as it could be;
and the words of the Grand Judge were listened to with the most intense
anxiety. At that moment three hearts almost ceased to beat--that of the
veiled woman, that of the young man who had replied to her signal, and
that of Count Monte-Leone, though his features were unmoved.

"The Count," resumed the Grand Judge, "possesses a family jewel, a ring
of immense price, one of the _chef-d'oeuvres_ of Benvenuto Cellini.
This ring he rarely lays aside, as we learn from many witnesses, and a
secret superstition induces him always to wear it. Did he hide it from
the jailers at the time of his incarceration, or did he obtain
possession of it on his way to _Torre-del-Greco_? This has not as yet
been demonstrated: one thing, however, is certain, he lost this jewel in
his contest with Stenio Salvatori, who, having obtained possession of
it, placed it in the hands of his Excellency the Duke of Palma, as a
positive and incontestable evidence of the criminality of the Count.
This mute witness is here," said the Grand Judge, who as he spoke
exhibited a sparkling brilliant to the audience.

The judges took the emerald, and silently looked at it. When the Grand
Judge first spoke of the emerald, the Count was satisfied that he was
lost, and drops of icy sweat coursed down his cheeks. But yet his
courage and energy, even when he saw the emerald in the hands of the
judges, did not desert him, and he struggled against the new danger
which had beset him in so strange and unexpected a manner.

"This ring," said he, pointing to the emerald, "is a fortune in itself,
and may have been stolen from me."

The Grand Judge arose to reply, when an old man advanced toward the
tribunal, pushing aside all who opposed his passage, and in spite of the
resistance of the ushers and guards, reached the foot of the balcony on
which the judges sat. With tears and an excited voice he said:

"The ring has not been stolen! It has not left our jewel closet, and I
have brought it to the judges."

"Do not believe him," said the Salvatori, "he deceives you. This is the
Count's ring."

"Silence, impostors!" said the old man. "I learned yesterday, from
public rumor, the story of our ring being lost by Count Monte-Leone, the
intendant of whom I am, and I have brought the precious jewel hither to
confound our accusers."

Nothing could equal the effect produced by Giacomo's words. The court
itself participated in the surprise, and the Grand Judge, making the old
servant approach, took the jewel from his hand.

"Two rings!" said he, amazed; "two similar emeralds! Signori," said he,
speaking to the court, "this event again changes the face of this trial.
One of these jewels is evidently a copy of the other, such as the hand
of a great artist alone can produce. There was, however, never but one
Benvenuto in the world, and it will be easy to distinguish his work."

The words of the Grand Judge increased the agitation of the crowd. The
Count, whom his friends thought saved, lost by the discovery of the
emerald, and again restored by the testimony of Giacomo, became every
moment an object of new interest and more intense curiosity. If we must
use the word, pity for him increased. Every step taken seemed to bring
his head nearer to or to remove it farther from the executioner. Just
here this event interrupted the session of the court.

The judges retired to their room, the Salvatori to the witness chamber,
until the experts, whom the president had sent for, should come. The
interval between the acts, however, was filled by a touching episode
which deeply excited the audience. Giacomo, taking advantage of the
departure of the judges, hurried to his master, fell at his knees, and
covered his hand with kisses.

"Go back!--go back!" said the chief of the officers to Giacomo. "No one
is permitted to communicate with the accused."

Adding action to words, they seized the old man by the arm, and bore him
from his master.

Giacomo however found time to whisper to the Count, "You are saved."

The crowd was so touched by the affection of the old servant, that it
was near taking sides with him against the officers who had interfered.

The veiled lady stood motionless as a statue and watched the scene. So
abstracted and calm did she appear, that it might have been supposed her
eyes looked on while her mind was far away. Her eyes, animated by a
thousand sentiments, glittered beneath her veil. The young man to whom
she had made signals did not lose sight of her, and his whole soul
seemed enchained to the life presence and breath of this woman.

The experts came; the court resumed its sessions; the Salvatori entered.
The experts were three of the most skilful lapidaries of Naples, where
the art of engraving on stone had reached the greatest excellence. They
approached the bar. The president said:

"On your soul and conscience, and by Christ your Saviour, you swear to
tell the truth."

"We swear."

"Tell us which of these two rings is the work of Benvenuto Cellini."

"On my soul and conscience, and by Christ," said the first expert, after
a careful scrutiny, "this is the work of Benvenuto Cellini."

"And you, sir?" said the judge to the second.

"On my soul and conscience, and by Christ, this is the work of the great
master."

"And this ring," said the judge, "what is it?"

"This is but a copy, compared with the original, of trifling value and
fineness."

"Very well, Signori," said the Grand Judge, rising, and with a ring in
each hand. "This ring given me yesterday by the Duke of Palma, and by
him received from the Salvatori, is an imitation of Benvenuto Cellini's
great work. The real ring of the Monte-Leoni, the chef-d'oeuvre, an
heir-loom of the family, has just been brought us by an old servant of
that noble house."

The effect of the words of the Grand Judge was immense. He was silent,
and with the other judges consulted about the decree. A few moments
after, with his hand on his heart, the Grand Judge said:

"After having carefully sought for traces of the double crime of which
Count Monte-Leone is accused--after having heard the public accuser, the
proof is found most incomplete. It appears that all the facts are based
on the resemblance of Count Monte-Leone with some unknown person, in
relation to whose identity the Salvatori were mistaken. The court
declares the Count Monte-Leone innocent of the double crime imputed to
him, and orders that he be immediately released. As for you, the
brothers Salvatori," continued the Grand Judge, sternly, "your hatred to
the Count Monte-Leone is well known. We interpret your conduct in the
most favorable light, attributing it to mistake, and not to cowardly
revenge. If the counterfeit ring was fabricated at your instance, to
corroborate the accusations made against the Count, and justice should
become possessed of proofs of it, you would have to fear its rigor and
punishment. If there be severe laws for calumniators, those for
assassins are yet more stern. You would in that case have murdered Count
Monte-Leone."

The Salvatori were amazed. The rage of Stenio was irrepressible.

"Beautiful justice! Do we serve the king so faithfully for his justices
to treat us thus! I repeat again," said he with an accent so terrible
that it reached even Monte-Leone's heart, "the Count was at Pompeia. He
stabbed me. He is an assassin!"

He then left as he had entered, walking painfully, and leaning on the
arms of his brothers. When Stenio Salvatori, spoke thus, the Count had
withdrawn, and the noise in the hall prevented the judges from hearing
him. The tumult was as great as possible in the hall, which hitherto had
been so calm and silent. The public seemed to move, shout, and become
clamorous, as a recompense for the constraint which had been so long
enforced.

The beautiful woman in the recess, who had been so long impassible and
motionless, seemed to sympathize with the excited crowd, and lifting up
her noble form to its full height, as the Grand Judge spoke the last
words, she threw aside her veil, and lifted to heaven her eyes, full of
gratitude and joy. She then looked toward Monte-Leone with an expression
of the most passionate love, and immediately letting fall her veil, as
if to enwrap her sentiments in night, left the room. Quickly, however,
as she left, the first of the young men, whose conversation was detailed
in the early part of this chapter, had time to see her, and said to his
companion:

"Signor, indeed you are fortunate. The lady of whom we spoke not long
since, and whom you know so well, is the very spirit of beauty
incarnate, she is the most magnificent woman in the world. It is _La
Felina_."

"You think so?" said Taddeo Rovero, who had become yet paler when the
singer threw up her veil.

"Yes, I think so," said the first speaker, with a smile, "and I am also
sure you know so." He left.

In the mean time the friends and partisans of the Count surrounded him.
Among them were the chief nobles of Naples, for, as has been said
before, the cause of one of the order became that of all, and
Monte-Leone's success was a triumph to all the class. Amid a proud and
gallant escort, the Count left the _Castello Capuano_. Scarcely had he
left the door when enthusiastic cries were heard on all sides. The
people, who had been in the street since dawn, waited impatiently for
the result of the trial, for Monte-Leone was immensely popular. The
crowd from time to time heard the various incidents of the trial from
persons who had contrived to get into the hall. The rumors in favor of
Monte-Leone were received with shouts of joy, and those injurious to him
with cries and curses. The sentence was hailed as a priceless boon by
the crowd around the _Chateau Capuano_. The people are everywhere, it is
said, the same. The people of every country are doubtless impressionable
and easily excited. A kind of electricity pervades large bodies, and the
subtle fluid certainly is found everywhere. But among people of the
south, under the burning sun which scorches their brains, the Italians,
and especially the Neapolitans, in their public assemblies, attain a
degree of fanaticism and exaltation, of which the people of the north
have no idea. The eruptions of their own Vesuvius are the only things to
which the passions of their populace can be compared.

When the Count and his escort left the court-room, the people literally
rushed upon them. A thousand hands, not half so seemly as those which
already had clasped his own, were extended towards his. These strong and
sturdy hands seemed to promise him protection in case it should be
needful for him at any future time to seek it.

From this crowd of men with sternly marked features, shaded by hats of
gray felt, there fell on the Count's ear such words as, "_Two hands
pledged in friendship are but one!_" Venta of Castel la Marc.

"_A dagger for ten enemies!_" Venta of Capua.

"_Our right, silence, or death!_" Venta of Annunziata.

"_Eyes to watch, and a hand to strike!_" Venta of Pompeia.

To which the Count replied, by the word _Speranza_, accompanied by a
clasp of the hand and a significative glance.

"My friends," said a penetrating voice, "for heaven's sake give him air.
The poor man has need of air. We know you love him. He is the friend of
the people of Naples, all know, but he should not on that account be
stifled. By the miracle of San Januarius restore him to me, restore my
master to me, you may have him soon, but now he needs the care of old
Giacomo."

Giacomo took the Count's arm, and sought to remove him from the crowd
which surrounded him. The Count paid no attention to the old intendant.
For a time, he strove almost to cast him off, and stood looking
anxiously at a person he saw in the crowd, and whom like a swimmer he
sought to approach. This person was his friend Taddeo Rovero. The young
man sought in vain to approach the Count. The tide of living beings
seconded their wishes, and at last they rushed into the arms of each
other, forgetting, while thus enlocked, the world, their secret
thoughts, the past, and the present, and mingling together the tears of
friendship.

"Air, day, sunlight, motion, life, life itself I have found. They woke
up our existence; a dungeon is death--"

Again he threw himself into the arms of Taddeo, with an expression of
tenderness and happiness.

"Adieu, my friends," said he to the crowd. "Count Monte-Leone will never
forget these proofs of your sympathy, and you may rely on him, his arm,
his heart, his fortune, as he does on you."

Taking Taddeo by the arm, he hurried into a neighboring street,
accompanied at a little distance by Giacomo, who, as he panted after
them, cried out, "Too fast, too fast--what the devil can I do? My legs
are worn out--remember I came from the villa to _la Vicaria_ on foot to
bring your ring to the Grand Judge."

"My ring!"--then looking anxiously at Giacomo, and in a low tone, he
said:

"Are you sure it is my ring?"

"Yes, I swear to it by the blood of Christ and by your life."

"My friends," said the Count, "we have strange secrets to talk of when
we are in a safe place. And there the ear and lip must be close
together, so that not even the walls of the room in which we are shall
be struck by the sound of our accents. Wait for me at the Etruscan
villa. In two hours I will rejoin you."

"Why not go thither now?" asked Taddeo.

"Two hours hence I will tell you."

Without speaking a word, and without listening to Rovero's reply,
Monte-Leone put on a cloak the old intendant had brought and passed into
a labyrinth of passages, with the intricate windings of which his
political associations had made him familiar. An hour after the Count so
brusquely left Taddeo and the old intendant, he paused at the door of
one of the most ancient churches in Naples, an old pile, built in 1284,
and called _San Domenico Maggiore_. It is of vast size, built in the
Gothic style, and has a magnificent picture of Titiano, the Flagellation
of Caravaggio, and in the sacristy a glory by Solimene. But not to
contemplate them had Monte-Leone come to the church. A deeply-rooted
sentiment forced him, for a few moments, to pause beneath the old
portico before he entered the sanctuary.

Nothing is more touching, more poetical, and more mysterious, than the
old Christian temples, which like giants of stone have braved the
ravages of time and the hands of men. Generations, as they pass away,
worship beneath their arches, and the prayers of many centuries have
echoed in their walls, which are yet open to coming time.

The deep notes of the organ attracted the attention of Monte-Leone and
increased his excitement. He crossed the church, went down the nave, and
approached a lateral chapel where a taper was burning with a flickering
light. The Count entered the chapel. Those who had seen him amid the
brilliant society of Naples, or amid the awful judicial ordeal to which
he had just been subjected, and which he had undergone with such
coolness and audacity, would not have recognized the humble and
trembling man, who knelt before a sarcophagus of black marble surmounted
with the coronet and arms of the Monte-Leoni. The Count knelt at the
tomb of his father--his father, who was his religion and his faith. He
would have thought himself unworthy of his protection had he not gone
immediately on his release to worship those consecrated relics.
Prostrate at the monument he prayed with fervor. All the recent events
of his life occurred to him. And in the kind of hallucination caused by
prolonged meditation, awake as he was, he entered the realm of dreams.
He seemed to see two genii seeking, the one to drag him towards heaven
and the other towards the abyss. The genii were two females. They
recalled the features of two charming and beautiful women, whom he
remembered. One had the gentle and pale expression of Aminta; the other,
the more masculine and stately air of La Felina. The one which led him
heavenward was Aminta. The sound of the organ, the mysterious light
which pervaded the chapel, the religious effect of the whole scene,
exaggerated the excitement of the Count, and contributed to add to his
nervousness. Two mild melancholy voices, like those of angels praying
for the guilty, mingled with the organ's notes, and Monte-Leone fancied
that he heard in the distance the voices of departed souls. The blood
of Monte-Leone became chilled, for at that moment he asked his father to
reveal to him the future, and guide him in his perilous path. The song
of the dead seemed to reply to him. The Count, like other energetic and
brave men, like Caesar and Napoleon, was very superstitious. We have seen
him brave death without trembling, though it came in the most terrible
form. He who had struggled against the waves of the sea, and confronted
the Grand Judge of Naples, grew pale when he heard the _de profundis_
chanted in an obscure church and by the side of a tomb. By a strange
fatality, nothing seemed wanting which could increase the sadness of
Monte-Leone. Just as he was about to leave the church the solitary light
was extinguished. The young man fancied this accident a declaration of
the will of God. Terror-stricken, he left the church, and did not regain
his consciousness until he stood in the portico of the old temple. In a
few moments he shook off his idle apprehensions, but the sombre scene
perpetually reacted upon him, as we shall see hereafter. It left a deep
trace upon his mind, and materially influenced his subsequent life.

Two hours after he left the church, the Count rode on the horse of one
of his friends to the Etruscan villa, which, as we have said, was on the
road to Castel la Marc. Giacomo was waiting at the door for him, and
taking a resinous torch, lighted his master to the strange room which we
described in the first part of this book. Things remained precisely as
they were on the night of the ball of San Carlo. The lights were
burning, the hangings displayed their richness, the Greek and Roman
couches were arrayed, and a magnificent supper was prepared. There were,
however, but two covers, one for the Count and the other for young
Rovero. By the side of the Count's plate lay the emerald of Benvenuto,
of which he had so miraculously regained possession.

"It is the emerald," said the Count. "Who brought it hither?"

"An officer of the court, from Signor San Angelo, the Grand Judge of
Naples."

Monte-Leone looked at it again, and said, "It is one of God's own
miracles."

"Not so," said Rovero, "it is one of Love's own;" and he gave the Count
the letter of La Felina.


VI.--DRAMA.

While the trial of Count Monte-Leone thus excited the whole city of
Naples, while Rovero under the influence of a thousand emotions heard
all its details, let us look back to what is going on in the villa at
Sorrento. The reader will excuse us, for thus transporting him from
place to place, for attempting to interest him in behalf of various
personages, joining or deserting them, as the plan of our story
requires.

The novelist is like the weaver, who keeps in his hand the various
threads of his woof, brings them together and apart, until the time when
his finished work rewards his toil. Like the weaver, we shall unite, day
by day, our threads, and gather them finally into one knot.

We left the Marquis of Maulear about to return to the villa, in search
of assistance for Scorpione, who had fainted. When people came to the
hut, the mute had regained his senses. He knelt before Aminta, who spoke
to him with vivacity. What she said we cannot tell, for when she was
interrupted she ceased. The eyes of Tonio were red, and he seemed to
have been shedding tears. The invalid was taken to the villa, and so the
matter seemed to end.

Maulear was not much engrossed by the suspicions he had previously
conceived of Tonio, because love for Aminta, supposing that such he
bore, did not seem formidable. His apprehensions found something far
more serious. Was the heart of her he loved unoccupied? The strange
episode of the lost veil had not yet been explained. Yielding to the
influence of passion, he had, when he saw the young girl, forgotten
every thing, and the sudden appearance of Scorpione, by rendering it
impossible for Aminta to answer him, complicated the matter yet more.

Just as Signora Rovero went towards the hut, where the Marquis had left
the mute in a state of insensibility, Aminta went to the villa,
preceding those who bore Tonio.

"I will not again trust you with our patient," said Aminta's mother. "He
always returns worse than when he goes."

"Right mother," said Aminta, "henceforth I will not take charge of
Tonio, for his new sufferings have, I am sure, taken away the little
sense he previously had."

Tonio, who heard what Aminta said, looked down and returned to his room,
glooming angrily at the Marquis as he passed.

"You are already one of us, Marquis, on account of the indiscreet
request of my son. But neither my daughter nor myself will complain of
the pleasure he has thus procured us. Now," continued she, "permit me to
show you the most precious treasure in our house."

Leading Maulear to a little boudoir, next her chamber, she drew aside a
curtain of black velvet, and exposed a noble portrait of a man the size
of life. "That is the portrait of my husband, of Aminta's father; of a
loyal and respected man, of an honest and influential minister."

Maulear was amazed at the appearance of the picture. The more he
examined it the more the features seemed to recall some one he had seen
before. His memory, however, was at fault, and left him in uncertainty.

"Strange," said he, to the widow of the minister. "It seems that I have
seen these features before. How can it be, though, that I ever met
Signor Rovero?"

"My husband has been dead two years, and was never in France."

"And I have been but six months in Italy. It is then impossible that we
ever met. The matter is surprising."

They returned to the drawing-room, where Maulear found the White Rose of
Sorrento either drawing or pretending to draw, as a means of concealing
her annoyance.

"Excuse me," said Signora Rovero to Maulear, "if I leave you for a time
with my daughter. I have some domestic matters to attend to, for
Aminta's birthday will in a few days be here, when we purpose a ball."

"A ball?" said Maulear.

"A ball; and Aminta and some of her young companions will compose the
orchestra. You, Marquis, will not, however, be forced to be present, for
my son had no intention to annoy you thus. It is enough for you to
protect us, but to dance would be too great a requisition."

"Is it, then, the Signorina's birthday?"

"Yes, or rather it is the birthday of my happiness. Thus it ever is with
mothers."

"It will then be mine also," said Maulear. "I am sorry her brother
cannot be present."

"Taddeo is fond of us," said the young girl in a low tone, with her eyes
downcast on her embroidery. "But he does not love us alone." Aminta
sighed with jealousy--and Signora Rovero left the room. Maulear drew
near Aminta.

"Signorina," said he, with emotion, "just now I opened my heart to you.
Will you punish me by silence, and not deign to tell me what I may fear
or hope?"

"Signor," said Aminta, "perhaps I am wrong to reply to you. Perhaps I
should ask you, in the first place, to speak to my mother of the
sentiments you entertain for me. But I will be frank with you. Our first
interview, my gratitude, my sincere esteem, control me. Besides, as you
have been informed, my education has not been that usual to my sex. I
will therefore describe to you my girlish ideas such us they are, such
as my early education inspired me with, such as reflection has
developed."

Maulear looked at her with great wonder. Where he had expected surprise
and embarrassment, he found calmness and reason. Still, the voice in
which these serious words were pronounced had, however, so great an
attraction and such melody, that the Marquis began again to hope.

"Different from most young persons of my age," said Aminta, "I am happy
in my present condition, contented with my mother and brother. I have
often inquired what qualities I would expect in my husband, and," said
she with a smile, "I have found them. Perhaps those qualities are
defects; for they must be my own I assure you. I have been so petted
that I can conceive of no happiness except in finding myself, with my
imperfections, ideas, and sentiments, mirrored in another."

"Then," said the Marquis, "no one can expect to please you, for who can
be like you, and be as precious as you are?"

"That may be an easier thing than you fancy," said Aminta, gayly.
"Hitherto I have, however, been unfortunate, for my suitors have been so
superior that their merit terrified me. I was afraid of the talents of
one, and of the mind of another. Besides, Marquis, let me tell you, that
I am a little foolish and exaggerated. I think there are two existences
in me, the one awake, and the other asleep. In the latter, there pass
such fancies before me, that I am often frightened at them. I sometimes
see the drama of life unrolled before me.--I am married and
unhappy--strange scenes take place around me, and he to whom my fate has
been confided, makes it sad and dreary as possible;--I am humiliated,
outraged, and betrayed, and am, too, so much afraid of marriage, that I
think I would refuse the hand of an angel were it offered me."

As she spoke, Aminta's features became sad, and her eyes glittered with
a sombre fire, like that of the Pythoness announcing the Delphic oracle.
Maulear was silent, and for a few moments said nothing. In the mean time
the young girl regained her presence of mind, and, ashamed of her
enthusiasm, sought to apologize for it.

"You will," said she, "laugh at my ridiculous whims. What, however, do
you expect of a poor child, raised like myself in solitude,
uncultivated, and from character and taste a dreamer? Such a creature
must indeed be strange to a Parisian. Perhaps, though you do not wish me
thus to speak to you, such a creature has made a deeper impression on
your imagination than on your heart. The terrible circumstances of our
meeting also, the romantic origin of our acquaintance, may lead you into
error in relation to sentiments which perhaps would be impotent, both
against the enticements of the world and against absence."

"Ah!" said Maulear, with chagrin, "if those sentiments were shared--if
he who experiences them were not indifferent to you, you, Signorina,
would have confidence in them."

"I desire nothing better than to be satisfied that such is the case,"
said she, with charming naivete. "Time, however, is required for that,
and we have been acquainted only for a few days."

"Are years then required for us to love?" said Maulear. "For that a
word, a look, suffice."

"In France, perhaps," replied Aminta; "in your brilliant saloons, with
your gay countrymen, where all is so lively and spontaneous. Here
though, in a modest villa, hidden by the orange trees of Sorrento, a
young girl's heart is not disposed of so easily."

"Yes!" said Maulear, "our hearts are lost when we behold you."

"Marquis," said Aminta, "I do not know what the future reserves for us;
I however repeat that I will always be sincere with you. Do not to-day
ask me what I cannot give."

"What can you give me?" said Maulear in despair.

"Hope," said Aminta, with a blush, "that is all--"

Signora Rovero entered. Rejection and obstacles could not but surprise a
man used as Maulear was to rapid triumphs and easy conquests. He was now
seriously in love, and passion had become a link of his life. Suffering
as he was from the uncertainty to which the reply of Aminta subjected
him, he could not but admire her prudence and modest reserve, which, as
it were, placed her heart beneath the aegis of reason. Besides, if, as
Madame de Stael says, the last idea of a woman is always centred in the
last word she utters, Aminta, by what she had last said, had delighted
Maulear. She had said "_Hope_."

During the next day and the next day after, Signora Rovero and her
daughter increased their attention to Maulear, lest he should become
weary of their solitude. This solitude to Maulear was elysium. A
pleasant intimacy grew up between Aminta and the Marquis, every hour
revealing a new grace to him, as he fancied the hour drew near when the
ice of her heart would melt, and she would find an image of her
sentiments in him. One circumstance, however, troubled Maulear, and
aroused his jealousy. Towards the end of the second day, he sat in the
saloon, leaning on his elbow, and looking with admiration through one of
the windows at the purple and magnificent Italian sun. Aminta did not
know that Maulear was in the saloon, and when she came in did not see
him. She had a letter in her hand. "_From him_," said she, as she
hastily unsealed it; "what does he say? _Dear_ Gaetano, he has not
forgotten me."

At the name Gaetano, Maulear turned around quickly, and under the
influence of much emotion, stood before her. She seemed a little
surprised and disconcerted, and hid the letter in her bosom. The words
died away on the Marquis's lips, and he asked no question. His original
distrust returned, and he resolved to watch. On that evening Maulear was
less gay and less entertaining than he had been on the previous one. He
observed that Aminta too was thoughtful. She has been unable, said he,
to read her letter, and that is the cause of her uneasiness. For a few
moments the young girl left the room, in which her mother and Maulear
were. She is reading the mysterious letter, said he to himself. Just
then it chanced that Signora Rovero spoke of Gaetano Brignoli, to whom
she paid the greatest compliments. Aminta returned with an expression
altogether changed. Her face was lit up with joy, as expressive and
animated as the tedium and thoughtfulness which marked it had been
profound. Maulear did not sympathize with her gayety, and she became
every moment more moody and sombre. Under the pretext of a headache, he
retired to his room. New thoughts assailed him. He looked out on the
terrace where he had seen the unknown form. He took the lace veil and
examined it as if he now saw it for the first time. Men are often cruel
to themselves, and find a secret pleasure in turning the knife in the
wound, and making their suffering severe as possible. To tell the truth,
when he thought of his conversation with Aminta, and analyzed its
phases, he was led by its elevation and frankness to blush at his
suspicions. After all, said he, the letter she received from Gaetano is
perhaps only a child's-play between them. It is but a secret between
brother and sister, such as often exists, and to which it is foolish to
attach any importance. Amid this excitement, sleep overtook him,
harassed as he was between hope and fear, good and evil.

The next day was Aminta's birthday. All in Signora Rovero's villa were
joyous. The gates of the garden were opened, and all were gathering
flowers. The young girls of Sorrento soon came to the villa, and offered
a magnificent chaplet of roses to _the White Rose_ of Sorrento. The
Marquis of Maulear added his congratulations to the others offered to
Aminta. An air of embarrassment, however, was evident in every remark,
and he could not forget the letter. Suddenly he saw Tonio. He was
approaching Aminta, who, when she saw him, hurried to meet him.

"Tonio, poor Tonio," said she, "my faithful companion and generous
preserver, have you also come to congratulate me on my birthday? You
have not forgotten me, but are come to say how you love me. You know how
grateful I am."

Two tears fell on the mute's brow which was humbled before her. Tonio
looked up, and his eyes expressed the languishing tenderness of which we
have hitherto spoken. One might read, in his glance, the effect of that
magnetic fascination exercised over him by Aminta. He seized her hand,
and kissed it so passionately that Aminta withdrew it at once. She
however veiled her action with a smile.

"Since," said she, "you are so well, my mother and I wish you henceforth
to be at liberty, and that you should have no domestic duty. You shall
be our chasseur, and supply us with game--for that is the only thing in
which you take pleasure."

A feeling of pride was legible on Tonio's features. He took Aminta's
hand again, and, as a token of gratitude, placed it on his heart. He
then looked proudly around on the peasants and servants, and finally
mingled with the crowd.

The day advanced, and the guests of Signora Rovero came to the villa.
Count Brignoli and Gaetano were not the last. Maulear could not restrain
an expression of mortification when he saw the latter, who, however,
looking on him as a family friend, treated him most cordially and
affectionately. Maulear at dinner sat next to the Signora Rovero. He
would have preferred the one usually given him, next to Aminta. He had,
however, one consolation. Aminta, seated at a distance from Gaetano,
could not maintain one of those private conversations with young
Brignoli, which made him so unhappy. Often during the meal he fancied
that he saw certain signals of intelligence between the young people,
who had not yet been able to speak together alone. What however had been
a doubt became a certainty when he saw Gaetano point to the garden, and
Aminta by a gesture of assent reply to him. He had no doubt there was an
understanding between Gaetano and Aminta. He knew their rendezvous. From
that time Maulear did not lose sight of them, and he suffered every
torture jealousy can inflict. The shock he received at the discovery was
so great, that he was unable even to reflect. He did not become offended
at the perfidy of Aminta, but was rather distressed by suffering, which
was as great in the physical point of view as it was in the moral.
Reason only returned with reflection.

About nine o'clock the ball commenced. At the instance of Aminta, two of
her young friends went to the piano, and Aminta, taking advantage of
certain orders she had to give, left the room. Gaetano had already gone.
The Marquis followed her. For a second he heard the light step, which
passed down the gallery, pause. The door of the vestibule however was
opened, and pointed out the route she had taken. He was afraid by
opening the door of betraying his presence, and therefore went into the
garden by another direction, and making a short detour, soon was able to
follow the direction he had seen Aminta take. Passing beneath a group of
trees which was near the house, Maulear, with an attentive ear, followed
stealthily as a deer the steps of the couple he tracked--though he could
not see. A demon had taken possession of Maulear's heart, and enkindled
it with rage. Certainly, within a few paces from him he heard a voice.
It was Aminta's. Another voice answered. It was Gaetano's.

"How I love you, dear Gaetano, for what you have told me."

"And how happy I am in your pleasure--"

"All then is understood?" said Aminta.

"All."

"We understand each other, and you will hide nothing from me?"

"Nothing."

"Your letter," said the young girl, "made me mad with joy."

"Dear Aminta--"

"Unless, indeed, my mother find out our secrets--"

"Fear not--the secret will be kept--tonight--"

"Yes, yes, to-night, certainly--"

"Rely then on me," said Gaetano.

Maulear heard a kiss. It struck on his ear like a dagger, and gave him
such pain, that a sigh burst from his lips.

"Some one overheard us," said Gaetano, "Go, go."

Aminta immediately disappeared. Before Gaetano had time to distinguish
Maulear in his place of concealment, the latter, become aware of the
ridiculous part he was playing, hid himself in the thicket, and with his
hair dishevelled, his features distorted, and his heart distressed,
hurried to the house and shut himself up in his own room. His despair
was indeed great; he fancied he had been laughed at by a coquette, while
he thought he had been the suitor of an innocent girl. Why did she not
tell me the truth yesterday, when I asked her? said he. Why did she not
avow her love of young Brignoli? She dared not confide it to me; because
she makes a mystery of it to her own mother. Why did she encourage me?
Why did she speak of hope? What unworthy plan, what improper calculation
influenced her? What part did she intend me to play in this drama of
treason?

The old idea of Maulear--that sad fancy that women are only to be
despised, and which he had conceived from women only worthy of that
estimate--took possession of him. He could not believe he was a victim
of mistake, or that the scene he had witnessed had any other motives
than guilty ones. Of what else could Gaetano and Aminta speak, than
love? An hour afterwards, Maulear returned to the drawing-room. His
toilette was irreproachable, and his face, though pale, was calm. One
would never have recognized in this elegant gentleman, so calm and
dignified, the person who, an hour before, had heard with such
excitement the conversation we have just described. Maulear had
reflected, and as soon as his first anger had passed away, had nearly
conceived an aversion for the young girl, whom he had almost adored the
evening before. Revenge, too, would be sweet. To accomplish this,
calmness, coldness, deliberation were required.

The excitement of the evening prevented the absence of the actors in
this scene from having been remarked; besides it was a ball for young
people, at which men of Maulear's age even were not expected to dance.
Gaetano, who was only eighteen, was the true Coryphoeus. Maulear
approached Aminta in the interval between two waltzes.

"You have a pleasant anniversary of your birthday," said he.

"A delicious one, Signor, I was never so happy."

At any other time the answer of Aminta would have delighted Maulear; now
he fancied she alluded to her love for Gaetano. This idea increased his
anger. Midnight came, and those of the guests who lived at a distance
remained at the villa: the others left. All soon became calm, and the
house quiet. One man alone watched, for his bosom was irritated by the
most exciting thoughts; by anger, despair, and jealousy. He was awake,
and wept bitterly over a passion, which it is true had existed but a few
days, but yet had taken deep root in his heart.

He was awake, and was indignant at the affront put on him. He was awake,
for he had sworn to be avenged. Thinking that he understood the meaning
of Gaetano's words, he did not doubt but that they had made a
_rendezvous_ for that very night. This rendezvous was not the first, for
Maulear knew the secret of the veil he had found on the terrace on the
first night he had passed at Sorrento. The veil belonged to Aminta, and
the flitting shadow he had seen was the lady's self. Her accomplice was
Gaetano. How could he doubt? Interrupted in their first intercourse by
Maulear, they expected on another occasion to be more fortunate. No,
cried he, that shall not be, they will find me between themselves and
happiness. I wish them to at least learn, that I am not their dupe. I
will cover her snowy brow with a blush, and avenge myself by disclosing
to her my knowledge of her secret. But how could he surprise them? Would
they dare to cross the terrace again? Perhaps, though, they can meet
nowhere else. If so, they will brave every thing, and in that case I
must not alarm them. The Marquis took the taper, which lighted his
chamber, and placed it in a back room, which opened on the interior
corridor of the house. Carefully opening the terrace window, he took
refuge behind a group of trees, exactly opposite his room. The clock of
Sorrento struck three--the night was clear and brilliant, and the sky
was strewn with diamond stars--the air was soft and warm. It was a night
for love and lovers.

To Maulear it was a night of agony and torture. All around was so calm
and tranquil that the slightest noise fell on his ear,--he soon heard a
door open. Maulear fixed his eyes on the point of the terrace from which
the sound proceeded--his whole existence seemed concentrated in the
single sense of sight. Something cloudlike, vapory and undefinable,
which seemed too ethereal for earth, gradually appeared at the extreme
end of the terrace. This mysterious figure seemed to glide, rather than
walk, towards the place where Maulear was concealed; it approached him
slowly, without motion or sound to betray its steps. Wrapped in long
white drapery, like a mantle of vapor, resembling those creations of
Ossian which formed often the clouds of evening; in short, one might
have believed that she had risen from the earth, and had come to
dissolve under the first rays of the sun, or of the moon. The phantom
disappeared for a few seconds, amidst a dark grove, which projected on
the terrace the lofty trunks of large forest trees--but when she emerged
from their shade, and re-entered that portion of the terrace light and
brilliant, she approached so near to Maulear, that he was enabled to
examine and recognize her.

This graceful and vapory phantom was Aminta. Maulear expected it, but he
felt not the less a distressing grief, in thus recognizing her. It
seemed to him that the last plank of the wreck had broken under his
feet, and that he had fallen into the depth of despair. But soon anger
smothered the last cry of a love now no longer felt--and Maulear rushed
in pursuit of Aminta, when he saw her, to his great surprise, stop
before the window of his apartment. Then reaching out her hand she
pushed open the door and entered the room, which was partially lighted
by the moon.

"What is she doing," said Maulear, with amazement, "what business has
she in this room?"

An idea struck him. My presentiment did not deceive me. The first time
she appeared on this terrace, she was coming to this room which was once
occupied by her lover Gaetano. Crossing the terrace rapidly, he glided
near the window with rage in his heart and his mind excited--for a
guilty project, which he would had he been cooler have repelled,
attacked him, with all its seductions. Without longer hesitation he
returned to his room, shut the terrace door, and looked in the dark for
Aminta. Aminta, however, sat at a window which the moon did not light,
and which opened on the court of the villa. She seemed to listen
anxiously to some distant noise, perceptible only to her ear. So great
was her preoccupation that she paid no attention to Maulear's entrance.
Surprised at this statue-like immobility, Maulear approached the young
girl.

"Silence, Marietta," said she, without looking around, "I promised to
see him go. He has kept his word, for I yet hear, in the distance, the
gallop of his horse. Bring the light and place it in the window. He
knows my room, in which we played so often when we were children, and
far down the road he will see it burning. My remembering him will please
him. He will see that, if he watches over me, I pray for him to bring me
good news to-morrow--Gaetano is so kind."

"Gaetano!" said Maulear, in spite of himself.

"Yes--yes, Gaetano," continued the young girl, "will watch over Taddeo
during this unfortunate trial, for I know all. But say nothing,
Marietta. Poor Taddeo--Gaetano has told me. His letter, yesterday,
comforted me. Taddeo is no longer compromised. Gaetano assured me. But
this evening in the park he confirmed all, and has promised to go to
Naples to be present at the trial."

Aminta at once became silent, and sitting in an arm-chair near the
window, appeared to sleep soundly, for the noise of her breathing was
alone heard. Maulear, erect, motionless, with an icy brow, neither saw
nor heard. A thousand confused ideas filled his mind. A revelation,
strange and unforeseen, put an end to his suffering and dissipated his
fears, by exhibiting the incomprehensible mystery under which he had
been. Aminta was sleeping. Her sleep was of that somnambulist character,
so common in this country of moral and physical excitement. While
dreaming, Aminta had told and taught him every thing. She was innocent
and pure. Yet in doubt, hesitating as the victim does, who when he
marches to punishment receives a pardon, wishing to convince himself of
the reality of all that passed, he went into the next room and came out
with the light. Directing the rays obliquely so that they fell on the
downcast lids of Aminta, he placed the lamp at some distance from her,
and saw what till then no man had ever seen. He saw this beautiful
creature in a night _neglige_, enveloped by clouds of white drapery,
which a troubled sleep had gracefully disarranged. He saw a charming
childlike foot half out of the slipper, glistening silvery in the light.
A prey at once to the greatest agitation and repentance at having
suspected her, Maulear fell on his knees. The motion thus made or some
other circumstance aroused her.

"Where am I?" said she, looking uncertainly around her; seeing Maulear
at her feet, she continued:

"A man here--with me--in my room--"

She sought to rise, but being yet under the influence of the half sleep,
sank again on her chair.

"Be silent, Signorina!" said Maulear, in a low tone.

"You! you! Signor," said Aminta, recognizing him and drawing back with
terror. "You at my feet, at night, for all is dark around us, and the
light is burning. But where am I? this room--it is the one in which I
promised Gaetano to place the light."

Passing her hand across her brow, to collect her ideas and wipe away her
doubts, she said:

"But this is not my room. I occupy one next to my mother.... Ah, I
remember; it was mine once, but it was given to the Marquis, to you,"
said she, blushing. She arose. "And this night-dress," said she, looking
at her disordered toilette, "in your presence--Signor," added she,
clasping her hands, "by your honor, I beseech you, tell me how I came
hither."

"When you slept," said the Marquis, seeking to calm her.

"As I slept?" repeated the young girl, "as I dreamed.--Ah, I see, this
sleep, this waking sleep to which I am often liable. Ah! mother, mother,
why did you not watch me?"

Concealing her face in her hands, she began to shed tears.

"Of what, Signorina, are you afraid? You are under the protection of my
faith, honor, and love."

"Signor, I am lost if any one finds me here. Let me return," said she,
attempting to go.

Just then a horrible cry was uttered out of doors. A mingling of the
lion's roar and wolf's howl, a very jackal's yell. It echoed through the
villa, and was repeated by all the groves and dells of Sorrento. It was
uttered on the terrace. Thither Aminta and Maulear looked, and saw a
hideous spectacle. The face of Scorpione, pale, and denoting both
ill-temper and sickness, was pressed against the closed window. He moved
to and fro, now rising up and then descending, as if he sought some
means to open the window and enter the room. His eyes, rendered more
glittering by hatred, cast glances of vengeance on Aminta and Maulear.
His long wiry fingers passed rapidly across the glass, which was the
only object that separated them.

Aminta yielding to terror, caused by the sight of the monster, without
any calculation or regard of any thing except the violence of Scorpione,
rushed into Maulear's arms in search of protection and aid.

"Right, right," said Maulear, "no danger shall befall you while enfolded
in these arms." Taking her then towards the door of the corridor, he
said: "Come, come, no danger can befall you here."

Scorpione, however, perceiving what Maulear was about to do, and seeing
him going towards the door, uttered a second cry more terrible than the
first. He broke the glass, and sought to reach the clasp which made the
window fast. In the mean time, Maulear had reached the other door, and
was about to escape. He, however, heard steps hurrying from every
direction down the corridor. The cries of Scorpione had awakened all the
house, and just as the wretch tore open the window and precipitated
himself into the chamber, relations, friends and guests of the house,
who had collected on the terrace and corridor, rushed in with him.
Signora Rovero was the last to come.

"My daughter!" cried she, running towards Aminta.

The poor tearful mother, not accusing that child whom her heart told her
was innocent, without anger on her lip or reproach in her eye, sought
only to shroud Aminta's form in the garments which scarcely sufficed to
cover it, and in a calm and confiding voice listened to the explanations
of Maulear. The collection of all of these people, aroused from their
sleep and grouped in the half-lighted room, was a strange
picture;--Signora Rovero holding her daughter in her arms, Maulear with
his hand lifted to heaven and protesting that Aminta was innocent,
Scorpione with his hands blood-stained by the broken glass, his hair
disheveled, his looks haggard, and his violence restrained by the
servants, who kept the beast from rushing on the Marquis.

"Signora," said Maulear, speaking to Aminta's mother, "on my life and
honor, I declare to you that this young woman came hither without her
own consent, and led by a blind chance."

Maulear was about to continue, when Aminta recovering her energy, said
with a voice full of emotion, but in a tone instinct with a pure and
chaste heart:

"You need not defend me, Marquis; it is useless to repel suspicion from
me. A young woman of my character and name, the daughter of the Rovero,
need not justify herself from the imputation of a crime, which she would
die rather than commit."

She could say no more, for her strength was exhausted, and the power of
her mind had consumed the artificial and nervous capacity of her body,
which was greatly overtasked. Aminta was ill. With her beautiful head
resting on her mother's shoulder, she was taken to her room. All
withdrew in silence.

On the features of some, however, especially of the young men whom
Aminta had rejected, an incredulousness of such virtue might have been
read. It was hard to conceive how she came to be at midnight in the room
of the Marquis of Maulear.

END OF BOOK III.

FOOTNOTES:

[18] Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1850, by Stringer
& Townsend, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United
States for the Southern District of New-York.




From Chambers' Papers for the People.

PUBLIC LIBRARIES.


We welcome the indications, now crowding upon us from every quarter,
that the people of this country are beginning to feel the importance of
taking active measures for the establishment and increase of public
libraries. Large collections of books, open for common use, are at once
the storehouses and the manufactories of learning and science; they
bring together the accumulated fruits of the experience, the research,
and the genius of other ages and distant nations, as well as of our own
time and land; and they create the taste, as well as furnish the
indispensable aids for the prosecution of literary and scientific effort
in every department. In great cities they qualify the exclusive spirit
of commercial and professional avocations, and encourage men to steal an
hour from the pursuit of gain, and devote it to the attempt to satisfy a
natural curiosity and to cultivate an elegant taste. Connected with
literary and academical institutions, they supply the means and multiply
the objects of study, and keep alive that enthusiasm in the cause of
letters without which nothing great or permanent can ever be
accomplished. Their establishment is a boon to all classes of society,
and all may find in them both recreation and employment; for as the poet
Crabbe says:--

    "Here come the grieved, a change of thought to find;--
    The curious here to feed a craving mind;
    Here the devout their peaceful temple choose;
    And here the poet meets his favoring muse."

The origin of libraries is involved in obscurity. According to some, the
distinction of having first made collections of writings belongs to the
Hebrews; but others ascribe this honor to the Egyptians. Osymandyas, one
of the ancient kings of Egypt, who flourished some 600 years after the
deluge, is said to have been the first who founded a library. The temple
in which he kept his books was dedicated at once to religion and
literature, and placed under the especial protection of the divinities,
with whose statues it was magnificently adorned. It was still further
embellished by a well-known inscription, for ever grateful to the votary
of literature: on the entrance was engraven, "The nourishment of the
soul," or, according to Diodorus, "The medicine of the mind." It
probably contained works of very remote antiquity, and also the books
accounted sacred by the Egyptians, all of which perished amidst the
destructive ravages which accompanied and followed the Persian invasion
under Cambyses. There was also, according to Eustathius and other
ancient authors, a fine library at Memphis, deposited in the Temple of
Phtha, from which Homer has been accused of having stolen both the
"Iliad" and the "Odyssey," and afterwards published them as his own.
From this charge, however, the bard has been vindicated by various
writers, and by different arguments.

But the most superb library of Egypt, perhaps of the ancient world, was
that of Alexandria. About the year 290 B. C., Ptolemy Soter, a learned
prince, founded an academy at Alexandria called the Museum, where there
assembled a society of learned men, devoted to the study of philosophy
and the sciences, and for whose use he formed a collection of books, the
number of which has been variously computed--by Epiphanius at 54,000,
and by Josephus at 200,000. His son, Ptolemy Philadelphus, an equally
liberal and enlightened prince, collected great numbers of books in the
Temple of Serapis, in addition to those accumulated by his father, and
at his death left in it upwards of 100,000 volumes. He had agents in
every part of Asia and of Greece, commissioned to search out and
purchase the rarest and most valuable writings; and among those he
procured were the works of Aristotle, and the Septuagint version of the
Jewish Scriptures, which was undertaken at the suggestion of Demetrius
Phalerius, his first librarian. The measures adopted by this monarch for
augmenting the Alexandrian Library were pursued by his successor,
Ptolemy Euergetes, with unscrupulous vigor. He caused all books imported
into Egypt by Greeks or other foreigners to be seized and sent to the
Museum, where they were transcribed by persons employed for the purpose;
and when this was done, the copies were delivered to the proprietors,
and the originals deposited in the library. He refused to supply the
famished Athenians with corn until they presented him with the original
manuscripts of AEschylus, Sophocles, and Euripides; and in returning
elegant copies of these autographs, he allowed the owners to retain the
fifteen talents (more than L3000 sterling) which he had pledged with
them as a princely security. As the Museum, where the library was
originally founded, stood near the royal palace, in that quarter of the
city called Brucheion, all writings were at first deposited there; but
when this building had been completely occupied with books, to the
number of 400,000, a supplemental library was erected within the
Serapeion, or Temple of Serapis, and this gradually increased till it
contained about 300,000 volumes--making in both libraries a grand total
of 700,000 volumes.

The Alexandrian Library continued in all its splendor until the first
Alexandrian war, when, during the plunder of the city, the Brucheion
portion of the collection was accidentally destroyed by fire, owing to
the recklessness in the auxiliary troops. But the library of the
Serapeion still remained, and was augmented by subsequent donations,
particularly by that of the Pergamean Library of 200,000 volumes,[19]
presented by Mark Antony to Cleopatra, so that it soon equalled the
former, both in the number and in the value of its contents. At length,
after various revolutions under the Roman Emperors, during which the
collection was sometimes plundered and sometimes reestablished, it was
utterly destroyed by the Saracens at the command of the Caliph Omar,
when they acquired possession of Alexandria in A. D. 642. Amrou, the
victorious general, was himself inclined to spare this inestimable
treasury of ancient science and learning, but the ignorant and fanatical
caliph, to whom he applied for instructions, ordered it to be destroyed.
"If," said he, "these writings of the Greeks agree with the Koran, they
are useless, and need not be preserved; if they disagree, they are
pernicious, and ought to be destroyed." The sentence of destruction was
executed with blind obedience. The volumes of parchment or papyrus were
distributed as fuel among the five thousand baths of the city; but such
was their incredible number, that it took six months to consume them.
This act of barbarism, recorded by Abulpharagius, is considered somewhat
doubtful by Gibbon, in consequence of its not being mentioned by
Eutychius and Almacin, two of the most ancient chroniclers. It seems
inconsistent, too, with the character of Amrou, as a poet and a man of
superior intelligence; but that the Alexandrian Library was thus
destroyed is a fact generally credited, and deeply deplored by
historians. Amrou, as a man of genius and learning, may have grieved at
the order of the caliph, while, as a loyal subject and faithful soldier,
he felt bound to obey.

Among the Greeks, as among other nations, the first library consisted
merely of archives, deposited, for the sake of preservation, in the
temples of the gods. Pisistratus, the tyrant of Athens, was the first
who established a public library in his native city, which, we need not
say, always took the lead in every thing relating to science and
literature in Greece. Here he deposited the works of Homer, which he had
collected together with great difficulty and at a very considerable
expense; and the Athenians themselves were at much pains to increase the
collection. The fortunes of this library were various and singular. It
was transported to Persia by Xerxes, brought back by Seleucus Nicator,
plundered by Sylla, and at last restored by the Emperor Hadrian. On the
invasion of the Roman Empire by the Goths, Greece was ravaged; and on
the sack of Athens, they had collected all the libraries, and were upon
the point of setting fire to this funeral pile of ancient learning, when
one of their chiefs interposed, and dissuaded them from their design,
observing, at the same time, that as long as the Greeks were addicted to
the study of books, they would never apply themselves to that of arms.

The first library established at Rome was that founded by Paulus
Emilius, in the year B. C. 167. Having subdued Perses, king of
Macedonia, he enriched the city of Rome with the library of the
conquered monarch, which was subsequently augmented by Sylla. On his
return from Asia, where he had successfully terminated the first war
against Mithridates, Sylla visited Athens, whence he took with him the
library of Apellicon the Teian, in which were the works of Aristotle and
Theophrastus. Lucullus, another conqueror of Mithridates, was not less
distinguished by his taste for books. The number of volumes in his
library was immense, and they were written in the most distinct and
elegant manner. But the use which he made of his collection was still
more honorable to that princely Roman than the acquisition or possession
of it. "It was a library," says Plutarch, "whose walls, galleries, and
cabinets were open to all visitors; and the ingenious Greeks, when at
leisure, resorted to this abode of the Muses, to hold literary
conversations, in which Lucullus himself loved to join." But although
both Sylla and Lucullus liberally gave public access to their literary
treasures, still their libraries can, in strictness, be considered as
only _private_ collections. Among the various projects which Julius
Caesar had formed for the embellishment of Rome, was that of a _public_
library, which should contain the largest possible collection of Greek
and Latin works; and he had assigned to Varro the duty of selecting and
arranging them. But this design was frustrated by the assassination of
the dictator, and the establishment of public libraries did not take
place in Rome until the reign of Augustus.

The honor of having first established these valuable institutions is
ascribed by the elder Pliny to Asinius Pollio, who erected a public
library in the Court of Liberty, on the Aventine Hill. The credit which
he gained thereby was so great, that the emperors became ambitious to
illustrate their reigns by the foundation of libraries, many of which
they called after their own names. Augustus was himself an author, and
in one of those sumptuous buildings called _Thermoe_, ornamented with
porticoes, galleries, and statues, with shady walks and refreshing
baths, he testified his love of literature by adding a magnificent
library, which he fondly called by the name of his sister Octavia. The
Palatine Library, formed by the same emperor, in the Temple of Apollo,
became the haunt of the poets, as Horace, Juvenal, and Perseus have
commemorated. There were deposited the corrected books of the Sibyls;
and from two ancient inscriptions, quoted by Lipsius and Pitiscus, it
would seem that it consisted of two distinct collections--one Greek,
and the other Latin. This library having survived the various
revolutions of the Roman Empire, existed until the time of Gregory the
Great, whose mistaken zeal led him to order all the writings of the
ancients to be destroyed. The successors of Augustus, though they did
not equally encourage learning, were not altogether neglectful of its
interests. Suetonius informs us that Tiberius founded a library in the
new Temple of Apollo; and we learn from some incidental notices that he
instituted another, called the Tiberian, in his own house, consisting
chiefly of works relating to the empire and the acts of its sovereigns.
Vespasian, following the example of his predecessors, established a
library in the Temple of Peace, which he erected after the burning of
the city by order of Nero; and even Domitian, in the commencement of his
reign, restored at great expense the libraries which had been destroyed
by the conflagration, collecting copies of books from every quarter, and
sending persons to Alexandria to transcribe volumes in that celebrated
collection, or to correct copies which had been made elsewhere. But the
most magnificent of all the libraries founded by the sovereigns of
imperial Rome was that of the Emperor Ulpius Trajanus, from whom it was
denominated the Ulpian Library. It was erected in Trajan's Forum, but
afterwards removed to the Viminal Hill, to ornament the baths of
Diocletian. In this library were deposited the elephantine books,
written upon tablets of ivory, wherein were recorded the transactions of
the emperors, the proceedings of the senate and Roman magistrates, and
the affairs of the provinces. It has been conjectured that the Ulpian
Library consisted of both Greek and Latin works; and some authors
affirm, that Trajan commanded that all the books found in the cities he
had conquered should be immediately conveyed to Rome, in order to
increase his collection. The library of Domitian having been consumed by
lightning in the reign of Commodus, was not restored until the time of
Gordian, who rebuilt the edifice, and founded a new library, adding
thereto the collection of books bequeathed to him by Quintus Serenus
Samonicus, the physician, and amounting, it is said, to no fewer than
72,000 volumes.

In addition to the imperial libraries, there were others to which the
public had access in the principal cities and colonies of the empire.
Pliny mentions one which he had founded for the use of his countrymen;
and Vopiscus informs us that the Emperor Tacitus caused the historical
writings of his illustrious namesake to be deposited in the libraries.
The number of calcined volumes which have been excavated from the ruins
of Herculaneum and Pompeii would also seem to indicate that collections
of books were common in those cities. But the irruptions of the
barbarians, who overran and desolated the Western Empire, proved more
destructive to the interests of literature than either volcanoes or
earthquakes, and soon caused the disappearance of those libraries which,
during several centuries, had been multiplied in Italy. Those of the
East, however, escaped this devastating torrent; and both Alexandria and
Constantinople preserved their literary treasures, until their capture
by the Saracens and the Turks, who finally subverted the Eastern Empire.

When Constantine the Great made Byzantium the seat of his empire, he
decorated that city with splendid edifices, and called it after his own
name. Desirous to make reparation to the Christians for the injuries
they had suffered during the reign of his predecessor, he commanded the
most diligent search to be made after those books which Diocletian had
doomed to destruction; he caused transcripts to be made of such as had
escaped the fury of the pagan persecutor; and, having collected others
from various quarters, he formed the whole into a library at
Constantinople. At the death of Constantine, however, the number of
books in the imperial library was only 6900; but it was successively
enlarged by the Emperors Julian and Theodosius the younger, who
augmented it to 120,000 volumes. Of these more than half were burned
during the seventh century, by command of the Emperor Leo III., who thus
sought to destroy all the monuments that might be quoted in proof
respecting his opposition to the worship of images. In this library was
deposited the only authentic copy of the proceedings at the Council at
Nice; and it is also said to have contained the poems of Homer written
in gold letters, together with a magnificent copy of the Four Gospels,
bound in plates of gold, enriched with precious stones, all of which
perished in the conflagration. The convulsions which distracted the
lower empire were by no means favorable to the interests of literature.
In the eleventh century learning flourished for a short time during the
reign of Constantine Porphyrogennetus; and this emperor is said to have
employed many learned Greeks in collecting books, and forming a library,
the arrangement of which he himself superintended. But the final
subversion of the Eastern Empire, and the capture of Constantinople in
1453, dispersed the literati of Greece over western Europe, and placed
the literary remains of that capital at the mercy of the conqueror. The
imperial library, however, was preserved by the express command of
Mohammed, and continued, it is said, to be kept in some apartments of
the seraglio; but whether it was sacrificed in a fit of devotion by
Amurath IV., as is commonly supposed, or whether it was suffered to fall
into decay from ignorance and neglect, it is now certain that the
library of the sultan contains only Turkish and Arabic writings, and not
a single Greek or Latin manuscript of any importance.

Such is a brief survey of the most celebrated libraries of ancient
times. Before we proceed to describe those of modern days, we shall
offer a few remarks on the extent of ancient as compared with modern
collections of books. The National Library of Paris contains upwards of
824,000 volumes, and is the largest in existence. It will be easy to
prove that it is the largest that ever has existed.

The number of writers, and consequently of books, in the bright days of
Egypt, Greece, and Rome, could not have been very great. It must, on the
contrary, have been limited by various causes, which contributed
powerfully to <DW44> the composition of new works, and prevent the
multiplication of new editions. In fact, the histories of cities and of
nations, together with descriptions of the earth, which have become
exhaustless sources for the writers of modern times, must have been but
sterile themes at a period in which history was confined within the
limits of a few centuries, and hardly a sixth part of the world now
known had been discovered. Add to these considerations the difficulties
of communication, by which the inhabitants of different countries, and
often those of different sections of the same country, were kept apart,
together with the number of arts and sciences which were either wholly
unknown, or confined within very narrow bounds, and it will become
evident, that for every thirty or forty authors of the present day,
ancient Europe could hardly have supported one or two.

Another circumstance which may be adduced in support of our proposition,
is the fact, that an increase in the number of readers leads to a
proportionate augmentation in the number of works prepared for their
gratification. We have every reason to suppose that the reading class of
the ancient world was small in comparison with that of the modern. Even
setting aside the circumstance of the narrow limits by which the
creative literature of ancient Europe was bounded--Greece and Rome being
almost the only nations whence new productions were derived--we shall
still be constrained to acknowledge the vast distance which separates
the creative literary power of modern from that of ancient times. Our
schools, which abound with such a variety of class-books upon every
subject, bear little or no resemblance to those of Greece and Rome; nor
can the text-books prepared for our universities be brought into
comparison with the oral instructions of the old philosophers. Passing
by, also, the subjects which have been opened to our research by the
discoveries of modern science, and confining our attention to the single
branch of philosophy, in the old sense of the word, which has always
been more or less studied and disputed upon since the days of the
earliest Greeks, we shall probably find that the productions of any one
modern school outnumber those of the whole body of Greek philosophers.
How much more would the balance lean towards the moderns were we to add
all the varieties of the French, German, English, and Scottish schools,
to say nothing of those whose tenacious subtleties have procured them
the name of schoolmen! If, going a step further, we consider that
reading, which the peculiar cast of modern civilization has classed
among the luxuries of life, is one of those luxuries, in the enjoyment
of which all classes come in for a share, we shall find here also a wide
distinction between ancient times and our own. During that epoch of
splendid decay, in which the immense wealth of the Roman senators was
found insufficient to satisfy the longings for new forms of stimulant
and of pleasure, their reading, as we are told by Ammianus Marcellinus,
a contemporary historian, was confined to the writings of Marius Maximus
and Juvenal. What would they not have given for a modern novel, or to
what unlimited extent would the imagination have poured forth its
fantastic creations, had the art of printing been at hand to keep pace
with the productive powers of the mind, and the cravings of a morbid
intellect? On every score, therefore, the numerical difference between
the intellectual wealth of ancient and of modern Europe must have been
decidedly in favor of the latter.

The high price of the materials for writing, and the difficulty of
procuring them, must also have been a great obstacle to the
multiplication of books. When copies could only be procured by the slow
and expensive process of transcription, it seems impossible to suppose
that a large number could have been usually prepared of any ordinary
work. Those of our readers who are aware that only about four hundred
and fifty copies of the celebrated _Princeps_ editions were struck off,
will readily assent to the correctness of this opinion. The barbarous
system of ancient warfare must have also caused the destruction of a
great many works, raised the price of others, and rendered extremely
difficult--not to say impossible--the accumulation of a very large
number in any one place. The difficulties which the bibliomaniacs of our
own times encounter in procuring copies of the editions of the fifteenth
century, and the extravagant prices at which some of them have been
sold, are enough to show how small a part of an entire edition has been
able to pass safely through the short space of four centuries. How few
copies, then, of a work written in the time of Alexander, could have
reached the age of Augustus or of Trajan! With facts like these before
us, how can we talk of libraries of 700,000 or 800,000 volumes in the
ancient world? When we find it so difficult at the present day, in spite
of the testimony of intelligent travellers, and of all the advantages we
possess for making our estimates, to ascertain the truth with regard to
the great libraries of modern Europe, how can we give credit to the
contradictory and exaggerated statements which were promulgated in ages
of the darkest ignorance concerning ancient Rome and Alexandria? "After
an attentive examination of this subject," says that eminent
bibliographer M. Balbi, "it seems to me improbable, if I should not
rather say impossible, that any library of ancient Europe, or of the
middle ages, could have contained more than 300,000 or 400,000 volumes."

But even allowing 700,000 volumes to the largest of the Alexandrian
libraries--that, namely, of which a great part was accidentally
destroyed during the wars of Julius Caesar--allowing the same number to
the library of Tripoli, and to that of Cairo; and admitting that the
third library of Alexandria contained 600,000 volumes, and the Ulpian of
Rome, and the Cordovan founded by Al-Hakem, an equal number--it will
still be easy to show that the whole amount of one of these was not
equal to even a fifth part of a library composed of printed books.

Every one who has had any thing to do with publication, is well aware of
the great difference between the space occupied by the written and that
filled by the printed letters. It is well known that the volumes of
ancient libraries consisted of rolls, which generally were written only
on one side. Thus the written surface of one of these volumes would
correspond to but half the written surface of one of our books, of which
every page is covered with letters. A library, then, composed of 100,000
rolls, would contain no more matter than one of our libraries composed
of 50,000 manuscripts. It is well known, also, that a work was divided
into as many rolls as the books which it contained. Thus the Natural
History of Pliny, which in the _Princeps_ edition of Venice forms but
one folio volume, would, since it is divided into thirty-seven books,
have formed thirty-seven rolls or volumes. If it were possible to
compare elements of so different a nature, we should say that these
rolls might be compared to the sheets of our newspapers, or to the
numbers of our weekly serials. What would become of the great library of
Paris were we to suppose its 824,000 volumes in folio, quarto, &c., to
be but so many numbers of five or six sheets each? Yet this is the rule
by which we ought to estimate the literary wealth of the great libraries
of ancient times; and "hence," says M. Balbi, "notwithstanding the
imposing array of authorities which can be brought against us, we must
persist in believing that no library of antiquity, or of the middle
ages, can be considered as equivalent to a modern one of 100,000 or
110,000 volumes."

No one of the libraries of the first class now in existence dates beyond
the fifteenth century. The Vatican, the origin of which has been
frequently carried back to the days of St. Hilarius in 465, cannot with
any propriety be said to have deserved the name of library before the
reign of Pope Martin V., by whose order it was removed in 1417 from
Avignon to Rome. And even then a strict attention to exactitude would
require us to withhold from it this title until the period of its final
organization by Nicholas V. in 1447. It is difficult to speak with
certainty concerning the libraries, whether public or private, supposed
to have existed previous to the fifteenth century, both on account of
the doubtful authority and indefiniteness of the passages in which they
are mentioned, and the custom which so readily obtained in those dark
ages of dignifying with the name of library every petty collection of
insignificant codices. But many libraries of the fifteenth century being
in existence, and others having been preserved long enough to make them
the subject of historical inquiry before their dissolution, it becomes
easier to fix with satisfactory accuracy the date of their foundation.
We find, accordingly, that during the fifteenth century ten libraries
were formed: the Vatican at Rome, the Laurentian at Florence, the
Imperial of Vienna and Ratisbon, the University at Turin, the
Malatestiana at Cesena, the Marciana at Venice, the Bodleian at Oxford,
the University at Copenhagen, and the City at Frankfort on the Maine.
The Palatine of Heidelberg was founded in 1390, dispersed in 1623,
restored in 1652, and augmented in 1816.

The increase of the libraries of Europe has generally been slowly
progressive, although there have been periods of sudden augmentation in
nearly all of them. They began with a small number of manuscripts;
sometimes with a few, and often without any printed works. To these
gradual accessions were made from the different sources which have
always been more or less at the command of sovereigns and nobles. In
1455 the Vatican contained 5000 manuscripts. In 1685, after an interval
of more than two centuries, the number of its manuscripts had only risen
to 16,000, and that of the printed volumes did not exceed 25,000. In
1789, but little more than a century later, the number of manuscripts
had been doubled, and the printed volumes amounted to 40,000.

Far different was the progress of the Royal, or as it is now called, the
National Library of Paris. The origin of this institution is placed in
the year 1595--the date of its removal from Fontainebleau to Paris by
order of Henry IV. In 1660 it contained only 1435 printed volumes. In
the course of the following year this number was raised to 16,746, both
printed volumes and manuscripts. During the ensuing eight years the
library was nearly doubled; and before the close of the subsequent
century, it was supposed to have been augmented by upwards of 100,000
volumes.

In most cases the chief sources of these augmentations have been
individual legacies and the purchase of private collections. Private
libraries, as our readers are doubtless well aware, began to be formed
long before public ones were thought of. Like these, they have their
origin in the taste, or caprice, or necessities of their founders, and
are of more or less value, as one or the other of these motives has
presided over their formation. But when formed by private students with
a view to bring together all that has been written upon some single
branch of science, or by amateurs skilled in the principles of
bibliography, they become more satisfactory and complete than they could
possibly be made under any other circumstances. Few of them, however,
are preserved long after the death of the original collector; but
falling into the hands of heirs possessed of different tastes and
feelings, are either sold off by auction, or restored to the shelves of
the bookseller. It was by availing themselves of such opportunities that
the directors of the public libraries of Europe made their most
important acquisitions. This is, in short, the history of the Imperial
Library of Vienna; and it can hardly be necessary to add, that it was
thus that the rarest and most valuable portions of that collection were
brought together.[20] It was thus, also, that the Vatican acquired, some
twenty years ago, by the purchase of the library of Count Cicognara, a
body of materials illustrative of the history of the arts, which leaves
comparatively little to be wished for by the most diligent historian. It
can hardly be necessary to enlarge upon this subject. Every one who has
engaged, even in a small degree, in historical researches, must have
observed how soon he gets out of the track of common readers, and how
dark and difficult his way becomes, unless he chance to meet with some
guide among those who, confining their attention to a single branch of
study, have become familiar with, and gathered around them almost every
thing which can serve to throw light upon it. And when a public
institution has gone on through a long course of years adding to the
works derived from other sources these carefully chosen stores of the
learned, it is easy to conceive how much it must contribute, not merely
towards the gratification of literary curiosity, but to the actual
progress of literature.

From these general considerations respecting modern libraries, we
proceed to give some particulars which may serve to convey an idea of
the history, character, and contents of the principal book-collections
now in existence; and with this view, as well as for convenient
reference, we shall arrange them under the respective heads of British
Libraries, and Foreign Libraries.


BRITISH LIBRARIES.

1. _British Museum Library, London._--There is probably no other public
institution in Great Britain which is regarded with so great and general
interest as the British Museum. By the variety of its departments, this
splendid national depository of literature, and objects of natural
history and antiquities, meets in some way the particular taste of
almost every class of society. The department of Natural History, in its
three divisions of Zoology, Botany, and Mineralogy, contains a
collection of specimens unsurpassed, probably unequalled, in the world.
The department of antiquities is in some particulars unrivalled for the
number and value of the articles it contains. But the library is the
crowning glory of the whole. If, in respect to the number of volumes it
contains, it does not yet equal the National Library of Paris, the Royal
Library of Munich, or the Imperial Library of St. Petersburg--in almost
every other respect, such as the value and usefulness of the books, the
arrangements for their convenient and safe keeping, and, in fact, in
every matter pertaining to its internal arrangements, the library of the
British Museum, by the concurrent testimony of competent witnesses from
various countries, must take rank above all similar institutions in the
world. Well may the people of this country regard the Museum with pride
and pleasure. The liberal grants of parliament, and the munificent
bequests of individuals, are sure indications of a strong desire and
purpose to continue and extend its advantages.

Some idea of the magnitude of the Museum, and of its vast resources, may
be formed by considering that the buildings alone in which this great
collection is deposited have cost, since the year 1823, nearly L700,000;
and the whole expenditure for purchases, exclusive of the cost of the
buildings just named, is considerably more than L1,100,000. Besides this
liberal outlay by the British Government, there have been numerous
magnificent bequests from individuals. The acquisitions from private
munificence were estimated, for the twelve years preceding 1835, at not
less than L400,000. The latest considerable bequest was that of the
Right Hon. Thomas Grenville: his library, which he gave to the Museum
entire, was valued at L50,000. The annual receipts of the institution of
late years, from parliamentary grants and the interest of private
legacies, have been about L50,000. The number of visitors to the Museum
is immense. In the year 1848 they amounted to 897,985, being an average
of about 3000 visitors per day for every day the Museum is open. On
special occasions there have been as many as thirty thousand visitors on
a single day.

This noble institution may be said to have originated in the bequest of
Sir Hans Sloane, who, dying in 1752, left his immense collections of
every kind to the nation, on the condition of paying L20,000 in legacies
to different individuals; a sum considerably less than the intrinsic
value of the medals, coins, gems, and precious metals of his museum.
This bequest included a library of 50,000 volumes, among which were 3566
volumes of manuscripts in different languages; a herbarium of 334
volumes; other objects of natural history, to the number of
six-and-thirty or forty thousand, and the house at Chiswick, in which
the whole was deposited. The Harleian collection of manuscripts,
amounting to 7600 volumes, chiefly relating to the history of England,
and including, among many other curious documents, 40,000 ancient
charters and rolls, being about the same time offered for sale,
parliament voted a sum of L30,000, to be raised by lottery, and vested
in trustees, for the establishment of a National Museum. Of this money,
L20,000 were paid to the legatees of Sir Hans Sloane, L10,000 were given
for the Harleian Manuscripts, and L10,000 for Montague House as a
receptacle for the whole. Sloane's Museum was removed thither with the
consent of his trustees. In 1757, George II., by an instrument under the
great seal, added the library of the kings of England, the printed books
of which had been collected from the time of Henry VII., the manuscripts
from a much earlier date. This collection was very rich in the
prevailing literature of different periods, and it included, amongst
others, the libraries of Archbishop Cranmer, and of the celebrated
scholar Isaac Casaubon. His majesty annexed to his gift the privilege
which the royal library had acquired in the reign of Queen Anne, of
being supplied with a copy of every publication entered at Stationers'
Hall; and in 1759 the British Museum was opened to the public.[21]

The value of the library has been greatly enhanced by magnificent
donations, and by immense parliamentary purchases. In 1763, George III.
enriched it with a collection of pamphlets and periodical papers,
published in England between 1640 and 1660, and chiefly illustrative of
the civil wars in the time of Charles I., by whom the collection was
commenced. Among other valuable acquisitions may be mentioned Garrick's
collection of old English plays, Mr. Thomas Tyrwhitt's library, Sir
William Musgrave's collection of biography, the general library of the
Rev. C. M. Cracherode, the libraries of M. Ginguene, Baron de Moll, Dr.
Burney, and Sir R. C. Hoare; and above all, the bequest of Major Arthur
Edwards, who left to it his noble library, and L7000 as a fund for the
purchase of books. Four separate collections of tracts, illustrative of
the revolutionary history of France, have been purchased at different
times by the trustees, in the exercise of the powers with which they are
invested. One of these was the collection formed by the last president
of the parliament at Bretagne, at the commencement of the revolution;
two others extended generally throughout the whole revolutionary period;
and the fourth consisted of a collection of tracts, published during the
reign of the Hundred Days in 1815--forming altogether a body of
materials for the history of the revolution as complete in regard to
France as the collection of pamphlets and tracts already mentioned is
with respect to the civil wars of England in the time of Charles I.
Another feature of the Museum Library is its progressive collection of
newspapers, from the appearance of the first of these publications in
1588. Sir Hans Sloane had formed a great collection for his day. But to
this was added, in 1818, the Burney collection, purchased at the
estimated value of L1000; and since that period the Commissioners of
Stamps have continued regularly to forward to the Museum, copies of all
newspapers deposited by the publishers in their office.

In 1823, the Royal Library collected by George III. was presented to the
British nation by his successor George IV., and ordered by parliament to
be added to the library of the British Museum, but to be kept for ever
separate from the other books in that institution. The general plan of
its formation appears to have been determined on by George III., soon
after his accession to the throne; and the first extensive purchase made
for it was that of the library of Mr. Joseph Smith, British consul at
Venice, in 1762, for which his majesty paid about L10,000. In 1768 Mr.
(afterwards Sir Frederick) Barnard, the librarian, was despatched to the
continent by his majesty; and as the Jesuits' houses were then being
suppressed and their libraries sold throughout Europe, he was enabled to
purchase, upon the most advantageous terms, a great number of very
valuable books, including some very remarkable rarities, in France,
Italy, and Germany. Under the judicious directions of Mr. Barnard, the
entire collection was formed and arranged; it was enlarged during a
period of sixty years, by an annual expenditure of about L2000, and it
is in itself, perhaps, one of the most complete libraries of its extent
that was ever formed. It contains selections of the rarest kind,
particularly of scarce books which appeared in the first ages of the art
of printing. It is rich in early editions of the classics, in books from
the press of Caxton, in English history, and in Italian, French, and
Spanish literature; and there is likewise a very extensive collection of
geography and topography, and of the transactions of learned academies.
The number of books in this library is 65,250, exclusively of a very
numerous assortment of pamphlets; and it appears to have cost, in direct
outlay, about L130,000, but it is estimated as worth at least L200,000.

The nucleus of the department of manuscripts at the British Museum was
formed by the Harleian, Sloanean, and Cottonian collections. To these
George II. added, in 1757, the manuscripts of the ancient royal library
of England. Of these, one of the most remarkable is the "Codex
Alexandrinus;" a present from Cyril, patriarch of Constantinople, to
King Charles I. It is in four quarto volumes, written upon fine vellum,
probably between the fourth and sixth centuries, and is believed to be
the most ancient manuscript of the Greek Bible now extant. Many of the
other manuscripts came into the royal collection at the time when the
monastic institutions of Britain were destroyed; and some of them still
retain upon their spare leaves the honest and hearty anathemas which
the donors denounced against those who should alienate or remove the
respective volumes from the places in which they had been originally
deposited. This collection abounds in old scholastic divinity, and
possesses many volumes, embellished by the most expert illuminators of
different countries, in a succession of periods down to the sixteenth
century. In it are also preserved an assemblage of the domestic
music-books of Henry VIII., and the "Basilicon Doron" of James I. in his
own handwriting. The Cottonian collection, which was purchased for the
use of the public in 1701, and annexed by statute to the British Museum
in 1753, consists of 861 manuscript volumes, including "Madox's
Collections on the Exchequer," in ninety-four volumes, besides many
precious documents connected with our domestic and foreign history,
about the time of Elizabeth and James. It likewise contains numerous
registers of English monasteries; a rich collection of royal and other
original letters; and the manuscript called the "Durham Book," being a
copy of the Latin Gospels, with an interlinear Saxon gloss, written
about the year 800, illuminated in the most elaborate style of the
Anglo-Saxons, and believed to have once belonged to the venerable Bede.
The Harleian collection is still more miscellaneous, though historical
literature in all its branches forms one of its principal features. It
is particularly rich in heraldic and genealogical manuscripts; in
parliamentary and legal proceedings; in ancient records and abbey
registers; in manuscripts of the classics, amongst which is one of the
earliest known of Homer's "Odyssey;" in missals, antiphonars, and other
service-books of the Catholic Church; and in ancient English poetry. It
possesses two very early copies of the Latin Gospels, written in gold
letters; and also contains a large number of splendidly illuminated
manuscripts, besides an extensive mass of correspondence. It further
includes about three hundred manuscript Bibles or Biblical books, in
Hebrew, Chaldaic, Greek, Arabic, and Latin; nearly two hundred volumes
of writings of the fathers of the church; and a number of works on the
arts and sciences, among which is a tract on the steam-engine, with
plans, diagrams, and calculations by Sir Samuel Morland. The Sloanean
collection consists principally of manuscripts on natural history,
voyages and travels, on the arts, and especially on medicine.

In 1807 the collection of manuscripts formed by the first Marquis of
Lansdowne was added to these libraries, having been purchased by
parliament for L4925. It consists of 1352 volumes, of which 114 are Lord
Burleigh's state papers, 46 Sir Julius Caesar's collections respecting
the reigns of Elizabeth and James I., and 108 the historical collections
of Bishop Kennet. Other valuable collections are the classical
manuscripts of Dr. Charles Burney, the Oriental manuscripts collected by
Messrs. Rich and Hull, and the Egyptian papyri presented by Sir J. G.
Wilkinson. It would be endless, however, to enumerate these treasures;
we have indicated enough to convince our readers that the library of the
British Museum is worthy of the nation to which it belongs.

2. _Bodleian Library, Oxford._--This institution, so called from the
name of its illustrious founder, was established towards the close of
the reign of Elizabeth by Sir Thomas Bodley, who, having become
disgusted with some court intrigues, resigned all his employments about
the year 1597, and resolved to spend the remainder of his life in a
private station. Having thought of various plans to render himself
useful, he says, "I concluded at the last to set up my staff at the
library door in Oxon, being thoroughly persuaded that in my solitude and
surcease from the commonwealth affairs, I could not busy myself to
better purpose than by reducing that place, which then in every part lay
ruined and waste, to the public use of students. For the effecting
whereof I found myself furnished in a competent proportion of such four
kinds of aids, as, unless I had them all, there was no hope of good
success. For without some kind of knowledge, as well in the learned and
modern tongues as in sundry other sorts of scholastical literature;
without some purse-ability to go through with the charge; without great
store of honorable friends to further the design; and without special
good leisure to follow such a work, it could but have proved a vain
attempt and inconsiderate." Having set himself this task--"a task," as
his friend Camden justly says, "that would have suited the character of
a crowned head"--Bodley despatched from London a letter to the
vice-chancellor, offering not only to restore the building, but to
provide a fund for the purchase of books, and the maintenance of proper
officers. This offer being thankfully accepted, he commenced his
undertaking by presenting to the library a large collection of books
purchased on the continent, and valued at L10,000. He also collected
1294 rare manuscripts, which were afterwards increased to 6818,
independently of 1898 in the Ashmolean Museum. Other collections and
contributions were also, by his example and persuasion, presented to the
new library; and the additions thus made soon swelled to such an amount
that the old building was no longer sufficient to contain them. The
edifice was accordingly enlarged; and Bodley thus had the proud
satisfaction of seeing Oxford possessed, by his means, of such a library
as might well bear comparison with the proudest in continental Europe.
It would require a volume to contain an enumeration of the many
important additions which have been made to this library by its numerous
benefactors, or to admit even a sketch of its ample contents in almost
every branch of literature and science. The Oriental manuscripts are the
rarest and most beautiful to be found in any European collection; and
the first editions of the classics, procured from the Pinelli and
Crevenna libraries, rival those of Vienna. In a word, it is exceedingly
rich in many departments in which most other libraries are deficient,
and it forms altogether one of the noblest collections of which any
university can boast.

3. _University Library, Cambridge._--This is a library of considerable
extent, and contains much that is valuable or curious both in the
department of printed books and in that of manuscripts. The printed
books comprise a fine series of _editiones principes_ of the classics,
and a very large proportion of the productions of Caxton's press. Among
the manuscripts contained in it are the celebrated manuscript of the
four Gospels and Acts of the Apostles, known by the name of the _Codex
Bezae_, which was presented to the university by that distinguished
reformer; Magna Charta, written on vellum; and a Koran upon cotton paper
superbly executed. In the library of Trinity College, Cambridge, there
are several exceedingly interesting literary curiosities; amongst
others, some manuscripts in the handwriting of Milton, consisting of the
original copy of the "Masque of Comus," several plans of "Paradise
Lost," and the poems of "Lycidas," "Arcades," and others; and also Sir
Isaac Newton's copy of his "Principia," with his manuscript notes, and
his letters to Roger Coles.

4. _Advocates' Library, Edinburgh._--This library was founded in 1682,
at the instance of Sir George Mackenzie of Rosehaugh, who was at that
time Dean of Faculty, and the plan was carried into execution on a small
scale, by a fund which had been formed out of the fines of members. It
was originally intended that it should consist merely of the works of
lawyers, and of such other books as were calculated to advance the study
of jurisprudence; it now comprehends, in a greater or less degree,
almost every branch of science, philosophy, jurisprudence, literature,
and the arts. Its collection of historical works is very complete. Among
the curiosities shown to visitors are a manuscript Bible of St. Jerome's
translation, believed to have been written in the eleventh century, and
known to have been used as the conventual copy of the Scriptures in the
Abbey of Dunfermline; a copy of the first printed Bible, in two volumes,
from the press of Faust and Guttenberg; the original Solemn League and
Covenant, drawn up in 1580; and six copies of the Covenant of 1638.
Among other manuscripts in the collection are the whole of the
celebrated Wodrow Manuscripts, relating to the ecclesiastical history of
Scotland, and the chartularies of many of the ancient religious houses.
For its extent, no less than for the liberal principles upon which it is
conducted, this deserves the name of the National Library of Scotland.

5. _Trinity College Library, Dublin._--This library owed its
establishment to a very curious incident. In the year 1603, the
Spaniards were defeated by the English at the battle of Kinsale;
determined to commemorate their victory by some permanent monument, the
soldiers collected among themselves the sum of L1800, which they agreed
to apply to the purchase of books for a public library, to be founded in
the then infant institution of Trinity College. This sum was placed in
the hands of the celebrated Dr. Usher, who immediately proceeded to
London, and there purchased the books necessary for the purpose. It is a
remarkable coincidence, that Usher, while occupied in purchasing these
books, met in London Sir Thomas Bodley engaged in similar business, with
a view to the establishment of his famous library at Oxford. From this
commencement, the library of Trinity College was, at different periods,
increased by many valuable donations, including that of Usher's own
collection, consisting of 10,000 volumes, until at length its growing
magnitude requiring a corresponding increase of accommodation, the
present library-hall, a magnificent apartment of stately dimensions, was
erected in the year 1732. Since that time numerous additions have been
made to the library: amongst others, that of the library of the
Pensionary Fagel, in 20,000 volumes, and the valuable classical and
Italian books which had belonged to Mr. Quin; so that, altogether, the
library of Trinity College now forms one of the first order, at least in
this country.

The five libraries thus briefly described are the principal ones in the
United Kingdom, and they are all entitled to receive a copy of every new
work on its publication; so that they are continually on the increase,
and enabled to keep pace with the activity of the press. Of the numerous
other libraries in this country we have no space to give a detailed
account, and must therefore content ourselves with merely indicating the
names of the more extensive ones. In London are the libraries of the
Royal Society and the Royal Institution; Sion College Library;
Archbishop Tenison's Library; and Dr. Williams's Library, belonging to
the Dissenters. The Lambeth Library of the Archbishop of Canterbury is
exceedingly rich in ecclesiastical history and biblical literature. At
Oxford and Cambridge, all the different colleges have libraries more or
less extensive and valuable. Chetham's Library at Manchester is also
worthy of mention. The library of the Writers to the Signet at Edinburgh
is an excellent and valuable miscellaneous collection of books in
science, law, history, geography, statistics, antiquities, literature,
and the arts. Finally, the Scotch universities of Edinburgh, Glasgow,
St. Andrews, and Aberdeen, all possess academical libraries of
considerable size, and which are steadily on the increase. Many of the
above receive an annual grant of money from government, as a
compensation for the withdrawal of the privilege of receiving copies of
every book published in the kingdom. All such, at least, ought to be
thrown open to the public, and doubtless soon will be.


FOREIGN LIBRARIES.

1. _National Library, Paris._--This library is justly considered as the
finest in Europe. It was commenced under the reign of King John, who
possessed only _ten_ volumes, to which 900 were added by Charles V.,
many of them superbly illuminated by John of Bruges, the best artist in
miniatures of that time. Under Francis I. it had increased to 1890
volumes, and under Louis XIII. to 16,746. In 1684 it possessed 50,542
volumes; in 1775 it amounted to above 150,000; and by 1790 it had
increased to about 200,000. At present it contains 824,000 volumes of
printed books, and 80,000 manuscripts. It is divided into four
departments:--1. Printed books; 2. Manuscripts, charters, and diplomas;
3. Coins, medals, engraved stones, and other antique monuments; and 4.
Engravings, including geographical charts and plans. Of the contents of
this magnificent, nay, matchless collection, it would far exceed our
limits to give any details, or even to enumerate its choicest articles.
It is rich in every branch and department, unique in some, scarcely
surpassed in any, and unrivalled in all taken together. Of books printed
on vellum it contains at once the finest and most extensive collection
in the world.

2. _Arsenal Library, Paris._--This library, founded by the Marquis de
Paulmy, formerly ambassador of France in Poland, was in 1781 acquired by
the Count d'Artois, who united to it nearly the whole of the library of
the Duke de la Valliere. It possesses the most complete collection
extant of romances, since their origin in modern literature; of
theatrical pieces or dramas, from the epoch of the Moralities and
Mysteries; and of French poetry since the commencement of the sixteenth
century. It is less rich in other branches, but it has all works of
importance, and in particular contains historical collections which are
not to be found elsewhere.

3. _Library of Ste Genevieve, Paris._--The foundation of this library
dates as early as the year 1624, when Cardinal de Rochefoucauld, having
reformed the Abbey of Sainte-Genevieve, made it a present of 600
volumes. At present it contains 160,000 printed volumes and 2000
manuscripts. In it may be found all the academical collections, and a
complete set of Aldines; it is particularly rich in historical works;
and its most remarkable manuscripts are Greek and Oriental. Its
typographical collections of the fifteenth century are not more valuable
for their number than the high state of preservation in which they are
found. This library is open of an evening, and is much resorted to by
students, and men of the operative classes.

4. _Mazarin Library, Paris._--This library, as its name denotes, was
instituted by Cardinal Mazarin. The formation of it was intrusted to the
learned Gabriel Naude, who, having first selected all that suited his
purpose in the booksellers' shops in Paris, travelled into Holland,
Italy, Germany, and England, where the letters of recommendation of
which he was the bearer enabled him to collect many very rare and
curious works. Cardinal Mazarin, by his will, bequeathed it to the
college which he founded, and in 1688 it was made public. It is
remarkable for a great number of collections containing detached pieces
and small treatises, which date as far back as the fifteenth century,
and exist nowhere else; nor has any other library so complete a body of
the ancient books of law, theology, medicine, and the physical and
mathematical sciences. It also possesses a most precious collection of
the Lutheran or Protestant authors. In one of the halls are placed
models in relief of the Pelasgic monuments of Italy and Greece; in
another is a terrestrial globe, eighteen feet in diameter, formed of
plates of copper, and executed by order of Louis XVI.; but this
instrument, which is unique in Europe, is unfortunately unfinished,
being destitute of several requisite circles.

5. _National Library, Madrid._--This "is one of the many institutions
which awaken the admiration of the stranger in Spain, as being at
variance with the pervading decay." According to Mr. Ford, "it is rich
in Spanish literature, especially theology and topography, and has been
much increased numerically since the suppression of the convents; but
good modern books are needed." It contains many valuable Greek, Latin,
and Arabic manuscripts, and unedited works, chiefly Spanish. _The
Monetario_, or cabinet of medals, is arranged in an elegant and
beautiful apartment, and contains an unrivalled collection of Celtic,
Phoenician, Greek, Roman, Gothic, Arabic, and modern coins and medals,
in excellent preservation. The library is open to all, at least as far
as the printed books are concerned.

6. _Vatican Library, Rome._--Among the libraries of Italy, that of the
Vatican at Rome stands preeminent, not more for its grandeur and
magnificence, than for the inestimable treasures with which it is
enriched. It was originated about the year 465 by Pope Hilary, and has
been augmented by succeeding pontiffs, and by various princes, until it
reached its present extent and value. Our space will not permit us to
give any thing like a detailed account of its treasures; but we condense
from Sir George Head's admirable work on Rome the following description
of the grand saloon of the library:--"The principal chamber of the
library appears to be 179 feet long by 51 broad. The ceiling is
remarkable for presenting to the eye the appearance of a uniform
extensive surface, as if it were a beautifully broad elliptical vault,
though in fact it consists of a double range of groined arches that,
springing on each side from the walls, and blending together in the
middle, are supported on a row of six pillars planted in a line on the
ground. These pillars are contrived, accordingly, of an oblong shape, so
extremely narrow that, planted as they are longitudinally, and
encompassed by large rectangular mahogany bookcases to serve as
pedestals, they occupy but an inconsiderable space in the apartment when
viewed edgewise by a spectator standing at the entrance, and from their
form effectually counteract the appearance of weight, that would
certainly otherwise be produced by the double vaulting. Moreover, while
the lines of curvature slide as it were thus gently and harmoniously
into the outline of the pillars, the transition of surface is the less
perceptible, owing to the whole of the vault and pillars being painted
in a uniform delicate pattern of arabesque, by Zuccari, as it is
affirmed; but at all events, in figures of plants and flowers, almost as
light and exquisite as the paintings on a china teacup, and thrown into
relief by the prevalence of a clear white ground; so that an appearance
is produced of airiness and space to all intents and purposes as
effective as if the ceiling were really contained within the span of a
single elliptical arch. Along the base of the ceiling is a cornice of
stucco, ornamented with a light pattern in white and gold; and
underneath, upon the upper portion of the walls, are six windows on each
side; and the remainder of the surface is covered with paintings by
several different artists, one of which represents Sixtus V. receiving
from his architect, Dominico Fontana, the plan of the present library.
The lower portion of the walls is entirely occupied by closed bookcases,
composed of panels of wood painted in arabesque on a ground of white and
slate color, and surrounded by gilded mouldings; which receptacles bear
no sort of affinity in appearance to ordinary library furniture, and
thoroughly conceal from public view the valuable manuscripts they
contain. No books, in fact, are to be seen in the whole chamber, and
particularly the rectangular bookcases above referred to, that serve the
purpose of pedestals, from the middle of which each pillar supporting
the ceiling and resting on the ground below rise, as the pier of a
bridge from its ceisson, rather resemble ornamental buffets upon whose
tabular surface vases and other splendid objects of art and antiquity
are arranged in order.

"With regard to the principal objects worthy of observation there are,
in the first place, two very magnificent tables, both alike, placed in
the middle of the room in a corresponding position to one another,
between the first and second pillar at each extremity. Each is composed
of an enormously thick and very highly polished slab of red Oriental
granite, supported by six bronze figures of slaves as large as life.
Such being the appropriation of two of the intercolumnial spaces, a
third is occupied by a low column of Cipollino marble, serving as a
pedestal to support a splendid and very large vase of Sevres china,
which was presented by the Emperor Napoleon to Pius VII. In a fourth
intercolumnial space is to be seen, supported on a pedestal of
Cipollino, whose base appears to be a sort of alabaster marked with
different shades of olive-green, a square tazza of malachite, presented
to Gregory XVI. by the Crown-Prince of Russia, after his visit to Rome
in 1838. In the fifth intercolumnial space are a magnificent pair of
candelabra of Sevres china, brought by Pius VII. from Paris, and also a
splendid vase of the same material presented to his holiness by Charles
X. There is also to be observed, placed at the extremity of the room, on
the right-hand side near the wall, a spirally fluted column of Oriental
alabaster, which was discovered near the church of St. Eusebio, on the
Esquiline; and suspended against the wall, not far distant, is a curious
old Russian calendar painted on wood.

"The bookcases being continually locked, as above stated, permission is
nevertheless granted to those visitors who may be desirous of consulting
the books and manuscripts, on making application to the
cardinal-librarian or his assistants; but the privilege is merely
nominal, in consequence of the extremely imperfect state of the
catalogue; and in point of fact the multitudinous volumes on the shelves
may be compared to a mine, unexplored and unexplorable; whence only a
few particular objects, considered the staple curiosities of the region,
and consequently continually had recourse to by the visitors, are
extracted. The volumes in question consist principally of a
splendidly-illuminated Bible of the sixth century; the most ancient
version of the Septuagint; the earliest Greek version of the New
Testament; the 'Assertio Septem Sacramentorum,' written by Henry
VIII.--a royal literary effort in defence of the seven Roman Catholic
sacraments that procured the title of Defender of the Faith for the
author, which descended to the Protestant monarchs of England; and a
most curious and authentic collection of original correspondence between
Henry VIII. and Anne Boleyn. The 'Assertio Septem Sacramentorum' is a
good thick octavo volume, written in Latin, and printed in the year
1501, in London, on vellum. The type is clear, with a broad margin, and
at the beginning is the original presentation addressed to Leo X., as
follows, subscribed by the royal autograph--

    'Anglorum Rex Henricus Leo Decime mittit
      Hoc opus, et fidei testis et amicitiae.'

The whole work--in the preface of which the writer descants on his
humble talents and his modesty--would seem, as far as I was able to
judge by turning over the pages hastily, to be composed in a remarkably
clear style, and to abound with naive phrases and genuine expressions of
the king himself, wrought into the mass and substance of a prolix
theological dissertation, that no doubt was prepared and digested for
the purpose by the divines of the period. With regard to the
correspondence with Anne Boleyn, which places the royal author
altogether in a different point of view before the public, the latter
consists of a considerable number of original letters, of which those
written by the king are for the most part in French and the remainder in
English, and those of Anne Boleyn written all in French. The documents
are all in excellent preservation, and the handwriting perfectly
legible; from the difference of the character at the period in question,
and owing to the abbreviations, somewhat difficult to decipher; not so
much so, however, but that even an unpractised person, with sufficient
time and leisure, might make them out without much difficulty. Visitors
are relieved from the labor of the experiment; and fair copies, made in
a clear round hand, are placed, each copy side by side with the
original, and all are stitched together in a portfolio, where they may
be perused with the utmost facility. The letters, which to those
inclined to ponder on the anatomy of the human heart afford a melancholy
moral, are chiefly remarkable for the boisterous eager tone of the
king's passion towards his lady-love, which, expressed in terms that
would hardly be considered proper now-a-days, verges on the grotesque."

7. _Casanata Library, Rome._--This library, founded by Cardinal Girolamo
Casanata in the year 1700, is said to contain a greater number of
printed books exclusively, in contradistinction to manuscripts, than any
other in Rome, not excepting the Vatican. "The library," says Sir George
Head, "is a very beautifully-proportioned chamber, upwards of fifty feet
in breadth, and long in proportion, with an elliptically-vaulted
ceiling, along the base of which are a series of acute-angled arched
spaces containing windows that throw an admirable light on the
apartment, which is whitewashed most brilliantly. The books are ranged
all round the room on open shelves, with a communication to those of the
upper row by a pensile gallery that surrounds the whole periphery. At
the extremity of the room is a white marble statue, by Le Gros, of
Cardinal Casanata, the founder, elevated with remarkably good effect on
a pedestal of dark- Brazil-wood, very highly polished, and
surmounted by a splendid frontispiece, supported on two pair of fluted
Corinthian columns, all of the same material. The door of the room at
the entrance is also surmounted by a frontispiece and columns of
Brazil-wood, similar to the preceding. The librarian, a Dominican friar,
dressed in the habit of his order, and seated in an easy-chair in the
middle of the room at his desk of office, attends there continually, and
is exceedingly kind and attentive to the applications of strangers who
wish to read books in the library, though his good intentions are of
little avail, from the want of a proper catalogue."

8. _Laurentian Library, Florence._--This institution was commenced by
Cosmo de Medici, the father of a line of princes whose name and age are
almost synonymous with the restoration of learning. Naturally fond of
literature, and anxious to save from destruction the precious remains of
classical antiquity, he laid injunctions on all his friends and
correspondents, as well as on the missionaries who travelled into remote
countries, to search for and procure ancient manuscripts in every
language and on every subject. He availed himself of the services of all
the learned men of his time; and the situation of the Eastern empire,
then daily falling into ruins by the repeated attacks of the Turks,
afforded him an opportunity of obtaining many inestimable works in the
Hebrew, Greek, Chaldaic, Arabic, and Indian languages. From these
beginnings arose the celebrated library of the Medici, which, after
having been the constant object of the solicitude of its founder, was
after his death further enriched by the attention of his descendants,
and particularly of his grandson Lorenzo; and after various vicissitudes
of fortune, and frequent and considerable additions, has been preserved
to the present day--the noblest monument which its princely founders
have left of the glory of their line.

9. _Magliabecchian Library, Florence._--Antonio Magliabecchi, from being
a servant to a dealer in vegetables, raised himself to the honorable
office of librarian to the Grand Duke of Tuscany, and became one of the
most eminent literary characters of his time. The force of natural
talent overcame all the disadvantages of the humble condition in which
he had been born, and placed him in a situation to make his name known
and respected. But he endeavored to deserve still better of his
countrymen, by presenting them, shortly before his death in 1714, with
his large and valuable collection of books, together with the remainder
of his fortune, as a fund for its support. This constituted the
foundation of the Magliabecchian Library, which, by the subsequent
donations of several benefactors, and the bounty of some of the grand
dukes of Florence, has been so much increased both in number and value
that it may now vie with some of the most considerable collections in
Europe.

10. _Imperial Library, Vienna._--This collection is perhaps inferior
only to that of the Vatican, and the National Library at Paris, for the
rarity and value of its contents. It was founded by the Emperor
Frederick III., who spared no expense to enrich it with printed books as
well as manuscripts in every language. By the munificence of succeeding
emperors, numerous important and valuable accessions were made to the
collection; amongst which may be mentioned the large and interesting
library of Prince Eugene, and a considerable portion of the Buda
Library, founded by Matthias Corvinus, King of Hungary. The Imperial
Library occupies eight spacious apartments, and a ninth is appropriated
to a very valuable collection of medals and other curiosities. Besides
the cabinet of medals, there is also attached to the library a superb
collection of engravings, consisting of 473 large folio volumes, 510
volumes of different sizes, and 215 folio cartoons. The collection of
music contains upwards of 6000 volumes, theoretical and practical; and
that of autographs exceeds 8000 pieces, classed under the heads of
monarchs and princes, ministers and statesmen, poets, philosophers, and
men of learning or science, generals and renowned warriors, artists,
musicians, and others.

11. _Royal Library, Munich._--This is the most extensive collection in
Germany. It was founded in 1550, and is very complete in all its
departments. The ancient manuscripts relative to the art of music amount
to a great number, and are exceedingly curious.

12. _University Library, Gottingen._--The library attached to the
University of Gottingen contains 360,000 printed volumes, and 3000
volumes of manuscripts. But its extent is its least recommendation, for
it is not only the most complete among those of the universities, but
there are very few royal or public collections in Germany which can
rival it in real utility; and if not in Germany, where else? It is not
rich in manuscripts, and many libraries surpass it in typographical
rarities, but none contains so great a number of really useful books in
almost every branch of human knowledge. This library is mainly indebted
for the preeminence it has obtained to the labors and exertions of the
illustrious Heyne. In the year in which he came to Gottingen as second
librarian, the entire control of the library was committed to him, and
he became chief. From this moment commenced at once its extension and
its improvement. When Heyne went to Gottingen, it already possessed a
library of from 50,000 to 60,000 volumes; at his decease it had
increased, according to the most moderate computation, to upwards of
200,000 volumes. Nor was this all. At the commencement of his
librarianship entire departments of learning were wholly wanting; at its
close, not only were these deficiencies supplied, but the library had
become proportionally rich in every department, and, in point of
completeness, unrivalled. Fortunately, Heyne's place has been filled by
worthy successors, and the reputation of the collection is still as
great as ever.

13. _Royal Library, Dresden._--The king of Saxony's library at Dresden
contains 300,000 volumes of printed books, and 2800 volumes of
manuscripts. The valuable library that formerly belonged to Count Beurau
forms part of this noble collection, which is most complete in general
history, and in Greek and Latin classic authors. Amongst the printed
books are some of the rarest specimens of early typography, including
600 of the Aldine editions, and many on vellum, besides a copy of the
first edition of the "Orlando Furioso," printed by Mazocco, "coll'
assistenza dell'autore," in 1516, and other rarities. In the department
of manuscripts are a Mexican manuscript, written on human skin,
containing, according to Thevenot, a calendar, with some fragments of
the history of the Incas; the original manuscript of the "Reveries" of
Marshal Saxe, bearing at the end that he had composed this work in
thirteen nights during a fever, and completed it in December 1733; a
fine copy of the Koran, taken from a Turk by a Saxon officer at the last
siege of Vienna, and said to have formerly belonged to Bajazet II.; and
a Greek manuscript of the Epistles of St. Paul of the eleventh century.
An extensive collection of antiquities is preserved in twelve apartments
under the library, below which are eighteen vaulted cellars, stored with
a vast quantity of valuable porcelain, partly of foreign and partly of
Dresden manufacture.

14. _Royal Library, Berlin._--This collection includes works upon almost
all the sciences, and in nearly all languages. Among the manuscripts are
several Egyptian deeds, written on papyrus, in the demotic or enchorial
character. These are very curious, and _fac similes_ of some of them
have been published by Professor Kosegarten in his valuable work on the
"Ancient Literature of the Egyptians."

15. _University Library, Leyden._--This library was founded by William
I., Prince of Orange, and is justly celebrated throughout Europe for the
many valuable specimens of Greek and Oriental literature with which it
abounds. To it Joseph Scaliger bequeathed his fine collection of Hebrew
books; and it was further enriched by the learned Golius, on his return
from the East, with many Arabic, Turkish, Persian, and Chaldaic
manuscripts. In addition to these it received the collections of
Holmanns, and particularly those of Isaac Vossius and Ruhuken--the
former containing a number of valuable manuscripts, supposed to have
once belonged to Christina, queen of Sweden; and the latter an almost
entire series of classical authors, with a collection of manuscripts,
perhaps unique, amongst which are copies of several that were consumed
by fire in the Abbey of St. Germain-des-Pres.

16. _Imperial Library, St. Petersburg._--Russia is indebted for this
splendid collection to an act of robbery and spoliation. In 1795, when
Russia triumphed over the independence of Poland, the victorious
general, Suwaroff, unceremoniously seized the Zaluski Library, of nearly
300,000 volumes, had it packed up in all haste and dispatched to St.
Petersburg. There it formed the basis of the present Imperial Library,
which, but for that stolen collection, instead of now ranking in the
first class of European libraries, would scarcely have been entitled to
a place in the third.

17. _Libraries of Constantinople._--This city possesses thirty-two
public libraries, all varying in extent, but more or less celebrated for
the number and value of their manuscripts, which are neatly bound in
red, green, or black morocco. The Mohammedans have a peculiar method of
indorsing, placing, and preserving their books. Each volume, besides
being bound in morocco, is preserved from dust in a case of the same
material; and on it, as well as on the edges of the leaves, the title is
written in large and legible characters. The books are placed, one upon
another, in presses ornamented with trellis-work, and are disposed along
the wall, or in the four corners of the library. All these collections
are open to the public throughout the year, excepting on Tuesdays and
Fridays: the librarians are as polite and attentive as Turks can be to
those whom curiosity or love of study attract thither: and every one is
at liberty not merely to peruse, but to make extracts from the books,
and even to transcribe them entirely, provided this be done within the
walls of the library. Theology, including the Koran and commentators
thereon, jurisprudence, medicine, ethics, and history, are the sciences
chiefly cultivated by the Osmanlis. The books are all written with the
greatest care on the finest vellum, the text of each page is inclosed in
a highly-ornamented and gilt framework, the beginning of each chapter or
section is splendidly illuminated, and the value of the manuscripts
varies in proportion to the beauty of the characters.

We here terminate our rapid survey of the principal libraries of Europe.
Small, however, would be the interest which one should feel for these
magnificent establishments were they designed solely for the benefit of
a few individuals, or of any favored class. They would still be splendid
monuments of the productive powers of the human mind, and of the taste
or learning of their founders; but they would have no claims to that
unbounded admiration with which we now regard them. There is a
republican liberality in the management of the great libraries of the
continent of Europe which is well worthy of our imitation. In these
alone is the great invention of printing carried out to its full extent,
by the free communication of all its productions to every class of
society. No introduction, no recommendation, no securities are required;
but the stranger and the native are admitted, upon equal terms, to the
full enjoyment of all the advantages which the uncontrolled use of books
can afford. As this mode of accommodating, or rather of meeting the
wants of the public, is the real object of these institutions, they are
provided with librarians, who, under different titles corresponding to
the duties imposed upon them, receive from government regular salaries
proportioned to their rank and to the services which they perform. To
these the immediate superintendence of the library is wholly intrusted,
and at a stated hour of every day in the week, except of such as are set
apart for public or religious festivals, they open the library to the
public. There, undisturbed, and supplied with every thing the collection
contains that can aid him in his studies, the scholar may pass several
hours of every day without any expense, and with no other care than that
natural attention to the books he uses, which every one capable of
appreciating the full value of such privileges will readily give. Nor do
his facilities cease here. The time during which the libraries remain
open may be insufficient for profound and extensive researches, and the
writer who has to trace his facts through a great variety of works, and
to examine the unpublished documents to be found in public libraries
alone, would be obliged to sacrifice a large portion of every day if his
studies were regulated by the usual hours of these institutions. For
such persons, a proper recommendation can hardly fail to procure the
use, at their own houses, of the works they may need. In this manner the
door is thrown open to every one who wishes to enter, and science placed
within reach of all who court her favors.

This is as it should be; and it is therefore with great pleasure that we
have observed symptoms of improvement in this respect originating in our
legislature. In March, 1849, a select committee was appointed by the
House of Commons, on the motion of Mr. William Ewart, to report on the
best means of "extending the establishment of libraries freely open to
the public, especially in large towns, in Great Britain and Ireland."
This committee consisted of fifteen members--namely, Mr. Ewart, Viscount
Ebrington, Mr. D'Israeli, Sir Harry Verney, Mr. Charteris, Mr. Bunbury,
Mr. G. A. Hamilton, Mr. Brotherton, Mr. Monckton Milnes, the Lord
Advocate (Mr. Rutherford), Mr. Thicknesse, Sir John Walsh, Mr.
Mackinnon, Mr. Kershaw, and Mr. Wyld. These gentlemen seem to have
entered upon their labors with zeal, and to have performed their duty
with thoroughness and fidelity. They held numerous sessions, and
examined a large number of witnesses. The particulars of these
examinations have been printed in full, and form a rather bulky
blue-book, in which the report of the committee occupies only twelve
pages, while the minutes of evidence, tables, &c., fill over three
hundred. The committee appear to have felt that it was only necessary to
lay before parliament and the public the facts concerning the present
condition and wants of the public libraries of this country, in order to
insure the supply of all deficiencies.

After presenting a brief view of the principal libraries in the various
countries of Europe, with a more particular account of the present
condition of those in Great Britain, showing that the English are far
behind their continental brethren in this respect, the committee thus
express their conviction--"Whatever may be our disappointment at the
rarity of public libraries in the United Kingdom, we feel satisfaction
in stating that the uniform current of the evidence tends to prove the
increased qualifications of the people to appreciate and enjoy such
institutions. Testimony, showing a great improvement in the national
habits and manners, is abundantly given in the evidence taken by the
committee. That they would be still further improved by the
establishment of public libraries, it needs not even the high authority
and ample evidence of the witnesses who appeared before the committee to
demonstrate."

Frequent and favorable allusions are made in the report and the minutes
of evidence to the numerous popular libraries in this country for
district schools, factories, &c. These, we are aware, are of the
greatest value; but these alone are not sufficient. The establishment of
even a hundred thousand small village or district-school libraries would
not supersede the necessity of a certain number of large and
comprehensive ones. These little collections are much alike, each
containing nearly the same books as every other. The committee of
parliament appear to understand this. "It is evident," they say, "that
there should be in all countries libraries of two sorts; libraries of
deposit and research, and libraries devoted to the general reading and
circulation of books. Libraries of deposit should contain, if possible,
almost every book that ever has existed. The most insignificant tract,
the most trifling essay, a sermon, a newspaper, or a song, may afford an
illustration of manners or opinions elucidatory of the past, and throw a
faithful though feeble light on the pathway of the future historian. In
such libraries nothing should be rejected. Not but that libraries of
deposit and of general reading may (as in the case of the British
Museum) be combined. But though such combination is possible, and may be
desirable, the distinction which we have drawn should never be
forgotten."

The first, and apparently, in the estimation of the committee, the most
important witness, was Edward Edwards, Esq., an assistant in the
department of printed books in the British Museum. The minutes of his
evidence alone cover between sixty and seventy of the closely-printed
folio pages accompanying the report; and besides this, he has furnished
various statistical tables, occupying fifty pages, and a series of
twelve maps. In one of these maps it is his purpose to exhibit, by
various shades, the relative provision of books in public libraries in
the principal states of Europe, as compared with their respective
populations; and in the others, the local situation of the public
libraries in some of the principal cities is indicated. The evidence of
Mr. Edwards has been severely commented upon in the London papers and
elsewhere, and some inaccuracies in his tables, of greater or less
magnitude, have been pointed out. We might, perhaps, by a particular
examination of every word and figure, add something to the list of
errata. But we think that those persons who are most familiar with the
difficulty of obtaining exact statistical details, will not wonder that
an error should here and there be found. We have looked over the
evidence and the tables with considerable care, and think them, on the
whole, highly creditable to the author. It is evident, however, from the
general tenor of his testimony, that Mr. Edwards presses rather too
strongly the point respecting the condition of England, compared with
that of the countries on the continent, as to the number and
accessibility of their public libraries. His enthusiasm on the subject,
arising probably from a laudable desire to have his own country take a
higher rank in respect to libraries than she now holds, has led him, we
think, to overlook or undervalue some of the advantages which she
already possesses. But his facts and figures are in the main to be
relied upon; and we shall make use of them as sufficiently accurate to
give our readers a general view of the present bibliothecal condition of
the principal countries of Europe.

On Mr. Edwards's map of Europe we find the smaller German states to be
represented with the lightest lines, indicating the highest rank, and
Great Britain with the darkest or lowest. He states the provision of
books in libraries publicly accessible, as compared with the population,
to be as follows:--In Saxony, for every 100 inhabitants there are 417
books; in Denmark, 412; in Bavaria, 339; in Tuscany, 261; in Prussia,
200; in Austria, 167; in France, 129; in Belgium, 95; whilst in Great
Britain there are only 53 to every 100 inhabitants.

In the following tables, the libraries containing fewer than 10,000
volumes each (of which there are, in France alone, at least seventy or
eighty) are not taken into the account:--

France       has 107 public libraries, containing 4,000,000 vols.
Prussia       "   44       "                "     2,400,000  "
Austria       "   48       "                "     2,400,000  "
Great Britain "   33       "                "     1,771,000  "
Bavaria       "   17       "                "     1,267,000  "
Denmark       "    5       "                "       645,000  "
Saxony        "    6       "                "       554,000  "
Belgium       "   14       "                "       538,000  "
Tuscany       "    9       "                "       411,000  "

Taking the capital cities, we find the following results:--

Paris        has   9 public libraries, containing 1,474,000 vols.
Munich        "    2       "                "       800,000  "
Copenhagen    "    3       "                "       557,000  "
Berlin        "    2       "                "       530,000  "
London        "    4       "                "       490,500  "
Vienna        "    3       "                "       453,000  "
Dresden       "    4       "                "       340,500  "
Florence      "    6       "                "       318,000  "
Milan         "    2       "                "       230,000  "
Brussels      "    2       "                "       143,500  "

Arranging these libraries according to their extent, or number of
printed books, they would stand as follows:--

                              Printed Books. Manuscripts.
Paris (1), National Library,      824,000     80,000 vols.
Munich, Royal Library,            600,000     22,000  "
St. Petersburg, Imperial Library, 446,000     20,650  "
London, British Museum,           435,000     31,000  "
Copenhagen, Royal Library,        412,000      3,000  "
Berlin, Royal Library,            410,000      5,000  "
Vienna, Imperial Library,         313,000     16,000  "
Dresden, Royal Library,           300,000      2,800  "
Wolfenbuttel, Ducal Library,      200,000      4,580  "
Madrid, National Library,         200,000      2,500  "
Stuttgard, Royal Library,         187,000      3,300  "
Paris (2), Arsenal Library,       180,000      6,000  "
Milan, Brera Library,             170,000      1,000  "
Darmstadt, Grand Ducal Library,   150,000      4,000  "
Paris (3), St. Genevieve Library, 150,000      2,000  "
Florence, Magliabecchian Library, 150,000     12,000  "
Naples, Royal Library,            150,000      3,000  "
Edinburgh, Advocates' Library,    148,000      2,000  "
Brussels, Royal Library,          133,500     18,000  "
Rome (1), Casanata Library,       120,000      4,500  "
Hague, Royal Library,             100,000      2,000  "
Paris (4), Mazarin Library,       100,000      4,000  "
Rome (2), Vatican Library,        100,000     24,000  "
Parma, Ducal Library,             100,000             "

The chief university libraries may be ranked in the following order:--

                              Printed Books. Manuscripts.
Gottingen, University Library,    360,000      3,000 vols.
Breslau, University Library,      250,000      2,300  "
Oxford, Bodleian Library,         220,000     21,000  "
Tubingen, University Library,     200,000      1,900  "
Munich, University Library,       200,000      2,000  "
Heidelberg, University Library,   200,000      1,800  "
Cambridge, University Library,    166,000      3,163  "
Bologna, University Library,      150,000        400  "
Prague, University Library,       130,000      4,000  "
Vienna, University Library,       115,000             "
Leipsic, University Library,      112,000      2,500  "
Copenhagen, University Library,   110,000             "
Turin, University Library,        110,000      2,000  "
Louvain, University Library,      105,000        246  "
Dublin, Trinity College Library,  104,239      1,512  "
Upsal, University Library,        100,000      5,000  "
Erlangen, University Library,     100,000      1,000  "
Edinburgh, University Library,     90,354        310  "

The largest libraries in Great Britain are those of the

                              Printed Books. Manuscripts.
British Museum, London,           435,000     31,000  "
Bodleian, Oxford,                 220,000     21,000  "
University, Cambridge,            166,724      3,163  "
Advocates', Edinburgh,            148,000      2,000  "
Trinity College, Dublin,          104,239      1,512  "

There are in the United States of America at least 81 libraries of 5000
volumes and upwards each, to which the public, more or less
restrictedly, have access, and of these 49 are immediately connected
with colleges or public schools. The aggregate number of volumes in
these collections is about 980,413. We subjoin the contents of a few of
the largest:--

Harvard College Library,            72,000 vols.
Philadelphia and Loganian Library,  60,000  "
Boston Athenaeum,                    50,000  "
Library of Congress,                50,000  "
New York Society Library,           32,000  "
Mercantile Library, New-York,       32,000  "
Georgetown College,                 25,000  "
Brown University,                   24,000  "
New-York State Library,             24,000  "
Yale College,                       21,000  "

America will, however, soon possess a library worthy of its character as
a great nation. The Astor Library, now in the course of formation, owes
its existence to the munificence of John Jacob Astor, who died on the
29th of March, 1848, leaving by his will the sum of 400,000 dollars for
the establishment of a public library in the city of New-York.
Seventy-five thousand dollars were to be appropriated to the erection of
a suitable building, and 120,000 dollars to the purchase of books as a
nucleus. The smallest number of books which the trustees consider it
safe to estimate as a basis for enlargement is 100,000 volumes. The
Astor Library will probably, when first formed, contain a larger number
and a better selection of books than any other in the United States.
With the generous provision which the founder has made for its increase,
together with the liberal donations which will undoubtedly be made to
this as the chief library in the country, it is likely to grow rapidly,
till it will take rank with the large libraries of the old world. Under
the direction of an enlightened and judicious Board of Trustees, with
Washington Irving for president, and Dr. Cogswell for superintendent of
the institution, there is every reason to believe that the desire so
warmly expressed at the conclusion of their report will be fulfilled:
"That the Astor Library may soon become, as a depository of the
treasures of literature and science, what the city possessing it is
rapidly becoming in commerce and wealth."

The second witness examined by the committee was M. Guizot. In the
distinguished positions which he has filled as minister of public
instruction and prime minister in France, his attention has been turned
to the public libraries of that country. While in office he ordered an
inspection of those institutions, and the French government now has
complete and exact documents relative to the number of public libraries,
and the number of books in each. These institutions are accessible to
the public in every way for reading, and to a great extent for borrowing
books. Some of them receive direct grants from the government towards
their support; while others, in the provincial towns, are supported by
municipal funds; and to the latter the government distributes copies of
costly works, for the publication of which it in general subscribes
liberally. M. Guizot attributes the happiest results to this system. He
says--"There are two good results: the first is, a general regard in the
mind of the public for learning, for literature, and for books. That
complete accessibility to the libraries gives to every one, learned or
unlearned, a general feeling of good-will for learning and for
knowledge; and then the second result is, that the means for acquiring
knowledge are given to those persons who are able to employ them."

His Excellency M. Van de Weyer, the Belgian ambassador, was next
examined. He testified that the public libraries in his own country were
numerous, large, and easily accessible to all who desire to make use of
them. He attributes the best results to the literary character of his
country from this privilege of free access to their large collections of
books. He thinks the people are better prepared than is generally
supposed to appreciate works of a high character. He seems to think it
unwise to attempt to popularize science and literature by printing
inferior books, written expressly for common and uneducated people. The
government subscribe for a number of copies of nearly every valuable
work published, by which means they encourage the progress of
literature, and are enabled to enrich many of the public collections.
"The government have sometimes, within a space of twenty years, spent
some L10,000 or L12,000 in favor of libraries. I take this opportunity
of stating also, that though the Chamber only votes a grant of 65,000 or
70,000 francs for the Royal Public Library of Brussels, whenever there
is some large sale going on, there is always a special grant made to the
library. Lately one of the most curious private libraries had been
advertised for sale; a catalogue had been printed in six volumes; the
government immediately came forward, bought the whole of the collection
for L13,000 or L14,000, and made it an addition to the Royal Library in
Brussels; they did the same thing at Ghent; I believe that the library
that they bought at Ghent consisted of about 20,000 volumes, and in
Brussels about 60,000 or 70,000 volumes." Our own government would do
well to imitate this example more frequently than it has hitherto done.

Passing by several witnesses whose evidence we should be glad to notice
did our limits permit, we come to George Dawson, Esquire, who as a
lecturer, has had opportunities of becoming acquainted with the
condition, the feelings and the wants of the working-classes in the
manufacturing towns both in England and Scotland. He testifies that
libraries to some extent have already been formed in those places, and
that there is a very general desire among the working-people to avail
themselves of more and better books. They can appreciate the best
authors. Political and historical subjects interest them most, but the
higher class of poetry is also read by them. Milton is much read. Mr.
Dawson says, "Shakspeare is known by heart almost. I could produce men
who could be cross-examined upon any play." The contrast between the
manufacturing and the farming districts in respect to the intelligence
of the people and their desire for improvement is very great. Speaking
of one of the agricultural districts, Mr. Dawson says, "I have heard of
a parish in Norfolk where a woman was the parish clerk, because there
was not a man in the parish who could read or write!"

Henry Stevens, Esq., formerly librarian of one of the libraries
connected with Yale College, gave some valuable information respecting
the present state of public libraries in the United States. He says:
"The public libraries of the United States are small but very numerous.
We have but two containing above 50,000 volumes, while there are nine
above 20,000, forty-three above 10,000, more than a hundred above 5000
volumes, and thousands of smaller ones. The want of large public
consulting libraries, like those of Europe, is much felt." The chief
readers in these libraries are the working-classes, and persons who are
engaged in active business through the day. Works on physical science,
history, biography, and of a superior class, are those chiefly read by
them; and Mr. Stevens stated, that when he came to England, he could not
help being struck by the "little reading that there is among the
laboring and business classes" of this country as compared with the
United States. This is succinctly explained by Mr. Dawson, who says:
"The quantity of people who cannot read and write in this country is a
very great hinderance to the demand for books. We have _eight millions_
who cannot write yet!" Mr. Edwards, in his evidence, also points to the
same deficiency of elementary education, "In addition," he says, "to the
positive want of schooling on the part of large numbers of the
population who are now growing up, those who do get some partial
education, habitually neglect to improve what they get from the want of
cultivating a taste for reading. Unless good books are made accessible
to the people, this is very likely to continue to be a cause--even where
education by Sunday schools, and other efforts of that kind, have been
brought within the reach of a considerable number of the population--why
the good effects of education have not been continued in after life."

The committee very justly place much value on the opinions and
suggestions of M. Libri. The thorough knowledge which that eminent
bibliographer possesses of all matters pertaining to the condition and
wants of public libraries, as well as of the needs of literary men,
renders his remarks worthy of careful consideration. In a letter
addressed to Mr. Ewart, the chairman of the committee, he develops his
views at some length, and shows the necessity of having in great
countries libraries "in which one may expect to find, as far as it is
possible, all books which learned men--men who occupy themselves upon
any subject whatever, and who cultivate one of the branches of human
knowledge--may require to consult. Of these there is nothing useless,
nothing ought to be neglected; the most insignificant in appearance,
those which on their publication have attracted the least attention,
sometimes become the source of valuable and unexpected information." It
is in the fragments, now so rare and precious, of some alphabets--of
some small grammars published for the use of schools about the middle of
the fifteenth century--or in the letters distributed in Germany by the
religious bodies commissioned to collect alms, that bibliographers now
seek to discover the first processes employed by the inventors of
xylography and typography. It is in a forgotten collection of
indifferent plates, published at Venice by Faush Verantio towards the
end of the sixteenth century, that an engineer, who interests himself in
the history of the mechanical arts, might find the first diagrams of
iron suspension-bridges.

Nothing should be neglected; nothing is useless to whoever wishes
thoroughly to study a subject. An astronomer, who desires to study the
motions peculiar to certain stars, requires to consult all the old books
of astronomy, and even of astrology, which appear the most replete with
error. A chemist, a man who is engaged in the industrial arts, may still
consult with profit certain works on alchemy, and even on magic. A
legislator, a jurisconsult, needs sometimes to be acquainted with the
laws, the ordinances, which derive their origin from the most barbarous
ages; but it is particularly for the biographer, for the historian, that
it is necessary to prepare the largest field of inquiry, to amass the
greatest quantity of materials. This is not only true as regards past
times, but we ought to prepare the materials for future students.
Historical facts which appear the least important, the most
insignificant anecdotes, registered in a pamphlet, mentioned in a
placard or in a song, nay be connected at a later period in an
unforeseen manner with events which acquire great importance, or with
men who are distinguished in history by their genius, by their sudden
elevation, or even by their crimes. We are not born celebrated--men
become so; and when we desire to trace the history of those who have
attained it, the inquirer is often obliged to pursue his researches in
their most humble beginnings. Who would have imagined that the obscure
author of a small pamphlet, "Le Souper de Beaucaire," would subsequently
become the Emperor Napoleon? and that to write fully the life of the
execrable Marat, one ought to have the very insignificant essays on
physics that he published before the Revolution? Nothing is too
unimportant for whoever wishes thoroughly to study the literary or
scientific history of a country, or for one who undertakes to trace the
intellectual progress of eminent minds, or to inform himself in detail
of the changes which have taken place in the institutions and in the
manners of a nation. Without speaking of the commentaries or
considerable additions which have been introduced in the various
reprints of an author, the successive editions of the same work which
appear to resemble each other the most, are often distinguished from
each other by peculiarities worthy of much attention. It has been well
said, that a public library should contain all those works which are too
costly, too voluminous, or of _too little value_ in the common
estimation to be found elsewhere, down even to the smallest tracts. An
old almanac, or a forgotten street-ballad, has sometimes enabled the
historian to verify or correct some important point which would
otherwise have remained in dispute.

With a brief extract from the evidence of one other witness we must
close our notice of the Report on Public Libraries. Charles Meyer, Esq.,
German secretary to his Royal Highness Prince Albert, had given
attention to the public libraries of Germany, having resided several
years in Gotha, Hamburg, Leipsic, and Munich. He had perused the
principal part of the evidence which had been given by Mr. Edwards upon
this subject, and found all that he stated to be quite correct. Dr.
Meyer thinks the existence of the numerous and valuable libraries of
Germany has given the literary men of that country an advantage over
the literary men of England. "It has saved a great number of our
German learned men," he says, "from the danger of becoming
_autodidactoi_--self-taught. I think that is one essential point of
difference that is visible in comparing the general character of the
instruction in this country with that on the continent: there are in
this country a great number of self-taught people, who think according
to their own views, without any reference to previous scientific works.
They make sometimes very great discoveries; but sometimes they find that
they have wasted their labor upon subjects already known, which have
been written upon by a great number of people before them; but as they
have no access to libraries, it is impossible for them to get acquainted
with the literature of that branch upon which they treat."

From the preceding quotations, it is evident that, in the opinion of the
Parliamentary Committee, and of the witnesses examined by it, there
exists in this country at once a great deficiency of public libraries
and a pressing necessity for their establishment. Our people are and
will be readers. They are generally prepared to make a good use of books
of a higher order than those offered to them in so cheap and attractive
a form by our enterprising publishers. Now, either their energies will
be wasted in a desultory course of reading, by which they will gain only
a superficial knowledge of almost every conceivable subject, or they
must be furnished with the means, which they are so well prepared to use
to advantage, of going to the bottom of whatever subject interests them,
and having exhausted the wisdom of past generations, of adding to the
stock of general knowledge from the results of their own thoughts and
experience.

The necessity for the establishment of large collections of books,
freely open to the public--of institutions in which, as Ovid well
expresses it,

    "Quaeque viri docto veteres cepere novique
    Pectore, lecturis inspicienda patent"--

is, we imagine, unquestioned and unquestionable. The question now
arises, How are these libraries to be constituted? On this point it will
not be expected that we should dilate at length. At the present time the
best books on all subjects are to be purchased at a moderate rate; and
in the formation of new libraries, attention should first be paid to the
supply of works most generally in demand. It will neither be wise nor
just to the public to purchase, at the outset, rare and curious works:
when a sufficient supply of really useful and generally read
publications has been obtained, it will be quite time enough to think of
indulging the bibliomania. But there is one subject on which this taste
may advantageously be indulged--and that is, every town in which a
public library is established should take care to collect all works
relating to its local or municipal history. A selection of the best
books on bibliography should also be possessed by each. These are to the
librarian and the literary man what the compass is to the mariner, or
the tools of his trade to the artisan.

But we must hasten to a conclusion. As a pendent to the Report of the
Parliamentary Committee, Mr. Ewart brought forward a bill for the
establishment of libraries and museums in country towns. This bill has
now received the sanction of the legislature; its operation is, however,
limited to boroughs whose population exceeds 10,000; and before it can
be carried into effect, a public meeting of rate-payers must be called,
and the consent of two-thirds of those present obtained. Liverpool was
the first to profit by this act: other towns have followed her example;
and we trust that ere long, in all the considerable towns throughout the
length and breadth of this land, public libraries and museums will be
established. The subject is one that cannot be long neglected. It will
go on gaining upon public attention, until seen by all in its true
light, and in all its bearings. Then the connection between a sound
literature and the means used for its formation will be felt; then the
numerous and immediate advantages of such a form of encouragement, as
the establishment of these institutions, will be clearly seen and fully
understood; and the rich harvest of glory which our future scholars will
reap in every branch of study must convince even the most incredulous,
that literature asks no favors and seeks no aid for which she does not
repay the giver with a tenfold increase.

FOOTNOTES:

[19] The library of Pergamos was founded by King Eumenes, and enlarged
by his successor Attalus. It soon became so extensive that the
Ptolemies, afraid that it would speedily rival their own collection at
Alexandria, issued an edict forbidding the exportation of papyrus; but
this prohibition, so far from attaining the unworthy object for which it
was destined, proved rather beneficial; for the Pergameans, having
exhausted their stock of papyrus, set their wits to work, and invented
parchment (_charta Pergamena_) as a substitute.

[20] One of the most remarkable of these purchases was that made of the
private library of the Prince Eugene, for a life-income of 10,000
florins. It was composed of 15,000 printed volumes, 337 manuscripts, 290
folio volumes of prints, and 215 portfolios or boxes.

[21] For a detailed account of, and guide-book to, the treasures of this
great national collection, see "The British Museum, Historical and
Descriptive, with Numerous Engravings," recently published by W. & R.
Chambers.




THE JOURNALS OF LOUIS PHILIPPE.


Our readers know that one of the points of the singular but admirable
education that Madame de Genlis gave Louis Philippe and his brothers,
was to teach them to examine and regulate their mind and conduct by the
keeping of a journal; and this Louis Philippe has done, not, we suppose,
continuously, nor even, perhaps, for the greater part of his busy life,
but for particular periods--during seasons either of peculiar interest
or of unusual leisure. A fragment of his early journal, extending from
the autumn of 1790 to the summer of 1791, was lost or stolen in the
tumults and pillage of the first Revolution, as the memoirs of 1815 have
been in the late one, and like these, published by an illegitimate
possessor. That most curious little tract had become very rare--so rare,
indeed, that Louis Philippe himself had not a copy, till a friend of
ours lately presented him the copy from which we ourselves had made a
translation, which we published _in extenso_ in our article on "The
Personal History of Louis Philippe." The King had also written and
printed the "Journal of the Hundred Days," just mentioned; and we were
permitted to see and make extracts in our last March number from his
Journal of February and March, 1848. It is known, too, that during his
residence at Claremont, as at former intervals of repose, he amused
himself in recording his recollections; but no information has yet
transpired of the extent (either as to bulk or time) of what he may have
left--beyond the conjecture (which is, however, only founded on an
accidental expression of his which was repeated to us some months ago)
that the portion which he was so anxious to complete related to his
return to France in 1814. * * But whatever Louis Philippe may have left,
it will be curious and valuable, as the production of so powerful a
mind, always engaged in, and for a long period actually directing, the
most extraordinary series of events in the history of the modern world.
Its publication, however, must be, of course, a matter of great
delicacy, and of mature deliberation, and we have not as yet heard even
a rumor on the subject.

These facts are from an interesting paper in the last number of the
Quarterly Review.




THE BUNJARAS.


This most interesting race, the travelling grain merchants of western
India (who lead a life wholly nomadic, and have done so earlier than is
recorded), have their best interests opposed to the introduction of
foreign innovation in the matter of transit. The Bunjaras have no
sympathy with civilized life; from the people of India they move, think,
live apart, varying in dress, language, religion, from all about them.
Rajpoots by origin, they can follow no trade; the Bunjara may _serve_
only as a soldier; in all other callings he must be free and
independent. For hundreds of years we find them, as hordes, encamping in
the open air, and living by the exchange of merchandise. They are owners
of great droves of bullocks, which, laden with grain in the upper
country, they drive to the coast, exchanging their burthens for salt, at
a favorable market, but sedulously avoiding all intercourse with
strangers and their cities. The Bunjaras are a stout, sturdy race;
sturdy and stout in action and resolve as they are in body and form,
Spartan-like in their sense of honor, free in their opinion as the
mountain breeze, keeping apart from men and their cabals, and existing
by their own energies. A short time since, I journeyed on horseback over
the very line of this proposed railway, from the city of Nassiek to
Bombay, and encountered several hundreds of bullocks heavily laden, and
attended by Bunjara families; the men armed with sword and matchlock,
the children propped up among the bullock furniture, and each younger
woman of the tribe looking much as one fancies the Jewish maiden must
have looked when she obtained grace and favor in the sight of King
Ahasuerus, who "made her queen instead of Vashti." It is worthy of
remark, that the choice of colors among the Bunjara women is altogether
opposed to general taste among the Hindoos. Red and yellow among the
latter are always favorite tints, and blue is never worn by any but the
common people, to whom it is recommended by the cheapness of the indigo
used in dyeing. The Bunjara women, on the contrary, select the richest
imaginable Tyrian purple, a sort of rosy smalt, as the ground of their
attire, which is bordered by a deep phylactery of divers colors in
curious needlework, wrought in with small mirrors, beads, and sparkling
crystals. Their saree has a fringe of shells, and their handsome arms
and delicate ankles are laden with rich ornaments The Bunjara women
plaid their hair with crimson silk, and suffer it to fall on either side
of the face, the ends secured with silver tassels, and on the summit of
the head they wear a small tiara studded with silver stars. The reader
may think this a fanciful and exaggerated dress for the wife of a
drover; but these costumes are heir-looms, and though they are often
seen faded, torn, travel-stained, and grim, the materials are always as
I have described them, differing in freshness, but never in
character.--_Sharpe._




From the Dublin University Magazine.

THE MYSTIC VIAL:

OR, THE LAST DEMOISELLE DE CHARREBOURG

_Concluded from page 264._


XI.--JONQUIL.

Blassemare, meanwhile, made his toilet elaborately, and by ten o'clock
was in Paris. He stopped at the Hotel Secqville.

"Is the marquis yet risen?" he asked.

"No;" he was in his bed; he had not retired until very late, and must
not be disturbed.

"But I _must_ see him, my good friend; his happiness, indeed his safety,
depends upon my seeing him immediately."

Blassemare was so very urgent, that at length the servant consented to
deliver a note to his master.

Rubbing his eyes, and more asleep than awake, the marquis took the
billet, and read--

"The Sieur de Blassemare, who had the honor of meeting the Marquis de
Secqville last night at the Chateau des Anges, implores a few minutes
conversation without one moment's delay; by granting which the marquis
may possibly avert consequences the most deplorable."

Certain shocks are strong enough to restore a drunken man to sobriety in
an instant, and, _a fortiori_, to dispel in a moment the fumes of sleep.
In a few seconds the marquis, in slippers, and morning-gown, received
Blassemare, with many apologies, in his dressing-room.

"A very slight acquaintance will justify a _friendly_ interposition,"
said Blassemare, after a few little speeches of ceremony at each side;
"and my visit is inspired by a friendly and charitable motive. The fact
is--the fact is--my dear friend, that--your coat is torn."

"My coat torn!" repeated the marquis in surprise, visibly disconcerted,
while he affected surprise.

"Yes, the coat you wore last night. Ah! there it is--this blue velvet,
with diamond button. La! Yes, there is the place. It was caught--ha, ha,
ha!--in that cursed door; and, egad, as one of Le Prun's confidential
advisers has got the piece in his possession----"

"Psha! you are jesting. Why, there are more blue coats than one in the
world."

"I know; but there is only _one_ Marquis de Secqville. And as I
happened, purely accidentally, upon my honor, to witness with my own
eyes no inconsiderable part of his last night's adventure, it may be as
well if he reverses his clever points of evidence for Monsieur Le Prun,
should his suspicions chance to take an unfortunate direction."

"What adventure pray, sir, do you speak of?"

"Your interview with Madame Le Prun, your unfortunate descent from the
balcony, your flight through the park-door, and the disastrous severance
of a button and a specimen-bit of velvet from your coat--in short, my
dear marquis, you may, if you please, affect a reserve, which, indeed,
_I_ should prefer to a frank confession, by which, although I have
nothing to learn, I should, in some sort, be compelled to regard your
secret as one of honor; as it is, you know, I am free----"

"No gentleman is free to compromise a lady's character by his
insinuations."

"Nor by his _conduct_, my dear marquis. But should he be so unfortunate
as to have done so, he ought, in prudence and generosity, to seal as
many lips as he possibly can."

"It seems, sir, to me that you have come to me with a cock-and-a-bull
story, to establish an imaginary connection between me and some stupid
adventure, which occurred at the Chateau des Anges."

"And such being your belief, my dear marquis, I have, of course, only to
make my adieux, and relieve you from so impertinent an intrusion."

"Stay, sir. You are a gentleman; there are, perhaps, circumstances of
suspicion. It is very embarrassing to have a lady's name involved;
and--and--in short, sir, I----"

He hesitated.

"_What_, sir?"

"I throw myself upon your honor!" said the marquis, with an effort, and
extending his hand.

"You are right, my dear marquis," said Blassemare, accepting his
proffered hand. "You know I am Le Prun's friend; and as there was no
obligation of secrecy, till your own confidence imposed it, I should
have been in a difficult position as respected him. I have now learned
your secret from yourself--honor seals my lips; and so, having put you
upon your guard, and enjoined the extremest caution, at least for the
present, I commend you to your presiding planets, Mercury and Venus. But
you had better burn that tell-tale coat; for here is not a shrewder
fellow in all France than Le Prun, and 'gad you are not safe till it is
in ashes."

"My dear Blassemare, be my friend; quiet his suspicions. I shall one day
tell you all; only avert his suspicions from her."

"By my faith, that is more than I _can_ do. Give me a line to her; _I_
must direct her conduct, or she will ruin herself. I know Le Prun; it
needs a skilful player to hide one's cards from him. I am a man of my
word; and I pledge my honor that Le Prun shall not have hint of your
secret."

"You are right, Blassemare. _I_ can't see her without exposing her to
risk; do all you can to protect her from jealousy."

"Well, give me my credentials."

Secqville wrote:--"_Blassemare is the friend of Dubois; Lucille may
trust him._"

"She knew me first by that name; be careful not to risk losing the
paper."

Again they bid farewell, and Blassemare departed.

Blassemare's head was as full of strange images as the steam of a
witch's caldron. He had his own notions of honor--somewhat fantastic and
inconsistent, but still strong enough to prevent his betraying to Le
Prun the secret of which he had just made himself completely master. He
was mortified intensely by the discovery of a successful rival where he
had so coolly and confidently flattered himself with a solitary
conquest. He looked upon himself as the _dupe_ of a young girl and her
melancholy lover. His vanity, his spleen, and his guilty fancy, which,
with the discovery of his difficulties, expanded almost into a passion,
all stimulated him to continue the pursuit, and his brain teemed with
schemes for outwitting them both, supplanting his rival, and gaining his
point.

Full of these, he reached the Chateau des Anges--a sage, trustworthy,
and virtuous counsellor for old Le Prun to lean on in his difficulties!

"You did wrong, in my opinion, to unmask your suspicions to old
Charrebourg," said Blassemare, after he and Le Prun had talked over the
affair.

"But he has not seen my wife since, and she, therefore, knows nothing of
them."

"Were I in your place, notwithstanding, I should see him again, undo the
effect of what I had said, and so prevent his putting Madame Le Prun on
her guard."

"You are right for once. I thought of doing so myself."

Le Prun generally acted promptly; and so he left Blassemare to his
meditations. Framing his little speech of apology as he went along, he
traversed several passages, descended a stair in one of the towers, and
found himself at last at the lobby of the Visconte's suite of rooms. It
was now night--and these apartments lying in the oldest part of the
chateau, and little frequented, were but very dimly lighted. There was
nobody waiting in the anteroom--the servant had probably taken advantage
of his master's repose, or reverie, to steal away to the gay society of
his brother domestics; and these sombre and magnificently constructed
rooms were as deserted as they were dim.

Having called in vain, the Fermier-General lighted a candle at the murky
lamp, and entered the Visconte's apartment. His step was arrested by a
howling from the inner chambers that might have spoken the despair of an
evil spirit.

"Charrebourg! Visconte! Charrebourg!"

No answer--There was a silence--then another swelling howl.

"Psha!--it is that cursed old cur. I had forgotten him. Jonquil,
Jonquil! come here, boy."

The old dog came scrambling along, and looking up into Le Prun's face,
yelped strangely.

"What!--hungry? They have forgotten you, I dare say. What! not a scrap,
not a bone! But where is your master?"

Le Prun entered the inner room, and the dog, preceding him, ran behind
the fauteuil that stood at the table; and then running a step or two
towards Le Prun, raised a howl that made him jump.

"Hey! what's the matter? But, sacre! there _is_ something--what is
this?"

There was a candle burning on the table, and writing materials. The
Visconte de Charrebourg, who had evidently been writing, had fallen
forward upon the table--dead. Le Prun touched him, he was quite cold. He
raised the tall lank figure as well as he could, so that it leaned back
in the chair; a little blood came from the corner of the mouth, the eyes
were glazed, but the features wore, even in death, a character of
sternness and dignity. He had fallen forward upon the fingers that held
the pen, and the hand came stiffly back along with the body, still
holding the pen in the attitude in which the chill of death had
stiffened them. In this attitude he looked as if he only awaited a
phrase or a thought of which he was in search to resume his writing.

"Dead--dead--a long time dead! how the devil has all this happened?"

And he looked for a moment at the old hound that was sniffing and
whimpering in his master's ears, as if he could answer him. Poor
Jonquil! he has shared his master's fortune fairly--the better and the
worse; for years his humble comrade in the sylvan solitudes of
Charrebourg, and here the solitary witness of his parting moment. Who
can say with what more than human grief that dumb heart is swelling! He
will not outlive his old friend many days--Jonquil is past the age for
making new ones.

Le Prun glanced at the letter, a few lines of which the dead man had
traced when he was thus awfully interrupted. "Sir," it began, "the
family of Charrebourg, of which I am the unworthy representative, have
been remarkable at all times for a chivalric and honorable spirit. They
have maintained their dignity in prosperity by great deeds and princely
munificence--in adversity, by encountering grief with patience, and
insolence with defiance. Insult has never approached them unexpiated by
blood; and I, old as I am, in consequence of what this morning----" here
the summons had interrupted him.

"Intended for me!" said Le Prun, with an ugly sneer. "Well, he can't now
put his daughter on her guard, or inflame her with the magnificent
spirit of the beggarly Charrebourgs."

And so saying, he surrendered the chamber to the dead Visconte and his
canine watcher.


XII.--ISOLATION.

Blassemare kept his counsel and his word. He dropped no hint to Le Prun
of his interview with the Marquis de Secqville. His own vanity was at
once mortified and excited by the discovery he had made. He was resolved
to obliterate the disgrace of having been duped, by the reality of his
meditated triumph. Love and war have much in common, a truth perhaps
embodied in the allegoric loves of Mars and Venus. Certain, at least, it
is, that in each pursuit all authorities agree that every stratagem is
fair. Blassemare was not the man to rob this canon of its force by any
morbid scruples of conscience; and having the courage of a lion,
associated with some of the vulpine attributes, and a certain prankish
love of mischief, he was tolerably qualified by nature for the
enterprises of rivalry and intrigue.

Le Prun brooded savagely over his suspected wrongs. He awaited with
affected contempt, but a real and malignant anxiety, the verdict of
Blassemare, who insisted upon deferring his interview with Madame Le
Prun until some weeks had passed over the grave of that "high and
puissant signer, the Visconte de Charrebourg."

It was nearly a month after the death of that old gentleman, when
Blassemare, happening to meet Madame Le Prun as she walked upon one of
the terraces, dressed in so exquisite a suit of mourning, and looking
altogether so irresistibly handsome, that, for the life of him, he could
not forbear saluting, approaching, and addressing her. He was affably
received, and the conversation, at first slight and indifferent, turned
gradually, without premeditation on his part, but, as it were, by a sort
of irresistible fatality, into that sombre and troubled channel whither,
sooner or later, though not exactly then, he had determined to direct
it.

"Monsieur Le Prun is unaccountably out of spirits, madame--I should say
morose, ill-tempered. I almost fear to approach him."

"Is there any thing to surprise one in that?"

"Why, no, considering his provocations."

"Provocations! what do you mean, sir?"

"Madame must pardon me. I happen to be in possession of some secrets."

There was a short pause, during which Madame Le Prun's color came and
went more than once.

"Will Madame Le Prun be so kind as to sit down here for a few minutes,
and I will convince her that I have kept those secrets well, and that I
am--I dare not say her friend--but the most devoted of her servants?"

Madame Le Prun sat down upon the marble couch that stood there, carved
with doves and Cupids, and embowered, in the transparent shadows of
myrtle, like a throne of Venus. Blassemare fancied that he had never
beheld so beautiful and piquante an image as Lucille at that moment
presented: her cheeks glowing, her long lashes half dropped over the
quenched fires of her proud dark eyes; her countenance full of a
confusion that was at once beautiful and sinister; one hand laid upon
her heart, as if to quell its beatings, and shut with an expression half
defiant, half irresolute--and the pretty fingers of the other
unconsciously playing with the tendrils of a pavenche.

Blassemare enjoyed this pretty picture too much to disturb it by a word.
Perhaps, too, there was comfort to his vanity in the spectacle of her
humiliation; at all events he suffered some time to pass before he spoke
to her. When he did, it was with a great deal of respect; for
Blassemare, notwithstanding his coarseness, had a sufficiency of tact.

"Madame perceives that I am not without discretion and zeal in her
service."

"Sir, you speak enigmas; you talk of secrets and provocation; and while
you affect an air of deference, your meaning is full of insolence."

It was plain her pride was mastering her fears, Blassemare thought it
high time to lower his key. He therefore said, with a confident smile
and an easy air--

"My meaning may be disagreeable, but that is chargeable not upon _me_,
but on the _circumstances_ of our retrospect; and if I am enigmatical
rather than explicit, I am so from respect, not insolence. My dear
madame, on the honor of a gentleman, I saw Monsieur le Marquis de
Secqville take his abrupt departure from your window--you understand. I
not only saw him, but found and retained proofs of his identity, armed
with which, I taxed him with the fact, and obtained his full confession.
_Now_, madame, perhaps you will give me credit for something better than
hypocrisy and insolence."

Lucille looked thunderstruck for a moment, then rising, she darted on
him a glance of rage and defiance, and overpowered by the tumult within
her, she burst into a flood of tears, and covering her face with her
hands, sobbed in silence, almost hysterically.

Blassemare waited patiently while she wept on. Suddenly she looked full
and fiercely on him, and cried--

"Perhaps you have told me falsehoods, and dared thus to trifle with me."

"I swear, madame, on the honor of a nobleman of France, I have told you
the simple truth. De Secqville did not venture to deny the fact; on the
contrary, he confessed it frankly."

"Yes--I see you tell me the truth; it was base of De Secqville!"

"Well, to say truth, I did think he might have kept a lady's secret
better."

Blassemare was ready and unscrupulous; but all is fair in love.

"I am innocent!" she cried, with abrupt vehemence, and fixing her fiery
gaze upon him.

"Of course, madame."

"I say I am innocent, sir. Why do you say _of course_!"

"Because _I_ never knew a lady yet, who was otherwise than innocent."

She looked at him with a lowering contempt--he thought it _guilt_--for a
few moments, then dropping her gaze gloomily, she murmured, in bitter
abstraction--

"Yes, it was base of De Secqville; he ought to have perished rather."

"Egad," thought Blassemare, "my project prospers--she is at my
mercy--and disgusted with the Marquis. I'm no general or she surrenders
at discretion."

"De Secqville, madame, is a handsome fellow; but he admires nobody but
himself. He has been all his life--and trust me, he is not quite so
young as he pretends--a man of intrigue. He is not content with his
_bonnes fortunes_, but he boasts of his conquests, and sacrifices
reputations to his vanity. Such men are not to be trusted with impunity,
or loved without disgrace. It is best never to have favored them, and
next best to discard them promptly."

He fancied his speech had hit the fierce temper of his auditor. He
paused for a time, to let it work, and then, in a tone of profound
humility, said--

"As for me, madame, if one so unworthy dare invite a passing thought of
yours, I have but to ask your forgiveness; if I have said one word that
gave you pain, I implore your forgiveness."

Here he sank upon his knee. Lucille was by no means as experienced in
the ways of the wicked gender as many younger women. Blassemare looked
very humble, and she took his humility in good faith. She looked on him
then with a softened aspect, and the heart of the profligate beat thick
with anticipated triumph.

"You have had, madame, in these recent transactions, signal proofs of my
fidelity. The secret so lightly esteemed by De Secqville, _I_ would
rather lose my last drop of blood than reveal to a living mortal. I am
secrecy itself. Judge what I have endured. I have striven--how vainly my
own heart tells me--to hide the sentiments of my soul from you, madame.
I could see with comparative indifference the happiness of that rival
whom the forms of law, and not the preference of the heart, had
elevated; but judge how I could endure the fortune of an unworthy and
faithless competitor. Imagine, if you can, my despair. Compassionate, I
conjure you, my misery, and with one relenting word or look of pity,
raise me from the abyss, and see at your feet the happiest, as he is the
most devoted, of mortals."

At the same moment Blassemare attempted to take Lucille's hand; it was,
however, instantly withdrawn, and the back of it, instead, struck him in
the face, with all the force of enraged and insulted pride.

"How dare you, sirrah, hold such language to me--how _dare_ you? Another
word, and I denounce you to my husband--ay, sir, _I_--to Monsieur Le
Prun. I defy you."

Blassemare had started to his feet, very much astonished; his cheek
tingling, his self-love stung to the quick. But he was too experienced
in such affairs to indulge any tragical emotions on the occasion. He
stared at her for a minute, with an expression of absurd bewilderment.
There was no very graceful _exit_ from the undignified predicament to
which he had, like a simpleton, reduced himself. Recovering his
self-possession, however, he broke into a cold laugh, and said--

"Madame, I have misunderstood you with a vengeance; I pray you believe
that you have misunderstood _me_. We now, however, thoroughly understand
one another. I keep your little secret on condition that you keep mine."

Lucille deigned no answer; but the compact had, it seemed, been silently
ratified by her, for Le Prun and Blassemare continued to be the best
friends imaginable.

Blassemare was not vindictive, but he _was_ exquisitely vain. He had a
good-humored turn for mischief, too; and, notwithstanding the repulse he
had experienced, or perhaps, such is human perversity--_in consequence_
of it--he was more than ever resolved to pursue his guilty designs upon
the heart of Madame Le Prun.

His hands were, therefore, tolerably full; for he had not only this
little affair to attend to, but to exercise his vigilance to prevent De
Secqville's hearing of his breach of faith, and at the same time to
confirm and exasperate, in furtherance of his own schemes, the
suspicions of Monsieur Le Prun.

This latter task circumstances rendered an easy one, and Blassemare
executed it without giving any definite direction to Le Prun's inflamed
jealousy. So far, indeed, was he from suspecting the identity of the
criminal, that he brought De Secqville two or three times to sup at the
Chateau des Anges, an act of temerity which excited Blassemare's anxiety
and vigilance. That gentleman had therefore kept so close and constant a
watch upon the handsome Marquis, that he had not, upon any of these
occasions, an opportunity of exchanging a single sentence with Madame Le
Prun.

The occasional appearance of De Secqville at the Chateau des Anges was a
sufficient proof that Blassemare had kept the secret with fidelity.
Madame Le Prun, therefore, was far from suspecting that _he_ was in
secret the inspiring cause of that ominous restraint, the pressure of
which she began to feel every day more and more severely. One by one her
personal attendants were removed. Gradually she felt the process of
isolation shrouding her from the eyes of her fellow-creatures. Her walks
were prescribed and restricted; and with bitter resentment she perceived
that she was subjected to the outrage of a systematic espionage. The
face of M. Le Prun was always darkened with hatred and menace. Every day
made his power more directly felt, and more nearly reduced her to his
solitary, rare, and sinister companionship. At last a note, in M. Le
Prun's hand, upon her table, announced in a few barbarous and insulting
words that his niece Julie had been removed, by his orders, from the
contagion of a companionship unfit for innocence. This was to Lucille a
frightful blow. Her solitude was now virtually complete. Her own old
faithful servant, Marguerite, had been withdrawn; and a tall pale Norman
matron, taciturn and sardonic, was now her sole attendant. It was plain,
too, that M. Le Prun had gradually removed his establishment from the
Chateau des Anges. The gay and gorgeous staff of servants and grooms
had disappeared. The salons, halls, and lobbies of the vast mansion were
silent as the chambers of a mausoleum--the outer courts still and
deserted. She was becoming the prisoner of an enraged tyrant, alone, in
the midst of an impenetrable and funereal solitude.

In fact, many prisoners of state enjoyed a great deal more liberty than
she; for not only was she restricted to her own apartment, but confined
to the range of the small court which lay immediately under her own
windows.

The indignation and fury which these outrages inspired, by degrees gave
place to something like despair and panic. With the exception of her
ill-looking handmaid, and the no less sinister-visaged sentinel who
stealthily watched her movements, and between both of whom a sort of
ominous correspondence seemed to be carried on by signals, she had
latterly seen no one, but at rare intervals the hated and dreaded
apparition of Le Prun at a distance, and Blassemare once or twice.


XIII.--THE ROSE-TREE.

One day Lucille was walking in the little court we have described, when
the door of the park, which we have had occasion to signalize, opened,
and Blassemare stood within a yard or two of her.

"Good-day, madame."

"Good-day, sir."

A glance at the attendant, who seemed to regard Blassemare as Le Prun's
vicegerent, was sufficient to cause her to withdraw to some distance,
and affecting a light and easy air, which might well mislead the more
distant observers as to the serious purport of his discourse, he
continued--

"I am afraid madame is very unhappy."

"Truly, I am so."

"I fear she is also _in danger_."

She started as if a bolt of ice had pierced her heart. He had spoken in
that word the secret fears of many a long night. How inexpressibly more
terrible do our untold terrors become, when they are spoken in our ears
by the lips of strangers!

"Yes, madame, I say in danger. There are odd stories afloat about
Monsieur Le Prun--they may be all lies, I don't pretend to say; for in
truth I don't very well _comprehend_ my friend Le Prun. But it cannot be
hidden from madame, that when one wants to make away with an individual,
the first step is to conceal them--to cut them off from all intercourse
with the world, and cause them to be forgotten. Madame understands me?"

"Yes, yes--oh, my God!"

"Madame must learn to command herself, if she wishes to prolong our
conversation. We must _appear_, at least, indifferent. There are _spies_
watching our gestures and countenances, though they can't hear our
words."

"I will--thank you, thank you: but for the mercy of God, monsieur, will
you suffer me to perish?"

"No, madame, if you will aid in your own deliverance. Will you fly with
me to-morrow night?"

"If monsieur, for the charity of heaven, will undertake to act only as
my brother and protector."

"By my faith, madame, I'll put myself under no conditions."

"Monsieur de Blassemare, have you no honor, no pity, no manhood? Will
you be accessory to a _murder_? I will go with you on no other terms."

"I accept none, madame."

"You are a coward, sir, and a criminal."

"Madame might command, at least, her countenance and her gestures;
imitate me. You call me hard names; I'm prepared for them. Now listen: I
won't accept your condition, because, if I did, I should keep my word;
and, I tell you frankly, I won't despair, and I don't despair. But,
madame, you shan't perish. What do you say to leaving the chateau with
De Secqville?"

"Yes, _he_ will agree to whatever I propose."

"I dare say."

"But when--how?"

"To-morrow night, at ten o'clock, through that door; a coach shall wait
in the park. You know the well under the two chestnut-trees; there he
will await you; don't fail--a moment late, and all may be lost."

"But--but how to evade the woman who watches me?"

"She shall be perfectly drunk."

"And the man?"

"Drunker still. Leave all details to me. There are more than one Argus
besides these; but a man of resource is at home among difficulties.
Watch at ten o'clock. When you see a light in the window of the small
pavilion, all is prepared: you will find the door open."

Blassemare signed to the woman to approach, and said, as he bowed his
adieu, in a louder key--

"I shall not fail, madame, to report to Monsieur Le Prun the unfortunate
temper in which I have the honor to find you."

"And have the goodness to add, that I only regret my inability to repeat
the same sentiments in his presence."

"Madame shall be obeyed."

So, with an air of affected defiance on the one side, and of sarcastic
levity on the other, the two conspirators parted. Her protracted
residence in the Chateau des Anges, gloomy and anxious before, had
become absolutely terrifying since she had heard the dark and menacing
insinuations used by Blassemare. The evening that followed that scene,
the night, and the ensuing morning, seemed endless, filled with horrid
images, and haunted by the hideous thought that the catastrophe might
possibly anticipate the hour of escape, or that some one untoward chance
might defeat the entire scheme, and leave her at the mercy of a more
than ever exasperated tyrant.

As the day wore on, every incident appeared to her overstrained mind an
omen of good or ill-success. Towards evening the sky became overcast,
and finally an awful thunder-storm swept over the Chateau des Anges. Her
heart sank within her at the inauspicious augury; but as the same
tempest, an hour later, rolled over other regions, it left one trifling
token of its passage, which, by a mysterious stroke of fate, was nearly
connected with her destiny.

Poor Gabriel, his head full of chimeras, his heart of true love, was
slowly walking through the woodlands of the Parcq de Charrebourg,
towards that haunted spot, the cottage in which the beautiful demoiselle
had passed her happiest days, when the storm began to mutter over the
rising grounds, and before he had made much way, the thunder burst above
his head with fury, and in a little time the rain descended with such
tropical violence as to arrest his further progress, under the dense
canopy of a chestnut-tree.

Here he waited until the thunder-clouds had quite passed away; and then,
amid red glances of western sunshine, he resumed that pilgrimage, to him
so full of melancholy, of ambition, and of tenderness.

"And now, dear, _dear_ Mademoiselle de Charrebourg, I come into your
presence, to learn how it fares with you."

He took off his hat, as if expecting to see her looking, as of old, from
the window of her little room. From the plants that hung from the walls,
and from the struggling bushes, the big rain-drops were trickling, in
the merry sunlight, like tears of joy. His heart was full as he turned
the corner of the cottage, and entered the little bowling-green. But,
alas! what a sight awaited him! The rose-tree, the emblem of his adored
mistress, was shivered: the casement, and the wall, and roof, were
shattered, and reduced to a mass of rubbish, by a stroke of lightning.

Gabriel had never felt real desolation before. He rushed to the wide
chasm which now admitted the winds and rains of heaven to the shrine
which his adoration and reverence had consecrated with a tenderness so
absorbing. Oh! what ruin--what profanation--what an irreparable havoc of
all his treasure! And the tree, too--gone, blasted. Tears of passionate
despair rained from his eyes: he wrung his hands, he stamped, raved, and
"cursed his day."

In a little while, however, his thoughts took a different turn. From the
material wreck they passed on to the dire significance which such
portent might indicate.

"Yes, I came to see how she fares, and behold what I find--torn by
storms--ruined--dead." He stooped, and took up a fragment of the
rose-tree and kissed it.

"But the Chateau des Anges is not five leagues away. I will go there. I
will go now. I will learn what all this means."

With this resolution he ran fleetly down the <DW72>s of the park, now
wreathed in the rising mists of night, towards the feudal village of
Charrebourg, through which his path lay.

Breathless and eager, as if heaven were before him and all the fiends of
hell at his heels, he sped through the darkening town, and did not
slacken his speed until he was a full mile beyond it.

He had been so absorbed with the single idea that had seized upon his
mind, that he was scarcely conscious of the objects he had passed or the
speed at which he ran.

As he looked round upon the moonlit scenery among which he found
himself, he felt for a moment stunned and perplexed; he slackened his
pace and thought over his expedition. It lost none of its romantic
fascination; he only wondered that he had not made a journey to the
Chateau des Anges at least once in every week.

How beautiful the moonlight was! how soft the air! how enchanting the
scenery! and oh, what vague possibilities of glory and rapture might not
be unfolded in the undeveloped future of this wild excursion!

It was fully a quarter past twelve when Gabriel reached the point, at
which the road directly leading to the Chateau des Anges diverged from
that which he had been hitherto travelling. Just as he did so, a
carriage and four, with two postillions and two mounted servants beside,
came to a sudden stop within a few score paces of the pedestrian, and
one of the men dismounting secured some part of the harness which had
given way, and was getting into the saddle again when Gabriel arrived at
the side of the carriage. He then made a momentary pause. In the
brilliant moonlight every detail of the equipage was visible; the coach
was dingy and battered, its principal color blue, and covered, according
to the fashion, with gilded arabesques in cumbrous relief, in which a
curious dragon, with a barbed tongue and tail, was contending in a
hundred repetitions with as many little cupids. Just as these details
seized upon his imagination, the window was suddenly opened, and a lady
put out her head and in thrilling tones cried--

"Gabriel, Gabriel--save me, save me."

He saw Lucille's face; it was her voice that rang in his ears. He felt
his strength multiplied a hundred fold. He would have, single-handed,
fought an army in such a quarrel. With a cry of delight, that burst from
his very soul, he sprang to the side of the carriage and grasped the
door. Before he reached it, however, some one from within had drawn her
away and shut the window close, and the horses being again in motion,
and rapidly quickening their pace to a gallop, Gabriel ran by the side,
tugging vainly at the door, until one of the mounted attendants,
spurring beside, seized him by the collar, and flung him headlong upon
the road.

Stunned and giddy, he got upon his feet again, and staggered blindly
after the whirling carriage, uttering threats and defiances as huge as
ever were thundered from the lips of the renowned knight of La Mancha.
All would not do, however; the cortege held on its way with whirlwind
speed. Vainly Gabriel strained every sinew to overtake the coach. The
fell enchanters rapt his peerless mistress from his eyes, and every
moment the distance between him and them became wider and more hopeless.
At last, breathless, exhausted, enraged, he was forced to give over the
pursuit, after having maintained it for nearly three miles over the
pavements of the long straight road.

It was on the highway to Paris; thither he assumed they were bound, and
there he resolved that night should behold him also. Sometimes running,
sometimes walking with hurried strides, he steadily and rapidly pursued
his way; his imagination every moment filled with images of the strange
golden dragons and cupids, and the pale, beautiful face of Lucille
shrieking from among them for help.

"What then had befallen Lucille?" The reader shall hear.

The first symptom which assured her that Blassemare was at work in the
realization of this plot, was that her Norman woman, having stayed away
longer than usual at her suppertime, returned with a very flushed face
and dancing eyes, and altogether in a very hilarious and impertinent
mood. For a long time, however, it appeared that the woman was only
"pleasantly intoxicated," a state in which she would probably prove a
more effectual check upon her plans of escape than in her ordinary
condition. Spite of the seriousness of the issue, there was something
inconceivably absurd in this distress. The woman was noisy, familiar,
and sometimes indulged in a vein of menacing jocularity, the principal
material of which was supplied from scraps of old Norman ditties. There
was one in particular which had a specially grisly sound in the ears of
the friendless and frightened young wife. It was about a _belle
demoiselle_--

    "Who lived all alone in a castle of brick,
    And all in the night-time this lady fell sick;
    She had eat of a berry that grew by the well,
    And black grow her features--her members they swell;
    This lady is poisoned and so she must lie,
    All stark in her bower with nobody nigh."

In the midst of this sinister merriment the woman suddenly became
drowsy, and after a few ineffectual efforts to shake off the torpor that
was overpowering her, sank into a profound sleep. This occurred in the
anteroom, and, leaving the snoring amazon to the sole occupation of the
apartment, Lucille hastened to the bedchamber, from which she commanded
a view of the little pavilion, in the window of which she was to expect
the signal of escape.

It was quite dark; and with a heart palpitating so violently that she
felt at times almost suffocating, she watched the hardly discernible
outline of the building from which the signal was to be displayed.

The wicked Norman was snoring under the influence of her narcotics; but
to the accompaniment of her abominable drone what a hell of suspense did
poor Lucille endure! At length, and not until considerably past ten
o'clock, a light gleamed faintly and for an instant in the appointed
spot, and then disappeared. It returned, however, and now shone
steadily. The decisive moment which was to commence the adventure had
arrived. She murmured an imploring prayer, and turned the bolt of the
window which opened on the balcony. Horror of horrors! it was fast
locked; a strong wire grating covered the outside, so that even had she
ventured upon so much noise as would have been necessary in order to
break the glass, she would in that have encountered a further obstacle,
to _her_ strength absolutely insurmountable.

She made up her mind to escape by the outer door of her suite of rooms,
and to risk all on being able undetected to make her exit in that way
from the house. But that door was also locked. She wrung her hands in an
agony of distraction; but she did not abandon the enterprise. Encouraged
by the lusty snoring of the woman, she approached the fauteuil, where
she lay rather than sat. She slid her hand into the sleeper's pocket,
scarcely daring to breathe while she did so. The keys were not in it;
and the woman turned with something like a start in the chair. Lucille
recoiled on tiptoe, holding her breath, until she seemed again soundly
asleep. She might have concealed them in her bosom; and with an effort
of resolution Madame Le Prun stepped noiselessly beside her and tried
there. She was successful, but in drawing out the key her hand brushed
slightly on the slumbering woman's face, and to her unutterable terror
she started bolt upright in the chair, and stared with a wild and glassy
gaze in her face. Lucille's heart died within her; she froze with
terror; but the action was purely physical, the woman's senses were
still slumbering; there was no trace of meaning in her face; and in a
few moments she fell back again in the same profound sleep.


XIV.--THE PALACE OF TERROR.

With this key Lucille opened the window of the balcony softly. The
descent from this would at another time have appeared to her a matter of
peril, if not impossibility; nerved, however, by the stake and the
emergency, it was nothing; she was upon the ground. The park door she
found, as Blassemare had promised, open. She was now amidst the misty
shadows of the solemn wood. She knew the path to the well by which the
two chestnut-trees grew, and, with light and trembling steps, ran toward
the trysting place. The moon had just begun to rise, and afforded a wan
light, as she reached the appointed spot.

She stood beside the well, almost frightened at the success of her
adventure. A figure emerged from a thicket close by. It was that of a
man in a huge red cloak, and with a great cocked hat, like that of a
_gens-d'armes_. Could this possibly be De Secqville? He whistled a
shrill summons as he approached, and she heard the sound of steps
hurrying to the spot. She was full of fear, apprehensive of treason and
danger. The gentleman in the cocked hat was now close to her. He had
long black hair, descending upon his shoulders, a pair of shaggy
eyebrows, and a preposterous pair of black moustaches. She asked, in a
faltering voice--

"Who are you, sir?"

"An officer, madame, of the police; and you are Madame Lucille Le Prun,
_nee_ de Charrebourg, wife of Etienne Le Prun; and I arrest you in the
King's name."

"Arrest me!--why?--upon what charge?--who is my accuser?"

"By my faith, madame, I know not. My duty is, simply to arrest you, in
the name of his Majesty, and to convey you to Paris. It is nothing very
bad, I fancy. Perhaps you have made monsieur a little jealous, or so;
but you know best."

He spoke in a harsh, gruff voice, and his hand rested upon her arm, so
as to render escape impossible, while he addressed her.

"By what authority do you arrest me?--by what order?"

"By virtue of this _lettre-de-cachet_; you see, madame, signed by the
minister of police."

"I cannot read it; there is not light sufficient."

"_Ma foi_, madame, there is little sunshine at half-past eleven o'clock
at night. I can't help that. Madame will please to come with us."

Two men by this time had appeared close at hand; and Madame Le Prun, who
much preferred one of the King's prisons to that in which her husband
was absolute, accompanied her captors with a far better grace than under
other circumstances she would have done.

Distant a few score steps, upon a sort of grass-grown road, which
traversed the park, stood the equipage which we have already described;
and in a few seconds Lucille found herself seated beside the red cloak
and mighty moustache, that held her in durance, jolting and rolling at a
rapid pace along the moonlit scenery of the park.

"Where am I going?--to the Bastile?" asked Lucille, when a few minutes
had a little recovered her from the stun and confusion of this
adventure.

"Hum!--why, no, madame--not the Bastile; you are going to a convent."

"A convent!--how strange! What convent?"

"That of the Sisters of Love and Our Lady of the Sparkling Eyes--an
ancient foundation of royalty in the city."

"I dare say; I never heard of it before;" and Lucille sank into profound
silence.

After a considerable interval, she asked, with a tremulousness she in
vain tried to conceal--

"There were some friends who were to have arranged my departure from the
place where you arrested me to-night--did you see them?"

"Oh, yes; there was the atribilious Marquis de Secqville and the
handsome Conte de Blassemare. St. Imay arrested them about half-an-hour
ago; _they_ are gone to the Bastile."

Lucille sighed profoundly. She did not observe that the farouche officer
in the corner of the coach was shaking with suppressed laughter. After a
time he ejaculated, in a sepulchral tone--

"I strongly suspect their punishment will be dreadful. It is bad enough
to conspire to steal away the wife of a respectable curmudgeon, madame,
but to draw one's sword on the king's police!--_ma foi_, madame, that is
another affair. If his majesty's clemency be enlisted, notwithstanding,
in their behoof, they may chance to get off with the galleys. It will be
a dreadful sight to see that solemn De Secqville and that jovial
Blassemare pulling one of those cursed long oars together, in red serge
shirts, cursing Cupid and Monsieur Le Prun."

Lucille shrunk back into the obscurity of her corner. The officer could
not discern how his brusque communication had affected her; but, after a
short silence, he burst into an unrestrained peal of laughter. This
unseasonable insolence incensed his prisoner. She felt, however, that
she was at his mercy, and commanded herself; but she could not avoid
saying--

"If the calamities of other people afford you entertainment, monsieur, I
can congratulate you upon possessing an inexhaustible fund of amusement
in the discharge of your odious and melancholy office."

"Amusement! entertainment!" he ejaculated, with another eclat of
laughter, still more obstreperous. "I can't help laughing; but it is
merely hysterical, on the faith of a gentleman. I laugh in proportion to
my desolation. I could at this moment tear out my beard by handfuls
through sheer despair. _Par exemple_, madame, _par exemple_!" And, with
a frantic gesture and a roar of laughter, he literally tore off his huge
moustache with both his hands, at a single pluck. "And my chevelure
also, madame. See, here it goes--all for despair--hurra, hurra, hurrah!
And my eyebrows--ay, they, too--pa ma foi--the eyebrows--there,
presto--hurra, hurra!"

He shook and roared with laughter as he made these successive
sacrifices, and, shifting his seat, so that the moonlight fell full upon
him, cried, panting from exhaustion--

"Does not madame know me?--is it possible? Here I am--cloak, cocked hat,
wig, all gone--in the proper costume of madame's fortunate and adoring
deliverer."

So saying, Blassemare, for it was he, descended, as well as he could,
upon one knee, and seizing Lucille's hand, pressed it to his lips.

"Monsieur Blassemare, you insult me, sir; you forget the conditions upon
which I trusted myself to your care."

"Pardon me, there are _no_ conditions. Madame will please to remember I
would accept none."

At this moment the carriage stopped at the point where Gabriel was at
that instant about to pass.

"Let me go, sir--I will descend. Open the door, I am free--I insist, I
desire to leave the carriage."

"No, no--pray be tranquil--it is impossible."

"I _will_ descend, monsieur."

"Madame, _you shall not_."

He spoke with a good-humored and emphatic impudence which implied the
most perfect resolution. A vague terror took possession of her. She
rushed to the window, and Blassemare, with a gentle force, drew her
back.

It was at that moment she saw Gabriel, and shrieked to him for help.

The coach was again thundering at a gallop along the highway. Lucille
sank back in the corner, and wept with mingled anger and despair.
Blassemare was not a ruffian, so he said, "Madame, calm yourself, I wish
to treat you with respect; your suspicions wound me as much as your
ingratitude. I hope, however, that both will vanish on reflection. In
the meantime, I cannot consent to so insane a measure as your leaving
the carriage. Your return to the Chateau des Anges is not to be thought
of; you dare not go back; and pardon me, madame, I will not permit you
to leave this carriage except for a place of safety and temporary
concealment."

Lucille's haughty and fiery temper could hardly brook this hoity-toity
assumption of authority. There was, however, an obvious vein of reason
in what he said; and she saw, besides, the futility of contending with
one whose will was probably as strong as her own, and backed with power
to make it effectual. She therefore maintained a moody silence, and
Blassemarre, deeming it best to suffer her ill-humor to expend itself
harmlessly, awaited better moments in congenial taciturnity.

Having got a relay of fresh horses upon the way, they continued their
journey at the same furious pace, and at last they entered Paris.
Passing through streets which hemmed her in, or opened in long vistas
like the fantastic scenery of a dream, hurrying onward, she knew not
whither, under swinging lamps, amidst silence and desertion, the
carriage at last drove under a narrow archway into a sort of fore-court,
over which a dark mass of building was looming, and through a second
gateway in this, into an inclosed quadrangle, surrounded by the same
black pile of buildings.

Here the carriage stopped, and one of the attendants, dismounting, rang
a hall bell, whose deep sudden peal through empty vastness gave a
character of profound desolation to the silence in which it was
swallowed. More than once the summons was repeated, and at last a faint
light gleamed upon the windows, and the door was timorously unbarred and
opened. A hard-featured hag, in a faded suit of an obsolete fashion--the
_genius loci_--received the party. She scrutinized Lucille with a
protracted stare of audacious inquisitiveness, and when she had quite
satisfied her curiosity, she led the way through several halls and
lobbies up the great staircase, along a corridor, through a suite of
rooms, upon another lobby up a second staircase, into a great dreary
passage, through half a dozen waste and desolate chambers, and so at
last into a room which had a few pieces of furniture at one end of it,
and a log of wood smouldering and smoking on the hearth.

In truth it was a melancholy place, haunted by dismal reverberations and
a deathlike atmosphere--everywhere mildewed, faded, and half rotten with
decay. It was a place where crimes might be committed, unrecorded and
unsuspected--where screams would lose themselves in vacancy, and
desolation and solitude would swallow up the ghastly evidences of
outrage. Here was the fitting scenery for tales of preternatural terror
or fiendish crime. Lucille felt her heart sink within her as she entered
this vast and awful labyrinth. But she felt that, be her destiny what it
might, she had herself no power to mend it. What resource was left to
her? Necessity retained her amidst the menacing solitudes of this
half-ruined mansion.

Blassemare left her to the care of the old crone, who, to judge from
appearances, was hardly an improvement upon the ungracious attendant she
had left at the Chateau des Anges. This hag had evidently the worst
possible opinion of her guest, and took no pains to affect a respect
which she was far from feeling. She contented herself with offering
Lucille some supper, and this declined, showed her the bedroom that was
prepared for her--a room of the same depressing vastness, and offering,
in its shabby and niggard furniture, a contrast to its majestic
dimensions.

Such as it was, however, it was welcome. Lucille was exhausted with the
anxieties and agitations of the day, as well as with her late and rapid
journey. Having examined the room with a fearful scrutiny, she succeeded
in bolting one of the doors, and placed the only chair the room
contained against the other; so that she might, at least, be warned by
the noise, in the event of any persons forcing an entrance. She lay down
without taking off her clothes, and leaving the candle unextinguished.

For a long time the excitement of her strange situation, and the alarms
that environed her, chased sleep away, worn and exhausted as she was.
After a while, however, fatigue began to confuse her thoughts with
interposing visions. The dreary chamber faded from her view; her heavy
eyelids closed; fantastic scenes and images chased one another through
her wearied brain, and slumber stole gradually upon her, overpowering
spirit and body with a sweet torpor.

From this profound sleep Lucille was disturbed by a peremptory knocking
at the door of the room, which she had bolted. This was accompanied by
violent and reiterated attempts to force it open. At first, these sounds
had mingled with her dreams; but the noise of a struggle, the suppressed
tones of a man's voice, speaking rapidly and fiercely, followed by one
thrilling maniacal scream, which hurried away through the remote
passages, until it either subsided, or was lost in distance, called her
up from her slumbers, trembling with terror.

Sleep was effectually dispelled, and, overcome with the horror of her
situation, she wept, and prayed, and watched through the remainder of
the night. In the morning she heard the old woman arranging the next
room, and soon the voice of Blassemare. Emboldened by the daylight, and
confident that Blassemare, however insulting his designs, would at all
events protect her from actual violence, she opened the door, and
entered the outer chamber, looking so pale, haggard, and fear-stricken,
that the _roue_ himself felt a momentary emotion of compassion.


XV.--THE GRATED WINDOW.

"Monsieur de Blassemare," she said, abruptly, "I cannot remain here!"

"And why not, madame?"

"I have passed a night of terror."

"I should be happy to protect madame."

The significance of his tone, made her eyes flash and her cheeks tingle;
but she controlled her indignation, and said--

"I last night heard the sounds of violence and agony at my very door--in
this apartment. Who was the woman that screamed? What have they done?"

"Shall I tell you?" asked Blassemare, with an odd smile.

"Yes, monsieur, who was she?" she persisted, her curiosity aroused by
the pointed question of Blassemare.

"Well, madame, the person whom you heard scream at your door last
night is Madame Le Prun, wife of the Fermier-General--the
wealthy and benevolent owner of the Chateau des Anges, and your
successful--_lover_!"

"Wife--_wife_ of Monsieur Le Prun!" she faltered, nearly stupefied.

"Ay, madame, his wife."

"Then, thank God, he has no control over me. I am free!--that, at least,
is a happiness."

"Nay, madame, you will not find it so easy to satisfy our tribunals--you
seem to have forgotten the necessity of _proofs_. In the mean time, you
are _de facto_ the wife of Monsieur Le Prun, and he will exert,
according to law, the rights and authority of a husband over you."

"Monsieur de Blassemare, for God's sake, help me--help me in this
frightful extremity!"

"Madame, the fact is, I must be plain with you. If I mix myself further
in this frightful affair, as you justly term it, I must lay my account
with serious perils. Men do not run their heads into mischief for
nothing; and, therefore, if I act as your champion, I must be accepted
as your lover also."

"Oh, Monsieur de Blassemare, you cannot be serious!--you will not be so
inhuman as to desert me!"

"By my faith, madame, the age of knight-errantry is over--nothing for
nothing is the ruling principle of our own prosaic day. To be plain with
you, I can't afford to quarrel with Le Prun for nothing; and, if you
persist in refusing my services, I must only make it up with him as best
I can; and of course you return to the Chateau des Anges."

"I can't believe you, Monsieur de Blassemare; I won't believe you. You
are a gentleman--kind, honorable, humane."

"Gad!--so I am, madame; but I am no professed redresser of wrongs. I
never interpose between husband and wife--or those who pass for
such--without a sufficient motive. Now, Monsieur Le Prun believes I have
gone down to his estate at Lyons, but he will have intelligence of your
flight to-day, and he will learn, in a few days more, that _I_ have also
disappeared. The fact is, my complicity can't remain a secret long. You
see, madame, I must take my course promptly. It altogether rests with
you to decide what it shall be. But you are fatigued and excited: don't
pronounce in too much haste. Consider your position, and I shall have
the honor to present myself again in the course of the afternoon."

She did not attempt to detain him, or, indeed, to reply. Her thoughts
were too distracted.

Lucille, alone once more, became a prey to the terror of another visit
from the so-called Madame Le Prun, whose ill-omened approaches had
inspired her with so much terror on the night preceding.

The chambers looked, if possible, more decayed and dilapidated by
daylight than they had upon the preceding night. She went to the
windows, but they afforded no more cheering prospect--looking out upon a
dark courtyard, round which the vast hotel rose in sombre
altitude--dreary, inauspicious, and colossal. The court was utterly
deserted, and the gate leading from it into the fore-court was closed
and barred. The Bastile itself would have been cheerful compared with
this vast and fearful castle of solitude, or, as it might be, _worse_.
The sense of absolute defencelessness added poignancy to her fears of a
renewed visit from some ill-disposed denizen of the mansion; and her
fears at last became so strong, that she ventured to leave the rooms
where she had been established, intending to retreat to some part of the
house where her presence might at all events be less certainly expected
than where she was. Accordingly she was soon wending among all the
intricacies and solemn grandeur of a huge and half-ruinous hotel.
Descending, at last, a turret stair, she came to a small stone chamber,
in which was a little grated window. Standing upon a block of stone, she
looked through the strong bars of this little aperture, and perceived
that it was but some six or seven feet above the pave of a dark and
narrow lane. She would have given worlds to escape from the prison in
which she found herself, but the close, thick bars rendered all chance
of making that a passage of escape wholly desperate.

As she looked wistfully through, a little ragged urchin came whistling
carelessly along the lane, kicking a turnip before him.

She called the gamin: he was a shrewd monkey-faced fellow, with an
insolent crafty eye.

"My good boy, here is a louis-d'or, as earnest of twenty more which I
will give you, if you bring this safely to Monsieur le Marquis de
Secqville, at the Hotel de Secqville, Rue St. Etienne, and conduct him
hither."

"Hey, mademoiselle! it is a bargain. But how shall I know you
again?--what is your name?"

"I am Madame Le Prun; but the marquis will tell you where I am to be
found. See, here is the note!"

She had written a few lines upon a leaf of her tablet. She tore it off,
directed it, and then threw it out to the boy, together with the
promised coin. He ran away, chuckling and singing upon his errand,
believing his fortune made, and in an instant was out of sight.

Let us now see how he fared.

As the demon of contrariety would have it, Monsieur Le Prun, almost
insane with rage and spite, had, not five minutes before, dismounted at
the Hotel de Secqville, to consult the marquis respecting the flight of
Madame Le Prun. He had certainly chosen his advisers well. The marquis,
as it happened, was out, and Le Prun, who, of course, had access under
all circumstances to the interior of the hotel, established himself in
the private apartment of De Secqville, awaiting his return.

While there, the servant brought in the pencil-note on which so much
depended.

"It must be intended for monsieur," said the man presenting it upon his
salver, "for the messenger says it comes from Madame Le Prun."

"Hey!--ha!--let us see! Ten thousand devils, what is this?"

He read--

"Relying upon your professions of devotion, I implore of you to deliver
me from a prison as terrifying as that of which my husband was the
jailer. The messenger, a little boy whom fortune has sent to me, will
conduct you to this spot. I know not the name of the street, nor of the
hotel. In the name of heaven lose not a moment!

    "LUCILLE."

Monsieur Le Prun descended the stairs, and was in the street in a
second.

"Well, garcon, here I am--I've got the note--conduct me to the place."

"Ha, ha! then you are--the marquis?"

"To be sure I am. Here, boy, take this, and lead on."

He gave him a piece of money, and, following his little guide, Le Prun,
in less than half an hour, reached the spot from which he had started.

"Bon jour, madame. I hope you have recovered the fatigue of your night's
journey. You see I lose no time in hastening to bid you welcome."

So cried Monsieur Le Prun, with a sardonic grin upon his pale face, as
he bowed to the horror-stricken girl, who still occupied the little
window, where she expected so different an image.

She fled from this spectre as if she had seen the Evil One incarnate.
Flying wildly through the passages and chambers of the deserted house,
she found herself on a sudden in an apartment furnished like an office,
with shelves, desks, &c., and here Blassemare was sitting among a pile
of papers. He started on seeing her, and she exclaimed:

"Monsieur Le Prun has seen me--he will be here in a moment."

"_Here!_--where is he?"

"He saw me in the window, and spoke to me with furious irony from the
street. For God's sake, hide me. I feel that he will kill me."

"Hum!--so. Gad, he _will_ be here in a moment. I must meet him boldly--I
have nothing for it but impudence. A few fibs, and, if the worst should
come, my sword. But don't be frightened, madame, he shan't hurt _you_."

Blassemare proceeded to the court, awaiting the advent of his incensed
patron.


XVI.--THE WOMAN IN FLANNEL.

We must now, with the reader's leave, follow Gabriel to Paris, where he
arrived fully three hours later than the fugitive cortege. He wandered
for more than an hour among the streets, in the hope of catching a
glimpse of the coach with the blue panels, and the golden cupids and
dragons so curiously interlaced; but we need not say how vainly.

Worn out with fatigue, hungry and cold--for the nights were now very
chill--and without a sou in his pocket, poor Gabriel, having wandered
for some hours among the streets of this great city, now emptied of all
but its crime and destitution, at last found shelter for the night in an
empty cask, which had served probably as a dog-kennel in an open
workyard into which he strayed. In this he made his bed with a few
armfuls of shavings, and, spite of the cold, slept soundly till morning.

Had it not been for the charity of a poor woman, who gave him a piece of
black bread, he might have starved. Refreshed, however, with this
dainty, he prosecuted his rambles. Among other wonderful sights, he saw
the splendid equipages of many of the nobility, drawn up in the street
before the mansion of the minister, who was holding a levee. Fortune
seemed to have directed his steps thither, for he saw a familiar face
among the splendid throng who glided in and out at the great man's
portals. This was no other than the Marquis de Secqville, who was
passing to his carriage.

"Oh, pray, Monsieur Dubois, monsieur, don't you know me?"

So cried poor Gabriel in his eagerness, forcing himself to the front
rank of the crowd.

"No, my good friend, no," answered the marquis, hesitating and
surprised; "I do not recollect you."

"Don't you recollect the park of Charrebourg, monsieur, and the boy who
sometimes carried your game, Gabriel, who was so frequently your
attendant?"

"Hey! by my faith, so it is."

"Well, but monsieur, I want to consult you about a lady who, I fear, is
in distress."

"Well, let us hear," continued the marquis, feeling in his pocket for
his purse, and smiling.

"It is Mademoiselle Lucille--that is, I mean, Madame Le Prun. You have
heard of her, perhaps?"

The marquis could not restrain a start at the name; but affecting haste,
he desired one of his servants to give the boy a cloak, and directing
him to roll himself up in it, and jump into the carriage, he followed
him thither, amidst the wonder and gibes of the crowd, and in a few
minutes they were at the Hotel de Secqville.

The marquis, having learned all that Gabriel had to disclose, was
utterly at fault as to what steps it was prudent for him to take. It was
just possible that the removal of the lady from the Chateau des Anges
might be a measure of Monsieur Le Prun's. This seemed to him more than
probable, and the hypothesis prevented his having recourse to the
minister of police. He, however, lost not a moment in adopting such
measures as the resources of his wealth enabled him to command. In the
course of the afternoon he had nearly a score of paid agents,
excellently qualified for the task, pushing their sagacious inquiries in
every quarter.

He had promised to sup with some of the officers of his regiment, in the
quartier de St. Thomas du Louvre, and he had there appointed his
emissaries to meet him, having also directed Gabriel, whom he retained
in his service, to call for him there, with a flambeau, at twelve
o'clock.

Gabriel was destined to another adventure in executing these directions,
simple as they were.

As he was on his way, he was suddenly set upon, in a deserted spot at
the end of the Pont St. Michel, by four robbers. He brandished his
flambeau, and shouted for help; but he was instantly disarmed, and a
sword at his throat reduced him to silence. Disappointed of money, they
proceeded to undress him with a running accompaniment of threats and
curses, and in a trice had left poor Gabriel standing in his shirt,
while they made good their retreat.

It was bitter cold, and, what made it worse still, rather windy; and
after a few moments of hesitation, he began to retrace his steps towards
the Hotel de Secqville at the top of his speed. As ill luck would have
it, however, this course led him unconsciously upon the track of the
four brethren of the road, who, convinced that he was dogging them,
turned about, and, with awful menaces and drawn swords, recommenced the
pursuit with the most murderous designs.

Of course Gabriel had nothing for it but his fleetness of limb. He ran
as fast as he could toward the Quai des Augustins. At that moment a
coach was passing at a furious speed, and thinking of nothing but his
safety, he jumped nimbly up behind.

He had distanced the thieves, and the sound of pursuit was no longer
heard. The wind often whirled his shirt, his only covering, over his
head, and he could not control its vagaries, for both his hands were
engaged in retaining his position; and, indeed, so numbing was the cold,
hardly sufficed for the purpose. Could any thing more undignified or
uncomfortable be imagined?

His teeth were chattering, his hands numb, his shirt sporting cruelly in
the blast, yet, spite of his misery, he did not fail to observe, in the
dull moonlight, that the carriage was blue, and decorated with gilded
dragons and cupids in relief. It was, in short, he could have no doubt,
the very carriage which had conveyed away Lucille. Forgetting his
nakedness, and even his cold, in the astonishment of this discovery, he
awaited, with the intensest interest, the conclusion of an adventure
which promised to furnish him with a clue to the present habitation of
the concealed lady.

The carriage continued to drive at a furious rate, and having passed the
College des Quatre Nations, it took the line of the Pont Rouge (now
perfectly deserted), in the middle of which it came to a full stop.

Two gentlemen descended; they looked up and down the bridge to ascertain
that all was quiet. One of them came so close that the plumed fringe of
his cocked hat almost touched Gabriel, who was cowering as close as
possible to escape notice. His surprise at their stopping at a place
where there was no house or dwelling of any sort was soon changed to
horror, when he saw these gentlemen carry a corpse out of the carriage,
which, by its long hair, he perceived to be that of a female, and
project it over the battlements of the bridge into the river.

They then re-entered the carriage, which again turning toward the
Louvre, retraced its way. Was that pale corpse, with its long tresses,
the murdered body of the fair and beloved Lucille? Were her assassins
unconsciously hurrying through the dark in company with him? Torture,
despair, vengeance!

At the same mad pace this carriage drove through deserted streets,
scarce encountering a human being--Gabriel still clinging to his
position, and exciting many a strange surmise, as, half seen, he was
whirled beside such stray passengers as were still abroad.

At length it turned abruptly--thundered through a narrow archway into a
fore-court, and then through a second, into the dark quadrangle of the
half ruinous and vast hotel, to which we conducted Lucille.

Gabriel jumped nimbly to the ground, and, unperceived, glided into the
shadow of the archway, intending to escape through the outer gate, and
spread the alarm of murder. This door was, however, already secured, and
hearing steps, he glided along under the shadow until he reached the
open door of a stable, and climbing to the loft, found some hay there,
in which, nearly dead with cold, he buried himself.

Let us now follow Monsieur Le Prun, whom we left in a high state of
malignant frenzy, approaching the entrance of the desolate building.

"Ha!--Blassemare," he said, with a livid smile, the meaning of which was
obvious, in reply to that gentleman's fearless salutation, "you have
made good speed from the south. How goes all at Lyons? Come, come, the
particulars?"

"I have not been there at all; I altered my plans; not without just
reason. I have removed Madame Le Prun here; the fact is, I had reason to
suspect a design to escape. It was nearly ripe; the _eclat_ of such a
thing would have been scandalous. I disorganized the whole affair, and
have placed her here under your own roof; I had to use stratagem for the
purpose, but I succeeded; she is still safe--the plot has failed."

"More than one plot, perhaps, has failed, sir," said Le Prun, with a
look of lowering scrutiny; "I have exploded one myself. Let me see
Madame Le Prun."

"Do you wish to see her?"

"Certainly--conduct me to her at once."

Blassemare, with a malicious smile and shrug, exclaimed--

"Well, monsieur, you shall be obeyed; let us proceed to Madame Le Prun,
by all means."

He led the way; they ascended a staircase, Le Prun growing gloomier and
gloomier at every step.

Smothering his malicious laughter, Blassemare glided past him, and
opening a door exclaimed--

"Madame, a gentleman desires the honor of an interview; Monsieur Le Prun
attends you."

Le Prun entered; a step was heard in a recess opening from the room, and
a form entered, before which he recoiled as from a malignant spectre.

"Is it _this_ one or the other?" asked Blassemare, with much simplicity.

Le Prun did not hear him; he was astounded and overpowered in the
presence of the phantom-like form that stood in its strange draperies of
flannel at the other end of the chamber, eyeing him askance, with a look
of more than mortal hate.

"It is not fair to disturb such a meeting; the domestic affections, eh?
had best be indulged in private."

So saying, Blassemare abruptly withdrew, and shut the door sharply upon
the pair.

Roused by the sound, Le Prun attempted to follow him, but his agitation
prevented his being able to open the door, and he cursed Blassemare from
the bottom of his soul, in the belief that he had bolted it.

"So, face to face at last," she said; "for years you have escaped me;
for years your agents have persecuted and imprisoned me. I heard of your
courtship--aye, and your marriage, and rejoiced at it, for I knew it
could bring you nothing but grief; accursed monster, murderer of my
sister, attempted murderer of myself, seducer and betrayer of the girl
you call your wife."

"I say, she is my wife," stammered Le Prun, recovering his voice.

"No, miscreant! that she cannot be; well you know that _I_ am your
wife."

"It is a lie; I have that under your own hand; it is a lie, a lie."

"And do you fancy that, because intimidated by a murderer, I signed the
paper you speak of, the document has lost its force, and I ceased to be
your wife? No, no; adulterer and poisoner that you are, I retain the
right to blast you; you shall yet taste retribution; you shall perish by
a bloody end."


XVII.--CONCLUSION.

Blassemare read in Le Prun's countenance that there was an end of their
connection. He was, however, a man of resource, and whatever the loss
involved in the severance, he was not dismayed. He made up his mind to
quarrel with _eclat_, and sitting himself down upon the window-sill,
laughed with a sardonic glee at the rencontre he had just brought about.
In a little while, however, he began to wonder at its length, and after
a while he was startled by Le Prun's voice calling him by name, and at
the same time by a furious knocking at the door.

"Hey!--why don't you come here if you want me?" cried Blassemare.

"I can't--you _know_ I can't--you have locked the door."

"I've _not_--try it," replied Blassemare, coolly.

In a moment more Le Prun entered, trembling like a man in an ague, his
face livid and covered with a cold sweat.

"That, that accursed fiend, she has--the murderess--she attempted my
life--upon my soul she did."

There was some blood upon his hand, and more upon his lace cravat.

"What do you mean?" said Blassemare, growing very pale. "Why, why, you
have not, great God, you have not hurt the wretched woman?" and he
grasped him by the collar with a hand that trembled with mingled fury
and horror.

"It was _she_, I tell you--let me go--it was she--she that tried--by
----, she had a knife at my throat--I could not help it--I'm
ruined--help me, Blassemare--for God's sake, help me--what--what is to
be done?"

Blassemare gave him a look of contemptuous fury, turned from him, and
entered the chamber.

Le Prun stood like one stupefied, stammering excuses and oaths, and
trembling as if it were the day of judgment.

Blassemare reentered, paler than before, and said--

"You cowardly, barbarous miscreant, you will answer for it here and
hereafter."

"Blassemare, my friend--my dear friend--in the name of God, don't
denounce me. You would not; no, you could not. I have been a good friend
to you. For the love of God, help me, Blassemare--save me. You shall
have half my fortune; I'll stick at no terms; I'll make you, by ---- the
richest man in Paris. You shall have what you like--every thing, any
thing--only help me in this accursed extremity."

For a long time, Blassemare met his abject and agonized entreaties with
a stoical scorn; at last, however, he relented.

The body was removed that night; and it is well known to the readers of
old French trials, how wonderfully Providence supplied by a chain of
apparent accidents, an important witness in our friend Gabriel.

We left him buried in the hay of the stable-loft. We must pursue his
adventure to its conclusion.

As soon as he had a little recovered the heat which was nearly
extinguished, he got up, and finding an old piece of drugget, he wrapped
it about him in the fashion of a cloak; and having looked in vain for
any window opening upon the street, he climbed, by the aid of the
joists, to an aperture in the half-rotten roof, and passing through it,
crept like a cat along, until he reached the spout, down which, at the
risk of his neck, he climbed. He was now safe in the public street.
Picking up a sharp stone, he scratched some marks, such as he could
easily recognize again, upon the gateway. He then knocked at a barber's
shop, nearly opposite, where he saw a light, and asked the name of the
street, and his route to the Hotel de Secqville.

The marquis had arrived before him; and his amazement at the strange
attire of his retainer was changed to horror, when he learned the
particulars of his adventure.

Not a moment was lost by De Secqville in applying to the police, and,
with an officer and a party of archers, he proceeded at once to the
Hotel St. Maurice--for such was the name of the nearly ruinous building
we have described. There they arrested Monsieur Le Prun, who was just
emerging from the gate as they arrived; as also Blassemare, whom they
surprised in his room. No definite suspicion, beyond the conjectures of
De Secqville, had as yet attached to either of these gentlemen; but some
expressions which escaped Le Prun, upon his arrest, were of a character
to excite the profoundest suspicions of his guilt.

Blassemare instantly tendered his evidence, and in the course of it was
forced to make disclosures very little creditable to himself. The old
woman, Gertrude Peltier, who resided in the house, and had attended upon
Lucille, was also examined, and a servant named St. Jean, a sort of
groom, who had been a long time in Le Prun's service, also deposed to
some important facts. This evidence, collected and reduced to a
narrative form, was to the following effect:--

It seemed that, about twenty-four years before, Le Prun had privately
married an actress of the Theatre ----, named Emilie Guadin. They had
lived together--not very happily--by reason, as was supposed, of her
violent temper. Her sister, Marie Guadin, resided with them. After about
four years it began to be rumored that Monsieur Le Prun was about to be
married to the widow of an immensely rich merchant of Bourdeaux. The
strict privacy and isolation in which his wife and her sister were
compelled by him to live, prevented the rumor from reaching them, and
the circumstance of his existing marriage had been kept so strict a
secret, that it was not suspected by any but the immediate parties to
the ceremony.

Monsieur Le Prun, about this time, visited the country-seat where he had
placed his wife and sister-in-law. He affected an unusual kindness
towards the former; but he had not been there a week, when she became
ill. A physician was called in, and appeared perplexed by the nature of
her disease, which, notwithstanding his treatment, seemed to be rapidly
gaining ground. As matters were in this state, one night Le Prun entered
his wife's bedroom; her sister Marie was sitting at the further side of
the bed, in the shadow of the curtains, which, as well as the unusual
hour, prevented Le Prun's suspecting her presence. He looked stealthily
round the room. His wife was sleeping, and with her face away from him,
and a draught ordered by the physician was upon the table waiting her
awaking.

From a small vial he dropped some fluid into this, and was about to
replace it, when Marie, nerved with terror, glided swiftly to his side,
snatched the vial from his hand, and cried, in a thrilling voice--

"Emilie, awake! he is poisoning you!"

The sleeping girl started up, and at the same moment the vial, which in
her horror Marie had flung from her hand, fell beside her, on the
pillow. Le Prun was first confounded and speechless--then furious. He
broke the glass that contained the medicine, and pursuing the girl to
the further end of the room, seemed on the point of wreaking his fury
upon her. He restrained himself, however, and having demanded the vial
repeatedly in vain, went to his own room. The next day the physician did
not attend, and in the dead of night the house was entered by thieves,
some valuables were stolen, and Mademoiselle Marie Guadin was found
murdered in her bed in the morning.

The occurrence made a great _eclat_, and suspicions, from the taint of
which he had never quite recovered, began to environ Monsieur Le Prun.
His unhappy wife was now put under the severest restraint--from which,
and, as was supposed, the partial effects of the poison, she became
subject to temporary fits of insanity. By sheer terror, Le Prun extorted
from her a written declaration, to the effect that she lived with him
merely as his mistress, and that no marriage ceremony, or any contract
of marriage, had ever been performed between them. It was about three
months after these terrible occurrences that she gave birth to a male
child. This child, it appeared, was removed after a few weeks from its
mother, and placed in the care of a poor woman in the village of
Charrebourg, where, under the name of Gabriel, he, as we know, lived
unrecognized, and himself unsuspecting his origin.

His mother had been a heartless, as she was a vicious and a miserable
woman. Instead of the yearnings of maternal love, she regarded her
innocent child merely as the offspring of that monster, whom she
execrated and feared with a preternatural hate. If she looked upon him
with any feeling more lively than that of indifference, it was with one
of positive malice and antipathy.

Among his other employments of a delicate kind, Blassemare had charge of
all arrangements affecting this person, of whom, for every reason, Le
Prun hated even to hear. He paid, therefore, whatever was demanded on
this account, with the sole proviso that her name should never be
mentioned. On her removal, about a year since, from the country-house
where she had been for so long a scarcely unwilling prisoner, to the
vast and melancholy Hotel St. Maurice, which had lately fallen into the
hands of M. Le Prun, an accident to the carriage obliged them to arrest
their progress for an hour at the village of Charrebourg. She was
brought into the park meanwhile, and there met with Gabriel, and
subsequently, as the reader may recollect, with Lucille. Her she had
armed with the hateful relic of her husband's uncompleted crime,
conscious that its exhibition would sow between her and Le Prun
suspicion, fear, and enmity enough to embitter their lives. She had at
first intended declaring all the truth, but feared the explosion of Le
Prun's fury, and doubted, too, whether the girl would believe her. The
rest the reader knows.

As there was no reason to doubt Blassemare's statement, and no actual
suspicion attached to him, he was merely examined as witness.

Le Prun is, we need scarcely remind the student of old French criminal
cases, a celebrated name in the annals of guilt. Suspicion, by a strange
coincidence, fell upon the servant whom we have mentioned, and this man
having been, according to the atrocious practice of the civil law, put
to the torture confessed his having, at the instigation of Le Prun,
murdered the unfortunate Marie Guadin, so contriving as to make it
appear that the house had been entered and plundered by thieves.

A full confession, after condemnation, was extorted by the question,
that dreadful ordeal, from Le Prun, who ultimately suffered the extreme
penalty of the law, as every body knows, upon the Place de Greve.

That portion of Le Prun's immense property which was not appropriated by
the crown, went, of course, to Gabriel, the peasant boy of Charrebourg.
He purchased an estate near it, and was ultimately ennobled. His
grandson, the Count de St. M----, distinguished himself in the Austrian
service, and after the Restoration, obtained a distinguished position in
the court of Louis XVIII.

The king remitted a large portion of the line in favor of Julie and of
Lucille. As, however, some grave suspicions were entertained by the
advisers of his majesty both as to Lucille's avowed, and, as we know,
_real_ ignorance of the existence of Le Prun's first wife when she
consented to marry him, and also as to her subsequent conduct in
relation to De Secqville, the remission in her favor was coupled with a
condition that she should take the veil. This was in effect a command;
and Lucille entered a convent with a cheerful acquiescence in this
condition which astonished all who knew the facts of her story.

Julie, of course, on learning the pre-engagement of De Secqville's
affections, and being relieved from the influence which had hitherto
held her to her involuntary engagement, demanded her freedom, and De
Secqville, as may be supposed, offered no vexatious resistance to her
request.

Julie, indeed, had never loved him, and consequently had little
difficulty in forgiving Lucille her treason. Inspired by the example of
her companion, she proved the sincerity of those professions which so
few had believed in, by taking the veil on the same day with Lucille.

The astounding and mysterious adventure which, under these melancholy
circumstances, closed the hazardous romance of Lucille's existence,
would form in itself a story, too long, however, to be told in a single
page.




BARRY CORNWALL'S LAST SONG.


Mr. Proctor does not write very often now-a-days, but he has contributed
several songs lately to the _Ladies' Companion_, which remind us of his
best performances. Here is one:--

    Sit near! sit near! I kiss thy lips,
      Ripe, richer than the crimson cherry.
    Girl, canst thou love me in eclipse?
      Tell me, and bid my soul be merry.

    My light is dim, my fortune fled;
      I've nothing save the love I bear thee.
    Give back _thy_ love, or I am dead;--
      A word--a look--whilst I can hear thee.

    Sit nearer! near! I kiss thine eyes;
      There,--where the white lids part asunder.
    I love thee--dost thou hear my sighs?
      Love thee beyond the world, thou wonder!

    My life is spent. I've nothing left
      To tender now, save love's soft duty;
    Yet, gaze I,--of all else bereft,--
      And feed till death upon thy beauty.




From the London Keepsake

ANIMA MUNDI.

BY RICHARD MONCTON MILNES.


    "Anima Mundi"--of thyself existing,
    Without diversity or change to fear,
    Say, has this life to which we cling persisting,
    Part in communion with thy steadfast sphere?
    Does thy serene eternity sublime
    Embrace the slaves of Circumstance and Time?

    Could we remain continually content
    To heap fresh pleasure on the coming day,
    Could we rest happy in the sole intent
    To make the hours more graceful or more gay,
    Then must the essence of our nature be
    That of the beasts that perish, not of Thee.

    But if we mourn, not because time is fleeting,
    Not because life is short and some die young,
    But because parting ever follows meeting;
    And, while our hearts with constant loss are wrung,
    Our minds are tossed in doubt from sea to sea,
    Then may we claim community with thee.

    We cannot live by instincts--forced to let
    To-morrow's wave obliterate our to-day--
    See faces only once--read and forget--
    Behold Truth's rays prismatically play
    About our mortal eye and never shine
    In one white daylight, simple and divine.

    We would erect some thought the world above,
    And dwell in it for ever--we make
    Some moment of young Friendship or First-love
    Into a dream, from which we would not wake;
    We would contrast our action with repose,
    Like the deep stream that widens as it flows.

    We would be somewise as Thou art,
    Not sprig, and bud, and flower, and fade and fall;
    Not fix our intellects on some scant part
    Of Nature, but enjoy or feel it all.
    We would assert the privilege of a soul,
    In that it knows--to understand the Whole.

    If such things are within us--God is good--
    And flight is destined for the callow wing,
    And the high appetite implies the food,
    And souls must reach the level whence they spring;
    O Life of very Life! set free our Powers,
    Hasten the travail of the yearning hours.

    Thou! to whom old Philosophy bent low,
    To the wise few mysteriously revealed;
    Thou! whom each humble Christian worships now,
    In the poor hamlet and the open field;
    Once an Idea--new Comforter and Friend,
    Hope of the human Heart! Descend! Descend!




From Frazer's Magazine.

THE GHETTO OF ROME.


The Church of Rome has never been famed for her tolerance; her energy
and indomitable will have been too frequently manifested by the stern
behests of imperious authority. The sovereign pontiffs, with their
claims of infallibility, have left the Pagan far behind in the ardor of
persecution and the more than imperial character of their governments.
Julian published edicts of universal toleration; from time to time he
assumed the garb of each different sect, and claimed affinity with the
gods of each conquered race. At one moment the zealous supporter of
Christianity, then the ablest advocate of the Platonic philosophy: at
another, initiated into all the arcana of the Theurgic science and the
Eleusinian mysteries, terminating his checkered religious career by that
great edict of universal toleration which astonished the whole Roman
world, when all classes of all religions, Pagan and Christian, received
alike an express command to open the portals of their temples. Paganism
could afford to be tolerant, not so Christianity. One god, more or less,
in the Heathen Pantheon makes very little difference, but the worship of
the Christian Church is one and exclusive. The very ardor of its belief
renders it essentially intolerant. How is it possible to be indulgent to
error, when we are firmly persuaded that such error must lead to eternal
condemnation? But whatever apology may be made for intolerance by those
who do not suffer from its severities, it will not be approved of by the
thousands who find themselves deprived of their most prized social
rights for the sake of their faith. None suffer more from this Christian
spirit than the favored and exclusive race in Rome. While other nations
have been constantly relieving the Jews from the pains and penalties
which have been attached to their absence of faith, the Church of Rome
has stood over them stern, proud, and uncompromising. To be a Jew in the
Holy City, is at once to be deprived of half the social privileges of
citizenship. Among other grievances under which they suffer, they are
confined to a small district of the town called the Ghetto, where
formerly the gates were locked from sunset to sunrise, during which
period no one was permitted to pass out; on the slightest pretences they
used to be persecuted for any the least expression of irritation into
which they may have been betrayed: the poor people bear impressed on
their countenances the downcast dogged look of persecution. Confined to
such a small space, they have crowded their houses together until, in
some of the streets, or rather lanes, it is easy to step across from one
roof to another. The dark eye, the luxurious black hair, and a sensual
expression produced by a fulness of the lower lip are the
characteristics of the women. Long, dirty, scanty beards--thin, lank,
gray hair--frames which have grown decrepit through long
persecution--eyes piercing and crafty--sickly, wrinkled features, are
the characteristics of the men. Although, as I have remarked, the gates
and the pales of the Ghetto are now removed, a stranger can easily tell
when he enters what Catholic Rome considers its tainted circle, by the
miserable, poverty-stricken appearance of the whole district. The people
crowd around him, losing all sense of manly dignity or mental
degradation in the anxiety for gain. Skinny shrivelled hands touch his
clothes in the hope of arresting his progress; worn-out tawdry finery is
thrust before him, in the hope of tempting him to purchase. No shop, or
rather store, is devoted to any particular object of gain. Butter,
dates, olives, broken and pawned articles, are mixed up in the most
absurd confusion. With brocaded coats, valuable lace, and Eastern silks,
Jewish trade resembles the Jewish character and the Jewish faith,--much
that is low, mean, and sordid, combined with some elements of the
beautiful, the prized, and the good.

And yet this strange, fantastic, rococo district, if beyond the pale of
Christianity, is far from being without the pale of fashion. Ladies,
exhibiting the height of Parisian fashions, with dainty footsteps and
soft movement, may be seen of an afternoon endeavoring to thread their
way through the greasy throng, which jostle, elbow, and abuse each other
in these narrow lanes. The cunning Israelites must have scouts to tell
them whenever any particular connoisseur is approaching; for, strange
enough, the article which each is in search of is precisely that which
is displayed in all the shops. If the lady come to purchase lace, the
most valuable specimens of the _pointe du roi_ are forced upon her; if
she require silks, by the strangest magnetism the finest dyes and
richest fabrics are unrolled as she draws near. From the constant and
invaluable habit of concealing their own impressions, the Jews appear to
be better enabled to read the sensations of others. They know, almost to
a nicety, the extent of their customers' means and intentions. Go
disguised as you choose, they will discover you. The Jewish origin,
grafted on the Roman craft, has produced a progeny which would astonish
the adroitness of our own peculiar tribe of Levis and Fagans.

I had, on two or three different occasions, visited the Ghetto in search
of old lace, and on each occasion had turned to admire perhaps one of
the most beautiful faces which could at that time have been found in
Rome. It was that of a young Jewish girl, who was always sitting at the
same corner of the street at the entrance of the Ghetto, where she kept
a fruit-stall.

Hers was one of those faces in which the features, from their strongly
marked development, become at once impressed upon the memory. She was
tall, of a commanding appearance, her cheek was very pale, but lit up by
the blackest eyes. She wore a thick Indian-striped handkerchief, tied
cunningly round her head; and a large pair of massive gold ear-rings,
which fell almost to her neck. Even if plain, she would have been most
remarkable, from the perfect indifference which she evinced as to
whether she sold her goods or not. While all the rest of her tribe were
fawning, cringing, flattering, and importuning, she sat there like a
statue, but a statue of a most perfect order. Nor was this indifference
and apathy of her manner thrown away on the purchasers who crowded
towards the Ghetto. It stood her in better stead than the most manifest
anxiety could have done; it placed her apart from that detestable crowd.
I observed many persons stop and make purchases of her on whom all
importunity would have been thrown away. There was not one of the buyers
who did not look back with hurried gaze at that pale and glorious face,
which did not even glow with the least tinge of animation at the
admiration which she excited. She sold her stock in trade, changed her
money, with the same entire absence of interest in her occupation.
Carriages turning the corner suddenly where her fruit-stall was placed,
sometimes almost grazed it and overthrew all its contents; but even this
circumstance did not appear to awaken any interest in her mind; she only
stooped down to pick up one or two of the peaches which had been shaken
off by the jar, quietly moved her stall a little nearer the wall, and
then folded her arms again in the same contemptuous manner.

Strange, indeed, but it ever is so; the world cares most for those who
appear to treat it with contempt and to be indifferent to its petty
interests. Be a slave to the world, and it will impose the heaviest
burdens upon you; it will be the hardest of all taskmasters; but, on the
other hand, drive it before you, and it will obey almost every impulse
of the determined. In this country, where individualism and idiosyncracy
are now so rare, the very deference which the whole of constituted
society pays to the requirements of the majority, only renders the
exceptional case more rare and prized. We unconsciously admire those
who, instead of seeking to be guided by the opinions of others, endeavor
to direct them, and who, forming their own standard of judgment, keep
themselves aloof from all fluctuations of indecision and weakness.

I had been commissioned to purchase two flounces of the handsomest lace,
and had made two unsuccessful expeditions to the Ghetto in search of it,
ransacking all the shops and listening to an immeasurable amount of
falsehood; but as I was soon to leave Rome, I did not wish to do so with
my commission unfulfilled, and resolved to make another search: besides,
that beautiful pale statuette deeply interested me, without ever having
addressed a single word to her. I felt well assured that her mind must
be one of no ordinary stamp. One day I stopped near her for some time,
without attracting her observation, and then it was that I so greatly
admired and marvelled at the total absence of the two qualifications for
which her nation are remarkable--cunning and obtrusiveness.

I reached the stall, and turned after I had passed it a little way to
take a passing glance at her. To my astonishment, and almost sorrow, I
observed that her cheeks, and even her figure, had lost their admirable
fulness: there was a strange and wild expression in her eye. I turned
back involuntarily and stood for a moment opposite her stall. She
beckoned me towards her.

"I know what you want," she said, with a rapid utterance, as if anxious
to get rid of the subject; "you want to purchase some lace. I have a
piece which I am sure will suit you, and you shall have it very cheap.
It belonged to--." Here she hesitated, looked down, and, as I fixed my
eye on her countenance for the first time, the blood rose to the very
temples, and she appeared lovely. "No matter who it belonged to; some
great man, of course; but I have the lace, that is sufficient for you to
know. Tell me what sum you are willing to give, and then I shall know
whether mine is too expensive."

I named the amount which I was desired to lay out for the finest quality
of old lace. It was, I knew, a small sum for such an object, unless in
the case of some fortunate hit; but to my surprise she told me that her
piece of lace was much within that mark; and then I began to imagine
that it must be of inferior quality, but she assured me of the contrary.

She commissioned a boy to keep her stall for her for a few minutes, and
then walked on at a rapid pace, desiring me to follow her.

It was not until she rose from her seat that I had an opportunity of
observing the beautiful symmetry of her figure. Her footstep was firm,
like that of one who possesses a strong will. To have seen her as she
swept along the streets, you would have imagined that she was on a
mission, in which high resolve and great self-sacrifices were required,
so compressed was the lip and haughty the glance,--

        Moving through the throng,
    Like one who does, not suffers wrong.

No one would have imagined that it was the question of the sale of a
piece of lace as she passed down the streets, with the folds of her
dress almost sweeping the ground; while, with a scarf of beautiful
texture fastened round her waist, she resembled one of those maidens of
the sun which we see in Egyptian frescoes.

"Let me pass, Emmanuel," she said to a broken-backed, stunted broker,
who was hanging some filthy rags on a string which stretched across a
narrow lane.

"Pass! so you shall, my love, my own bright eyes: but you shall give me
a kiss first," said the cadaverous-looking wretch; and he put his thin,
bleared, and hairy lips near her face; but in the act he turned his head
half round, and, for the first time, he saw me.

"Oh, I ask your pardon, Rachel!" he said; "the Christian, of course,
before one of our own tribe. I know you well, my darling, you never
deceived me in your brightest days. You are a great lady; but, after
all, we are both more or less in the same line. I sell old clothes, you
sell old kisses; the difference is, that I cannot get rid of my wares as
fast as you can of your kisses."

Suddenly she turned round in all her beauty; flushed with indignation
and trembling with anger, contempt, bitterness, and hatred, could not
have been more gloriously expressed. The sallow, sickly, hollow-eyed
impertinent was looking up at her face when, with one push, she hurled
him over a heap of rubbish, which in the centre of the street supplied
the place of a gutter; and shouts of laughter saluted him as he slunk,
downcast and defeated, back into his shop.

When I looked at him, I observed that his eyes, which before had only
expressed lust and sordid avarice, now gleamed wildly with a look of
intense and bitter hatred.

There are none whom we are so disposed to punish as the mean and sordid,
and yet there are none whom it is more dangerous to offend; they feel,
with tenfold virulence, the disgust which they engender; they go about
bearing with them a curse, which they are ever ready to transfer to any
who offend them. No man is ignorant of his possessing the lower
qualities; and no one, not even he who suffers from their action, can so
intensely hate and despise them as their possessor. They are the chains
on the galley-slaves, which clank at every step, but which they cannot
shake off, allowing them only that amount of liberty of action which
incessantly recalls their restraint.

My guide turned sharp round to the left, and the next moment we were at
the foot of the broken stair. Two or three dogs, which as usual had
taken possession of the small space allotted for the passage to the
primo piano, rushed, with frantic yells, down stairs. It could scarcely
be properly called a house; it was rather a collection of planks nailed
together, supporting the most rickety description of roof. It was quite
wonderful how the whole fabric held together at all; for between the
chinks of the rotten and creaking floor we could look into the shop
below, where, amid immense piles of bales and casks, children were
riotously playing.

There was a curious expression of doubt and uneasiness in Rachel's
countenance, when, with some slight degree of impatience, I begged her
to be quick and show me the lace. She looked carefully round the room,
as though fearful of being observed. At last, after some hesitation, she
ransacked an old drawer, and drew forth the lace from beneath a heap of
rags and rubbish.

It was certainly the most magnificent specimen of old lace which I had
seen in Italy. A large and deep flounce of the _pointe du roi_; that
lace which was made solely for the Grand Monarque, and subsequently sold
at immense prices, a great portion of it coming into the possession of
the cardinals. It was in a most perfect state, and the only thing that
surprised me in the transaction was the excessively low price which she
asked for it: but, of course, it was not my business to tell her the
real value of her own property; so I eagerly wrote a check on Torlonia,
and requested her to pack it up.

My attention had latterly been so absorbed by the beauty of the fabric,
that it was not until I placed the check in her hand I observed how she
trembled. She endeavored, when she saw me observing her, to conceal her
agitation, but it soon defied even her dissimulation. She leant against
a small chest of drawers, and had barely strength enough to point to a
cup, which was half full of spirits, which I handed to her. She drank it
off with the energy of apparent despair, and then it was that she
commenced to revive slowly; but her forehead was still damp from
agitation, and her lips were as pale and colorless as her cheeks.

"What is the matter?" I asked. "Are you ill, Rachel?"

She clutched hold of my arm mechanically.

"Do not show the lace," she exclaimed, "to any one in Rome; at least
promise me solemnly that you will not allow a single person to know from
whom you purchased it."

"Just as you like," I answered, "but you ought, on the contrary, to be
very proud of having such a beautiful piece in your possession. I should
have thought that you would have wished me to tell every one of my
friends, so as to extend the reputation of your shop; but, of course, I
will do as you like, and lock it up until I leave Rome."

She seemed greatly relieved by this assurance; it must have restored or
confirmed her confidence in me, for after a long pause she said,--

"I will tell you the truth, for you are a friend. You saw that man," she
continued; "that miserable wretch, Emmanuel? Well, although I treated
him in so bold and harsh a manner, I must tell you that I am at heart
bitterly afraid of him. He is at once a coward to the strong, and a
tyrant to the weak; one of those despicable characters which get our
nation unjustly aspersed. He really does possess all those vices and
meannesses which are attributed to many who are as noble, true, and good
as you of the Christian race. You will consider me as unmerciful as my
faith, from the manner in which I speak of this abandoned villain; but
the truth is, that I am in the power of a guardian, who, if he knew that
I had this money, would be the first to take it from me; and Emmanuel,
who finds every thing out, will be certain to inform him. You saw the
look he gave when I pushed the foul creature from me. I know that he is
only waiting his opportunity to be revenged upon me. He had the
insolence to ask me to marry him two years since; and upon my refusing
to accept him, he swore that his hatred should some day or another find
me out; so I quite tremble when I see him, however bold I may pretend to
be. But, oh, my heart! Hush! he is standing there below."

She knelt down on the floor, and touched me gently to make me draw back
so as not to be seen by him; but it was too late, he had caught a
glimpse of her through the crevices of the floor. He did not attempt to
come up the stair, but he stood at the foot of it, heaping upon her the
coarsest and most brutal expressions. For a moment, all the fear that
had shortly before marked her countenance had given way to the most
intense hatred. It flashed from her eyes and dilated her nostrils. My
first impulse was to rush forward and turn the man out of the shop; but
the girl saw the movement, and placed her hand on my arm with a
significant look. The color had left her cheeks, and she was again pale
as star-light.

We waited there some minutes, when Emmanuel, after muttering sundry
curses, withdrew. We looked at him as he passed down the lane, with his
hands clenched and the muscles of his countenance trembling with
excitement. We heard him, as he passed by, telling every one of his
friends that Rachel was shut up in the room with a Christian. Some
treated the information with indifference, others only called him
jealous; but sundry boys crowded round the door, waiting for my
departure.

I took the lace and left the shop with her. The children in the street,
excited by that rascal, made use of some insulting expressions towards
her; but ran away whenever I made an attempt to approach them. I could,
however, see that the poor girl was, if not alarmed, very unhappy; for,
now that Emmanuel was no longer present, the tears ran down her cheeks.
I took her hand kindly and parted from her, but not without a vague and
uncomfortable feeling of doubt and mistrust.

"Ah, me!" I thought, when alone, "is this the freedom, the liberty, the
charity which suffereth long, the consideration for others, which the
gospel teaches? It is well for the great poet to write of the freedom of
the Roman citizen:--

    But Rome, 'tis thine alone, with awful sway,
    To rule mankind, and make the world obey;
    Disposing peace and war, thine own majestic sway.
    To tame the proud, the fettered slave to free:
    These are imperial acts, and worthy thee.

The fettered slave is set free, but the citizen is enthralled; not
because he now proclaims another king than Caesar, but simply because the
tenets of his faith are not precisely the same as our own. And this
beautiful girl, brought up in that worst of suffering--mental
suffering--keenly feeling the persecution to which her race is exposed,
however, she could bear children who would, in those moments of
tribulation to which Imperial Rome of all empires is most subject, stand
forth to defend her walls!"

I went away, however, well pleased with my purchase. Notwithstanding my
promise to the contrary, I could not avoid showing it to one or two
particular friends. Even in so slight a matter it is very easy to find
food for vanity. It gratified me to have purchased it so cheaply. When
it was pronounced quite beautiful, I accepted the expression as an
indirect tribute to my judgment, taste, and ability. It was, of course,
not the lace that I cared for, although most anxious to gratify her who
had charged me with the commission. What, to judge myself truly, I
delighted in, was the circumstance of my having gained a victory over
those who possess hereditary claims for depth and cunning.

Ah, it does not do to cast the lead too frequently into the depths of
the heart in search of motives.

I was at dinner the same day when a card was sent in to me; it had the
name of M. Narelli, the head of the police, printed upon it. I was at a
loss to imagine what business he could have with me; but as my servant
told me that it was a matter of the last moment, with some misgivings I
desired that he might be shown in. The moment he appeared, I could
detect at one glance that he was a man of official eminence, and also of
great ability. The eye always catches the resolution or indecision of
the mind. To judge from his expression, he must have been a man of the
coolest courage and most determined character. His manner was
deferential, without being obsequious; his voice, clear, sonorous, and
distinct, rang on the ear like a well-toned bell.

He commenced by apologizing for the intrusion, and then at once asked me
whether it was true that I had that morning purchased some lace of a
young Jewish girl in the Ghetto.

No sooner had he uttered the word lace, than the whole tragedy burst
upon me. I remembered Rachel's hesitation, her fears, her tremblings,
and excitement: all was explained. For one moment I felt tempted to deny
the whole transaction, and to refuse to show the lace: a second
consideration, however, proved to me that it would be at once absurd and
unjustifiable: but that moment showed me the poor girl, pale,
broken-hearted, and trembling under the weight of a terrible accusation.
I bitterly lamented the innocent part which I had taken in this
transaction, and regretted that I had ever visited the Ghetto in search
of lace. I thought of her as I first saw her standing at the
fruit-stall, with that haughty, contemptuous glance, that resolute and
open countenance; and it was bitter to picture her sinking in jail, in
such a prison as Italy boasts of in these enlightened days: but there
was not much time for reflection and consideration. M. Narelli, who saw
that I was hesitating, told me at once that the whole truth was known,
and that he must require the piece of lace to be given over to him; he
then suggested that it would be a kindness to the woman herself if I
would accompany him at once to St. Angelo, to be confronted with her.

As we drove rapidly down the streets, he told me that the lace had been
stolen some months since from one of the cardinals. The police had
suspected for a long time that it was concealed somewhere in the Ghetto;
but in consequence of the hostile feeling which had been apparent there
for many months, they did not like to commence an official search in
that district without sufficient evidence; this evidence had been
obtained that very day through one of those ill-conditioned, ill-omened
spies, who are to be found connected with the police of every country.
From the description which he gave of the man, I could not for a moment
doubt that it was Emmanuel. He told me very frankly the precise hour at
which the informer came to him, and I found that it was soon after I had
left the shop.

There was a slight stoppage caused by the carriages which were driving
up to the Teatro d'Apolion, the present Opera. People looked curiously
into ours, which was well-known as that of the chief of the police. How
wonderful are the circles into which the interests of society are
divided; how many currents are eddying and bubbling in their course
before the mighty river of human existence is formed; each stream so
perfect in itself, so separate from every other, yet ever flowing
towards the same wide fathomless sea. Of the gay and the happy whom I
passed, how few cared for this poor girl, or how few would have cared
had they even heard the tale! I felt myself almost criminal from the
circumstance of having been the cause of this misery to another. My
whole thoughts were fixed on this one object. Before the fulness of my
imagination the prison-walls disappeared, and I saw nothing but the
cells, and listened to the voices of the many to whom the voice of the
comforter is never heard. We were passing over the yellow Tiber, but I
heeded not its associations, either with history or with my early
schoolboy days, their studies and their struggles. When the mind is full
of one object, all others become invisible, even to the senses. The
light of the mind is greater than the light of the body.

We arrived at last at the gates of St. Angelo, the tomb of the dead
Pagan and of the living Christian. After certain stern, painful
formalities were gone through, in the most matter-of-fact way, between
my companion and the commander of the strong post which was on guard, we
entered the mighty precincts, and the gates closed behind us. I had then
time to marvel at the massiveness of the structure--the immense blocks
of stone, so typical of the colossal empire under which it was
constructed. Passing through a long series of narrow passages, gloomy
and sad, impervious to all sound, save that of low sighs and groans from
dungeons below and around us, we arrived at an open space in the centre,
above which the winged angel is poised in the act of sheathing his
sword. The moon shone around it, and the expanded wings, edged with a
silvery light, seemed almost to move in the light breeze: there were
guards on the battlements, who marched with solemn, measured tread; and
high above all floated the Pontifical banner, with the keys of St. Peter
in its huge folds flapping in the breeze,--the emblem of sovereignty,
spiritual and temporal. No one can judge of the immense extent of St.
Angelo from the interior. The ashes of the great Emperor, how small a
space could they have occupied in that vast circumference--the tomb of
the one day, the citadel of the morrow--the grave of the Pagan, the
fortress of Christianity! During the recent revolution at Rome the
people broke down the viaduct which connects it with the Vatican, and
the ruined wall still remains;--we may hope, as a good omen, to show
that the palace and the prison are no longer closely connected together,
and that safety does not depend on the battlements and armaments of that
stern old tower of other days, which stands surrounded with the
memorials and memories of imperial Rome.

In one of the darkest of these cells the poor girl had been thrown.

When the door was opened gently, we saw what seemed to be a heap of
clothes piled together in one corner; but the light from a small lamp
suspended from the ceiling was so weak that it was quite impossible to
distinguish any object distinctly. The cell, as far as I could judge
from a hasty glance, resembled those abodes of misery which have been so
frequently described, and which it would require the energies of ten
Howards to improve. There was a disagreeable, close, damp smell; the
pavement of the floor was sadly out of repair; there was a bracket
placed against the wall, with a few necessary articles of furniture for
ordinary use; but when my eyes became more accustomed to the light, I
discovered that what had appeared a mere heap of clothes was the poor
girl, almost rolled up in the corner. For some moments she continued to
lie there, apparently quite insensible; but at last, with a sharp cry,
she raised her head suddenly, and then I could not mistake the beautiful
countenance that had so struck me on that morning. But, sad to say, even
these few hours had made great ravages: sorrow, anxiety, and misery are
the most zealous accessories of age. She really looked years older: this
might have been partly the effect of the lurid, flickering light, and
the disorder of her dress; but sure I am that no one could have
recognized the haughty, dignified, imposing woman, who but a few hours
since had swept almost contemptuously through the streets.

"You are come to accuse me," she exclaimed, falling with both her hands
on the pavement, and striking it with violence; "now you come to accuse
me. It is like a Christian," she continued, with increased bitterness in
her voice and vehemence in her action. And then she sobbed violently,
and looked into my face with a piteous expression.

The police prevented the necessity of my reply, for one of the men
seized her at once by the arm, and dragged her up rudely, desiring her
to stand. And she did stand there--a picture of utter prostration,
mental and physical, to have melted any heart, save the stony, arid ones
of those men who were with me. Stand alone she could not, but she leaned
against the wall, and her head fell on her shoulder, her fingers were
intertwined together, and she moved them about with a kind of galvanic
agitation. All the anger and impetuosity of her character had passed
away: she was no longer the ideal of ruined greatness, but the simple,
broken-hearted woman. Violence in a woman is at all times so painful to
witness, even in moments of extreme sorrow, that it rather offends than
interests.

"You know this woman?" said the abrupt, uncouth examiner, in a voice
which echoed to the vaulted roof.

I scarcely dared look at her; but I felt that those large black eyes
were fixed supplicatingly upon me, and I, too, trembled.

The question was repeated in the same harsh manner, and this time I
nodded in the affirmative.

"She sold you this piece of lace?" was the next question.

He took the lace of exquisite texture, and unrolled it so roughly that
it tore in his hand. M. Narelli had left us for some minutes, or this
miserable subordinate would not have dared to behave in so rude a
manner; but I scarcely thought it worth while to notice it,--or rather,
I scarcely did notice it at the time, my attention was so absorbed by
the poor girl, whose happiness, whose every prospect, depended on my
evidence.

I could not but repeat the affirmation; but how strange a thing is
justice, that it is sometimes difficult to reconcile it to humanity,
generosity, and all the nobler qualities of the heart! At the moment
that I was telling the truth my heart, and almost my conscience,
reproached me; it was impossible for me to deny the fact; even had it
been possible by a denial to have destroyed all the links of evidence,
could I so violate every received principle? But, nevertheless, however
irreconcilable with honor, dignity, and religion such a course would
have been, the features of that poor girl have frequently since appeared
to me wearing such a reproachful glance, that I have seemed to stand
before her abashed and self-convicted.

"And this piece of lace you stole?" continued the inquisitor, turning
sharply to Rachel,--a style of examination which would scarcely be
understood in England.

She made no reply, but looked at him with a calm, steady glance. Then a
sudden thought seemed to strike her.

"I ask you but one favor," she said, speaking to M. Narelli, who had
just returned. "Order these men away, and leave me alone for ten minutes
with this gentleman: if you mistrust me, you will, at least, have
confidence in an English gentleman. Besides, what chance is there of my
escaping from this place?" And she cast a melancholy glance around the
cell. "You can watch at the door, if you choose," she continued, with
additional animation; "do this, and I will give him some most important
information; if you remain, I will tell nothing at all."

The men whispered together, and appeared to hesitate about granting her
request. I looked on in great anxiety. I was most desirous of being of
some use to the poor girl, more especially as I felt myself to have been
the innocent, but still the original cause, of all her sufferings.

"Do this," she continued, with a heightened tone,--"do this, and I will
tell you much more: I will put you upon the track of a man who has
stolen countless wealth--who has done worse than steal, who has stained
his hands with blood. You know Flavio. Well, I know him also; and at the
present moment I can tell you where he is to be found. Do you believe me
now?"

Flavio had been well known some two years previously as one of those
bandits who was the terror of a whole province. He was accused of
several daring crimes, and a few months before these events a person had
been murdered in one of the narrow streets which skirt the city, and
the strongest circumstantial evidence pointed him out as the criminal.
Since then the police had been vigorously on the alert to discover his
hiding-place, but all their efforts up to this period had been
fruitless. I had often heard him spoken of, more especially in
connection with the republican movement then in progress in Italy; but I
was quite at a loss to imagine what connection could have subsisted
between this man and Rachel, or where she had had the opportunity of
seeing him.

The men left the cell, M. Narelli whispering me to curtail the interview
as much as possible, as they were anxious to terminate the first
inquiry. So soon as the door was closed, she threw herself at my feet,
took from her bosom a small packet, which I opened, and there I saw the
picture of a fair child--she might have been seven years of age; and
packed up with the picture was a lock of hair, and an address.

"As you are the cause of my misery," she said, "be also the source of my
happiness, even in this infliction. Give this to my child at the
inclosed address, and tell her to love me."

"Your child!" I exclaimed, with astonishment.

"My child, and by a man who you heard me mention so recently--Flavio!"

"And Flavio?" I said.

"I shall denounce him," she exclaimed,--"denounce him, as the one great
duty which I owe to society, as an atonement for my own sins. And does
he not deserve it? Is it but a light thing for a man to ruin me, in the
first instance,--to leave me afterwards to starve, and compel me to keep
a fruit-stall to gain the shadow of a subsistence,--condemning me to
misery and to humiliations which my soul abhorred and loathed? And was
that all? I said that you were the cause of my being here in this
wretched dungeon; you are the innocent cause, but the man who betrayed
me was----"

"Was Emmanuel," I interrupted.

"Yes, Emmanuel, it is true," she continued; "but there was a traitor
prior to him, and greater than him; it was Flavio."

"Flavio?"

"It is scarcely credible, but true. He insisted upon my giving him all
my earnings; when I refused to do so,--not for my own sake, for I could
live just as happily on bread-and-water as you could surrounded by all
your luxuries, but for the sake of my child, who, at that time, was
almost starving, for I had to bestow all the pittance I could scrape
together to procure it a nurse and a lodging. It was Flavio induced me
to steal the lace. I did so in a moment of desperation, when I fully
believed he would have murdered me if I had refused to obey him. I had
it by me so long; for, in the first instance, I did not venture to offer
it for sale; and latterly, I thought it would be difficult to procure
the full price. At last I heard that you were searching for old lace,
and thought I was safe in your hands. Circumstances have turned out
differently. I sent to Flavio to tell him that I had found a customer
for it, and till the very moment I was arrested I was perfectly ignorant
that he and that scoundrel Emmanuel were in close communion together;
but when I was dragged out of my small, miserable lodging, like a
condemned criminal, rather than as a person only accused of a crime,
Emmanuel, who stood by, with a glow of triumph over his pale, miserable,
withered countenance, whispered to me, 'Thank Flavio for this; he
denounced you for the reward.'"

"He will escape you," I said; "of course he will imagine that you intend
to be revenged upon him."

"He will not escape me long, for I know that he imagines me ignorant of
the woman with whom he is now living, and who hates him with a
bitterness second only to my own. She will give him up to justice, and
deservedly so. A greater villain does not exist. I cannot tell you what
his whole conduct has been to me--his acts of barbarous cruelty. Even my
child, whom I dote on, cannot make me forgive the father all his
iniquity."

"And this poor child?" I said.

"Ah, that is the thought that lays next my heart with a weight which I
can scarce sustain!" And she clasped her hands to her bosom, as though
to express the greatness of her affliction. "What I ask you is to see
the child, to give her this lock of hair and likeness. And may I venture
one thing more,--may I ask you to take care that she is not left utterly
destitute?" And so saying, she put a small purse in my hand, saying, "It
is very light, but it contains all that I possess."

I returned her the purse, as she required every baiocchi to add to her
comforts in the prison; but I set her mind at rest by promising to see
her child the next morning, and to do all that lay in my power for its
support and protection.

She fell at my feet, bathing my hands with her tears. In her beauty, as
she knelt before me, I for the moment forgot in what spot we were
standing, and looked upon her with an interest which was only broken,
rudely enough, by the clanging of the chains of the door, and its
creaking movement on its rusty hinges. M. Narelli entered, and with the
rough, straightforward, practical conduct of a man in his position, he
came at once to the point.

"You confess, then, that you stole the lace?"

"I do," she answered, with a firm voice, which surprised me after the
scene I had just witnessed; "I do confess that I stole the lace; but it
was not for myself, but for one far greater, and far better capable of
making a defence--for that man Flavio."

I noticed the gleam of satisfaction that passed over M. Narelli's
countenance at the mention of his name; and when he felt well assured
that he was, at last, fairly on the track of the man who had evaded all
his efforts, and in pursuit of whom, as I afterwards learned, he was, on
one occasion, nearly losing his situation, on account of a robbery
which it was quite evident that Flavio had committed, but of which he
could not obtain the least trace, at once his whole manner changed
towards the unfortunate girl; he asked her to sit down, to be quite
calm, and to tell him all that she knew of the man's career.

I thought, for one moment, that even then she would have relented, but
it was far otherwise; she began at once, with the calmest voice, to give
a sketch of Flavio's life from the time when she first met him. The
story was one of intense interest. It seems that at one time he was
engaged in gaining an honest livelihood; but one unlucky day he
quarrelled with a man--struck him; this led to a tussle, and, in a fit
of exasperation, he took out a knife and killed him on the spot. From
that moment he was lost. The dead man's family vowed vengeance against
him. He had to take to the woods, where, for self-defence, and really
for his subsistence, he took to the brigand's life. His extreme courage,
and even generosity, soon brought a large number of followers together;
and, as I have already remarked, he became the terror of the whole
Neapolitan frontier. At one time two or three regiments were sent in
pursuit of him; and then it was he undertook the last and boldest step
of coming to Rome itself. He got into the city at night, and for a long
time nothing more was heard of Flavio. At last his old habits returned.
Some robberies committed with wondrous skill, and a murder of
extraordinary atrocity, made the police suspect that the man who thus
braved their vigilance was a criminal of no ordinary description; but do
what they would, they were baffled in every scheme which they planned
for his arrest. At one moment his extraordinary nerve saved him,--for
instance, when chased by the police, he sought shelter in one of the
very tribunals, which they might naturally imagine was about the last
place where he would have been found. Mingled with this wild and savage
character were some generous qualities; he had been known to assist
people in misfortune, and a vague kind of interest attached to him on
account of traits of self-denial that were attributed to him. But now,
when Rachel told me of his heartless conduct to her, I learned how
entirely visionary are all those tales of nobility of character among
men who are leading an abandoned and vicious life.

From her story it could not be doubted for a moment that he it was who
had instigated her to commit the act which had brought her to despair.
Nothing could equal the bitterness with which she inveighed against him.
She told all his hiding-places--the secret passages by which he evaded
all pursuit; and when the story was finished, and her vengeance
accomplished, she wept like a child.

Even the stern M. Narelli was touched at the painful tale. He gave
orders that every comfort should be shown her, and after some minutes
further delay, we left the prison.

We had been there almost three hours, but the time had seemed very
short. When we crossed the Ponte St. Angelo the people were leaving the
Opera, after three hours of fictitious sorrow, while I had been passing
that time in the presence of real affliction--side by side, as it were,
in the face of each other, the mockery of woe and its solemn reality.
And how often is it so! Unthought of--not, indeed, uncared for--but
unthought of by the happy, the carriage rolls along, passing the
hospital and the prison in its rapid progress; the golden youth,
listlessly reclining in happy indolence, hears not the voice of pain,
sees not the hectic glow of suffering on the cheek; nursed in the sweet
sorrows of romance, dreams not of living agonies more fearful than those
which the greatest actor can portray, and of death as a reality.

I determined to lose no time in fulfilling my mission. The directions of
the house where the child lived had been very carefully written, so I
had no difficulty in discovering it; but I had to pass through a
labyrinth of dirty streets, until at last, in a small, narrow lane, next
the Farnese Palace, I found the house. Evidently something had occurred
to excite the inmates, for people were bustling about the door, and
there was unusual excitement for that late hour of the night. I stood
aside for a few moments to learn, if possible, what was the cause of all
this movement; and then I overheard expressions which made me tremble
for the safety of the poor child, if it was quite certain that she lived
there. "Who did it? Where is the man? Poor child, how beautiful she
was!" At last, unable to restrain my feelings, I rushed through the
group, and asked whether a young girl of eight or ten years lived there.

"She did live here," said an old woman, with the tears trickling down
her cheek,--"she did live here, but she is dead."

"Dead!" I exclaimed; for however indifferent a person may be to us,
perhaps in the circle of events nothing is more fearful than to seek the
living and find the corpse; to expect joy, and tremble before despair.
"Dead! When did she die? How did she die?"

"Come up, and see for yourself," said the woman; "the room will explain
every thing." And the men made way for me, and I followed up a rickety
staircase to the third flat,--it was scarcely worth the name of a floor.
As we drew near the top I saw two or three myrmidons of the police; they
all, I observed, looked pale--almost alarmed: evidently some great
catastrophe had occurred, but I had yet to learn the worst.

The light which the old woman held in her hand shone upon something
sparkling on the ground. I touched her arm to point it out to her, and
then she threw the full blaze of light upon it, and I saw at once that
it was blood. A cold, creeping sensation passed over me; that terrible
conviction that in one moment we are going to be witnesses of the
effects of a great crime almost paralyzed my senses; but, strange to
say, at this moment of horror I felt as if I had witnessed the whole
scene before. When we entered the room, and I saw the body of a young
and lovely child lying on the floor, bathed in blood, I did not shrink
even then, although destitution and crime were both presented to me in
their most fearful aspect. My nerves appeared to have been braced for
some great necessity. The police were standing by perfectly irresolute,
and incapable of taking any decided course, when one of them picked up a
handkerchief from the floor.

"Rachel!" he exclaimed, looking at the corner.

I started at the name, and then a sudden idea flashed across me: it was
Flavio who had been here, and with that devilish spirit of revenge to
which Rachel alluded, he had killed his own child. I took the chief of
the police to one side, and asked him if he knew Flavio.

"Well," he replied. "I was one of the band who were sent in pursuit of
him for two or three months. We fell in with him several times, but
never were able to take him."

"You had better inquire about him," I said; "for I strongly suspect him
of having committed this murder."

He took my suggestion, and it appeared that a man, precisely resembling
Flavio, had been seen leaving the house at the time of the murder. When
once suspicion was directed into the right channel, numerous
corroborative circumstances were cited. It appeared that Flavio came
constantly to see the child: the only strange part of the case was that
he appeared very fond of it, and as tender and considerate towards it as
a man of his brutal nature could be. There clearly must have been some
ground for this sudden and unprovoked attack,--if, indeed, he committed
it; after exhausting every possible motive, we could not arrive at any
definite conclusion.

After a while the horror of the spectacle grew upon me: it presented
itself no longer as a picture to my imagination, but as a fearful fact.
The crowd of people who forced their way into the room--the blasphemous
and terrible expressions--the coarse jokes--the vulgar, obscene
language--the poor child, not fashioned tenderly, but lying like a
confused mass of clothes and gore upon the floor, perfectly sickened my
heart. And when I thought that I could not be of any further use, I was
too happy to turn away.

I returned home, but could not sleep. All the events of the day crowded
upon my mind. My dream had been dreamt before I laid my head upon the
pillow: it now filled my brain like a horrible vision. I rose early,
wearied with restlessness, and went immediately in search of M. Narelli.
To my great surprise I found that he was up, and in close communication
with the chief of the police, whom I had seen on the preceding night at
the poor child's room. I was immediately shown into his office, and I
observed that his countenance betrayed an anxiety and annoyance unusual
in persons of his nature under any circumstances.

I was beginning to tell him my story, when he interrupted me.

"My dear sir," he said, "pardon me, but we have no time to lose, and I
know it all. A murder has been committed, and there is no question that
Flavio is the murderer: and I will tell you something more that will
surprise you. I know the cause of the murder--the motives that
influenced him. What do you think?--he was present at the examination of
that girl, yesterday!"

"He!" I exclaimed, with an expression of astonishment.

"It is surprising what he can do," he said: "he was disguised like a
soldier on guard; and, if you remember, two or three of them were
listening when the door was opened, when I returned after your interview
with Rachel."

The whole mystery was now explained: he had murdered the child to
revenge himself on Rachel.

"What I fear is," continued M. Narelli, "that we are three hours too
late, and the fellow has escaped; but we have sent off in all
directions, and all that can be will be done. I am now going to see the
poor girl, will you come with me?"

A strange fascination made me do so; besides, I wished to restore the
objects which she had given into my charge. When we arrived we found her
asleep: the jailer awoke her more gently and with more consideration
than before, for her sorrow had touched even his heart. When she saw me
she gave an exclamation of joy.

"And my child?" she said.

I could not answer a word, but put the packet into her hand.

She looked up with a kind of vague, incredulous smile, and passed her
hand across her forehead, as though to reflect more clearly.

"You have seen her, and you have not given it to her," she said. "What
does it mean?"

"It means," said M. Narelli, "that your child is the victim of an act of
fearful treachery, of a dreadful crime."

"My child! my child!" she shrieked aloud. "There is but one man who
could hurt a child, a sweet child like that--its own father!"

She bowed her head for a time, and raised it again only to utter the
most fearful ravings. Fit followed fit; her whole frame was convulsed,
and I withdrew in horror and anguish.

The result may be shortly stated. She went mad, and was confined in an
asylum,--one of those glorious charitable establishments of which modern
Rome can boast. Flavio escaped to the Campo Morto, where he is now
living,--an asylum for men guilty of the blackest crimes, where they
gradually fall victims to the pestilential vapors which they inhale, and
perish beneath the brightest sun while cultivating the soil so soon to
become their graves.




From the American Whig Review for January.

HENRY C. CAREY, AND HIS POLITICAL ECONOMY.

BY RUFUS W. GRISWOLD.


Henry C. Carey has been recognized through continental Europe as one of
the master thinkers of our generation. It is time for him to be known in
his own country. In Political Economy he has applied the methods of the
Positive Philosophy, and his works exhibit the chief advances the
science has made since Adam Smith published his "Wealth of Nations."
They are text-books in the colleges even of Sweden and Norway, while at
the University in the street next to that in which the author has his
residence, books are adopted composed of ideas from empirical and nearly
obsolete systems: Say and Ricardo are regarded as expositors of the last
and ultimate discoveries. Let us see if this law respecting prophets
cannot be changed; or if not changed, confirmed, by an exception in the
case of our philosopher.

Mr. Carey was born in Philadelphia, in December, 1793. His father was
the late eminent Matthew Carey, memories of whose virtues preserve about
his name a thousand delightful associations. Matthew Carey was a
political economist also. He wrote much, and he wrote effectively,
because he taught that which was in accordance with the feelings and
interests of his readers; but he was of the old school, dead now, with
its professors. He disliked abstract ideas or principles, and did not
trouble himself much with their investigation. The consequence was, that
he made no addition to politico-economical knowledge, and left nothing
by which he should be remembered except the fact that he was a
consistent and ardent friend of Protection.

Ricardo left his doctrine of Rents; Malthus his principle of Population;
their books are little read now, and they themselves would have been
long since forgotten, but that they taught what had been taught by no
others. Of the hundreds of their countrymen who have since written,
scarcely one has furnished a new idea; or if such an idea can be found
in the books of any one, it will not bear investigation. Many have
collected facts, that are useful, and all of them have talked and
written about their facts and theories; but only as empirics. One man
contended on one side and another on another, and there was no standard
by which to judge them. Ricardo and Malthus gave laws that would not fit
the facts, and the facts were altered and suppressed to suit the
laws.[22] McCulloch taught that transportation and exchange were more
advantageous than production,[23] and Cobden that it was better to go to
colonies in which _rich_ lands were to be had cheap, than to stay at
home where landlords charged high rents for the _poor_ ones that were
necessarily cultivated: and therefore that imported food would be
cheaper than that which was grown at home. The result has proved that he
was wrong. Food is now obtained with more difficulty than before;
emigration is necessary, and the late decision in Parliament shows that
Protection will be restored: as the ministry could command only the mean
majority of 21.

A few years hence McCulloch will be remembered only as the compiler of a
few indifferent books of reference, and Cobden as the author of much ill
to the people of England. Many of these men have ideas that are sound;
but they know nothing of the principles of the science they undertake to
teach; and so they are continually making blunders. Of all the French
writers of the first forty years of this century, only one, Jean
Baptiste Say, has lived to the middle of it, and his work is only a mass
of error in an imposing form.

This may be called sweeping criticism; but time will prove that it is
just. We need principles, as the astronomers did before Copernicus,
Kepler and Newton, gave them the laws which govern the movements of the
universe. Others observed facts and wrote treatises, but only these
names have lived. Ricardo and Malthus furnished what they believed to be
the great natural laws in regard to land and the sources of its value;
the relation of the laborer and the capitalist; and of population. Their
names are still familiar, but their theories are shattered by the
assaults of critics; they will be forgotten, and their places will be
occupied by those of the great author of whose works we propose to
write. Ricardo and Malthus will be to Carey as Ptolemy to Copernicus.

From 1803, a period of almost fifty years, since Ricardo published his
doctrine of Rent, there has not been even an attempt, except Carey's, to
add any thing to political economy. Senior, Whateley, and a thousand
others, have been disputing about words, while as many others have been
attacking Malthus and Ricardo; but no one has attempted to discover
laws, to take the place of those which were assailed. Of the supporters
of these writers, every one has been compelled to admit that their laws
did not cover the facts, and to interpolate accommodating passages. John
Stuart Mill, in his recent work, has done this even more largely than
his predecessors, and so furnished additional proof that their laws were
_not_ laws, but mere anarchy. Ricardo had to leave a place of escape for
difficult facts[24] and his successors have since found themselves
obliged to open so many new ones, that his laws are now like sieves.

The period was propitious for a discoverer. The opinion of D'Alembert
that the steps of Civilization were to be taken in the middle of each
century, was to be confirmed by a new illustration.

Mr. Carey's father was a practical man; all his children were trained to
affairs; thus they became observers. The students of books are rarely
creators in science. Truth is most likely to be evolved in the school of
experience. From the age of seven years until he was twenty-one, Mr.
Carey was in his father's bookstore. From 1821 to 1838, he was a partner
in the important publishing house of Carey, Lea & Carey, and Carey &
Lea; but in this period he passed one season abroad, we believe
immediately after his marriage with a sister of Leslie the painter. The
determination of his mind was already fixed, when his retirement from
business enabled him to devote his faculties entirely to the science
with which his name will for ever be associated.

Mr. Carey's first book--_An Essay on the Rate of Wages_--was published
in 1836, and was soon after expanded into _The Principles of Political
Economy_, which appeared in three octavo volumes in 1837--1840.

Before proceeding to give an account of this performance, we will more
particularly show what was, at the date of its publication, the
condition of the science it was designed to illustrate. Mr. Malthus had
taught that population tended to increase faster than food, and that so
irresistible was this tendency, that all human efforts to restrain the
number of men within the limits of subsistence were vain. It was a great
"law of nature," and it was of little consequence, therefore, how fast
food might be increased, since the only effect must be to stimulate
population, which, in the end, was sure to outrun the means of living.
The impression which this work produced has been briefly noticed in what
we have written in connection with Mr. Alexander H. Everett's reply to
it, printed in London and Boston in 1822. The doctrine was a convenient
one, for it relieved the directors of affairs from the charge of
causing, or suffering, the poverty and wretchedness by which they were
surrounded.

Soon after this, Mr. Ricardo attempted to explain by what means the
supply of food was limited. He taught that men always commenced the work
of cultivation on the most fertile soils, capable of yielding, say, one
hundred quarters for a given quantity of labor; but that as population
increased, it became necessary to resort to poorer soils, yielding but
ninety quarters, and that then the owner of the first could command as
rent ten quarters. With a further increase, lands of a third quality,
yielding but eighty quarters, were brought into use, and then the first
and second would command as rent the whole difference, say, twenty
quarters for the first, and ten quarters for the second. The payment of
rent is thus regarded, in this school, as an evidence of constantly
diminishing reward of labor, resulting from the increase of population
in consequence of which it is necessary to extend the area of
cultivation. With each step of its progress, the owner of the land takes
a larger proportion of this constantly decreasing product, leaving a
smaller one to be divided among those who apply either labor or capital
to cultivation, thus producing a constant increase in the _inequality_
of human condition. The interests of the landlord are in this manner
shown to be for ever opposed to those of all the other portions of
society. Rent is supposed to be paid because land has been occupied in
virtue of an exercise of power and not because the owners have done any
thing to entitle them to it. Here we see the germ of that discord which
everywhere in Europe exists between the payers and receivers of rent.
The annual fund from which savings can be made is held to be continually
diminishing, the poor becoming poorer as the rich grow richer. The
tendency to increase is more powerful in population than in capital, and
the natural result must be that "wages will be reduced so low that a
portion of the population will regularly die of want."[25]

The effect of the promulgation of these principles, upon the science of
which they were asserted to be the basis, was curious. It was clear that
increase of population led to famine. It was equally clear that increase
of wealth tended to the extension of cultivation over inferior soils,
with constantly decreasing returns to labor. Nevertheless, the political
economist was everywhere surrounded by facts showing that the condition
of man improved as numbers increased, and as cultivation was extended.
With lessened rewards of toil there should be deterioration of moral
condition, and abridged facilities for intellectual cultivation, but it
was incontestable that men were more moral and better instructed than in
any previous centuries. The increasing disproportion between the share
of the landlord and that of the laborer was calculated to increase the
inequality of condition, and yet it was not to be doubted that the two
were nearer together than they were in the days of Elizabeth or of Henry
VIII. The fact and the theory were always at variance with each other,
and hence resulted a determination to limit the science to the
consideration of wealth alone, excluding all reference to social
condition. Mr. McCulloch therefore defined Political Economy as the
Science of Values, and Archbishop Whately desired to change the name to
Catallactics, or the Science of Exchanges. The whole duty of the teacher
of this new science was held to be that of explaining how wealth might
be increased, allowing "neither sympathy with indigence, nor disgust at
profusion nor at avarice; neither reverence for existing institutions,
nor detestation of existing abuses; neither love of popularity, nor of
paradox, nor of system, to deter him from stating what he believed to be
the facts, or from drawing from those facts what appeared to him to be
the legitimate conclusions."[26]

Such was the Political Economy then, and such is that which is now,
taught in the schools of England. The consequences are seen in the
manner in which the poor people of every part of the United Kingdom are
being expelled from the little holdings to which they have been reduced
by a system of unbounded public expenditure, and the contemptuous tone
in which the common people are spoken of in all their journals. Charity
is denounced as tending to promote the growth of population. Marriage
among the poor is regarded as a crime, and farmers are regarded as
participant in crime for giving employment to men with families in
preference to single men. But the system itself was an enormous wrong
against nature. Mr. Carey entered the lists against it, with the
earnestness and confidence inspired by a conviction that he contended
for humanity.

His book commences with a single elementary proposition, that man
desires to maintain and improve his condition, whether physical, moral,
intellectual, or political: and the object of it is to show, that the
theories of Mr. Malthus and Mr. Ricardo are in direct opposition to the
universal fact, and therefore cannot be regarded as natural laws. On the
contrary, he shows that food has always grown faster than population,
and that the power to obtain subsistence has always increased most
rapidly in those countries, and at those times, in which population has
most rapidly increased, and in which cultivation has most rapidly
extended over those soils denominated by Mr. Ricardo inferior. The error
of all these writers is shown to be in taking _quantities_ instead of
_proportions_, and it is the law of proportions that constitutes the
novel feature of this work. Ricardo and Malthus assert that land, labor,
and capital are the agents of production, and are subject to different
laws, all tending to produce contrariety of interests, and that the
reason why such is the case is that land owes its value--or power to
command rent for its use--to _monopoly_, while capital is the
accumulated product of labor. Mr. Carey, on the contrary, shows, by a
vast variety of facts, that land owes its value to labor alone, and that
its selling price is _invariably_ less than would purchase the quantity
of labor required to induce its present condition were it restored to a
state of nature. It is, therefore, like steam-engines, mills, or ships,
to be considered as capital, the interest upon which is called rent, and
it is subject to the same laws as capital in any other form. With the
growth of wealth and population, the landlord is shown to be receiving a
constantly decreasing _proportion_ of the product of labor applied to
cultivation, but a constantly increasing _quantity_, because of the
rapid increase in the amount of the return as cultivation is improved
and extended.[27] So it is with the capitalist. The _rate_ of interest
falls as cultivation is improved, and capital is accumulated with
greater facility, and the capitalist receives a smaller _proportion_;
but the _quantity_ of commodities obtainable in return for the use of a
given amount of capital increases, and with every change in that
direction there is shown to be an increasing tendency to equality and to
improvement of condition, physical, moral, intellectual, and political.

According to the system of Mr. Ricardo, the interests of the land owner
and laborer, the capitalist and the employer of capital, are always
opposed to each other. Mr. Carey, on the contrary, proves, and we think
most conclusively, that "the interests of the capitalist and of the
employer of capital are thus in perfect harmony with each other, as each
derives advantage from every measure that tends to facilitate the growth
of capital, and to render labor productive; while every measure that
tends to produce the opposite effect is injurious to both."[28]

The entire novelty of these views rendered it necessary that they should
be supported by a great body of facts, and Mr. Carey therefore furnished
an examination of the causes which have in various countries,
particularly India, France, Great Britain, and the United States,
retarded the growth of wealth--demonstrating that they were to be found
in the great public expenditure for the support of fleets and armies,
and the prosecution of wars, the natural results of a state of things in
which the few govern the many, taxing them at their will; and that the
remedy was to be found in that improvement of political condition which
should enable men to govern and to tax themselves, doing which they
would be disposed to remain at peace.

That man may be enabled to improve his physical condition, combination
of effort is shown to be necessary, and that tends to increase with the
increase in the density of population. Therewith comes increased
security of person and property, and increased respect for the rights of
others, tending to promote the further increase of wealth, and to enable
men to devote more time to the cultivation of mind. Improved mental
condition enables men to apply their labors more productively, and thus
obtain better subsistence from a diminished surface, facilitates
combination of action, and increases the growth of wealth. With its
growth the proportion of the laborer increases, and that of the landlord
or other capitalist decreases, and the power of the former to govern
himself, and to tax himself, grows steadily with the growth of wealth
and population; and thus we have physical, moral, intellectual and
political improvement, each aiding, and aided by, the other.

It will be seen from this brief summary that the field occupied is a
most extensive one, more so than that of any similar work that has been
written. The views are presented with great distinctness and force, and
illustrated throughout by numerous facts drawn not only from the four
countries principally referred to, but from Italy, the Netherlands,
Norway, Sweden, Switzerland, &c. It is one of the chief distinguishing
merits of the work, that each part of it, while complete in itself, has
that relation to the other which belongs to the divisions of a whole, in
which all things are so interblended and harmonious as to produce a
cumulative and finally perfect effect; while in the various systems
presented to us by Europe, every part is in conflict with every other.

In denying Mr. Ricardo's _theory of the occupation of the earth_, Mr.
Carey did not undertake to present any by himself, but this he has done
in his more recent performance, The Past, the Present and the Future,
published in Philadelphia in 1848. In this original and masterly
composition, he has shown that the law is in direct opposition to the
principle announced by Mr. Ricardo, and since adopted in the English
school, and to some extent in France and in this country. In the infancy
of civilization, man is poor and works with poor machinery, and must
take the high and poor soils requiring little clearing and no drainage;
and it is only as population and wealth increase, that the richer soils
are brought into cultivation. The consequence is, that in obedience to a
great law of nature, _food tends to increase more rapidly than
population_, and it is only by that combination of effort which results
from increasing density of population that the richer soils can be
brought into activity. The truth of this is shown by a careful and
particular account of the settlement of this country, followed by a
rapid sketch of the occupation of Mexico, the West Indies, South
America, Great Britain, France, Italy, Greece, India, and the Islands of
the Pacific, illustrating and confirming the position that the poor
lands at the heads of streams, or the small and rocky islands, are first
chosen for cultivation, while the lower and richer soils are left
unimproved for want of the means which come with growing wealth and
population. Mr. Ricardo's theory is then examined in all its parts, and
shown to be entirely opposed to the whole mass of facts presented in a
rapid review of the course of events in the different portions of the
world, while the exceptions made by him for the purpose of providing for
the infinite number that could not be brought under his general law, are
shown to be _themselves the law_; and that such is the case is now
admitted by some of the most eminent economists of Europe.

With the downfall of Mr. Ricardo's hypothesis of the occupation of land,
disappears the base on which rests the celebrated theory of Mr.
Malthus--a theory which has been largely discussed in this country by
Mr. Everett and others, and which is examined at length from his point
of view by Mr. Carey, who shows that everywhere increase of population
has led to the cultivation of the lower and richer soils, followed by
increase in the facility of obtaining food, while depopulation has
everywhere been marked by the retreat of cultivation to the hills; a
truth which he illustrates by numerous instances.

He next surveys the circumstances attending the progress of wealth. It
is held by the English economists that capital, applied to land, must
necessarily bring diminishing profits, because applied to a machine of
constantly decreasing powers; and that, therefore, manufactures and
trade, steam-engines and ships, are more profitable than agriculture;
whereas, Mr. Carey shows that land is a machine of constantly
_increasing_ capacities, and that the only manner in which machinery of
any description is beneficial, is by diminishing the labor required for
converting and transporting the products of the earth, and permitting a
larger quantity to be given to the work of production. The earth is the
sole producer, says Mr. Carey, and man merely fashions and exchanges her
products, adding nothing to the quantity to be converted or exchanged,
and the growth of wealth everywhere is shown to be in the ratio of the
quantity of labor that can be given to the cultivation of the great
machine bestowed on man for the production of food and wool. This leads
to an examination of the British system, the object of which is shown
to have been that of compelling the people of every part of the world to
bring to her their raw products to be converted and exchanged, thus
wasting on the road a large portion of them, and all the manure that
would result from their home consumption, the consequence of which is
shown to be the exhaustion of the land and its owner. The broad ground
is then taken that the products of the land should be consumed upon the
land, and that nations grow rich or remain poor precisely as they act in
accordance with, or in opposition to, that view. Mr. Carey is a
free-trader. In his first book he advocated the British doctrine of
diminished duties, as the means of bringing about free trade. In his
_Past and Present_ he admits his error, and shows that the protective
system was the result of an instinctive effort at the correction of a
great evil inflicted upon the world by British legislation, and that
_the only course towards perfect freedom of trade is to be found in
perfect protection_.

The effect of increasing wealth and population resulting from the power
to cultivate the richer soils, in bringing about the division of land
and the union of man is then shown, and illustrated by examples drawn
from the history of the principal nations of the world, ancient and
modern; and here the European system of primogeniture is examined, with
a view to show that it is purely artificial, and tends to disappear with
the growth of wealth and population. This leads to the discussion of the
relations of man to his fellow-men, which are shown to tend to the
establishment of equality wherever peace is maintained, and wealth and
population are allowed to grow; and to inequality, with every step in
the progress of war and devastation.

Man himself next appears on the scene. Mr. Malthus, Mr. Ricardo, and all
others of the English School, represent him as the slave of his
necessities, working because he fears starvation. Mr. Carey, on the
contrary, shows him to be animated by hope, and improving in all his
moral qualities, precisely as by the growth of wealth and
population--the results of peace--he is enabled to clear and cultivate
the rich soils of the earth.

Thence we pass to the relations of man and his helpmate, which are shown
to improve precisely as do those of man to his fellow-man, as the rich
soils are brought into cultivation. Man and his family follow, and the
same improvement, under the same circumstances, is shown to take place
in the relations of parent and child.

Concentration, or the habit of local self-government, so strikingly
illustrated in New-England, is next examined in contrast with
centralization, as exhibited in England and France, and its admirable
effects in tending to the maintenance of peace are fully exhibited. The
various systems of colonization next pass in review, and give occasion
for an examination of the various causes that brought <DW64> slavery into
this country, and the reason why it is here alone that the race has
increased in numbers. India and Ireland, and the devastating effects of
the colonial system, Annexation, and Civilization, furnish the materials
for the succeeding chapters, and give occasion--the last
particularly--for the expression of opinions much at variance with those
taught by Guizot and others of the most distinguished men of our day.
Such are the Past and Present. The closing chapter is the Future, and
contains an examination of many remarkable facts now presented to our
view by our own country, produced by the existence of the unnatural
system fastened upon the world by England, and to be remedied by the
adoption of an American policy, having for its object that of enabling
men to live together and combine their exertions, instead of flying from
each other, leaving behind rich lands uncultivated, and going to Texas
or Oregon to begin the work of cultivation on the poorer ones. "With
each step in the progress of concentration his physical condition would
improve, because he would cultivate more fertile lands, and obtain
increased power over the treasures of the earth. His moral condition
would improve, because he would have greater inducements to steady and
regular labor, and the reward of good conduct would steadily increase.
His intellectual condition would improve, because he would have more
leisure for study, and more power to mix with his fellow-men at home or
abroad; to learn what they knew, and to see what they possessed; while
the reward of talent would steadily increase, and that of mere brute
wealth would steadily decline. His political condition would improve,
because he would acquire an increased power over the application of his
labor and of its proceeds. He would be less governed, better governed,
and more cheaply governed, and all because more perfectly
self-governed."

The field surveyed by Mr. Carey in the _Past and Present_ is a broad
one--broader than that of any other book of our time--for it discusses
every interest of man. The ideas are original--whether true or not, they
are both new and bold. They are based upon a great law of Nature, and it
is the first time that any system of political economy has been offered
to the world that was so based. The consequence is, that all the facts
place themselves, as completely as did the planets when Copernicus had
satisfied himself that the earth revolved around the sun.[29]

More recently, in his _Harmony of Interests_, Mr. Carey has published a
full examination of the great question of commercial policy, with a view
to show that protection, as it exists in this country, is the true and
_only_ road to free trade. He has brought to the illustration of this
important doctrine a mass of facts, greater, probably, than was ever
before displayed in support of any position in political economy. It
commences with an examination of our whole commercial policy for the
last thirty years, and shows the effect of protection in increasing the
sum of production and consumption, the means of transportation, internal
and external, and the influx of population from abroad, always an
evidence of the increased productiveness of labor. In this work it is
shown conclusively, that shipping grows with protection, because
protection tends to promote immigration, or the import of men, the most
valuable of commodities, and thus to diminish the cost of _sending_ to
market the less valuable ones, grain, tobacco, and cotton. The question
is examined in every point of view--material, moral, intellectual, and
political; and the result arrived at is, "that between the interests of
the treasury and the people, the farmer, planter, manufacturer and
merchant, the great and little trader and the ship-owner, the slave and
his master, the land-owners and laborers of the Union and the world, the
free-trader and the advocate of protection, there is perfect harmony of
interests, and that the way to the establishment of universal peace and
universal free trade, is to be found in the adoption of measures tending
to the destruction of the _monopoly of machinery_, and the location of
the loom and the anvil in the vicinity of the plough and the harrow."

In addition to the works I have named, Mr. Carey has published two
others, on the Currency--the larger of which is entitled _Credit System
in France, England, and the United States_. Their object is to show,
that there is a very simple law which lies at the root of the whole
currency question, and that by its aid the revulsions so frequently
experienced may be perfectly accounted for. That law is perfect freedom
of trade in money, whether by individuals or associations, leaving the
latter to make their own terms with their customers, and to assume
limited or unlimited liability, as they themselves may think most
expedient. In a detailed review of the operations of several of the
principal nations, and of all the States of this Union, it is shown that
the tendency to steadiness in the quantity, and uniformity in the
quality, of currency, is in the exact ratio of freedom, while with every
increase in the number or extent of restrictions, steadiness diminishes
and insecurity increases. The views contained in this work are now
adopted by some of the most eminent writers in France. They constitute
the basis of a recent and excellent work[30] by M. Coquelin, who quotes
largely from that of Mr. Carey, declaring that our countryman has, "in
the investigation of causes and effects, succeeded better than the
English inquirers," and had, as early as 1838, "clearly shown the
primary causes of the perturbations recurring almost periodically in
commerce and currency."[31]

Since these paragraphs were written, Mr. Carey has commenced the
publication of a series of Letters to Mr. Walker, the late Secretary of
the Treasury, in which he promises more largely and satisfactorily than
heretofore to indicate and vindicate his opinions upon the subject of
Trade. They are likely to have a powerful influence upon affairs, being
of that class of compositions which the mind receives with astonishment
that it had not anticipated their truth.

FOOTNOTES:

[22] Thus we see by a correspondence published in the London papers that
Mr. Horace Mayhew, author of the metropolitan "Labor and the Poor"
articles, has ceased to write for the London _Morning Chronicle_, the
conductors of that journal wishing him to _suppress_, in his reports on
the condition of the working classes, _facts opposed to free trade_.

[23] See Carey's Past, Present and Future, p. 128.

[24] The Past, the Present and the Future, pp. 70, 71.

[25] Mr. Mill, quoted by Mr. Carey.

[26] Mr. Senior, quoted by Mr. Carey.

[27] By the following passages, which we take from M. Bastiat's new
work, _Harmonies Economiques_, it will be seen that he adopts these
views as the basis of his political economy: "_A mesure que les capitaux
s'accroissent, la part_ absolue _des capitalistes dans les produits
totaux augmente et leur part_ relative _diminue. Au contraire, les
travailleurs voient augmenter leur part dans les deux sens._ (p.
280).... Ainsi le partage se fera de la maniere suivante.


Produit total. Part du capital. Part du travail. Premiere periode, 1000
500 500 Deuxieme periode, 2000 800 1200 Troisieme periode, 3000 1050
1950 Quatrieme periode, 4000 1200 2800


"Telle est la grande, admirable, consolante, necessaire, et _inflexible_
loi du capital."--(p. 281.)

"Ainsi la grande loi du capital et du travail, en ce qui concerne le
partage du produit de la collaboration, est determinee. Chacun d'eux a
une part _absolue_ de plus en plus grand, mais la part _proportionnelle_
du capital diminue sans cesse comparativement a celle du travail."--(p.
284.)

_Cause of value in Land._--"Cette valeur, comme tous les autres, est de
creation humaine et social."--p. 362. After reciting the various modes
of applying labor to the improvement of land, he says: "La valeur c'est
incorporee, confondue dans le sol, et c'est pourquoi on poura tres bien
dire par metonymie: _le sol vaut_."--(p. 363.)

Land not changeable for as much labor as it has cost. "J'ose affirmer
qu'il n'est pas un champ en France qui _vaille_ ce qu'il a coute, qui
puisse s'echanger contre autant de travail qu'il en a exige pour etre
mis a l'etat de productivite ou il se trouve."--(p. 398.)

_Cause of this._--"Vous avez employee mille journees a mettre votre
domaine dans l'etat ou il est; je ne vous en restituerai que huit cents,
et ma raison est qu'avec huit cents journees je puis faire aujourd'hui
sur la terre a cote ce qu'avec mille vous avez fait autrefois sur la
votre. Veuillez considerer que depuis quinze ans l'art de dessecher, de
detricher, de batir, de creuser des puits, de disposer les etables,
d'executer les transports a fait des progres. Chaque resultat donne
exige moins du travail, et je ne veux me soumettre a vous donner dix de
ce que je puis avoir pour huit, d'autant que le prix du ble a diminue
dans la proportion de ce progres, que ne profite ni a vous ni a moi,
mais a l'humanite tout entiere."--(p. 368.)

The reader who may desire to see the perfect correspondence of these
views with those published by Mr. Carey, as far back as 1837, may do so
by a glance at Chapters II., III., IV., and VII. of his first volume,
where he gives a great number of facts in support of ideas then so new,
and of course so heretical.

A remarkable fact, to which we now desire to call the attention of our
readers, is, that which M. Bastiat has thus adopted the views of Mr.
Carey, without, so far as we have been able to see, alteration or
addition. His name never occurs in the work, except as authority for one
of his quotations, which M. Bastiat has copied, while the names of
Ricardo, Malthus, Senior, Scrope, Considerant, and a host of others, are
found in almost every chapter. It must be highly gratifying to Mr. Carey
to see his views obtain so entirely the approbation of a man of the
reputation of M. Bastiat, that he should be willing to give them to the
world as his own.

[28] Vol. I., p. 339.

[29] This work has been much read abroad, and we perceive that it has
recently been translated into Swedish, and published at Stockholm.




From Blackwood's Magazine.

MY NOVEL: OR, VARIETIES IN ENGLISH LIFE.

BY PISISTRATUS CAXTON.

_Continued from page 285._


BOOK III.--INITIAL CHAPTER, SHOWING HOW MY NOVEL CAME TO BE CALLED "MY
NOVEL."

"I am not displeased with your novel, so far as it has gone," said my
father graciously; "though as for The Sermon--"

Here I trembled; but the ladies, Heaven bless them! had taken Parson
Dale under their special protection; and observing that my father was
puckering up his brows critically, they rushed boldly forward in defence
of The Sermon, and Mr. Caxton was forced to beat a retreat. However,
like a skillful general, he renewed the assault upon outposts less
gallantly guarded. But as it is not my business to betray my weak
points, I leave it to the ingenuity of cavillers to discover the places
at which the Author of _Human Error_ directed his great guns.

"But," said the Captain, "you are a lad of too much spirit, Pisistratus,
to keep us always in the obscure country quarters of Hazeldean--you will
march us out into open service before you have done with us?"

_Pisistratus_, magisterially, for he has been somewhat nettled by Mr.
Caxton's remarks--and he puts on an air of dignity, in order to awe away
minor assailants.--"Yes, Captain Roland--not yet awhile, but all in good
time. I have not stinted myself in canvas, and behind my foreground of
the Hall and the Parsonage I propose, hereafter, to open some lengthened
perspective of the varieties of English life--"

_Mr. Caxton._--"Hum!"

_Blanche_, putting her hand on my father's lip.--"We shall know better
the design, perhaps, when we know the title. Pray, Mr. Author, what is
the title?"

_My Mother_, with more animation than usual.--"Ay, Sisty--the title?"

_Pisistratus_, startled,--"The title! By the soul of Cervantes! I have
never yet thought of a title!"

_Captain Roland_, solemnly.--"There is a great deal in a good title. As
a novel-reader, I know that by experience."

_Mr. Squills._--"Certainly; there is not a catchpenny in the world but
what goes down, if the title be apt and seductive. Witness 'Old Parr's
Life Pills.' Sell by the thousand, sir, when my 'Pills for Weak
Stomachs,' which I believe to be just the same compound, never paid for
the advertising."

_Mr. Caxton._--"Parr's Life Pills! a fine stroke of genius! It is not
every one who has a weak stomach, or time to attend to it, if he have.
But who would not swallow a pill to live to a hundred and fifty-two?"

_Pisistratus_, stirring the fire in great excitement.--"My title! my
title!--what shall be my title!"

_Mr. Caxton_, thrusting his hand into his waistcoat, and in his most
didactic of tones.--"From a remote period, the choice of a title has
perplexed the scribbling portion of mankind. We may guess how their
invention has been racked by the strange contortions it has produced. To
begin with the Hebrews. 'The Lips of the Sleeping,' (_Labia
Dormientium_)--what book do you suppose that title to designate?--A
Catalogue of Rabbinical writers! Again, imagine some young lady of old
captivated by the sentimental title of 'The Pomegranate with its
Flower,' and opening on a treatise on the Jewish Ceremonials! Let us
turn to the Romans. Aulus Gellius commences his pleasant gossiping
'Noctes' with a list of the titles in fashion in his day. For instance,
'_The Muses_' and '_The Veil_,' '_The Cornucopia_,' '_The Beehive_,' and
'_The Meadow_.' Some titles, indeed, were more truculent, and promised
food to those who love to sup upon horrors--such as '_The Torch_,' '_The
Poniard_,' '_The Stiletto_'--"

_Pisistratus_, impatiently.--"Yes, sir; but to come to My Novel."

_Mr. Caxton_, unheeding the interruption.--"You see, you have a fine
choice here, and of a nature pleasing, and not unfamiliar to a classical
reader; or you may borrow a hint from the early Dramatic Writers."

_Pisistratus_, more hopefully.--"Ay! there is something in the Drama
akin to the Novel. Now, perhaps, I may catch an idea."

_Mr. Caxton._--"For instance, the author of the _Curiosities of
Literature_ (from whom, by the way, I am plagiarizing much of the
information I bestow upon you), tells us of a Spanish gentleman who
wrote a Comedy, by which he intended to serve what he took for Moral
Philosophy."

_Pisistratus_, eagerly.--"Well, sir?"

_Mr. Caxton._--"And called it 'The Pain of the Sleep of the World.'"

_Pisistratus._--"Very comic indeed, sir!"

_Mr. Caxton._--"Grave things were then called Comedies, as old things
are now called Novels. Then there are all the titles of early Romance
itself at your disposal--'Theagenes and Chariclea,' or 'The Ass' of
Longus, or 'The Golden Ass' of Apuleius, or the titles of Gothic
Romance, such as 'The most elegant, delicious, mellifluous, and
delightful History of Perceforest, King of Great Britain.'"--And
therewith my father ran over a list of names as long as the Directory,
and about as amusing.

"Well, to my taste," said my mother, "the novels I used to read when a
girl (for I have not read many since, I am ashamed to say),--"

_Mr. Caxton._--"No, you need not be at all ashamed of it, Kitty."

_My Mother_, proceeding.--"Were much more inviting than any you mention,
Austin."

_The Captain._--"True."

_Mr. Squills._--"Certainly. Nothing like them now-a-days!"

_My Mother._--"_'Says she to her Neighbor, What?'_"

_The Captain._-"_'The Unknown, or the Northern Gallery'_--"

_Mr. Squills._--"_'There is a Secret; Find it Out!'_"

_Pisistratus_, pushed to the verge of human endurance, and upsetting
tongs, poker, and fire-shovel.--"What nonsense you are talking, all of
you! For heaven's sake, consider what an important matter we are called
upon to decide. It is not now the titles of those very respectable works
which issued from the Minerva Press that I ask you to remember--it is to
invent a title for mine--My Novel!"

_Mr. Caxton_, clapping his hands gently.--"Excellent--capital! Nothing
can be better; simple, natural, pertinent, concise--"

_Pisistratus._--"What is it, sir--what is it! Have you really thought of
a title to My Novel?"

_Mr. Caxton._--"You have hit it yourself--'My Novel.' It is your
Novel--people will know it is your Novel. Turn and twist the English
language as you will--be as allegorical as Hebrew, Greek,
Roman--Fabulist or Puritan--still, after all, it is your Novel, and
nothing more nor less than your Novel."

_Pisistratus_, thoughtfully, and sounding the words various ways.--"'My
Novel'--um--um! 'My Novel!' rather bald--and curt, eh?"

_Mr. Caxton._--"Add what you say you intend it to depict--Varieties in
English Life."

_My Mother._--"_'My Novel; or, Varieties in English Life'_--I don't
think it sounds amiss. What say you, Roland? Would it attract you in a
catalogue?"

My Uncle hesitates, when Mr. Caxton exclaims imperiously:

"The thing is settled! Don't disturb Camarina."

_Squills._--"If it be not too great a liberty, pray who or what is
Camarina?"

_Mr. Caxton._--"Camarina, Mr. Squills, was a lake, apt to be low, and
then liable to be muddy; and 'Don't disturb Camarina' was a Greek
proverb derived from an Oracle of Apollo; and from that Greek proverb,
no doubt, comes the origin of the injunction, '_Quieta non movere_,'
which became the favorite maxim of Sir Robert Walpole and Parson Dale.
The Greek line, Mr. Squills (here my father's memory began to warm), is
preserved by _Stephanus Byzantinus_, de _Urbibus_--

[Greek: 'Me kinei Kamarinan akinetos gar ameinon.']

_Zenobius_ explains it in his Proverbs; _Suidas_ repeats _Zenobius_;
_Lucian_ alludes to it; so does _Virgil_ in the Third Book of the
_AEneid_; and _Silius Italicus_ imitates Virgil--

    'Et cui non licitum fatis Camarina moveri.'

Parson Dale, as a clergyman and a scholar, had, no doubt, these
authorities at his fingers' end. And I wonder he did not quote them,"
quoth my father; "but, to be sure, he is represented as a mild man, and
so might not wish to humble the Squire over much in the presence of his
family. Meanwhile, My Novel is My Novel; and now that that matter is
settled, perhaps the tongs, poker, and shovel may be picked up, the
children may go to bed, Blanche and Kitty may speculate apart upon the
future dignities of the Neogilos, taking care, nevertheless, to finish
the new pinbefores he requires for the present; Roland may cast up his
account-book, Mr. Squills have his brandy and water, and all the world
be comfortable, each in his own way. Blanche, come away from the screen,
get me my slippers, and leave Pisistratus to himself. [Greek: Me kinei
Kamarinan]--don't disturb Camarina. You see, my dear," added my father
kindly, as, after settling himself into his slippers, he detained
Blanche's hand in his own--"you see, my dear, every house has its
Camarina. Man, who is a lazy animal, is quite content to let it alone;
but woman, being the more active, bustling, curious creature, is always
for giving it a sly stir."

_Blanche_, with female dignity.--"I assure you, that if Pisistratus had
not called me, I should not have--"

_Mr. Caxton_, interrupting her, without lifting his eyes from the book
he has already taken.--"Certainly you would not. I am now in the midst
of the great Puseyite Controversy. [Greek: Me kinei Kamarinan]--don't
disturb Camarina."

A dead silence for half an hour, at the end of which

_Pisistratus_, from behind the screen.--"Blanche, my dear, I want to
consult you."

Blanche does not stir.

_Pisistratus._--"Blanche, I say."

Blanche glances in triumph towards Mr. Caxton.

_Mr. Caxton_, laying down his theological tract, and rubbing his
spectacles mournfully.--"I hear him, child: I hear him. I retract my
vindication of Man. Oracles warn in vain: so long as there is a woman on
the other side of the screen,--it is all up with Camarina!"


CHAPTER II.

It is greatly to be regretted that Mr. Stirn was not present at the
Parson's Discourse--but that valuable functionary was far otherwise
engaged--indeed, during the summer months he was rarely seen at the
afternoon service. Not that he cared for being preached at--not he: Mr.
Stirn would have snapped his finger at the thunders of the Vatican. But
the fact was, that Mr. Stirn chose to do a great deal of gratuitous
business upon the day of rest. The Squire allowed all persons, who
chose, to walk about the park on a Sunday; and many came from a distance
to stroll by the lake, or recline under the elms. These visitors were
objects of great suspicion, nay, of positive annoyance, to Mr.
Stirn--and, indeed, not altogether without reason, for we English have a
natural love of liberty, which we are even more apt to display in the
grounds of other people than in those which we cultivate ourselves.
Sometimes, to his inexpressible and fierce satisfaction, Mr. Stirn fell
upon a knot of boys pelting the swans; sometimes he missed a young
sapling, and found it in felonious hands, converted into a
walking-stick: sometimes he caught a hulking fellow scrambling up the
ha-ha! to gather a nosegay for his sweetheart from one of poor Mrs.
Hazeldean's pet parterres; not unfrequently, indeed, when all the family
were fairly at church, some curious impertinents forced or sneaked their
way into the gardens, in order to peep in at the windows. For these, and
various other offences of like magnitude, Mr. Stirn had long, but
vainly, sought to induce the Squire to withdraw a permission so
villanously abused. But though there were times when Mr. Hazeldean
grunted and growled, and swore "that he would shut up the park, and fill
it (illegally) with man-traps and spring-guns," his anger always
evaporated in words. The park was still open to all the world on a
Sunday; and that blessed day was therefore converted into a day of
travail and wrath to Mr. Stirn. But it was from the last chime of the
afternoon service bell until dusk that the spirit of this vigilant
functionary was most perturbed; for, amidst the flocks that gathered
from the little hamlets round to the voice of the Pastor, there were
always some stray sheep, or rather climbing desultory vagabond goats,
who struck off in all perverse directions, as if for the special purpose
of distracting the energetic watchfulness of Mr. Stirn. As soon as
church was over, if the day were fine, the whole park became a scene
animated with red cloaks, or lively shawls, Sunday waistcoats, and hats
stuck full of wildflowers--which last Mr. Stirn often stoutly maintained
to be Mrs. Hazeldean's newest geraniums. Now, on this Sunday especially,
there was an imperative call upon an extra exertion of vigilance on the
part of the superintendent--he had not only to detect ordinary
depredators and trespassers; but, first, to discover the authors of the
conspiracy against the stocks; and secondly, to "make an example."

He had begun his rounds, therefore, from early in the morning; and just
as the afternoon bell was sounding its final peal, he emerged upon the
village green from a hedgerow, behind which he had been at watch to
observe who had the most suspiciously gathered round the stocks. At that
moment the palace was deserted. At a distance, the superintendent saw
the fast disappearing forms of some belated groups hastening towards the
church; in front, the stocks stood staring at him mournfully from its
four great eyes, which had been cleansed from the mud, but still looked
bleared and stained with the marks of the recent outrage. Here Mr. Stirn
paused, took off his hat, and wiped his brows.

"If I had sum un, to watch here," thought he, "while I takes a turn by
the water-side, praps summat might come out; praps them as did it ben't
gone to church, but will come sneaking round to look on their willainy!
as they says murderers are alway led back to the place where they ha'
left the body. But in this here willage there ben't a man, woman, nor
child, as has any consarn for Squire or Parish, barring myself." It was
just as he arrived at that misanthropical conclusion that Mr. Stirn
beheld Leonard Fairfield walking very fast from his own home. The
superintendent clapped on his hat, and stuck his right arm akimbo.
"Hollo, you sir," said he, as Lenny now came in hearing, "where be you
going at that rate?"

"Please, sir, I be going to church."

"Stop, sir--stop, Master Lenny. Going to church!--why, the bell's done;
and you knows the Parson is very angry at them as comes in late,
disturbing the congregation. You can't go to church now!"

"Please, sir"--

"I says you can't go to church now. You must learn to think a little of
others, lad. You sees how I sweats to serve the Squire! and you must
serve him too. Why, your mother's got the house and premishes almost
rent-free: you ought to have a grateful heart, Leonard Fairfield, and
feel for his honor! Poor man! _his_ heart is well-nigh bruk, I'm sure,
with the goings on."

Leonard opened his innocent blue eyes, while Mr. Stirn dolorously wiped
his own.

"Look at that ere dumb cretur," said Stirn, suddenly, pointing to the
stocks--"look at it. If it could speak, what would it say, Leonard
Fairfield? Answer me that!--'Damn the stocks, indeed!'"

"It was very bad in them to write such naughty words," said Lenny,
gravely. "Mother was quite shocked when she heard of it, this morning."

_Mr. Stirn._--"I dare say she was, considering what she pays for the
premishes: (insinuatingly,) you does not know who did it--eh, Lenny?"

_Lenny._--"No, sir: indeed I does not!"

_Mr. Stirn._--"Well, you see, you can't go to church--prayers half over
by this time. You recollex that I put them stocks under your
'sponsibility,' and see the way you's done your duty by 'em. I've half a
mind to"--

Mr. Stirn cast his eyes on the eyes of the stocks.

"Please, sir," began Lenny again, rather frightened.

"No, I won't please; it ben't pleasing at all. But I forgives you this
time, only keep a sharp look-out, lad, in future. Now you just stay
here--no, there--under the hedge, and you watches if any person comes to
loiter about or looks at the stocks, or laughs to hisself, while I go my
rounds. I shall be back either afore church is over or just arter; so
you stay till I comes, and give me your report. Be sharp, boy, or it
will be worse for you and your mother; I can let the premishes for four
pounds a year more, to-morrow."

Concluding with that somewhat menacing and very significant remark, and
not staying for an answer, Mr. Stirn waved his hand, and walked off.

Poor Lenny remained by the stocks, very much dejected, and greatly
disliking the neighborhood to which he was consigned. At length he
slowly crept off to the hedge, and sat himself down in the place of
espionage pointed out to him. Now, philosophers tell us that what is
called the point of honor is a barbarous feudal prejudice. Amongst the
higher classes, wherein those feudal prejudices may be supposed to
prevail, Lenny Fairfield's occupation would not have been considered
peculiarly honorable; neither would it have seemed so to the more
turbulent spirits among the humbler orders, who have a point of honor of
their own, which consists in the adherence to each other in defiance of
all lawful authority. But to Lenny Fairfield, brought up much apart from
other boys, and with a profound and grateful reverence for the Squire
instilled into all his habits of thought, notions of honor bounded
themselves to simple honesty and straightforward truth; and as he
cherished an unquestioning awe of order and constitutional authority, so
it did not appear to him that there was any thing derogatory and
debasing in being thus set to watch for an offender. On the contrary, as
he began to reconcile himself to the loss of the church service, and to
enjoy the cool of the summer shade, and the occasional chirp of the
birds, he got to look on the bright side of the commission to which he
was deputed. In youth, at least, every thing has its bright side--even
the appointment of Protector to the Parish Stocks. For the stocks,
themselves, Leonard had no affection, it is true; but he had no sympathy
with their aggressors, and he could well conceive that the Squire would
be very much hurt at the revolutionary event of the night. "So," thought
poor Leonard in his simple heart--"so if I can serve his honor, by
keeping off mischievous boys, or letting him know who did the thing, I'm
sure it would be a proud day for mother." Then he began to consider
that, however ungraciously Mr. Stirn had bestowed on him the
appointment, still it was a compliment to him--showed trust and
confidence in him, picked him out from his contemporaries as the sober
moral pattern boy; and Lenny had a great deal of pride in him,
especially in matters of repute and character.

All these things considered, I say, Leonard Fairfield reclined in his
lurking-place, if not with positive delight and intoxicating rapture, at
least with tolerable content and some complacency.

Mr. Stirn might have been gone a quarter of an hour, when a boy came
through a little gate in the park, just opposite to Lenny's retreat in
the hedge, and, as if fatigued with walking, or oppressed by the heat of
the day, paused on the green for a moment or so, and then advanced under
the shade of the great tree which overhung the stocks.

Lenny pricked up his ears, and peeped out jealously.

He had never seen the boy before: it was a strange face to him.

Leonard Fairfield was not fond of strangers; moreover, he had a vague
belief that strangers were at the bottom of that desecration of the
stocks. The boy, then, was a stranger; but what was his rank? Was he of
that grade in society in which the natural offences are or are not
consonant to, or harmonious with, outrages upon stocks? On that Lenny
Fairfield did not feel quite assured. According to all the experience of
the villager, the boy was not dressed like a young gentleman. Leonard's
notions of such aristocratic costume were naturally fashioned upon the
model of Frank Hazeldean. They represented to him a dazzling vision of
snow-white trowsers, and beautiful blue coats, and incomparable cravats.
Now the dress of this stranger, though not that of a peasant nor of a
farmer, did not in any way correspond with Lenny's notions of the
costume of a young gentleman: it looked to him highly disreputable; the
coat was covered with mud, and the hat was all manner of shapes, with a
gap between the side and crown.

Lenny was puzzled, till it suddenly occurred to him that the gate
through which the boy had passed was in the direct path across the park
from a small town, the inhabitants of which were in very bad odor at the
Hall--they had immemorially furnished the most daring poachers to the
preserves, the most troublesome trespassers on the park, the most
unprincipled orchard-robbers, and the most disputatious assertors of
various problematical rights of way, which, according to the town, were
public, and, according to the Hall, had been private since the Conquest.
It was true that the same path led also directly from the Squire's
house, but it was not probable that the wearer of attire so equivocal
had been visiting there. All things considered, Lenny had no doubt in
his mind but that the stranger was a shopboy or 'prentice from the town
of Thorndyke; and the notorious repute of that town, coupled with this
presumption, made it probable that Lenny now saw before him one of the
midnight desecrators of the stocks. As if to confirm the suspicion,
which passed through Lenny's mind with a rapidity wholly
disproportionate to the number of lines it costs me to convey it, the
boy, now standing right before the stocks, bent down and read that pithy
anathema with which it was defaced. And having read it, he repeated it
aloud, and Lenny actually saw him smile--such a smile!--so disagreeable
and sinister! Lenny had never before seen the smile sardonic.

But what were Lenny's pious horror and dismay when this ominous stranger
fairly seated himself on the stocks, rested his heels profanely on the
lids of two of the four round eyes, and, taking out a pencil and a
pocketbook, began to write. Was this audacious unknown taking an
inventory of the church and the Hall for the purposes of conflagration?
He looked at one, and at the other, with a strange, fixed stare, as he
wrote--not keeping his eyes on the paper, as Lenny had been taught to do
when he sat down to his copybook. The fact is, that Randal Leslie was
tired and faint, and he felt the shock of his fall the more, after the
few paces he had walked, so that he was glad to rest himself a few
moments; and he took that opportunity to write a line to Frank, to
excuse himself for not calling again, intending to tear the leaf on
which he wrote out of his pocketbook, and leave it at the first cottage
he passed, with instructions to take it to the Hall.

While Randal was thus innocently engaged, Lenny came up to him with the
firm and measured pace of one who has resolved, cost what it may, to do
his duty. And as Lenny, though brave, was not ferocious, so the anger he
felt, and the suspicions he entertained, only exhibited themselves in
the following solemn appeal to the offender's sense of propriety,--

"Ben't you ashamed of yourself? Sitting on the Squire's new stocks! Do
get up, and go along with you!"

Randal turned round sharply; and though, at any other moment, he would
have had sense enough to extricate himself very easily from his false
position, yet, _Nemo mortalium_, &c. No one is always wise. And Randal
was in an exceedingly bad humor. The affability towards his inferiors,
for which I lately praised him, was entirely lost in the contempt for
impertinent snobs natural to an insulted Etonian.

Therefore, eyeing Lenny with great disdain, Randal answered briefly,--

"You are an insolent young blackguard."

So curt a rejoinder made Lenny's blood fly to his face. Persuaded before
that the intruder was some lawless apprentice or shop lad, he was now
more confirmed in that judgment, not only by language so uncivil, but by
the truculent glance which accompanied it, and which certainly did not
derive any imposing dignity from the mutilated, rakish, hang-dog,
ruinous hat, under which it shot its sullen and menacing fire.

Of all the various articles of which our male attire is composed, there
is perhaps not one which has so much character and expression as the
top-covering. A neat, well-brushed, short-napped, gentlemanlike hat, put
on with a certain air, gives a distinction and respectability to the
whole exterior; whereas, a broken, squashed, higgledy-piggledy sort of a
hat, such as Randal Leslie had on, would go far towards transforming the
stateliest gentleman that ever walked down St. James's Street into the
ideal of a ruffianly scamp.

Now, it is well known that there is nothing more antipathetic to your
peasant-boy than your shopboy. Even on grand political occasions, the
rural working-class can rarely be coaxed into sympathy with the trading
town-class. Your true English peasant is always an aristocrat. Moreover,
and irrespectively of this immemorial grudge of class, there is
something peculiarly hostile in the relationship between boy and boy
when their backs are once up, and they are alone on a quiet bit of
green. Something of the game-cock feeling--something that tends to keep
alive, in the population of this island, (otherwise so lamblike and
peaceful,) the martial propensity to double the thumb tightly over the
four fingers, and make what is called "a fist of it." Dangerous symptoms
of these mingled and aggressive sentiments were visible in Lenny
Fairfield at the words and the look of the unprepossessing stranger. And
the stranger seemed aware of them; for his pale face grew more pale, and
his sullen eye more fixed and more vigilant.

"You get off them stocks," said Lenny, disdaining to reply to the coarse
expressions bestowed on him; and, suiting the action to the word, he
gave the intruder what he meant for a shove, but which Randal took for a
blow. The Etonian sprang up, and the quickness of his movement, aided
but by a slight touch of his hand, made Lenny lose his balance, and sent
him neck-and-crop over the stocks. Burning with rage, the young villager
rose alertly, and, flying at Randal, struck out right and left.


CHAPTER III.

Aid me, O ye Nine! whom the incomparable Persius satirized his
contemporaries for invoking, and then, all of a sudden, invoked on his
own behalf--aid me to describe that famous battle by the stocks, and in
defence of the stocks, which was waged by the two representatives of
Saxon and Norman England. Here, sober support of law and duty and
delegated trust--_pro aris et focis_; there, haughty invasion, and
bellicose spirit of knighthood, and that respect for name and person,
which we call honor. Here, too, hardy physical force--there, skilful
discipline. Here----the Nine are as deaf as a post, and as cold as a
stone! Plague take the jades!--I can do better without them.

Randal was a year older than Lenny, but he was not so tall nor so
strong, nor even so active; and after the first blind rush, when the two
boys paused, and drew back to breathe, Lenny, eyeing the slight form and
hueless cheek of his opponent, and seeing blood trickling from Randal's
lip, was seized with an instantaneous and generous remorse. "It was not
fair," he thought, "to fight one whom he could beat so easily." So,
retreating still farther, and letting his arms fall to his side, he said
mildly--"There, let's have no more of it; but go home, and be good."

Randal Leslie had no remarkable degree of that constitutional quality
called physical courage; but he had all those moral qualities which
supply its place. He was proud--he was vindictive--he had high
self-esteem--he had the destructive organ more than the combative;--what
had once provoked his wrath it became his instinct to sweep away.
Therefore, though all his nerves were quivering, and hot tears were in
his eyes, he approached Lenny with the sternness of a gladiator, and
said between his teeth, which he set hard, choking back the sob of rage
and pain--

"You have struck me--and you shall not stir from this ground--till I
have made you repent it. Put up your hands--I will not strike you
so--defend yourself."

Lenny mechanically obeyed; and he had good need of the admonition; for
if before he had had the advantage, now that Randal had recovered the
surprise to his nerves, the battle was not to the strong.

Though Leslie had not been a fighting boy at Eton, still his temper had
involved him in some conflicts when he was in the lower forms, and he
had learned something of the art as well as the practice in pugilism--an
excellent thing, too, I am barbarous enough to believe, and which I hope
will never quite die out of our public schools. Ah, many a young duke
has been a better fellow for life from a fair set-to with a trader's
son; and many a trader's son has learned to look a lord more manfully in
the face on the hustings, from the recollection of the sound thrashing
he once gave to some little Lord Leopold Dawdle.

So Randal now brought his experience and art to bear; put aside those
heavy roundabout blows, and darted in his own, quick and
sharp--supplying the due momentum of pugilistic mechanics to the natural
feebleness of his arm. Ay, and the arm, too, was no longer so feeble: so
strange is the strength that comes from passion and pluck!

Poor Lenny, who had never fought before, was bewildered; his sensations
grew so entangled that he could never recall them distinctly: he had a
dim reminiscence of some breathless impotent rush--of a sudden blindness
followed by quick flashes of intolerable light--of a deadly faintness,
from which he was roused by sharp pangs--here--there--everywhere; and
then all he could remember was, that he was lying on the ground, huddled
up and panting hard, while his adversary bent over him with a
countenance as dark and livid as Lara himself might have bent over the
fallen Otho. For Randal Leslie was not one who, by impulse and nature,
subscribed to the noble English maxim--"Never hit a foe when he is
down;" and it cost him a strong if brief self-struggle, not to set his
heel on that prostrate form. It was the mind, not the heart that subdued
the savage within him, as, muttering something inwardly--certainly not
Christian forgiveness--the victor turned gloomily away.


CHAPTER IV.

Just at that precise moment, who should appear but Mr. Stirn! For, in
fact, being extremely anxious to get Lenny into disgrace, he had hoped
that he should have found the young villager had shirked the commission
intrusted to him; and the Right-hand Man had slily come back, to see if
that amiable expectation were realized. He now beheld Lenny rising with
some difficulty--still panting hard--and with hysterical sounds akin to
what is vulgarly called blubbering--his fine new waistcoat sprinkled
with his own blood which flowed from his nose--nose that seemed to Lenny
Fairfield's feelings to be a nose no more, but a swollen, gigantic,
mountainous Slawkenbergian excrescence,--in fact, he felt all nose!
Turning aghast from this spectacle, Mr. Stirn surveyed, with no more
respect than Lenny had manifested, the stranger boy, who had again
seated himself on the stocks (whether to recover his breath, or whether
to show that his victory was consummated, and that he was in his rights
of possession). "Hollo," said Mr. Stirn, "what is all this?--what's the
matter, Lenny, you blockhead?"

"He _will_ sit there," answered Lenny, in broken gasps, "and he has beat
me because I would not let him; but I doesn't mind that," added the
villager, trying hard to suppress his tears, "and I'm ready again for
him--that I am."

"And what do you do, lolloping there on them blessed stocks?"

"Looking at the landscape; out of my light, man."

This tone instantly inspired Mr. Stirn with misgivings: it was a tone so
disrespectful to him that he was seized with involuntary respect: who
but a gentleman could speak so to Mr. Stirn?

"And may I ask who you be?" said Stirn, falteringly, and half inclined
to touch his hat. "What's your name, pray, and what's your bizness?"

"My name is Randal Leslie, and my business was to visit your master's
family--that is, if you are, as I guess from your manner, Mr.
Hazeldean's ploughman!"

So saying, Randal rose; and moving on a few paces, turned, and throwing
half-a-crown on the road, said to Lenny,--"Let that pay you for your
bruises, and remember another time how you speak to a gentleman. As for
you, fellow,"--and he pointed his scornful hand towards Mr. Stirn, who,
with his mouth open, and his hat now fairly off, stood bowing to the
earth--"as for you, give my compliment to Mr. Hazeldean, and say that,
when he does us the honor to visit us at Rood Hall, I trust that the
manners of our villagers will make him ashamed of Hazeldean."

O my poor Squire! Rood Hall ashamed of Hazeldean! If that message had
ever been delivered to you, you would never have looked up again!

With those bitter words, Randal swung himself over the stile that led
into the parson's glebe, and left Lenny Fairfield still feeling his
nose, and Mr. Stirn still bowing to the earth.


CHAPTER V.

Randal Leslie had a very long walk home: he was bruised: and sore from
head to foot, and his mind was still more sore and more bruised than his
body. But if Randal Leslie had rested himself in the Squire's gardens,
without walking backwards, and indulging in speculations suggested by
Marat, and warranted by my Lord Bacon, he would have passed a most
agreeable evening, and really availed himself of the Squire's wealth by
going home in the Squire's carriage. But because he chose to take so
intellectual a view of property, he tumbled into a ditch; because he
tumbled into a ditch, he spoiled his clothes; because he spoiled his
clothes, he gave up his visit; because he gave up his visit, he got into
the village green, and sat on the stocks with a hat that gave him the
air of a fugitive from the treadmill; because he sat on the stocks--with
that hat, and a cross face under it--he had been forced into the most
discreditable squabble with a clodhopper, and was now limping home, at
war with gods and men;--_ergo_, (this is a moral that will bear
repetition)--_ergo_, when you walk in a rich man's grounds, be contented
to enjoy what is yours, namely, the prospect;--I dare say you will enjoy
it more than he does.


CHAPTER VI.

If, in the simplicity of his heart, and the crudeness of his experience,
Lenny Fairfield had conceived it probable that Mr. Stirn would address
to him some words in approbation of his gallantly, and in sympathy for
his bruises, he soon found himself wofully mistaken. That truly great
man, worthy prime-minister of Hazeldean, might, perhaps, pardon a
dereliction from his orders, if such dereliction proved advantageous to
the interests of the service, or redounded to the credit of the chief;
but he was inexorable to that worst of diplomatic offences--an
ill-timed, stupid, over-zealous obedience to orders, which, if it
established the devotion of the _employe_, got the employer into what is
popularly called a scrape! And though, by those unversed in the
intricacies of the human heart, and unacquainted with the especial
hearts of prime-ministers and right-hand men, it might have seemed
natural that Mr. Stirn, as he stood still, hat in hand, in the middle of
the road, stung, humbled, and exasperated by the mortification he had
received from the lips of Randal Leslie, would have felt that that young
gentleman was the proper object of his resentment; yet such a breach of
all the etiquette of diplomatic life as resentment towards a superior
power was the last idea that would have suggested itself to the profound
intellect of the Premier of Hazeldean. Still, as rage, like steam, must
escape somewhere, Mr. Stirn, on feeling--as he afterwards expressed it
to his wife--that his "buzzom was a burstin," turned with the natural
instinct of self-preservation to the safety-valve provided for the
explosion; and the vapors within him rushed into vent upon Lenny
Fairfield. He clapped his hat on his head fiercely, and thus relieved
his "buzzom."

"You young willain! you howdacious wiper! and so all this blessed
Sabbath afternoon, when you ought to have been in church on your marrow
bones, a-praying for your betters, you has been a-fitting with a young
gentleman, and a wisiter to your master, on the werry place of the
parridge hinstitution that you was to guard and pertect; and a-bloodying
it all over, I declares, with your blaggard little nose!" Thus saying,
and as if to mend the matter, Mr. Stirn aimed an additional stroke at
the offending member; but, Lenny mechanically putting up both his arms
to defend his face, Mr. Stirn struck his knuckles against the large
brass buttons that adorned the cuff of the boy's coat-sleeve--an
incident which greatly aggravated his indignation. And Lenny, whose
spirit was fairly roused at what the narrowness of his education
conceived to be a signal injustice, placing the trunk of the tree
between Mr. Stirn and himself, began that task of self-justification
which it was equally impolitic to conceive and imprudent to execute,
since, in such a case, to justify was to recriminate.

"I wonder at you, Master Stirn,--if mother could hear you! You know it
was you who would not let me go to church; it was you who told me to--"

"Fit a young gentleman, and break the Sabbath," said Mr. Stirn,
interrupting him with a withering sneer. "O yes! I told you to disgrace
his honor the Squire, and me, and the parridge, and bring us all into
trouble. But the Squire told me to make an example, and I will!" With
those words, quick as lightning flashed upon Mr. Stirn's mind the
luminous idea of setting Lenny in the very stocks which he had too
faithfully guarded. Eureka! the "example" was before him! Here, he could
gratify his long grudge against the pattern boy; here, by such a
selection of the very best lad in the parish, he could strike terror
into the worst; here, he could appease the offended dignity of Randal
Leslie; here was a practical apology to the Squire for the affront put
upon his young visitor; here, too, there was prompt obedience to the
Squire's own wish that the stocks should be provided as soon as possible
with a tenant. Suiting the action to the thought, Mr. Stirn made a rapid
plunge at his victim, caught him by the skirt of his jacket, and, in a
few seconds more, the jaws of the stocks had opened, and Lenny Fairfield
was thrust therein--a sad spectacle of the reverses of fortune. This
done, and while the boy was too astounded, too stupefied by the
suddenness of the calamity for the resistance he might otherwise have
made--nay, for more than a few inaudible words--Mr. Stirn hurried from
the spot, but not without first picking up and pocketing the half-crown
designed for Lenny, and which, so great had been his first emotions, he
had hitherto even almost forgotten. He then made his way towards the
church, with the intention to place himself close by the door, catch the
Squire as he came out, whisper to him what had passed, and lead him,
with the whole congregation at his heels, to gaze upon the sacrifice
offered up to the joint powers of Nemesis and Themis.


CHAPTER VII.

Unaffectedly I say it--upon the honor of a gentleman, and the reputation
of an author, unaffectedly I say it--no words of mine can do justice to
the sensations experienced by Lenny Fairfield, as he sat alone in that
place of penance. He felt no more the physical pain of his bruises; the
anguish of his mind stifled and overbore all corporeal suffering--an
anguish as great as the childish breast is capable of holding. For first
and deepest of all, and earliest felt, was the burning sense of
injustice. He had, it might be with erring judgment, but with all
honesty, earnestness, and zeal, executed the commission intrusted to
him; he had stood forth manfully in discharge of his duty; he had fought
for it, suffered for it, bled for it. This was his reward! Now, in
Lenny's mind there was preeminently that quality which distinguishes the
Anglo-Saxon race--the sense of justice. It was perhaps the strongest
principle in his moral constitution; and the principle had never lost
its virgin bloom and freshness by any of the minor acts of oppression
and iniquity which boys of higher birth often suffer from harsh parents,
or in tyrannical schools. So that it was for the first time that that
iron entered into his soul, and with it came its attendant feeling--the
wrathful, galling sense of impotence. He had been wronged, and he had no
means to right himself. Then came another sensation, if not so deep, yet
more smarting and envenomed for the time--shame! He, the good boy of all
good boys--he, the pattern of the school, and the pride of the
Parson--he, whom the Squire, in sight of all his contemporaries, had
often singled out to slap on the back, and the grand Squire's lady to
pat on the head, with a smiling gratulation on his young and fair
repute--he, who had already learned so dearly to prize the sweets of an
honorable name--he, to be made, as it were, in the twinkling of an eye,
a mark for opprobrium, a butt of scorn, a jeer, and a byword! The
streams of his life were poisoned at the fountain. And then came a
tenderer thought of his mother! of the shock this would be to her--she
who had already begun to look up to him as her stay and support: he
bowed his head, and the tears, long suppressed, rolled down.

Then he wrestled and struggled, and strove to wrench his limbs from that
hateful bondage;--for he heard steps approaching. And he began to
picture to himself the arrival of all the villagers from church, the
sad gaze of the Parson, the bent brow of the Squire, the idle,
ill-suppressed titter of all the boys, jealous of his unblotted
character--character of which the original whiteness could never, never
be restored! He would always be the boy who had sat in the stocks! And
the words uttered by the Squire came back on his soul, like the voice of
conscience in the ears of some doomed Macbeth. "A sad disgrace,
Lenny--you'll never be in such a quandary." "Quandary," the word was
unfamiliar to him; it must mean something awfully discreditable. The
poor boy could have prayed for the earth to swallow him.


CHAPTER VIII.

"Kettles and frying-pans! what has us here?" cried the tinker.

This time Mr. Sprott was without his donkey; for, it being Sunday, it is
to be presumed that the donkey was enjoying his Sabbath on the common.
The tinker was in his Sunday's best, clean and smart, about to take his
lounge in the park.

Lenny Fairfield made no answer to the appeal.

"You in the wood, my baby! Well, that's the last sight I should ha'
thought to see. But we all lives to larn," said the tinker
sententiously. "Who gave you them leggins? Can't you speak, lad?"

"Nick Stirn."

"Nick Stirn! Ay, I'd ha' ta'en my davy on that: and cos vy?"

"'Cause I did as he told me, and fought a boy as was trespassing on
these very stocks; and he beat me--but I don't care for that; and that
boy was a young gentleman, and going to visit the Squire; and so Nick
Stirn--"

Lenny stopped short, choked by rage and humiliation.

"Augh," said the tinker, staring, "you fit with a young gentleman, did
you? Sorry to hear you confess that, my lad! Sit there, and be thankful
you ha' got off so cheap. 'Tis salt and battery to fit with your
betters, and a Lunnon justice o' peace would have given you two months
o' the treadmill. But vy should you fit 'cause he trespassed on the
stocks? It ben't your natural side for fitting, I takes it."

Lenny murmured something not very distinguishable about serving the
Squire, and doing as he was bid.

"Oh, I sees, Lenny," interrupted the tinker, in a tone of great
contempt, "you be one o' those who would rayther 'unt with the 'ounds
than run with the 'are! You be's the good pattern boy, and would peach
agin your own horder to curry favor with the grand folks. Fie, lad! you
be sarved right: stick by your horder, then you'll be 'spected when you
gets into trouble, and not be 'varsally 'espised--as you'll be arter
church time! Vell, I can't be seen 'sorting with you, now you are in
this here drogatory fix; it might hurt my cracter, both with them as
built the stocks, and them as wants to pull 'em down. Old kettles to
mend! Vy, you makes me forgit the Sabbath. Sarvent, my lad, and wish you
well out of it; 'spects to your mother, and say we can deal for the pan
and shovel all the same for your misfortin."

The tinker went his way. Lenny's eye followed him with the sullenness of
despair. The tinker, like all the tribe of human comforters, had only
watered the brambles to invigorate the prick of the thorns. Yes, if
Lenny had been caught breaking the stocks, some at least would have
pitied him; but to be incarcerated for defending them, you might as well
have expected that the widows and orphans of the Reign of Terror would
have pitied Dr. Guillotin when he slid through the grooves of his own
deadly machine. And even the tinker, itinerant, ragamuffin vagabond as
he was, felt ashamed to be found with the pattern boy! Lenny's head sank
again on his breast, heavily as if it had been of lead. Some few minutes
thus passed, when the unhappy prisoner became aware of the presence of
another spectator to his shame: he heard no step, but he saw a shadow
thrown over the sward. He held his breath, and would not look up, with
some vague idea that if he refused to see he might escape being seen.


CHAPTER IX.

"_Per Bacco!_" said Dr. Riccabocca, putting his hand on Lenny's
shoulder, and bending down to look into his face--"_Per Bacco!_ my young
friend, do you sit here from choice or necessity?"

Lenny slightly shuddered, and winced under the touch of one whom he had
hitherto regarded with a sort of superstitious abhorrence.

"I fear," resumed Riccabocca, after waiting in vain for an answer to his
question, "that, though the situation is charming, you did not select it
yourself. What is this,"--and the irony of the tone vanished--"what is
this, my poor boy? You have been bleeding, and I see that those tears
which you try to check come from a deep well. Tell me, _povero fanciullo
mio_, (the sweet Italian vowels, though Lenny did not understand them,
sounded softly and soothingly,)--tell me, my child, how all this
happened. Perhaps I can help you--we have all erred; we should all help
each other."

Lenny's heart, that just before had seemed bound in brass, found itself
a way as the Italian spoke thus kindly, and the tears rushed down; but
he again stopped them, and gulped out sturdily,--

"I have not done no wrong; it ben't my fault--and 'tis that which kills
me!" concluded Lenny, with a burst of energy.

"You have not done wrong? Then," said the philosopher, drawing out his
pocket handkerchief with great composure, and spreading it on the
ground--"then I may sit beside you. I could only stoop pityingly over
sin, but can lie down on equal terms with misfortune."

Lenny Fairfield did not quite comprehend the words, but enough of their
general meaning was apparent to make him cast a grateful glance on the
Italian. Riccabocca resumed, as he adjusted the pocket-handkerchief, "I
have a right to your confidence, my child, for I have been afflicted in
my day; yet I too say with thee, 'I have not done wrong.' _Cospetto!_
(and here the Doctor seated himself deliberately, resting one arm on
the side column of the stocks, in familiar contact with the
captive's shoulder, while his eye wandered over the lovely scene
around)--_Cospetto!_ my prison, if they had caught me, would not have
had so fair a look-out as this. But, to be sure, it is all one: there
are no ugly loves, and no handsome prisons!"

With that sententious maxim, which, indeed, he uttered in his native
Italian, Riccabocca turned round, and renewed his soothing invitations
to confidence. A friend in need is a friend indeed, even if he come in
the guise of a <DW7> and wizard. All Lenny's ancient dislike to the
foreigner had gone, and he told him his little tale.

Dr. Riccabocca was much too shrewd a man not to see exactly the motives
which had induced Mr. Stirn to incarcerate his agent, (barring only that
of personal grudge, to which Lenny's account gave him no clue.) That a
man high in office should make a scape-goat of his own watch-dog for an
unlucky snap, or even an indiscreet bark, was nothing strange to the
wisdom of the student of Machiavelli. However, he set himself to the
task of consolation with equal philosophy and tenderness. He began by
reminding, or rather informing, Lenny Fairfield of all the instances of
illustrious men afflicted by the injustice of others that occurred to
his own excellent memory. He told him how the great Epictetus, when in
slavery, had a master whose favorite amusement was pinching his leg,
which, as the amusement ended in breaking that limb, was worse than the
stocks. He also told him the anecdote of Lenny's own gallant countryman,
Admiral Byng, whose execution gave rise to Voltaire's celebrated
witticism, "_En Angleterre on tue un amiral pour encourager les
autres._" ("In England they execute one admiral in order to encourage
the others.") Many more illustrations, still more pertinent to the case
in point, his erudition supplied from the stores of history. But on
seeing that Lenny did not seem in the slightest degree consoled by these
memorable examples, he shifted his ground, and, reducing his logic to
the strict _argumentum ad rem_, began to prove, 1st, that there was no
disgrace at all in Lenny's present position, that every equitable person
would recognize the tyranny of Stirn and the innocence of its victim;
2dly, that if even here he were mistaken, for public opinion was not
always righteous, what was public opinion after all?--"A breath--a
puff," cried Dr. Riccabocca--"a thing without matter--without length,
breadth, or substance--a shadow--a goblin of our own creating. A man's
own conscience is his sole tribunal, and he should care no more for that
phantom 'opinion' than he should fear meeting a ghost if he cross the
churchyard at dark."

Now, as Lenny did very much fear meeting a ghost if he crossed the
churchyard at dark, the simile spoiled the argument, and he shook his
head very mournfully. Dr. Riccabocca was about to enter into a third
course of reasoning, which, had it come to an end, would doubtless have
settled the matter, and reconciled Lenny to sitting in the stocks till
doomsday, when the captive, with the quick ear and eye of terror and
calamity, became conscious that church was over, that the congregation
in a few seconds more would be flocking thitherwards. He saw visionary
hats and bonnets through the trees, which Riccabocca saw not, despite
all the excellence of his spectacles--heard phantasmal rustlings and
murmurings which Riccabocca heard not, despite all that theoretical
experience in plots, stratagems, and treasons, which should have made
the Italian's ear as fine as a conspirator's or a mole's. And, with
another violent but vain effort at escape, the prisoner exclaimed:

"Oh, if I could but get out before they come! Let me out--let me out. O,
kind sir, have pity--let me out!"

"_Diavolo!_" said the philosopher, startled, "I wonder that never
occurred to me before. After all, I believe he has hit the right nail on
the head;" and looking close, he perceived that though the partition
wood had hitched firmly into a sort of spring-clasp, which defied
Lenny's unaided struggles, still it was not locked, (for, indeed, the
padlock and key were snug in the justice-room of the Squire, who never
dreamt that his orders would be executed so literally and summarily as
to dispense with all formal appeal to himself.) As soon as Dr.
Riccabocca made that discovery, it occurred to him that all the wisdom
of all the schools that ever existed can't reconcile man or boy to a bad
position, the moment there is a fair opportunity of letting him out of
it. Accordingly, without more ado, he lifted up the creaking board, and
Lenny Fairfield darted forth like a bird from a cage--halted a moment as
if for breath, or in joy; and then, taking at once to his heels, fled,
fast as a hare to its form--fast to his mother's home.

Dr. Riccabocca dropped the yawning wood into its place, picked up his
handkerchief and restored it to his pocket; and then, with some
curiosity, began to examine the nature of that place of duresse which
had caused so much painful emotion to its rescued victim.

"Man is a very irrational animal at best," quoth the sage,
soliloquizing, "and is frightened by strange buggaboos! 'Tis but a piece
of wood! how little it really injures; and, after all, the holes are but
rests to the legs, and keep the feet out of the dirt. And this green
bank to sit upon--under the shade of the elm-tree--verily the position
must be more pleasant than otherwise! I've a great mind--" Here the
Doctor looked around, and, seeing the coast still clear, the oddest
notion imaginable took possession of him; yet not indeed a notion so
odd, considered philosophically--for all philosophy is based on
practical experiment--and Dr. Riccabocca felt an irresistible desire
practically to experience what manner of thing that punishment of the
stocks really was. "I can but try!--only for a moment," said he
apologetically to his own expostulating sense of dignity. "I have time
to do it, before any one comes." He lifted up the partition again; but
stocks are built on the true principle of English law, and don't easily
allow a man to criminate himself--it was hard to get into them without
the help of a friend. However, as we before noticed, obstacles only
whetted Dr. Riccabocca's invention. He looked round and saw a withered
bit of stick under the tree--this he inserted in the division of the
stocks, somewhat in the manner in which boys place a stick under a sieve
for the purpose of ensnaring sparrows: the fatal wood thus propped, Dr.
Riccabocca sat gravely down on the bank, and thrust his feet through the
apertures.

"Nothing in it!" cried he triumphantly, after a moment's deliberation.
"The evil is only in idea. Such is the boasted reason of mortals!" With
that reflection, nevertheless, he was about to withdraw his feet from
their voluntary dilemma, when the crazy stick suddenly gave way, and the
partition fell back into its clasp. Doctor Riccabocca was fairly
caught--"_Facitis descensus--sed revocare gradum!_" True, his hands were
at liberty, but his legs were so long that, being thus fixed, they kept
the hands from the rescue; and as Dr. Riccabocca's form was by no means
supple, and the twin parts of the wood stuck together with that firmness
of adhesion which things newly painted possess, so, after some vain
twists and contortions, in which he succeeded at length (not without a
stretch of the sinews that made them crack again) in finding the clasp
and breaking his nails thereon, the victim of his own rash experiment
resigned himself to his fate. Dr. Riccabocca was one of those men who
never do things by halves. When I say he resigned himself, I mean not
only Christian but philosophical resignation. The position was not quite
so pleasant as, theoretically, he had deemed it; but he resolved to make
himself as comfortable as he could. And first, as is natural in all
troubles to men who have grown familiar with that odoriferous comforter
which Sir Walter Raleigh is said first to have bestowed upon the
Caucasian races, the Doctor made use of his hands to extract from his
pocket his pipe, match-box, and tobacco-pouch. After a few whiffs he
would have been quite reconciled to his situation, but for the discovery
that the sun had shifted its place in the heavens, and was no longer
shaded from his face by the elm-tree. The Doctor again looked round, and
perceived that his red silk umbrella, which he had laid aside when he
had seated himself by Lenny, was within arm's reach. Possessing himself
of this treasure, he soon expanded its friendly folds. And thus doubly
fortified within and without, under shade of the umbrella, and his pipe
composedly between his lips, Dr. Riccabocca gazed on his own
incarcerated legs, even with complacency.

"'He who can despise all things,'" said he, in one of his native
proverbs, "'possesses all things'--if one despise freedom, one is free!
This seat is as soft as a sofa! I am not sure," he resumed,
soliloquizing, after a pause--"I am not sure that there is not something
more witty than manly and philosophical in that national proverb of
mine, which I quoted to the _fanciullo_, that there are no handsome
prisons! Did not the son of that celebrated Frenchman, surnamed _Bras de
Fer_, write a book not only to prove that adversities are more necessary
than prosperities, but that among all adversities a prison is the most
pleasant and profitable?[32] But is not this condition of mine,
voluntarily and experimentally incurred, a type of my life? Is it the
first time that I have thrust myself into a hobble?--and if in a hobble
of mine own choosing, why should I blame the gods?"

Upon this Dr. Riccabocca fell into a train of musing so remote from time
and place, that in a few minutes he no more remembered that he was in
the parish stocks, than a lover remembers that flesh is grass, a miser
that mammon is perishable, a philosopher that wisdom is vanity.--Dr.
Riccabocca was in the clouds.


CHAPTER X.

The dullest dog that ever wrote a novel (and, _entre nous_, reader--but
let it go no farther--we have a good many dogs among the fraternity that
are not Munitos[33]) might have seen with half an eye that the Parson's
discourse had produced a very genial and humanizing effect upon his
audience. When all was over, and the congregation stood up to let Mr.
Hazeldean and his family walk first down the aisle (for that was the
custom at Hazeldean), moistened eyes glanced at the Squire's sunburned,
manly face, with a kindness that bespoke revived memory of many a
generous benefit and ready service. The head might be wrong now and
then--the heart was in the right place after all. And the lady, leaning
on his arm, came in for a large share of that gracious good feeling.
True, she now and then gave a little offence when the cottages were not
so clean as she fancied they ought to be--and poor folks don't like a
liberty taken with their houses any more than the rich do; true, that
she was not quite so popular with the women as the Squire was, for, if
the husband went too often to the alehouse, she always laid the fault on
the wife, and said, "No man would go out of doors for his comforts, if
he had a smiling face and a clean hearth at his home;" whereas the
Squire maintained the more gallant opinion, that "if Gill was a shrew,
it was because Jack did not, as in duty bound, stop her mouth with a
kiss." Still, notwithstanding these more obnoxious notions on her part,
and a certain awe inspired by the stiff silk gown and the handsome
aquiline nose, it was impossible, especially in the softened tempers of
that Sunday afternoon, not to associate the honest, comely, beaming
countenance of Mrs. Hazeldean with comfortable recollections of soups,
jellies, and wine in sickness, loaves and blankets in winter, cheering
words and ready visits in every little distress, and pretexts afforded
by improvement in the grounds and gardens (improvements which, as the
Squire, who preferred productive labor, justly complained, "would never
finish") for little timely jobs of work to some veteran grandsire, who
still liked to earn a penny, or some ruddy urchin in a family that "came
too fast." Nor was Frank, as he walked a little behind, in the whitest
of trousers and the stiffest of neckcloths--with a look of suppressed
roguery in his bright hazel eye, that contrasted his assumed stateliness
of mien--without his portion of the silent blessing. Not that he had
done any thing yet to deserve it; but we all give youth so large a
credit in the future. As for Miss Jemima, her trifling foibles only rose
from too soft and feminine a susceptibility, too ivy-like a yearning for
some masculine oak, whereon to entwine her tendrils; and so little
confined to self was the natural lovingness of her disposition, that she
had helped many a village lass to find a husband, by the bribe of a
marriage gift from her own privy purse; notwithstanding the assurances
with which she accompanied the marriage gift,--viz., that "the
bridegroom would turn out like the rest of his ungrateful sex; but that
it was a comfort to think that it would be all one in the approaching
crash." So that she had her warm partisans, especially amongst the
young; while the slim Captain, on whose arm she rested her forefinger,
was at least a civilspoken gentleman, who had never done any harm, and
who would doubtless do a deal of good if he belonged to the parish. Nay,
even the fat footman, who came last with the family Prayer-book, had his
due share in the general association of neighborly kindness between hall
and hamlet. Few were there present to whom he had not extended the
right-hand of fellowship, with a full horn of October in the clasp of
it: and he was a Hazeldean man, too, born and bred, as two-thirds of the
Squire's household (now letting themselves out from their large pew
under the gallery) were.

On his part, too, you could see that the Squire was "moved withal," and
a little humbled moreover. Instead of walking erect, and taking bow and
courtesy as matter of course, and of no meaning, he hung his head
somewhat, and there was a slight blush on his cheek; and as he glanced
upward and round him--shyly, as it were--and his eye met those friendly
looks, it returned them with an earnestness that had in it something
touching as well as cordial--an eye that said, as well as eye could say,
"I don't quite deserve it, I fear, neighbors; but I thank you for your
good-will with my whole heart." And so readily was that glance of the
eye understood, that I think, if that scene had taken place out of doors
instead of in the church, there would have been an hurrah as the Squire
passed out of sight.

Scarcely had Mr. Hazeldean got well out of the churchyard, ere Mr. Stirn
was whispering in his ear. As Stirn whispered, the Squire's face grew
long, and his color changed. The congregation, now flocking out of the
church, exchanged looks with each other; that ominous conjunction
between Squire and man chilled back all the effects of the Parson's
sermon. The Squire struck his cane violently into the ground. "I would
rather you had told me Black Bess had got the glanders. A young
gentleman, coming to visit my son, struck and insulted in Hazeldean; a
young gentleman--'sdeath, sir, a relation--his grandmother was a
Hazeldean. I do believe Jemima's right, and the world's coming to an
end! But Leonard Fairfield in the stocks! What will the Parson say? and
after such a sermon! 'Rich man, respect the poor!' And the good widow,
too; and poor Mark, who almost died in my arms. Stirn, you have a heart
of stone! You confounded, lawless, merciless miscreant, who the deuce
gave you the right to imprison man or boy in my parish of Hazeldean
without trial, sentence, or warrant? Run and let the boy out before any
one sees him: run, or I shall"--The Squire elevated his cane, and his
eyes shot fire. Mr. Stirn did not run, but he walked off very fast. The
Squire drew back a few paces, and again took his wife's arm. "Just wait
a bit for the Parson, while I talk to the congregation. I want to stop
'em all, if I can, from going into the village; but how?"

Frank heard, and replied readily--

"Give 'em some beer, sir."

"Beer! on a Sunday! For shame, Frank!" cried Mrs. Hazeldean.

"Hold your tongue, Harry. Thank you Frank," said the Squire, and his
brow grew as clear as the blue sky above him. I doubt if Riccabocca
could have got him out of his dilemma with the same ease as Frank had
done.

"Halt there, my men--lads and lasses too--there, halt a bit. Mrs.
Fairfield, do you hear?--halt! I think his reverence has given us a
capital sermon. Go up to the Great House all of you, and drink a glass
to his health. Frank, go with them; and tell Spruce to tap one of the
casks kept for the hay-makers. Harry, [this in whisper,] catch the
Parson, and tell him to come to me instantly."

"My dear Hazeldean, what has happened? you are mad."

"Don't bother--do what I tell you."

"But where is the Parson to find you?"

"Where, gad zooks, Mrs. H.--at the stocks to be sure!"


CHAPTER XI.

Dr. Riccabocca, awakened out of his reverie by the sound of footsteps,
was still so little sensible of the indignity of his position, that he
enjoyed exceedingly, and with all the malice of his natural humor, the
astonishment and stupor manifested by Stirn, when that functionary
beheld the extraordinary substitute which fate and philosophy had found
for Lenny Fairfield. Instead of the weeping, crushed, broken-hearted
captive whom he had reluctantly come to deliver, he stared, speechless
and aghast, upon the grotesque but tranquil figure of the Doctor,
enjoying his pipe and cooling himself under his umbrella, with a
_sang-froid_ that was truly appalling and diabolical. Indeed,
considering that Stirn always suspected the Papisher of having had a
hand in the whole of that black and midnight business, in which the
stocks had been broken, bunged up, and consigned to perdition, and that
the Papisher had the evil reputation of dabbling in the Black Art, the
hocus-pocus way in which the Lenny he had incarcerated was transformed
into the Doctor he found, conjoined with the peculiarly strange,
eldritch, and Mephistophelean physiognomy and person of Riccabocca,
could not but strike a thrill of superstitious dismay into the breast of
the parochial tyrant. While to his first confused and stammered
exclamations and interrogatories, Riccabocca replied with so tragic an
air, such ominous shakes of the head, such mysterious, equivocating,
long-worded sentences, that Stirn every moment felt more and more
convinced that the boy had sold himself to the Powers of Darkness; and
that he himself, prematurely, and in the flesh, stood face to face with
the Arch-Enemy.

Mr. Stirn had not yet recovered his wonted intelligence, which, to do
him justice, was usually prompt enough--when the Squire, followed hard
by the Parson, arrived at the spot. Indeed, Mrs. Hazeldean's report of
the Squire's urgent message, disturbed manner, and most unparalleled
invitation to the parishioners, had given wings to Parson Dale's
ordinarily slow and sedate movements. And while the Squire, sharing
Stirn's amazement, beheld indeed a great pair of feet projecting from
the stocks, and saw behind them the grave face of Doctor Riccabocca,
under the majestic shade of the umbrella, but not a vestige of the only
being his mind could identify with the tenancy of the stocks, Mr. Dale,
catching him by the arm, and panting hard, exclaimed with a petulance he
had never before been known to display--except at the whist-table:--

"Mr. Hazeldean, Mr. Hazeldean, I am scandalized--I am shocked at you. I
can bear a great deal from you, sir, as I ought to do; but to ask my
whole congregation, the moment after divine service, to go up and guzzle
ale at the Hall, and drink my health, as if a clergyman's sermon had
been a speech at a cattle-fair! I am ashamed of you, and of the parish!
What on earth has come to you all?"

"That's the very question I wish to heaven I could answer," groaned the
Squire, quite mildly and pathetically--"What on earth has come to us
all? Ask Stirn:" (then bursting out) "Stirn, you infernal rascal, don't
you hear?--what on earth has come to us all?"

"The Papisher is at the bottom of it, sir," said Stirn, provoked out of
all temper. "I does my duty, but I is but a mortal man, arter all."

"A mortal fiddlestick--where's Leonard Fairfield, I say?"

"_Him_ knows best," answered Stirn, retreating mechanically, for
safety's sake, behind the Parson, and pointing to Dr. Riccabocca.
Hitherto, though both the Squire and Parson had indeed recognized the
Italian, they had merely supposed him to be seated on the bank. It never
entered their heads that so respectable and dignified a man could by any
possibility be an inmate, compelled or voluntary, of the parish stocks.
No, not even though, as I before said, the Squire had seen, just under
his nose, a very long pair of soles inserted in the apertures--that
sight had only confused and bewildered him, unaccompanied as it ought to
have been with the trunk and face of Lenny Fairfield. Those soles seemed
to him optical delusions, phantoms of the overheated brain; but now,
catching hold of Stirn, while the Parson in equal astonishment caught
hold of him--the Squire faltered out, "Well, this beats cock-fighting!
The man's as mad as a March hare, and has taken Dr. Rickeybockey for
little Lenny!"

"Perhaps," said the Doctor, breaking silence, with a bland smile, and
attempting an inclination of the head as courteous as his position would
permit--"perhaps, if it be quite the same to you, before you proceed to
explanations,--you will just help me out of the stocks."

The Parson, despite his perplexity and anger, could not repress a smile,
as he approached his learned friend, and bent down for the purpose of
extricating him.

"Lord love your reverence, you'd better not!" cried Mr. Stirn. "Don't be
tempted--he only wants to get you into his claws. I would not go a-near
him for all the--"

The speech was interrupted by Dr. Riccabocca himself, who now, thanks to
the Parson, had risen into his full height, and half a head taller than
all present--even than the tall Squire--approached Mr. Stirn, with a
gracious wave of the hand. Mr. Stirn retreated rapidly towards the
hedge, amidst the brambles of which he plunged himself incontinently.

"I guess whom you take me for, Mr. Stirn," said the Italian, lifting his
hat with his characteristic politeness. "It is certainly a great honor:
but you will know better one of these days, when the gentleman in
question admits you to a personal interview in another and--a hotter
world."


CHAPTER XII.

"But how on earth did you get into my new stocks?" asked the Squire,
scratching his head.

"My dear sir, Pliny the elder got into the crater of Mount Etna."

"Did he, and what for?"

"To try what it was like, I suppose," answered Riccabocca.

The Squire burst out a-laughing.

"And so you got into the stocks to try what it was like. Well, I can't
wonder--it is a very handsome pair of stocks," continued the Squire,
with a loving look at the object of his praise. "Nobody need be ashamed
of being seen in those stocks--I should not mind it myself."

"We had better move on," said the Parson dryly, "or we shall be having
the whole village here presently, gazing on the lord of the manor in the
same predicament as that from which we have just extricated the Doctor.
Now pray, what is the matter with Lenny Fairfield? I can't understand a
word of what has passed. You don't mean to say that good Lenny Fairfield
(who was absent from church by the by) can have done any thing to get
into disgrace?"

"Yes, he has though," cried the Squire. "Stirn, I say--Stirn." But Stirn
had forced his way through the hedge and vanished. Thus left to his own
powers of narrative at second-hand, Mr. Hazeldean now told all he had to
communicate: the assault upon Randal Leslie, and the prompt punishment
inflicted by Stirn; his own indignation at the affront to his young
kinsman, and his good-natured merciful desire to save the culprit from
the addition of public humiliation.

The Parson, mollified towards the rude and hasty invention of the
beer-drinking, took the Squire by the hand. "Ah, Mr. Hazeldean, forgive
me," he said repentantly; "I ought to have known at once that it was
only some ebullition of your heart that could stifle your sense of
decorum. But this is a sad story about Lenny, brawling and fighting on
the Sabbath-day. So unlike him, too--I don't know what to make of it."

"Like or unlike," said the Squire, "it has been a gross insult to young
Leslie; and looks all the worse because I and Audley are not just the
best friends in the world. I can't think what it is," continued Mr.
Hazeldean, musingly, "but it seems that there must be always some
association of fighting connected with that prim half-brother of mine.
There was I, son of his own mother--who might have been shot through the
lungs, only the ball lodged in the shoulder--and now his wife's
kinsman--my kinsman, too--grandmother of a Hazeldean--a hard-reading
sober lad, as I am given to understand, can't set his foot into the
quietest parish in the three kingdoms, but what the mildest boy that
ever was seen--makes a rush at him like a mad bull. It is FATALITY!"
cried the Squire solemnly.

"Ancient legend records similar instances of fatality in certain
houses," observed Riccabocca. "There was the House of Pelops--and
Polynices and Eteocles--the sons of Oedipus!"

"Pshaw," said the Parson; "but what's to be done?"

"Done?" said the Squire; "why, reparation must be made to young Leslie.
And though I wished to spare Lenny, the young ruffian, a public
disgrace--for your sake, Parson Dale, and Mrs. Fairfield's;--yet a good
caning in private--"

"Stop, sir!" said Riccabocca mildly, "and hear me." The Italian then,
with much feeling and considerable tact, pleaded the cause of his poor
protege, and explained how Lenny's error arose only from mistaken zeal
for the Squire's service, and in the execution of the orders received
from Mr. Stirn.

"That alters the matter," said the Squire, softened; "and all that is
necessary now will be for him to make a proper apology to my kinsman."

"Yes, that is just," rejoined the Parson; "but I still don't learn how
he got out of the stocks."

Riccabocca then resumed his tale; and, after confessing his own
principal share in Lenny's escape, drew a moving picture of the boy's
shame and honest mortification. "Let us march against Philip!" cried the
Athenians when they heard Demosthenes--

"Let us go at once and comfort the child!" cried the Parson, before
Riccabocca could finish.

With that benevolent intention, all three quickened their pace, and soon
arrived at the widow's cottage. But Lenny had caught sight of their
approach through the window; and not doubting that, in spite of
Riccabocca's intercession, the Parson was come to upbraid, and the
Squire to re-imprison, he darted out by the back way, got amongst the
woods, and lay there _perdu_ all the evening. Nay, it was not till after
dark that his mother--who sat wringing her hands in the little kitchen
and trying in vain to listen to the Parson and Mrs. Dale, who (after
sending in search of the fugitive) had kindly come to console the
mother--heard a timid knock at the door and a nervous fumble at the
latch. She started up, opened the door, and Lenny sprang to her bosom,
and there buried his face, sobbing loud.

"No harm, my boy," said the Parson tenderly; "you have nothing to
fear--all is explained and forgiven."

Lenny looked up, and the veins on his forehead were much swollen. "Sir,"
said he sturdily, "I don't want to be forgiven--I ain't done no wrong.
And--I've been disgraced--and I won't go to school, never no more."

"Hush, Carry!" said the Parson to his wife, who, with the usual
liveliness of her little temper, was about to expostulate. "Good night,
Mrs. Fairfield. I shall come and talk to you to-morrow, Lenny; by that
time you will think better of it."

The Parson then conducted his wife home, and went up to the Hall to
report Lenny's safe return; for the Squire was very uneasy about him,
and had even in person shared the search. As soon as he heard Lenny was
safe--"Well," said the Squire, "let him go the first thing in the
morning to Rood Hall, to ask Master Leslie's pardon, and all will be
right and smooth again."

"A young villain!" cried Frank, with his cheeks the color of scarlet;
"to strike a gentleman and an Etonian, who had just been to call on
_me_! But I wonder Randal let him off so well--any other boy in the
sixth form would have killed him!"

"Frank," said the Parson sternly, "if we all had our deserts, what
should be done to him who not only lets the sun go down on his own
wrath, but strives with uncharitable breath to fan the dying embers of
another's?"

The clergyman here turned away from Frank, who bit his lip, and seemed
abashed--while even his mother said not a word in his exculpation; for
when the Parson did reprove in that stern tone, the majesty of the Hall
stood awed before the rebuke of the Church. Catching Riccabocca's
inquisitive eye, Mr. Dale drew aside the philosopher, and whispered to
him his fears that it would be a very hard matter to induce Lenny to beg
Randal Leslie's pardon, and that the proud stomach of the pattern-boy
would not digest the stocks with as much ease as a long regimen of
philosophy had enabled the sage to do. This conference Miss Jemima soon
interrupted by a direct appeal to the Doctor respecting the number of
years (even without any previous and more violent incident) that the
world could possibly withstand its own wear and tear.

"Ma'am," said the Doctor, reluctantly summoned away to look at a passage
in some prophetic periodical upon that interesting subject--"ma'am, it
is very hard that you should make one remember the end of the world,
since, in conversing with you, one's natural temptation is to forget its
existence."

Miss Jemima blushed scarlet. Certainly that deceitful heartless
compliment justified all her contempt for the male sex; and yet--such is
human blindness--it went far to redeem all mankind in her credulous and
too confiding soul.

"He is about to propose," sighed Miss Jemima.

"Giacomo," said Riccabocca, as he drew on his nightcap, and stepped
majestically into the four-posted bed, "I think we shall get that boy
for the garden now!"

Thus each spurred his hobby, or drove her car, round the Hazeldean
whirligig.

       *       *       *       *       *

CONDITIONS OF IMMORTALITY.


Hume, the historian, was a competitor with Burke for the professorship
of logic in the University of Glasgow, made vacant by the appointment of
Adam Smith to the chair of moral philosophy. The place was given to a
Mr. Clow, who owes the perpetuation of his name thus long to the
distinguished rivals whom he distanced, and the illustrious professor
whom he succeeded.

FOOTNOTES:

[30] _Du Credit et des Banques, Paris, 1848._

[31] Un des plus beaux ouvrages assurement qu'on ait publies sur le
credit.--_Journal des Economistes._

[32] _"Entre tout, l'etat d'une prison est le plus doux, et le plus
profitable!"_

[33] Munito was the name of a dog famous for his learning (a Porson of a
dog) at the date of my childhood. There are no such dogs now-a-days.




From Frazer's Magazine

DANTE.

BY WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR.


        Ere blasts from northern lands
    Had covered Italy with barren sands,
        Rome's Genius, smitten sore,
    Wail'd on the Danube, and was heard no more.
        Centuries twice seven had past
    And crush'd Etruria rais'd her head at last.
        A mightier Power she saw,
    Poet and prophet, give three worlds the law.
        When Dante's strength arose
    Fraud met aghast the boldest of her foes;
        Religion, sick to death,
    Look'd doubtful up, and drew in pain her breath.
        Both to one grave are gone;
    Alters still smoke, still is the God unknown.
        Haste, whoso from above
    Comest with purer fire and larger love,
        Quenchest the Stygian torch,
    And leadest from the _Garden_ and the _Porch_,
        Where gales breathe fresh and free,
    And where a Grace is call'd a Charity,
        To Him, the God of peace,
    Who bids all discord in his household cease--
        Bids it, and bids again,
    But to the purple-vested speaks in vain.
        Crying, 'Can this be borne?'
    The consecrated wine-skins creak with scorn;
        While, leaving tumult there,
    To quiet idols young and old repair,
        In places where is light
    To lighten day--and dark to darken night.




From Sharpe's Magazine

AN EDITORIAL VISIT.

BY THEODORE S. FAY.


I was passing from my office one day, to indulge myself with a walk,
when a little hard-faced old man, with a black coat, broad-brimmed hat,
velvet breeches, shoes and buckles, and gold-headed cane, stopped me,
standing directly in my path. I looked at him. He looked at me. I
crossed my hands before me patiently, forced my features into a civil
smile, and waited the development of his intentions; not being
distinctly certain, from his firm, determined expression, whether he was
"a spirit of health or goblin damned," and whether his intents were
"wicked or charitable"--that is, whether he came to discontinue or to
subscribe, to pay a bill or present one, to offer a communication or a
pistol, to shake me by the hand, or pull me by the nose. Editors
now-a-days must always be on their guard. For my part, I am peaceable,
and much attached to life, and should esteem it exceedingly disagreeable
to be either shot, or horsewhipped. I am not built for action, but love
to sail in quiet waters; cordially eschewing gales, waves, water-spouts,
sea-serpents, earthquakes, tornadoes, and all such matters, both on sea
and land. My antipathy to a horsewhip is an inheritance from boyhood. It
carried me across Caesar's bridge, and through Virgil and Horace. I am
indebted to it for a tolerable understanding of grammar, arithmetic,
geography, and other occult sciences. It enlightened me not a little
upon many algebraic processes, which, to speak truth, presented,
otherwise, but slender claims to my consideration. It disciplined me
into a uniform propriety of manners, and instilled into my bosom early
rudiments of wisdom, and principles of virtue. In my maturer years, the
contingencies of life have thrust me rather abruptly, if not
reluctantly, into the editorial fraternity (heaven bless them, I mean
them no disrespect), and in the same candor which distinguishes my
former acknowledgments, I confess that visions of this instrument have
occasionally obtruded themselves somewhat forcibly upon my fancy, in the
paroxysms of an article, dampening the glow of composition, and causing
certain qualifying interlineations and prudent erasures, prompted by the
representations of memory or the whispers of prudence. The reader must
not fancy, from the form of my expression, that I have ever been
horsewhipped. I have hitherto escaped, (for which Heaven be praised!)
although my horizon has been darkened by many a cloudy threat, and
thundering denunciation.

Nose-pulling is another disagreeable branch of the editorial business.
To have any part of one pulled is annoying; but there is a dignity about
the nose impatient even of observation or remark: while the act of
taking hold of it with the thumb and finger is worse than murder, and
can only be washed out with blood. Kicking, cuffing, being turned out of
doors, being abused in the papers, &c., are bad, but these are mere
minor considerations. Indeed, many of my brother editors rather pique
themselves upon some of them, as a soldier does on the scars obtained in
fighting the battles of his country; they fancy that, thereby, they are
invested with claims upon their party, and suffer indefinite dreams of
political eminence to be awakened in their bosoms. I have seen a fellow
draw his hat fiercely down over his brow, and strut about, with
insufferable importance, on the strength of having been thoroughly
kicked by the enemy.

This is a long digression, but it passed rapidly through my mind as the
little, hard-faced old gentleman stood before me, looking at me with a
piercing glance, and a resolute air. At length, unlike a ghost, he spoke
first.

"You are the editor?"--&c.

"A slight motion of acquiescence with my head, and an affirmative wave
of my hand, a little leaning toward the majestic, announced to my
unknown friend the accuracy of his conjecture."

The little old gentleman's face relaxed--he took off his broad-brimmed
hat, and laid it down with his cane carefully on the table, then seized
my hand and shook it heartily. People are so polite and friendly when
about to ask a favor.

"My dear air," said he, "this is a pleasure I have long sought vainly.
You must know, sir. I am the editor of a theatrical weekly--a neat thing
in its way--here's the last number." He fumbled about in his pocket, and
produced a red-covered pamphlet.

"I have been some time publishing it, and though it is admitted by all
acquainted with its merits to be clearly the best thing of the kind ever
started this side of the Atlantic, yet people do not seem to take much
notice of it. Indeed, my friends tell me that the public are not fully
aware of its existence. Pray let me be indebted to you for a notice. I
wish to get fairly afloat. You see I have been too diffident about it.
We modest fellows allow our inferiors to pass us often. I will leave
this number with you. Pray, pray give it a good notice."

He placed in my hands the eleventh number of the "North American
Thespian Magazine," devoted to the drama, and also to literature,
science, history, and the arts. On reading over the prospectus, I found
it vastly comprehensive, embracing pretty much every subject in the
world. If so extensive a plan were decently filled up in the details,
the "North American Thespian Magazine" was certainly worth the annual
subscription money, which was only one dollar. I said so under my
"literary notices" in the next impression of my journal; and, although I
had not actually read the work, yet it sparkled so with asterisks,
dashes, and notes of admiration, that it looked interesting. I added in
my critique, that it was elegantly got up, that its typographical
execution reflected credit on the publishers, that its failure would be
a grievous reproach to the city, that its editor was a scholar, a
writer, and a gentleman, and was favorably known to the literary circles
by the eloquence, wit, and feeling of his former productions. What those
productions were, I should have been rather puzzled to say, never having
read, or even heard of them. This, however, was the cant criticism of
the day, which is so exorbitant and unmeaning, and so universally cast
in one mould, that I was in some tribulation, on reading over the
article in print, to find that I had omitted the words, "native genius,"
which possesses a kind of common-law right to a place in all articles on
American literary productions. Forth, however, it went to the world, and
I experienced a philanthropic emotion in fancying how pleased the
little, hard-faced old gentleman would be with these flattering
encomiums on his "Thespian Magazine."

The very day my paper was out, as I was sitting "full fathom five" deep
in an article on "The Advantages of Virtue" (an interesting theme, upon
my views of which I rather flattered myself), I was startled by three
knocks at the door, and my "Come in" exhibited to view the broad-brimmed
hat of the hard-faced gentleman, with his breeches, buckles, gold-headed
cane and all. He laid aside his hat and cane with the air of a man who
has walked a great way, and means to rest himself a while. I was very
busy. It was one of my inspired moments. Half of a brilliant idea was
already committed to paper. There it lay--a fragment--a flower cut off
in the bud--a mere outline--an embryo; and my imagination cooling like a
piece of red-hot iron in the open air. I raised my eyes to the old
gentleman, with a look of solemn silence, retaining my pen ready for
action, with my little finger extended, and hinting, in every way, that
I was "not i' the vein." I kept my lips closed. I dipped the pen in the
inkstand several times, and held it hovering over the sheet. It would
not do. The old gentleman was not to be driven off his ground by shakes
of the pen, ink-drops, or little fingers. He fumbled about in his
pockets, and drew forth the red-covered "North American Thespian
Magazine," devoted to the drama, &c., number twelve. He wanted "a _good_
notice." The last was rather general. I had not specified its peculiar
claims upon the public. I had _copied_ nothing. That sort of critique
did no good. He begged me to _read_ this _carefully_--to _analyze_
it--to give it a _candid_ examination. I was borne down by his emphatic
manner; and being naturally of a civil deportment, as well as, at that
particular moment, in an impatient, feverish hurry to get on with my
treatise on the "Advantages of Virtue," which I felt now oozing out of
my subsiding brain with an alarming rapidity, I promised to read,
notice, investigate, analyze, to the uttermost extent of his wishes, or
at least of my ability.

I could scarcely keep myself screwed down to common courtesy till the
moment of his departure; a proceeding which he accomplished with a most
commendable self-possession and deliberate politeness. When he was
fairly gone, I poked my head out, and called my boy.

"Peter."

"Sir."

"Did you see that little old gentleman, Peter?"

"Yes, sir."

"Should you know him again, Peter?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, if he ever come here again, Peter, tell him I am not in."

"Yes, sir."

I reentered my little study, and closed the door after me with a slam,
which could only have been perceptible to those who knew my ordinary
still and mild manner. There might have been also a slight accent in my
way of turning the key, and (candor is a merit!) I could not repress a
brief exclamation of displeasure at the little old gentleman with his
magazine, who had broken in so provokingly upon my "essay on virtue."
"Virtue or no virtue," thought I, "I wish him to the d----."

My room is on the ground-floor, and a window adjoining the street lets
in upon me the light and air through a heavy crimson curtain, near which
I sit and scribble. I was just enlarging upon the necessity of
resignation, while the frown yet lingered on my brow, and was writing
myself into a more calm and complacent mood, when--another knock at the
door. As I opened it, I heard Peter's voice asserting sturdily that I
had "gone out." Never dreaming of my old enemy, I betrayed too much of
my person to withdraw, and I was recognized and pounced upon by the
little old gentleman who had come back to inform me that he intended, as
soon as the increase of his subscription would permit, to enlarge and
improve the "North American Thespian Magazine," and to employ all the
writers in town. "I intend also," said he, and he was in the act of
again laying aside that everlasting hat and cane, when a cry of fire in
the neighborhood, and the smell of the burning rafters attracted him
into the street, where, as I feared, he escaped unhurt. In many respects
fires are calamities; but I never saw a more forcible exemplification of
Shakspeare's remark, "There is some spirit of good in things evil," than
in the relief afforded me on the present occasion. I wrote, after that,
with my door locked. This I knew was, from the confined air, prejudicial
to my health; but what was dyspepsy or consumption to that little
hard-faced old gentleman--to those breeches--to that broad-brimmed
hat--to those buckles--to that gold-headed cane?

"Remember, Peter," said I, the second morning after the foregoing, "I
have gone out."

"Where have you gone?" inquired Peter, with grave simplicity. "They
always ask me where you have gone, sir. The little man with the hat was
here last night, and wanted to go after you."

"Forbid it Heaven! I have gone to Albany, Peter, on business."

I can hear in my room pretty much what passes in the adjoining one,
where visitors first enter from the street. I had scarcely got
comfortably seated, in a rare mood for poetry, giving the last touches
to a poem, which, whatever might be the merits of Byron and Moore, I did
not think altogether indifferent, when I heard the little old
gentleman's voice inquiring for me.

"I _must_ see him; I have important business," it said.

"He has gone out," replied Peter, in an undertone, in which I could
detect the consciousness that he was uttering a bouncer.

"But I _must_ see him," said the voice.

"The scoundrel!" muttered I.

"He is not in town, sir," said Peter.

"I will not detain him a single minute. It is of the greatest
importance. He would be very sorry, _very_, should he miss me."

I held my breath--there was a pause--I gave myself up for lost--when
Peter replied firmly,

"He is in Albany, sir. Went off at five o'clock this morning."

"Be back soon?"

"Don't know."

"Where does he stay?"

"Don't know."

"I'll call tomorrow."

I heard his retreating footsteps, and inwardly resolved to give Peter a
half-dollar, although he deserved to be horsewhipped for his readiness
at deception. I laughed aloud triumphantly, and slapped my hand down
upon my knee with the feelings of a fugitive debtor, who, hotly pursued
by a sheriff's officer, escapes over the line into another county, and
snaps his fingers at Monsieur Bailiff. I was aroused from my merry mood
of reverie by a touch on my shoulder. I turned suddenly. It was the
hard-faced little old gentleman, peeping in from the street. His
broad-brimmed hat and two-thirds of his face were just lifted above the
window-sill. He was evidently standing on tiptoe; and the window being
open, he had put aside the curtain, and was soliciting my attention with
the end of his cane.

"Ah!" said he, "is it you? Well, I _thought_ it was you, though I wasn't
sure. I won't interrupt you. Here are the proofs of number thirteen;
you'll find something glorious in that--just the thing for you--don't
forget me next week--good-bye. I'll see you again in a day or two."

I shall not cast a gloom over my readers by dwelling upon my feelings.
Surely, surely, there are sympathetic bosoms among them. To them I
appeal. I said nothing. Few could have detected any thing violent or
extraordinary in my manner, as I took the proofs from the end of the
little old gentleman's cane, and laid them calmly on the table. I did
not write any more about "virtue" that morning. It was out of the
question. Indeed, my mind scarcely recovered from the shock for several
days.

When my nerves are in any way irritated, I find a walk in the woods a
soothing and agreeable sedative. Accordingly, the next afternoon, I
wound up the affairs of the day earlier than usual, and set out for a
ramble through the groves and along the shore of Hoboken. I was soon on
one of the abrupt acclivities, where, through the deep rich foliage of
the intertwining branches, I overlooked the Hudson, the wide bay, and
the superb, steepled city, stretching in a level line of magnificence
upon the shining waters, softened with an overhanging canopy of thin
haze. I gazed at the picture, and contemplated the rivalry of nature
with art, striving which could most delight. As my eye moved from ship
to ship, from island to island, and from shore to shore--now reposing on
the distant blue, then revelling in the nearer luxuriance of the forest
green, I heard a step in the grass, and a little ragged fellow came up
and asked me if I was the editor of the ----. I was about replying to
him affirmatively, when his words arrested my attention. "A little
gentleman with a hat and cane," he said, "had been inquiring for the
editor, &c., at the adjoining hotel, and had given him sixpence to run
up into the woods and find him." I rushed precipitately, as I thought,
into the thickest recesses of the wood. The path, however, being very
circuitous, I suddenly came into it, and nearly ran against a person
whom it needed no second glance to recognize, although his back was
luckily toward me. The hat, the breeches, the cane, were enough. If not,
part of a red-covered pamphlet, sticking out of the coat-pocket, was.
"It must be number thirteen!" I exclaimed; and as the little old
gentleman was sauntering north, I shaped my course with all possible
celerity in a southerly direction.

In order to protect myself for the future, I took precautionary
measures; and in addition to having myself denied, I kept the window
down, and made my egress and ingress through a door round the corner, as
Peter told me he had several times seen the little old gentleman, with a
package in his hand, standing opposite the one through which we usually
entered, and looking at the office wistfully.

By means of these arrangements, I succeeded in preserving my solitude
inviolate, when, to my indignation, I received several letters from
different parts of the country, written by my friends, and pressing upon
me, at the solicitation of the little old gentleman, the propriety of
giving the "Thespian Magazine" a good notice. I tore the letters, each
one as I read them, into three pieces, and dropped them under the table.
Business calling me, soon after, to Philadelphia, I stepped on board the
steamboat, exhilarated with the idea that I was to have at least two or
three weeks' respite. I reached the place of my destination about five
o'clock in the afternoon. It was lovely weather. The water spread out
like unrippled glass, and the sky was painted with a thousand varying
shadows of crimson and gold. The boat touched the shore, and while I was
watching the change of a lovely cloud, I heard the splash of a heavy
body plunged into the water. A sudden sensation ran along the crowd,
which rushed from all quarters towards the spot; the ladies shrieked and
turned away their heads: and I perceived that a man had fallen from the
deck, and was struggling in the tide, with only one hand held
convulsively above the surface. Being a practised swimmer, I hesitated
not a moment, but flung off my hat and coat, and sprang to his rescue.
With some difficulty I succeeded in bearing him to a boat and dragging
him from the stream. I had no sooner done so, than to my horror and
astonishment I found I had saved the little hard-faced old gentleman.
His snuff- breeches were dripping before me--his broad-brimmed
hat floated on the current--but his cane (thank Heaven!) had sunk
forever. He suffered no other ill consequences from the catastrophe than
some injury to his garments and the loss of his cane. His gratitude for
my exertions knew no bounds. He assured me of his conviction that the
slight acquaintance previously existing between us would now be ripened
into intimacy, and informed me of his intention to lodge at the same
hotel with me. He had come to Philadelphia to see about a plate for his
sixteenth number, which was to surpass all its predecessors, and of
which he would let me have an early copy, that I might _notice_ it as it
deserved.

       *       *       *       *       *

"Never," said Southey, writing to his friend Bedford, "shall child of
mine enter a school or a university. Perhaps I may not be able so well
to instruct him in logic or languages, but I can at least preserve him
from vice."




From the Kings's College Magazine.

BIOGRAPHIES, LIVES, MEMOIRS, AND RECOLLECTIONS.


Innumerable biographies, innumerable traces of human life that is now
life no longer, may be met with in every walk. One lovely day, now some
time ago, we had been taking a walk in a part of England of which we had
little knowledge, and we came up to the gate of what appeared to be a
large hospital. It was covered with trees, and the beauty of summer was
luxuriantly displayed. The grayheaded porter at the gate, a very
communicative and happy old man, aged eighty-eight years, soon gave us a
history of the institution. This hospital had been built by a man who
was much renowned. He had been once a poor shopboy, but he wandered to
London, was very industrious, and at length became one of the greatest
merchants of the imperial city. He realized the visions of Whittington;
for he was twice Lord Mayor, was exceedingly wealthy, was honored with
the friendship of King William the Third, and was universally respected.
Age coming on, he retired to his native place, built and endowed this
hospital, became famous for his deeds of kindness and charity, always
kept with reverence the day on which the Prince of Orange landed on
English ground, and, full of years and honors, sunk into his long
repose. The charitable institution was situated amid the most beautiful
scenery. No place could be more fitting for the old men who sat basking
in the sun to spend the quiet evening of their lives. This was the
biography of the great city merchant. It was not written in many
volumes; his good deeds were not ostentatiously displayed, and he now
sleeps peacefully and well.

But this was not all. On returning through a magnificent park, as the
sun was setting, the haymakers returning from their labor, and all
nature breathing peace, and happiness, and love, our attention was
attracted to an old oak tree. It was indeed very old. It had seen all
its brethren of the park rise and fall, seasons had come and gone,
generations had reposed beneath its branches, and now they were reposing
under the shadow of the old church, the clock of which had just struck
the hour of six. On examining the tree closely, we were astonished to
find carved in immense letters, and in quaint language, the following
words:--

    "This tree witnesse beare,
    That two lovers did walke heare."

Under the influence of the feelings which the sights we had just seen
had excited, and enraptured as we were with the beautiful evening, this
simple inscription seemed more touching than the noblest verses. Knowing
something of botany, it was not difficult to form some idea of the
period when the inscription was written. It was not merely the external
bark, but the deep woody layer also that had been cut by the carver's
knife. It must have been cut while the tree was very young, for the bark
had very much expanded, and the letters were now more than a foot in
length. We stood contemplating the rude verse. In the distance the sun
was placidly reflecting the last golden rays, every thing was fresh and
green, not a sound was heard. It must have been on such another lovely
eve that the two lovers had plighted their faith together, and
commemorated it on the young oak tree; and this was all we knew of them,
all that we would ever know. This was their biography; this was their
ten volumes. Were they rich and noble, or poor and obscure? Did their
lives pass in peace and content, or were their hearts pierced by the
poisoned arrows of the world? Did they also feel how little real
happiness there was here, and did they also look forward to the time
when they should rest from their labors in a place where there was no
suffering and no sorrow? Were they really happy in each other's love, or
were their young and pure affections chilled by the winds of adversity?
In vain we question the old oak tree. They are gone; the tree is silent;
all that we know is that they walked here. And the world with its noise
and folly is still going on, and publishing its biographies of ten
volumes.




From the Quarterly Review.

PHENOMENA OF DEATH.


To be shot dead is one of the easiest modes of terminating life; yet,
rapid as it is, the body has leisure to feel and time to reflect. On the
first attempt by one of the frantic adherents of Spain to assassinate
William, Prince of Orange, who took the lead in the revolt of the
Netherlands, the ball passed through the bones of his face, and brought
him to the ground. In the instant that preceded stupefaction, he was
able to frame the notion that the ceiling of the room had fallen and
crushed him. The cannon shot which plunged into the brain of Charles
XII. did not prevent him from seizing his sword by the hilt. The idea of
an attack and the necessity for defence was impressed upon him by a blow
which we should have supposed too tremendous to leave an interval for
thought. But it by no means follows that the infliction of fatal
violence is accompanied by a pang. From what is known of the first
effect of gunshot wounds, it is probable that the impression is rather
stunning than acute. Unless death be immediate, the pain is as varied as
the nature of the injuries, and these are past counting up. But there is
nothing singular in the dying sensations, though Lord Byron remarked the
physiological peculiarity, that the expression is invariably that of
languor, while in death from a stab the countenance reflects the traits
of natural character--of gentleness or ferocity--to the last breath.
Some of these cases are of interest, to show with what slight
disturbance life may go on under mortal wound till it suddenly comes to
a final stop. A foot-soldier at Waterloo, pierced by a musket ball in
the hip, begged water from a trooper who chanced to possess a canteen
of beer. The wounded man drank, returned his heartiest thanks, mentioned
that his regiment was nearly exterminated, and having proceeded a dozen
yards in his way to the rear, fell to the earth, and with one convulsive
movement of his limbs concluded his career. "Yet his voice," says the
trooper, who himself tells the story, "gave scarcely the smallest sign
of weakness." Captain Basil Hall, who in his early youth was present at
the Battle of Corunna, has singled out from the confusion which consigns
to oblivion the woes and gallantry of war, another instance extremely
similar, which occurred on that occasion. An old officer, who was shot
in the head, arrived pale and faint at the temporary hospital, and
begged the surgeon to look at his wound, which was pronounced to be
mortal. "Indeed I feared so," he responded with impeded utterance, "and
yet I should like very much to live a little longer, if it were
possible." He laid his sword upon a stone at his side, "as gently," says
Hall, "as if its steel had been turned to glass, and almost immediately
sunk dead upon the turf."




From the "Leader."

BURLESQUES AND PARODIES.


Among the signs of intellectual barrenness and the vicious pandering to
lower appetites, consequent upon the _trading_ spirit of literature, we
note with regret the growing tendency to desecrate beautiful subjects by
using them as materials for burlesque. We have had a _Comic History of
England_--one of the dreariest and least excusable of jokes, and capable
of for ever vulgarizing in the young mind the great deeds and noble life
of our forefathers--and we have had burlesques in which the loved fairy
tales that have charmed the imaginations of thousands, or subjects of
mythology that belong to the religious history of the greatest people on
record, are turned into coarse pot-house jests, with slang for wit, but
_without_ the playful elegance by which Planche justifies his sport. It
is a sign of intellectual barrenness in the writers; for what is easier
than parody? what means of raising a laugh so certain and so cheap as to
roll a statue from its pedestal and stick some vulgar utensil in its
place? Laughter always follows the incongruous; and to make a Grecian
Deity call for a pot of half-and-half, or to ask a Fairy Princess if her
mother has parted with her mangle, is to secure the laugh, though
contempt may follow it. To our minds there is something melancholy in
such spectacles. Degrading lofty images by ignoble associations must
operate maleficiently on the spectator. And if it be absolutely
necessary to appeal to the coarse tastes and vulgar appetites of the
crowd, let it be done without at the same time dragging beautiful
objects through the mire.

We can understand the ribald buffoonery of LUCIAN, who first invented
this species of burlesque. His _object_ was to make the gods ridiculous.
Whether the spirit which moved him was a mocking, skeptical spirit, like
that of Voltaire, or whether, as we think more probable, he was a bitter
satirist made bitter by the earnestness of his conviction, and
ridiculing the gods only as a _reductio ad absurdum_ of their
pretensions, the fact is indubitable, that he ridiculed them in a
polemical spirit, and not to excite the vulgar laughter of the vulgar
crowd. But we, who do not believe in those gods, need no such warfare.
To us they are beautiful images associated only with high thoughts,
until the burlesque writer, in his beggary of wit and invention, takes
them as the facile material out of which he can raise a laugh. Our
complaint is twofold: first, that these subjects are soiled in our
imaginations; secondly, that there is no compensating pleasure in the
burlesque itself. The tendency is earthward, coarse, vulgarizing. It
spoils a whole world of fancy, and it keeps down the creation of comic
subjects by supplying writers with an easy and certain success. Surely,
there is folly and humbug enough living and lying in the open day to
supply the satirist with material. Surely, these imitators of LUCIAN
(unconscious imitators, no doubt, for many of them never read a line of
his dialogues) would be better employed in imitating the _spirit_ of his
works as well as the mere contrivance for producing the ludicrous, than
in devastating Fairy Land for materials. It would be more difficult, no
doubt, but is _that_ a sufficient reason for abstaining?

Music may be parodied with success, and without evil consequences. That
lies in the nature of music, which cannot be degraded. Let a hoarse,
beery voice, chant slang words to a melody of Mozart, and the next time
you hear the melody, it is as fresh and beautiful as if it had never
been turned "to such vile purpose;" but it is not so with the beautiful
creations of impassioned fancy. Fancy is a Butterfly which must be
delicately handled; if rude fingers tamper with it, the flower-dust is
rubbed off and the gay insect perishes.




JOHN ADAMS UPON RICHES.


In the thirty-sixth year of his age, John Adams made the following entry
in his Diary. He was then practising law in Boston, though living in
Braintree.

"It has been my fate to be acquainted in the way of business with a
number of very rich men--Gardiner, Bowdoin, Pitts, Hancock, Rowe, Lee,
Sargent, Hooper, Doane. Hooper, Gardiner, Rowe, Lee and Doane, have all
acquired their wealth by their own industry; Bowdoin and Hancock
received theirs by succession, descent, or devise; Pitts by marriage.
But there is not one of all these who derives more pleasure from his
property than I do from mine; my little farm and stock and cash afford
me as much satisfaction as all their immense tracts, extensive
navigation, sumptuous buildings, their vast sums at interest and stocks
in trade yield to them. The pleasures of property arise from
acquisition more than possession, from what is to come rather than what
is. The rich are seldom remarkable for modesty, ingenuity or humanity.
Their wealth has rather a tendency to make them penurious and selfish."




RECENT DEATHS.


FRANCIS XAVIER MICHAEL TOMIE, S.J., died on the tenth of December, 1850.
We find in the _Truth-Teller_ the following account of this excellent
person, with whom we had the pleasure of such acquaintance as assures us
of its justice. He was born in 1792, in Tivoli, of the most respectable
family in the place. He made his studies at home, under a private tutor;
pursued them in the Roman Seminary until the reestablishment of the
Society in 1814; that year he entered the novitiate, and immediately
began to teach literature. He terminated with great distinction his
course of theology, and as soon as the Roman College was restored to the
Society, in 1825, was appointed Professor. In the twelve following years
he was successively Rector of the Colleges of Spoleto, Fermo, Forli, and
Reggio di Modena. At Spoleto he was an intimate friend of Pius the
Ninth, then Cardinal Archbishop Mastai. While Rector of the College of
Fermo, he was chosen by Cardinal Ferretti, its founder, his theologian,
and never did this Cardinal, even when in Rome, cease to place
confidence in his advice. In 1837 he was designated Professor of Moral
Theology, and Prefect of Studies in the Roman College, where he lived
till the Revolution of 1848. Gregory XVI. had appointed him Examinator
of the Roman Clergy, during which time he had prepared several
dissertations, treatises, &c., on theology and philosophy, which may
some day be published. On the breaking out of the Revolution he retired
some time to Monseigneur Morini, of Florence, until this learned and
devout man was stabbed in the streets for his opposition to the
revolutionists. Thus cast upon the world without a protector, he wished
to take refuge in the Sanctuary of the Virgin, at Genezzano, which
according to tradition was transported thither from Albania, and is
still kept by the Hermits of St. Augustine. His superior's wish however
sent him to England, where he lived six months in the mansion of Lord
Waterton. In 1849 he came to America, and taught moral theology in
Georgetown College. In 1850 he began to fill the same office (i.e.,
Professor of Moral Theology) in St. Joseph's Seminary, in the diocese of
New-York. He was endeared to the Church for his mildness, cheerfulness,
and charity, insomuch that among the younger students of St. John's
College he was known as the "Good Father, who is always smiling." On the
6th of December he fell ill; on the 8th, the President of St. John's
College, in presence of the Fathers and Religious of the Society,
administered the viaticum. The following night he was anointed; and on
the 10th, towards ten o'clock in the afternoon, he breathed his last. On
the evening of the 11th, at six o'clock, according to the custom of the
Society, a solemn service was celebrated by all the members of St.
John's College and Seminary. On the 12th, at six o'clock A. M., he was
buried in the cemetery attached to the College.

       *       *       *       *       *

WILLIAM PLUMER, formerly governor of New-Hampshire, died at his home in
Epping, Rockingham county, in that State, on the 23d of December, at the
advanced age of ninety-three, and SAMUEL BELL, another ex-governor of
New-Hampshire, died at his home in the neighboring town of Chester, on
the same day. His age could not have been less than eighty. Both were
men of solid though not brilliant abilities; both were leaders of the
Democratic party in its struggles in support of Jefferson and Madison;
both ardent supporters of John Quincy Adams's election and
administration, and adverse to Jacksonism in all its phases; and each
has acted constantly and zealously with the Whig party through all its
changing fortunes. Mr. Plumer was first elected to the Chief Magistracy
in 1812, and continued to be the Democratic candidate, with alternate
success and defeat, until 1819, when he declined, and Mr. Bell was
nominated by the party, and chosen to succeed him. Mr. Bell was of a
tall, graceful, commanding person. It was stated at the time of his
inauguration that he seemed to be about a head taller than any other of
the thousands present at the ceremony. He was chosen a senator in
Congress in 1823, and served through a full term; and would have been
reelected in 1829, had not Isaac Hill meantime invented and given
currency to a new style of Democracy, of which Bell had not been able to
discern the excellence; so he retired to private life, in which he ever
afterward continued. He cherished an especial affection for and
confidence in the great statesman of the west, Henry Clay, with whom it
had been his fortune to sympathize through his whole political life, and
whom he hoped yet to see elevated to the Presidency. His brother, John
Bell, who was governor some years after him, and beaten in 1829 by the
first successful foray of Jacksonism, removed soon after to
Massachusetts, where he died. Governor Plumer, it is understood, has
left important historical memoirs, which will probably be published.

       *       *       *       *       *

THOMAS BIRCH, the well-known painter, died in Philadelphia on the 14th
of January, at the ripe age of seventy-two, after a life of quiet and
laborious devotion to his profession. He was distinguished in a
particular department of landscape and marine painting, delighting in
the treatment of coast and river scenes in their simpler and homelier
aspects, which he treated in his peculiar way, frequently with the best
effect, and always with great fidelity to nature. He produced a very
large number of pictures.

       *       *       *       *       *

CHRISTIAN LAURITZ SVERDRUP, the celebrated Norwegian philologist, died
at the University of Christiana, in which he had been a professor more
than forty-five years.

       *       *       *       *       *

MR. W. SEGUIN, the eminent singer, died in London, on the 30th December,
after a short illness.

       *       *       *       *       *

MRS. OGILVY, of Corrimony, who died at Edinburgh on the 14th of
December, was a daughter of W. Fraser Tytler, Esq., and as "Margaret
Fraser Tytler," was well known as the authoress of a very popular series
of works for the young--"Tales of the Great and Brave," "Tales of Good
and Great Kings," "Lives of Celebrated Admirals," &c.

       *       *       *       *       *

WILLIAM HOWISON, A.R.S.A., a well-known line engraver, died in
Edinburgh, on the 20th December. He was born at Edinburgh, in 1798. He
was educated in George Heriot's Hospital; and on leaving that
institution was apprenticed to an engraver, of the name of Wilson. Even
as a boy he was remarkable for industry, perseverance, and punctuality.
He never received any instructions in drawing, beyond what he acquired
for himself during the period of his apprenticeship. He was, in every
way, truly a self-made man. Mr. Harvey was the first to appreciate Mr.
Howison's talents, and to afford scope for their display, by employing
him to engrave the well-known picture of "The Curlers;" and it is no
detraction from the merits of that painting to say, that the admirable
skill displayed in transferring it to copper contributed in no small
degree to the reputation of the painter. On the completion of "The
Curlers," Mr. Howison was elected an associate of the Royal Scottish
Academy--the only instance, we believe, of such an honor being conferred
upon an engraver. Mr. Howison afterwards engraved the "Polish Exiles,"
by Sir William Allan; the "Covenanters' Communion," and the "Schule
Skailing," by Harvey; and at the period of his death he was engaged upon
the "First Letter from the Emigrants," after Thomas Faed, for the
Association for the Promotion of the Fine Arts in Scotland.

       *       *       *       *       *

HYPPOLITE ROYER-COLLARD, nephew of the eminent philosopher of that name,
died at Paris on the 15th of December, at the age of 48, after having
been for five years afflicted by a paralysis, which did not however
affect his mental powers. He was Professor of Public Hygiene, at the
School of Medicine, and drew crowded audiences to his lectures. To a
mind of rare scientific acuteness and endowments, he added an active and
fertile imagination, and great youthfulness of spirit. He inherited the
intellectual tendencies of his uncle, and was an intimate friend of
Guizot.

       *       *       *       *       *

COL. WILLIAMS, formerly M.P. for Ashton, died at Wootton, near
Liverpool, on the 19th December, aged eighty-seven. At twelve years of
age, he joined General Burgoyne's army in America, and carried the flag
of truce upon the memorable occasion of the surrender at Saratoga. It is
supposed that he was the last survivor of that army. After twenty-five
years of active service in Nova Scotia, St. Domingo, and Jamaica, in
Holland and in Ireland, he quitted the army in 1800, at which period the
career of most of the military men of the present day commenced.

       *       *       *       *       *

MR. WILLIAM STURGEON, well known for scientific attainments, died on the
15th December, at Manchester, where he had for some years filled the
office of lecturer on science to the Royal Victoria Gallery of Practical
Science. He was born at Whittington, in Lancashire, in 1783, and was
apprenticed by his parents to a shoemaker. In 1802, he entered the
Westmoreland militia, and two years later he enlisted as a private
soldier in the Royal Artillery. While in this corps he devoted his
leisure to scientific studies, and appears to have made himself familiar
with all the great facts of electricity and magnetism which were then
opening to the world. His subsequent career created for him a name in
the annals of scientific discovery.

       *       *       *       *       *

JOSEPH B. ANTHONY, President Judge of the Eighth Judicial District of
Pennsylvania, died at his residence in Williamsport on the 11th January.
He was born in Philadelphia, on the 19th day of June, 1795. While young,
he for a time taught school in Milton, Northumberland county, at which
place he studied law. He went to Ohio, and after an absence of about one
year returned to Pennsylvania. In 1818 he was admitted to the bar at
Williamsport, where he continued to reside until his death. In 1830 he
was elected by the Democratic party to the Senate of Pennsylvania. In
the year 1831 he was elected to Congress, and two years after was
reelected by an unprecedented majority. During the early part of the
administration of Governor Porter he was appointed Judge of the
Nicholson Court of Pennsylvania, and in March, 1844, was appointed
President Judge of the Eighth Judicial District.

       *       *       *       *       *

MR. OSBALDISTON, the well-known tragedian and theatrical manager, died
at his residence, near London, on the 29th December. He was fifty-six or
fifty-seven years of age, and besides sustaining tragic characters at
most of the London and provincial theatres, he has held the reins of
management at the Surrey, Sadler's Wells, Covent-Garden, and City of
London theatres.

       *       *       *       *       *

THEOLOGICAL SCIENCE, says the _Methodist Quarterly Review_, has
sustained another blow in the loss of Professor MAU, of Kiel, who died
some weeks ago. His studies lay mostly in the line of New-Testament
Theology; and he is known especially by his treatise _Of Death, the
Wages of Sin, and of Salvation_ (Vom Tode, des Suenden Solde, u. von d.
Erloesung). The work, which is distinguished for its acute and vigorous
thought, was written in reply to one on the same subject by Professor
Krabbe, of Rostock. Its chief peculiarity is the doctrine that the death
of the body is inherent in its constitution, not the effect of sin; and
therefore that redemption has regard only to spiritual death.

       *       *       *       *       *

MRS. WALLACK, the wife of Mr. James W. Wallack the comedian, and the
daughter of the celebrated "Irish Johnstone," died on Christmas day,
aged fifty-eight years.

       *       *       *       *       *

MADAME CAROLINE JUNOT, the eldest daughter of Schiller, died suddenly on
the 19th December, at Wurtzburg, in Bavaria.

GENERAL SIR PHINEAS RIALL, K.C.H., died in Paris, early in November. He
entered the British Army in 1792, and served in the West Indies,
receiving a medal and clasp for his services at Martinique, and
Guadaloupe, in 1809 and 1810. In 1813, he served in the American war,
and was severely wounded at the battle of Chippewa.

       *       *       *       *       *

LIEUT. GENERAL SEWIGHT MAWBY, who served during the wars of Napoleon,
and since in India, died lately in London.

       *       *       *       *       *

M. MARVY, eminent as a landscape painter and as an engraver; and M.
DUBOIS, a distinguished architect, are noticed in the recent Paris
obituaries.

       *       *       *       *       *

GENERAL ETIENNE JOLY died at Villiers-les-Bel, on the 2d of January.

       *       *       *       *       *

HERMANN KRIEGE died at Hoboken on the last day of December. He was of
German birth, but spoke the English and the French language with
fluency. A Democrat and Socialist by constitution, he devoted all the
resources of an ardent nature and ready talents to the triumph of his
principles. It is now some eight years since he first removed to this
country, and established in New-York a weekly paper called the
_Volks-Tribun_, in which he advocated the most radical ideas upon the
relations of capital and labor, with as much ability as earnestness. In
his views of American politics he inclined to the so-called democratic
party, and when the Mexican War commenced gave it a hearty support--not
because he had carefully inquired into its justice, but because he
regarded the absorption of Mexico, and indeed the entire continent, by
the United States, and the supremacy of the Anglo-Saxon race in the
western world, as absolutely essential to the progress of humanity.
Though not originally a land reformer, he adopted and vigorously
defended not only the doctrine that the earth belongs to the human race
and cannot rightfully be trafficked in any more than can the air or the
sunlight, but the measures which American reformers have deduced
therefrom, namely, land limitation, freedom of the public domain,
homestead exemption, &c. During this time he wrote and published in
German a history of the United States, as well as a series of
translations from the writings of our revolutionary patriots, works of
the highest value to our German citizens. The _Volks-Tribun_ ceased to
be published in 1847, and for some time after Mr. Kriege gained a
livelihood by teaching German. He also gave here, in his native tongue,
a course of lectures on German Literature, which were greatly enjoyed by
those who attended them. On the breaking out of the Revolution of 1848,
he returned to Germany, and took an active share in the democratic
movements. He was one of the Supreme Executive Committee, consisting of
three members, if we remember rightly, which had its seat at Berlin, and
thence conducted a revolutionary propaganda throughout the country. In
the spring of 1849 he returned to the United States again, and took
editorial charge of the _Illinois Staats Zeitung_ at Chicago. But the
reaction which now followed the intense excitement of the previous year
in Europe, proved too much for his physical powers, which were far from
robust. His health compelled him to resign his connection with that
paper and come back to the city. He fell into a sort of apathy which
resulted in a partial derangement of his mind, and finally in the
complete prostration of his system. After lingering for some months he
at last expired with tranquillity, in the thirtieth year of his age. He
was a man of extensive acquirements. His knowledge of history was very
comprehensive and accurate. His intellect, though not remarkably
original or brilliant, was clear and vigorous. His heart was of the
manly and noble kind. There is encouragement in the recollection of such
a man.--_Tribune._

       *       *       *       *       *

MME. LOUISA HENRIETTA SCHMALZ, the most famous German _Cantatrice_ of
the last century, and who for more than thirty years was the Queen of
the German Lyrical Stage, has just died in Berlin, aged seventy-nine
years. In her youth she was beautiful and she was always remarkable for
fascination of manners.

       *       *       *       *       *

GEORGE SPENCE, an eminent lawyer, and lecturer on Equity Jurisprudence
at Lincoln's Inn, committed suicide in London, on the 12th December. He
was born in 1786, educated at a Scotch University, called to the bar in
London in 1811, and made a Bencher in 1834. As a writer upon law, Mr.
Spence had a high and deserved reputation. His work on "The Equitable
Jurisdiction of the Court of Chancery," is founded partly on Maddock's
"Treatise on the Principles and Practice of the High Court of Chancery;"
yet it is, in many important particulars, essentially an original work.
This able production, the second volume of which appeared in 1849, has
been generally commended.

       *       *       *       *       *

GENERAL SIR WM. LUMLEY, G. C. B., a distinguished cavalry officer, died
in London on the 15th December. He entered the army at the age of
eighteen, in 1787, and continued in service through the greater part of
his life. In the Irish Rebellion, in 1798, he commanded the 22nd Light
Dragoons, and was wounded at Antrim. He was afterwards in Egypt, at the
Cape of Good Hope, and in South America, at the capture of Monte Video
in 1807. After commanding the advanced force at the taking of Ischia,
and after attaining the rank of Major-General, Lumley joined the British
army in the Peninsula. He there won great distinction at the first siege
of Badajoz, and he led the whole allied cavalry at the battle of
Albuera; few, indeed, were more useful during the Peninsular war.

       *       *       *       *       *

ROBERT ROSCOE, third son of the historian, died during the early part of
December, in his sixty-first year. For some time he followed the
profession of the law, in partnership with the late Mr. Edgar Taylor;
but he retired from active life, in consequence of infirm health, many
years ago. Like all the members of the Roscoe family, he had literary
powers, which an unusual amount of self-distrust prevented his
exercising largely. The completion of Mr. Fitchett's huge epic of
"Alfred" was done by him in fulfilment of a promise, and he wrote other
poems, and some small works in prose, not unworthy of a son of William
Roscoe.

       *       *       *       *       *

MR. RICHIE, a sculptor of some reputation, from Edinburgh, went lately
to Rome, where he died during the month of September. His death is
mainly attributable to an excursion he made with some friends to Ostio,
where, ignorant of the effects of the climate, and of the precautions
necessary to be taken in it, he caught the malaria fever, and expired
after his return to Rome. He was followed to the English cemetery by
most of the English and American artists resident there. His journey to
Rome had been for some years the object of his most ardent hopes and
wishes.

       *       *       *       *       *

M. MARTIN D'AUCH, the only surviving member of the first Constituent
Assembly of the First French Republic, and the only one who, at the oath
of the Jeu de Paume, refused to sign the declaration of the Tiers-Parti,
has just died at Castlenaudary. In David's well-known picture, M. d'Auch
is represented with his arms folded on his breast, and refusing to join
his colleagues.

       *       *       *       *       *

The well-known Dutch painter, MORITZ, died lately at the Hague, aged
seventy-seven years.




Scientific Miscellany.


A Report by five eminent members has been made to the Paris Academy of
Sciences, on a paper from Colonel Lesbros, entitled _Hydraulic
Experiments relative to the Laws of the Flowing of Water_. Two thousand
experiments, carried through four years, are detailed in three hundred
and twelve pages of text, with thirty-seven large plates. The work was
recommended to the Academy by the Minister of War. The Committee say, at
the end of their report:--"Considering the high utility of these
experimental researches, prosecuted to the end in the most satisfactory
and complete manner; and being convinced of the beneficial effect which
the publication of them may have in the promotion of science, and its
application to public works,--to navigation, agriculture, hydraulic
establishments, and the various branches of industry connected with
them,--the Committee are of opinion that the Academy should accord full
approbation to the work, and direct the early insertion of it in the
Transactions." All parts of the report show that the publication will be
of importance to both sides of the Atlantic.

       *       *       *       *       *

Of the December number of the _Comte Rendu_ of the Paris Academy of
Moral and Political Sciences, nearly twenty pages are occupied by one of
the Reports of Blanqui, the Political Economist, on the Rural
Populations of France. He made his personal survey, this year, as
Commissioner of the Academy. He is preparing a work, in several volumes,
on the state, in every particular, of the inhabitants of France, in
every part. His abstract of his recent survey of the Departments of the
centre, including the basin of the Loire, abounds with curious details,
especially as to the diversity of the manner in which the Revolution of
February, 1848, affected the rural and city populations in their minds
and interests. He speaks of the city of _Saint Etienne_ as
_extemporized_ after the American fashion.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE AFRICAN EXPLORING EXPEDITION.--Intelligence has been received from
the Saharan African Expedition up to the 29th of August last. The
expedition had literally fought its way up to Selonfeet in Aheer, near
to the territory of the Kaillouee Prince, En-Nour, to whom it is
recommended. Mr. Richardson had been obliged to ransom his life and
those of his fellow-travellers twice. The whole population of the
northern districts of Aheer had been raised against the expedition,
joined by all the bandits and robbers who infest that region of the
Sahara. The travellers are now in comparative security. The great Soudan
route, from Ghat to Aheer, is explored. Of the expedition of Von Muller
we have a few days later but not important news.

       *       *       *       *       *

The Royal Society of London, at the last annual meeting, awarded "the
Royal Medal" to Mr. Benjamin Brodie, F.R.S. (eldest son of Sir B.
Brodie, Bart.) for his papers on the chemical nature of wax. It is
nearly forty years since the Royal Society awarded the "Copley medal" to
Sir Benjamin Brodie for his paper "on poisons;" the only instance of
father and son receiving the same distinction.

       *       *       *       *       *

Of an Hungarian Academy, Mr. Walsh writes to the _Journal of Commerce_,
"Last month Mr. Kenigswater transmitted to the Academy of Moral and
Political Sciences, a very interesting communication relative to the
National Academy of Hungary, with the existence of which few of the
French savants were acquainted. The idea of establishing a National
Society for universal knowledge, dates from the end of the last century.
Its accomplishment was delayed by political causes, and the want of
adequate funds. But a Magyar Count succeeded, in 1827, in obtaining an
act of the Diet for the creation of such an institute. He presented it
with a sum of thirty thousand dollars; another magnate gave twenty
thousand dollars; many others ten thousand; so that the fund from
voluntary contributions, amounts to nearly two hundred thousand
dollars--a million of francs. The Academy was inaugurated in 1830, and
divided into six sections--Philology, Philosophy, History,
Jurisprudence, Mathematics, and the Natural Sciences. Its only President
since that period has been Count Joseph Teleki, deemed an excellent
historian, to whom and his brothers it is indebted for a sum of
twenty-five thousand francs, and a library of fifty thousand volumes. It
consists now of nineteen honorary members; thirty-eight active or
resident; and of a hundred and twenty-five corresponding members for the
several sections. Each section has a weekly meeting; there are monthly
and annual sittings of all. Papers on erudite and scientific subjects
are read; the Magyar language is alone permitted in its business and
transactions, except as to the communications of its foreign
correspondents. It has published, at its own expense, a very large
number of works; among them a series of critical Commentaries on the
ancient monuments of the Magyar language, "which bears no affinity to
the European tongues, and differs as much from the Sclavonic as from the
Teutonic and the Latin idioms." There is a very important and very rich
collection of Hungarian translations of the Latin and Greek classics;
another of translations of the principal modern dramatic authors. The
Hungarian mind has been prolific for its stage, in original pieces. The
Academy awards prizes, confers distinctions, &c., &c."

       *       *       *       *       *

An important discovery has been made by M. NICHOLAS ZACH, a lithographer
of Munich. He has invented a process by which, by means of a preparation
applied to designs traced by a pointed instrument on a plate of any sort
of metal, the drawing reproduces itself in relief, in less than an hour,
on the plate. M. Zach has given to his discovery the title of
_Metallography_.

       *       *       *       *       *

GAS FROM WATER.--Mr. Paine's alleged discovery of a new process of
procuring gas _from water_, after some months of discredit and ridicule,
is acquiring fresh interest and importance. Mr. Elizur Wright, editor of
the Boston _Chronotype_, and other gentlemen of ability and
intelligence, have visited Worcester, and examined the whole process and
the apparatus employed in it, and are perfectly convinced of the reality
and importance of the discovery. A similar discovery is said to have
been made recently in Paris. Mr. Paine has received from England letters
patent for his discovery.




[Illustration]

Ladies Fashions for February.


I. _Ladies' Equestrian Costume._--Riding-habit of green cloth or
cashmere; the skirt very long and full, and the corsage fastened from
the waist to the throat by a row of fancy silk buttons of the color of
the habit. A pardessus or polka jacket of cinnamon- cloth or
merino. It has rather a deep basquine, and the corsage, which has a
turning over collar and lappels, is open in front of the bosom. It is
edged with a narrow band of black velvet. The sleeves are long, close to
the arms, and slit open at the lower part, showing under sleeves of
white cambric of moderate fulness, gathered on bands at the wrists. The
pardessus is confined in front (not quite so low as the waist) by a gilt
agrafe. Round the throat a small collar of worked muslin or a necktie of
plaided ribbon. Round riding-hat of black beaver, with a small
cock's-tail plume on one side. Veil of a very thin green or black tulle.
Under the habit a jupon of cambric muslin with a deep border of
needlework. Pale yellow riding gloves, and black boots.

II. _Boy's Dress._--Jacket of bright blue cloth, trimmed on the two
fronts with broad silk braid of the same color, placed in rows of three
and three together. The sleeves are close at the ends, and the
wristbands of the shirt are turned up just sufficiently to cover the
edges of the jacket sleeves. Waistcoat of white pique. Trousers of white
and blue stripe. A plain square shirt collar, turned down, and a red
silk necktie. Cap of black velvet. Glazed leather boots.

[Illustration]

III. _An Evening Costume_, of pale lavender silk; the waist and point of
a moderate length; the corsage is low, and _a la Grecque_; the short
sleeves are open the front of the arm, and trimmed with a looped silk
fringe; the skirt is long and full, and has five pieces, _en bias_, set
on plain, and edged with fringe corresponding to that on the sleeves.

IV. _An elegant Visiting Dress_ of pale stone- _taffetas_, the
skirt handsomely trimmed with three distinct rows of flounces, each row
consisting of four rows of narrow flounces, pinked and waved at the
edge, the upper row reaching to a little below the waist; plain high
corsage, made open in the front, and trimmed with four narrow frills,
put on nearly plain upon the front, where they meet in a point at the
waist, and forming a kind of cape over the back and shoulders; half-long
sleeves, trimmed to match; under-sleeves and chemisette of fine lawn.
Bonnet of pink _velours epingle_, the exterior decorated with a cluster
of pink flowers on the right, a pink blond encircling the edge, being
turned back plain over the front, the interior fulled with pink _tulle_,
and half wreaths of green heath.

_The skirts of ball dresses_ still continue to be very highly trimmed.
Flounces are the favorite style of trimming, and not unfrequently as
many as ten are put on. Sometimes rows of lace are disposed alternately
with flounces of the same material as the dress. For this purpose either
black or white lace may be employed; the choice being determined by the
tint of the dress. A novel style of trimming for the skirts of evening
dresses consists of rows of broad fringe instead of flounces.

Another description of _trimming_ resembling fringe, but made of
marabout feathers, is employed for ball dresses. Tulle dresses of two or
three jupes have the lowest one edged simply with a hem, and the upper
ones edged with a row of marabout fringe. The sleeves and berthe should
be edged with corresponding trimming.

_Manteau Andriana_, of violet velvet, having a small _capuchon_, or
hood, decorated with a rich fancy trimming in _passementerie_, to which
are attached at regular distances long soft tassels; very wide sleeves,
in the Oriental form, decorated to match the _capuchon_; the lower part
of the cloak is ornamented with a kind of shell-work in _passementerie_,
which forms _galerie_; upon the fronts are placed _brandebourgs_ in
Spanish points.

_Caps_ intended for morning toilette are very novel in their form and
appearance, the most favorite style being a little _coiffe Bretonne_,
having _papillons_ of lace turned back, and _chutes_ of lilac and violet
velvet; then, again, those the crown of which is formed of _torsades_ of
ribbon, over which fall two rows of English lace, and having two
half-wreaths of _vapeur_ ribbon encircling the back part.






End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The International Magazine, Volume 2,
No. 3, February, 1851, by Various

*** 