



Produced by Judith Wirawan, David Kline, and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net









  HARPER'S

  NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.

  VOLUME II.

  DECEMBER, 1850, TO MAY, 1851.


  NEW YORK:

  HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS,

  329 & 331 PEARL STREET,

  FRANKLIN SQUARE.

  1851.




ADVERTISEMENT.


In bringing the SECOND VOLUME of the NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE to a close,
the Publishers would avail themselves of the occasion, to express their
profound appreciation of the favor with which it has been received, and
their earnest wish to render it still more deserving of the enlightened
patronage of the American community. They commenced the publication with
the firm conviction that it could be made the medium of valuable
information and mental enjoyment to the great mass of readers, and that
it would accordingly be sustained by their generous and cordial support.
Nor have they been deceived in their anticipations. The Magazine has
found a wider circulation with every monthly issue. The encomiums with
which it has been welcomed by the universal voice of the press, and the
verdict of intelligent readers, are a gratifying proof that the
Publishers have succeeded in their endeavor to adapt it to the wants of
the public mind. Encouraged by the experience of the first year of this
extensive literary enterprise, they are determined to spare no effort to
insure the succeeding volumes of the Magazine a still wider and more
favorable reception among all classes of readers. They intend it to be a
strictly national work. Devoted to no local interests, pledged to no
religious sect or political party, connected with no favorite movement
of the day, except the diffusion of intelligence, virtue, and
patriotism, it will continue to be conducted with the impartiality and
good faith, which it is equally the duty, the inclination, and the
interest of the Publishers to maintain. In addition to the choicest
productions of the English press, the Magazine will be enriched with
such original matter as in their opinion will enhance its utility and
attractiveness. The embellishments will be furnished by distinguished
artists, and selected no less for their permanent value as vehicles of
agreeable instruction than for the gratification of an aesthetic taste.
With the ample literary, artistic, and mechanical resources which the
Publishers have enlisted in the NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE, and their ambition
to give it a character of genuine, substantial, reliable excellence in
every department, they may assure its wide circle of patrons that its
subsequent issues will more than justify the distinguished reputation
which it has attained at this early period of its existence.




CONTENTS OF VOLUME II.


  Actors and their Salaries                                        403
  A Death-Bed. By JAMES ALDRICH                                     84
  A Dream and the Interpretation Thereof                           816
  Address to Gray Hair                                             699
  An Agreeable Surprise                                             84
  A little Stimulant                                               361
  Anecdote of a Dog                                                 97
  Anecdote of a Hawk                                               490
  Anecdotes of Napoleon                                            231
  Anecdotes of Serpents                                            663
  Anecdotes of Wordsworth                                          319
  An Empty House                                                   103
  An Excellent Match                                               315
  Apology for Burns                                                334
  Bachelor's Christmas                                             399
  Beauties of the Law                                              543
  Births:--Mrs. Meek of a Son                                      672
  Birth of Crime                                                   614
  Bona Lombardi Brunoro                                            155
  Carol for the New Year                                           396
  Chapter on Bears                                                 546
  Chapter on Dreams                                                768
  Chapter on Shawls                                                 39
  Chapter on Wolves                                                787
  Charles Wolfe                                                    734
  Cheerful Views of Human Nature                                   242
  Child Commodore                                                  641
  Climate of Canada                                                358
  Colds and Cold Water                                             110
  Conflict of Love                                                  63
  Courtesy of Americans                                            846
  Crazed                                                           401
  Crisis in the Affairs of Mr. John Bull                           235
  Crocodile Battery                                                768
  Crystal Palace                                                   584
  Curiosities of Railway Traveling                                 194
  Curran, the Irish Orator                                         497
  Dangers of Doing Wrong                                           226
  Darling Dorel                                                    843
  Death of a Goblin                                                478
  Death of Howard                                                  298
  Death of John Randolph                                            80
  Dog and Deer of the Army                                         407
  Domestic Life of Alexander, Emperor of Russia                     99
  Edible Birds'-Nests of China                                     397
  Efforts of a Gentleman in search of Despair                      521
  Encounter with an Iceberg                                        406
  England in 1850. By LAMARTINE                                     46
  Escape of Queen Mary from Lochleven Castle                        22
  Fair in Munich                                                   774
  Fashions for December                                            143
  Fashions for Early Winter                                        287
  Fashions for Later Winter                                        431
  Fashions for Early Spring                                        575
  Fashions for Spring                                              719
  Fashions for May                                                 863
  Fate of a German Reformer                                         76
  Five Minutes too Late                                            647
  Fidgety People                                                   662
  Flowers in the Sick Room                                          52
  Freaks of Nature                                                 356
  French Revolutionists, Marat, Robespierre, and Danton             27
  Gabrielle; or, The Sisters                                       801
  Gamblers of the Rhine                                             61
  General Rosas and the Argentine Republic                         484
  German Picture of the Scotch                                      25
  Ghost-Stories of Chapelizod                                      499
  Give Wisely! An Anecdote                                         121
  Gunpowder and Chalk                                               18
  Habits and Amusements of the London Costermongers                644
  Haunts of Genius--Gray, Burke, Milton, Dryden, and Pope           49
  Heart of John Middleton                                          449
  History and Mystery of the Glass-House                           308
  Horrors of War                                                   658
  Household of Sir Thomas More                                616, 818
  How to be Idolized                                               640
  Incident in the First French Revolution                          622
  Invitation to the Zoological Gardens                             297
  Jane Eccles; or, Confessions of an Attorney                      677
  Judge Not                                                        626
  Lamartine on the Religion of Revolutionary Men                   598
  Land, Ho!--A Sketch of Australia                                 357

  LEAVES FROM PUNCH

     Preparatory Schools for Young Ladies; Ladies' Arithmetic; Netting
     for Ladies, 285. A False Apple-ation; A Tete-a-Tete; Expected out
     soon; Going down to a Watering-place; Attraction; 19th Cent'ry;
     Putting the Cart before the Horse; A Narrow Escape; Division of
     Labor; Animal Economy; A Holiday at the Public Offices, 429.
     Lectures on Letters; Punch on Special Pleading; Smithfield Club
     Cattle Show; Golden Opportunities; Universal Contempt of Court;
     Startling Fact, 569. 1851; Please, Sir, shall I hold your Horse?
     The Affairs of Grease; The War on Hats; Peace Offering; The Best
     Law Book; Justice for Bachelors; The Weather, a Drama for
     Every-Day Life; A Juvenile Party; the Kitchen Range of Art;
     Reward of Merit, 713. Encouragement to Book-Lenders; Diplomacy
     and Gastronomy, Supper at a Juvenile Party; One of the Juveniles
     after the Party; Conversation-Books for 1851; To find Room in a
     Crowded Omnibus; A File to Smooth Asperities; The Lowest Depth of
     Meanness; A Little Bit of Humbug, 859.

  Letters and Letter Writing                                        35

  LITERARY NOTICES.

     The Salamander; Spencer's Pastor's Sketches; Abbott's Madame
     Roland; Stanton's Sketches of Reforms and Reformers; Gorree's
     Churches and Sects of the United States; Cenotaph to a Woman of
     the Burman Mission; Fleetwood's Life of Christ; Banbridge's
     Scripture History for the Young; Poems by Grace Greenwood, 139.
     Hawthorne's Grandfather's Chair; The Green Hand; The New
     Englander; Bibliotheca Sacra; Maturin's Lyrics of Spain and Erin;
     Holmes's Astraea; De Quincey's Essays; Bigelow's Jamaica in 1851;
     Cantica Laudis; Young's Translations from Beranger, 140.
     Andersen's Tales; Gem of the Western World; Our Saviour with
     Prophets and Apostles; Sacred Scenes; National Cook-Book; Smith's
     Relations between Scripture and Geology, 141. Life and Works of
     John Adams; The Broken Bracelet; The Immortal; Boyd's edition of
     Paradise Lost; General View of the Fine Arts; Artist's Chromatic
     Hand-Book, 142. Reveries of a Bachelor; Richard Edney; Washburn's
     Issue of Philosophic Thought, 281. The Memorial; Evening of Life;
     Mrs. Knight's Memoir of Hannah More; Andrews' Latin Lexicon, 282.
     Smith's Classical Dictionary; Mansfield's American Education; The
     Ministry of the Beautiful; Green's History and Geography of the
     Middle Ages; Christian Melodies; Sketch of Fowell Buxton; The
     Manhattaner in New Orleans, 283. Redfield's Twelve Qualities of
     Mind; Winter in Madeira; Gems by the Wayside; The World's
     Progress; Vinet's Montaigne; Sumner's Orations; The Broken Bud;
     Bardouac; Fadette; Memoir of Alexander Waugh; Chanticleer, 284.
     Life and Times of Gen. Lamb; Memoir of James Handasyde Perkins;
     Humboldt's Religious Thoughts and Opinions; Balmes's
     Protestantism and Catholicity; Tappan's University Education,
     425. Gilfillan's Bards of the Bible; Webster's Dictionary, 426.
     Celebrated Saloons; Home Ballads; History of my Pets; Cheever's
     Island World of the Pacific; Life of Summerfield; Greek Exile;
     Carpenter's Use and Abuse of Alcoholic Liquors; Mother's
     Recompense; The Diosma; Poems by S.G. Goodrich, 427. Woodbury's
     New Method of learning German; Poems by Frances A. and Metta V.
     Fuller; Lives of the Queens of Scotland; Pendennis; Southey's
     Life and Correspondence; Murray's Decline of Popery; Henry
     Smeaton, 428. The Howadji; Crumbs from the Land o' Cakes; De
     Quincey's Miscellaneous Essays; Hayward's Faust; Lavengro, 565.
     Abbott's Malleville; Practical Cook-Book; Foster's Discourse on
     Missions; Lewis's Restoration of the Jews; Anderson's Geography;
     The Dove and the Eagle; Carter's Publications, 566. Hildreth's
     United States; Lossing's Field Book; Du Barry's Progress of the
     United States; Salander and the Dragon, 567. The Prairie;
     Stanton's Address, and Street's Poem at Hamilton College; Lord
     Holland's Foreign Reminiscences; Jane Bouverie; Mayhew's London
     Labor and London Poor; The Moorland Cottage, 568. Johnson's
     California and Oregon, 709. Mount Hope, 710. Parnassus in
     Pillory, 711. Hawthorne's Twice Told Tales; Time the Avenger;
     Porter's Educational Systems of the Puritans and the Jesuits;
     Girlhood of Shakspeare's Heroines; Poetry from the Waverley
     Novels; Whipple's Essays and Reviews; Loomis's Geometry and
     Calculus; The City of the Silent; Blunt's Shipmaster's Assistant,
     712. Hawthorne's House of the Seven Gables, 855. Buttmann's Greek
     Grammar; Lee's Ecclesiastical Manual; Dixon's Life of Penn; The
     Rangers; Mulchinoch's Ballads; Foster's Christian Purity; Lyra
     Catholica, 856. The Soldier of the Cross; Field's Irish
     Confederates; Schmitz's History of Greece; Abbott's Franconia
     Stories; London Labor and the London Poor; Dwight's Roman
     Republic; De Quincey's Caesars; Life on the Plains of the Pacific;
     Hints to Sportsmen, 857. Curran and His Contemporaries; Gayarre's
     Louisiana; Monge's Statics; Warreniana; Jung-Stilling's
     Pneumatology; Tuckerman's Poems; Theory of Effect; Volcano
     Diggings; Cooper's Wing and Wing; Irving's Conquest of Florida;
     Banker's Common-Place Book, 858.

  Lively Turtle                                                     52
  Lucy Cawthorne                                                   633
  Lunatic Asylum in Palermo                                        183
  Madame Campan                                                    153
  Mathematical Hermit                                              627
  Metal Founder of Munich                                          516
  Maurice Tiernay, the Soldier of Fortune.
    By CHARLES LEVER                                173, 364, 468, 737
  Michelet, the French Historian                                   353
  Milton and Wordsworth                                            201
  Mistakes in Personal Identity                                     69
  Modern Mummies                                                   321

  MONTHLY RECORD OF CURRENT EVENTS.

  UNITED STATES.

     POLITICAL AND GENERAL NEWS.--State of feeling on the Compromise
     measures, 122. Letters of Washington Hunt to the Secession and
     Anti-Rent Conventions, 122. Meeting at Castle Garden; Letter of
     Mr. Webster; Nominations, 122. Constitution of Congress, 123.
     State Convention in Georgia, 123. Meeting at Macon, 123. State of
     Feeling in Georgia, 123. In South Carolina, 124. In Alabama; Gov.
     Collier declines to call a State Convention; Letter of Mr.
     Hilliard, 124. In Mississippi, 124. In Louisiana, 124. Letters of
     Senators Downs and Soule; Letter from the Congressional
     delegation to the Governor, 124. Correspondence between Isaac
     Hill and Mr. Webster, 125. Dinner to Mr. Clayton, 125. Opening of
     Congress, 263. Message of President Fillmore, 133. Report of the
     Secretary of War, 264. Of the Secretary of the Navy, 265. Of the
     Postmaster General, 265. Of the Secretary of the Interior, 266.
     Bill for the protection of fugitives in Vermont, 267. Message of
     Gov. Ford of Virginia, 267. Of the Governor of Alabama, 267. Of
     Mississippi, 267. Union majority in Georgia, 267. Message of Gov.
     Bell of Texas, 268. Of Gov. Seabrook of South Carolina, 268. Of
     Gov. Brown of Florida, 268. The Nashville Convention, 268.
     Various Union meetings; and letters and speeches of Messrs.
     Webster, Choate, Stuart, Woodbury, Hilliard, and others, 268,
     269, 270, 271. Reception of Mr. Clay in the Legislature of
     Kentucky, 271. Letters of Messrs. Hamilton, Poinsett, and Rush,
     272. Speech of Mr. Clayton, 272. George Thompson, 272. General
     News from California, 272, 410, 556, 701. General news from
     Oregon, 273. Webster's reply to Hulsemann, 409, 848. Opening of
     the Legislature of New York, and Message of Gov. Hunt, 409.
     Message of Gov. Wright of Indiana, 410. Florida resolutions, 410.
     Of Gov. Johnston of Pennsylvania, 410. Boundary Commission, 411,
     556, 701. Safety of the Steamer Atlantic, 555. Progress of
     measures in Congress, 555. Action of the Legislature of North
     Carolina in favor of Union, etc., 555. Indictment of Gov.
     Quitman, 556. Thanksgiving in Texas, 556. Loss of the John Adams,
     556. Inaugural of Gov. Fort of New Jersey, 556. Letter of Gen.
     Houston in favor of Union, 556. Action for Union in Delaware,
     556. Union meeting at Westchester, 556. Correspondence between a
     British consul and the Governor of South Carolina respecting
     imprisonment of  seamen, 556. Indian hostilities in
     California, 556, 701. Gold Bluffs on Trinity River, 556, 701.
     Amount of gold shipped, 556. Adjournment of Congress, and notice
     of measures acted upon, 700. Measures for the relief of Kossuth,
     700. The Postage bill, 700. Rescue of a fugitive slave in Boston,
     701. Homestead exemption in Illinois, 701. Exemption in Delaware,
     701. Free <DW64>s in Iowa, 701. Germans in Texas, 701.
     Manufactures at the South, 701. Quiet after Excitement, 847. New
     York Common school law, 847. Canal enlargement bill, 847.
     Legislative visit to New York, 847. The sergeant-at-arms and the
     gamblers, 847. Ohio resolutions on the fugitive slave law, 847.
     Virginia Union resolutions, 847. General Union feeling at the
     South, 848. In South Carolina, 848. Mr. Hayne's disunion letter,
     848. Senator Phelp's letter, 848. Amin Bey, 848. New Constitution
     of Ohio, 848. Virginia Constitutional Convention, 849. Socorro
     tragedy, 849.

     ELECTIONS.--State elections in New York and New Jersey, 122. In
     Ohio and Massachusetts, 123. General Congressional result, 123.
     Election of U.S. Senators, 555, 701. Mr. Fish in New York, 555,
     847.

  MEXICO AND SOUTH AMERICA.

     Capture of slaves at Rio, 127. General news from Mexico, 273,
     411, 557, 701, 849. Message of Herera, 457. Inauguration and
     speech of Arista as President, 557. Affairs in Nicaragua;
     discovery of gold; proceedings of Mr. Chatfield, the British
     consul, 557. Intelligence from Valparaiso, 557. Hostilities
     between Guatemala and San Salvador, 702. Gold in New Grenada,
     702. Route across the isthmus through Lake Nicaragua, 702.
     Earthquake at Carthagena, 702. Peru, 702. Banishment of Buenos
     Ayreans from Bolivia, 702. Prohibition of the landing of
     liberated slaves in Brazil, 702.

  GREAT BRITAIN.

     Establishment of Catholic sees in England; Letter of Dr.
     Ullathorne, 125. Speech of Lord Stanley on Protection, 125.
     Tenant right in Ireland, 126. The Synod of Thurles, 126. Increase
     of Crime, 126. Submarine telegraph, 126, 132. Illumination on
     Arthur's Seat, 126. Speech of Prince Albert at York, 126.
     Consuming smoke at Manchester, 127. Emigration, 127. Movements
     for independence in New South Wales, 127. The Exhibition, 132,
     274, 278, 419, 558, 704, 851. Bridge at Westminster, 133. New
     College at Glasgow, 133. Catholic excitement, 273, 558. Lord John
     Russell's Durham Letter, 273. Cardinal Wiseman's Appeal, 273. Law
     Reform, 273. Cotton in India, 274. Ornamental cemeteries in
     London, 278. Tax on telegraphs, 278. General view of the state of
     England, 411. Progress of the Catholic excitement, 413. Various
     addresses, speeches, deputations, etc., 414. Attempts to increase
     the supply of Cotton or to discover a substitute, 414. Famine in
     the Highlands, 415. Opposition of the Cunarders to the American
     steamers, 415. Increased value of silver, 415. Protest of the
     Bishops of the Episcopal Church in Ireland, 558. The surplus,
     558. Austria demands the punishment of the assailants of Haynau,
     558. Disturbances at the Cape of Good Hope, 558. Opening of
     Parliament; the Queen's Speech, 702. Ecclesiastical Titles Bill;
     Free-trade motion; unsatisfactory Budget, 703. Defeat of
     Ministers on franchise question; resignation of Ministers;
     attempt to form new cabinet, 704. Queen Adelaide's pension, 704.
     Petition for constitution for Cape of Good Hope, 704. Protestants
     of Dublin and Duke of Wellington, 704. Viceroyalty of Ireland,
     704. Return of Cabinet to office, 848. Ecclesiastical Titles Bill
     mutilated, 849. Checks to Ministers, 850. Arsenic Bill, 850.
     Kaffir revolt, 850. Revolutionary Committee, 850. Miss Talbot and
     the Convent Bill, 850. Public execution, 850. Monster address,
     850. Charges against Lord Torrington, 850. Coal-pit disaster,
     850. Adulteration of food, 850. Hungarian refugees, 850. New
     expedition in search of Sir John Franklin, 851.

  FRANCE.

     Pretended Republican plot, 127. The President's attempt to secure
     the army, 127. Quarrel between him and Changarnier, and between
     the Assembly and Gen. Hautpoul, who resigns, 128. Opening of the
     Assembly, and Message of the President, 275. Cavaignac and the
     President, 276. Letter from the Duke of Nemours, 276. General
     view of the state of France, 412. Credit passed for the army,
     415. Public baths, 415. Bill for the observance of the Sabbath,
     415. Luxury at the Elysee, 415. Progress of the quarrel between
     the President and the Assembly; dismissal of Changarnier;
     dissolution of the Ministries; President's tactics, 558, 704.
     Dotation to the President refused, and his consequent action,
     704. Bill for the return of the Bourbons lost, 851. Speech of M.
     Dufraisse, 851. The Orleanists and Legitimists, 851. The
     Archbishop of Paris and the Bishop of Chartres, 851. Censure of
     M. Michelet, 851.

  GERMANY, ETC.

     Hostilities in Schleswig-Holstein, 128. Catastrophe at Herrgott,
     129. Forest conflagration in Poland, 129. Constitutions for
     Galicia and Bukowina, 129. Detailed statement of the German
     question, 274. Warlike aspect, 275. General view of the continent
     of Europe, 412. Peace prospects; Conference at Dresden, 415.
     Return of the Elector of Hesse Cassel, 416. Internal affairs of
     Austria, 416. Progress of affairs in the Dresden Conference;
     understanding between Austria and Prussia for the depreciation of
     the minor powers, 558, 705. Dresden Conference at fault, 851.
     Policy of Austria and Prussia, 852.

  SPAIN, ITALY, AND PORTUGAL.

     Address of Mazzini, 127. Overthrow of the Constitution and of
     liberty of the press in Tuscany, 129. Brigandage in the Roman
     States, 130, 705. General view of the state of the south of
     Europe, 413. Foreign troops in Rome, 416, 705. The Austrians in
     Venice, 416. Condition of Sardinia, 416. Disruption of the
     Spanish Cabinet, 416. Conspiracy under Mazzini, 705. Archbishop
     Hughes at Rome, 705. Liberal ministry in Piedmont, 705. Austrian
     movements, 852. Proclamations against political pamphlets, 852.
     Washington's birthday at Rome, 852. Protestant chapel, 852.

  THE EAST.

     Contributions preparing for the Exhibition, 128. Affairs in
     India, 127. Mortality at Hong Kong, 129. Cotton in Bombay, 129.
     Insurrection in China, 129. The Hungarian refugees in Turkey,
     129. Conspiracy at Teheran, 130. Collisions between the Turks and
     Christians, 276. Persecutions in Aleppo, 276. Disturbances in
     Syria, 276. Canal between the Mediterranean and Red Seas, 419.
     Napier's farewell, 705. Prospective annexations, 705. Suppression
     of insurrection in China, 705. Death of Lin, 705. Difficulties in
     Egypt, 705. Troubles at Bagdad, 705. Massacres in Southern
     Africa, 705.

  LITERARY, SCIENTIFIC, AND PERSONAL.

     UNITED STATES.--Dinner to Mr. Webster at his native place, 130.
     Amin Bey, 130. M. Vattemare; Statue of Calhoun; Wm. W. Story; Wm.
     D. Gallagher, Prof. Filopanti; Daniel D. Barnard, 130. Crawford's
     Washington; bust of Allen; monument to Warren; movements of
     artists, 131. Gift-books and Annuals, 276. Lessing's Martyrdom of
     Huss, 277. Ehninger's etchings, 277. Academy of Design lectures,
     277. Hawthorne, 277. Greek Slave, 277. Jenny Lind, 277, 852.
     Third ring of Saturn, 277. Cultivation of tea, 277. Darley's
     outlines, 277. Healey's portraits of Calhoun and Webster, 277.
     Power's statue of America, 279. Mr. Webster on the Mayflower,
     416. Stephenson's statue of the Wounded Indian, 416. Panorama of
     Pilgrim's Progress, 417. Mount's Lucky Throw, 417. Powell's
     Burial of Fernando de Soto, 417. Prof. Hart's Female Prose
     Writers, 417. Mrs. Hale's Female Biography, 417. Mr. Putnam's new
     publications, 417. The Opera, 417. Paine's Water-gas, 417.
     Dembinski, 417. Public lectures by various individuals, 277, 559,
     705. Presidential library, 559. Burns's birthday, 559. Dinner to
     Mr. Hoe, 559. Books, 559. Papers of Citizen Genet, 559. Talvi,
     559. Panoramas, 705. Arrival of Tupper, 705. Celebration of
     Washington's birth-day, 706. Irving to Ichabod Crane, 706.
     Opening of Exhibition of Academy of Design, 852. Greenough's
     Pioneer, 852. Healey's Calhoun, 852. Pictures by Wright, Duggan,
     Stearns, and Richards, 852. Tupper as a lion, 853. Calhoun's Life
     and Works, 853. Works of Alexander Hamilton, 853. Taylor's
     El-Dorado in German, 853. First cotton sent to Liverpool, 853.
     Dr. Goadby's insects, 853. Acquittal of the Cuban invaders, 853.

     FOREIGN.--Miss Howard's donation for hospital for widows, 126.
     Sir John Franklin, 126, 132. Levi's Commercial Law, 131.
     Wordsworth; Mazzini; Southey; Sir Robert Peel, 131. Idiots, 132.
     Delaroche's Napoleon crossing the Alps, 132. Monument to Elliott;
     Tindal, 132. Artists at Rome, 133. Duke of Wellington's sanctum,
     133. Gutzlaff, 133. Government of the Sandwich Islands, 133.
     French exhibition of pictures, 134. Theatrical censorship, 134.
     Joan of Arc, 134. Madame de Genlis, 134. The woorari, 134.
     Suspension bridge across the Straits of Dover, 134. Barral and
     Bixio, 135. Sundry German books, 135, 422. Statues to Thaer,
     Gustavus Adolphus, Tegner, and Plettenberg, 135. Lessing's
     Martyrdom of Huss, 135. Literary Society at Jerusalem, 135.
     Polish literature, 135. Ticknor's Spanish Literature in German,
     136. Portrait of Constantine, 136. New locomotive, 136.
     Meyerbeer, 136. Statue of Bavaria, 136. Kinkel, 136.
     Miscellanies, 137, 138, 278. Literary pensions, 278, 560. The
     Princess D'Este and the literary fund, 278. French voting
     machine, 279. New aerostatic machine, 279. Rossini; Armand
     Marrast; Jehan le Bel, 279. A common meridian, 279. Snail
     telegraph, 279. Beranger, 280. Mock Message of the President of
     France, 280. Theatrical quarrels in Brussels, 280. Heinrich
     Heine, 280. Works of art for the King of Bavaria and the Emperor
     of Russia, 280. Written language in Western Africa, 418. Earl of
     Carlisle's lectures, 418. Walter Savage Landor, 418. The Napiers,
     418. Dr. Johnson and the Welsh bard, 418. Lawrence's portrait of
     Peel, 418. Copyright to foreigners in England, 418. Copying
     telegraph, 419. Monument to the Duke of Cambridge, 419. London
     charities, 419. Windsor Reward Society, 419. Ragged Schools, 419.
     Sale of the effects of O'Connell, 419. French telegraphs, 419.
     Guizot on Washington and Monk, 420. Toussaint Louverture, 420.
     St. Prix on Constitutional Law, 420. Effect of the French
     Revolution on newspapers, 420. Cemeteries in Paris, 420. Carl
     Ferd. Becker, 420. Bruno Bauer, 421. Brockhaus, 421. The Leipzig
     Book-Fair, 422. Rauch's Monument to Frederick the Great, 422.
     Tunnel under the Neva, 422. Translations into Russian, 422. Books
     prohibited in Italy, 423. Destruction of vase in the Vatican,
     423. Oersted, 423. Passion-play at Ammergau, 423. Life of
     Foscolo, 423. D'Arlincourt's L'Italie Rouge, 423. Statue to
     Olbers, 423. Scandinavian literature, 423. Lamartine, 560, 706.
     Bad spelling, 560. St. Peter's chair, 560. Layard, 560. Last
     survivor of Cook's voyages, 561. Sir Roger de Coverley's chaplain
     redivivus, 561. Fossils as manure, 561. New classical works in
     Germany, 561. Mohammedan histories, 561. Ewald's Commentary, 561.
     Miss Martineau's new work, 706. Mrs. Sherwood, 706. Knowles as a
     controversialist, 706. England as it is, 706. Austrian view of
     Hungarian affairs, 706. Newton's way of living, 706. Sundry
     Books, 706. Remuneration of literature, 706. Talmudic
     refinements, 707. Knight and Chambers on paper-tax, 707. MSS. of
     Richelieu, 707. George the Fourth, and the library in the
     Museum, 707. Appleyard on the Kaffir language, 707. Signals in
     fog, 708. Velocity of light, 707. Hail in India, 708. Essence of
     milk, 708. _Deutches Museum_, 853. _Causeries du Lundi_, 853.
     Rare old editions, 853. Unique edition of La Fontaine, 853.
     Victor Hugo, 853. New work of Origen, 853. Germania, 1850, 853.
     Yeast: a Problem, 854. Landor to Duncan, 854. Dahomey and the
     Dahomans, 854. Dynamical Theory of the Earth, 854. Memoirs of a
     Literary Veteran, 854. Hartley Coleridge, 854.

  OBITUARIES.

     Richard M. Johnson, 125. Watkins; Lenau; Becker; Rottman;
     Thomaschek, 133. Garnier, 134. Henry Fitzmaurice Hallam, 279.
     Gustav Schwab; Count Brandenburgh; M. Alexandre; M. Sauve; Gen.
     Bonnemain; Sir L. St. G. Skeffington; Mr. Raphall; M. Motteley;
     Lord Nugent; Karl Aug. Espe; Martin D'Auche, 424. D.S. Kaufman,
     556. Mr. Ritchie, 560. Audubon, 561. Bem, 563. Viscount Alford;
     Duke of Newcastle; Bastiat; Maxwell the novelist; Prof.
     Schumacher, 564. Commissioner Lin, 705. Marquis of Northampton;
     John Pye Smith; Charles Coquerel; Spontini, 708. Mrs. Shelley;
     Joanna Baillie, 709. Isaac Hill; Mordecai M. Noah, 854. General
     Brooke; Commodore Wadsworth; Samuel F. Jarvis; John S. Skinner,
     855.

  Morning with Moritz Retzsch                                      509
  My Novel; or, Varieties in English Life.
    By SIR EDWARD BULWER LYTTON.           85, 251, 382, 524, 682, 825
  Mysteries of a Tea-Kettle                                        246
  New Phase of Bee-Life                                            488
  Napoleon and the Pope                                            791
  Night of Terror in a Polish Inn                                   41
  Night with an Earthquake                                         810
  Not all Alone                                                    554
  Notes on the Nile                                                491
  Novelty Iron Works; with Description of Marine Steam Engines,
    and their construction. By JACOB ABBOTT                        721
  Passion for collecting Books                                     397
  Personal Appearance and Habits of Robert Southey                 145
  Phantoms and Realities                                 457, 601, 753
  Pilchard Fishery on the Coast of Cornwall                        630
  Plate Glass                                                      668
  Plea for British Reptiles                                        813
  Prison Anecdote                                                  628
  Procrastination                                                  155
  Public Opinion and the Press                                     192
  Punch on Birds, Balloons, and Boluses                            396
  Rattlin the Reefer's Dream                                        31
  Rats and Rat-Killers                                             202
  Recollections of Chantrey                                        322
  Recollections of Sir Robert Peel                                 328
  Reminiscence of the French Revolution                            480
  Robber Outwitted                                                 544
  Robber's Revenge                                                 195
  Sailing in the Air                                          168, 323
  Saturday in a London-Market                                      656
  Sketches from Life                                               372
  Sketch of a Miser                                                620
  Sketch of my Childhood. By DE QUINCEY                       156, 302
  Sloped for Texas                                                 187
  Spring. By JAMES THOMSON                                         433
  Story of Fine-Ear                                                482
  Story of Giovanni Belzoni                                        947
  Story of Silver-Voice and her Sister Zoe                         762
  Street Music in London                                            67
  Tale of Shipwreck                                                335
  Talleyrand                                                       215
  The Broken Heart; or, the Well of Pen-Morfa                      205
  The Champion.--An Incident in Spanish History                    781
  The Deserted Village. By GOLDSMITH                                 1
  The Dumb Child                                                   194
  Factory Boy                                                      660
  The Fairy Queen                                                  517
  The Farm Laborer.--The Father                                    674
  The Farm Laborer.--The Son                                       784
  The Fugitive King at Boscobel                                     10
  The Ghost that appeared to Mrs. Wharton                           72
  The Gipsy in the Thorn-Bush                                      338
  The Golden Rule                                                  120
  The Kaffir Trader                                                341
  The Marriage Settlement                                          330
  The Queen's Tobacco-Pipe                                         513
  The Stolen Fruit.--A Story of Napoleon's Childhood               822
  The Talisman.--A Fairy Tale                                      348
  The Traveler. By GOLDSMITH                                       289
  The Unlawful Gift                                                 55
  The Unnamed Shell                                                747
  The Watcher                                                      665
  The Wife's Stratagem                                             778
  The Woodstream                                                   346
  Thomas Harlowe                                                   599
  Uncle John; or, The Rough Road to Riches                         840
  Victims of Science                                               698
  Visit to a Colliery                                              340
  Visit to a Copper Mine                                           652
  Visit to an English Dairy                                        165
  Volcano Girl                                                     188
  Voyage in Search of Sir John Franklin                            588
  Waiting for the Post                                             238
  Washington Irving                                                577
  Waste of War                                                     810
  What becomes of all the pins?                                    597
  Wilberforce and Chalmers                                         824
  William Cullen Bryant                                            581
  William Penn's Conversion to Quakerism                           613
  Winter Vision                                                    359
  Wordsworth and Carlyle                                           201
  Young Man's Counselor                                            213




LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.


                                                                  PAGE
  1. Portrait of Goldsmith                                           1
  2. The hawthorn bush                                               1
  3. To spurn imploring famine from the gate                         2
  4. Beside the bed where parting life was laid                      3
  5. The village master taught his little school                     4
  6. The village ale-house                                           5
  7. The coy maid half willing to be press'd                         5
  8. As some fair female unadorned and plain                         6
  9. Here, while the courtier glitters in brocade                    7
  10. The poor, houseless, shivering female lies                     7
  11. Her fond husband strove to lend relief                         8
  12. As rocks resist the billows and the sky                        9
  13. Sketch of John Randolph of Roanoke                            80
  14. Visiting and Ball Costumes for December                      143
  15. Evening Costume                                              144
  16. Coiffure for Ball                                            144
  17. Portrait of Southey                                          145
  18. Vale of Watenlath                                            148
  19. Southey's Tomb                                               152
  20. Portrait of Madame Campan                                    153
  21. Portrait of Bona Lombardi Brunoro                            155
  22. Portrait of De Quincey                                       156
  23. Preparatory School for Young Ladies                          285
  24. Costumes for Winter                                          287
  25. Head-Dress and Corsage                                       288
  26. Bonnet                                                       288
  27. Or where Campania's plain forsaken lies                      289
  28. As some lone miser visiting his store                        290
  29. The sports of children satisfy the child                     291
  30. The Swiss their stormy mansions tread                        291
  31. Breasts the air, and carols as he goes                       292
  32. Where snow-tracks mark the way                               292
  33. And dance, forgetful of the noontide hour                    293
  34. Embosom'd in the deep where Holland lies                     294
  35. Brighter streams than famed Hydaspes                         294
  36. Talent sinks, and merit weeps unknown                        295
  37. From their homes, a melancholy train                         296
  38. Riding the Elephant                                          297
  39. Poking Fun at the Bear                                       297
  40. The Pelican at Feed                                          297
  41. Fellows of the Zoological Society                            298
  42. A false Apple-ation                                          429
  43. A Tete-a-Tete                                                429
  44. Expected out soon                                            429
  45. Going down to a Watering-place                               429
  46. Attraction                                                   429
  47. Nineteenth Cent'ry                                           429
  48. Putting the Cart before the Horse                            430
  49. A Narrow Escape                                              430
  50. Division of Labor                                            430
  51. Animal Economy                                               430
  52. A Holiday at the Public Offices                              430
  53. Costumes for Later Winter                                    431
  54. Ball Costume                                                 432
  55. Bonnets                                                      432
  56. Head-Dress                                                   432
  57. Come gentle Spring                                           433
  58. Lend their shoulder, and begin their toil                    434
  59. Wafts all the pomp of life into your ports                   434
  60. The deer rustle through the brake                            435
  61. Blazing straw before his orchard burns                       435
  62. The shower is scarce to patter heard                         436
  63. While yet man lived in innocence                             437
  64. The song went round, and dance                               437
  65. Throw nice judging the delusive fly                          439
  66. You gayly drag your unresisting prize                        439
  67. Together let us tread the morning dews                       440
  68. Gather fresh flowers to grace thy hair                       440
  69. A gentle pair, by fortune sunk                               442
  70. They weeping eye their infant train                          442
  71. Hazel pendent o'er the plaintive stream                      443
  72. On the aerial summit takes the gale                          444
  73. Through Hagley Park, thy British Tempe                       445
  74. On the bank thrown amid drooping lilies                      446
  75. In soft anguish he consumes the day                          446
  76. Woos the bird of eve to mingle woes                          446
  77. Still interrupted by distracted dreams                       446
  78. The garden to the view its vistas open                       447
  79. By degrees the human blossom blows                           448
  80. Delightful task! to rear the tender thought                  448
  81. The Parcels Conveyance Company                               569
  82. Oscillation illustrated                                      569
  83. Legendary G                                                  569
  84. Historical H                                                 569
  85. Selfish Ends                                                 570
  86. Pneumatical K                                                570
  87. A Stilted Subject                                            570
  88. Pisces                                                       570
  89. How doth the little busy Bee                                 570
  90. Cock Robin                                                   570
  91. Assisting a pupil up the Gamut                               571
  92. Yawning                                                      571
  93. A startling Fact                                             574
  94. Costumes for Early Spring                                    575
  95. Morning Costume                                              576
  96. Velvet Bonnet                                                576
  97. Ribbon Bonnet                                                576
  98. White Silk Bonnet                                            576
  99. Portrait of Irving                                           577
  100. Irving's Residence                                          580
  101. Portrait of Bryant                                          581
  102. Bryant's Residence                                          583
  103. The Great Exhibition Building                               585
  104. Installing the Crow's Nest                                  588
  105. Surrounded by Icebergs                                      591
  106. The Prince Albert in Danger                                 593
  107. The Arctic Discovery Ships at Midnight                      594
  108. Please, Sir, shall I hold your Horse                        713
  109. Bachelor's Bedroom                                          714
  110. Married Couple's Bedroom                                    714
  111. Elderly Servant                                             715
  112. Youthful Attendant                                          715
  113. A Juvenile Party                                            717
  114. Reward of Merit                                             718
  115. Costumes for Spring                                         719
  116. Coiffure                                                    720
  117. Satin Bonnet                                                720
  118. Miss's Straw Bonnet                                         720
  119. View of the Novelty Works                                   721
  120. Entrance to the Novelty Works                               722
  121. Plan of the Novelty Works                                   723
  122. View of a Marine Steam-Engine                               725
  123. Cutting Engine                                              726
  124. Bending and Punching Engines                                726
  125. Boring Engine                                               727
  126. Riveting the Boilers                                        727
  127. Filling the Ladles                                          728
  128. Casting a Cylinder                                          728
  129. The Explosion                                               729
  130. Digging out the Cylinder                                    729
  131. The Forges                                                  730
  132. Heating a Shaft                                             731
  133. Forging a Shaft                                             731
  134. The Lathes                                                  732
  135. Finishing                                                   732
  136. Departure of the Steamer Pacific                            733
  137. Encouragement to Book-Lenders                               859
  138. Supper at a Juvenile Party                                  860
  139. A Juvenile after the Party                                  861
  140. A Little Bit of Humbug                                      862
  141. Promenade Costumes for May                                  863
  142. Evening Costume                                             864
  143. Morning Promenade Costume                                   864
  144. Head-Dresses                                                864




  HARPER'S

  NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.

  NO. VII.--DECEMBER, 1850.--VOL. II.




THE DESERTED VILLAGE.

BY OLIVER GOLDSMITH.


[Illustration: Portrait of Goldsmith]

    Sweet Auburn! loveliest village of the plain,
    Where health and plenty cheer'd the laboring swain,
    Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid,
    And parting summer's lingering blooms delay'd--
    Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease,
    Seats of my youth, when every sport could please--
    How often have I loiter'd o'er thy green,
    Where humble happiness endear'd each scene;
    How often have I paus'd on every charm--
    The sheltered cot, the cultivated farm,
    The never failing brook, the busy mill,
    The decent church that topp'd the neighboring hill,
    The hawthorn bush with seats beneath the shade
    For talking age and whispering lovers made;
    How often have I bless'd the coming day
    When toil remitting lent its turn to play,
    And all the village train from labor free,
    Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree--
    While many a pastime circled in the shade,
    The young contending as the old survey'd,
    And many a gambol frolick'd o'er the ground,
    And sleights of art and feats of strength went round:
    And still, as each repeated pleasure tir'd,
    Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspir'd--
    The dancing pair that simply sought renown
    By holding out to tire each other down,
    The swain mistrustless of his smutted face
    While secret laughter titter'd round the place,
    The bashful virgin's sidelong looks of love,
    The matron's glance that would those looks reprove.
    These were thy charms, sweet village! sports like these,
    With sweet succession, taught even toil to please;
    These round thy bowers their cheerful influence shed;
    These were thy charms--but all these charms are fled.

[Illustration: The hawthorn bush]

      Sweet smiling village, loveliest of the lawn,
    Thy sports are fled, and all thy charms withdrawn;
    Amid thy bowers the tyrant's hand is seen,
    And desolation saddens all thy green:
    One only master grasps the whole domain,
    And half a tillage stints thy smiling plain.
    No more thy glassy brook reflects the day,
    But chok'd with sedges works its weedy way;
    Along thy glades, a solitary guest,
    The hollow-sounding bittern guards its nest;
    Amid thy desert-walks the lapwing flies,
    And tires their echoes with unvaried cries;
    Sunk are thy bowers in shapeless ruin all,
    And the long grass o'ertops the mouldering wall;
    And, trembling, shrinking from the spoiler's hand,
    Far, far away thy children leave the land.
      Ill fares the land, to hastening ills a prey,
    Where wealth accumulates and men decay;
    Princes and lords may flourish, or may fade--
    A breath can make them, as a breath has made;
    But a bold peasantry, their country's pride,
    When once destroy'd, can never be supplied.
      A time there was, ere England's griefs began,
    When every rood of ground maintain'd its man:
    For him light labor spread her wholesome store,
    Just gave what life requir'd, but gave no more;
    His best companions, innocence and health,
    And his best riches, ignorance of wealth.
      But times are altered; trade's unfeeling train
    Usurp the land, and dispossess the swain:
    Along the lawn, where scatter'd hamlets rose,
    Unwieldy wealth and cumbrous pomp repose:
    And every want to opulence allied,
    And every pang that folly pays to pride.
    These gentle hours that plenty bade to bloom,
    Those calm desires that ask'd but little room,
    Those healthful sports that grac'd the peaceful scene,
    Liv'd in each look and brighten'd all the green--
    These, far departing, seek a kinder shore,
    And rural mirth and manners are no more.
      Sweet AUBURN! parent of the blissful hour,
    Thy glades forlorn confess the tyrant's power.
    Here, as I take my solitary rounds
    Amid thy tangling walks and ruin'd grounds,
    And, many a year elaps'd, return to view
    Where once the cottage stood, the hawthorn grew--
    Remembrance wakes with all her busy train,
    Swells at my breast, and turns the past to pain.
      In all my wanderings round this world of care,
    In all my griefs--and God has given my share--
    I still had hopes, my latest hours to crown,
    Amid these humble bowers to lay me down;
    To husband out life's taper at the close,
    And keep the flame from wasting by repose.
    I still had hopes, for pride attends us still,
    Amid the swains to show my book-learn'd skill--
    Around my fire an evening group to draw,
    And tell of all I felt, and all I saw;
    And as an hare, whom hounds and horns pursue,
    Pants to the place from whence at first she flew,
    I still had hopes, my long vexations pass'd,
    Here to return--and die at home at last.
      O bless'd retirement, friend to life's decline,
    Retreats from care, that never must be mine!
    How happy he who crowns, in shades like these,
    A youth of labor with an age of ease;
    Who quits a world where strong temptations try--
    And, since 'tis hard to combat, learns to fly.
    For him no wretches, born to work and weep,
    Explore the mine, or tempt the dangerous deep,
    No surly porter stands, in guilty state,
    To spurn imploring famine from the gate;
    But on he moves, to meet his latter end,
    Angels around befriending virtue's friend--
    Bends to the grave with unperceiv'd decay,
    While resignation gently <DW72>s the way--
    And, all his prospects brightening to the last,
    His heaven commences ere the world be pass'd.

[Illustration: To spurn imploring famine from the gate]

      Sweet was the sound, when oft at evening's close
    Up yonder hill the village murmur rose.
    There as I pass'd, with careless steps and slow,
    The mingling notes came soften'd from below:
    The swain responsive as the milkmaid sung,
    The sober herd that low'd to meet their young,
    The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool,
    The playful children just let loose from school,
    The watch-dog's voice that bay'd the whispering wind,
    And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind--
    These all in sweet confusion sought the shade
    And fill'd each pause the nightingale had made.
    But now the sounds of population fail,
    No cheerful murmurs fluctuate in the gale,
    No busy steps the grass-grown footway tread,
    For all the bloomy flush of life is fled--
    All but yon widow'd, solitary thing,
    That feebly bends beside the plashy spring,
    She, wretched matron--forced in age, for bread,
    To strip the brook with mantling cresses spread,
    To pick her wintry <DW19> from the thorn,
    To seek her nightly shed, and weep till morn--
    She only left of all the harmless train,
    The sad historian of the pensive plain!
      Near yonder copse, where once the garden smil'd,
    And still where many a garden-flower grows wild--
    There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose,
    The village preacher's modest mansion rose.
    A man he was to all the country dear;
    And passing rich with forty pounds a year.
    Remote from towns he ran his godly race,
    Nor e'er had chang'd, nor wish'd to change, his place;
    Unpractic'd he to fawn, or seek for power
    By doctrines fashion'd to the varying hour.
    Far other aims his heart had learn'd to prize--
    More skill'd to raise the wretched than to rise.
    His house was known to all the vagrant train,
    He chid their wanderings, but reliev'd their pain:
    The long remember'd beggar was his guest,
    Whose beard descending swept his aged breast;
    The ruin'd spendthrift, now no longer proud,
    Claim'd kindred there, and had his claims allow'd.
    The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay,
    Sat by his fire, and talk'd the night away--
    Wept o'er his wounds, or, tales of sorrow done,
    Shoulder'd his crutch and show'd how fields were won.
    Pleas'd with his guests, the good man learn'd to glow,
    And quite forgot their vices in their woe;
    Careless their merits or their faults to scan,
    His pity gave ere charity began.
      Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride,
    And even his failings lean'd to virtue's side--
    But in his duty, prompt at every call,
    He watch'd and wept, he pray'd and felt for all:
    And, as a bird each fond endearment tries
    To tempt its new-fledg'd offspring to the skies,
    He tried each art, reprov'd each dull delay,
    Allur'd to brighter worlds, and led the way.
      Beside the bed where parting life was laid,
    And sorrow, guilt, and pain by turns dismay'd,
    The reverend champion stood: at his control
    Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul;
    Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise,
    And his last faltering accents whisper'd praise.

[Illustration: Beside the bed where parting life was laid]

      At church with meek and unaffected grace,
    His looks adorn'd the venerable place;
    Truth from his lips prevail'd with double sway,
    And fools who came to scoff remain'd to pray.
    The service pass'd, around the pious man,
    With steady zeal, each honest rustic ran;
    Even children follow'd, with endearing wile,
    And pluck'd his gown, to share the good man's smile:
    His ready smile a parent's warmth express'd,
    Their welfare pleas'd him, and their cares distress'd.
    To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given,
    But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven:
    As some tall cliff, that lifts its awful form,
    Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm
    Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread
    Eternal sunshine settles on its head.
      Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way,
    With blossom'd furze unprofitably gay--
    There, in his noisy mansion, skill'd to rule,
    The village master taught his little school.
    A man severe he was, and stern to view;
    I knew him well, and every truant knew:
    Well had the boding tremblers learn'd to trace
    The day's disasters in his morning face;
    Full well they laugh'd with counterfeited glee
    At all his jokes, for many a joke had he;
    Full well the busy whisper, circling round,
    Convey'd the dismal tidings when he frown'd--
    Yet he was kind, or if severe in aught,
    The love he bore to learning was in fault.
    The village all declar'd how much he knew;
    'Twas certain he could write, and cipher too,
    Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage--
    And even the story ran that he could gauge.
    In arguing too, the parson own'd his skill,
    For even though vanquish'd he could argue still;
    While words of learned length and thundering sound
    Amaz'd the gazing rustics rang'd around--
    And still they gaz'd, and still the wonder grew
    That one small head could carry all he knew.

[Illustration: The village master taught his little school]

      But pass'd is all his fame: the very spot,
    Where many a time he triumph'd, is forgot.
    Near yonder thorn, that lifts its head on high,
    Where once the sign-post caught the passing eye,
    Low lies that house where nut-brown draughts inspir'd.
    Where gray-beard mirth and smiling toil retir'd,
    Where village statesmen talk'd with looks profound.
    And news much older than their ale went round.
    Imagination fondly stoops to trace
    The parlor splendors of that festive place:
    The whitewash'd wall, the nicely sanded floor,
    The varnish'd clock that click'd behind the door--
    The chest contriv'd a double debt to pay,
    A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day--
    The pictures plac'd for ornament and use,
    The twelve good rules, the royal game of goose--
    The hearth, except when winter chill'd the day,
    With aspen bows, and flowers, and fennel gay--
    While broken tea-cups, wisely kept for show,
    Rang'd o'er the chimney, glistened in a row.

[Illustration: The village ale-house]

      Vain, transitory splendors! could not all
    Reprieve the tottering mansion from its fall?
    Obscure it sinks; nor shall it more impart
    An hour's importance to the poor man's heart:
    Thither no more the peasant shall repair
    To sweet oblivion of his daily care;
    No more the farmer's news, the barber's tale,
    No more the woodman's ballad shall prevail;
    No more the smith his dusky brow shall clear,
    Relax his ponderous strength, and lean to hear;
    The host himself no longer shall be found
    Careful to see the mantling bliss go round;
    Nor the coy maid, half willing to be press'd,
    Shall kiss the cup to pass it to the rest.

[Illustration: The coy maid half willing to be press'd]

      Yes! let the rich deride, the proud disdain,
    These simple blessings of the lowly train--
    To me more dear, congenial to my heart,
    One native charm, than all the gloss of art.
    Spontaneous joys, where nature has its play,
    The soul adopts, and owns their first-born sway--
    Lightly they frolic o'er the vacant mind,
    Unenvied, unmolested, unconfin'd;
    But the long pomp, the midnight masquerade,
    With all the freaks of wanton wealth array'd,
    In these, ere triflers half their wish obtain,
    The toiling pleasure sickens into pain--
    And, even while fashion's brightest arts decoy,
    The heart distrusting asks, if this be joy.
      Ye friends to truth, ye statesmen who survey
    The rich man's joys increase, the poor's decay--
    'Tis yours to judge how wide the limits stand
    Between a splendid and an happy land
    Proud swells the tide with loads of freighted ore,
    And shouting folly hails them from her shore;
    Hoards even beyond the miser's wish abound,
    And rich men flock from all the world around;
    Yet count our gains: this wealth is but a name
    That leaves our useful product still the same.
    Not so the loss. The man of wealth and pride
    Takes up a space that many poor supplied--
    Space for his lake, his park's extended bounds,
    Space for his horses, equipage, and hounds;
    The robe that wraps his limbs in silken sloth
    Has robbed the neighboring fields of half their growth;
    His seat where solitary sports are seen,
    Indignant spurns the cottage from the green;
    Around the world each needful product flies,
    For all the luxuries the world supplies;
    While thus the land adorn'd for pleasure--all
    In barren splendor feebly waits the fall.
      As some fair female unadorn'd and plain,
    Secure to please while youth confirms her reign
    Slights every borrow'd charm that dress supplies,
    Nor shares with art the triumph of her eyes--
    But when those charms are pass'd, for charms are frail,
    When time advances, and when lovers fail--
    She then shines forth, solicitous to bless,
    In all the glaring impotence of dress.
    Thus fares the land, by luxury betray'd:
    In nature's simplest charms at first array'd--
    But verging to decline, its splendors rise,
    Its vistas strike, its palaces surprise;
    While, scourg'd by famine, from the smiling land
    The mournful peasant leads his humble band--
    And while he sinks, without one arm to save,
    The country blooms--a garden and a grave.

[Illustration: As some fair female unadorned and plain]

      Where then, ah! where shall poverty reside,
    To 'scape the pressure of contiguous pride?
    If to some common's fenceless limits stray'd
    He drives his flock to pick the scanty blade,
    Those fenceless fields the sons of wealth divide,
    And even the bare-worn common is denied.

[Illustration: Here, while the courtier glitters in brocade]

      If to the city sped--what waits him there?
    To see profusion that he must not share;
    To see ten thousand baneful arts combin'd
    To pamper luxury, and thin mankind;
    To see those joys the sons of pleasure know,
    Extorted from his fellow-creatures' woe:
    Here, while the courtier glitters in brocade,
    There the pale artist plies the sickly trade;
    Here, while the proud their long-drawn pomps display,
    There the black gibbet glooms beside the way.
    The dome where pleasure holds her midnight reign,
    Here, richly deck'd, admits the gorgeous train--
    Tumultuous grandeur crowds the blazing square,
    The rattling chariots clash, the torches glare.
    Sure scenes like these no troubles e'er annoy:
    Sure these denote one universal joy!
    Are these thy serious thoughts?--ah! turn thine eyes
    Where the poor houseless shivering female lies.
    She once, perhaps, in village plenty bless'd,
    Has wept at tales of innocence distress'd--
    Her modest looks the cottage might adorn,
    Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the thorn;
    Now lost to all--her friends, her virtue fled,
    Near her betrayer's door she lays her head--
    And, pinch'd with cold, and shrinking from the shower,
    With heavy heart deplores that luckless hour
    When idly first, ambitious of the town,
    She left her wheel, and robes of country brown.

[Illustration: The poor, houseless, shivering female lies]

      Do thine, sweet AUBURN! thine, the loveliest train,
    Do thy fair tribes participate her pain?
    Even now, perhaps, by cold and hunger led,
    At proud men's doors they ask a little bread.
      Ah, no! To distant climes, a dreary scene,
    Where half the convex world intrudes between,
    Through torrid tracts with fainting steps they go,
    Where wild Altama murmurs to their woe.
    Far different there from all that charm'd before,
    The various terrors of that horrid shore;
    Those blazing suns that dart a downward ray,
    And fiercely shed intolerable day--
    Those matted woods where birds forget to sing
    But silent bats in drowsy clusters cling--
    Those poisonous fields with rank luxuriance crown'd
    Where the dark scorpion gathers death around--
    Where at each step the stranger fears to wake
    The rattling terrors of the vengeful snake--
    Where crouching tigers wait their hapless prey,
    And savage men more murderous still than they--
    While oft in whirls the mad tornado flies,
    Mingling the ravag'd landscape with the skies.
    Far different these from every former scene;
    The cooling brook, the grassy-vested green,
    The breezy covert of the warbling grove,
    That only shelter'd thefts of harmless love.
      Good Heaven! what sorrows gloom'd that parting day,
    That call'd them from their native walks away,
    When the poor exiles, every pleasure pass'd,
    Hung round their bowers, and fondly look'd their last,
    And took a long farewell, and wish'd in vain
    For seats like these beyond the western main--
    And shuddering still to face the distant deep,
    Return'd and wept, and still return'd to weep.
    The good old sire, the first, prepar'd to go
    To new-found worlds, and wept for others' woe--
    But for himself, in conscious virtue brave,
    He only wish'd for worlds beyond the grave;
    His lovely daughter, lovelier in her tears,
    The fond companion of his helpless years,
    Silent went next, neglectful of her charms,
    And left a lover's for a father's arms;
    With louder plaints the mother spoke her woes,
    And bless'd the cot where every pleasure rose,
    And kiss'd her thoughtless babes with many a tear,
    And clasp'd them close, in sorrow doubly dear--
    While her fond husband strove to lend relief
    In all the silent manliness of grief.

[Illustration: Her fond husband strove to lend relief]

      O luxury! thou curs'd by Heaven's decree,
    How ill exchang'd are things like these for thee;
    How do thy potions, with insidious joy,
    Diffuse their pleasures only to destroy!
    Kingdoms by thee, to sickly greatness grown,
    Boast of a florid vigor not their own;
    At every draught more large and large they grow,
    A bloated mass of rank, unwieldy woe--
    Till sapp'd their strength, and every part unsound,
    Down, down they sink, and spread a ruin round.
      Even now the devastation is begun,
    And half the business of destruction done;
    Even now, methinks, as pondering here I stand,
    I see the rural virtues leave the land;
    Down, where yon anchoring vessel spreads the sail,
    That idly waiting flaps with every gale,
    Downward they move--a melancholy band--
    Pass from the shore, and darken all the strand,
    Contented Toil and hospitable Care,
    And kind connubial Tenderness, are there--
    And Piety with wishes plac'd above,
    And steady Loyalty, and faithful Love.
    And thou, sweet Poetry! thou loveliest maid,
    Still first to fly where sensual joys invade,
    Unfit in these degenerate times of shame
    To catch the heart, or strike for honest fame--
    Dear, charming nymph, neglected and decried,
    My shame in crowds, my solitary pride--
    Thou source of all my bliss, and all my woe,
    That found'st me poor at first, and keep'st me so--
    Thou guide by which the nobler arts excel,
    Thou nurse of every virtue--fare thee well.
    Farewell! and oh! where'er thy voice be tried,
    On Tornea's cliffs or Pambamarca's side,
    Whether where equinoctial fervors glow,
    Or winter wraps the polar world in snow,
    Still let thy voice, prevailing over time,
    Redress the rigors of the inclement clime.
    Aid slighted Truth: with thy persuasive strain
    Teach erring man to spurn the rage of gain;
    Teach him, that states of native strength possess'd,
    Though very poor, may still be very bless'd;
    That trade's proud empire hastes to swift decay,
    As ocean sweeps the labor'd mole away--
    While self-dependent power can time defy,
    As rocks resist the billows and the sky.

[Illustration: As rocks resist the billows and the sky]




THE FUGITIVE KING AT BOSCOBEL; ADVENTURES OF THE MERRY MONARCH.

BY AGNES STRICKLAND.


Boscobel House, which has obtained so much historical celebrity, in
connection with the romantic adventures of Charles II., after his defeat
at Worcester, is situated in Shropshire, on the borders of
Staffordshire, lying between Tong Castle and Brewood. It was built in
the reign of James I., by John Giffard, Esq., a Roman Catholic
gentleman, who, when it was completed, having invited his neighbors to a
house-warming feast, requested his friend, Sir Basil Brook, to give his
new-built mansion a name. Sir Basil called it "Boscobel," from the
Italian word, _boscobella_, because it was seated in the midst of many
fair woods. The founder of the house had caused various places of
concealment to be constructed, for the purpose of affording shelter to
proscribed persons of his own religion, whom the severity of the penal
laws often compelled to play at hide and seek, in queer corners.

The first fugitive of note who sought refuge, in his distress, at
Boscobel House, was the unfortunate Earl of Derby, whose defeat at
Bolton-le-Moors, near Wigan, was the precursor to that of the young king
at Worcester, eight days later. The Earl of Derby, having escaped from
his lost battle, with Colonel Roscarrock and two servants, got into the
confines of Shropshire and Staffordshire, where he had the good luck to
encounter an old friend, Mr. Richard Snead, an honest gentleman of that
country, to whom he told the news of his own overthrow, and inquired if
he knew of any private house, near at hand, where he might repose
himself and his company in safety, till he could find an opportunity of
joining the king. Mr. Snead, like a good Samaritan, conducted his noble
friend to Boscobel House, where they arrived on Friday, August 29th, but
found no one at home, except William Penderel, the housekeeper, and his
wife, who, on their own responsibility, ventured to receive the noble
cavalier, his companion, and servants, and kindly entertained them till
the Sunday; and then, according to the earl's desire, conveyed them
safely to Gataker Park, nine miles on their way to Worcester, where he
arrived in time to take his part in that engagement which was
emphatically styled by Stapylton, the roundhead, "the setting of the
young king's glory."

The Earl of Derby and Colonel Roscarrock were in close attendance on
Charles's person during the retreat from Worcester. They all made a
stand on Kinner Heath, on the road to Kidderminster, as the night set
in, to hold a consultation, when his majesty, being very tired, inquired
of them and Lord Wilmot, "If they thought there was any place where he
might venture to take a few hours' rest?" The Earl of Derby told him,
"how, in his flight from Wigan to Worcester, he had met with that _rara
avis_, a perfectly honest man, and a great convenience of concealment at
Boscobel House; which, nevertheless, he thought it his duty to inform
his majesty, was the abode of a recusant." At another time, some of the
party might have objected to the young sovereign going to such quarters,
but the danger being so imminent, now it was suggested, "that these
people being accustomed to persecutions and searches, were most likely
to possess the most ingenious contrivances to conceal him." At all
events, the king made up his mind to proceed thither. When this decision
was made known to Lord Talbot, he called for a young kinsman of the
recusant master of Boscobel, Mr. Charles Giffard, who was fortunately
among the sixty cavaliers who still shared the fortunes of their
fugitive king. Lord Talbot inquired of this gentleman, if he could
conduct his majesty to Boscobel. Charles Giffard cheerfully undertook to
do so, having with him a servant of the name of Yates, who understood
the country perfectly.

At a house about a mile beyond Stourbridge, the king drank a little
water, and ate a crust of bread, the house affording no better
provision. After this scanty refection, his majesty rode on, discoursing
apart with Colonel Roscarrock about Boscobel House, and the security
which he and the Earl of Derby had enjoyed at that place. Another
privy-council was held, in the course of the journey, between the king
and his most trusty friends, at which it was agreed, that the secret of
his destination was too important to be confided to more than a select
few of his followers; and Charles Giffard was asked if it were not
possible to conduct him, in the first instance, to some other house in
the neighborhood, the better to mask his design of concealing himself at
Boscobel. The young cavalier replied, "Yes, there was another seat of
the Giffards, about half a mile from Boscobel--Whiteladies; so called
from its having been formerly a monastery of Cistercian nuns, whose
habit was white." On which the king, and about forty of the party,
separating themselves from the others, proceeded thither, under his
faithful guidance. They arrived at break of day; and Giffard, alighting
from his horse, told the king "that he trusted they were now out of
immediate danger of pursuit." George Penderel, who had the charge of the
house, opened the doors, and admitted the king and his noble attendants;
after which, the king's horse was brought into the hall, and they all
entered into an earnest consultation how to escape the fury of their
foes; but their greatest solicitude was for the preservation of the
king, who was, for his part, both tired and hungry with his forced
march. Col. Roscarrock immediately dispatched a boy, of the name of
Bartholomew Martin, to Boscobel, for William Penderel: Mr. Charles
Giffard sent for another of these trusty brethren, Richard Penderel, who
lived at Hobbal Grange, hard by. Both speedily obeyed the summons, and
were brought into the parlor, where they found their old acquaintance,
the Earl of Derby, who introduced them into the inner parlor, which
formed then the presence chamber of their throneless sovereign: the
earl, reversing the order of courtly etiquette on this occasion, instead
of presenting these two noble men, of low degree, to their royal master,
he presented him to them; addressing himself in particular to William
Penderel, and pointing at his majesty, he said, "This is the king; thou
must have a care of him, and preserve him, as thou didst me."

William, in the sincerity of an honest heart, promised that he would do
so, while Charles Giffard was at the same time exhorting Richard
Penderel to have an especial care of his charge.

The loyal associates next endeavored to effect a transformation in the
personal appearance of their royal master, by subjecting him to a
process very similar to that technically styled by gipsies, "cutting a
horse out of his feathers." In the first place, Richard Penderel trimmed
off his majesty's flowing black ringlets in a very blunt and irreverent
fashion, using his woodman's bill, which he happened to have in his
girdle, instead of scissors, none being at hand, and time being too
precious to stand on ceremony. His majesty was then advised to rub his
hands on the back of the chimney, and with them to besmear his face, to
darken his peculiar Italian-like complexion with a more swarthy tint.
This done, he divested himself of his blue ribbon and jeweled badge of
the Garter, and other princely decorations, his laced ruff and buff
coat, and put on a _noggen_ coarse shirt belonging to Edward Martin, a
domestic living in the house, and Richard Penderel's green suit and
leathern doublet, but had not time to be so exactly disguised as he was
afterward, for both William and Richard Penderel warned the company to
use dispatch, because there was a troop of rebels, commanded by Col.
Ashenhurst, quartered at Cotsal, but three miles distant, some of which
troop arrived within half an hour after the noble company was dispersed.

Richard Penderel conducted the king out through a back door, unknown to
any of his followers, except a trusted few of the lords, who followed
him into the back premises, and as far as an adjacent wood, belonging to
the domain of Boscobel, called Spring Coppice, about half a mile from
Whiteladies, where they took a sorrowful farewell of him, leaving him
under the watchful care of three of the trusty Penderel
brethren--William, Humphrey, and George. The Earl of Derby and the other
gentlemen then returned to their comrades at Whiteladies, where,
mounting in hot haste, with the intrepid Charles Giffard for their
conductor, they scoured off on the north road; but a little beyond
Newport they were surrounded by the rebels, and after some resistance,
were made prisoners. Charles Giffard contrived to effect his escape from
the inn at Banbury, where they halted, but the loyal Earl of Derby, who
had sacrificed his own personal safety by resigning to his sovereign
the little city of refuge at Boscobel, instead of occupying it himself,
was subjected to the mockery of a pretended trial by the rebels, and
beheaded, although he had only surrendered on a solemn promise of
receiving quarter--promises which were never regarded by Cromwell and
his associates. The cool-blooded malignity with which, in his dispatch,
announcing his triumph at Worcester, Cromwell points out the noble
captives, whom the fortunes of war had placed in his magnanimous hands,
to his merciless tools as "_objects of their justice_," what was it but
signing their death-warrants by anticipation, before the mock trials
took place of the fore-doomed victims? and how revolting, after that
death-whoop, appears the Pharisaical cant of his concluding sentences:

"The dimensions of this mercy are above my thoughts--it is, for aught I
know, a crowning mercy. I am bold humbly to beg that the fatness of
these continued mercies may not occasion pride and wantonness, as
formerly the like hath done to a chosen people."

If Cromwell had understood the true meaning of the Saviour's words, "I
will have mercy, and not sacrifice," he would probably have acted more
like a Christian and written less like a Jew.

"But to return," saith the quaint chronicler of Boscobel, "to the duty
of my attendance on his majesty in Spring Coppice. By that time Richard
Penderel had conveyed him to the obscurest part of it, it was about
sun-rising on Thursday morning, and the heavens wept bitterly at these
calamities, insomuch that the thickest tree in the wood was not able to
keep his majesty dry, nor was there any thing for him to sit on;
wherefore Richard went to Francis Yates's house, a trusty neighbor, who
had married his wife's sister, where he borrowed a blanket, which he
folded and laid on the ground for his majesty to sit on." A three-legged
stool would have been a luxury, at that comfortless period, to the
throneless monarch, who claimed three realms as his rightful
inheritance.

Richard Penderel, when he borrowed the blanket of his sister-in-law, the
good-wife Yates, considerately begged her to provide a comfortable
breakfast and bring it to him, at a place which he appointed in the
wood. She presently made ready a mess of milk, and brought it, with
bread, butter, and eggs, to the cold, wet, and half-famished king.
Charles was, at first, a little startled at her appearance, but,
perceiving she came on a kindly errand, he frankly appealed to her
feminine compassion in these words:

"Good woman, can you be faithful to a distressed cavalier?"

"Yes, sir," she replied; "I will die rather than discover you!"

The king, well satisfied with the honest plainness of her answer, was
able to eat with a hearty relish the simple fare she had brought him.
In the course of that day, he made up his mind to leave his woodland
retreat, and endeavor to get into Wales. Richard Penderel, having
consented to attend him in the capacity of a guide, conducted him first
to his own house, Hobbal Grange, "where the old good-wife Penderel had
not only the honor to see his majesty," pursues our authority, "but to
see him attended by her son." A greater honor far, it was for her to
feel that she was the mother of five sons, whom all the wealth of
England would not have bribed, nor all the terrors of a death of torture
intimidated, to betray their fugitive sovereign to those who thirsted
for his blood. Cornelia, the mother of the Gracchi, had less reason to
feel proud of her filial jewels, than this rustic English matron of her
brave Shropshire lads. She had lost a sixth son, who had been slain
fighting in the cause of King Charles I. Hobbal Grange was the paternal
farm where these six brethren, William, John, Richard, Humphrey, Thomas,
and George, were born. Thomas, George, and John, had all enlisted in the
service of the late king, and fought for him as long as he had an army
in the field; William was the house steward at Boscobel; Humphrey was
the miller at Whiteladies; and Richard rented a part of his mother's
farm and house, Hobbal Grange; he also pursued the business of a
woodman. At Hobbal Grange, the king's disguise was completed, and he was
furnished with a woodman's bill, to enable him the better to act the
part of Richard Penderel's man, and it was agreed that he should assume
the name of Will Jones. When all these arrangements had been made, and
his homely supper ended, his majesty set out at nine o'clock, with
intent to walk that night to Madely, in Shropshire, about five miles
from Whiteladies, within a mile of the river Severn, which he would have
to cross, in order to get into Wales.

Charles found his clouted shoes so uneasy to his feet on this pedestrian
journey, that more than once he was fain to walk without, as less
painful. About two miles from Madely, in passing Evelin Mill, the king
and his trusty guide got an alarm; for Richard unwittingly permitting
the gate to clap, the miller came out and challenged them, by asking,
gruffly, "Who was there?" Richard, to avoid him, hastily drew the king
out of the usual track, and led him through a brook, which they were
compelled to ford, and the king's shoes getting full of water increased
the uneasiness of his galled and blistered feet. His majesty was
afterward wont, in recounting this adventure, to say, that "here he was
in great danger of losing his guide, but the rustling of Richard's
calf-skin breeches was the best direction he had to follow him in that
dark night."

Charles was unconscious at the time how near he was to a party of his
own friends, who had just taken refuge in Evelin Mill, and that the
honest miller who had caused him so much alarm and distress by his
challenge, was only doing his duty by the fugitive cavaliers in keeping
guard to prevent a surprise from skulking foes or spies.

His majesty arrived at Madely about midnight, in weary plight; Richard
conducted his royal master to the house of a loyal gentleman there, of
the name of Woolf, on whose integrity he knew he could rely. The family
had retired to rest, but Richard took the liberty of knocking till Mr.
Woolf's daughter came to the door and inquired, "Who that late comer
was?" he replied, "The king." An announcement that would, doubtless,
have put any young lady into a flutter at a period less disastrous to
royalty but such was the tragic romance of the epoch, that persons of
all classes were familiarized to the most startling events and changes;
the only source of surprise to honest gentlefolks was, the circumstance
of finding their heads safe on their own shoulders in the midst of the
horrors of military executions, which nearly decimated that
neighborhood. Miss Woolf neither questioned the fact, nor hesitated to
imperil herself and family by receiving the proscribed fugitive within
her doors. She knew the integrity of Richard Penderel, and appreciated
the tribute he paid to her courage and her truth, by confiding such a
trust to her. The king refreshed and reposed himself beneath this
hospitable roof for awhile, but as the rebels kept guard upon the
passage of the Severn, and it was apprehended that a party of them, who
were expected to pass through the town, might quarter themselves, which
frequently happened, in that house, it was judged safer for the royal
stranger to sleep in the adjacent barn. His majesty accordingly retired
thither, attended by his trusty guide and life-guardsman, Richard
Penderel, and remained concealed in that humble shelter the whole of the
next day.

The intelligence which Mr. Woolf procured, meantime, was such as to
convince him that it would be too hazardous for the king to attempt to
prosecute his journey into Wales, and that the best thing he could do
would be to return to Boscobel House, as affording facilities for his
concealment till a safer opening for his retreat could be found. The
king being of the same opinion, it was resolved that he should retrace
his steps the next night, and meantime, his hands not being considered
sufficiently embrowned for the character he personated, Mrs. Woolf
brought some walnut-leaves and stained them. At eleven o'clock, he and
the faithful Richard Penderel resumed their march, but midway between
Madely and Boscobel, Charles was so completely overcome with grief,
fatigue, and the pain he endured from his blistered feet, in his
attempts to walk in the stiff shoes, that at last he flung himself on
the ground, "declaring life was not worth the struggle of preserving,
and that he would rather die than endure the misery he suffered."
Richard gave him such comfort as his kindly nature suggested, and
bidding him be of good cheer, and wait God's time for better fortunes,
at last persuaded him to make a successful effort to reach Boscobel.
They arrived in the immediate vicinity about three o'clock on the Sunday
morning; Richard left his majesty in the wood, while he went to
reconnoitre, not knowing whether a party of Cromwell's soldiers might
not have occupied the house in their absence. Fortunately, he found no
one there but William Penderel, his wife, and the brave cavalier,
Colonel Carlis, who had been the last man to retreat from Worcester,
and, having succeeded in making his escape, had been for some time
concealed in Boscobel Wood, and had come to ask relief of William
Penderel, his old acquaintance. Richard informed him and William
Penderel that the king was in the wood, and they all three went to pay
their devoir, and found his majesty sitting, like melancholy Jacques, on
the root of a tree. He was very glad to see the colonel, and proceeded
with him and the Penderels to Boscobel House, and there did eat bread
and cheese heartily, and, as an extraordinary treat, William's wife,
whom his majesty was pleased to address merrily by the title of "My dame
Joan," made a posset for him of thin milk and small beer--no "very
dainty dish," one would think, "to set before a king;" but doubtless, in
his present condition, more acceptable than the most exquisite plate of
_dilligrout_ that was ever served up by the lord of the Manor of
Bardolf, _cum privilegio_, at the coronation banquet of any of his royal
predecessors.

"My dame Joan" also performed another charitable service for her
luckless liege lord, by bringing some warm water to bathe his galled and
travel-soiled feet. Colonel Carlis pulled off his majesty's shoes, which
were full of gravel, and his wet stockings, and there being no other
shoes that would fit the royal fugitive, the good wife rendered these
still more stiff and uncomfortable, in her zeal to dry them, by putting
hot embers in them while the colonel was washing his master's feet.

When his majesty was thus refreshed, they all united in persuading him
to go back into the wood, having great reason to apprehend that the
roundhead troopers, who were then hunting the country round with
blood-hounds, on a keen scent for their prey, would come and search
Boscobel House. Humphrey Penderel, the miller, had been to Shefnal the
day before, to pay some military imposts to the roundhead Captain
Broadwaye, at whose house he encountered one of Cromwell's colonels, who
had just been dispatched from Worcester in quest of the king. This man,
having learned that the king had been at Whiteladies, and that Humphrey
dwelt in that immediate neighborhood, examined him strictly, and laid
before him both the penalty of concealing the royal fugitive "which," he
said, "was death without mercy, and the reward for discovering him,
which should be a thousand pounds ready money."

Neither threats nor bribes could overcome the loyal integrity of the
stout-hearted miller, who pleaded ignorance so successfully that he was
dismissed, and hastening, to Boscobel, brought the alarming tidings of
the vicinity of the soldiers, and the price that had been set on his
majesty's head.

The danger of his remaining in Boscobel House being considered imminent,
it was determined by the faithful brothers to conceal the king and
Colonel Carlis, whose life was in no less danger than that of his
master, in a thick spreading oak. Having made choice of one which
appeared to afford the greatest facility for concealment, they assisted
the king and Colonel Carlis to ascend it, brought them such provisions
as they could get, and a cushion for the king to sit on. In this
unsuspected retreat they passed the day. The king having gone through
much fatigue, and taken little or no rest for several nights, was so
completely worn out, that having placed himself in a reclining position,
with his head resting on Colonel Carlis's knee, he fell asleep, and
slumbered away some hours--the colonel being careful to preserve him
from falling.

Pope's popular, but long suppressed line,

    "Angels who watched the royal oak so well,"

always makes me think that he must have been familiar with the following
incident which my father's mother, Elizabeth Cotterel, who was the
grand-daughter of a cadet of the old loyal family of that name, in
Staffordshire, and maternally descended from one of the honest Penderel
brothers, was accustomed to relate as a fact, derived from family
tradition, connected with the perils and hair-breadth escapes of Charles
II., at Boscobel.

"The roundhead troopers," she said, "having tracked the king, first to
Whiteladies, and then to Boscobel Forest, were led, by the keen scent of
their bloodhounds, just at the twilight hour, to the very tree in which
he and Colonel Carlis were hidden. The traitors, a sergeant and five
others of the same company, made a halt under the Royal Oak, and began
to reconnoiter it, while their dogs came baying and barking round about
the trunk. Suddenly the leaves began to rustle, and one of the villains
cried out,

"'Hallo! some one is surely hidden here!--look how the branches shake.'

"'It will be worth a thousand pounds to us if it be the young king,'
said another.

"Then the sergeant asked 'who would volunteer to ascend the tree, and
earn a larger share of the reward by taking the supposed prize alive;'
but, as no one appeared willing to risk the chance of encountering a
clapperclawing from the royal lion, dealt from a vantage height, he was
just giving the word for them to fire a volley into the tree, 'when, by
the grace of God,'" the old lady would add, with impressive solemnity,
"a white owl flew out from the thickest covert of the branches and
screeched 'fie upon them!' as well she might; whereupon the false
traitors hooted out a curse as bitter as that of Meroz on the poor bird,
and growled to each other 'that it was she that had misled their dogs,
and had stirred the leaves withal, to mock themselves; howsomever, they
would have a shot at her, to teach her better manners than to screech at
the soldiers of the Lord.' But though five of the sorry knaves banged
off their musketoons at the harmless bird, not one of them was marksman
enough to hit a feather of her. Lastly, the sergeant took out a printed
copy of the proclamation, promising 'the reward of a thousand pounds for
the apprehension of the young man, Charles Stuart, eldest son of the
late King Charles,' and fastened it on the trunk of the royal oak where
his majesty was sitting in the branches above them, hearing all they
said, and an eye-witness of their treason."

The breathless interest which this oral chronicle was wont to excite
among juvenile loyalists of the third generation may be imagined, but
the old lady had another tradition, of yet more thrilling import,
engraven on the tablets of her memory, "derived, like the first," as she
declared, "from those who could well vouch for its authenticity." As it
forms a curious sequel to the other, and is really too good to be lost,
I take leave to relate it, without expecting my readers to put the same
degree of faith in my grandmother's traditionary lore as I have always
been dutifully accustomed to do.

"The roundhead sergeant and his comrades, after they had retired from
the vicinity of the royal oak, proceeded to Hobbal Grange, to refresh
themselves at the expense of Richard Penderel, where, finding his wife
alone, rocking the cradle of her infant boy, who was not well and very
fractious, they, after she had brought out the best perry and mead the
house afforded began to cross-question her about the king's previous
appearance at Whiteladies, and, as they had done by her brother-in-law,
Humphrey Penderel, to ply her with alternate threats and temptations, in
order to induce her to discover any thing she might have learned on the
subject. The amount of the reward for the apprehension of the royal
fugitive had hitherto been concealed by Richard from his wife, probably
from the painful consciousness of her weak point. At any rate, she heard
it now with astonished ears, and the sergeant, in confirmation of his
statement, displayed one of the printed copies of the proclamation to
that effect. 'A thousand pounds!--a sum beyond her powers of
calculation! The price of blood!--what then? Some one would earn it, why
should not she?' She held parley with her besetting sin, and her desire
of 'the accursed thing' grew stronger. At that moment her husband
appeared, followed by the disguised king, who, cramped and exhausted
with sitting so many hours in the tree, was coming to her hearth to warm
and refresh himself, unconscious what unwelcome guests were already in
possession of the Grange. The young wife hastened to Richard Penderel,
showed him the paper, and whispered--

"'What is the king to us? A thousand pounds would make our fortunes.'

"'I'll cleave thy skull next moment, woman, an' thou dost,' was Richard
Penderel's stern rejoinder, grasping his wood-ax with a significant
gesture.

"He spoke in a tone which, though so low as to be audible to no other
ear than hers, thrilled every vein in her body with terror. She knew he
was a man who never broke his word, and she trembled lest the suspicions
of the sergeant and his gang should have been excited by the emotions
betrayed by her husband and herself during their brief passionate
conference. She glanced at them, and saw they were watching her husband
and scrutinizing the disguised king, who, yielding to the force of
habit, had forgot his assumed character of Richard's serving-man so far
as to seat himself uninvited on the only unoccupied stool in the room.
Luckily, the cross baby, offended at the presence of so many strangers,
set up his pipes, and began to scream and cry most lustily; at which
Mistress Richard Penderel, affecting to be in a violent passion,
snatched him out of the cradle, and thrusting him into the arms of the
astonished king, on whom she bestowed a sound box on the ear at the same
time, exclaimed, 'Thou lazy, good-for-naught fellow, wilt thou not so
much as put out thy hand to rock the cradle? Take the boy to thee, and
quiet him; he makes such a brawling, thy betters can't hear themselves
speak.'

"The baby, finding himself in the hands of an unpracticed male nurse,
continued to scream, and the mother to scold, till the sergeant rose up,
with a peevish execration, implying that he would rather hear the roar
of all the cannon that were fired at Worcester, than a chorus like that;
and giving the word to his company, marched off in the full persuasion
that Charles was the awkwardest lout in Shropshire, and his mistress the
bitterest shrew he had seen for many a day."

After this alarm, it was judged better for the king to return to
Boscobel House, and betake himself to the secret place of concealment,
where the Earl of Derby had been safely hidden before the battle of
Worcester. Dame Joan had provided some chickens that night, and cooked
them in her best style for supper, for her royal guest--a dainty to
which he had been unaccustomed for some time. She also put a little
pallet in the secret recess for his majesty's use, who was persuaded to
let William Penderel shave him, and cut his hair close with a pair of
scissors, according to the country fashion. Colonel Carlis told the
king, "Will was but a mean barber;" his majesty replied, "That he had
never been shaved by any barber before," and bade William burn the hair
he cut off. William, however, carefully preserved the royal locks, as
precious memorials of this adventure, which were afterward in great
request among the noble families of the neighborhood, who were eager to
obtain the smallest portion of those relics.

After supper, Colonel Carlis asked the king, "What meat he would like
for his Sunday's dinner?" his majesty said, "Mutton, if it might be
had." Now, there was none in the house, and it was considered dangerous
for William to go to any place to purchase it; so Colonel Carlis
repaired to Mr. William Staunton's fold, chose the fattest sheep there,
stuck it with his dagger, and sent Will Penderel to bring it home.[1]

On Sunday morning, Charles, finding his dormitory none of the best, rose
early, and entering the gallery near it, was observed to spend some time
in prayer. After the fulfillment of this duty, which was doubtless
performed with unwonted fervency, "his majesty, coming down into the
parlor, his nose fell a bleeding, which put his poor faithful servants
in a fright," till he reassured them, by saying it was a circumstance of
frequent occurrence. He was very cheerful that day, and merrily assisted
in cooking some mutton-collops from the stolen sheep provided by Colonel
Carlis, on which subject he was afterward fond of joking with that
devoted companion of his perils. The Penderel brothers, keeping watch
and ward, in readiness to give the alarm, if any soldiers approached the
mansion, the king felt himself in a state of security, "and spent some
part of this Lord's-day in a pretty arbor in Boscobel Garden, situated
on a mount, with a stone table and seats within. In this place, he
passed some time in reading, and commended it for its retiredness."

John Penderel having, meantime, brought the welcome intelligence that
Lord Wilmot, to whom he had acted as guide when he left Whiteladies, had
found a safe asylum at the house of Mr. Whitgreave, of Mosely, the king
sent him back to inform those gentlemen "that he would join them there
at twelve that night." The distance being about five miles, John
returned to tell his majesty they would be in readiness to meet him
there.

The king not being yet recovered from the effect of his walk to Madely
and back, it was agreed that he should ride on Humphrey's mill-horse,
which was forthwith fetched home from grass, and accoutred with a
pitiful old saddle and worse bridle. Before mounting, the king bade
farewell to Colonel Carlis, who could not safely attend him, being too
well known in that neighborhood.

The night was dark and rainy, dismal as the fortunes of the fugitive
king, who, mounting Humphrey's mare, rode toward Mosely, attended by an
especial body-guard of the five Penderels and their brother-in-law,
Francis Yates; each of these was armed with a bill and pikestaff, having
pistols in their pockets. Two marched before, one on each side their
royal charge, and two came behind, a little in the rear--all resolutely
determined, in case of danger, to have shown their valor in defending
as well as they had done their fidelity in concealing their distressed
sovereign. After some experience of the horse's paces, the king
declared, "It was the heaviest, dull jade he ever bestrode." Humphrey,
who was the owner of the beast, wittily replied--

"My liege, can you blame the mare for going heavily when she bears the
weight of three kingdoms on her back?"

When they arrived at Penford Mill, within two miles of Mr. Whitgreave's
house, his majesty was recommended by his guides to dismount, and
proceed the rest of the way on foot, being a more private path, and
nearer withal. At last, they arrived at the place appointed, which was a
little grove of trees, in a close near Mr. Whitgreave's house, called
Lea Soughes. There, Mr. Whitgreave and Mr. John Huddleston, the priest,
met his majesty, in order to conduct him, by a private way, to the
mansion, Richard and John Penderel, and Francis Yates continuing their
attendance, but William, Humphrey, and George returned to Boscobel with
the horse. Charles, not quite aware of this arrangement, was going on
without bidding them farewell, but turning back, he apologized to them
in these words:

"My troubles make me forget myself: I thank you all."

And so, giving them his hand to kiss, took a gracious leave of those
true liegemen.

Mr. Whitgreave conducted the king into the secret chamber occupied by
Lord Wilmot, who was expecting his return with great impatience, fearing
lest the king should have missed his way, or been taken. As soon as
Wilmot saw his royal master, he knelt and embraced his knees, and
Charles, deeply moved, kissed him on the cheek, and asked, with much
solicitude:

"What has become of Buckingham, Cleveland, and the others?"

Wilmot could only answer, doubtfully, "I hope they are safe." Then
turning to Mr. Whitgreave and Huddleston, to whom he had not then
confided the quality of the fugitive cavalier for whom he had requested
this asylum, he said:

"Though I have concealed my friend's name all this while, I must now
tell you this is my master, your master, and the master of us all."

Charles gave his hand to Whitgreave and Huddleston for them to kiss, and
after commending their loyalty, and thanking them for their fidelity to
his friend, which, he assured them, he never should forget, desired to
see the place of concealment he was to occupy. Having seen it, and
expressed his satisfaction, he returned to Lord Wilmot's chamber, where,
his nose beginning to bleed again, he seated himself on the bedside, and
drew forth such a pocket-handkerchief as was never seen in royal hands
before, but it accorded with the rest of his array. Charles was dressed,
at that time, in an old leathern doublet, a pair of green breeches, and
a peasant's upper garment, known in this country by the name of a "jump
coat," of the same color; a pair of his own stockings, with the tops cut
off, because they were embroidered, a pair of stirrup stockings over
them, which had been lent him at Madely; a pair of clouted shoes, cut
and slashed, to give ease to the royal feet, an old gray, greasy hat,
without a lining, and a _noggen_ shirt, of the coarsest manufacture. Mr.
Huddleston, observing that the roughness of this shirt irritated the
king's skin so much as to deprive him of rest, brought one of his own,
made of smooth flaxen linen, to Lord Wilmot, and asked, "If his majesty
would condescend to make use of it?" which Charles gladly did. Mr.
Huddleston then pulled off his majesty's wet, uncomfortable shoes and
stockings, and dried his feet, when he found that some white paper,
which had been injudiciously put between his stockings and his skin,
having got rucked and rolled up, had served to increase, instead of
alleviating the inflammation.

Mr. Whitgreave brought up some biscuits and a bottle of sack, for the
refreshment of his royal guest, who, after he had partaken of them,
exclaimed, with some vivacity,

"I am now ready for another march; and if it shall please God to place
me once more at the head of eight or ten thousand good men, of one mind,
and resolved to fight, I should not despair of driving the rogues out of
my kingdom."

Day broke, and the king, feeling in need of repose, was conducted to the
artfully concealed hiding-place, where a pallet was placed for his
accommodation, for his host durst not put him into a bed in one of the
chambers.

After some rest taken in the hole, which was unfortunately too close and
hot to allow of comfortable repose, Charles rose, and seeing Mr.
Whitgreave's mother, was pleased to greet her with great courtesy, and
to honor her with a salute. His place, during the day, was a closet over
the porch, where he could see, unseen, every one who came up to the
house.

That afternoon, a party of the roundhead soldiers arrived, with intent
to arrest Mr. Whitgreave, having had information that he had been at
Worcester fight.

"If," said Lord Wilmot to him, "they carry you off, and put you to the
torture, to force you to confession, I charge you to give me up without
hesitation, which may, perhaps, satisfy them, and save the king."

Charles was then lying on Mr. Huddleston's bed, but his generous host,
instead of caring for his own danger, hurried him away into the secret
hiding place; then, setting all the chamber doors open, went boldly down
to the soldiers, and assured them that the report of his having been in
the battle of Worcester was untrue, for he had not been from his own
home for upward of a fortnight; to which all his neighbors bearing
witness, the soldiers not only left him at liberty, but departed without
searching the house.

The same day, only a few hours after his majesty had left Boscobel, two
parties of the rebels came thither in quest of him. The first, being a
company of the county militia, searched the house with some civility,
but the others, who were Captain Broadwaye's men, behaved in a very
ruffianly manner, searched the house with jealous scrutiny, plundered it
of every thing portable, and after devouring all the little stock of
provisions, presented a pistol at William Penderel, to intimidate him
into giving them some information, and much frightened "my dame Joan,"
but failed to extort any confessions touching the royal guest who had so
recently departed. They also paid a second visit to Whiteladies, and not
only searched every corner in it, but broke down much of the wainscot,
and finished by beating a prisoner severely who had been frightened into
informing them that he came in company with the king from Worcester to
that place, and had left him concealed there.

On the Tuesday, old Mrs. Whitgreave, who did her best to amuse her royal
guest, by telling him all the news she could collect, informed him that
a countryman, who had been up to the house that morning, had said "that
he heard that the king, on his retreat, had rallied and beaten his
enemies at Warrington Bridge, and that three kings had come in to his
assistance."

"Surely," rejoined Charles, with a smile, "they must be the three kings
of Cologne come down from heaven, for I can imagine none else."

Looking out of his closet window, that day, Charles saw two soldiers
pass the gate, and told Mr. Huddleston, "he knew one of them to be a
Highlander of his own regiment, who little thought his king and colonel
were so near."

Mr. Huddleston had three young gentlemen under his care for education,
staying in the same house--young Sir John Preston, Mr. Thomas Patyn, and
Mr. Francis Reynolds. These he stationed at several garret windows that
commanded the road, to watch and give notice if they saw any soldiers
approaching, pretending to be himself in danger of arrest. The youths
performed this service with diligent care all day, and when they sat
down to supper, Sir John said merrily to his two companions, "Come,
lads, let us eat heartily, for we have been upon the life-guard to-day."

Lord Wilmot's friend, Colonel Lane, of Bentley, had, previously to the
king's arrival, offered to pass him on to Bristol, as the escort of his
sister, Mrs. Jane Lane, who had fortunately obtained from one of the
commanders, a passport for herself and her groom to go to Bristol, to
see her sister, who was near her confinement. This offer Lord Wilmot had
actually accepted, when John Penderel, bringing him word that the king
was coming to Mosely, he generously transferred that chance for escape
to his royal master. Lord Wilmot, having apprised the colonel and fair
mistress Jane of the king's intention to personate her groom, Colonel
Lane came, by appointment, on Tuesday night, between twelve and one, to
the corner of Mr. Whitgreave's orchard, to meet and convey his majesty
to Bentley. The night was dark, and cold enough to render the loan of a
cloak, which Mr. Huddleston humbly offered for his sovereign's use,
extremely acceptable. Charles took his leave courteously of old Mrs.
Whitgreave, whom he kissed, and gave many thanks for his entertainment,
and used warm expressions of gratitude to her son and Mr. Huddleston,
telling them, "that he was very sensible of the danger with which their
concealing him might be attended to themselves," and considerately gave
them the address of a merchant in London, who should have orders to
supply them with money, and the means of crossing the sea, if they
desired to do so, and promised, "if ever God were pleased to restore him
to his dominions, not to be unmindful of their services to him." They
knelt and kissed his hand, and prayed Almighty God to bless and preserve
him, then reverentially attended him to the orchard, where Mr.
Whitgreave told Colonel Lane "he delivered his great charge into his
hands, and besought him to take care of his majesty."

Charles proceeded safely to Bentley with Colonel Lane, where, as he was
to perform the part of a menial, he was under the necessity of taking a
seat by the kitchen fire, next morning, to prevent suspicion.

The cook, observing that he appeared an idle hand, ordered him to "have
a care that the roast meat did not burn"--a command that must have
reminded the incognito majesty of England of the adventure of his
illustrious ancestor, Alfred, in the herdsman's cottage, when he got
into disgrace with the good wife by not paying a proper degree of
attention to the baking of the cakes.

The same morning, we are told, a person suspected of being a spy and
informer, coming into Colonel Lane's kitchen, and casting a scrutinizing
eye on the king, observed that he was a stranger, and began to ask a
leading question or two, when one of the servants, who knew his royal
master, and feared he would commit himself, gave him two or three blows
with the basting ladle, and bade him "mind his own business, which was
to keep the spit going, and not turn round to prate, or he would get
basted by the cook."

Charles only staid at Bentley, till some articles of Colonel Lane's
livery could be prepared for his use, before he escorted Mrs. Jane Lane
to Bristol, she riding on a pillion behind him, and Lord Wilmot
following at a little distance. Mistress Jane conducted herself with
great prudence and discretion to the royal bachelor during the journey,
treating him as her master when alone, and as her servant before
strangers. When they arrived at the house of her sister, Mrs. Norton, in
Bristol, the first person the king saw was one of his own chaplains
sitting at the door, amusing himself with looking at some people
playing at bowls. His majesty, after performing his duty as Colonel
Lane's servant, by taking proper care of the horse which had carried him
and his fair charge from Bentley, left the stable, and came into the
house, feigning himself sick of the ague, Mrs. Jane having suggested
that device as an excuse for keeping his room, which she had caused to
be prepared for him. The butler, who had been a royalist soldier in the
service of Charles I., entering the room to bring the sick stranger some
refreshment, as soon as he looked in his pale woe-worn face, recognized
the features of his young king, and falling on his knees, while the
tears overflowed his cheeks, exclaimed,

"I am rejoiced to see your majesty."

"Keep the secret from every one, even from your master," was the reply,
and the faithful creature rendered implicit obedience. He, and Mrs. Jane
Lane, constituted Charles's Privy Council at Bristol. No ship being
likely to sail from that port for a month to come, the king considered
it dangerous to remain there so long. He therefore repaired to the
residence of Colonel Wyndham, in Dorsetshire, where he was
affectionately welcomed by that loyal cavalier and his lady, who had
been his nurse. The venerable mother of the colonel, though she had lost
three sons and one grandchild in his service, considered herself only
too happy to have the honor of receiving him as her guest.

Finally, after adventures too numerous to be recorded here, the fugitive
king succeeded in securing a passage toward the end of October, in a
little bark from Shoreham to Dieppe, where he landed in safety, more
than forty persons, some of them in very humble circumstances, having
been instrumental to his escape, not one of whom could be induced by the
large reward offered by the Parliament for his apprehension, to betray
him.

A certain eloquent Scotch essayist, who endeavors to apologize for the
conduct of Algernon Sidney, and other worthies of his party, in
accepting the bribes of France by impugning the integrity of the English
character, and goes so far as to express a doubt whether there were an
honest man to be met with at that epoch, save Andrew Marvel, appears to
have forgotten the glorious instances of stainless honesty and virtue
afforded by the Penderel brothers, and other noble men of all degrees,
who proved themselves superior to all temptations that could be offered.

When England had, by general acclamation, called home her banished king,
the five Shropshire brothers were summoned to attend him at Whitehall,
on Wednesday, the 13th of June, 1661, when his majesty was pleased to
acknowledge their faithful services, and signified his intention of
notifying his gratitude by a suitable reward, inquiring if they had any
particular favor to ask. They only asked an exemption from the penal
laws, with liberty for themselves and their descendants to enjoy the
free exercise of their religion, being members of the Romish church.
This request was granted, and their names, together with those of their
kinswoman Mrs. Yates, Mr. Huddleston, and Mr. Whitgreave, were
especially exempted in the statute from the pains and penalties of
recusancy.

King Charles granted a moderate pension to them and their descendants
for ever.

"The Oak," says a contemporary, whose pleasant little chronicle of
Boscobel was published in 1660, the year of the restoration, "is now
properly called 'The Royal Oake of Boscobel,' nor will it lose that name
while it continues a tree: and since his majesty's happy restoration
that those mysteries have been revealed, hundreds of people for many
miles round, have flocked to see the famous Boscobel, which, as you have
heard, had once the honor to be the palace of his sacred majesty, but
chiefly to behold the Royal Oake, which has been deprived of all its
young boughs by the visitors of it, who keep them in memory of his
majesty's happy preservation."

Charles himself subsequently made a pilgrimage to the scene of his past
troubles: when he visited the Royal Oak, he was observed to gather a
handful of the acorns. Some of these he planted with his own hand in
Saint James's Park. A promising young tree, which sprang from one of
these acorns, which Charles had planted in the queen's pleasure garden,
within sight of his bed-chamber, in Saint James's Palace, and was
accustomed to water and tend with great pleasure, was called the King's
Royal Oak, and had become an object of interest to the people as a relic
of that popular sovereign; but was destroyed by Sarah, Duchess of
Marlborough, as soon as her husband obtained the grant of the ground on
which it stood, for the site of Marlborough House. This was regarded as
an outrage on popular feeling.

Of all our national commemorations, that of the restoration of monarchy,
on the 29th of May, held the strongest hold on the affections of the
people; the firmness with which they continued to observe that
anniversary for a century after the expulsion of the royal line of
Stuart, affords a remarkable proof of the constitutional attachment of
this country to the cause of legitimacy. As long as that feeling lasted,
the grave of William Penderel, in St. Giles's church-yard, was duly
decked with oaken garlands by nameless loyalists of low degree, as often
as the 29th of May came round; and men, women, and children wore oak
leaves and acorns in memory of the fact,

    "That Penderel the miller, at risk of his blood,
    Hid the king of the isle in the king of the wood."


FOOTNOTE:

[1] When honest William Penderel subsequently waited on Mr. Staunton,
and acknowledged the abstraction of the sheep, offering, at the same
time, to pay for it, that loyal gentleman laughed heartily at the
incident, and said, "He was glad to hear that his majesty had tasted his
mutton, and much good might it do him."




[From Dickens's Household Words]

GUNPOWDER AND CHALK.


Sir Valentine Saltear was a worthy gentleman, who had made a large
fortune by constantly exporting Irish linens and lawns to France (from
whence they came over to England as fine French goods), for which
service to the trade of the three countries a discerning minister had
obtained him the honor of knighthood. This fortune he had in part
expended in building for himself a great mansion on the sea-coast of
Kent, commanding a fine view of the country from the back windows, and
the great ocean from the front. Every room on the first and second
floors was furnished with a brass telescope, that could be screwed on to
the window-sash, or by means of a pedestal, into the window-sill.

In the front of his house was a great field, in which he and his
visitors used to play at cricket. It was bounded by the high, white
chalk cliffs, which descended precipitously to the sea.

The cliffs, however, were unfortunately much undermined by natural
caverns; so that every year, and, in fact, every time there was a storm
at sea, a large portion of the chalk-rock fell down, and in the course
of six or seven years he was obliged to rail off as "dangerous" a part
of the already reduced field in front of his house. He could now only
play at trap-ball, or battle-dore and shuttle-cock.

Still the sea continued its encroachments, and in a few years more the
trap-ball was all over--it was too perilous, even if they had not
continually lost the ball--and he and his sons were reduced to a game at
long-taw, and hop-scotch.

Clearly perceiving that in the course of a few years more his
field-sports would be limited to spinning a tee-totum before his
front-door, he engaged the services of an eminent architect and civil
engineer to build him a sea-wall to prevent the further encroachments of
the enemy. The estimate of expense was five thousand pounds, and, as a
matter of course, the work, by the time it was finished, cost ten
thousand. This was nearly as much as Sir Valentine Saltear had paid for
the building of his house.

But the worst part of the business was, that the very next storm which
occurred at sea, and only a few weeks after, the waves dashed down, and
fairly carried away the whole of this protective wall. In the morning it
was clean gone, as though no such structure had been there, and a great
additional gap was made in the cliff, plainly showing that the watery
monster was quite bent on swallowing up Sir Valentine's house. He
brought an action for the recovery of the money he had paid for his
wall; but while this was pending, he saw his house being undermined from
day to day, and in sheer despair felt himself obliged to apply to a
still more eminent civil engineer. The estimate this gentleman made for
the construction of a sea-wall--one that would stand--was ten thousand
pounds. It might be a few pounds more or less--probably less. But the
recent experience of Sir Valentine making him fear that it would
probably be double that amount, he hesitated as to engaging the services
of this gentleman. He even thought of sending over to Ireland for fifty
bricklayers, carpenters, and masons, and superintending the work
himself. He was sure he could do it for six thousand pounds. It never
once occurred to him to pull down his house, and rebuild it on high
ground a quarter of a mile farther off.

In this dangerous yet undecided state of affairs, Sir Valentine one
morning, breakfasting at his club in Waterloo Place, read in a newspaper
a notice of the grand mining operation and explosion that was to take
place at Seaford, the object of which was to throw down an immense mass
of chalk cliff, the broken fragments whereof would, at a comparatively
small cost, form a sea-wall, at an elevation of about one-fifth the
height of the parent rock. Why, here was Sir Valentine's own case! His
house was upon a very high chalk rock, and a sea-wall of one-fifth the
height would answer every purpose. The only difficulty was his present
proximity to the edge of the cliff. Still, he thought he could spare
thirty feet or so, without losing his door-steps, and this width being
exploded down to the base of the cliff, would constitute, by its fall, a
very capital mound of protection which might last for a century or more.
He therefore determined to see the explosion at Seaford, and if it
proved successful, to adopt the very same plan.

Sir Valentine, accordingly, on the nineteenth of September, swallowed an
early cup of chocolate, and hurried off to the Brighton railway
terminus, and took his place in the Express train for Newhaven. It was a
return-ticket, first class, for which he paid the sum of one pound four
shillings. An Excursion train had started at nine o'clock, the
return-ticket first class, being only eleven shillings; but Sir
Valentine fearing that it would stop at every station on the way, and
might not be in time for the great event, had prudently chosen the
Express at Express price; namely, one pound four per ticket. There was
some confusion in the arrangements of the terminus, apparently
attributable to extensive additions and alterations in the buildings;
but there was no difficulty in receiving the money.

The train started; its speed, though an Express, being nothing
particular. When it arrived at Lewes, the passengers all had to alight,
and wait for another train which was to take them on. At last a train
arrived. It was declared to be full!

"Full!" cried Sir Valentine, "why, I have paid for the
Express!--first-class--one pound four."

Full, however, this long train was. Presently a guard shouted that there
was room for three in a second-class carriage.

"I secure one!" shouted Sir Valentine, holding up his fore-finger in a
threatening manner to the guard, and jumped in. In due time, and by no
means in a hurry, the "Express" train arrived.

Out leaped Sir Valentine, and demanded of the first person he met how
far it was to Seaford? The man said he didn't know! to the utter
astonishment and contempt of the excited knight. He asked the next
person; who replied that he hadn't the very least idea, but they could
tell him at the "tap." Sir Valentine looked on all sides to see if there
were any cabs, flies, or vehicles of any kind, and descrying several in
a group at some little distance, made toward them at long running
strides--a boy who had overheard his question as to the distance,
following at his heels, and bawling--"Two miles as a crow flies!--four
miles by the road!--two miles as a cro-o-o-o!--four by the ro-o-o-o!"

Arrived amidst the vehicles, the knight found nearly all of them either
engaged, or full, and it was only as a matter of favor that he was
admitted as "one over the number," to the inside of a small van without
springs; where, beside the heat and crushing, he had to endure a
thorough draught and three short pipes, all the way.

The road wound round the base of a series of hills and other rising
ground, and a line of vehicles might be seen all along this serpentine
road, for two or three miles' distance; while a long unbroken line of
pedestrians were descried winding along the pathway across the fields.
After a very jolting and rumbling drive, Sir Valentine found himself
"shot out" with the rest of the company, in front of a small "public"
knocked up for the occasion, with a load or two of bricks and some
boards, and crowded to excess. Private carriages, flies, cabs, carts,
wagons, vans, were standing around, together with booths and
wheelbarrows, set out with apples, nuts, bread and cheese, and
ginger-beer of a peculiarly thin stream. Sir Valentine having
breakfasted early, hastily, and lightly, was by this time--a quarter to
two--extremely sharp set; he endeavored, therefore, to make his way into
the house to get a bottle of stout and some ham or cold beef for
luncheon. But after ten minutes' continuous efforts, he found he was
still between the door-posts, and the noisy, choked-up window of the
"bar," as far from his hopes as ever. He abandoned the attempt in
disgust--but not without addressing himself to a seafaring man who was
standing with his hands in his pockets, looking on:

"Is this sense?" said the knight. "Do you call this common sense? Do you
think you are acting with any more reason than a dog possesses, to treat
the public in this way? Then, your own interest--look at it!" (pointing
to the crowd struggling in the door-way). "If you had any foresight, or
a head for the commonest arrangements, would you not have a barrel of
ale on wheels outside here?"

The seafaring man swung round on his heel with a smile, and Sir
Valentine, having made his way into the field, obtained six pennyworth
of gingerbread and a dozen of small apples, with which provender he in
some sort revived his exhausted frame. He now bustled on toward the
foot of a broken embankment leading up to a lofty rising ground, the
summit being the cliffs, a large portion of which was shortly to be
detached, and thrown down by the explosion of a mine. The part to be
blown off was marked out by broad belts of white, where the chalk had
been thrown up, which made an imposing appearance even on the distant
heights.

The sun shone brightly. All over the fields and fallow ground that lay
between the halting-place just described, and the foot of the steep
mount, the visitors were scattered--pedestrians, with here and there a
horseman; sight-seers--the old and the young--men of science from
various parts of the world--infantry soldiers, sappers and miners,
ladies and gentlemen, sailors, marines, country people, railway
laborers, policemen, boys and girls, and--far in the rear of all, with
disapproving looks--two or three old women in spectacles. Renovated by
his gingerbread and apples, Sir Valentine made his way manfully up the
steep grassy ascent of the hill, chalk mountain it might be more
properly termed, and, in the course of a quarter of an hour, he found
himself at the spot where the explosion was to take place.

It was a tolerably level surface, of some hundred yards in diameter.
Transverse belts of excavated chalk, with several trenches and pits half
filled up, marked out the huge fragment of the solid mass which was to
be separated. The boundary was further indicated by small flagstaffs,
and also by sentinels, who prevented any of the visitors from
trespassing on the dangerous ground, whereon, of course, they all had a
half-delightful tingling wish to perambulate, and to feel themselves
liable to be blown to atoms by a premature explosion.

Beneath the part marked off by the flagstaffs and sentinels, at a great
depth in the chalk rock, were buried many thousand (the Brighton Herald
said twenty-seven thousand!) pounds of gunpowder, distributed in
different chambers and galleries, one communicating with another by
means of a platina wire. This wire was carried up through the rock into
a little wooden house, in which certain chemical mysteries were being
secretly carried on by engineer officers. There was a little window in
front, out of which the mysterious officer now and then half thrust his
head, looked out, with profound gravity, upon the belts of chalk on the
space before him, and, without appearing to see any of the crowding
visitors, withdrew from the window. Presently another officer came, and
did the same. "Come like shadows," muttered Sir Valentine, "so depart!"

But wishing that they might "show his eyes" the mysterious operations in
the little wooden house, however grievous it might be to his feelings,
our anxious knight hurried round to the back, where, he took it for
granted, there was some means of entrance, as he had seen no officer get
in at the window. He was right. There was a small narrow door of
planks, with a sentry standing before it, who wore a forbidding face of
much importance. And now a gentleman in blue spectacles approached, and
nodded to the sentinel, who tapped at the door. The door was unlocked,
and the favored man of science entered. Through the closing door, Sir
Valentine caught sight of a sort of long, shapeless table, covered with
chemical instruments and utensils, in short, an apparatus exciting great
curiosity. The door closed, just as Sir Valentine handed up his card to
the sentinel. The door was opened again--his card given in; somebody
took it, and it seemed to fly over a row of small white porcelain
painters' pallets, standing mid-deep in water, and then disappeared, as
the door was suddenly closed again. A voice within was heard to say,
impatiently, "I really am afraid we can't be disturbed!"

"Can't you!" exclaimed Sir Valentine, addressing himself to a servant
girl, with a child in her arms, who was trying to get a peep in at the
door: "can't you, indeed! What treatment do you call this? Do you think
gentlemen would take the trouble to come _down_ here, such a distance,
and _up_ here such a height, if they did not expect to see all that
could possibly be seen? Is this your duty to the public who pays you?
Why should you conceal any thing from me? Am I not a person of
sufficient wealth and respectability to be allowed to know of all your
doings up here! What brings you here but the public service? Who is your
master? tell me that!"

"Edward Smith, of Seaford," answered the girl, with an angry face; "but
I don't know as it's any business of yours!"

Sir Valentine brushed past the girl with a "Pooh, pshaw!" Observing it
was announced, by a placard on one side of the little wooden house, that
the explosion would take place at three o'clock, he took out his watch
and found that it was already half-past two. It became important to
decide on the most advantageous place to take up a position, in order to
have the best view of the grand explosion. Some of the visitors--in
fact, a considerable number--had ascended to the very highest part of
the rock, which swept upward, with its green coating of grass to a
distance of a hundred and fifty or two hundred yards beyond the
dangerous spot. Another crowd took their posts at about the same
distance below the fatal spot, each crowd being widely scattered, the
boldest in each being nearest, the most timid the furthest off. Another
crowd--and this was the largest by far--had descended to the beach, to
see, from below, the fall of the great mass of lofty rock. Many had
taken boats, and rowed, or sailed out, to behold it from a more directly
opposite, yet safer position.

Now, Sir Valentine Saltear, being an enthusiast in sight-seeing, had not
the least doubt but the way really to _enjoy_ the thing, would be to
stand upon the portion of the cliff that was to be thrown down; and,
leaping from crack to crack, and from mass to mass, as it majestically
descended, reach by this means the sea, into which a good dive forward
would render your escape from danger comparatively safe and easy. On
second thoughts, however, he saw that it was precarious, because if the
charge of powder were in excess of the weight to be separated, a great
mass of fragments might fly upward into the air, and who could say but
one of these might be the very place on which he himself was standing?
He, therefore, contented himself with advancing to the extreme edge of
the cliff, and peering over upon the beach below. The height was
prodigious; the crowds walking about below were of pigmy size. The boats
that were hovering about on the sea looked no bigger than mussel shells.
Sir Valentine once thought of going out in a boat, but immediately
recollecting that by doing so he should lose the fine effect of the
trembling of the earth, he at once abandoned the idea. If he mounted
above the scene of action he should lose the grandeur of the descent of
the mass; if he stood on the mount at some distance below it, he could
not see the surface crack and gape, though he might be exposed to flying
fragments. He, therefore, decided forthwith on going down to the beach,
and accordingly he hurried along the grassy <DW72>, and then made his way
down a precipitous zig-zag fissure in the sand hill below, till he found
his feet rattling and limping over the stones of the beach.

Here he was amid six or seven thousand people--many more than he had
seen from above--some walking about, some sitting in long rows or in
groups, on the damp shingles, some standing in knots--all speculating as
to how soon it would now be before the great explosion. A few flagstaffs
were planted, with several sentinels, to mark the line which no one was
allowed to pass; and this line was very strongly marked besides by a
dark crowd of the most fearless of the visitors. According to their
several degrees of apprehension, the crowds were scattered over the
beach at various distances, some of them being at least a mile and a
half off.

Sir Valentine, after an examination of all the bearings of the case,
elected to have a place in the front row, close to the flagstaff; but,
taking into consideration the possibility that the explosion might send
up a great mass of fragments, which might come flying over that way, and
crush numbers by their fall, he looked round to try and secure a retreat
the instant he should see a black cloud of fragments in the air. The
front line would not be able to retreat in time, because, being crowded,
they would, in the panic of the moment, stumble over each other, and
falling pell-mell, become an easy prey to the descending chalk. Sir
Valentine, therefore, being not only an enthusiast, but also a man of
foresight, took his post to the extreme right of the line, so that he
could, if he saw need, retreat into the sea; to make sure of which, and,
at the same time, to have an unimpeded view, he now stood half up to
his knees in water.

It was three o'clock--the hour of doom for the chalk in its contest with
gunpowder. A bugle sounded, and a movement of the sentries on the top of
the rock was discerned by the thousands of eyes looking up from the
beach. Many, also, who were above, suddenly thought they could better
their positions by moving further off. Below, on the beach, there was a
hush of voices; not a murmur was heard. Every body stood in his favorite
attitude of expectation. All eyes were bent upon the lofty projecting
cliff; and nearly every mouth was open, as if in momentary anticipation
of being filled with an avalanche of chalk. Again a bugle sounded--and
all was silence. Not a shingle moved.

Presently there was a low, subterranean murmur, accompanied by a
trembling of the whole sea-beach--sea and all; no burst of explosion;
but the stupendous cliff was seen to crack, heave outward, and separate
in many places half way down; the upper part then bowed itself forward,
and almost at the same instant, the cliff seemed to bend out and break
at one-third of the way from the base, till, like an old giant falling
upon his knees, down it sank, pitching at the same time head foremost
upon the beach with a tremendous, dull, echoless roar. A dense cloud of
white dust and smoke instantly rose, and obscured the whole from sight.

Every body kept his place a moment in silence--the front line then made
a rush onward--then abruptly stopped, bringing up all those behind them
with a jerk. Who knows but more cliff may be coming down? In the course
of half a minute the cloud of dust had sufficiently dispersed itself to
render the fallen mass visible. It formed a sort of double hill, about
one-fifth of the height of the rocks above, the outer hill nearest the
sea (which had been the head and shoulders of the fallen giant) being by
far the largest. It was made up of fragments of all sizes, from small
morsels, and lumps, up to huge blocks of chalk, many of which were two
or three feet in thickness, intermixed with masses of the upper crust,
having grass upon the upper surface.

Toward this larger hill of broken masses of chalk, the front rank of the
cloud below, on the beach, now rushed. But after a few yards, they again
stopped abruptly, bringing every body behind them bump up against their
backs. Again, they moved on waveringly, when suddenly a small piece of
cracked rock detached itself from above, and came rolling down. Back
rushed the front line--a panic took place, and thousands retreated, till
they found the cliff was not coming after them, when they gradually drew
up, faced about, and returned to the onset. At length it became a
complete charge: the front rank made directly for the large broken
mound, in the face of clouds of drifting chalk-dust, and fairly carried
it by assault--mounting over blocks, or picking their way round about
blocks, or between several blocks, and through soft masses of chalk, and
so upward to the top--two soldiers, three sailors, a boy, and Sir
Valentine, being the first who reached it. Thereupon, they set up a
shout of victory, which was echoed by thousands from below. Fifty or
sixty more were soon up after them; and one enthusiast, who had a very
clever little brown horse, actually contrived to lead him up to the top,
and then mounted him, amid the plaudits of the delighted heroes who
surrounded him. Every body, horse and all, was covered with the
continual rain of chalk-dust. The heroes were all as white as millers.

It was almost as difficult to descend as it had been to get up. However,
Sir Valentine managed to effect this with considerable alacrity, and
made his way hastily across the field to the little "public," with
intent to secure a fly, or other conveyance, before they were all
occupied by the numbers he had left behind him on the beach. Nothing
could be had: all were engaged. He walked onward hastily, and was
fortunate enough to overtake a large pleasure-cart, into which he got,
and, after suffering the vexation of seeing every vehicle pass them, he
at length arrived at the Newhaven railway station.




THE ESCAPE OF QUEEN MARY FROM LOCHLEVEN CASTLE.

BY AGNES STRICKLAND.


The escape of Mary Queen of Scots, from Lochleven Castle, is one of the
most striking passages in the history of female royalty. The time, the
place, the beauty and exalted rank of the illustrious heroine, her
wrongs, and her distress, the chivalry and courage of the gallant
spirits who had undertaken to effect her deliverance, the peril of the
enterprise, and its success, combine all the elements of a romance. Yet
the adventure creates a more powerful impression related in the graphic
simplicity of truth, as it really befell, than when worked up with
imaginary circumstances into a tale of fiction, even by the magic pen of
Scott in the pages of "The Abbot."

The fatal concatenation of events, which had the effect of entangling
the royal victim in the toils of her guileful foes, can not be developed
here. The broad outline of the outward and visible facts is familiar to
almost every reader, but to expose the undercurrent to view by
documentary evidences, and to make manifest the hidden workings of
iniquity, requires a wider field than these brief pages can afford. I
must, therefore, refer the public to my long-promised "Life of Mary
Stuart," which will shortly appear in my new series of royal female
biographies,[2] based on documentary sources, for particulars which can
scarcely fail of removing the obloquy with which mercenary writers, the
ready tools of self-interested calumniators, have endeavored to blacken
the name of this hapless lady.

The confederate lords into whose hands Mary, confiding in their solemn
promises to treat her with all honor and reverence as their sovereign,
rashly surrendered herself, at Carberry-hill, not only shamelessly
violated their pact, but after exposing her to the most cruel insults
from the very abjects of the people, incarcerated her in the gloomy
fortress of Lochleven, under the jailorship of the mother of her
illegitimate brother, the Earl of Murray, and the wardership of the sons
that person had had by her late husband Sir Robert Douglas, of
Lochleven, for the Lady of Lochleven was a married woman when the Earl
of Murray was born.[3]

It is scarcely possible to imagine a more doleful abiding place for the
fallen queen, in her affliction, than that which had been thus
injuriously and by a refinement of malice, selected for her by her
perfidious foes. The castle, which is of extreme antiquity, said indeed
to have been founded by Congal, a Pictish king, is of rude architecture,
consisting of a square donjon keep, flanked with turrets, and
encompassed with a rampart; it is built on a small island, almost in the
centre of the wild expanse of the deep, and oft-times stormy, waters of
the loch, which is fifteen miles in circumference. The castle island
consists of five acres, now overgrown with trees and brushwood. In the
midst of this desolation tradition points out one ancient stem, of
fantastic growth, said to have been planted by the royal captive as a
memorial of her compulsory residence in the castle. The boughs of this
tree, which is called "Queen Mary's Thorn," are constantly broken and
carried away as relics by the visitors, whom the interest attached to
the memory of that unhappy princess attracts to the spot, which her
sufferings have rendered an historic site of melancholy celebrity.

The events of the long dreary months which Mary wore away in this
wave-encircled prison-house, bereft of regal state, deprived of exercise
and recreation, and secluded from every friend save her two faithful
ladies, and a little maiden of ten years old, the voluntary companions
of her durance, as well as the occupations wherewith she endeavored to
beguile her sorrowful hours, will be found very fully detailed in my
biography of that unfortunate queen, with many recently-discovered
facts.

Toward the end of March, George Douglas, the youngest son of the Lady of
Lochleven, whose manly heart had been touched with generous sympathy,
or, as some assert, with a deep and enduring passion for his fair
ill-fated sovereign, made a bold and almost successful attempt to convey
her out of the castle, in the disguise of a laundress. The queen,
however, being identified by the whiteness and delicacy of her hands,
which she had raised to repel one of the rude boatmen, who endeavored
to remove her hood and muffler to get a sight of her face, she was
brought back, and George Douglas was expelled from the Castle with
disgrace. But though banished from his house, he lurked concealed in the
adjacent village, where he had friends and confederates, and, doubtless
inspired many an honest burgher and peasant with sympathy for the wrongs
of their captive sovereign, by his description of the harsh restraint to
which she was subjected within the grim fortress of Lochleven. At
Kinross he was joined by the faithful John Beton, and other devoted
servants of the queen, who were associated for the emancipation of their
royal mistress, and had long been lurking, in various disguises, among
the western Lomonds, to watch for a favorable opportunity of effecting
their object.

Douglas had left, withal, an able coadjutor within the castle, a boy of
tender years, of mysterious parentage, and humble vocation, who was
destined to act the part of the mouse in AEsop's beautiful fable. This
unsuspected confederate was a youth of fifteen, who waited on the Lady
of Lochleven in the capacity of page. He is known in history by the
names of Willie Douglas, and the Little Douglas; in the castle he was
called the Lad Willie, the Orphan Willie, and the Foundling Willie,[4]
for he was found, when a babe, at the castle gates. Home, of Godscroft,
says, "He was the natural brother of George Douglas,"[5] a statement
perfectly reconcileable with the story of his first introduction into
the family of the late Laird of Lochleven. Such incidents are not of
unfrequent occurrence in the daily romance of life, and often has it
happened that the appeal made to the parental feelings of a profligate
seducer, in behalf of a guiltless child of sin and sorrow, has awakened
feelings of feminine compassion in the bosom of the injured wife, and
the forlorn stranger has received a home and nurture through her
charity. This appears to have been the case with regard to Little Willie
and the Lady of Lochleven; for, whether she suspected his connection
with the laird her husband or not, he was taken in, and brought up under
her auspices, and as attendant on her person. Frail as she had been in
her youth, and cruel and vindictive in her treatment of the lawful
daughter of her royal seducer, whom it irked her pride to consider as
her sovereign, it is nevertheless pleasant to trace out the evidence of
some good in the harsh Lady of Lochleven.

The Foundling Willie remained in the castle, after the death of the old
laird, an orphan dependent in the family, but his subsequent actions
prove that he had received the education of a gentleman; for not only
could he read and write, but he understood enough of French and other
languages to be sent on secret missions to foreign princes. To these
acquirements Willie added courage, firmness, and address, seldom
paralleled in one of his tender years.

There is not any circumstance in the course of Mary Stuart's career more
striking than the fact that, in this dark epoch of her life, when
deprived of all the attributes of royalty, oppressed, calumniated, and
imprisoned, two friends like George and Willie Douglas should have been
raised up for her in the family of her deadliest foes. The regent and
his confederates, men whose hands had been soiled with English gold, had
not calculated on the existence of the chivalric feelings which animated
those young warm hearts with the determination of effecting the
liberation of their captive queen.

"Mary being deprived of pen and ink at this time," says her French
biographer, Caussin, "wrote her instructions with a piece of charcoal,
on her handkerchief, which she employed the boy Willie Douglas to
dispatch to the Lord Seton." John Beton, who still lay, perdue, among
the hills, was the ready bearer of this missive, and arranged every
thing for the reception and safe conduct of his royal mistress, in case
she should be fortunate enough to reach the shore in safety. For many
nights he, with Lord Seton, George Douglas, and others, kept watch and
ward on the promontory which commanded a view of the castle and the
lake, in expectation of being apprised, by signal, that the project was
about to be carried into effect.

On Sunday, the second evening in May, all things being in readiness, and
the family at supper, Willie Douglas, who was waiting on the Lady of
Lochleven, contrived, while changing her plate, to drop a napkin over
the keys of the castle (which were always placed beside her during
meals), and having thus enveloped them, succeeded in carrying them off
unobserved. Hastening with them to the queen, he conducted her, by a
private stair, to the postern, and so to the water-gate of the castle,
which he took care to lock after him; and when the boat had gained
convenient distance from the shore, flung the keys into the water. These
mute memorials of the adventure were found covered with rust when the
loch was drained, early in the present century. They are now in the
possession of the Earl of Morton, at Dalmahoy House, where I saw them
and the rude iron chain which formerly linked them together, but which,
being rusted through, fell to pieces when taken out of the water. The
Lochleven keys are five in number, large and small, of antique
workmanship, and are all carefully enshrined in a casket lined with
velvet, and preserved as precious relics by the noble representatives of
the chivalric George Douglas.

The boat which Willie the Orphan had adroitly secured for the service of
his captive sovereign, was that belonging to the castle, and the only
medium of communication for the castellan and his meine with the shore.
Immediate pursuit was, therefore, almost impossible. The companions of
Queen Mary's flight were, her faithful attendant, Mary Seton, ever near
her in the hour of peril, and a little girl of ten years old, of whose
safety her majesty appeared tenderly careful, as she led her by the
hand. The other damsel, a French lady of the name of Quenede, gave a
remarkable proof of her personal courage and devotion to her royal
mistress; for, not being quick enough to reach the castle gate till it
was locked behind the retreating party, she fearlessly leaped out of the
window of the queen's apartment into the loch, and swam after the boat
till she was received within that little ark in her dripping garments.

Meantime, Lord Seton and his gallant associates, who were anxiously
reconnoitring from their eyrie the progress of the little bark and its
precious freight across the lake, remained in a state of the greatest
excitement, not daring to believe that so feeble an instrument as the
orphan Willie had succeeded in achieving an exploit which the bravest
peers in Scotland might have been proud of having performed, and her own
royal kinsmen, the allied princes of France and Spain, had not ventured
to attempt. But all doubts and fears were dispelled when they recognized
the stately figure of their queen, distinguished from the other females
by her superior height, rising in the boat and giving the telegraphic
signal of her safety, as previously agreed, by waving her vail, which
was white with a crimson border, the royal colors of Scotland. The
moment that auspicious ensign was displayed, fifty horsemen, who had
lain concealed behind the hill, sprang to their saddles, and, with Lord
Seton at their head, galloped down to the shore, where George Douglas
and Beton, with another party of devoted friends, were already waiting
to receive and welcome their enfranchised sovereign, as she sprang to
the land. The fleetest palfreys that Scotland could supply had long been
provided, and concealed by George Douglas's trusty confederates in the
village, in anticipation of the success of this enterprise, and were now
ready caparisoned for the queen and her ladies. Mary mounted without
delay, and, attended by the faithful companions of her perils and
escape, scoured across the country at fiery speed, without halting, till
she reached North Queen's Ferry, about twenty miles from Lochleven.
Embarking in the common ferry-boat at that port, she and her company
crossed the rough waters of the Firth, and landed, tradition says, at
the ancient wooden pier, which formerly jutted out into the sea, just
above the town of South Queen's Ferry. There she was met and welcomed by
Lord Claud Hamilton, and fifty cavaliers and other loyal gentlemen,
eager to renew their homage, and burning to avenge her wrongs.

Lord Seton conducted his royal mistress to his own castle at West
Niddry, distant seven miles from South Queen's Ferry, where she partook
of his hospitality, and enjoyed the repose of a few hours, after her
moonlight flitting. West Niddry now forms part of the fair domain of the
Earl of Hopeton. The roofless shell of the stately castle, which
afforded the first safe resting-place to the fugitive sovereign is
still in existence. The changes of the last few years have conducted the
railroad line between Edinburgh and Glasgow in close proximity to the
ruins of the feudal fortress, which gave rest and shelter to the royal
fugitive, after her escape from Lochleven. The gray mouldering pile, in
its lonely desolation, arrests for a moment the attention of the musing
moralist or antiquarian among the passengers in the trains that thunder
onward to their appointed goal through solitudes that recall high and
chivalric visions of the past. But Niddry Castle should be visited in a
quiet hour by the historical pilgrim, who would retrace in fancy the
last bright scene of Mary Stuart's life, when, notwithstanding the
forced abdication which had transferred the regal diadem of Scotland to
the unconscious brow of her baby-boy, she stood a queen once more among
the only true nobles of her realm, those whom English gold had not
corrupted, nor successful traitors daunted.

One window in Niddry Castle was, within the memory of many persons in
the neighborhood, surmounted with the royal arms of Scotland, together
with a stone entablature, which, though broken, is still in existence,
in the orchard of the adjacent grange, inscribed in ancient letters with
the day of the month and the date of the year, and even the age of
George Lord of Seton, at the memorable epoch of his life when the
beauteous majesty of Scotland, whom he had so honorable a share in
emancipating from her cruel bondage, slept beneath his roof in safety.

Lord Seton had been an old and faithful servant of his queen. He was the
master of the royal household, and had been present at her nuptials with
the beloved husband of her youth, King Francis II., of France. On her
return to Scotland, after the death of that sovereign, Mary offered to
advance Seton to the dignity of an earldom, but being the premier baron
in parliament, he refused to be the puisne earl, giving humble thanks to
her majesty for her proffered grace at the same time. Mary then wrote
the following extempore distich in Latin and also in French:

    "_Sunt comites ducesques denique reges;
    Setoni dominum sit satis mihi._"

which, in plain English, may be rendered thus:

    "Though earls and dukes, and even kings there be,
    Yet Seton's noble lord sufficeth me."

"After that unfortunate battle of Langside, the said Lord George Seton
was forced to fly to Flanders, and was there in exile two years, and
drove a wagon with four horses for his subsistence. His picture in that
condition," adds the quaint, kindred biographer of the noble family of
Seton, "I have seen drawn, and lively painted, at the north end of the
long gallery in Seton, now overlaid with timber. From Flanders, the said
Lord George went to Holland, and there endeavored to seduce the two
Scots regiments to the Spanish service, upon a design thereby to serve
his sovereign the queen, the king of Spain being very much her friend.
Which plot of his being revealed, the states of Holland did imprison
and condemn him to ride the cannon; but by the friendship and respect
the Scotch officers had to him, he was by them set at liberty,
notwithstanding this decision of the States."[6]

Lord Seton outlived these troubles, he was preserved to enjoy the reward
of his integrity after those who pursued his life had been successively
summoned to render up an account of the manner in which they had
acquired and acquitted themselves of their usurped authority, till all
were clean swept away. It is a remarkable fact that the most relentless
of the persecutors of their hapless sovereign, Mary Stuart, especially
those who for a brief period were the most successful in their ambitious
projects, Murray, Lennox, Marr, Lethington, and Morton, all by violent
or untimely deaths preceded their royal victim to the tomb.

James VI. testified a grateful sense of the services Lord Seton had
rendered to queen Mary, by preferring him and his sons to the most
honorable offices in his gift.

Mary herself rewarded George Douglas to the utmost of her power, in
various ways, but above all by facilitating his marriage with a young
and beautiful French heiress of high rank, to whom he had formed an
attachment, and as his poverty was the only obstacle to this alliance,
she generously enabled him to make a suitable settlement on his bride
out of a portion of her French estates, which she assigned to him for
this purpose by deed of gift. "Services like his," as she wrote to her
uncle, "ought never to be forgotten."

A simple black marble tablet in the chancel of Edensor Church, to the
left of the altar, marks the grave of John Beton, on which a Latin
inscription records the fact, "that he died at Chatsworth, in his
thirty-fourth year, worn out with the fatigues and hardships he had
encountered in the service of his royal mistress," adding as his best
and proudest epitaph, "that he had assisted in delivering that
illustrious princess from her doleful prison in the Laga Laguina."
(Lochleven.)

Poetry is the handmaid as well as the inspiration of chivalry, and if
ever the deeds of brave and loyal gentlemen deserved to live in song,
surely the achievement of the loyal associates who rescued their
oppressed queen from her cruel captivity in Lochleven Castle, ought to
be thus commemorated, and their names had in remembrance long after "the
marble that enshrines their mortal remains has perished, and its imagery
mouldered away."


FOOTNOTES:

[2] "Lives of the Queens of Scotland, and English Princesses connected
with the regal succession of Great Britain."

[3] See many dispatches from the English envoys resident in Scotland.
State Paper Office, from 1534 to 1536.

[4] "Life of Lord Herries," edited by Pitcairne, Abbotsford Club,
p. 101.

[5] "Life of James Earl of Morton," in the "Lives of the Douglases,"
p. 302.

[6] Continuation of the "History of the Houses of Seytoun, by Alexander,
Viscount Kingston. Printed for the Maitland Club."




[From Dickens's Household Words.]

A GERMAN PICTURE OF THE SCOTCH.


A new play was recently produced at the principal theatre of Vienna,
which illustrates the notions of Scotchmen which obtain currency and
credence among the Germans. The scene is laid in St. Petersburgh; the
real hero is a little animal, known to dog-fanciers as a Scotch terrier;
but the nominal chief character is a banker from Glasgow, named
Sutherland. He had failed in his native place, but in Russia he became a
great man, for he was the favorite money-dealer of the Empress
Catherine.

We all know the strength of a Scotch constitution, but we also know the
severity of a St. Petersburgh winter: yet Mr. Sutherland presents
himself to his audience, amidst the frozen scenery of that ice-bound
city, in what is believed abroad to be the regular everyday costume of a
citizen of Glasgow; namely, a kilt, jack-boots, and a cocked hat, with a
small grove of fine real feathers. Mr. Sutherland, despite his scanty
nether costume, appears to be in excellent health and spirits. He has
thriven so well in the world that, in accordance with a tolerably
correct estimate of the Caledonian national character, his relations at
home begin to pay court to him, and to send him presents. One indulges
him with the hero of the piece: the small, ugly, irate, snuffy quadruped
before mentioned. The banker takes it with a good-humored "Pish!" little
dreaming of the important part the little wretch is destined to play. He
had scarcely received the gift when the Empress passes by, sees the dog,
and desires to possess it, while the grateful Sutherland is too glad to
be able to gratify a royal caprice at so light a cost.

She, in the fervency of her gratitude, named the dog after the donor--a
great compliment.

Alas! one day, the dog, who had eaten too plentifully of _zoobreme_
(chicken stewed with truffles), was seized with apoplexy and died;
though not without suspicion of having been poisoned by the prime
minister, a piece of whose leg he had digested the day before. The
Empress sighed far more over the loss of her dog, than she would have
done for that of the minister. The one might have been easily replaced:
she knew at least twenty waiting open-mouthed for the vacancy. But who
could replace her four-footed friend!--she mourns him as a loss utterly
irreparable. She orders the greatest mark of affectionate respect it is
possible to show to be performed on the dead terrier.

The scene changes; it is night. The fortunate banker is seated at
dessert, after an excellent dinner of "mutton rosbif," and "hot-a-meale
pour-ridges, and patatas," indispensable to a North Briton; his legs are
crossed, his feet rest upon a monstrous fender, which he takes care to
inform us he has received from England, as he sits sipping his "sherri
port bier," and soliloquizing pleasantly over the various chances of his
life. He is just about to finish his evening with some "croc," the
English name for the pleasant invention of Admiral Grogram; his servant
enters, to announce that the chief executioner with a file of soldiers
have just dropped in, to say a word on a matter of business from the
Empress.

The awful functionary, on stalking into the room, exclaimed, "I am
come--"

"Well, I see you are," replied the banker, trying to be facetious, but
feeling like a man with a sudden attack of ague.

"By command of the Empress!"

"Long may she live!" ejaculates Sutherland, heartily.

"It is really a very delicate affair," says the executioner; who, like
the French Samson, is a humane man; "and I do not know how to break it
to you."

"Oh, pray, don't hesitate. What would you like to take?" asked the
banker, spilling the grog he tried to hand to the horrid functionary,
from sheer fright.

The Envoy shakes his head grimly. "It is what we must all come to some
day," he adds, after a short pause.

"What is? In Heaven's name do not keep me longer in suspense!" cries the
banker, his very visible knees knocking together with agonizing
rapidity.

"I have been sent," answers the awful messenger; again he stops--looks
compassionately at his destined victim.

"Well!"

"By the Empress--"

"I know!"

"To have you--"

"What?"

"Stuffed!" said the Executioner mournfully.

The banker shrieked.

"Stuffed!" repeats the man, laconically, pointing to a bird in a glass
case, to prevent there being any mistake in Sutherland's mind as to the
nature of the operation he is to be called upon to undergo.

The Executioner now lays his hand significantly on poor Sutherland's
collar, and looks into his face, as if to inquire if he had any
particular or peculiar fancy as to the mode in which he would like to go
through the preparatory operation of being killed.

"I have brought the straw," he says, "and two assistants are without.
The Empress can not wait; and we have not got your measure for the glass
case yet."

The banker looks the very picture of abject misery; but Britons, in
foreign comedies, are always ready to buy every thing, and the banker
had lived long enough in Russia to know the value of a bribe. He
therefore offers one so considerable, that his grim visitor is touched,
and endeavors to lull his sense of duty to sleep by a sophistry.

"I was told, indeed, to have you stuffed," he reasons, "and got ready
for the Empress; but nothing was said about time; so I don't mind giving
you half an hour if you can satisfy these gentlemen"--and he turns to
his associates.

It is briefly done. The banker pays like a man whose life depends on his
liberality--we suppose several millions--for the Executioner remarks
that he can not forget that a groom in England frequently receives
several thousands sterling a year; this is a very prevalent idea among
the Frankish and Teutonic nations of the Continent. We once heard a
Spanish general assert, in a large assembly, that the usual pay of an
English ensign was five hundred pounds a month, an idea doubtless
derived from some Iberian dramatist; and therefore a public functionary
like the Executioner must be remunerated proportionably higher. The
enormous pecuniary sacrifice gets for Sutherland some half-hour's
respite; which he wisely uses by flying to the British embassador, Sir
Bifstik, and awaits the result with great anguish.

Sir Bifstik goes to the Empress. He is admitted. He asks if Her Majesty
be aware of the position of a British subject named Sutherland?

"Excellent man," says Her Majesty, "No! What is it?"

Sir Bifstik bows low at the tones of the Imperial voice, and now begins
to explain himself with something more than diplomatic haste; thinking,
perhaps, that already the fatal straw may be filling the banker's
members.

Imperial Catherine does not, of course, consider the putting to death of
a mere Scotch banker, and making him in reality what some of his
brethren are sometimes called figuratively--a man of straw--worth this
fuss; and sets the embassador down in her mind as a person of wild
republican ideas, who ought to be recalled as soon as possible by his
government, and placed under proper surveillance; but, nevertheless, she
causes some inquiries to be made, and learns that it is in consequence
of her having ordered "Sutherland" to be stuffed that he is probably
then undergoing that operation.

Sir Bifstik expresses such horror and consternation at this
intelligence, that the Empress believes his mind to be disordered.

"What possible consequence can the accidental stuffing of a Scotch
banker be to you, milor?" she saith.

"The ac-ci-den-t-al stuff-ings of a Scotcher Bankers!" in a German idiom
not generally used by our nobility, gasps Sir Bifstik, mechanically,
with pale lips and bristling hair.

"Take him away! He is mad!" screams the Empress, thinking that no sane
person could be concerned about such a trifling affair, and in another
moment the most sacred of international laws would have been violated
(on the stage), and Great Britain insulted by profane hands being laid
on the person of her embassador, when all at once a light breaks over
the mind of Her Majesty--the recalling of something forgotten. She
exclaims, with a Russian _nonchalance_ quite cheering to behold, "Oh, I
remember; now it is easily explained. My poor little dog (I had
forgotten him too) died yesterday, and I wished his body to be
preserved. _Cher chien!_ His name was the same as that of the banker, I
think. Alas that cruel Death should take _my_ dog!"

"But Mr. Sutherland has, perhaps, already been murdered!" gasps the
embassador. "I pray that your Majesty will lose no time in having him
released, should he be still alive!"

"Ah, true! I never thought of that," returns the Empress.

The order is finally issued, and Sutherland rescued, just as the
Executioner, grown angry at his unreasonable remonstrances, resolves to
delay no longer in executing the Imperial commands. To put the
_coup-de-grace_ on the comic agony of the poor banker, his immense red
crop of hair has, in that half hour of frightful uncertainty, turned
white as snow!




[From Hogg's Instructor.]

THE FRENCH REVOLUTIONISTS, MARAT, ROBESPIERRE, AND DANTON.

BY GEORGE GILFILLAN.


One obvious effect of the upheavings of a revolution is to develop
latent power, and to deliver into light and influence cast down and
crushed giants, such as Danton. But another result is the undue
prominence given by convulsion and anarchy to essentially small and
meagre spirits, who, like little men lifted up from their feet, in the
pressure of a crowd, are surprised into sudden exaltation, to be trodden
down whenever their precarious propping gives way. Revolution is a
genuine leveler: "small and great" meet on equal terms in its wide
grave; and persons, whose names would otherwise have never met in any
other document than a directory, are coupled together continually,
divide influence, have their respective partisans, and require the stern
alembic of death to separate them, and to settle their true positions in
the general history of the nation and the world.

Nothing, indeed, has tended to deceive and mystify the public mind more
than the arbitrary conjunction of names. The yoking together of men in
this manner has produced often a lamentable confusion as to their
respective intellects and characteristics. Sometimes a mediocrist and a
man of genius are thus coupled together; and what is lost by the one is
gained by the other, while the credit of the whole firm is essentially
impaired. Sometimes men of equal, though most dissimilar intellect, are,
in defiance of criticism, clashed into as awkward a pair as ever stood
up together on the floor of a country dancing-school. Sometimes, for
purposes of moral or critical condemnation, two of quite different
degrees of criminality are tied neck and heels together, as in the dread
undistinguishing "marriages of the Loire." Sometimes the conjunction of
unequal names is owing to the artifice of friends, who, by perpetually
naming one favorite author along with another of established fame, hope
to convince the unwary public that they are on a level. Sometimes they
are produced by the pride or ambition, or by the carelessness or
caprice, of the men or authors themselves. Sometimes they are the
deliberate result of a shallow, though pretentious criticism, which sees
and specifies resemblances, where, in reality, there are none.
Sometimes they spring from the purest accidents of common circumstances,
common cause, or common abode, as if a crow and a thrush must be kindred
because seated on one hedge. From these, and similar causes, have arisen
such combinations as Dryden and Pope, Voltaire and Rousseau, Cromwell
and Napoleon, Southey and Coleridge, Rogers and Campbell, Hunt and
Hazlitt, Hall and Foster, Paine and Cobbett, Byron and Shelley, or
Robespierre and Danton.

In the first histories of the French Revolution, the names of Marat,
Robespierre, and Danton occur continually together as a triumvirate of
terror, and the impression is left that the three were of one order,
each a curious compound of the maniac and the monster. They walk on,
linked in chains, to common execution, although it were as fair to tie
up John Ings, Judge Jeffreys, and Hercules Furens. A somewhat severer
discrimination has of late unloosed Marat from the other two, and
permitted Robespierre and Danton to walk in couples, simply for the
purpose of pointing more strongly the contrast between the strait-laced
demonism of the one, and the fierce and infuriated manhood of the other.
At least, it is for this purpose that we have ranked their names
together.

Of Marat, too, however, we are tempted to say a single word--"Marah,"
might he better have been called, for he was a water of bitterness. He
reminds us of one of those small, narrow, inky pools we have seen in the
wilderness, which seem fitted to the size of a suicide, and waiting in
gloomy expectation of his advent. John Foster remarked, of some small
"malignant" or other, that he had never seen so much of the "_essence_
of devil in so little a compass." Marat was a still more compact
concentration of that essence. He was the prussic acid among the family
of poisons. His unclean face, his tiny figure, his gibbering form, his
acute but narrow soul, were all possessed by an infernal unity and
clearness of purpose. On the great clock of the Revolution--while Danton
struck the reverberating hours--while Robespierre crept cautiously but
surely, like the minute-hand, to his object--Marat was the everlasting
"tick-tick" of the smaller hand, counting, like a death-watch, the quick
seconds of murder. _He_ never rested; he never slumbered, or walked
through his part; he fed but to refresh himself for revolutionary
action; he slept but to breathe himself for fresh displays of
revolutionary fury. Milder mood, or lucid interval, there was none in
him. The wild beast, when full, sleeps; but Marat was never full--the
cry from the "worm that dieth not," within him being still, "Give,
give," and the flame in his bosom coming from that fire which is "never
to be quenched."

If, as Carlyle seems sometimes to insinuate, earnestness be in itself a
divine quality, then should Marat have a high place in the gallery of
heroes; for if an earnest angel be admirable, chiefly for his
earnestness, should not an earnest imp be admirable, too? If a tiger be
respectable from his unflinching oneness of object, should not a toad,
whose sole purpose is to spit sincere venom, crawl amid general
consideration, too? If a conflagration of infernal fire be on the whole
a useful and splendid spectacle, why not honor one of its bluest and
most lurid flames, licking, with peculiar pertinacity, at some proud
city "sham?" But we suspect, that over Carlyle's imagination the quality
of greatness exerts more power than that of earnestness. A great
regal-seeming ruffian fascinates him, while the petty scoundrel is
trampled on. His soul rises to mate with the tiger in his power, but his
foot kicks the toad before it, as it is lazily dragging its
loathsomeness through the wet garden-beds. The devils, much admired as
they stood on the burning marl, lose caste with him when, entering the
palace of Pandemonium, they shrink into miniatures of their former
selves. Mirabeau, with Carlyle, is a cracked angel; Marat, a lame and
limping fiend.

Some one has remarked how singular it is that all the heroes of the
French Revolution were _ugly_. It seems as curious to us that they were
either very large or very little persons. Danton was a Titan; Mirabeau,
though not so tall, was large, and carried a huge head on his shoulders;
whereas Marat and Napoleon were both small men. But the French found
their characteristic love of extremes gratified in all of them. Even
vice and cruelty they will not admire, unless sauced by some piquant
oddity, and served up in some extraordinary dish. A little, lean
corporal, like Napoleon, conquering the Brobdingnagian marshals and
emperors of Europe, and issuing from his nut-like fist the laws of
nations; a grinning death's head, like Voltaire, frightening Christendom
from its propriety, were stimulating to intoxication. But their talent
was gigantic, though their persons were not; whereas, Marat's mind was
as mean, and his habits as low, as his stature was small, and his looks
disgustful. Here, then, was the requisite French ragout in all its
putrid perfection. A scarecrow, suddenly fleshed, but with the heart
omitted--his rags fluttering, and his arms vibrating, in a furious wind,
with inflamed noddle, and small, keen, bloodshot eyes--became, for a
season, the idol of the most refined and enlightened capital in Europe.

Had we traced, as with a lover's eye, the path of some beautiful flash
of lightning, passing, in its terrible loveliness, over the still
landscape, and seen it omitting the church spire, which seemed proudly
pointing to it as it passed--sparing the old oak, which was bending his
sacrificial head before its coming--touching not the tall pine into a
column of torch-like flame, but darting its arrow of wrath upon the
scarecrow, in the midst of a bean-field, and, by the one glare of
grandeur, revealing its "looped and ragged" similitude to a man, its
aspiring beggary, and contorted weakness--it would have presented us
with a fit though faint image of the beautiful avenger, the holy
homicide, the daughter of Nemesis by Apollo--Charlotte Corday--smiting
the miserable Marat. Shaft from heaven's inmost quiver, why wert thou
spent upon such a work? Beautiful, broad-winged bird of Jove, why didst
thou light on such a quarry? Why not have ranged over Europe, in search
of more potent and pernicious tyrants, or, at least, have run thy beak
into the dark heart of Robespierre? Why did a steel, as sharp and bright
as that of Brutus, when he rose "refulgent from the stroke," pierce only
a vile insect on the hem of a mantle, and not at once a mantle and a
man? Such questions are vain; for not by chance, but by decree, it came
about that a death from a hand by which a demi-god would have desired to
die, befell a demi-man, and that now this strange birth of nature shines
on us forever, in the light of Charlotte Corday's dagger and last
triumphant smile.

Yet, even to Marat, let us be merciful, if we must also be just. A
monster he was not, nor even a madman; but a mannikin, of some energy
and acuteness, soured and crazed to a preternatural degree, and whose
fury was aggravated by pure fright. He was such a man as the apothecary
in "Romeo and Juliet" would have become in a revolution; but he, instead
of dealing out small doses of death to love-sick tailors and
world-wearied seamstresses, rose by the force of desperation to the
summit of revolutionary power, cried out for 80,000 heads, and died of
the assaults of a lovely patriotic maiden, as of a sun-stroke. And yet
Shakspeare has a decided _penchant_ for the caitiff wretch he so
graphically paints, and has advertised his shop to the ends of the
earth. So let us pity the poor vial of prussic acid dashed down so
suddenly, and by so noble a hand, whom mortals call Marat. Nature
refuses not to appropriate to her bosom her spilt poisons, any more than
her shed blooms--appropriates, however, only to mix them with kindlier
elements, and to turn them to nobler account. So let us, in humble
imitation, collect, and use medicinally, the scattered drops of poor
acrid Marat.

Marat was essentially of the canaille--a bad and exaggerated specimen of
the class, whom his imperfect education only contributed to harden and
spoil. Robespierre and Danton belong, by birth and training, by feelings
and habits, to the middle rank--Robespierre sinking, in the end, below
it, through his fanaticism, and Danton rising above it, through his
genius and power. Both were "limbs of the law," though the one might be
called a great toe, and the other a huge Briarean arm; and, without
specifying other resemblances, while Marat lost his temper and almost
his reason in the _melee_ of the Revolution, both Robespierre and Danton
preserved to the last their self-possession, their courage, and the full
command of their intellectual faculties, amidst the reelings of the
wildest of revolutionary earthquakes, and the thick darkness of the
deepest canopy of revolutionary night.

Robespierre reminds us much of one of the old Covenanters. Let not our
readers startle at this seemingly strange assertion. We mean the
_worst_ species of the old Covenanter--a specimen of whom is faithfully
drawn by Sir Walter in Burley, and in our illustrious clansman--the
"gifted Gilfillan." Such beings there did exist, and probably exist
still, who united a firm belief in certain religious dogmas to the most
woeful want of moral principle and human feeling, and were ready to
fight what they deemed God's cause with the weapons of the devil. Their
cruelties were cool and systematic; they asked a blessing on their
assassinations, as though savages were to begin and end their cannibal
meals with prayer. Such men were hopelessly steeled against every
sentiment of humanity. Mercy to their enemies seemed to them treason
against God. No adversary could escape from them. A tiger may feed to
repletion, or be disarmed by drowsiness; but who could hope to appease
the _ghost of a tiger_, did such walk? Ghosts of tigers, never
slumbering, never sleeping, cold in their eternal hunger, pursuing
relentlessly their devouring way, were the religious fanatics--the
Dalziels and Claverhouses, as well as the Burleys and Mucklewraths, of
the seventeenth century.

To the same order of men belonged Robespierre, modified, of course, in
character and belief, by the influences of his period. The miscalled
creed of the philosophers of France in the eighteenth century, which,
with many of themselves, was a mere divertisement to their intellects,
or a painted screen for their vices, sunk deep into the heart of
Robespierre, and became a conviction and a reality with him. So far it
was well; but, alas! the creed was heartless and immoral, as well as
false. Laying down a wide object, it permitted every license of vice or
cruelty in the paths through which it was to be gained. Robespierre
became, accordingly, the worst of all sinners--a _sinner upon system_--a
political Antinomian, glorying in his shame, to whom blood itself became
at last an abstraction and a shadow; the guillotine only a tremendous
shuttle, weaving a well-ordered political web; and the tidings of the
fall of a thousand heads agreeably indifferent, as to the farmer the
news of a cleared hay or harvest field.

That Robespierre had at the first any appetite for blood, is not now
asserted by his bitterest foe. That he ever even acquired such a
monstrous thirst, seems to us very unlikely. His only thought would be,
at the tidings of another death, "Another sacrifice to my _idea_;
another obstacle lifted out of its way." Nero's wish that his enemies
had but "one neck" was, we think, comparatively a humane wish. It showed
that he had no delight in the disgusting details, but only in the secure
result of their destruction. _He_ is the unnatural monster who protracts
the fierce luxury--who sips his deep cup of blood lingeringly, that he
may know the separate flavor of every separate drop, and who, like the
Cyclops in the cave, leaves some select victim to the last, as a _bonne
bouche_ to his sated appetite--"_Noman_ shall be the last to be
devoured." Robespierre, no more than Nero, was _up_ to such delicately
infernal cruelty.

Carlyle frequently admits Robespierre's sincerity, and yet rates him as
little other than a sham. We account for this as we did in the case of
Marat. He is regarded as a SMALL sincerity; and the sincerity of a small
man contracts, to Carlyle's eye, something of the ludicrous air in which
a Lilliputian warrior, shouldering his straw-sized musket, and firing
his lead-drop bullets, seemed to Gulliver. "Bravo, my little hero!"
shouts the Titan, with a loud laugh, as he sees him, with "sky-blue
breeches," patronizing the houseless idea of a divine being, "prop away
at the tottering heavens, with that new nine-pin of thine; but why is
there not rather a little nice doll of an image in those showy
inexpressibles, to draw out, and complete the conversion of thy people?
and why not say, 'These be thy gods, O toy and toad-worshiping France!'"
To bring him to respect, while he admits, the sincerity, we would need
to disprove the smallness, of our Arras advocate. Now, compared to truly
great men, such as Cromwell--or to extraordinary men, such as Napoleon,
Mirabeau, and Danton--Robespierre was small enough. But surely it was no
pigmy, whose voice--calm, dispassioned, and articulate--ruled lunatic
France; who preserved an icy coolness amid a land of lava; who mastered,
though it was only for a moment, a steed like the Revolution; and who
threw from his pedestal, though it was by assailing in an unguarded
hour, a statue so colossal as Danton's. Rigid, Roman-like purpose--keen,
if uninspired, vision--the thousand eyes of an Argus, if not the head of
a Jove, or the fist of a Hercules--perseverance, honesty, and first-rate
business qualities--we must allow to Robespierre, unless we account for
his influence by Satanic possession, and say--either _no dunce aut
Diabolus_. Carlyle attributes his defeat and downfall to his
pertinacious pursuit of a shallow logic to its utmost consequences.
Probably he thus expresses, in his own way, the view we have already
sought to indicate. Robespierre was the sincere, consistent, unclean
apostle of an unclean system--a system of deism in theology--of
libertinism in morals--of mobocracy in politics--of a "gospel according
to Jean-Jacques"--a gospel of "liberty, equality, fraternity"--a liberty
ending in general bondage, an equality terminating in the despotism of
unprincipled talent, a fraternity dipping its ties in blood. With
faithful, unfaltering footstep, through good report and bad report, he
followed the genius of revolution in all her devious, dark, dangerous,
or triumphant paths, till she at last turned round in anger, like a
dogged fiend, and rent him in pieces.

In dealing with Robespierre, we feel, more than with Marat, that we are
in contact with an intelligent human being, not an oddity, and mere
splinter of a man. His idea _led_, and at last _dragged_ him, but did
not devour nor possess him. His cruelty was more a policy, and less a
raging passion; and his great moral error lay in _permitting_ a theory,
opposed to his original nature, to overbear his moral sense, to drain
him of humanity, and to precipitate him to his doom. If he had resisted
the devil, he would have fled from him.

In rising from Robespierre to Danton, we feel like one coming up from
the lower plains of Sicily into its western coast--the country of the
Cyclopes, with their one eye and gigantic stature; their courage, toil,
ferocity, impiety, and power. Danton _did_ tower Titanically above his
fellows, and, with little of the divine, was the strongest of the
earth-born. He had an "eye," like a shield of sight, broad, piercing,
and looking straight forward. His intellect was clear, intuitive,
commanding, incapable of the theoretical, and abhorrent of the
visionary. He was practical in mind, although passionate in temperament,
and figurative in speech. His creed was atheism, not apparently wrought
out by personal investigation, or even sought for as an opiate to
conscience, but carelessly accepted, as the one he found fashionable at
the time. His conduct, too, was merely the common licentiousness of his
country, taking a larger shape from his larger constitution and stronger
passions. His political faith was less definite and strict, but more
progressive and practical, and more accommodated to circumstances than
Robespierre's. His patriotism was as sincere as Robespierre's, but hung
about him in more voluminous folds. It was a toga, not a tunic. A sort
of lazy greatness, which seemed, at a distance, criminal indifference,
characterized him when in repose. His cupidity was as Cyclopean as his
capacity. Nothing less than a large bribe could fill such a hand. No
common goblet could satisfy such a maw. Greedy of money, for money's
sake, he was not. He merely wished to live, and all Paris knew what he
meant by living. And with all the royal sops to Cerberus, he remained
Cerberus still. Never had he made the pretensions of a Lord Russell, or
Algernon Sidney, and we know how they were subsidized. His "poverty, but
not his will consented." Had he lived in our days, a public
subscription--a "Danton testimonial, all subscriptions to be handed in
to the ---- office of Camille Desmoulins," would have saved this vast
needy patriot--this "giant worm of fire," from the disgrace of taking
supplies from Louis, and then laughing a wild laughter at his provider,
as he gnawed on at the foundations of his throne.

In fact, careless greatness, without principle, was the key to Danton's
merits and faults--his power and weakness. Well did Madame Roland call
him "Sardanapalus." When he found a clover field, he rolled in it. When
he had nothing to do, he did nothing; when he saw the necessity of doing
something immediately, he could condense ages of action into a few
hours. He was like some terrible tocsin, never rung till danger was
imminent, but then arousing cities and nations as one man. And thus it
was that he saved his country and lost himself, repulsed Brunswick, and
sunk before Robespierre.

It had been otherwise, if his impulses had been under the watchful
direction of high religious, or moral, or even political principle. This
would have secured unity among his passions and powers, and led to
steady and cumulative efforts. From this conscious greatness, and
superiority to the men around him, there sprung a fatal security and a
fatal contempt. He sat on the Mountain smiling, while his enemies were
undermining his roots; and while he said, "He dares not imprison me,"
Robespierre was calmly muttering "I will."

It seemed as if even revolution were not a sufficient stimulus to, or a
sufficient element for Danton's mighty powers. It was only when war had
reached the neighborhood of Paris, and added its hoarse voice to the
roar of panic from within, that he found a truly Titanic task waiting
for him. And he did it manfully. His words became "half battles." His
actions corresponded with, and exceeded his words. He was as calm, too,
as if he had created the chaos around him. That the city was roused, yet
concentrated--furious as Gehenna, but firm as fate, at that awful
crisis, was all Danton's doing. Paris seemed at the time but a
projectile in his massive hand, ready to be hurled at the invading foe.
His alleged cruelty was the result, in a great measure, of this habitual
carelessness. Too lazy to superintend with sufficient watchfulness the
administration of justice, it grew into the Reign of Terror. He was,
nevertheless, deeply to blame. He ought to have cried out to the mob,
"The way to the prisoners in the Abbaye lies over Danton's dead body;"
and not one of them had passed on. He repented, afterward, of his
conduct, and was, in fact, the first martyr to a milder regime. Not one
of his personal enemies perished in that massacre: hence the name
"butcher" applied to him is not correct. He did not dabble in blood. He
made but one fierce and rapid irruption into the neighborhood of the
"_red sea_," and returned sick and shuddering therefrom.

His person and his eloquence were in keeping with his mind and
character. We figure him always after the pattern of Bethlehem Gabor, as
Godwin describes him: his stature gigantic, his hair a dead black, a
face in which sagacity and fury struggle for the mastery--a voice of
thunder. His mere figure might have saved the utterance of his
watchword, "We must put our enemies in fear." His face was itself a
"Reign of Terror." His eloquence was not of the intellectual, nor of the
rhetorical cast. It was not labored with care, nor moulded by art. It
was the full, gushing utterance of a mind seeing the real merits of the
case in a glare of vision, and announcing them in a tone of absolute
assurance. He did not indulge in long arguments or elaborate
declamations. His speeches were Cyclopean cries, at the sight of the
truth breaking, like the sun, on his mind. Each speech was a
peroration. His imagination was fertile, rugged, and grand. Terrible
truth was sheathed in terrible figure. Each thought was twin-born with
poetry--poetry of a peculiar and most revolutionary stamp. It leaped
into light, like Minerva, armed with bristling imagery. Danton was a
true poet, and some of his sentences are the strangest and most
characteristic utterances amid all the wild eloquence the Revolution
produced. His curses are of the streets, not of Paris, but of
Pandemonium; his blasphemies were sublime as those heard in the trance
of Sicilian seer, belched up from fallen giants through the smoke of
Etna, or like those which made the "burning marl" and the "fiery gulf"
quake and recoil in fear.

Such an extraordinary being was Danton, resembling rather the Mammoths
and Megatheriums of geology than modern productions of nature. There was
no beauty about him why he should be desired, but there was the power
and the terrible brilliance, the rapid rise and rapid subsidence of an
Oriental tempest. Peace--the peace of a pyramid, calm-sitting and
colossal, amid long desolations, and kindred forms of vast and coarse
sublimity--be to his ashes!

It is lamentable to contemplate the fate of such a man. Newly married,
sobered into strength and wisdom, in the prime of life, and with
mildness settling down upon his character, like moonlight on the rugged
features of the Sphinx, he was snatched away. "One feels," says Scott of
him, "as if the eagle had been brought down by a 'mousing owl.'" More
melancholy still to find him dying "game," as it is commonly
called--that is, without hope and without God in the world--caracolling
and exulting, as he plunged into the waters of what he deemed the
bottomless and the endless night; as if a spirit so strong as his could
die--as if a spirit so stained as his could escape the judgment--the
judgment of a God as just as he is merciful; but also--blessed be his
name!--as merciful as he is just.




[From Bentley's Miscellany.]

RATTLIN THE REEFER'S DREAM. A TOUGH BUT TRUE YARN.

BY ONE OF RATTLIN'S OLD SHIPMATES.


It was about the middle of August, 18--, that the _Old Lucifer_ was
cruising in the Monar Passage, a strait about forty miles wide, which
separates the eastern end of St. Domingo from the island of Porto Rico.
I was "middy" of the morning watch: it had been dead calm all night, but
the gentle trade-wind was rising with the rising sun, and morning was
glorious with the magic gilding of a tropical sky. Some time after eight
bells,[7] when Ned Rattlin, who was never very punctual or methodical
in any of his movements, came on deck to relieve me, and I was about to
hurry down to my breakfast of warm skilligalee, or, as our old French
<DW64>, who served as midshipmen's steward and maid-of-all-work, with
true French tact for murdering the king's English, called it,
"giggeragee," Ralph seized me by the collar of my jacket, crying,

"Avast! Careless, my boy; you really must not make sail for the cockpit
till you have heard the horrid dream which I had last night or this
morning, for I dreamt it twice over, and can not get it out of my head.
I must tell it to some one, and you are the only one that I dare tell it
to; I should be so confoundedly laughed at by the _servum pocus_ of the
cockpit; but you and I know each other, and have some pursuits and
feelings in common. We have our day-dreams and our night-dreams, and we
know that there are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of
in the philosophy of a midshipman's berth."

Now, had not Ralph seized hold of me by the lappel of my jacket, as
before said, I should certainly have cut and run; for a reefer of
sixteen, who is just relieved from the morning-watch, which he has kept
for four hours, from four o'clock in the morning, and who has taken a
cold bath in the wash-deck tub, is not likely to be in a humor to let
his breakfast of cocoa or skilligalee grow cold. But, with the powerful
grip of Ralph's shoulder-of-mutton fist on my collar, there was no
chance of escape without tearing my jacket from clue to earring, which I
felt that I could not afford to do; for, as I have before remarked,
Ralph Rattlin was my senior by two years at least, and overtopped me in
height by a foot, or something near it. I therefore made a virtue of
necessity, and said,

"Well, Jemmy, if you'll promise not to keep me long, and allow me,
first, to run down below and tell old Dom to keep my burgoo[8] warm,
I'll return and hear your wonderful dream, though I fancy it's all
gammon, and only manufactured to try the capacity of my swallow; because
you know that, like yourself, I have a bit of hankering after the
marvelous, and, as the <DW64> Methodist said of the prophet Jonah, am 'a
tellible fellow for fish,' though I doubt whether, like him, I could
quite swallow a whale."

"Well, then, make sail, you little flibbertigibbet, and make haste back,
that's a good fellow."

The above elegant soubriquet he generally favored me with, when, in
Yankee parlance, I had "riled" him and got his "dander up," as was
always the case when he was called Jemmy Caster; he being but too
conscious that his long loose figure and shambling gait bore, at that
time, no small resemblance to those of a waister of that name, though he
afterward became a remarkably fine, handsome man, bearing a striking
resemblance, not without sufficient reason, to King George the Fourth.

In a few minutes I had made arrangements with old Dominique for the safe
custody of my breakfast, and was again pacing the lee side of the
quarter-deck, by the side of my gigantic messmate.

"And now, my dear Careless," said he, with unusual gravity, "if you can
be serious for a few minutes, I will relate to you this infernal dream,
which so preys upon my spirits that I do not feel like myself this
morning, and must unburden my mind. I dreamt, then, that I was on the
second dog-watch, as you know I shall be this evening; it was between
seven and eight bells, the night pitch-dark, with the wind blowing fresh
from the northeast, the ship under double-reefed topsails, and foresail
close hauled on the starboard tack, running at the rate of five knots as
I had found upon heaving the log. Suddenly the sea became like one sheet
of flame; its appearance was awfully grand; the head of every wave, as
it curled over and broke, diffused itself in broad streaks and flashes
of blue and white flame; and I involuntarily repeated to myself the two
lines of that singular, soul-freezing rhapsody, the 'Ancient Mariner,'
which, though descriptive of a very different state of the ocean from
that now presented to my imagination, I felt to be most applicable to
what I saw before me--

    The water, like a witch's oils,
      Burnt green, and blue, and white;

and then, referring to the two preceding lines of the stanzas--

    About, about, in reel and rout,
      The death-fires danced at night.

For that strangely wild and beautiful poem had taken a powerful hold on
my sleeping fancy. I asked myself, with a shudder, can there be
'death-fires?' And it seemed that the question uttered half aloud, had
no sooner passed my lips, than it received its answer in a most strange
and fearful manner; for a voice, like no human voice that I ever yet
heard, shrieked out, in a tone of horror and distress, that made my
blood run cold, 'Ship a-hoy--ship a-hoy!' I turned toward the lee
quarter, whence the voice came; and, jumping on a carronade-slide, I saw
the body of a man appearing out of the sea, from the waist upward, of
gigantic size, and of most forbidding--and at the same time
woeful--countenance. His body appeared covered with scales, like that of
a fish, which reflected the ghastly phosphoric light of the waters in
radiating hues of green and gold, and purple and violet. His ample jaws,
which opened from ear to ear, and which were furnished with a triple row
of saw-shaped teeth, like those of a shark, were fringed with a thick
curled beard and mustache, of pale sea-green, which fell in wavy
masses, mingling with long elf-locks of the same sickly hue, over his
broad breast and shoulders; his deep sunk eyes flashed out with a
strange unearthly light from beneath thick, overhanging eyebrows of that
self-same sea-green hue, and his head was surrounded and surmounted with
a waving diadem of 'green, and blue and white' flames, flashing upward,
and radiating sideways, and curling over their waving tops, so as to ape
the exact form of ostrich feathers. Awful as the figure was, and though
it made my flesh creep, yet dreaming as I was, I felt conscious that
there was something of the ridiculous attached to the _bizarrerie_ of
its appearance. You know my vein, Careless, and will give me credit for
a true exposition of my feelings, when I tell you that, though in a most
awful funk, I could not help adopting the words of _Trinculo_, and
asking myself, half aloud,

    What have we here--a man or a fish?

I had not, till that moment, noticed the quarter-master of the watch, a
fine old weather-beaten seaman, who stood close to my side, and was,
like myself, attentively watching the movements of the strange
demon-like merman, who continued to follow the ship within a few fathoms
of the lee quarter-gallery, with a continual bowing or nodding motion of
the head, which caused his plumes of livid flame to flash and
corruscate, so that, to my eyes, they appeared to assume various forms
of terror, as of 'fiery flying serpents,' entwining his temples and
thence shooting upward, hissing and protruding their forked tongues, and
lashing the air with their wings and tails of flame; and then, again,
they subsided as before into the form of gracefully-curling ostrich
plumes; meanwhile he kept opening his terrific jaws, from which issued a
thin blue luminous vapor, as if in act to speak, but uttered no audible
sound, except that every now and then he would wring his huge hands,
which appeared to be webbed to the second joint of the fingers, like the
feet of a water fowl, and furnished with long, crooked nails like an
eagle's claws, and utter a wailing shriek so like the cry of a drowning
man, that it nearly drove me mad to hear it, and seemed to freeze my
very blood in my veins. Whether old Bitts, the quarter-master, had
really heard me quote the words of _Trinculo_, or whether, as all things
seem to work by supernatural influences in dreams, he had divined my
question by intuition, I know not, but he answered me at once.

"'No, sir; believe an old sailor, that 'ere critter is neither man nor
fish; it is somebody far more terrible-like, and one that few living
sailors have ever set eyes on, though, mayhap, I may have seen him
before; mayhap, d'ye see, I can't tell when nor where, nor whether it
were sleeping or waking; howsomedever, be that as it will, I knows him
well enough, for sure that 'ere's old Davy himself--old Davy Jones--he's
come for some poor fellow's soul on board this here ship; and if you
wants to get rid of him, you'd better go down at once, and call the
captain up, that he may tell him to take what he wants and be off; for,
till that's done, he'll keep alongside the ship, and if he's kept too
long waiting, there's no saying but he may send a hurricane which may
sweep the _Old Lucifer_ and all her officers and crew, away down into
his locker.'

"This hint was no sooner given, than I thought I went down into the
captain's cabin, where I found Captain Dure seated at the cabin-table,
just under the swinging lamp, as pale as death, and trembling from head
to foot like an aspen-leaf.

"'Please, sir,' I said, touching my hat, as in duty bound, 'Davy Jones
has come alongside, and is waiting for somebody's soul; will you please
to come on deck, and tell him to take what he wants?'

"'I know it,' said the captain, who seemed utterly unnerved with terror,
while the presence of the unearthly visitant seemed to

      ---- harrow up his soul, freeze his young blood;
    Make his two eyes, like stars, start from their spheres;
    His knotted and combined locks to part,
    And each particular hair to stand on end
    Like quills upon the fretful porcupine.

"'I had a glimpse of him,' continued he, 'out of the quarter-gallery
window, and that's enough for me. Let the officer of the watch, or the
first lieutenant, tell him to take what he wants, and get rid of him.'

"Now, it seemed to me in my dream that I was dreadfully annoyed at the
conduct of the captain in shrinking in such a dastardly manner from his
duty; for, from the moment that Bitts had informed me who the stranger
was and what he required, I had gone down and reported his advent to the
skipper, with as much coolness and unconcern as I should have done the
coming alongside of the admiral or any other great personage, and all my
terror seemed, for the time, to have vanished as soon as the strange
vision became connected with matters of routine or ship's duty. I,
therefore, addressed the captain again, as it seemed to me, in a tone
more authoritative than respectful: 'But, sir, you must come on deck;
for old Bill Bitts says that Davy Jones will hearken to nobody but the
captain or commander of the ship for the time being, and he knows Davy
of old; and says, that if you don't come up on deck soon and let him go,
the old fellow will send a hurricane that will blow the _Old Lucifer_
out of the water, and that we shall find ourselves all, men and
officers, down in Davy Jones's locker before you can say Jack Robinson.
And I can tell you, sir, that the sky looks very ugly to windward.'

"'Well, Ralph, my boy!' said the captain, apparently quite convinced by
my eloquent speech, which seemed to go down capitally in my dream,
though I guess I should soon be looking out for squalls at the
main-top-gallant-mast head, if I were to venture to address such a
cavalier harangue to the skipper in waking earnest. 'Well, Ralph, my
boy! give me your arm, and we'll go on deck, and give old Davy his due,
since it must be so.' And with my assistance the captain mounted the
companion-ladder, still trembling in every limb.

"As soon as we came on deck, I led him over to the lee side of the
quarter-deck, and begged him to mount the carronade slide, and give his
unwelcome visitor the _conge d'elire_, for which he seemed waiting,
still bowing his head, waving his fiery plumes, and mopping and mowing,
and showing his treble row of teeth, as before. At the sight of the
frightful demon, the captain seemed more dead than alive, and ready to
fall from the gun-carriage, on which I was obliged to support him; he,
however, plucked up courage to shriek out, in a voice that trembled with
agitation, 'Whoever, or whatever you are, take what you want, and
begone;' and having said so, he sank powerless into my arms; upon which
the creature uttered one of its strange, thrilling shrieks as of a
drowning man, but which seemed mingled with a sort of shrill, demoniac
laughter, and disappeared below the waves--the waving plumes of his
singular head-gear flashing up half-mast high as he sank out of sight.
At the same moment, my eyes were somehow mysteriously directed from it,
and I saw Jacob Fell, the forecastle-man, fall dead into the arms of one
of his watch-mates, he, whom we call Cadaverous Jack, and whom you
christened the Ancient Mariner, because you said he went about his duty
looking so miserable, holding his head down on one side, as if he always
felt the weight of the murdered albatross hanging about his neck.
Immediately a heavy squall threw the ship on her beam-ends, and I
awoke"--which was the singular dream related to me by my quondam friend
and shipmate, with a gravity quite unusual with him, except when he
wanted to play upon the credulity of some of us youngsters, when he used
to assume the gravest possible countenance, though I could always, in
these cases, discern the lurking devil in his eyes. In this case,
however, I could discover no such appearance of fun and frolic; his
looks were, on the contrary, perfectly serious, and even allied to
sadness, in spite of the bravado with which he had assumed his usual
careless levity of manner in certain parts of his narration. I
determined, however, not to let him have the laugh against me, and
therefore said, "Come, come, Jemmy, you should tell that dream to the
marines; the sailors can't bolt it; it's rather too tough. We all of us
know that you are always dreaming, but you can't catch old birds with
such chaff. I am too old a sea-dog, and have sailed over too many
leagues of blue water to bite at such gammon." I prided myself much on
being Ralph's senior in the service by a couple of years or so, and felt
indignant that he should think of treating me as a youngster, because he
had about the same advantage of me in age. He, however, affirmed, in the
most solemn manner, that it was an actual _bona-fide_ dream, and that
it had been reiterated on his falling asleep again, though in broken and
disjointed patches, sometimes one part, sometimes another, of the
previous vision being presented to his sleepy fancy; but there was
always this horrible merman, with his shark's jaws and his flaming
tiara, and poor Jacob Fell lying dead in his messmate's arms. But
methinks I hear some nautical reader exclaim, "All stuff!" who ever
heard of two reefers telling their dreams, and chattering on the sacred
precincts of the quarter-deck of one of her Majesty's frigates, like a
guinea-pig and an embryo cadet on the quarter-deck of a Bengal trader?
Pardon, my noble sea-_hossifer_, but you must remember that the _Old
Lucifer_ was not the crack frigate--not the _Eos_, six-and-thirty, but
only a small frigate; and that, although she was blessed with a real
martinet of a first-lieutenant, yet, in point of discipline, she was
like most jackass frigates and sloops of war, _et hoc genus omne_,
little better than a privateer; besides, our Portuguese supernumerary
lieutenant was the officer of the watch, and Ralph had completely got
the weather-gage of him, and could do what he liked with the "pavior."
However, the dream was told me by Ralph nearly in the very words in
which I have given it, though, perhaps, not all on deck, for the subject
was renewed over our allowance of grog in the midshipmen's berth after
dinner, for nothing could drive it out of Rattlin's head, and he was all
that day singularly silent and _distrait_ on all other subjects. That
evening I had the first dog-watch; and when Rattlin came on deck at six
o'clock to relieve me, the sun was setting in a red and angry-looking
sky, and there was every symptom of a squally night.

"Well, Percy," he said, "this sunset reminds me of my dream. I really
think old Davy will be among us before my watch is out."

"Very well, Jemmy, I'll come on deck at seven bells and see," I replied,
as I ran down the companion for an hour's snooze, for, as my nautical
readers will be aware, I had the middle watch. Mindful of my promise, as
soon as I heard seven bells struck, I roused myself from the locker on
which I had stretched myself, and went on deck, and I was immediately
struck with the perfect coincidence of the weather, and all the
accessories to those described by Rattlin in his dream. The ship had
just been put about, and was now close hauled on the starboard tack; the
night pitch dark, the breeze freshening from the northeast, and the sea
beginning to assume that luminous appearance so frequently observable
under a dark sky and with a fresh breeze, but which, though generally
attributed to myriads of luminous animalculae, has never yet been fully
and satisfactorily accounted for. I joined my friend Rattlin, and said
to him, in a low tone, "This looks, indeed, like your dream."

"Yes," he answered, looking very pale and nervous; "it does, indeed. I
don't know what to make of it. Davy Jones will certainly lay hold of
some of us to-night."

At this moment the first-lieutenant came on deck, followed by the
captain, whose sallow countenance, as he stood abaft the binnacle, and
the light fell on his face, looked rather more ghastly than usual.

"I think, Mr. Silva," said the former, addressing the officer of the
watch, "we had better take another reef in the topsails; it looks very
squally to windward; it's drawing near to eight bells, so we'll turn the
hands up at once."

"Mr. Rattlin," said Silva, "all hands reef topsails."

"Boatswain's-mate," bawled out Rattlin, going forward on to the weather
gangway, "turn the hands up to reef topsails."

"Ay, ay, sir;" and immediately his silver call was between his lips, and
after blowing a shrill prelude, his hoarse voice was heard proclaiming,
"All hands reef topsails, ahoy," which was re-echoed from the main-deck
by the call and voice of the boatswain's-mate of the watch below, and,
finally, by those of the boatswain himself, as the men came tumbling up
the fore and main hatchways, and were soon seen scampering up the
rigging, or making the best of their way to their various stations. In
less than five minutes the topsails were double-reefed, and the ship
again dashing the spray from her bows. It being now so near the time for
relieving the watch, the crew, with the exception of the idlers, all
remained on deck, and the topmen scattered in groups about the gangways
and forecastle.

All at once the sky grew blacker than before, the breeze freshened, and
the surface of the sea became like one sheet of pale blue and white
flame.

"Now, Careless," whispered Rattlin, actually trembling with excitement,
"my dream to the life!"

The words had scarcely passed his lips, when such a shriek as I never
heard before or since, seemed to come out of the very depths of the
ocean, close under the ship's counter on the lee quarter. Every one
rushed to the lee gangway, or jumped on the quarter-deck guns, to look
in the direction from whence the sound came; but nothing could be seen.
Once more that doleful cry arose, and it seemed now rather more distant
from the ship, and then it ceased forever.

"A man overboard!" cried the first lieutenant, who seemed the first to
recover his senses, seizing a grating of the companion-hatchway, and
flinging it over the lee bulwark, while the lieutenant of the watch did
the same with its fellow. "Down with helm, and heave her all aback--let
go the lee braces--lay the main-topsail to the mast--square away the
after-yards, my boys--lower the jolly-boat--jump into her, some of ye,
and cast off her fastenings."

This latter command had, however, been obeyed ere it was issued, for the
captain of the mizen-top and myself had jumped into the boat, where we
were soon joined by three other mizen-top-men, and had her all clear for
lowering. Two other seamen stood with the boat's tackle-falls in their
hands.

"Lower away," cried I; and down we went.

During her descent, I had shipped the rudder, and we were soon pulling
away to leeward. In vain we pulled about for more than an hour in the
short, tumbling sea, which scintillated as it broke around us, and shed
a ghastly hue on our anxious countenances, while the

            Elfish light
    Fell off in hoary flakes

from the blades of our oars at every dip as they rose again from the
water. At length the stentorian voice of the first-lieutenant hailed us
to come on board, and we gave up our hopeless search, bringing with us
nothing but one of the gratings and the life-buoy, which had been thrown
overboard to support the drowning man, had he been fortunate enough to
lay hold on one or the other of them. Upon passing the word forward to
inquire whether any of the ship's company were missing, it was found
that Jacob Fell, the forecastle-man, had not been seen since he had laid
out with one of his watch-mates to stow the jib, which was hauled down
when the topsails were reefed; the other man had left him out on the
jib-boom, whence he must have fallen overboard; and it was supposed,
from his thrilling and unearthly shriek, that he had been seized by a
shark, as that part of the Carribean Sea is peculiarly infested by those
voracious creatures; and thus was most singularly accomplished my
shipmate Rattlin's dream.


FOOTNOTES:

[7] Time is regulated on board a king's ship by a half-hour glass, which
is placed in the binnacle, in charge of the quarter-master of the watch
on deck, and who when he turns the glass, passes the word forward to
strike the bell, which, in a man-of-war, is hung to the main-bitts, just
over the main-hatchway, and where it is consequently heard with facility
all over the ship.

[8] Burgoo, or skilligalee, is the sea-term for what in Scotland is
called "parritch," and in Ireland "stirabout," namely, oatmeal boiled in
water.




[From Chambers's Edinburgh Journal.]

LETTERS AND LETTER WRITING.


Neither history nor tradition tells us aught of the first letter--who
was its writer, and on what occasion; how it was transmitted, or in what
manner answered. The Chinese, the Hindoo, and the Scandinavian
mythologies had each tales regarding the inventors of writing, and the
rest of those that by pre-eminence may be called human arts; but
concerning the beginner of mankind's epistolary correspondence, neither
they nor the classic poets--who by the way, volunteered many an
ingenious story on subjects far less important--have given us the least
account.

Pope says:

    "Heaven first taught letters for some wretch's aid--
    Some banished lover, or some captive maid."

The poet evidently refers to the letter-writing art, and it may be so,
for aught we can tell; but with all submission to his superior
knowledge, banished lovers and captive maids have rarely been the
transmitters of such useful inventions. Certainly, whoever first
commenced letter-writing, the world has been long his debtor. It is long
since the Samaritans wrote a letter against the builders of Jerusalem to
Artaxerxes, and it may be observed that the said letter is the earliest
epistle mentioned in any history. Older communications appear to have
been always verbal, by means of heralds and messengers. Homer, in his
account of all the news received and sent between the Greeks and
Trojans, never refers to a single letter. The scribe's occupation was
not altogether unknown in those days, but it must have been brought to
considerable perfection before efforts in the epistolary style were
made. That ancient language of picture and symbol, in which Egypt
expressed her wisdom, was undoubtedly the earliest mode of writing; but,
however, calculated to preserve the memory of great historical events
amid the daily life, and toil, and changes of nations, it was but poorly
fitted for the purpose of correspondence. How could compliments or
insinuations be conveyed by such an autograph? Letters must have been
brief and scanty in the hieroglyphic times; yet doubtless not without
some representations, for the unalphabeted of mankind have combined to
hold mutual intelligence by many a sign and emblem, especially in those
affairs designated of the heart, as they above all others contribute to
ingenuity. Hence came the Eastern language of flowers, which, with
Oriental literature and mythology, is now partially known over the
civilized world. In its native clime this natural alphabet is said to be
so distinctly understood, that the most minute intimations are expressed
by it; but the more frank and practical courtship of Europe has always
preferred the pen as its channel of communication, which, besides its
greater power of enlargement, prevents those mistakes into which the
imperfectly-initiated are apt to fall with flowers. For instance, there
is a story of a British officer in Andalusia who, having made a deep
impression on the heart of a certain alcaide's daughter, in one of the
small old towns of that half-Moorish province, and receiving from her
one morning a bouquet, the significance of which was--"My mother is in
the way now, but come to visit me in the twilight," supposed in his
ignorance, and perhaps presumption, that he was invited to an immediate
appointment: whereupon he hurried to the house, just in time to meet the
venerable signora, when the lady of his heart boxed his ears with her
own fair hands, and vowed she would never again send flowers to a stupid
Englishman.

In fine contrast to this sample of misunderstanding stands forth the
dexterity with which an Irish serving-maid contrived to signify, by
symbols of her own invention, her pleasure, on a still more trying
occasion. Poor Kitty, though a belle in her class, could neither read
nor write; but her mistress's grown-up daughter undertook, as a labor of
love, to carry on a correspondence between her and a certain hedge
schoolmaster in the neighborhood, who laid siege to Kitty's heart and
hand on account of a small deposit in the savings' bank, and that
proverbial attraction which learned men are said to find in rather
illiterate ladies. The schoolmaster was, however, providently desirous
of fixing on the mind of his future partner an impression of his own
superiority sufficient to outlast the wear and tear of married life, and
therefore wooed chiefly by long and learned letters, to which Kitty
responded in her best style, leaving to her volunteer secretary what she
called "the grammar" of her replies; besides declaring, with many
hardly-complimentary observations on the schoolmaster's person and
manners, that she had not the slightest interest in the affair, but
only, in her own words, "to keep up the craythur's heart." Thus the
courtship had proceeded prosperously through all the usual stages, when
at length the question, _par excellence_, was popped (of course on
paper). Kitty heard that epistle read with wonted disdain; but, alas,
for human confidence! there was something in her answer with which she
could not trust the writer of so many; for after all her scorn, Kitty
intended to say, "Yes," and her mode of doing so merits commemoration.
In solitude that evening, beside the kitchen hearth, she sketched on a
sheet of white paper, with the help of a burned stick, a rude
representation of a human eye, and inclosing a small quantity of wool,
dispatched it next morning to the impatient swain by the hand of his
head scholar--those primitive tokens expressing to Kitty's mind the
important words, "I will," which the teacher, strange to say, understood
in the same sense; and their wedding took place, to the unqualified
amazement of Kitty's amanuensis. Epistolary forms and fashions have had
their mutations like all other human things. The old Eastern mode of
securing letters was by folding them in the shape of a roll, and winding
round them a thin cord, generally of silk, as the luxury of letters was
known only to the rich. In the case of billets-doux--for Eastern lovers
did not always speak by flowers when the pen was at their
command--enthusiastic ladies sometimes substituted those long silken
strings which, from time immemorial, the Oriental women have worn in
their hair--a proceeding which was understood to indicate the deepest
shade of devotedness.

The mythic importance attached to these hair-strings must, indeed, have
been great, as history records that a certain prince, whose dominions
were threatened by Mithridates, the great king of Pontus--like other
great men, a troublesome neighbor in his day--sent the latter a
submissive epistle, offering homage and tribute, and bound with the
hair-strings of his nineteen wives, to signify that he and his were
entirely at the monarch's service. The custom of securing letters by
cords came through the Greek empire into Europe in the middle ages; but
the use of the seal seems still earlier, as it is mentioned in Old
Testament history. Ancient writers speak of it as an Egyptian Invention,
together with the signet-ring, so indispensable throughout the classic
world, and regarded as the special appendage of sovereignty in the
feudal times.

Of all the letters the Egyptians wrote on their papyrus, no specimens
now remain, except perhaps those scrolls in the hands of mummies,
referred to by early Christian authors as epistles sent to deceased
friends by those unreturning messengers; and they, it may be presumed,
were at the best but formal letters, since no reply was ever expected.
The classic formula for correspondence, "Augustus to Julius, greeting,"
is now preserved only in letters-patent, or similar documents. That
brief and unvarying style has long been superseded in every language of
Europe by a graduated series of endearing terms, rising with the
temperature of attachment, from "Dear Sir," or "Madam," to a limit
scarcely assignable, but it lies somewhere near "Adored Thomas" or
"Margery."

Masters of the fine arts as they were, those ancient nations came far
short of the moderns in that of letter-writing. The few specimens of
their correspondence that have reached us are either on matters of
public business, or dry and dignified epistles from one great man to
another, with little life and less gossip in them. It is probable that
their practice was somewhat limited, as the facilities of the
post-office were unknown to Greece and Rome--the entire agency of modern
communication being to the classic world represented only by the post or
courier, who formed part of the retinue of every wealthy family. The
method of writing in the third person, so suitable for heavy business or
ceremony, is evidently a classical bequest. It does not appear to have
been practiced in England till about the beginning of the eighteenth
century, though it was early in use among the continental nations. Louis
XIV. used to say, it was the only style in which a prince should permit
himself to write; and in the far East, where it had been in still older
repute, the Chinese informed his missionaries that ever since they had
been taught manners by the Emperor Tae Sing, no inferior would presume
to address a man of rank in any other form, especially as a law of the
said emperor had appointed twenty blows of the bamboo for that
infraction of plebeian duty.

Of all human writings, letters have been preserved in the smallest
proportion. How few of those which the best-informed actors in great
events or revolutions must have written, have been copied by elder
historians or biographers! Such documents are, by their nature, at once
the least accessible and the most liable to destruction; private
interests, feelings, and fears, keep watch against their publication;
but even when these were taken out of the way, it is to be feared that
the narrow-minded habit of overlooking all their wisdom deemed minute,
which has made the chronicles of nations so scanty, and many a life in
two volumes such dull reading, also induced learned compilers to
neglect, as beneath their search, the old letters bundled up in dusty
chest or corner, till they served a succeeding generation for waste
paper. Such mistakes have occasioned heavy losses to literature. Time
leaves no witnesses in the matters of history and character equal to
these. How many a disputed tale, on which party controversy has raged,
and laborious volumes have been written, would the preservation of one
authentic note have set at rest forever?

The practical learning of our times, in its search after confirmation
and detail, amply recognizes the importance of old letters; and good
service has been done to both history and moral philosophy by those who
have given them to the press from state-paper office and family bureau.
In such collections one sees the world's talked-of-and-storied people as
they were in private business, in social relations, and in what might be
justly designated the status of their souls. In spite of the proverbial
truisms, that paper never refuses ink, and falsehood can be written as
well as spoken, the correspondence of every man contains an actual
portrait of the writer's mind, visible through a thousand disguises, and
bearing the same relation to the inward man that a correct picture bears
to the living face; without change or motion, indeed, but telling the
beholder of both, and indicating what direction they are likely to take.

The sayings of wits and the doing of oddities long survive them in the
memory of their generation--the actions of public men live in history,
and the genius of authors in their works; but in every case the
individual, him or herself, lives in letters. One who carried this idea
still farther, once called letter-writing the Daguerreotype of
mind--ever leaving on the paper its true likeness, according to the
light in which it stands for the time; and he added, like the sun's
painting, apt to be most correct in the less pleasant lines and
lineaments. Unluckily this mental portraiture, after the fashion of
other matters, seems less perceptible to the most interested parties.
Many an unconcerned reader can at this day trace in Swift's epistles the
self-care and worship which neither Stella nor Vanessa could have seen
without a change in their histories.

Cardinal Mazarin, however, used to say that an ordinary gentleman might
deceive in a series of interviews, but only a complete tactician in one
of letters; "that is," observed his eminence, "if people don't deceive
themselves." The cardinal's statement strikingly recalls, if it does not
explain, a contemporary remark, that the most successful courtships, in
the fullest sense of that word, were carried on with the help of secret
proxies in the corresponding department. The Count de Lauson, whose
days, even to a good old age, were equally divided between the Bastile
and the above-mentioned pursuit, in which he must have been rather at
home--for though a poor gentleman, with little pretensions to family,
still less to fortune, and no talents that the world gave him credit
for, he contrived in his youth to marry a princess of the blood-royal of
France, who had refused half the kings of Europe, and been an Amazon in
the war of the Fronde; and in his age a wealthy court belle--this Count
de Lauson declared that he could never have succeeded in his endeavors
after high matches but for a certain professional letter-writer of
Versailles, on whose death he is said to have poured forth unfeigned
lamentations in the presence of his last lady. Letters always appear to
have been peculiarly powerful in the count's country. Madame de Genlis,
whose "Tales of the Castle," and "Knights of the Swan" delighted at
least the juveniles of a now-departing generation, was believed to have
made a complete conquest, even before first sight, of the nobleman whose
name she bears, by a single letter, addressed to a lady at whose house
he was an admiring visitor, when she unadvisedly showed him the epistle.
An anxiously-sought introduction and a speedy marriage followed; but the
scandal-mongers of the period averred that their separation, which took
place some years after, was owing, among other circumstances, to an
anonymous letter received by the baron himself.

Frederick the Great used to call the French the first letter-writers of
Europe, and it is probable that their national turn for clever gossip
gives to their epistles a sort of general interest, for in no other
country have letters formed so large a portion of published literature.
This was particularly true in Frederick's own age. Never did a death or
a quarrel take place--and the latter was not rare among the _savants_ of
that period--but comfort or satisfaction was sought in the immediate
publication of every scrap of correspondence, to the manifold increase
of disputes and heartburnings. Some of the most amusing volumes extant
were thus given to the world; and Madame Dunoyer's, though scarcely of
that description, must not be forgotten from the tale of its origin.
When Voltaire was a young attache to the French embassy at the Hague,
with no reputation but that of being rather unmanageable by his family
and confessor, he was on billet-doux terms, it seems, with madame's
daughter; but madame found out that he was poor, or something like it,
for in no other respect was the lady scrupulous. Her veto was therefore
laid on the correspondence, which nevertheless survived under interdict
for some time, till Voltaire left the embassy, and it died of itself;
for he wrote the "Oedipe," became talked of by all Paris, and noticed by
the Marquis de Vellers. Gradually the man grew great in the eyes of his
generation, his fame as a poet and philosopher filled all Europe, not
forgetting the Hague; and when it had reached the zenith, Madame Dunoyer
collected his letters to her daughter, which remained in her custody,
the receiver being by this time married, and published them at her own
expense in a handsomely-bound volume. Whether to be revenged on fortune
for permitting her to miss so notable a son-in-law, or on him for
obeying her commands, it is now impossible to determine, but her book
served to show the world that the early billets-doux of a great genius
might be just as milk-and-watery as those of common people.

Indeed letter-publishing seems to have been quite the rage in the
eighteenth century. The Secretary La Beaumelle stole all Madame de
Maintenon's letters to her brother, setting forth her difficulties in
humoring Louis XIV., and printed them at Copenhagen. Some copies were
obligingly forwarded to Versailles, but madame assured the king they
were beneath his royal notice, which, being confirmed by his confessor,
was of course believed; but the transaction looks like retributive
justice on her well-known practice of keeping sundry post-office clerks
in pay to furnish a copy of every letter sent or received by the
principal persons at court, not excepting even the royal family. Among
these were copied the celebrated letters of the Dauphiness Charlotte
Elizabeth of Bavaria, which now, in good plain print, present to all
readers of taste in that department a complete chronicle of all the
scandal, gossip, and follies of Versailles; and that princess, whose
pride stood so high on her family quarterings, was gravely rebuked, and
obliged to ask pardon seven years after for certain uncomplimentary
passages in her epistles regarding madame when she first came to court
as nursery governess to the king's children.

Dangerous approvers have old letters been from throne to cottage. Many a
specious statement, many a fair profession, ay, and many a promising
friendship, have they shaken down. Readers, have a care of your deposits
in the post-office; they are pledges given to time. It is strange,
though true, how few historical characters are benefited by the
publication of their letters, surviving, as such things do, contemporary
interests and prejudices, as well as personal influence.

There must be something of the salt that will not lose its savor there
to make them serve the writers in the eyes of posterity. What strange
confidence the age of hoop and periwig put in letter-writing! Divines
published their volumes of controversy or pious exhortation, made up of
epistles to imaginary friends. Mrs. Chapone's letters to her niece
nourished the wisdom of British belles; while Lord Chesterfield's to his
son were the glass of fashion for their brothers; and Madame de
Sevigne's to her daughter, written expressly for publication, afforded
models for the wit, elegance, and sentiment of every circle wherein her
language was spoken. The epistolary style's inherent power of
characterization naturally recommended it in the construction of their
novels, and many a tale of fame and fashion in its day, besides "La
Nouvelle Heloise," and "Sir Charles Grandison," was ingeniously composed
of presumed correspondence.

Chinese literature is said to possess numerous fictions in that form;
but it is not to be regretted that modern novelists, whose name is more
than legion, pass it by in favor of direct narrative; for, under the
best arrangement, a number of letters can give but a series of views,
telling the principals' tale in a broken, sketchy fashion, and leaving
little room for the fortunes of second-rate people, who are not always
the lowest company in the novel. Tours and travels tell pleasantly in
letters, supposing of course the letters to be well written; for some
minds have such a wondrous affinity for the commonplace, that the most
important event or exciting scene sinks to the every-day level under
their pen.

Sir Andrew Mitchell, who was British embassador to Prussia during the
seven years' war, writes from the camp before Prague concerning that
great battle which turned the scale of power in Germany, and served
Europe to talk of till the French Revolution, in a style, but for
quotations from the bulletin, suitable to the election of some civic
alderman; and a less known traveler, writing to a friend of the glare of
Moscow's burning, which he saw from a Russian country-house, reddening
the northern night, describes it as "a very impressive circumstance,
calculated to make one guard against fire."

It has been remarked that, as a general rule, poets write the best, and
schoolmasters the worst letters. That the former, in common with
literary men of any order, should be at least interesting
correspondents, seems probable; but why the instructors of youth should
be generally stricken with deficiency in letter-writing is not so easy
of explanation.

Some one has also observed that, independent of mental gifts and graces,
characters somewhat cold and frivolous generally write the most finished
letters, and instanced Horace Walpole, whose published epistles even in
our distant day command a degree of attention never to be claimed by
those of his superior contemporaries--the highly-gifted Burke, and the
profound Johnson. It may be that the court gossip in and upon which
Horace lived has done much for the letters from Strawberry Hill, but the
vein must have been there; and the abilities that shine in the world of
action or of letters, the conversational talents or worthiness of soul,
do not make the cleverest correspondent.

Count Stadion, prime minister to the Elector of Mayence, according to
Goethe, hit on an easy method of making an impression by letters. He
obliged his secretary, Laroche, to practice his handwriting, which, it
appears, he did with considerable success; and, says the poet in his own
memoirs, being "passionately attached to a lady of rank and talent, if
he stopped in her society till late at night, his secretary was, in the
mean time, sitting at home, and hammering out the most ardent
love-letters; the count chose one of these, and sent it that very night
to his beloved, who was thus necessarily convinced of the
inextinguishable fire of her passionate adorer."

"Helas!" as Madame d'Epigny remarked, when turning over the printed
epistles of a deceased friend, "one can never guess how little truth
the post brings one;" but from the following tradition, it would seem
the less the better. Among the old-world stories of Germany are many
regarding a fairy chief or king, known from rustic times as Number Nip,
or Count-the-Turnips. One of his pranks was played in an ancient inn of
Heidelberg, where, on a December night, he mixed the wine with a certain
essence distilled from the flowers of Elfland, which had the effect of
making all who tasted it tell nothing but truth with either tongue or
pen till the morning. The series of quarrels which took place in
consequence round the kitchen fire belong not to the present subject;
but in the red parlor there sat, all from Vienna, a poet, a student, a
merchant, and a priest. After supper, each of these remembered that he
had a letter to write--the poet to his mistress, the merchant to his
wife, the priest to the bishop of his diocese, and the student to his
bachelor uncle, Herr Weisser of Leopoldstadt, who had long declared him
his heir. Somehow next morning they were all at the post-office
beseeching their letters back; but the mail had been dispatched, and the
tale records how, after that evening's correspondence, the poet's liege
lady dismissed him, the merchant and his wife were divorced, the priest
never obtained preferment, and none of the letters were answered except
the student's, whom Herr Weisser complimented on having turned out such
a prudent, sensible young man, but hoped he wouldn't feel disappointed,
as himself intended to marry immediately.

The most curiously-characteristic letters now made public property are
those of Sir Walter Raleigh to Queen Elizabeth, written from the Tower
(to which the historian of the world was committed for wedding without
her majesty's permission), and in the highest tone of desperation that a
banished lover could assume; the correspondence between Frederick of
Prussia and Voltaire, then of France, after what was called their
reconciliation, beginning with the grandest compliments, and ending with
reminiscences of quite another kind, particularly that from the royal
pen, which opens with, "You, who from the heights of philosophy look
down on the weakness and follies of mankind," and concludes with the
charge of appropriating candle-ends; and the epistles of Rousseau during
his residence in England, which alternate between discoveries of black
conspiracies against his life and fame, and threats of adjournment to
the workhouse, if his friends would not assist him to live in a better
style than most country gentlemen of the period.

There are printed samples with whose writers fame has been busy; but who
can say what curiosities of letter-writing daily mingle with the mass
that pours through the London Post-Office? Can it be this continual
custody and superintendence of so large a share of their
fellow-creatures' wisdom, fortunes, and folly, that endows post-office
functionaries in every quarter with such an amount of proverbial
crustiness, if the word be admissible? Do they, from the nature of their
business, know too much about the public to think them worth civility,
so that nobody has yet discovered a very polite postmaster or man? A
strange life the latter leads in our great cities. The truest
representative of destiny seems his scarlet coat, seen far through
street and lane: at one door he leaves the news of failure and ruin, and
at another the intelligence of a legacy. Here his message is the death
of a friend, while to the next neighbor he brings tidings of one long
absent, or the increase of kindred; but without care or knowledge of
their import, he leaves his letters at house after house, and goes his
way like a servant of time and fortune, as he is, to return again, it
may be, with far different news, as their tireless wheels move on. Are
there any that have never watched for his coming? The dwellers in
palaces and garrets, large families, and solitary lodgers, alike look
out for him with anxious hope or fear. Strange it is for one to read
over those letters so watched and waited for, when years have passed
over since their date, and the days of the business, the friendship, or
perhaps the wooing, to which they belong are numbered and finished!

How has the world without and within been altered to the correspondents
since they were written? Has success or ill fortune attended the
speculations by which they set such store? What have been their effects
on outward circumstances, and through that certain channel, on the men?
Has the love been forgotten? Have the friends become strange or enemies?
Have some of them passed to the land whose inhabitants send back no
letters? And how have their places been filled? Truly, if evidence were
ever wanting regarding the uncertainty of all that rests on earth, it
might be found in a packet of old letters.




A CHAPTER ON SHAWLS.


We scarcely know a truer test of a gentlewoman's taste in dress than her
selection of a shawl, and her manner of wearing it: and yet if the truth
must be owned, it is the test from which few Englishwomen come with
triumph. Generally speaking, the shawl is not their forte, in fact they
are rather afraid of it. They acknowledge its comfort and convenience
for the open carriage, or the sea-side promenade, but rarely recognize
it for what it is, a garment capable of appearing the most feminine and
graceful in the world. They are too often oppressed by a heap of false
notions on the subject; have somehow an idea that a shawl is "old" or
"dowdy;" and yet have a dim comprehension that the costly shawls which
they more frequently hear of than see, must have some unimagined merits
to prove an excuse for their price.

The Frenchwoman, on the contrary, has traditions about "Cashmeres," and
remembers no blank of ignorance on the subject. She played at dressing
her doll with one, you may be sure; chronicled as an epoch in her life,
her first possession of the real thing; holds it as precious as a
diamond, and as something to which appertains the same sort of intrinsic
value; and shrugs her shoulders with compassionate contempt at an
Englishwoman's ignorant indifference on this subject--just as a lover of
olives pities the coarse palate which rejects them. Truly the taste for
the shawl is a little inherent, and a great deal acquired and
cultivated; as appreciation for the highest attributes of every
department of art ever must be, from a relish for Canova's
_chefs-d'oeuvres_ down to a relish for M. Soyer's dishes.

Of course among those we are addressing, there is a minority who do
know, and duly esteem a beautiful shawl: perhaps, from the possession of
wealth, they have long been accustomed to be surrounded by objects of
rare and exquisite fabric, and their practiced eyes would be quick at
detecting inferiority: perhaps without great riches or the personal
possession of valuable attire, a fine taste may have been cultivated by
circumstances: and perhaps they are Anglo-Indians, or the relatives and
near friends of Anglo-Indians, who know well a "Cashmere,"--measuring
every other shawl in the world by and from it--and to whom the word
conjures up a host of memories half sunshine and half shadow.

It was not until quite the close of the last century, that Cashmeres
were prized in Europe. Travellers' tales had mentioned them, it is true,
but that was before the locomotive age, and when travelers were few, and
traveling unspeakably tedious; when soldiers went to India to hold and
increase their country's territory; when a few traders made princely
fortunes; but when every system of interchange was narrow and exclusive,
and people were taught to be content with clumsy common wares, instead
of raising them to excellence by the spur of competition. It is said
that in the year 1787, the embassadors of Tippoo Saib left behind them
at Paris a few Cashmere shawls--intended as gracious presents we
presume--but which were regarded solely as curiosities, and not even
much esteemed in that capacity, for we learn that they were employed as
dressing-gowns, and even used for carpeting! Not till after Napoleon's
expedition to Egypt did they become the rage; and a solid good resulted
from that campaign in the introduction of a fabric destined to be the
model of one of the most famous manufactures of the French.

Madame Emile Gaudin, a lady of Greek extraction and a reigning beauty,
is reputed to have first worn a Cashmere shawl in Paris; but if we know
any thing of the "Consul's Wife," or the "Empress Josephine," she was
not very far behind, for her love of Cashmeres was next to her love of
flowers, as more than one anecdote might be called in to testify. What
scenes this history of an inanimate object conjures up to the mind's
eye. These leaders of fashion when the old century went out on the
young Republic of France, whose Master was already found--who were they?
The wives of men who were working out the destiny of Europe, guided by a
chief who, be he judged for good or evil, looms on the page of history
in giant proportions!

As we have said, the Cashmere shawl became the rage. The farce of
pretended equality in France was acted out, and the curtain dropped on
it in preparation for quite a different tableau; people no longer risked
their lives by dressing elegantly, and it was not now expected that the
_soubrette_, the _blanchisseuse_, or the _poissonniere_ should dress
precisely the same as the lady of a general officer. There was wealth,
too, in the land, and the enormous sums demanded for these shawls were
readily forthcoming. Sums equivalent to two or three hundred pounds of
our money were commonly paid even for soiled worn articles, which had
done duty as turbans to Mogul soldiers, or girded a Bayadere's waist, or
been the sacerdotal garment of an idolatrous priest--and had very
frequently been thus used by more than one generation. It is true, the
durability of the fabric and the lasting properties of the dyes,
permitted the cleansing of these shawls with scarcely perceptible injury
or deterioration, but still it was only the intrinsic merit of the
thing, which could have overcome the natural repugnance which the known
or suspected history of a Cashmere must in many instances have
occasioned.

The Levant traders had now large commissions, and the result was that
_new_ shawls were soon more easily procurable, but still bearing an
enormous price. This is readily accounted for, and a brief description
of the manufacture of Indian shawls will show how it is that they never
can be cheap:--The wool of the Thibet goat is the finest in the world,
and for the best shawls only the finest even of this wool is used. The
animals are shorn once a year, and a full-grown goat only produces about
eight ounces of wool of this first quality. There is every reason to
suppose that the climate has very much to do with the perfection of the
animal, for attempts to naturalize it elsewhere have all more or less
failed. The loom on which a Cashmere shawl is woven is of the rudest and
most primitive description, the warp being supported by two sticks, and
the woof entirely worked in by the human hand. This slow laborious
process permits a neatness and exactness of finish beyond the power of
any machinery to rival; and when we take into account a life-long
practice in the art, and--remembering the Hindoo "castes," which usually
limit a family to the exercise of a single craft--in most instances the
family secrets and traditions which have been preserved, we cease to
wonder at the perfection of the work. These Asiatic weavers, temperate
in their habits and readily contented, receive a wage of from
three-halfpence to twopence a day; but if their wants more nearly
approximated to those of an European laborer, what would an Indian
Cashmere be worth, when we are informed that from thirty to forty men
have sometimes been employed from eighteen months to two years in the
manufacture of a single shawl! There is something very kindling to the
imagination in the thought of these swarthy weavers, attired perhaps in
our Manchester calicoes, laboring patiently for weeks and months to
produce a fabric worthy of rank and royalty, without other than most
vague or false ideas of the scenes in which their work will be
displayed.

The borders of these shawls are made in several pieces, sometimes as
many as from ten to twenty, and are afterward sewn together to form the
pattern; and by the border an Indian shawl may always be recognized from
a French or Paisley one, however close an imitation the latter may
appear. Every stitch of the border of the Indian shawl being worked by
the hand is distinct in itself, and may be pulled out--though it is not
very easily detached--without further injury to the fabric; whereas the
shawl made on a French or British loom has the border formed in one
piece, whence a long thread may at any time be readily drawn. Indeed
there is no surer test by which a lady may know a veritable Cashmere,
than by examining the border; but if she have a fine eye for color this
faculty will also assist her. The preparation of the dyes which the
Hindoos use is still a secret, of which they are very chary, removing
their operations to a distance whenever they have reason to dread
inquisitive lookers on. But the result in their fabrics is perceived in
the peculiar richness and clearness of their hues, and at the same time
absence of glare; the reds, blues, and greens, reminding one more of the
harmonious tints of old stained glass than any thing else.

It must not, however, be supposed that in the progressive nineteenth
century, even this Asiatic manufacture has remained stationary.
Receiving the impetus of fashion, the shawls of Cashmere have become,
within the last dozen years, richer and more elaborate than ever; their
richness and elaboration of pattern necessitating even a firmer and more
substantial groundwork than heretofore, but still the method of their
manufacture remains unchanged, as might be expected from the
conservatism inseparable from semi-barbarism. London is now one of the
chief marts for Cashmeres. It may not be generally known that London
dealers send quantities of shawls to France, America, Russia, and even
Turkey, a convincing proof of the enterprise of British merchants. They
supply many other foreigners, especially finding a market among them for
the gold embroidered shawls, which are frequently worn on state
occasions at foreign courts. The duty on Indian shawls is now only about
five per cent. Twice a year there are public sales, to which dealers are
invited by catalogues sent to Paris and other continental cities. One of
the great merits of a Cashmere seems that it is really never out of
date; and when, comparing even the old "pine" patterns with the large
long shawls, the rich borders of which sweep in graceful flowing lines
into the very centre, we feel that they are still "of one family," and
hold together--if the comparison be not too fanciful--rich and poor, in
right clannish fashion.

Some of the most modern and most costly Indian shawls _resemble_ in
pattern that of the long French Cashmere, simply however because the
French have _copied_ the Indian design. The gold and silver thread
employed for the embroidery of Cashmere shawls is usually prepared in
the following manner; and the chief seat of the manufacture is at
Boorhampoor, a city of the Deccan. A piece of the purest ore is beaten
into a cylindrical form about the size of a thick reed, and then beaten
out in length until it will pass through an orifice the eighth of an
inch in diameter; it is drawn through still finer perforations until it
is reduced to the proportion of a bobbin thread. Now a different plan is
pursued; the wire already produced is wound upon several reels which
work upon pivots, the ends of the thread being passed through still
finer holes, and then affixed to a large reel which is set rapidly in
motion and still further attenuates the threads. It is afterward
flattened on an anvil of highly polished steel, by a practiced and
dexterous workman; and by an ingenious process, a silk thread is
afterward plated, or sheathed as it were by this minute wire. It is
asserted that if a lump of silver be gilt in the first instance before
being drawn into wire, it will retain the gilding through all the
subsequent hard usage of hammering, winding, and drawing to which it is
subjected, coming out to the very last a gilded thread. It is easy to
understand that gold and silver thread of this pure description, unlike
tinsel finery, it is not liable to tarnish.

There are few of our readers who can require telling that China crape is
made entirely of silk, and that shawls manufactured of it are generally
costly in proportion to the richness of the pattern. The foundation or
ground of the shawls is chiefly made at Nankin, and then sent to Canton
to be embroidered. The pattern is formed by two "needlemen," who work
together, the one passing the silk _down_, and the other from beneath
passing it _up_, while a third workman changes the silk for them when
necessary. Thus the apparent marvel of equal neatness on both sides is
accounted for, by the explanation of this simple method; but we have
quite failed, from examination of the work, to detect the process of
fastening on and off; with such mysterious ingenuity is this needful
operation performed. China crape shawls have been very fashionable of
late years, and almost defying vulgar imitation, are little likely to
fall into disrepute.




[From Tait's Magazine.]

A NIGHT OF TERROR IN A POLISH INN.

JOURNEY TO BRCZWEZMCISL.


I had but just quitted the university, and was a mere stripling, when I
received the appointment of judge-commissary at a little town in New
East Prussia, as the part of Poland was termed which, during the
partition of that country, had fallen to the share of Prussia.

I will not weary the reader by giving any lengthened account of my
journey; the country was but one flat throughout, the men mere boors,
the officials uncouth, the accommodation execrable. Yet the people all
seemed happy enough. Man and beast have each their allotted elements.
The fish perishes when out of water--the elegance of a boudoir would
prove fatal to a Polish Jew.

Well, to make my story short, I arrived one evening, a little before
sunset, at a place called, I believe (but should be sorry to vouch for
my accuracy), Brczwezmcisl, a pleasant little town enough. When I say
pleasant, to be sure I own that the streets were unpaved, the houses
begrimed with soot, and the natives not over refined either in manners
or person; but a man who works in a coal-mine is pleasant, after his
fashion, even as the pet _figurante_ of the day after hers.

I had pictured to myself Brczwezmcisl, the place where I was to enter
upon my functions, as far more formidable than I in fact found it, and
perhaps on that account I was now prepared to term it pleasant. I
remember that the first time I tried to pronounce the name of the place
I very nearly brought on lock-jaw. Hence, no doubt, my gloomy
anticipations as to its appearance. Names certainly do influence our
ideas to a most marvelous extent. Moreover, what mainly contributed to
enhance my secret misgivings as to the town destined to enjoy the
benefit of my talents was the fact that I had never yet been so far from
home as to lose sight of its church steeple. I had a tolerable idea that
my way did not lead me in the vicinity of the Cannibal Islands, or of
the lands where men's heads "do grow beneath their shoulders;" but I was
not without some apprehension, as I journeyed on, of receiving an
occasional pistol-shot, or feeling the cold steel of a stiletto between
my ribs.

My heart throbbed violently as I caught the first glimpse of
Brczwezmcisl. It appeared, at a distance, a vast plain, covered with
mud-heaps. But what mattered that to one of my imaginative powers? There
was my goal, there my entering scene in life. Not a soul did I know
there, with the exception of an old college acquaintance, named
Burkhardt, who had been but recently appointed collector of taxes at
Brczwezmcisl. I had apprised him of my near advent, and requested him to
provide me with temporary lodgings. The nearer I approached the town,
the keener waxed my esteem and friendship for Burkhardt, with whom I had
never been on terms of intimacy; indeed, my mother enjoined me always to
shun his society, seeing that his reputation for steadiness was not of
the highest. But now I was his till death. He was my only rallying point
in this wild Polish town; he was the sole plank to which I could cling.

I am not of a superstitious character, but I own to a certain belief in
omens; and I had settled in my mind that it would be a lucky sign if the
first person we met coming out of the town gates should prove a young
woman, and the reverse if one of the other sex. As we were about to
enter the town a girl, to all appearance comely and well-made, issued
from the gate. Damsel of happy augury! Fain could I have quitted the
cumbrous vehicle, and cast my travel-worn frame prostrate at your feet.
I wiped my eye-glass that I might not lose one of her features, but
grave them for ever in the tablets of my memory.

As she came nearer, I discovered to my dismay that my Brczwezmcisl Venus
was a thought hideous. Slim she was, good sooth, but it was the slimness
of one wasted by disease! shape and figure had she none. Her face was a
perfect surface, for some untoward accident had deprived her of her
nose; and had it not been for the merest apology for lips, her head
might have been taken for the skull of a skeleton. As we came yet
nearer, I remarked that the fair Pole was a warm patriot; for she put
out her tongue at me in derision of her nation's oppressors, whose
countryman I was.

Under these happy auspices we entered the town, and halted at the
Post-office, newly decorated with the Prussian eagle, which would have
shown to much greater advantage, in all the glories of fresh paint, had
not some patriotic little street blackguards adorned it with a thick
coating of mud.


THE OLD STAROSTY.[9]

I asked the postmaster very politely where I could find Mr.
Tax-collector Burkhardt. In order, I suppose, to convince me that even
in that remote corner of the globe officials were true to those habits
of courtesy and attention for which they are so eminently distinguished,
he suffered me to repeat my question six times ere he vouchsafed to
inquire, in his gruffest tones, what I wanted; a seventh time did I
reiterate my inquiry, and that, I flatter myself with a degree of
politeness that would have done honor to the most finished courtier.

"In the old Starosty," he growled out.

"Might I be permitted most respectfully to inquire whereabout this same
old Starosty may be located?"

"I have no time. Peter show this person the way."

And away went Peter and I, while the postmaster, who had no time to
answer me, lolled out of the window, with his pipe in his mouth,
watching us. Aha, my fine fellow, thought I, just let me catch you in
the hands of justice--whose unworthy representative I have here the
honor to be--and I'll make you rue the day you dared sport your
churlishness upon me.

Peter, the Polish tatterdemalion, who escorted me, understood and spoke
so little German, that our conversation was extremely limited. His
sallow face and sharp features rendered him particularly
unprepossessing.

"Tell me, my worthy friend," I asked, as we waded side by side through
the mud, "do you know Mr. Tax-collector Burkhardt?"

"The old Starosty."

"Good; but what can I do in your old Starosty?"

"Die!"

"God forbid! that does not at all chime in with my arrangements."

"Stone-dead; die!"

"Why, what have I done?"

"Prussian--no Pole."

"I am a Prussian, certainly."

"Know that."

"What do you mean by dying then?"

"So, and so, and so;" and the fellow thrust the air as though he
clenched a dagger. He then pointed to his heart, groaned, and rolled his
eyes in a manner awful to behold. I began to feel rather uncomfortable,
for Peter had by no means the look of one beside himself; besides, the
understrappers at the post-office are seldom recruited from a lunatic
asylum.

"I think we are at cross purposes, my excellent friend," I at length
resumed. "What do you mean by die?"

"Kill!" and he gave me a wild sidelong glance.

"How, kill?"

"When night comes."

"When night comes--this very night? Your wits are wool-gathering,
sirrah!"

"Pole, yes; but no Prussian."

I shook my head, and desisted from any further attempt at conversation.
We evidently could not make each other out. And yet there was fearful
meaning in the scoundrel's words. I was well aware of the inveterate
hatred felt by the Poles toward the Prussians, and how it had already
led to fatal collisions between them. What if the dunder-headed fellow
had meant to convey a warning to me? or perhaps he had involuntarily
betrayed the secret of a plot for the general massacre of every
Prussian. I mentally resolved to divulge the whole to my friend and
fellow-countryman Burkhardt, as we arrived at the so-termed Starosty. It
was constructed of stone, evidently of some antiquity, and situate in a
dull remote street. Ere we reached it I observed how each passer-by cast
a sly furtive glance up at its time-worn walls. My guide did the same;
and pointing to the door, he shuffled off without word or gesture of
salutation.

It must be owned that my arrival and reception at Brczwezmcisl were none
of the most flattering. The discourteous damsel at the gate, the surly
New East Prussian postmaster, and the Pole, with his unintelligible
jargon, had put me on the very worst terms with my new place of sojourn
and office of judge-commissary. How I congratulated myself to think that
I was about to meet one who had, at least, breathed the same air as
myself! To be sure, Mr. Burkhardt was not held in the best repute at
home; but a man's character varies according to the circumstances of his
position, even were he still the same as of old. Better far a jovial
tippler than a sickly skeleton with her projected tongue; better far a
hare-brained gambler than the postmaster with his studied coarseness;
ay, better the company of a vaporing hector than that of a Polish
malcontent. The latter phase in Burkhardt's character even served to
elevate him in my eyes; for, between ourselves be it observed, my
gentleness and love of quiet, my steadiness and reserve, so oft the
theme of praise with mamma, would stand me but in sorry stead should any
rising of the people take place. Some virtues become vices in certain
positions.

As I entered the old Starosty I was puzzled to know where to find my
dear and long-cherished friend Burkhardt. The house was very spacious.
The creaking of the rusty door-hinges resounded through the whole
building, yet without bringing any one to ascertain who might be there.

I discovered an apartment on my left, and knocked gently at the door. As
my signal was unanswered by any friendly "Come in," I knocked more
loudly than before: still no answer. My knocks re-echoed through the
house. I waxed impatient, and yearned to clasp Burkhardt, the friend of
my soul, to my heart. I opened the door and went in. In the middle of
the room was a coffin.

If I be always polite to the living, still more so am I to the dead. I
was about to retire as gently as I could, when a parting glance at the
coffin showed me that its hapless occupant was no other than the
tax-collector, Burkhardt, who had been called on, poor fellow, in his
turn, to discharge that great tax so peremptorily demanded of us by that
grim collector Death. There he lay regardless alike of flagon or dice
box, calm and composed as though he had never shared in the joys or
cares of this life.

Indescribably shocked, I rushed from the chamber of death, and sought
relief in the long gloomy corridor. What on earth was to become of me
now? Here I was, hundreds of miles from my native home and the maternal
mansion, in a town whose very name I never had heard until I was sent to
un-Pole-ify it as judge-commissary! My sole acquaintance, the friend of
my heart, had shuffled off this mortal coil. What was I to do, where lay
my head, or how find the lodgings engaged for me by the dear departed?

My gloomy reflections were here disturbed by the creaking of the door on
its rusty hinges, whose harsh grating jarred strangely on my nerves.

A pert, flippant-looking livery-servant rushed up the stairs,
contemplated me with a broad stare of astonishment, and at length
addressed me. My knees shook beneath me. I suffered the fellow to talk
to me to his heart's delight, but for the first few moments fright
deprived me of all power of reply; and even had my state of mind
permitted me to speak, it would have amounted to much the same thing,
seeing that the man was speaking Polish.

Perceiving that he remained without reply, he proceeded to address me in
German, which he spoke very fluently. I at length mustered up sufficient
courage to tell him my whole story, and the various adventures I had met
with since my arrival at the accursed town whose name it still
dislocated my jaws to pronounce. As he heard my name he assumed a more
respectful mien, took off his hat, and proceeded to give me the
following details, which, for the reader's benefit, I have compressed
into the smallest possible space.

He informed me, to begin with, that his name was Lebrecht; that he had
served as interpreter and most faithful of domestics to Mr.
Tax-collector, of pious memory, until the preceding night, when it had
pleased Heaven to remove the excellent and ever to be lamented
tax-collector to another and a better world. The manner of his death was
perfectly in keeping with the tenor of his life. He had been passing the
evening at wine and cards with some Polish gentlemen. The fumes of the
wine aroused the Prussian pride of my friend, while it kindled to a yet
fiercer pitch the old Sarmatian patriotism of his companions. Words grew
high, blows were exchanged, and one of the party dealt my late friend
three or four blows with a knife, any one of which was of itself
sufficient to have extinguished life. In order to avoid incurring the
penalties of New East Prussian justice, the guilty parties had taken
themselves off--whither none could tell. My ever-to-be-regretted friend
had, shortly before his death, made all the requisite arrangements for
me, and hired a very experienced German cook, who would wait upon me at
a moment's notice. In the course of his narrative, Lebrecht led me to
infer, from several hints that he gave me, how the Poles were sworn foes
to the Prussians, and how I must expect to meet with such delicate
attentions as those lavished on me by the damsel at the gate. He
explained to me moreover, that my friend Peter was a muddle-headed
jackass, and that his pantomimic gestures referred, in all probability,
to the fate of my hapless friend. He warned me to be constantly on my
guard, as the infuriated Poles were evidently hatching some plot; as for
himself, he was fully determined to quit the town immediately after the
funeral of his late master.

This narrative terminated, he conducted me up the broad stone staircase
to the apartments provided for me. Passing through a suite of lofty
rooms, very spacious, but very dreary to behold, we came to an apartment
of large dimensions, wherein was a press bedstead, with curtains of
faded yellow damask, an old table, whose feet had once been gilded, and
half a dozen dusty chairs. Suspended to the wall was an enormous
looking-glass, almost bereft of its reflecting powers, in a quaint,
old-fashioned frame, while the wall itself was garnished by
parti- tapestry, representing scenes from the Old Testament. Time
and the moth had done their work upon it, for it hung in tatters, and
waved to and fro at the slightest motion. King Solomon sat headless on
his throne of judgment, and the hands of the wicked elders had long
since mouldered away. I felt by no means at my ease in this my lonely
dwelling; far rather would I have taken up my quarters at the inn, and,
oh that I had done so! But I kept my own counsel, partly from sheer
nervousness, and partly because I did not wish to appear at all daunted
at being in such immediate vicinity with a corpse. Moreover, I
entertained no doubt but that Lebrecht and the experienced cook would
bear me company during the night. The former lost no time in lighting
the two candles that stood on the table, for it was fast getting dusk,
and then took his departure for the purpose of procuring me the means of
subsistence, and such like, to fetch my luggage, and to apprise the
aforesaid experienced cook that the time had arrived for her to enter
upon her functions. My luggage arrived in due time, likewise every
requisite for my meal; but no sooner had I re-imbursed Lebrecht the
money he had laid out for me than he wished me good-night, and went his
way forthwith.

I misdoubted the fellow at once, for the moment he had swept up his
money he was off. I was on the point of rushing after him, to entreat
him not to leave me, but I held back for very shame. Why should I make
the wretch the confidant of my timidity? I had no doubt but that he
would spend the night in some room or other, to keep watch over the body
of his slaughtered master. The sound of the banging-to of the
street-door undeceived me at once; and that sound thrilled through my
very marrow. I hurried to the window, and beheld him scampering across
the street, as though the foul fiend were at his heels. He was soon out
of sight, leaving myself and the corpse sole tenants of the old
Starosty.

FOOTNOTE:

[9] Starosts were Poles of high birth, appointed as bailiffs or
vice-governors of the various districts and provinces.


THE SENTRY.

I do not believe in ghosts, but yet at night-time I own to being
somewhat apprehensive of their appearance. This may seem to involve a
paradox, but I only state the fact. The death-like stillness of all
around, the time-worn tapestry that clung in fluttering shreds around
that dreary chamber, the consciousness of the body of a murdered man in
the room above, the deadly feud between the Prussian and the Pole, all
conspired to fill my soul with awe and apprehension. I hungered, but
could not eat. I wearied for repose, but could find none. I examined the
window, to ascertain if it could afford me egress in case of need, for I
should have been utterly lost in the labyrinth of chambers and corridors
necessary to traverse ere I could gain the door. To my dismay strong
iron bars forbade all hope of escape in that quarter.

Suddenly the old Starosty seemed awakening to life. I heard doors open
and close, steps at some little distance, and the sound of voices in
animated conversation. I was at a loss how to account for this rapid
change in the state of affairs, but I felt that it boded me but little
good. It seemed as though I heard a warning voice saying, "'Tis thou
they seek! Did not that blundering Peter betray the secret of the
intended massacre? Save thyself ere it be too late." I shuddered in
every limb. Methought I saw the murderous band, how they thirsted for my
blood, and were concerting the method of my death. I heard their
footsteps approaching nearer and more near. Already had they reached the
ante-chamber leading to my apartment. They were muttering together in
low whispers. I sprang up, and bolted and barred the door, and, as I did
so, became aware that some one was endeavoring to open it on the other
side. I scarce dared breathe, lest my very breath should betray me. I
heard by their voices that they were Poles. As my unlucky stars would
have it, I must needs study a little Polish, by way of qualifying myself
for my official duties; and I could detect the words "blood," "death,"
and "Prussians." My knees quaked, cold drops started to my brow. Again
was the attempt to open the door repeated, but it seemed as though the
intruders wished to avoid confusion, for I heard them depart, or rather
glide, from thence.

Whether it were that the Poles had aimed at my life, or my property, or
whether they had determined upon another mode of attack, I resolved to
extinguish my candles, in order that their light might not betray me
from without. How could I tell but that one of the ruffians might not
fancy taking a shot at me through the windows?

Night is friend to no man, and man has an instinctive dread of darkness,
else whence the terror of children, even before they have been scared by
the tale of goblin grim and spectre dire? No sooner was I in utter
obscurity than all manner of horrors, possible and impossible, crowded
upon me. I flung myself upon my bed, in the hopes of sleeping, but the
clothes seemed tainted with the foul odor of dead men's graves. If I sat
up it was worse; for ever and anon a rustling sound, as of some one near
me, caused me to shudder afresh. The form of the murdered man, with his
livid brow and half-glazed eye, seemed to stalk before me. What
prospects would I not have sacrificed but to be once more free! And now
the bells tolled the

                "Witching hour of night,
    When church-yards yawn, and hell itself looks out."

Each stroke vibrated upon my soul. In vain I called myself a
superstitious fool, a faint-hearted dastard: it availed me nothing.
Unable at length to bear up any longer, and nerved either by daring or
despair, I sprang from my seat, groped my way to the door, unbolted and
unbarred it, and resolved, albeit at the risk of my life, to gain the
street.

Merciful heavens! what did I behold as I opened the door! I started and
staggered back. Little had I looked for such a grisly sentinel.


THE DEATH-THROES.

By the dim flickering of an old lamp placed on a side-table, I saw
before me the murdered Tax-collector, lying in his bier, even as I had
seen him in the room above. But now I could perceive how his shirt,
which had previously been concealed by a pall, was dyed with the big
black gouttes of blood. I strove to rally my senses, to persuade myself
that the whole was the mere phantom of my over-heated imagination; but
as I stirred the coffin with my foot, till the corpse seemed as though
about to move and unclose its eyes, I could no longer doubt the fearful
reality of the spectacle before me. Almost paralyzed by fear, I rushed
to my room, and fell backward on my bed.

And now a confused noise proceeded from the bier. Was the dead alive?
for the sound that I heard was of one raising himself with difficulty. A
low and suppressed moan thrilled in my ears, and I saw before me the
form of the murdered one; it strode through the door, entered my room,
then stalked awhile to and fro, and disappeared. As I again summoned up
my reason to my aid, the spectre, or the corpse, or the living dead,
gave my reason the lie by depositing its long, lank, livid length upon
my bed and across my body, its icy shoulders resting upon my neck, and
nearly depriving me of breath.

How I escaped with life I can not explain to this present hour. Mortal
dread was upon me, and I must have remained a long while in a state of
unconsciousness; for as I heard from beneath my grisly burden the clock
sound, instead of its striking one--the signal for spirits to vanish--it
was striking two.

I leave the horrors of my situation to the reader's imagination. The
smell of the charnel-house in my nostrils, and a yet warm corpse
struggling for breath, as though the death-rattle were upon him; while I
was benumbed by terror, and the hellish weight of the burden I bore. The
scenes in Dante's Hell fall far short of anguish such as was then mine.
I was too weak or terror-stricken to disengage myself from the corpse,
which seemed as if expiring a second time; for I conjectured that, while
senseless from loss of blood, the wretched man had been taken for dead,
and thrust forthwith, Polish fashion, into a coffin, and now lay dying
in good earnest. He seemed powerless alike for life and death, and I was
doomed to be the couch whereon the fearful struggle would terminate.

I strove to fancy that all my adventures in Brczwezmcisl were but a
dream, and that I was laboring under an attack of nightmare, but
circumstances and surrounding objects were too strong to admit of any
such conclusion; still, I verily believe I should have finally succeeded
in convincing myself that it was all a vision, and nothing but a
vision, had not an incident more striking than any that hitherto
preceded, established, beyond the shadow of a doubt, the fact of my
being broad awake.


THE LIGHT OF DAY.

It was day-break; not that I could perceive the light of heaven, for the
shoulders of my expiring friend impeded my view, but I inferred so from
the bustle in the street below. I heard the footsteps and voices of men
in the room; I could not make out the subject of their conversation, as
they talked in Polish, but I remarked that they were busy about the
coffin. Now, beyond a doubt, thought I, they are looking for the dead
man, and my deliverance is at hand; and so it proved, although it
happened after a fashion for which I was but little prepared.

One of the exploring party smote so lustily with a stout bamboo upon the
extended form of the dead or dying, that he started up, and stood erect.
Some of the blows lighted upon my hapless person with such effect as to
make me yell out most vigorously, and take up a position directly in the
rear of the defunct. This old Polish and New East Prussian method of
restoring the dead to life proved, certainly, so efficacious in the
present instance, that I doubt whether the impassibility of death were
not preferable to the acute perceptions of the living.

I now perceived that the room was filled by men, for the most part
Poles. The timely castigation had been administered by a police-officer
appointed to superintend the funeral. The Tax-collector still slept the
sleep of death in his coffin, which stood in the ante-chamber, whither
it had been transported by the drunken Poles, who had been ordered to
convey it to what had been formerly the porter's lodge. They had,
however, been pleased to select my ante-chamber as a fitting
resting-place for their charge, whom they confided to the watch of one
of their besotted comrades, who had slumbered at his post, and, awakened
probably by my entrance, had groped his way, with all the instinct of
one far gone in liquor, to my bed, and there slept off the fumes of his
potations.

The preceding incidents had so thoroughly unmanned me as to bring on a
severe attack of fever, and for seven long weeks did I lie raving about
the horrors of that fearful night; and even now, albeit, thanks to the
Polish insurrection, I am no longer judge-commissary at Brczwezmcisl, I
can scarce think on my adventure in New East Prussia without a shudder.
However, I am always glad to relate it, as it contains a sort of
moral--to wit, that we ought not to fear that which we profess to
disbelieve.




ENGLAND IN 1850.

BY LAMARTINE.


When a man is strongly preoccupied with the crisis under which his
country labors, every opportunity that arises is caught at to turn to
the profit of his compatriots the sights with which he is struck, and
the reflections with which those sights inspire him. Called by
circumstances of an entirely private nature to revisit England for some
time, after an absence of twenty years, it was impossible for me not to
be dazzled by the immense progress made by England during that lapse of
time, not only in population, in riches, industry, navigation,
railroads, extent, edifices, embellishments, and the health of the
capital, but also, and more especially, in charitable institutions for
the people, and in associations of real religious, conservative, and
fraternal socialism, between classes, to prevent explosions by the
evaporation of the causes which produce them, to stifle the murmurs from
below by incalculable benefits from above, and to close the mouths of
the people, not by the brutalities of the police, but by the arm of
public virtue. Very far from feeling afflicted or humiliated at this
fine spectacle of the operation of so many really popular works, which
give to England at the present moment an incontestable pre-eminence in
this respect over the rest of Europe, and over us, I rejoiced at it. To
asperse one's neighbor is to lower one's self. The rivalries between
nations are paltry and shameful when they consist in denying or in
hating the good that is done by our neighbors. These rivalries, on the
contrary, are noble and fruitful when they consist in acknowledging, in
glorifying, and in imitating the good which is done every where; instead
of being jealousies, these rivalries become emulation. What does it
signify whether a thing be English or French, provided it be a benefit?
Virtues have no country, or, rather, they are of every country; it is
God who inspires them, and humanity which profits by them. Let us then
learn, for one, how to admire.

But I am told that these practical virtues of the English to the poorer,
the _proletaire_, the suffering classes, are nothing but the prudence of
selfishness! Even if that were the case, we ought still to applaud, for
a selfishness so prudent and so provident, a selfishness which could do
itself justice by so well imitating virtue, a selfishness which would
corrupt the people by charity and prosperity--such a selfishness as that
would be the most profound and most admirable of policies, it would be
the Machiavelism of virtue. But it is not given to selfishness alone to
transform itself so well into an appearance of charity; selfishness
restricts itself, while charity diffuses itself; without doubt there is
prudence in it, but there is also virtue, without doubt Old England, the
veritable patrician republic under her frontispiece of monarchy, feels
that the stones of her feudal edifice are becoming disjoined, and might
tumble under the blast of the age, if she did not bind them together
every day by the cement of her institutions in favor of her people. That
is good sense, but under that good sense there is virtue; and it is
impossible to remain in England for any length of time without
discovering it. The source of that public virtue is the religious
feeling with which that people is endowed more than many others; a
divine feeling of practical religious liberty, has developed at the
present moment, under a hundred forms, among them. Every one has a
temple to God, where every one can recognize the light of reason, and
adore that God, and serve him with his brothers in the sincerity, and in
the independence of his faith. Yes, there is, if you will, at the same
time, prudence, well-understood selfishness, and public virtue in the
acts of England, in order to prevent a social war. Let it be whatever
you like; but would that it pleased God that plebeian and proprietary
France could also see and comprehend its duty to the people! Would that
it pleased God that she could take a lesson from that intelligent
aristocracy! Would that she could, once for all, say to herself, "I
perish, I tremble, I swoon in my panics. I call at one time on the
Monarchy, at another on the Republic, at another on legitimacy, now on
illegitimacy--then on the Empire, now on the Inquisition--then on the
police, now on the sabre, and then on eloquence to save me, and no one
can save me but myself. I will save myself by my own virtue."

I have seen England twice in my life: the first time in 1822. It was the
period when the Holy Alliance, recently victorious and proud of its
victories over the spirit of conquest of Napoleon, struggled against the
newly-born liberalism, and was only occupied in every where restoring
ancient regimes and ancient ideas. The government of England, held at
that time by the intelligent heirs of a great man (Mr. Pitt), was a
veritable contradiction to the true nature of the country of liberty; it
had taken up the cause of absolute sovereigns against the nations; it
made of the free and proud citizens of England the support and soldier
of the Holy Alliance; it blindly combated the revolution, with its
spirit and institutions, at home and every where else. England, by no
means comfortable under such a government, hardly recognized herself.
She felt by instinct that she was made to play the part of the _seide_
of despotism and of the church, in place of the part of champion of
independent nationalities, and of the regulated liberty of thought which
Mr. Pitt had conceived for her. Thus her tribunes, her public papers,
her popular meetings, her very streets and public places rang with
indignation against her government and her aristocracy. The ground
trembled in London under the steps of the multitudes who assembled at
the slightest appeal or opportunity; the language of the people breathed
anger, their physiognomies hatred of class to class; hideous poverty
hung up its tatters before the doors of the most sumptuous quarters;
women in a state of emaciation, hectic children, and ghastly men were to
be seen wandering with a threatening carelessness about shops and
warehouses laden with riches; the constables and the troops were
insufficient, after the scandalous prosecution of the queen, to bridle
that perpetual sedition of discontent and of hunger. The painful
consciousness of a tempest hanging over Great Britain was felt in the
air. A cabinet, the author and victim of that false position, sank under
the effort. A statesman sought in despair a refuge against the
difficulties which he saw accumulating on his country, and which he
could no longer dominate but by force. I avow that I myself, at that
time young and a foreigner, and not yet knowing either the solidity or
the elasticity of the institutions and the manners of England, was
deceived, like every body else, by these sinister symptoms of a fall,
and that I prognosticated, as every body else also did, the approaching
decline and fall of that great and mysterious country. The ministry of
Mr. Canning placed me happily in the wrong.

I saw England again in 1830, a few months after our revolution of July.
At that time the political government of England was moderate,
reasonable, and wise. It endeavored, as Lord Palmerston, as Sir Robert
Peel, as the Duke of Wellington have done, after the revolution of
February, to prevent a collision on the Continent between the revolution
and the counter-revolution. It then refused, as it refused in 1848, to
be a party to an anti-French or anti-republican coalition. It proclaimed
not only the right and independence of nationalities, but also the right
and independence of revolutions. It thus humanely avoided irritating the
revolutionists. It spared Europe the effusion of much blood. But in 1830
it was the misery of the English and Irish _proletaires_ that frightened
the regards and brought consternation to the thoughts of observers.
Ireland was literally dying of inanition. The manufacturing districts of
the three kingdoms having produced more than the world could consume
during the fifteen years of peace, left an overflow of manufactures--the
masses emaciated, vitiated in body and mind, and vitiated by their
hatred against the class of society who possess. The manufacturers had
dismissed armies of workmen without bread. These black columns were to
be seen, with their mud- jackets, dotting the avenues and streets
of London, like columns of insects whose nests had been upset, and who
blackened the soil under their steps.

The vices and brutishness of these masses of _proletaires_, degraded by
ignorance and hunger--their alternate poverty and debaucheries--their
promiscuousness of ages, of sexes, of dens of fetid straw, their bedding
in cellars and garrets--their hideous clamors, to be met with at certain
hours in the morning in certain lanes of the unclean districts of
London--when those human vermin emerged into the light of the sun with
howling groaning, or laughter that was really Satanic, it would have
made the masses of free creatures really envy the fate of the black
slaves of our colonies--masses which are abased and flogged, but, at all
events loathed! It was the recruiting of the army of Marius; all that
was wanting was a flag. Social war was visible there with all its
horrors and its furies--every body saw it, and I myself forboded it like
every body else. These symptoms struck me as such evidences of an
approaching overthrow for a constitution which thus allowed its vices to
stagnate and mantle, that, having some portion of my patrimony in
England, I hastened to remove it, and to place it where it would be
sheltered from a wreck which appeared to me to be inevitable. During
this time the aristocracy and the great proprietary of England appeared
insensible to these prognostics of social war, scandalized the eyes of
the public by the contrast of their Asiatic luxury with these
calamities, absented themselves from their properties during whole
years, and were traveling from Paris to Naples and to Florence, while at
the same time propagating speculative or incendiary liberalism with the
liberals of the Continent. Who would not have trembled for such a
country?

This time (September, 1850) I was struck, on visiting England, with an
impression wholly opposed to the impressions which I have just depicted
to you. I arrived in London, and I no longer recognized that capital,
excepting by that immense cloud of smoke which that vast focus of
English labor or leisure raises in the heavens, and by that overflowing
without limit of houses, workshops, and chateaux, and agreeable
residences, that a city of 2,600,000 inhabitants casts year after year
beyond its walls, even to the depths of her forests, her fields, and her
hills. Like a polypus with a thousand branches, London vegetates and
engrafts, so to speak, on the common trunk of the city quarters on
quarters, and towns upon towns. These quarters, some for labor, and
others for the middle classes; some for the choice leisure of the
literary classes, and others for the luxury of the aristocracy and for
the splendor of the crown, not only attest the increase of that city
which enlarges itself in proportion to its inhabitants, but they testify
to the increase of luxury, of art, of riches, and of ease, of all which
the characters are to be recognized in the disposition, in the
architecture, in the ornaments, in the spaciousness, and in the comfort,
sometimes splendid, sometimes modest, of the habitations of man. In the
west two new towns--two towns of hotels and palaces--two towns of kings
of civilization, as the Embassador of Carthage would have said--have
sprung up. Toward the green and wooded heights of Hampstead--that St.
Cloud of London--is a new park, including pastures, woods, waters, and
gardens in its grounds, and surrounded by a circle of houses of opulent
and varied architecture, each of which represents a building capital
that it frightens one to calculate. Beyond this solitude inclosed in the
capital other towns and suburbs have commenced, and are rapidly climbing
these heights, step by step, and hillock after hillock. In these places
arise chapels, churches, schools, hospitals, penitentiary prisons on new
models, which take away from them their sinister aspect and
significance, and which hold out moral health and correction to the
guilty in place of punishment and branding. In these places are to be
seen hedges of houses appropriated to all the conditions of life and
fortune, but all surrounded by a court or a little garden, which affords
the family rural recollections, the breathing of vegetation, and the
feeling of nature present even in the very heart of the town.

This new London, which is almost rural, creeps already up these large
hills, and spreads itself, from season to season, in the fields which
environ them, to go by lower, more active, and more smoky suburbs, to
rejoin, as far as the eye can see, the Thames, beyond which the same
phenomenon is reproduced on the hills and in the plains on the other
side. In surveying this the eye loses itself as if on the waves of the
ocean. On every side the horizon is too narrow to embrace that town, and
the town continues beyond the horizon; but every where also the sky, the
air, the country, the verdure, the waters, the tops of the oaks, are
mixed with that vegetation of stones, of marble, and of bricks, and
appears to make of new London, not an arid and dead city, but a fertile
and living province, which germinates at the same time with men and
trees, with habitations and fields; a city of which the nature has not
been changed, but in which, on the contrary, nature and civilization
respect each other, seek for and clasp each other, for the health and
joy of man, in a mutual embrace.

Between these two banks of the river, and between its steeples and its
towers--between the tops of its oaks, respected by the constructors of
these new quarters--you perceive a movable forest of masts, which ascend
and descend perpetually the course of the Thames, and streak it with a
thousand lines of smoke, while the steamers, loaded with passengers,
stream out like a river of smoke above the river of water which carries
them. But it is not in the newly constructed quarters alone that London
has changed its appearance, and presents that image of opulence, of
comfort, and of labor, with thriving--the city itself, that furnace at
the same time blackened and infect of this human ebullition, has
enlarged its issues, widened its streets, ennobled its monuments,
extended and straightened its suburbs, and made them more healthy. The
ignoble lanes, with their suspicious taverns, where the population of
drunken sailors huddled together like savages in dregs and dust, have
been demolished. They have given place to airy streets, where the
passers-by, coming back from the docks, those entrepots of the four
continents, pass with ease in carriages or on foot--to spacious and
clean houses, to modest but decent shops, where the maritime population
find, on disembarking, clothes, food, tobacco, beer, and all the objects
of exchange necessary for the retail trade of seaports: those streets
are now as well cleaned from filth, from drunkenness and obscenity, as
the other streets and suburbs of the city. One can pass through them
without pity and without disgust; one feels in them the vigilance of
public morality and the presence of a police which, if it can not
destroy vice, can at all events keep it at a distance from the eyes of
the passer-by, and render even the _cloacae_ inoffensive.

In the country districts and secondary towns around London the same
transformation is observable. The innumerable railways which run in
every direction all over England have covered the land with stations,
coal depots, new houses for the persons employed, elegant offices for
the administration, viaducts, bridges over the lines to private
properties; and all these things impart to England, from the sea to
London, the appearance of a country which is being cleared, and where
the occupants are employed in running up residences for themselves.
Every thing is being built, and every thing is smoking, hurrying on, so
perfectly alive is this soil; one feels that the people are eager to
seize on the new sense of circulation which Providence has just bestowed
on man.

Such is England in a physical sense, sketched broadly. As to political
England, the following are the changes which struck me. I describe them
as I reviewed them, with sincerity, it is true, but not unmixed with
astonishment. The appearance of the people in the streets is no longer
what filled me with consternation twenty years ago. In place of those
ragged bands of beggars--men, women, and children--who swarmed in the
narrow and gloomy streets of the manufacturing town, you will see
well-dressed workmen, with an appearance of strength and health, going
to work or returning peaceably from their workshop with their tools on
their shoulders; young girls issuing without tumult from the houses
where they work, under the superintendence of women older than
themselves, or of a father or brother, who brings them back to their
home; from time to time you see numerous columns of little children of
from five to eight years of age, poorly but decently clad, led by a
woman, who leaves them at their own doors, after having watched over
them all day. They all present the appearance of relative comfort, of
most exquisite cleanliness, and of health. You will perceive few, if
any, idle groups on the public ways, and infinitely fewer drunken men
than formerly; the streets appear as if purged of vice and wretchedness,
or only exhibit those which always remain the scum of an immense
population.

If you converse in a drawing-room, in a public carriage, at a public
dinner table, even in the street, with men of the different classes in
England; if you take care to be present, as I did, at places where
persons of the most advanced opinions meet and speak; if you read the
journals, those safety-valves of public opinion, you must remain struck
with the extreme mildness of men's minds and hearts, with the temperance
of ideas, the moderation of what is desired, the prudence of the Liberal
Opposition, the tenderness evinced toward a conciliation of all
classes, the justice which all classes of the English population render
to each other, the readiness of all to co-operate, each according to his
means and disposition, in advancing the general good--the employment,
comfort, instruction, and morality of the people--in a word, a mild and
serene air is breathed in place of the tempest blast which then raged in
every breast. The equilibrium is re-established in the national
atmosphere. One feels and says to one's self, "This people can come to
an understanding with itself. It can live, last, prosper, and improve
for a long time in this way. Had I my residence on this soil, I should
not any longer tremble for my hearth."

I except, it must be understood, from this very general character of
harmony and reconciliation, two classes of men whom nothing ever
satisfies--the demagogues and the extreme aristocrats--two tyrannies
which can not content themselves with any liberty, because they
eternally desire to subjugate the people--the one by the intolerance of
the rabble, the other by the intolerance of the little number. The
newspapers of the inexorable aristocracy, and of the ungovernable
radicalism, are the only ones that still contrast by their bitterness
with the general mildness of opinions in Great Britain. But some clubs
of Chartists, rendered fanatical by sophistry, and some clubs of
diplomatists, rendered fanatical by pride, only serve the better to show
the calm and reason which are more and more prevailing in the other
parts of the nation. The one make speeches to the emptiness of places
where the people are invited to meet, and the others pay by the line for
calumnies and invective against France and against the present age. No
one listens, and no one reads. The people work on. The intelligent
Tories lament Sir Robert Peel, and accept the inheritance of his
Conservative doctrines by means of progress.

It appears that a superhuman hand carried away during that sleep of
twenty years, all the venom which racked the social body of this
country. If a Radical procession is announced, as on the 10th of April,
250,000 citizens, of all opinions, appear in the streets of London as
special constables, and preserve the public peace against these phantoms
of another time. Such is the present appearance of the public mind in
England to a stranger.




[From the Ladies' Companion.]

THE HAUNTS OF GENIUS. GRAY, BURKE, MILTON, DRYDEN, AND POPE.

BY MARY RUSSELL MITFORD.


Two summers ago I spent a few pleasant weeks among some of the loveliest
scenery of our great river. The banks of the Thames, always beautiful,
are nowhere more delightful than in the neighborhood of Maidenhead--one
side ramparted by the high, abrupt, chalky cliffs of Buckinghamshire;
the other edging gently away into our rich Berkshire meadows, checkered
with villages, villas, and woods.

My own temporary home was one of singular beauty--a snug cottage at
Taplow, looking over a garden full of honeysuckles, lilies, and roses,
to a miniature terrace, whose steps led down into the water, or rather
into our little boat; the fine old bridge at Maidenhead just below us;
the magnificent woods of Cliefden, crowned with the lordly mansion (now,
alas! a second time burnt down), rising high above; and the broad
majestic river, fringed with willow and alder, gay with an ever-changing
variety--the trim pleasure-yacht, the busy barge, or the punt of the
solitary angler, gliding by placidly and slowly, the very image of calm
and conscious power. No pleasanter residence, through the sultry months
of July and August, than the Bridge cottage at Taplow.

Besides the natural advantages of the situation, we were within reach of
many interesting places, of which we, as strangers, contrived--as
strangers usually do--to see a great deal more than the actual
residents.

A six-mile drive took us to the lordly towers of Windsor--the most
queenly of our palaces--with the adjuncts that so well become the royal
residence, St. George's Chapel and Eton College, fitting shrines of
learning and devotion! Windsor was full of charm. The ghostly shadow of
a tree, that is, or passes for Herne's oak--for the very man of whom we
inquired our way maintained that the tree was apocryphal, although in
such cases I hold it wisest and pleasantest to believe--the very old
town itself, with the localities immortalized by Sir John and Sir Hugh,
Dame Quickly and Justice Shallow, and all the company of the Merry
Wives, had to me an unfailing attraction. To Windsor we drove again and
again, until the pony spontaneously turned his head Windsor-ward.

Then we reviewed the haunts of GRAY, the house at Stoke Pogis, and the
church-yard where he is buried, and which contains the touching epitaph
wherein the pious son commemorates "the careful mother of many children,
one of whom only had the misfortune to survive her." To that spot we
drove one bright summer day, and we were not the only visitants. It was
pleasant to see one admirer seated under a tree, sketching the church,
and another party, escorted by the clergyman, walking reverently through
it. Stoke Pogis, however, is not without its rivals; and we also visited
the old church at Upton, whose ivy-mantled tower claims to be the
veritable tower of the "Elegy." A very curious scene did that old church
exhibit--that of an edifice not yet decayed, but abandoned to decay; an
incipient ruin, such as probably might have been paralleled in the
monasteries of England after the Reformation, or in the churches of
France after the first Revolution. The walls were still standing, still
full of monuments and monumental inscriptions; in some the gilding was
yet fresh, and one tablet especially had been placed there very
recently, commemorating the talents and virtues of the celebrated
astronomer, Sir John Herschell. But the windows were denuded of their
glass, the font broken, the pews dismantled, while on the tottering
reading-desk one of the great Prayer-books, all mouldy with damp, still
lay open--last vestige of the holy services with which it once
resounded. Another church had been erected, but it looked new and naked,
and every body seemed to regret the old place of worship, the roof of
which was remarkable for the purity of its design.

Another of our excursions was to Ockwells--a curious and beautiful
specimen of domestic architecture in the days before the Tudors. Strange
it seems to me that no one has exactly imitated that graceful front,
with its steep roof terminated on either side by two projecting gables,
the inner one lower than the other, adorned with oak carving, regular
and delicate as that on an ivory fan. The porch has equal elegance. One
almost expects to see some baronial hawking party, or some bridal
procession issue from its recesses. The great hall, although its grand
open roof has been barbarously closed up, still retains its fine
proportions, its dais, its music gallery, and the long range of windows,
still adorned with the mottos and escutcheons of the Norreys's, their
kindred and allies. It has long been used as a farm-house; and one
marvels that the painted windows should have remained uninjured through
four centuries of neglect and change. Much that was interesting has
disappeared, but enough still remains to gratify those who love to
examine the picturesque dwellings of our ancestors. The noble staircase,
the iron-studded door, the prodigious lock, the gigantic key (too heavy
for a woman to wield), the cloistered passages, the old-fashioned
buttery-hatch, give a view not merely of the degree of civilization of
the age, but of the habits and customs of familiar daily life.

Another drive took us to the old grounds of Lady Place, where, in
demolishing the house, care had been taken to preserve the vaults in
which the great Whig leaders wrote and signed the famous letter to
William of Orange, which drove James the Second from the throne. A
gloomy place it is now--a sort of underground ruin--and gloomy enough
the patriots must have found it on that memorable occasion: the tombs of
the monks (it had formerly been a monastery) under their feet, the
rugged walls around them, and no ray of light, except the lanterns they
may have brought with them, or the torches that they lit. Surely the
signature of that summons which secured the liberties of England would
make an impressive picture--Lord Somers in the foreground, and the other
Whig statesmen grouped around him. A Latin inscription records a visit
made by George the Third to the vaults; and truly it is among the places
that monarchs would do well to visit--full of stern lessons!

Chief pilgrimage of all was one that led us first to Beaconsfield,
through the delightful lanes of Buckinghamshire, with their luxuriance
of hedge-row timber, and their patches of heathy common. There we paid
willing homage to all that remained of the habitation consecrated by the
genius of EDMUND BURKE. Little is left, beyond gates and outbuildings,
for the house has been burnt down and the grounds disparked; but still
some of his old walks remained, and an old well and traces of an old
garden--and pleasant it was to tread where such a man had trodden, and
to converse with the few who still remembered him. We saw, too, the
stalwart yeoman who had the honor not only of furnishing to Sir Joshua
the model of his "Infant Hercules," but even of suggesting the subject.
Thus it happened. Passing a few days with Mr. Burke at his favorite
retirement, the great painter accompanied his host on a visit to his
bailiff. A noble boy lay sprawling in the cradle in the room where they
sat. His mother would fain have removed him, but Sir Joshua, then
commissioned to paint a picture for the Empress Catherine, requested
that the child might remain, sent with all speed for pallet and easel,
and accomplished his task with that success which so frequently waits
upon a sudden inspiration. It is remarkable that the good farmer, whose
hearty cordial kindness I shall not soon forget, has kept in a manner
most unusual the promise of his sturdy infancy, and makes as near an
approach to the proportions of the fabled Hercules as ever
Buckinghamshire yeoman displayed.

Beaconsfield, however, and even the cherished retirement of Burke, was
by no means the goal of our pilgrimage. The true shrine was to be found
four miles farther, in the small cottage at Chalfont St. Giles, where
Milton found a refuge during the Great Plague of London.

The road wound through lanes still shadier and hedge-rows still richer,
where the tall trees rose from banks overhung with fern, intermixed with
spires of purple foxglove; sometimes broken by a bit of mossy
park-paling, sometimes by the light shades of a beech-wood, until at
last we reached the quiet and secluded village whose very first dwelling
was consecrated by the abode of the great poet.

It is a small tenement of four rooms, one on either side the door,
standing in a little garden, and having its gable to the road. A short
inscription, almost hidden by the foliage of the vine, tells that MILTON
once lived within those sacred walls. The cottage has been so seldom
visited, is so little desecrated by thronging admirers, and has suffered
so little from alteration or decay, and all about it has so exactly the
serene and tranquil aspect that one should expect to see in an English
village two centuries ago, that it requires but a slight effort of fancy
to image to ourselves the old blind bard still sitting in that little
parlor, or sunning himself on the garden-seat beside the well. Milton is
said to have corrected at Chalfont some of the sheets of the "Paradise
Lost." The "Paradise Regained" he certainly composed there. One loves
to think of him in that calm retreat--to look round that poor room and
think how Genius ennobles all that she touches! Heaven forfend that
change in any shape, whether of embellishment or of decay, should fall
upon that cottage!

Another resort of ours, not a pilgrimage, but a haunt, was the forest of
old pollards, known by the name of Burnham Beeches. A real forest it
is--six hundred acres in extent, and varied by steep declivities, wild
dells, and tangled dingles. The ground, clothed with the fine short turf
where the thyme and the harebell love to grow, is partly covered with
luxuriant fern; and the juniper and the holly form a fitting underwood
for those magnificent trees, hollowed by age, whose profuse canopy of
leafy boughs seems so much too heavy for the thin rind by which it is
supported. Mr. Grote has a house here on which we looked with reverence;
and in one of the loveliest spots we came upon a monument erected by
Mrs. Grote in memory of Mendelssohn, and enriched by an elegant
inscription from her pen.

We were never weary of wandering among the Burnham Beeches; sometimes
taking Dropmore by the way, where the taste of the late Lord Grenville
created from a barren heath a perfect Eden of rare trees and matchless
flowers. But even better than amid that sweet woodland scene did I love
to ramble by the side of the Thames, as it bounded the beautiful grounds
of Lord Orkney, or the magnificent demesne of Sir George Warrender, the
verdant lawns of Cliefden.

That place also is full of memories. There it was that the famous Duke
of Buckingham fought his no less famous duel with Lord Shrewsbury, while
the fair countess, dressed, rather than disguised, as a page, held the
horse of her victorious paramour. We loved to gaze on that princely
mansion--since a second time burnt down--repeating to each other the
marvelous lines in which our two matchless satirists have immortalized
the duke's follies, and doubting which portrait were the best. We may at
least be sure that no third painter will excel them. Alas! who reads
Pope or Dryden now? I am afraid, very much afraid, that to many a fair
young reader these celebrated characters will be as good as manuscript.
I will at all events try the experiment. Here they be:

    "In the first rank of these did Zimri stand
    A man so various, that he seemed to be
    Not one, but all mankind's epitome;
    Stiff in opinions, always in the wrong,
    Was every thing by starts and nothing long;
    But in the course of one revolving moon,
    Was chemist, fiddler, statesman, and buffoon,
    Then all for women, painting, rhyming, drinking
    Besides ten thousand freaks that died in thinking.
    Blest madman, who could every hour employ
    With something new to wish or to enjoy!"

          DRYDEN. _Absalom and Achitophel._

Now for the little hunchback of Twickenham:

    "In the worst inn's worst room, with mat half hung,
    The walls of plaster, and the floor of dung;
    On once a flock-bed, but repaired with straw,
    With tape-tied curtains never meant to draw,
    The George and Garter dangling from that bed,
    Where tawdry yellow strove with dirty red:
    Great Villiers lies:--but, ah, how changed from him,
    That life of pleasure, and that soul of whim,
    Gallant and gay in Cliefden's proud alcove,
    The bower of wanton Shrewsbury and love!
    Or just as gay at council 'mid the ring
    Of mimic statesmen and their merry king!
    No wit to flatter left of all his store;
    No fool to laugh at, which he valued more;
    There, victor of his health, of fortune, friends
    And fame, the lord of useless thousands ends?"

                          POPE. _Moral Essays._




FLOWERS IN THE SICK ROOM.


Among the terrors of our youth we well remember there were certain
poisonous exhalations said to arise from plants and flowers if allowed
to share our sleeping-room during the night, as though objects of
loveliness when seen by daylight took advantage of the darkness to
assume the qualities of the ghoul or the vampire. Well do we remember
how maternal anxiety removed every portion of vegetable life from our
bedroom, lest its gases should poison us before morning! This opinion,
and the cognate one that plants in rooms are always injurious, is
prevalent still, and it operates most unfavorably in the case of the
bed-ridden, or the invalid, by depriving them of a chamber garden which
would otherwise make time put off his leaden wings, and while away, in
innocent amusement, many a lagging hour. Now we assure our readers that
this is a popular superstition, and will endeavor to put them in
possession of the grounds on which our statement is founded. In doing
so, we do not put forth any opinions of our own, but the deductions of
science, for the truth of which any one acquainted with vegetable
physiology can vouch.

Plants, in a growing state, absorb the oxygen gas of the atmosphere, and
throw off carbonic acid; these are facts, and as oxygen is necessary to
life and carbonic acid injurious to it, the conclusion has been jumped
at that plants in apartments _must_ have a deleterious influence. But
there is another fact equally irrefragable, _that plants feed on the
carbonic acid of the atmosphere_, and are, indeed, the grand instruments
employed in the laboratory of Nature for purifying it from the noxious
exhalations of animal life. From the spacious forests to the blade of
grass which forces itself up through the crevices of a street pavement,
every portion of verdure is occupied in disinfecting the air. By means
of solar light the carbonic acid, when taken in by the leaves, is
decomposed, its carbon going to build up the structure of the plant and
its disengaged oxygen returning to the air we breathe. It is true that
this process is stopped in the darkness, and that then a very small
portion of carbonic acid is evolved by plants; but as it is never
necessary for a patient to sleep in a room with flowers, we need say
nothing on that subject. Cleanliness, and other considerations, would
suggest having a bedroom as free as possible during the night, and our
object is answered if we show that vegetation is not injurious in the
day. That it is, on the contrary, conducive to health, is a plain
corollary of science.

Perhaps the error we are speaking of may have originated from
confounding the effects of the _odors_ of plants with a general result
of their presence. Now, all strong scents are injurious, and those of
some flowers are specially so, and ought on no account to be patronized
by the invalid. But it happens, fortunately, that a very large class of
plants have either no scent at all, or so little as to be of no
consequence, so that there is still room for an extensive selection.
This, then, is _one_ rule to be observed in chamber gardening. Another
is, that the plants admitted should be in perfect health, for while
growing vegetation is healthful, it becomes noxious when sickly or dead.
Thirdly, let the most scrupulous cleanliness be maintained; the pots,
saucers, and the stands being often subjected to ablutions. Under this
head also we include the removal of dying leaves, and all flowers,
before they have quite lost their beauty, since it is well known that
the petals become unpleasant in some varieties as soon as the meridian
of their brief life is passed. By giving attention to these simple
regulations, a sick chamber may have its windows adorned with flowers
without the slightest risk to the health of the occupant, and in saying
this we open the way to some of the most gentle lenitives of pain, as
well as to sources of rational enjoyment. If those who can go where they
please, in the sunshine and the shade, can gather wild flowers in their
natural dwellings, and cultivate extensive gardens, still find pleasure
in a few favorites in-doors, how much more delight must such treasured
possessions confer on those whom Providence has made prisoners and who
must have their all of verdure and floral beauty brought to them!




[From Dickens's Household Words.]

LIVELY TURTLE.

A SKETCH OF A CONSERVATIVE.


I have a comfortable property. What I spend, I spend upon myself; and
what I don't spend I save. Those are my principles. I am warmly attached
to my principles, and stick to them on all occasions.

I am not, as some people have represented, a mean man. I never denied
myself any thing that I thought I should like to have. I may have said
to myself "SNOADY"--that is my name--"you will get those peaches cheaper
if you wait till next week;" or, I may have said to myself, "Snoady, you
will get that wine for nothing, if you wait till you are asked out to
dine;" but I never deny myself any thing. If I can't get what I want
without buying it, and paying its price for it, I _do_ buy it and pay
its price for it. I have an appetite bestowed upon me; and, if I balked
it, I should consider that I was flying in the face of Providence.

I have no near relation but a brother. If he wants any thing of me, he
don't get it. All men are my brothers; and I see no reason why I should
make his an exceptional case.

I live at a cathedral town where there is an old corporation. I am not
in the Church, but it may be that I hold a little place of some sort.
Never mind. It may be profitable. Perhaps yes, perhaps no. It may, or it
may not, be a sinecure. I don't choose to say, I never enlightened my
brother on these subjects, and I consider all men my brothers. The <DW64>
is a man and a brother--should I hold myself accountable for my position
in life, _to him_? Certainly not.

I often run up to London. I like London. The way I look at it, is this.
London is not a cheap place, but, on the whole, you can get more of the
real thing for your money there--I mean the best thing, whatever it
is--than you can get in most places. Therefore, I say to the man who has
got the money, and wants the thing, "Go to London for it, and treat
yourself."

When _I_ go, I do it in this manner. I go to Mrs. Skim's Private Hotel
and Commercial Lodging House, near Aldersgate-street, City (it is
advertised in "Bradshaw's Railway Guide," where I first found it), and
there I pay, "for bed and breakfast, with meat, two and ninepence per
day, including servants." Now, I have made a calculation, and I am
satisfied that Mrs. Skim can not possibly make much profit out of _me_.
In fact, if all her patrons were like me, my opinion is, the woman would
be in the Gazette next month.

Why do I go to Mrs. Skim's when I could go to the Clarendon, you may
ask? Let us argue that point. If I went to the Clarendon I could get
nothing in bed but sleep; could I? No. Now, sleep at the Clarendon is an
expensive article; whereas, sleep at Mrs. Skim's, is decidedly cheap. I
have made a calculation and I don't hesitate to say, all things
considered, that it's cheap. Is it an inferior article, as compared with
the Clarendon sleep, or is it of the same quality? I am a heavy sleeper,
and it is of the same quality. Then why should I go to the Clarendon?

But as to breakfast? you may say. Very well. As to breakfast. I could
get a variety of delicacies for breakfast at the Clarendon, that are out
of the question at Mrs. Skim's. Granted. But I don't want to have them!
My opinion is, that we are not entirely animal and sensual. Man has an
intellect bestowed upon him. If he clogs that intellect by too good a
breakfast, how can he properly exert that intellect in meditation,
during the day upon his dinner? That's the point. We are not to enchain
the soul. We are to let it soar. It is expected of us.

At Mrs. Skim's I get enough for breakfast (there is no limitation to the
bread and butter, though there is to the meat), and not too much. I have
all my faculties about me, to concentrate upon the object I have
mentioned, and I can say to myself besides, "Snoady, you have saved six,
eight, ten, fifteen shillings, already to-day. If there is any thing you
fancy for your dinner, have it, Snoady, you have earned your reward."

My objection to London, is, that it is the head-quarters of the worst
radical sentiments that are broached in England. I consider that it has
a great many dangerous people in it. I consider the present publication
(if it's "Household Words") very dangerous, and I write this with the
view of neutralizing some of its bad effects. My political creed is, let
us be comfortable. We are all very comfortable as we are--_I_ am very
comfortable as I am--leave us alone!

All mankind are my brothers, and I don't think it Christian--if you come
to that--to tell my brother that he is ignorant, or degraded, or dirty,
or any thing of the kind. I think it's abusive, and low. You meet me
with the observation that I am required to love my brother. I reply, "I
do." I am sure I am always willing to say to my brother, "My good
fellow, I love you very much; go along with you; keep to your own road;
leave me to mine; whatever is, is right; whatever isn't, is wrong; don't
make a disturbance!" It seems to me, that this is at once the whole duty
of man, and the only temper to go to dinner in.

Going to dinner in this temper in the city of London, one day not long
ago, after a bed at Mrs. Skim's, with meat-breakfast and servants
included, I was reminded of the observation which, if my memory does not
deceive me, was formerly made by somebody on some occasion, that man may
learn wisdom from the lower animals. It is a beautiful fact, in my
opinion, that great wisdom is to be learned from that noble animal the
turtle.

I had made up my mind, in the course of the day I speak of, to have a
turtle dinner. I mean a dinner mainly composed of turtle. Just a
comfortable tureen of soup, with a pint of punch, and nothing solid to
follow, but a tender juicy steak. I like a tender juicy steak. I
generally say to myself when I order one, "Snoady, you have done right."

When I make up my mind to have a delicacy, expense is no consideration.
The question resolves itself, then, into a question of the very best. I
went to a friend of mine who is a member of the Common Council, and with
that friend I held the following conversation.

Said I to him, "Mr. Groggles, the best turtle is where?"

Says he, "If you want a basin for lunch, my opinion is, you can't do
better than drop into Birch's."

Said I, "Mr. Groggles, I thought you had known me better, than to
suppose me capable of a basin. My intention is to dine. A tureen."

Says Mr. Groggles, without a moment's consideration, and in a determined
voice. "Right opposite the India House, Leadenhall-street."

We parted. My mind was not inactive during the day, and at six in the
afternoon I repaired to the house of Mr. Groggles's recommendation. At
the end of the passage, leading from the street into the coffee-room, I
observed a vast and solid chest, in which I then supposed that a turtle
of unusual size might be deposited. But, the correspondence between its
bulk and that of the charge made for my dinner, afterward satisfied me
that it must be the till of the establishment.

I stated to the waiter what had brought me there, and I mentioned Mr.
Groggles's name. He feelingly repeated after me, "A tureen of turtle,
and a tender juicy steak." His manner, added to the manner of Mr.
Groggles in the morning, satisfied me that all was well. The atmosphere
of the coffee-room was odoriferous with turtle, and the steams of
thousands of gallons, consumed within its walls, hung, in savory grease,
upon their surface. I could have inscribed my name with a penknife, if I
had been so disposed, in the essence of innumerable turtles. I preferred
to fall into a hungry reverie, brought on by the warm breath of the
place, and to think of the West Indies and the Island of Ascension.

My dinner came--and went. I will draw a vail over the meal, I will put
the cover on the empty tureen, and merely say that it was wonderful--and
that I paid for it.

I sat meditating, when all was over, on the imperfect nature of our
present existence, in which we can eat only for a limited time, when the
waiter roused me with these words.

Said he to me, as he brushed the crumbs off the table, "Would you like
to see the turtle, sir?"

"To see what turtle, waiter?" said I (calmly) to him.

"The tanks of turtle below, sir," said he to me.

Tanks of turtle! Good gracious! "Yes!"

The waiter lighted a candle, and conducted me down stairs to a range of
vaulted apartments, cleanly white-washed and illuminated with gas, where
I saw a sight of the most astonishing and gratifying description,
illustrative of the greatness of my native country. "Snoady," was my
first observation to myself, "Rule Britannia, Britannia rules the
waves!"

There were two or three hundred turtle in the vaulted apartments--all
alive. Some in tanks, and some taking the air in long dry walks littered
down with straw. They were of all sizes; many of them enormous. Some of
the enormous ones had entangled themselves with the smaller ones, and
pushed and squeezed themselves into corners, with their fins over
water-pipes, and their heads downward, where they were apoplectically
struggling and splashing, apparently in the last extremity. Others were
calm at the bottom of the tanks; others languidly rising to the surface.
The turtle in the walks littered down with straw, were calm and
motionless. It was a thrilling sight. I admire such a sight. It rouses
my imagination. If you wish to try its effect on yours, make a call
right opposite the India House any day you please--dine--pay--and ask to
be taken below.

Two athletic young men, without coats, and with the sleeves of their
shirts tucked up to the shoulders, were in attendance on these noble
animals. One of them, wrestling with the most enormous turtle in
company, and dragging him up to the edge of the tank, for me to look at,
presented an idea to me which I never had before. I ought to observe
that I like an idea. I say, when I get a new one, "Snoady, book that!"

My idea, on the present occasion, was--Mr. Groggles! It was not a turtle
that I saw, but Mr. Groggles. It was the dead image of Mr. Groggles. He
was dragged up to confront me, with his waistcoat--if I may be allowed
the expression--toward me; and it was identically the waistcoat of Mr.
Groggles. It was the same shape, very nearly the same color, only wanted
a gold watch-chain and a bunch of seals, to BE the waistcoat of Mr.
Groggles. There was what I should call a bursting expression about him
in general, which was accurately the expression of Mr. Groggles. I had
never closely observed a turtle's throat before. The folds of his loose
cravat, I found to be precisely those of Mr. Groggles's cravat. Even the
intelligent eye--I mean to say, intelligent enough for a person of
correct principles, and not dangerously so--was the eye of Mr. Groggles.
When the athletic young man let him go, and, with a roll of his head, he
flopped heavily down into the tank, it was exactly the manner of Mr.
Groggles as I have seen him ooze away into his seat, after opposing a
sanitary motion in the Court of Common Council!

"Snoady," I couldn't help saying to myself, "you have done it. You have
got an idea, Snoady, in which a great principle is involved. I
congratulate you!" I followed the young man, who dragged up several
turtle to the brinks of the various tanks. I found them all the
same--all varieties of Mr. Groggles--all extraordinarily like the
gentlemen who usually eat them. "Now, Snoady," was my next remark, "what
do you deduce from this?"

"Sir," said I, "what I deduce from this, is, confusion to those Radicals
and other Revolutionists who talk about improvement. Sir," said I, "what
I deduce from this, is, that there isn't this resemblance between the
turtles and the Groggleses for nothing. It's meant to show mankind that
the proper model for a Groggles, is a turtle; and that the liveliness
we want in a Groggles, is the liveliness of a turtle, and no more."
"Snoady," was my reply to this, "you have hit it. You are right!"

I admired the idea very much, because, if I hate any thing in the world,
it's change. Change has evidently no business in the world, has nothing
to do with it, and isn't intended. What we want is (as I think I have
mentioned) to be comfortable. I look at it that way. Let us be
comfortable, and leave us alone. Now, when the young man dragged a
Groggles--I mean a turtle--out of his tank, this was exactly what the
noble animal expressed as he floundered back again.

I have several friends besides Mr. Groggles in the Common Council, and
it might be a week after this, when I said, "Snoady, if I was you, I
would go to that court, and hear the debate to-day." I went. A good deal
of it was what I call a sound, old English discussion. One eloquent
speaker objected to the French as wearing wooden shoes; and a friend of
his reminded him of another objection to that foreign people, namely,
that they eat frogs. I had feared, for many years, I am sorry to say,
that these wholesome principles were gone out. How delightful to find
them still remaining among the great men of the City of London, in the
year one thousand eight hundred and fifty! It made me think of the
Lively Turtle.

But I soon thought more of the Lively Turtle. Some Radicals and
Revolutionists have penetrated even to the Common Council--which
otherwise I regard as one of the last strongholds of our afflicted
constitution; and speeches were made, about removing Smithfield
Market--which I consider to be a part of that Constitution--and about
appointing a Medical Officer for the City, and about preserving the
public health; and other treasonable practices, opposed to Church and
State. These proposals Mr. Groggles, as might have been expected of such
a man, resisted; so warmly, that, as I afterward understood from Mrs.
Groggles, he had rather a sharp attack of blood to the head that night.
All the Groggles party resisted them too, and it was a fine
constitutional sight to see waistcoat after waistcoat rise up in
resistance of them and subside. But what struck me in the sight was
this, "Snoady," said I, "here is your idea carried out, sir! These
Radicals and Revolutionists are the athletic young men in shirt sleeves,
dragging the Lively Turtle to the edges of the tank. The Groggleses are
the turtle, looking out for a moment, and flopping down again. Honor to
the Groggleses! Honor to the Court of Lively Turtle! The wisdom of the
Turtle is the hope of England!"

There are three heads in the moral of what I had to say. First, turtle
and Groggles are identical; wonderfully alike externally, wonderfully
alike mentally. Secondly, turtle is a good thing every way, and the
liveliness of the turtle is intended as an example for the liveliness
of man; you are not to go beyond that. Thirdly, we are all quite
comfortable. Leave us alone!




[From Chambers's Edinburgh Journal.]

THE UNLAWFUL GIFT; OR, KINDNESS REWARDED.


The chastened glory of a bright autumnal evening was shining upon the
yellow harvest fields of Bursley Farm, in the vicinity of the New
Forest, and tinting with changeful light the dense but broken masses of
thick wood which skirted the southern horizon, when Ephraim Lovegrove, a
care-cankered, worn-out dying man, though hardly numbering sixty years,
was, at his constantly and peevishly-iterated request, lifted from the
bed on which for many weeks he had been gradually and painfully wasting
away, and carried in an arm-chair to the door. From the cottage,
situated as it was upon an eminence, the low-lying lands of Bursley, and
its straggling homestead, which once called him master, could be
distinctly seen. The fading eyes of the old man wandered slowly over the
gleaming landscape, and a faint smile of painful recognition stole upon
his harsh and shriveled features. His only son, a fine handsome young
fellow, stood silently, with his wife, beside him--both, it seemed, as
keenly, though not, perhaps, as bitterly, impressed with the scene and
the thoughts it suggested; and their child, a rosy youngster of about
five years of age, clung tightly to his mother's gown, frightened and
awed apparently by the stern expression he read upon his father's face.
A light summer air lifted the old man's thin white locks, fanned his
sallow cheeks, and momently revived his fainting spirit. "Ay," he
muttered, "the old pleasant home, Ned, quiet, beautiful as ever. It's
only we who change and pass away."

"The home," rejoined the son, "of which we have been robbed--lawfully
robbed."

"I'm not so clear on that as I was," said Ephraim Lovegrove, slowly and
with difficulty. "It was partly our own want of foresight--mine, I mean,
of course: we ought not to have calculated on--"

The old man's broken accents stopped suddenly. The strength which the
sight of his former home and the grateful breeze which swept up from the
valley awakened, had quickly faded; and the daughter-in-law, touching
her husband's arm, and glancing anxiously at his father's changing
countenance, motioned that he should be re-conveyed to bed. This was
done, and a few spoonfuls of wine revived him somewhat. Edward Lovegrove
left the cottage upon some necessary business; and his wife, after
putting her child to bed, re-entered the sick-room, and seated herself
with mute watchfulness by the bedside of her father-in-law.

"Ye are a kind, gentle creature, Mary," said the dying man, whose
failing gaze had been for some time fixed upon her pale, patient face;
"as kind and gentle--more so, it seems to me, in this poor hovel, than
when we dwelt in yon homestead, from which you, with us, have been so
cruelly driven."

"Murmuring, father," she replied, in a low, sweet voice, "would not help
us. It is surely better to submit cheerfully to a hard lot, than to
chafe and fret one's life away at what can not be helped. But it's easy
for me," she hastily added, fearing that her words might sound
reproachfully in the old man's ear--"it's easy for me, who have health,
a kind husband, and my little boy left me, to be cheerful, but it is
scarcely so for you, suffering in body and mind, and tormented in a
thousand ways."

"Ay, girl, it has been a sharp trial; but it will soon be over. In a few
hours it will matter little whether old Ephraim Lovegrove lived and died
in a pig-sty or a palace. But I would speak of you. You and Ned should
emigrate. There are countries, I am told, where you would be sure to
prosper. That viper Nichols, I remember, once offered to assist--I could
never make out from what motive--from what--A little wine," he added
feebly. "The evening, for the time of the year, is very chilly: my feet
and legs are cold as stones." He swallowed the wine, and again addressed
himself to speak, but his voice was scarcely audible. "I have often
thought," he murmured, "as I lay here, that Symons, Nichols's clerk,
from a hint he dropped, knows something of--of--your mother and--and--"
The faint accents ceased to be audible; but the grasp of the dying man
closed tightly upon the frightened woman's hand, as he looked wildly in
her face as he drew her toward him, as if some important statement
remained untold. He struggled desperately for utterance, but the strife
was vain, and brief as it was fierce: his grasp relaxed, and with a
convulsive groan, Ephraim Lovegrove fell back and expired.

The storm which had made shipwreck of the fortunes of Ephraim Lovegrove
had leveled with the earth prouder roof-trees than his. In early life he
had succeeded his father as the tenant of a farm in Wiltshire. He was
industrious, careful, and ambitious; and aided by the sum of L500, which
he received with his wife, and the high prices which agricultural
produce obtained during the French war, he was enabled, at the
expiration of his lease in Wiltshire, to become the proprietor of
Bursley Farm. This purchase was effected when wheat ranged from L30 to
L40 a load, at a proportionately exorbitant price of L5000. His savings
amounted to about one half of this sum, and the remainder was raised by
way of mortgage. Matters went on smoothly enough till the peace of 1815,
and the subsequent precipitate fall in prices. Lovegrove showed gallant
fight, hoping against hope that exceptional legislation would ultimately
bolster up prices to something like their former level. He was deceived.
Every day saw him sinking lower and lower; and in the sixth year of
peace he was reluctantly compelled to abandon the long since desperate
and hopeless struggle with adverse fortune. The interest on the borrowed
money had fallen considerably in arrear, and Bursley Farm was sold by
auction at a barely sufficient sum to cover the mortgage and accumulated
interest. The stock was similarly disposed of, and stout Ephraim
withdrew with his family to a small cottage in the neighborhood of his
old home, possessed, after his debts were discharged, of about thirty
pounds in money and a few necessary articles of furniture. The old man's
heart was broken: he took almost immediately to his bed, and after a
long agony of physical pain, aggravated and embittered by mental
disquietude and discontent, expired, as we have seen, worn out in mind
and body.

The future of the surviving family was a dark and anxious one. Edward
Lovegrove, a frank, kindly-tempered young man, accustomed, in the golden
days of farming, to ride occasionally after the hounds, as well equipped
and mounted as any in the field, was little fitted for a struggle for
daily bread with the crowded competition of the world. He had several
times endeavored to obtain a situation as bailiff, but others more
fortunate, perhaps better qualified, filled up every vacancy that
offered, and the almost desperate man, but for the pleading helplessness
of his wife and child, would have sought shelter in the ranks of the
army--that grave in which so many withered prospects and broken hopes
lie buried. As usual with disappointed men, his mind dwelt with
daily-augmenting bitterness upon the persons at whose hands the last and
decisive blows which had destroyed his home had been received. Sandars
the mortgagee he looked upon as a monster of perfidy and injustice; but
especially Nichols the attorney, who had superintended and directed the
sale of the Bursley homestead, was regarded by him with the bitterest
dislike. Other causes gave intensity to this vindictive feeling. The son
of the attorney, Arthur Nichols, a wild, dissipated young man, had been
a competitor for the hand of Mary Clarke, the sole child of Widow
Clarke, and now Edward Lovegrove's wife. It was not at all remarkable or
surprising that young Nichols should admire and seek to wed pretty and
gentle Mary Clarke, but it was deemed strange by those who knew his
father's grasping, mercenary disposition, that _he_ should have been so
eager for the match, well knowing, as he did, for the payments passed
through his hands, that the widow's modest annuity terminated with her
life. It was also known, and wonderingly commented upon, that the
attorney was himself an anxious suitor for the widow's hand up to the
day of her sudden and unexpected decease, which occurred about three
years after her daughter's marriage with Edward Lovegrove. Immediately
after this event, as if some restraint upon his pent-up malevolence had
been removed, the elder Nichols manifested the most active hostility
toward the Lovegroves; and to his persevering enmity it was generally
attributed that Mr. Sandars had availed himself of the power of sale
inserted in the mortgage deed, to cast his unfortunate debtor helpless
and homeless upon the world.

Sadly passed away the weary, darkening days with the young couple after
the old man's death. The expenses of his long illness had swept away the
little money saved from the wreck of the farm; and it required the
sacrifice of Edward's watch and some silver teaspoons to defray the cost
of a decent funeral. At last, spite of the thriftiest economy, all was
gone, and they were penniless.

"You have nothing to purchase breakfast with to-morrow, have you, Mary?"
said the husband, after partaking of a scanty tea. The mother had
feigned only to eat: little Edward, whose curly head was lying in her
lap as he sat asleep on a low stool beside her, had her share.

"Not a farthing," she replied, mildly, even cheerfully, and the glance
of her gentle eyes was hopeful and kind as ever. "But, bear up, Edward:
we have still the furniture; and were that sold at once, it would enable
us to reach London, where, you know, so many people have made fortunes,
who arrived there as poor as we."

"Something must be done, that is certain," replied the husband. "We have
not yet received an answer from Salisbury about the porter's place I
have applied for."

"No; but I would rather, for your sake, Edward, that you filled such a
situation at some place further off, where you were not so well known."

Edward Lovegrove sighed, and, presently, rising from his chair, walked
toward a chest of drawers that stood at the further end of the room. His
wife, who guessed his intention--for the matter had been already more
than once hinted at--followed him with a tearful, apprehensive glance.
Her husband played tolerably well--wonderfully in the wife's
opinion--upon the flute, and a few weeks after their marriage, her
mother had purchased and presented him with a very handsome one with
silver keys. He used, in the old time, to accompany his wife in the
simple ballads she sang so sweetly--and now this last memorial of the
past, linked as it was with tender and pious memories, must be parted
with! Edward Lovegrove had not looked at it for months: his life, of
late so out of tune, would have made harsh discord of its music; and as
he took it from the case, and, from the mere force of habit, moistened
the joints, and placed the pieces together, a flood of bitterness
swelled his heart to think that this solace of "lang syne" must be
sacrificed to their hard necessities. He blew a few tremulous and
imperfect notes, which awakened the little boy, who was immediately
clamorous that mammy should sing, and daddy play, as they used to do.

"Shall we try, Mary," said the husband, "to please the child?" Poor Mary
bowed her head: her heart was too full to speak. The flutist played the
prelude to a favorite air several times over, before his wife could
sufficiently command her voice to commence the song, and she had not
reached the end of the second line when she stopped, choked with
emotion, and burst into an agony of tears.

"It is useless trying, Mary," said Edward Lovegrove, soothingly, as he
rose and put by the flute. "I will to bed at once, for to and from
Christchurch, where I must dispose of it, is a long walk." He kissed his
wife and child, and went up-stairs. The mother followed soon afterward,
put her boy to rest, and after looking wistfully for a few moments at
the worn and haggard features of her husband as he lay asleep,
re-descended the stairs, and busied herself with some necessary
household work.

As she was thus employed, a slight tap at the little back window struck
her ear, and, looking sharply round, she recognized the pale, uncouth
features of Symons, lawyer Nichols' deformed clerk and errand-man, who
was eagerly beckoning her to open the casement. This was the person of
whom Ephraim Lovegrove had spoken just previous to his death. Symons,
who had never known father or mother, had passed his infancy and early
boyhood in the parish workhouse, from whence he had passed into the
service of Mr. Nichols, who, finding him useful, and of some capacity,
had retained him in his employ to the present time, but at so bare a
stipend, as hardly sufficed to keep body and soul together. Poor Symons
was a meek, enduring drudge, used to the mocks and buffets of the world;
and except under the influence of strong excitement, hardly dared to
rebel or murmur, even in spirit. His acquaintance with the Lovegrove
family arose from his being placed in possession of the furniture and
stock of Bursley Farm, under a writ of _fi. fa._ issued by Nichols. On
the day the inventory was taken, in preparation for the sale, a heavy
piece of timber, which he was assisting to measure, fell upon his left
foot, and severely crushed it. From his master he received only a
malediction for his awkwardness; but young Mrs. Lovegrove--not so much
absorbed in her own grief as to be indifferent to the sufferings of
others--had him brought carefully into the house, and herself tended his
painful hurt with the gentlest care and compassion, and ultimately
effected a thorough cure. This kindness to a slighted, deformed being,
who, before, had scarcely comprehended the meaning of the word,
powerfully effected Symons; and he had since frequently endeavored, in
his shy, awkward way, to testify the deep gratitude he felt toward his
benefactress, of whose present extreme poverty he, in common with every
other inhabitant of the scattered hamlet, had, of course, become fully
cognizant. Charity Symons--the parish authorities had so named him, in
order, doubtless that however high he might eventually rise in the
world, he should never ungratefully forget his origin--beckoned, as I
have said, eagerly to the lone woman, and the instant she opened the
casement, he thrust a rather heavy bag into her hand.

"For you," he said, hurriedly: "I got it for next to nothing of Tom
Stares; but mind, not a word! God bless and reward you!" and before Mrs.
Lovegrove could answer a word, or comprehend what was meant, he had
disappeared.

On opening the bag, the surprised and affrighted woman found that it
contained a fine hen-pheasant and a hare! No wonder she was alarmed at
finding herself in possession of such articles; for in those good old
days game could not be lawfully sold or purchased; and unless it could
be distinctly proved that it came by gift from a qualified killer, its
simple possession was a punishable offense. This pheasant and hare had
doubtless been poached by Tom Stares, a notorious offender against the
game-laws; but what was to be done? Spite of all the laws that were
enacted upon the subject, the peasant and farmer intellect of England
could never be made to attach a moral delinquency to the unauthorized
killing of game. A dangerous occupation, leading to no possible good,
and, eventually, sure to result in evil to the transgressor, prudent men
agreed it was; but as for confounding the stealing of a wooden spoon,
worth a penny, with the snaring of a hare, worth, perhaps, five
shillings--that never entered any body's head. And thus it happened that
Mrs. Lovegrove, though conscious that the hare and bird had been
illegally obtained, felt nothing of the instinctive horror and shame
that would have mantled her forehead, had she been made the recipient of
a stolen threepenny-worth of cheese or bacon. She recalled to mind the
journey her husband must take in the morning--he, weak, haggard for want
of food--of which here was an abundant present supply: her boy, too, who
had twice at tea-time, ere he fell asleep, asked vainly for more bread!
As these bitter thoughts glanced through her brain, a sharp double rap
at the door caused her to start like a guilty thing, and then hastily
undo her apron, and throw it over the betraying present. The door was
not locked, and the postman, impatient of delay, lifted the latch, and
stepped into the room. Was he soon enough to observe what was on the
table? Mary Lovegrove would have thought so, but for the unconcerned,
indifferent aspect of the man as he presented a letter, and said, "It's
prepaid: all right;" and without further remark, went away. The anxious
and nervous woman trembled so much, that she could hardly break the seal
of the letter; and the words, as she strove to make out the cramped hand
by the brilliant moonlight, danced confusedly before her eyes. At last
she was able to read. The letter was from Salisbury and announced that
Mr. Brodie "regretted to say, as he had known and respected the late
Ephraim Lovegrove, that he had engaged a person to fill the situation
which had been vacant, a few hours previous to his receiving Edward
Lovegrove's application." That plank, then, had sunk under them like all
the rest! A hard world, she thought, and but little entitled to
obedience or respect from the wretches trampled down in its iron course.
Edward should not, at all events, depart foodless on his morning's
errand; neither should her boy lack breakfast. On this she was now
determined, and with shaking hands and flushed cheek, she hastily set
about preparing the bird for the morning meal--a weak and criminal act,
if you will; but a mother seldom reasons when her child lacks food: she
only feels.

Edward Lovegrove very easily reconciled himself to the savory breakfast
which awaited him in the morning; and he and his son were doing ample
justice to it--the wife, though faint with hunger, could not touch a
morsel--when the latch of the door suddenly lifted, and in hurried
Thompson the miller, and chief constable of the Hundred, followed by an
assistant. A faint scream escaped from Mrs. Lovegrove, and a fierce oath
broke from her husband's lips, as they recognized the new-comers, and
too readily divined their errand.

"A charming breakfast, upon my word!" exclaimed the constable, laughing.
"Roasted pheasant--no less! Our information was quite correct, it
appears."

"What is the meaning of this, and what do you seek here?" exclaimed
Edward Lovegrove.

"You and this game, of which we are informed you are unlawfully
possessed. I hope," added the constable, a feeling, good sort of man--"I
hope you will be able to prove both this half-eaten pheasant and the
hare I see hanging yonder were presented to you by some person having a
right to make such gifts?"

A painful and embarrassing pause ensued. It would have been useless, as
far as themselves were concerned, to have named Charity Symons, even had
Lovegrove or his wife been disposed to subject him to the penalties of
the law and the anger of his employer.

"After all," observed the constable, who saw how matters stood, "it is
but a money penalty."

"A money penalty!" exclaimed Lovegrove. "It is
imprisonment--ruin--starvation for my wife and child. Look at these bare
walls--these threadbare garments--and say if it can mean any thing
else!"

"I am sorry for it," rejoined Thompson. "The penalty is a considerable
one: five pounds for each head of game, with costs; and I am afraid, if
Sir John Devereux's agent--lawyer Nichols--presses the charge, in
default of payment, six months' imprisonment! Sir John's preserves have
suffered greatly of late."

"It is that rascal, that robber Nichols' doing then!" fiercely exclaimed
Lovegrove. "I might have guessed so; but if I don't pay him off both
for old and new one of these days--"

"Tut--tut!" interrupted the constable: "it's no use calling names, nor
uttering threats we don't mean to perform. Perhaps matters may turn out
better than you think. In the mean time you must appear before Squire
Digby, and so must your hare and what remains of your breakfast."

Arrived before the magistrate, the prisoner, taken in "_flagrant
delit_," had of course no valid defense to offer. The justice remarked
upon the enormity of the offense committed, and regretted, exceedingly
that he could not at once convict and punish the delinquent; but as the
statute required that two magistrates should concur in the conviction,
the case would be adjourned till that day week, when a petty sessions
would be held. In the mean time he should require bail in ten pounds for
the prisoner's appearance. This would have been tantamount to a sentence
of immediate imprisonment, had not the constable, who had been formerly
intimate with the Lovegroves, stepped forward and said, that if the
prisoner would give him his word that he would not abscond, he would
bail him. This was done, and the necessary formalities complete, the
husband and wife took their sad way homeward.

What was now to be done? Their furniture, if sold at its highest value,
would barely discharge the penalties incurred, and they would be
homeless, penniless, utterly without resource? The wife wept bitterly,
accusing herself as the cause of this utter ruin; her husband indulged
in fierce and senseless abuse of Nichols, and in a paroxysm of fury
seized a sheet of letter-paper, tore it hastily in halves, and scribbled
a letter to the attorney full of threats of the direst vengeance. This
crazy epistle he signed 'A Ruined Man,' and without pausing to reflect
on what he was doing, dispatched his little boy to the post-office with
it. This mad proceeding appeared to have somewhat relieved him: he grew
calmer, strove to console his wife, went out and obtained credit at the
chandler's--the first time they had made such a request--for a few
necessaries; and after a short interval, the unfortunate couple were
once more discussing their sad prospects with calmness and
partially-renewed hope. More than once Edward Lovegrove wished he had
not sent the letter to Nichols; but he said nothing to his wife about
it, and she, it afterward appeared, had been so pre-occupied at the
time, as not to heed or inquire to whom or of what he was writing.

On the third day after Edward Lovegrove's appearance before the
magistrate, he set off about noon for Christchurch, in order to dispose
of his flute--a sacrifice which could no longer be delayed. It was
growing late, and his wife was sitting up in impatient expectation of
his return, when an alarm of "Fire" was raised, and it was announced
that a wheat-rick belonging to Nichols, who farmed in a small way, was
in flames. Many of the villagers hastened to the spot; but the fire, by
the time they arrived, had been effectually got under, and after hanging
about the premises a short time, they turned homeward. Edward Lovegrove
joined a party of them, and incidently remarked that he had been to
Christchurch, where he had met young Nichols, and had some rough words
with him: on his return, the young man had passed him on horseback when
about two miles distant from the elder Nichols' house, and just as he
(Lovegrove) neared the attorney's premises, the rick burst into flames.
This relation elicited very little remark at the time, and bidding his
companion good-night, Lovegrove hastened home.

"The constables are looking for you," said a young woman, abruptly
entering the chandler's shop, whither Edward Lovegrove had proceeded the
following morning to discharge the trifling debt he had incurred.

"For me?" exclaimed the startled young man.

"Yes, for you;" and, added the girl with a meaning look and whisper,
"_if you were near the fire last night_, I would advise you to make
yourself scarce for a time."

Her words conveyed no definite meaning to Edward Lovegrove's mind. The
fire! Constables after him! He left the shop, and took with hasty steps,
his way to the cottage, distant over the fields about a quarter of a
mile.

"Lawyer Nichols' fire," he muttered as he hurried along. "Surely they do
not mean to accuse me of that!"

The sudden recollection of the threatening letter he had sent glanced
across and smote, as with the stroke of a dagger, upon his brain. "Good
God! to what have I exposed myself?"

His agitation was excessive; and at the instant the constables, who had
been to his home in search of him, turned the corner of a path, a few
paces ahead, and came full upon him. In his confusion and terror he
turned to flee, but so weakly and irresolutely, that he was almost
immediately overtaken and secured.

"I would not have believed this of you, Edward Lovegrove," exclaimed the
constable.

"Believed what?" ejaculated the bewildered man.

"That you would have tried to revenge yourself on Lawyer Nichols by such
a base, dastardly trick. But it's not my business to reproach you, and
the less _you_ say the better. Come along."

As they passed on toward the magistrate's house, an eager and curious
crowd gradually collected and accompanied them; and just as they reached
Digby Hall, a distant convulsive scream, and his name frantically
pronounced by a voice which the prisoner but too well recognized, told
him that his wife had heard of his capture, and was hurrying to join
him. He drew back, but his captors urged him impatiently on; the
hall-door was slammed in the faces of the crowd, and he found himself
in the presence of the magistrate and the elder Nichols.

The attorney, who appeared to be strongly agitated, deposed in substance
that the prisoner had been seen by his son near his premises a few
minutes before the fire burst out; that he had abused and assaulted
young Mr. Nichols but a few hours previously in the market at
Christchurch; and that he had himself received a threatening letter,
which he now produced, only two days before, and which he believed to be
in the prisoner's handwriting--

The prisoner, bewildered by terror, eagerly denied that he wrote the
letter.

This unfortunate denial was easily disposed of, by the production, by
the constable, of a half sheet of letter-paper found in the cottage, the
ragged edge of which precisely fitted that of the letter. Edward
Lovegrove would have been fully committed at once, but that the
magistrate thought it desirable that the deposition of Arthur Nichols
should be first formally taken. This course was reluctantly acquiesced
in by the prosecutor, and the prisoner was remanded to the next day.

The dismay of Charity Symons, when he found that his well-intentioned
present had only brought additional suffering upon the Lovegroves, was
intense and bitter; but how to help them, he knew not. He had half made
up his mind to obtain--no matter by what means--a sight of certain
papers which he had long dimly suspected would make strange revelations
upon matters affecting Mary Lovegrove, when the arrest of her husband on
a charge of incendiarism thoroughly determined him to risk the expedient
he had long hesitatingly contemplated. The charge, he was quite
satisfied in his own mind, was an atrocious fabrication, strongly as
circumstances seemed to color and confirm it.

The clerk, as he sat that afternoon in the office silently pursuing his
ill-paid drudgery, noticed that his employer was strangely ill at ease.
He was restless, and savagely impatient of the slightest delay on the
most necessary question. Evening fell early--it was now near the end of
October, and Symons with a respectful bow, left the office. A few
minutes afterward, the attorney having carefully locked his desk, iron
chest, &c., and placed the keys in his pocket, followed.

Two hours had elapsed, when Symons re-entered the house by the back way,
walked through the kitchen, softly ascended the stairs, and groped his
way to the inner, private office. There was no moon, and he dared not
light a candle; but the faint starlight fortunately enabled him to move
about without stumbling or noise. He mounted the office steps, and
inserted the edge of a sharp broad chisel between the lock and the lid
of a heavy iron-bound box marked 'C.' The ease and suddenness with which
the lid yielded to the powerful effort he applied to it, overthrew his
balance, and he with difficulty saved himself from falling on the
floor. The box was not locked, and on putting his hand into it, he
discovered that it was entirely empty! The tell-tale papers had been
removed, probably destroyed! At the moment Symons made this exasperating
discovery, the sound of approaching footsteps struck upon his startled
senses, and shaking with fright, he had barely time to descend the
steps, and coop himself up in a narrow cupboard under one of the desks,
when the Nicholses, father and son, entered the office--the former with
a candle in his hand.

"We are private here," said the father in a low, guarded voice; "and I
tell you you _must_ listen to reason.

"I don't like it a bit," rejoined the young man. "It's a cowardly,
treacherous business; and as for swearing I saw him near the fire when
it so strangely burst out, I won't do it at any price."

"Listen to me, you foolish, headstrong boy," retorted the elder Nichols,
"before you decide on beggary for yourself, and ruin--the gallows,
perhaps, for me."

"Wh-e-e-e-w! Why, what do you mean?"

"I will tell you. You already know that Mary Woodhouse married Robert
Clarke against his uncle's consent; you also know that Robert Clarke
died about five years after the marriage, and that the seventy pounds a
year which the uncle allowed his nephew to keep him from starvation was
continued to be paid through me to his widow."

"Yes, I have heard all this before."

"But you do _not_ know," continued the attorney in an
increasingly-agitated voice, "that about six years after Robert Clarke's
death, the uncle so far relented toward the widow and daughter--though
he would never see either of them--as to increase the annuity to two
hundred pounds, and that at his death, four years since, he bequeathed
Mrs. Clarke five hundred pounds per annum, with succession to her
daughter: all of which sums, I, partly on account of your riot and
extravagance, have appropriated."

"Good heaven, what a horrible affair! What would you have me do?"

"I have told you. The dread of discovery has destroyed my health, and
poisoned my existence. Were he once out of the country, his wife would
doubtless follow him; detection would be difficult; conviction, as I
will manage it, impossible."

There was more said to the same effect; and the son, at the close of a
long and troubled colloquy, departed, after promising to "consider of
it."

He had been gone but a few minutes; the elder Nichols was silently
meditating the perilous position in which he had placed himself, when a
noiseless step approached him from behind, and a heavy hand was suddenly
placed upon his shoulder. He started wildly to his feet, and confronted
the stern and triumphant glance of the once humble and submissive
Charity Symons. The suddenness of the shock overcame him, and he
fainted.

Mary Lovegrove, whose child had sobbed itself to sleep, was sitting in
solitude and darkness in the lower room of the cottage, her head bowed
in mute and tearless agony upon the table, when, as on a previous
evening, a tap at the back window challenged her attention. It was once
more Charity Symons. "What do you here again?" exclaimed the wretched
wife with some asperity of tone: "you no doubt intended well; but you
have nevertheless ruined, destroyed me."

"Not so," rejoined the deformed clerk, his pale, uncouth, but expressive
features gleaming with wild exultation in the clear starlight. "God has
at last enabled me to requite your kindness to a contemned outcast. Fear
not for to-morrow. Your husband is safe, and you are rich." With these
words he vanished.

On the next morning a letter was placed in the magistrate's hands from
Mr. Nichols, stating that circumstances had come to the writer's
knowledge which convinced him that Edward Lovegrove was entirely
innocent of the offense imputed to him; that the letter, which he had
destroyed, bore quite another meaning from that which he had first
attributed to it; and that he consequently abandoned the prosecution. On
further inquiry, it was found that the attorney had left his house late
the preceding night, accompanied by his son, had walked to Christchurch,
and from thence set off post for London. His property and the winding up
of his affairs had been legally confided to his late clerk. Under these
circumstances the prisoner was of course immediately discharged; and
after a private interview with Symons, returned in joy and gladness to
his now temporary home. He was accompanied by the noisy felicitations of
his neighbors, to whom his liberation and sudden accession to a
considerable fortune had become at the same moment known. As he held his
passionately-weeping wife in his arms, and gazed with grateful emotion
in her tearful but rejoicing eyes, he whispered, "That kind act of yours
toward the despised hunchback has saved me, and enriched our child.
'Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy!'"




[From Dickens's Household Words.]

THE GAMBLERS OF THE RHINE.


In literature, in science, in art, we find Germany quite on a level with
the present age. She has produced men and books equal to the men and
books of England or France, as the names of Goethe, Schiller, Humboldt,
Liebig, and a score of others bear testimony. But while in poetry,
philosophy, and science, she is on a par with the best portions of
modern Europe; in politics--in the practical science of government--she
is an indefinite number of centuries behindhand. Governmentally, she is
now where the English were during the Saxon Heptarchy, with seven or
more kingdoms in a space that might be well governed by one sceptre.
Where she might get along very well with two, she has a dozen petty
kings, and petty courts, and petty national debts, and petty
pension-lists, and paltry debased and confusing coinages, and petty
cabals, quarrels, and intermixture of contending interests.

Out of this division of territory arises, of course, a number of small
poor princes; and as poor princes do not like to work hard when their
pockets are low, we find them busy with the schemes, shifts, and
contrivances, common from time immemorial with penniless people who have
large appetites for pleasure, small stomachs for honest work--real,
living, reigning dukes though they be, they have added to the royal
"businesses" to which they were born, little private speculations for
the encouragement of _rouge et noir_ and _roulette_. These small princes
have, in fact, turned gambling house keepers--hell-keepers, in the
vulgar but expressive slang of a London police court--proprietors of
establishments where the vicious and the unwary, the greedy hawk and the
silly pigeon, congregate, the one to plunder and the other to be
plucked. That which has been expelled from huge London, as too great an
addition to its vice, or, if not quite expelled, is carried on with
iron-barred doors, unequal at times to protect its followers from the
police and the infamy of exposure--that which has been outlawed from the
Palais Royal and Paris, as too bad even for the lax morality of a most
free-living city--that huge vice which caters to the low senses of
cunning and greediness, and tempts men to lose fortune, position,
character, even hope, in the frantic excitements of, perhaps, one
desperate night--such a vice is housed in fine buildings raised near
mineral springs, surrounded by beautiful gardens, enlivened by music,
and sanctioned by the open patronage of petty German princes holding
sway in the valley watered by the Rhine. In fact, unscrupulous
speculators are found to carry on German gaming-tables at German spas,
paying the sovereign of the country certain thousands of pounds a year
for the privilege of fleecing the public.

The weakened in body are naturally weakened in mental power. The weak in
body are promised health by "taking the waters" at a German bath. The
early hours, the pleasant walks, the good music, the promised economy,
are inducements. The weakened mind wants more occupation than it finds,
for these places are very monotonous, and the gaming-table is placed by
the sovereign of the country in a noble room--the Kursaal, to afford
excitement to the visitor, and profits--the profits of infamy--to
himself.

There are grades in these great gaming-houses for Europe. Taking them in
the order in which they are reached from Cologne, it may be said that
Wiesbaden is the finest town, having very pleasant environs, and the
least play. The Grand Duke of Nassau, therefore, has probably the
smallest share of the gaming-table booty.

Homburg which comes next in order, is far more out of reach, is smaller,
duller--(it is indeed very, very dreary)--and has to keep its
gaming-tables going all the year round, to make up the money paid by the
lessees of the gambling-house to the duke. The range of the Taunus is at
the back of the "town" (a village about as large, imposing, and lively
as Hounslow), and affords its chief attraction. The rides are agreeable,
if the visitor has a good horse--(a difficult thing to get in that
locality)--and is fond of trotting up steep hills, and then ambling down
again. In beauty of position, and other attractions, it is very far
below both Wiesbaden and Baden.

Baden-Baden is the third, and certainly most beautiful of these German
gambling-towns. The town nestles, as it were, in a sheltered valley,
opening among the hills of the Black Forest. In summer its aspect is
very picturesque and pleasant; but it looks as if in winter it must be
very damp and liable to the atmosphere which provokes the growth of
_goitre_. At Baden there is said to be more play than at the other two
places put together. From May till the end of September, _roulette_ and
_rouge et noir_--the mutter of the man who deals the cards, and the
rattle of the marble--are never still. The profits of the table at this
place are very large. The man who had them some years ago retired with
an immense fortune; and one of his successors came from the Palais Royal
when public gaming was forbidden in Paris, and was little less
successful than his predecessor. The permanent residents at Baden could
alone form any idea of the sums netted, and only such of those as were
living near the bankers. They could scarcely avoid seeing the bags of
silver, five franc pieces chiefly, that passed between the gaming-tables
and the bank. A profit of one thousand pounds a fortnight was thought a
sign of a bad season; and so it must have been, when it is calculated
that the gambling-table keeper paid the duke a clear four thousand
pounds a year as the regal share of the plunder, and agreed to spend two
thousand a year in decorating the town of Baden. The play goes on in a
noble hall called the Conversations House, decorated with frescoes and
fitted up most handsomely. This building stands in a fine ornamental
garden, with green lawns and fine avenues of tall trees; and all this
has been paid for by the profits of _roulette_ and _rouge et noir_.
Seeing this, it may cause surprise that people play at all; yet the
fascination is so great that, once within its influence, good
resolutions and common sense seem alike unequal to resistance. All seems
fair enough, and some appear to win, and then self-love suggests, "Oh,
my luck will surely carry me through!" The game is so arranged that some
win and some lose every game, the table having, it is said, only a small
percentage of chance in its favor. These chances are avowedly greater
at _roulette_ than at _rouge et noir_, but at both it is practically
shown that the player, in the long run, always loses. It is whispered
that, contrary to the schoolboy maxim, cheating _does_ thrive at German
baths; and those who have watched the matter closely, say a Dutch banker
won every season by following a certain plan. He waited till he saw a
heavy stake upon the table, and then backed the other side. He always
won.

Go into one of the rooms at any of these places, and whom do you see?
The off-scourings of European cities--professional gamblers, ex-officers
of all sorts of armies; portionless younger brothers; pensioners; old
men and old women who have outlived all other excitements; a multitude
of silly gulls, attracted by the waters, or the music, or the
fascination of play; and a sprinkling of passing tourists, who
come--"just look in on their way," generally to be disappointed--often
to be fleeced. Young and handsome women are not very often seen playing.
Gaming is a vice reserved for middle age. While hearts are to be won,
dollars are not worth playing for. Cards, and rouge, and dyspepsy seem
to be nearly allied, if we may judge by the specimens of humanity seen
at the baths of Wiesbaden, Homburg, and Baden. The players--and player
and loser are almost synonymous terms--are generally thin and anxious;
the bankers, fat and stolid. As the brass whirls round, the table-keeper
has the look of a quiet bloated spider, seemingly passionless, but with
an eye that glances over every chance on the board. At his side see an
elderly man, pale and thin, the muscles of whose lower jaw are twitching
spasmodically, yet with jaded, forced resignation, he loses his last
five pounds. Next him is a woman highly dressed, with false hair and
teeth, and a great deal of paint. She has a card in her hand, on which
she pricks the numbers played, and thus flatters herself she learns the
best chances to take. Next to her see one of the most painful sights
these places display. A father, mother, and young girl are all trying
their fortune; the parents giving money to the child that they "may have
her good luck," reckless of the fatal taste they are implanting in her
mind. Next is a Jew, looking all sorts of agonies, and one may fancy he
knows he is losing in an hour, what it has cost him years of cunning and
self-denial to amass. And so on, round the table, we find ill-dressed
and well dressed Germans, French, Russians, English, Yankees, Irish,
mixed up together, in one eager crowd; thirsting to gain gold without
giving value in return; risking what they have in an insane contest
which they know has destroyed thousands before them; losing their money,
and winning disgust, despondency, and often despair and premature death.
Never a year is said to go by without its complement of ruined fools and
hasty suicides. The neighboring woods afford a convenient shelter; and a
trigger, or a handkerchief and a bough, complete the tragedy.




[From Chambers's Edinburgh Journal.]

THE CONFLICT OF LOVE--A TALE OF REAL LIFE.


In the north of France, near the Belgian frontier, is situated a small,
obscure town. It is surrounded by high fortifications, which seem ready
to crush the mean houses in the centre. Inclosed, so to speak, in a
net-work of walls, the poor little town has never sent a suburb to
wander on the smooth green turf outside; but as the population
increased, new streets sprang up within the boundary, crowding the
already narrow space, and giving to the whole the aspect of some huge
prison.

The climate of the north of France during half the year is usually damp
and gloomy. I shall never forget the sensation of sadness which I felt
when obliged by circumstances to leave the gay, sunny south, and take up
my abode for a while in the town I have described. Every day I walked
out; and in order to reach the nearest gate, I had to pass through a
narrow lane, so very steep, that steps were cut across it in order to
render the ascent less difficult. Traversing this disagreeable alley, it
happened one day that my eyes rested on a mean-looking, gray-
house, which stood detached from the others. Seldom, indeed, could a ray
of sunshine light up its small, green-paned windows, and penetrate the
interior of its gloomy apartments. During the winter the frozen snow on
the steps made it so dangerous to pass through the narrow alley, that
its slippery pavement seemed quite deserted. I do not remember to have
met a single person there in the course of my daily walk; and my eye
used to rest with compassion on the silent gray house. "I hope," thought
I, "that its inhabitants are old--it would be fearful to be young
there!" Spring came; and in the narrow lane the ice changed into
moisture; then the damp gradually dried up, and a few blades of grass
began to appear beneath the rampart wall. Even in this gloomy passage
there were tokens of awakening life, but the gray house remained silent
and sad as before. Passing by it, as usual, in the beginning of June, I
remarked, placed on the window-sill of the open casement, a glass
containing a bunch of violets. "Ah," thought I, "there is a _soul_
here!"

To love flowers, one must either be young, or have preserved the
memories of youth. The enjoyment of their perfume implies something
ideal and refined; and among the poor a struggle between the necessities
of the body and the instincts of the soul. I looked at the violets with
a feeling of sadness, thinking that they probably formed the single
solace of some weary life. The next day I returned. Even in that gloomy
place the sweet rejoicing face of summer had appeared, and dissipated
the chill silence of the air. Birds were twittering, insects humming,
and one of the windows in the old gray house was wide open.

Seated near it was a woman working busily with her needle. It would be
difficult to tell her age, for the pallor and sadness of her countenance
might have been caused as much by sorrow as by years, and her cheek was
shadowed by a profusion of rich dark hair. She was thin, and her fingers
were long and white. She wore a simple brown dress, a black apron, and
white collar; and I remarked the sweet, though fading bunch of violets
carefully placed within the folds of her kerchief. Her eyes met mine,
and she gently inclined her head. I then saw more distinctly that she
had just reached the limit which separates youth from mature age. She
had suffered, but probably without a struggle, without a murmur--perhaps
without a tear. Her countenance was calm and resigned, but it was the
stillness of death. I fancied she was like a drooping flower, which,
without being broken, bends noiselessly toward the earth.

Every day I saw her in the same place, and, without speaking, we
exchanged a salutation. On Sundays I missed her, and concluded that she
walked into the country, for each Monday a fresh bunch of violets
appeared in the window. I conjectured that she was poor, working at
embroidery for her support; and I discovered that she was not alone in
the house, for one day a somewhat impatient voice called "Ursula!" and
she rose hastily. The tone was not that of a master, neither did she
obey the summons after the manner of a servant, but with an expression
of heartfelt readiness; yet the voice breathed no affection; and I
thought that Ursula perchance was not loved by those with whom she
lived.

Time passed on, and our silent intimacy increased. At length each day I
gathered some fresh flowers, and placed them on the window-sill. Ursula
blushed, and took them with a gentle, grateful smile. Clustering in her
girdle, and arranged within her room, they brought summer to the old
gray house. It happened one evening that as I was returning through the
alley a sudden storm of rain came on. Ursula darted toward the door,
caught my hand as I was passing, and drew me into the narrow passage
which led to her room. Then the poor girl clasped both my hands in hers,
and murmured, softly, "Thanks!" It was the first time I had heard her
voice, and I entered her apartment. It was a large, low room, with a
red-tiled floor, furnished with straw chairs ranged along the walls.
Being lighted by only one small window, it felt damp and gloomy. Ursula
was right to seat herself close by the casement to seek a little light
and air. I understood the reason of her paleness--it was not that she
had lost the freshness of youth, but that she had never possessed it.
She was bleached like a flower that has blossomed in the shade.

In the farthest corner of the room, seated on arm-chairs, were two
persons, an old man and woman. The latter was knitting without looking
at her work--she was blind. The man was unemployed: he gazed vacantly
at his companion without a ray of intelligence in his face: it was
evident that he had overpassed the ordinary limit of human life, and
that now his body alone existed. Sometimes in extreme old age the mind,
as though irritated by its long captivity, tries to escape from its
prison, and in its efforts, breaks the harmonious chord that links them
together. It chafes against the shattered walls; it has not taken
flight, but it feels itself no longer in a place of rest.

These, then, were the inhabitants of the silent gray house--a blind old
woman, an imbecile old man, and a young girl faded before her time by
the sadness and gloom that surrounded her! Her life had been a blank;
each year had borne away some portion of her youth, her beauty, and her
hope, and left her nothing but silence and oblivion. I often returned to
visit Ursula, and one day, while I sat next her in the window, she told
me the simple story of her life.

"I was born," said she, "in this house; and I have never quitted it; but
my parents are not natives of this country--they came here as strangers,
without either friends or relatives. When they married, they were
already advanced in life; for I can not remember them ever being young.
My mother became blind, and this misfortune rendered her melancholy and
austere; so that our house was enveloped in gloom. I was never permitted
to sing, or play, or make the slightest noise: very rarely did I receive
a caress. Yet my parents loved me: they never told me that they did; but
I judged their hearts by my own, and I felt that I loved them. My days
were not always as solitary as they are now; I had a sister"--Her eyes
filled with tears, but they did not overflow; they were wont to remain
hidden in the depths of her heart. After a few moments, she
continued--"I had an elder sister: like our mother, she was grave and
silent, but toward me she was tender and affectionate. We loved each
other dearly, and shared between us the cares which our parents
required. We never enjoyed the pleasure of rambling together through the
fields, for one always remained at home; but whichever of us went out,
brought flowers to the other, and talked to her of the sun, and the
trees, and the fresh air. In the evenings we worked together by the
light of a lamp; we could not converse much, for our parents used to
slumber by our side; but whenever we looked up, we could see a loving
smile on each other's face; and we went to repose in the same room,
never lying down without saying 'Good-night! I hope, dear sister, you
will sleep well!' Was it not a trial to part? Yet I do not murmur:
Martha is happy in heaven. I know not if it was the want of air and
exercise, or the dull monotony of her life, which caused the
commencement of Martha's illness, but I saw her gradually languish and
fade. I alone was disquieted by it; my mother did not see her, and she
never complained. With much difficulty I at length prevailed on my
sister to see a physician. Alas! nothing could be done: she lingered for
a time, and then died. The evening before her death, as I was seated by
her bed, she clasped my hand between her trembling ones: 'Adieu! my poor
Ursula!' she said: 'take courage, and watch well over our father and
mother. They love us, Ursula; they love us, although they do not often
say so. Take care of your health for their sake; you can not die before
them. Adieu! sister: don't weep for me too much, but pray to our
heavenly Father. We shall meet again, Ursula!' Three days afterward,
Martha was borne away in her coffin, and I remained alone with my
parents. When my mother first heard of my sister's death, she uttered a
loud cry, sprang up, took a few hasty steps across the room, and then
fell on the ground. I raised her up, and led her back to her arm-chair.
Since then she has not wept, but she is more silent than before, save
that her lips move in secret prayer. I have little more to tell. My
father became completely imbecile, and at the same time we lost nearly
the whole of our little property. I have succeeded in concealing this
loss from my parents; making money for their support by selling my
embroidery. I have no one to speak to since my sister's death; I love
books, but I have no time for reading--I must work. It is only on Sunday
that I breathe the fresh air; and I do not walk far, as I am alone. Some
years since, when I was very young, I used to dream while I sat in this
window. I peopled the solitude with a thousand visions which brightened
the dark hours. Now a sort of numbness has fallen on my thoughts--I
dream no more. While I was young, I used to hope for some change in my
destiny; now I am twenty-nine years old, and sorrow has chastened my
spirit: I no longer hope or fear. In this place I shall finish my lonely
days. Do not think that I have found resignation without a conflict.
There were times when my heart revolted at living without being loved,
but I thought of Martha's gentle words, 'We shall meet again, sister!'
and I found peace. Now I often pray--I seldom weep. And you, madam--are
you happy?"

I did not answer this question of Ursula's. Speaking to her of happiness
would be like talking of an ungrateful friend to one whom he has
deserted.

Some months afterward, on a fine autumn morning, as I was preparing to
go to Ursula, I received a visit from a young officer who had lately
joined the garrison. He was the son of an old friend of my husband's,
and we both felt a lively interest in his welfare. Seeing me prepared
for a walk, he offered his arm, and we proceeded toward the dwelling of
Ursula. I chanced to speak of her; and as the young officer, whom I
shall call Maurice d'Erval, seemed to take an interest in her story, I
related it to him as we walked slowly along. When we reached the old
gray house he looked at her with pity and respect, saluted her, and
withdrew. Ursula, startled at the presence of a stranger, blushed
slightly. At that moment she looked almost beautiful. I know not what
vague ideas crossed my brain, but I looked at her, and then, without
speaking, I drew the rich bands of her hair into a more becoming form, I
took a narrow black velvet collar off my own neck, and passed it round
hers, and I arranged a few brilliant flowers in her girdle. Ursula
smiled without understanding why I did so: her smile always pained
me--there is nothing more sad than the smile of the unhappy. They seem
to smile for others, not for themselves. Many days passed without my
seeing Maurice d'Erval, and many more before chance led us together near
the old gray house.

It was on our return from a country excursion with a large gay party. On
entering the town, we all dispersed in different directions: I took the
arm of Maurice, and led him toward Ursula's abode. It was one of those
soft, calm autumn evenings, when the still trees are  by the rays
of the setting sun, and every thing breathes repose. It is a time when
the soul is softened, when we become better, when we feel ready to weep
without the bitterness of sorrow. Ursula, as usual, was seated in the
window. A slanting ray of sunshine falling on her head lent an unwonted
lustre to her dark hair: her eyes brightened when she saw me, and she
smiled her own sad smile. Her sombre dress showed to advantage her
slender, gracefully-bending figure, and a bunch of violets, her favorite
flower, was fastened in her bosom. There was something in the whole
appearance of Ursula which suited harmoniously the calm, sad beauty of
the evening, and my companion felt it. As we approached, he fixed his
eyes on the poor girl, who, timid as a child of fifteen, hung down her
head, and blushed deeply. Maurice stopped, exchanged a few words with us
both, and then took his leave. But from that time he constantly passed
through the narrow alley, and paused each time for a moment to salute
Ursula. One day, accompanied by me, he entered her house.

There are hearts in this world so unaccustomed to hope, that they can
not comprehend happiness when it comes to them. Enveloped in her
sadness, which, like a thick vail, hid from her sight all external
things, Ursula neither saw nor understood. She remained under the eyes
of Maurice as under mine--dejected and resigned. As to the young man, I
could not clearly make out what was passing in his mind. It was not love
for Ursula, at least so I thought, but it was that tender pity which is
nearly allied to it. The romantic soul of Maurice pleased itself in the
atmosphere of sadness which surrounded Ursula. Gradually they began to
converse; and in sympathizing with each other on the misery of life,
they experienced that happiness whose existence they denied. Months
passed on; the pleasant spring came back again; and one evening, while
walking with a large party, Maurice d'Erval drew me aside, and after
some indifferent remarks, said, "Does not the most exalted happiness
consist in making others share it with you? Is there not great sweetness
in imparting joy to one who would otherwise pass a life of tears?" I
looked at him anxiously without speaking. "Yes," said he, "dear friend,
go ask Ursula if she will marry me!"

An exclamation of joy was my reply, and I hurried toward the gray house.
I found Ursula, as usual, seated at her work. Solitude, silence, and the
absence of all excitement had lulled her spirit into a sort of
drowsiness. She did not suffer; she even smiled languidly when I
appeared, but this was the only sign of animation she displayed. I
feared not giving a sudden shock to this poor paralyzed soul, or
stirring it into a violent tumult of happiness: I wanted to see if the
mental vigor was extinct, or merely dormant. I placed my chair next
hers, I took both her hands in mine, and fixing my eyes on hers, I said,
"Ursula, Maurice d'Erval has desired me to ask you if you will be his
wife!"

The girl was struck as if with a thunderbolt; her eyes beamed through
the tears that filled them, and her blood, rushing through the veins,
mantled richly beneath her skin. Her chest heaved, her heart beat almost
audibly, and her hands grasped mine with a convulsive pressure. Ursula
had only slumbered, and now the voice of love awakened her. She loved
suddenly: hitherto she might, perchance, have loved unwittingly, but now
the vail was rent, and she _knew_ that she loved.

After a few moments, she passed her hand across her forehead, and said,
in a low voice, "No: it is not possible!"

I simply repeated the same phrase, "Maurice d'Erval asks you if you will
be his wife," in order to accustom her to the sound of the words, which,
like the notes of a harmonious chord, formed for her, poor thing, a
sweet, unwonted melody.

"His wife!" repeated she with ecstasy; "his wife!" And running toward
her mother, she cried, "Mother, do you hear it? He asks me to be his
wife!"

"Daughter," replied the old blind woman, "my beloved daughter, I knew
that, sooner or later, God would recompense your virtues."

"My God!" cried Ursula, "what hast Thou done for me this day? _His wife!
beloved daughter!_" And she fell on her knees with clasped hands, and
her face covered with tears. At that moment footsteps were heard in the
passage. "It is he!" cried Ursula. "He brings life!" I hastened away,
and left Ursula glowing with tearful happiness to receive Maurice
d'Erval alone.

From that day Ursula was changed. She grew young and beautiful under the
magic influence of joy, yet her happiness partook in some measure of her
former character: it was calm, silent, and reserved; so that Maurice,
who had first loved a pale, sad woman, seated in the shade, was not
obliged to change the coloring of the picture, although Ursula was now
happy. They passed long evenings together in the low, dull room, lighted
only by the moonbeams, conversing and musing together.

Ursula loved with simplicity. She said to Maurice, "I love you--I am
happy--and I thank you for it!" The old gray house was the only scene of
these interviews. Ursula worked with unabated diligence, and never left
her parents. But the walls of that narrow dwelling no longer confined
her soul: it had risen to freedom, and taken its flight. The sweet magic
of hope brightens not only the future, but the present, and through the
medium of its all-powerful prism changes the coloring of all things. The
old house was as mean-looking and gloomy as ever, but one feeling,
enshrined in the heart of a woman, changed it to a palace. Dreams of
hope, although you fleet and vanish like golden clouds in the sky, yet
come, come to us ever! Those who have never known you, are a thousand
times poorer than those who live to regret you!

Thus there passed a happy time for Ursula. But a day came when Maurice
entering her room in haste, said, "Dearest, we must hasten our marriage;
the regiment is about to be moved to another garrison, and we must be
ready to set out."

"Are we going far, Maurice?"

"Does it frighten my Ursula to think of seeing distant countries? There
are many lands more beautiful than this."

"Oh, no, Maurice, not for myself, but for my parents: they are too old
to bear a long journey." Maurice looked at his betrothed without
speaking. Although he well knew that, in order to share his wandering
destiny, Ursula must leave her parents, yet he had never reflected
seriously on the subject. He had foreseen her grief, but confiding in
her affection, he had thought that his devoted love would soothe every
sorrow of which he was not himself the cause. It was now necessary to
come to an explanation; and sad at the inevitable pain which he was
about to inflict on his betrothed, Maurice took her hand, made her sit
down in her accustomed place, and said, gently, "Dearest, it would be
impossible for your father and mother to accompany us in our wandering
life. Until now, my Ursula, we have led a loving, dreamy life, without
entering soberly into our future plans. I have no fortune but my sword;
and now, at the commencement of my career, my income is so small, that
we shall have to submit together to many privations. I reckon on your
courage; but you alone must follow me. The presence of your parents
would only serve to entail misery on them, and hopeless poverty on us."

"Leave my father and my mother!" cried Ursula.

"Leave them, with their little property, in this house; confide them to
careful hands; and follow the fortunes of your husband."

"Leave my father and my mother!" repeated Ursula. "But do you know that
the pittance they possess would never suffice for their support--that
without their knowledge, I work to increase it--and that, during many
years, I have tended them alone?"

"My poor Ursula!" replied Maurice, "we must submit to what is
inevitable. Hitherto you have concealed from them the loss of their
little fortune; tell it to them now, as it can not be helped. Try to
regulate their expenditure of the little which remains; for, alas! we
shall have nothing to give them."

"Go away, and leave them here! Impossible! I tell you, I must work for
them!"

"Ursula, my Ursula!" said Maurice, pressing both her hands in his, "do
not allow yourself, I conjure you, to be carried away by the first
impulse of your generous heart. Reflect for a moment: we do not refuse
to give, but we have it not. Even living alone, we shall have to endure
many privations."

"I can not leave them," said Ursula, looking mournfully at the two old
people slumbering in their arm-chairs.

"Do you not love me, Ursula?" The poor girl only replied by a torrent of
tears.

Maurice remained long with her, pouring forth protestations of love, and
repeating explanations of their actual position. She listened without
replying; and at length he took his leave. Left alone, Ursula leaned her
head on her hand, and remained without moving for many hours. Alas! the
tardy gloom of happiness which brightened her life for a moment was
passing away: the blessed dream was fled never to return! Silence,
oblivion, darkness, regained possession of that heart whence love had
chased them. During the long midnight hours who can tell what passed in
the poor girl's mind? God knew: she never spoke of it.

When day dawned, she shuddered, closed the window, which had remained
open during the night, and, trembling from the chill which seized both
mind and body, she took paper and pen, and wrote--"Farewell, Maurice! I
remain with my father and my mother: they have need of me. To abandon
them in their old age would be to cause their death: they have only me
in the world. My sister, on her death-bed, confided them to me, saying,
'We shall meet again, Ursula!' If I neglected my duties, I should never
see her more. I have loved you well--I shall love you always. You have
been very kind, but I know now that we are too poor to marry. Farewell!
How hard to write that word! Farewell, dear friend--I knew that
happiness was not for me, URSULA."

I went to the old gray house, and so did Maurice; but all our
representations were useless--she would not leave her parents. "I must
work for them!" she said. In vain I spoke to her of Maurice's love, and,
with a sort of cruelty, reminded her of her waning youth, and the
improbability of her meeting another husband. She listened, while her
tears dropped on the delicate work at which she labored without
intermission, and then in a low voice she murmured, "They would die: I
must work for them!" She begged us not to tell her mother what had
passed. Those for whom she had sacrificed herself remained ignorant of
her devotion. Some slight reason was assigned for the breaking off of
the marriage, and Ursula resumed her place and her employment near the
window, pale, dejected, and bowed down as before.

Maurice d'Erval possessed one of those prudent, deliberating minds which
never allow themselves to be carried away by feeling or by impulse. His
love had a limit: he prayed and intreated for a time, but at length he
grew weary, and desisted.

It happened one day, while Ursula was seated in her window, that she
heard a distant sound of military music, and the measured trampling of
many feet. It was the regiment departing. Tremblingly she listened to
the air, which sounded as a knell in her ears; and when the last faint
notes died away in the distance, she let her work fall on her lap, and
covered her face with her hands. A few tears trickled between her
fingers, but she speedily wiped them away, and resumed her work: she
resumed it for the rest of her life. On the evening of this day of
separation--this day when the sacrifice was consummated--Ursula, after
having bestowed her usual care on her parents, seated herself at the
foot of her mother's bed, and, bending toward her with a look, whose
tearful tenderness the blind old woman could not know, the poor deserted
one took her hand, and murmured softly, "Mother! you love me; do you
not? Is not my presence a comfort to you? Would you not grieve to part
with me, my mother?"

The old woman turned her face to the wall, and said in a fretful tone,
"Nonsense, Ursula. I'm tired; let me go to sleep!" The word of
tenderness which she had sought as her only recompense was not uttered;
the mother fell asleep without pressing her daughter's hand; and the
poor girl, falling on her knees, poured out her sorrows in prayer to One
who could both hear and heal them.

From that time Ursula became more pale, more silent, more cast down than
ever. The last sharp sorrow bore away all traces of her youth and
beauty. "All is ended!" she used to say; and all, save duty, _was_ ended
for her on earth. No tidings came of Maurice d'Erval. Ursula had pleased
his imagination, like some graceful melancholy picture, but time effaced
its coloring from his memory, and he forgot. How many things are
forgotten in this life! How rarely do the absent mourn each other long!

One year after these events, Ursula's mother began visibly to decline,
yet without suffering from any positive malady. Her daughter watched and
prayed by her bed, and received her last benediction. "Once more she is
with thee, Martha!" sighed Ursula: "be it thine to watch over her in
heaven." She knelt down, and prayed by the side of the solitary old man.
She dressed him in mourning without his being conscious of it; but on
the second day he turned toward the empty arm-chair next his own, and
cried, "My wife!"

Ursula spoke to him, and tried to divert his attention; but he repeated,
"My wife!" while the tears rolled down his cheeks. In the evening, when
his supper was brought, he turned away from it, and fixing his eyes on
the vacant chair, said, "My wife!"

Ursula tried every expedient that love and sorrow could suggest; but in
vain. The old man continued watching the place which his wife was wont
to occupy; and refusing food, he would look at Ursula, and with clasped
hands, in the querulous tone of a child imploring some forbidden
indulgence, repeat, "My wife!" In a month afterward he died. His last
movement was to raise his clasped hands, look up to Heaven, and cry "My
wife!" as though he saw her waiting to receive him. When the last coffin
was borne away from the old gray house, Ursula murmured softly, "My God!
couldst thou not have spared them to me a little longer?" She was left
alone; and many years have passed since then.

I left the dark old town and Ursula to travel into distant lands. By
degrees she ceased to write to me, and after many vain efforts to induce
her to continue the correspondence, I gradually lost all trace of her. I
sometimes ask myself, "What has been her fate? Is she dead?" Alas! the
poor girl was ever unfortunate: I fear she still lives!




STREET MUSIC IN LONDON.


"Charming place this," said a mad lady to us while looking out of a
window of the finest Lunatic Asylum in North Britain; "so retired, so
quiet, so genteel, so remote from the busy hum of men and women. The
view you perceive is lovely--quite sylvan (there were two trees in the
remote distance), 'Silence reigns around,' as the poet says, and then
you see, sir, _we do not allow street bands to come here_."

On inquiry, we were told that this patient was a London literary lady.
Her mania, like Morose in Ben Jonson's Epicure, was against noise. She
constantly prayed for deafness. She walked in list shoes, and spoke in a
whisper as an example to others. The immediate cause of her confinement
had not been ascertained, but we have no doubt that she had been driven
stark mad by the street discord of the metropolis. We firmly believe her
case is not singular. Judging from our own experience of the extremest
brink of insanity, to which we have been occasionally driven by the
organic and Pandean persecutions to which we have been subjected, we
should say that much of the madness existing and wrought in this county
of Middlesex originates in street music. If Dr. Connolly can not bear
us out in this opinion, we shall be rather astonished.

A man of thoughtful habit, and of a timid, or nervous temperament, has
only to take apartments in what lodging-house-keepers wickedly call, in
their advertisements, "a quiet neighborhood," to be tolerably sure of
making his next move in a strait waistcoat to an asylum for the insane.
In retired streets, squares, terraces, or "rows," where the more
pleasing music of cart, coach, and cab wheels does not abound, the void
is discordantly filled up by peripatetic concerts, which last all day
long. You are forced, each morning, to shave to the hundredth psalm
groaned out from an impious organ; at breakfast you are stunned by the
basses of a wretched waltz belched forth from a bass trombone; and your
morning is ruined for study by the tinkling of a barrel piano-forte; at
luncheon acute dyspepsia communicates itself to your vitals in the
stunning _buldering_ of a big-drum; tuneless trumpets, discordant
cornets, and blundering bass-viols form a running accompaniment of
discord to your afternoon walk; hurdy-gurdies, peradventure, destroy
your dinner; fiddles and harps squeak away the peace of your whole
evening; and, when you lay your distracted head on your pillow you are
robbed of sleep by a banditti of glee singers, hoarsely croaking, "Up
rouse ye then, my merry, merry men!"

Yet this is a land of liberty, and every man's house is his castle!

A man may have every comfort this world can afford--the prettiest house,
the sweetest wife, the most unexceptionable cook, lovely children, and a
good library--but what are these when the enjoyment they afford is
destroyed by an endless _charivari_; when domestic happiness is made
misery by street discord; when an English gentleman is denied what is
insured to every Pentonville prisoner--peace; when a wise legislation
has patented the silent system for convicts only, and supplies no
free-born Briton with a defense from hideous invasions of his inmost
privacy: a legislature which, here, in London, in the year of grace
eighteen hundred and fifty, where civilization is said to have made some
advances--permits bag-pipes!

This is a subject upon which it is impossible, without the most
superhuman self-control, to write with calmness.

Justice is supposed in this country to be meted out with an even hand. A
humane maxim says, "Better let ten guilty men escape, than one innocent
man suffer." Yet what have the public, especially of "quiet
neighborhoods," done; what crimes have we committed; what retribution
have we invoked; that we are to be visited with the indiscriminating
punishment, the excruciating agony, squealed and screeched into our ears
out of that instrument of ineffable torture, the Scotch bagpipe? If our
neighbor be a slanderer, a screw, a giver of bad dinners, or any other
sort of criminal for whom the law has provided no punishment and a
bag-pipe serenade be your mode of revenge on him, shut him up with a
piper or pipers in the padded room in Bedlam, or take him out to the
Eddystone lighthouse; but for the love of mercy, do not make us, his
unoffending neighbors, partakers of his probably just, but certainly
condign punishment!

We have, however, a better opinion of human nature than to believe in
such extreme vindictiveness. We rather attribute these public
performances of sonorous savagery to the perverted taste of a few
unfortunate individuals, who pretend to relish the discords, and who
actually pay the kilted executioners of harmony. The existence of such
wretched amateurs might be doubted, if we did not remember that the most
revolting propensities are to be found among mankind. There _are_ people
who chew tobacco; a certain tribe of Polynesian aborigines deem
assafoetida the most delicious of perfumes; and Southey, in his Travels
in Spain, states that the Gallician carters positively refused to grease
their wheels because of the delight the creaking gave them. Yet although
the grating of wooden axles, or even the sharpening of saws, is music to
the pibroch, it appears from a variety of evidence that bad taste can
actually reach, even in the female mind, to the acme of encouraging and
patronizing street bagpipers.

Do we wish to banish all music from the busy haunts of men? By no means.
Good music is sometimes emitted from our pavements--the kerb sends forth
here and there, and now and then, sounds not unworthy of the best
appointed orchestra. Where these superior street performers received
their musical education it is not our business to inquire; but their
arrangements of some of the most popular opera music, show that their
training has been strictly professional. Quintette, Sestette, and
Septette bands of brass and string are occasionally heard in the open
street, whose performances show that the pieces have been regularly
scored and rigidly rehearsed. "Tune, time, and distance" are excellently
kept; the pianos and fortes are admirably --there is no vamping
of basses; no "fudging" of difficult passages. We look upon such players
as musical missionaries who purvey the best music from the opera houses
and from the saloons of the nobility to the general public, to the
improvement of its musical taste. But where even these choice _pave_
professionists have us at a disadvantage is in their discoursing their
excellent music at precisely the times when we do _not_ want the sounds
of the charmer, charm he never so wisely. The habitant of the "quiet
neighborhood," fond as he is of _Casta Diva_ or the _Rosen Waltz_, would
rather not be indulged with them just as he is commencing to study a
complicated brief, or while he is computing the draft of a difficult
survey. When he wants music he likes to go to it; he never wants it to
come to him.




[From Dickens's Household Words.]

MISTAKES IN PERSONAL IDENTITY.


There is no kind of evidence more infirm in its nature and against which
jurymen on legal trials should be more on their guard, than that
involving identity of person. The number of persons who resemble each
other is not inconsiderable in itself; but the number is very large of
persons who, though very distinguishable when standing side by side, are
yet sufficiently alike to deceive those who are without the means of
immediate comparison.

Early in life an occurrence impressed me with the danger of relying on
the most confident belief of identity. I was at Vauxhall Gardens where I
thought I saw, at a short distance, an old country gentleman whom I
highly respected, and whose favor I should have been sorry to lose. I
bowed to him, but obtained no recognition. In those days the company
amused themselves by walking round in a circle, some in one direction,
some in the opposite, by which means every one saw and was seen--I say
in those days, because I have not been at Vauxhall for a quarter of a
century. In performing these rounds I often met the gentleman, and tried
to attract his attention, until I became convinced that either his
eyesight was so weakened that he did not know me, or that he chose to
disown my acquaintance. Some time afterward, going into the county in
which he resided, I received, as usual, an invitation to dinner; this
led to an explanation, when my friend assured me he had not been in
London for twenty years. I afterward met the person whom I had mistaken
for my old friend, and wondered how I could have fallen into the error.
I can only explain it by supposing that, if the mind feels satisfied of
identity, which it often does at the first glance, it ceases to
investigate that question, and occupies itself with other matter; as in
my case, where my thoughts ran upon the motives my friend might have for
not recognizing me, instead of employing themselves on the question of
whether or no the individual before my eyes was indeed the person I took
him for.

If I had had to give evidence on this matter my mistake would have been
the more dangerous, as I had full means of knowledge. The place was well
lighted, the interviews were repeated, and my mind was undisturbed. How
often have I known evidence of identity acted upon by juries, where the
witness was in a much less favorable position (for correct observation)
than mine.

Sometimes, a mistaken verdict is avoided by independent evidence.
Rarely, however, is this rock escaped, by cross-examination, even when
conducted with adequate skill and experience. The belief of the witness
is belief in a matter of opinion resulting from a combination of facts
so slight and unimportant, separately considered, that they furnish no
handle to the cross-examiner. A striking case of this kind occurs to my
recollection, with which I will conclude.

A prisoner was indicted for shooting at the prosecutor, with intent to
kill him. The prosecutor swore that the prisoner had demanded his money,
and that upon refusal, or delay, to comply with his requisition, he
fired a pistol, by the flash of which his countenance became perfectly
visible; the shot did not take effect, and the prisoner made off. Here
the recognition was momentary, and the prosecutor could hardly have been
in an undisturbed state of mind, yet the confidence of his belief made a
strong impression on all who heard the evidence, and probably would have
sealed the fate of the prisoner without the aid of an additional fact of
very slight importance, which was, however, put in evidence, by way of
corroboration, that the prisoner, who was a stranger to the
neighborhood, had been seen passing near the spot in which the attack
was made about noon of the same day. The judge belonged to a class now,
thank God! obsolete, who always acted on the reverse of the
constitutional maxim, and considered every man guilty until he was
proved to be innocent.

If the case had closed without witnesses on behalf of the prisoner, his
life would have been gone: fortunately, he possessed the means of
employing an able and zealous attorney, and more fortunately, it so
happened that several hours before the attack the prisoner had mounted
upon a coach, and was many miles from the scene of the crime at the hour
of its commission.

With great labor, and at considerable expense, all the passengers were
sought out, and, with the coachman and guard, were brought into court,
and testified to the presence among them of the prisoner. An _alibi_ is
always a suspected defense, and by no man was ever more suspiciously
watched than by this judge. But when witness after witness appeared,
their names corresponding exactly with the way-bill produced by the
clerk of a respectable coach-office, the most determined skepticism gave
way, and the prisoner was acquitted by acclamation. He was not, however,
saved by his innocence, but by his good fortune. How frequently does it
happen to us all to be many hours at a time without having witnesses to
prove our absence from one spot by our presence at another! And how many
of us are too prone to avail ourselves of such proof in the instances
where it may exist!

A remarkable instance of mistake in identity, which put the life of a
prisoner in extreme peril, I heard from the lips of his counsel. It
occurred at the Special Commission held at Nottingham after the riots
consequent on the rejection of the Reform Bill by the House of Lords, in
1831.

The prisoner was a young man of prepossessing appearance, belonging to
what may be called the lower section of the middle rank of life, being a
framework knitter, in the employment of his father, a master
manufacturer in a small way. He was tried on an indictment charging him
with the offense of arson. A mob, of which he was alleged to be one, had
burned Colwick Hall, near Nottingham, the residence of Mr. Musters, the
husband of Mary Chaworth, whose name is so closely linked with that of
Byron. This ill-fated lady was approaching the last stage of
consumption, when, on a cold and wet evening in autumn, she was driven
from her mansion, and compelled to take refuge among the trees of her
shrubbery--an outrage which probably hastened her death.

The crime, with its attendant circumstances, created, as was natural, a
strong sympathy against the criminals. Unhappily, this feeling, so
praiseworthy in itself, is liable to produce a strong tendency in the
public mind to believe in the guilt of a party accused. People sometimes
seem to hunger and thirst after a criminal, and are disappointed when it
turns out that they are mistaken in their man, and are, consequently,
slow to believe that such an error has been made. Doubtless, the
impression is received into the mind unconsciously; but although on that
ground pardonable, it is all the more dangerous. In this case, the
prisoner was identified by several witnesses as having taken an active
part in setting fire to the house.

He had been under their notice for some considerable space of time: they
gave their evidence against him without hesitation, and probably the
slightest doubt of its accuracy. His defense was an _alibi_. The frame
at which he worked had its place near the entrance to the warehouse, the
room frequented by the customers and all who had business to transact at
the manufactory. He acted, therefore, as door-keeper, and in that
capacity had been seen and spoken with by many persons, who in their
evidence more than covered the whole time which elapsed between the
arrival of the mob at Colwick Hall and its departure. The _alibi_ was
believed, and the prisoner, after a trial which lasted a whole day, was
acquitted.

The next morning he was to be tried again on another indictment,
charging him with having set fire to the castle at Nottingham. The
counsel for the prosecution, influenced by motives of humanity, and
fully impressed with the prisoner's guilt on both charges, urged the
counsel for the prisoner to advise his client to plead guilty,
undertaking that his life should be spared, but observing at the same
time that his social position, which was superior to that of the other
prisoners, would make it impossible to extend the mercy of the Crown to
him unless he manifested a due sense of his offenses by foregoing the
chance of escape. "You know," said they, "how rarely an _alibi_ obtains
credit with a jury. You can have no other defense to-day than that of
yesterday. The castle is much nearer than Colwick Hall to the
manufactory, and a very short absence from his work on the part of the
prisoner might reconcile the evidence of all the witnesses, both for him
and against him; moreover, who ever heard of a successful _alibi_ twice
running?"

The counsel for the prisoner had his client taken into a room adjoining
the court, and having explained to him the extreme danger in which he
stood, informed him of the offer made by the prosecutors. The young man
evinced some emotion, and asked his counsel to advise what step he
should take. "The advice," he was answered, "must depend upon a fact
known to himself alone--his guilt or innocence. If guilty, his chance of
escape was so small, that it would be the last degree of rashness to
refuse the offer; if, on the other hand, he were innocent, his counsel,
putting himself in the place of the prisoner, would say, that no peril,
however imminent, would induce him to plead guilty." The prisoner was
further told, that in the course of a trial circumstances often arose at
the moment, unforeseen by all parties, which disclosed the truth; that
this consideration was in his favor, if he were innocent, but showed at
the same time that there were now chances of danger, if he were guilty,
the extent of which could not be calculated, nor even surmised. The
youth, with perfect self-possession, and unshaken firmness, replied, "I
am innocent, and will take my trial." He did so. Many painful hours wore
away, every moment diminishing the prisoner's chance of acquittal, until
it seemed utterly extinguished, when some trifling matter, which had
escaped the memory of the narrator, occurred, leading him to think it
was possible that another person, who must much resemble the prisoner,
had been mistaken for him. Inquiry was instantly made of the family,
whether they knew of any such resemblance; when it appeared that the
prisoner had a cousin so much like himself, that the two were frequently
accosted in the streets, the one for the other. The cousin had
absconded.

It is hardly credible, though doubtless true, that a family of
respectable station could have been unaware of the importance of such a
fact, or that the prisoner, who appeared not deficient in intelligence,
and who was assuredly in full possession of his faculties, could be
insensible to its value. That either he or they could have placed such
reliance on his defense as to induce them to screen his guilty relative,
is to the last degree improbable, especially as the cousin had escaped.
Witnesses, however, were quickly produced, who verified the resemblance
between the two, and the counsel for the prosecution abandoned their
case, expressing their belief that their witnesses had given their
evidence under a mistake of identity.

The narrator added, that an _alibi_ stood a less chance of favorable
reception at Nottingham than elsewhere, although in every place received
with great jealousy. In one of the trials arising out of the outrages
committed by the Luddites, who broke into manufactories and destroyed
all lace frames of a construction which they thought oppressive to
working men, an _alibi_, he said, had been concocted, which was
successful in saving the life of a man notoriously guilty, and which had
therefore added to the disrepute of this species of defense. The
hypothesis was, that the prisoner, at the time when the crime was
committed, at Loughborough, sixteen miles from Nottingham, was engaged
at a supper party at the latter place; and the prisoner, having the
sympathy of a large class in his favor, whose battle he had been
fighting, no difficulty was experienced by his friends in finding
witnesses willing to support this hypothesis on their oaths; but it
would have been a rash measure to have called them into the box
unprepared. And when it is considered how readily a preconcerted story
might have been destroyed by cross-examination, the task of preparing
the witnesses so as to elude this test, was one requiring no ordinary
care and skill. The danger would arise thus: Every witness would be kept
out of court, except the one in the box. He would be asked where he sat
at the supper? where the prisoner sat, and each of the other guests;
what were the dishes, what was the course of conversation, and so
forth--the questions being capable of multiplication _ad infinitum_; so
that, however well tutored, the witnesses would inevitably contradict
each other upon some matters, on which the tutor had not foreseen that
the witness would be cross-examined, or to which he had forgotten the
answer prescribed. The difficulty was, however, surmounted. After the
prisoner's apprehension, the selected witnesses were invited to a
mackerel supper, which took place at an hour corresponding to that at
which the crime was committed; and so careful was the ingenious agent
who devised this conspiracy against the truth that, guided by a sure
instinct, he fixed upon the same day of the week as that on which the
crime had been committed, though without knowing how fortunate it would
be for the prisoner that he took this precaution. When, on
cross-examination, it was found that the witnesses agreed as to the
order in which the guests were seated, the contents of the dishes, the
conversation which had taken place, and so forth; the counsel for the
crown suspected the plot, but not imagining that it had been so
perfectly elaborated, they inquired of their attorneys as to whether
there was any occurrence peculiar to the day of the week in question,
and were told that upon the evening of such a day, a public bell was
always rung, which must have been heard at the supper, if it had taken
place at the time pretended. The witnesses were separately called back
and questioned as to the bell. They had all heard it; and thus not only
were the cross-examiners utterly baffled, but the cross-examination gave
tenfold support to the examination in chief, that is, to the evidence as
given by the witnesses in answer to the questions put by the prisoner's
counsel in his behalf.

The triumph of falsehood was complete. The prisoner was acquitted. When
however the attention of prosecutors is called to the possibility of
such fabrications they become less easy of management. The friends of a
prisoner are often known to the police, and may be watched--the actors
may be surprised at the rehearsal; a false ally may be inserted among
them; in short there are many chances of the plot failing. This,
however, is an age of improvement, and the thirty years which have
elapsed since the days of Luddism have not been a barren period in any
art or science. The mystery of cookery in dishes, accounts, and
_alibis_, has profited by this general advancement. The latest device
which my acquaintance with courts has brought to my knowledge is an
_alibi_ of a very refined and subtle nature. The hypothesis is, that the
prisoner was walking from point A to point Z, along a distant road, at
the hour when the crime was committed. The witnesses are supposed each
to see him, and some to converse with him, at points which may be
indicated by many or all the letters of the alphabet. Each witness must
be alone when he sees him, so that no two may speak to what occurred at
the same spot or moment of time; but, with this reservation, each may
safely indulge his imagination with any account of the interview which
he has wit to make consistent with itself, and firmness to abide by
under the storm of a cross-examination. "The force of _falsehood_ can no
farther go." No rehearsal is necessary. Neither of the witnesses needs
know of the existence of the others. The agent gives to each witness the
name of the spot at which he is to place the prisoner. The witness makes
himself acquainted with that spot, so as to stand a cross-examination as
to the surrounding objects, and his education is complete. But as
panaceas have only a fabulous existence, so this exquisite _alibi_ is
not applicable to all cases; the witness must have a reason for being on
the spot, plausible enough to foil the skill of the cross-examiner; and,
as false witnesses can not be found at every turn, the difficulty of
making it accord with the probability that the witness was where he
pretends to have been on the day and at the hour in question, is often
insuperable; to say nothing of the possibility and probability of its
being clearly established, on the part of the prosecution, that the
prisoner could not have been there. I should add, that, except in towns
of the first magnitude, it must be difficult to find mendacious
witnesses who have in other respects the proper qualifications to prove
a concocted _alibi_, save always where the prisoner is the champion of a
class; and then, according to my experience--sad as the avowal is--the
difficulty is greatly reduced.

These incidents illustrate the soundness of the well known proposition,
that mixture of truth with falsehood, augments to the highest degree the
noxious power of the venomous ingredient. That man was no mean
proficient in the art of deceiving, who first discovered the importance
of the liar being parsimonious in mendacity. The mind has a stomach as
well as an eye, and if the bolus be neat falsehood, it will be rejected
like an overdose of arsenic which does not kill.

Let the juryman ponder these things, and beware how he lets his mind
lapse into a conclusion either for or against the prisoner. To perform
the duties of his office, so that the days which he spends in the
jury-box will bear retrospection, his eyes, his ears, and his intellect
must be ever on the watch. A witness in the box, and the same man in
common life, are different creatures. Coming to give evidence, "he doth
suffer a law change." Sometimes he becomes more truthful, as he ought to
do, if any change is necessary; but unhappily this is not always so, and
least of all in the case of those whose testimony is often required.

I remember a person, whom I frequently heard to give evidence quite out
of harmony with the facts, but I shall state neither his name nor his
profession. A gentleman who knew perfectly well the unpalatable
designation which his evidence deserved, told me of his death. I
ventured to think it was a loss which might be borne, and touched upon
his infirmity, to which my friend replied in perfect sincerity of heart,
"Well! after all, I do not think he ever told a falsehood in his
life--_out of the witness box_!"




[From Dickens's Household Words]

THE GHOST THAT APPEARED TO MRS. WHARTON.


When my mother was a girl, some rumors began to steal through the town
where she lived, about something having gone amiss with old Mrs.
Wharton: for, if Mrs. Wharton was not known by all the townspeople, she
was known and respected by so many, that it was really no trifle when
she was seen to have the contracted brow, and the pinched look about the
nose that people have when they are in alarm, or living a life of deep
anxiety. Nobody could make out what was the matter. If asked, she said
she was well. Her sons were understood to be perfectly respectable, and
sufficiently prosperous; and there could be no doubt about the health,
and the dutifulness, and the cheerfulness, of the unmarried daughter who
lived with her. The old lady lived in a house which was her own
property; and her income, though not large, was enough for comfort. What
could it be that made her suddenly so silent and grave? Her daughter was
just the same as ever, except that she was anxious about the change in
her mother. It was observed by one or two that the clergyman had nothing
to say, when the subject was spoken of in his hearing. He rolled and
nodded his head, and he glanced at the ceiling and then stuck his chin
deep into his shirt-frill: but those were things that he was always
doing, and they might mean nothing. When inquired of about his opinion
of Mrs. Wharton's looks and spirits, he shifted his weight from one foot
to the other, as he stood before the fire with his hands behind him, and
said, with the sweet voice and winning manner that charmed young and
old, that, as far as he knew, Mrs. Wharton's external affairs were all
right; and, as for peace of mind, he knew of no one who more deserved
it. If the course of her life, and the temper of her mind, did not
entitle her to peace within, he did not know who could hope for it.
Somebody whispered that it would be dreadful if a shocking mortal
disease should be seizing upon her: whereupon he, Mr. Gurney, observed
that he thought he should have known if any such thing was to be
apprehended. As far as a fit of indigestion went, he believed she
suffered occasionally; but she did not herself admit even that. Dr.
Robinson, who was present, said that Mrs. Wharton's friends might be
quite easy about her health. She was not troubled with indigestion, nor
with any other complaint. People could only go on to ask one another
what could be the matter. One or two agreed that Mr. Gurney had made
very skillful answers, in which he was much assisted by his curious
customary gestures; but that he had never said that he did not know of
any trouble being on Mrs. Wharton's mind.

Soon after this, a like mysterious change appeared to come over the
daughter; but no disasters could be discovered to have happened. No
disease, no money losses, no family anxieties were heard of; and, by
degrees, both the ladies recovered nearly their former cheerfulness and
ease of manner--nearly, but not altogether. They appeared somewhat
subdued, in countenance and bearing; and they kept a solemn silence when
some subjects were talked of, which often turn up by the Christmas
fireside. It was years before the matter was explained. My mother was
married by that time, and removed from her smoky native town, to a much
brighter city in the south. She used to tell us, as we grew up, the
story of Mrs. Wharton, and what she endured; and we could, if we had not
been ashamed, have gone on to say, as if we had still been little
children, "tell us again." When we were going into the north to visit
our grandparents, it was all very well to tell us of coal-wagons that we
should see running without horses, or iron rails laid down in the roads;
and of the keelmen rowing their keel-boats in the river, and, all at
once, kicking up their right legs behind them, when they gave the long
pull; and of the glass-houses in the town, with fire coming out of the
top of the high chimneys; and of the ever-burning mounds near the mouths
of the coal-pits, where blue and yellow flames leaped about, all night,
through the whole year round. It was all very well to think of seeing
these things; but we thought much more of walking past old Mrs.
Wharton's house, and, perhaps, inducing Mr. Gurney to tell us, in his
way, the story we had so often heard my mother tell in hers.

The story was this:

One midsummer morning Mrs. Wharton was so absent at breakfast, that her
daughter found all attempts at conversation to be in vain. So she
quietly filled the coffee-pot, which her mother had forgotten to do,
and, in the middle of the forenoon, ordered dinner, which she found her
mother had also forgotten. They had just such a breakfasting three times
more during the next fortnight. Then, on Miss Wharton crossing the hall,
she met her mother in bonnet and shawl, about to go out, so early as
half-past nine. The circumstance would not have been remarked, but for
the mother's confused and abashed way of accounting for going out. She
should not be gone long. She had only a little call to make, and so on.
The call was on Mr. Gurney. He had hardly done breakfast, when he was
told that Mrs. Wharton wished to speak with him alone.

When he entered the study, Mrs. Wharton seemed to be as unready with her
words as himself; and when he shook hands with her, he observed that her
hand was cold. She said she was well, however. Then came a pause during
which the good pastor was shifting from one foot to the other, on the
hearth-rug, with his hands behind him, though there was nothing in the
grate but shavings. Mrs. Wharton, meantime, was putting her vail up and
down, and her gloves on and off. At last, with a constrained and painful
smile, she said that she was really ashamed to say what she came to say,
but she must say it; and she believed and hoped that Mr. Gurney had
known her long enough to be aware that she was not subject to foolish
fancies and absurd fears.

"No one further from it," he dropped, and now he fixed his eyes on her
face. Her eyes fell under his, when she went on.

"For some time past, I have suffered from a most frightful visitation in
the night."

"Visitation! What sort of visitation?"

She turned visibly cold while she answered, "It was last Wednesday
fortnight that I awoke in the middle of the night--that is between two
and three in the morning, when it was getting quite light, and I saw--"

She choked a little, and stopped.

"Well!" said Mr. Gurney, "What did you see?"

"I saw at the bottom of the bed, a most hideous--a most detestable
face--gibbering, and making mouths at me."

"A face!"

"Yes; I could see only the face (except, indeed, a hand upon the
bedpost), because it peeped round the bedpost from behind the curtain.
The curtains are drawn down to the foot of the bed."

She stole a look at Mr. Gurney. He was rolling his head; and there was a
working about his mouth before he asked--

"What time did you sup that night?"

"Now," she replied, "you are not going to say, I hope, that it was
nightmare. Most people would; but I hoped that you knew me better than
to suppose that I eat such suppers as would occasion nightmare, or that
I should not know nightmare from reality."

"But, my dear Mrs. Wharton, what else can I say?"

"Perhaps you had better listen further, before you say any thing."

He nodded and smiled, as much as to say that was true.

"I have seen the same appearance on three occasions since."

"Indeed!"

"Yes, on three several nights, about the same hour. And, since the first
appearance, my supper has been merely a little bread and butter, with a
glass of water. I chose to exclude nightmare, as I would exclude any
thing whatever that could possibly cause an appearance so horrible."

"What sort of face is it?"

"Short and broad;--silly, and yet sly; and the features gibber and
work--Oh! fearfully!"

"Do you hear it come and go?"

"No. When I wake--(and I never used to wake in the night)--it is there:
and it disappears--to say the truth--while my eyes are covered; for I
can not meet its eyes. I hear nothing. When I venture a glance,
sometimes it is still there; sometimes it is gone."

"Have you missed any property?"

"No: nor found any trace whatever. We have lost nothing; and there is
really not a door or window that seems ever to have been touched: not an
opening where any one could get in or out."

"And if there were, what could be the object? What does your daughter
say to it?"

"Oh!" said Mrs. Wharton, rising quickly, "she does not, and indeed she
must not know a word of it. I ought to have said, at first, that what I
am telling you is entirely in confidence. If I told my daughter, it must
then go no further. We could not keep our servants a week, if it got
out. And if I should want to let my house, I could not find a tenant.
The value of the property would go down to nothing; and, in justice to
my daughter, I must consider that; for it is to be hers hereafter. And
we could never have a guest to stay with us. No one would sleep in the
house a single night. Indeed, you must not--"

"Well, well: I will not mention it. But I don't see--"

He paused; and Mrs. Wharton replied to his thought.

"It is difficult to form conjectures--to say any thing, in such a case,
which does not appear too foolish to be uttered. But one must have some
thoughts; and perhaps--if one can talk of possibilities--it is possible
that this appearance may be meant for me alone; and therefore, if I can
conceal it from my daughter ... till I am convinced whether it is meant
for me alone."

"I would soon try that," observed Mr. Gurney. Seeing Mrs. Wharton look
wistfully at him, he continued,

"My advice is that you have your daughter sleep with you, after hearing
your story. Try whether she can see this face."

"You do not think she would?"

"I think she would not. My dear friend, if I were a medical man, I could
tell you facts which you are little aware of--anecdotes of the strange
tricks that our nerves play with us;--of delusions so like reality--"

"Do you think I have not considered that?" exclaimed the poor lady. "Mr.
Gurney, I did not think that _you_ would try to persuade me out of my
senses, when I tell you, that four times I have seen in daylight, and
when wide awake, and in perfect health, what I have said."

Mr. Gurney was very gentle; but, as he said, what _could_ he suggest but
indigestion, or some such cause of nervous disturbance? Yet his heart
smote him when his old friend laid her forehead again the mantle-piece,
and cried heartily.

He did all he could. He tried indefatigably, though in vain, to persuade
her to let her daughter share the spectacle: and he went, the same day,
when Miss Wharton was out for her walk, and the servants were at dinner,
to examine the house. He made no discovery. The gratings of the
under-ground cellars were perfect. The attics had no trap-doors; and the
house had no parapet. The chimneys were too high and narrow for any one
to get in at the top. No window or door was ever found unfastened in the
morning. Mrs. Wharton did not think she could engage for courage enough
to get out of bed, or to look beyond the curtains. Nor could she promise
not to draw her curtains. The face had never appeared within them; and
they seemed a sort of protection where there was no other.

Without having made any promises, she went so far as to start up in bed,
the next time she saw the face. The eyes winked horribly at her; the
head nodded--and was gone. The beating of her heart prevented her
hearing any thing that time; but once or twice during the autumn she
fancied she heard a light and swift footstep in the passage. She always
left her room-door open, for the sake of the same sort of feeling of
security that most people crave when they shut and bolt theirs. If this
was a ghost, bolts would not keep it out; and she could fly the more
easily through the open door if her terror should become too great to be
endured alone. For the first time, she now burned a night-light in her
chamber, as the nights lengthened, and not a dim, flickering rush
candle, but a steady wax-light. She knew that her daughter wondered at
the strange extravagance; but she could not bear darkness, or a very
feeble light, when the thing might be behind the curtain.

Throughout October the visits were almost nightly. In the first week in
November they suddenly ceased, and so many weeks passed away without a
return, that Mrs. Wharton began to be a little alarmed about her own
wits, and to ask herself whether, after all, it was not possible that
this was a trick of the nerves. One night in January, that doubt, at
least, was settled; for there, at the same bed-post, was the same face.
Mrs. Wharton was now, after this interval, subdued at once. She had
borne, for half-a-year, her pastor's suspicions of her digestion and of
her wisdom, and now, she really wanted sympathy. She let him tell her
daughter (let him, rather than tell it herself, because he could make
light of it, and she could not); and she gladly agreed to let her
daughter sleep with her. For long, she gained nothing by it. During the
whole fortnight that the visits now continued, Miss Wharton never once
saw the face. She tried to wake the moment her mother touched her; she
tried to keep awake; but she never saw the face: and after that
fortnight, it did not come again till April.

One bright May dawn, she saw it. Her mother pulled her wrist, and, she
waked up to a sight which burned itself in upon her brain. She
suppressed a shriek at the moment; but she could not tell Mr. Gurney of
it afterward, without tears. She wanted that day to leave the house
immediately; but the thought of her mother's long-suffering with this
horror, the consideration of the serious consequences of declaring
themselves ghost-seers in the town, and of the disastrous effect upon
their property, and of the harmlessness of the ghost, induced her to
summon up her courage, and bear on. She did more. When a little inured,
she one night sprang out of bed, rushed round the foot of it, and out
upon the landing. The stairs were still dim in the dawn; but she was
confident that she saw something moving there--passing down to the hall.
As soon as she could make the servants attend her, she told them she
believed somebody was in the house; and all the four women--two ladies
and two maids--went, armed with pokers and shovels, and examined the
whole house. They found nothing, neither in the chimneys, nor under the
beds, nor in any closet--nothing, from cellar to attic. And when the
maids had recovered a little, they agreed what a tiresome and wearying
thing it was when ladies took fancies. This was only their first night
of disturbance. Miss Wharton called them up three times more; and then
she gave the matter up. The servants thought her strangely altered, and
wished she might not be going to be ill.

Thus matters went on for some years. The oddest thing was the
periodicity of the visits. In winter they were rare; but there was
generally a short series in or about January, after which they ceased
till the end of March, or the beginning of April. They went on through
nearly the whole summer, with one or two intervals of about a fortnight.
The servants never suspected even the existence of the mystery. Their
ladies never mentioned it; and no article was ever displaced at night.
The ladies became in time so accustomed to the appearance as to bear it
almost without uneasiness. It occurred to them sometimes, how odd it was
to be living under the weight of such a mystery; and they were silent
when ghosts were talked about, and felt and looked very serious when
they were laughed at: but their alarm had subsided. The Thing never did
them any harm; and they had now got merely to open drowsy eyes, to see
if it was there; and to drop asleep the moment it was there no longer.
This may seem strange to those who have not (and also to those who have)
seen ghosts; but we none of us know what we may come to; and these two
ladies reached the point of turning their heads on their pillows,
without much beating of the heart, under the gibbering of a hideous
ghost.

One circumstance worth noting is, that the Thing once spoke. After one
of its mocking nods, it said, "I come to see you whenever I please."
When Mr. Gurney was told this, he asked whether the language was
English, and what sort of English it was. It must have been English, as
the ladies did not observe any thing remarkable. As to the dialect, it
had made no particular impression upon them, but when they came to
remember and consider, they thought it must have been the broad dialect
of the district, which they were accustomed to hear in the kitchen, and
in the streets and shops, every day. This was all. Amidst the multitude
of nightly visitations, no explanation--no new evidence--occurred for
several years. Mr. Gurney was not fond of being puzzled. His plan was to
dismiss from his mind what puzzled him. He seldom inquired after the
ghost; and when he did, he always received the same answer.

One morning, after this lapse of years, Mr. Gurney called to ask the
ladies if they would like to join a party to see a glass-house. The
residents of manufacturing towns can not intrude in such places at their
own pleasure, but (as is well known) take their opportunity when an
arrival of strangers, or other such occasion, opens the doors of any
manufactory. Mr. Gurney was the first man in the town, in regard to
doing the honors of it. All strangers were introduced to him; and the
doors of all show-places flew open before him. He was wont to invite his
friends in turn to accompany him and his party of strangers to these
show-places; and he now invited the Whartons to the glass-house. Miss
Wharton was unavoidably engaged at the school, but her mother went.

When the whole party were standing near one of the furnaces, observing
the coarsest kind of glass blowing--that of green-glass bottles--Mrs.
Wharton suddenly seized Mr. Gurney's arm with one hand, while with the
other she pointed, past the glare, to a figure on the other side of the
furnace.

"That's the face!" she exclaimed, in great agitation; "keep quiet, and
pull down your vail," said Mr. Gurney in her ear. She drew back into the
shadow, and let down her vail, feeling scarcely able to stand. Mr.
Gurney did not offer her an arm; he had something else to do.

"Who is that man?" he inquired of the foreman, who was showman at the
moment. The man inquired about looked scarcely human. He was stunted in
figure, large in face, and hideous--making all allowance for the puffing
out of his cheeks, as he blew vigorously at the end of the long pipe he
was twirling in his baboon-like hands.

"That poor fellow, sir? His name is Middleton. He is a half-wit--indeed,
very nearly a complete idiot. He is just able to do what you see--blow
the coarsest sort of glass."

Mr. Gurney wished to speak with him; and the poor creature was summoned.
He came grinning; and he grinned yet more when he was requested to show
the glass-house to the gentleman. Mrs. Wharton, with her vail down, hung
on her friend's arm; and they followed the idiot, who was remarkably
light-footed (for a wonder), to the place he was most fond of. He took
them down to the annealing chamber; and then he observed that it was "a
nice warm place o'nights." Being asked how he knew that, he began
pointing with his finger at Mrs. Wharton, and peeping under her bonnet.
Being advised to look him in the face, she raised her vail; and he
sniggled and giggled, and said he had seen her many a time when she was
asleep, and many a time when she was awake; and another lady, too, who
was not there. He hid himself down here when the other men went away--it
was so warm! and then he could go when he pleased, and see "_her_
there," and the other, when they were asleep. Mr. Gurney enticed him to
whisper how he managed it; and then with an air of silly cunning, he
showed a little square trap-door in the wall, close by the floor,
through which he said he passed. It seemed too small for the purpose;
but he crept in and out again. On the other side, he declared, was Mrs.
Wharton's cellar. It was so. Far distant as the glass-house seemed from
her house, it ran back so far, the cellar running back also, that they
met. No time was lost in sending round to the cellar; and, by a
conversation held through the trap-door, it was ascertained that when
Mrs. Wharton's stock of coals was low, that is, in summer, and before a
fresh supply came in, in mid winter, Middleton could get in, and did get
in, almost every night. When he did not appear, it was only because the
coals covered the trap-door.

Who shall say with what satisfaction the ladies watched the nailing up
of the trap-door, and with what a sense of blissful comfort they retired
to rest henceforth? Who shall estimate the complacency of the good
clergyman at this complete solution of the greatest mystery he had ever
encountered? Who will not honor the courage and fortitude of the ladies,
and rejoice that their dwelling escaped the evil reputation of being a
Haunted House? Lastly, who will not say that most of the goblin tales
extant may, if inquired into, be as easily accounted for as that
appertaining to the good Mrs. Wharton? which has this advantage over all
other ghost stories--it is perfectly and literally true.




[From Dickens's Household Words.]

THE FATE OF A GERMAN REFORMER. A LIFE IN THREE PICTURES.


PICTURE THE FIRST.

The winter of 1844 was a severe one in Germany. Both sides of the Rhine,
for many miles between Coblentz and Cologne, were frozen hard enough to
bear a horse and cart; and even the centre, save and except a thin
stream where the current persisted in displaying its urgent vitality,
was covered over with thin ice, or a broken film that was constantly
endeavoring to unite and consolidate its quivering flakes and particles.
We were staying in Bonn at this time. All the Englishmen in the town,
who were skaters, issued forth in pilot-coats or dreadnaught
pea-jackets, and red worsted comforters, with their skates dangling over
their shoulders. Holding their aching noses in their left hands, they
ran and hobbled through the slippery streets, and made their way out at
the town-gates near the University. They were on the way to
Popplesdorf--a little village about a mile distant from Bonn. We were
among them--red comforter round neck--skates over shoulder.

The one great object in this little village is a somewhat capacious and
not unpicturesque edifice called the Schloss, or Castle, of Popplesdorf.
The outer works of its fortifications are a long avenue of trees, some
pretty fir groves and wooded hills, numerous vineyards, and a trim
series of botanic gardens. The embrasures of its walls are armed with
batteries of learned tomes; its soldiers are erudite professors and
doctors who have chambers there; students discourse on philosophy and
art, and swords and beer, and smoke forever on its peaceful drawbridge;
and, on the wide moat which surrounds it, Englishmen in red
comforters--at the time whereof we now speak--are vigorously skating
with their accustomed gravity. This scene was repeated daily for several
weeks, in the winter of 1844.

One morning, issuing forth on the same serious business of life, we
perceived that the peasantry of Popplesdorf, who have occasion to come
to Bonn every market-day, had contrived to enliven the way and
facilitate the journey by the gradual construction of a series of
capital long slides. We stood and contemplated these lengthy curves, and
sweeps, and strange twisting stripes of silver, all gleaming in the
morning sun, and soon arrived at the conviction that it was no doubt the
pleasantest market-pathway we had ever seen. No one was coming or going
at this moment; for Popples is but a little _dorf_, and the traffic is
far from numerous, even at the busiest hours. Now, there was a peculiar
charm in the clear shining solitude of the scene, which gave us, at
once, an impression of loneliness combined with the brightest paths of
life and activity.

And yet we gradually began to feel we should like to see
somebody--student or peasant--come sliding his way from Popplesdorf. It
was evidently the best, and indeed the correct mode for our own course
to the frozen moat of the castle. But before we had reached the
beginning of the first slide (for they are not allowed to be made quite
up to the town gates), we descried a figure in the distance, which, from
the course it was taking, had manifestly issued from the walls of the
castle. It was not a peasant--it was not one of our countrymen; be it
whom it might, he at least took the slides in first-rate style. As he
advanced, we discerned the figure of a tall man, dressed in a dark,
long-skirted frock coat, buttoned up to the throat, with a low-crowned
hat, from beneath the broad brim of which a great mass of thick black
hair fell heavily over his shoulders. Under one arm he held a great book
and two smaller ones closely pressed to his side, while the other hand
held a roll of paper, which he waved now and then in the air, to balance
himself in his sliding. Some of the slides required a good deal of
skill; they had awkward twirls half round a stone, with here and there a
sudden downward sweep. Onward he came, and we presently recognized him.
It was Dr. Gottfried Kinkel, lecturer on archaeology; one of the most
able and estimable of the learned men in Bonn.

Gottfried Kinkel was born in a village near Bonn, where his father was a
clergyman. He was educated at the Gymnasium of Bonn, and during the
whole of that period, he was especially remarkable, among companions by
no means famous for staid and orderly habits, as a very quiet,
industrious young man, of a sincerely religious bent of mind, which
gained for him the notice and regard of all the clergy and the most
devout among the inhabitants of the town. His political opinions were
liberal; but never went beyond those which were commonly entertained at
the time by nearly all men of education. He studied divinity at the
University, where he greatly distinguished himself in various branches
of learning, and obtained the degree of Doctor in Philosophy.

He first preached at Cologne, and with great success, his oratory being
considered as brilliant as his reasonings were convincing. His sermons
were subsequently published, and became very popular, and he was chosen
as a teacher of Theology in the University of Bonn.

He next turned his attention to the study of the Arts. On this subject
he wrote and published a History, and lectured on "Ancient and Mediaeval
Art," both in the University and other public institutions, with
unparalleled success and applause.

His labors at this period, and for a long time after, were very arduous,
generally occupying thirteen hours a day. Being only what is called a
"privat-docent," he did not as yet receive any salary at the University;
he was therefore compelled to work hard in various ways, in order to
make a small income. However, he did this very cheerfully.

But his abandonment of Theology for these new studies, caused him the
loss of most of his devout friends. They shook their heads, and feared
that the change denoted a step awry from the true and severely marked
line of orthodox opinions. They were right; for he soon after said that
he thought the purity of religion would be best attained by a separation
of Church and State!

Dr. Kinkel suffers no small odium for this; but he can endure it. He has
uttered an honest sentiment, resulting from his past studies; he has
become a highly applauded and deservedly esteemed lecturer on another
subject; he is, moreover, one of the best sliders in Bonn, and is now
balancing his tall figure (as just described) with books under one arm,
on his way to the University.

Happy Gottfried Kinkel!--may you have health and strength to slide for
many a good winter to come!--rare Doctor of Philosophy, to feel
so much boyish vitality after twenty years of hard study and
seclusion!--fortunate lecturer on Archaeology, to live in a country where
the simplicity of manners will allow a Professor to slide his way to his
class, without danger of being reproved by his grave and potent seniors,
or of shocking the respectable inhabitants of his town!


PICTURE THE SECOND.

The Castle of Popplesdorf commands the most beautiful views of some of
the most beautiful parts of Rhenish Prussia; and the very best point
from which to look at them, is the window of the room that used to be
the study of Dr. Gottfried Kinkel. That used to be--and is not
now--alas, the day! But we must not anticipate evils; they will come
only too soon in their natural course.

In this room, his library and study, we called to see Dr. Kinkel. There
he sat--dressing-gown, slippers, and cloud-compelling pipe. The walls
were all shelves, the shelves all books--some bound, some in boards,
"some in rags, and some in jags"--together with papers, maps, and
scientific instruments of brass and of steel. There stood the Hebrew,
Greek, and Roman authors; in another division, the Italian and French:
on the other side, in long irregular ranges, the old German and the
modern German; and near at hand, the Anglo-Saxon and English. What else,
and there was much, we had not time to note, being called to look out at
the window. What a window it was!--a simple wooden frame to what
exquisite and various scenery! Let the reader bear in mind, that it is
not winter now--but a bright morning in May.

Close beneath the window lay the Botanic Gardens, with their numerous
parterres of flowers, their lines and divisions of shrubs and herbs.
Within a range of a few miles round, we looked out upon the peaceful
little villages of Popplesdorf and Kessenich, and the fertile plain
extending from Bonn to Godesberg--with gentle hills, vales, and ridges,
all covered with vineyards, whose young leaves gave a tender greenness
and fresh look of bright and joyous childhood to the scenery. Beyond
them we saw the Kessenicher Hoehe, the blue slate roofs and steeples of
many a little church and chapel, and the broad, clear, serpent windings
of the Rhine, with the gray and purple range, in the distance, of the
Seven Mountains, terminating with the Drachenfels. Over the whole of
this, with the exception only of such soft, delicate shades and shadows
as were needful to display the rest, there lay a clear expanse of level
sunshine, so tender, bright, and moveless, as to convey an impression of
bright enchantment, which grew upon your gaze, and out of which rapture
you awoke as from a dream of fairy land, or from the contemplation of a
scene in some ideal sphere.

Fortunate Dr. Kinkel, to have such a window as this! It was no wonder
that, besides his studies in Theology, in ancient and mediaeval art, and
in ancient and modern languages--besides writing his History of the
Arts, and contributing learned papers to various periodicals--besides
preaching, lecturing, and public and private teaching, his soul was
obliged to compose a volume of poems--and again displease the severely
orthodox, by the absence of all prayers in verse, and the presence of a
devout love of nature.

    For, here, in their placidity,
      Learning and Poesy abide;
    Not slumbering on the unfathomed sea,
      Yet all unconscious of the tide
    That urges on mortality
      In eddies, and in circles wide.
    Ah, here, the soul can look abroad
      Beyond each cold and narrow stream,
    Enrich'd with gold from mines and ford,
      Brought sparkling to the solar beam;
    Yet be no miser with its hoard--
      No dreamer of the common dream.

Thus sang Dr. Kinkel, in our imperfect translation thus inadequately
echoed; and here he wrought hard in his vocation, amid the smiles of
some of the loveliest of Nature's scenes.

But besides the possession of all these books, and of this wonderful
window, Dr. Kinkel was yet more fortunate in his domestic relations. He
was married to an amiable, highly educated, and accomplished lady, who
endeavored, by all the means in her power, to assist his labors, and
render them less onerous by her own exertions. She was a very fine
musician, and a superior piano-forte player--one of the favorite pupils
of Moscheles, and afterward, we believe, of Mendelssohn. She divided her
time equally between assisting her husband, educating their child, and
giving private lessons in music; and because this accomplished hard
working couple did not find their energies quite worn out by toiling
for thirteen hours a day, they gave a private concert at the castle once
a month, at which a whole opera of Mozart or Weber was often gone
through--both the instrumental and vocal parts being by amateurs, or
pupils of Madam Kinkel.

So, once again, we say, notwithstanding all these labors, Dr. Kinkel's
life in the Castle of Popplesdorf, was that of a fortunate and happy
man. At this period he was about two-and-thirty years of age. He could
not have been more; probably he was less.


PICTURE THE THIRD.

It is the year 1848, and the Continental Revolutions are shaking all the
foreign thrones. Every body, not directly or indirectly in the pay of a
court, feels that the lot of the people should be ameliorated. The
populations of all nations have borne enormous burdens, with
extraordinary patience, for a very long time--say a thousand years--and,
at last, they have no more patience left. But what is all this to
abstract thought, to learning and science, to poetic raptures, and
picturesque ease? It has hitherto been regarded as too grossly material,
or of too coarse and common a practicality for the great majority of
those whose lives were passed in abstract studies and refinements.
Ay--but this must not continue. The world has come to a pass at which
_every_ soul must awake, and should be "up and doing."

Dr. Gottfried Kinkel, now, besides his other honors and emoluments, and
private earnings, is installed as a salaried professor in the University
of Bonn. It can not be but such a man must awake, and take an interest
in these continental revolutions which are boiling up all round him.
Still, it is not likely he will step into the vortex or approach it. His
worldly position is strong against it--all his interests are against it;
moreover, he has a wife, and, besides he has now three children.

Howbeit, Dr. Kinkel does rise with these events, and his wife, so far
from restraining him, feels the same enthusiastic patriotism, and
exhorts him to step forward, and swell the torrent of the time. He feels
strongly that Prussia should have a constitution; that her intellect and
sober character deserves a constitutional monarchy, like ours in
England, with such improvements as ours manifestly needs, and he places
himself at the head of the popular party in Bonn, where he delivers
public orations, the truthful eloquence and boldness of which startle,
delight, and encourage his audiences.

He is soon afterward elected a member of the Berlin parliament. He sides
with the Left, or democratic party; he advocates the cause of the
oppressed people and the poor, he argues manfully and perseveringly the
real interests of all governments, in granting a rational amount of
liberty, showing, that in the present stage of the moral world, it is
the only thing to prevent violence, and to secure good order. His
speeches breathe a prophetic spirit.

The revolution gathers fuel, more rapidly than can be well disposed, and
it takes fire at Baden. The names reach near and far--many are
irresistibly attracted. They have seen, and too well remember, the
faithlessness and treachery of governments--they believe the moment has
come to strike a blow which shall gain and establish the constitutional
liberty they seek. Dr. Kinkel immediately leaves his professorship; he
believes he ought now to join those who wield the sword, and peril their
lives in support of their principles. He proposes to hasten to Baden, to
defend the constitution framed by the Frankfort parliament. His
patriotic wife consents, and, in the evening, he takes leave of her, and
of his sleeping children.

It must not be concealed that with this strong feeling in favor of a
constitutional monarchy, there was an infusion of principles of a more
sweeping character; nor would it be going too far to say that amid the
insurgents of Baden were some who entertained opinions not far removed
from red republicanism. Be this as it may, we are persuaded that Dr.
Kinkel's political principles and aims were purely of a constitutional
character, however he may have been drawn into the fierce vortex of men
and circumstances which surrounded him.

Dr. Kinkel serves for eleven days in a free corps in Baden, where the
army of the insurgents have assembled. At the commencement of the
battle, he is wounded, and taken prisoner with arms in his hands. The
sequel of these struggles is well enough known; but the fate of the
prisoners who survived their wounds, must be noticed.

According to the Prussian law, Dr. Kinkel should have been sentenced to
six years' confinement as a state prisoner. This sentence is accordingly
passed upon the other prisoners; and with a wise and commendable
clemency many are set free after a short time. But as Dr. Kinkel is a
man of high education and celebrity, it is thought best to give him a
very severe punishment, according to the old ignorance of what is called
"making an example," as if this sort of example did not provoke and
stimulate, rather than deter others; and, as if clemency were not only
one of the noblest attributes of royalty, but one of its best
safe-guards in its effect on the feelings of a people.

Dr. Kinkel is, accordingly, sentenced to be imprisoned for life in a
fortress, as a state criminal; and away he is carried.

But now comes into play the anger and resentment of many of those who
had once so much admired Kinkel, and held him up as a religious
champion, until the woeful day when he left preaching for the study of
the arts; and the yet more woeful, not to call it diabolical hour, when
he announced his opinion that a separation of Church and State might be
the best course for both. After a series of intrigues, the enemies of
Kinkel induce the king to alter the sentence; but in order to avoid the
appearance of unusual severity, it is announced that his sentence of
imprisonment in the fortress shall be _alleviated_, by transferring him
to an ordinary prison. In pursuance, therefore, of these suggestions of
his enemies, he is ordered to be imprisoned for life in one of the
prisons appropriated to the vilest malefactors--viz., to the prison of
Naugard, on the Baltic.

Dr. Kinkel is dressed in sackcloth, and his head is shaved. His
wedding-ring is taken from him, and every little memento of his wife and
children which might afford him consolation. His bed is a sack of straw
laid upon a board. He has to scour and clean his cell, and perform every
other menial office. Light is allowed him only so long as he toils; and,
as soon as the requisite work is done, the light is taken away. Such is
his melancholy lot at the present moment!

He who used to toil for thirteen hours a day amidst the learned
languages, and the works of antiquity, in the study of Theology, and of
the arts--the eloquent preacher, lecturer, and tutor--is now compelled
to waste his life, with all its acquirements, in spinning. For thirteen
hours every day, he is doomed to spin. By this labor he earns, every
day, threepence for the state, and a halfpenny for himself! This latter
sum, amounting to threepence a week, is allowed him in mercy, and with
it he is permitted to purchase a dried herring and a small loaf of
coarse brown bread--which, furthermore, he is allowed to eat as a Sunday
dinner--his ordinary food consisting of a sort of odious pap in the
morning (after having spun for four hours), some vegetables at noon, and
some bread and water at night.

For months he has not enjoyed a breath of fresh air. He is allowed to
walk daily for half-an-hour in a covered passage; but even this is
refused whenever the jailor is occupied with other matters, and can not
attend to trifles.

Dr. Kinkel has no books nor papers; there is nothing for him but
spinning--spinning--spinning! Once a month he is, by great clemency,
allowed to write one letter to his wife, which has to pass through the
hands of his jailor, who, being empowered to act as censor, judiciously
strikes out whatever he does not choose Madame Kinkel to know. All
sympathizing letters are strictly withheld from him, while all those
which severely take him to task, and censure his political opinions and
conduct, are carefully placed in his hands, when he stops to take his
breath for a minute from his eternal spinning.

Relatives are not, by the law, allowed to see a criminal during the
first three months; after that time, they may. But after having been
imprisoned at Naugard three months--short of a day--Dr. Kinkel is
suddenly removed to another prison at Spandau, there to re-commence a
period of three months. By this device he is prevented from seeing his
wife, or any friend--all in a perfectly legal way.

The jailor is strictly enjoined not to afford Dr. Kinkel any sort of
opportunity, either by writing or by any other means, of making
intercession with the king to obtain pardon, or the commutation of his
sentence into banishment. All these injunctions are fully obeyed by the
jailor--indeed the present one is more severe than any of the others.

Nevertheless, the melancholy truth has oozed out--the picture has worn
its tearful way through the dense stone walls--and here it is for all to
see--and, we doubt not, for many to feel.

Gottfried Kinkel, so recently one of the most admired professors of the
University of Bonn, one of the ornaments of the scholarship and
literature of modern Germany, now clothed in sackcloth, with shaven
head, and attenuated frame, sits spinning his last threads. He utters no
reproaches, no complaints; but bears his sufferings with a sweet
resignation that savors already of the angelic abodes to which his
contemplations are ever directed. He has entreated his wife to have his
heart buried amidst those lovely scenes on which he so often gazed with
serene rapture, from his study-window in the Castle of Popplesdorf.

Those who behold this last picture and revert to the one where the
professor came happily sliding his way to his class at the University,
may perchance share the emotion which makes us pass our hands across our
eyes, to put aside the irrepressible tribute of sorrow which dims and
confuses the page before us. His worst enemies could never have
contemplated any thing so sad as this. Many, indeed, have already
relented--but let their interceding voices be heard before it is too
late.

The literary men of no country are united, or they might move the whole
kingdom. Still less are the literary men of different countries united,
or they might move the world. But are they, therefore, without a common
sympathy for one another? We are sure this is not the case; and making
this appeal to the literary men of England, we believe it will not be in
vain. Nor are we without hope, that a strong sympathy of this kind,
being duly and respectfully made known to the King of Prussia, or to
Baron Manteufel, the Minister of the Interior, may induce His Majesty to
consider that, the revolution being at an end, clemency is not only the
"brightest jewel in a crown," but its noblest strength, and that, while
royal power can lose nothing, it must gain honor by remitting all
further punishment of one who has only shared in the political offense
of thousands who are now at liberty. All that the friends, at home and
abroad, of Gottfried Kinkel ask is--his liberation from prison, and a
permission to emigrate to England or America.




THE DEATH OF JOHN RANDOLPH.


[Illustration: Sketch of John Randolph of Roanoke[10]]

John Randolph of Roanoke, as he always signed himself, one of the most
remarkable men this country has produced, died in 1833, at a hotel in
Philadelphia, while on his way to England for the benefit of his health.
A life of him which has just been published, written by the Hon. Hugh A.
Garland, contains a very detailed and interesting account of his last
days, in which the peculiarities of his character are clearly developed:

When the approach of the boat to the landing of Potomac creek was
announced, he was brought out of the room by his servants, on a chair,
and seated in the porch, where most of the stage passengers were
assembled. His presence seemed to produce considerable restraint on the
company; and though he appeared to solicit it, none were willing to
enter into conversation; one gentleman only, who was a former
acquaintance, passed a few words with him; and so soon as the boat
reached the landing, all hurried off, and left him nearly alone, with
his awkward servants as his only attendants. An Irish porter, who seemed
to be very careless and awkward in his movements, slung a trunk round
and struck Mr. Randolph with considerable force against the knee. He
uttered an exclamation of great suffering. The poor Irishman was much
terrified, and made the most humble apology, but Mr. Randolph stormed at
him--would listen to no excuse, and drove him from his presence. This
incident increased the speed of the by-standers, and in a few minutes
not one was left to assist the dying man.

Dr. Dunbar, an eminent physician, of Baltimore, witnessing what
happened, and feeling his sympathies awakened toward a man so feeble,
and apparently so near his end, walked up to the chair, as the servants
were about to remove their master, and said, "Mr. Randolph, I have not
the pleasure of your acquaintance, but I have known your brother from my
childhood; and as I see you have no one with you but your servants--you
appear to require a friend, I will be happy to render you any assistance
in my power, while we are together on the boat." He looked up, and fixed
such a searching gaze on the doctor as he never encountered before. But
having no other motive but kindness for a suffering fellow man, he
returned the scrutinizing look with steadiness. As Mr. Randolph read the
countenance of the stranger, who had thus unexpectedly proffered his
friendship, his face suddenly cleared up; and with a most winning smile,
and real politeness, and with a touching tone of voice, grasping the
doctor's hand, he said, "I am most thankful to you, sir, for your
kindness, for I do, indeed, want a friend."

He was now, with the doctor's assistance, carefully carried on board,
and set down in the most eligible part of the cabin. He seemed to be
gasping for breath, as he sat up in the chair, having recovered a
little, he turned to the doctor, and said, "Be so good, sir, if you
please, as to give me your name." The doctor gave him his name, his
profession, and place of residence.

"Ah! doctor," said he, "I am passed surgery--passed surgery!" "I hope
not, sir," the doctor replied. With a deeper and more pathetic tone, he
repeated, "_I am passed surgery._"

He was removed to a side berth, and laid in a position where he could
get air; the doctor also commenced fanning him. His face was wrinkled,
and of a parched yellow, like a female of advanced age. He seemed to
repose for a moment, but presently he roused up, throwing round an
intense and searching gaze. The doctor was reading a newspaper.

"What paper is that, doctor?"

"The ---- _Gazette_, sir."

"A very scurrilous paper, sir--a very scurrilous paper."

After a short pause, he continued, "Be so good, sir, as to read the
foreign news for me--the debates in Parliament, if you please."

As the names of the speakers were mentioned, he commented on each;
"Yes," said he, "I knew him when I was in England;" then went on to make
characteristic remarks on each person.

In reading, the doctor fell upon the word budget; he pronounced the
letter _u_ short, as in _bud_--b[)u]dget. Mr. Randolph said quickly, but
with great mildness and courtesy, "Permit me to interrupt you for a
moment, doctor; I would pronounce that word b_u_dget; like _oo_ in
book." "Very well, sir," said the doctor, pleasantly, and continued the
reading, to which Mr. Randolph listened with great attention. Mr.
Randolph now commenced a conversation about his horses, which he seemed
to enjoy very much; Gracchus particularly, he spoke of with evident
delight. As he lay in his berth, he showed his extremities to the
doctor, which were much emaciated. He looked at them mournfully, and
expressed his opinion of the hopelessness of his condition. The doctor
endeavored to cheer him with more hopeful views. He listened politely,
but evidently derived no consolation from the remarks. Supper was now
announced; the captain and the steward were very attentive, in carrying
such dishes to Mr. Randolph as they thought would be pleasing to him. He
was plentifully supplied with fried clams, which he ate with a good deal
of relish. The steward asked him if he would have some more clams. "I do
not know," he replied; "doctor, do you think I could take some more
clams?" "No, Mr. Randolph; had you asked me earlier, I would have
advised you against taking any, for they are very injurious; but I did
not conceive it my right to advise you." "Yes, you had, doctor; and I
would have been much obliged to you for doing so. Steward, I can't take
any more; the doctor thinks they are not good for me."

After the table was cleared off, one of the gentlemen--the one referred
to as a former acquaintance of Mr. Randolph's, observed that he should
like to get some information about the boats north of Baltimore. "I can
get it for you, sir," replied Mr. Randolph. "Doctor, do me the favor to
hand me a little wicker-basket, among my things in the berth below." The
basket was handed to him; it was full of clippings from newspapers. He
could not find the advertisement he sought for. The gentleman, with
great politeness, said, "Don't trouble yourself, Mr. Randolph." Several
times he repeated, "Don't trouble yourself, sir." At length Randolph
became impatient, and looking up at him with an angry expression of
countenance, said, "I do hate to be interrupted!" The gentleman, thus
rebuked, immediately left him.

Mr. Randolph then showed another basket of the same kind, filled with
similar scraps from newspapers, and observed that he was always in the
habit, when any thing struck him in his reading, as likely to be useful
for future reference, to cut it out and preserve it in books, which he
had for that purpose; and that he had at home several volumes of that
kind.

He showed his arrangements for traveling in Europe; and after a while,
seeing the doctor writing, he said, "Doctor, I see you are writing; will
you do me the favor to write a letter for me, to a friend in Richmond?"
"Certainly, sir." "The gentleman," he continued, "stands A, No. 1, among
men--Dr. Brockenbrough, of Richmond." The letter gave directions about
business matters, principally, but it contained some characteristic
remarks about his horses. He exulted in their having beaten the stage;
and concluded, "So much for blood. Now," said he, "sign it, doctor."

"How shall I sign it, Mr. Randolph? sign it John Randolph of Roanoke?"

"No, sir, sign it Randolph of Roanoke."

It was done accordingly. "Now, doctor," said he, "do me the favor to add
a postscript." The postscript was added, "I have been so fortunate as to
meet with Dr. ----, of ----, on board this boat, and to form his
acquaintance, and I can never be sufficiently grateful for his kind
attentions to me."

So soon as the letter was concluded, Mr. Randolph drew together the
curtains of his berth; the doctor frequently heard him groaning heavily,
and breathing so laboriously, that several times he approached the side
of the berth to listen if it were not the beginning of the
death-struggle. He often heard him, also, exclaiming, in agonized tones,
"Oh, God! Oh, Christ!" while he was engaged in ejaculatory prayer.

He now became very restless, was impatient and irascible with his
servants, but continued to manifest the utmost kindness and courtesy
toward Dr. Dunbar.

When the boat reached the wharf at Alexandria, where the doctor was to
leave, he approached the side of the berth, and said, "Mr. Randolph, I
must now take leave of you." He begged the doctor to come and see him,
at Gadsby's, then, grasping his hand, he said, "God bless you, doctor; I
never can forget your kind attentions to me."

Next day he went into the Senate chamber, and took his seat in the rear
of Mr. Clay. That gentleman happened at the time to be on his feet,
addressing the Senate. "Raise me up," said Randolph, "I want to hear
that voice again." When Mr. Clay had concluded his remarks, which were
very few, he turned round to see from what quarter that singular voice
proceeded. Seeing Mr. Randolph, and that he was in a dying condition, he
left his place and went to speak to him; as he approached, Mr. Randolph
said to the gentleman with him, "Raise me up." As Mr. Clay offered his
hand, he said, "Mr. Randolph, I hope you are better, sir." "No, sir,"
replied Randolph, "I am a dying man, and I came here expressly to have
this interview with you."

They grasped hands and parted, never to meet more.

Having accomplished the only thing that weighed on his mind, having
satisfied Mr. Clay, and the world, that, notwithstanding a long life of
political hostility, no personal animosity rankled in his heart, he was
now ready to continue on his journey, or to meet, with a lighter
conscience, any fate that might befall him.

He hurried on to Philadelphia, to be in time for the packet, that was
about to sail from the Delaware. But he was too late; he was destined to
take passage in a different boat, and to a land far different from that
of his beloved England. It was Monday night when he reached the city,
and the storm was very high. His friends found him on the deck of the
steamboat, while Johnny was out hunting for a carriage. He was put into
a wretched hack, the glasses all broken, and was driven from hotel to
hotel in search of lodgings, and exposed all the time to the peltings of
the storm. He at length drove to the City Hotel, kept by Mr. Edmund
Badger. When Mr. Badger came out to meet him, he asked if he could have
accommodations. Mr. Badger replied that he was crowded, but would do the
best he could for him. On hearing this, he lifted up his hands, and
exclaimed, "Great God! I thank Thee; I shall be among friends, and be
taken care of!"

Mr. Randolph was very ill. Dr. Joseph Parish, a Quaker physician, was
sent for. As he entered the room, the patient said, "I am acquainted
with you, sir, by character. I know you through Giles." He then told the
doctor that he had attended several courses of lectures on anatomy, and
described his symptoms with medical accuracy, declaring he must die if
he could not discharge the puriform matter.

"How long have you been sick, Mr. Randolph?"

"Don't ask me that question; I have been sick all my life. I have been
affected with my present disease, however, for three years. It was
greatly aggravated by my voyage to Russia. That killed me, sir. This
Russian expedition has been a Pultowa, a Beresina to me."

The doctor now felt his pulse. "You can form no judgment by my pulse; it
is so peculiar."

"You have been so long an invalid, Mr. Randolph, you must have acquired
an accurate knowledge of the general course of practice adapted to your
case."

"Certainly, sir; at forty, a fool or a physician, you know."

"There are idiosyncracies," said the doctor, "in many constitutions. I
wish to ascertain what is peculiar about you."

"I have been an idiosyncracy all my life. All the preparations of
camphor invariably injure me. As to ether, it will blow me up. Not so
with opium; I can take opium like a Turk, and have been in the habitual
use of it, in one shape or another, for some time."

Before the doctor retired, Mr. Randolph's conversation became curiously
diversified. He introduced the subject of the Quakers; complimented them
in his peculiar manner for neatness, economy, order, comfort--in every
thing. "Right," said he, "in every thing except politics--there always
twistical." He then repeated a portion of the Litany of the Episcopal
church, with apparent fervor. The following morning the doctor was sent
for very early. He was called from bed. Mr. Randolph apologized very
handsomely for disturbing him. Something was proposed for his relief. He
petulantly and positively refused compliance. The doctor paused and
addressed a few words to him. He apologized, and was as submissive as
an infant. One evening a medical consultation was proposed; he promptly
objected. "In a multitude of counsel," said he, "there is confusion; it
leads to weakness and indecision; the patient may die while the doctors
are staring at each other." Whenever Dr. Parish parted from him,
especially at night, he would receive the kindest acknowledgments, in
the most affectionate tones: "God bless you; He does bless you, and He
will bless you."

The night preceding his death, the doctor passed about two hours in his
chamber. In a plaintive tone he said, "My poor John, sir, is worn down
with fatigue, and has been compelled to go to bed. A most attentive
substitute supplies his place, but neither he nor you, sir, are like
John; he knows where to place his hand on any thing, in a large quantity
of baggage prepared for a European voyage." The patient was greatly
distressed in breathing, in consequence of difficult expectoration. He
requested the doctor, at his next visit, to bring instruments for
performing the operation of bronchotomy, for he could not live unless
relieved. He then directed a certain newspaper to be brought to him. He
put on his spectacles, as he sat propped up in bed, turned over the
paper several times, and examined it carefully, then placing his finger
on a part he had selected, handed it to the doctor, with a request that
he would read it. It was headed "Cherokee." In the course of reading,
the doctor came to the word "omnipotence," and pronounced it with a full
sound on the penultimate--omni_po_tence. Mr. Randolph checked him, and
pronounced the word according to Walker. The doctor attempted to give a
reason for his pronunciation. "Pass on," was the quick reply. The word
impetus was then pronounced with the _e_ long, "imp_e_tus." He was
instantly corrected. The doctor hesitated on the criticism. "There can
be no doubt of it, sir." An immediate acknowledgment of the reader that
he stood corrected, appeared to satisfy the critic, and the piece was
concluded. The doctor observed that there was a great deal of sublimity
in the composition. He directly referred to the Mosaic account of
creation, and repeated, "'Let there be light, and there was light.'
There is sublimity."

Next morning (the day on which he died), Dr. Parish received an early
and an urgent message to visit him. Several persons were in the room,
but soon left it, except his servant John, who was much affected at the
sight of his dying master. The doctor remarked to him, "I have seen your
master very low before, and he revived; and perhaps he will again."
"John knows better than that, sir." He then looked at the doctor with
great intensity, and said in an earnest and distinct manner, "I confirm
every disposition in my will, especially that respecting my slaves, whom
I have manumitted, and for whom I have made provision."

"I am rejoiced to hear such a declaration from you, sir," replied the
doctor, and soon after, proposed to leave him for a short time, to
attend to another patient. "You must not go," was the reply; "you can
not, you shall not leave me. _John!_ take care that the doctor does not
leave the room." John soon locked the door, and reported, "Master, I
have locked the door, and got the key in my pocket: the doctor can't go
now."

He seemed excited, and said, "If you do go, you need not return." The
doctor appealed to him as to the propriety of such an order, inasmuch as
he was only desirous of discharging his duty to another patient. His
manner instantly changed, and he said, "I retract that expression." Some
time afterward, turning an expressive look, he said again, "I retract
that expression."

The doctor now said that he understood the subject of his communication,
and presumed the Will would explain itself fully. He replied, in his
peculiar way, "No, you don't understand it; I know you don't. Our laws
are extremely particular on the subject of slaves--a Will may manumit
them, but provision for their subsequent support, requires that a
declaration be made in the presence of a white witness; and it is
requisite that the witness, after hearing the declaration, should
continue with the party, and never lose sight of him, until he is gone
or dead. You are a good witness for John. You see the propriety and
importance of your remaining with me; your patients must make allowance
for your situation. John told me this morning, 'Master, you are dying.'"

The doctor spoke with entire candor, and replied, that it was rather a
matter of surprise that he had lasted so long. He now made his
preparations to die. He directed John to bring him his father's breast
button; he then directed him to place it in the bosom of his shirt. It
was an old-fashioned, large-sized gold stud. John placed it in the
button hole of the shirt bosom--but to fix it completely, required a
hole on the opposite side. "Get a knife," said he, "and cut one." A
napkin was called for, and placed by John, over his breast. For a short
time he lay perfectly quiet, with his eyes closed. He suddenly roused up
and exclaimed, "Remorse! remorse!" It was thrice repeated--the last
time, at the top of his voice, with great agitation. He cried out, "Let
me see the word. Get a dictionary, let me see the word." "There is none
in the room, sir." "Write it down, then--let me see the word." The
doctor picked up one of his cards, "Randolph of Roanoke." "Shall I write
it on this card?" "Yes, nothing more proper." The word _remorse_, was
then written in pencil. He took the card in a hurried manner, and
fastened his eyes on it with great intensity. "Write it on the back," he
exclaimed--it was so done and handed him again. He was extremely
agitated, "Remorse! you have no idea what it is; you can form no idea of
it, whatever; it has contributed to bring me to my present
situation--but I have looked to the Lord Jesus Christ, and hope I have
obtained pardon. Now, let John take your pencil and draw a line under
the word," which was accordingly done. "What am I to do with the card?"
inquired the doctor. "Put it in your pocket--take care of it--when I am
dead, look at it."

The doctor now introduced the subject of calling in some additional
witnesses to his declarations, and suggested sending down stairs for
Edmund Badger. He replied, "I have already communicated that to him."
The doctor then said, "With your concurrence, sir, I will send for two
young physicians, who shall remain and never lose sight of you until you
are dead; to whom you can make your declarations--my son, Dr. Isaac
Parish, and my young friend and late pupil, Dr. Francis West, a brother
of Captain West."

He quickly asked, "Captain West of the Packet?" "Yes, sir, the same."
"Send for him--he is the man--I'll have him."

Before the door was unlocked, he pointed toward a bureau, and requested
the doctor to take from it a remuneration for his services. To this the
doctor promptly replied, that he would feel as though he were acting
indelicately, to comply. He then waived the subject, by saying, "In
England it is always customary."

The witnesses were now sent for, and soon arrived. The dying man was
propped up in the bed, with pillows, nearly erect. Being extremely
sensitive to cold, he had a blanket over his head and shoulders; and he
directed John to place his hat on, over the blanket, which aided in
keeping it close to his head. With a countenance full of sorrow, John
stood close by the side of his dying master. The four witnesses--Edmund
Badger, Francis West, Isaac Parish, and Joseph Parish, were placed in a
semi-circle, in full view. He rallied all the expiring energies of mind
and body, to this last effort. "His whole soul," says Dr. Parish,
"seemed concentrated in the act. His eyes flashed feeling and
intelligence. Pointing toward us, with his long index finger, he
addressed us."

"I confirm all the directions in my Will, respecting my slaves, and
direct them to be enforced, particularly in regard to a provision for
their support." And then raising his arm as high as he could, he brought
it down with his open hand, on the shoulder of his favorite John, and
added these words, "Especially for this man." He then asked each of the
witnesses whether they understood him. Dr. Joseph Parish explained to
them, what Mr. Randolph had said in regard to the laws of Virginia, on
the subject of manumission--and then appealed to the dying man to know
whether he had stated it correctly. "Yes," said he, and gracefully
waving his hand as a token of dismission, he added, "The young gentlemen
will remain with me."

The scene was now soon changed. Having disposed of that subject most
deeply impressed on his heart, his keen penetrating eye lost its
expression, his powerful mind gave way, and his fading imagination began
to wander amidst scenes and with friends that he had left behind. In two
hours the spirit took its flight, and all that was mortal of John
Randolph of Roanoke was hushed in death. At a quarter before twelve
o'clock, on the 24th day of June, 1833, aged sixty years, he breathed
his last, in a chamber of the City Hotel, No. 41, North Third-street,
Philadelphia.

His remains were taken to Virginia, and buried at Roanoke, not far from
the mansion in which he lived, and in the midst of that "boundless
contiguity of shade," where he spent so many hours of anguish and of
solitude. He sleeps quietly now; the squirrel may gambol in the boughs
above, the partridge may whistle in the long grass that waves over that
solitary grave, and none shall disturb or make them afraid.


FOOTNOTE:

[10] This sketch is from a portrait of RANDOLPH taken during his last
visit to England. It is said by those who remember him well, to present
an accurate and by no means caricatured or exaggerated representation of
his singular personal appearance, while walking in the streets.




AN AGREEABLE SURPRISE.


The ties of relationship are held most sacred in the imperial family of
Austria--Maria Louisa had been taught to reverence them from her
infancy. She was tenderly attached to every member of her family, and
when the preliminaries of her marriage with Napoleon were arranged, and
she knew that she was about to leave all who were so dear to her, and
with whom she had passed all her days, her heart sank within her, and
her tears flowed incessantly. The day came: she was to leave forever the
home of her childhood. She took a most affecting leave of all her
family, and then shut herself up in her own apartment, where, according
to etiquette, she was to remain till the French embassador who was to
conduct her to Paris went to hand her to the carriage. When Berthier,
Prince de Neufchatel, went into her cabinet for this purpose, he found
her weeping most bitterly. For some time she was unable to speak: at
length words of passionate grief found their way.

"I can not help crying," she said; "every thing I look at, and that I am
going to leave, is so dear to me: there are my sister's drawings, my
mother herself worked this tapestry, these pictures were painted by my
uncle Charles."

Thus she went on apostrophizing every article the room contained, even
the very carpets, and all her pets of whom she was so fond, so
cherished, and caressed; her singing birds, that she loved to sit and
listen to--these were all to be left behind--and the parrot that she
herself had taught to speak; but, above all, the little faithful dog,
the favorite companion, even he was not to accompany her--for it had
been said that the emperor did not like pet dogs. As she caressed the
little creature her tears fell faster. Berthier was sensibly touched by
the marks of affection bestowed by the young princess on all the objects
associated with home. He told her that all would not be in readiness
for their departure for a couple of hours. So the poor princess was
allowed the indulgence of her grief for a little while longer. But the
moment came, and she had to tear herself away from the scenes and the
friends that occupied all her affection. An enthusiastic greeting
awaited her from the crowds assembled to welcome her. Splendor
surrounded her on every side; but home and the dear friends were far
away. As Napoleon led her from the balcony of the Tuileries, where she
had been gazed at and hailed with acclamations of joy by the populace,
he said--

"Come, Louisa, I ought to give you some little reward for the happiness
which you have conferred on me--the great happiness which I have just
enjoyed. Nay, nay, don't be afraid to follow me," continued he, as he
led her along one of the narrow corridors of the palace, lit by a single
lamp; "nay, nay, don't be afraid to follow me."

Suddenly they stopped at the door of a room wherein a dog was making
efforts to get out. The emperor opened the door--the favorite dog was
there. He testified his joy at again seeing his mistress by a thousand
wild pranks; bounding and jumping about her. The profusion of lamps by
which the room was lit up, discovered to Maria Louisa that it was
furnished with the very chairs and the carpets of her apartment at
Vienna. There were her sister's drawings, and the tapestry wrought by
her mother's hands; there were the pictures painted by her uncle
Charles; there was her parrot, and there her singing birds; and, above
all, the pet dog. Louisa was greatly affected and delighted by finding
herself surrounded by these dear, familiar objects. So well had Berthier
planned and executed this agreeable surprise for the disconsolate
princess, whom he had found weeping over all that had been endeared to
her by the fondest associations, that she never suspected his design in
delaying their departure from Vienna.

"Come in, Berthier," said the emperor, opening a side door, "and let the
empress thank you. There, Louisa, thank him--embrace him who planned
this pleasure for you."

How frequently genius effects great ends by the simplest means! It is
most interesting to see the greatest difficulties give way before its
magic influence.




A DEATH-BED.

BY JAMES ALDRICH.


    Her suffering ended with the day,
      Yet lived she at its close,
    And breathed the long, long night away,
      In statue-like repose.

    But when the sun, in all his state,
      Illumed the eastern skies,
    She pass'd through Glory's morning-gate
      And walk'd in Paradise!




[From Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine.]

MY NOVEL; OR, VARIETIES IN ENGLISH LIFE.

(_Continued from page 777._)


BOOK II.--INITIAL CHAPTER:--INFORMING THE READER HOW THIS WORK CAME TO
HAVE INITIAL CHAPTERS.

"There can't be a doubt," said my father, "that to each of the main
divisions of your work--whether you call them Books or Parts--you should
prefix an Initial or Introductory Chapter."

PISISTRATUS.--"Can't be a doubt, sir! Why so?"

MR. CAXTON.--"Fielding lays it down as an indispensable rule, which he
supports by his example; and Fielding was an artistical writer, and knew
what he was about."

PISISTRATUS.--"Do you remember any of his reasons, sir?"

MR. CAXTON.--"Why, indeed, Fielding says very justly that he is not
bound to assign any reason; but he does assign a good many, here and
there--to find which, I refer you to _Tom Jones_. I will only observe,
that one of his reasons, which is unanswerable, runs to the effect that
thus, in every Part or Book, the reader has the advantage of beginning
at the fourth or fifth page instead of the first--'a matter by no means
of trivial consequence,' saith Fielding, 'to persons who read books with
no other view than to say they have read them--a more general motive to
reading than is commonly imagined; and from which not only law books and
good books, but the pages of Homer and Virgil, of Swift and Cervantes
have been often turned over.' There," cried my father triumphantly, "I
will lay a shilling to twopence that I have quoted the very words."

MRS. CAXTON.--"Dear me, that only means skipping: I don't see any great
advantage in writing a chapter, merely for people to skip it."

PISISTRATUS.--"Neither do I!"

MR. CAXTON, dogmatically.--"It is the repose in the picture--Fielding
calls it 'contrast'--(still more dogmatically) I say there can't be a
doubt about it. Besides (added my father after a pause), besides, this
usage gives you opportunities to explain what has gone before, or to
prepare for what's coming; or, since Fielding contends with great truth,
that some learning is necessary for this kind of historical composition,
it allows you, naturally and easily, the introduction of light and
pleasant ornaments of that nature. At each flight in the terrace, you
may give the eye the relief of an urn or a statue. Moreover, when so
inclined, you create proper pausing places for reflection; and complete,
by a separate yet harmonious ethical department, the design of a work,
which is but a mere Mother Goose's tale if it does not embrace a general
view of the thoughts and actions of mankind."

PISISTRATUS.--"But then, in these initial chapters, the author thrusts
himself forward and just when you want to get on with the _dramatis
personae_, you find yourself face to face with the poet himself."

MR. CAXTON.--"Pooh! you can contrive to prevent that! Imitate the chorus
of the Greek stage, who fill up the intervals between the action by
saying what the author would otherwise say in his own person."

PISISTRATUS, slyly.--"That's a good idea, sir--and I have a chorus, and
a choraegus too, already in my eye."

MR. CAXTON, unsuspectingly.--"Aha! you are not so dull a fellow as you
would make yourself out to be; and, even if an author did thrust himself
forward, what objection is there to that? It is a mere affectation to
suppose that a book can come into the world without an author. Every
child has a father, one father at least, as the great Conde says very
well in his poem."

PISISTRATUS.--"The great Conde a poet!--I never heard that before."

MR. CAXTON.--"I don't say he was a poet, but he sent a poem to Madame de
Montansier. Envious critics think that he must have paid somebody else
to write it; but there is no reason why a great captain should not write
a poem--I don't say a good poem, but a poem. I wonder, Roland, if the
Duke ever tried his hand at 'Stanzas to Mary,' or 'Lines to a sleeping
babe.'"

CAPTAIN ROLAND.--"Austin, I'm ashamed of you. Of course the Duke could
write poetry if he pleased--something, I dare say, in the way of the
great Conde--that is something warlike and heroic, I'll be bound. Let's
hear!"

MR. CAXTON, reciting--

    "Telle est du Ciel la loi severe
    Qu'il faut qu'un enfant ait un pere;
    On dit meme quelque fois
    Tel enfant en a jusqu'a trois."

CAPTAIN ROLAND, greatly disgusted.--"Conde write such stuff!--I don't
believe it."

PISISTRATUS.--"I do, and accept the quotation--you and Roland shall be
joint fathers to my child as well as myself."

    "Tel enfant en a jusqu'a trois."

MR. CAXTON, solemnly.--"I refuse the proffered paternity; but so far as
administering a little wholesome castigation, now and then, I have no
objection to join in the discharge of a father's duty."

PISISTRATUS.--"Agreed; have you any thing to say against the infant
hitherto?"

MR. CAXTON.--"He is in long clothes at present; let us wait till he can
walk."

BLANCHE.--"But pray whom do you mean for a hero?--and is Miss Jemima
your heroine?"

CAPTAIN ROLAND.--"There is some mystery about the--"

PISISTRATUS, hastily.--"Hush, Uncle; no letting the cat out of the bag
yet. Listen, all of you! I left Frank Hazeldean on his way to the
Casino."


CHAPTER II.

"It is a sweet pretty place," thought Frank, as he opened the gate which
led across the fields to the Casino, that smiled down upon him with its
plaster pilasters. "I wonder, though, that my father, who is so
particular in general, suffers the carriage road to be so full of holes
and weeds. Mounseer does not receive many visits, I take it."

But when Frank got into the ground immediately before the house, he saw
no cause of complaint as to want of order and repair. Nothing could be
kept more neatly. Frank was ashamed of the dint made by the pony's hoofs
in the smooth gravel; he dismounted, tied the animal to the wicket, and
went on foot toward the glass door in front.

He rang the bell once, twice, but nobody came, for the old
woman-servant, who was hard of hearing, was far away in the yard,
searching for any eggs which the hen might have scandalously hidden from
culinary purposes; and Jackeymo was fishing for the sticklebacks and
minnows, which were, when caught, to assist the eggs, when found, in
keeping together the bodies and souls of himself and his master. The old
woman was on board wages--lucky old woman! Frank rang a third time, and
with the impetuosity of his age. A face peeped from the Belvidere on the
terrace. "Diavolo!" said Dr. Riccabocca to himself. "Young cocks crow
hard on their own dunghill; it must be a cock of a high race to crow so
loud at another's."

Therewith he shambled out of the summer-house, and appeared suddenly
before Frank, in a very wizard-like dressing robe of black serge, a red
cap on his head, and a cloud of smoke coming rapidly from his lips, as a
final consolatory whiff, before he removed the pipe from them. Frank had
indeed seen the doctor before, but never in so scholastic a costume, and
he was a little startled by the apparition at his elbow, as he turned
round.

"Signorino--young gentleman," said the Italian, taking off his cap with
his usual urbanity, "pardon the negligence of my people--I am too happy
to receive your commands in person."

"Dr. Rickeybockey?" stammered Frank, much confused by this polite
address, and the low yet stately bow with which it was accompanied,
"I--I have a note from the Hall. Mamma--that is, my mother--and aunt
Jemima beg their best compliments, and hope you will come, sir."

The Doctor took the note with another bow, and, opening the glass door,
invited Frank to enter.

The young gentleman, with a schoolboy's usual bluntness, was about to
say that he was in a hurry, and had rather not; but Dr. Riccabocca's
grand manner awed him, while a glimpse of the hall excited his
curiosity--so he silently obeyed the invitation.

The hall, which was of an octagon shape, had been originally paneled off
into compartments, and in these the Italian had painted landscapes, rich
with the sunny warm light of his native climate. Frank was no judge of
the art displayed; but he was greatly struck with the scenes depicted:
they were all views of some lake, real or imaginary--in all, dark-blue
shining waters reflected dark-blue placid skies. In one, a flight of
steps descended to the lake, and a gay group was seen feasting on the
margin: in another, sunset threw its rose-hues over a vast villa or
palace, backed by Alpine hills, and flanked by long arcades of vines,
while pleasure-boats skimmed over the waves below. In short, throughout
all the eight compartments, the scene, though it differed in details,
preserved the same general character, as if illustrating some favorite
locality. The Italian, did not, however, evince any desire to do the
honors to his own art, but, preceding Frank across the hall, opened the
door of his usual sitting-room, and requested him to enter. Frank did
so, rather reluctantly, and seated himself with unwonted bashfulness on
the edge of a chair. But here new specimens of the Doctor's handicraft
soon riveted attention. The room had been originally papered; but
Riccabocca had stretched canvas over the walls, and painted thereon
sundry satirical devices, each separated from the other by scroll-works
of fantastic arabesques. Here a Cupid was trundling a wheelbarrow full
of hearts, which he appeared to be selling to an ugly old fellow, with a
money-bag in his hand--probably Plutus. There Diogenes might be seen
walking through a market-place, with his lantern in his hand, in search
of an honest man, while the children jeered at him, and the curs snapped
at his heels. In another place, a lion was seen half dressed in a fox's
hide, while a wolf in a sheep's mask was conversing very amicably with a
young lamb. Here again might be seen the geese stretching out their
necks from the Roman Capitol in full cackle, while the stout invaders
were beheld in the distance, running off as hard as they could. In
short, in all these quaint entablatures some pithy sarcasm was
symbolically conveyed; only over the mantle-piece was the design graver
and more touching. It was the figure of a man in a pilgrim's garb,
chained to the earth by small but innumerable ligaments, while a phantom
likeness of himself, his shadow, was seen hastening down what seemed an
interminable vista; and underneath were written the pathetic words of
Horace,

    "Patriae quis exul
            Se quoque fugit?"

"What exile from his country can fly himself as well?" The furniture of
the room was extremely simple, and somewhat scanty; yet it was arranged
so as to impart an air of taste and elegance to the room. Even a few
plaster busts and statues, though bought of some humble itinerant, had
their classical effect glistening from out stands of flowers that were
grouped around them, or backed by graceful screen-works formed from
twisted osiers, which, by the simple contrivance of trays at the bottom,
filled with earth, served for living parasitical plants, with gay
flowers contrasting thick ivy leaves, and gave to the whole room the
aspect of a bower.

"May I ask your permission?" said the Italian, with his finger on the
seal of the letter.

"Oh, yes," said Frank with _naivete_.

Riccabocca broke the seal, and a slight smile stole over his
countenance. Then he turned a little aside from Frank, shaded his face
with his hand, and seemed to muse. "Mrs. Hazeldean," said he at last,
"does me very great honor. I hardly recognize her hand-writing, or I
should have been more impatient to open the letter." The dark eyes were
lifted over the spectacles, and went right into Frank's unprotected and
undiplomatic heart. The Doctor raised the note, and pointed to the
characters with his forefinger.

"Cousin Jemima's hand," said Frank, as directly as if the question had
been put to him.

The Italian smiled. "Mr. Hazeldean has company staying with him?"

"No; that is, only Barney--the Captain. There's seldom much company
before the shooting season," added Frank with a slight sigh; "and then
you know the holidays are over. For my part, I think we ought to break
up a month later."

The Doctor seemed reassured by the first sentence in Frank's reply, and
seating himself at the table, wrote his answer--not hastily, as we
English write, but with care and precision, like one accustomed to weigh
the nature of words--in that stiff Italian hand, which allows the writer
so much time to think while he forms his letters. He did not therefore
reply at once to Frank's remark about the holidays, but was silent till
he had concluded his note, read it three times over, sealed it by the
taper he slowly lighted, and then, giving it to Frank, he said--

"For your sake, young gentleman, I regret that your holidays are so
early; for mine, I must rejoice, since I accept the kind invitation you
have rendered doubly gratifying by bringing it yourself."

"Deuce take the fellow and his fine speeches! One don't know which way
to look," thought English Frank.

The Italian smiled again, as if this time he had read the boy's heart,
without need of those piercing black eyes, and said, less ceremoniously
than before, "You don't care much for compliments, young gentleman?"

"No, I don't indeed," said Frank heartily.

"So much the better for you, since your way in the world is made: it
would be so much the worse if you had to make it!"

Frank looked puzzled: the thought was too deep for him--so he turned to
the pictures.

"Those are very funny," said he: "they seem capitally done--who did
'em?"

"Signorino Hazeldean, you are giving me what you refused yourself."

"Eh?" said Frank, inquiringly.

"Compliments!"

"Oh--I--no; but they are well done, arn't they, sir?"

"Not particularly: you speak to the artist."

"What! you painted them?"

"Yes."

"And the pictures in the hall?"

"Those too."

"Taken from nature--eh?"

"Nature," said the Italian sententiously, perhaps evasively, "lets
nothing be taken from her."

"Oh!" said Frank, puzzled again.

"Well, I must wish you good morning, sir; I am very glad you are
coming."

"Without compliment?"

"Without compliment."

"A _rivedersi_--good-by for the present, my young signorino. This way,"
observing Frank make a bolt toward the wrong door.

"Can I offer you a glass of wine--it is pure, of our own making?"

"No, thank you, indeed, sir," cried Frank, suddenly recollecting his
father's admonition. "Good-by--don't trouble yourself, sir; I know my
way now."

But the bland Italian followed his guest to the wicket, where Frank had
left the pony. The young gentleman, afraid lest so courteous a host
should hold the stirrup for him, twitched off the bridle, and mounted in
haste, not even staying to ask if the Italian could put him in the way
to Rood Hall, of which way he was profoundly ignorant. The Italian's eye
followed the boy as he rode up the ascent in the lane, and the Doctor
sighed heavily. "The wiser we grow," said he to himself, "the more we
regret the age of our follies: it is better to gallop with a light heart
up the stony hill than to sit in the summer-house and cry 'How true!' to
the stony truths of Machiavelli!"

With that he turned back into the Belvidere; but he could not resume his
studies. He remained some minutes gazing on the prospect, till the
prospect reminded him of the fields, which Jackeymo was bent on his
hiring, and the fields reminded him of Lenny Fairfield. He walked back
to the house, and in a few moments re-emerged in his out-of-door-trim,
with cloak and umbrella, relighted his pipe, and strolled toward
Hazeldean village.

Meanwhile Frank, after cantering on for some distance, stopped at a
cottage, and there learned that there was a short cut across the fields
to Rood Hall, by which he could save nearly three miles. Frank, however,
missed the short cut, and came out into the high road: a turnpike
keeper, after first taking his toll, put him back again into the short
cut; and finally, he got into some green lanes, where a dilapidated
finger-post directed him to Rood. Late at noon, having ridden fifteen
miles in the desire to reduce ten to seven, he came suddenly upon a wild
and primitive piece of ground, that seemed half chase, half common, with
slovenly tumble-down cottages of villainous aspect scattered about in
odd nooks and corners; idle dirty children were making mud pies on the
road; slovenly-looking women were plaiting straw at the thresholds; a
large but forlorn and decayed church, that seemed to say that the
generation which saw it built was more pious than the generation which
now resorted to it, stood boldly and nakedly out by the roadside.

"Is this the village of Rood?" asked Frank of a stout young man breaking
stones on the road--sad sign that no better labor could be found for
him!

The man sullenly nodded, and continued his work.

"And where's the Hall--Mr. Leslie's?"

The man looked up in stolid surprise, and this time touched his hat.

"Be you going there?"

"Yes, if I can find out where it is."

"I'll show your honor," said the boor alertly.

Frank reined in the pony, and the man walked by his side.

Frank was much of his father's son, despite the difference of age, and
that more fastidious change of manner which characterizes each
succeeding race in the progress of civilization. Despite all his Eton
finery, he was familiar with peasants, and had the quick eye of one
country-born as to country matters.

"You don't seem very well off in this village, my man?" said he,
knowingly.

"No; there be a deal of distress here in the winter time, and summer
too, for that matter; and the parish ben't much help to a single man."

"But the farmers want work here as well as elsewhere, I suppose?"

"'Deed, and there ben't much farming work here--most o' the parish be
all wild ground loike."

"The poor have a right of common, I suppose," said Frank, surveying a
large assortment of vagabond birds and quadrupeds.

"Yes; neighbor Timmins keeps his geese on the common, and some has a
cow--and them be neighbor Jowles's pigs. I don't know if there's a
right, loike; but the folks at the Hall does all they can to help us,
and that ben't much: they ben't as rich as some folks; but," added the
peasant proudly, "they be as good blood as any in the shire."

"I'm glad to see you like them, at all events."

"Oh, yes, I likes them well eno'; mayhap you are at school with the
young gentleman?"

"Yes." said Frank.

"Ah! I heard the clergyman say as how Master Randal was a mighty clever
lad, and would get rich some day. I'se sure I wish he would, for a poor
squire makes a poor parish. There's the Hall, sir."


CHAPTER III.

Frank looked right ahead, and saw a square house that, in spite of
modern sash-windows, was evidently of remote antiquity--a high conical
roof; a stack of tall quaint chimney-pots of red baked clay (like those
at Sutton Place in Surrey), dominating over isolated vulgar
smoke-conductors, of the ignoble fashion of present times; a dilapidated
groin-work, encasing within a Tudor arch a door of the comfortable date
of George III., and the peculiarly dingy and weather-stained appearance
of the small finely finished bricks, of which the habitation was
built--all showed the abode of former generations adapted with tasteless
irreverence to the habits of descendants unenlightened by Pugin, or
indifferent to the poetry of the past. The house had emerged suddenly
upon Frank out of the gloomy waste land, for it was placed in a hollow,
and sheltered from sight by a disorderly group of ragged, dismal,
valetudinarian fir-trees, until an abrupt turn of the road cleared that
screen, and left the desolate abode bare to the discontented eye. Frank
dismounted; the man held his pony; and, after smoothing his cravat, the
smart Etonian sauntered up to the door, and startled the solitude of the
place with a loud peal from the modern brass knocker--a knock which
instantly brought forth an astonished starling who had built under the
eaves of the gable roof, and called up a cloud of sparrows, tomtits, and
yellow-hammers, who had been regaling themselves among the litter of a
slovenly farm-yard that lay in full sight to the right of the house,
fenced off by a primitive, paintless wooden rail. In process of time a
sow, accompanied by a thriving and inquisitive family, strolled up to
the gate of the fence, and, leaning her nose on the lower bar of the
gate, contemplated the visitor with much curiosity and some suspicion.

While Frank is still without, impatiently swingeing his white trowsers
with his whip, we will steal a hurried glance toward the respective
members of the family within. Mr. Leslie, the _pater familias_, is in a
little room called his 'study,' to which he regularly retires every
morning after breakfast, rarely reappearing till one o'clock, which is
his unfashionable hour for dinner. In what mysterious occupations Mr.
Leslie passes those hours no one ever formed a conjecture. At the
present moment he is seated before a little rickety bureau, one leg of
which (being shorter than the other), is propped up by sundry old
letters and scraps of newspapers; and the bureau is open, and reveals a
great number of pigeon-holes and divisions, filled with various odds and
ends, the collection of many years. In some of these compartments are
bundles of letters, very yellow, and tied in packets with faded tape; in
another, all by itself, is a fragment of plum-pudding stone, which Mr.
Leslie has picked up in his walks and considered a rare mineral. It is
neatly labeled "Found in Hollow Lane, May 21st, 1824, by Maunder Slugge
Leslie, Esq." The next division holds several bits of iron in the shape
of nails, fragments of horse-shoes, &c., which Mr. Leslie had also met
with in his rambles, and, according to a harmless popular superstition,
deemed it highly unlucky not to pick up, and, once picked up, no less
unlucky to throw away. _Item_, in the adjoining pigeon-hole, a goodly
collection of pebbles with holes in them, preserved for the same reason,
in company with a crooked sixpence: _item_, neatly arranged in fanciful
mosaics, several periwinkles, Blackamoor's teeth (I mean the shell so
called), and other specimens of the conchiferous ingenuity of Nature,
partly inherited from some ancestral spinster, partly amassed by Mr.
Leslie himself in a youthful excursion to the sea-side. There were the
farm-bailiff's accounts, several files of bills, an old stirrup, three
sets of knee and shoe buckles which had belonged to Mr. Leslie's father,
a few seals tied together by a shoe-string, a shagreen toothpick case, a
tortoiseshell magnifying glass to read with, his eldest son's first
copybooks, his second son's ditto, his daughter's ditto, and a lock of
his wife's hair arranged in a true-lover's knot, framed and glazed.
There were also a small mousetrap; a patent corkscrew, too good to be
used in common; fragments of a silver teaspoon, that had, by natural
decay, arrived at a dissolution of its parts; a small brown Holland bag,
containing halfpence of various dates, as far back as Queen Anne,
accompanied by two French _sous_, and a German _silber gros_; the which
miscellany Mr. Leslie magniloquently called "his coins," and had left in
his will as a family heirloom. There were many other curiosities of
congenial nature and equal value--"_quae nunc describere longum est_."
Mr. Leslie was engaged at this time in what is termed "putting things to
rights"--an occupation he performed with exemplary care once a week.
This was his day; and he had just counted his coins, and was slowly
tying them up again, when Frank's knock reached his ears.

Mr. Maunder Slugge Leslie paused, shook his head as if incredulously,
and was about to resume his occupation, when he was seized with a fit of
yawning which prevented the bag being tied for full two minutes.

While such was the employment of the study--let us turn to the
recreations in the drawing-room, or rather parlor. A drawing-room there
was on the first floor, with a charming look-out, not on the dreary
fir-trees, but on the romantic undulating forest-land, but the
drawing-room had not been used since the death of the last Mrs. Leslie.
It was deemed too good to sit in, except when there was company; there
never being company, it was never sate in. Indeed, now the paper was
falling off the walls with the damp, and the rats, mice, and
moths--those "_edaces rerum_"--had eaten, between them, most of the
chair-bottoms and a considerable part of the floor. Therefore the parlor
was the sole general sitting-room; and being breakfasted in, dined, and
supped in, and, after supper, smoked in by Mr. Leslie to the
accompaniment of rum and water, it is impossible to deny that it had
what is called "a smell"--a comfortable wholesome family smell--speaking
of numbers, meals, and miscellaneous social habitation.--There were two
windows: one looked full on the fir-trees; the other on the farm-yard,
with the pigsty closing the view. Near the fir-tree window sate Mrs.
Leslie; before her, on a high stool, was a basket of the children's
clothes that wanted mending. A work-table of rosewood inlaid with brass,
which had been a wedding present, and was a costly thing originally, but
in that peculiar taste which is vulgarly called "Brumagem," stood at
hand: the brass had started in several places, and occasionally made
great havoc on the children's fingers and Mrs. Leslie's gown; in fact,
it was the liveliest piece of furniture in the house, thanks to that
petulant brass-work, and could not have been more mischievous if it had
been a monkey. Upon the work-table lay a housewife and thimble, and
scissors and skeins of worsted and thread, and little scraps of linen
and cloth for patches. But Mrs. Leslie was not actually working--she was
preparing to work; she had been preparing to work for the last hour and
a half. Upon her lap she supported a novel, by a lady who wrote much for
a former generation, under the name of "Mrs. Bridget Blue Mantle." She
had a small needle in her left hand, and a very thick piece of thread in
her right; occasionally she applied the end of the said thread to her
lips, and then--her eyes fixed on the novel--made a blind vacillating
attack at the eye of the needle. But a camel would have gone through it
with quite as much ease. Nor did the novel alone engage Mrs. Leslie's
attention, for ever and anon she interrupted herself to scold the
children; to inquire "what o'clock it was;" to observe that "Sarah would
never suit," and to wonder why Mr. Leslie would not see that the
work-table was mended. Mrs. Leslie had been rather a pretty woman. In
spite of a dress at once slatternly and economical, she has still the
air of a lady--rather too much so, the hard duties of her situation
considered. She is proud of the antiquity of her family on both sides;
her mother was of the venerable stock of the Daudlers of Daudle Place, a
race that existed before the Conquest. Indeed, one has only to read our
earliest chronicles, and to glance over some of those long-winded
moralizing poems which delighted the thanes and ealdermen of old, in
order to see that the Daudlers must have been a very influential family
before William the First turned the country topsy-turvy. While the
mother's race was thus indubitably Saxon, the father's had not only the
name but the peculiar idiosyncrasy of the Normans, and went far to
establish that crotchet of the brilliant author of _Sybil, or the Two
Nations_ as to the continued distinction between the conquering and
conquered populations. Mrs. Leslie's father boasted the name of
Montfydget; doubtless of the same kith and kin as those great barons
Montfichet, who once owned such broad lands and such turbulent castles.
A high-nosed, thin, nervous, excitable progeny, those same Montfydgets,
as the most troublesome Norman could pretend to be. This fusion of race
was notable to the most ordinary physiognomist in the _physique_ and in
the _morale_ of Mrs. Leslie. She had the speculative blue eye of the
Saxon, and the passionate high nose of the Norman; she had the musing
do-nothingness of the Daudlers, and the reckless have-at-everythingness
of the Montfydgets. At Mrs. Leslie's feet, a little girl with her hair
about her ears (and beautiful hair it was too), was amusing herself with
a broken-nosed doll. At the far end of the room, before a high desk,
sate Frank's Eton schoolfellow, the eldest son. A minute or two before
Frank's alarum had disturbed the tranquillity of the household, he had
raised his eyes from the books on the desk, to glance at a very tattered
copy of the Greek Testament, in which his brother Oliver had found a
difficulty that he came to Randal to solve. As the young Etonian's face
was turned to the light, your first impression, on seeing it, would have
been melancholy but respectful interest--for the face had already lost
the joyous character of youth--there was a wrinkle between the brows;
and the lines that speak of fatigue, were already visible under the eyes
and about the mouth; the complexion was sallow, the lips were pale.
Years of study had already sown, in the delicate organization, the seeds
of many an infirmity and many a pain; but if your look had rested longer
on that countenance, gradually your compassion might have given place to
some feeling uneasy and sinister, a feeling akin to fear. There was in
the whole expression so much of cold calm force, that it belied the
debility of the frame. You saw there the evidence of a mind that was
cultivated, and you felt that in that cultivation there was something
formidable. A notable contrast to this countenance, prematurely worn and
eminently intelligent, was the round healthy face of Oliver, with slow
blue eyes, fixed hard on the penetrating orbs of his brother, as if
trying with might and main to catch from them a gleam of that knowledge
with which they shone clear and frigid as a star.

At Frank's knock, Oliver's slow blue eyes sparkled into animation, and
he sprang from his brother's side. The little girl flung back the hair
from her face, and stared at her mother with a look which spoke wonder
and fright.

The young student knit his brows, and then turned wearily back to the
books on his desk.

"Dear me," cried Mrs. Leslie, "who can that possibly be? Oliver, come
from the window, sir, this instant, you will be seen! Juliet, run--ring
the bell--no, go to the stairs, and say, 'not at home.' Not at home on
any account," repeated Mrs. Leslie nervously, for the Montfydget blood
was now in full flow.

In another minute or so, Frank's loud boyish voice was distinctly heard
at the outer door.

Randal slightly started.

"Frank Hazeldean's voice," said he; "I should like to see him, mother."

"See him," repeated Mrs. Leslie in amaze, "see him!--and the room in
this state!"

Randal might have replied that the room was in no worse state than
usual; but he said nothing. A slight flush came and went over his pale
face; and then he leant his cheek on his hand, and compressed his lips
firmly.

The outer door closed with a sullen, inhospitable jar, and a slip-shod
female servant entered with a card between her finger and thumb.

"Who is that for? give it to me, Jenny," cried Mrs. Leslie.

But Jenny shook her head, laid the card on the desk beside Randal, and
vanished without saying a word.

"Oh, look, Randal, look up," cried Oliver, who had again rushed to the
window; "such a pretty gray pony!"

Randal did look up; nay, he went deliberately to the window, and gazed a
moment on the high-mettled pony, and the well-dressed high-spirited
rider. In that moment changes passed over Randal's countenance more
rapidly than clouds over the sky in a gusty day. Now envy and
discontent, with the curled lip and the gloomy scowl; now hope and proud
self-esteem, with the clearing brow, and the lofty smile; and then all
again became cold, firm, and close as he walked back to his books,
seated himself resolutely, and said, half aloud,

"Well, KNOWLEDGE IS POWER!"


CHAPTER IV.

Mrs. Leslie came up in fidget and in fuss; she leant over Randal's
shoulder and read the card. Written in pen and ink, with an attempt at
imitation of printed Roman character, there appeared first, "MR. FRANK
HAZELDEAN;" but just over these letters, and scribbled hastily and less
legibly in pencil, was--

"Dear Leslie,--sorry you are out--come and see us--_Do_!"

"You will go, Randal?" said Mrs. Leslie, after a pause.

"I am not sure."

"Yes, _you_ can go; _you_ have clothes like a gentleman; _you_ can go
any where, not like those children;" and Mrs. Leslie glanced almost
spitefully on poor Oliver's coarse, threadbare jacket, and little
Juliet's torn frock.

"What I have I owe at present to Mr. Egerton, and I should consult his
wishes; he is not on good terms with these Hazeldeans." Then glancing
toward his brother, who looked mortified, he added, with a strange sort
of haughty kindness, "What I may have hereafter, Oliver, I shall owe to
myself; and then, if I rise, I will raise my family."

"Dear Randal," said Mrs. Leslie, fondly kissing him on the forehead,
"what a good heart you have!"

"No mother; my books don't tell me that it is a good heart that gets on
in the world; it is a hard head," replied Randal, with a rude and
scornful candor. "But I can read no more just now; come out, Oliver."

So saying, he slid from his mother's hand and left the room.

When Oliver joined him, Randal was already on the common; and, without
seeming to notice his brother, he continued to walk quickly and with
long strides in profound silence. At length he paused under the shade of
an old oak, that, too old to be of value save for firewood, had escaped
the ax. The tree stood on a knoll, and the spot commanded a view of the
decayed house--the old dilapidated church--the dismal, dreary village.

"Oliver," said Randal, between his teeth, so that his voice had the
sound of a hiss, "it was under this tree that I first resolved to--"

He paused.

"What, Randal?"

"Read hard; knowledge is power!"

"But you are so fond of reading."

"I?" cried Randal. "Do you think, when Wolsey and Thomas a-Becket became
priests, they were fond of telling their beads and pattering Aves? I
fond of reading!"

Oliver stared; the historical allusions were beyond his comprehension.

"You know," continued Randal, "that we Leslies were not always the
beggarly poor gentlemen we are now. You know that there is a man who
lives in Grosvenor-square, and is very rich--very. His riches come to
him from a Leslie; that man is my patron, Oliver, and he is very good to
me."

Randal's smile was withering as he spoke. "Come on," he said, after a
pause--"come on." Again the walk was quicker, and the brothers were
silent.

They came at length to a little shallow brook, across which some large
stones had been placed at short intervals, so that the boys walked over
the ford dryshod. "Will you pull me down that bough, Oliver?" said
Randal, abruptly, pointing to a tree. Oliver obeyed mechanically; and
Randal stripping the leaves, and snapping off the twigs, left a fork at
the end; with this he began to remove the stepping-stones. "What are you
about, Randal?" asked Oliver, wonderingly.

"We are on the other side of the brook now; and we shall not come back
this way. We don't want the stepping-stones any more! away with them!"


CHAPTER V.

The morning after this visit of Frank Hazeldean's to Rood Hall, the
Right Honorable Audley Egerton, member of Parliament, privy councilor,
and minister of a high department in the state--just below the rank of
the cabinet--was seated in his library, awaiting the delivery of the
post, before he walked down to his office. In the mean while he sipped
his tea, and glanced over the newspapers with that quick and
half-disdainful eye with which your practical man in public life is wont
to regard the abuse or the eulogium of the Fourth Estate.

There is very little likeness between Mr. Egerton and his half-brother;
none indeed, except that they are both of tall stature, and strong,
sinewy, English build. But even in this last they do not resemble each
other; for the Squire's athletic shape is already beginning to expand
into that portly embonpoint which seems the natural development of
contented men as they approach middle life. Audley, on the contrary, is
inclined to be spare; and his figure, though the muscles are as firm as
iron, has enough of the slender to satisfy metropolitan ideas of
elegance. His dress--his look--his _tout ensemble_, are those of the
London man. In the first, there is more attention to fashion than is
usual among the busy members of the House of Commons; but then Audley
Egerton had always been something more than a mere busy member of the
House of Commons. He had always been a person of mark in the best
society, and one secret of his success in life has been his high
reputation as a "gentleman."

As he now bends over the journals, there is an air of distinction in the
turn of the well-shaped head, with the dark brown hair--dark in spite of
a reddish tinge--cut close behind, and worn away a little toward the
crown, so as to give additional height to a commanding forehead. His
profile is very handsome, and of that kind of beauty which imposes on
men if it pleases women; and is therefore, unlike that of your mere
pretty fellows, a positive advantage in public life. It is a profile
with large features clearly cut, masculine, and somewhat severe. The
expression of his face is not open like the Squire's; nor has it the
cold closeness which accompanies the intellectual character of young
Leslie's; but it is reserved and dignified, and significant of
self-control, as should be the physiognomy of a man accustomed to think
before he speaks. When you look at him, you are not surprised to learn
that he is not a florid orator nor a smart debater--he is a "weighty
speaker." He is fairly read, but without any great range either of
ornamental scholarship or constitutional lore. He has not much humor;
but he has that kind of wit which is essential to grave and serious
irony. He has not much imagination, nor remarkable subtlety in
reasoning; but if he does not dazzle, he does not _bore_: he is too much
the man of the world for that. He is considered to have sound sense and
accurate judgment. Withal, as he now lays aside the journals, and his
face relaxes its austerer lines, you will not be astonished to hear that
he is a man who is said to have been greatly beloved by women, and still
to exercise much influence in drawing-rooms and boudoirs. At least no
one was surprised when the great heiress Clementina Leslie, kinswomen
and ward to Lord Lansmere--a young lady who had refused three earls and
the heir-apparent to a dukedom--was declared by her dearest friends to
be dying of love for Audley Egerton. It had been the natural wish of the
Lansmeres that this lady should marry their son, Lord L'Estrange. But
that young gentleman, whose opinions on matrimony partook of the
eccentricity of his general character, could never be induced to
propose, and had, according to the _on dits_ of town, been the principal
party to make up the match between Clementina and his friend Audley; for
the match required making-up despite the predilections of the young
heiress. Mr. Egerton had had scruples of delicacy. He avowed, for the
first time, that his fortune was much less than had been generally
supposed, and he did not like the idea of owing all to a wife, however
much he might esteem and admire her. L'Estrange was with his regiment
abroad during the existence of these scruples; but by letters to his
father, and to his cousin Clementina, he contrived to open and conclude
negotiations, while he argued away Mr. Egerton's objections; and, before
the year in which Audley was returned for Lansmere had expired, he
received the hand of the great heiress. The settlement of her fortune,
which was chiefly in the funds, had been unusually advantageous to the
husband; for though the capital was tied up so long as both
survived--for the benefit of any children they might have--yet, in the
event of one of the parties dying without issue by the marriage, the
whole passed without limitation to the survivor. In not only assenting
to, but proposing this clause, Miss Leslie, if she showed a generous
trust in Mr. Egerton, inflicted no positive wrong on her relations; for
she had none sufficiently near to her to warrant their claim to the
succession. Her nearest kinsman, and therefore her natural heir, was
Harley L'Estrange; and if he was contented, no one had a right to
complain. The tie of blood between herself and the Leslies of Rood Hall
was, as we shall see presently, extremely distant.

It was not till after his marriage that Mr. Egerton took an active part
in the business of the House of Commons. He was then at the most
advantageous starting-point for the career of ambition. His words on the
state of the country took importance from his stake in it. His talents
found accessories in the opulence of Grosvenor-square, the dignity of a
princely establishment, the respectability of one firmly settled in
life, the reputation of a fortune in reality very large, and which was
magnified by popular report into the revenues of a Croesus. Audley
Egerton succeeded in Parliament beyond the early expectations formed of
him. He took, at first, that station in the House which it requires tact
to establish, and great knowledge of the world to free from the charge
of impracticability and crotchet, but which, once established, is
peculiarly imposing from the rarity of its independence; that is to say,
the station of the moderate man who belongs sufficiently to a party to
obtain its support, but is yet sufficiently disengaged from a party to
make his vote and word, on certain questions, matter of anxiety and
speculation.

Professing Toryism (the word Conservative, which would have suited him
better, was not then known), he separated himself from the country
party, and always avowed great respect for the opinions of the large
towns. The epithet given to the views of Audley Egerton was
"enlightened." Never too much in advance of the passion of the day, yet
never behind its movement, he had that shrewd calculation of odds which
a consummate mastery of the world sometimes bestows upon
politicians--perceived the chances for and against a certain question
being carried within a certain time, and nicked the question between
wind and water. He was so good a barometer of that changeful weather
called Public Opinion that he might have had a hand in the _Times_
newspaper. He soon quarreled, and purposely, with his Lansmere
constituents--nor had he ever revisited that borough, perhaps because it
was associated with unpleasant reminiscences in the shape of the
Squire's epistolary trimmer, and in that of his own effigies which his
agricultural constituents had burned in the corn-market. But the
speeches which produced such indignation at Lansmere, had delighted one
of the greatest of our commercial towns, which at the next general
election honored him with its representation. In those days, before the
Reform Bill, great commercial towns chose men of high mark for their
members; and a proud station it was for him who was delegated to speak
the voice of the princely merchants of England.

Mrs. Egerton survived her marriage but a few years; she left no
children; two had been born, but died in their first infancy. The
property of the wife, therefore, passed without control or limit to the
husband.

Whatever might have been the grief of the widower, he disdained to
betray it to the world. Indeed, Audley Egerton was a man who had early
taught himself to conceal emotion. He buried himself in the country,
none knew where, for some months: when he returned, there was a deep
wrinkle on his brow; but no change in his habits and avocations, except
that, shortly afterward, he accepted office, and thus became more busy
than ever.

Mr. Egerton had always been lavish and magnificent in money matters. A
rich man in public life has many claims on his fortune, and no one
yielded to those claims with an air so regal as Audley Egerton. But
among his many liberal actions, there was none which seemed more worthy
of panegyric, than the generous favor he extended to the son of his
wife's poor and distant kinsfolks, the Leslies of Rood Hall.

Some four generations back, there had lived a certain Squire Leslie, a
man of large acres and active mind. He had cause to be displeased with
his elder son, and though he did not disinherit him, he left half his
property to a younger.

The younger had capacity and spirit, which justified the paternal
provision. He increased his fortune; lifted himself into notice and
consideration, by public services and a noble alliance. His descendants
followed his example, and took rank among the first commoners in
England, till the last male, dying, left his sole heiress and
representative in one daughter, Clementina, afterward married to Mr.
Egerton.

Meanwhile the elder son of the fore-mentioned squire had muddled and
sotted away much of his share in the Leslie property; and, by low habits
and mean society, lowered in repute his representation of the name.

His successors imitated him, till nothing was left to Randal's father,
Mr. Maunder Slugge Leslie, but the decayed house which was what the
Germans call the _stamm schloss_, or "stem hall" of the race, and the
wretched lands immediately around it.

Still, though all intercourse between the two branches of the family had
ceased, the younger had always felt a respect for the elder, as the head
of the house. And it was supposed that, on her death bed, Mrs. Egerton
had recommended her impoverished namesakes and kindred to the care of
her husband. For, when he returned to town after Mrs. Egerton's death,
Audley had sent to Mr. Maunder Slugge Leslie the sum of L5000, which he
said his wife, leaving no written will, had orally bequeathed as a
legacy to that gentleman; and he requested permission to charge himself
with the education of the eldest son.

Mr. Maunder Slugge Leslie might have done great things for his little
property with those L5000, or even (kept in the three-per-cents) the
interest would have afforded a material addition to his comforts. But a
neighboring solicitor having caught scent of the legacy, hunted it down
into his own hands, on pretense of having found a capital investment in
a canal. And when the solicitor had got possession of the L5000, he went
off with them to America.

Meanwhile Randal, placed by Mr. Egerton at an excellent preparatory
school, at first gave no signs of industry or talent; but just before he
left it, there came to the school, as classical tutor, an ambitious
young Oxford man; and his zeal, for he was a capital teacher, produced a
great effect generally on the pupils, and especially on Randal Leslie.
He talked to them much in private on the advantages of learning, and
shortly afterward he exhibited those advantages in his own person; for,
having edited a Greek play with much subtle scholarship, his college,
which some slight irregularities of his had displeased, recalled him to
its venerable bosom by the presentation of a fellowship. After this he
took orders, became a college tutor, distinguished himself yet more by a
treatise on the Greek accent, got a capital living, and was considered
on the high road to a bishopric. This young man, then, communicated to
Randal the thirst for knowledge; and when the boy went afterward to
Eton, he applied with such earnestness and resolve that his fame soon
reached the ears of Audley; and that person, who had the sympathy for
talent, and yet more for purpose, which often characterizes ambitious
men, went to Eton to see him. From that time, Audley evinced great and
almost fatherly interest in the brilliant Etonian; and Randal always
spent with him some days in each vacation.

I have said that Egerton's conduct, with respect to this boy, was more
praiseworthy than most of those generous actions for which he was
renowned, since to this the world gave no applause. What a man does
within the range of his family connections, does not carry with it that
_eclat_ which invests a munificence exhibited on public occasions.
Either people care nothing about it, or tacitly suppose it to be but his
duty. It was true, too, as the Squire had observed, that Randal Leslie
was even less distantly related to the Hazeldeans than to Mrs. Egerton,
since Randal's grandfather had actually married a Miss Hazeldean (the
highest worldly connection that branch of the family had formed since
the great split I have commemorated). But Audley Egerton never appeared
aware of that fact. As he was not himself descended from the Hazeldeans,
he never troubled himself about their genealogy; and he took care to
impress it upon the Leslies, that his generosity on their behalf, was
solely to be ascribed to his respect for his wife's memory and kindred.
Still the Squire had felt as if his "distant brother" implied a rebuke
on his own neglect of these poor Leslies, by the liberality Audley
evinced toward them; and this had made him doubly sore when the name of
Randal Leslie was mentioned. But the fact really was, that the Leslies
of Rood, had so shrunk out of all notice that the Squire had actually
forgotten their existence, until Randal became thus indebted to his
brother; and then he felt a pang of remorse that any one, save himself,
the head of the Hazeldeans, should lend a helping hand to the grandson
of a Hazeldean.

But having thus, somewhat too tediously, explained the position of
Audley Egerton, whether in the world, or in relation to his young
_protege_, I may now permit him to receive and to read his letters.


CHAPTER VI.

Mr. Egerton glanced over the pile of letters placed beside him, and
first he tore up some, scarcely read, and threw them into the
waste-basket. Public men have such odd out-of-the-way letters, that
their waste-baskets are never empty: letters from amateur financiers
proposing new ways to pay off the national debt; letters from America
(never free!) asking for autographs; letters from fond mothers in
country villages, recommending some miracle of a son for a place in the
king's service; letters from freethinkers in reproof of bigotry; letters
from bigots in reproof of freethinking; letters signed Brutus Redivivus,
containing the agreeable information that the writer has a dagger for
tyrants, if the Danish claims are not forthwith adjusted; letters signed
Matilda or Caroline, stating that Caroline or Matilda has seen the
public man's portrait at the Exhibition, and that a heart sensible to
its attractions may be found at No. -- Piccadilly; letters from beggars,
impostors, monomaniacs, speculators, jobbers--all food for the
waste-basket.

From the correspondence thus winnowed, Mr. Egerton first selected those
on business, which he put methodically together in one division of his
pocket-book; and, secondly, those of a private nature, which he as
carefully put into another. Of these last there were but three--one from
his steward, one from Harley L'Estrange, one from Randal Leslie. It was
his custom to answer his correspondence at his office; and to his
office, a few minutes afterward, he slowly took his way. Many a
passenger turned back to look again at the firm figure, which, despite
the hot summer day, was buttoned up to the throat; and the black
frock-coat thus worn, well became the erect air, and the deep full chest
of the handsome senator. When he entered Parliament-street, Audley
Egerton was joined by one of his colleagues, also on his way to the
cares of office.

After a few observations on the last debate, this gentleman said:

"By the way, can you dine with me next Saturday, to meet Lansmere? He
comes up to town to vote for us on Monday."

"I had asked some people to dine with me," answered Egerton, "but I will
put them off. I see Lord Lansmere too seldom, to miss any occasion to
meet a man whom I respect so much."

"So seldom! True, he is very little in town; but why don't you go and
see him in the country? Good shooting--pleasant old-fashioned house."

"My dear Westbourne, his house is '_nimium vicina Cremonae_,' close to a
borough in which I have been burned in effigy."

"Ha--ha--yes--I remember you first came into Parliament for that snug
little place; but Lansmere himself never found fault with your votes,
did he?"

"He behaved very handsomely, and said he had not presumed to consider me
his mouthpiece; and then, too, I am so intimate with L'Estrange."

"Is that queer fellow ever coming back to England?"

"He comes, generally every year, for a few days, just to see his father
and mother, and then goes back to the Continent."

"I never meet him."

"He comes in September or October, when you, of course, are not in town,
and it is in town that the Lansmeres meet him."

"Why does not he go to them?"

"A man in England but once a year, and for a few days, has so much to do
in London, I suppose."

"Is he as amusing as ever?"

Egerton nodded.

"So distinguished as he might be!" continued Lord Westbourne.

"So distinguished as he is!" said Egerton, formally; "an officer
selected for praise, even in such fields as Quatre Bras and Waterloo; a
scholar, too, of the finest taste; and as an accomplished gentleman,
matchless!"

"I like to hear one man praise another so warmly in these ill-natured
days," answered Lord Westbourne. "But, still, though L'Estrange is,
doubtless, all you say, don't you think he rather wastes his
life--living abroad?"

"And trying to be happy, Westbourne? Are you sure it is not we who waste
our lives? But I can't stay to hear your answer. Here we are at the door
of my prison."

"On Saturday, then?"

"On Saturday. Good-day."

For the next hour, or more, Mr. Egerton was engaged on the affairs of
the state. He then snatched an interval of leisure (while awaiting a
report, which he had instructed a clerk to make him), in order to reply
to his letters. Those on public business were soon dispatched; and
throwing his replies aside, to be sealed by a subordinate hand, he drew
out the letters which he had put apart as private.

He attended first to that of his steward: the steward's letter was long;
the reply was contained in three lines. Pitt himself was scarcely more
negligent of his private interests and concerns than Audley
Egerton--yet, withal, Audley Egerton was said, by his enemies, to be an
egotist.

The next letter he wrote was to Randal, and that, though longer, was far
from prolix: it ran thus:

"DEAR MR. LESLIE--I appreciate your delicacy in consulting me, whether
you should accept Frank Hazeldean's invitation to call at the Hall.
Since you are asked, I can see no objection to it. I should be sorry if
you appeared to force yourself there; and, for the rest, as a general
rule, I think a young man who has his own way to make in life, had
better avoid all intimacy with those of his own age, who have no kindred
objects, nor congenial pursuits.

"As soon as this visit is paid, I wish you to come to London. The report
I receive of your progress at Eton, renders it unnecessary, in my
judgment, that you should return there. If your father has no objection,
I propose that you should go to Oxford, at the ensuing term. Meanwhile,
I have engaged a gentleman, who is a fellow of Baliol, to read with you;
he is of opinion, judging only by your high repute at Eton, that you
may at once obtain a scholarship in that college. If you do so, I shall
look upon your career in life as assured.

    "Your affectionate friend, and
                 sincere well-wisher,
                               "A.E."

The reader will remark that, in this letter, there is a certain tone of
formality. Mr. Egerton does not call his _protege_ "Dear Randal," as
would seem natural, but coldly and stiffly, "Dear Mr. Leslie." He hints,
also, that the boy has his own way to make in life. Is this meant to
guard against too sanguine notions of inheritance, which his generosity
may have excited?

The letter to Lord L'Estrange was of a very different kind from the
others. It was long, and full of such little scraps of news and gossip
as may interest friends in a foreign land; it was written gayly, and as
with a wish to cheer his friend; you could see that it was a reply to a
melancholy letter; and in the whole tone and spirit there was an
affection, even to tenderness, of which those who most liked Audley
Egerton would have scarcely supposed him capable. Yet, notwithstanding,
there was a kind of constraint in the letter, which perhaps only the
fine tact of a woman would detect. It had not that _abandon_, that
hearty self-outpouring, which you might expect would characterize the
letters of two such friends, who had been boys at school together, and
which did breathe indeed in all the abrupt rambling sentences of his
correspondent. But where was the evidence of the constraint? Egerton is
off-hand enough where his pen runs glibly through paragraphs that relate
to others; it is simply that he says nothing about himself--that he
avoids all reference to the inner world of sentiment and feeling. But
perhaps, after all, the man has no sentiment and feeling! How can you
expect that a steady personage in practical life, whose mornings are
spent in Downing-street, and whose nights are consumed in watching
Government bills through a committee, can write in the same style as an
idle dreamer amidst the pines of Ravenna or on the banks of Como.

Audley had just finished this epistle, such as it was, when the
attendant in waiting announced the arrival of a deputation from a
provincial trading town, the members of which deputation he had
appointed to meet at two o'clock. There was no office in London at which
deputations were kept waiting less than at that over which Mr. Egerton
presided.

The deputation entered--some score or so of middle-aged,
comfortable-looking persons, who nevertheless had their grievance--and
considered their own interests, and those of the country, menaced by a
certain clause in a bill brought in by Mr. Egerton.

The Mayor of the town was the chief spokesman, and he spoke well--but in
a style to which the dignified official was not accustomed. It was a
slap-dash style--unceremonious, free, and easy--an American style. And,
indeed, there was something altogether in the appearance and bearing of
the Mayor which savored of residence in the Great Republic. He was a
very handsome man, but with a look sharp and domineering--the look of a
man who did not care a straw for president or monarch, and who enjoyed
the liberty to speak his mind, and "wallop his own <DW65>!"

His fellow-burghers evidently regarded him with great respect; and Mr.
Egerton had penetration enough to perceive that Mr. Mayor must be a rich
man, as well as an eloquent one, to have overcome those impressions of
soreness or jealousy which his tone was calculated to create in the
self-love of his equals.

Mr. Egerton was far too wise to be easily offended by mere manner; and,
though he stared somewhat haughtily when he found his observations
actually pooh-poohed, he was not above being convinced. There was much
sense and much justice in Mr. Mayor's arguments, and the statesman
civilly promised to take them into full consideration.

He then bowed out the deputation; but scarcely had the door closed
before it opened again, and Mr. Mayor presented himself alone, saying
aloud to his companions in the passage, "I forgot something I had to say
to Mr. Egerton; wait below for me."

"Well, Mr. Mayor," said Audley, pointing to a seat, "what else would you
suggest?"

The Mayor looked round to see that the door was closed; and then,
drawing his chair close to Mr. Egerton's, laid his forefinger on that
gentleman's arm, and said, "I think I speak to a man of the world, sir."

Mr. Egerton bowed, and made no reply by word, but he gently removed his
arm from the touch of the forefinger.

MR. MAYOR.--"You observe, sir, that I did not ask the members whom we
return to Parliament to accompany us. Do better without 'em. You know
they are both in Opposition--out-and-outers."

MR. EGERTON.--"It is a misfortune which the Government can not remember,
when the question is whether the trade of the town itself is to be
served or injured."

MR. MAYOR.--"Well, I guess you speak handsome, sir. But you'd be glad to
have two members to support Ministers after the next election."

MR. EGERTON, smiling.--"Unquestionably, Mr. Mayor."

MR. MAYOR.--"And I can do it, Mr. Egerton. I may say I have the town in
my pocket; so I ought, I spend a great deal of money in it. Now, you
see, Mr. Egerton, I have passed a part of my life in a land of
liberty--the United States--and I come to the point when I speak to a
man of the world. I'm a man of the world myself, sir. And if so be the
Government will do something for me, why, I'll do something for the
Government. Two votes for a free and independent town like ours--that's
something, isn't it?"

MR. EGERTON, taken by surprise.--"Really, I--"

MR. MAYOR, advancing his chair still nearer, and interrupting the
official.--"No nonsense, you see, on one side or the other. The fact is,
that I've taken it into my head that I should like to be knighted. You
may well look surprised, Mr. Egerton--trumpery thing enough, I dare say;
still, every man has his weakness, and I should like to be Sir Richard.
Well, if you can get me made Sir Richard, you may just name your two
members for the next election--that is, if they belong to your own set,
enlightened men, up to the times. That's speaking fair and manful, isn't
it?"

MR. EGERTON, drawing himself up.--"I am at a loss to guess why you
should select me, sir, for this very extraordinary proposition."

MR. MAYOR, nodding good-humoredly.--"Why, you see, I don't go all along
with the Government; you're the best of the bunch. And maybe you'd like
to strengthen your own party. This is quite between you and me, you
understand; honor's a jewel!"

MR. EGERTON, with great gravity.--"Sir, I am obliged by your good
opinion; but I agree with my colleagues in all the great questions that
affect the government of the country, and--"

MR. MAYOR, interrupting him.--"Ah, of course, you must say so; very
right. But I guess things would go differently if you were Prime
Minister. However, I have another reason for speaking to you about my
little job. You see you were member for Lansmere once, and I think you
came in but by two majority, eh?"

MR. EGERTON.--"I know nothing of the particulars of that election; I was
not present."

MR. MAYOR.--"No; but luckily for you, two relatives of mine were, and
they voted for you. Two votes, and you came in by two! Since then, you
have got into very snug quarters here, and I think we have a claim on
you--"

MR. EGERTON.--"Sir, I acknowledge no such claim; I was and am a stranger
to Lansmere; and, if the electors did me the honor to return me to
Parliament, it was in compliment rather to--"

MR. MAYOR, again interrupting the official.--"Rather to Lord Lansmere,
you were going to say; unconstitutional doctrine that, I fancy. Peer of
the realm. But, never mind, I know the world; and I'd ask Lord Lansmere
to do my affair for me, only I hear he is as proud, as Lucifer."

MR. EGERTON, in great disgust, and settling his papers before
him.--"Sir, it is not in my department to recommend to his Majesty
candidates for the honor of knighthood, and it is still less in my
department to make bargains for seats in Parliament."

MR. MAYOR.--"Oh, if that's the case, you'll excuse me; I don't know much
of the etiquette in these matters. But I thought that, if I put two
seats in your hands, for your own friends, you might contrive to take
the affair into your department, whatever it was. But, since you say you
agree with your colleagues, perhaps it comes to the same thing. Now, you
must not suppose I want to sell the town, and that I can change and chop
my politics for my own purpose. No such thing! I don't like the sitting
members; I'm all for progressing, but they go _too_ much ahead for me;
and, since the Government is disposed to move a little, why I'd as lief
support them as not. But, in common gratitude, you see (added the Mayor,
coaxingly), I ought to be knighted! I can keep up the dignity, and do
credit to his Majesty."

MR. EGERTON, without looking up from his papers.--"I can only refer you,
sir, to the proper quarter."

MR. MAYOR, impatiently.--"Proper quarter! Well, since there is so much
humbug in this old country of ours, that one must go through all the
forms and get at the job regularly, just tell me whom I ought to go to."

MR. EGERTON, beginning to be amused as well as indignant.--"If you want
a knighthood, Mr. Mayor, you must ask the Prime Minister; if you want to
give the Government information relative to seats in Parliament, you
must introduce yourself to Mr. ----, the Secretary of the Treasury."

MR. MAYOR.--"And if I go to the last chap, what do you think he'll say."

MR. EGERTON, the amusement preponderating over the indignation.--"He
will say, I suppose, that you must not put the thing in the light in
which you have put it to me; that the Government will be very proud to
have the confidence of yourself and your brother electors; and that a
gentleman like you, in the proud position of Mayor, may well hope to be
knighted on some fitting occasion. But that you must not talk about the
knighthood just at present, and must confine yourself to converting the
unfortunate political opinions of the town."

MR. MAYOR.--"Well, I guess that chap there would want to do me! Not
quite so green, Mr. Egerton. Perhaps I'd better go at once to the
fountain-head. How d'ye think the Premier would take it?"

MR. EGERTON, the indignation preponderating over the
amusement.--"Probably just as I am about to do."

Mr. Egerton rang the bell; the attendant appeared.

"Show Mr. Mayor the way out," said the Minister.

The Mayor turned round sharply, and his face was purple. He walked
straight to the door; but, suffering the attendant to precede him along
the corridor, he came back with a rapid stride, and clenching his hands,
and with a voice thick with passion, cried, "Some day or other I will
make you smart for this, as sure as my name's Dick Avenel!"

"Avenel!" repeated Egerton, recoiling--"Avenel!"

But the Mayor was gone.

Audley fell into a deep and musing reverie, which seemed gloomy, and
lasted till the attendant announced that the horses were at the door.

He then looked up, still abstractedly, and saw his letter to Harley
L'Estrange open on the table. He drew it toward him, and wrote, "A man
has just left me, who calls himself Aven--" in the middle of the name
his pen stopped. "No, no," muttered the writer, "what folly to re-open
the old wounds there," and he carefully erased the words.

Audley Egerton did not ride in the Park that day, as was his wont, but
dismissed his groom; and, turning his horse's head toward Westminster
Bridge, took his solitary way into the country. He rode at first slowly,
as if in thought; then fast, as if trying to escape from thought. He was
later than usual at the House that evening, and he looked pale and
fatigued. But he had to speak, and he spoke well.




ANECDOTE OF A DOG.


The Lyons diligence was just going to start from Geneva. I climbed on
the roof, and chose my place next the postillion: there was still a
vacant seat, and the porter, after closing the door of the _coupe_,
called "Monsieur Dermann!" A tall young man, with a German style of
countenance, advanced, holding in his arms a large black grayhound,
which he vainly tried to place on the roof.

"Monsieur," said he, addressing me, "will you have the kindness to take
my dog?"

Bending over, I took hold of the animal, and placed him on the straw at
my feet. I observed that he wore a handsome silver collar, on which the
following words were tastefully engraved: "_Bevis--I belong to Sir
Arthur Burnley, given him by Miss Clary_."

His owner was, therefore, an Englishman; yet my fellow-traveler, who had
now taken his place by my side, was evidently either a Swiss or a
German, and his name was Dermann. Trifling as was the mystery, it
excited my curiosity, and, after two or three hours' pleasant
conversation had established a sort of intimacy between us, I ventured
to ask my companion for an explanation.

"It does not surprise me," he answered, "that this collar should puzzle
you; and I shall have great pleasure in telling you the story of its
wearer. Bevis belongs to me, but it is not many years since he owned
another master whose name is on his collar. You will see why he still
wears it. Here Bevis! speak to this gentleman."

The dog raised his head, opened his bright eyes, and laying back his
long ears, uttered a sound which might well pass for a salutation.

M. Dermann placed the animal's head on his knees, and began to unfasten
the collar.

Instantly Bevis drew back his head with a violent jerk, and darted
toward the luggage on the hinder part of the roof. There, growling
fiercely, he lay down, while his muscles were stiffened, and his eyes
glowing with fury.

"You see, Monsieur, how determined he is to guard his collar; I should
not like to be the man who would try to rob him of it. Here, Bevis!"
said he, in a soft, caressing tone, "I won't touch it again, poor
fellow! Come and make friends!"

The grayhound hesitated, still growling. At length he returned slowly
toward his master, and began to lick his hands; his muscles gradually
relaxed, and he trembled like a leaf.

"There, boy, there," said M. Dermann, caressing him. "We won't do it
again, lie down now, and be quiet."

The dog nestled between his master's feet, and went to sleep. My
fellow-traveler then turning toward me, began:

"I am a native of Suabia, but I live in a little village of the
Sherland, at the foot of the Grimsel. My father keeps an inn for the
reception of travelers going to St. Gothard.

"About two years since, there arrived at our house one evening a young
Englishman, with a pale, sad countenance; he traveled on foot, and was
followed by a large grayhound, this Bevis, whom you see. He declined
taking any refreshment, and asked to be shown to his sleeping-room. We
gave him one over the common hall, where we were all seated round the
fire. Presently we heard him pacing rapidly up and down; from time to
time uttering broken words, addressed no doubt to his dog, for the
animal moaned occasionally as if replying to, and sympathizing with his
master. At length we heard the Englishman stop, and apparently strike
the dog a violent blow, for the poor beast gave a loud howl of agony,
and seemed as if he ran to take refuge under the bed. Then his master
groaned aloud. Soon afterward he lay down, and all was quiet for the
night. Early next morning he came down, looking still more pale than on
the previous evening, and having paid for his lodging, he took his
knapsack and resumed his journey, followed by the grayhound, who had
eaten nothing since their arrival, and whose master seemed to take no
further notice of him, than to frown when the creature ventured to
caress him.

"About noon, I happened to be standing at the door looking toward the
direction which the Englishman had taken when I perceived a dark object
moving slowly along. Presently I heard howls of distress, proceeding
from a wounded dog that was dragging himself toward me. I ran to him,
and recognized the Englishman's grayhound. His head was torn, evidently
by a bullet, and one of his paws broken. I raised him in my arms, and
carried him into the house. When I crossed the threshold he made evident
efforts to escape; so I placed him on the ground. Then, in spite of the
torture he was suffering, which caused him to stagger every moment, he
dragged himself up-stairs, and began to scratch at the door of the room
where his master had slept, moaning at the same time so piteously, that
I could scarce help weeping myself. I opened the door and with a great
effort he got into the room, looked about, and not finding whom he
sought he fell down motionless.

"I called my father, and, perceiving that the dog was not dead, we gave
him all possible assistance, taking indeed as much care of him as though
he had been a child, so much did we feel for him. In two months he was
cured, and showed us much affection; we found it, however, impossible to
take off his collar, even for the purpose of binding up his wounds. As
soon as he was able to walk, he would often go toward the mountain and
be absent for hours. The second time this occurred we followed him. He
proceeded as far as a part of the road where a narrow defile borders a
precipice; there he continued for a long time, smelling and scratching
about. We conjectured that the Englishman might have been attacked by
robbers on this spot, and his dog wounded in defending him. However, no
event of the kind had occurred in the country, and, after the strictest
search, no corpse was discovered. Recollecting, therefore, the manner in
which the traveler had treated his dog, I came to the conclusion that he
had tried to kill the faithful creature. But wherefore? This was a
mystery which I could not solve.

"Bevis remained with us, testifying the utmost gratitude for our
kindness. His intelligence and good-humor attracted the strangers who
frequented our inn, while the inscription on his collar, and the tale we
had to tell of him, failed not to excite their curiosity.

"One morning in autumn, I had been out to take a walk, accompanied by
Bevis. When I returned, I found seated by the fire, in the common-hall,
a newly-arrived traveler, who looked round as I entered. As soon as he
perceived Bevis, he started and called him. The dog immediately darted
toward him with frantic demonstrations of joy. He ran round him,
smelling his clothes and uttering the sort of salutation with which he
honored you just now, and finally placing his fore-paws on the
traveler's knees began to lick his face.

"'Where is your master, Bevis? Where is Sir Arthur?' said the stranger,
in English.

"The noble dog howled piteously, and lay down at the traveler's feet.
Then the latter begged us to explain his presence. I did so; and as he
listened, I saw a tear fall on the beautiful head of the grayhound, whom
he bent over to caress.

"'Monsieur,' said he, addressing me, 'from what you tell me, I venture
to hope that Sir Arthur still lives. We have been friends from
childhood. About three years since, he married a rich heiress, and this
dog was presented to him by her. Bevis was highly cherished for his
fidelity, a quality which unhappily was not possessed by his mistress.
She left her fond and loving husband, and eloped with another man. Sir
Arthur sued for a divorce and obtained it; then, having arranged his
affairs in England, he set out for the Continent, followed only by his
dog. His friends knew not whither he went; but it now appears that he
was here last spring. Doubtless, the presence of Bevis, evermore
recalling the memory of her who had so cruelly wronged him, must have
torn his heart, and at length impelled him to destroy the faithful
creature. But the shot not having been mortal, the dog, I imagine, when
he recovered consciousness, was led by instinct to seek the house where
his master had last slept. Now, Monsieur, he is yours, and I heartily
thank you for the kindness you have shown him.'

"About ten o'clock the stranger retired to his room, after having
caressed Bevis, who escorted him to his door, and then returned to his
accustomed place before the fire. My parents and the servants had
retired to rest, and I prepared to follow their example, my bed being
placed at one end of the common-hall. While I was undressing, I heard a
storm rising in the mountains. Just then there came a knocking at the
door, and Bevis began to growl. I asked who was there? A voice
replied--'Two travelers, who want a night's lodging.' I opened a small
chink of the door to look out, and perceived two ragged men, each
leaning on a large club. I did not like their look, and knowing that
several robberies had been committed in the neighborhood, I refused them
admission, telling them that in the next village they would readily find
shelter. They approached the door, as though they meant to force their
way in; but Bevis made his voice heard in so formidable a manner, that
they judged it prudent to retire. I bolted the door and went to bed.
Bevis, according to his custom, lay down near the threshold, but we
neither of us felt inclined to sleep.

"A quarter of an hour passed, when suddenly, above the wailing of the
wind, came the loud shrill cry of a human being in distress. Bevis
rushed against the door with a fearful howl; at the same moment came the
report of a gun, followed by another cry. Two minutes afterward I was on
the road, armed with a carbine, and holding a dark lantern; my father
and the stranger, also armed, accompanied me. As for Bevis, he had
darted out of the house, and disappeared.

"We approached the defile which I mentioned before, at the moment when a
flash of lightning illumined the scene. A hundred yards in advance, we
saw Bevis grasping a man by the throat. We hurried on, but the dog had
completed his work ere we reached him; for two men, whom I recognized as
those who had sought admittance at our inn, lay dead, strangled by his
powerful jaws. Farther on, we discovered another man, whose bloody
wounds the noble dog was licking. The stranger approached him, and gave
a convulsive cry: it was Sir Arthur, the master of Bevis!"

Here M. Dermann paused; the recollection seemed to overcome him; and he
stooped to caress the sleeping grayhound, in order to hide his emotion.
After awhile, he finished his recital in a few words.

"Sir Arthur was mortally wounded, but he lived long enough to recognize
his dog, and to confess that, in a moment of desperation, he had tried
to kill the faithful creature, who now avenged his death, by slaying the
robbers who attacked him. He appointed the stranger his executor, and
settled a large pension on Bevis, to revert to the family of the
inn-keeper, wishing thus to testify his repentant love toward his dog,
and his gratitude to those who had succored him.

"The grief of Bevis was excessive; he watched by his master's couch,
covering his dead body with caresses, and for a long time lay stretched
on his grave, refusing to take nourishment; and it was not until after
the lapse of many months that the affection of his new master seemed to
console him for the death of Sir Arthur."

As my fellow-traveler finished his recital, the diligence stopped to
change horses at the little town of Mantua. Here M. Dermann's journey
ended, and having taken down his luggage, he asked me to assist the
descent of his dog. I shook hands with him cordially, and then called
Bevis, who, seeing me on such good terms with his master, placed his
large paws on my breast, and uttered a low, friendly bark. Shortly
afterward they both disappeared from my sight, but not from my memory,
as this little narrative has proved to my readers.




THE DOMESTIC LIFE OF ALEXANDER, EMPEROR OF RUSSIA.

BY ALEXANDRE DUMAS, TRANSLATED BY MISS STRICKLAND.


The tragedy of which Paul I. was the victim, called Alexander to the
throne of all the Russias in the twenty-fourth year of his age. He had
been carefully educated under the eye of his grandmother, the able
Catharine. Her choice of a preceptor in La Harpe, a Swiss republican,
who had fraternized with the revolutionists of France, was a problem the
sovereigns of Europe could not solve; but after all, republicanism can
not be very far removed from despotism, if we may judge from its
consequences, since history shows us that republics end in despotic
sovereignties. Catharine was doubtless aware of this fact when she gave
La Harpe the direction of her grandson's education. It was prudent to
avoid Russian ascendency in a matter so important to herself, for
Catharine was a foreigner and a usurper, a fact of which a native
instructor might have availed himself to her disadvantage. In educating
her grandsons, the great empress excluded the fine arts. She wished to
make them rulers, not professors of music and painting; and she was
right; La Harpe inspired, it is said, his imperial pupil with lessons of
generosity and truth it was no easy task to eradicate during his
eventful life. The policy of Catharine made her determine to give wives
to her grandsons as soon as they were marriageable. Her jealousy, or her
profound judgment, made her overlook Paul in the succession of Russia,
by a mental but not a public exclusion. Alexander was destined by her to
the throne of which she had robbed his father Constantine, she proudly
hoped to place on one she designed to win from the Sultan, an ambitious
desire which was never realized.

Three German princesses came to the court of St. Petersburg, in order
that Catharine might make choice of suitable brides for her grandsons.
The empress thoughtfully expected the arrival of her guests, whose
approach she watched from a window of her palace.

The empress, whose motions were dignified and graceful, attached great
importance to deportment; she formed her opinions of young people by
that standard. The destinies of these princesses were decided the
instant they alighted from their traveling carriage. The first leaped
down without availing herself of the step. The empress shook her head,
"She will never be empress of Russia, she is too precipitate," was her
internal remark. The second entangled her feet in her dress, and with
difficulty escaped a fall. "She is not the empress, for she is too
awkward," and Catharine again turned her eyes on the carriage with
anxious curiosity. The third princess descended very gracefully; she was
beautiful, majestic, and grave. "Behold the future Empress of Russia,"
said Catharine. This princess was Louisa of Baden.

Catharine introduced these ladies to her grandsons, as the children of
the Duchess of Baden-Durlack, born Princess of Darmstadt, her early
friend, whose education she wished to finish at her court, since the
possession of their country by the French had left them without a home.
The great dukes saw through this artifice, and upon their return to
their own palace talked much of Catharine's _eleves_.

"I think the eldest very pretty," said Alexander.

"For my part," rejoined Constantine, "I consider them neither pretty nor
plain. They ought to be sent to Riga to the princes of Courland; they
are really quite good enough for them."

The Empress Catharine was informed, that very day, of the opinion of her
grandsons. The admiration of Alexander for Louisa of Baden sympathized
with her intentions. The Grand Duke Constantine had done the personal
attractions of this young princess great injustice, for Louisa of Baden,
besides the freshness of her youth, had lovely fair ringlets, hanging in
rich profusion on her magnificent shoulders, a form light and flexible
as that of a fairy, and large blue eyes full of sweetness and
sensibility. The following day, the empress brought the princesses to
the palace of Prince Potemkin, which she had appointed for their
residence. While they were at their toilet, she sent them dresses,
jewels, and the cordon of St. Catharine. After chatting with them upon
the topics she considered suitable to their age, she asked to see their
wardrobe, which she examined, article by article, with interest and
curiosity. Having finished her scrutiny, she kissed the princesses, and
remarked, with an emphatic smile,

"My friends, I was not so rich as you when I came to St. Petersburg." In
fact, Catharine was very poor when she arrived in Russia, but she left
her adopted country a heritage in Poland and the Crimea.

The predilection of Alexander for Louisa of Baden was responded to by
that lovely princess. The grand duke at that time was a charming young
man, full of benevolence and candor, with the best temper in the world,
and the young German did not attempt to disguise her tenderness for him.
Catharine, in announcing to them that they were destined for each other,
believed she was rendering them perfectly happy.

The behavior of the bride was admirably adapted to the circumstances in
which she was placed. She acquired the Russian language with grace and
facility, and accepted a new name with the tenets of the Greek religion.
She received those of Elizabeth Alexiowena, the same borne by the
imperial daughter of Peter the Great.

Notwithstanding the fortunate presages of the Empress Catharine, this
early marriage was not one of happiness. The inconstancy of Alexander,
indeed, withered the nuptial garland while yet green on the brow of the
bride, and made it for her a crown of thorns.

The tragedy that elevated Alexander to the throne, restored to the
devoted wife the wandering affections of her husband. His profound grief
made her sympathy necessary to him, and the young empress, almost a
stranger to Paul, wept for him like a true daughter. The secret tears of
Alexander were shed at night on the bosom of his consort, whose tender
concern for him consoled him for the restraint he imposed upon his
feelings during the day.

The regretful remembrance of Alexander for his father, outlasted the
reviving affection he had during that dolorous period felt for his wife.

The empress, still a young woman, was an old spouse, and the emperor had
inherited the passionate and inconstant temperament of Catharine. But,
gracious and smiling as he always was with the ladies, or polite and
friendly to the gentlemen, there crossed his brow from time to time a
gloomy shadow, the mute but terrible memorial of that dreadful night,
when he heard the death struggle of his father, and was conscious of his
agony without the power to save him. His perpetual smile was the mask
beneath which he disguised the anguish of his mind, and as he advanced
in life, this profound melancholy threatened to deepen into malady. He
did not yield, however, without maintaining a warfare with his remorse.
He combated memory with action. His reforms, his long and laborious
journeys, had but one aim. In the course of his reign, he is supposed to
have traversed fifty thousand leagues. But, however rapidly he performed
these journeys, he never deviated from the time he fixed for his setting
off or return, even by an hour, and he undertook them without guards and
without an escort. He, of course, met with many strange adventures, and
was amused with rendering his personal assistance whenever he met with
accidents or encountered difficulties by the wayside. In his journey to
Finland in company with Prince Pierre Volkouski, the imperial carriage
in traversing a sandy mountain rolled back, notwithstanding the efforts
of the coachman, upon which the emperor jumped out, and literally lent
his shoulder to the wheel, leaving his companion asleep.

The rough motion of the carriage disturbed the slumbers of the prince,
who found himself at the bottom of the carriage and alone. He looked
about him with astonishment, when he perceived the emperor, with his
brow bedewed with perspiration, from the effects of his toil in
assisting to drag him and the vehicle to the top of the mountain, the
precise point at which he had awakened from his sleep.

At another time, while traversing Little Russia, while the horses were
changing at a certain station, the emperor expressed his determination
to travel on foot for a few miles, ordering his people not to hasten
their arrangements, but to let him walk forward. Alone, with no mark of
distinction, dressed in a military great-coat, that gave no clew to the
rank of the wearer, the emperor traversed the town without attracting
attention, till he arrived at two roads, and found himself obliged to
inquire his way of an individual who was sitting before the door of the
last house smoking a pipe. This personage, like the emperor wore a
military great-coat, and by his pompous air seemed to entertain no small
opinion of his own consequence.

"My friend, can you tell me which of these roads will bring me to ----?"
asked the emperor.

The man of the pipe scanned him from head to foot, apparently surprised
at the presumption of a pedestrian, in speaking to such a dignitary as
himself, and between two puffs of smoke he growled out very disdainfully
the ungracious reply, "The right."

"Thank you, sir," said the emperor, raising his hat with the respect
this uncivil personage seemed by his manner to command. "Will you permit
me to ask you another question?"

"What do you want to know?"

"Your rank in the army, if you please."

"Guess," returned he of the pipe.

"Lieutenant, perhaps?"

"Go higher."

"Captain?" rejoined the emperor.

"Much higher;" and the smoker gave a consequential puff.

"Major, I presume?"

"Go on," replied the officer.

"Lieutenant-colonel?"

"Yes, you have guessed it at last, but you have taken some trouble to
discover my rank."

The low bow of the emperor made the man with the pipe conclude he was
speaking to an inferior, so, without much ceremony, he said, "Pray, who
are you? for I conclude you are in the army."

"Guess," replied the emperor, much amused with the adventure.

"Lieutenant?"

"Go on."

"Captain?"

"Much higher."

"Major?"

"You must still go on."

"Lieutenant-colonel?"

"You have not yet arrived at my rank in the army."

The officer took his pipe out of his mouth. "Colonel, I presume."

"You have not yet reached my grade."

The officer assumed a more respectful attitude. "Your Excellency is then
Lieutenant-general?"

"You are getting nearer the mark."

The puzzled lieutenant-colonel kept his helmet in his hand, and looked
stupid and alarmed.

"Then it appears to me that your Highness is Field-Marshal?"

"Make another attempt, and perhaps you will discover my real position."

"His Imperial Majesty!" exclaimed the officer, trembling with
apprehension, and dropping the pipe upon the ground, which was broken
into twenty pieces.

"The same, at your service," replied the emperor, laughing.

The poor lieutenant-colonel dropped upon his knees, uttering the words
in a pitiful tone, "Ah! sire, pardon me."

"What pardon do you require?" replied the emperor. "I asked my way of
you, and you pointed it out, and I thank you for that service.--Good
day."

The good-tempered prince then took the road to the right, leaving the
surly lieutenant-colonel ashamed and astonished at the colloquy he had
held with his sovereign.

He gave a proof of intrepidity and presence of mind during a tempest
which befell him on a lake near Archangel, when, perceiving the pilot
overwhelmed with the responsibility his imperial rank laid upon him, he
said, "My friend, more than eighteen hundred years have elapsed, since a
Roman general, placed in similar circumstances, said to his pilot, 'Fear
not, for thou hast with thee Caesar and his fortunes.' I am, however,
less bold than Caesar; I therefore charge thee to think no more of the
emperor than of thyself or any other man, and do thy best to save us
both." The pilot took courage, and relieved from his burden by the
wisdom of his sovereign, guided the helm with a firm hand, and brought
the tempest-tossed skiff safely to the shore.

The Emperor Alexander was not always so fortunate. He met with several
dangerous accidents, and his last journey to the provinces of the Don
nearly cost him his life. A fall from his droski hurt his leg, and left
him incurably lame. This misfortune was aggravated by his disregarding
the advice of his medical attendant, who prescribed rest for some days;
but Alexander, who was a strict disciplinarian, did not choose to delay
his return to St. Petersburg an hour beyond the time he had fixed.
Erysipelas attacked the limb, and the emperor was confined to his bed
for many weeks, and never recovered his lameness. The sight of his wife,
pale and melancholy, whom his infidelity had injured, increased his
mental despondency. That princess watched over him with the conjugal
tenderness which no neglect could extinguish, but her fair face had
forever lost the smile which once lighted up, like a sunbeam, every
beautiful feature, and he felt himself the cause of that secret sorrow
which had banished the bloom from her cheek and the smile from her lips.
Elizabeth had borne him two daughters, but her children had not survived
their fifth and seventh years. A childless mother and forsaken wife,
Elizabeth the Empress resembled no longer the bright Louisa of Baden,
the object of Alexander's first love, the princess who had shed tears of
happiness when the joyful start and impassioned look of her lover had
assured the Empress Catharine how willingly he accepted the hand of the
princess she had destined for him. The heart of the wife had never
swerved from her devotion; her love had increased with time, but she
knew not how to share his affections with a rival.

Alexander was solitary in his habits; repose was necessary to a man who
loved privacy, and hated those prestiges of power which had surrounded
him from infancy. He had inherited his imperial grandmother's love for
Tzarsko Zelo, a palace situated between three and four leagues from St.
Petersburg. This palace stood upon the site of a cottage formerly
belonging to an old Dutch-woman named Sarah, a person well known to
Peter the Great, with whom that mighty prince was accustomed to chat and
drink milk.

The fruitful plains covered with grass and waving corn, lately redeemed
by the plow from their native sterility, pleased the legislator who was
an _habitue_ at the abode of Sarah, and at the death of the old woman,
he presented the cottage to the Empress Catharine, with the surrounding
lands, as a suitable situation for a farm-house. Catharine, as simple in
her tastes as her imperial consort, gave her architect proper directions
respecting this grange. He, however, thought fit to build her a fine
mansion. Her daughter, the Empress Elizabeth, found this house too
costly for a farm-house, and too mean for an imperial residence. She
pulled it down and built a magnificent palace after the design of Count
Rastreti. This Russian had the barbarous taste to gild the building
within and without. The bas-reliefs, statues, caryatides, roof and
basement, glittered with a waste of this precious metal. The count
wished to make this palace surpass Versailles, and so it did in wealth
undoubtedly. The Empress Elizabeth invited the French embassador to the
fete she gave at the inauguration of her golden house, which outshone
even the celebrated one built by Nero. The palace of Tzarsko Zelo, was
considered by the whole court the eighth wonder of the world.

The silence of the Marquis de Chetardie surprised her majesty, who with
some pique requested his opinion, adding, he appeared to think something
was wanting.

"I am seeking for the case of this jewel, Madam," dryly replied the
embassador; a _bon mot_ which ought to have gained him a sitting in the
academy of St. Petersburg, where wit was a surer passport than learning.

The golden roof of Tzarsko Zelo was ill-calculated to stand the rigor of
a Russian winter. The noble architect had built it for summer. Cold had
been forgotten in his calculation. The expensive repairs every spring
brought in its course, compelled Catharine the Great to sacrifice the
gilding. She had scarcely issued her orders, before a customer appeared
for the article she was excluding from her palace, for which a
speculator offered her an immense sum. The empress thanked him for a
liberal offer none but a Russian sovereign would have declined, assuring
him with a smile, "that she never sold her old chattels."

This empress loved Tzarsko Zelo where she built the little palace for
her grandson Alexander, and surrounded it with spacious gardens, which
she was aware he loved. Bush, her architect, could discover no supply
from whence he could obtain water in the immediate neighborhood, yet he
prepared lakes, canals and fish-ponds, upon the responsibility of the
empress, being sure that his reservoirs would not long be empty if she
ordered water to come. His successor Baner did not leave the empress to
discover its source. He cast his eyes upon the estate of Prince
Demidoff, who possessed a super-abundant quantity of the precious fluid
the imperial gardens wanted. He mentioned the aridity of Tzarsko Zelo,
and the courteous subject dutifully bestowed his superfluous moisture
upon the imperial gardens. In despite of nature, copious streams rushed
forward, and at the bidding of the architect rose into cascades, ran
into canals, filled fish-ponds, and spread in expansive lakes. The
Empress Consort Elizabeth, upon beholding these wonders, playfully
remarked, "We may fall out with all Europe, but we must take care not to
quarrel with Prince Demidoff." In fact, that obliging noble could have
killed the whole court with thirst, by stopping the supply of water he
allowed to the imperial family.

Educated at Tzarsko Zelo, Alexander was attached to a place filled with
the recollections of his infancy. He had learned there to walk; to
speak, to ride, to sail, to row. He had passed there the brightest and
happiest part of his life. He came with the first fine days, and only
left his favorite residence when the snows of winter compelled him to
take up his abode in the winter palace.

Even in this luxurious solitude, where the emperor wished to enjoy the
repose which affords to princes the same pleasure amusement offers to
persons of less exalted rank, Alexander found his privacy invaded and
his attention claimed by those who had the temerity to break through the
invisible circle with which Russian etiquette fenced round a despotic
sovereign.

A foreigner at St. Petersburg, in the summer of 1823, ventured to seek
the Emperor Alexander in the delicious gardens of Tzarsko Zelo, in order
to present a petition, with which delicate commission he had been
charged by a friend. He thus relates his adventure:

"After a bad breakfast at the Hotel de la Restauration, I entered the
park, into which the sentinels permitted every body to walk without
opposition. Respect alone prevented the Russian subject from entering
the gardens, I knew, yet I was about to break this boundary and to
intrude myself upon the emperor's notice. I was told he passed a great
deal of his time in the shady walks, and I hoped chance would obtain for
me the interview I sought. Wandering about the grounds, I discovered the
Chinese town, a pretty group of five houses, each of which had its own
ice-house and garden. In the centre of this town, which is in the form
of a star, whose rays it terminates, stands a pavillion, which is used
either for a ball or concert-room, which surrounds a green court, at the
four corners of which are placed four mandarins, the size of life,
smoking their pipes. This Chinese town is inhabited by the
_aid-de-camps_ of the sovereign. Catharine, attended by her court, was
walking in this part of her garden, when she beheld, to her surprise,
the mandarins puffing forth real smoke, while their eyes appeared to
ogle her, and their heads to bow in the most familiar manner in the
world. She approached in order to find out the cause of this sudden
animation on the part of these statues. Immediately the loyal mandarins
descended from their pedestals, and made Chinese prostrations at her
feet, reciting some complimentary verses to the imperial lady, to please
whom they had transformed themselves into the images of the men with
pig-tails. She smiled, and quickly recognized them for the Prince de
Ligne, Potemkin, Count Segur, and M. de Cobentzal.

"Leaving the Chinese town, I saw the huts of the lamas, where these
inhabitants of the south are kept and acclimated to a temperature very
different from that at the foot of the Cordilleras. These animals were
presented to the emperor by the Viceroy of Mexico, and their original
number of nine has been reduced, by the rigor of the Russian winters, to
five; from which, however, a numerous race have succeeded, who bear the
cold much better than the parent stock.

"In the middle of the French garden stands a pretty dining-room,
containing the celebrated table of Olympus, imitated from a whim devised
by the Regent Orleans; where the wishes of the guests are supplied by
invisible hands from beneath. They have only to place a note in their
plate expressive of their desire, when the plate disappears, and in five
minutes after reappears with the article required. This magic originates
in a forecast which anticipates every possible want. A beautiful lady
finding her hair out of dress, wished for curling-irons, feeling assured
that such an odd request would defy even the enchantment of the Olympian
table to procure. She was astonished at finding her plate return with a
dozen pair. I saw the curious monument raised to commemorate three
favorite greyhounds, pets of the Empress Catharine. This pyramid,
erected by the French ambassador, Count Segur, contains two epitaphs:
one, by himself, is a sort of burlesque upon the old eulogistic style so
prevalent in the last century; the other is by Catharine, and may be
literally translated into English:--

    "'Here lies the Duchess Anderson,
    Who bit Mr. Rogerson.'

"I visited successively the column of Gregory Orloff, the pyramid
erected in honor of the conqueror of Tchesma, and the grotto of
Pausilippo, and passed four hours wandering along the borders of lakes,
and traversing the plains and forests inclosed in these delicious
gardens, when I met an officer in uniform, who courteously raised his
hat. I asked a lad employed in taking a walk 'the name of this fine
gentleman,' for such he appeared to me to be. 'It is the emperor,' was
his reply. I immediately took a path which intersected that he had
taken, yet, when I had advanced about twenty steps, I stopped upon
perceiving him near me.

"He divined, apparently, that respect to his person prevented me from
crossing his walk; he therefore kept on his way, while I awaited him in
the side walk, holding my hat in my hand. I perceived he limped in his
gait from the wound in his leg, which had lately re-opened; and I
remarked as he advanced the change that had taken place in his
appearance since I had seen him at Paris, nine years before. His
countenance, then so open and smiling, bore the expression of that deep
and devouring melancholy which it was said continually oppressed his
mind, yet his sorrowful features still were impressed with a character
of benevolence, which gave me courage to attempt the performance of my
hazardous commission. 'Sire,' said I, advancing a single step toward
him.

"'Put on your hat, sir,' was his kind and gracious reply; 'the air is
too keen for you to remain uncovered.'

"'Will your majesty permit--'

"'Cover your head, sir, then; cover your head;' but, perceiving my
respect rendered me disobedient to his commands, he took my hat from my
hand, and with his own imperial one replaced it on my head. 'Now,' said
he, 'what do you wish to say to me?'

"'Sire, this petition,' and I took the paper from my pocket, but the
action disturbed him, and I saw him frown.

"'Sir, why do you pursue me here with petitions? do you know that I have
left St. Petersburg to be free from such annoyances?'

"'Yes, sire, I am aware of it, nor dare I disguise the boldness of an
attempt for which I can only expect pardon from your benevolence. This,
however, seems to have some claim to your majesty's consideration, since
it is franked.'

"'By whom?' inquired the emperor, with some quickness in his manner.

"'By his Imperial Highness the Grand Duke Constantine, your majesty's
august brother.'

"'Ah!' exclaimed the emperor, putting out his hand, but as quickly
withdrawing it again.

"'I hope your majesty will for once infringe your custom, and will deign
to accept this supplication.'

"'No, sir; I will not receive it; for to-morrow, I shall have a
thousand, and shall be compelled to desert these gardens, where it seems
I can no longer hope to enjoy privacy.' He perceived my disappointment
in my countenance, and his natural kindness would not suffer him to
dismiss me with a harsh refusal. Pointing with hand toward the church of
St. Sophia, he said--'Put that petition into the post-office in the
city, and I shall see it to-morrow, and the day after, you will have an
answer.'

"I expressed my gratitude in animated terms.

"'Prove it,' was his quick reply.

"I declared my willingness to do any thing he required, as the test of
that feeling.

"'Well, tell nobody that you have presented me a petition and got off
with impunity,' and he resumed his walk.

"I followed his advice, and posted my paper, and three days after
received a favorable reply to my petition."




[From Eliza Cook's Journal.]

AN EMPTY HOUSE; OR, STRUGGLES OF THE POOR.


Who has not seen at some time an empty house which has struck them as
the picture of desolation? They may know a hundred uninhabited
tenements, but they look as well kept and prosperous, as though they
would soon be filled again. They do not impress the senses in the same
way as that peculiar one, which appears to be condemned, like some
outcast, to perpetual seclusion in the midst of happy neighbors, who
mock, and flout, and taunt it with their bright windows and clean steps,
and fresh paint and shining door knobs and knockers, just as Mr.
Well-to-do, who is making money, and dresses well, and lodges
luxuriously and feeds plentifully, may treat with scorn poor
Do-nothing, who, unable to find employment of any sort, wears a patched
threadbare coat, dwells in a leaky garret, and does not know where on
earth to look for to-morrow's dinner. Indeed there is something more in
this comparison than appears at first sight, for the world of the
streets is apt to treat the empty house much as it does the
poverty-stricken man. The ragged lads who play about the avenues of
streets, and bask about the sunshiny nooks, draw back and cease their
jokes and are decorous in the presence of Mr. Trim or Mr. Broadcloth,
but they have a sarcasm or a coarse epithet for poor Patch, and for
poorer Tatter possibly a sly pebble or a dab of mud.

Some years ago there was an empty house opposite to mine, which brought
such thoughts as these to my mind. There was a dirty bill in one of the
windows, and the remains of another upon one of the window shutters,
with directions where to inquire as to rent, &c., but nobody seemed to
dream of any body taking it. The neighborhood was a respectable one, and
in striking contrast with this one unfortunate tenement, and happy faces
at the windows of its neighbors seemed to make them crow over it, as
Mrs. Fruitful with her half-dozen of handsome children triumphs over
Mrs. Childless, who would give her ears to call the half of her friend's
little flock her own. Not that my empty house was utterly lonely either,
for its door-step was, in fine weather, the chosen resort of a group of
little specimens of humanity in dirt and rags, who from the seclusion of
some neighboring alley brought them chalk, and pieces of tiles and
slate, with which they scratched uncouth figures upon the doors and
shutters as high up as they could reach; and with mud from the gutter
they made their dirt pies, and left the remnants to accumulate upon the
dingy sill. There was a plentiful supply of stones, too, in the
macadamized road, and a large family of boys, unable to resist the
tempting opportunity for mischievous "shies," paid rough attentions to
the empty house with the flints, till the sunshine which had long been
denied admittance, through the dusty and begrimed panes, found its way
unimpeded through empty and dismantled sashes. Possibly, too, in
consequence of this, the very sparrows, usually so bold, which used to
build under the eaves and twitter upon the window sills and house-top,
forsook the ill-fated building and left it to its destiny.

I do not know what it was, but there was something which powerfully
attracted my attention to the place, and I often sat at my window and
mused upon it. Sometimes I thought it was in Chancery, for it had just
the look of a house which the lawyers had thoroughly riddled; and
sometimes I thought it had the reputation of being haunted, for somehow
or other people always give ghosts credit for the very worst taste, and
seem to think them incapable of choosing any but the most uncomfortable
habitations.

Passers-by would often stop to look at the house, and not unfrequently
some of them would look over it; and then the owner or his agent would
come with them, bringing the rusty key which turned with difficulty in
the lock, and setting free the creaking door, which moved so lazily upon
its hinges. This person was such a human likeness to the house, that I
sometimes wondered he did not, out of pure sympathy, come and live there
himself. He was a little battered-looking old man, whose rusty dirty
suit of black just matched the doors and shutters, and I could almost
fancy that his very spectacles, like the windows, were cracked and
broken by boys throwing stones at him.

These inquiries, however, always resulted in nothing, except the great
discomfiture of the children, who held dominion over the door-step, and
who were always summarily routed and driven off by peevish exclamations
and feeble cuffs from the rusty little old man. I suppose most of those
who came were merely actuated by curiosity. I was more than once tempted
by the same motive to go and look at the inside myself, and those who
really had serious designs of settling there were frightened out of them
by the combined dismalness of the place, and the warder who had charge
of it. At last, there really was some sign of the empty house being let.
I noticed one evening that a respectable, quiet-looking young couple,
with an old lady in widow's weeds, whom I immediately decided was the
widowed mother of either husband or wife (for of course they were
husband and wife) went to look at the empty house, attended by the
little old man; and from the fact, that after looking at the premises
for a longer time than visitors usually did, the party came out, and,
contrary to custom, all four walked away together, I was led to suppose
that I might have opposite neighbors.

The next morning, before I left home for business, I saw at once that I
was right as to the house having been taken. The little old man,
notwithstanding he looked so rusty, must have been a diligent, as well
as a quaint, old-fashioned fellow, for there were ladders and steps, and
painters, plumbers, bricklayers, and laborers all at work upon the
house. Some were upon the top replacing cracked tiles, others were
making the windows weather-proof, and others again were intent upon
counteracting the ravages of chalk, sharp slates, and dirt upon the
paint of the doors and window shutters. The group of children came as
usual, but they did not venture to attempt to take up their old station;
the apparition of the old man scared them from that, and perhaps they
were altogether too much struck with astonishment at the altered
character of the scene to attempt it. But they were very unwilling to
give up their old sovereignty and abandon the spot. They lingered
doubtfully for some days about the place, sometimes looking at the tall
ladders and the workmen, and sometimes sitting upon the heaps of broken
tiles and brickbats, watching the Irish hodman stirring the mortar
about, with much the same feelings, perhaps, as a red Indian lingers
about the white man's clearing, formerly the hunting-ground of his
fathers. Possibly the youngsters thought that all the men and ladders
might be cleared away, and that they would succeed to the again vacant
door-step, with the added advantages of a newly-painted door to scratch
upon, and these hallucinations were not thoroughly dispelled for about a
week, when they saw a charwoman scouring the passage and front steps.
That sufficed to wither all their hopes; repairs they could have
survived, for they remembered something of the sort once in their own
alley, but scrubbing and washing were entirely unmistakable, they
understood at once that somebody was "coming in," and dispersed to seek
another place of resort.

It may be supposed that the diligence of the little old man, who never
left the laborers all day, soon had the little house fit for the
reception of its new inmates, in spite of occasional damages in the
glass department, till the boys became reconciled to its new smartness.
He was there the first thing in the morning, sitting on a three-legged
stool which I believe he brought with him, and he went to the public
house with the men when they had their meals, so that they should not
stay too long. Under such vigilant superintendence, the last ladder and
pair of steps were taken away in about a week, and the inmates--the two
young folks, and the old widow lady I have already mentioned, and their
household goods made their appearance. The furniture showed at a glance
that both the past and the present had contributed their quotas to the
household, for there were the old-fashioned, large-seated, heavy
high-backed chairs of half-a-century since, with a heavy, square table,
and a quaint, antique cabinet, matching well with the aged widowed
mother; while the light caned seats and other modern requisites,
represented the young people just entering upon life. I knew at once
what afterward I found to be the case, that by probably a hasty marriage
two households had been mingled into one.

I was always a solitary, secluded man, given to make observations and to
pick up information about those who interested me, but not to cultivate
acquaintances, and so it was from what I saw from my windows and from
hearsay, that I picked up what I knew of the new comers. Slight as this
source of information may seem to be, it is wonderful what a deal of
knowledge of a certain kind is obtained in this manner; indeed, if any
one were to examine the sources of his own knowledge, he would find that
if not the largest, a very large proportion had been picked up from the
chit-chat of society.

I was peculiarly favorably situated for acquiring knowledge in this way,
for my landlady, a chatty, good-tempered widow, knew the private history
of most of her neighbors, and was extremely well versed in the gossip
and scandal of the place; and her extensive knowledge, added to the
equally diversified lore of the fat old half-laundress, half-charwoman,
who had lived all her life in the vicinity (and was the very person who
had scared the before-mentioned urchins by scouring the once empty
house), and the tit-bits of sayings and doings, communicated by the
baker, butcher, green-grocer, and milkman, furnished a stock of history
which, reinforced by my own habits of observation, fully qualified me
for giving the little narrative which follows; and which I am tempted to
give to the world not so much for its intrinsic interest, or because it
contains any record of great deeds, but because it shows industry and
perseverance triumphing over the obstacles of the world, and bearing the
burdens of misplaced benevolence.

To begin then our tale in earnest. The head of the house opposite was
Thomas Winthorpe, who acted as book-keeper to a large outfitting house
in the city. He was a rather taciturn, grave young man, and bore these
characteristics upon his face, but he was fond of knowledge, and had
acquired no small portion for a man in his position. Well-principled,
and untiringly energetic, and industrious, he had risen from a low
station more from the passive habit of steady good conduct, than the
active exercise of any brilliant qualities, and he felt a pride in the
fact; never hesitating, though he did not parade it, to utter the truth
that he was first hired to sweep the offices, light the fires, and do
other menial jobs. There was a striking similarity between him and his
little wife, Kate Winthorpe (who had just changed her name from
Stevens), which you saw in their faces, for Kate was grave, and
habitually rather silent too. But her gravity had a shade more of
pensiveness in it than Thomas's, which might have told the keen observer
that it had not the same origin.

Such indeed was the fact, for what difficulty and early poverty had done
for Thomas, youthful plenty and after troubles had done for Kate though
the bright smiles which I could now and then see chasing the shadows
over Kate's comely but not pretty face, as she bade her husband good-by
in the morning or welcomed him home at night, told that happiness was
bringing back much of her original character.

The old lady, Mrs. Stevens, Kate's mother, was a good sort of old lady,
so far as I could learn, with a respectful tenderness for Thomas, and a
fond affection for Kate, who had been the prop of her age and the solace
of her troubles; but without any thing remarkable in her character
beyond a meek resignation, which well supplied the place of a higher
philosophy, and led her cheerfully to accept the present and be content
with the past.

So far as I could glean, Mrs. Stevens was the widow of a once affluent
yeoman in one of the western counties, who lived in the "good old
English style," liked his dogs, and gun, and horses, was not averse to
a run with the hounds--had a partiality for parish and club dinners, and
was fond of plenty of company at home. This sort of life might have done
tolerably well in the palmy times of farming, when with war prices, corn
was, as Hood has it, "at the Lord knows what per quarter;" but when
lower prices came with peace, and more industry and less expenditure was
required, poor Stevens was one of the first to feel the altered times,
and as he could not give up his old habits, difficulties began to press
upon and thicken around him. After a few years, creditors became
clamorous, and the landlord urgent for the payment of rent in arrear,
and the result was that he was compelled to give up his farm and sell
his stock, to save himself from a prison. This left him a small remnant
upon which, if he had been a prudent, self-denying man, he might have
begun the world afresh, but he took his downfall so much to heart, that
in a few months he died of his old enemy, the gout.

Mrs. Stevens was thus left a widow with two children, Kate, a young girl
of fifteen or sixteen, and Charles, a fine young man of three or four
and twenty, who held a small farm in that neighborhood, and had hitherto
depended more upon his father's purse than his own industry. Little as
Mrs. Stevens knew of the world, she felt that it would not do to depend
upon Charles, who was one of those jolly, good-tempered, careless
fellows every body knows--men who go on tolerably well so long as all is
smooth, but wanting providence and foresight, are pretty sure to founder
upon the first dangerous rock ahead. To do Charles justice, however, he
would willingly have shared his home with his mother and sister, and for
a long time managed to remit enough to them to pay their rent.

When the first grief of widowhood was over, Mrs. Stevens and her
daughter, without any very definite plan, but drawn by that strange
attraction that impels alike the helpless, the inexperienced, and the
ambitious to the great centres of population, came up to London with the
small sum of money which, after every debt had been scrupulously
discharged, was left to her. Beyond that resource she had none, save the
address of a first cousin who, report said, had grown very rich in
trade, and to whom she hoped she might look for aid and advice. In this,
however, she was speedily undeceived, for upon calling upon her cousin,
and introducing herself and Kate, she was received by the withered old
miser very curtly, and told that as he came up to London a poor boy with
five and ninepence in his pocket, and had managed to get on fairly, she
with fifty pounds in her pocket could do very well without help. Perhaps
if the widow had let Kate plead her suit she might have fared better,
for the old man patted Kate's back, and seemed to dip his hand in his
pocket with the half intention of making her a present, but it was only
a half intention, and the widow went away with a heavy heart, convinced
that she must not look for assistance in that quarter.

I need not tell what little I know of the efforts of Mrs. Stevens to
find for herself a useful place in the great, busy, unfriendly, or at
least, coldly-indifferent world of London-life--how she found thousands
as eager and as anxious as herself--how, although she pinched and
stinted, and denied herself every luxury, she saw her small stock of
money silently wasting away, and no apparent means of getting more; all
these things are unhappily so every-day and commonplace, such mere
ordinary vulgar troubles, that every body knows them, and nobody cares
to hear more about them.

At last one day, after a weary walk, under a scorching sky, in search of
employment, the widow and her daughter saw in the window of an
outfitter's shop, the welcome announcement "good shirt hands wanted." So
the widow and Kate entered, and with some little trembling saw the
person whose business it was to give work to the needlewomen, and made
known their errand. Mr. Sturt, a sharp, rather rough man, who had the
management of this department, said, "Yes, they did want 'hands,' but
they required some one to become security for the work given out."

The widow's chagrin was as great now as her hopes had been high a few
minutes before, and she said at once that she did not know any one who
would become security, at which Mr. Sturt was turning coldly away; but
suddenly thinking of her cousin, she said to herself that he would
surely not refuse her this one favor, and she told Mr. Sturt that she
would try and come again, and timidly gave that gentleman her address.
As soon as the widow's back was turned, Mr. Sturt threw the address on
the floor, for he was perfectly sure of having plenty of applications,
and it did not matter to him whether the widow ever came again or not;
but Thomas Winthorpe, who was employed in a different department of the
business, happened to be a witness of the scene, had seen the widow's
hand shake, and lips quiver with hope and disappointment, and had marked
the anxious look of Kate; and with that sympathy which past poverty so
often begets for the poor, he picked up the "rejected address,"
resolving that he would inquire, and if Mrs. Stevens and her daughter
deserved it, he would help them to the work.

It was more than a year since Mrs. Stevens had seen her rich cousin, and
when she hastened to his house to prefer her humble petition it was shut
up, and all the information she could gain from the neighbors was, that
Mr. Norton had gone no one knew whither. This was a sad blow to Mrs.
Stevens and Kate; what to do they knew not, and as they wended their way
back to their now almost destitute home, their poverty appeared more
hopeless than ever; for disappointment is far harder to bear than mere
trouble, just as the sky never looks so dismal and threatening as when a
bright ray has just departed, and the sun has sunk behind a thick, dark
cloud.

Thomas Winthorpe, however, carried his good intention into effect
directly he left business, and little as he was able to glean in their
neighborhood of their life and past history, he was convinced that Mrs.
Stevens and her daughter deserved help. How, however, to afford them
assistance without wounding their feelings was for some time a difficult
question; but at last he determined to become surety for them at the
shop without their knowledge, and then to call, as if it were a matter
of business, and tell them that they could have work.

The next morning accordingly, he told Mr. Sturt that he intended to
become surety for Mrs. Stevens, and took no notice of that individual's
shrugs, and winks, and inuendoes--which were meant to insinuate a
sinister motive upon the part of Thomas--further than by looking at him
so fixedly and composedly, and withal with such an expression of
contempt, that Mr. Sturt, although not a very bashful personage, was
fairly confused; and in the evening Thomas called and introduced himself
to Mrs. Stevens, and told her that, in consequence of inquiries which
had been made, she might have the work when she pleased. The widow and
Kate, who had not stirred out of the house that day, and were in the
depths of despair, not knowing which way to turn for help, looked upon
Thomas as a preserving angel, and could have almost worshiped him for
the unexpected good news of which he was the bearer; nor was their
estimation of him lessened when the widow, remembering what had been
said about security, questioned him as to how that obstacle had been
overcome; and, after a few awkward attempts at parrying and
equivocation, Thomas, who was but a poor dissembler, confessed the
kindly part he had acted, and was overwhelmed with their expressions of
gratitude. From that moment they became intimate, and before the
interview, which was a somewhat long one, concluded, Thomas saw, partly
from their conversation, partly from the relics of furniture they had
managed to transport to London, that they had moved in a more
comfortable station, and were simple country folks; and with a feeling
possibly prompted by an unconscious heart-leaning to the quiet Kate, and
a latent wish to keep her away from the shop, he offered, as he lived
close by, to take their work to and fro for them, and so to save them
the trouble of going into the city, an offer which Mrs. Stevens who, in
her depressed circumstances, shrunk from strangers, and had no wish to
face the rough Mr. Sturt, thankfully accepted.

From this time the widow and her daughter sat down earnestly to work,
and though luxuries are not the lot of those who live by shirt-making,
yet as the house they were employed by was a respectable one, and paid
something better than slop prices, and as Thomas contrived that they
should have the best description of work, and Charles Stevens, from
time to time, remitted to them sufficient to pay their rent, they, with
their simple wants, soon began to feel tolerably comfortable and
independent. Thomas, too, who was an orphan, did not neglect his
opportunities of knowing them better, and became a close and dear
acquaintance, whose coming every evening was regularly looked for. At
first, of course, he only made business calls, and now and then sat and
chatted afterward; then he brought a few flowers for their mantle-piece,
or a book, or newspaper, which he thought might amuse them; and,
by-and-by, he read to them: and, at last, business, instead of being the
primary object of his visits, was the last thing thought of, and left
till he was going away: occasionally, too, Thomas thought that they were
working too hard, and that a walk would do them good, and he became the
companion of their little promenades.

Of course the experienced reader will see in all this that Thomas was in
love with Kate; and so he was, but Thomas was a prudent man. Kate was
young as well as himself; he had but a small salary, and it was better
to wait till he could offer Kate such a home as he should like to see
her mistress of. And Kate, what of her? did she love Thomas Winthorpe,
too? Well, we don't know enough of the female heart to answer such a
question. How should an old bachelor, indeed, get such knowledge? But,
perhaps, our better informed lady friends may be enabled to form an
opinion, when they are told that Kate began to dress herself with more
care, and to curl her luxuriant dark hair more sedulously, and that she
was more fidgety than her mother as the time for Thomas to call
approached, and grew fonder of reading the books he brought, and the
flowers of his giving. Mrs. Stevens, however, saw nothing of all this,
and Thomas never spoke of love, and Kate never analyzed her feelings, so
that we suppose if she was in love, she had glided into it so gently,
that she did not know it herself.

Something like three years had passed away in this humble, but
tranquilly happy state of existence, during which Thomas had been
silently adding to his stock of furniture, and quietly saving money out
of his small salary, when a new misfortune fell upon the Stevenses. The
mother had had weak eyes when a child, but as she grew up to womanhood
the defect had disappeared. Still there was a latent tendency to
disease, which it seemed close application to needlework in her
declining years had developed. For a long time Mrs. Stevens had felt
this, but concealed it from Kate, till her eyes became so dim, that she
could not go on any longer, and Kate became aware of the truth. This was
a sad blow, and Kate, who had come to look instinctively to Thomas for
advice, took the opportunity, when her mother was out of the room for a
few minutes, at his next visit, to tell him the fact, and her fears that
her mother was going blind. This was their first confidence, which I
have been told goes a great way in love affairs, and from that time
they were drawn still closer together. Thomas advised immediate medical
assistance, and not liking to offer Kate the fee, arranged to get an
hour or two the next day but one, and accompany them to an eminent
oculist. This was done, and the surgeon, after examining the widow's
eyes, said that skill could do nothing for her, but that rest was
indispensable, and that she must not exert her sight.

The whole of the work was now thrown upon Kate, and unmurmuringly did
the noble girl bend herself to the task of providing for herself and her
nearly blind mother. The first dawn of light saw her, needle in hand,
and Thomas found her at night stooping over her task. Their little walks
were given up, and she denied herself almost the bare necessaries of
life, so that her mother might not feel the change. This could not go
long without Kate's health suffering, and Thomas saw with grief the pale
cheek, and the thinning figure, and the red tinge round the eyelids,
which spoke of over-work and failing strength. These changes did not
improve Kate's good looks, but when did true love ever think of beauty?
He saw that the poor girl must soon break down, and then there were but
two courses open, either to offer his hand, which he was sure would be
accepted, or to offer them assistance.

From motives of prudence, Thomas had rather that the time when he should
become a housekeeper for himself had been longer delayed; but he did not
like to offer her money, for he felt as though such an obligation would
make her feel dependent, and draw her from him; and so he resolved at
once to make her his wife, and save her from the fate which otherwise
seemed impending over her.

How the declaration was made, and where, and whether or not there were
many blushes or smiles, or tears or kisses, I really do not know; but
from Thomas's practical manner, and Kate's earnest, truthful,
straightforward mind, and the length of time they had been as intimate
and confidential as brother and sister, I should think that there was
little of what some folk choose to call "the sentimental," although,
perhaps, there was not any the less of true sentiment. But certain it
is, that Thomas was accepted, the widow did not object, and all the
neighborhood soon knew that Kate Stevens and Thomas Winthorpe were about
to be married.

Of course, as is usual upon such occasions, there was plenty of comment.
A good many young ladies who had done their best to "set their caps" at
Thomas, intensely pitied poor Kate for choosing such a quiet stupid sort
of fellow, and not a few old ladies, who would have jumped at Thomas for
a son-in-law, were "sincerely" glad that it was not their daughter. And
there was a universal chorus of prophecy, as to the troubles that
awaited the young couple; for what (said the prophets) could they do
with Thomas's small salary, and Kate's old mother, if they came to have
a family? and so forth.

Kate and Thomas knew nothing of all this, and if they had, it would not
have affected them much, for confident in their quiet earnest affection
for each other, they looked forward to the future, not as a period of
easy enjoyment, but as one of effortful, though hopeful industry. The
preliminaries were soon arranged; Thomas had no friends to consult, and
Charles Stevens was glad to hear that his sister was about to be
married--a license was dispensed with, and the vulgarity of banns
resorted to to save expense. The bride was given away by a young
mechanic, a friend of Thomas's, whose sister acted as bridesmaid; there
was a quiet dinner at Thomas's lodgings, no wedding tour, and the next
day they went into the empty house, which had been done up for their
reception, and suited their scanty means, and when filled with the new
furniture of Thomas, and the old relics of the widow, Kate thought, ay,
and so did Thomas too, it made the most comfortable home they had ever
seen. I have purposely hurried over this part of my story, because it is
so very commonplace. After people have been deluged with brides in white
satin and Brussels lace vails, supported by a splendid train of
bridesmaids, all deluging their cambric-worked handkerchiefs in
sympathetic tears, what could I say for a marriage with a bride in plain
white, and Miss Jones, in a dyed silk, for a bridesmaid, and dry
pocket-handkerchiefs, into the bargain, to make it interesting?
Obviously nothing. Yet for all that, it was, possibly, as happy a
wedding as was ever solemnized at St. George's, Hanover-square, and
chronicled in the _Morning Post_, with half a dozen flourishes of
trumpets.

My readers now know all about the people who came into the empty house,
and made it look as cheerful as it had before looked miserable. Of their
domestic life I, of course, knew little: they kept no servant, and Kate
was occasionally to be seen through the windows dusting and brushing
about; but long before Thomas came home she was neat, and even smart,
and her ready smile as she opened the door, told me how happy they were.
It made even me half romantic, and if I could have found just such
another Kate, I half thought that I should have renounced an old
bachelor's life. Of their pecuniary affairs I, of course, knew little,
but I saw that their baker called regularly, and that Kate went out with
her market-basket, and if they had run in debt I was sure that I should
have heard of it.

After a little while, though, I began to notice that Thomas had a habit
which gave me some uneasiness for the future of the young couple. When
he came home he staid for about an hour, or just long enough to have his
tea, and then went out again for about two hours. It is true that he did
not exhibit any symptoms of dissipation when he returned, but I did not
like the habit. My mind, however, was set at rest by my landlady, who
could tell me all about it. She knew young Jones the cabinet-maker, who
was present at the wedding, and informed me that Thomas Winthorpe, who
was a good mechanic, employed his spare time in working with Jones, and
that both of them prudently put by the earnings of their leisure time as
a fund for future contingencies, so that my mind was set at rest upon
this point.

In due time, a little Kate blessed the household of my opposite
neighbors, and next, a little Thomas, and every thing appeared to go on
as happily as ever; and the old grandmother who had only partially
recovered the use of her eyes, leading her little grand-daughter, and
led in her turn by Kate, who also carried the baby, would often go out
for a walk, leaving the servant girl in charge of the house (for
Thomas's salary having increased, they could afford to keep a girl now
without being extravagant), and a happier family group it would not be
easy to find.

It was about this time, I observed a new addition to the family in the
shape of a stout, ruddy young man, who wore a green coat, with bright
buttons, and looked like a country farmer. I at once guessed that this
was Kate's brother, of whom I had heard, on a visit to his sister, and
though I was right as to the person, the other part of my guess was
incorrect. It was Charles Stevens, but he was not there upon a visit.
The fact was, that Charles, whose foresight never went the length of
looking a year ahead, had been totally ruined by a failure in the wheat
crops of his farm. All his property had been sold, and he left destitute
of every thing except a few pounds in his pocket, and without any great
stock of energy and intelligence to fall back upon, had sought the
refuge of his brother-in-law's roof, which, no doubt, was at first
cheerfully afforded him. But it was soon evident that Charles was likely
to bear heavily upon the Winthorpes, for he did not seem disposed to
exert himself to gain a livelihood. He appeared to lounge about the
house all day, and toward the evening, evidently to Thomas's chagrin,
came out to lean on the gate and smoke his pipe in the open air, thus
giving the house an air somewhat different from its former aspect of
respectability. I saw, too, as I sat up late reading (a bad habit of
mine) that a light burned till midnight in the Winthorpes' windows, and
sometimes hearing a heavy knocking, I looked out and saw at their door
the bright buttons of Charles Stevens shining in the light of the gas
lamp.

So far as I could learn, Thomas Winthorpe never visited these offenses
of the brother upon his wife, but for her sake suppressed his
indignation at the careless, thoughtless, lazy habits of Charles, and
bore all in silence; but I heard that he talked of them to young Jones
and lamented the moral obligation he felt to support Charles even in
idleness. These feelings, we may be assured, were not lessened when Kate
made a third addition to the family, and passed through a long and
dangerous, and, of course, expensive illness, and I was told (the
gossips knew all this through Miss Jones, the bridesmaid) that Thomas
had been obliged to devote the earnings of his overtime to pay the
doctor's bill, and the quarter's rent, for which he had been unable
otherwise to provide.

When Kate got up and resumed her family duties, there were other
indications of poverty in the household, one of which was that the
servant girl was discharged, notwithstanding that there was more
necessity than ever for her assistance. Kate's morning walks were given
up--she, as well as her husband, looked more careworn--the old
grandmother acted the part of housemaid, and Thomas wore a more
threadbare coat than usual. Nobody looked jolly and comfortable, except
the "ne'er do well," who was the cause of these uncomfortable changes,
but he looked as ruddy and careless, and smoked his pipe at the front
gate as composedly as ever, disturbed only by the recollection that he
had once been so much better off, and the knowledge that he had not so
much money to spend as he used to have; for by this time the cash he had
brought with him from the country, and of which he had never offered
Thomas a penny, was well-nigh gone.

Still, Thomas, though hard-pressed, worked on patiently and
perseveringly, hoping for better times, and these fortunately were close
at hand. People say that "Troubles never come alone," and I am inclined
to think Fortune also sends her favors in showers. Be that as it may,
just at this time, Charles, who was getting disgusted at idleness
without plenty of pocket-money, received and accepted an offer to go out
to Australia, with an old farming acquaintance; and a few days more saw
his chest put into a cab, into which vehicle he followed, while Kate and
his mother (Thomas was away at business) bade him a tearful farewell;
and within a few days Thomas's employers, more than satisfied with his
conduct, promoted him to a post where his salary was doubled.

What a change came over the house and family! The old servant girl came
back, and seemed so glad and brisk that she was never tired of work, and
made the place look brighter and neater than ever. The walks, too, were
resumed, and Thomas, justified in ceasing his evening work, made one of
the party after tea. Kate's cheek grew round and rosy again, and
Thomas's eye was brighter, and his old grave smile came back, as he
enjoyed the happiness and comfort he had so well earned: and to crown
all, I am told that the young Winthorpes will be very rich, for that
little rusty, shabby old man, who used to show the empty house, is Mrs.
Stevens's rich cousin, whom Kate had not recognized, and the old lady
was too short-sighted to notice, and who had left his former house, and
assumed the name of Willis, so that he might not be found out and
worried by his poor relations. My landlady informs me that the old man,
who knew his relations from the first, was struck with Thomas's
punctuality in always paying the rent on the day it was due, and by his
untiring industry (qualities which probably found an echo in his own
nature), and that the beautiful children (strange that such a little,
withered old miser should love blooming, careless children), have
completed his liking for the family. Thomas, however, has refused all
the old man's offers of assistance, and insists on continuing to pay the
rent for the house; and the old gentleman, who is now a frequent
visitor, and really does not look half so rusty as he used, unable in
any other way to confer obligations upon the family, has claimed to
stand godfather for the third child, and has bequeathed to the
youngsters all his large property, so we may fairly presume that the
worst difficulties of the Winthorpes are over, and that a happy future
is in store for them.

Reader, my little tale, or, without plot as it is, you may say my long
gossip, is at an end. It began about an empty house, and has run through
the fortunes of a family. How like a path in life, where the first step
ushers us onward we know not where; or, to compare small things with
great, how like a philosopher picking up at random a simple stone, and
thence being led on to the comprehension of the physical history of the
world. But plotless tale, or rambling gossip, whichever it may be, I
hope it has not been without its usefulness, but that it has served as
one more piece of proof that integrity, charity, industry, and
self-denial, if they do not always command success, give a man the best
possible chance of obtaining it on the only condition which renders
success worth having, namely, the preservation of self-respect.




[From Tait's Edinburgh Magazine.]

COLDS AND COLD WATER.


Who has not had a cold? or rather, who has not had many colds? Who does
not know that malady which commences with slight chilliness, an uneasy
feeling of being unwell, which does not justify abstinence from the
ordinary business and occupations of the day, but deprives one of all
satisfaction and enjoyment in them, and takes away all the salt and
savor of life, even as it deprives the natural palate of its proper
office, making all things that should be good to eat and drink vapid and
tasteless? Who does not know the pain in the head, the stiff neck, the
stuffy nose, the frequent sneeze, the kerchief which is oftener in the
hand than in the pocket? Such, with a greater or less amount of
peevishness, are the symptoms of the common cold in the head; which
torments its victim for two or three days, or perhaps as many weeks, and
then departs, and is forgotten. Few people take much notice of colds;
and yet let any one, who is even moderately liable to their attacks,
keep an account of the number of days in each year when he has been shut
out by a cold from a full perception of the pleasures and advantages of
life, and he will find that he has lost no inconsiderable portion of
the sum total of happy existence through their malign influence. How
many speeches in Parliament and at the Bar, that should have turned a
division or won a cause, have been marred because the orator has had a
cold which has confused his powers, stifled his voice, and paralyzed all
his best energies! How many pictures have failed in expressing the full
thoughts of the artist, because he has had a cold at that critical stage
of the work when all his faculties of head and hand should have been at
their best to insure the fit execution of his design! How many bad
bargains have been made, how many opportunities lost in business,
because a cold has laid its leaden hand upon them, and converted into
its own dull nature what might have resulted in a golden harvest! How
many poems--but no: poetry can have nothing in common with a cold. The
Muses fly at the approach of flannel and water-gruel. It is not poems
that are spoiled, but poets that are rendered of impossible existence by
colds. Can one imagine Homer with a cold, or Dante? But these were
southerns, and exempt by climate from this scourge of the human race in
Boreal regions. But Milton or Shakspeare, could they have had colds?
Possibly some parts of "Paradise Regained" may have been written in a
cold. Possibly the use of the handkerchief in "Othello," which is
banished as an impropriety by the delicate critics of France from their
version of the Moor of Venice, may have been suggested by familiarity
with that indispensable accessory in a cold. Colds are less common in
the clear atmosphere of Paris than in the thick and fog-laden air of
London; and this may account for the difference of national taste, on
this point. It is said of the great German Mendelssohn, that he always
composed sitting with his feet in a tub of cold water. This was not the
musician, but his grandfather, the metaphysician, and father of that
happy and contentedly obscure intermediate Mendelssohn, who used to say,
"When I was young, I was known as the son of the great Mendelssohn; and
now that I am old, I am known as the father of the great Mendelssohn."
But who ever was known to compose any thing while sitting with his feet
in a tub of _hot_ water, and with the composing draught standing on the
table at his side, to remind him that in the matter of composition he is
to be a passive, and not an active subject? How many marriages may not
have been prevented by colds? The gentleman is robbed of his courage,
and does not use his opportunity for urging his suit; or the lady
catches a cold, and appears blowing her nose, and with blanched cheeks
and moist eyes:

    "The sapphire's blue within her eyes is seen;
      Her lips the ruby's choicest glow disclose;
    Her skin is like to fairest pearls I ween;
      But ah! the lucid crystal tips her nose."

And so the coming declaration of love is effectually nipped in the bud
by the unromantic realities of the present catarrh.

Napoleon, as is well known, lost the battle of Leipsig in consequence of
an indigestion brought on by eating an ill-dressed piece of mutton; and
Louis Philippe, in February, 1848, fled ignominiously from the capital
of his kingdom because he had a cold, and could not use the faculties
which at least might have secured for him as respectable a retreat to
the frontier as was enjoyed by his predecessor Charles the Tenth. He
might have shown fight; he might have thrown himself upon the army, or
upon the National Guard; he might have done a hundred things better for
his own fame, rather than get into a hack cab and run away. But it was
not to be: Louis Philippe had the influenza; and Louis Philippe with the
influenza was not the same man who had shown so much craft and decision
in the many previous emergencies of his long and eventful life. Louis
Philippe, without a cold, had acquitted himself creditably in the field
of battle, had taught respectably in schools, had contrived for himself
and his family the succession to a kingdom, had worked and plotted
through all the remarkable events with which his name is associated, and
by which it will ever be remembered in the romance of history; but Louis
Philippe, with a cold, subsided at once and ingloriously into simple
John Smith in a scratch-wig.

Of places in which colds are caught it is not necessary to be
particular. For, as a late Justice of the Court of Queen's Bench laid it
down in summing up to a jury, in a case of sheep-stealing, after some
time had been wasted in showing that the stolen sheep had been
slaughtered with a particular knife--any knife will kill a sheep--so it
may be said that a cold may be caught any where: on the moor or on the
loch; traveling by land or by water; by rail or by stage; or in a
private carriage, or walking in the streets; or sitting at home or
elsewhere, in a draught, or out of a draught, but more especially in it.
Upon a statistical return of the places in which colds have been caught,
by persons of both sexes, and under twenty-one years of age, founded
upon the answers of the patients themselves, it appears that more colds
are caught upon the journey in going to school, and at church, than at
the theatre and in ball-rooms. Upon a similar return from persons liable
to serve as jurymen in London and Middlesex, it appears that a majority
of colds is caught in courts of justice; to which statement, perhaps,
more confidence is due than to the former, as it is not known that Dr.
Reid has ventilated any of the churches or theatres in the metropolis.
Indeed, if the ancient physical philosophers, who had many disputes upon
the first cause of cold, had enjoyed the advantage of living in our days
and country, they might have satisfied themselves on this matter, and at
the same time have become practically acquainted with the working of our
system of jurisprudence, by attending in Westminster Hall, when they
would go away perhaps with some good law, but most certainly with a very
bad cold in their heads. Upon the returns from ladies with grown-up
daughters and nieces, it appears from their own statements, that more
colds are caught at evening parties than any where else; which is in
remarkable discrepancy with the statements of the young ladies
themselves, as before mentioned. The same curious want of agreement is
found to prevail as to the number of colds caught on water-parties,
pic-nics, archery-meetings, and the like, which, according to one set of
answers, never give rise to colds, but which would certainly be avoided
by all prudent persons if they gave implicit belief to the other.

Of the remedy for colds something may now be said. As with other evils,
the remedy may exist either in the shape of prevention or of cure, and
of course should be most sought after, by prudent people, in the former.
Much ancestral wisdom has descended to us in maxims and apothegms on the
prevention and management of colds. Like other venerable and traditional
lore which we are in the habit of receiving without questioning, it
contains a large admixture of error with what is really good and true;
and of the good and true much occasionally meets with undeserved
disparagement and contempt. Our grandmothers are right when they
inculcate an active avoidance of draughts of air, when they enjoin warm
clothing, and especially woolen stockings and dry feet. Their
recommendation of bed and slops is generally good, and their "sentence
of water-gruel" in most cases is very just, and better than any other
for which it could be commuted; but when they lay down the well-known
and authoritative dogma, stuff a cold and starve a fever, they are no
longer to be trusted. This is a pernicious saying, and has caused much
misery and illness. Certain lovers of antiquity, in their anxiety to
justify this precept, would have us to take it in an ironical sense.
They say, stuff a cold and starve a fever: that is, if you commit the
absurdity of employing too generous a diet in the earlier stages of a
cold, you will infallibly bring on a fever, which you will be compelled
to reduce by the opposite treatment of starvation. This, however, may be
rejected as mere casuistry, however well it may be intended by zealous
friends of the past. Our British oracles were not delivered in such
terms of Delphic mystery, but spoke out plain and straightforward; and
even this one permits of some justification with out doing violence to
the obvious meaning of the words. For every cold is accompanied with
some fever, the symptoms of which are more or less obvious, and it
indicates the presence in the system of something which ought not to be
there, and which is seeking its escape. Every facility should be given
to this escape which is consistent with the general safety of the
system. We may reasonably leave a window open, or a door upon the latch,
to favor the retreat of a disagreeable intruder, but we should not be
willing to break a hole in the wall of the house. All the remedies of
hot water for the feet, warming the bed, exciting gentle perspiration,
are directed to this object. Occasionally, the excitement of an evening
passed in society, especially if there is dancing, and in a room of
somewhat elevated temperature, is sufficient to carry off an incipient
cold. So a cold may be stopped, _in limine_, by the use of a few drops
of laudanum; and so, perhaps, the stimulus of some slight excess in
eating or drinking may operate to eject the advancing cold before it has
completely lodged itself in the system. But this is dangerous practice,
and the same object may be effected far more safely and surely by the
common nursing and stay-at-home remedies.

Of all prophylactic or precautionary measures (in addition, of course,
to prudent attention to dress and diet), the best is the constant use of
the cold bath. It is only necessary to glance at the ironmongers' shops
to see that of late years the demand for all kinds of washing and
bathing apparatus has much increased, and that many persons are aware of
the importance of this practice. The exact method of applying the cold
element must depend on the constitution of the patient. For the very
vigorous and robust, the actual plunge-bath may not be too much; but few
are able to stand this, for the great abstraction of animal heat by the
surrounding cold fluid taxes the calorific powers of the system
severely; nor is a convenient swimming or plunge-bath generally
attainable. A late lamented and eminent legal functionary, who lived
near the banks of the Thames, bathed in the river regularly every
morning, summer and winter, and, it is said, used to have the ice
broken, when necessary, in the latter season. He continued this practice
to a good old age, and might have sat for the very picture of health.
The shower-bath has the merit of being attainable by most persons, at
any rate when at home, and is now made in various portable shapes. The
shock communicated by it is not always safe; but it is powerful in its
action, and the first disagreeable sensation after pulling the fatal
string is succeeded by a delicious feeling of renewed health and
vitality. The dose of water is generally made too large; and by
diminishing this, and wearing one of the high peaked or extinguisher
caps now in use, to break the fall of the descending torrent upon the
head, the terrors of the shower-bath may be abated, while all the
beneficial effects are retained. It has, however, the disadvantage of
not being easily carried about during absence from home, and the want of
it is a great inconvenience to those who are accustomed to use it. None
of the forms which are really portable are satisfactory, and all occupy
some time and trouble in setting up and taking down again, unless,
indeed, you are reckless of how and where you fix your hooks, and of the
state of the floor of the room after the flood has taken place, and
perhaps benevolently wish that the occupants of the room beneath should
participate in the luxury you have been enjoying. For nearly all
purposes the sponge is sufficient, used with one of the round flat baths
which are now so common. Cold water, thus applied, gives sufficient
stimulus to the skin, and the length of the bath, and the force with
which the water is applied, are entirely under command. The
sponging-bath, followed by friction with a rough towel, has cured
thousands of that habitual tendency to catch cold which is so prevalent
in this climate, and made them useful and happy members of society. The
large tin sponging-bath is itself not sufficiently portable to be
carried as railway luggage, but there are many substitutes. India-rubber
has been for some time pressed into this service, either in the shape of
a mere sheet to be laid on the floor, with a margin slightly raised to
retain the water, or in a more expensive form, in which the bottom
consists of a single sheet of the material, while the side is double,
and can be inflated so as to become erect, in the same manner as the
india-rubber air-cushions. Either form may be rolled up in a small
compass. The latter give a tolerably deep bath, capable of holding two
or three pails of water; but it is not very manageable when it has much
water in it, and must be unpopular with the housemaids. As there is no
stiff part about it, it is difficult, or rather impossible, for one
person to lift it for the purpose of emptying the water; and the air
must be driven out before it can be packed up again, which occasions a
delay which is inconvenient in rapid traveling. Besides, on the
Continent at least, where the essential element of water is not to be
had, except in small quantity, the excellence of holding much is thrown
away. Traveling-boxes have lately been made of that universal substance,
gutta-percha, which serve the double duty of holding clothes or books on
the roads, and of baths in the bed room. The top can be slipped off in a
moment, and is at once available as a bath; and when ever the whole box
is unpacked, both portions can be so employed. But the one disadvantage
which prevents gutta-percha from being adopted for many other purposes
tells against it here. It becomes soft and pliable at a very low
temperature, which unfits it for hot climates, and for containing hot
water in our own temperate regions. There is also the danger of burning
or becoming injured by the heat, if left incautiously too near the fire.
But for this drawback, it seems as if there was nothing to prevent every
thing from being made of gutta-percha. It is almost indestructible,
resists almost all chemical agents, and is easily moulded into any
required form. But like glass, it has its one fault. Glass is
brittle--gutta-percha can not resist moderate heat; and but for this,
these two materials might divide the world between them. It is related
that a certain inventor appeared before the Emperor Tiberius with a
crystal vessel, which he dashed on the pavement, and picked up unhurt;
in fact, he had discovered malleable glass, the philosopher's stone of
the useful arts. His ingenuity did not meet with the success it
deserved; for the emperor, whether alarmed at the novelty, and wishing
to protect the interests of the established glass-trade or wishing to
possess the wonderful vase, and to transmit it in the imperial
treasure-chambers as an unique specimen of the manufacture, immediately
ordered his head to be cut off, and the secret perished with him. Any
one who rediscovered it, or could communicate to the rival vegetable
product the quality of resisting heat, would make his fortune; and
although he might find the patent-office slow and expensive, would
nowadays be better rewarded by a discerning public than his unfortunate
predecessor was by the Roman tyrant. But to return to our baths: a very
good portable article may be made by having a wooden traveling-box,
lined with thin sheet zinc. It may be of deal or elm, and painted
outside. The lid may be arranged to slip on and off, like the rudder of
a boat, on eyes and pintles, or on common sliding hinges; and there may
be a movable tray, three or four inches deep, to be lined also with
zinc, which serves for holding the immediate dressing-apparatus, and all
that need be taken out for a single night's use. This tray, together
with the lid laid side by side on the floor, makes a fair enough
sponging-bath; and if the box itself is placed between them, and
half-filled with water, a most luxurious bathing-apparatus is at once
established. The zinc lining should be painted, or, what is still
better, japanned; and the lock should open on the side of the box, and
be fitted with a hinged hasp, which can be turned up, out of the way,
upon the side of the lid, when it is detached and in use as a bath. The
lock should not open upward in the edge of the box, or the water might
enter it, and damage the wards; and the hasps sticking up from the edge
of the lid would be in the way. A box on this plan has been made, and
has been in use for some months with perfect success, and may possibly
be exhibited for the instruction of foreigners in the Great Exposition
of 1851. The only objection is the increased weight arising from the
metallic lining; and this might be removed by employing sheet
gutta-percha in its place, or by relying on good workmanship and paint
alone to keep the box water-tight. The gutta-percha would, in this case,
be supported by the wood of the box, and could not get out of shape; but
it still would be liable to injury if used with warm water.

Little need be said of sponges. The best fetch a high price, but are
probably most economical in the end; for a good sponge, used only with
cold water, will last a long time. There is an inferior kind of sponge,
very coarse, ragged and porous, which formerly was not sold for toilet
use, but which is now to be found in the shops, and is sold especially
for use in the sponging-bath. It is much cheaper than the fine sponge;
and readily takes up, and as readily gives out again, a large quantity
of water; and on the whole, may be recommended. Our old friend,
India-rubber, appears again as the best material of which the sponge-bag
can be made. Oil-skin is efficient while it lasts, but it is very easily
torn; and sponges are apt to be impatiently rammed into their bags in
last moments of packing.

Armed with his sponge and his portable bath, a man may go through life,
defying some of its worst evils. Self-dubbed a Knight of the Bath, he
may look down with scorn upon the red ribbons and glittering baubles of
Grand Crosses and Commanders, and may view with that calm philosophy to
which nothing so much contributes as a state of high health the chances
and changes of a surrounding world of indigestions and catarrhs. With
his peptic faculties, in that state of efficiency in which the daily
cold effusion will maintain them, he will enjoy his own dinners; he will
not grudge his richer neighbor his longer and more varied succession of
dishes, and he will do his best to put his poorer one in the way to
improve his humbler and less certain repast. With his head and eyes
clear and free from colds, he will think and see for himself; and will
discern and act upon the truth and the right, disregarding the
contemptuous sneezes of those who would put him down, and the noisy
coughs of those who would drown his voice when lifted up in the name of
humanity and justice.




SINNERS AND SUFFERERS; OR, THE VILLAINY OF HIGH LIFE.


"Then you believe in the justice of this world, after the fashion of our
old nursery-tales, in which the good boy always got the plum-cake, and
the bad one was invariably put in the closet?" said Charles Monroe,
addressing at once Lady Annette Leveson and her temporary squire, old
Judge Naresby, as they paused in a moral disquisition, on which her
ladyship had employed the greater part of their afternoon's stroll
through Leveson Park, interrupted only by an occasional remark from her
niece Emma, a girl just returned from school, who hung on Charles's arm,
and called the party's attention to every woodland prospect and grand
old tree they passed.

Lady Annette had relations in the peerage, though they were not reckoned
among the wealthiest of that body. Her husband had been similarly
connected, but he was long dead; and his childless widow's jointure
consisted of little more than a castellated mansion, a park, renowned
for the antiquity of its oaks, on the borders of one of the midland
counties, and an old-fashioned house in Park-lane, London. These
possessions were to descend, on her death, to the orphan daughter of her
husband's brother, who, having besides a dowery of some five thousand in
the funds, was, by the unanimous vote of her family, placed under Lady
Annette's guardianship. In speeding on that orphan girl's education from
one boarding-school to another, in dipping a short way into all the
popular philosophy of the age, and taking an easy interest in all its
social improvements, Lady Annette had spent her limited income and quiet
years, without the usual excitements of either working altar-cloths or
setting up a Dissenting chapel. Lady Annette was, of course, a sort of
positivist in her way. She had an almost material faith in virtue
rewarded. Good for good, love for love, was the substance of her creed
regarding time's returns; and being somewhat zealous in the doctrine,
she had exerted all her eloquence to prove it to the satisfaction of the
Judge. He was a man after her own faith and fortunes--well born, as it
is called, and gifted with a cool, clear head, which, just fitting him
for the study of law, and no more, had calmly raised him through the
intervening steps of his profession to the bench; but his experience of
life had been far wider, and he had seen certain occurrences in its
course which made him doubt her ladyship's philosophy.

The Judge's opposition had ceased, nevertheless, and Lady Annette
remained mistress of the field when Charles Monroe volunteered the above
interpretation. Considering that, besides her title, the lady had full
twenty years the start of him in life's journey, the attack was bold;
but Charles was known at Leveson Park as her Scottish cousin, belonging
to a poor but honorable family north of Tweed, and already named as a
rising barrister, though comparatively young in the profession. He had
been engaged for sundry cases on the circuit which the Judge had just
completed--as concerned her ladyship's county, with a maiden assize,
where, after white gloves and congratulations had been duly presented,
the evening was devoted to a family dinner and chat with Lady Annette,
preparatory to justice and he taking their way on the morrow to the
neighboring shire.

Lady Annette and the Judge were old acquaintances, and he had come early
enough to find the three among the old oaks, where it was pleasant to
talk in that bright summer afternoon till the dinner-hour and the rest
of the party arrived; so they found time for argument.

"Well, Charles," said Lady Annette, whose habitually good temper seemed
slightly ruffled by her cousin's remark, "there are sounder lessons
taught men in the nursery than most of them practice in after-life; and
the teaching of those tales appears to me a truth verified by every
day's experience. Do we not see that industry and good conduct generally
bring the working-classes to comparative wealth, while the best families
are reduced by extravagance and profligacy? Does not even the popular
mind regard virtue with honor, and vice with contempt? Surely there is,
even in this world, an unslumbering Providence, which, eventually
rewards the good and punishes the wicked?"

"Sometimes," said Charles.

"Well, your response is amusing," said Lady Annette, smiling; "but let
us hear your view of the subject."

"I fear it is not very definite," said her cousin. "Perhaps I am not
clearsighted enough; but this life has always seemed to me full of
inconsistencies and contradictions; yet, one thing I believe, that moral
goodness does not always lead to good fortune, nor moral evil to bad.
Sometimes that for which I have no name but the ancient one of friendly
stars, and sometimes a practical knowledge of men and things as they
are, or the want of these, conducts us to the one, or leaves us to the
other."

"Oh, Charles, what a pity that pretty girl should be lame!" whispered
Emma, as they now emerged on a broad walk, which, being the most direct
route to a neighboring village, had been long open to pedestrians. And a
young girl, evidently of the servant class, who walked with considerable
difficulty, laid down a small bundle she carried, and leant for rest
against a mossy tree. The girl was not more than eighteen; her soft dark
hair, fine features, and small, but graceful figure, were singularly
attractive, in spite of a sickly pallor and remarkable lameness; but the
face had such an expression of fearless honesty and truth as made it
truly noble, and took the whole party's attention.

"That's a fine face," said the Judge, when they had passed. "There looks
something like goodness there; and, _apropos_ of our controversy, it
somehow reminds me of a case which is to be tried to-morrow, in which
the principal witness is a young girl, who defended her master's house
single-handed against two burglars, and actually detained one of them
till he was arrested."

"Oh, aunt, we must go to hear the case," said young Emma, earnestly.

"It certainly will be interesting," said Lady Annette. "What a noble
girl in her station too! Charles, I hope you will allow there is some
probability of her being rewarded?"

"Perhaps," said Charles.

"Oh, never mind him," interrupted the Judge, who got very soon tired of
moral questions; "he debated the same subject with Thornley and me
t'other evening, and would have totally routed us if we had not taken
refuge in whist."

Charles made no reply, for his attention was once more engaged by the
girl, who, with a flushed cheek, and all the speed she could muster,
passed them at that moment, and the Judge had succeeded in diverting
Lady Annette's thoughts to another channel.

"Thornley should be an able antagonist," said she, "I am told he is very
clever. It was but t'other day that, in looking over one of his mother's
old letters from Florence, I recollected she had mentioned his Italian
tutor's predictions of the great figure he should make at Cambridge. By
the way, Charles, he was your class-fellow there. How far were they
fulfilled?"

"The only time ever I remember him to make a figure," answered Charles,
vainly endeavoring to suppress a smile, "was, when he refused the
challenge of a wild Welsh student, on whose pranks he had been rather
censorious, saying a duel was contrary to his principles; and though the
Welshman actually insulted him in the very streets, he preferred a
formal apology to fighting."

"What a high-principled young man!" exclaimed Lady Annette and her niece
in the same breath.

"Yes," said the Judge, "so much conscientiousness and moral courage is
worth a world of talent."

"It must be a comfort," continued her ladyship with enthusiasm, "to Mr.
Thornley, to find the pains bestowed on his son's education so well
repaid. Do you know he would never allow him to enter a public school,
saying, that knowledge in such places was paid for with both morals and
manners; and Edmund was educated under his own eye, by some of the best
scholars in Florence."

"Mr. Thornley had great discernment," remarked the Judge; "I wonder he
didn't show it, more in his pecuniary affairs."

"Ah, what a falling off was there!" half sighed Lady Annette. "It vexes
me to think of it, they were such old friends of ours. What a belle poor
Mrs. Thornley was!--they tell me she has grown very old and dowdy now.
And how he used to sport! and yet one might have known the estate would
go to creditors. But his misfortunes improved him greatly, they say,
turned his attention entirely to high subjects--Italian progress, and
all that. Do you know, when they lived in Florence, the Austrian police
had quite an eye upon him, and he was proud of that, poor man! I wish
you had seen his letters."

Here her ladyship stopped short, for a figure was seen rapidly
approaching, which all the party know to be that of Edmund Thornley. The
gentleman whose education, character, and family history had been thus
freely discussed, was a tall, well-proportioned man, with fair
complexion, and curling auburn hair. There was something almost feminine
about his small mouth and pearly teeth; but his full blue eyes and
smooth white brow had no expression but those of health and youth,
retaining the latter to an extreme degree, though he was rather advanced
in the twenties. The story of his parentage and prospects, was already
talked over by the Thornleys' old friends in Leveson Park. An only son,
born in the ranks of English gentry, but brought up in Italy, to which
pecuniary embarrassment had early obliged his father to retire, he had
been educated, it was said, most carefully under the paternal roof, with
all home influences around him--sent first to the University of
Cambridge, and, subsequently, to the study of English law, partly by way
of scope for his talents, and partly, as the best provision for the heir
of a deeply-mortgaged estate.

Edmund Thornley was a young man for whom friends did every thing. His
parents and tutors, in Italy, had promised and vowed great things in his
name, to his relatives in England; and, though they could not believe
the report, for he had, as yet, astonished neither Cambridge, nor the
Temple, it was proper for them to allow there was talent in him which
must come out some day, and all that interest and solicitation could do,
was done with the Thornleys' old acquaintances, to secure patronage for
their son. By that influence the judge had been induced to make choice
of him for his marshal, as it is legal etiquette to style a sort of
humble companion or assistant, on the circuit. Hitherto, he had filled
the post to his superior's entire satisfaction; but Naresby, who
specially understood the art of making his dependents useful, had that
day left him some letters to write previous to joining Lady Annette's
party.

The hostess warmly welcomed the son of her old friends, whose doings she
had just canvassed. Charles received his former class-fellow with cold
civility; and, warned by the dinner-bell, the company adjourned to
Leveson Hall, in time to meet the rector and his lady, a quiet country
pair, who completed their party. It was soon manifest what advantage
Thornley's gentle, attentive manner, gave him in the eyes of the ladies
compared with the sometimes abrupt, and often careless address of their
Scotch cousin. Emma found him particularly agreeable; and the subject of
the approaching trial being renewed after dinner, both she and her aunt
were charmed with the enthusiastic admiration of the young girl's
courage and devotedness, which he expressed in the warmest terms; while
Charles merely hoped that those whom she had served so well, would not
forget her poverty.

"Such," said Lady Annette, in a whispered dissertation on the contrast
of the young men, while she and the judge sat at whist by themselves,
"Such are the natural effects of a home education, and a mother's
influence."

"Oh, yes," responded Naresby, somewhat confused by the cards which he
was shuffling; "Thornley is an excellent person, and very accommodating.
He never troubles one with a view of his own, like other lads."

On the following day there was a crowded court-house in the assize town
of the neighboring county. The case to be tried had been the topic of
gossip and wonder there for many a week, and Lady Annette and her niece
were not the only members of the surrounding gentility among the
audience. Charles Monroe had the honor of escorting them, for the first
time in their lives, to a court of justice; and all his explaining
powers were put in requisition by Emma's whispered inquiries, till, the
usual preliminaries being gone through, the prisoner was placed at the
bar. He was a dark-looking, muscular fellow, whose way seemed to have
laid through the wild places of low life; but when he pleaded "Not
guilty," in a strong Welsh accent, some strange recollections appeared
to strike Charles, and he whispered to Lady Annette, "That man used to
look after game-dogs for Harry Williams, with whom Thornley wouldn't
fight at Cambridge; and they told me Harry had been expelled."

"Yes," replied her ladyship, in a low, but triumphant tone, as she cast
a glance of more than approbation on the marshal, now occupying his
usual place near the judge; "men are even in this world rewarded
according to their works."

Charles smiled incredulously, but his smile changed to a look of
surprised recognition, for the principal witness, who just then stood up
to take the oath, was none other than the girl they had met in Leveson
Park. Many a curious eye was turned on that fair honest face; the judge
himself seemed to recognize her, and the marshal to forget his habitual
composure, in astonishment that one so young and pretty, should be the
heroine of such a tale; but, without either the vanity or the
bashfulness nearly always allied to it, which would have upset most
young people in her position, the girl told her story modestly and
plainly, like one who felt she had done her duty, and made no display
about it. Her evidence was simply to the effect that her name was Grace
Greenside, that she was a servant at Daisy Dell--the local designation
of a property occupied by one of the better class of farmers in the
shire--and had been for two years maid-of-all-work at the farm-house,
which was situated in a solitary part of the country, and at some
distance from the high road. On the fifth of the previous month, it
being Sunday, and the other three servants having gone in different
directions, her mistress took their little boy and girl with them to the
parish church, about a mile distant, leaving her alone in the house,
with strict orders not to quit it, and admit none but special friends of
the family till their return; on account, as she believed, of a
considerable sum of money which her master had drawn from the bank but a
few days before, for the purchase of an adjoining farm. Soon after they
were gone, two men, one of whom was the prisoner, knocked loudly at the
front door, and demanded admission, which, owing to her orders, and
their suspicious appearance, she refused, when they tried to force an
entrance; but, arming herself with her master's loaded gun, she defended
the premises, which were well secured--being built, as the girl
described, in old fighting times--till, by sounding one of those
antiquated horns, kept for similar purposes in many an old country
house, she alarmed half the parish, and men were seen coming across the
fields, on which the assailants fled. The prisoner, however, carried
with him a fine vest of her master's, which, owing to an accident, had
been spread out to dry on a hedge hard by; and, bitterly blaming herself
for leaving the article within his reach, the girl pursued him in hopes
of recovering it, and actually overtook, laid hold of, and detained him
till the neighbors came up and completed the capture, in spite of his
blows, by which she had been so seriously injured as to be confined to
the house till the previous day, when she walked with great difficulty
about two miles to see her relatives.

Her tale was confirmed by the evidence of several country people who
had assisted in securing the prisoner, by that of her master, a
hard-looking, worldly man, of her father, a clownish laborer, and of an
ill-tempered, slatternly woman, who proved to be her stepmother. Grace
dropped a courtesy, and quitted the witness-box, amid a general murmur
of applause. The jury, without retiring, found a unanimous verdict of
"Guilty;" and, after a lengthy address, equally divided between eulogy
of the girl's conduct and reprobation of the criminal's, not forgetting
some prophetic hints touching the future destiny of his companion who
had escaped, the judge commanded sentence of death to be recorded
against him, and a small sum of money to be immediately bestowed on
Grace, not only in testimony of the court's sense of her merits, but by
way of compensation for the injuries she had received, as his lordship
phrased it, "in the service of justice and good order."

"A poor reward, but, perhaps, not unacceptable," thought Charles,
glancing at her apparel, which, though clean and neatly worn, was such
as indicated almost the lowest state of feminine funds, as with a
grateful countenance she stepped out to await the leisure of the court
functionaries in that matter, and another case came on.

"Let us go now," said Lady Annette to her niece, "How very interesting
it was, and how delighted Edmund Thornley seemed!"

"He has just gone out, aunt," remarked Emma, who had grown singularly
alive to the marshal's motions; and Charles, as he resumed the duties of
a cavalier, silently recollected that, throughout the trial, while
Thornley conversed with the judge or took notes for him, according to
custom, his eye had often wandered toward Grace Greenside, and he had
left the court the first unobserved moment after she quitted it. The
young barrister was, therefore, not surprised, on crossing one of the
outer divisions, to find him there by her side, talking in a most
animated manner. They were words of praise he had been uttering; and
there was a glow on the girl's cheek, and a light in her eye, which
neither the judge's encomiums nor the applause of a crowded court had
called forth; yet, at their approach, a sudden confusion came over
Thornley for an instant, but the next he saluted the ladies with his
usual courtesy, and more than his usual warmth.

"You find me conversing with the heroine of Daisy Dell," said he; and
the remnant of his speech was so low, that Charles could only catch,
"artless simplicity," and "mind above her station." It reached the
girl's ear, nevertheless; and a wild, waking dream of hope, or passion,
or it might be vanity, passed over that young face.

"Oh, aunt, let us speak to her," said Emma, and fully conscious of the
honor and reward which a few words from her patrician lips must confer
on plebeian merit, Lady Annette stepped up, and addressed some
complimentary inquiries to Grace.

The gratified girl replied with many a courtesy. There was an
asking-leave look in young Emma's face as it turned to her aunt for a
moment, and then, like one determined to venture, she drew a small
turquoise ring from her finger, and pressed it into the girl's hand,
with a low whisper, "You have been very good and honest; take this from
me."

"It is the first ring I ever wore," said Grace, endeavoring to force the
small circlet on one finger after another, which hard work had roughened
and expanded; but Emma's turquoise could find rest only on the little
one. "It is the lucky finger," said she, blushing to the brow; "and a
thousand thanks, my lady; but it is too fine for the like of me."

"May it be lucky to you, my girl!" half murmured Charles, emptying his
light purse almost unperceived into her other hand, while Lady Annette
was assuring her that good conduct always had its reward; and before the
girl had time to thank him, he hurried away with the delighted Emma,
while Thornley conducted her ladyship to their carriage over the way.

Scarce had Charles handed in his charge when one of his clients, who had
litigated a garden-fence for four years past, pounced upon him with a
lately-discovered evidence for his claim, which occupied some hours in
explanation; and before he returned to the court-house, Grace Greenside
had received her money, and went her way. The marshal was busy writing a
note for the Judge, and his lordship was passing sentence on a
turnip-stealer.

Next day Charles gained the case touching the garden-fence, according to
the county newspapers, by a display of legal learning and eloquence
never before equaled in that court-house; but the same evening a letter
brought the hard-working barrister the joyful intelligence that a legal
appointment in one of the West India Islands, for which he had canvassed
and despaired till it was refused by some half-dozen of the better
provided, had been conferred upon him.

It is doubtful if three years can pass over any spot of this inhabited
earth without bringing many changes, and they had brought its share to
the border of that midland county since Lady Annette convinced the
judge, and vanquished her Scotch cousin, on a great moral question,
among the old trees of Leveson Park. Leveson Park and Hall were lonely
now in the summer-time, for another uncle had died, leaving Emma some
additional thousands, and her aunt removed to the house in Park-lane
every London season, to have her properly brought out.

In the adjoining shire, trials of still greater interest (for there was
a murder and two breaches of promise among them) had long superseded in
the popular mind the case of Daisy Dell; but the neighbors for miles
round that solitary farm-house still talked at intervals of Grace
Greenside, how a fine gentleman who had spoken to her in court came
many a day after the assizes privately about the fields to see her, and
how she had been seen driving away with him in a chaise from the end of
the green lane late one evening, when her mistress imagined she was busy
in the diary. The girl's relatives said he was nephew to the judge who
had been on the circuit that year, and would soon be a judge himself;
that he had taken Grace to London, and made a real lady of her; but
their neighbors knew the way of the world too well to place entire faith
in that statement, and the master of the house she had defended (it was
said gratuitously) gave it as his private judgment that the girl had
been ruined by being made so much of.

The old house in Park-lane looked as comfortable as handsome but
antiquated furniture could make it. It was the height of the London
season, and Lady Annette Leveson had given a dinner-party--as it was
understood, by way of welcome to her cousin, Mr. Monroe, who had just
returned from Barbadoes, with an older look, a darker complexion, and
his footing made sure in Government employ at home. His residence was
now in London; and his near relationship, of which Lady Annette had
grown singularly mindful of late, made him an intimate visitor at her
house, where, on the present occasion, he did the honors to a number of
gentlemen, still conversing over their wine; while, as British etiquette
prescribes, Lady Annette had led the fairer portion of her company to
small talk and the drawing-room.

Useful as Charles was often pronounced by her ladyship, and a rising
cousin as he had become, the assiduous attentions and quietly agreeable
manner of Edmund Thornley made much greater way in the secret favor of
both aunt and niece. Edmund was by this time called to the bar. He made
no great figure there, but friends were still doing for him, and he had
sundry relations who took care of his interests in London. The chief of
these was a brother-in-law of his father; but Miss Thornley had been his
first wife, and a second had reigned for eleven years in her stead. Mr.
Crainor was a barrister of the West-end, who worshiped respectability,
and had no family but two married daughters. It was through him that all
advices and letters of credit came from Italy, where Thornley senior
still found it convenient to sojourn; and he was Edmund's counselor in
all things. Being an acquaintance of Emma's last bequeathing uncle, that
gentleman had thought proper to make him one of his executors; he had,
consequently, considerable influence at the house in Park-lane, and was
believed to use it in favor of his nephew-in-law, who, shrewd people
said, might form an eligible connection there; but, as yet, rumor went
no further on the subject. There were also those who thought Charles
Monroe might be a successful rival, as his prospects were now more
promising, and his talents known to be superior; but Emma's private
opinion of him was, that he looked wonderfully old, had no sensibility,
and an almost vulgar way of conducting himself to ladies. He had left
her a school-girl, not sixteen, and found her a graceful, accomplished
woman of the harmlessly sentimental school, who shed tears at tragedies,
and gave largely, considering her purse, at charity sermons, made
collections of poetry, and never inquired beyond the surface of her own
circle, except regarding some very romantic story of real life.

Edmund Thornley sat on an ottoman between Lady Annette and her niece,
turning over for their edification the leaves and plates of one of those
richly got up annuals so dear to London drawing-rooms at a period within
most people's memory. He never lingered long with the gentlemen, at
least, in Park-lane.

"Oh, what a lovely picture!" said Emma, as a Swiss scene turned up. "And
that figure," she continued, pointing to one at a cottage door, "how
much it reminds of the girl--I forget her name--who defended the
farm-house against robbers. Don't you remember, Mr. Thornley, how you
called her the heroine of Daisy Dell?"

"Oh, yes," said Edmund, after a trial of recollection. "It is like her,
but I think she was not quite so pretty."

"Certainly not so tastefully dressed," said Lady Annette; "these Swiss
have so much the advantage of our peasantry; but she was a most
interesting creature. And yet, Mr. Thornley," added her ladyship, who
retained the taste for morality, "I fear the transaction did not turn
out to her benefit. They had strange reports in that part of the
country, and my niece and I have often observed her since we came to
London."

"Oh, aunt!" interposed Emma, "but she dressed and looked so--so--very
properly. I am sure she has married some person of her choice, and lives
happily. It would just complete her story."

The mention of a story after dinner, in the height of the London season,
is sufficient to wake up any drawing-room, and had its natural effect on
Lady Annette's.

"Oh, pray what was it?" demanded half a dozen voices; and Emma was of
course obliged to relate the tale, with frequent applications for
assistance to Mr. Thornley, whose replies, though always brief, were
satisfactory, as he turned over the annual, apparently the least
interested person in the room. When they had marveled sufficiently over
her narrative, Lady Annette, being a little proud of Miss Leveson's
sentiments, felt bound to acquaint them with the episode of the ring,
which she had just finished when the first of the dining-room deserters
straggled in.

"The last time I saw her she looked sickly and careworn--far worse than
that day we met her in the Park. You recollect it, Charles. We are
speaking of Grace Greenside," said Emma, addressing her aunt's cousin,
as he took the nearest seat.

"What of her now?" said Charles, bending eagerly forward; but here Mr.
Crainor interposed, with a petition that Emma would sing them that
charming song with which she enchanted Lady Wharton's party, as he, and
in fact the whole company, was dying to hear it. In less than five
minutes, which were consumed in general pressing, Emma was conducted to
the piano by Mr. Thornley. There was a deal of music, tea, chit-chat,
and a breaking-up, but no more talk of Grace Greenside.

"My dear boy," said Mr. Crainor, taking his nephew's arm with something
of the warmth of wine in his manner, when they were fairly in the
streets, it being eleven o'clock on a calm summer's night, and part of
their way the same. "My dear boy, you are not aware of what injury you
are doing to your best interests, as one may say, by keeping that girl
so long about you. She has been notorious; and notorious people--women,
I mean--are always dangerous. Weren't they talking of her at Lady
Annette's to-night? Depend on it, the story will ooze out, you are so
well known, and so much visited now. Then people will call you
dissipated, and I can't tell what. Such tales always spoil a man's
chances with advantageous ladies."

"I was thinking of that myself," said Edmund; "but it's a delicate
point, and one wouldn't like a scene, you know."

"True," responded his adviser; "but a little management will prevent
that. Captain Lancer is your man, if you want to get clear off. Just
introduce him, and the whole business is done."

"Do you really think so?" said Edmund, with a languid smile.

"I'll stake ten to one on it," replied Crainor; "Lancer has tenfold your
attractions for any woman, irresistible as you think yourself--a fine,
forward-looking military man, who has fought half a dozen duels, not to
speak of his experience. Don't you know the captain is married, though
he passes for a bachelor here? married an old ebony, with a whole
sugar-plantation in Jamaica, five years ago! That's what he sports upon;
while rum, they say, consoles the lady for his absence. He told me the
other day he was in want of some occupation, and I advise you to give
him one; but good night," added the sage counselor, for by this time
they were near Edmund's lodgings; and even through the gaslight a pale
face might be seen at the front window, looking anxiously out for him.

Sadly indeed was Grace Greenside altered since the day when the four
passed her in the walk through Leveson Park. The lameness was long
gone--her naturally good constitution had shaken off the effects of that
fearful struggle; her dress was of somewhat better materials and a
neater cut. She herself had something of a town look about her, as one
whom three years' residence had made familiar with the noisy streets of
London; but in the thin face and sunken eyes there were lines of care,
and weary look, which told of lonely winter evenings and pining summer
days. For three long years the girl had shared Edmund Thornley's
apartments, in the strangely-blended capacities of mistress and valet.
That a maid-of-all-work in a solitary farm-house, who was eighteen,
could scarcely read, and had a cross stepmother, should have been
induced to enter on such a course by a man so far her superior in
fortune and education, not to speak of eight years' seniority, must be
matter of marvel to those only whose wisdom and virtue are of the
untried sort. But so it was; and farm-servant as she had been, it was
wonderful how little poor Grace was spoiled by her change of position.
It might be that the girl was by nature too simple or too honest to take
its ordinary advantages, such as they are; perhaps it was not fine
things and nothing to do alone that she expected in London with Edmund,
when leaving behind her good name and country summers--the only good
things that life had given her; at all events, she lived humble and
retired days, aiming only to take care of Thornley's domestic interest
to the utmost of her power, and make herself generally useful to him in
sickness and health. There was a suitability in that conduct to the
peculiar tastes of the gentleman. Like most selfish people, he was a
great admirer of self-devotedness in others; and, long after the days of
first fancy and flattery were over, continued to value Grace as a
contributor to his comfort, in the fashion of an easy chair or a good
fire. Did not she keep every thing in order for his comings and goings,
which, with Edmund Thornley, were as regular as the clock on the
mantle-piece, for he was a most quiet bachelor, and never forgot
himself; but now the convenience might cost him too dear, and must be
parted with, according to his uncle's counsel. So, with it on his mind,
and the usual calm smile on his face, he received her kindly greeting,
heard and repeated the intelligence of the day over a nice supper, and
retired to rest.

Next day, Mr. Crainor introduced Captain Lancer to his nephew, at a
coffee-house; and Thornley brought him home to dine, and introduced him
to Grace, after which, as his servant remarked, "it was hextonishing how
often that ansum capting called, and how many messages the master sent
him home with to Miss Greenside; till one day he eard her speak
monstrous loud up stairs, and there was a door slammed, and the Capting
came down looking all of a eap."

The servant might also have observed that, during the day, Grace looked
impatiently for his master; but Edmund did not come, for he and Captain
Lancer dined together at a tavern.

The nights were growing long, and the harvest moon could be seen at
intervals through the fog and smoke of London. Grace thought how it
shone on corn-fields and laden orchards far away, and how long it was
since she left them; but other and more troubled thoughts passed
through her mind as she sat waiting for Thornley. It was not yet eight,
but that was his knock, and in another minute he stepped into the room.

"Edmund, dear," said the girl, eager to unburden her mind, "I have a
strange story for you to-night. That Captain Lancer is a bad, bad man.
Would you believe it, Edmund, he told all sorts of stories on you this
day, and asked me to go with him to France, the villain!"

"Indeed!" said Thornley, seating himself, with a look of prepared
resolution. "That was a good offer, Grace. The captain is very rich, and
might marry you."

Grace stared upon him in blank astonishment. "You see," continued the
unmoved Edmund, "you and I can live together no longer; my character
would suffer, and my prospects too, Grace. You would not injure my
prospects? Besides, you want country air; it would be good for you to go
home a little time, and I would give you something handsome, and see you
off on the Middlesex coach."

The amazement had passed from the girl's face now; for all that she had
half suspected, and tried not to believe so long, was proved true to
her.

"Is it Emma Leveson you are going to marry?" she said, growing deadly
pale.

"Perhaps," said Thornley. "But, dear me, what is the matter?" as Grace
looked down for an instant at the ring on her little finger, then sunk
down on a chair, and covered her face with her hands.

"Here," continued Edmund, pulling out his pocket-book, which contained
the only consolation known to him, "I have not much to myself, but here
are two hundred pounds; it will make you live like a lady among them;"
and he laid the notes in her lap.

Grace never looked at him or them; she sat for about a minute stiff and
silent, then rose, letting the bank-paper scatter on the carpet, and
walked quickly out. Edmund heard her go up stairs, and come down again;
there was a sound of the hall-door shutting quietly, and when he
inquired after it the servant told him Miss Greenside had gone without
saying any thing. Edmund gathered up the notes, and locked them in his
desk, smoked a cigar, read the _Court Journal_; but Grace did not come
back, nor did she ever again cross the threshold. When Thornley told Mr.
Crainor, on the earliest opportunity, that gentleman averred that the
girl had looked out for herself before Captain Lancer came, and Edmund
said, "It was wonderful that she left the notes behind her, for all the
money she could have was some savings in a little purse."

One Sunday, about six weeks after the event we have related, Charles
Monroe, on search of a short way from the Scotch church to his chambers,
was passing through a poor but decent street, known as Cowslip-court,
though a Cowslip had never been seen there within the memory of man,
when his attention was attracted by an old woman in dingy black, looking
for something on the ground, with a most rueful countenance.

"What have you lost, my good woman?" inquired Charles in some curiosity.

"It's a ring, sir," said the dame, "was left me by a poor soul as was
buried this morning. Some people thought it strange to see her so young
by herself, but she wor a decent creature for all that, and did what she
could in honesty. First she took to sewing, sir; but that didn't do, for
she was sickly, and got worse, till at last she died, all alone in my
two-pair back. And I'm sure that ring wor a love-token, or something of
the sort, for she used to cry over it when no one was by, and once bade
me take it when she was gone, because I minded her in her sickness; and
I was just going to show it to Mrs. Tillet, when it dropped out of my
fingers. But lauk, sir, there it is!"

"It's Emma Leveson's ring," said Charles, picking up the little
turquoise from among the dust at his feet. "Was the woman's name Grace
Greenside?"

"Just the same sir," said its new owner, clutching at the ring; "an' she
was--"

"A fool," added a more than half-intoxicated soldier, with a long pipe
in his mouth, lolling on the steps of an empty house as if they had been
a sofa. "I tell you she was a fool; and I was a gentleman once in my
day, but I was unfortunate. They wouldn't let me stay at college, though
I kept the gamest pack in Cambridge; and after that I took--to a variety
of business," said he, with another puff; "but if that girl had taken me
at my word, I would have stood by her. See the foolishness of women! She
would keep the old house, and transport Skulking Tom; he partly deserved
it for hitting her so hard, and there's what's come of it." With a
repetition of his last aphorism, the soldier smoked on, and Charles
after a minute inspection, recognized in the dirty and prematurely old
man his once boisterous class-fellow, Harry Williams. The time for
remonstrance or improvement was long past with him, and Charles had
grown a stranger to his memory; so, without word or sign of former
acquaintance, he purchased the ring from that communicative old woman at
about three times its lawful price, collected what further information
he could regarding the deceased, and went his way.

"Ay," said Charles, gazing on the ring some time after, when the whole
particulars of her story were gathered, "had she been worse or wiser,
poor Grace would have fared better in this world;" and then he thought
of the ring's first owner. But, before the period of his musings, Lady
Annette and her niece had gone with some of their noble relations to
spend the winter in Italy, Edmund Thornley accompanying them on a visit
to his father's residence; and, in her latest letter to a confidential
cousin, Emma had mentioned that his fine sense of propriety, and his
enthusiasm for all that was great and good, made him a most delightful
companion on the Continent.




THE GOLDEN AGE.


      The father sits, and marks his child
    Through the clover racing wild;
    And then as if he sweetly dream'd,
    He half remembers how it seem'd
    When he, too, was a reckless rover
    Among the bee-beloved clover:
    Pure airs, from heavenly places, rise
    Breathing the blindness from his eyes,
    Until, with rapture, grief, and awe,
    He sees again as then he saw.

      As then he saw, he sees again
    The heavy-loaded harvest wain,
    Hanging tokens of its pride
    In the trees on either side;
    Daisies, coming out at dawn,
    In constellations, on the lawn;
    The glory of the daffodil;
    The three black windmills on the hill,
    Whose magic arms fling wildly by,
    With magic shadows on the rye:
    In the leafy coppice, lo,
    More wealth than miser's dreams can show,
    The blackbird's warm and woolly brood,
    With golden beaks agape for food!
    Gipsies, all the summer seen,
    Native as poppies to the green;
    Winter, with its frosts and thaws,
    And opulence of hips and haws;
    The mighty marvel of the snow;
    The happy, happy ships that go,
    Sailing up and sailing down,
    Through the fields and by the town;--
    All the thousand dear events
    That fell when days were incidents.

      And, then, his meek and loving mother--
    Oh, what speechless feelings smother
    In his heart at thought of her!
    What sacred, piercing sorrow mounts,
    From new or unremembered founts,
    While to thought her ways recur.
    He hears the songs she used to sing;
    His tears in scalding torrents spring;
    Oh, might he hope that 'twould be given.
    Either in this world, or in heaven,
    To hear such songs as those again!

    --But life is deep and words are vain.
    Mark yonder hedgerow, here and there
    Sprinkled with Spring, but mainly bare;
    The wither'd bank beneath, where blows,
    In yellow crowds, the fresh primrose:
    What skill of color thus could smite
    The troubled heart-strings thro' the sight
    What magic of sweet speech express
    Their primeval tenderness?
    Can these not utter'd be, and can
    The day-spring of immortal man?




"GIVE WISELY!" AN ANECDOTE.


One evening, a short time since, the curate of B., a small village in
the north of France, returned much fatigued to his humble dwelling. He
had been visiting a poor family who were suffering from both want and
sickness; and the worthy old man, besides administering the consolations
of religion, had given them a few small coins, saved by rigid
self-denial from his scanty income. He walked homewards, leaning on his
stick, and thinking, with sorrow, how very small were the means he
possessed of doing good and relieving misery.

As he entered the door, he heard an unwonted clamor of tongues, taking
the form of a by no means harmonious duet--an unknown male voice
growling forth a hoarse bass, which was completely overscreeched by a
remarkably high and thin treble, easily recognized by the placid curate
as proceeding from the well-practiced throat of his housekeeper, the
shrewish Perpetua of a gentle Don Abbondio.

"A pretty business this, monsieur!" cried the dame, when her master
appeared, as with flashing eyes, and left arm a-kimbo, she pointed with
the other to a surly-looking man, dressed in a blouse, who stood in the
hall, holding a very small box in his hand. "This fellow," she
continued, "is a messenger from the diligence, and he wants to get
fifteen francs as the price of the carriage of that little box directed
to you, which I'm sure, no matter what it contains, can't be worth half
the money."

"Peace, Nanette," said her master; and, taking the box from the man, who
at his approach, civilly doffed his hat, he examined the direction.

It was extremely heavy, and bore the stamp of San Francisco, in
California, together with his own address. The curate paid the fifteen
francs, which left him possessed of but a few sous, and dismissed the
messenger.

He then opened the box, and displayed to the astonished eyes of Nanette
an ingot of virgin gold, and a slip of paper, on which were written the
following words:

  "To Monsieur the Curate of B.
      "A slight token of eternal gratitude, in remembrance of August
28th, 1848.
                                                   "CHARLES F----.
       "Formerly sergeant-major in the --th regiment; now a gold-digger
               in California."

On the 28th of August, 1848, the curate was, on the evening in question,
returning from visiting his poor and sick parishioners. Not far from his
cottage he saw a young soldier with a haggard countenance and wild
bloodshot eyes, hastening toward the bank of a deep and rapid river,
which ran through the fields. The venerable priest stopped him, and
spoke to him kindly.

At first the young man would not answer, and tried to break away from
his questioner; but the curate fearing that he meditated suicide, would
not be repulsed, and at length, with much difficulty, succeeded in
leading him to his house. After some time, softened by the tender
kindness of his host, the soldier confessed that he had spent in
gambling a sum of money which had been entrusted to him as
sergeant-major of his company. This avowal was made in words broken by
sobs, and the culprit repeated several times, "My poor mother! my poor
mother! if she only knew--"

The curate waited until the soldier had become more calm, and then
addressed him in words of reproof and counsel, such as a tender father
might bestow on an erring son. He finished by giving him a bag
containing one hundred and thirty francs, the amount of the sum
unlawfully dissipated.

"It is nearly all I possess in the world," said the old man, "but by the
grace of God you will change your habits, you will work diligently, and
some day, my friend, you will return me this money, which indeed belongs
more to the poor than to me."

It would be impossible to describe the young soldier's joy and
astonishment. He pressed convulsively his benefactor's hand, and after a
pause, said,

"Monsieur, in three months my military engagement will be ended. I
solemnly promise that, with the assistance of God, from that time I will
work diligently." So he departed, bearing with him the money and the
blessing of the good man.

Much to the sorrow and indignation of Nanette, her master continued to
wear through the ensuing winter, his old threadbare suit, which he had
intended to replace by warm garments; and his dinner frequently
consisted of bread and _soupe maigre_.

"And all this," said the dame, "for the sake of a worthless stroller,
whom we shall never see or hear of again!"

"Nanette," said her master, with tears in his eyes, as he showed her the
massive ingot, whose value was three thousand francs, "never judge
hardly of a repentant sinner. It was the weeping Magdalen who poured
precious ointment on her Master's feet; it was the outlawed Samaritan
leper who returned to give Him thanks. Our poor guest has nobly kept his
word. Next winter my sick people will want neither food nor medicine;
and you must lay in plenty of flannel and frieze for our old men and
women, Nanette!"




MONTHLY RECORD OF CURRENT EVENTS.


POLITICAL AND GENERAL NEWS.

UNITED STATES.

In Politics the past month has been distinguished by the occurrence of
elections in several of the States, and by a general agitation, in every
section of the Union, of questions connected with the subject of
slavery. The discussions through the press and before public audiences,
have been marked by great excitement and bitterness, and have thus
induced a state of public feeling in the highest degree unfavorable to
that calm and judicious legislation which the critical condition of the
country requires. We recorded at the proper time, the passage by
Congress of the several measures generally known as the "peace measures"
of the session--the last of which was the bill making more effectual
provision for the recovery of fugitive slaves. Congress had no sooner
adjourned than these measures, and especially the last, became the theme
of violent public controversy. In the Northern States, several attempts
to regain possession of fugitives from slavery in New York, Boston,
Philadelphia, Pittsburgh, and other places, were resisted with great
clamor, and served to inflame public feeling to a very unhealthy extent.
In our last number we mentioned some of the incidents by which this
agitation was marked. It influenced greatly the elections in New York,
Massachusetts, and other states, where nominations for Congress and
state officers were made with special reference to these questions. The
result of these elections is now to be recorded.

In our last number we mentioned the action of the Whig State Convention
at Syracuse, the secession of forty members in consequence of the
adoption of a resolution approving the course of Senator SEWARD, and
their subsequent meeting at Utica, and renomination of the same ticket.
Mr. HUNT, the Whig candidate for Governor, wrote a letter expressing
acquiescence in the peace measures of Congress, but adding that the
Fugitive Slave Law contained many unjust provisions, and ought to
receive essential modifications. A convention representing the
Anti-Renters of the state afterward assembled, and nominated Mr. HUNT as
their candidate for Governor. On the 22d of October he wrote a letter to
the Committee declining to recognize the action of any organization
except that of the Whig party from which he had first received his
nomination, and adding that, if elected, his "Constitutional duties
could not be changed, nor his conduct in the discharge of them
influenced, by the course taken in the election by any particular class
of our citizens or any organization other than the party to which he
belonged." Under all circumstances, he said, it would be his highest aim
to execute his official trust with firmness and impartiality. He would
"be actuated by an honest desire to promote justice, to uphold the
supremacy of the law, to facilitate all useful reforms, to second
legitimate endeavors for the redress of public grievances, and to
protect the rights and advance the welfare of the whole people."

In the City of New York, meantime, there had been a growing feeling of
apprehension at the tone of current political discussions and at the
opposition everywhere manifested at the North to the Fugitive Slave Law,
and on the 30th of October a very large public meeting was held at
Castle Garden of those who were in favor of sustaining all the peace
measures of Congress, and of taking such measures as would prevent any
further agitation of the question of slavery. Mr. GEORGE WOOD, an
eminent member of the New York Bar, presided. A letter was read from Mr.
WEBSTER, to whom the resolutions intended to be brought forward had been
sent, with an invitation to attend the meeting. The invitation was
declined, but Mr. WEBSTER expressed the most cordial approbation of the
meeting, and of its proposed action. He concurred in "all the political
principles contained in the resolutions, and stood pledged to support
them, publicly and privately, now and always, to the full extent of his
influence, and by the exertion of every faculty which he possessed." The
Fugitive Slave Law he said, was not such a one as he had proposed, and
should have supported if he had been in the Senate. But it is now "the
law of the land, and as such is to be respected and obeyed by all good
citizens. I have heard," he adds, "no man, whose opinion is worth
regarding, deny its constitutionality; and those who counsel violent
resistance to it, counsel that, which, if it take place, is sure to lead
to bloodshed, and to the commission of capital offenses. It remains to
be seen how far the deluded and the deluders will go in this career of
faction, folly, and crime. No man is at liberty to set up, or to affect
to set up, his own conscience as above the law, in a matter which
respects the rights of others, and the obligations, civil, social, and
political, due to others from him. Such a pretense saps the foundation
of all government, and is of itself a perfect absurdity; and while all
are bound to yield obedience to the laws, wise and well-disposed
citizens will forbear from renewing past agitation, and rekindling the
names of useless and dangerous controversy. If we would continue one
people, we must acquiesce in the will of the majority, constitutionally
expressed; and he that does not mean to do that, means to disturb the
public peace, and to do what he can to overturn the Government." The
resolutions adopted at the meeting, declared the purpose "to sustain the
Fugitive Slave Law and its execution by all lawful means:" and that
those represented at the meeting would "support no candidate at the
ensuing or any other election, for state officers, or for members of
Congress or of the Legislature, who is known or believed to be hostile
to the peace measures recently adopted by Congress, or any of them, or
in favor of re-opening the questions involved in them, for renewed
agitation."

This meeting was followed by the nomination of a ticket, intended to
represent these views, and those candidates only were selected, from
both the party nominees, who were known or believed to entertain them.
Mr. SEYMOUR (Dem.) was nominated for Governor; Mr. CORNELL (Whig) for
Lieutenant Governor; Mr. MATHER (Dem.) for Canal Commissioner; and Mr.
SMITH (Whig) for Clerk of the Court of Appeals. This movement in New
York City in favor of these candidates, caused a reaction in favor of
the others in the country districts of the state. The election occurred
on the 5th of November, and resulted as follows:

                    _Whigs._            _Democrats._

  _Gov._           HUNT     214,353    SEYMOUR  214,095
  _Lieut. Gov._    CORNELL  210,721    CHURCH   217,935
  _Canal Com._     BLAKELY  213,762    MATHER   214,818
  _Prison Ins._    BAKER    207,696    ANGEL    217,720
  _Clerk_          SMITH    210,926    BENTON   217,840

From this it will be seen that Mr. HUNT was elected Governor, and all
the rest of the Democratic ticket was successful. Thirty-four members of
Congress were also elected, there being 17 of each political party. The
Legislature is decidedly Whig. In the Senate, which holds over from last
year, there is a Whig majority of 2; and of the newly elected members of
Assembly, 81 are Whigs, and 47 Democrats. This result derives special
importance from the fact that a U.S. Senator is to be chosen to succeed
Hon. D.S. DICKINSON, whose term expires on the 4th of March, 1851. The
vote on the Repeal of the Free School Law was as follows:

  Against repeal                 203,501
  For repeal                     168,284
                                --------
      Majority against repeal     35,217

In NEW JERSEY a state election also occurred on the 5th of November. The
candidates for Governor were Dr. FORT, Democrat, and Hon. JOHN RUNK,
Whig. The result of the canvass was as follows:

  FORT                   39,726
  RUNK                   34,054
                        -------
      Fort's majority     5,672

Five members of Congress were also elected, 4 of whom were Democrats,
and 1 Whig.

In OHIO the election occurred in October, with the following result:

  WOOD, Democrat       133,092    Majority  11,997.
  JOHNSTON, Whig       121,095
  SMITH, Abolitionist   13,826

Twenty-one members of Congress were elected, of whom 8 were Whigs, and
13 Democrats.

In MASSACHUSETTS the election took place on the 12th of November, with
the following result for Governor--there being, of course, no election,
as a majority of all the votes cast is requisite to a choice:

  BRIGGS, Whig           55,351
  BOUTWELL, Democrat     36,245
  PHILLIPS, Free Soil    27,811

Of 9 Congressmen, 3 Whigs are chosen, and in 6 districts no choice was
effected. Hon. HORACE MANN, the Free Soil candidate, succeeded against
both the opposing candidates. To the State Senate 13 Whigs and 27 of the
Opposition were chosen; and to the House of Representatives 169 Whigs,
179 Opposition, and in 79 districts there was no choice. The vacancies
were to be filled by an election on the 25th of November. A U.S. Senator
from this State is also to be chosen, to succeed Hon. R.C. WINTHROP, who
was appointed by the Governor to supply the vacancy caused by Mr.
WEBSTER's resignation.

No more elections for Members of Congress will be held in any of the
States (except to fill vacancies) until after March 4th, 1851. The terms
of 21 Senators expire on that day--of whom 8 are Whigs, and 13
Democrats. Judging from the State elections already held there will be 6
Whigs and 15 Democrats chosen to fill their places. The U.S. Senate will
then stand thus:

  Holding over      18   Whigs      23 Democrats.
  New Senators       6     "         5     "
                    --              --
      Total         24              38

The House of Representatives comprises 233 members, of whom 127 have
already been chosen, politically divided as follows--compared with the
delegations from each State in the present Congress:

                          1850.             1848.
                      _Whig._ _Dem._   _Whig._ _Dem._

  Missouri               3      2                5
  Iowa                          2         1      1
  Vermont                3      1         3      1
  Florida                1                1
  Maine                  2      5         2      5
  South Carolina                7                7
  Pennsylvania           9     15        15      9
  Ohio                   8     13        10     11
  New York              17     17        32      2
  New Jersey             1      4         4      1
  Wisconsin                     3         1      2
  Michigan               2      1         1      2
  Massachusetts[11]      3                3
  Illinois               1      6         1      6
  Delaware                      1         1
                        --     --        --     --
                        50     77        75     52

Should the remaining 16 States be represented in the next Congress
politically as at present, the Democratic majority would be about 30. In
reference to the contingency of the next presidential election devolving
upon the House, for lack of a choice by the people, 9 of the above
States would go Democratic, five of them Whig, and one (the State of New
York), would have no vote, its delegation being equally divided. The
delegations of the same States in the present Congress are as follows,
viz., 7 Whig, 7 Democratic, and one (Iowa) equally divided.

While such have been the results of the elections in the Northern
States, and such the tone of public feeling there, a still warmer
canvass has been going on throughout the South. We can only indicate the
most prominent features of this excitement, as shown in the different
Southern States.

In GEORGIA a State Convention of delegates is to assemble, by call of
the Executive, under an act of the Legislature, at Milledgeville, on the
10th of December: and delegates are to be elected. The line of division
is resistance, or submission, to the Federal Government. A very large
public meeting was held at Macon, at which resolutions were adopted,
declaring that, if the North would adhere to the terms of the late
Compromise--if they would insure a faithful execution of the Fugitive
Slave Bill, and put down all future agitation of the slavery
question--then the people of the South will continue to live in the
bonds of brotherhood, and unite in all proper legislative action for the
preservation and perpetuity of our glorious Union. Hon. HOWELL COBB,
Speaker of the House of Representatives, made a speech in support of
these resolutions. Hon. A.H. STEPHENS, R. TOOMBS, Senator BERRIEN, and
other distinguished gentlemen of both parties, have made efforts in the
same direction, and public meetings have been held in several counties,
at which similar sentiments were proclaimed. The general feeling in
Georgia seems to be in favor of acquiescence in the recent legislation
of Congress, provided the North will also acquiesce, and faithfully
carry its acts into execution.

In SOUTH CAROLINA, the whole current of public feeling seems to be in
favor of secession. At a meeting held at Greenville, on the 4th of
November, Col. MEMMINGER made a speech, in which he expressed himself
in favor of a Confederation of the Southern States, and if that could
not be accomplished, then for South Carolina to secede from the Union,
stand upon and defend her rights, and leave the issue in the hands of
Him who ruleth the destinies of nations. He was answered by General
WADDY THOMPSON, who depicted forcibly and eloquently the ruinous results
of such a course as that advised, and repelled the charges of injustice
urged against the Northern States. The meeting, however, adopted
resolutions, almost unanimously, embodying the sentiments of Col.
MEMMINGER. And the tone of the press throughout the state is of the same
character.

In ALABAMA public opinion is divided. A portion of the people are in
favor of resistance, and called upon Gov. COLLIER to convene a State
Convention, to take the matter into consideration. The Governor has
issued an address upon the subject, in which he declines to do so, at
present, until the course of other Southern States shall have been
indicated. He says that while all profess to entertain the purpose to
resist aggression by the Federal Legislature on the great southern
institution, public opinion is certainly not agreed as to the time or
occasion when resistance should be interposed, or as to the mode or
measure of it. He apprehends renewed efforts for the abolition of
slavery in the District of Columbia, and pertinacious exertions for the
repeal of the Fugitive Slave Law; that California will be divided into
several States, and that the North will thus acquire power enough so to
amend the Federal Constitution as to take away the right of
representation for the slaves--a result which he, of course, regards as
fatal to the South. He believes that any State has a right to secede
from the Union, at pleasure, but thinks that a large majority of the
people of Alabama, are strongly disinclined to withdraw from the
confederation, until other measures have been unsuccessfully tried to
resist further aggression. Under these circumstances, he recommends the
people of the State so to develop their resources, establish
manufactures, schools, shipping houses, &c., as to become really
independent of the North. This is the policy which, in his judgment,
will prove most effectual in securing the rights, and protecting the
interests of the South. Hon. Mr. HILLIARD has written a letter to the
citizens of Mount Meigs, declaring that, though opposed to the admission
of California, he sees nothing in the measures of the last session which
would justify the people of the Southern States in resisting them, or
furnish any ground for revolution. A very large mass meeting of the
citizens of Montgomery county, held on the 20th of October, adopted
resolutions, first reciting that a systematic and formidable
organization is in progress in some of the Southern States, having for
its object some form of violent resistance to the Compromise measures
passed by Congress at its last session; and that if this resistance is
carried out according to the plans of a portion of the citizens of the
Southern States, it must, inevitably, lead to a dissolution of the
Union; and that the Montgomery meeting, though they do not approve of
them all, do not consider these measures as furnishing any sufficient
and just cause for resistance; and then declaring, 1. That they will
rally under the flag of the Union. 2. That they will support no man for
any office, who is in favor of disunion, or secession, on account of any
existing law or act of Congress. 3. That they acquiesce in the recent
action of Congress. And, 4. That if the Compromise should be disturbed,
they will unite with the South in such measures of resistance as the
emergency may demand.

In MISSISSIPPI the contest is no less animated. It was brought on by the
issuing of a proclamation by Gov. QUITMAN, calling a State Convention,
for the purpose of taking measures of redress. A private letter, written
by Gov. QUITMAN, has also been published, in which he avows himself in
favor of secession. On the last Saturday in October, a mass meeting was
held at Raymond, at which Col. JEFFERSON DAVIS was present, and made a
speech. He was strongly in favor of resistance, but was not clear that
it should be by _force_. He thought it possible to maintain the rights
of the South in the Union. He was willing, however, to leave the mode of
resistance entirely to the people, while he should follow their dictates
implicitly. Mr. ANDERSON replied to him, and insisted that the Federal
Government had committed no unconstitutional aggression upon the rights
of the South, and that they ought, therefore, to acquiesce in the recent
legislation of Congress. Senator FOOTE is actively engaged in canvassing
the state, urging the same views. He meets very violent opposition in
various sections.

In LOUISIANA indications of public sentiment are to be found in the
position of the two United States Senators. Mr. DOWNS, in his public
addresses, takes the ground that the South might as well secede because
Illinois and Indiana are free States as because California is. He admits
that California is a large State, but he says she is not half so large
as Texas, a slave State, brought into the Union five years ago. Mr.
SOULE, the other Senator, having expressed no opinion upon the subject,
was addressed in a friendly note of inquiry first by Hon. C.N. STANTON,
asking whether he was in favor of a dissolution of the Union, of the
establishment of a Southern Confederacy, or of the secession of
Louisiana, because of the late action of Congress. Mr. SOULE, in his
reply, complains bitterly of the "vile abuse" heaped upon him, charges
his correspondent with seeking his political destruction, and refers him
to his speeches in the Senate for his sentiments upon these questions. A
large number of the members of his own party then addressed to Mr. SOULE
the same inquiries, saying that they did it from no feeling of
unkindness, but merely to have a fair and proper comprehension of his
opinions upon a most important public question. Mr. S., under date of
Oct. 30, replies, refusing to answer their inquiries, and saying that
their only object was to divide and distract the Democratic party.
Senator DOWNS, in reply to the same questions, has given a full and
explicit answer in the negative: he is not in favor of disunion or
secession.

A letter written during the last session of Congress, dated January 7,
1850, from the Members of Congress from Louisiana, to the Governor of
that State, has recently been published. It calls his attention to the
constant agitation of the subject of slavery at the North, and to the
fact that the legislature of every Northern State had passed resolutions
deemed aggressive by the South, and urging the Governor to recommend the
Legislature of Louisiana to join the other Southern States in resisting
this action. The opinion is expressed that "decisive action on the part
of the Southern States at the present crisis, is not only not dangerous
to the Union, but that it is the best, many think, the only way of
saving it."

Among the political events of the month is the publication of a
correspondence between Hon. ISAAC HILL, long a leader of the Democratic
party in New Hampshire, and Mr. WEBSTER, in regard to the efforts of the
latter to preserve the peace and harmony of the Union by allaying
agitation on the subject of slavery. Mr. HILL, under date of April 17,
wrote to Mr. WEBSTER expressing his growing alarm at the progress of
ill-feeling between the different sections of the country, and his
conviction that "all that is of value in the sound discrimination and
good sense of the American people will declare in favor of Mr. WEBSTER's
great speech in the Senate upon that subject. Its author," he adds, "may
stand upon that alone, and he will best stand by disregarding any and
every imputation of alleged inconsistency and discrepancy of opinion and
practice, in a public career of nearly half a century." Mr. WEBSTER, in
acknowledging the letter, speaks of it as "an extraordinary and
gratifying incident in his life," coming as it did from one who had long
"belonged to an opposite political party, espoused opposite measures,
and supported for high office men of very different political opinions."
They had not differed, however, in their devotion to the Union; and now,
that its harmony is threatened, it was gratifying to see that both
concurred in the measures necessary for its preservation. His effort, he
says, had been and would be to cause the billows of useless and
dangerous controversy to sleep and be still. He was ready to meet all
the consequences which are likely to follow the attempt to moderate
public feeling in highly excited times, and he cheerfully left the
speech to which Mr. HILL had alluded, "with the principles and
sentiments which it avows, to the judgment of posterity."

A public dinner was given to the Hon. JOHN M. CLAYTON on the 16th of
November, by the Whigs of Delaware, at Wilmington, at which Mr. C. made
a long and eloquent speech in vindication of the policy pursued by the
late President TAYLOR and his Administration. He paid a very high
tribute to the personal character, moral firmness, patriotism, and
sagacity of the late President, and vindicated his course from the
objections which have been urged against it. He expressed full
confidence in the perpetuity of the Union, and ridiculed the
apprehensions that have been so widely entertained of its dissolution. A
large number of guests were present, and letters were read from many
distinguished gentlemen who had been invited but were unable to attend.
Preferences were expressed at the meeting for Gen. SCOTT as a candidate
for the Presidency in 1852.

Colonel RICHARD M. JOHNSON, Vice President of the United States for four
years from 1836, died at Frankfort, Ky., on the 19th of November, aged
70. He has been a member of Congress, and Senator of the United States
from Kentucky, and acquired distinction under General Harrison in the
Indian war of 1812. At the time of his death he was a member of the
Kentucky Legislature.


GREAT BRITAIN.

The event of the month which has excited most interest, has been the
establishment by the Pope of Roman Catholic jurisdiction in England. The
Pope has issued an Apostolic Letter, dated September 24th, which begins
by reciting the steps taken hitherto for the promotion of the Catholic
faith in England. Having before his eyes the efforts made by his
predecessors, and desirous of imitating their zeal, and carrying forward
to completion the work which they commenced, and considering that every
day the obstacles are falling off which stood in the way of the
extension of the Catholic religion, Pius IX. believes that the time has
come when the form of government should be resumed in England such as it
exists in other nations. He thinks it no longer necessary that England
should be governed by Vicars Apostolic, but that she should be furnished
with the ordinary episcopal form of government. Being confirmed in these
thoughts by the desires expressed by the Vicars Apostolic, the clergy
and laity, and the great body of English Catholics, and, also, by the
advice of the Cardinals forming the Congregation for Propagating the
Faith, the Pope decrees the re-establishment in England of a hierarchy
of bishops, deriving their titles from their own Sees, which he
constitutes in the various Apostolic districts. He then proceeds to
erect England into one archiepiscopal province of the Romish church, and
divides that province into thirteen bishoprics.

The promulgation of this letter created throughout England a feeling of
angry surprise, and nearly the whole of London has teemed with the most
emphatic and earnest condemnation of the measure. In order somewhat to
mitigate the alarm of startled Protestantism, Dr. Ullathorne, an eminent
Catholic divine, has published a letter to show that the act is solely
between the Pope and his spiritual subjects, who have been recognized as
such by the English Emancipation Act, and that it does not in the
slightest degree interfere with the laws of England, in all temporal
matters. He shows that the jurisdiction which the Pope has asserted in
England, is nothing more than has been exercised by every communion in
the land, and that nothing can be more unfair than to confound this
measure, which is really one of liberality to the Catholics of England,
with ideas of aggression on the English government and people. In 1688,
he says, England was divided into four vicariates. In 1840, the four
were again divided into eight; and, in 1850, they are again divided and
changed into thirteen. This has been done in consequence of efforts
begun by the Catholics of England, in 1846, and continued until the
present time. By changing the Vicars Apostolic into Bishops in ordinary,
the Pope has given up the exercise of a portion of his power, and
transferred it to the bishops. This letter, with other papers of a
similar tenor, has somewhat modified the feeling of indignation with
which the Pope's proceeding was at first received, and attention has
been turned to the only fact of real importance connected with the
matter, namely, the rapid and steady increase of the Roman Catholics, by
conversions from the English Established Church. The _Daily News_, in a
paper written with marked ability, charges this increase upon the secret
Catholicism of many of the younger clergy, encouraged by ecclesiastical
superiors, upon the negligent administration of other clergymen, and
upon the exclusive character of the Universities. Very urgent demands
are made by the press, and by the clergy of the Established Church, for
the interference of the Government against the Pope's invasion of the
rights of England; but no indications have yet been given of any
intention on the part of ministers to take any action upon the subject.

A good deal of attention has been attracted to a speech made by Lord
STANLEY, the leader of the Protectionist party in England, at a public
dinner, Oct. 4th, in which he urged the necessity, on the part of the
agricultural interests of the kingdom, of adapting themselves to the
free-trade policy, instead of laboring in vain for its repeal. The
speech has been very widely regarded as an abandonment of the
protective policy by its leading champion, and it is, of course,
considered as a matter of marked importance with reference to the future
policy of Great Britain upon this subject. The Marquis of Granby, on the
other hand, at the annual meeting of the Waltham Agricultural Society,
held on the 19th of October, again urged the necessity of returning to
the old system of protection, and exhorted reliance on a future
Parliament for its accomplishment. The subject of agriculture is
attracting an unusual degree of attention, and the various issues
connected with it, form a standard topic of discussion in the leading
journals.

The Tenant Right question continues to be agitated with great
earnestness and ability in Ireland. A deputation from the Ulster Tenant
Right Provincial Committee waited on the Earl of Clarendon during his
visit to Belfast to present an address. The earl declined to receive
them, but wrote a letter, dated Sept. 18, in reply to one inclosing a
copy of the address. He expressed great satisfaction at the prevalence
of order and at the evidence of agricultural prosperity, and assured
them of the wish of the government to settle the rights of tenants on a
just and satisfactory basis. A great Tenant Right meeting was held at
Meath, October 10th, at which some 15,000 persons are said to have been
present.

The Committee of Prelates appointed by the Synod of Thurles to carry
into execution the project of establishing a Catholic University in
Ireland, on the model of the Catholic University at Louvain, have
resolved that regular monthly collections, on the plan of that for the
Propagation of the Faith, be made throughout the kingdom by local
committees, of which the parochial clergy are to be ex-officio members.
They have published a long address to the Catholics of Ireland,
insisting on the grave evils to faith and morals of separating religion
from secular education, and calling loudly for support to their
projected establishment.

The month has been distinguished in England by an extraordinary
prevalence of crime. Murders, burglaries, and other offenses against the
law have been frequent beyond all former experience. The details of
these incidents it is not worth while to give. The Household Narrative
gives a chapter, written after the manner of Ledru Rollin, in which the
state of England during the month of October is presented in a most
unpromising light. The writer says that, notwithstanding the gloominess
of the picture, every fact stated in it is true, and every inference is
false. There have also been an unusual number of accidents during the
month.

Miss Howard, of York Place, has assigned over to trustees L45,000, for
the erection of twenty-one houses on her property at Pinner, near
Harrow, in the form of a crescent; the centre-house for the trustees,
the other twenty houses for the use of twenty widows, who are to occupy
them free of rent and taxes, and also to receive L50 a year clear of all
deductions. The widows of naval men to have the preference, then those
of military men, and, lastly, those of clergymen. This is justly
chronicled as an act of munificent charity.

The Free Grammar School at Richmond, erected as a testimonial to the
memory of the late Canon Tate, who was one of the most successful
teachers in England, was opened with much ceremony on the 3d of October.

A Temperance Festival was held on the 14th, at the London Tavern. The
company, between five and six hundred, were entertained with tea,
speeches, and temperance melodies. The principal speaker was Mr. George
Cruikshank, the celebrated artist, who was vehemently applauded.

Negotiations have been entered into with the Lords of the Admiralty and
Government authorities for the establishment of a Submarine Telegraph
across St. George's Channel, upon a similar though much more extensive
scale to that now being undertaken between England and France. From the
extreme western coast of Ireland to Halifax, the nearest telegraphic
station in America, the distance is 2155 miles; and as this might be
accomplished by the steamers in five or six days, it is apprehended that
England, by means of telegraphic communication, may be put in possession
of intelligence from America in six days, instead of as now in twelve or
fourteen.

The QUEEN and Prince ALBERT have returned from their visit to Scotland.
They remained at Balmoral till the 10th Oct., on the morning of which
day they departed for the South. They arrived at Edinburgh about seven
in the evening. Preparations had been made to give a loyal welcome; and
among the features of the demonstration, was a bonfire piled to the
height of forty feet on the summit of Arthur's Seat. The blazing mass
consisted of thirty tons of coal, a vast quantity of wood saturated with
oil and turpentine, and a thousand tar-barrels. It was kindled at five
o'clock, and the flames are said to have been seen by the Queen for many
miles of her route on both sides of the Forth. The party left Edinburgh
next morning, and arrived in the evening at Buckingham Palace; and on
Saturday, the 12th, they went to Osborne.

Intelligence has been received from the Arctic Expedition in search of
Sir John Franklin. The North Star, which went out as a tender-ship to
the expedition of Sir John Clark Ross a year and a half ago, returned
unexpectedly to Spithead on the 28th of September, bringing dispatches
from the ships of the four expeditions which went out early this year.
The Prince Albert, a ship dispatched in July last, under Captain
Forsyth, to make a special search beyond Brentford Bay, returned to
Aberdeen on the 29th ult. Dispatches from Captain Ommaney, Captain
Penny, Sir John Ross, and Captain Forsyth, have been published by the
Admiralty; but they throw little or no light on the fate of the missing
voyagers.

The British Government has decided to send all letters and newspapers
for the United States by the first steamer, whether American or English.
Hitherto they have invariably been detained for a British steamer,
unless specially marked for transmission by the American line.

A Dublin paper states that Dr. WISEMAN, who has been made Archbishop of
Westminster by the Pope, is a native of Seville, where his parents, who
are natives of Waterford, Ireland, resided several years. His father was
a wine-merchant in Andalusia.

The Lord Mayor of York gave a splendid entertainment to the Lord Mayor
of London, on the 25th of October, which was attended by a great number
of the leading men of England. Prince Albert was present, and made a
very sensible and pertinent extempore speech. Its leading feature was a
marked and impressive eulogy on Sir Robert Peel. In alluding to the
interest taken by Sir Robert in the great Industrial Exhibition, Prince
Albert took occasion to say that he had assurances of the most reliable
character that the works in preparation for the great Exhibition were
"such as to dispel all apprehension for the position which British
industry will maintain."

At the meeting of the Canford Estate Agricultural Show on the 22d of
October, the lady of Sir John Guest made a brief but most admirable
speech, expressing her regard for the laboring classes of England, and
her earnest desire that the utmost efforts should be made for their
elevation and improvement. This unusual incident, and the admirable
spirit which it evinced, elicited great applause.

The Town Council of Manchester are taking vigorous steps to compel the
manufacturers of that city to consume the smoke of their furnaces, and
thus to rid the city of the dense cloud which has hung over it hitherto.
The process is found to be perfectly practicable, and decidedly
economical. Some of the heaviest manufacturing establishments in the
city testify to a saving of _one-third_ in coal. The issue of the
experiment will be important.

The rapid increase of burglaries and thefts in Birmingham has elicited
from Mr. D.H. Hill a suggestion for the suppression of crime, which is
regarded as pertinent and important by the leading journals. He proposes
that whenever a jury is satisfied that an accused party is addicted to
theft, he shall be compelled to prove a good character, and to show
means of subsistence, on penalty of being adjudged a thief, and punished
accordingly, under an old statute.

Emigration from Ireland to the United States continues and increases. A
great part of those who leave are described by the Irish papers as being
farmers of the most respectable class, and considerable apprehensions
are expressed of the injurious effect of the movement on the prosperity
of the country.

A letter from BRAZIL, written by Lieut. BAILEY of the royal navy,
details some rather prompt proceedings on his part in the capture of
slavers. He was sent out to the Brazil station, and arrived off Rio
Janeiro June 18th, and in sight of the harbor captured a vessel engaged
in slave-trading, and sank her the same night. On the 20th, he captured
a second, and sent her to St. Helena for adjudication; and on the 23d,
he seized another, taking her out of a Brazilian port, which has
hitherto been contrary to law. The affair excited a good deal of feeling
in Brazil, and was likely to lead to a misunderstanding with the English
government. The effect of such proceedings, in exasperating a government
which might be induced by friendly appeals to put an end to
slave-trading, is forcibly urged.

The Paris correspondent of the London Times has developed an alleged
secret plot of the Red Republicans, to revive the revolutionary fever
throughout Europe, and the substance of his statements is also given in
the Paris _Patrie_--both accounts being evidently derived from the same
source. It is asserted that the Socialists have leagued themselves
together and that a secret congress of their chiefs was held in Paris on
the 2d of June, where they planned a gigantic conspiracy, the
ramifications of which extend to the whole of Europe, and even to the
heart of Russia, where it is said to menace a terrible explosion. The
motto which has been adopted is, "_Sans pitie ni merci_," and it has
been resolved that all the chiefs of states shall be assassinated. It is
added that in one of the numerous secret meetings held by the initiated
under the presidency of the principal agents, the death of the
Bonapartists was sworn, and would be the signal for the destruction of
all the Bourbons, and of all their friends and supporters. The threat
uttered by one of the German chiefs of the conspiracy was to the effect
that "on the field of battle we shall spare no one, and we will strike
down our dearest friends if they are not unconditional Communists."
After indicating the depots of arms formed by the Communist conspirators
in all the capitals where it has established seats, enumerating the
means employed to ensnare the foolish and the ambitious, and, in fact,
indicating all its resources and all its plans, the document informs us
that the object of the conspiracy is to arrive, by means of general
confusion and a sanguinary combat, at the extermination of all those who
possess a foot of land, or a coupon of _rente_, and that it has sworn
the oath of Hannibal against all the monarchies of Europe. _Plunder and
assassination form the basis of the plan._ The document terminates thus,
"The soil of Europe is undermined, so as to render a frightful
catastrophe imminent." The pretended revelation is ridiculed in nearly
all quarters.

On the destruction of the Roman Republic, the Roman Representatives
appointed a National Committee, of which Mazzini was the head, with
extensive political powers. This committee has just issued an address,
dated at London, calling on all Italians and all Italian provinces to
join their standard, promising them eventual success. In the course of
the address they declare that they have effected such an organization of
the forces of the movement as circumstances permit, and insist on the
necessity of Italy becoming an independent nation.

We have hitherto alluded to the public agitation started in the British
Colony of New South Wales in favor of independence, by Dr. Lang, who had
organized an association for the purpose of accomplishing the object
which he declared to be so desirable. The movement has been represented
by the English papers as being unsupported by the colonists, and as,
therefore, of no importance. We see, however, that Dr. Lang has recently
been elected mayor of the City of Sydney, which shows that the people
there, at least, have confidence in his character and respect for his
views.


FRANCE.

Nothing important has occurred in France during the month, except a
change in the War Department, growing out of the supposed efforts of the
President to attach the army to his interests. On the 3d of October the
President reviewed a great body of troops near Versailles. He was
accompanied by the Minister of War, and by General Roguet, his
aid-de-camp. General Changarnier left Paris an hour before the
President. Though entitled to take the command he did not do so, General
Neumayer acting in his room. After the review the President gave a
collation to the officers and non-commissioned officers, and ordered
13,000 rations to be distributed to the soldiers. The President joined
the collation given to the general officers, but General Changarnier
declined being present, and returned to Paris. The frequency of these
reviews, the manner in which the troops were feasted by the President,
the manifestations made by the soldiers, and the rumor that a difference
of opinion existed between the President and General Changarnier on the
subject, led to an extraordinary meeting of the Commission of
Permanence. The Minister of War, General Hautpoul, having been called on
to explain the circumstances with reference to the late reviews, replied
that he wished to inform the Commission that he held no command from the
Assembly, and that, consequently, he could deny the right of the
Commission to put any questions to him. He, however, waived these
objections; and, in reply to the question, said that the accounts
published in the papers respecting the reviews were grossly exaggerated;
and that nothing whatever had occurred there of an unconstitutional or
an unmilitary character. The Minister further observed that it would be
impossible to publish an order of the day preventing the soldiers from
expressing their feelings of attachment and respect to the chief of the
State, and if it were possible he would not do so. With respect to the
review that was to take place on the following Thursday, he pledged
himself for the maintenance of the most complete tranquillity on that
occasion. When the Commission was about to separate, the President again
addressed the Minister of War, and said, "General Hautpoul, I am desired
by the committee to apprise you that in case General Changarnier be
removed from his command, or that any other steps be taken against him,
we are determined to convoke, forthwith, the Legislative Assembly." To
this the Minister made no reply, and the Commission adjourned.

On Thursday the 10th, the review referred to by the Minister of War took
place. There were 25,000 troops, chiefly cavalry. The President was
accompanied by General Hautpoul, the Minister of War, and several other
general officers, besides his usual brilliant staff. When the defiling
of the troops in front of the President took place, he was loudly hailed
by part of the cavalry, who cried "Vive l'Empereur!" "Vive Napoleon!"
After the troops had defiled, the usual refreshments were served out to
them, and the President, accompanied by his staff, paid a visit to the
camp, but General Changarnier left the ground.

The _Proces-verbal_ of the meeting of the Council of Permanence, held on
the 12th, drawn up by M. Dupin to the President, was to the following
effect: The violation of the promises made by the Minister of War, and
the unconstitutional manifestations, provoked or tolerated, are severely
blamed. The committee did not think proper to invite the Minister of War
to give further explanations. Deploring the incidents of the review, it
still expressed complete confidence in the loyalty of the army, and is
satisfied that the cries were not spontaneous on the part of the
soldiers, but instigated by certain officers. In order to avoid alarming
the country in the absence of imminent peril, it has not deemed proper
to convoke the Assembly; but it deeply disapproves reviews so frequent,
into which habits altogether unusual and foreign to military traditions
have been so boldly introduced.

As a sequel to these disputes, General Hautpoul has found it necessary
to resign his place in the government, and has gone to Algeria as
governor of that colony. He is succeeded as Minister of War by General
Schramm. Soon after the accession of the latter, an official
notification appeared in the _Moniteur_ that General Neumayer had been
removed from the command of the 1st division and appointed to the 15th.
The reason given for this removal is said to be that General N., at the
last review at Satory, expressly enjoined the troops not to give
utterance to any cry whatever, deeming silence to be more strictly in
accordance with the regulations of the army, and in conformity, too,
with the instructions he had received from the Commander-in-Chief. This,
it is said, much displeased both Louis Napoleon and the Minister of War.
At all events, General Changarnier was greatly offended at the removal,
and a complete breach has occurred between him and the President. He
refuses to resign until the Assembly shall have passed judgment in the
matter.


THE DANISH WAR.

The war between _Denmark and the Duchies_ is bloody and disastrous. The
army of Schleswig-Holstein has made several attempts to take the city of
Friedrichstadt by storm, none of which have been successful, and the
losses sustained by General Willisen have been considerable,
particularly in officers. After bombarding part of the town during the
whole of the 4th of October, the town was in the evening attacked by two
battalions of infantry and a detachment of riflemen. After a desperate
struggle, in which both sides must have suffered very heavy losses, the
Danes gave way a little, but only to seek the cover of new entrenchments
and barricades thrown up in the middle of the town. The resistance which
they met with here was so violent and determined, that notwithstanding
the most brilliant bravery, the Schleswig-Holsteiners were compelled to
retire at midnight. They took up a new position somewhat in advance of
the old, and the conflict was renewed on the following morning, but with
no better success. The fighting continued till near midnight. Sixteen
officers out of twenty belonging to the 5th battalion were slain.
General Christiansen covered the retreat with his battery, while the
flames of the burning city cast a ghastly light upon the retiring
troops. After the failure of this desperate assault, General Willisen
withdrew his troops from before Friedrichstadt. The heavy guns were
taken back to Rendsburg, and the two armies were again in the same
position they occupied before the 29th of September; the only result
having been the almost total destruction of the unfortunate town, and
the loss of many brave men on both sides.

The Danish journals of the 16th state that orders have been issued for
the return to Copenhagen of all the Danish ships of war, except the
smaller craft, in consequence of the advanced season of the year, and
its accompanying storms, which render it nearly impossible for vessels
to hold to the coast.

A rumor has obtained currency through the _Times_ that the aid extended
to the Schleswig-Holsteiners by Prussia, has led to the interference of
Russia and of France, and that these two powers have jointly proposed to
England that the three powers shall peremptorily require Prussia to
fulfill her recent engagement with Denmark, and withdraw the support she
still continues to give to the Schleswig-Holstein army. In the event of
Prussia hesitating to comply with this reasonable demand, Russia and
France are prepared to back it, by an invasion of the Silesian provinces
of Prussia on the one side, and the Rhenish on the other. The British
Government, in reply, it is said, declines to join with Russia and
France in such a note as that described, but proposes that all three
powers shall separately remonstrate with Prussia on her present breach
of faith with the Danish Government. These rumors have created a good
deal of interest and anxiety, as threatening the peace of Europe.


INDIA AND CHINA.

The accounts from India are from Bombay to October 3, and from Calcutta
to September 21st. Great preparations were on foot for the great
Industrial Exhibition at London. The Maharajah has ordered specimens of
every kind of Cashmerian product to be got ready without delay. The
shawls intended for the purpose are described as remarkably splendid.
The heir to the throne, Rajah Runheer Singh, having heard of the
distinguished "success" at London of the Nepaul Envoy, is anxious to
visit England himself; but the prospect of a disputed succession, in the
event of his father's death, will probably keep him at home.

The whole of _British India_ was tranquil, but the petty civil war on
the Nizam's borders still continued.

The native state of _Oude_ seems inclined to rival the Nizam's
territories in anarchy and misgovernment. Some months since an English
officer was killed and two guns lost in an attack on the fort of a
refractory vassal of the King of Oude. A second event of the same nature
has occurred. The Rajah of Esanuggur had shown himself for some time
unwilling to pay the portion of revenue due from him to the Oude
government, and in endeavoring to obtain these dues from him, Lieut. P.
Orr, with a small party, had a brisk fight, each side losing a
considerable number. Lieut. Orr was forced to retreat, and took refuge
in the districts of a rival Rajah.

The present aspect of the _Punjaub_ is most encouraging; the population,
now disarmed, have settled down into their former habits of industry.
The breadth of land under cultivation this season is said to be
unprecedented, and the crops are every where most promising.

The most important piece of intelligence from _Hong-Kong_ is the
continuation of the fearful mortality among the British troops. This
mortality was chiefly in the 59th regiment, which had lost ninety men in
about two months. This sickness, therefore, is ascribed to the
unhealthiness of the barracks and the want of sufficient sanitary
precautions. The mortality, however, had begun to abate.

A formidable _insurrection_ against the Chinese government had broken
out in the province of Kwang-si. The leader, who is named Li-ting-pang,
is said to be at the head of 50,000 men. He has assumed the title borne
by the highest Tartar generals, and threatens to exterminate the
present, and restore the old Chinese dynasty.

In Bombay, the culture of cotton is rapidly extending. Two years ago,
the whole of the land under cultivation with American cotton in that
Presidency, was under twenty thousand acres. At the present moment the
quantity exceeds one hundred thousand acres, and there is every
certainty of a rapid increase taking place.

At a court martial held in Bombay, Lieut. Rose was found guilty of a
want of spirit, in applying to the civil power for an escort of police
to protect him from Mr. Lang, editor of the Mofussilite, with whom he
had a quarrel. He was sentenced to be reprimanded by Sir Charles Napier,
and to lose his staff appointment.


TURKEY.

The question as to the Hungarian refugees is not yet arranged. Numerous
communications have taken place on this subject between the Porte and
the Austrian internuncio, and a recent conference has been held between
the British embassador and General Aupick. The Divan, considering itself
pledged to Austria by its anterior declaration, is unwilling to break,
inconsiderately, an engagement of this nature, by which its relations
with the Court of Vienna might be gravely compromised. In order,
therefore, to conciliate all parties, the Porte has written on this
subject to its embassador at Vienna, directing him to confer with the
Austrian Cabinet on the modifications that it may be possible and
desirable to make in the situation of the refugees. The Russian Minister
affects not to interfere in this affair, but, notwithstanding this, it
is obvious to every one that he is in private communication with the
Austrian internuncio. The Turkish fleet, which had been for some time
cruising in the Archipelago, has returned to Constantinople.


TUSCANY.

The Representative Constitution and the Liberty of the Press have been
destroyed in _Tuscany_. On the 23d Sept. two Decrees were promulgated;
the first announced the dissolution of the Chamber of Deputies and
declared that till a fresh convocation of the legislature, all power
would be exercised by the Grand Duke in the Council of State. The second
declared that no journal or periodical should be published without first
obtaining the written authorization of the Minister of the Interior, to
whom the names and other circumstances of the director and of the
proprietor of the printing establishment are to be communicated.


EASTERN AND SOUTHERN EUROPE.

A frightful calamity has occurred at the place of pilgrimage called
Herrgott, in _Austria_. At one of the public-houses the pilgrims (of
whom there were 3000 assembled at Herrgott) were spending the night in
eating and drinking. While baking the fish the oven took fire. Behind
the inn were a number of stables and barns, in which hundreds of the
pilgrims were reposing, and almost all perished in the flames. Scarcely
half of the pilgrims were saved, and those who survived have for the
most part been much injured.

From _Poland_ there is a singular account of a forest on fire. Near
Cracow, adjoining the line of railway, there is a large peat ground,
part of which runs below an immense forest. Some sparks from a
locomotive engine were blown in that direction, and fell on the peat. A
few days after, the ground in the forest was found to be very warm, and
some rumbling and crackling noises were heard. Several large trees fell
as if cut down by an ax, and the leaves of others withered. As it was
naturally considered that a subterranean fire must be burning under the
forest, the officers charged with the inspection of it caused large
trenches to be cut. This conjecture turned out to be well-founded, for
the fire soon afterward burst forth, and still continued its ravages.
The forest presented the appearance of a vast sea of flame, which was
every day extending. The country round to the extent of six leagues was
perfectly illuminated, and it has been found impossible to stop the
progress of the fire.

The long expected Constitution for Galicia has at length appeared. That
Crown land will have three districts, Cracow, Lemberg, and
Stanislawow--each with a separate administration. In Cracow the specific
Polish, and in Stanislawow the Ruthennian element is prevalent. Lemberg,
the capital of Galicia, is the seat of the Provincial Government. In the
Lemberg district the two branches of the same race (the Sclavonic) are
mixed.

The Constitution for the Bukowina has also been published. This remote
Crown land is divided into six districts or captaincies, which are under
the immediate control of the Stadtholder of the province, who has still
to be appointed. Count Goluchowski had been sworn in as Stadtholder of
Galicia.

Letters from Ravenna, in the _Genoa Gazette_, give appalling accounts of
the progress of brigandage in the Roman states. Two persons, considered
as spies by the bandits, had been decapitated by them in the vicinity of
the above-mentioned town, and their heads placed on poles at a
cross-road. The diligence of Imola has lately been stopped and robbed of
1000 scudi (5500f.) belonging to the Pope. At Lugo, three individuals
carried off 11,000f. from a bank, and passed triumphantly through the
town with their booty, without any one daring to stop them.

An extensive conspiracy has recently been discovered at Teheran. The
most influential members of the clergy were at the head of it, and its
object was to overthrow the present Shah, to replace him by a descendant
of Ali, and to drive all the Turks out of Persia. Numerous arrests have
been made at Teheran, and in the principal towns. The greater number of
those arrested belong to the body of Ulemas.


LETTERS, SCIENCE, ART, PUBLIC MEN, ETC.

UNITED STATES.

The past month has not been marked by any movements of importance in any
of these departments. Our publishers have generally confined their
issues to works especially intended for the holiday season. Most of our
public men have been recruiting themselves from the fatigues of the late
protracted session of Congress, or preparing, by taking part in the
political canvass, for the session that is at hand. Mr. CLAY was
received at Lexington with abundant demonstrations of enthusiastic
personal and political affection. He has remained at home during the
vacation.

Mr. WEBSTER has been spending some weeks at his farm in Marshfield, and
at his native town, Franklin, N.H. During his stay at the latter place a
number of his old friends and neighbors paid him a visit, and sat down
to an old-fashioned dinner, at which friendly greetings were exchanged
with their distinguished host. The occasion was one of rare enjoyment.
Mr. WEBSTER's health has been very sensibly benefited by this greatly
needed interval of relaxation from public duties. In some remarks made
at an informal meeting with some friends in Boston, Mr. W. said that for
six months during the last session of Congress, he had not slept two
hours any one night.

A public dinner was recently given at Boston to AMIN BEY, the Turkish
Envoy to the United States, by some of the merchants of Boston. THOMAS
B. CURTIS presided, and a large number of distinguished guests were
present. AMIN BEY replied to a toast complimentary to the Sultan, by
expressing his warm sense of the friendliness with which he had been
received in this country, and his earnest desire for an extension of
commerce and of mutual kind offices between his own government and that
of the United States. Mr. WEBSTER made a brief and eloquent response to
a toast thanking him for his efforts in behalf of the Union. In the
course of his remarks he said that "the slavery question New England
could only interfere with as a meddler: she had no more to do with it
than she had with the municipal government of a city in the Island of
Cuba." Very eloquent speeches, breathing similar sentiments, were made
by EDWARD EVERETT, Mr. WINTHROP, and others and J.P. BROWN Esq., the
interpreter of AMIN BEY, responded happily to a toast complimenting Hon.
GEORGE P. MARSH the American Minister at Constantinople. Mr. BROWN said
that as a diplomatist and a scholar Mr. Marsh enjoyed, in an eminent
degree, the respect and esteem of the enlightened young Sultan of
Turkey, and all his Ministers.

M. ALEXANDRE VATTEMARE, who is known as the founder of the system of
International Exchanges, has taken leave of the United States in a very
warm and eloquent address, expressing his gratitude for the kindness of
his reception, his brilliant anticipations of the great results which
time will develop from the system to which he has devoted his life, and
commending it to the favor and aid of the American people. The world has
seen few instances of rarer or more disinterested devotion to high
public objects than this amiable and enthusiastic gentleman has
exhibited.

The statue of JOHN C. CALHOUN, made by POWERS for the City of
Charleston, and which was lost by shipwreck off Fire Island, has been
recovered, and sent forward to its destination. The left arm was broken
off at the elbow: with this exception it was uninjured.

At a recent meeting of the Academy of Design in New York, it was stated
by the president, Mr. DURAND, that the institution had incurred a
considerable debt beyond its resources, and mentioned a proposition that
the artists connected with it should paint pictures to be disposed of
for the benefit of the Academy. In regard to the mode of disposing of
them a raffle was suggested: but Mr. COZZENS, the President of the
Art-Union, being present as an honorary member, at once offered to
purchase them at such a price as might be fixed upon them by the
Academy. The proposition was at once accepted, and has given great and
general satisfaction as an indication of good feeling between two
institutions which have been sometimes represented as hostile to each
other.

Mr. WM. D. GALLAGHER, who is very favorably known as a literary
gentleman of ability, has received the appointment of confidential clerk
in the Treasury Department at Washington.

Mr. WILLIAM W. STORY, son of the late Judge STORY, has recently returned
from Italy, where he has been perfecting himself in the art of
sculpture, for which he abandoned the profession of law a few years
since. He brought with him a number of very beautiful models made while
at Rome. He has executed a bust of the distinguished jurist, his father,
for the Inner Temple, London. He will return to Rome in the spring.

We understand that the painting and gilding of white china, imported
from England and France, is engaging considerable attention in this
country, and that there is one establishment in Boston where above a
hundred persons are constantly employed.

Prof. FILOPANTI, an Italian scholar of some distinction, has been
delivering a series of lectures in New York, on the Influence of Secret
Societies on the Revolutions of Ancient and Modern Rome.

Hon. DANIEL D. BARNARD has sailed for Europe to enter upon his duties as
American Minister at Berlin. Previous to his departure his fellow
citizens of Albany addressed him a very complimentary letter, expressing
their regret at the loss of his society, and their admiration of his
character. Mr. B. is one of the most cultivated and scholarly of
American statesmen.

It is stated, though we know not upon what authority, that Col. BLISS is
preparing a History of the Campaigns of General TAYLOR. Such a work
would be of great value and interest, historically and in a literary
point of view.

G.P.R. JAMES, Esq., is delivering his lectures on the History of
Civilization in different northern cities. He intends to spend the
winter at the South. He has placed one of his sons at Yale College, and
the other in the Law School at New Haven.

Mr. CRAWFORD, the American sculptor, is soon to commence modeling the
statue of Washington, which our government has commissioned him to
execute. From a granite basement, in the form of a star of six rays,
rises a pedestal, upon which stands the equestrian statue, in bronze,
sixteen feet in height. The six points of the star are to be surmounted
with six colossal figures. The casting will be executed either at Paris
or Munich.

Steps have been taken to erect a suitable monument to the memory of
General WARREN. A committee of which Mr. Everett was chairman have
reported in favor of a statue to be placed in Faneuil Hall, Boston.

A bust of ETHAN ALLEN has just been completed by a Vermont artist, Mr.
KINNEY. He had a great deal of difficulty in procuring an accurate
likeness; the grandson of Allen, Colonel HITCHCOCK of the army, is said
to bear a striking personal resemblance to the old hero.

The Bulletin of the American Art-Union contains information concerning
American Artists which has personal interest:--

DURAND has not yet removed from his residence on the Hudson. KENSETT and
CHAMPNEY have been sketching among the White Hills of New Hampshire.
CROPSEY is at his country studio, at Greenwood Lake. CHURCH and GIGNOUX
have returned from the coast of Maine with their portfolios well stocked
with sketches. RANNEY continues to work upon his picture of _Marion,
with his Army, crossing the Pedee_, which will soon be completed.
MATTESON, now residing at Sherburne, has nearly finished a picture
representing _A Trial Scene in the Backwoods_, which, it is said, will
advance his reputation. JONES, a sculptor who has a high reputation at
the West, has removed to New York; he has already modeled busts of
General Taylor, Lewis Cass, Henry Clay, Thomas Corwin, and other
notabilities, and is now employed on a spirited head of General Scott,
at the order of some friends in Detroit.

EDWIN WHITE is diligently pursuing his studies in Paris. HALL, we
believe, has also gone to Paris from Duesseldorf. PAGE has arrived in
Florence, which place he intends to make his residence for several
months. He has formed a warm intimacy with POWERS, whose portrait he is
painting. WHITRIDGE and MCCONKEY have lately sent home several pictures
which indicate improvement, although they are somewhat tinged with the
mannerism of the Duesseldorf school, where these artists have been
studying so long. They propose to leave Germany very soon, and after
visiting Italy and France, to return home in the spring. LEUTZE is at
work on his great picture of _Washington Crossing the Delaware_. The
size of this painting is the same with that of those in the Rotunda of
the Capitol, twelve feet by eighteen feet. It will probably be completed
in the spring, when the artist intends to accompany it to this country,
from which he has been absent now about ten years. UPJOHN, the architect
was, by the last accounts, in Venice. GLASS has returned to his
residence at Kensington, near London, from the neighborhood of Haddon
Hall, where he has been assiduously engaged in sketching. He is at work
upon a group of paintings, illustrative of scenes in the wars of the
Stuarts. He is an artist of decided merit and increasing reputation.


GREAT BRITAIN.

In ENGLAND very few books of special value or interest have been
published or announced. The most important book of the month is the
first part of a very able and laborious compilation on _Commercial Law_
by Mr. LEONE LEVI. The object of the entire undertaking, is to survey
the principles and administration of all the various commercial laws of
foreign countries, with a view to a direct comparison with the
mercantile law of Great Britain. Mr. Levi appears to have been engaged
for years, with this object, in correspondence with the merchants of
upward of fifty countries remarkable more or less for distinct and
separate commercial usages; and to have obtained in every instance the
information he sought. His ultimate object, is the establishment of a
national and international code of commerce among all civilized
countries, rejecting what is inconvenient or unjust in all, and
retaining and codifying what is best in each.

A life of WORDSWORTH, by the Rev. Christopher Wordsworth, is announced
as in press. Its appearance will be awaited with interest.

M. MAZZINI has just republished his letters, orations, and other tracts
on Italy, with an eloquent and earnest appeal to the English people, in
a small volume entitled _Royalty and Republicanism in Italy_. M. Mazzini
repels in this book the charge so often brought against him of having
distracted and divided the forces of his native country, at the time
when they ought to have been concentrated on the paramount duty of
driving out the Austrians.

A curious incident connected with American History is mentioned in the
closing volume of SOUTHEY's Life, which has just been published in
London. While JARED SPARKS was examining the state papers in the public
offices of the British Government, so much matter was ferreted out that
the government "wished to tell its own story," and SOUTHEY adds, that
his "pulse was felt," but he declined writing it on the ground that
others could perform the task as well, and he had other engagements on
hand.

SOUTHEY, in 1829, declined a proposal from Fraser to write a popular
history of English literature in four volumes. It is to be regretted
that he did not write such a work.

In a letter to a friend, speaking of the Foreign Review, SOUTHEY says
that of its contributors, he "only knows that _an Edinburgh person_, by
name Carlyle, has written the most striking papers on German
literature." This style of reference to one who is now one of the most
eminent English writers, strikes a reader as curious. In the same letter
he speaks of Heraud, as "a man of extraordinary powers, and not less
extraordinary industry and ardor."

In 1835, Sir ROBERT PEEL wrote to SOUTHEY, informing him that he had
advised the king to "adorn the distinction of the baronetage with a name
the most eminent in literature, and which had claims to respect and
honor which literature alone could never confer"--that of SOUTHEY
himself. He accompanied this with a private letter, begging to know if
there was any way in which the possession of power would enable him to
be of service to Mr. SOUTHEY. The latter replied, in a letter marked by
the utmost propriety, declining the baronetcy, as he had not the means
of supporting it, and asking for an increase of his pension, which was
then L200. Sir Robert soon after added to this a new pension of L300, on
a public principle, "the recognition of literary and scientific eminence
as a public claim." He conferred, at the same time, a similar pension
on Professor Airey, of Cambridge, Mrs. Somerville, Sharon Turner, and
James Montgomery.

The _Athenaeum_ says that an experiment, set on foot by the liberality of
a few humane persons in the vicinity of London, has proved conclusively
that the number of idiots exceeds that of lunatics, and that very much
may be done, not only to promote their physical comfort, but to bring
the small germs of intellect which exist even in the most imbecile
minds, into intelligent and useful activity. Encouraged by this success,
they have appealed to the public for aid in establishing an institution
for the relief of that unfortunate class. They propose to erect a
building suitable for three hundred patients.

The proprietors of the Marine Telegraph between England and France
propose, instead of laying a wire like the one which the storm broke
recently, to have new wires inclosed in ropes of four or five inches in
diameter--the first layer being made of gutta percha, and the outer one
of iron wire, all chemically prepared to resist the action of water and
the attacks of marine animalculae. In each cable there will be four lines
of communication, and two cables will be laid down at a distance of
three miles apart, to provide for any accident that may happen to one of
them. The whole, it is said, will be ready in May next, and a grand
inauguration is proposed, Prince Albert being at one end of the wire and
Louis Napoleon at the other.

A project is on foot to reclaim from the sea, at Norfolk, 32,000 acres
of land, said to be of great agricultural value. The estimated expense
of doing it is L640,000.

Mr. Halliwell has addressed a letter to the _Times_, complaining of an
unauthorized republication in London of an edition of Shakspeare, with
introductions and notes by himself, published with considerable success
in New York.

Miss Martineau has been exciting a good deal of mirth in England by a
published account of having succeeded in mesmerizing a sick cow.

Dr. Maitland is urging the formation of a society to bring out new
editions of the most celebrated and least accessible works on Church
History. His plan is received with favor by the literary and religious
journals.

The foundations of several old walls, supposed to have formed a Roman
burial mound, have recently been discovered in Hertfordshire, and means
have been adopted to give the locality a thorough exploration. Several
human skeletons were found in the vicinity.

New statues of Newton, Shakspeare, Milton, and Bacon, are to be set up
on the four new pedestals in the British Museum; models of them have
been made by Sir Richard Westmacott. An elaborate piece of sculpture has
also been prepared for the tympanum of the pediment, representing the
progress of man from a savage condition up to the highest state of
intellectual advancement.

Mr. GODWIN has addressed a letter to the Lord Mayor elect of London, on
the subject of improving the character of the annual city "show" on the
9th of November, and urging that some little invention and taste might
be exercised upon it, in lieu of repeating year after year the same dull
and effete routine. He thinks that so ancient a custom ought not to be
abandoned, and proposes to raise it out of the monotonous and prosaic
routine into which it has fallen, by the introduction, among other
changes, of emblems and works of art, accordant with its ancient
character, and worthy of the present time.

The effect of the great Industrial Exhibition upon the health of London
is engaging considerable attention. It is estimated that not less than a
million of people will pour into the city at that time, and it is
contended by medical men of eminence that, unless wise and vigorous
measures be adopted, so vast and sudden an influx will create a
pestilence. The remedy proposed is to secure in some way the daily
distribution of the arrivals over a large area in London, and a series
of cheap trains which would carry off a portion of the pressure daily,
spreading the gathered millions over thirty or forty miles of movable
encampment.

Sundry relics, ropes, canvas, bones, &c., were recently brought to
England by the Prince Albert, which were found at Cape Riley, in the
Arctic Seas, and were supposed to afford traces of Sir John Franklin.
They were submitted by the Admiralty to Captain Parry, Sir John
Richardson, and others for examination, and the conclusion arrived at
is, that they were left at Cape Riley by Sir John Franklin's expedition
about the year 1845. It is supposed that being stopped by ice, Sir John
remained there for a short time making observations, &c. The reports are
elaborate, and evince careful and minute investigation. The conclusion
at which they arrive is very generally credited, so that the first part
of Sir John's adventures in the Arctic Seas is supposed to be at length
known.

The building for the Great Exhibition in London has been commenced, and
the work upon it goes forward with great rapidity. It is said that the
exhibition will probably have the effect to create several local museums
of great interest and importance. The advantages of such institutions,
especially to inventors, would be very great.

DELAROCHE's great picture of "Napoleon crossing the Alps," has reached
London, where it is on exhibition. It is described as being wonderfully
exact in copying nature, but as lacking elevation of purpose and the
expression of sentiment. An officer in a French costume, mounted on a
mule, is conducted by a rough peasant through a dangerous pass, whose
traces are scarcely discernible through the deep-lying snow--and his
aid-de-camp is just visible in a ravine of the towering Alps. These
facts, the _Athenaeum_ says, are rendered with a fidelity that has not
omitted the plait of a drapery, the shaggy texture of the four-footed
animal, nor a detail of the harness on his back. The drifting and the
imbedded snow, the pendent icicle which a solitary sun-ray in a
transient moment has made--all are given with the utmost truth. But the
lofty and daring genius that led the humble Lieutenant of Ajaccio to be
the ruler and arbiter of the destinies of the largest part of Europe,
will be sought in vain in the countenance painted by M. Delaroche.

A curious discovery has been made in a collection of ancient marbles at
Marbury Hall, in Cheshire, formed at Rome in the middle of the last
century. A fragment of the frieze of the Parthenon has been found, and
is unmistakably identified by its exactly fitting the parent stone in
the British Museum.

The people of Sheffield are subscribing and soliciting subscriptions in
other cities for a monument to the memory of the poet EBENEZER ELLIOTT.
It is not intended that the monument should be vast or expensive, but
that a neat cenotaph or column, at a cost of twelve or fifteen hundred
pounds, should be erected and placed in a position suitable to do honor
to the genius whose memory it is to perpetuate.

The statue in honor of Chief Justice TINDAL is nearly completed. The
inscription for the pedestal, contributed by Justice TALFOURD, speaks of
the illustrious man in whose honor it is erected, as "a Judge, whose
administration of English law, directed by serene wisdom, animated by
purest love of justice, endeared by unwearied kindness, and graced by
the most lucid style, will be held by his country in undying
remembrance."

The Roman Government has ordered the students of art, before admission
to the academies of the city, to be examined as to the state of their
morals and their opinions on politics. Mr. HELY, an English sculptor,
has been commanded to quit the Roman territories; the marriage of his
sister to the celebrated Dr. ACHILLI is supposed to have been the reason
for this command. The London papers complain that the Americans are the
only people in Rome who are permitted to "exhibit their political,
artistic, and religious heresies with impunity;" and they cite in proof
POWERS's emblematic statue of the Republic of America trampling under
its feet the kingly diadem; CRAWFORD's design for the monument to
WASHINGTON, which the _Athenaeum_ says is original and striking; and the
fact, that the American residents have just obtained permission to erect
a Protestant Church, the first ever built in the Eternal City.

A good deal of difficulty has been experienced in deciding on the
erection of a bridge at Westminster. The _Athenaeum_, is reminded, by the
investigations, of a story told of a board of magistrates in the west of
Ireland who met to consider the propriety of erecting a new jail, when,
after a protracted and bewildering discussion, they formally passed
three resolutions; namely, that a new jail should be built--that the
materials of the old jail should be used in constructing the new
one--and that the prisoners should be kept as securely as possible in
the old jail until the new one was ready for their reception!

A new college--with peculiar features which give it general interest--is
about to be established in Glasgow. It is to consist of two distinct
parts; the school proper and the college. In the first, as is deemed
suitable in a great commercial city, youths will be grounded in the
elements of a sound commercial education; in the second the senior
students will go through the usual course of preparation for the
Universities. The college is to be self-supporting, unsectarian, and
non-political. The fees are settled on a scale so low as to make the
trial interesting as an experiment--and the lectures are to be open to
ladies: a library and reading-room are to form parts of the
establishment.

The _sanctum_ of the DUKE OF WELLINGTON at Walmer Castle is described as
a room of but ordinary size, destitute of ornament, and with but scanty
furniture, bearing very much the appearance of the apartment of a petty
officer in a garrison. On the right is an ordinary camp bedstead, with a
single horse-hair mattress, and destitute of curtains. Over this is a
small collection of books, comprising the best English classical
authors, French memoirs, military reports, official publications, and
Parliamentary papers. In the centre of the room is an ink-stained
mahogany table, at which the Duke is occupied in writing some two or
three hours each day; and near this is a smaller portable desk, used for
reading or writing while in bed; besides these, the furniture of the
room consists of some two or three chairs. The window looks out upon the
sea, and a door opens upon the ramparts where, until recently, the Duke
was always to be found as early as six o'clock, taking his morning
walk.

GUTZLAFF, the missionary to China, presents one of the most striking
examples of activity upon record. He was born in 1803, in Pyritz, a
Pomeranian village, and commenced his missionary labors at about thirty
years of age. He is now on a journey through Europe, the object of which
is to establish a Christian Union for the evangelization of China. In
person he hardly realizes the usual romantic idea of a missionary hero.
He is short and stout, with a ruddy face, broad mouth, and eyelids
sleepily closed. His voice is strong and not pleasant; and he
gesticulates violently. It has been often remarked that persons who have
long resided among the American Indians, become assimilated to them in
personal appearance. A similar assimilation would seem to have taken
place in the person of Gutzlaff. His features have assumed an aspect so
thoroughly Chinese, that he is usually taken by them for a fellow
countryman.

A correspondent of an English journal furnishes some personal sketches
of the men concerned in the government of the Sandwich Islands, which
have considerable interest. The king, TAMEHAMEHA III., according to this
writer, is a man of some education, for a native, and appears to take
some interest in matters of state. He was formerly addicted to
intemperance, but some years since, through the influence of the
missionaries, abandoned the habit; but is said lately to have returned
to it. He receives an income of $12,000, besides rents from his estates
to the amount of probably $25,000 more. All the principal departments of
government, with but a single exception, are filled by foreigners. The
Minister of Finance occupies the most important post, and exercises the
most powerful influence. This is Mr. G.P. JUDD, an American, a man of
good education and sound judgment, and undoubtedly the fittest man in
the kingdom for the post. The Minister of Foreign Affairs is Mr. R.C.
WYLLIE, a Scotchman. He was formerly a wealthy merchant, whom a roving
disposition brought into the Pacific in 1844. He is a clever, social
gentleman of nearly fifty years of age, who fills the office he holds
with decided ability, and resolutely declines all compensation for his
services. The Minister of the Interior is Mr. JOHN YOUNG, a half-breed,
whose father was an Englishman. He is about thirty-five years of age,
and is said to be the handsomest man in the Islands. He does no
discredit to his post, although like other half-breeds, he can hardly be
considered as of equal capacity to his European colleagues. The Minister
of Public Instruction is Rev. B. ARMSTRONG, until some two years ago a
missionary, who is said to be the best scholar in the Hawaiian language
in the islands. He and Mr. JUDD, exercise the real government of the
islands, which could hardly be in better hands. The salary of the
ministers is $3000 per annum.

Lord JOHN RUSSELL has intrusted the execution of the national Peel
Monument to Mr. GIBSON at Rome.

Great complaints are made of injury done to books, and other valuable
works, in the British Museum.

Among the distinguished men who have died within the last month, we
notice Mr. WATKINS, the son-in-law and biographer of Ebenezer Elliott;
NIKOLAUS LENAU, a German poet, who died in a madhouse; C.F. BECKER, "the
genial," whose philological works have gained him a lasting reputation
in the world of letters; CARL ROTTMAN, painter to the King of Bavaria,
one of the first artists of the day; WENZEL JOHANN TOMASCHEK, one of
the first musical composers of modern times--"the ancient master of
Bohemian music," as he was fondly called at Prague.


FRANCE.

M. Taboureau has discovered a method of converting the mud of the newly
macadamized Boulevards at Paris into bricks; and so confident is the
expectation of thus using it, that the government has invited bids for
the privilege of using it for a series of years. "Cheap as dirt" has
lost its meaning.

A new shell has just been invented by a chemist named Lagrange, which is
said to be capable of sinking a ship of 120 guns in a few minutes. Some
experiments made with it in the presence of skillful officers were
entirely successful.

An artist named Garnier died lately in Paris, whose only claim to
distinction lay in the incredibly long time which he spent on incredibly
poor pictures. One of them representing the entrance of Napoleon and
Marie Louise into the Tuileries, took him _thirty-seven_ years, and when
finished was a wretched daub. A notice of his life was read in the
Academy.

The French papers state, that a number of workmen are employed in fixing
a wire from the Bastile to the Madeleine, as an experiment for a new
company that has proposed to establish an electric telegraph throughout
Paris for the transmission of messages.

A Belgian engineer, M. Laveleye, proposes to connect the Seine and the
Rhine by means of a canal, by constructing which, navigation would be
open from London to the Black Sea and Constantinople, through the heart
of the Continent, and by means of the great watercourses on or near
whose banks lie the materials of nearly all the internal and external
trade of Europe. The estimated cost is L1,600,000.

Preparations are in active progress for the grand exhibition of French
pictures and sculpture at the Palais National, which is to commence on
the 15th of December. The official notification which has been issued
directs artists to send in their works from the 2d to the 15th of
November. The exhibitors themselves are to choose the jury of selection,
each exhibitor naming any one he may think fit. The first exhibition of
the kind which ever took place in France was in 1673; and the first time
a selecting jury was formed was in 1745. After the Revolution of 1848
the jury was abolished, and every body was allowed to exhibit; but this
was found to be impracticable for the future, and the present system of
the artists electing the jury themselves came into operation the
following year. For upward of a century, the members of the Academy of
Painting and Sculpture enjoyed the exclusive privilege of exhibiting.

Although the censorship on theatrical pieces in Paris has been
re-established in even more than its wonted strictness, the prefect of
police does not think it sufficient. He has recently directed the
commissaries of police (there is one in every theatre every night) to
pay particular attention to every performance, and to notify him if
there be any thing "in the words, style, play, or costume of the actor,
or in the applause or disapprobation of the public," which may appear
politically objectionable. This proceeding of the prefect has caused
profound dissatisfaction in the theatrical circles.

The Paris "_Debats_" announces two new works from the pen of M. GUIZOT,
to be published at the end of this month. The first is entitled "Monk;
Fall of the Republic, and Re-establishment of the Monarchy in England in
1660." The second is "Washington; Foundation of the Republic of the
United States of America."

An experiment has been made at the arsenal of Metz, of mortars, hand
grenades, and bombs made of zinc, which has completely succeeded.

A vessel arrived at Bordeaux on the 18th inst. from Canton, having on
board a curious collection of Chinese arms and costumes for the Museum
of Paris.

Several works concerning Joan of Arc have recently been published in
France. The one which attracts most attention is devoted to her martial
exploits, and shows that she did not hesitate in combat to put her foe
to death with her own hand. It is also cited as completely exonerating
the English from the odium of having had any part in her horrid
execution, since it shows that she was tried, condemned, and executed by
the Inquisition--that the charges against her were purely and wholly
ecclesiastical; that her trial was conducted in the pure ecclesiastical
form, just as those of any other suspected sorcerer, witch, or heretic;
and that in virtue of ecclesiastical laws she was sentenced and burned.

An article on Madame de Genlis and the system of education which she
adopted with the late King Louis Philippe, written by the eminent critic
and academician M. de Saint-Beuve, has excited some attention. The
writer dwells upon the prodigious memory of Louis Philippe, and says
that he knew a good deal of almost every possible subject, and had a
great faculty of displaying this multifarious knowledge in conversation.

The members of the Academie des Sciences, at Paris, have lately been
racking their brains and wearying their tongues, in an attempt to decide
_what_ forms the centre of the earth--whether it be a globe of fire or a
huge furnace, as some say--a perfect void, as others maintain--a solid
substance, harder than granite, according to some--or a mass of water
according to others: but, as might readily be anticipated, these
discussions have had no practical or useful result.

The subject which has excited most attention at the meetings of the
Academy has been the inquiry made in Algiers, by Bernard and Pelouze,
upon the fearful poison called the Woorari. The composition of this
deadly matter has long been kept a mysterious secret among the priests
and sorcerers of the Rio <DW64> and the Amazon. It was analyzed by
Humboldt, and the experiments that have now been made confirm his views.
It is a watery extract from a plant of the genus Strychnos. A weapon
with the smallest point covered with the matter kills as instantaneously
as prussic acid. Various experiments have been tried upon animals that
show how immediate is its action, and the singular changes that result
in the blood, which in a moment becomes of a death-black color, and does
not, after death, on exposure to air, recover its usual redness.

The trials at Algiers have ceased to excite any attention. There are 66
persons accused of a conspiracy to seize the Government; the reports
come down to the 13th of September.

We learn from the Paris _Siecle_ that the Academy of Sciences has at
present under consideration a project of a most extraordinary character,
being neither more nor less than a suspension bridge between France and
England. M. Ferdinand Lemaitre proposes to establish an aerostatic
bridge between Calais and Dover. For this purpose he would construct
strong abutments, to which the platform would be attached. At a distance
of every 100 yards across the channel he would sink four barges, heavily
laden, to which would be fixed a double iron chain, of peculiar
construction. A formidable apparatus of balloons, of an elliptical form,
and firmly secured, would support in the air the extremity of these
chains, which would be strongly fastened to the abutments on the shore
by other chains. Each section of 100 yards would cost about 300,000f.,
which would make 84,000,000f. for the whole distance across. These
chains, supported in the air at certain distances, would become the
point of support to this fairy bridge, on which the inventor proposes to
establish an atmospheric railway. This project has been developed at
great length by the inventor, and seems to be discussed with great
gravity by the Academy.

MM. BARRAL and BIXIO, whose two former ascents in crazy and ill-fitted
balloons we noticed some time since, are now superintending the
construction of an aerial machine better adapted for enabling them to
pursue a course of studies in the atmosphere. Its dimensions are to be
fifty-four feet by forty-five, and will be capable of carrying up twenty
persons, if inflated with pure hydrogen; if with carbonated hydrogen,
twelve. We may now hope that the balloon will be redeemed from the
service of charlatanism, and will contribute to the advancement of
science.


GERMANY, ITALY, ETC.

As a natural result of the disturbances in Germany, its current
literature has to a great extent assumed the form of political pamphlets
and romances. Among the works of more general interest, which have
recently made their appearance, we note the following: The Book of
Predictions and Prophecies: a complete collection of all the writings of
all the prominent prophets and seers of the present and past; to wit, of
Ailly, Bishop Mueller, Peter Tarrel, &c., with predictions concerning
Jerusalem, Orval, the End of the World, &c. Popular History of the
Catholic Church, brought down to the present time, by J. SPORCHIL. The
Present: an Encyclopaedic Representation of Contemporary History. This,
though in some respects, an independent work, may yet be considered as a
supplement to the celebrated Conversations-Lexicon. It is published in
parts, of which two or three appear each month, twelve parts forming a
volume. The Parts which have just been published, contain the history of
the German National Congress; the Hungarian Revolution; the Local and
Political state of Nassau; the Insurrection in Schleswig-Holstein in
1848; State and town of Frankfort. It is published by Brockhaus, of
Leipzig, who also announces New Dramatic Poems, by OEHLENSCHLAGER.
History of the Heretics of the Middle Ages, especially of the eleventh,
twelfth, and thirteenth centuries, by C.U. HAHN. Henrietta Herz, her
Life and Reminiscences, edited by J. FURST. The authoress passed a long
life on terms of intimate friendship with men of science and literature.
Her reminiscences, though written late in life, present a lively and
good-humored picture of the society of Berlin for a long course of
years, embracing sketches of Mirabeau, Jean Paul, Mueller, the historian,
Schleiermacher, Humboldt, Ludwig Boerne, and others.

A bronze statue of the celebrated agriculturist, ALBERT THAER, has just
been erected at Leipzig. The costume is that of a German farmer,
slightly idealized, and wearing a broad mantle. The right hand is
raised as if in the act of teaching; the left holds a roll, with the
inscription, "National Husbandry;" and upon the marble pedestal is
inscribed, "The German Cultivators to the honored teacher, ALBERT
THAER."

At the royal foundry in Munich preparations are making for casting in
bronze three colossal statues: that of Gustavus Adolphus, for
Goettenburg; that of the Swedish poet Tegner, for Stockholm; and that of
Walter of Plettenberg, a celebrated Livonian general, surnamed "The
Conqueror of the Russians." The last statue was modeled by Schwanthaler;
the others are the works of two young Swedish sculptors, MM. Fogelberg
and Quarnstroem, both residing in Rome.

An extract of a private letter from Rome states that the Coliseum is in
process of restoration.

LESSING'S great picture--"The Martyrdom of Huss," is described at length
by a Duesseldorf correspondent of the Leipzig _Grenzboten_. It is
eighteen feet by fifteen, and contains some twenty-seven figures of the
size of life; which, contrary to the practice of the French painters in
pictures of this size, are so carefully finished, that they can be
looked at close at hand. There is not a superfluous figure in the
picture--none introduced to fill a space, as is too frequently the case
in large paintings. The clearness of the general idea is not marred by
the effect of the separate parts: the artistic separation of the group
suffers the main figure first to attract the eye. In this picture
Lessing has given proof of his ability in landscape as well as in
figures. The next work upon which he is to be engaged is a large
picture, commissioned by the King of Prussia, representing the
imprisonment of Pope Paschal by Henry V.

An association has been formed in Jerusalem for the investigation of
subjects connected with the Holy Land, including history, language,
numismatics, statistics, manufactures, commerce, agriculture, natural
history, and every other subject of literary and scientific research,
with the exception of religious controversy. From the names of those
engaged in the project, it is hoped that the association will make large
additions to our present stores of information respecting Palestine.

The Leipzig journals contain notices of the recent productions of Polish
literature, which are not without interest even in this country. A
romance, by the Countess Ludwica Offolinska, recently published at
Cracow, has excited considerable attention. It is entitled "The Fate of
Sophia," and is written with great simplicity, and the deepest religious
feeling. The heroine receives at home a religious training, and then is
thrown out into the world. She appears in succession as the
waiting-maid, and then the friend of her mistress; then as maid to a
worn-out woman of fashion, and at last as governess to the children of
her first beloved mistress and friend. The sound principles she had
learned at her father's house, serve her as a defense amid all the
perils which surround her in her career. The same authoress has put
forth two comedies: "The Holy Christ," and "Vespers in the Country."

VINCENT POL, a poet, and for a short time Professor of Geography in the
University of Cracow, is one of the most distinguished geographers of
the day. His "Glance at the Northern Waters of the Carpathians and their
Districts," is an earnest of important contributions to geographical
science from the Slavic countries.

F. ANTONIEWICZ, an ecclesiastic, has published "A Festival-day Lecture
to our People," written with great eloquence. RYCHCICKI, otherwise known
as a historian, has put forth a "History of the celebrated Chancellor
Skarga, and a Description of the Century in which he lived."

From the Warsaw press have appeared, among other works, "A Lexicon of
Polish Painters," comprising all artists who were born, or lived in
Poland, or whose works refer to that country. It is by RASTAWIECKI,
contains two volumes, and is ornamented with portraits. DORBRSKI'S "A
Few Words more about the Caucasus," is a continuation of a former work.

From Wilna appears the "Athenaeum," by the prolific KRASZWSKI. It
contains from the pen of the editor a work of great value, "Lithuania
under Witold," and a romance. "The Wilna Album" contains seventy sheets
of views of interesting and remarkable places in that city.

There are now published in Russia 154 periodicals, of which 108 are in
Russian, 29 in German, 8 in French, 5 Polish, 3 Lettish, and 1 Italian.
Of these 64 are published in St. Petersburgh, 20 in the East-sea German
provinces, 13 in Moscow, 5 in Odessa, and 52 in the remaining parts of
the empire.

BROCKHAUS, the great Leipzig publisher, announces a translation into
German of TICKNOR'S History of Spanish Literature, by Dr. R.H. JULIUS,
of Hamburg; with the assistance of FERDINAND WOLF, of Vienna, and other
scholars. The German editor has labored for several years in this
department of literature, and will also avail himself of Dozy's learned
work on Arabian-Spanish literature, which appeared in Holland in 1849.

A paragraph in the London Builder states that a very curious discovery
has been made in the Mosque of St. Sophia, at Constantinople. In the
course of cleansing and repairing the interior, the original decorations
in mosaic have been brought to light, including, as it is said, a
portrait of Constantine. Drawings have been made, and are on their way
to England. The Sultan, to prevent the necessity of removing them, as
portraits are prohibited by the Koran, has considerately ordered them to
be covered up again.

A newly invented locomotive steam engine has been tried at Charleroi,
with full success. The inventor, M. Hector de Callias, a Sardinian
engineer, proposes to increase the speed of locomotives, to give them an
adherence four times greater than they now have, and to decrease the
expense of fuel. By the pressure of only one atmosphere the wheels made,
in the trial referred to, 300 revolutions a minute, which would give a
speed of 24 leagues an hour. The Belgian Minister of Public Works has
appointed a committee of engineers to report to him on the experiments
which are to take place on the government lines, and has ordered every
assistance to be given to the inventor to facilitate his object.

MEYERBEER is engaged in composing the music for the choruses of the
Eumenides of AEschylus, which is about to be represented at Berlin, at
the special request of the King of Prussia, who is passionately fond of
the old Greek drama.

Interesting descriptions are given of the _Volks-Fest_, or great
festival of the Bavarian people, celebrated at Munich on the first of
October, in which the peasants from all the royal possessions receive
from the king, in presence of the assembled multitude, prizes for the
good results of their labor in rearing cattle, &c. The week this year
opened with wet weather, which did not, however, prevent the attendance
of an immense number of the people of all classes and conditions. The
King Maximilian, with his brother Otho, King of Greece, was present,
occupying a splendid pavilion in the centre, around which were ranged
boxes for the gentry and seats for the people. Three days were devoted
to the exhibition of cattle, grain, and agricultural products of all
kinds, intermingled with various sports and gymnastic exercises, and the
fourth was set apart for the unvailing of the gigantic statue of
_Bavaria_, the colossal gift of the Ex-King Ludwig to his people. This
great statue was commenced in 1844, and is now only so far finished as
to warrant the removal of the wooden screens by which it has been
concealed. It is fifty-four feet high, and stands upon a granite
pedestal of thirty feet. It is cast in bronze, of which not less than
125 tons were consumed, and is described as a work of imposing sublimity
and profound beauty. It has for the back-ground a white marble temple,
called the "Hall of Heroes," of Doric architecture, composed of a centre
and two wings, and forming a semi-circle behind the figure. To convey
some idea of the size of the statue it is stated that the face is equal
to the height of a man, the body twelve feet in diameter, the arm five,
the index finger six inches, and two hands can not cover the nail of the
great toe. The grandeur of the features is sanctified by the gracious
sweetness of the expression; the clustering hair falls on either side
from the noble brow, and is entwined with a circle of oak-leaves, one
uplifted arm holding the fame-wreath of laurel, the other grasping a
sword, beneath which sits the lion. Skins clothe the vast body to the
hips; solemn folds of massive drapery, passing off the large symmetry of
the limbs to the feet. The material difficulties attendant upon the
casting were very great. The unvailing of this great work was made the
occasion for a carnival of _fun_. Men of every trade brought for display
gigantic specimens of their respective callings, made upon the same
scale as the statue, which were exhibited with great parade and amidst
magnificent music, and processions, &c. After the multitude had been
collected in front, the screen was suddenly removed, and the colossal
statue stood revealed, and was greeted with shoutings, and the voice of
an immense band of singers. An oration in honor of the king was then
pronounced by Teichlein the painter, from the steps of the pedestal,
after which the throng dispersed.

The director of the observatory at St. Petersburg, M. Kuppffer has
applied to the French government to establish a number of stations in
different parts of the country for taking meteorological observations,
with the view of aiding him in the vast studies he has been for some
time past making, respecting the climates of different countries. In
England and Germany it appears such stations have been formed, and have
proved of great utility. Before complying with M. Kuppffer's request,
the government has requested the opinion of the academy on the subject.
It can not but be favorable. It is pleasant to see the several nations
of Europe, in the midst of their fierce political dissensions and
struggles for supremacy, thus uniting for the promotion of science.

In this number of the New Monthly will be found an interesting account
of the character and life of the distinguished German scholar, Kinkel,
who is imprisoned by the Prussian government for his liberal opinions.
Late European papers state that his friends requested permission for him
to continue a work he had commenced on the Fine Arts among the Christian
nations, but it was peremptorily refused. He is not allowed pens and
ink, or books of any kind, and it is said that he is treated with
unusual and cruel rigor.

Artin Bey, late Prime Minister of Egypt, has not, as was expected, gone
on to Constantinople, but has retired to the mountains of Lebanon, in
Syria, where he awaits the final result of the step he took in flying
from Egypt.

On the 17th Oct. Prince Paskiewitch completed the fiftieth year of his
service in the Russian army. The emperor held a grand review on that
day, and presented him personally with a Field Marshal's baton, in
acknowledgment of his fidelity.

M. Freiberg, the director of the opera at Berlin, has brought an action
against Madame Fiorentina, for a breach of engagement, and against
Lumley, of London, for engaging her; he has laid his damages at eighty
thousand francs.

The Pope has performed a popular act of clemency, by pardoning, only an
hour before the execution was to have taken place, the three individuals
convicted of complicity in the attempt to assassinate Col. Nardonic,
Chief of the Roman Police, on the 19th of June last. The attempt having
failed, Pius IX. commuted the pain of death to that of the hulks for
life, without hope of further remission. It was a political crime, the
death of the odious re-actionist having been decreed in a secret
democratic society.

The commission appointed in Rome to ascertain and estimate the damage
done to the monuments of Rome, buildings, and ruins, during the siege of
the last year, have concluded their report, and fixed upon the sums of
508,800 francs, as the total, estimated in money, of the damage done by
the besieging French forces, and 1,565,275 francs, of that inflicted by
the Romans themselves.

The rise of the Nile this year has been unsatisfactory. The river has
already begun to fall, and it is feared that a vast extent of land will
not have been sufficiently watered, and that next year's crops will be
short.

A project has been started to erect a monument to Columbus, at Palos de
Maguer, opposite the Convent of St. Ann, whence the great discoverer set
sail on his first voyage. The design proposed is a colossal statue,
twenty feet high, surrounded by groups of figures, forming a base of
forty feet in circumference. The lowest estimate of the expense is
$100,000.


ITEMS OF GENERAL NEWS.

A rather extraordinary contest has arisen between the manufacturers of
embroidered articles at Nancy and the wholesale merchants in Paris. The
former demand a complete prohibition of the imports of the articles
which they manufacture. The merchants, on the other hand, defend the
principle of the freedom of commerce, and demand that the embroidered
muslins of Switzerland be admitted into France. M. Dumas, the Minister
of Commerce, has pronounced in favor of the manufacturers of Nancy.

During the last two years and a half, the houses of 1951 families have
been leveled in Kilrush, Ireland, and 408 other families have been
unhoused.

The tide of emigration is continued as vigorously as ever. From Kerry
considerable numbers were proceeding to Cork and Limerick, to embark for
the United States.

Preparations, it is said, are in active progress for the reorganization
of the Dublin Trades Union--a body which, some years since, possessed
considerable influence in the conduct of political affairs in the
metropolis.

A society has been formed in London for the reform of abuses in the
Court of Chancery.

It is proposed to erect a monument in Edinburgh to Wallace, the Scottish
hero.

More than 2000 members of the Methodist Society have been expelled at
Bristol, because they are in favor of a reform in the polity of their
Society.

A sailors' home on a large scale is about to be established at Plymouth.

A great chess match, to be played by amateurs of all nations during the
Exhibition of 1851, is being arranged for.

Five new whalers are to be added to the whaling fleet of Peterhead next
season.

Large purchases of wine continue to be made in the Douro, at high
prices.

Upwards of five hundred members have already joined the Liverpool
Freehold Land Society.

A mummy brought from Thebes by Sir J.E. Tennent was unrolled in the
Museum at Belfast.

Numerous bales of moss have lately been imported into London from Cork.

Meyerbeer is at present at Paris, and has attended several public as
well as private concerts.

The library left by Dr. Neander is to be sold by auction. There are
about 4000 volumes; among them some of the best editions of the old
church Fathers, presented by the theological students to Neander on his
birth-day. An attempt is making to purchase the library for the use of
the theological students at the University. The total sum demanded is
not more than $4000.

An immense layer of sulphur has been discovered near Alexandria. It can
be obtained in large quantities so cheaply, that it is expected the
price of the article will be reduced in Europe.

The English population of Madrid increases in a remarkable degree. The
Aranjuez railroad, the gas works, the mines of Guadalajara, and various
other industrial enterprises, afford employment to many of them.

A verdict of manslaughter has been returned by the coroner's jury
against Captain Rowles, of the bark New Liverpool, lately arrived at
Southampton, in which some Lascar seamen had died from neglect.

The Madrid aeronaut, when preparing last week for his aerial voyage over
Europe, to convince the world that a balloon can be guided in any
direction, found a large rent in the silk. The voyage has, therefore,
been delayed for some weeks.

A steam company is on the eve of being formed at Constantinople for
towing vessels through the Bosphorus and the Dardanelles. The capital is
to be L150,000, in fifteen hundred shares of L100 each. The Sultan and
most of the ministers are on the list.

A Transylvanian nobleman, writing to a friend in England, speaks of the
pleasure with which he read of the reception of Haynau in England. He
states that General Count Leiningen, an hour before his execution, said,
"You will see our infamous murder will excite the greatest sensation in
England, and I recommend Haynau not to venture on a visit to England,
for the people will stone him."

The landed interest of the late Sir Robert Peel was not much under
L35,000 a year.

A private in the 56th regiment of the line was sentenced to death by
court-martial in Paris for having struck a corporal.

The circulation of all the Paris newspapers has greatly diminished,
under the operation of recent laws.

About one hundred Mormons passed through Liverpool lately, on their way
to the Salt Lake Valley, North America.

It is stated that about L70,000 was paid by the Government of Spain for
the steamships Hibernia and Caledonia.

Louis Napoleon has purchased fifty head of fallow deer, of Mr. Fuller,
of England, with which to stock the park of St. Cloud.

Leipsig fair, which has just terminated, proved very satisfactory.
Worsted and cotton goods of English manufacture were in good demand.

A revolt has broken out in Morocco, in consequence of a decree by the
emperor, ordering the skins of all slaughtered animals to be considered
as his exclusive property.

An iron lighthouse of vast dimensions is about to be erected on the
Fastnett, a solitary rock several miles out in the Atlantic, off the
coast of Cork and Kerry.

In London, under the patronage of the Lady Mayoress, a large carpet is
in progress of preparation for the Exhibition. It is to be thirty feet
in length, twenty in width, and to consist of one hundred and fifty
squares.

It is stated upon good authority, that in the articles of rice and
tobacco alone, a mercantile firm in Liverpool will this year realize
L300,000, supposed to be the largest sum ever made by any mercantile
house in Europe in one year.

The foreign merchants and shippers of London have agreed to establish a
"club for all nations," to meet the requirements of the strangers,
merchants and others, who will be in town during the Exhibition of 1851.
The club will be provided, in addition to the usual accommodations, with
interpreters acquainted with all the languages of the East and of
Europe, guides and commissioners, and departments for information. A
committee of gentlemen, merchants of London, has been elected to carry
out the undertaking.

About two years ago, the scientific world was surprised by the
announcement that Drs. Krapf and Rebman, who had been zealously employed
in connection with the Missionary Society in Eastern and Central Africa,
had discovered a mountain or mountains within one degree of the Equator,
and about two hundred miles distant from the sea, which were covered
with perpetual snow, and which there was every reason to suppose were no
other than Ptolemy's "Mountains of the Moon." It now appears that there
is no doubt of the fact.

A curious exhibition is in course of preparation for the World's Fair,
by Mr. Wyld, M.P., the eminent map-engraver. He is constructing a huge
globe, of fifty-six feet in diameter, which will be provided with a
convenient mode of ingress and egress; the different countries of the
world will be represented upon the inner, and not upon the outer
surface, and the interior will be fitted up with galleries and
staircases, so as to enable the visitor to make a tour of the world, and
visit each of the countries whose industry or productions will be
displayed in the Great Exhibition.

The wife of Mr. Maclean, late M.P. for Oxford, has been killed, by being
thrown from her carriage at Castellamare, near Naples.

In many of the provincial towns a strong feeling prevails in favor of
making the Peel monument assume the shape of useful institutions, such
as libraries.

A new monthly magazine, adapted to meet the wants of the advanced
section of the Nonconformists, has been announced.

The inmates of St. Luke's Hospital were treated to the entertainments of
music and dancing at a lunatics' ball. The success of the experiment
will lead to its repetition.

A new dock, called the Victoria Tidal Harbor, has been opened at
Greenock.

Highway robbery is becoming very prevalent in the neighborhood of
Liverpool.

A movement is in progress for the erection of a monument at Newcastle to
the late George Stephenson, "the father of railways."

The great water-works for the supply of Manchester are rapidly
approaching completion.

The _Manchester Guardian_ notices the arrival at Manchester of a
consignment of 250 bales of saw-ginned cotton from India.

The trade of Paisley continues in a satisfactory state, and weavers are
in great demand.

The tonnage of the port of Liverpool has increased from 1,223,318 tons,
in 1836, to 3,309,746 in 1849.

The subscriptions of the City of London Committee toward the Great
Exhibition amount to L26,189 18s. 9d.

The South Devon Railway Company lost L364,000 by the atmospheric bubble.

The money sent by the Irish emigrants in America to their starving
relatives at home equals, it is said, the whole of the Irish poor-rates.

The Prussian Commissioners, on the subject of the Exhibition of 1851,
have issued an address recommending a hearty co-operation in the design.

The Koh-i-noor diamond, or Mountain of Light, will, it is said, be
placed among the collection of minerals at the Exhibition in Hyde Park
next year.

The county expenditure for the West Riding of Yorkshire, was in 1824
L38,860; in 1832 it had risen to L53,477; and went on increasing until
1847, when it had risen to L103,561.

A French paper, the _Courrier du Nord_, says that the Minister of
Agriculture, while recently visiting the coal mines of the Anzin
Company, at Denain, discovered a rough diamond, fixed in a stone which
had been extracted from the coal.

An Englishman, Col. Daniels, has left his estate of nearly two millions
of dollars to a bookseller in New Haven, Connecticut, who was kind to
him while sick and without friends in the United States. Two claimants
have appeared for the bequest. Mr. Levi H. Young and Mr. Charles S.
Uhlhorn, who were in partnership at the time referred to.

The Hungarian exiles at Constantinople, it is said, are about to issue a
journal. The Italians there have published flying sheets for some time
past.

A correspondent of a Philadelphia paper writes that caricatures on
American subjects abound in Paris.

Capt. Stansbury, of the Topographical Engineers, and party, arrived at
St. Louis, Nov. 12, on their return from an exploring expedition to the
Great Salt Lake.

A Paris paper asserts that Guizot refused a nomination as a candidate
for the National Assembly from the department of the Cher.




LITERARY NOTICES.


John S. Taylor has published the third edition of _The Salamander_, the
exquisite prose poem by Mrs. E. OAKES SMITH, which found such a cordial
appreciation from the most genial critical tastes on its first
publication. The present edition has received the title of _Hugo_, from
one of the principal characters in the story, though we think that a
more appropriate and suggestive name might have been _The Lost Angel_.
Under whatever title, however, the work belongs to a unique and most
difficult branch of literary composition. Essentially poetical in its
conception, it is clothed in the forms of prose, which the most
consummate artistic skill can hardly mould into an adequate expression
for such bold and lofty speculations as pervade the whole structure of
this work. The language, which is singularly beautiful and impressive,
is made the vehicle for an allegory of a very refined and subtle
character, appealing but indirectly to the mass of human sympathies, and
illuminated only by the dim and fitful light of the supernatural. It is
no wonder that the allegorical mode should present such potent
seductions to genius of the highest order. It leaves such ample scope to
the imagination, allows such indulgence to the largest liberty of
invention, and is so fruitful in materials for vivid and effective
illustration, that it offers the most enticing charm to writers whose
consciousness of power is embarrassed in the usual forms of expression.
At the same time, unless like the allegories of sacred history, the
import is too obvious to be mistaken, or like those of John Bunyan, it
lays open the secrets of universal experience, this mode of writing is
too far removed from the popular mind to contain the most powerful
elements of success. Even in the creative hands of Dante and Spenser,
the allegory is regarded rather as a hindrance than an aid, by the
warmest admirers of their poetry. Hence we consider it no discredit to
the author of "Hugo," that she has not entirely conquered the
difficulties of this style of literary art. Her production is studded
with beauties of thought and phrase that betray a genius of rare vigor
and versatility. She has nobly dared to deviate from the beaten track,
and has thus constructed a work, which must be regarded as a gem of
precious quality, for its exquisite brilliancy of coloring, its
transparent beauty of texture, and the vivid and natural truthfulness
with which it gives back the lights of a radiant imagination.

_A Pastor's Sketches_, by Rev. ICHABOD S. SPENCER (published by M.W.
Dodd), is a unique volume, presenting a highly instructive record of the
experience of the author, during an active and varied pastoral
intercourse. The sketches, which are all drawn from real life, describe
the mental operations under the influence of strong religious emotion,
in a manner equally interesting to the psychologist and the theologian.
Most of the instances related occurred at a period of unusual
excitement, but they are free from any tincture of fanaticism, and may
be studied to advantage by all who are interested in the moral and
religious advancement of their fellow men. The author displays a
remarkable insight into human nature, a strong attachment to the
doctrines of the church in which he is a minister, a rare power of
close, consecutive reasoning, which is used with great effect in
disposing of skeptical objections, a fluency of language and a variety
and aptness of illustration, that must always make him a master in the
work of dealing with troubled, or erring, or diseased consciences. His
volume can not fail to become a favorite on the table of the pastor,
and, indeed, of all who are curious in the narratives of religious
experience.

Harper and Brothers have published _The History of Madame Roland_, by
J.S.C. ABBOTT, an agreeable compilation of the principal events in the
life of that extraordinary woman, forming one of the most readable
volumes of the day.

Baker and Scribner have published a second and revised edition of
_Sketches of Reforms and Reformers_, by HENRY B. STANTON, a work which
has attained a great and deserved popularity. It is written with vigor,
animation, and impartiality, presenting a lucid, systematic view of the
progress of political reform in Great Britain, with lively portraitures
of the most eminent men who have been distinguished in the movement.

Lewis Colby has published _The Churches and Sects of the United States_,
by Rev. P. DOUGLASS GORREE, giving a brief account of the origin,
history, doctrines, church-government, mode of worship, usages, and
statistics of the various denominations in this country. The copious
information which it presents, although reduced within a narrow compass,
will be found to comprise most of the essential facts concerning the
different topics treated, and from the diligence and candor evinced by
the author, we have no doubt of its entire reliability.

The same publisher has issued _A Cenotaph to a Woman of the Burman
Mission_, being a memoir of Mrs. HELEN M. MASON, whose devoted piety and
modest worth eminently entitled her to this feeling commemoration by her
husband.

Tallis, Willoughby, and Co. continue the serial publication of _The Life
of Christ_, by JOHN FLEETWOOD, beautifully illustrated with steel
engravings; and _Scripture History for the Young_, by FREDERICK
BANBRIDGE, profusely embellished with appropriate plates, representing
the most remarkable incidents in the Old and New Testaments.

Ticknor, Reed, and Fields have published a new volume of _Poems_ by
GRACE GREENWOOD, consisting of a selection from her contributions to the
Magazines, with several pieces which we have not before seen in print.
Like all the productions of that popular authoress, they are marked with
strong traces of individuality, varying with the mood of the moment, now
expressing a deep and melancholy pathos, and now gay with exuberant hope
and native elasticity of spirit. A transparent atmosphere of
intellectuality is the medium for the loftiest flights of her fancy,
inspiring confidence even in her most erratic excursions, and giving a
healthy tone to her glowing effusions of sentiment.

We have also from Ticknor, Reed, and Fields a new edition of _The
Grandfather's Chair_, by NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE, with _Biographical
Stories_ from the lives of Benjamin West, Sir Isaac Newton, Dr. Johnson,
Oliver Cromwell, Benjamin Franklin, and Queen Christina. Mr. Hawthorne's
narratives for juvenile reading are no less original and attractive in
their kind, than the admirable tales and descriptions by which he is
known to the majority of readers.

A cheap edition of the powerful sea-story, _The Green Hand_, has been
published in one volume complete, by Harper and Brothers, enabling the
admirers of that racy production to enjoy its flavor without making "two
bites of the cherry."

_The New-Englander_, for November (published at New Haven by J.B.
Carrington), is an able number of this bold and masculine periodical,
discussing various topics of interest with a healthy grasp of intellect,
and a fresh energy of expression, which show that it has escaped the
incubus of a lifeless religionism, and breathes a free, independent, and
aspiring spirit, equally removed from presumption and timidity. Among
the articles, is an elaborate and able reply to Professor Agassiz, on
"The Original Unity of the Human Race," an admirable Review of
"Tennyson's In Memoriam," a paper on California, with others of no less
interest.

The _Bibliotheca Sacra_, conducted by B.B. EDWARDS, and E.A. PARK, for
November (Andover, W.I. Draper), abounds in choice and recondite
learning, with a sufficient sprinkling of popular articles to attract
the attention of general readers. "The Life and Character of De Wette"
gives an instructive account of the position and influence of that
eminent German theologian. The whole number is highly creditable to the
condition of sacred literature in this country.

Ticknor, Reed, and Fields, Boston, have published _Lyrics of Spain and
Erin_, by EDWARD MATURIN, a neat volume of spirited and graceful poetry,
consisting of Spanish Ballads, Legends and Superstitions of Ireland, and
Miscellaneous Pieces.

We have also from their press ASTRAEA, _A Phi Beta Kappa Poem_, by O.W.
HOLMES, gleaming with brilliant flashes of wit, and playfully scoring
some of the prevalent follies of the day; a volume of _Biographical
Essays_, by THOMAS DE QUINCEY, a work of extraordinary interest, as
presenting the judgment of that bold and vigorous thinker on such names
as Shakspeare, Pope, Lamb, Goethe, and Schiller; and _Numa Pompilius_,
translated from the French of FLORIAN, by J.A. FERRIS.

_Jamaica in 1850_, by JOHN BIGELOW (published by Geo. P. Putnam), is
less a book of travels than a treatise on practical economy, suggested
by a short residence on that island during a part of last winter. The
largest portion of the volume is devoted to a discussion of the causes
to which the commercial and industrial decline of Jamaica may be
ascribed, and of the measures which, in the opinion of the author, would
restore that delightful and fertile island to more than its ancient
prosperity. The root of the evil, according to Mr. Bigelow, is to be
found in the degradation of labor, the non-residence of the landholders,
the encumbered condition of real estate, and the monopoly of the soil by
a small number of proprietors. He warmly maintains the importance of
developing the vast industrial resources of the island, and establishing
the laboring classes in a state of personal independence. His views are
set forth at considerable length, and with a variety of illustrations.
The discussion is often enlivened by descriptions of local customs and
manners, narratives of personal experience, and lively sketches of
incident and character. Mr. Bigelow's style has the fluency, ease, and
vivacity, with the occasional inaccuracies, which naturally proceed from
the habit of perpetual and rapid composition, inseparable from the
profession of a newspaper editor. Some portions of this volume have
already appeared in the _New York Evening Post_, of which Mr. Bigelow is
one of the conductors, where they produced a very favorable impression.
They lose none of their interest in the present form, and will be found
to present a mass of important information in an unusually agreeable
manner.

Messrs. Tappan, Whittemore, and Mason have recently published _Cantica
Laudis; or, The American Book of Church Music_, being chiefly a
selection of chaste and elegant melodies from the most classic authors,
ancient and modern, with harmony parts; together with Chants, Anthems,
and other set pieces, for choirs and schools; to which are added, Tunes
for Congregational singing, by LOWELL MASON and GEORGE JAMES WEBB. Also,
by the same authors, _The Melodist_, a collection of popular and social
songs, original and selected, harmonized and arranged for soprano, alto,
tenor, and base voices.

_Beranger; Two Hundred of his Lyrical Poems, done into English verse_,
by WILLIAM YOUNG (published by George P. Putnam), is a selection from
Beranger's Songs, of which one hundred have already appeared in a London
edition, and are here reproduced, after careful revision, the remainder
being now printed for the first time. On many accounts, Beranger is less
suited for representation in a foreign language than most poets who have
gained such wide popularity among their own countrymen. Many of his most
brilliant effusions have a strong tincture of licentiousness; they are
marked by a freedom of delineation and of language which every decent
English translator would wish to avoid; and their publication in any
other land than that of their origin, would be an ungracious enterprise.
Besides, his productions are singularly idiomatic in their style;
growing out of the current events of the day; abounding in local and
political allusions; and strongly impressed with the national
characteristics of France. The external form of these popular lyrics
seems to be the necessary costume of their spirit. You can not separate
one from the other without violating the integrity of the piece. Its
vitality resides in the light, airy, evanescent structure of the rhythm.
This delicate vase can not be broken without wasting the precious aromas
which it incloses. With these formidable difficulties in the way of the
translator, we must give Mr. Young the highest credit for the felicitous
manner in which he has accomplished his task. His selections are made
with an admirable balance of taste. He has excluded all pieces, that
could justly be condemned on the score of grossness or a frivolous
treatment of sacred things, while he has not yielded to the suggestions
of an over-fastidious and morbid prudery. The translation bears the
marks of pains-taking diligence and a scrupulous desire for accuracy. It
is the result of a profound study and a familiar knowledge of the
author. It renders the general outlines of the original with almost the
fidelity of a daguerreotype. The reader who has no acquaintance with
French poetry may obtain from it a sufficiently distinct idea of the
costume, the movement, and the verbal harmonies of Beranger. Nor is this
all. Many of the songs are alive and tremulous with gayety and feeling.
They are written as the author would have written in English. If the
racy and delicious flavor of the original is not always preserved, it is
no fault of the translator. Literary art has not yet discovered the
secret of retaining the freshness of inspiration through the process of
transplanting into a foreign tongue. A neat biographical sketch of
Beranger is a welcome appendage to the volume.

C.S. Francis and Co. have issued a neat edition of HANS CHRISTIAN
ANDERSEN'S popular juveniles _The Story Teller_, _The Ugly Duck_,
_Little Ellie_, and other tales, illustrated with wood-engravings.

_The Gem of the Western World_, published by Cornish, Lamport, and Co.,
is the title of a new Annual for 1851, edited by Mrs. MARY E. HEWITT,
containing several original articles from her own pen, with
contributions from a variety of well-known popular writers. The
admirable taste of the editress is a guarantee for the excellence of the
literary matter which she has admitted into the volume.

D. Appleton and Co. announce a magnificent collection of Gift-Books for
the approaching holidays, which in the chaste and elevated character of
their contents, and the exquisite beauty of their embellishments have
not been surpassed by any similar publications in this country. _Our
Saviour with Apostles and Prophets_, edited by Rev. Dr. WAINWRIGHT,
contains a series of portraits of the sacred personages described in the
text, from designs by Finden and other artists of acknowledged eminence
in England. They are beautifully engraved on steel, presenting with
great fidelity to character, the ideal traits of the prophets and
martyrs, whose features they are supposed to represent. Each plate is
accompanied with an original essay, prepared expressly for this volume,
and written with uniform propriety and good taste. The writers are among
the most distinguished American divines in their respective
denominations. They have performed the task assigned to them in the
preparation of this elegant work, with good judgment, fidelity, and
eminent success. Instead of attempting to "gild the refined gold" of the
sacred writers with the thin tinsel of modern rhetoric, they have
preserved the decorum appropriate to the subject, and expressed the
reflections which it suggests, in grave, modest, and forcible language.
Hence, this volume possesses an intrinsic value, as a work on Scripture
Biography, which recommends it to the notice of the religious public,
independently of the beauty and impressive character of its pictorial
illustrations. We are greatly indebted both to the Editor and the
Publishers for such a valuable addition to the tempting literature of
the holidays.

Another of their illustrated publications, of a less expensive
character, is entitled _Sacred Scenes_, describing various passages in
the life of our Saviour by artistic representations, accompanied with
suitable selections from the works of distinguished English writers.

_Evenings at Donaldson Manor_ is a charming collection of tales and
narratives from the pen of MARIA J. MCINTOSH, which with _Midsummer
Fays_, by SUSAN PINDAR, is adapted to the younger classes of readers,
forming beautiful and appropriate gifts for the season of social
congratulations and the exchanges of friendship and domestic affection.

_The National Cook-Book_, by A LADY of Philadelphia, published by Robert
E. Peterson, is a treatise adapted to American tastes and habits, and
will, of course, be satisfactory to those who prefer a bill of fare in
their own language. Great attention has been paid to that department of
cookery exclusively adapted to the sick or convalescent, most of the
dishes having been prepared according to the directions of eminent
physicians of Philadelphia.

_The Relation between the Holy Scriptures and some Parts of Geological
Science_, is reprinted by Robert E. Peterson, of Philadelphia, from the
fourth London edition, greatly enlarged by its veteran author, JOHN PYE
SMITH, the distinguished Professor of Divinity in the College at
Homerton. The work, which consists of a series of Lectures, illustrated
by copious notes, displays extensive and diligent research, uncommon
strength and fairness of argument, and an animated and impressive style.
It has met with brilliant success in England, and has gained a highly
favorable reputation in this country.

Little and Brown, Boston, have issued the Second Volume of _The Works of
John Adams, with a Life of the Author, Notes and Illustrations_, by his
Grandson, CHARLES FRANCIS ADAMS, the first volume, which has not yet
made its appearance, being reserved for the Life of President Adams,
announced on the title-page. The present volume is composed of a Diary,
some portions of an Autobiography, and Notes of the earlier debates in
the Provincial Congress at Philadelphia. The Diary was commenced in
1755, the year of the author's graduation at Harvard College, and
continues to 1778, the period of his first departure for Europe as Envoy
to the Court of Versailles. It presents a curious picture of the youth
and early manhood of the celebrated statesman, and of the gradual
development of political events till their consummation in the war of
the Revolution. The sketches which are also given of several of the
Massachusetts politicians, whose names have since become identified with
the history of their country, derive a peculiar interest from the
freedom and unconsciousness with which they are drawn, the writer having
no idea of publicity, and intending his record of current events as
merely the pastime of a leisure hour. His frank and copious details,
which are published without alteration by the Editor, often give an
amusing illustration of the domestic life of New England, and with a few
homely touches, reveal the spirit of the people which led to resistance
against British aggression. The manner in which the work has been
prepared for publication is in a high degree creditable to the fidelity,
impartiality, and excellent judgment of the Editor. He gives all
necessary explanations in cases of doubt or obscurity, but never
distracts the attention of the reader by a superfluity of comment. With
an evident tenderness for the reputation of his venerable relative, he
allows him to depict himself in genuine colors, making no attempt to
gloss over his infirmities, or to place his virtues in an exaggerated
light. The volume is issued in a style of great typographical elegance,
with a portrait of President Adams in his youth, and a very natural
sketch of the primitive old Yankee homestead in Quincy.

_The Broken Bracelet and Other Poems_ (Phil., Lindsay and Blakiston), by
Mrs. C.H.W. ESLING, is the title of a volume of poems, which, in another
form, have been favorably received by the public, and are now collected
by the suggestion of the literary friends of the author, formerly Miss
Waterman. They are justly entitled to the compliment of a reprint, on
account of their true poetic sentiment, their graceful versification,
their delicate appreciation of beauty, and their pure and healthy
sympathies with the varied aspects of humanity. The poem, from which the
volume takes its name, is a romantic Italian story, abounding in natural
touches of pathos, and many of the smaller pieces show a depth of
feeling and versatility of expression that can not fail to make them
general favorites.

_The Immortal; A Dramatic Romance, and Other Poems_, by JAMES NACK
(published by Stringer and Townsend), is introduced with a memoir of the
author, by GEORGE P. MORRIS, who gives an interesting description of the
circumstances which, at an early period of life, decided his future
position. Mr. Nack was the son of a merchant in the city of New York. He
soon displayed a love of study, which gave promise of future
intellectual distinction. His genius for poetry received a remarkably
precocious development. But he had scarcely attained his ninth year when
he met with a severe accident, which resulted in the total destruction
of his hearing. He was thus deprived of the power of articulation to so
great a degree, that he has since confined himself to writing as the
medium of intercourse with others. His natural energy and perseverance,
however, have enabled him to overcome the obstacles to literary culture,
which, to most persons, would have been insurmountable. The poetry in
the present volume, in addition to the interest excited by the situation
of the author, possesses the decided merits of a vivid imagination,
great tenderness and purity of feeling, and usually a chaste and
vigorous diction.

Baker and Scribner have issued an edition of MILTON'S _Paradise Lost_,
in one handsome duodecimo volume, edited by Professor JAMES R. BOYD,
containing original, explanatory, and critical notes, with a copious
selection from the commentaries of Newton, Todd, Sir Egerton Brydges,
Stebbing, and others. The edition is illustrated by engravings from the
celebrated designs of Martin.

_A General View of the Fine Arts_ (published by G.P. Putnam), is the
production of a lady, who, while devoting her leisure hours to its
composition, was practically engaged with the pallet and colors. It is
intended to diffuse a taste for the study of the fine arts, by gathering
into a small compass, the information which was before diffused through
many expensive and often inaccessible volumes. Under the different heads
of Painting, Sculpture, Architecture, and Music, the author has
presented a variety of historical sketches, discussions of theoretical
principles, anecdotes of celebrated artists, and descriptions of their
most important productions. Without making any pretensions to entire
originality, the work displays a lucid arrangement, an extent of
information, and a pleasing vivacity of style, which give a very
favorable idea of the diligence, conscientiousness, critical judgment,
and artistic enthusiasm of the anonymous author. An appropriate
introduction by Huntington, the distinguished American painter,
accompanies the volume.

G.P. Putnam has published the _Artist's Chromatic Hand-Book_, by JOHN P.
RIDNER, a convenient practical treatise on the properties and uses of
the different colors employed in painting.


FOOTNOTE:

[11] Six vacancies.




Fashions for December.


[Illustration: FIG. 1.--VISITING AND BALL COSTUMES FOR DECEMBER]

The extremely mild weather which has prevailed during the autumn, has
somewhat retarded the preparations for winter; yet the _modists_ have
not been unmindful of the passage of the months, and the fact that
December always promises frosts and snows. From Paris, the great
fountain of taste in dress, elegant bonnets have been received. Some are
of white, lilac, pink, and green satin, covered with black lace of rich
pattern; others are of black and  velvets, trimmed with a small
feather on each side; the inside trimming composed of velvet flowers and
foliage, in tints harmonizing with the color of the bonnet. _Pardessus_,
wadded, and of the same material as the dress, are now generally worn,
the patterns varying but little from those depicted in our last Number.
Dresses, mantelets, and other articles of costume, are ornamented with
braid and embroidery. Embroidered silks are worn, of which the gray,
shot with white, and ornamented with embroidered flowers and foliage of
gray silk, the stems and tendrils being white, are most in vogue. The
corsage is low, open in front, sleeves demi-long. Another seasonable
material for a plain walking and in-door dress, is a French fabric
called _amure_, which consists of a mixture of silk and wool. It is
woven in dress lengths.

The figure on the left in Figure 1, represents an elegant ball costume.
The dress is composed of white crape, the skirt, which is full, being
handsomely trimmed with white lace and fullings of crape put on at equal
distances; the upper row of lace, reaching to a little below the waist.
Plain low corsage, the top part encircled with a double fall of lace,
forming a kind of _berthe_, and headed with a narrow fulling of crape,
similar to that on the skirt. This _berthe_ entirely conceals the plain,
short sleeve; the whole is worn over a skirt of white satin. The hair is
simply arranged in a cable twist, being confined at the back with a gold
or silver comb. The figure on the right represents a visiting costume.
The dress is a rich plaided silk, composed of a mixture of purple, red,
green, and white. The skirt is made quite plain; low corsage, trimmed
with a double row of white lace across the front, one row standing up,
and the other drooping over the front. _Pardessus_ of the same material,
trimmed all round with a quilling of plain purple ribbon. This is
repeated upon the lower part of the pagoda sleeves, and also serves to
attach the _pardessus_ across the front of the bosom. Under pagoda
sleeves are of white lace. The bonnet is of _paille d'Italie_, lined
with white silk, and decorated with pink roses, the exterior having a
doubled plaited frill of white silk, and a beautiful white ostrich
feather.

[Illustration: FIG. 2.--EVENING COSTUME]

FIG. 2 represents an evening costume. The dress is of satin, of a rich
deep American primrose hue, the skirt made quite plain and very full,
_en petit train_; low pointed corsage, trimmed with a fulling of satin
ribbon, the same color as the dress, which is put on to form a kind of
shallow cape round the back part, and descends upon each side of the
front, finishing on either side of the point, and gradually narrowing
from the shoulders. It is trimmed with a fall of white lace upon the
lower edge, a narrower one forming a beading to the plaiting round the
neck. The centre of the corsage is adorned with _noeuds_ of the same
 ribbon, placed at regular distances; the short sleeves finished
with a row of fulled ribbon, similar to that on the corsage, edged with
a very narrow lace. The _coiffure_ represents the front of the figure on
the left.

[Illustration: FIG. 3.--COIFFURE FOR BALL]

FIG. 3 is given chiefly to show an elegant style of _coiffure_ for a
ball or evening party. A portion of the hair is brought forward in
plaits, and fastened at the parting, at the top of the forehead, with a
rich pearl ornament, forming a kind of festoon on each side of the head.
The remainder of the front hair is disposed in a thick curl, which
descends to the curve of the neck. The dress is of lilac satin; the
skirt plain and full. The corsage is low, headed with white lace, and
trimmed on one shoulder, with fullings of satin ribbon, of the same
color as the dress, and upon the other with puffs and _noeuds_ of the
same. Open short sleeves composed of two deep falls of white lace. On
one side a fall of lace extends from the centre of the corsage, and
connects with the sleeves.

FASHIONABLE COLORS depend entirely upon the complexion; for example, for
ladies who are brunettes, with a fresh color, light blue, straw color,
pink, and pale green, are most in favor; while those of a blonde
complexion universally adopt black, red, and very dark hues.




Transcriber's Notes:

Words surrounded by _ are italicized.

Obvious punctuation errors have been repaired, other punctuations have
been left as printed in the paper book.

Erroneous page numbers in Table of Content corrected.

Captions added or corrected to match List of Illustrations.

Obvious printer's errors have been repaired, other inconsistent
spellings have been kept, including:
- use of hyphen (e.g. "bag-pipe" and "bagpipe");
- accents (e.g. "depots" and "depots");
- proper names (e.g. "Leipzig" and "Leipsig");
- capitalisation (e.g. "Post-Office" and "Post-office");
- any other inconsistent spellings (e.g. "ambassador" and "embassador").

Following corrections are by removal or addition of a word:
- Pg 23, word "of" added (the course of Mary Stuart's career);
- Pg 60, word "a" added (in a low, guarded voice);
- Pg 73, word "get" removed (could get [get] in);
- Pg 135, word "the" removed (surnamed [the] "The Conqueror).





End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Harper's New Monthly Magazine, No.
VII, December 1850, Vol. II, by Various

*** 