



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









HARPER'S

NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.

NO. VI.--NOVEMBER, 1850.--VOL. I.




A PILGRIMAGE TO THE CRADLE OF AMERICAN LIBERTY.

WITH PEN AND PENCIL.

BY BENSON J. LOSSING.[1]


    "How suddenly that straight and glittering shaft
    Shot thwart the earth! in crown of living fire
    Up comes the day! As if they conscious quaff'd
    The sunny flood, hill, forest, city spire
    Laugh in the waking light."

                                      RICHARD H. DANA.

[Illustration: I]t was a glorious October morning, mild and brilliant,
when I left Boston to visit Concord and Lexington. A gentle land-breeze
during the night had borne the clouds back to their ocean birth-place,
and not a trace of the storm was left except in the saturated earth.
Health returned with the clear sky, and I felt a rejuvenescence in every
vein and muscle when, at dawn, I strolled over the natural glory of
Boston, its broad and beautifully-arbored Common. I breakfasted at six,
and at half-past seven left the station of the Fitchburg rail-way for
Concord, seventeen miles northwest of Boston. The country through which
the road passed is rough and broken, but thickly settled. I arrived at
the Concord station, about half a mile from the centre of the village,
before nine o'clock, and procuring a conveyance, and an intelligent
young man for a guide, proceeded at once to visit the localities of
interest in the vicinity. We rode to the residence of Major James
Barrett, a surviving grandson of Colonel Barrett, about two miles north
of the village, and near the residence of his venerated ancestor. Major
Barrett was eighty-seven years of age when I visited him; and his wife,
with whom he had lived nearly sixty years, was eighty. Like most of the
few survivors of the Revolution, they were remarkable for their mental
and bodily vigor. Both, I believe, still live. The old lady--a small,
well-formed woman--was as sprightly as a girl of twenty, and moved about
the house with the nimbleness of foot of a matron in the prime of life.
I was charmed with her vivacity, and the sunny radiance which it seemed
to shed throughout her household; and the half hour that I passed with
that venerable couple is a green spot in the memory.

Major Barrett was a lad of fourteen when the British incursion into
Concord took place. He was too young to bear a musket, but, with every
lad and woman in the vicinity, he labored in concealing the stores and
in making cartridges for those who went out to fight. With oxen and a
cart, himself, and others about his age, removed the stores deposited at
the house of his grandfather, into the woods, and concealed them, a
cart-load in a place, under pine boughs. In such haste were they obliged
to act on the approach of the British from Lexington, that, when the
cart was loaded, lads would march on each side of the oxen and goad them
into a trot. Thus all the stores were effectually concealed, except some
carriage-wheels. Perceiving the enemy near, these were cut up and
burned; so that Parsons found nothing of value to destroy or carry away.

[Illustration: MONUMENT AT CONCORD.]

From Major Barrett's we rode to the monument erected at the site of the
old North Bridge, where the skirmish took place. The road crosses the
Concord River a little above the site of the North Bridge. The monument
stands a few rods westward of the road leading to the village, and not
far from the house of the Reverend Dr. Ripley, who gave the ground for
the purpose. The monument is constructed of granite from Carlisle, and
has an inscription upon a marble tablet inserted in the eastern face of
the pedestal.[2] The view is from the green shaded lane which leads from
the highway to the monument, looking westward. The two trees standing,
one upon each side, without the iron railing, were saplings at the time
of the battle; between them was the entrance to the bridge. The monument
is reared upon a mound of earth a few yards from the left bank of the
river. A little to the left, two rough, uninscribed stones from the
field mark the graves of the two British soldiers who were killed and
buried upon the spot.

We returned to the village at about noon, and started immediately for
Lexington, six miles eastward.

Concord is a pleasant little village, including within its borders about
one hundred dwellings. It lies upon the Concord River, one of the chief
tributaries of the Merrimac, near the junction of the Assabeth and
Sudbury Rivers. Its Indian name was Musketaquid. On account of the
peaceable manner in which it was obtained, by purchase, of the
aborigines, in 1635, it was named Concord. At the north end of the broad
street, or common, is the house of Col. Daniel Shattuck, a part of
which, built in 1774, was used as one of the depositories of stores when
the British invasion took place. It has been so much altered, that a
view of it would have but little interest as representing a relic of the
past.

The road between Concord and Lexington passes through a hilly but
fertile country. It is easy for the traveler to conceive how terribly a
retreating army might be galled by the fire of a concealed enemy. Hills
and hillocks, some wooded, some bare, rise up every where, and formed
natural breast-works of protection to the skirmishers that hung upon the
flank and rear of Colonel Smith's troops. The road enters Lexington at
the green whereon the old meeting-house stood when the battle occurred.
The town is upon a fine rolling plain, and is becoming almost a suburban
residence for citizens of Boston. Workmen were inclosing the Green, and
laying out the grounds in handsome plats around the monument, which
stands a few yards from the street. It is upon a spacious mound; its
material is granite, and it has a marble tablet on the south front of
the pedestal, with a long inscription.[3] The design of the monument is
not at all graceful, and, being surrounded by tall trees, it has a very
"dumpy" appearance. The people are dissatisfied with it, and doubtless,
ere long, a more noble structure will mark the spot where the curtain of
the revolutionary drama was first lifted.

[Illustration: MONUMENT AT LEXINGTON.[4]]

[Illustration: NEAR VIEW OF THE MONUMENT.]

After making the drawings here given, I visited and made the sketch of
"Clark's House." There I found a remarkably intelligent old lady, Mrs.
Margaret Chandler, aged eighty-three years. She has been an occupant of
the house, I believe, ever since the Revolution, and has a perfect
recollection of the events of the period. Her version of the escape of
Hancock and Adams is a little different from the published accounts. She
says that on the evening of the 18th of April, 1775, some British
officers, who had been informed where these patriots were, came to
Lexington, and inquired of a woman whom they met, for "Mr. Clark's
house." She pointed to the parsonage; but in a moment, suspecting their
design, she called to them and inquired if it was Clark's _tavern_ that
they were in search of. Uninformed whether it was a _tavern_ or a
_parsonage_ where their intended victims were staying, and supposing the
former to be the most likely place, the officers replied, "Yes, Clark's
tavern." "Oh," she said, "Clark's tavern is in that direction," pointing
toward East Lexington. As soon as they departed, the woman hastened to
inform the patriots of their danger, and they immediately arose and fled
to Woburn. Dorothy Quincy, the intended wife of Hancock, who was at Mr.
Clark's, accompanied them in their flight.

I next called upon the venerable Abijah Harrington, who was living in
the village. He was a lad of fourteen at the time of the engagement. Two
of his brothers were among the minute men, but escaped unhurt. Jonathan
and Caleb Harrington, near relatives, were killed. The former was shot
in front of his own house, while his wife stood at the window in an
agony of alarm. She saw her husband fall, and then start up, the blood
gushing from his breast. He stretched out his arms toward her, and then
fell again. Upon his hands and knees he crawled toward his dwelling, and
expired just as his wife reached him. Caleb Harrington was shot while
running from the meeting-house. My informant saw almost the whole of the
battle, having been sent by his mother to go near enough, and be safe,
to obtain and convey to her information respecting her other sons, who
were with the minute men. His relation of the incidents of the morning
was substantially such as history has recorded. He dwelt upon the
subject with apparent delight, for his memory of the scenes of his early
years, around which cluster so much of patriotism and glory, was clear
and full. I would gladly have listened until twilight to the voice of
such experience, but time was precious, and I hastened to East
Lexington, to visit his cousin, Jonathan Harrington, an old man of
ninety, who played the fife when the minute men were marshaled on the
Green upon that memorable April morning. He was splitting fire-wood in
his yard with a vigorous hand when I rode up; and as he sat in his
rocking-chair, while I sketched his placid features, he appeared no
older than a man of seventy. His brother, aged eighty-eight, came in
before my sketch was finished, and I could not but gaze with wonder upon
these strong old men, children of one mother, who were almost grown to
manhood when the first battle of our Revolution occurred! Frugality and
temperance, co-operating with industry, a cheerful temper, and a good
constitution, have lengthened their days, and made their protracted
years hopeful and happy.[5] The aged fifer apologized for the rough
appearance of his signature, which he kindly wrote for me, and charged
the tremulous motion of his hand to his labor with the ax. How
tenaciously we cling even to the appearance of vigor, when the whole
frame is tottering to its fall! Mr. Harrington opened the ball of the
Revolution with the shrill war-notes of the fife, and then retired from
the arena. He was not a soldier in the war, nor has his life, passed in
the quietude of rural pursuits, been distinguished except by the
glorious acts which constitute the sum of the achievements of a GOOD
CITIZEN.

[Illustration: PORTRAIT OF JONATHAN HARRINGTON.]

I left Lexington at about three o'clock, and arrived at Cambridge at
half past four. It was a lovely autumnal afternoon. The trees and fields
were still green, for the frost had not yet been busy with their foliage
and blades. The road is Macadamized the whole distance; and so thickly
is it lined with houses, that the village of East Lexington and Old
Cambridge seem to embrace each other in close union.

Cambridge is an old town, the first settlement there having been planted
in 1631, contemporaneous with that of Boston. It was the original
intention of the settlers to make it the metropolis of Massachusetts,
and Governor Winthrop commenced the erection of his dwelling there. It
was called New Town, and in 1632 was palisaded. The Reverend Mr. Hooker,
one of the earliest settlers of Connecticut, was the first minister in
Cambridge. In 1636, the General Court provided for the erection of a
public school in New Town, and appropriated two thousand dollars for
that purpose. In 1638, the Reverend John Harvard, of Charlestown,
endowed the school with about four thousand dollars. This endowment
enabled them to exalt the academy into a college, and it was called
Harvard University in honor of its principal benefactor.

Cambridge has the distinction of being the place where the first
printing-press in America was established. Its proprietor was named Day,
and the capital that purchased the materials was furnished by the Rev.
Mr. Glover. The first thing printed was the "Freeman's Oath," in 1636;
the next was an almanac; and the next the Psalms, in metre.[6] Old
Cambridge (West Cambridge, or Metonomy, of the Revolution), the seat of
the University, is three miles from West Boston Bridge, which connects
Cambridge with Boston. Cambridgeport is about half way between Old
Cambridge and the bridge, and East Cambridge occupies Lechmere's Point,
a promontory fortified during the siege of Boston in 1775.

Arrived at Old Cambridge, I parted company with the vehicle and driver
that conveyed me from Concord to Lexington, and hither; and, as the day
was fast declining, I hastened to sketch the head-quarters of
Washington, an elegant and spacious edifice, standing in the midst of
shrubbery and stately elms, a little distance from the street, once the
highway from Harvard University to Waltham. At this mansion, and at
Winter Hill, Washington passed most of his time, after taking command of
the Continental army, until the evacuation of Boston in the following
spring. Its present owner is HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW, Professor of
Oriental languages in Harvard University, and widely known in the world
of literature as one of the most gifted men of the age. It is a spot
worthy of the residence of an American bard so endowed, for the
associations which hallow it are linked with the noblest themes that
ever awakened the inspiration of a child of song.

    "When the hours of Day are number'd
      And the voices of the Night
    Wake the better soul that slumber'd
      To a holy, calm delight,
    Ere the evening lamps are lighted,
      And, like phantoms grim and tall,
    Shadows from the fitful fire-light
      Dance upon the parlor wall,"

then to the thoughtful dweller must come the spirit of the place and
hour to weave a gorgeous tapestry, rich with pictures, illustrative of
the heroic age of our young republic. My tarry was brief and busy, for
the sun was rapidly descending--it even touched the forest tops before I
finished the drawing--but the cordial reception and polite attentions
which I received from the proprietor, and his warm approval of, and
expressed interest for the success of my labors, occupy a space in
memory like that of a long, bright summer day.

[Illustration: WASHINGTON'S HEAD-QUARTERS AT CAMBRIDGE.]

This mansion stands upon the upper of two terraces, which are ascended
each by five stone steps. At each front corner of the house is a lofty
elm--mere saplings when Washington beheld them, but now stately and
patriarchal in appearance. Other elms, with flowers and shrubbery,
beautify the grounds around it; while within, iconoclastic innovation
has not been allowed to enter with its mallet and trowel, to mar the
work of the ancient builder, and to cover with the vulgar stucco of
modern art the carved cornices and paneled wainscots that first enriched
it. I might give a long list of eminent persons whose former presence in
those spacious rooms adds interest to retrospection, but they are
elsewhere identified with scenes more personal and important. I can not
refrain, however, from noticing the visit of one, who, though a dark
child of Africa and a bond-woman, received the most polite attention
from the commander-in-chief. This was PHILLIS, a slave of Mr. Wheatley,
of Boston. She was brought from Africa when between seven and eight
years old. She seemed to acquire knowledge intuitively; became a poet of
considerable merit, and corresponded with such eminent persons as the
Countess of Huntingdon, Earl of Dartmouth, Reverend George Whitefield,
and others. Washington invited her to visit him at Cambridge, which she
did a few days before the British evacuated Boston; her master among
others, having left the city by permission, and retired, with his
family, to Chelsea. She passed half an hour with the commander-in-chief,
from whom and his officers she received marked attention.[7]

A few rods above the residence of Professor Longfellow is the house in
which the Brunswick general, the Baron Riedesel, and his family were
quartered, during the stay of the captive army of Burgoyne in the
vicinity of Boston. I was not aware when I visited Cambridge, that the
old mansion was still in existence; but, through the kindness of Mr.
Longfellow, I am able to present the features of its southern front,
with a description. In style it is very much like that of Washington's
head-quarters, and the general appearance of the grounds around is
similar. It is shaded by noble linden-trees, and adorned with shrubbery,
presenting to the eye all the attractions noticed by the Baroness of
Riedesel in her charming letters.[8] Upon a window-pane on the north
side of the house may be seen the undoubted autograph of that
accomplished woman, inscribed with a diamond point. It is an interesting
memento, and is preserved with great care. The annexed is a facsimile of
it.

[Illustration: THE RIEDESEL HOUSE, CAMBRIDGE.[9]]

[Illustration: AUTOGRAPH OF THE BARONESS RIEDESEL.]

During the first moments of the soft evening twilight I sketched the
"Washington elm," one of the ancient _anakim_ of the primeval forest,
older, probably, by a half century or more, than the welcome of Samoset
to the white settlers. It stands upon Washington-street, near the
westerly corner of the Common, and is distinguished by the circumstance
that, beneath its broad shadow, General Washington first drew his sword
as commander-in-chief of the Continental army, on the 3d of July, 1775.
Thin lines of clouds, glowing in the light of the setting sun like bars
of gold, streaked the western sky, and so prolonged the twilight by
reflection, that I had ample time to finish my drawing before the night
shadows dimmed the paper.

Early on the following morning I procured a chaise to visit Charlestown
and Dorchester Heights. I rode first to the former place, and climbed to
the summit of the great obelisk that stands upon the site of the redoubt
upon Breed's Hill. As I ascended the steps which lead from the street to
the smooth gravel-walks upon the eminence whereon the "Bunker Hill
Monument" stands, I experienced a feeling of disappointment and regret,
not easily to be expressed. Before me was the great memento, huge and
grand--all that patriotic reverence could wish--but the ditch scooped
out by Prescott's toilers on that starry night in June, and the mounds
that were upheaved to protect them from the shots of the astonished
Britons, were effaced, and no more vestiges remain of the handiwork of
those in whose honor and to whose memory this obelisk was raised, than
of Roman conquests in the shadow of Trajan's column--of the naval
battles of Nelson around his monument in Trafalgar-square, or of French
victories in the Place Vendome. The fosse and the breast-works were all
quite prominent when the foundation-stone of the monument was laid, and
a little care, directed by good taste, might have preserved them in
their interesting state of half ruin until the passage of the present
century, or, at least, until the sublime centenary of the battle should
be celebrated. Could the visitor look upon the works of the patriots
themselves, associations a hundred-fold more interesting would crowd the
mind, for wonderfully suggestive of thought are the slightest relics of
the past when linked with noble deeds. A soft green sward, as even as
the rind of a fair apple, and cut by eight straight gravel-walks,
diverging from the monument, is substituted by art for the venerated
irregularities made by the old mattock and spade. The spot is beautiful
to the eye untrained by appreciating affection for hallowed things;
nevertheless, there is palpable desecration that may hardly be
forgiven.

[Illustration: BUNKER HILL MONUMENT.[10]]

The view from the top of the monument, for extent, variety, and beauty,
is certainly one of the finest in the world. A "York shilling" is
charged for the privilege of ascending the monument. The view from its
summit is "a shilling show" worth a thousand miles of travel to see.
Boston, its harbor, and the beautiful country around, mottled with
villages, are spread out like a vast painting, and on every side the eye
may rest upon localities of great historical interest, Cambridge,
Roxbury, Chelsea, Quincy, Medford, Marblehead, Dorchester, and other
places, where

    "The old Continentals,
    In their ragged regimentals,
         Falter'd not,"

and the numerous sites of small fortifications which the student of
history can readily call to mind. In the far distance, on the northwest,
rise the higher peaks of the White Mountains of New Hampshire; and on
the northeast, the peninsula of Nahant, and the more remote Cape Anne
may be seen. Wonders which present science and enterprise are developing
and forming are there exhibited in profusion. At one glance from this
lofty observatory may be seen seven railroads,[11] and many other
avenues connecting the city with the country; and ships from almost
every region of the globe dot the waters of the harbor. Could a tenant
of the old grave-yard on Copp's Hill, who lived a hundred years ago,
when the village upon Tri-mountain was fitting out its little armed
flotillas against the French in Acadia, or sending forth its few vessels
of trade along the neighboring coasts, or occasionally to cross the
Atlantic, come forth and stand beside us a moment, what a new and
wonderful world would be presented to his vision! A hundred years ago!

    "Who peopled all the city streets
      A hundred years ago?
    Who fill'd the church with faces meek
      A hundred years ago?"

They were men wise in their generation, but ignorant in practical
knowledge when compared with the present. In their wildest dreams,
incited by tales of wonder that spiced the literature of their times,
they never fancied any thing half so wonderful as our mighty dray-horse,

    "The black steam-engine! steed of iron power--
    The wond'rous steed of the Arabian tale,
    Lanch'd on its course by pressure of a touch--
    The war-horse of the Bible, with its neck
    Grim, clothed with thunder, swallowing the way
    In fierceness of its speed, and shouting out,
    'Ha! ha!'[12] A little water, and a grasp
    Of wood, sufficient for its nerves of steel,
    Shooting away, 'Ha! ha!' it shouts, as on
    It gallops, dragging in its tireless path
    Its load of fire."

I lingered in the chamber of the Bunker Hill monument as long as time
would allow, and descending, rode back to the city, crossed to South
Boston, and rambled for an hour among the remains of the fortifications
upon the heights of the peninsula of Dorchester. The present prominent
remains of fortifications are those of intrenchments cast up during the
war of 1812, and have no other connection with our subject than the
circumstance that they occupy the site of the works constructed there by
order of Washington. These were greatly reduced in altitude when the
engineers began the erection of the forts now in ruins, which are
properly preserved with a great deal of care. They occupy the summits of
two hills, which command Boston Neck on the left, the city of Boston in
front, and the harbor on the right. Southeast from the heights,
pleasantly situated among gentle hills, is the village of Dorchester, so
called in memory of a place in England of the same name, whence many of
its earliest settlers came. The stirring events which rendered
Dorchester Heights famous are universally known.

I returned to Boston at about one o'clock, and passed the remainder of
the day in visiting places of interest within the city--the old South
meeting-house, Faneuil Hall, the Province House, and the Hancock House.
I am indebted to John Hancock, Esq., nephew of the patriot, and present
proprietor and occupant of the "Hancock House," on Beacon-street, for
polite attentions while visiting his interesting mansion, and for
information concerning matters that have passed under the eye of his
experience of threescore years. He has many mementoes of his eminent
kinsman, and among them a beautifully-executed miniature of him, painted
in London, in 1761, while he was there at the coronation of George III.

Near Mr. Hancock's residence is the State House, a noble structure upon
Beacon Hill, the corner-stone of which was laid in 1795, by Governor
Samuel Adams, assisted by Paul Revere, master of the Masonic grand
lodge. There I sketched the annexed picture of the colossal statue of
Washington, by Chantrey, which stands in the open centre of the first
story; also the group of trophies from Bennington, that hang over the
door of the Senate chamber. Under these trophies, in a gilt frame, is a
copy of the reply of the Massachusetts Assembly to General Stark's
letter, that accompanied the presentation of the trophies. It was
written fifty years ago.

[Illustration: WASHINGTON.[13]]

After enjoying the view from the top of the State House a while, I
walked to Copp's Hill, a little east of Charlestown Bridge, at the north
end of the town, where I tarried until sunset in the ancient
burying-ground. The earliest name of this eminence was Snow Hill. It was
subsequently named after its owner, William Copp.[14] It came into the
possession of the Ancient and Honorable Artillery Company by mortgage;
and when, in 1775, they were forbidden by Gage to parade on the Common,
they went to this, their own ground, and drilled in defiance of his
threats. The fort, or battery, that was built there by the British, just
before the battle of Bunker Hill, stood near its southeast brow,
adjoining the burying-ground. The remains of many eminent men repose in
that little cemetery. Close by the entrance is the vault of the Mather
family. It is covered by a plain, oblong structure of brick, three feet
high and about six feet long, upon which is laid a heavy brown stone
slab, with a tablet of slate, bearing the names of the principal tenants
below.[15]

[Illustration: MATHER'S VAULT.]

I passed the forenoon of the next day in the rooms of the Massachusetts
Historical Society, where every facility was afforded me by Mr. Felt,
the librarian, for examining the assemblage of things curious collected
there.[16] The printed books and manuscripts, relating principally to
American history, are numerous, rare, and valuable.

There is also a rich depository of the autographs of the Pilgrim fathers
and their immediate descendants. There are no less than twenty-five
large folio volumes of valuable manuscript letters and other documents;
besides which are six thick quarto manuscript volumes--a commentary on
the Holy Scriptures--in the handwriting of Cotton Mather. From an
autograph letter of that singular man the annexed fac-simile of his
writing and signature is given. Among the portraits in the cabinet of
the society are those of Governor Winslow, supposed to have been painted
by Vandyke, Increase Mather, and Peter Faneuil, the founder of Faneuil
Hall.

[Illustration: MATHER'S WRITING.]

I had the pleasure of meeting, at the rooms of the society, that
indefatigable antiquary, Dr. Webb, widely known as the American
correspondent of the "Danish Society of Northern Antiquarians" at
Copenhagen. He was sitting in the chair that once belonged to Governor
Winthrop, writing upon the desk of the speaker of the Colonial Assembly
of Massachusetts, around which the warm debates were carried on
concerning American liberty, from the time when James Otis denounced the
Writs of Assistance, until Governor Gage adjourned the Assembly to
Salem, in 1774. Hallowed by such associations, the desk is an
interesting relic. Dr. Webb's familiarity with the collections of the
society, and his kind attentions, greatly facilitated my search among
the six thousand articles for things curious connected with my subject
and made my brief visit far more profitable to myself than it would
otherwise have been. Among the relics preserved are the chair that
belonged to Governor Carver; the sword of Miles Standish; the huge key
of Port Royal gate; a _samp-pan_, that belonged to Metacomet, or King
Philip; and the sword reputed to have been used by Captain Church when
he cut off that unfortunate sachem's head. The dish is about twelve
inches in diameter, wrought out of an elm knot with great skill. The
sword is very rude, and was doubtless made by a blacksmith of the
colony. The handle is a roughly-wrought piece of ash, and the guard is
made of a wrought-iron plate.

[Illustration: SPEAKER'S DESK AND WINTHROP'S CHAIR.]

[Illustration: PHILIP'S SAMP-PAN.]

[Illustration: CHURCH'S SWORD.]


    FOOTNOTES:

    [1] This sketch of Revolutionary scenes and incidents in and about
    Boston, is part of an unpublished chapter from LOSSING'S
    "Pictorial Field Book of the Revolution," now in course of
    publication by Harper and Brothers.

    [2] The following is a copy of the inscription:

                               HERE,
                    On the 19th of April, 1775,
             was made the first forcible resistance to
                        BRITISH AGGRESSION.
              On the opposite bank stood the American
        militia, and on this spot the first of the enemy fell
                   in the WAR OF THE REVOLUTION,
           which gave Independence to these United States.
          In gratitude to God, and in the love of Freedom,
                     This Monument was erected,
                             A.D. 1836.

    [3] The following is a copy of the inscription:

    "Sacred to the Liberty and the Rights of Mankind!!! The Freedom
    and Independence of America--sealed and defended with the blood of
    her sons--This Monument is erected by the Inhabitants of
    Lexington, under the patronage and at the expense of the
    Commonwealth of Massachusetts, to the memory of their
    Fellow-citizens, Ensign Robert Monroe, Messrs. Jonas Parker,
    Samuel Hadley, Jonathan Harrington, jun., Isaac Muzzy, Caleb
    Harrington, and John Brown, of Lexington, and Asahel Porter, of
    Woburn, who fell on this Field, the first victims of the Sword of
    British Tyranny and Oppression, on the morning of the
    ever-memorable Nineteenth of April, An. Dom. 1775. The Die was
    Cast!!! The blood of these Martyrs in the Cause of God and their
    Country was the Cement of the Union of these States, then
    Colonies, and gave the Spring to the Spirit, Firmness, and
    Resolution of their Fellow-citizens. They rose as one man to
    revenge their Brethren's blood, and at the point of the Sword to
    assert and defend their native Rights. They nobly dared to be
    Free!!! The contest was long, bloody, and affecting. Righteous
    Heaven approved the Solemn Appeal; Victory crowned their Arms, and
    the Peace, Liberty, and Independence of the United States of
    America was their glorious Reward. Built in the year 1799."

    [4] This view is from the Concord Road, looking eastward, and
    shows a portion of the inclosure of the Green. The distant
    building seen on the right is the old "Buckman Tavern." It now
    belongs to Mrs. Merriam, and exhibits many scars made by the
    bullets on the morning of the skirmish.

    [5] The seventy-fifth anniversary of the battles of Lexington and
    Concord was celebrated at the latter place on the 19th of April,
    1850. In the procession was a carriage containing these venerable
    brothers, aged, respectively, nearly ninety-one and ninety-three;
    Amos Baker, of Lincoln, aged ninety-four; Thomas Hill, of Danvers,
    aged ninety-two; and Dr. Preston, of Billerica, aged eighty-eight.
    The Honorable Edward Everett, among others, made a speech on the
    occasion, in which he very happily remarked, that "it pleased his
    heart to see those venerable men beside him; and he was very much
    pleased to assist Mr. Jonathan Harrington to put on his top coat a
    few minutes ago. In doing so, he was ready to say, with the
    eminent man of old, 'Very pleasant art thou to me, my brother
    Jonathan!'"

    [6] Records of Harvard College.

    [7] Phillis wrote a letter to General Washington in October, 1775,
    in which she inclosed a poem eulogistic of his character. In
    February following the general answered it. I give a copy of his
    letter, in illustration of the excellence of the mind and heart of
    that great man, always so kind and courteous to the most humble,
    even when pressed with arduous public duties.

                                        "Cambridge, February 28, 1776.

    "MISS PHILLIS--Your favor of the 26th of October did not reach my
    hands till the middle of December. Time enough, you will say, to
    have given an answer ere this. Granted. But a variety of important
    occurrences, continually interposing to distract the mind and
    withdraw the attention, I hope will apologize for the delay, and
    plead my excuse for the seeming but not real neglect. I thank you
    most sincerely for your polite notice of me in the elegant lines
    you inclosed; and however undeserving I may be of such encomium
    and panegyric, the style and manner exhibit a striking proof of
    your poetical talents; in honor of which, and as a tribute justly
    due to you, I would have published the poem, had I not been
    apprehensive that, while I only meant to give the world this new
    instance of your genius, I might have incurred the imputation of
    vanity. This, and nothing else, determined me not to give it a
    place in the public prints. If you should ever come to Cambridge,
    or near head-quarters, I shall be happy to see a person so favored
    by the Muses, and to whom nature has been so liberal and
    beneficent in her dispensations. I am, with great respect, your
    obedient, humble servant,                        GEO. WASHINGTON."

    [8] She thus writes respecting her removal from a peasant's house
    on Winter Hill to Cambridge, and her residence there:

    "We passed three weeks in this place, and were then transferred to
    Cambridge, where we were lodged in one of the best houses of the
    place, which belonged to Royalists. Seven families, who were
    connected by relationship, or lived in great intimacy, had here
    farms, gardens, and splendid mansions, and not far off, orchards,
    and the buildings were at a quarter of a mile distant from each
    other. The owners had been in the habit of assembling every
    afternoon in one or another of these houses, and of diverting
    themselves with music or dancing, and lived in affluence, in good
    humor, and without care, until this unfortunate war at once
    dispersed them, and transformed all their houses into solitary
    abodes, except two, the proprietors of which were also soon
    obliged to make their escape....

    "On the 3d of June, 1778, I gave a ball and supper, in celebration
    of my husband's birthday. I had invited all our generals and
    officers and Mr. and Mrs. Carter. General Burgoyne sent us an
    apology, after he had made us wait for him till eight o'clock. He
    had always some excuse for not visiting us, until he was about
    departing for England, when he came and made me many apologies, to
    which I made no other reply than that I should be extremely sorry
    if he had put himself to any inconvenience for our sake. The dance
    lasted long, and we had an excellent supper, to which more than
    eighty persons sat down. Our yard and garden were illuminated. The
    king's birth-day falling on the next day, it was resolved that the
    company should not separate before his Majesty's health was drank;
    which was done, with feelings of the liveliest attachment to his
    person and interests. Never, I believe, was 'God Save the King'
    sung with more enthusiasm, or with feelings more sincere. Our two
    eldest girls were brought into the room to see the illumination.
    We were all deeply moved, and proud to have the courage to display
    such sentiments in the midst of our enemies. Even Mr. Carter could
    not forbear participating in our enthusiasm." Mr. Carter was the
    son-in-law of General Schuyler. Remembering the kindness which she
    had received from that gentleman while in Albany, the baroness
    sought out Mr. and Mrs. Carter (who were living in Boston), on her
    arrival at Cambridge. "Mrs. Carter," she says, "resembled her
    parents in mildness and goodness of heart, but her husband was
    revengeful and false." The patriotic zeal of Mr. Carter had given
    rise to foolish stories respecting him. "They seemed to feel much
    friendship for us," says Madame De Riedesel; "though, at the same
    time, this wicked Mr. Carter, in consequence of General Howe's
    having burned several villages and small towns, suggested to his
    countrymen to cut off our generals' heads, to pickle them, and to
    put them in small barrels, and, as often as the English should
    again burn a village, to send them one of these barrels; but that
    cruelty was not adopted."--_Letters and Memoire relating to the
    War of American Independence, by Madame De Riedesel._

    [9] This is from a pencil sketch by Mr. Longfellow. I am also
    indebted to him for the fac-simile of the autograph of the
    Baroness of Riedesel. It will be perceived that the _i_ is placed
    before the _e_ in spelling the name. It is generally given with
    the _e_ first, which is according to the orthography in Burgoyne's
    _State of the Expedition_, &c., wherein I supposed it was spelled
    correctly. This autograph shows it to be erroneous.

    [10] This monument stands in the centre of the grounds included
    within the breast-works of the old redoubt on Breed's Hill. Its
    sides are precisely parallel with those of the redoubt. It is
    built of Quincy granite, and is two hundred and twenty-one feet in
    height. The foundation is composed of six courses of stone, and
    extends twelve feet below the surface of the ground and base of
    the shaft. The four sides of the foundation extend about fifty
    feet horizontally. There are in the whole pile ninety courses of
    stone, six of them below the surface of the ground, and
    eighty-four above. The foundation is laid in lime mortar; the
    other parts of the structure in lime mortar mixed with cinders,
    iron filings, and Springfield hydraulic cement. The base of the
    obelisk is thirty feet square; at the spring of the apex, fifteen
    feet. Inside of the shaft is a round, hollow cone, the outside
    diameter of which, at the bottom, is ten feet, and at the top, six
    feet. Around this inner shaft winds a spiral flight of stone
    steps, two hundred and ninety-five in number. In both the cone and
    shaft are numerous little apertures for the purposes of
    ventilation and light. The observatory or chamber at the top of
    the monument is seventeen feet in height and eleven feet in
    diameter. It has four windows, one on each side, which are
    provided with iron shutters. The cap-piece of the apex is a single
    stone, three feet six inches in thickness and four feet square at
    its base. It weighs two and a half tons.

    Almost fifty years had elapsed from the time of the battle before
    a movement was made to erect a commemorative monument on Breed's
    Hill. An association for the purpose was founded in 1824; and to
    give eclat to the transaction, and to excite enthusiasm in favor
    of the work, General La Fayette, then "the nation's guest," was
    invited to lay the corner-stone. Accordingly, on the 17th of June,
    1825, the fiftieth anniversary of the battle, that revered patriot
    performed the interesting ceremony, and the Honorable Daniel
    Webster pronounced an oration on the occasion, in the midst of an
    immense concourse of people. Forty survivors of the battle were
    present; and on no occasion did La Fayette meet so many of his
    fellow-soldiers in our Revolution as at that time. The _plan_ of
    the monument was not then decided upon; but one by Solomon
    Willard, of Boston, having been approved, the present structure
    was commenced, in 1827, by James Savage, of the same city. In the
    course of a little more than a year, the work was suspended on
    account of a want of funds, about fifty-six thousand dollars
    having then been collected and expended. The work was resumed in
    1834, and again suspended, within a year, for the same cause,
    about twenty thousand dollars more having been expended. In 1840,
    the ladies moved in the matter. A fair was announced to be held in
    Boston, and every female in the United States was invited to
    contribute some production of her own hands to the exhibition. The
    fair was held at Faneuil Hall in September, 1840. The proceeds
    amounted to sufficient, in connection with some private donations,
    to complete the structure, and within a few weeks subsequently, a
    contract was made with Mr. Savage to finish it for forty-three
    thousand dollars. The last stone of the apex was raised at about
    six o'clock on the morning of the 23d of July, 1842. Edward
    Carnes, Jr., of Charlestown, accompanied its ascent, waving the
    American flag as he went up, while the interesting event was
    announced to the surrounding country by the roar of cannon. On the
    17th of June, 1843, the monument was dedicated, on which occasion
    the Honorable Daniel Webster was again the orator, and vast was
    the audience of citizens and military assembled there. The
    President of the United States (Mr. Tyler), and his whole cabinet,
    were present.

    In the top of the monument are two cannons, named, respectively,
    "Hancock" and "Adams," which formerly belonged to the Ancient and
    Honorable Artillery Company. The "Adams" was burst by them in
    firing a salute. The following is the inscription upon the two
    guns:

                         "SACRED TO LIBERTY.

    "This is one of four cannons which constituted the whole train of
    field artillery possessed by the British colonies of North America
    at the commencement of the war, on the 19th of April, 1775. This
    cannon and its fellow, belonging to a number of citizens of
    Boston, were used in many engagements during the war. The other
    two, the property of the government of Massachusetts, were taken
    by the enemy.

    "By order of the United States in Congress assembled, May 19th,
    1788."

    [11] When I visited Boston, in 1848, it was estimated that two
    hundred and thirty trains of cars went daily over the roads to and
    from Boston, and that more than six millions of passengers were
    conveyed in them during the preceding year.

    [12] Job, xxxix. 24, 25.

    [13] This is a picture of Chantrey's statue, which is made of
    Italian marble, and cost fifteen thousand dollars.

    [14] On some old maps of Boston it is called _Corpse Hill_, the
    name supposed to have been derived from the circumstance of a
    burying-ground being there.

    [15] The following is the inscription upon the slate tablet: "The
    Reverend Doctors Increase, Cotton, and Samuel Mather were interred
    in this vault.

      INCREASE died August 27, 1723, AE. 84.
      COTTON     "  Feb.   13, 1727, "  65.
      SAMUEL     "  Jan.   27, 1785, "  79."

    [16] This society was incorporated in February, 1794. The avowed
    object of its organization is to collect, preserve, and
    communicate materials for a complete history of this country, and
    an account of all valuable efforts of human industry and ingenuity
    from the beginning of its settlement. Between twenty and thirty
    octavo volumes of its "Collections" have been published.




[From Dickens's Household Words.]

FATE DAYS AND OTHER POPULAR SUPERSTITIONS.


It is a difficult puzzle to reconcile the existence of certain
superstitions that continue to have wide influence with the
enlightenment of the nineteenth century. When we have read glowing
paragraphs about the wonderful progress accomplished by the present
generation; when we have regarded the giant machinery in operation for
the culture of the people--moved, in great part, by the collective power
of individual charity; when we have examined the stupendous results of
human genius and ingenuity which are now laid bare to the lowliest in
the realm; we turn back, it must be confessed, with a mournful
despondency, to mark the debasing influence of the old superstitions
which have survived to the present time.

The superstitions of the ancients formed part of their religion. They
consulted oracles as now men pray. The stars were the arbiters of their
fortunes. Natural phenomena, as lightning and hurricanes, were, to them,
awful expressions of the anger of their particular deities. They had
their _dies atri_ and _dies albi_; the former were marked down in their
calendars with a black character to denote ill-luck, and the latter were
painted in white characters to signify bright and propitious days. They
followed the finger posts of their teachers. Faith gave dignity to the
tenets of the star-gazer and fire-worshiper.

The priests of old taught their disciples to regard six particular days
in the year as days fraught with unusual danger to mankind. Men were
enjoined not to let blood on these black days, nor to imbibe any liquid.
It was devoutly believed that he who ate goose on one of those black
days would surely die within forty more; and that any little stranger
who made his appearance on one of the _dies atri_ would surely die a
sinful and violent death. Men were further enjoined to let blood from
the right arm on the seventh or fourteenth of March; from the left arm
on the eleventh of April; and from either arm on the third or sixth of
May, that they might avoid pestilential diseases. These barbaric
observances, when brought before people in illustration of the mental
darkness of the ancients, are considered at once to be proof positive of
their abject condition. We thereupon congratulated ourselves upon living
in the nineteenth century; when such foolish superstitions are laughed
at; and perhaps our vanity is not a little flattered by the contrast
which presents itself, between our own highly cultivated condition, and
the wretched state of our ancestors.

Yet Mrs. Flimmins will not undertake a sea-voyage on a Friday; nor would
she on any account allow her daughter Mary to be married on that day of
the week. She has great pity for the poor Red Indians who will not do
certain things while the moon presents a certain appearance, and who
attach all kinds of powers to poor dumb brutes; yet if her cat purrs
more than usual, she accepts the warning, and abandons the trip she had
promised herself on the morrow.

Miss Nippers subscribes largely to the fund for eradicating
superstitions from the minds of the wretched inhabitants of Kamschatka;
and while she is calculating the advantages to be derived from a mission
to the South Sea Islands, to do away with the fearful superstitious
reverence in which these poor dear islanders hold their native flea: a
coal pops from her fire, and she at once augurs from its shape an
abundance of money, that will enable her to set her pious undertaking in
operation; but on no account will she commence collecting subscriptions
for the anti-drinking-slave-grown-sugar-in-tea society, because she has
always remarked that Monday is her unlucky day. On a Monday her poodle
died, and on a Monday she caught that severe cold at Brighton, from the
effects of which she is afraid she will never recover.

Mrs. Carmine is a very strong-minded woman. Her unlucky day is
Wednesday. On a Wednesday she first caught that flush which she has
never been able to chase from her cheeks, and on one of these fatal days
her Maria took the scarlet fever. Therefore, she will not go to a
pic-nic on a Wednesday, because she feels convinced that the day will
turn out wet, or that the wheel will come off the carriage. Yet the
other morning, when a gipsy was caught telling her eldest daughter her
fortune, Mrs. Carmine very properly reproached the first-born for her
weakness, in giving any heed to the silly mumblings of the old woman.
Mrs. Carmine is considered to be a woman of uncommon acuteness. She
attaches no importance whatever to the star under which a child is
born--does not think there is a pin to choose between Jupiter and
Neptune; and she has a positive contempt for ghosts; but she believes in
nothing that is begun, continued, or ended on a Wednesday.

Miss Crumple, on the contrary, has seen many ghosts, in fact, is by this
time quite intimate with one or two of the mysterious brotherhood; but
at the same time she is at a loss to understand how any woman in her
senses, can believe Thursday to be a more fortunate day than Wednesday,
or why Monday is to be black-balled from the Mrs. Jones's calendar. She
can state on her oath, that the ghost of her old schoolfellow, Eliza
Artichoke, appeared at her bedside on a certain night, and she
distinctly saw the mole on its left cheek, which poor Eliza, during her
brief career, had vainly endeavored to eradicate, with all sorts of
poisonous things. The ghost, moreover, lisped--so did Eliza! This was
all clear enough to Miss Crumple, and she considered it a personal
insult for any body to suggest that her vivid apparitions existed only
in her over-wrought imagination. She had an affection for her ghostly
visitors, and would not hear a word to their disparagement.

The unearthly warnings which Mrs. Piptoss had received had well-nigh
spoiled all her furniture. When a relative dies, the fact is not
announced to her in the commonplace form of a letter; no, an invisible
sledge-hammer falls upon her Broadwood, an invisible power upsets her
loo-table, all the doors of her house unanimously blow open, or a coffin
flies out of the fire into her lap.

Mrs. Grumple, who is a very economical housewife, looks forward to the
day when the moon re-appears, on which occasion she turns her money,
taking care not to look at the pale lady through glass. This observance,
she devoutly believes, will bring her good fortune. When Miss Caroline
has a knot in her lace, she looks for a present; and when Miss Amelia
snuffs the candle out, it is her faith that the act defers her marriage
a twelvemonth. Any young lady who dreams the same dream two consecutive
Fridays, will tell you that her visions will "come true."

Yet these are exactly the ladies, who most deplore the "gross state of
superstition" in which many "benighted savages" live, and willingly
subscribe their money for its eradication. The superstition so generally
connected with Friday, may easily be traced to its source. It
undoubtedly and confessedly has its origin in scriptural history: it is
the day on which the Saviour suffered. The superstition is the more
revolting from this circumstance; and it is painful to find that it
exists among persons of education. There is no branch of the public
service, for instance, in which so much sound mathematical knowledge is
to be found, as in the Navy. Yet who are more superstitious than
sailors, from the admiral down to the cabin boy? Friday fatality is
still strong among them. Some years ago, in order to lessen this folly,
it was determined that a ship should be laid down on a Friday, and
launched on a Friday; that she should be called "Friday," and that she
should commence her first voyage on a Friday. After much difficulty a
captain was found who owned to the name of Friday; and after a great
deal more difficulty men were obtained, so little superstitious, as to
form a crew. Unhappily, this experiment had the effect of confirming the
superstition it was meant to abolish. The "Friday" was lost--was never,
in fact, heard of from the day she set sail.

Day-fatality, as Miss Nippers interprets it, is simply the expression of
an undisciplined and extremely weak mind; for, if any person will stoop
to reason with her on her aversion to Mondays, he may ask her whether
the death of the poodle, or the catching of her cold, are the two
greatest calamities of her life; and, if so, whether it is her opinion
that Monday is set apart, in the scheme of Nature, so far as it concerns
her, in a black character. Whether for her insignificant self there is a
special day accursed! Mrs. Carmine is such a strong-minded woman, that
we approach her with no small degree of trepidation. Wednesday is her
_dies ater_, because, in the first place, on a Wednesday she imprudently
exposed herself, and is suffering from the consequences; and, in the
second place, on a Wednesday her Maria took the scarlet fever. So she
has marked Wednesday down in her calendar with a black character; yet
her contempt for stars and ghosts is prodigious. Now there is a
consideration to be extended to the friends of ghosts, which
Day-fatalists can not claim. Whether or not deceased friends take a more
airy and flimsy form, and adopt the invariable costume of a sheet to
visit the objects of their earthly affections, is a question which the
shrewdest thinkers and the profoundest logicians have debated very
keenly, but without ever arriving at any satisfactory conclusion.

The strongest argument against the positive existence of ghosts, is,
that they appear only to people of a certain temperament, and under
certain exciting circumstances. The obtuse, matter-of-fact man, never
sees a ghost; and we may take it as a natural law, that none of these
airy visitants ever appeared to an attorney. But the attorney, Mr. Fee
Simple, we are assured, holds Saturday to be an unlucky day. It was on a
Saturday that his extortionate bill in poor Mr. G.'s case, was cut down
by the taxing master; and it was on a Saturday that a certain heavy bill
was duly honored, upon which he had hoped to reap a large sum in the
shape of costs. Therefore Mr. Fee Simple believes that the destinies
have put a black mark against Saturday, so far as he is concerned.

The Jew who thought that the thunder-storm was the consequence of his
having eaten a slice of bacon, did not present a more ludicrous picture,
than Mr. Fee Simple presents with his condemned Saturday.

We have an esteem for ghost-inspectors, which it is utterly impossible
to extend to Day-fatalists. Mrs. Piptoss, too, may be pitied; but Mog,
turning her money when the moon makes her re-appearance, is an object of
ridicule. We shall neither be astonished, nor express condolence, if the
present, which Miss Caroline anticipates from the knot in her lace, be
not forthcoming; and as for Miss Amelia, who has extinguished the
candle, and to the best of her belief lost her husband for a
twelvemonth, we can only wish for her, that when she is married, her
lord and master will shake her faith in the prophetic power of snuffers.
But of all the superstitions that have survived to the present time, and
are to be found in force among people of education and a thoughtful
habit, Day-fatalism is the most general, as it is the most unfounded and
preposterous. It is a superstition, however, in which many great and
powerful thinkers have shared, and by which they have been guided; it
owes much of its present influence to this fact; but reason,
Christianity, and all we have comprehended of the great scheme of which
we form part, alike tend to demonstrate its absurdity, and utter want of
all foundation.




"BATTLE WITH LIFE!"

    Bear thee up bravely,
      Strong heart and true!
    Meet thy woes gravely,
      Strive with them too!
    Let them not win from thee
      Tear of regret.
    Such were a sin from thee,
      Hope for good yet!

    Rouse thee from drooping,
      Care-laden soul;
    Mournfully stooping
      'Neath griefs control!
    Far o'er the gloom that lies,
      Shrouding the earth,
    Light from eternal skies
      Shows us thy worth.

    Nerve thee yet stronger,
      Resolute mind!
    Let care no longer
      Heavily bind.
    Rise on thy eagle wings
      Gloriously free!
    Till from material things
      Pure thou shalt be!

    Bear ye up bravely,
      Soul and mind too!
    Droop not so gravely,
      Bold heart and true!
    Clear rays of streaming light
      Shine through the gloom,
    God's love is beaming bright
      E'en round the tomb!




TRIAL AND EXECUTION OF MADAME ROLAND.

BY REV. JOHN S.C. ABBOTT.[17]


[Illustration: MADAME ROLAND.]

The Girondists were led from their dungeons in the Conciergerie to their
execution on the 31st of October, 1793. Upon that very day Madame Roland
was conveyed from the prison of St. Pelagie to the same gloomy cells
vacated by the death of her friends. She was cast into a bare and
miserable dungeon, in that subterranean receptacle of woe, where there
was not even a bed. Another prisoner, moved with compassion, drew his
own pallet into her cell, that she might not be compelled to throw
herself for repose upon the cold, wet stones. The chill air of winter
had now come, and yet no covering was allowed her. Through the long
night she shivered with the cold.

The prison of the Conciergerie consists of a series of dark and damp
subterranean vaults, situated beneath the floor of the Palace of
Justice. Imagination can conceive of nothing more dismal than these
sombre caverns, with long and winding galleries opening into cells as
dark as the tomb. You descend by a flight of massive stone steps into
this sepulchral abode, and, passing through double doors, whose iron
strength time has deformed but not weakened, you enter upon the vast
labyrinthine prison, where the imagination wanders affrighted through
intricate mazes of halls, and arches, and vaults, and dungeons, rendered
only more appalling by the dim light which struggles through those
grated orifices which pierced the massive walls. The Seine flows by upon
one side, separated only by the high way of the quays. The bed of the
Seine is above the floor of the prison. The surrounding earth was
consequently saturated with water, and the oozing moisture diffused
over the walls and the floors the humidity of the sepulchre. The plash
of the river; the rumbling of carts upon the pavements overhead; the
heavy tramp of countless footfalls, as the multitude poured into and out
of the halls of justice, mingled with the moaning of the prisoners in
those solitary cells. There were one or two narrow courts scattered in
this vast structure, where the prisoners could look up the precipitous
walls, as of a well, towering high above them, and see a few square
yards of sky. The gigantic quadrangular tower, reared above these firm
foundations, was formerly the imperial palace from which issued all
power and law. Here the French kings reveled in voluptuousness, with
their prisoners groaning beneath their feet. This strong-hold of
feudalism had now become the tomb of the monarchy. In one of the most
loathsome of these cells, Maria Antoinette, the daughter of the Caesars,
had languished in misery as profound as mortals can suffer, till, in the
endurance of every conceivable insult, she was dragged to the
guillotine.

It was into a cell adjoining that which the hapless queen had occupied
that Madame Roland was cast. Here the proud daughter of the emperors of
Austria and the humble child of the artisan, each, after a career of
unexampled vicissitudes, found their paths to meet but a few steps from
the scaffold. The victim of the monarchy and the victim of the
Revolution were conducted to the same dungeons and perished on the same
block. They met as antagonists in the stormy arena of the French
Revolution. They were nearly of equal age. The one possessed the
prestige of wealth, and rank, and ancestral power; the other, the energy
of vigorous and cultivated mind. Both were endowed with unusual
attractions of person, spirits invigorated by enthusiasm, and the
loftiest heroism. From the antagonism of life they met in death.

The day after Madame Roland was placed in the Conciergerie, she was
visited by one of the notorious officers of the revolutionary party, and
very closely questioned concerning the friendship she had entertained
for the Girondists. She frankly avowed the elevated affection and esteem
with which she cherished their memory, but she declared that she and
they were the cordial friends of republican liberty; that they wished to
preserve, not to destroy, the Constitution. The examination was
vexatious and intolerant in the extreme. It lasted for three hours, and
consisted in an incessant torrent of criminations, to which she was
hardly permitted to offer one word in reply. This examination taught her
the nature of the accusations which would be brought against her. She
sat down in her cell that very night, and, with a rapid pen, sketched
that defense which has been pronounced one of the most eloquent and
touching monuments of the Revolution.

Having concluded it, she retired to rest, and slept with the serenity
of a child. She was called upon several times by committees sent from
the revolutionary tribunal for examination. They were resolved to take
her life, but were anxious to do it, if possible, under the forms of
law. She passed through all their examinations with the most perfect
composure, and the most dignified self-possession. Her enemies could not
withhold their expressions of admiration as they saw her in her
sepulchral cell of stone and of iron, cheerful, fascinating, and
perfectly at ease. She knew that she was to be led from that cell to a
violent death, and yet no faltering of soul could be detected. Her
spirit had apparently achieved a perfect victory over all earthly ills.

The upper part of the door of her cell was an iron grating. The
surrounding cells were filled with the most illustrious ladies and
gentlemen of France. As the hour of death drew near, her courage and
animation seemed to increase. Her features glowed with enthusiasm; her
thoughts and expressions were refulgent with sublimity, and her whole
aspect assumed the impress of one appointed to fill some great and lofty
destiny. She remained but a few days in the Conciergerie before she was
led to the scaffold. During those few days, by her example and her
encouraging words, she spread among the numerous prisoners there an
enthusiasm and a spirit of heroism which elevated, above the fear of the
scaffold, even the most timid and depressed. This glow of feeling and
exhilaration gave a new impress of sweetness and fascination to her
beauty. The length of her captivity, the calmness with which she
contemplated the certain approach of death, gave to her voice that depth
of tone and slight tremulousness of utterance which sent her eloquent
words home with thrilling power to every heart. Those who were walking
in the corridor, or who were the occupants of adjoining cells, often
called for her to speak to them words of encouragement and consolation.

Standing upon a stool at the door of her own cell, she grasped with her
hands the iron grating which separated her from her audience. This was
her tribune. The melodious accents of her voice floated along the
labyrinthine avenues of those dismal dungeons, penetrating cell after
cell, and arousing energy in hearts which had been abandoned to despair.
It was, indeed, a strange scene which was thus witnessed in these
sepulchral caverns. The silence, as of the grave, reigned there, while
the clear and musical tones of Madame Roland, as of an angel of
consolation, vibrated through the rusty bars, and along the dark, damp
cloisters. One who was at that time an inmate of the prison, and
survived those dreadful scenes, has described, in glowing terms, the
almost miraculous effects of her soul-moving eloquence. She was already
past the prime of life, but she was still fascinating. Combined with the
most wonderful power of expression, she possessed a voice so exquisitely
musical, that, long after her lips were silenced in death, its tones
vibrated in lingering strains in the souls of those by whom they had
ever been heard. The prisoners listened with the most profound attention
to her glowing words, and regarded her almost as a celestial spirit, who
had come to animate them to heroic deeds. She often spoke of the
Girondists who had already perished upon the guillotine. With perfect
fearlessness she avowed her friendship for them, and ever spoke of them
as _our friends_. She, however, was careful never to utter a word which
would bring tears into the eye. She wished to avoid herself all the
weakness of tender emotions, and to lure the thoughts of her companions
away from every contemplation which could enervate their energies.

Occasionally, in the solitude of her cell, as the image of her husband
and of her child rose before her, and her imagination dwelt upon her
desolated home and her blighted hopes--her husband denounced and pursued
by lawless violence, and her child soon to be an orphan--woman's
tenderness would triumph over the heroine's stoicism. Burying, for a
moment, her face in her hands, she would burst into a flood of tears.
Immediately struggling to regain composure, she would brush her tears
away, and dress her countenance in its accustomed smiles. She remained
in the Conciergerie but one week, and during that time so endeared
herself to all as to become the prominent object of attention and love.
Her case is one of the most extraordinary the history of the world has
presented, in which the very highest degree of heroism is combined with
the most resistless charms of feminine loveliness. An unfeminine woman
can never be _loved_ by men. She may be respected for her talents, she
may be honored for her philanthropy, but she can not win the warmer
emotions of the heart. But Madame Roland, with an energy of will, an
inflexibility of purpose, a firmness of stoical endurance which no
mortal man has ever exceeded, combined that gentleness, and tenderness,
and affection--that instinctive sense of the proprieties of her
sex--which gathered around her a love as pure and as enthusiastic as
woman ever excited. And while her friends, many of whom were the most
illustrious men in France, had enthroned her as an idol in their hearts,
the breath of slander never ventured to intimate that she was guilty
even of an impropriety.

The day before her trial, her advocate, Chauveau de la Garde, visited
her to consult respecting her defense. She, well aware that no one could
speak a word in her favor but at the peril of his own life, and also
fully conscious that her doom was already sealed, drew a ring from her
finger, and said to him,

"To-morrow, I shall be no more. I know the fate which awaits me. Your
kind assistance can not avail aught for me, and would but endanger you.
I pray you, therefore, not to come to the tribunal, but to accept of
this last testimony of my regard."

The next day she was led to her trial. She attired herself in a white
robe, as a symbol of her innocence, and her long dark hair fell in thick
curls on her neck and shoulders. She emerged from her dungeon the vision
of unusual loveliness. The prisoners who were walking in the corridors
gathered around her, and with smiles and words of encouragement she
infused energy into their hearts. Calm and invincible she met her
judges. She was accused of the crimes of being the wife of M. Roland and
the friend of his friends. Proudly she acknowledged herself guilty of
both those charges. Whenever she attempted to utter a word in her
defense, she was brow-beaten by the judges, and silenced by the clamors
of the mob which filled the tribunal. The mob now ruled with undisputed
sway in both legislative and executive halls. The serenity of her eye
was untroubled, and the composure of her disciplined spirit unmoved,
save by the exaltation of enthusiasm, as she noted the progress of the
trial, which was bearing her rapidly and resistlessly to the scaffold.
It was, however, difficult to bring any accusation against her by which,
under the form of law, she could be condemned. France, even in its
darkest hour, was rather ashamed to behead a woman, upon whom the eyes
of all Europe were fixed, simply for being the _wife of her husband and
the friend of his friends_. At last the president demanded of her that
she should reveal her husband's asylum. She proudly replied,

"I do not know of any law by which I can be obliged to violate the
strongest feelings of nature."

This was sufficient, and she was immediately condemned. Her sentence was
thus expressed:

"The public accuser has drawn up the present indictment against Jane
Mary Phlippon, the wife of Roland, late Minister of the Interior, for
having wickedly and designedly aided and assisted in the conspiracy
which existed against the unity and indivisibility of the Republic,
against the liberty and safety of the French people, by assembling at
her house, in secret council, the principal chiefs of that conspiracy,
and by keeping up a correspondence tending to facilitate their
treasonable designs. The tribunal having heard the public accuser
deliver his reasons concerning the application of the law, condemns Jane
Mary Phlippon, wife of Roland, to the punishment of death."

She listened calmly to her sentence, and then rising, bowed with dignity
to her judges, and, smiling, said,

"I thank you, gentlemen, for thinking me worthy of sharing the fate of
the great men whom you have assassinated. I shall endeavor to imitate
their firmness on the scaffold."

With the buoyant step of a child, and with a rapidity which almost
betokened joy, she passed beneath the narrow portal, and descended to
her cell, from which she was to be led, with the morning light, to a
bloody death. The prisoners had assembled to greet her on her return,
and anxiously gathered around her. She looked upon them with a smile of
perfect tranquillity, and, drawing her hand across her neck, made a sign
expressive of her doom. But a few hours elapsed between her sentence and
her execution. She retired to her cell, wrote a few words of parting to
her friends, played upon a harp, which had found its way into the
prison, her requiem, in tones so wild and mournful, that, floating in
the dark hours of the night, through these sepulchral caverns, they fell
like unearthly music upon the despairing souls there incarcerated.

The morning of the 10th of November, 1793, dawned gloomily upon Paris.
It was one of the darkest days of that reign of terror which, for so
long a period enveloped France in its sombre shades. The ponderous gates
of the court-yard of the Conciergerie opened that morning to a long
procession of carts loaded with victims for the guillotine. Madame
Roland had contemplated her fate too long, and had disciplined her
spirit too severely, to fail of fortitude in this last hour of trial.
She came from her cell scrupulously attired for the bridal of death. A
serene smile was upon her cheek, and the glow of joyous animation
lighted up her features as she waved an adieu to the weeping prisoners
who gathered around her. The last cart was assigned to Madame Roland.
She entered it with a step as light and elastic as if it were a carriage
for a pleasant morning's drive. By her side stood an infirm old man, M.
La Marche. He was pale and trembling, and his fainting heart, in view of
the approaching terror, almost ceased to beat. She sustained him by her
arm, and addressed to him words of consolation and encouragement in
cheerful accents and with a benignant smile. The poor old man felt that
God had sent an angel to strengthen him in the dark hour of death. As
the cart heavily rumbled along the pavement, drawing nearer and nearer
to the guillotine, two or three times, by her cheerful words, she even
caused a smile faintly to play upon his pallid lips.

The guillotine was now the principal instrument of amusement for the
populace of Paris. It was so elevated that all could have a good view of
the spectacle it presented. To witness the conduct of nobles and of
ladies, of boys and of girls, while passing through the horrors of a
sanguinary death, was far more exciting than the unreal and bombastic
tragedies of the theatre, or the conflicts of the cock-pit and the bear
garden. A countless throng flooded the streets; men, women, and
children, shouting, laughing, execrating. The celebrity of Madame
Roland, her extraordinary grace and beauty, and her aspect, not only of
heroic fearlessness, but of joyous exhilaration, made her the prominent
object of the public gaze. A white robe gracefully enveloped her perfect
form, and her black and glossy hair, which for some reason the
executioners had neglected to cut, fell in rich profusion to her waist.
A keen November blast swept the streets, under the influence of which,
and the excitement of the scene, her animated countenance glowed with
all the ruddy bloom of youth. She stood firmly in the cart, looking with
a serene eye upon the crowds which lined the streets, and listening with
unruffled serenity to the clamor which filled the air. A large crowd
surrounded the cart in which Madame Roland stood, shouting, "To the
guillotine! to the guillotine!" She looked kindly upon them, and,
bending over the railing of the cart, said to them, in tones as placid
as if she were addressing her own child, "My friends, I _am_ going to
the guillotine. In a few moments I shall be there. They who send me
thither will ere long follow me. I go innocent. They will come stained
with blood. You who now applaud our execution will then applaud theirs
with equal zeal."

Madame Roland had continued writing her memoirs until the hour in which
she left her cell for the scaffold. When the cart had almost arrived at
the foot of the guillotine, her spirit was so deeply moved by the tragic
scene--such emotions came rushing in upon her soul from departing time
and opening eternity, that she could not repress the desire to pen down
her glowing thoughts. She entreated an officer to furnish her for a
moment with pen and paper. The request was refused. It is much to be
regretted that we are thus deprived of that unwritten chapter of her
life. It can not be doubted that the words she would then have written
would have long vibrated upon the ear of a listening world.
Soul-utterances will force their way over mountains, and valleys, and
oceans. Despotism can not arrest them. Time can not enfeeble them.

The long procession arrived at the guillotine, and the bloody work
commenced. The victims were dragged from the carts, and the ax rose and
fell with unceasing rapidity. Head after head fell into the basket, and
the pile of bleeding trunks rapidly increased in size. The executioners
approached the cart where Madame Roland stood by the side of her
fainting companion. With an animated countenance and a cheerful smile,
she was all engrossed in endeavoring to infuse fortitude into his soul.
The executioner grasped her by the arm. "Stay," said she, slightly
resisting his grasp; "I have one favor to ask, and that is not for
myself. I beseech you grant it me." Then turning to the old man, she
said, "Do you precede me to the scaffold. To see my blood flow would
make you suffer the bitterness of death twice over. I must spare you the
pain of witnessing my execution." The stern officer gave a surly
refusal, replying, "My orders are to take you first." With that winning
smile and that fascinating grace which were almost resistless, she
rejoined, "You can not, surely, refuse a woman her last request." The
hard-hearted executor of the law was brought within the influence of her
enchantment. He paused, looked at her for a moment in slight
bewilderment, and yielded. The poor old man, more dead than alive, was
conducted upon the scaffold and placed beneath the fatal ax. Madame
Roland, without the slightest change of color, or the apparent tremor of
a nerve, saw the ponderous instrument, with its glittering edge, glide
upon its deadly mission, and the decapitated trunk of her friend was
thrown aside to give place for her. With a placid countenance and a
buoyant step, she ascended the platform. The guillotine was erected upon
the vacant spot between the gardens of the Tuileries and the Elysian
Fields, then known as the Place de la Revolution. This spot is now
called the Place de la Concorde. It is unsurpassed by any other place in
Europe. Two marble fountains now embellish the spot. The blood-stained
guillotine, from which crimson rivulets were ever flowing, then occupied
the space upon which one of these fountains has been erected; and a clay
statue to Liberty reared its hypocritical front where the Egyptian
obelisk now rises. Madame Roland stood for a moment upon the elevated
platform, looked calmly around upon the vast concourse, and then bowing
before the colossal statue, exclaimed, "O Liberty! Liberty! how many
crimes are committed in thy name." She surrendered herself to the
executioner, and was bound to the plank. The plank fell to its
horizontal position, bringing her head under the fatal ax. The
glittering steel glided through the groove, and the head of Madame
Roland was severed from her body.

Thus died Madame Roland, in the thirty-ninth year of her age. Her death
oppressed all who had known her with the deepest grief. Her intimate
friend Buzot, who was then a fugitive, on hearing the tidings, was
thrown into a state of perfect delirium, from which he did not recover
for many days. Her faithful female servant was so overwhelmed with
grief, that she presented herself before the tribunal, and implored them
to let her die upon the same scaffold where her beloved mistress had
perished. The tribunal, amazed at such transports of attachment,
declared that she was mad, and ordered her to be removed from their
presence. A man-servant made the same application, and was sent to the
guillotine.

The grief of M. Roland, when apprized of the event, was unbounded. For a
time he entirely lost his senses. Life to him was no longer endurable.
He knew not of any consolations of religion. Philosophy could only nerve
him to stoicism. Privately he left, by night, the kind friends who had
hospitably concealed him for six months, and wandered to such a distance
from his asylum as to secure his protectors from any danger on his
account. Through the long hours of the winter's night he continued his
dreary walk, till the first gray of the morning appeared in the east.
Drawing a long stilletto from the inside of his walking-stick, he placed
the head of it against the trunk of a tree, and threw himself upon the
sharp weapon. The point pierced his heart, and he fell lifeless upon
the frozen ground. Some peasants passing by discovered his body. A piece
of paper was pinned to the breast of his coat, upon which there were
written these words: "Whoever thou art that findest these remains,
respect them as those of a virtuous man. After hearing of my wife's
death, I would not stay another day in a world so stained with crime."


    FOOTNOTE:

    [17] From ABBOTT'S "History of Madame Roland," soon to be issued
    from the press of Harper & Brothers.




[From Dickens's Household Words.]

CHEMICAL CONTRADICTIONS.


Science, whose aim and end is to prove the harmony and "eternal fitness
of things," also proves that we live in a world of paradoxes; and that
existence itself is a whirl of contradictions. Light and darkness, truth
and falsehood, virtue and vice, the negative and positive poles of
galvanic or magnetic mysteries, are evidences of all-pervading
antitheses, which, acting like the good and evil genii of Persian
Mythology, neutralize each other's powers when they come into collision.
It is the office of science to solve these mysteries. The appropriate
symbol of the lecture-room is a Sphinx; for a scientific lecturer is but
a better sort of unraveler of riddles.

Who would suppose, for instance, that water--which every body knows,
extinguishes fire--may, under certain circumstances, add fuel to flame,
so that the "coming man," who is to "set the Thames on fire," may not be
far off. If we take some mystical gray-looking globules of potassium
(which is the metallic basis of common pearl-ash) and lay them upon
water, the water will instantly appear to ignite. The globules will swim
about in flames, reminding us of the "death-fires" described by the
Ancient Mariner, burning "like witches' oil" on the surface of the
stagnant sea. Sometimes even, without any chemical ingredient being
added, fire will appear to spring spontaneously from water; which is not
a simple element, as Thales imagined, when he speculated upon the origin
of the Creation, but two invisible gases--oxygen and hydrogen,
chemically combined. During the electrical changes of the atmosphere in
a thunder-storm, these gases frequently combine with explosive violence,
and it is this combination which takes place when "the big rain comes
dancing to the earth." These fire-and-water phenomena are thus accounted
for; certain substances have peculiar affinities or attractions for one
another; the potassium has so inordinate a desire for oxygen, that the
moment it touches, it decomposes the water, abstracts all the oxygen,
and sets free the hydrogen or inflammable gas. The potassium, when
combined with the oxygen, forms that corrosive substance known as
caustic potash, and the heat, disengaged during this process, ignites
the hydrogen. Here the mystery ends; and the contradictions are solved;
Oxygen and hydrogen when combined, become water; when separated the
hydrogen gas burns with a pale, lambent flame. Many of Nature's most
delicate deceptions are accounted for by a knowledge of these laws.

Your analytical chemist sadly annihilates, with his scientific
machinations, all poetry. He bottles up at pleasure the Nine Muses, and
proves them--as the fisherman in the Arabian Nights did the Afrite--to
be all smoke. Even the Will-o'-the-Wisp can not flit across its own
morass without being pursued, overtaken, and burnt out by this
scientific detective policeman. He claps an extinguisher upon
Jack-o'-Lantern thus: He says that a certain combination of phosphorus
and hydrogen, which rises from watery marshes, produces a gas called
phosphureted hydrogen, which ignites spontaneously the moment it bubbles
up to the surface of the water and meets with atmospheric air. Here
again the Ithuriel wand of science dispels all delusion, pointing out to
us, that in such places animal and vegetable substances are undergoing
constant decomposition; and as phosphorus exists under a variety of
forms in these bodies, as phosphate of lime, phosphate of soda,
phosphate of magnesia, &c., and as furthermore the decomposition of
water itself is the initiatory process in these changes, so we find that
phosphorus and hydrogen are supplied from these sources; and we may
therefore easily conceive the consequent formation of phosphureted
hydrogen. This gas rises in a thin stream from its watery bed, and the
moment it comes in contact with the oxygen of the atmosphere, it bursts
into a flame so buoyant, that it flickers with every breath of air, and
realizes the description of Goethe's Mephistopheles, that the course of
Jack-o'-Lantern is generally "zig-zag."

Who would suppose that absolute darkness may be derived from two rays of
light! Yet such is the fact. If two rays proceed from two luminous
points very close to each other, and are so directed as to cross at a
given point on a sheet of white paper in a dark room, their united light
will be twice as bright as either ray singly would produce. But if the
difference in the distance of the two points be diminished only
one-half, the one light will extinguish the other, and produce absolute
darkness. The same curious result may be produced by viewing the flame
of a candle through two very fine slits near to each other in a card.
So, likewise, strange as it may appear, if two musical strings be so
made to vibrate, in a certain succession of degrees, as for the one to
gain half a vibration on the other, the two resulting sounds will
antagonize each other and produce an interval of perfect silence. How
are these mysteries to be explained? The Delphic Oracle of science must
again be consulted, and among the high priests who officiate at the
shrine, no one possesses more recondite knowledge, or can recall it more
instructively than Sir David Brewster. "The explanation which
philosophers have given," he observes, "of these remarkable phenomena,
is very satisfactory, and may easily be understood. When a wave is made
on the surface of a still pool of water by plunging a stone into it, the
wave advances along the surface, while the water itself is never carried
forward, but merely rises into a height and falls into a hollow, each
portion of the surface experiencing an elevation and a depression in its
turn. If we suppose two waves equal and similar, to be produced by two
separate stones, and if they reach the same spot at the same time, that
is, if the two elevations should exactly coincide, they would unite
their effects, and produce a wave twice the size of either; but if the
one wave should be put so far before the other, that the hollow of the
one coincided with the elevation of the other, and the elevation of the
one with the hollow of the other, the two waves would obliterate or
destroy one another; the elevation, as it were, of the one filling up
half the hollow of the other, and the hollow of the one taking away half
the elevation of the other, so us to reduce the surface to a level.
These effects may be exhibited by throwing two equal stones into a pool
of water; and also may be observed in the Port of Batsha, where the two
waves arriving by channels of different lengths actually obliterate each
other. Now, as light is supposed to be produced by waves or undulations
of an ethereal medium filling all nature, and occupying the pores of the
transparent bodies; and as sound is produced by undulations or waves in
the air: so the successive production of light and darkness by two
bright lights, and the production of sound and silence by two loud
sounds, may be explained in the very same manner as we have explained
the increase and obliteration of waves formed on the surface of water."

The apparent contradictions in chemistry are, indeed, best exhibited in
the lecture-room, where they may be rendered visible and tangible, and
brought home to the general comprehension. The Professor of Analytical
Chemistry, J.H. Pepper, who demonstrates these things in the Royal
Polytechnic Institution, is an expert manipulator in such mysteries;
and, taking a leaf out of his own magic-book, we shall conjure him up
before us, standing behind his own laboratory, surrounded with all the
implements of his art. At our recent visit to this exhibition we
witnessed him perform, with much address, the following experiments: He
placed before us a pair of tall glass vessels, each filled, apparently,
with water; he then took two hen's eggs, one of these he dropped into
one of the glass vessels, and, as might have been expected, it
immediately sank to the bottom. He then took the other egg, and dropped
it into the other vessel of water, but, instead of sinking as the other
had done, it descended only half way, and there remained suspended in
the midst of the transparent fluid. This, indeed, looked like magic--one
of Houdin's sleight-of-hand performances--for what could interrupt its
progress? The water surrounding it appeared as pure below as around and
above the egg, yet there it still hung like Mahomet's coffin, between
heaven and earth, contrary to all the well-established laws of gravity.
The problem, however, was easily solved. Our modern Cagliostro had
dissolved in one half of the water in this vessel as much common salt as
it would take up, whereby the density of the fluid was so much augmented
that it opposed a resistance to the descent of the egg after it had
passed through the unadulterated water, which he had carefully poured
upon the briny solution, the transparency of which, remaining
unimpaired, did not for a moment suggest the suspicion of any such
impregnation. The good housewife, upon the same principle, uses an egg
to test the strength of her brine for pickling.

Every one has heard of the power which bleaching gas (chlorine)
possesses in taking away color, so that a red rose held over its fumes
will become white. The lecturer, referring to this fact, exhibited two
pieces of paper; upon one was inscribed, in large letters, the word
"PROTEUS;" upon the other no writing was visible; although he assured us
the same word was there inscribed. He now dipped both pieces of paper in
a solution of bleaching-powder, when the word "Proteus" disappeared from
the paper upon which it was before visible; while the same word
instantly came out, sharp and distinct, upon the paper which was
previously a blank. Here there appeared another contradiction: the
chlorine in the one case obliterating, and in the other reviving the
written word; and how was this mystery explained? Easily enough! Our
ingenious philosopher, it seems, had used indigo in penning the one word
which had disappeared; and had inscribed the other with a solution of a
chemical substance, iodide of potassium and starch; and the action which
took place was simply this: the chlorine of the bleaching solution set
free the iodine from the potassium, which immediately combined with the
starch, and gave color to the letters which were before invisible.
Again--a sheet of white paper was exhibited, which displayed a broad and
brilliant stripe of scarlet--(produced by a compound called the
bin-iodide of mercury)--when exposed to a slight heat the color changed
immediately to a bright yellow, and, when this yellow stripe was crushed
by smartly rubbing the paper, the scarlet color was restored, with all
its former brilliancy. This change of color was effected entirely by the
alteration which the heat, in the one case, and the friction, in the
other, produced in the particles which reflected these different colors;
and, upon the same principle, we may understand the change of the color
in the lobster-shell, which turns from black to red in boiling; because
the action of the heat produces a new arrangement in the particles which
compose the shell.

With the assistance of water and fire, which have befriended the
magicians of every age, contradictions of a more marvelous character may
be exhibited, and even the secret art revealed of handling red-hot
metals, and passing through the fiery ordeal. If we take a platinum
ladle, and hold it over a furnace until it becomes of a bright red heat,
and then project cold water into its bowl, we shall find that the water
will remain quiescent and give no sign of ebullition--not so much as a
single "fizz;" but, the moment the ladle begins to cool, it will boil up
and quickly evaporate. So also, if a mass of metal, heated to whiteness,
be plunged in a vessel of cold water, the surrounding fluid will remain
tranquil so long as the glowing white heat continues; but, the moment
the temperature falls, the water will boil briskly. Again--if water be
poured upon an iron sieve, the wires of which are made red hot, it will
not run through; but, on the sieve cooling, it will run through rapidly.
These contradictory effects are easily accounted for. The repelling
power of intense heat keeps the water from immediate contact with the
heated metal, and the particles of the water, collectively, retain their
globular form; but, when the vessel cools, the repulsive power
diminishes, and the water coming into closer contact with the heated
surface its particles can no longer retain their globular form, and
eventually expand into a state of vapor. This globular condition of the
particles of water will account for many very important phenomena;
perhaps it is best exhibited in the dew-drop, and so long as these
globules retain their form, water will retain its fluid properties. An
agglomeration of these globules will carry with them, under certain
circumstances, so much force that it is hardly a contradiction to call
water itself a solid. The water-hammer, as it is termed, illustrates
this apparent contradiction. If we introduce a certain quantity of water
into a long glass tube, when it is shaken, we shall hear the ordinary
splashing noise as in a bottle; but, if we exhaust the air, and again
shake the tube, we shall hear a loud ringing sound, as if the bottom of
the tube were struck by some hard substance--like metal or wood--which
may fearfully remind us of the blows which a ship's side will receive
from the waves during a storm at sea, which will often carry away her
bulwarks.

It is now time to turn to something stronger than water for more
instances of chemical contradictions. The chemical action of certain
poisons (the most powerful of all agents), upon the human frame, has
plunged the faculty into a maze of paradoxes; indeed, there is actually
a system of medicine, advancing in reputation, which is founded on the
principle of contraries. The famous Dr. Hahnemann, who was born at
Massieu in Saxony, was the founder of it, and, strange to say, medical
men, who are notorious for entertaining contrary opinions, have not yet
agreed among themselves whether he was a very great quack or a very
great philosopher. Be this as it may, the founder of this system, which
is called HOMOEOPATHY, when translating an article upon bark in Dr.
Cullen's Materia Medica, took some of this medicine, which had for many
years been justly celebrated for the cure of ague. He had not long taken
it, when he found himself attacked with aguish symptoms, and a light now
dawned upon his mind, and led him to the inference that medicines which
give rise to the symptoms of a disease, are those which will
specifically cure it, and however curious it may appear, several
illustrations in confirmation of this principle were speedily found. If
a limb be frost-bitten, we are directed to rub it with snow; if the
constitution of a man be impaired by the abuse of spirituous liquors,
and he be reduced to that miserable state of enervation when the limbs
tremble and totter, and the mind itself sinks into a state of low
muttering delirium, the physician to cure him must go again to the
bottle and administer stimulants and opiates.

It was an old Hippocratic aphorism that two diseases can not co-exist in
the same body, wherefore, gout has actually been cured by the afflicted
person going into a fenny country and catching the ague. The fatality of
consumption is also said to be retarded by a common catarrh; and upon
this very principle depends the truth of the old saying, that rickety
doors hang long on rusty hinges. In other words, the strength of the
constitution being impaired by one disease has less power to support the
morbid action of another.

We thus live in a world of apparent contradictions; they abound in every
department of science, and beset us even in the sanctuary of domestic
life. The progress of discovery has reconciled and explained the nature
of some of them; but many baffle our ingenuity, and still remain
involved in mystery. This much, however, is certain, that the most
opposed and conflicting elements so combine together as to produce
results, which are strictly in unison with the order and harmony of the
universe.




DESCENT INTO THE CRATER OF A VOLCANO.[18]

BY REV. H.T. CHEEVER.


A descent into the Crater of the Volcano of Kilauea in the Sandwich
Islands, may be accomplished with tolerable ease by the north-eastern
cliff of the crater, where the side has fallen in and slidden downward,
leaving a number of huge, outjutting rocks, like giants'
stepping-stones, or the courses of the pyramid of Ghizeh.

By hanging to these, and the mere aid of a pole, you may descend the
first precipice to where the avalanche brought up and was stayed--a wild
region, broken into abrupt hills and deep glens, thickly set with shrubs
and old ohias, and producing in great abundance the Hawaiian
whortleberry (formerly sacred to the goddess of the volcano), and a
beautiful lustrous blackberry that grows on a branching vine close to
the ground. Thousands of birds find there a safe and warm retreat; and
they will continue, I suppose, the innocent warblers, to pair and sing
there, till the fires from beneath, having once more eaten through its
foundations, the entire tract, with all its miniature mountains and
woody glens, shall slide off suddenly into the abyss below to feed the
hunger of all-devouring fire.

No one who passes over it, and looks back upon the tall, jagged cliffs
at the rear and side, can doubt that it was severed and shattered by one
such ruin into its present forms. And the bottomless pits and yawning
caverns, in some places ejecting hot steam, with which it is traversed,
prove that the raging element which once sapped its foundations is still
busy beneath.

The path that winds over and down through this tract, crossing some of
these unsightly seams by a natural bridge of only a foot's breadth, is
safe enough by daylight, if one will keep in it. But be careful that you
do not diverge far on either side, or let the shades of night overtake
you there, lest a single mis-step in the grass and ferns, concealing
some horrible hole, or an accidental stumble, shall plunge you beyond
the reach of sunlight into a covered pen-stock of mineral fire, or into
the heart of some deep, sunken cavern.

One can hardly wander through that place alone, even in the daytime (as
I was in coming up from the crater at evening), without having his fancy
swarm with forms of evil. In spite of himself, there will

    "Throng thick into his mind the busy shapes
    Of cover'd pits, unfathomably deep,
    A dire descent! of precipices huge--
    Rocks, caves, lakes, fens, bogs, dens, and shades of death."

The way through this tract descends not abruptly for about half a mile,
to a steep bank of partially decomposed lava, somewhat furrowed by
water-courses, by which you go down some hundreds of feet more to what
every body calls the Black Ledge.

This is an immense rampart or gallery of grisly black scoria and lava,
about half a mile wide, running all round the pit, slightly sloping
inward, and not unfrequently overflowed in eruptions. By it you learn
the dimensions of the great lake to which this is now the shore. It may
be compared to the wide beach of an ocean, seldom flooded all over
except in very high tides; or to a great field of thick shore ice, from
under which the tide has retired, leaving it cracked and rent, but not
so as to break up the general evenness of its surface.

The upper crust is generally glossy, cellular, and cinder-like, brittle
and crackling under the feet; but directly underneath the superficies,
hard and compact, as proved by inspecting the great seams and fissures,
from some of which flickering currents of hot air, and from others
scalding steam and smoke are continually issuing. Pound on it, and you
will hear deep, hollow reverberations, and sometimes your pole will
break through a place like the rotten trap-door of some old ruin, and
open upon you a hideous black hole without bottom.

Over this great volcanic mole or offset, we proceeded to make our way
toward the caldron in the southeast, pounding before us with our pole,
like men crossing a river to find whether the ice ahead will bear them.
We stopped every now and then to examine and get up on to some great
cone or oven, which had been formed after the congelation of the crust,
by pent up gas blowing out from beneath the cooling lava, raising it as
in great bubbles, and letting its black, viscous vomit dribble from the
top, and flow down sluggishly and congeal before it had found a level,
like ice in very cold weather over a waterfall. Thus it would flow over
the Black Ledge, hardening sometimes in round streams like a cable, or
in serpentine forms like a great anaconda; and again it would spread out
from the foot of the cone a little way, in forms like a bronze lion's
foot.

The surface was frequently broken, or ready to break, with the weight of
one's body, from the fiery liquid having subsided after the petrifaction
of the crust. Generally, too, the hardened lava seemed to have been
flowed over, like ice near the shore when the tide rises and goes down,
with a thin scum of lava that became shelly and crepitated under the
foot like shelly ice.

Then, as we went further into the bed of the crater, gradually going
down, we would come to places where, like as in frozen mill-ponds,
whence the water has been drawn off, the congealed lava had broken in to
the depth sometimes of fifty and one hundred feet. Every where, too,
there were great fissures and cracks, as in fields of river ice, now and
then a large air-hole, and here and there great bulges and breaks, and
places from which a thin flame would be curling, or over which you would
see a glimmer like that which trembles over a body of fresh coals or a
recently-burned lime-kiln. Touch your stick there, and it would
immediately kindle.

There were also deep, wide ditches, through which a stream of liquid
lava had flowed since the petrifaction of the main body through which it
passed. Cascades of fire are said to be often seen in the course of
these canals or rivers as they leap some precipice, presenting in the
night a scene of unequaled splendor and sublimity. In some places the
banks or dikes of these rivers are excavated and fallen in with hideous
crash and ruin; and often you may go up, if you dare, to the edge on one
side and look over into the gulf, and away under the opposite
overhanging bank, where the igneous fluid has worn away and scooped it
out till the cliff hangs on air, and seems to topple and lean, like the
tower of Pisa, just ready to fall.

It would be no very comfortable reflection, if a man were not too
curiously eager and bold and intent upon the novelties he is drinking in
by the senses, to have much reflection or fear at such a time, to think
how easily an earthquake might tumble down the bank on which he is
standing, undermined in like manner with that which you are looking at
right opposite.

On our left, as we passed on to the Great Caldron, we explored, as far
as was possible between the heat and vapor, the great bank, or, more
properly, mountain-side of sulphur and sulphate of lime (plaster of
Paris), and obtained some specimens of no little beauty. There are
cliffs of sulphur through which scalding hot vapor is escaping as high
up above you as eight hundred feet; and lower down there are seams from
which lambent and flickering flames are darting, and jets of hot air
will sometimes whirl by you, involving no little danger by their
inhalation. Around these fissures are yellow and green incrustations of
sulphur, which afford a new variety of specimens.

When we had got to the leeward of the caldron, we found large quantities
of the finest threads of metallic vitrified lava, like the spears and
filaments of sealing-wax, called Pele's hair. The wind has caught them
from the jets and bubbling springs of gory lava, and carried them away
on its wings till they have lodged in nests and crevices, where they may
be collected like shed wool about the time of sheep-shearing. Sometimes
this is found twenty miles to the leeward of the volcano.

The heat and sulphur gas, irritating the throat and lungs, are so great
on that side, that we had to sheer away off from the brim of the
caldron, and could not observe close at hand the part where there was
the most gushing and bubbling of the ignifluous mineral fluid. But we
passed round to the windward, and were thus enabled to get up to the
brim so as to look over for a minute in the molten lake, burning
incessantly with brimstone and fire--

    "A furnace formidable, deep, and wide,
    O'erboiling with a mad, sulphureous tide."

But the lava which forms your precarious foothold, melted, perhaps, a
hundred times, can not be handled or trusted, and the heat even there is
so great as to burn the skin of one's face, although the heated air, as
it rises, is instantly swept off to the leeward by the wind. It is
always hazardous, not to say fool-hardy, to stand there for a moment,
lest your uncertain foothold, crumbling and crispy by the action of
fire, shall suddenly give way and throw you instantly into the fiery
embrace of death.

At times, too, the caldron is so furiously boiling, and splashing, and
spitting its fires, and casting up its salient, angry jets of melted
lava and spume, that all approach to it is forbidden. We slumped several
times near it, as a man will in the spring who is walking over a river
of which the ice is beginning to thaw, and the upper stratum, made of
frozen snow, is dissolved and rotten. A wary native who accompanied us
wondered at our daring, and would not be kept once from pulling me back,
as with the eager and bold curiosity of a discoverer, all absorbed in
the view of such exciting wonders, I was getting too near.

At the time we viewed it, the brim all round was covered with splashes
and spray to the width of ten or twelve feet. The surface of the lake
was about a mile in its longest diameter, at a depth of thirty or forty
feet from its brim, and agitated more or less all over, in some places
throwing up great jets and spouts of fiery red lava, in other places
spitting it out like steam from an escape-pipe when the valves are half
lifted, and again squirting the molten rock as from a pop-gun.

The surface was like a river or lake when the ice is _going out_ and
broken up into cakes, over which you will sometimes see the water
running, and sometimes it will be quite hidden. In the same manner in
this lake of fire, while its surface was generally covered with a crust
of half-congealed, dusky lava, and raised into elevations, or sunk into
depressions, you would now and then see the live coal-red stream running
along. Two cakes of lava, also, would meet like cakes of ice, and their
edges crushing, would pile up and fall over, precisely like the
phenomena of moving fields of ice; there was, too, the same rustling,
grinding noise.

Sometimes, I am told, the roar of the fiery surges is like the heavy
beating of surf. Once, when Mr. Coan visited it, this caldron was heaped
up in the middle, higher above its brim than his head, so that he ran up
and thrust in a pyrometer, while streams were running off on different
sides. At another time when he saw it, it had sunk four or five hundred
feet below its brim, and he had to look down a dreadful gulf to see its
fires.

Again, when Mr. Bingham was there, it was full, and concentric waves
were flowing out and around from its centre. Having carefully observed
its movements a while, he threw a stick of wood upon the thin crust of a
moving wave where he thought it would bear him, even if it should bend a
little, and then stood upon it a few moments. In that position,
thrusting his cane down through the cooling tough crust, about half an
inch thick, and immediately withdrawing it, forthwith there gushed up,
like ooze in a marsh or melted tar under a plank, enough of the viscid
lava to form a globular mass, which afterward, as it cooled, he broke
off and bore away.

It is not easy for one that has not himself been in a similar position,
to sympathize with and pardon the traveler at such a point, for he is
unwilling to forbear and leave it till fairly surfeited and seared with
heat and admiration, or driven off by some sudden spout and roar, or
splash of the caldron. You gaze, and gaze, and gaze in amazement,
without conscious thought, like a man in a trance, reluctant to go away,
and you want to spend at least a day and night, viewing close at hand
its ever-varying phenomena.

Had we only brought with us wrappers, I believe we should have been the
first to have slept on the Black Ledge. Now that the edge of curiosity
is a little blunted and the judgment cool, we can see that there would
be a degree of hazard and temerity in it which is not felt under the
excitement of novelty, and in the full tide of discovery. Forced by
startling admonitions, of instant danger, I had to quit suddenly the
precarious footing I had gained on the caldron's edge, like a hungry
man hurried from his repast ere he has snatched a mouthful. But the look
I caught there, and the impression of horror, awfulness, and sublimity
thence obtained, live and will live in my conscious being forever and
ever; and it is this shall help me utter what many have experienced, and
have wished to say before the poet said it for them:

    "One compact hour of crowded life
    Is worth an age without a name."

A moment of being under such circumstances is an epoch in the history of
one's mind; and he, perhaps, may be deemed the most highly favored of
mortals who has the most of such epochs in remembrance, provided only
that the incommunicable thoughts and emotions which, in the moment of
that experience, seemed to permeate the very substance of the mind, have
given it a moral tone and impulse running through all its subsequent
life. It is thus that thoughts are waked "to perish never," being
instamped ineffaceably upon the spiritual frame-work and foundation
stones of the soul, dignifying and consecrating them to noble uses.

It was not, I trust, without some valuable additions to our stock of
impressions in this line, that we reluctantly left that spot. Departing
thence, we passed over a tract between the level of the brim of the
caldron and the Black Ledge, in order to gain again the latter, most
strangely rugged and wild, as if convulsion after convulsion had
upheaved, and sunk, and rent, and piled the vast mineral and rocky
masses; forming here great hills like the ruins of a hundred towers, and
there deep indentations, while every block lay upon its fellow, ready to
be dislodged, edge-wise, crosswise, endwise, sidewise, angle-wise, and
every-wise, in the wildest confusion and variety possible, as if
Typhoean giants had been hurling them at each other in war; or as when
the warring angels

    "From their foundations loosening to and fro,
    Uptore the seated hills, with all their load,
    And sent them thundering upon their adversaries.
    Then hills amid the air encounter'd hills,
    Hurled to and fro with jaculation dire:
    Horrid confusion heap'd upon confusion rose."

Rocks, too, in earthquake commotions, have been started from the
perpendicular sides of the crater in this part, and have rolled down
eight hundred or a thousand feet with a force, one might think, that
would almost shake the world.

When we had thus encompassed the crater, and had returned to the point
where we first came down upon the Black Ledge, it was getting toward
night, and I found myself so excessively heated and feverish, and
throbbing with the headache, which most persons there suffer from, as to
be unable to go for the castellated and Gothic specimens into some ovens
that are found in the sides near by.

Leaving, therefore, my companion and the natives to hunt for them, I
proceeded slowly back, and toiled up, with difficulty, the steep side of
this stupendous crater, which may be set down at a moderate calculation
as not less than twelve miles in circumference, and one thousand feet
deep. In the centre of this vast sunken amphitheatre of volcanic fire,

    "A dungeon horrible on all sides round,
    As one great furnace flaming,"

a man looks up to heaven, and to the seared walls of this great prison,
and feels like a pigmy, or the veriest insect, in contrast with so
mighty and terrible a work of the Lord God Almighty.

The person who can go down into it, and come up safe from it, with a
light mind, unthankful and unawed, is as wanting in some of the best
attributes of mental manhood as of piety; and, let me say with Cowper,

    "I would not enter on my list of friends,
    Though graced with polished manners and fine sense,"

the man who should prove himself so brutishly insensible to the sublime
vestiges of Divine power, and to the providential care of Divine
goodness.

We spent the night by the volcano. I slept a little at intervals, just
raising myself at every awakening to look at Pele's fires, which spouted
and played like fountains, and leaped suddenly with a flash from place
to place, like electricity on wire in the experiments of the
lecture-room.

Once when I arose at midnight and went out a little beyond the range of
our screen, to enjoy in silence the august and grand spectacle, the
violence of the wind was such as to take off my unguarded hat, and carry
it clear over the brink of the crater, where it lodged for the night,
but was recovered with little injury in the morning by one of our
courageous natives.

One of the early visitors there said that, on coming near the rim, he
fell upon his hands and knees awe-struck, and crept cautiously to the
rocky brink, unwilling at once to walk up to the giddy verge and look
down as from a mast-head upon the fiery gulf at his feet. In a little
time, however, like a landsman after a while at sea, he was able to
stand very near and gaze unalarmed upon this wonder of the world.

I have myself known seamen that had faced unfearingly all the perils of
the deep, and had rushed boldly into battle with its mammoth monsters,
to stand appalled on the brink of Kilauea, and depart without daring to
try its abyss. Gazing upon it, then, at midnight, so near its brink as
we were, was rather venturing upon the edge of safety, as I found to my
cost. But woe to the man that should have a fit of somnambulism on the
spot where our tent was pitched that last night. Baron Munchausen's
seven-leagued boots could hardly save him from a warm bath in flowing
lava cherry-red.

Morning broke again upon our open encampment, clear and bracing as upon
the Green Mountains of Vermont. With fingers burned and bleeding from
the climbing and crystal-digging of yesterday, we made all the dispatch
possible in collecting and packing specimens, but it was one o'clock
before we were ready to leave. Having at length got off the natives
with their burdens, two for Hilo and two for Kau, we kneeled for the
last time by that wonderful old furnace, where the hand of God works the
bellows and keeps up his vast laboratory of elemental fire. Then we
mounted our horses and bade a final good-by, the one for Hilo, and the
other for his happy Hawaiian home.


    FOOTNOTE:

    [18] From "_The Island World_," a new work soon to be issued from
    the press of Messrs. Harper and Brothers.




[From Chambers's Edinburgh Journal.]

THE EVERY-DAY YOUNG LADY.


The every-day young lady is neither tall nor short, neither fat nor
lean. Her complexion is not fair, but clear, and her color not bright,
but healthy. She is not vulgarly well, but has not the least illness in
the world. Her face is oval, and her hair, moderate in quantity, is
usually of a soft brown. Her features are small and unobtrusive: her
nose being what the French passports call _moyen_--that is, neither one
thing nor t'other--and her eyes as gray as glass, but clear and gentle.
It is not the eyes that give her any little character she has; although,
if you have nothing else to do, and happen to look at them for a minute
or so, they win upon you. They are not varnished eyes, in which you can
see nothing but the brightness; and not deep eyes, into which your soul
plunges as into a gulf: they are mere common skylights, winning into
them a little bit of heaven, and giving you an inkling of good temper
and feminine gentleness. Neither is it her air, nor manner, nor dress,
that stamps her individuality, if she has any, for these belong to the
class of society in which she moves; but altogether she gives you an
idea of young-womanish refinement and amiableness, and you would think
of her again when alone, if there were not so many of her friends about
her as to divide and dilute, as it were, your impressions.

The every-day young lady is usually dependent upon somebody or other,
but sometimes she has a small independence, which is much worse. In the
former case she clings like ivy, adorning, by her truth and gentleness,
the support she is proud of; while in the other she gives her L30 a year
to a relation as an inadequate compensation for her board and clothing,
and lives in a state of unheard-of bondage and awful gratitude. Her life
is diversified by friendships, in which her own feelings last the
longest; by enmities, in which she suffers and forgives; and by
loves--though almost always at second-hand. She is a confidant, a
go-between, a bridemaid; but if she finds herself on the brink of a
serious flirtation, she shrinks into her own foolish little heart in
surprise and timidity, and the affair never becomes any thing but a
mystery, which she carries with her through life, and which makes her
shake her head on occasions, and look conscious and experienced, so as
to give people the idea that this young lady has a history. If the
affair does go on, it is a public wonder how she came to get actually
married. Many persons consider that she must have been playing a part
all along for this very purpose; that her timidity and bashfulness were
assumed, and her self-denial a _ruse_; and that, in point of fact, she
was not by any means what she gave herself out to be--an every-day young
lady.

For our part we have known many such young ladies in our day--and so
have you, and you, and you: the world of society is full of them. We
have a notion of our own, indeed, that they are _the sex_; or, in other
words, that they are the class from which are drawn our conventional
notions of womankind, and that the rest--that is those women who have
what is called character--are counterfeit women. The feminine virtues
are all of a retiring kind, which does not mean that they are invisible
even to strangers, but that they are seen through a half-transparent
vail of feminine timidity and self-postponement. In like manner, the
_physique_ of women, truly so called, is not remarkable or obtrusive:
their eyes do not flash at you like a pistol, nor their voices arrest
suddenly your attention, as if they said "Stand and deliver!" That men
in general admire the exceptions rather than the rule, may be true, but
that is owing to bad taste, coarseness of mind, or the mere hurry of
society, which prevents them from observing more than its salient
points. For our part we have always liked every-day young ladies, and
sometimes we felt inclined to love a few of them; but somehow it never
went beyond inclination. This may have been owing in part to the
headlong life one leads in the world, but in part likewise--if we may
venture the surmise--to our own sensitiveness preventing us from poking
ourselves upon the sensitiveness of other people.

A great many every-day young ladies have been represented in the
character of heroines of romance; but there they are called by other
names, and made to run about, and get into predicaments, so that one
does not know what to make of them. The Countess Isabelle of Croye is an
extremely every-day young lady; but look how she runs away, and how she
sees a bishop murdered at supper, and how she is going to be married to
a Wild Boar, and how at last, after running away again, she gives her
hand and immense possessions to a young Scotsman as poor as a church
mouse! Who can tell, in such a hurry-skurry, what she is in her
individuality, or what she would turn out to be if let alone, or if the
author had a turn for bringing out every-day characters? Then we have
every-day young ladies set up for heroines without doing any thing for
it at all, and who look in the emergencies of life just as if they were
eating bread and butter, or crying over a novel at home. Of such is
Evelina, who has a sweet look for every person, and every thing, in
every possible situation, and who is expected, on the strength of that
sole endowment, to pass for a heroine of every-day life. This is
obviously improper; for an every-day young lady has a principle of
development within her like every body else. If you expose her to
circumstances, these circumstances must act upon her in one way or
another; they must bring her out; and she must win a husband for
herself, not get him by accident, blind contact, or the strong necessity
of marrying--a necessity which has no alternative in the case of a
heroine but the grave.

Such blunders, however, are now at an end; for a real every-day young
lady has come out into public life, and an illumination has been thrown
upon the class, which must proceed either from one of themselves or from
inspiration.[19] But we are not going to criticise the book; for that
would bring us to loggerheads with the critics, not one of whom has the
least notion of the nature of the charm they all confess. This charm
consists in its painting an every-day young lady to the life, and for
the first time; and it by no means consists, as it is said to do, in the
plot, which is but indifferently concocted, or in the incidents, that
are sometimes destitute both of social and artistical truth. Anne Dysart
herself, however, is a masterly portrait. Its living eyes are upon us
from first to last, following us like the eyes of those awful pictures
in the dining-room of long ago, which we could not escape from in any
corner of the room. But Anne's eyes are not awful: they are sweet, calm,
gentle. The whole figure is associated with the quieter and better parts
of our nature. It comes to us, with its shy looks and half-withdrawn
hands, like somebody we knew all our lives, and still know; somebody who
walks with us, mellowing, but not interrupting our thoughts; somebody
who sits by us when we are writing or reading, and throws a creamy hue
upon the paper; somebody whose breath warms us when it is cold, and
whose shadow stands between us and the scorching sun; somebody, in
short, who gives us assurance, we know not how, of an every-day young
lady.

To paint a character which has no salient points demands a first-rate
artist; but to see the inner life of a quiet, timid, retiring mind, is
the exclusive privilege of a poet. To suppose that there is no inner
life in such minds, or none worth observing, is a grand mistake. The
crested wave may be a picturesque or striking object in itself; but
under the calm, smooth surface of the passionless sea there are
beautiful things to behold--painted shells, and corals, and yellow
sands, and sea-plants stretching their long waving arms up to the light.
How many of us sail on without giving a glance to such things, our eyes
fixed on the frowning or inviting headland, or peopling the desert air
with phantoms! Just so do we turn away from what seems to us the void of
every-day life to grapple with the excitements of the world.

Anne Dysart is not Miss Douglas's Anne Dysart: she is yours, ours,
everybody's. She is the very every-day young lady. The author did not
invent her: she found her where the Highlandman found the tongs--by the
fireside. And that is her true position, where alone she is at home.
When she goes into society, unless it be among associates, she is always
under some sort of alarm. She is told that there is company in the
drawing-room, strangers come to visit--young ladies celebrated for their
beauty and accomplishments--and she treads the stairs with a beating
heart, feeling awkward and ignorant, and enters with a desperate
calmness. The visitors, however, like her, she is so modest and
unobtrusive; and the every-day young lady is charmed and even affected
by their patronizing kindness. She is reputed by these persons as a
"nice girl, rather amiable-looking, but not in the least like the
heroine of a novel." When she visits them in return, she is at first
oppressed with a feeling of shyness, but at length still more
overpowered by the kindness with which she is received, and she walks to
the window to conceal her emotion. In this position our Anne--for we
deny that Miss Douglas has any special property in her--comes out
strong: "As Anne now stood, dressed in deep mourning, the blackness of
her garments only relieved by a small white collar and a pair of cuffs,
the expression of her countenance very pensive, her eyes shining mildly
in the sunlight which was reflected from the crimson curtain upon her at
present somewhat pale cheek, Mrs. Grey, as she whispered to Charlotte,
'Really, poor thing, she does look very interesting!' felt the influence
of her peculiar charm, without, however, comprehending its source."

Anne attracts the attention of one of the company, a harsh-featured,
ungraceful person, under forty, with a large mouth, determined lips,
deep-set, thoughtful eyes, and a confused mass of dark hair hanging over
a large and full forehead. Whereupon she instantly feels uncomfortable
and frightened. But for all that, it is settled that the _bete noir_
walks home with her; and resting the tips of her fingers on his arm,
onward they go, these two fated individuals, in solemn silence. The
conversation which at length begins consists of unpolite questions on
the gentleman's part, and constrained answers on that of the lady; but
at length she is saved from replying to a specially disagreeable and
impertinent interrogatory by stumbling over a stone.

"_Did you fall on purpose?_" said he. The every-day young lady is both
frightened and displeased, and being further urged, feels something
actually resembling indignation. When they part, it is with a feeling on
her part of inexpressible relief, and she thinks to herself that she had
never before met so singular or so disagreeable a man.

This is unpromising: but it is correct. The every-day young lady
_thinks_ of the rough, odd man; and he is struck now and then by a word
or a look in her which piques his curiosity or interests his feelings.
He at length learns to look into her calm, soft eyes, and sees through
the passionless surface of her character some precious things gleaming
in its depths. The following quotation will show at what length he
arrives: "Anne pondered for a few minutes. She had a rather slow though
a sound understanding. There was some truth in what Mr. Bolton said, but
so great a want of charity, that she felt from the first as if, some way
or other, he could not be quite right. It was some time, however, ere
she discovered how he was wrong, and even then perhaps could not have
defined it." She answered gravely and modestly, but with less timidity
than usual.

"But still, Mr. Bolton, it is possible to be both agreeable and sincere.
I know it is possible, because I have seen it; and I think that though
there is some truth in what you say, yet, as far as my very limited
experience justifies me in forming an opinion, I should say that truth,
united with kindness, _is_ appreciated; indeed I am sure some people
have been liked who never flattered: I knew one person at least whom
every body loved, who would not have told a falsehood for the world, and
who _was_ all he _seemed_."

"I suppose you mean your father? Well, without exactly sharing in your
filial enthusiasm, I am inclined to believe that he was a superior man."

"Are you indeed? Why, may I ask?" said Anne very timidly, and venturing
for the first time to put a question in her turn.

"Why?" he repeated, with a momentary return of the wonderful smile.
"Because his daughter has rather more simplicity of mind, rather more
purity of heart, rather more intelligence, rather less frivolity, rather
less artifice, rather fewer coquettish tricks to flatter the vanity, and
entrap the admiration, of silly men--in short, rather more _sincerity_
than one meets every day; I guess she must have had a father somewhat
above the average." Mr. Bolton spoke in a low tone, and there was in his
voice a depth and a softness that struck his listener's ear as being
altogether different from its wont. Whatever this difference might be,
however, it was not lasting, for when, after a moment's pause, he spoke
again, it was with an exaggeration even of his ordinary harshness both
of voice and manner: "But you need not fancy I am paying you a
compliment. You are no angel; and even during our short acquaintance, I
have discovered in you some faults and follies, and doubtless there are
others behind. In some respects you are very childish, or perhaps it
would be as correct to say _womanish_." With this rude speech, Mr.
Bolton concluded, drawing back with an air of having nothing more to
say, and assuming a look which seemed to forbid any one to speak to him.

But this wild man chooses her for a wife, proposes for her hand--and is
refused. Why so? Because she was an every-day young lady. He was rich;
he had good points--nay, great ones, in his character: but he was an
uncomfortable man. She could not love him, and she could not think of
marrying a man she could not love. Had it been the young clergyman, the
case would have been different. A nice young man was he; and, like all
other young ladies of her class, Anne had her dreams of gentle
happiness, and congeniality of temper, and poetry, and flowers, and
sunsets, and a genteel cottage. But the young clergyman could not afford
to think of an almost penniless girl for a wife; and so poor Anne's
episode was ended before it was well begun; and the affair would have
assumed in her solitary heart the enduring form of a Mystery, if
exigencies had not arisen to call forth feelings and resolves that brook
no such unsubstantial companions.

This every-day young lady had a brother in Edinburgh, and the brother
fell into folly, and misery, and sickness, and desperate poverty. He
wanted a friend, a nurse, a servant, and she knew that his bedside was
her natural post. The difficulty was to get so far with her poor little
funds; but this is accomplished, and instead of the outside of the mail
on a wintry night, she has even had the good-fortune to enjoy an inside
seat, some gentleman being seized with the caprice of encountering the
frost and snow. This gentleman, she discovers afterward, is her
discarded lover; and he--how many discoveries does he make! The
every-day young lady, thrown into the battle of circumstances, rises
with the strife. She who had been accustomed to sit silent, seeming to
agree with others in what was untrue, merely from want of courage, now
endures without flinching the extremities even of actual want. Now come
out, one by one, obvious to the sight, the thousand beautiful things in
the depths of her quiet mind; and the eyes of the odd gentleman are
dimmed with emotion as he looks at them. Already had she begun to wonder
at this man, to call his austerity melancholy, to grieve that he was
unhappy, to think what he could be thinking about; and now, when she and
her darling brother are saved, protected, held up by his strong hand,
the hold he takes of her imagination communicates itself insensibly to
her heart. His features lose their harshness; his deep-set eyes become
soft; his lips relax; and finally, he cuts his hair. What more needs be
said?

But we take leave to disagree with this individual in his idea that Anne
Dysart has more simplicity, purity, and quiet intelligence than other
every-day young ladies. She is, on the contrary, nothing more than a
type of the class; and the fact is proved by the resemblance in her
portrait being at once recognized. We do not stand upon the color of her
hair, or eyes, or other physical characteristics, for these are mere
averages, and may be very different in our Anne and yours; but her
shyness, hesitation, and cowardice--her modesty, gentleness, and
truth--these are stereotyped traits, and are the same in all. But when
such qualities rise, or become metamorphosed, to meet the exigencies of
life, how do we recognize them? By intuition. We acknowledge in others
the principle of development we feel in ourselves. Our fault is, that
we pass over as worthy of no remark, no careful tending, no holy
reverence, the slumbering germs of all that is good and beautiful in the
female character, and suffer our attention to be engrossed by its
affectations and monstrosities. Let us correct this fever of the taste.
Let us learn to enjoy the still waters and quiet pastures. When we see
an every-day young lady flitting about our rooms, or crossing our paths,
or wandering by our side, let us regard her no more as if she were a
shadow, or a part of the common atmosphere, necessary, though unheeded;
let us look upon her with fondness and respect, and if we would be
blessed ourselves, let us say--God bless her!


    FOOTNOTE:

    [19] Anne Dysart, a Tale of Every-day Life. 3 vols. London:
    Colburn. 1850.




[From Dickens's Household Words.]

HISTORY AND ANECDOTES OF BANK NOTE FORGERIES.


Viotti's division of violin-playing into two great classes--good playing
and bad playing--is applicable to Bank note making. The processes
employed in manufacturing good Bank notes have been often described; we
shall now cover a few pages with a faint outline of the various arts,
stratagems, and contrivances employed in concocting bad Bank notes. The
picture can not be drawn with very distinct or strong markings. The
tableaux from which it is copied are so intertwisted and complicated
with clever, slippery, ingenious scoundrelism, that a finished chart of
it would be worse than morally displeasing: it would be tedious.

All arts require time and experience for their development. When any
thing great is to be done, first attempts are nearly always failures.
The first Bank note forgery was no exception to this rule, and its story
has a spice of romance in it. The affair has never been circumstantially
told; but some research enables us to detail it:

In the month of August, 1757, a gentleman living in the neighborhood of
Lincoln's Inn Fields, named Bliss, advertised for a clerk. There were,
as was usual even at that time, many applicants; but the successful one
was a young man of twenty-six, named Richard William Vaughan. His
manners were so winning, and his demeanor so much that of a gentleman
(he belonged indeed to a good county family in Staffordshire, and had
been a student at Pembroke Hall, Oxford), that Mr. Bliss at once engaged
him. Nor had he occasion, during the time the new clerk served him, to
repent the step. Vaughan was so diligent, intelligent, and steady, that
not even when it transpired that he was, commercially speaking, "under a
cloud," did his master lessen confidence in him. Some inquiry into his
antecedents showed that he had, while at College, been extravagant; that
his friends had removed him thence; set him up in Stafford
as a wholesale linen-draper, with a branch establishment in
Aldersgate-street, London; that he had failed, and that there was some
difficulty about his certificate. But so well did he excuse his early
failings, and account for his misfortunes, that his employer did not
check the regard he felt growing toward him. Their intercourse was not
merely that of master and servant. Vaughan was a frequent guest at
Bliss's table; by-and-by a daily visitor to his wife, and--to his ward.

Miss Bliss was a young lady of some attractions, not the smallest of
which was a handsome fortune. Young Vaughan made the most of his
opportunities. He was well-looking, well-informed, dressed well, and
evidently made love well, for he won the young lady's heart. The
guardian was not flinty-hearted, and acted like a sensible man of the
world. "It was not," he said on a subsequent and painful occasion, "till
I learned from the servants, and observed by the girl's behavior, that
she greatly approved Richard Vaughan, that I consented; but on condition
that he should make it appear that he could maintain her. I had no doubt
of his character as a servant, and I knew his family were respectable.
His brother is an eminent attorney." Vaughan boasted that his mother
(his father was dead) was willing to re-instate him in business with a
thousand pounds; five hundred of which was to be settled upon Miss Bliss
for her separate use.

So far all went on prosperously. Providing Richard Vaughan could attain
a position satisfactory to the Blisses, the marriage was to take place
on the Easter Monday following, which, the Calendar tells us, happened
early in April, 1758. With this understanding, he left Mr. Bliss's
service, to push his fortune.

Months passed on, and Vaughan appears to have made no way in the world.
He had not even obtained his bankrupt's certificate. His visits to his
affianced were frequent, and his protestations passionate; but he had
effected nothing substantial toward a happy union. Miss Bliss's guardian
grew impatient; and, although there is no evidence to prove that the
young lady's affection for Vaughan was otherwise than deep and sincere,
yet even she began to lose confidence in him. His excuses were evidently
evasive, and not always true. The time fixed for the wedding was fast
approaching; and Vaughan saw that something must be done to restore the
young lady's confidence.

About three weeks before the appointed Easter Tuesday, Vaughan went to
his mistress in high spirits. All was right: his certificate was to be
granted in a day or two; his family had come forward with the money, and
he was to continue the Aldersgate business he had previously carried on
as a branch of the Stafford trade. The capital he had waited so long
for, was at length forthcoming. In fact, here were two hundred and forty
pounds of the five hundred he was to settle on his beloved. Vaughan then
produced twelve twenty-pound notes; Miss Bliss could scarcely believe
her eyes. She examined them. The paper she remarked seemed rather
thicker than usual. "Oh," said Bliss, "all Bank bills are not alike."
The girl was naturally much pleased. She would hasten to apprize
Mistress Bliss of the good news.

Not for the world! So far from letting any living soul know he had
placed so much money in her hands, Vaughan exacted an oath of secresy
from her, and sealed the notes up in a parcel with his own seal; making
her swear that she would on no account open it till after their
marriage.

Some days after, that is, "on the twenty-second of March," (1758)--we
are describing the scene in Mr. Bliss's own words--"I was sitting with
my wife by the fireside. The prisoner and the girl were sitting in the
same room--which was a small one--and, although they whispered, I could
distinguish that Vaughan was very urgent to have something returned
which he had previously given to her. She refused, and Vaughan went away
in an angry mood. I then studied the girl's face, and saw that it
expressed much dissatisfaction. Presently a tear broke out. I then
spoke, and insisted on knowing the dispute. She refused to tell, and I
told her that, until she did, I would not see her. The next day I asked
the same question of Vaughan; he hesitated. 'Oh!' I said, 'I dare say it
is some ten or twelve pound matter--something to buy a wedding bauble
with.' He answered that it was much more than that--it was near three
hundred pounds! 'But why all this secresy?' I said; and he answered it
was not proper for people to know he had so much money till his
certificate was signed. I then asked him to what intent he had left the
notes with the young lady? He said, as I had of late suspected him, he
designed to give her a proof of his affection and truth. I said, 'You
have demanded them in such a way that it must be construed as an
abatement of your affection toward her.'" Vaughan was again exceedingly
urgent in asking back the packet; but Bliss, remembering his many
evasions, and supposing that this was a trick, declined advising his
niece to restore the parcel without proper consideration. The very next
day it was discovered that the notes were counterfeit.

This occasioned stricter inquiries into Vaughan's previous career. It
turned out that he bore the character in his native place of a
dissipated, and not very scrupulous person. The intention of his mother
to assist him was an entire fabrication, and he had given Miss Bliss the
forged notes solely for the purpose of deceiving her on that matter.
Meanwhile the forgeries became known to the authorities, and he was
arrested. By what means, does not clearly appear. The "Annual Register"
says that one of the engravers gave information; but we find nothing in
the newspapers of the time to support that statement; neither was it
corroborated at Vaughan's trial.

When Vaughan was arrested he thrust a piece of paper into his mouth, and
began to chew it violently. It was, however, rescued, and proved to be
one of the forged notes; fourteen of them were found on his person, and
when his lodgings were searched twenty more were discovered.

Vaughan was tried at the Old Bailey, on the seventh of April, before
Lord Mansfield. The manner of the forgery was detailed minutely at the
trial: On the first of March (about a week before he gave the twelve
notes to the young lady), Vaughan called on Mr. John Corbould, an
engraver, and gave an order for a promissory note to be engraved with
these words:

    "No. ----.

         "I promise to pay to ----, or Bearer, ----, London ----."

There was to be a Britannia in the corner. When it was done, Mr. Sneed
(for that was the _alias_ Vaughan adopted), came again, but objected to
the execution of the work. The Britannia was not good, and the words "I
promise" were too near the edge of the plate. Another was in consequence
engraved, and on the fourth of March, Vaughan took it away. He
immediately repaired to a printer, and had forty-eight impressions taken
on thin paper, provided by himself. Meanwhile, he had ordered, on the
same morning, of Mr. Charles Fourdrinier, another engraver, a second
plate, with what he called "a direction," in the words, "For the
Governor and Company of the Bank of England." This was done, and about a
week later he brought some paper, each sheet "folded up," said the
witness, "very curiously, so that I could not see what was in them. I
was going to take the papers from him, but he said he must go up-stairs
with me, and see them worked off himself. I took him up-stairs; he would
not let me have them out of his hands. I took a sponge and wetted them,
and put them one by one on the plate in order for printing them. After
my boy had done two or three of them, I went down-stairs, and my boy
worked the rest off, and the prisoner came down and paid me."

Here the court pertinently asked, "What imagination had you when a man
thus came to you to print on secret paper, 'the Governor and Company of
the Bank of England?'"

The engraver's reply was: "I then did not suspect any thing. But I shall
take care for the future." As this was the first Bank of England note
forgery that was ever perpetrated, the engraver was held excused.

It may be mentioned as an evidence of the delicacy of the reporters,
that, in their account of the trial, Miss Bliss's name is not mentioned.
Her designation is "a young lady." We subjoin the notes of her evidence:

"A young lady (sworn). The prisoner delivered me some bills; these are
the same (producing twelve counterfeit bank notes sealed up in a cover,
for twenty pounds each), said that they were Bank bills. I said they
were thicker paper--he said all bills are not alike. I was to keep them
till after we were married. He put them into my hands to show he put
confidence in me, and desired me not to show them to any body; sealed
them up with his own seal, and obliged me by an oath not to discover
them to any body. And I did not till he had discovered them himself. He
was to settle so much in stock on me."

Vaughan urged in his defense, that his sole object was to deceive his
affianced, and that he intended to destroy all the notes after his
marriage. But it had been proved that the prisoner had asked one John
Ballingar to change first one, and then twenty of the notes; but which
that person was unable to do. Besides, had his sole object been to
dazzle Miss Bliss with his fictitious wealth, he would, most probably,
have intrusted more, if not all the notes, to her keeping.

He was found guilty, and passed the day that had been fixed for his
wedding, as a condemned criminal.

On the 11th of May, 1758, Richard William Vaughan was executed at
Tyburn. By his side, on the same gallows, there was another forger:
William Boodgere, a military officer, who had forged a draught on an
army agent named Calcroft, and expiated the offense with the first
forger of Bank of England notes.

The gallows may seem hard measure to have meted out to Vaughan, when it
is considered that none of his notes were negotiated, and no person
suffered by his fraud. Not one of the forty-eight notes, except the
twelve delivered to Miss Bliss, had been out of his possession; indeed,
the imitation must have been very clumsily executed, and detection would
have instantly followed any attempt to pass the counterfeits. There was
no endeavor to copy the style of engraving on a real bank note. That was
left to the engraver; and as each sheet passed through the press twice,
the words added at the second printing, "For the Governor and Company of
the Bank of England," could have fallen into their proper place on any
one of the sheets, only by a miracle. But what would have made the
forgery clear to even a superficial observer, was the singular omission,
of the second "n" in the word England.[20]

The criticism on Vaughan's note of a bank clerk examined on the trial
was: "There is some resemblance, to be sure; but this note" (that upon
which the prisoner was tried) "is numbered thirteen thousand eight
hundred and forty, and we never reach so high a number." Besides there
was no water-mark in the paper. The note of which a fac-simile appeared
in our eighteenth number, and dated so early as 1699, has a regular
design in the texture of the paper; showing that the water-mark is as
old as the bank notes themselves.

Vaughan was greatly commiserated. But despite the unskillfulness of the
forgery, and the insignificant consequences which followed it, the crime
was considered of too dangerous a character not to be marked, from its
very novelty, with exemplary punishment. Hanging created at that time no
remorse in the public mind, and it was thought necessary to set up
Vaughan as a warning to all future bank-note forgers. The crime was too
dangerous not to be marked with the severest penalties. Forgery differs
from other crimes not less in the magnitude of the spoil it may obtain,
and of the injury it inflicts, than in the facilities attending its
accomplishment. The common thief finds a limit to his depredations in
the bulkiness of his booty, which is generally confined to such property
as he can carry about his person; the swindler raises insuperable and
defeating obstacles to his frauds if the amount he seeks to obtain is so
considerable as to awaken close vigilance or inquiry. To carry their
projects to any very profitable extent, these criminals are reduced to
the hazardous necessity of acting in concert, and thus infinitely
increasing the risks of detection. But the forger need have no
accomplice; he is burdened with no bulky and suspicious property; he
needs no receiver to assist his contrivances. The skill of his own
individual right hand can command thousands; often with the certainty of
not being detected, and oftener with such rapidity as to enable him to
baffle the pursuit of justice.

It was a long time before Vaughan's rude attempt was improved upon: but
in the same year (1758), another department of the crime was commenced
with perfect success; namely, an ingenious alteration, for fraudulent
purposes, of real bank notes. A few months after Vaughan's execution,
one of the northern mails was stopped and robbed by a highwayman;
several bank notes were comprised in the spoil, and the robber, setting
up with these as a gentleman, went boldly to the Hatfield Post-office,
ordered a chaise and four, rattled away down the road, and changed a
note at every change of horses. The robbery was, of course, soon made
known, and the numbers and dates of the stolen notes were advertised as
having been stopped at the bank. To the genius of a highwayman this
offered but a small obstacle, and the gentleman-thief changed all the
figures "1" he could find into "4's." These notes passed currently
enough; but, on reaching the bank, the alteration was detected, and the
last holder was refused payment. As that person had given a valuable
consideration for the note, he brought an action for the recovery of the
amount; and at the trial it was ruled by the Lord Chief Justice, that
"any person paying a valuable consideration for a bank note, payable to
bearer, in a fair course of business, has an understood right to receive
the money of the bank."

It took a quarter of a century to bring the art of forging bank notes to
perfection. In 1779, this was nearly attained by an ingenious gentleman,
named Mathison, a watchmaker from the matrimonial village of Gretna
Green. Having learned the arts of engraving and of simulating
signatures, he tried his hand at the notes of the Darlington Bank; but,
with the confidence of skill, was not cautious in passing them, was
suspected, and absconded to Edinburgh. Scorning to let his talent be
wasted, he favored the Scottish public with many spurious Royal Bank of
Scotland notes, and regularly forged his way by their aid to London. At
the end of February he took handsome lodgings in the Strand, opposite
Arundel-street. His industry was remarkable: for, by the 12th of March,
he had planed and polished rough pieces of copper, engraved them, forged
the water-mark, printed and negotiated several impressions. His plan was
to travel and to purchase articles in shops. He bought a pair of
shoe-buckles at Coventry with a forged note, which was eventually
detected at the Bank of England. He had got so bold that he paid such
frequent visits in Threadneedle-street, that the bank clerks became
familiar with his person. He was continually changing notes of one, for
another denomination. These were his originals, which he procured to
make spurious copies of. One day seven thousand pounds came in from the
Stamp Office. There was a dispute about one of the notes. Mathison, who
was present, though at some distance, declared, oracularly, that the
note was a good one. How could he know so well? A dawn of suspicion
arose in the minds of the clerks; one trail led into another, and
Mathison was finally apprehended. So well were his notes forged that, on
the trial, an experienced bank clerk declared, he could not tell whether
the note handed him to examine was forged or not. Mathison offered to
reveal his secret of forging the water-mark, if mercy were shown to him;
this was refused, and he suffered the penalty of his crime.

Mathison was a genius in his criminal way, but a greater than he
appeared in 1786. In that year perfection seemed to have been reached.
So considerable was the circulation of spurious paper-money, that it
appeared as if some unknown power had set up a bank of its own. Notes
were issued from it, and readily passed current, in hundreds and
thousands. They were not to be distinguished from the genuine paper of
Threadneedle-street. Indeed, when one was presented there, in due
course, so complete were all its parts; so masterly the engraving; so
correct the signatures; so skillful the water-mark, that it was promptly
paid; and only discovered to be a forgery when it reached a particular
department. From that period forged paper continued to be presented,
especially at the time of lottery drawing. Consultations were held with
the police. Plans were laid to help detection. Every effort was made to
trace the forger. Clarke, the best detective of his day, went, like a
sluth-hound, on the track; for in those days the expressive word
"blood-money" was known. Up to a certain point there was little
difficulty; but, beyond that, consummate art defied the ingenuity of
the officer. In whatever way the notes came, the train of discovery
always paused at the lottery-offices. Advertisements offering large
rewards were circulated; but the unknown forger baffled detection.

While this base paper was in full currency, there appeared an
advertisement in the Daily Advertiser for a servant. The successful
applicant was a young man, in the employment of a musical-instrument
maker; who, some time after, was called upon by a coachman, and informed
that the advertiser was waiting in a coach to see him. The young man was
desired to enter the conveyance, where he beheld a person with something
of the appearance of a foreigner, sixty or seventy years old, apparently
troubled with the gout. A camlet surtout was buttoned round his mouth; a
large patch was placed over his left eye; and nearly every part of his
face was concealed. He affected much infirmity. He had a faint hectic
cough; and invariably presented the patched side to the view of the
servant. After some conversation--in the course of which he represented
himself as guardian to a young nobleman of great fortune--the interview
concluded with the engagement of the applicant; and the new servant was
directed to call on Mr. Brank, at 29, Titchfield-street, Oxford-street.
At this interview, Brank inveighed against his whimsical ward for his
love of speculating in lottery tickets; and told the servant that his
principal duty would be to purchase them. After one or two meetings, at
each of which Brank kept his face muffled, he handed a forty and twenty
pound bank note; told the servant to be very careful not to lose them;
and directed him to buy lottery-tickets at separate offices. The young
man fulfilled his instructions, and at the moment he was returning, was
suddenly called by his employer from the other side of the street,
congratulated on his rapidity, and then told to go to various other
offices in the neighborhood of the Royal Exchange, and to purchase more
shares. Four hundred pounds in Bank of England notes were handed him,
and the wishes of the mysterious Mr. Brank were satisfactorily effected.
These scenes were continually enacted. Notes to a large amount were thus
circulated; lottery-tickets purchased; and Mr. Brank--always in a coach,
with his face studiously concealed--was ever ready on the spot to
receive them. The surprise of the servant was somewhat excited; but had
he known that from the period he left his master to purchase the
tickets, one female figure accompanied all his movements; that when he
entered the offices, it waited at the door, peered cautiously in at the
window, hovered around him like a second shadow, watched him carefully,
and never left him until once more he was in the company of his
employer--that surprise would have been greatly increased.[21] Again and
again were these extraordinary scenes rehearsed. At last the Bank
obtained a clew, and the servant was taken into custody. The directors
imagined that they had secured the actor of so many parts; that the
flood of forged notes which had inundated that establishment would at
length be dammed up at its source. Their hopes proved fallacious, and it
was found that "Old Patch" (as the mysterious forger was, from the
servant's description, nick-named) had been sufficiently clever to
baffle the Bank directors. The house in Titchfield-street was searched;
but Mr. Brank had deserted it, and not a trace of a single implement of
forgery was to be seen.

All that could be obtained was some little knowledge of "Old Patch's"
proceedings. It appeared that he carried on his paper coining entirely
by himself. His only confidant was his mistress. He was his own
engraver. He even made his own ink. He manufactured his own paper. With
a private press he worked his own notes; and counterfeited the
signatures of the cashiers, completely. But these discoveries had no
effect; for it became evident that Mr. Patch had set up a press
elsewhere. Although his secret continued as impenetrable, his notes
became as plentiful as ever. Five years of unbounded prosperity ought to
have satisfied him; but it did not. Success seemed to pall him. His
genius was of that insatiable order which demands new excitements, and a
constant succession of new flights. The following paragraph from a
newspaper of 1786 relates to the same individual:

"On the 17th of December, ten pounds were paid into the Bank, for which
the clerk, as usual, gave a ticket to receive a Bank note of equal
value. This ticket ought to have been carried immediately to the
cashier, instead of which the bearer took it home, and curiously added
an 0 to the original sum, and returning, presented it so altered to the
cashier, for which he received a note of one hundred pounds. In the
evening, the clerks found a deficiency in the accounts; and on examining
the tickets of the day, not only that but two others were discovered to
have been obtained in the same manner. In the one, the figure 1 was
altered to 4, and in another to 5, by which the artist received, upon
the whole, nearly one thousand pounds."

To that princely felony, Old Patch, as will be seen in the sequel, added
smaller misdemeanors which one would think were far beneath his notice;
except to convince himself and his mistress of the unbounded facility of
his genius for fraud.

At that period, the affluent public were saddled with a tax on plate;
and many experiments were made to evade it. Among others, one was
invented by a Mr. Charles Price, a stock-jobber and lottery-office
keeper, which, for a time, puzzled the tax-gatherer. Mr. Charles Price
lived in great style, gave splendid dinners, and did every thing on the
grandest scale. Yet Mr. Charles Price had no plate! The authorities
could not find so much as a silver tooth-pick on his magnificent
premises. In truth, what he was too cunning to possess, he borrowed. For
one of his sumptuous entertainments, he hired the plate of a silversmith
in Cornhill, and left the value in bank notes as security for its safe
return. One of these notes having proved a forgery, was traced to Mr.
Charles Price; and Mr. Charles Price was not to be found at that
particular juncture. Although this excited no surprise--for he was often
an absentee from his office for short periods--yet in due course, and as
a formal matter of business, an officer was set to find him, and to ask
his explanation regarding the false note. After tracing a man, who he
had a strong notion was Mr. Charles Price, through countless lodgings
and innumerable disguises, the officer (to use his own expression)
"nabbed" Mr. Charles Price. But, as Mr. Clarke observed, his prisoner
and his prisoner's lady were even then "too many" for him; for, although
he lost not a moment in trying to secure the forging implements, after
he had discovered that Mr. Charles Price, and Mr. Brank, and Old Patch,
were all concentrated in the person of his prisoner, he found the lady
had destroyed every trace of evidence. Not a vestige of the forging
factory was left. Not the point of a graver, nor a single spot of ink,
nor a shred of silver paper, nor a scrap of any body's handwriting, was
to be met with. Despite, however, this paucity of evidence to convict
him, Mr. Charles Price had not the courage to face a jury, and
eventually he saved the judicature and the Tyburn executive much trouble
and expense, by hanging himself in Bridewell.

The success of Mr. Charles Price has never been surpassed; and even
after the darkest era in the history of Bank forgeries--which dates from
the suspension of cash payments, in February, 1797--"Old Patch" was
still remembered as the Caesar of Forgers.


    FOOTNOTES:

    [20] Bad orthography was by no means uncommon in the most
    important documents at that period; the days of the week, in the
    day-books of the Bank of England itself, are spelled in a variety
    of ways.

    [21] Francis's History of the Bank of England.




THE OLDEST INHABITANT OF THE PLACE DE GREVE.


The Police Courts of London have often displayed many a curious
character, many a strange scene, many an exquisite bit of dialogue; so
have the Police Courts in Ireland, especially at the Petty Sessions in
Kilrush; but we are not so well aware of how often a scene of rich and
peculiar humor occurs in the Police _tribuneaux_ of Paris. We will
proceed to give the reader a "taste of their quality."

An extremely old woman, all in rags, was continually found begging in
the streets, and the Police having good-naturedly let her off several
times, were at last obliged to take her in charge, and bring her into
the court. Several magistrates were sitting. The following dialogue took
place between the President and the old woman.

_President._--Now, my good woman, what have you to say for yourself? You
have been frequently warned by the Police, but you have persisted in
troubling people with begging.

_Old Woman (in a humble, quavering tone)._--Ah, Monsieur le President,
it is not so much trouble to other people as it is to me. I am a very
old woman.

_Pres._--Come, come, you must leave off begging, or I shall be obliged
to punish you.

_Old W._--But, Monsieur le President, I can not live without--I must
beg--pardon me, Monsieur--I am obliged to beg.

_Pres._--But I say you must not. Can you do no work?

_Old W._--Ah, no, Monsieur; I am too old.

_Pres._--Can't you sell something--little cakes--bonbons?

_Old W._--No, Monsieur, I can't get any little stock to begin with; and,
if I could, I should be robbed by the _gamins_, or the little girls, for
I'm not very quick, and can't see well.

_Pres._--Your relations must support you, then. You can not be allowed
to beg. Have you no son--no daughter--no grandchildren?

_Old W._--No, Monsieur; none--none--all my relations are dead.

_Pres._--Well then, your friends must give you assistance.

_Old W._--Ah, Monsieur, I have no friends; and, indeed, I never had but
one, in my life; but he too is gone.

_Pres._--And who was he?

_Old W._--Monsieur de Robespierre--_le pauvre, cher homme_! (The poor,
dear man!)

_Pres._--Robespierre!--why what did you know of him?

_Old W._--Oh, Monsieur, my mother was one of the _tricoteurs_
(knitting-women) who used to sit round the foot of the guillotine, and I
always stood beside her. When Monsieur de Robespierre was passing by, in
attending his duties, he used to touch my cheek, and call me (here the
old woman shed tears) _la belle Marguerite: le pauvre, cher homme_!

We must here pause to remind the reader that these women, the
_tricoteurs_, who used to sit round the foot of the guillotine on the
mornings when it was at its hideous work, were sometimes called the
"Furies;" but only as a grim jest. It is well known, that, although
there were occasionally some sanguinary hags among them, yet, for the
most part, they were merely idle, gossiping women, who came there
dressed in neat white caps, and with their knitting materials, out of
sheer love of excitement, and to enjoy the _spectacle_.

_Pres._--Well, Goody; finish your history.

_Old W._--I was married soon after this, and then I used to take my seat
as a _tricoteur_ among the others; and on the days when Monsieur de
Robespierre passed, he used always to notice me--_le pauvre, cher
homme_. I used then to be called _la belle tricoteuse_, but now--now, I
am called _la vielle radoteuse_ (the old dotardess). Ah, Monsieur le
President, it is what we must all come to!

The old woman accompanied this reflection with an inimitable look at
the President, which completely involved him in the _we_, thus
presenting him with the prospect of becoming an old dotardess; not in
the least meant offensively, but said in the innocence of her aged
heart.

_Pres._--Ahem!--silence! You seem to have a very tender recollection of
Monsieur Robespierre. I suppose you had reason to be grateful to him?

_Old W._--No, Monsieur, no reason in particular; for he guillotined my
husband.

_Pres._--Certainly this ought to be no reason for loving his memory.

_Old W._--Ah, Monsieur, but it happened quite by accident. Monsieur de
Robespierre did not intend to guillotine my husband--he had him executed
by mistake for somebody else--_le pauvre, cher homme_!

Thus leaving it an exquisite matter of doubt, as to whether the "poor
dear man" referred to her husband, or to Monsieur de Robespierre; or
whether the tender epithet was equally divided between them.




[From Chambers's Edinburgh Journal.]

STORY OF A KITE.


The setting sun beamed in golden light over the country; long shadows
lay on the cool grass; the birds, which had been silent through the
sultry heat of the day, sang their joyous evening hymn: the merry voices
of the village children sounded through the clear air, while their
fathers loitered about enjoying the luxury of rest after labor. A
sun-burned traveler, with dusty shoes, walked sturdily along the high
road: he was young and strong, and his ruddy cheeks glowed in the warm
light: he carried his baggage on a stick over his shoulder, and looked
straight on toward the cottages of the village; and you might see, by
the expression of his face, that his eye was earnestly watching for the
first glimpse of the home that lay among them, to which he was
returning.

The same setting sun threw his golden beams over the great metropolis:
they lighted up streets, and squares, and parks, whence crowds were
retiring from business or pleasure to their various places of abode or
gay parties: they pierced even through the smoke of the city, and gilded
its great central dome; but when they reached the labyrinth of lanes and
courts which it incloses, their radiance was gone, for noxious vapors
rose there after the heat of the day, and quenched them. The summer sun
is dreaded in those places.

The dusky light found its way with difficulty through a small and dim
window into an upper room of a house in one of these lanes, and any one
entering it would at first have thought it was void of any living
inhabitant, had not the restless tossing and oppressed breathing that
proceeded from a bed in one corner borne witness to the contrary. A weak
sickly boy lay there, his eye fixed on the door. It opened, and he
started up in bed; but at the sight of another boy, a few years older
than himself, who came in alone, he sunk back again, crying in a
plaintive voice, "Don't you see her coming yet?"

"No, she is not in sight: I ran to the corner of the lane, and could see
nothing of her," replied the elder boy, who, as he spoke, knelt down
before the grate, and began to arrange some sticks in it.

Every thing in the room bespoke poverty; yet there was an appearance of
order, and as much cleanliness as can be attained in such an abode.
Among the scanty articles of furniture there was one object that was
remarkable as being singularly out of place, and apparently very useless
there: it was a large paper kite, that hung from a nail on the wall, and
nearly reached from the low ceiling to the floor.

"There's eight o'clock just struck, John," said the little boy in bed.
"Go and look once more if mother's not coming yet."

"It's no use looking, Jem. It won't make her come any faster; but I'll
go to please you."

"I hear some one on the stairs."

"It's only Mrs. Willis going into the back-room."

"Oh dear, dear, what _shall_ I do?"

"Don't cry, Jem. Look, now I've put the wood all ready to boil the
kettle the minute mother comes, and she'll bring you some tea: she said
she would. Now I'm going to sweep up the dust, and make it all tidy."

Jem was quieted for a few minutes by looking at his brother's busy
operations, carried on in a bustling, rattling way, to afford all the
amusement possible; but the feverish restlessness soon returned.

"Take me up, do take me up," he cried; "and hold me near the broken
pane, please, John;" and he stretched out his white, wasted hands.

John kindly lifted out the poor little fellow, and dragging a chair to
the window, sat down with him on his knee, and held his face close to
the broken pane, through which, however, no air seemed to come, and he
soon began to cry again.

"What is it, Jem?--what's the matter?" said a kind voice at the door,
where a woman stood, holding by the hand a pale child.

"I want mother," sobbed Jem.

"Mother's out at work, Mrs. Willis," said John; "and she thought she
should be home at half-past seven; but she's kept later sometimes."

"Don't cry," said Mrs. Willis's little girl, coming forward. "Here's my
orange for you."

Jem took it, and put it to his mouth; but he stopped, and asked John to
cut it in two; gave back half to the little girl, made John taste the
portion he kept, and then began to suck the cooling fruit with great
pleasure, only pausing to say, with a smile, "Thank you, Mary."

"Now lie down again, and try to go to sleep; there's a good boy," said
Mrs. Willis; "and mother will soon be here. I must go now."

Jem was laid in bed once more; but he tossed about restlessly, and the
sad wail began again.

"I'll tell you what," said John, "if you will stop crying, I'll take
down poor Harry's kite, and show you how he used to fly it."

"But mother don't like us to touch it."

"No; but she will not mind when I tell her why I did it this once. Look
at the pretty blue and red figures on it. Harry made it, and painted it
all himself; and look at the long tail!"

"But how did he fly it? Can't you show me how poor Harry used to fly
it?"

John mounted on a chest, and holding the kite at arm's length, began to
wave it about, and to make the tail shake, while Jem sat up admiring.

"This was the way he used to hold it up. Then he took the string that
was fastened here--mother has got it in the chest--and he held the
string in his hand, and when the wind came, and sent the kite up, he let
the string run through his hand, and up it went over the trees,
up--up--and he ran along in the fields, and it flew along under the blue
sky."

John waved the kite more energetically as he described, and both the
boys were so engrossed by it, that they did not observe that the mother,
so longed for, had come in, and had sunk down on a chair near the door,
her face bent and nearly hidden by the rusty crape on her widow's
bonnet, while the tears fell fast on her faded black gown.

"Oh mother, mother!" cried Jem, who saw her first, "come and take
me--come and comfort me!"

The poor woman rose quickly, wiped her eyes, and hastened to her sick
child, who was soon nestled in her arms, and seemed to have there
forgotten all his woes.

The kind, good-natured John had meanwhile hung up the kite in its place,
and was looking rather anxiously at his mother, for he well understood
the cause of the grief that had overcome her at the sight of his
occupation, when she first came in; but she stroked his hair, looked
kindly at him, and bade him make the kettle boil, and get the things out
of her basket. All that was wanted for their simple supper was in it,
and it was not long before little Jem was again laid down after the
refreshment of tea; then a mattress was put in a corner for John, who
was soon asleep; and the mother, tired with her day's hard work, took
her place in the bed by the side of her child.

But the tears that had rolled fast down her cheeks as her lips moved in
prayer before sleep came upon her, still made their way beneath the
closed eyelids, and Jem awoke her by saying, as he stroked her face with
his hot hand, "Don't cry, mother; we won't touch it again!"

"It's not that, my child; no, no: it's the thought of my own Harry. I
think I see his pleasant face, and his curly hair, and his merry eyes
looking up after his kite." It was not often she spoke out her griefs;
but now, in the silent night, it seemed to comfort her.

"Tell me about him, mother, and about his going away? I like to hear you
tell about him."

"He worked with father, you know, and a clever workman he learned to
be."

"But he was much older than me. Shall I ever be a good workman, mother?"

The question made her heart ache with a fresh anguish, and she could not
answer it; but replied to his first words, "Yes, he was much older. We
laid three of our children in the grave between him and John. Harry was
seventeen when his uncle took him to serve out his time in a
merchant-ship. Uncle Ben, that was ship's carpenter, it was that took
him.--The voyage was to last a year and a half, for they were to go to
all manner of countries far, far away. One letter I had. It came on a
sad day the day after poor father died, Jem. And then I had to leave our
cottage in our own village, and bring you two to London, to find work to
keep you; but I have always taken care to leave word where I was to be
found, and have often gone to ask after letters. Not one has ever come
again; and it's six months past the time when they looked for the ship,
and they don't know what to think. But I know what I think: the sea has
rolled over my dear boy, and I shall never see him again--never, never
in this weary world."

"Don't cry so, mother dear; I'll try to go to sleep, and not make you
talk."

"Yes--try; and if you can only get better, that will comfort me most."

Both closed their eyes, and sleep came upon them once more.

It was eight o'clock in the morning when the little boy awoke, and then
he was alone; but to that he was accustomed. His mother was again gone
to work, and John was out cleaning knives and shoes in the neighborhood.
The table, with a small piece of bread and a cup of blue milk and water
on it, stood beside him. He drank a little, but could not eat, and then
lay down again with his eyes fixed on Harry's kite.

"Could he fly it," or rather, "could he see John fly it--really out of
doors and in the air?" That was of all things what he most longed to do.
He wondered where the fields were, and if he could ever go there and see
the kite fly under the blue sky. Then he wondered if John could fly it
in the lane. He crept out of bed, and tottered to the window.

The lane was very wet and slushy, and a nasty black gutter ran down it,
and oozed out among the broken stones. There had been a heavy
thunder-shower in the night, and as there was no foot pavement, and what
stones there were, were very uneven and scattered, the black pools
lodged among them, and altogether it seemed impossible for a boy to fly
a kite there; for "how could he run along holding the string? he would
tumble among the dirty pools. There were only four children to be seen
in it now, out of all the numbers that lived in the houses, though it
was a warm summer morning, and they were dabbling with naked feet in the
mud, and their ragged clothes were all draggled. Mother would never let
him and John do like that."

Still he stood, first examining the window, then looking at the kite;
then putting his hand out through the broken pane, and pondered over a
scheme that had entered his mind.

"John," he cried, as the door opened, "don't you think we could fly
Harry's kite out of the broken pane?"

At first this idea seemed to John perfectly chimerical; but after some
consultation and explanation a plan was devised between the two boys, to
complete which they only waited for their mother's return. They expected
her at one, for this was only half a day's work.

Jem was dressed when she returned, and his excitement made him appear
better; but she saw with grief that he could not touch his dinner; and
her anxiety about him made her, less unwillingly than she otherwise
would have done, consent to the petition he made, that "only for this
once she would let him and John fly the kite outside the window." She
stifled her sigh as she sat down to needlework, lest she should cast a
gloom over the busy preparations that immediately commenced.

The difficulty had been how to get the kite out, because the window
would not open. To surmount this, John was to go down to the lane,
taking the kite with him, while Jem lowered the string out of the broken
pane.

"When you get hold of the string, you know, John, you can fasten it, and
then stand on that large stone opposite, just by where that gentleman
is, and hold up the kite, and then I will pull."

All was done accordingly. John did his part well. Jem pulled; the kite
rose to the window, and fluttered about, for the thunder had been
followed by a high wind, which was felt a little even in this close
place, and the boys gazed at it with great pleasure. As it dangled
loosely by the window in this manner, the tail became entangled, and
John was obliged to run up to help to put it right.

"Let it down to me again when I have run out," said he, as he tried to
disentangle it; "and I will stand on the stone, and hold it up, and you
can pull again. There's the gentleman still, and now there's a young man
besides. The gentleman has made him look up at the kite."

"Come and look, mother," said Jem: but she did not hear. "The young man
has such a brown face, and such curly hair."

"And he's like--mother, he is crossing over!" cried John. "He has come
into the house!"

The mother heard now. A wild hope rushed through her heart; she started
up; a quick step was heard on the stairs; the door flew open, and the
next moment she was clasped in her son's arms!

The joy nearly took away her senses. Broken words mingled with tears,
thanksgivings, and blessings, were all that were uttered for some time
between them. Harry had Jem on his knee, and John pressed close to his
side, and was holding his mother tight by the hand, and looking up in
her face, when at last they began to believe and understand that they
once more saw each other. And then he had to explain how the ship had
been disabled by a storm in the South Seas; and how they got her into
one of the beautiful islands there, and refitted her, and after six
months' delay, brought her back safe and sound, cargo and all; and how
he and Uncle Ben were both strong and hearty.

"How well you look, my dear boy!" said the happy mother. "How tall, and
stout, and handsome you are!"

"And he's got his curly hair and bright eyes still," said poor wan
little Jem, speaking for the first time.

"But you, mother, and all of you, how pale you are, and how thin! I
know--yes, don't say it--I know who's gone. I went home last night,
mother. I walked all the way to the village, and found the poor cottage
empty, and heard how he died."

"Home! You went there?"

"Yes, and the neighbors told me you were gone to London. But I slept all
night in the kitchen, on some straw. There I lay, and thought of you,
and of him we have lost, and prayed that I might be a comfort to you
yet."

Joy and sorrow seemed struggling for the mastery in the widow's heart;
but the present happiness proved the stronger, and she was soon smiling,
and listening to Harry.

"I had a hard matter to find you," he said. "You had left the lodging
they directed me to at first."

"But I left word where I had come to."

"Ay, so you had; and an old woman there told me you were at No. 10
Paradise Row."

"What could she be thinking of?"

"No one had heard of you in that place. However, as I was going along
back again to get better information, keeping a sharp look-out in hopes
I might meet you, I passed the end of this lane, and saw it was called
Eden-lane, so I thought perhaps the old lady had fancied Paradise and
Eden were all the same; and sure enough, they are both as like one as
the other, for they are wretched, miserable places as ever I saw. I
turned in here, and then No. 10 proved wrong too; and as I was standing
looking about, and wondering what I had better do next, a gentleman
touched my arm, and pointing first at the black pools in the broken
pavement, and then up at this window, he said--I remember his very
words, they struck me so--'Do not the very stones rise up in judgment
against us! Look at these poor little fellows trying to fly their kite
out of a broken pane!' Hearing him say so, I looked up, and saw my old
kite--by it I found you at last."

They all turned gratefully toward it, and saw that it still swung
outside, held there safely by its entangled tail. The talk, therefore,
went on uninterruptedly. Many questions were asked and answered, and
many subjects discussed; the sad state of poor little Jem being the most
pressing. At the end of an hour a great bustle was going on in the room:
they were packing up all their small stock of goods, for Harry had
succeeded, after some argument, in persuading his mother to leave her
unhealthy lodging that very evening, and not to risk even one more night
for poor Jem in that poisonous air. He smoothed every difficulty. Mrs.
Willis gladly undertook to do the work she had engaged to do; and with
her he deposited money for the rent, and the key of the room. He
declared he had another place ready to take his mother to; and to her
anxious look he replied, "I did good service in the ship, and the owners
have been generous to us all. I've got forty pounds."

"Forty pounds!" If he had said, "I have got possession of a gold
district in California," he would not have created a greater sensation.
It seemed an inexhaustible amount of wealth.

A light cart was soon hired and packed, and easily held not only the
goods (not forgetting the kite), but the living possessors of them; and
they set forth on their way.

The evening sun again beamed over the country; and the tall trees, as
they threw their shadow across the grass, waved a blessing on the family
that passed beneath, from whose hearts a silent thanksgiving went up
that harmonized with the joyous hymn of the birds. The sun-burnt
traveler, as he walked at the horse's head, holding his elder brother's
hand, no longer looked anxiously onward, for he knew where he was going,
and saw by him his younger brother already beginning to revive in the
fresh air, and rejoiced in his mother's expression of content and
happiness. She had divined for some time to what home she was going.

"But how did you contrive to get it fixed so quickly, my kind, good
boy?" she said.

"I went to the landlord, and he agreed at once: and do not be afraid, I
can earn plenty for us all."

"But must you go to sea again?"

"If I must, do not fear. Did you not always teach me that His hand would
keep me, and hold me, even in the uttermost parts of the sea?"

And she felt that there was no room for fear.

A week after this time, the evening sun again lighted up a happy party.
Harry and John were busied in preparing the kite for flying in a green
field behind their cottage. Under the hedge, on an old tree trunk, sat
their mother, no longer in faded black and rusty crape, but neatly
dressed in a fresh, clean gown and cap, and with a face bright with hope
and pleasure. By her was Jem, with cheeks already filling out, a tinge
of color in them, and eyes full of delight. On her other side was little
Mary Willis. She had just arrived, and was telling them how, the very
day after they left, some workmen came and put down a nice pavement on
each side of the lane, and laid a pipe underground instead of the
gutter; and that now it was as dry and clean as could be; and all the
children could play there, and there were such numbers of games going
on; and they all said it was the best thing they had done for them for
many a day; and so did their mothers too, for now the children were not
all crowded into their rooms all day long, but could play out of doors.

"Depend upon it," said Harry, "it is that gentleman's doing that spoke
to me of it the day I came first. This good old kite has done good
service, and now it shall be rewarded by sailing up to a splendid
height."

As he spoke, he held it up, the light breeze caught it, and it soared
away over their heads under the blue sky; while the happy faces that
watched it bore witness to the truth of his words--that "the good old
kite had done good service."




[From Sharp's Magazine.]

THE STATE OF THE WORLD BEFORE ADAM'S TIME.


Among the millions of human beings that dwell on the earth, how few are
those who think of inquiring into its past history. The annals of Greece
and Rome are imparted to our children as a necessary and important
branch of education, while the history of the world itself is neglected,
or at the most is confined to those who are destined for a scientific
profession; even adults are content to receive on hearsay a vague idea
that the globe was in being for some undefined period preceding the era
of human history, but few seek to know in what state it existed, or what
appearance it presented.

This is owing, partly, to the hard names and scientific language in
which geologists have clothed their science, and partly to ignorance of
the beauty and attractive nature of the study; we dread the long,
abstruse-sounding titles of Ichthyosaurus and Plesiosaurus, and are
repelled by the dry disquisitions on mineralogy into which professors of
the science are apt to stray. The truth is, however, that geology
properly is divided into two distinct branches; one of these consists of
the less attractive, though equally useful, investigation of the
chemical constituents of the strata, and the classification of the
fossil flora and fauna which belong to the various formations; this,
which may be styled geology proper, is the department which belongs
almost exclusively to men of science, and, inasmuch as it involves the
necessity of acquaintance with the sister sciences of chemistry,
mineralogy, zoology, and botany, is least adapted to the understanding
of the uninitiated. The other branch, which may be called the history of
geology, presents none of these difficulties; it is as easy of
comprehension, and as suitable to the popular mind, as any other
historical account; while it presents a variety of interest, and a
revolution of events, before which the puny annals of modern history
sink into insignificance.

Such of our readers as are unacquainted with the science, will probably
be inclined to doubt the possibility of our being aware of events which
took place ages before Adam was created; here, however, nature herself
steps in, and becoming her own historian, writes "in the living rock"
the chronicles of past ages, and so accurately and circumstantially,
that we can say positively, "Here existed the sea at such a period, and
here the tide ebbed and flowed for centuries;" nay, she shows us the
footmarks of extinct animals, and tells us the size, nature, habits, and
food of creatures which have for unnumbered ages been buried in the
grave of time. She informs us that here the ocean was calm, and that
there a river flowed into it; here forests grew and flourished, and
there volcanoes vomited forth lava, while mighty earthquakes heaved up
mountains with convulsive throes. Such are the events that mark the
world's history, and we now purpose giving a short sketch of the various
eras in its existence.

Hundreds of thousands of years ago, the earth, now so busy and full of
life, rolled on its ceaseless course, a vast, desolate, and sterile
globe. Day and night succeeded one another, and season followed season,
while yet no living form existed, and still the sun rose upon arid,
verdureless continents, and hot, caldron-like seas, on which the
steaming vapor and heavy fogs sat like an incubus. This is the earliest
period of which we glean any positive record, and it is probable that
previous to this era the universe was in a state of incandescence, or
intense heat, and that by the gradual cooling of the globe, the external
surface became hard, and formed a firm crust, in the same manner that
molten lead, when exposed to the cold air, hardens on the surface. The
vapors which previously floated around this heated mass, in like manner
became partially condensed, and gradually accumulating in the hollows,
formed the boiling seas which in after ages were destined to be vast
receptacles teeming with life.

How long such a period continued it is impossible to say, and were we
even able to number its years, we should in all probability obtain a
total of such magnitude as would render us unable to form any accurate
idea of its extent. Our ideas of time, like those of space, are
comparative, and so immense was this single period in geological
history, that any interval taken from human records would fail to
present an adequate idea of it.

As might be expected, this era was marked by vast and violent
convulsions; volcanoes raged and threw up molten granite, earthquakes
heaved and uplifted continents, seas were displaced and inundated the
land, and still the earth was enveloped in vapor and mist, arising from
the high temperature, and the light most probably penetrated only
sufficiently to produce a sickly twilight, while the sun shot lurid rays
through the dense and foggy atmosphere. Such a world must have been
incompatible with either animal or vegetable life, and we accordingly
find no remains of either in the rocks which belong to this early
period; their principal characteristic is a highly crystalline
appearance, giving strong presumptive evidence of the presence of great
heat.

After this era of desolation and gloom, we enter upon what is
technically termed the "Transition period," and here we begin to mark
the gradual preparation of the globe for the reception of its destined
inhabitants. The change is, however, at first very slight, and there is
evidence of frequent convulsions and of a high degree of temperature;
but the action of fire appears to have declined in force, and aqueous
agencies are exerting themselves. The earlier portion of this formation
is rendered peculiarly interesting by the fact, that during it the most
ancient forms of life sprang into existence. It is true that merely a
few species of shell-fish, with some corals, inhabited the depths of the
ocean, while the dry land still remained untenanted; nevertheless,
humble and scanty as they were, we can not fail to look with interest on
the earliest types of that existence, which has subsequently reached
such perfection in ourselves.

The presence of corals shows, that although the transition seas had lost
their high temperature, yet they retained a sufficient degree of heat to
encourage the development of animals requiring warmth. These minute
animals possess the remarkable property of extracting from the
elementary bodies held in solution in the waters, the materials for
forming new rocks. To the coral animalcule or polype we owe much of the
vast limestone beds which are found in every part of the world, and many
a vessel laden with the riches and productions of the earth finds a
grave on the sunken reefs that are the fruit of its labors.

As ages elapsed, and the universe became better adapted for the
reception of life, the waters swarmed with zoophytes and corals, and in
the silurian strata we find organic remains abundant; shell-fish are
numerous and distinct in form, and in some instances display a very
interesting anatomical construction. As an instance we may mention the
Trilobite, an animal of the crustacean order; the front part of its body
formed a large crescent-shaped shield, while the hinder portion
consisted of a broad triangular tail, composed of segments folding over
each other like the tail of a lobster; its most peculiar organ, however,
was the eye, which was composed of four hundred minute spherical lenses
placed in separate compartments, and so situated, that in the animal's
usual place at the bottom of the ocean it could see every thing around.
This kind of eye is also common to the existing butterfly and
dragon-fly, the former of which has 35,000, and the latter 14,000
lenses.

Continuing to trace the history of this ancient period, we reach what is
called among geologists the Old Red Sandstone age. The corals, and the
shell-fish, and the crustacea of the former period have passed away, and
in their place we find _fishes_; thus presenting to us the earliest
trace of the highest order of the animal kingdom--vertebrata. The plants
in this system are few, and it would seem as if the condition of the
world was ill-adapted for their growth. Another peculiar characteristic
of this era is the state of calm repose in which the ocean appears to
have remained; in many rocks the _ripple mark_ left by the tide on the
shores of the ancient seas is clearly visible; nevertheless considerable
volcanic action must have taken place, if we are to believe geologists,
who find themselves unable to account otherwise for the preponderance of
mineral matter which seems to have been held in solution by the waters.

We now pass on to the Carboniferous period, and a marked change at once
strikes us as having taken place. In the previous era few plants appear
to have existed; now they flourished with unrivaled luxuriance. Ferns,
cacti, gigantic equisetums, and many plants of which there are no
existing types, grew, and lived, and died in vast impenetrable forests;
while the bulrush and the cane, or genera nearly allied to them,
occupied the swamps and lowlands. This is the period when the great coal
beds and strata of ironstone were deposited, which supply us with fuel
for our fires, and materials for our machinery. The interminable forests
that grew and died in the lapse of centuries were gradually borne down
by the rivers and torrents to the ocean, at whose bottom they ultimately
found a resting place. A considerable portion of the land also seems to
have been slowly submerged, as in some cases fossil trees and plants are
found in an upright position, as they originally grew.

There is no period in geological history so justly deserving of
examination as this. To the coal beds then deposited Great Britain in a
great measure owes national and mercantile greatness. Dr. Buckland, in
speaking of this remote age, remarks in his Bridgewater Treatise, that
"the important uses of coal and iron in administering to the supply of
our daily wants, give to every individual among us, in almost every
moment of our lives, a personal concern, of which but few are conscious,
in the geological events of these very distant eras. We are all brought
into immediate connection with the vegetation that clothed the ancient
earth before one half of its actual surface had yet been formed. The
trees of the primeval forests have not, like modern trees, undergone
decay, yielding back their elements to the soil and atmosphere by which
they have been nourished; but treasured up in subterranean store-houses,
have been transformed into enduring beds of coal, which in these latter
ages have been to man the sources of heat, and light, and wealth. My
fire now burns with fuel, and my lamp is shining with the light of gas
derived from coal, that has been buried for countless ages in the deep
and dark recesses of the earth. We prepare our food, and maintain our
forges and furnaces, and the power of our steam-engines, with the
remains of plants of ancient forms and extinct species, which were swept
from the earth ere the formation of the transition strata was completed.
Our instruments of cutlery, the tools of our mechanics, and the
countless machines which we construct by the infinitely varied
applications of iron, are derived from ore, for the most part coeval
with, or more ancient than the fuel, by the aid of which we reduce it to
its metallic state, and apply it to innumerable uses in the economy of
human life. Thus, from the wreck of forests that waved upon the surface
of the primeval lands, and from ferruginous mud that was lodged at the
bottom of the primeval waters, we derive our chief supplies of coal and
iron, those two fundamental elements of art and industry, which
contribute more than any other mineral production of the earth to
increase the riches, and multiply the comforts, and ameliorate the
condition of mankind."

This may justly be styled the golden age of the pre-adamite world; the
globe having now cooled to a sufficient temperature to promote the
growth of plants without being injurious to them, is for the first time
clothed in all the rich verdure of a tropical climate. Doubtless the
earth would have presented a lovely aspect, had it been possible to have
beheld it; the mighty forests unawakened by a sound save that of the
sighing of the wind; the silent seas, in which the new-born denizens of
the deep roamed at will; the vast inland lakes for ages unruffled but by
the fitful breeze; all present to the mind's eye a picture of
surpassing, solitary grandeur.

The creatures that existed, though differing from those of the previous
age, were still confined to the waters; as yet the dry land remained
untenanted. The fishes give evidence of a higher organization, and many
of them appear to have been of gigantic dimensions. Some teeth which
have been found of one kind, the Megalichthys, equal in size those of
the largest living crocodiles.

There is one peculiarity respecting fossil fishes which is worthy of
remark. It is that, in the lapse of time from one era to another, their
character does not change _insensibly_, as in the case of many zoophytes
and testacea; on the contrary, species seem to succeed species
_abruptly_, and at certain definite intervals. A celebrated
geologist[22] has observed, that not a single species of fossil fish has
yet been found that is common to any two great geological formations, or
that is living in our own seas.

Continuing our investigation, we next find the fruitful coal era passing
away; scarcely a trace of vegetation remains; a few species of
zoophytes, shells, and fishes are to be found, and we observe the
impression of footsteps, technically called _ichnites_, from the Greek
_ichnon_, a footmark. These marks present a highly interesting memento
of past ages. Persons living near the sea-shore must have frequently
observed the distinctness with which the track of birds and other
animals is imprinted in the sand. If this sand were to be hardened by
remaining exposed to the action of the sun and air, it would form a
perfect mould of the foot; this is exactly what occurred in these early
ages, and the hollow becoming subsequently filled by the deposition of
new sediment, the lower stone retained the impression, while the upper
one presented a cast in relief. Many fossil footmarks have been found in
the rocks belonging to this period.

It is evident from the fact of footmarks being found, that creatures
capable of existing on dry land were formed about this time, and we
accordingly find the remains of a new order--Reptiles. These animals,
which now constitute but a small family among existing quadrupeds, then
flourished in great size and numbers. Crocodiles and lizards of various
forms and gigantic stature roamed through the earth. Some of the most
remarkable are those which belong to the genus Ichthyosaurus, or
fish-lizard, so called from the resemblance of their vertebrae to those
of fishes. This saurian Dr. Buckland describes as something similar in
form to the modern porpoise; it had four broad feet, and a long and
powerful tail; its jaws were so prodigious that it could probably expand
them to a width of five or six feet, and its powers of destruction must
have been enormous. The length of some of these reptiles exceeded thirty
feet.

Another animal which lived at this period was the Plesiosaurus. It lived
in shallow seas and estuaries, and would seem, from its organs of
respiration, to have required frequent supplies of fresh air. Mr.
Conybeare describes it as "swimming upon, or near the surface, arching
its long neck like the swan, and occasionally darting it down at the
fish which happened to float within its reach."

This reptile, which was smaller than the Ichthyosaurus, has been found
as long as from twelve to fifteen feet. Its appearance and habits
differed from the latter materially. The Ichthyosaurus, with its short
neck, powerful jaws, and lizard-like body, seems admirably suited to
range through the deep waters, unrivaled in size or strength, and
monarch of the then existing world; the Plesiosaurus, smaller in size
and inferior in strength, shunned its powerful antagonist, and, lurking
in shallows and sheltered bays, remained secure from the assaults of its
dangerous foe, its long neck and small head being well adapted to enable
it to dart on its prey, as it lay concealed amid the tangled sea-weed.

This has been called by geologists the "age of reptiles;" their remains
are found in great numbers in the lias, oolite, and wealden strata.
These creatures seem to form a connecting link between the fishes of
the previous era, and the mammalia of the Tertiary age; the
Ichthyosaurus differed little from a fish in shape, and its paddles or
feet are not unlike fins, the Plesiosaurus, on the contrary, as its name
denotes, partook more of the quadruped form. Dr. Buckland in describing
it, says: "To the head of a lizard it united the teeth of a crocodile; a
neck of enormous length, resembling the body of a serpent; a trunk and
tail having the proportions of an ordinary quadruped; the ribs of a
cameleon, and the paddles of a whale." Besides these animals we find the
Pterodactyle, half bird and half reptile; the Megalosaurus, or gigantic
lizard; the Hylaeosaurus, or forest lizard; the Geosaurus, or land
lizard, and many others, all partaking more or less of affinity to both
the piscatory and saurian tribes.

Passing on now to the period when the great chalk rocks which prevail so
much in the southeastern counties of Great Britain were deposited, we
find the land in many places submerged; the fossil remains are eminently
marine in character, and the earth must literally have presented a
"world of waters" to the view. Sponges, corals, star-fish, and marine
reptiles inhabited the globe, and plants, chiefly of marine types, grew
on its surface. Although, however, a great portion of the earth was
under water, it must not therefore be supposed that it was returning to
its ancient desolation and solitude. The author whom we last quoted, in
speaking of this subject, says: "The sterility and solitude which have
sometimes been attributed to the depths of the ocean, exist only in the
fictions of poetic fancy. The great mass of water that covers nearly
three-fourths of the globe is crowded with life, perhaps more abundantly
than the air and the surface of the earth; and the bottom of the sea,
within a certain depth accessible to light, swarms with countless hosts
of worms and creeping things, which represent the kindred families of
low degree which crawl upon the land."

This era seems to have been one of peculiar tranquillity, for the most
part undisturbed by earthquakes or other igneous forces. The prevailing
characteristic of the scenery was flatness, and low continents were
surrounded by shallow seas. The earth is now approaching the state when
it will be fit for the reception of man, and in the next age we find
some of the existing species of animals.

It is worthy of observation, that at the different periods when the
world had attained a state suitable for their existence, the various
orders of animal and vegetable life were created. In the "dark ages" of
geological history, when the globe had comparatively lately subsided
from a state of fusion,[23] it was barren, sterile, and uninhabited;
next, the waters having become cool enough, some of the lowest orders of
shell-fish and zoophytes peopled them; subsequently, fishes were formed,
and for ages constituted the highest order of animal life; after this
we enter on the age of reptiles, when gigantic crocodiles and
lizard-like forms dwelt in fenny marshes, or reposed on the black mud of
slow moving rivers, as they crept along toward the ocean betwixt their
oozy banks; and we now reach the period when the noblest order of animal
life, the class to which man himself belongs, Mammalia, began to people
the earth.

The world now probably presented an appearance nearly similar to what it
does at present. The land, which in the chalk formation was under water,
has again emerged, and swarms with life; vast savannahs rich in verdure,
and decked in a luxuriant garb with trees, plants, grasses, and shrubs,
and inland lakes, to which the elephant, the rhinoceros, and the
hippopotamus, with many extinct races of animals, came to slake their
thirst, form the principal characteristics of this period.

There is something peculiarly interesting in looking back to this early
age, while Adam was yet dust. We picture to the mind's eye the gigantic
Deinotherium, the largest creature of terrestrial life, raking and
grabbing with its huge tusks the aquatic plants that grew in the pools
and shallow lakes, or, as Dr. Buckland describes it, sleeping with its
head hooked on to the bank, and its nostrils sustained above water so as
merely to breathe, while the body remained floating at ease beneath the
surface. We see its twin-brother in greatness, the Megatherium, as it
comes slowly stalking through the thick underwood, its foot, of a yard
in length, crushing where it treads, and its impenetrable hide defying
the attacks of rhinoceros or crocodile. In the waters we behold the
mighty whale, monarch of the deep, sporting in the pre-adamite seas as
he now does amid the icebergs of the Arctic ocean; the walrus and the
seal, now denizens of the colder climes, mingling with the tropical
manati; while in the forests the owl, the buzzard, and the woodcock,
dwelt undisturbed, and the squirrel and monkey leaped from bough to
bough.

Arrived at the close of the pre-adamite history, after having traced it
from the earliest ages of which we possess any evidence, down to the eve
of human existence, the reflection that naturally presents itself to the
mind is the strangeness of the fact, that myriads of creatures should
have existed, and that generation after generation should have lived and
died and passed away, ere yet man saw the light. We are so accustomed to
view all creatures as created solely for human use, rather than for the
pleasure of the Divine Creator, that we can at first scarcely credit the
history, though written by the hand of nature herself; and the human
race sinks into insignificance when it is shown to be but the last link
in a long chain of creations. Nevertheless, that such, however humbling
it may be, is the fact, we possess indubitable evidence: and when we
consider, as Mr. Bakewell observes, "that more than three-fifths of the
earth's present surface are covered by the ocean, and that if from the
remainder we deduct the space occupied by polar ice and eternal snows,
by sandy deserts, sterile mountains, marshes, rivers, and lakes, that
the habitable portion will scarcely exceed one-fifth of the whole globe;
that the remaining four-fifths, though untenanted by mankind, are, for
the most part, abundantly stocked with animated beings, that exult in
the pleasure of existence, independent of human control, and in no way
subservient to the necessities or caprices of men; that such is and has
been, for several thousand years, the actual condition of our planet; we
may feel less reluctance in admitting the prolonged ages of creation,
and the numerous tribes that lived and flourished, and left their
remains imbedded in the strata which compose the outer crust of the
earth."


    FOOTNOTES:

    [22] Dr. Buckland.

    [23] The theory of the original incandescence of the earth has
    been much debated, but we believe it is gaining ground among
    geologists.




THE MANIA FOR TULIPS IN HOLLAND.


The inordinate passion, which at one time prevailed for Tulips, amounted
to actual madness, and well deserved the name of Tulipomania, by which
it is distinguished. The Tulip was introduced into Europe from
Constantinople in the year 1559, according to Gesner. After it became
known to the Dutch merchants and nobility at Vienna, it became a most
important branch of trade in Holland, and they sent frequently to
Constantinople for roots and seeds of the flower. In the year 1634, and
for three years after, little else was thought of in Holland but this
traffic; all embarked in it, from the nobleman to the common laborer,
and so successful were many that they rose rapidly from abject poverty
to affluence; and those who had been barely able to procure the most
scanty means of subsistence were enabled to set up their carriages, and
enjoy every convenience and luxury of life; indeed, when we read of the
enormous sums paid for a single root, we can feel no surprise at the
immense and rapid fortunes which were made. It is on record, that one
wealthy merchant gave his daughter no other portion to secure an
eligible match than a single root. The plant to this day bears the name
of the "marriage portion." We find that 2 hogsheads of wine, 4 tuns of
beer, 2 lasts of wheat, 4 lasts of rye, 2 tons of butter, 1000 pounds of
cheese, 4 fat oxen, 8 fat swine, and 12 fat sheep, a complete bed, a
suit of clothes, a silver beckess, valued at 2500 florins, were given in
exchange for a single root of the tulip called the Viceroy. This mode of
barter, being attended with inconvenience, could not be general, and
gave place to sale by weight, by which immense sums were made. Single
roots have sold for 4400 florins; 2000 florins was a common price for a
root of the Semper Augustus; and it happened that once, when only two
roots of this species could be procured, the one at Amsterdam, and the
other at Haarlem, 4600 florins, a new carriage, and a pair of horses,
with complete harness, were given for one; and for the other an exchange
made of 12 acres of land: indeed, land was frequently parted with when
cash could not be advanced for the purchase of a desired root; and
houses, cattle, furniture, and even clothes, were all sacrificed to the
Tulipomania. In the course of four months, a person has been known to
realize 60,000 florins. These curious bargains took place in taverns,
where notaries and clerks were regularly paid for attending; and after
the contracts were completed, the traders of all ranks sat down together
to a splendid entertainment. At these sales, the usual price of a root
of the Viceroy was L250; a root of the Admiral Liefkuns, L440; a root of
the Admiral Von Eyk, L160; a root of the Grebbu, L148; a root of the
Schilder, L160; a root of the Semper Augustus, L550. A collection of
Tulips of Wouter Brockholsminster was disposed of by his executors for
L9000; but they sold a root of the Semper Augustus separately, for which
they got L300, and a very fine Spanish cabinet, valued at L1000. The
Semper Augustus was, indeed, in great request. A gentleman received
L3000 for three roots which he sold; he had also the offer of L1500 a
year for his plant for seven years, with an engagement that it should be
given up as found, the increase alone having been retained during the
period. One gentleman made L6000 in the space of six months. It was
ascertained that the trade in Tulips in one city alone, in Holland,
amounted to L1,000,000 sterling. To such an extent was this
extraordinary traffic carried on, that a system of stock-jobbing was
introduced; and Tulips, which were bought and sold for much more than
their weight in gold, were nominally purchased without changing hands at
all. Beekmann, in describing this curious traffic, for which all other
merchandise and pursuit was neglected, mentions that engagements were
entered into, which were to be fulfilled in six months, and not to be
affected by any change in the value of the root during that time. Thus,
a bargain might be made with a merchant for a root at the price of 1000
florins. At the time specified for its delivery, its value may have
risen to 1500 florins, the purchaser being a gainer of 500 florins.
Should it, on the contrary, have fallen to 800 florins, the purchaser
was then a loser to the amount of 200 florins. If there had been no
fluctuation in the market, the bargain terminated without an exchange of
the money for the root, so that it became a species of gambling, at
which immense sums were lost and won. The decline of the trade was as
unexpected as its rise had been surprising. When settling day came,
there were many defaulters; some from inability to meet their
engagements, and many from dishonesty. Persons began to speculate more
cautiously, and the more respectable to feel that the system of
gambling, in which they were engaged, was by no means creditable. The
Tulip-holders then wished to dispose of their merchandise really, and
not _nominally_, but found, to their disappointment, that the demand had
decreased. Prices fell--contracts were violated--appeals were made to
the magistrates in vain; and, after violent contentions, in which the
venders claimed, and the purchasers resisted payment, the state
interposed, and issued an order invalidating the contracts, which put an
end at once to the stock-jobbing; and the roots, which had been valued
at L500 each, were now to be had for L5: and thus ended the most strange
commerce in which Europe had been ever engaged.

Some curious anecdotes connected with the mania may be found. Among them
is one of a burgomaster, who had made interest for a friend, and
succeeded in obtaining a very lucrative situation for him. The friend,
anxious to testify his gratitude, entreated of the burgomaster to allow
him to show it by some substantial proof. His generous benefactor would
accept no favor in return; all he asked was the gratification of seeing
his flower-garden, which was readily granted. The friends did not meet
again for two years. At the end of that time, the gentleman went to
visit the burgomaster. On going into his garden, the first thing that
attracted his observation was a rare Tulip of great value, which he
instantly knew must have been purloined from his garden, when his
treacherous friend had been admitted into it, two years before. He gave
vent to the most frantic passion--immediately resigned his place of
L1000 per annum--returned to his house merely to tear up his
flower-garden--and, having completed the work of destruction, left it,
never to return.

We have read of a sailor, who had brought a heavy load to the warehouse
of a merchant, who only gave him a herring as payment and refreshment.
This was very inadequate to satisfy the man's hunger, but perceiving, as
he thought, some onions lying before him, he snatched up one, and bit
it. It happened to be a Tulip-root, worth a king's ransom; so we may
conceive the consternation of the merchant, which is said to have nearly
deprived him of reason.

It has been said that John Barclay, the author of the romance of
"Angenis," was a victim to the Tulipomania. Nothing could induce him to
quit the house to which his flower-garden was attached, though the
situation was so unwholesome that he ran the risk of having his health
destroyed. He kept two fierce mastiffs to guard the flowers, which he
determined never to abandon.

The passion for Tulips was at its height in England toward the close of
the seventeenth and the commencement of the eighteenth century. The
tulip is a native of the Levant, and of many of the eastern countries.
Though common in Persia, it is highly esteemed, and considered an emblem
of love. Chardin tells us, that when a young Persian wishes to make his
sentiments known to his mistress, he presents her with one of these
flowers, which, of course, must be the flame-<DW52> one, with black
anthers, so often seen in our gardens; as, Chardin adds, "He thus gives
her to understand, that he is all on fire with her beauty, and his
heart burned to a coal." The flower is still highly esteemed by
florists, and has its place among the few named florists' flowers. Many
suppose it to be "the Lily of the Field," mentioned in the Sermon on the
Mount, from its growing in wild profusion in Syria, and from the extreme
delicacy of the texture of its petals, and from the wonderful variety
and dazzling beauty of its colors. It may be so; and the flower acquires
from this an interest which nothing else could give.




THE SALT MINES OF EUROPE.


The salt-mines of Cheshire, and the brine-pits of Worcestershire,
according to the best authority, not only supply salt sufficient for the
consumption of nearly the whole of England, but also upward of half a
million of tons for exportation. Rock-salt is by no means confined to
England, it is found in many countries, especially where strata of more
recent date than those of the coal measures abound. Though in some
instances the mineral is pure and sparkling in its native state, it is
generally dull and dirty, owing to the matter with which it is
associated. The ordinary shade is a dull red, from being in contact with
marls of that color. But notwithstanding, it possesses many interesting
features. When the extensive subterranean halls have been lighted up
with innumerable candles, the appearance is most interesting, and the
visitor, enchanted with the scene, feels himself richly repaid for the
trouble he may have incurred in visiting the excavations.

The Cheshire mines are from 50 to 150 yards below the surface. The
number of salt-beds is five; the thinnest of them being only about six
inches, while the thickest is nearly forty feet. Besides these vast
masses, there is a large quantity of salt mixed up with the marl beds
that intervene. The method of working the rock-salt is like that adopted
for the excavation of coal; but it is much more safe and pleasant to
visit these than the other, owing to the roof of the excavations being
much more secure, and the absence of all noxious gases, with the
exception of carbonic acid gas. In the thinner coal-seams, the roof, or
rock lying above the coal, is supported by wooden pillars as the mineral
is withdrawn; while, in the thicker seams, pillars of coal are left at
intervals to support the superincumbent mass. The latter is the plan
adopted in the salt-mines. Large pillars of various dimensions are left
to support the roof at irregular intervals; but these bear a small
proportion to the mass of mineral excavated. The effect is most
picturesque; in the deep gloom of the excavation, the pillars present
tangible objects on which the eye can rest, while the intervening spaces
stretch away into night. The mineral is loosened from the rock by
blasting, and the effect of the explosions, heard from time to time
re-echoing through the wide spaces, and from the distant walls of rock,
gives a peculiar grandeur and impressiveness to the scene. The great
charm, indeed, on the occasion of a visit to these mines, even when they
are illuminated by thousands of lights, is chiefly owing to the gloomy
and cavernous appearance, the dim endless perspective, broken by the
numerous pillars, and the lights half disclosing and half concealing the
deep recesses which are formed and terminated by these monstrous and
solid projections. The pillars, owing to the great height of the roof,
are very massive. For twenty feet of rock they are about fifteen feet
thick. The descent to the mines is by a shaft--a perpendicular opening
of six, eight, or ten feet square; this opening is used for the general
purposes of ventilation, drainage, lifting the mineral, as well as the
miners. It varies in dimensions according to the extent of the
excavations. In some of the English mines the part of the bed of
rock-salt excavated amounts to several acres; but in some parts of
Europe the workings are even more extensive. The Wilton mine, one of the
largest in England, is worked 330 feet below the surface, and from it,
and one or two adjacent mines, upward of 60,000 tons of salt are
annually obtained, two-thirds of which are immediately exported, and the
rest is dissolved in water, and afterward reduced to a crystaline state
by evaporating the solution. It is not yet two hundred years since the
Cheshire mines were discovered. In the year 1670, before men were guided
by science in their investigations, an attempt was made to find coal in
the district. The sinking was unsuccessful relative to the one mineral,
but the disappointment and loss were amply met by the discovery of the
other. From that time till the present, the rock-salt has been dug, and,
as we have seen, most extensively used in England, while the surplus
supply has become an article of exportation. Previous to this discovery
the consumption was chiefly supplied from the brine-pits of
Worcestershire.

There is a remarkable deposit of salt in the valley of Cardona, in the
Pyrenees. Two thick masses of rock-salt, says Ansted, apparently united
at their bases, make their appearance on one of the <DW72>s of the hill
of Cardona. One of the beds, or rather masses, has been worked, and
measures about 130 yards by 250; but its depth has not been determined.
It consists of salt in a laminated condition, and with confused
crystalization. That part which is exposed is composed of eight beds,
nearly horizontal, having a total thickness of fifteen feet; but the
beds are separated from one another by red and variegated marls and
gypsum. The second mass, not worked, appears to be unstratified, but in
other respects resembles the former; and this portion, where it has been
exposed to the action of the weather, is steeply scarped, and bristles
with needle-like points, so that its appearance has been compared to
that of a glacier. There is also an extensive salt-mine at Wieliczka, in
Poland, and the manner of working it was accurately described some years
since. The manner of descending into the mine was by means of a large
cord wound round a wheel and worked by a horse. The visitor, seated on a
small piece of wood placed in the loop of the cord, and grasping the
cord with both hands, was let down two hundred feet, the depth of the
first galleries, through a shaft about eight feet square, sunk through
beds of sand, alternating with limestone, gypsum, variegated marls, and
calcareous schists. Below the stage, the descent was by wooden
staircases, nine or ten feet wide. In the first gallery was a chapel,
measuring thirty feet in length by twenty-four in breadth, and eighteen
in height; every part of it, the floor, the roof, the columns which
sustained the roof, the altar, the crucifix, and several statues, were
all cut out of the solid salt; the chapel was for the use of the miners.
It had always been said that the salt in this mine had the qualities
which produced magic appearances to an uncommon degree; but it is now
ascertained that its scenery is not more enchanting than that of the
mines in Cheshire. Gunpowder is now used in the Polish as in the English
mines; but the manner of obtaining the salt at the time of the visit we
are recording was peculiar, and too ingenious to be passed over, even
though it be now superseded by the more modern and more successful mode
of blasting. "In the first place, the overman, or head miner, marked the
length, breadth, and thickness of a block he wished to be detached, the
size of which was generally the same, namely, about eight feet long,
four feet wide, and two feet thick. A certain number of blocks being
marked, the workman began by boring a succession of holes on one side
from top to bottom of the block, the holes being three inches deep, and
six inches apart. A horizontal groove was then cut, half an inch deep,
both above and below, and, having put into each of the holes an iron
wedge, all the wedges were struck with moderate blows, to drive them
into the mass; the blows were continued until two cracks appeared, one
in the direction of the line of the holes, and the other along the upper
horizontal line. The block was now loosened and ready to fall, and the
workman introduced into the crack produced by the driving of the wedges
a wooden ruler, two or three inches broad, and, moving it backward and
forward on the crack, a tearing sound was soon heard, which announced
the completion of the work. If proper care had been taken, the block
fell unbroken, and was then divided into three or four parts, which were
shaped into cylinders for the greater convenience of transport. Each
workman was able to work out four such blocks every day, and the whole
number of persons employed in the mine, varied from twelve hundred to
about two thousand." The mine was worked in galleries; and, at the time
of this visit, these galleries extended to at least eight English miles.
Since then the excavations have become much more extensive.

The method of preparing rock-salt is very simple, and differs little
from that employed in manufacturing salt from springs. The first step
in the process is, to obtain a proper strength of brine, by saturating
fresh water with the salt brought from the mine. The brine obtained in a
clear state is put into evaporating pans, and brought as quickly as
possible to a boiling heat, when a skin is formed on the surface,
consisting chiefly of impurities. This skin is taken off, so also are
the first crystals that are formed, and either thrown aside as useless,
or used for agricultural purposes. The heat is kept at the boiling point
for eight hours, during which period evaporation is going on--the liquid
becoming gradually reduced, and the salt meanwhile is being deposited.
When this part of the process is finished, the salt is raked out, put
into moulds, and placed in a drying stove, where it is dried perfectly,
and made ready for the market.




MY NOVEL; OR, VARIETIES IN ENGLISH LIFE.

(_Continued from page 672._)


CHAPTER X.

In my next chapter I shall present Squire Hazeldean in patriarchal
state--not exactly under the fig tree he has planted, but before the
stocks he has reconstructed. Squire Hazeldean and his family on the
village green! The canvas is all ready for the colors.

But in this chapter I must so far afford a glimpse into antecedents as
to let the reader know that there is one member of the family whom he is
not likely to meet at present, if ever, on the village green at
Hazeldean.

Our squire lost his father two years after his birth; his mother was
very handsome--and so was her jointure; she married again at the
expiration of her year of mourning--the object of her second choice was
Colonel Egerton.

In every generation of Englishmen (at least since the lively reign of
Charles II.) there are a few whom some elegant Genius skims off from the
milk of human nature, and reserves for the cream of society. Colonel
Egerton was one of these _terque, quaterque beati_, and dwelt apart on a
top shelf in that delicate porcelain dish--not bestowed upon vulgar
buttermilk--which persons of fashion call The Great World. Mighty was
the marvel of Pall Mall, and profound was the pity of Park-lane, when
this supereminent personage condescended to lower himself into a
husband. But Colonel Egerton was not a mere gaudy butterfly; he had the
provident instincts ascribed to the bee. Youth had passed from him--and
carried off much solid property in its flight; he saw that a time was
fast coming when a home, with a partner who could help to maintain it,
would be conducive to his comforts, and an occasional humdrum evening by
the fire-side beneficial to his health. In the midst of one season at
Brighton, to which gay place he had accompanied the Prince of Wales, he
saw a widow who, though in the weeds of mourning, did not appear
inconsolable. Her person pleased his taste--the accounts of her
jointure satisfied his understanding; he contrived an introduction, and
brought a brief wooing to a happy close. The late Mr. Hazeldean had so
far anticipated the chance of the young widow's second espousals, that,
in case of that event, he transferred, by his testamentary dispositions,
the guardianship of his infant heir from the mother to two squires whom
he had named his executors. This circumstance combined with her new ties
somewhat to alienate Mrs. Hazeldean from the pledge of her former loves;
and when she had borne a son to Colonel Egerton, it was upon that child
that her maternal affections gradually concentrated.

William Hazeldean was sent by his guardians to a large provincial
academy, at which his forefathers had received their education time out
of mind. At first he spent his holidays with Mrs. Egerton; but as she
now resided either in London, or followed her lord to Brighton to
partake of the gayeties at the Pavilion--so, as he grew older, William,
who had a hearty affection for country life, and of whose bluff manners
and rural breeding Mrs. Egerton (having grown exceedingly refined) was
openly ashamed, asked and obtained permission to spend his vacations
either with his guardians or at the old Hall. He went late to a small
college at Cambridge, endowed in the fifteenth century by some ancestral
Hazeldean; and left it, on coming of age, without taking a degree. A few
years afterward he married a young lady, country born and bred like
himself.

Meanwhile his half-brother, Audley Egerton, may be said to have begun
his initiation into the _beau monde_ before he had well cast aside his
coral and bells; he had been fondled in the lap of duchesses, and
galloped across the room astride on the canes of embassadors and
princes. For Colonel Egerton was not only very highly connected--not
only one of the _Dii majores_ of fashion--but he had the still rarer
good fortune to be an exceedingly popular man with all who knew him; so
popular, that even the fine ladies whom he had adored and abandoned
forgave him for marrying out of "the set," and continued to be as
friendly as if he had not married at all. People who were commonly
called heartless, were never weary of doing kind things to the Egertons.
When the time came for Audley to leave the preparatory school, at which
his infancy budded forth among the stateliest of the little lilies of
the field, and go to Eton, half the fifth and sixth forms had been
canvassed to be exceedingly civil to young Egerton. The boy soon showed
that he inherited his father's talent for acquiring popularity, and that
to this talent he added those which put popularity to use. Without
achieving any scholastic distinction, he yet contrived to establish at
Eton the most desirable reputation which a boy can obtain--namely, that
among his own contemporaries--the reputation of a boy who was sure to do
something when he grew to be a man. As a gentleman commoner at Christ
Church, Oxford, he continued to sustain this high expectation, though he
won no prizes and took but an ordinary degree; and at Oxford the future
"something" became more defined--it was "something in public life" that
this young man was to do.

While he was yet at the university, both his parents died--within a few
months of each other. And when Audley Egerton came of age, he succeeded
to a paternal property which was supposed to be large, and, indeed, had
once been so; but Colonel Egerton had been too lavish a man to enrich
his heir, and about L1500 a year was all that sales and mortgages left
of an estate that had formerly approached a rental of ten thousand
pounds.

Still, Audley was considered to be opulent, and he did not dispel that
favorable notion by any imprudent exhibition of parsimony. On entering
the world of London, the Clubs flew open to receive him; and he woke one
morning to find himself, not indeed famous--but the fashion. To this
fashion he at once gave a certain gravity and value--he associated as
much as possible with public men and political ladies--he succeeded in
confirming the notion that he was "born to ruin or to rule the State."

Now, his dearest and most intimate friend was Lord L'Estrange, from whom
he had been inseparable at Eton: and who now, if Audley Egerton was the
fashion, was absolutely the rage in London.

Harley Lord L'Estrange was the only son of the Earl of Lansmere, a
nobleman of considerable wealth, and allied by intermarriages to the
loftiest and most powerful families in England. Lord Lansmere,
nevertheless, was but little known in the circles of London. He lived
chiefly on his estates, occupying himself with the various duties of a
great proprietor, and rarely came to the metropolis; so that he could
afford to give his son a very ample allowance, when Harley, at the age
of sixteen (having already attained to the sixth form at Eton), left
school for one of the regiments of the Guards.

Few knew what to make of Harley L'Estrange--and that was, perhaps, the
reason why he was so much thought of. He had been by far the most
brilliant boy of his time at Eton--not only the boast of the
cricket-ground, but the marvel of the school-room--yet so full of whims
and oddities, and seeming to achieve his triumphs with so little aid
from steadfast application, that he had not left behind him the same
expectations of solid eminence which his friend and senior, Audley
Egerton, had excited. His eccentricities--his quaint sayings and
out-of-the-way actions, became as notable in the great world as they had
been in the small one of public school. That he was very clever there
was no doubt, and that the cleverness was of a high order might be
surmised not only from the originality but the independence of his
character. He dazzled the world, without seeming to care for its praise
or its censure--dazzled it, as it were, because he could not help
shining. He had some strange notions, whether political or social, which
rather frightened his father. According to Southey, "A man should be no
more ashamed of having been a republican than of having been young."
Youth and extravagant opinions naturally go together. I don't know
whether Harley L'Estrange was a republican at the age of eighteen; but
there was no young man in London who seemed to care less for being heir
to an illustrious name and some forty or fifty thousand pounds a year.
It was a vulgar fashion in that day to play the exclusive, and cut
persons who wore bad neckcloths and called themselves Smith or Johnson.
Lord L'Estrange never cut any one, and it was quite enough to slight
some worthy man because of his neckcloth or his birth, to insure to the
offender the pointed civilities of this eccentric successor to the
Dorimonts and the Wildairs.

It was the wish of his father that Harley, as soon as he came of age,
should represent the borough of Lansmere (which said borough was the
single plague of the Earl's life). But this wish was never realized.
Suddenly, when the young idol of London still wanted some two or three
years of his majority, a new whim appeared to seize him. He withdrew
entirely from society--he left unanswered the most pressing
three-cornered notes of inquiry and invitation that ever strewed the
table of a young Guardsman; he was rarely seen anywhere in his former
haunts--when seen, was either alone or with Egerton; and his gay spirits
seemed wholly to have left him. A profound melancholy was written in his
countenance, and breathed in the listless tones of his voice. At this
time the Guards were achieving in the Peninsula their imperishable
renown; but the battalion to which Harley belonged was detained at home;
and whether chafed by inaction or emulous of glory, the young Lord
suddenly exchanged into a cavalry regiment, from which a recent
memorable conflict had swept one half the officers. Just before he
joined, a vacancy happening to occur for the representation of Lansmere,
he made it his special request to his father that the family interest
might be given to his friend Egerton--went down to the Park, which
adjoined the borough, to take leave of his parents--and Egerton
followed, to be introduced to the electors. This visit made a notable
epoch in the history of many personages who figure in my narrative, but
at present I content myself with saying, that circumstances arose which,
just as the canvass for the new election commenced, caused both
L'Estrange and Audley to absent themselves from the scene of action, and
that the last even wrote to Lord Lansmere expressing his intention of
declining to contest the borough.

Fortunately for the parliamentary career of Audley Egerton, the election
had become to Lord Lansmere not only a matter of public importance, but
of personal feeling. He resolved that the battle should be fought out,
even in the absence of the candidate, and at his own expense. Hitherto
the contest for this distinguished borough had been, to use the language
of Lord Lansmere, "conducted in the spirit of gentlemen"--that is to
say, the only opponents to the Lansmere interest had been found in one
or the other of two rival families in the same county; and as the Earl
was a hospitable, courteous man, much respected and liked by the
neighboring gentry, so the hostile candidate had always interlarded his
speeches with profuse compliments to his Lordship's high character, and
civil expressions as to his Lordship's candidate. But, thanks to
successive elections, one of these two families had come to an end, and
its actual representative was now residing within the Rules of the
Bench; the head of the other family was the sitting member, and, by an
amicable agreement with the Lansmere interest, he remained as neutral as
it is in the power of any sitting member to be amidst the passions of an
intractable committee. Accordingly, it had been hoped that Egerton would
come in without opposition, when, the very day on which he had abruptly
left the place, a handbill, signed "Haverill Dashmore, Captain R.N.,
Baker-street, Portman-square," announced, in very spirited language, the
intention of that gentleman to emancipate the borough from the
unconstitutional domination of an oligarchical faction, not with a view
to his own political aggrandizement--indeed, at great personal
inconvenience--but actuated solely by abhorrence to tyranny, and
patriotic passion for the purity of election.

This announcement was followed, within two hours, by the arrival of
Captain Dashmore himself, in a carriage-and-four covered with yellow
favors, and filled, inside and out, with harum-scarum looking friends
who had come down with him to aid the canvass and share the fun.

Captain Dashmore was a thorough sailor, who had, however, taken a
disgust to the profession from the date in which a Minister's nephew had
been appointed to the command of a ship to which the Captain considered
himself unquestionably entitled. It is just to the Minister to add, that
Captain Dashmore had shown as little regard for orders from a distance,
as had immortalized Nelson himself; but then the disobedience had not
achieved the same redeeming success as that of Nelson, and Captain
Dashmore ought to have thought himself fortunate in escaping a severer
treatment than the loss of promotion. But no man knows when he is well
off; and retiring on half-pay, just as he came into unexpected
possession of some forty or fifty thousand pounds bequeathed by a
distant relation, Captain Dashmore was seized with a vindictive desire
to enter parliament, and inflict oratorical chastisement on the
Administration.

A very few hours sufficed to show the sea-captain to be a most capital
electioneerer for a small and not very enlightened borough. It is true
that he talked the saddest nonsense ever heard from an open window; but
then his jokes were so broad, his manner so hearty, his voice so big,
that in those dark days, before the schoolmaster was abroad, he would
have beaten your philosophical Radical and moralizing Democrat hollow.
Moreover he kissed all the women, old and young, with the zest of a
sailor who has known what it is to be three years at sea without sight
of a beardless lip; he threw open all the public-houses, asked a
numerous committee every day to dinner, and, chucking his purse up in
the air, declared "he would stick to his guns while there was a shot in
the locker." Till then, there had been but little political difference
between the candidate supported by Lord Lansmere's interest and the
opposing parties--for country gentlemen, in those days, were pretty much
of the same way of thinking, and the question had been really
local--viz., whether the Lansmere interest should or should not prevail
over that of the two squirearchical families who had alone, hitherto,
ventured to oppose it. But though Captain Dashmore was really a very
loyal man, and much too old a sailor to think that the State (which,
according to established metaphor, is a vessel, _par excellence_),
should admit Jack upon quarter-deck, yet, what with talking against
lords and aristocracy, jobs and abuses, and searching through no very
refined vocabulary for the strongest epithets to apply to those
irritating nouns-substantive, his bile had got the better of his
understanding, and he became fuddled, as it were, by his own eloquence.
Thus, though as innocent of Jacobinical designs as he was incapable of
setting the Thames on fire, you would have guessed him, by his speeches,
to be one of the most determined incendiaries that ever applied a match
to the combustible materials of a contested election; while, being by no
means accustomed to respect his adversaries, he could not have treated
the Earl of Lansmere with less ceremony if his Lordship had been a
Frenchman. He usually designated that respectable nobleman by the title
of "Old Pompous;" and the Mayor, who was never seen abroad but in
top-boots, and the Solicitor, who was of a large build, received from
his irreverent wit the joint sobriquet of "Tops and Bottoms!" Hence the
election had now become, as I said before, a personal matter with my
Lord, and, indeed, with the great heads of the Lansmere interest. The
Earl seemed to consider his very coronet at stake in the question. "The
man from Baker-street," with his preternatural audacity, appeared to him
a being ominous and awful--not so much to be regarded with resentment,
as with superstitious terror: he felt as felt the dignified Montezuma,
when that ruffianly Cortez, with his handful of Spanish rapscallions,
bearded him in his own capital, and in the midst of his Mexican
splendor--"The gods were menaced if man could be so insolent!" wherefore
said my Lord, tremulously, "The Constitution is gone if the Man from
Baker-street comes in for Lansmere!"

But, in the absence of Audley Egerton, the election looked extremely
ugly, and Captain Dashmore gained ground hourly, when the Lansmere
Solicitor happily bethought him of a notable proxy for the missing
candidate. The Squire of Hazeldean, with his young wife, had been
invited by the Earl in honor of Audley; and in the Squire the Solicitor
beheld the only mortal who could cope with the sea-captain--a man with a
voice as burly, and a face as bold--a man who, if permitted for the
nonce by Mrs. Hazeldean, would kiss all the women no less heartily than
the Captain kissed them; and who was, moreover, a taller, and a
handsomer, and a younger man--all three, great recommendations in the
kissing department of a contested election. Yes, to canvass the borough,
and to speak from the window, Squire Hazeldean would be even more
popularly presentable than the London-bred and accomplished Audley
Egerton himself.

The Squire, applied to and urged on all sides, at first said bluntly,
"that he would do any thing in reason to serve his brother, but that he
did not like, for his own part, appearing, even in proxy, as a Lord's
nominee; and, moreover, if he was to be sponsor for his brother, why, he
must promise and vow, in his name, to be stanch and true to the land
they lived by; and how could he tell that Audley, when once he got into
the House, would not forget the land, and then he, William Hazeldean,
would be made a liar, and look like a turncoat!"

But these scruples being overruled by the arguments of the gentlemen and
the entreaties of the ladies, who took in the election that intense
interest which those gentle creatures usually do take in all matters of
strife and contest, the Squire at length consented to confront the Man
from Baker-street, and went, accordingly, into the thing with that good
heart and old English spirit with which he went into every thing whereon
he had once made up his mind.

The expectations formed of the Squire's capacities for popular
electioneering were fully realized. He talked quite as much nonsense as
Captain Dashmore on every subject except the landed interest; there he
was great, for he knew the subject well--knew it by the instinct that
comes with practice, and compared to which all your showy theories are
mere cobwebs and moonshine.

The agricultural outvoters--many of whom, not living under Lord
Lansmere, but being small yeomen, had hitherto prided themselves on
their independence, and gone against my Lord--could not in their hearts
go against one who was every inch the farmer's friend. They began to
share in the Earl's personal interest against the Man from Baker-street;
and big fellows, with legs bigger round than Captain Dashmore's tight
little body, and huge whips in their hands, were soon seen entering the
shops, "intimidating the electors," as Captain Dashmore indignantly
declared.

These new recruits made a great difference in the muster-roll of the
Lansmere books; and, when the day for polling arrived, the result was a
fair question for even betting. At the last hour, after a neck-and-neck
contest, Mr. Audley Egerton beat the Captain by two votes. And the names
of these voters were John Avenal, resident freeman, and his son-in-law,
Mark Fairfield, an outvoter, who, though a Lansmere freeman, had settled
in Hazeldean, where he had obtained the situation of head carpenter on
the Squire's estate.

These votes were unexpected; for, though Mark Fairfield had come to
Lansmere on purpose to support the Squire's brother, and though the
Avenals had been always stanch supporters of the Lansmere Blue interest,
yet a severe affliction (as to the nature of which, not desiring to
sadden the opening of my story, I am considerately silent) had befallen
both these persons, and they had left the town on the very day after
Lord L'Estrange and Mr. Egerton had quitted Lansmere Park.

Whatever might have been the gratification of the Squire, as a canvasser
and a brother, at Mr. Egerton's triumph, it was much damped when, on
leaving the dinner given in honor of the victory, at the Lansmere Arms,
and about, with no steady step, to enter the carriage which was to
convey him to his Lordship's house, a letter was put into his hands by
one of the gentleman who had accompanied the Captain to the scene of
action; and the perusal of that letter, and a few whispered words from
the bearer thereof, sent the Squire back to Mrs. Hazeldean a much
soberer man than she had ventured to hope for. The fact was, that on the
day of nomination, the Captain having honored Mr. Hazeldean with many
poetical and figurative appellations--such as "Prize Ox," "Tony
Lumpkin," "Blood-sucking Vampyre," and "Brotherly Warming-Pan," the
Squire had retorted by a joke upon "Salt Water Jack;" and the Captain,
who, like all satirists, was extremely susceptible and thin-skinned,
could not consent to be called "Salt Water Jack" by a "Prize Ox" and a
"Blood-sucking Vampyre." The letter, therefore, now conveyed to Mr.
Hazeldean by a gentleman, who, being from the Sister Country, was deemed
the most fitting accomplice in the honorable destruction of a brother
mortal, contained nothing more nor less than an invitation to single
combat; and the bearer thereof, with the suave politeness enjoined by
etiquette on such well-bred homicidal occasions, suggested the
expediency of appointing the place of meeting in the neighborhood of
London, in order to prevent interference from the suspicious authorities
of Lansmere.

The natives of some countries--the warlike French in particular--think
little of that formal operation which goes by the name of DUELLING.
Indeed, they seem rather to like it than otherwise. But there is nothing
your thorough-paced Englishman--a Hazeldean of Hazeldean--considers
with more repugnance and aversion, than that same cold-blooded
ceremonial. It is not within the range of an Englishman's ordinary
habits of thinking. He prefers going to law--a much more destructive
proceeding of the two. Nevertheless, if an Englishman must fight, why,
he will fight. He says "it is very foolish;" he is sure "it is most
unchristian-like;" he agrees with all that Philosopher, Preacher, and
Press have laid down on the subject; but he makes his will, says his
prayers, and goes out, like a heathen!

It never, therefore, occurred to the Squire to show the white feather
upon this unpleasant occasion. The next day, feigning excuse to attend
the sale of a hunting stud at Tattersall's, he ruefully went up to
London, after taking a peculiarly affectionate leave of his wife.
Indeed, the Squire felt convinced that he should never return home
except in a coffin. "It stands to reason," said he, to himself, "that a
man, who has been actually paid by the King's Government for shooting
people ever since he was a little boy in a midshipman's jacket, must be
a dead hand at the job. I should not mind if it was with double-barreled
Mantons and small shot; but ball and pistol! they aren't human nor
sportsmanlike!" However, the Squire, after settling his worldly affairs,
and hunting up an old College friend, who undertook to be his second,
proceeded to a sequestered corner of Wimbledon Common, and planted
himself, not sideways, as one ought to do in such encounters (the which
posture the Squire swore was an unmanly way of shirking), but full front
to the mouth of his adversary's pistol, with such sturdy composure, that
Captain Dashmore, who, though an excellent shot, was at bottom as
good-natured a fellow as ever lived, testified his admiration by letting
off his gallant opponent with a ball in the fleshy part of his shoulder;
after which he declared himself perfectly satisfied. The parties then
shook hands, mutual apologies were exchanged, and the Squire, much to
his astonishment to find himself still alive, was conveyed to Limmer's
Hotel, where, after a considerable amount of anguish, the ball was
extracted, and the wound healed. Now it was all over, the Squire felt
very much raised in his own conceit; and, when he was in a humor more
than ordinarily fierce, that perilous event became a favorite allusion
with him.

He considered, moreover, that his brother had incurred at his hand the
most lasting obligations; and that, having procured Audley's return to
Parliament, and defended his interests at the risk of his own life, he
had an absolute right to dictate to that gentleman how to vote--upon all
matters at least connected with the landed interest. And when, not very
long after Audley took his seat in Parliament (which he did not do for
some months), he thought proper both to vote and to speak in a manner
wholly belying the promises the Squire had made on his behalf, Mr.
Hazeldean wrote him such a trimmer, that it could not but produce an
unconciliatory reply. Shortly afterward, the Squire's exasperation
reached the culminating point, for, having to pass through Lansmere on a
market-day, he was hooted by the very farmers whom he had induced to
vote for his brother; and, justly imputing the disgrace to Audley, he
never heard the name of that traitor to the land mentioned, without a
heightened color and an indignant expletive. Monsieur de Ruqueville--who
was the greatest wit of his day--had, like the Squire, a half-brother,
with whom he was not on the best of terms, and of whom he always spoke
as his "_frere de loin_." Audley Egerton was thus Squire Hazeldean's
"_distant brother_!"--Enough of these explanatory antecedents--let us
return to the Stocks.


CHAPTER XI.

The Squire's carpenters were taken from the park pales, and set to work
at the parish stocks. Then came the painter and  them, a
beautiful dark blue, with a white border--and a white rim round the
holes--with an ornamental flourish in the middle. It was the gayest
public edifice in the whole village--though the village possessed no
less than three other monuments of the Vitruvian genius, of the
Hazeldeans: to wit, the alms-house, the school, and the parish pump.

A more elegant, enticing, coquettish pair of stocks never gladdened the
eye of a justice of the peace.

And Squire Hazeldean's eye was gladdened. In the pride of his heart he
brought all the family down to look at the stocks. The Squire's family
(omitting the _frere de loin_) consisted of Mrs. Hazeldean, his wife;
next, of Miss Jemima Hazeldean, his first cousin; thirdly, of Master
Francis Hazeldean, his only son; and fourthly, of Captain Barnabas
Higginbotham, a distant relation--who, indeed, strictly speaking, was
not of the family, but only a visitor ten months in the year. Mrs.
Hazeldean was every inch the lady--the lady of the parish. In her
comely, florid, and somewhat sunburnt countenance, there was an equal
expression of majesty and benevolence; she had a blue eye that invited
liking, and an aquiline nose that commanded respect. Mrs. Hazeldean had
no affectation of fine airs--no wish to be greater and handsomer and
cleverer than she was. She knew herself, and her station, and thanked
heaven for it. There was about her speech and manner something of that
shortness and bluntness which often characterizes royalty; and if the
lady of a parish is not a queen in her own circle, it is never the fault
of the parish. Mrs. Hazeldean dressed her part to perfection. She wore
silks that seemed heirlooms--so thick were they, so substantial and
imposing. And over these, when she was in her own domain, the whitest of
aprons; while at her waist was seen no fiddle-daddle _chatelaine_, with
_breloques_ and trumpery, but a good honest gold watch to mark the
time, and a long pair of scissors to cut off the dead leaves from her
flowers, for she was a great horticulturist. When occasion needed, Mrs.
Hazeldean could, however, lay by her more sumptuous and imperial raiment
for a stout riding-habit of blue Saxony, and canter by her husband's
side to see the hounds throw off. Nay, on the days on which Mr.
Hazeldean drove his famous fast-trotting cob to the market town, it was
rarely that you did not see his wife on the left side of the gig. She
cared as little as her lord did for wind and weather, and, in the midst
of some pelting shower, her pleasant face peeped over the collar and
capes of a stout dreadnought, expanding into smiles and bloom as some
frank rose, that opens from its petals, and rejoices in the dews. It was
easy to see that the worthy couple had married for love; they were as
little apart as they could help it. And still, on the first of
September, if the house was not full of company which demanded her
cares, Mrs. Hazeldean "stepped out" over the stubbles by her husband's
side, with as light a tread and as blithe an eye as when in the first
bridal year she had enchanted the Squire by her genial sympathy with his
sports.

So there now stands Harriet Hazeldean, one hand leaning on the Squire's
broad shoulder, the other thrust into her apron, and trying her best to
share her husband's enthusiasm for his own public-spirited patriotism,
in the renovation of the parish stocks. A little behind, with two
fingers leaning on the thin arm of Captain Barnabas, stood Miss Jemima,
the orphan daughter of the Squire's uncle, by a runaway imprudent
marriage with a young lady who belonged to a family which had been at
war with the Hazeldeans since the reign of Charles I., respecting a
right of way to a small wood (or rather spring) of about an acre,
through a piece of furze land, which was let to a brick-maker at twelve
shillings a year. The wood belonged to the Hazeldeans, the furze land to
the Sticktorights (an old Saxon family, if ever there was one). Every
twelfth year, when the fagots and timber were felled, this feud broke
out afresh; for the Sticktorights refused to the Hazeldeans the right to
cart off the said fagots and timber, through the only way by which a
cart could possibly pass. It is just to the Hazeldeans to say that they
had offered to buy the land at ten times its value. But the
Sticktorights, with equal magnanimity, had declared that they would not
"alienate the family property for the convenience of the best squire
that ever stood upon shoe leather." Therefore, every twelfth year, there
was always a great breach of the peace on the part of both Hazeldeans
and Sticktorights, magistrates, and deputy-lieutenants though they were.
The question was fairly fought out by their respective dependents, and
followed by various actions for assault and trespass. As the legal
question of right was extremely obscure, it never had been properly
decided: and, indeed, neither party wished it to be decided, each at
heart having some doubt of the propriety of its own claim. A marriage
between the younger son of the Hazeldeans, and a younger daughter of the
Sticktorights, was viewed with equal indignation by both families; and
the consequence had been that the runaway couple, unblessed and
unforgiven, had scrambled through life as they could, upon the scanty
pay of the husband, who was in a marching regiment, and the interest of
L1000, which was the wife's fortune, independent of her parents. They
died, and left an only daughter, upon whom the maternal L1000 had been
settled, about the time that the Squire came of age and into possession
of his estates. And though he inherited all the ancestral hostility
toward the Sticktorights, it was not in his nature to be unkind to a
poor orphan who was, after all, the child of a Hazeldean. Therefore, he
had educated and fostered Jemima with as much tenderness as if she had
been his sister; put out her L1000 at nurse, and devoted, from the ready
money which had accrued from the rents during his minority, as much as
made her fortune (with her own accumulated at compound interest) no less
than L4000, the ordinary marriage portion of the daughters of Hazeldean.
On her coming of age, he transferred this sum to her absolute disposal,
in order that she might feel herself independent, see a little more of
the world than she could at Hazeldean, have candidates to choose from if
she deigned to marry; or enough to live upon if she chose to remain
single. Miss Jemima had somewhat availed herself of this liberty, by
occasional visits to Cheltenham and other watering-places. But her
grateful affection to the Squire was such, that she could never bear to
be long away from the Hall. And this was the more praise to her heart,
inasmuch as she was far from taking kindly to the prospect of being an
old maid. And there were so few bachelors in the neighborhood of
Hazeldean, that she could not but have that prospect before her eyes
whenever she looked out of the Hall windows. Miss Jemima was indeed one
of the most kindly and affectionate of beings feminine--and if she
disliked the thought of single blessedness, it really was from those
innocent and womanly instincts toward the tender charities of hearth and
home, without which a lady, however otherwise estimable, is little
better than a Minerva in bronze. But whether or not, despite her fortune
and her face, which last, though not strictly handsome, was
pleasing--and would have been positively pretty if she had laughed more
often (for when she laughed there appeared three charming dimples,
invisible when she was grave)--whether or not, I say, it was the fault
of our insensibility or her own fastidiousness, Miss Jemima approached
her thirtieth year, and was still Miss Jemima. Now, therefore, that
beautifying laugh of hers was very rarely heard, and she had of late
become confirmed in two opinions, not at all conducive to laughter. One
was a conviction of the general and progressive wickedness of the male
sex, and the other was a decided and lugubrious belief that the world
was coming to an end. Miss Jemima was now accompanied by a small canine
favorite, true Blenheim, with a snub nose. It was advanced in life, and
somewhat obese. It sate on its haunches with its tongue out of its
mouth, except when it snapped at the flies. There was a strong Platonic
friendship between Miss Jemima and Captain Barnabas Higginbotham; for he
too was unmarried, and he had the same ill opinion of your sex, my dear
madam, that Miss Jemima had of ours. The captain was a man of a slim and
elegant figure--the less said about the face the better--a truth of
which the Captain himself was sensible, for it was a favorite maxim of
his, "that in a man, every thing is a slight, gentlemanlike figure."
Captain Barnabas did not absolutely deny that the world was coming to an
end, only he thought it would last his time.

Quite apart from the rest, with the nonchalant survey of virgin
dandyism, Francis Hazeldean looked over one of the high starched
neck-cloths which were then the fashion--a handsome lad, fresh from Eton
for the summer holidays, but at that ambiguous age, when one disdains
the sports of the boy, and has not yet arrived at the resources of the
man.

"I should be glad, Frank," said the Squire, suddenly turning round to
his son, "to see you take a little more interest in duties which, one
day or other you may be called upon to discharge. I can't bear to think
that the property should fall into the hands of a fine gentleman, who
will let things go to rack and ruin, instead of keeping them up as I
do."

And the Squire pointed to the stocks.

Master Frank's eye followed the direction of the cane, as well as his
cravat would permit; and he said, dryly,

"Yes, sir; but how came the stocks to be so long out of repair?"

"Because one can't see to every thing at once," retorted the Squire,
tartly. "When a man has got eight thousand acres to look after, he must
do a bit at a time."

"Yes," said Captain Barnabas. "I know that by experience."

"The deuce you do!" cried the Squire, bluntly. "Experience in eight
thousand acres!"

"No; in my apartments in the Albany. Number 3A. I have had them ten
years, and it was only last Christmas that I bought my Japan cat."

"Dear me!" said Miss Jemima; "a Japan cat! that must be very curious!
What sort of a creature is it?"

"Don't you know? Bless me, a thing with three legs, and holds toast! I
never thought of it, I assure you, till my friend Cosey said to me, one
morning, when he was breakfasting at my rooms, 'Higginbotham, how is it,
that you, who like to have things comfortable about you, don't have a
cat?' 'Upon my life,' said I, 'one can't think of every thing at a
time;' just like you, Squire."

"Pshaw," said Mr. Hazeldean, gruffly; "not at all like me. And I'll
thank you another time, Cousin Higginbotham, not to put me out when I am
speaking on matters of importance; poking your cat into my stocks! They
look something like now, don't they, Harry? I declare that the whole
village seems more respectable. It is astonishing how much a little
improvement adds to the--to the--"

"Charm of a landscape," put in Miss Jemima, sentimentally.

The Squire neither accepted nor rejected the suggested termination; but
leaving his sentence uncompleted, broke suddenly off with,

"And if I had listened to Parson Dale--"

"You would have done a very wise thing," said a voice behind, as the
Parson presented himself in the rear.

"Wise thing! Why surely, Mr. Dale," said Mrs. Hazeldean, with spirit,
for she always resented the least contradiction to her lord and master;
perhaps as an interference with her own special right and prerogative:
"why, surely if it is necessary to have stocks, it is necessary to
repair them."

"That's right, go it, Harry!" cried the Squire, chuckling, and rubbing
his hands, as if he had been setting his terrier at the Parson.
"St--St--at him! Well, Master Dale, what do you say to that?"

"My dear ma'am," said the Parson, replying in preference to the lady;
"there are many institutions in the country which are very old, look
very decayed, and don't seem of much use; but I would not pull them down
for all that."

"You would reform them, then," said Mrs. Hazeldean, doubtfully, and with
a look at her husband, as much as to say, "He is on politics now; that's
your business."

"No, I would not, ma'am," said the Parson, stoutly.

"What on earth would you do, then?" quoth the Squire.

"Just let 'em alone," said the Parson. "Master Frank, there's a Latin
maxim which was often in the mouth of Sir Robert Walpole, and which they
ought to put in the Eton grammar--'_Quieta non movere_.' If things are
quiet, let them be quiet! I would not destroy the stocks, because that
might seem to the ill-disposed like a license to offend, and I would not
repair the stocks, because that puts it into people's heads to get into
them."

The Squire was a stanch politician of the old school, and he did not
like to think that in repairing the stocks, he had perhaps been
conniving at revolutionary principles.

"This constant desire of innovation," said Miss Jemima, suddenly
mounting the more funereal of her two favorite hobbies, "is one of the
great symptoms of the approaching crash. We are altering, and mending,
and reforming, when in twenty years at the utmost the world itself may
be destroyed!" The fair speaker paused, and--

Captain Barnabas said, thoughtfully, "Twenty years!--the insurance
offices rarely compute the best life at more than fourteen." He struck
his hand on the stocks as he spoke, and added, with his usual
consolatory conclusion--"The odds are, that it will last our time,
Squire."

But whether Captain Barnabas meant the stocks or the world, he did not
clearly explain, and no one took the trouble to inquire.

"Sir," said Master Frank to his father, with that furtive spirit of
quizzing, which he had acquired among other polite accomplishments at
Eton; "sir, it is no use now considering whether the stocks should or
should not have been repaired. The only question is, whom you will get
to put into them."

"True," said the Squire, with much gravity.

"Yes, there it is!" said the Parson, mournfully. "If you would but learn
'_quieta non movere_!'"

"Don't spout your Latin at me, Parson!" cried the Squire, angrily; "I
can give you as good as you bring, any day--

    'Propria quae maribus tribuuntur mascula dicas--
    As in presenti, perfectum format in avi.'

There," added the Squire, turning triumphantly toward his Harry, who
looked with great admiration at this unprecedented burst of learning on
the part of Mr. Hazeldean; "there, two can play at that game! And now
that we have all seen the stocks, we may as well go home, and drink tea.
Will you come up and play a rubber, Dale? No! hang it, man, I've not
offended you--you know my ways."

"That I do, and they are among the things I would not have altered,"
cried the Parson, holding out his hand cheerfully. The Squire gave it a
hearty shake, and Mrs. Hazeldean hastened to do the same. "Do come; I am
afraid we've been very rude; we are sad blunt folks. Do come; that's a
dear good man; and of course poor Mrs. Dale too." Mrs. Hazeldean's
favorite epithet for Mrs. Dale was _poor_, and that for reasons to be
explained hereafter.

"I fear my wife has got one of her bad headaches, but I will give her
your kind message, and at all events you may depend upon me."

"That's right," cried the Squire, "in half-an-hour, eh? How d'ye do, my
little man?" as Lenny Fairfield, on his way home from some errand in the
village, drew aside and pulled off his hat with both hands. "Stop--you
see those stocks--eh? Tell all the bad little boys in the parish to take
care how they get into them--a sad disgrace--you'll never be in such a
quandary!"

"That at least I will answer for," said the Parson.

"And I too," added Mrs. Hazeldean, patting the boy's curly head. "Tell
your mother I shall come and have a good chat with her to-morrow
evening."

And so the party passed on, and Lenny stood still on the road, staring
hard at the stocks, which stared back at him from its four great eyes.

But Lenny did not remain long alone. As soon as the great folks had
fairly disappeared, a large number of small folks emerged timorously
from the neighboring cottages, and approached the site of the stocks
with much marvel, fear, and curiosity.

In fact, the renovated appearance of this monster--_a propos des
bottes_, as one may say--had already excited considerable sensation
among the population of Hazeldean. And even as when an unexpected owl
makes his appearance in broad daylight, all the little birds rise from
tree and hedge-row, and cluster round their ominous enemy, so now
gathered all the much excited villagers round the intrusive and
portentous Phenomenon.

"D'ye know what the diggins the Squire did it for, Gaffer Solomons?"
asked one many-childed matron, with a baby in arms, an urchin of three
years old clinging fast to her petticoat, and her hand maternally
holding back a more adventurous hero of six, who had a great desire to
thrust his head into one of the grisly apertures. All eyes turned to a
sage old man, the oracle of the village, who, leaning both hands on his
crutch, shook his head bodingly.

"Maw be," said Gaffer Solomons, "some of the boys ha' been robbing the
orchards."

"Orchards," cried a big lad, who seemed to think himself personally
appealed to, "why the bud's scarce off the trees yet!"

"No more it isn't!" said the dame with many children, and she breathed
more freely.

"Maw be," said Gaffer Solomons, "some o' ye has been setting snares."

"What for?" said a stout sullen-looking young fellow, whom conscience
possibly pricked to reply. "What for, when it beant the season? And if a
poor man did find a hear in his pocket i' the hay time, I should like to
know if ever a squire in the world would let un off wi' the stocks--eh?"

That last question seemed a settler, and the wisdom of Gaffer Solomons
went down fifty per cent. in the public opinion of Hazeldean.

"Maw be," said the Gaffer, this time with a thrilling effect, which
restored his reputation, "Maw be some o' ye ha' been getting drunk, and
making beestises o' yoursels!"

There was a dead pause, for this suggestion applied too generally to be
met with a solitary response. At last one of the women said, with a
meaning glance at her husband, "God bless the Squire; he'll make some on
us happy women, if that's all!"

There then arose an almost unanimous murmur of approbation among the
female part of the audience; and the men looked at each other, and then
at the Phenomenon, with a very hang-dog expression of countenance.

"Or, maw be," resumed Gaffer Solomons, encouraged to a fourth
suggestion by the success of its predecessor, "Maw be some o' the
Misseses ha' been making a rumpus, and scolding their goodmen. I heard
say in my granfeythir's time, that arter old Mother Bang nigh died o'
the ducking-stool, them 'ere stocks were first made for the women, out
o' compassion like! And every one knows the Squire is a koind-hearted
man, God bless un!"

"God bless un!" cried the men heartily; and they gathered lovingly round
the Phenomenon, like heathens of old round a tutelary temple. But then
rose one shrill clamor among the females, as they retreated with
involuntary steps toward the verge of the green, whence they glared at
Solomons and the Phenomenon with eyes so sparkling, and pointed at both
with gestures so menacing, that Heaven only knows if a morsel of either
would have remained much longer to offend the eyes of the justly enraged
matronage of Hazeldean, if fortunately Master Stirn, the Squire's
right-hand man, had not come up in the nick of time.

Master Stirn was a formidable personage--more formidable than the Squire
himself--as, indeed, a squire's right-hand is generally more formidable
than the head can pretend to be. He inspired the greater awe, because,
like the stocks, of which he was deputed guardian, his powers were
undefined and obscure, and he had no particular place in the out-of-door
establishment. He was not the steward, yet he did much of what ought to
be the steward's work; he was not the farm-bailiff, for the Squire
called himself his own farm-bailiff; nevertheless, Mr. Hazeldean sowed
and plowed, cropped and stocked, bought and sold, very much as Mr. Stirn
condescended to advise. He was not the park-keeper, for he neither shot
the deer nor superintended the preserves; but it was he who always found
out who had broken a park-pale or snared a rabbit. In short, what may be
called all the harsher duties of a large landed proprietor devolved by
custom and choice upon Mr. Stirn. If a laborer was to be discharged, or
a rent enforced, and the Squire knew that he should be talked over, and
that the steward would be as soft as himself, Mr. Stirn was sure to be
the avenging [Greek: angelos] or messenger, to pronounce the words of
fate; so that he appeared to the inhabitants of Hazeldean like the
Poet's _Saeva Necessitas_, a vague incarnation of remorseless power,
armed with whips, nails, and wedges. The very brute creation stood in
awe of Mr. Stirn. The calves knew that it was he who singled out which
should be sold to the butcher, and huddled up into a corner with beating
hearts at his grim footstep; the sow grunted, the duck quacked, the hen
bristled her feathers and called to her chicks when Mr. Stirn drew near.
Nature had set her stamp upon him. Indeed it may be questioned whether
the great M. de Chambray himself, surnamed the Brave, had an aspect so
awe-inspiring as that of Mr. Stirn; albeit the face of that hero was so
terrible, that a man who had been his lackey, seeing his portrait after
he had been dead twenty years, fell a-trembling all over like a leaf!

"And what the plague are you all doing here?" said Mr. Stirn, as he
waved and smacked a great cart-whip which he held in his hand, "making
such a hullabaloo, you women, you! that I suspect the Squire will be
sending out to know if the village is on fire. Go home, will ye? High
time indeed to have the stocks ready, when you get squalling and
conspiring under the very nose of a justice of the peace, just as the
French Revolutioners did afore they cut off their King's head; my hair
stands on end to look at ye." But already, before half this address was
delivered, the crowd had dispersed in all directions--the women still
keeping together, and the men sneaking off toward the ale-house. Such
was the beneficent effect of the fatal stocks on the first day of their
resuscitation!

However, in the break up of every crowd there must be always some one
who gets off the last; and it so happened that our friend Lenny
Fairfield, who had mechanically approached close to the stocks, the
better to hear the oracular opinions of Gaffer Solomons, had no less
mechanically, on the abrupt appearance of Mr. Stirn, crept, as he hoped,
out of sight behind the trunk of the elm tree which partially shaded the
stocks; and there now, as if fascinated, he still cowered, not daring to
emerge in full view of Mr. Stirn, and in immediate reach of the
cart-whip, when the quick eye of the right-hand man detected his
retreat.

"Hallo, you sir--what the deuce, laying a mine to blow up the stocks!
just like Guy Fox and the Gunpowder Plot, I declares! What ha' you got
in your willainous little fist, there?"

"Nothing, sir," said Lenny, opening his palm.

"Nothing--um!" said Mr. Stirn, much dissatisfied; and then, as he gazed
more deliberately, recognizing the pattern boy of the village, a cloud
yet darker gathered over his brow; for Mr. Stirn, who valued himself
much on his learning--and who, indeed, by dint of more knowledge as well
as more wit than his neighbors, had attained his present eminent station
in life--was extremely anxious that his only son should also be a
scholar; that wish,

    "The Gods dispersed in empty air."

Master Stirn was a notable dunce at the Parson's school, while Lenny
Fairfield was the pride and boast of it; therefore Mr. Stirn was
naturally, and almost justifiably ill-disposed toward Lenny Fairfield,
who had appropriated to himself the praises which Mr. Stirn had designed
for his son.

"Um!" said the right-hand man, glowering on Lenny malignantly, "you are
the pattern boy of the village, are you? Very well, sir--then I put
these here stocks under your care--and you'll keep off the other boys
from sitting on 'em, and picking off the paint, and playing three holes
and chuck farthing, as I declare they've been a-doing, just in front of
the elewation. Now you knows your sponsibilities, little boy--and a
great honor they are too, for the like o' you. If any damage be done, it
is to you I shall look; d'ye understand? and that's what the Squire says
to me; so you sees what it is to be a pattern boy, Master Lenny!"

With that Mr. Stirn gave a loud crack of the cart-whip, by way of
military honors, over the head of the vicegerent he had thus created,
and strode off to pay a visit to two young unsuspecting pups, whose ears
and tails he had graciously promised their proprietor to crop that
evening. Nor, albeit few charges could be more obnoxious than that of
deputy governor or _charge d'affaires extraordinaire_ to the Parish
Stocks, nor one more likely to render Lenny Fairfield odious to his
contemporaries, ought he to have been insensible to the signal advantage
of his condition over that of the two sufferers, against whose ears and
tails Mr. Stirn had no especial motives of resentment. To every bad
there is a worse--and fortunately for little boys, and even for grown
men, whom the Stirns of the world regard malignly, the majesty of law
protects their ears, and the merciful forethought of nature deprived
their remote ancestors of the privilege of entailing tails upon them.
Had it been otherwise--considering what handles tails would have given
to the oppressor, how many traps envy would have laid for them, how
often they must have been scratched and mutilated by the briars of life,
how many good excuses would have been found for lopping, docking, and
trimming them--I fear that only the lap-dogs of fortune would have gone
to the grave tail-whole.


CHAPTER XII.

The card-table was set out in the drawing-room at Hazeldean Hall; though
the little party were still lingering in the deep recess of the large
bay window--which (in itself of dimensions that would have swallowed up
a moderate-sized London parlor) held the great round tea-table with all
appliances and means to boot--for the beautiful summer moon shed on the
sward so silvery a lustre, and the trees cast so quiet a shadow, and the
flowers and new-mown hay sent up so grateful a perfume, that, to close
the windows, draw the curtains, and call for other lights than those of
heaven, would have been an abuse of the prose of life which even Captain
Barnabas, who regarded whist as the business of town and the holiday of
the country, shrank from suggesting. Without, the scene, beheld by the
clear moonlight, had the beauty peculiar to the garden ground round
those old-fashioned country residences which, though a little
modernized, still preserve their original character: the velvet lawn,
studded with large plots of flowers, shaded and scented here, to the
left, by lilacs, laburnums, and rich seringas--there, to the right,
giving glimpses, over low-clipped yews, of a green bowling alley, with
the white columns of a summer house built after the Dutch taste, in the
reign of William III.; and in front--stealing away under covert of
those still cedars, into the wilder landscape of the well-wooded,
undulating park. Within, viewed by the placid glimmer of the moon, the
scene was no less characteristic of the abodes of that race which has no
parallel in other lands, and which, alas, is somewhat losing its native
idiosyncracies in this--the stout country gentleman, not the fine
gentleman of the country--the country gentleman somewhat softened and
civilized from the mere sportsman or farmer, but still plain and homely,
relinquishing the old hall for the drawing-room, and with books not
three months' old on his table, instead of _Fox's Martyrs_ and _Baker's
Chronicle_--yet still retaining many a sacred old prejudice, that, like
the knots in his native oak, rather adds to the ornament of the grain
than takes from the strength of the tree. Opposite to the window, the
high chimney-piece rose to the heavy cornice of the ceiling, with dark
pannels glistening against the moonlight. The broad and rather clumsy
chintz sofas and settees of the reign of George III., contrasted at
intervals with the tall backed chairs of a far more distant generation,
when ladies in fardingales, and gentlemen in trunk-hose, seemed never to
have indulged in horizontal positions. The walls, of shining wainscot,
were thickly covered, chiefly with family pictures; though now and then
some Dutch fair, or battle-piece, showed that a former proprietor had
been less exclusive in his taste for the arts. The piano-forte stood
open near the fire-place; a long dwarf bookcase at the far end, added
its sober smile to the room. That bookcase contained what was called
"The Lady's Library," a collection commenced by the Squire's
grandmother, of pious memory, and completed by his mother, who had more
taste for the lighter letters, with but little addition from the
bibliomaniac tenderness of the present Mrs. Hazeldean--who, being no
great reader, contented herself with subscribing to the Book Club. In
this feminine Bodleian, the sermons collected by Mrs. Hazeldean, the
grandmother, stood cheek-by-jowl beside the novels purchased by Mrs.
Hazeldean, the mother.

    "Mixtaque ridenti fundet colocasia acantho!"

But, to be sure, the novels, in spite of very inflammatory titles, such
as "Fatal Sensibility," "Errors of the Heart," &c., were so harmless
that I doubt if the sermons could have had much to say against their
next-door neighbors--and that is all that can be expected by the rest of
us.

A parrot dozing on his perch--some gold fish fast asleep in their glass
bowl--two or three dogs on the rug, and Flimsey, Miss Jemima's spaniel,
curled into a ball on the softest sofa--Mrs. Hazeldean's work-table,
rather in disorder, as if it had been lately used--the _St. James's
Chronicle_ dangling down from a little tripod near the Squire's
arm-chair--a high screen of gilt and stamped leather fencing off the
card table; all these, dispersed about a room large enough to hold them
all and not seem crowded, offered many a pleasant resting-place for the
eye, when it turned from the world of nature to the home of man.

But see, Captain Barnabas, fortified by his fourth cup of tea, has at
length summoned courage to whisper to Mrs. Hazeldean, "don't you think
the Parson will be impatient for his rubber?" Mrs. Hazeldean glanced at
the Parson, and smiled; but she gave the signal to the Captain, and the
bell was rung, lights were brought in, the curtains let down; in a few
moments more the group had collected round the card-tables. The best of
us are but human--that is not a new truth, I confess, but yet people
forget it every day of their lives--and I dare say there are many who
are charitably thinking at this very moment, that my Parson ought not to
be playing at whist. All I can say to these rigid disciplinarians is,
"Every man has his favorite sin: whist was Parson Dale's!--ladies and
gentlemen, what is yours?" In truth, I must not set up my poor parson,
nowadays, as a pattern parson--it is enough to have one pattern in a
village no bigger than Hazeldean, and we all know that Lenny Fairfield
has bespoken that place--and got the patronage of the stocks for his
emoluments! Parson Dale was ordained, not indeed so very long ago, but
still at a time when churchmen took it a great deal more easily than
they do now. The elderly parson of that day played his rubber as a
matter of course, the middle-aged parson was sometimes seen riding to
cover (I knew a schoolmaster, a doctor of divinity, and an excellent
man, whose pupils were chiefly taken from the highest families in
England, who hunted regularly three times a week during the season), and
the young parson would often sing a capital song--not composed by
David--and join in those rotary dances, which certainly David never
danced before the ark.

Does it need so long a prolegomenon to excuse thee, poor Parson Dale,
for turning up that ace of spades with so triumphant a smile at thy
partner? I must own that nothing that well could add to the Parson's
offense was wanting. In the first place he did not play charitably, and
merely to oblige other people. He delighted in the game--he rejoiced in
the game--his whole heart was in the game--neither was he indifferent to
the mammon of the thing, as a Christian pastor ought to have been. He
looked very sad when he took his shillings out of his purse, and
exceedingly pleased when he put the shillings that had just before
belonged to other people into it. Finally, by one of those arrangements
common with married people, who play at the same table, Mr. and Mrs.
Hazeldean were invariably partners, and no two people could play worse;
while Captain Barnabas, who had played at Graham's with honor and
profit, necessarily became partner to Parson Dale, who himself played a
good steady parsonic game. So that, in strict truth, it was hardly fair
play--it was almost swindling--the combination of those two great dons
against that innocent married couple! Mr. Dale, it is true, was aware of
this disproportion of force, and had often proposed either to change
partners or to give odds, propositions always scornfully scouted by the
Squire and his lady; so that the Parson was obliged to pocket his
conscience together with the ten points which made his average winnings.

The strangest thing in the world is the different way in which whist
affects the temper. It is no test of temper, as some pretend--not at
all! The best tempered people in the world grow snappish at whist; and I
have seen the most testy and peevish in the ordinary affairs of life
bear their losses with the stoicism of Epictetus. This was notably
manifested in the contrast between the present adversaries of the Hall
and the Rectory. The Squire who was esteemed as choleric a gentleman as
most in the county, was the best humored fellow you could imagine when
you set him down to whist opposite the sunny face of his wife. You never
heard one of these incorrigible blunderers scold each other; on the
contrary, they only laughed when they threw away the game, with four by
honors in their hands. The utmost that was ever said was a "Well, Harry,
that was the oddest trump of yours. Ho--ho--ho!" or a "Bless me,
Hazeldean--why, they made three tricks, and you had the ace in your hand
all the time! Ha--ha--ha!"

Upon which occasions Captain Barnabas, with great good humor, always
echoed both the Squire's ho--ho--ho! and Mrs. Hazeldean's ha--ha--ha!

Not so the Parson. He had so keen and sportsmanlike an interest in the
game, that even his adversaries' mistakes ruffled him. And you would
hear him, with elevated voice and agitated gestures, laying down the
law, quoting Hoyle, appealing to all the powers of memory and common
sense against the very delinquencies by which he was enriched--a waste
of eloquence that always heightened the hilarity of Mr. and Mrs.
Hazeldean. While these four were thus engaged, Mrs. Dale, who had come
with her husband despite her headache, sate on the sofa beside Miss
Jemima, or rather beside Miss Jemima's Flimsey, which had already
secured the centre of the sofa, and snarled at the very idea of being
disturbed. And Master Frank--at a table by himself--was employed
sometimes in looking at his pumps, and sometimes at Gilray's
Caricatures, with which his mother had provided him for his intellectual
requirements. Mrs. Dale, in her heart, liked Miss Jemima better than
Mrs. Hazeldean, of whom she was rather in awe, notwithstanding they had
been little girls together, and occasionally still called each other
Harry and Carry. But those tender diminutives belonged to the "Dear"
genus, and were rarely employed by the ladies, except at those times
when--had they been little girls still, and the governess out of the
way--they would have slapped and pinched each other. Mrs. Dale was
still a very pretty woman, as Mrs. Hazeldean was still a very fine
woman. Mrs. Dale painted in water colors and sang, and made card-racks
and pen-holders, and was called an "elegant, accomplished woman." Mrs.
Hazeldean cast up the Squire's accounts, wrote the best part of his
letters, kept a large establishment in excellent order, and was called
"a clever, sensible woman." Mrs. Dale had headaches and nerves, Mrs.
Hazeldean had neither nerves nor headaches. Mrs. Dale said, "Harry had
no real harm in her, but was certainly very masculine." Mrs. Hazeldean
said, "Carry would be a good creature, but for her airs and graces."
Mrs. Dale said, "Mrs. Hazeldean was just made to be a country squire's
lady." Mrs. Hazeldean said, "Mrs. Dale was the last person in the world
who ought to have been a parson's wife." Carry, when she spoke of Harry
to a third person, said, "Dear Mrs. Hazeldean." Harry, when she referred
incidentally to Carry, said, "Poor Mrs. Dale." And now the reader knows
why Mrs. Hazeldean called Mrs. Dale "poor," at least as well as I do.
For, after all, the word belonged to that class in the female vocabulary
which may be called "obscure significants," resembling the Knox Ompax,
which hath so puzzled the inquirers into the Eleusinian Mysteries; the
application is rather to be illustrated than the meaning to be exactly
explained.

"That's really a sweet little dog of yours, Jemima," said Mrs. Dale, who
was embroidering the word CAROLINE on the border of a cambric
pocket-handkerchief, but edging a little farther off, as she added,
"he'll not bite, will he?" "Dear me, no!" said Miss Jemima; but (she
added, in a confidential whisper), "don't say _he_--'tis a lady dog."
"Oh," said Mrs. Dale, edging off still farther, as if that confession of
the creature's sex did not serve to allay her apprehensions--"oh, then,
you carry your aversion to the gentlemen even to lap-dogs--that is being
consistent indeed, Jemima!"

MISS JEMIMA.--"I had a gentleman dog once--a pug!--they are getting very
scarce now. I thought he was so fond of me--he snapped at every one
else; the battles I fought for him! Well, will you believe, I had been
staying with my friend Miss Smilecox at Cheltenham. Knowing that William
is so hasty, and his boots are so thick, I trembled to think what a kick
might do. So, on coming here, I left Buff--that was his name--with Miss
Smilecox." (A pause.)

MRS. DALE, looking up languidly.--"Well, my love."

MISS JEMIMA.--"Will you believe it, I say, when I returned to
Cheltenham, only three months afterward, Miss Smilecox had seduced his
affections from me, and the ungrateful creature did not even know me
again. A pug, too--yet people _say_ pugs are faithful!!! I am sure they
ought to be, nasty things. I have never had a gentleman dog since--they
are all alike, believe me--heartless, selfish creatures."

MRS. DALE.--"Pugs? I dare say they are!"

MISS JEMIMA, with spirit.--"MEN!--I told you it was a gentleman dog!"

MRS. DALE, apologetically.--"True, my love, but the whole thing was so
mixed up!"

MISS JEMIMA.--"You saw that cold-blooded case of Breach of Promise of
Marriage in the papers--an old wretch, too, of sixty-four. No age makes
them a bit better. And when one thinks that the end of all flesh is
approaching, and that--"

MRS. DALE, quickly, for she prefers Miss Jemima's other hobby to that
black one upon which she is preparing to precede the bier of the
universe.--"Yes, my love, we'll avoid that subject, if you please. Mr.
Dale has his own opinions, and it becomes me, you know, as a parson's
wife," (said smilingly; Mrs. Dale has as pretty a dimple as any of Miss
Jemima's, and makes more of that one than Miss Jemima of three), "to
agree with him--that is, in theology."

MISS JEMIMA, earnestly.--"But the thing is so clear, if you would but
look into--"

MRS. DALE, putting her hand on Miss Jemima's lips playfully.--"Not a
word more. Pray, what do you think of the Squire's tenant at the Casino,
Signor Riccabocca? An interesting creature, is not he?"

MISS JEMIMA.--"Interesting! Not to me. Interesting! Why is he
interesting?"

Mrs. Dale is silent, and turns her handkerchief in her pretty little
white hands, appearing to contemplate the R. in Caroline.

MISS JEMIMA, half pettishly, half coaxingly.--"Why is he interesting? I
scarcely ever looked at him; they say he smokes, and never eats. Ugly,
too!"

MRS. DALE.--"Ugly--no. A fine head--very like Dante's--but what is
beauty?"

MISS JEMIMA.--"Very true; what is it indeed? Yes, as you say, I think
there _is_ something interesting about him; he looks melancholy, but
that may be because he is poor."

MRS. DALE.--"It is astonishing how little one feels poverty when one
loves. Charles and I were very poor once--before the Squire--." Mrs.
Dale paused, looked toward the Squire, and murmured a blessing, the
warmth of which brought tears into her eyes. "Yes," she added, after a
pause, "we were very poor, but we were happy even then, more thanks to
Charles than to me," and tears from a new source again dimmed those
quick, lively eyes, as the little woman gazed fondly on her husband,
whose brows were knit into a black frown over a bad hand.

MISS JEMIMA.--"It is only those horrid men who think of money as a
source of happiness. I should be the last person to esteem a gentleman
less because he was poor."

MRS. DALE.--"I wonder the Squire does not ask Signor Riccabocca here
more often. Such an acquisition _we_ find him!"

The Squire's voice from the card table.--"Whom ought I to ask more
often, Mrs. Dale?"

Parson's voice impatiently.--"Come--come--come, Squire; play to my queen
of diamonds--do!"

SQUIRE.--"There, I trump it--pick up the trick, Mrs. H."

PARSON.--"Stop! stop! trump my diamond?"

The Captain, solemnly.--"Trick turned--play on, Squire."

SQUIRE.--"The king of diamonds."

MRS. HAZELDEAN.--"Lord! Hazeldean--why, that's the most barefaced
revoke--ha--ha--ha! trump the queen of diamonds and play out the king!
well I never--ha--ha--ha!"

CAPTAIN BARNABAS, in tenor.--"Ha, ha, ha!"

SQUIRE.--"And so I have, bless my soul--ho, ho, ho!"

CAPTAIN BARNABAS, in bass.--"Ho--ho--ho."

Parson's voice raised, but drowned by the laughter of his adversaries
and the firm clear tone of Captain Barnabas: "Three to our
score!--game!"

SQUIRE, wiping his eyes.--"No help for it, Harry--deal for me! Whom
ought I to ask, Mrs. Dale? (waxing angry). First time I ever heard the
hospitality of Hazeldean called in question!"

MRS. DALE.--"My dear sir, I beg a thousand pardons, but listeners--you
know the proverb."

SQUIRE, growling like a bear.--"I hear nothing but proverbs ever since
we have had that Mounseer among us. Please to speak plainly, marm."

MRS. DALE, sliding into a little temper at being thus roughly
accosted.--"It was of Mounseer, as you call him, that I spoke, Mr.
Hazeldean."

SQUIRE.--"What! Rickeybockey?"

MRS. DALE, attempting the pure Italian accentuation.--"Signor
Riccabocca."

PARSON, slapping his cards on the table in despair: "Are we playing at
whist, or are we not?"

The Squire, who is fourth player drops the king to Captain
Higginbotham's lead of the ace of hearts. Now the Captain has left
queen, knave, and two other hearts--four trumps to the queen and nothing
to win a trick with in the two other suits. This hand is therefore
precisely one of those in which, especially after the fall of that king
of hearts in the adversary's hand, it becomes a matter of reasonable
doubt whether to lead trumps or not. The Captain hesitates, and not
liking to play out his good hearts with the certainty of their being
trumped by the Squire, nor, on the other hand, liking to open the other
suits in which he has not a card that can assist his partner, resolves,
as becomes a military man, in such a dilemma, to make a bold push and
lead out trumps, in the chance of finding his partner strong, and so
bringing in his long suit.

SQUIRE, taking advantage of the much meditating pause made
by the Captain.--"Mrs. Dale, it is not my fault. I have asked
Rickeybockey--time out of mind. But I suppose I am not fine enough for
those foreign chaps--he won't come--that's all I know!"

PARSON, aghast at seeing the Captain play out trumps, of which he, Mr.
Dale, has only two, wherewith he expects to ruff the suit of spades of
which he has only one (the cards all falling in suits) while he has not
a single other chance of a trick in his hand: "Really, Squire, we had
better give up playing if you put out my partner in this extraordinary
way--jabber--jabber--jabber!"

SQUIRE.--"Well, we must be good children, Harry. What!--trumps, Barney?
Thank ye for that!" And the Squire might well be grateful, for the
unfortunate adversary has led up to ace, king, knave--with two other
trumps. Squire takes the Parson's ten with his knave, and plays out ace,
king; then, having cleared all the trumps except the Captain's queen and
his own remaining two, leads off tierce major in that very suit of
spades of which the Parson has only one--and the Captain, indeed, but
two--forces out the Captain's queen, and wins the game in a canter.

PARSON, with a look at the Captain which might have become the awful
brows of Jove, when about to thunder: "That, I suppose, is the new
fashioned London play! In my time the rule was 'First save the game,
then try to win it.'"

CAPTAIN.--"Could not save it, sir."

PARSON, exploding.--"Not save it!--two ruffs in my own hand--two tricks
certain till you took them out! Monstrous! The rashest trump."--Seizes
the cards--spreads them on the table, lip quivering, hands
trembling--tries to show how five tricks could have been gained--(N.B.
it is _short_ whist, which Captain Barnabas had introduced at the Hall)
can't make out more than four--Captain smiles triumphantly--Parson in a
passion, and not at all convinced, mixes all the cards together again,
and falling back in his chair, groans, with tears in his voice: "The
cruelest trump! the most wanton cruelty!"

The Hazeldeans in chorus. "Ho--ho--ho! Ha--ha--ha!"

The Captain, who does not laugh this time, and whose turn it is to deal,
shuffles the cards for the conquering game of the rubber with as much
caution and prolixity as Fabius might have employed in posting his men.
The Squire gets up to stretch his legs, and the insinuation against his
hospitality recurring to his thoughts, calls out to his wife--"Write to
Rickeybockey to-morrow yourself, Harry, and ask him to come and spend
two or three days here. There, Mrs Dale, you hear me?"

"Yes," said Mrs. Dale, putting her hands to her ears in implied rebuke
at the loudness of the Squire's tone. "My dear sir, do remember that I'm
a sad nervous creature."

"Beg pardon," muttered Mr. Hazeldean, turning to his son, who, having
got tired of the caricatures, had fished out for himself the great folio
County History, which was the only book in the library that the Squire
much valued, and which he usually kept under lock and key, in his study,
together with the field-books and steward's accounts, but which he had
reluctantly taken into the drawing-room that day, in order to oblige
Captain Higginbotham. For the Higginbothams--an old Saxon family, as the
name evidently denotes--had once possessed lands in that very county.
And the Captain--during his visits to Hazeldean Hall--was regularly in
the habit of asking to look into the County History, for the purpose of
refreshing his eyes, and renovating his sense of ancestral dignity with
the following paragraph therein: "To the left of the village of Dunder,
and pleasantly situated in a hollow, lies Botham Hall, the residence of
the ancient family of Higginbotham, as it is now commonly called. Yet it
appears by the county rolls, and sundry old deeds, that the family
formerly styled itself Higges, till, the Manor House lying in Botham,
they gradually assumed the appellation of Higges-in-botham, and in
process of time, yielding to the corruptions of the vulgar,
Higginbotham."

"What, Frank! my County History!" cried the Squire. "Mrs. H., he has got
my County History!"

"Well, Hazeldean, it is time he should know something about the County."

"Ay, and History too," said Mrs. Dale, malevolently--for the little
temper was by no means blown over.

FRANK.--"I'll not hurt it, I assure you, sir. But I'm very much
interested just at present."

The CAPTAIN, putting down the cards to cut.--"You've got hold of that
passage about Botham Hall, page 706, eh?"

FRANK.--"No; I was trying to make out how far it is to Mr. Leslie's
place, Rood Hall. Do you know, mother?"

MRS. HAZELDEAN.--"I can't say I do. The Leslies don't mix with the
county; and Rood lies very much out of the way."

FRANK.--"Why don't they mix with the county?"

MRS. HAZELDEAN.--"I believe they are poor, and therefore I suppose they
are proud: they are an old family."

PARSON, thrumming on the table with great impatience: "Old
fiddledee!--talking of old families when the cards have been shuffled
this half hour."

CAPTAIN BARNABAS.--"Will you cut for your partner, ma'am?"

SQUIRE, who has been listening to Frank's inquiries with a musing air:
"Why do you want to know the distance to Rood Hall?"

FRANK, rather hesitatingly.--"Because Randal Leslie is there for the
holidays, sir."

PARSON.--"Your wife has cut for you, Mr. Hazeldean. I don't think it was
quite fair; and my partner has turned up a deuce--deuce of hearts.
Please to come and play, if you _mean_ to play."

The Squire returns to the table, and in a few minutes the game is
decided, by a dexterous finesse of the Captain, against the Hazeldeans.
The clock strikes ten: the servants enter with a tray; the Squire counts
up his and his wife's losings; and the Captain and Parson divide sixteen
shillings between them.

SQUIRE.--"There, Parson, I hope now you'll be in a better humor. You win
enough out of us to set up a coach and four."

"Tut," muttered the parson; "at the end of the year, I'm not a penny the
richer for it all."

And, indeed, monstrous as that assertion seemed, it was perfectly true,
for the Parson portioned out his gains into three divisions. One-third
he gave to Mrs. Dale, for her own special pocket-money; what became of
the second third he never owned, even to his better half--but certain it
was, that every time the Parson won seven-and-sixpence, half-a-crown
which nobody could account for found its way to the poor-box; while the
remaining third, the Parson, it is true, openly and avowedly retained:
but I have no manner of doubt that, at the year's end, it got to the
poor quite as safely as if it had been put into the box.

The party had now gathered round the tray, and were helping themselves
to wine and water, or wine without water--except Frank, who still
remained poring over the map in the County History, with his head
leaning on his hands, and his fingers plunged in his hair.

"Frank," said Mrs. Hazeldean, "I never saw you so studious before."

Frank started up, and , as if ashamed of being accused of too
much study in any thing.

The SQUIRE, with a little embarrassment in his voice: "Pray, Frank, what
do you know of Randal Leslie?"

"Why, sir, he is at Eton."

"What sort of a boy is he?" asked Mrs. Hazeldean.

Frank hesitated, as if reflecting, and then answered: "They say he is
the cleverest boy in the school. But then he saps."

"In other words," said Mr. Dale with proper parsonic gravity, "he
understands that he was sent to school to learn his lessons, and he
learns them. You call that sapping--I call it doing his duty. But pray,
who and what is this Randal Leslie, that you look so discomposed,
Squire?"

"Who and what is he?" repeated the Squire, in a low growl. "Why, you
know, Mr. Audley Egerton married Miss Leslie the great heiress, and this
boy is a relation of hers. I may say," added the Squire, "that he is as
near a relation of mine, for his grandmother was a Hazeldean. But all I
know about the Leslies is, that Mr. Egerton, as I am told, having no
children of his own, took up young Randal, (when his wife died, poor
woman), pays for his schooling, and has, I suppose, adopted the boy as
his heir. Quite welcome. Frank and I want nothing from Mr. Audley
Egerton, thank heaven."

"I can well believe in your brother's generosity to his wife's kindred,"
said the Parson, sturdily, "for I am sure Mr. Egerton is a man of strong
feeling."

"What the deuce do you know about Mr. Egerton? I don't suppose you could
ever have even spoken to him."

"Yes," said the Parson, coloring up and looking confused, "I had some
conversation with him once;" and observing the Squire's surprise, he
added--"when I was curate at Lansmere--and about a painful business
connected with the family of one of my parishioners."

"Oh! one of your parishioners at Lansmere--one of the constituents Mr.
Audley Egerton threw over, after all the pains I had taken to give him
his seat. Rather odd you should never have mentioned this before, Mr.
Dale!"

"My dear sir," said the Parson, sinking his voice, and in a mild tone of
conciliatory expostulation, "you are so irritable whenever Mr. Egerton's
name is mentioned at all."

"Irritable!" exclaimed the Squire, whose wrath had been long simmering,
and now fairly boiled over. "Irritable, sir! I should think so; a man
for whom I stood godfather at the hustings, Mr. Dale! a man for whose
sake I was called a 'prize ox,' Mr. Dale! a man for whom I was hissed in
a market-place, Mr. Dale! a man for whom I was shot at, in cold blood,
by an officer in his Majesty's service, who lodged a ball in my right
shoulder, Mr. Dale! a man who had the ingratitude, after all this, to
turn his back on the landed interest--to deny that there was any
agricultural distress in a year which broke three of the best farmers I
ever had, Mr. Dale!--a man, sir, who made a speech on the Currency which
was complimented by Ricardo, a Jew! Good heavens! a pretty parson you
are, to stand up for a fellow complimented by a Jew! Nice ideas you must
have of Christianity. Irritable, sir!" now fairly roared the Squire,
adding to the thunder of his voice the cloud of a brow, which evinced a
menacing ferocity that might have done honor to Bussy D'Amboise or
Fighting Fitzgerald. "Sir, if that man had not been my own half-brother,
I'd have called him out. I have stood my ground before now. I have had a
ball in my right shoulder. Sir, I'd have called him out."

"Mr. Hazeldean! Mr. Hazeldean! I'm shocked at you," cried the Parson;
and, putting his lips close to the Squire's ear, he went on in a
whisper: "What an example to your son! You'll have him fighting duels
one of these days, and nobody to blame but yourself."

This warning cooled Mr. Hazeldean; and muttering, "Why the deuce did you
set me off?" he fell back into his chair, and began to fan himself with
his pocket-handkerchief.

The Parson skillfully and remorselessly pursued the advantage he had
gained. "And now, that you may have it in your power, to show civility
and kindness to a boy whom Mr. Egerton has taken up, out of respect to
his wife's memory--a kinsman you say of your own--and who has never
offended you--a boy whose diligence in his studies proves him to be an
excellent companion to your son. Frank," (here the Parson raised his
voice), "I suppose you wanted to call on young Leslie, as you were
studying the county map so attentively?"

"Why, yes," answered Frank, rather timidly. "If my father did not object
to it. Leslie has been very kind to me, though he is in the sixth form,
and, indeed, almost the head of the school."

"Ah," said Mrs. Hazeldean, "one studious boy has a fellow-feeling for
another; and though you enjoy your holidays, Frank, I am sure you read
hard at school."

Mrs. Dale opened her eyes very wide, and stared in astonishment.

MRS. HAZELDEAN retorted that look with great animation. "Yes, Carry,"
said she, tossing her head, "though _you_ may not think Frank clever,
his master finds him so. He got a prize last half. That beautiful book,
Frank--hold up your head, my love--what did you get it for?"

FRANK, reluctantly.--"Verses, ma'am."

MRS. HAZELDEAN, with triumph.--"Verses!--there, Carry, verses!"

FRANK, in a hurried tone.--"Yes, but Leslie wrote them for me."

MRS. HAZELDEAN, recoiling.--"O Frank! a prize for what another did for
you--that was mean."

FRANK, ingenuously.--"You can't be more ashamed, mother, than I was when
they gave me the prize."

MRS. DALE, though previously provoked at being snubbed by Harry, now
showing the triumph of generosity over temper: "I beg your pardon,
Frank. Your mother must be as proud of that shame as she was of the
prize."

Mrs. Hazeldean puts her arm round Frank's neck, smiles beamingly on Mrs.
Dale, and converses with her son in a low tone about Randal Leslie. Miss
Jemima now approached Carry, and said in an "aside,"--"But we are
forgetting poor Mr. Riccabocca. Mrs. Hazeldean, though the dearest
creature in the world, has such a blunt way of inviting people--don't
you think if you were to say a word to him, Carry?"

MRS. DALE kindly, as she wraps her shawl round her: "Suppose you write
the note yourself. Meanwhile I shall see him, no doubt."

PARSON, putting his hand on the Squire's shoulder: "You forgive my
impertinence, my kind friend. We parsons, you know, are apt to take
strange liberties, when we honor and love folks, as I do you."

"Pish!" said the Squire, but his hearty smile came to his lips in spite
of himself: "You always get your own way, and I suppose Frank must ride
over and see this pet of my--"

"_Brother's_," quoth the Parson, concluding the sentence in a tone which
gave to the sweet word so sweet a sound that the Squire would not
correct the Parson, as he had been about to correct himself.

Mr. Dale moved on; but as he passed Captain Barnabas, the benignant
character of his countenance changed sadly.

"The cruelest trump, Captain Higginbotham!" said he sternly, and stalked
by--majestic.

The night was so fine that the Parson and his wife, as they walked home,
made a little _detour_ through the shrubbery.

MRS. DALE.--"I think I have done a good piece of work to-night."

PARSON, rousing himself from a reverie.--"Have you, Carry?--it will be a
very pretty handkerchief."

MRS. DALE.--"Handkerchief--nonsense, dear. Don't you think it would be a
very happy thing for both, if Jemima and Signor Riccabocca could be
brought together?"

PARSON.--"Brought together!"

MRS. DALE.--"You do snap one up so, my dear--I mean if I could make a
match of it."

PARSON.--"I think Riccabocca is a match already, not only for Jemima,
but yourself into the bargain."

MRS. DALE, smiling loftily.--"Well, we shall see. Was not Jemima's
fortune about L4000?"

PARSON dreamily, for he is relapsing fast into his interrupted reverie:
"Ay--ay--I daresay."

MRS. DALE.--"And she must have saved! I dare say it is nearly L6000 by
this time; eh! Charles dear, you really are so--good gracious, what's
that!"

As Mrs. Dale made this exclamation they had just emerged from the
shrubbery, into the village green.

PARSON.--"What's what?"

MRS. DALE, pinching her husband's arm very nippingly.--"That
thing--there--there."

PARSON.--"Only the new stocks, Carry; I don't wonder they frighten you,
for you are a very sensible woman. I only wish they would frighten the
Squire."


CHAPTER XIII.

     _Supposed to be a Letter from Mrs. Hazeldean to ---- Riccabocca,
     Esq., The Casino; but edited, and indeed composed, by Miss Jemima
     Hazeldean._

"DEAR SIR--To a feeling heart it must always be painful to give pain to
another, and (though I am sure unconsciously) you have given the
_greatest_ pain to poor Mr. Hazeldean and myself, indeed to _all_ our
little circle, in so cruelly refusing our attempts to become better
acquainted with a gentleman we so highly ESTEEM. Do, pray, dear sir,
make us the _amende honorable_, and give us the _pleasure_ of your
company for a few days at the Hall! May we expect you Saturday
next?--our dinner-hour is six o'clock.

"With the best compliments of Mr. and Miss Jemima Hazeldean.

"Believe me, my dear sir, yours truly,

                                                                 "H.H.
"_Hazeldean Hall._"

Miss Jemima having carefully sealed this note, which Mrs. Hazeldean had
very willingly deputed her to write, took it herself into the
stable-yard, in order to give the groom proper instructions to wait for
an answer. But while she was speaking to the man, Frank, equipped for
riding with more than his usual dandyism, came also into the yard,
calling for his pony in a loud voice, and singling out the very groom
whom Miss Jemima was addressing--for, indeed, he was the smartest of all
in the Squire's stables--told him to saddle the gray pad, and accompany
the pony.

"No, Frank," said Miss Jemima, "you can't have George; your father wants
him to go on a message--you can take Mat."

"Mat, indeed!" said Frank, grumbling with some reason; for Mat was a
surly old fellow, who tied a most indefensible neckcloth, and always
contrived to have a great patch in his boots; besides, he called Frank
"Master," and obstinately refused to trot down hill; "Mat, indeed!--let
Mat take the message, and George go with me."

But Miss Jemima had also her reasons for rejecting Mat. Mat's foible was
not servility, and he always showed true English independence in all
houses where he was not invited to take his ale in the servants' hall.
Mat might offend Signor Riccabocca, and spoil all. An animated
altercation ensued, in the midst of which the Squire and his wife
entered the yard, with the intention of driving in the conjugal gig to
the market town. The matter was referred to the natural umpire by both
the contending parties.

The Squire looked with great contempt on his son. "And what do you want
a groom at all for? Are you afraid of tumbling off the pony?"

FRANK.--"No, sir; but I like to go as a gentleman, when I pay a visit to
a gentleman!"

SQUIRE, in high wrath.--"You precious puppy! I think I'm as good a
gentleman as you, any day, and I should like to know when you ever saw
me ride to call on a neighbor, with a fellow jingling at my heels, like
that upstart Ned Spankie, whose father kept a cotton-mill. First time I
ever heard of a Hazeldean thinking a livery-coat was necessary to prove
his gentility!"

MRS. HAZELDEAN, observing Frank coloring, and about to reply.--"Hush,
Frank, never answer your father--and you are going to call on Mr.
Leslie?"

"Yes, ma'am, and I am very much obliged to my father for letting me,"
said Frank, taking the Squire's hand.

"Well, but, Frank," continued Mrs. Hazeldean, "I think you heard that
the Leslies were very poor."

FRANK.--"Eh, mother?"

MRS. HAZELDEAN.--"And would you run the chance of wounding the pride of
a gentleman, as well born as yourself, by affecting any show of being
richer than he is?"

SQUIRE, with great admiration.--"Harry, I'd give L10 to have said that!"

FRANK, leaving the Squire's hand to take his mother's.--"You're quite
right, mother--nothing could be more _snobbish_!"

SQUIRE.--"Give us your fist too, sir; you'll be a chip of the old block,
after all."

Frank smiled, and walked off to his pony.

MRS. HAZELDEAN to Miss Jemima.--"Is that the note you were to write for
me?"

MISS JEMIMA.--"Yes, I supposed you did not care about seeing it, so I
have sealed it and given it to George."

MRS. HAZELDEAN.--"But Frank will pass close by the Casino on his way to
the Leslies'. It may be more civil if he leaves the note himself."

MISS JEMIMA, hesitatingly.--"Do you think so?"

MRS. HAZELDEAN.--"Yes, certainly. Frank--Frank--as you pass by the
Casino, call on Mr. Riccabocca, give this note, and say we shall be
heartily glad if he will come."

Frank nods.

"Stop a bit," cried the Squire. "If Rickeybockey's at home, 'tis ten to
one if he don't ask you to take a glass of wine! If he does, mind, 'tis
worse than asking you to take a turn on the rack. Faugh! you remember,
Harry?--I thought it was all up with me."

"Yes," cried Mrs. Hazeldean, "for Heaven's sake, not a drop! Wine
indeed!"

"Don't talk of it," cried the Squire, making a wry face.

"I'll take care, sir!" said Frank, laughing as he disappeared within the
stable, followed by Miss Jemima, who now coaxingly makes it up with him,
and does not leave off her admonitions to be extremely polite to the
poor foreign gentleman, till Frank gets his foot into the stirrup; and
the pony, who knows who he has got to deal with, gives a preparatory
plunge or two and then darts out of the yard.

_To be continued._




[From Chambers's Edinburgh Journal.]

THE EVERY-DAY MARRIED LADY.


It might be supposed that the every-day married lady was formerly the
every-day young lady, and has now merely changed her condition. But this
is not the case, for nothing is more common than to see the most holiday
spinsters settle down into the most working-day matrons. The married
lady, in fact, of the species we would describe, has no descent in
particular. If you can imagine a pupa coming into the world of itself
without any connection with the larva, or an imago unconscious of the
pupa, that is the every-day married lady. She is born at the altar,
conjured into life by the ceremonial, and having utterly lost her
individual existence, becomes from that moment a noun of multitude.
People may say, "Oh, this is our old acquaintance, Miss Smith!" but that
is only calling names, for the identity is gone. If she is any thing at
all but what appertains to the present, she is the late Miss Smith, who
has survived herself, and changed into a family.

We would insist upon this peculiarity of the every-day married
lady--that her existence is collective. Her very language is in the
plural number--such as we, ours, and us. She respects the rights of
paternity so much, as never to permit herself to talk of her children as
peculiarly her own. Her individuality being merged in her husband and
their actual or possible offspring, she has no private thoughts, no
wishes, no hopes, no fears but for the concern. And this is all the
better for her tranquillity: for although a part of her husband, she
does not quite fancy that he is a part of her. She leaves at least the
business to his management, and if she does advise and suggest on
occasions, she thinks that somehow things will come out very well. She
feels that she is only a passenger; and although, as such, she may
recommend the skipper to shorten sail when weathering a critical point,
or, for the sake of safety, to come to anchor in the middle of the sea,
she has still a certain faith in his skill or luck, and sleeps quietly
in the storm. For this reason the every day married lady is comfortable
in the figure, and has usually good round features of her own. The Miss
Smith she has survived had a slender waist and small delicate hands; but
this lady is a very tolerable armful, and the wedding-ring makes such a
hollow on her finger, that one might think it would be difficult to get
off.

The every-day married lady is commonly reported to be selfish; but this
is a mistake. At least her selfishness embraces the whole family circle:
it has no personality. When the wife of a poor man, she will sit up half
the night sewing and darning, but not a stitch for herself: that can be
done at any time; but the boys must go comfortably to school, and the
girls look genteel on the street, and the husband--to think of Mr. Brown
wanting a button on his shirt! She looks selfish, because her eye is
always on her own, and because she talks of what she is always thinking
about; but how can one be selfish who is perpetually postponing herself,
who dresses the plainest, eats the coarsest, and sleeps the least of the
family? She never puts herself forward in company unless her young
ladies want backing; but yet she never feels herself overlooked, for
every word, every glance bestowed upon them, is communicated
electrically to her. She is, indeed, in such perfect _rapport_ with the
concern, that it is no uncommon thing for her to go home chuckling with
amusement, overpowered with delight, from a party at which she had not
once opened her lips. This is the party which she pronounces to have
"gone off" well. Half-observant people fancy that the calculation is
made on the score of the jellies and ice, and singing and dancing, and
so on, and influenced by a secret comparison with her own achievements;
but she has more depth than they imagine, and finer sympathies--they
don't understand her.

Not that the every-day married lady is unsocial--not at all: all
comfortable people are social; but she is partial to her own class, and
does not care to carry her confidences out of it. She has several
intimate friends whom she is fond of meeting; but besides that, she is a
sort of freemason in her way, and finds out every-day people by the word
and sign. Rank has very little to do with this society, as you will find
if you observed her sitting at a cottage door, where, in purchasing a
draught of milk, she has recognized a sister. If these two every-day
married women had been rocked in the same cradle, they could not talk
more intimately; and, indeed, they have heavy matters to talk about, for
of all the babies that ever came into this breathing world, theirs were
the most extraordinary babies. The miracle is, that any of them are
extant after such outrageous measles, and scarlet fevers, and
chicken-poxes--prophesied of, so to speak, even before their birth, by
memorabilia that might have alarmed Dr. Simson. The interlocutors part
very well pleased with each other: the cottager proud to find that she
has so much in common with a real lady, and the lady pronouncing the
reflection of herself she had met with to be a most sensible individual.

Although careless in this instance of the circumstance of rank, the
every-day married lady has but little sympathy with the class of
domestic servants. She looks upon her servants, in fact, as in some sort
her natural enemies, and her life may therefore be said to be passed at
the best in a state of armed neutrality. She commonly proceeds on the
allowance system; and this is the best way, as it prevents so many
sickening apprehensions touching that leg of mutton. Indeed the appetite
of servants is a constant puzzle to her: she can not make it out. She
has a sharp eye, too, upon the policeman, and wonders what on earth he
always looks down her area for. As for followers, that is quite out of
the question. Servants stay long enough upon their errands to talk to
all the men and women in the parish; and the idea of having an
acquaintance now and then besides--more especially of the male
sex--tramping into the kitchen to see them, is wildly unnatural. She
tells of a sailor whom she once detected sitting in the coolest possible
manner by the fireside. When she appeared, the man rose up and
bowed--and then sat down again. Think of that! The artful girl said he
was her brother!--and here all the every-day married ladies in the
company laugh bitterly. Since that time she has been haunted by a
sailor, and smells tar in all sorts of places.

If she ever has a passable servant, whom she is able to keep for a
reasonable number of years, she gets gradually attached to her, and pets
and coddles her. Betty is a standing testimony to her nice
discrimination, and a perpetual premium on her successful rearing of
servants. But alas! the end of it all is, that the respectable creature
gets married to the green grocer, and leaves her indulgent mistress: a
striking proof of the heartlessness and ingratitude of the whole tribe!
If it is not marriage, however, that calls her away, but bad health; if
she goes home unwell, or is carried to the infirmary--what then? Why,
then, we are sorry to say, she passes utterly away from the observation
and memory of the every-day married lady. This may be reckoned a bad
trait in her character; and yet it is in some degree allied to the great
virtue of her life. Servants are the evil principle in her household,
which it is her business to combat and hold in obedience. A very large
proportion of her time is spent in this virtuous warfare; and success on
her part ought to be considered deserving of the gratitude of the
vanquished, without imposing burdens upon the victor.

The every-day married lady is the inventor of a thing which few foreign
nations have as yet adopted either in their houses or languages. This
thing is Comfort. The word can not well be defined, the items that enter
into its composition being so numerous, that a description would read
like a catalogue. We all understand, however, what it means, although
few of us are sensible of the source of the enjoyment. A widower has
very little comfort, and a bachelor none at all; while a married
man--provided his wife be an every-day married lady--enjoys it in
perfection. But he enjoys it unconsciously, and therefore ungratefully:
it is a thing of course--a necessary, a right, of the want of which he
complains without being distinctly sensible of its presence. Even when
it acquires sufficient intensity to arrest his attention, when his
features and his heart soften, and he looks round with a half smile on
his face, and says, "This is comfort!" it never occurs to him to inquire
where it all comes from. His every-day wife is sitting quietly in the
corner: it was not she who lighted the fire, or dressed the dinner, or
drew the curtains, and it never occurs to him to think that all these,
and a hundred other circumstances of the moment, owe their virtue to her
spiriting, and that the comfort which enriches the atmosphere, which
sparkles in the embers, which broods in the shadowy parts of the room,
which glows in his own full heart, emanates from her, and encircles her
like an aureola. We have suggested, on a former occasion, that our
conventional notions of the sex, in its gentle, modest, and retiring
characteristics, are derived from the every-day young lady; and in like
manner we venture to opine that the every-day married lady is _the_
English wife of foreigners and moralists. Thus she is a national
character, and a personage of history; and yet there she sits all the
while in that corner, knitting something or other, and thinking to
herself that she had surely smelt a puff of tar as she was passing the
pantry.

The curious thing is, that the dispenser of comfort can do with a very
small share of it herself. When her husband does not dine at home, it is
surprising what odds and ends are sufficient to make up the dinner.
Perhaps the best part of it is a large slice of bread-and-butter; for it
is wasting the servants' time to make them cook when there is _nobody_
to be at the table. But she makes up for this at tea: that _is_ a
comfortable meal for the every-day married lady. The husband, a
matter-of-fact, impassive fellow, swallows down his two or three cups in
utter unconsciousness of the poetry of the occasion; while the wife
pauses on every sip, drinks in the aroma as well as the infusion, fills
slowly and lingeringly out, and creams and sugars as if her hands
dallied over a labor of love. With her daughters, in the mean time,
grown up, or even half-grown up, she exchanges words and looks of
motherly and masonic intelligence: she is moulding them to comfort,
initiating them in every-dayism; and as their heads bend companionably
toward each other, you see at a glance that the girls will do honor to
their breeding. The husband calls this "dawdling," and already begins to
fret. Let him: he knows nothing about it.

It is surprising the affection of the daughters for their every-day
mother. Not that the sentiment is steady and uniform in its expression,
for sometimes one might suppose mamma to be forgotten, or at least
considered only as a daily necessary not requiring any special notice.
But wait till a grief comes, and mark to what bosom the panting girl
flies for refuge and comfort; see with what _abandon_ she flings her
arms round that maternal neck, and with what a passionate burst the
hitherto repressed tears gush forth. This is something more than habit,
something more than filial trust. There are more senses than five in
human nature--or seven either: there is a fine and subtle link between
these two beings--a common atmosphere of thought and feeling, impalpable
and imperceptible, yet necessary to the souls of both. If you doubt
it--if you doubt that there is a moral attraction in the every-day
married lady, irrespective of blood-affinity, carry your view forward to
another generation, and interrogate those witnesses who are never
mistaken in character, and who never give false testimony--little
children. They dote on their every-day grandmamma. Their natures, not
yet seared and hardened by the world, understand hers; and with
something of the fresh perfume of Eden about them still, they recognize
instinctively those blessed souls to whom God has given to love little
children.

This is farther shown when the every-day married lady dies. What is
there in the character we have drawn to account for the shock the whole
family receives? The husband feels as if a thunder-cloud had fallen, and
gathered, and blackened upon his heart, through which he could never
again see the sun. The grown-up children, especially the females, are
distracted; "their purposes are broken off;" they desire to have nothing
more to do with the world: they lament as those who will not be
comforted. Even common acquaintances look round them, when they enter
the house, with uneasiness and anxiety--

    "We miss her when the morning calls,
      As one that mingled in our mirth:
    We miss her when the evening falls--
      A trifle wanted on the earth!

    "Some fancy small, or subtle thought,
      Is checked ere to its blossom grown;
    Some chain is broken that we wrought,
      Now--she hath flown!"

And so she passes away--this every-day married lady--leaving memorials
of her commonplace existence every where throughout the circle in which
she lived, moved, and had her being, and after having stamped herself
permanently upon the constitution, both moral and physical, of her
descendants.




ANECDOTE OF A SINGER.


Signora Grassini, the great Italian singer, died a few months since at
Milan. She was distinguished not only for her musical talents, but also
for her beauty and powers of theatrical expression. One evening in 1810,
she and Signor Crescentini performed together at the Tuileries, and sang
in "Romeo and Juliet." At the admirable scene in the third act, the
Emperor Napoleon applauded vociferously, and Talma, the great tragedian,
who was among the audience, wept with emotion. After the performance was
ended, the Emperor conferred the decoration of a high order on
Crescentini, and sent Grassini a scrap of paper, on which was written,
"Good for 20,000 livres.--NAPOLEON."

"Twenty thousand francs!" said one of her friends--"the sum is a large
one."

"It will serve as a dowry for one of my little nieces," replied Grassini
quietly.

Indeed few persons were ever more generous, tender, and considerate
toward their family than this great singer.

Many years afterward, when the Empire had crumbled into dust, carrying
with it in its fall, among other things, the rich pension of Signora
Grassini, she happened to be at Bologna. There another of her nieces was
for the first time presented to her, with a request that she would do
something for her young relative. The little girl was extremely pretty,
but not, her friends thought, fitted for the stage, as her voice was a
feeble contralto. Her aunt asked her to sing; and when the timid voice
had sounded a few notes, "Dear child," said Grassini, embracing her,
"you will not want _me_ to assist you. Those who called your voice a
contralto were ignorant of music. You have one of the finest sopranos in
the world, and will far excel me as a singer. Take courage, and work
hard, my love: your throat will win a shower of gold." The young girl
did not disappoint her aunt's prediction. She still lives, and her name
is Giulia Grisi.




[From Chambers's Edinburgh Journal.]

WHEN THE SUMMER COMES.


I once knew a little boy, a little child of three years old; one of
those bright creatures whose fair loveliness seems more of heaven than
of earth--even at a passing glimpse stirring our hearts, and filling
them with purer and holier thought. But this, the little Francie, was
more of a cherub than an angel,--as we picture them--with his gladsome
hazel eyes, his dazzling fairness, his clustering golden hair, and his
almost winged step. Such he was, at least, until sickness laid its heavy
hand on him; then, indeed, when, after days of burning, wasting
fever--hours of weary restlessness--the little hand at last lay
motionless outside the scarcely whiter coverlet of his tiny bed, the
fair, still head, pressed down upon the pillow, and the pale face gazing
with the silent wonder of returning consciousness on the anxious ones
around it; then, indeed, a bright yet pitying look would flit across it,
or dwell in the earnest eyes--a look such as we assign to angels in our
dreams, when some fond fancy seems to bring them near us, weeping for
mortal griefs beyond their remedy.

It was a strange sickness for one so young--the struggle of typhus fever
with a baby frame; but life and youth obtained the victory; and quicker
even than hope could venture to expect, the pulses rallied, the cheeks
grew round and rosy, and the little wasted limbs filled up again. Health
was restored--health, but not strength: we thought this for a while. We
did not wonder that the weakened limbs refused their office, and still
we waited on in hope, until days, and even weeks, passed by: then it was
found that the complaint had left its bitter sting, and little Francie
could not walk a step, or even stand.

Many and tedious and painful were the remedies resorted to; yet the
brave little heart bore stoutly up, with that wonderful fortitude,
almost heroism, which all who have watched by suffering childhood, when
the tractable spirit bends to its early discipline, must at some time or
other have remarked. Francie's fortitude might have afforded an example
to many; but a dearer lesson was given in the hopeful spirit with which
the little fellow himself noted the effect of each distressing remedy,
marking each stage of progress, and showing off with eager gladness
every step attained, from the first creeping on the hands and knees, to
the tiptoe journey round the room, holding on by chairs and tables; then
to the clinging to some loving hand; and then, at last, the graceful
balancing of his light body, until he stood quite erect alone, and so
moved slowly on.

It was in autumn this illness seized on the little one, just when the
leaves were turning, and the orchard fruits becoming ripe. His nurse
attributed it all to his sitting on a grassy bank at play on one of
those uncertain autumn days; but he, in his childish way, always
maintained "It was Francie himself--eating red berries in the holly
bower." However this may have been, the season and the time seemed
indelibly impressed upon his mind. In all his long confinement to the
house, his thoughts continually turned to outward objects, to the
external face of nature and the season's change, and evermore his little
word of hope was this, "When the _summer_ comes!"

He kept it up throughout the long winter, and the bleak cold spring. A
fairy little carriage had been provided for him, in which, well wrapped
up from the cold, and resting on soft cushions, he was lightly drawn
along by a servant, to his own great delight, and the admiration of many
a young beholder. But when any one--attempting to reconcile him the
better to his position--expatiated on the beauty or comfort of his new
acquisition, his eager look and word would show how far he went beyond
it, as, quickly interrupting, he would exclaim, "Wait till the summer
comes--then Francie will walk again!"

During the winter there was a fearful storm, it shook the windows,
moaned in the old trees, and howled down the chimneys with a most
menacing voice. Older hearts than Francie's quailed that night, and he,
unable to sleep, lay listening to it all--quiet, but asking many a
question, as his excited fancy formed similitudes to the sounds. One
time it was poor little children cruelly turned out, and wailing; then
something trilling, with its last hoarse cry; then wolves and bears,
from far-off other lands. But all the while Francie knew he was snug and
safe himself: no fears disturbed him, whatever the noise may have done.
Throughout the whole of it he carried his one steadfast hope, and, in
the morning telling of it all, with all his marvelous thoughts, he
finished his relation with the never-failing word of comfort, "Ah! there
shall be no loud wind, no waking nights, when once the summer comes!"

The summer came with its glad birds and flowers, its balmy air; and who
can paint the exquisite delight of the suffering child that had waited
for it so long? Living almost continually in the open air he seemed to
expect fresh health and strength from each reviving breath he drew, and
every day would deem himself capable of some greater effort, as if to
prove that his expectation had not been in vain.

One lovely day he and his little playfellows were in a group amusing
themselves in part of the garden, when some friends passed through.
Francie, longing to show how much he could do, entreated hard to be
taken with them "along the walk, just to the holly bower." His request
was granted, and on he did walk; quick at first, then slowly slower: but
still upheld by his strong faith in the summer's genial influence, he
would not rest in any of the offered arms, though the fitful color went
and came, and the pauses grew more and more frequent. No, with a heavy
sigh he admitted, "'Tis a very, very long walk _now_; but Francie must
not be tired: sure the summer is come." And so, determined not to admit
fatigue in the face of the season's bright proofs around him, he
succeeded in accomplishing his little task at last.

Thus the summer passed away, and again came the changing autumn, acting
on poor little Francie to a degree he had never reckoned on, and with
its chill, damp airs, nearly throwing him back again. With a greater
effort even than before, he had again tried the walk to the holly bower,
the scene of his self-accusing misdemeanor as the cause of all his
sufferings. He sat down to rest; above his head, as the autumnal breeze
swept through them, "the polished leaves and berries red did rustling
play;" and as little Francie looked upward toward them, a memory of the
former year, and of all the time that had passed since then, seemed for
the first time mournfully to steal over his heart. He nestled in closer
to his mother's side; and still looking up, but with more thoughtful
eyes, he said, "Mamma, is the summer _quite_ gone?"

"Yes, my darling. Don't you see the scarlet berries, the food of winter
for the little birds?"

"Quite gone, mamma, and Francie not quite well?"

His mother looked away; she could not bear her child to see the
tell-tale tears his mournful little words called up, or know the sad
echo returned by her own desponding thoughts. There was a moment's
silence, only broken by the blackbird's song; and then she felt a soft,
a little kiss, upon her hand, and looking down, she saw her darling's
face--yes, surely now it was as an angel's--gazing upward to her,
brightly beaming, brighter than ever; and his rosy lips just parted with
their own sweet smile again, as he exclaimed in joyous tones, "Mamma,
the summer will come again!"

Precious was that heaven-born word of childish faith to the careworn
mother, to cheer her then, and, with its memory of hope, still to
sustain her through many an after-experiment and anxious watch, until,
at last, she reaped her rich reward in the complete realization of her
bright one's hope. Precious to more than her such words may be, if
bravely stemming our present trouble, whatsoe'er it be--bravely
enduring, persevering, encouraging others and ourselves, even as that
little child--we hold the thought, that as the revolving year brings
round its different seasons, as day succeeds to night--and even as
surely as we look for this, and know it--so to the trusting heart there
comes a time--it may be soon or late, it may be now, or it may be
_then_--when this grief or grievance will have passed away; and so
'twill all seem nothing--when the summer comes!




[From Chambers's Edinburgh Journal.]

VILLAINY OUTWITTED--FROM THE RECOLLECTIONS OF A POLICE OFFICER.


The respectable agent of a rather eminent French house arrived one
morning in great apparent distress at Scotland Yard, and informed the
superintendent that he had just sustained a great, almost ruinous loss,
in notes of the Bank of England, and commercial bills of exchange,
besides a considerable sum in gold. He had, it appeared, been absent in
Paris about ten days, and on his return but a few hours previously,
discovered that his iron chest had been completely rifled during his
absence. False keys must have been used, as the empty chest was found
locked, and no sign of violence could be observed. He handed in full
written details of the property carried off, the numbers of the notes,
and every other essential particular. The first step taken was to
ascertain if any of the notes had been tendered at the bank. Not one had
been presented; payment was of course stopped, and advertisements
descriptive of the bills of exchange, as well as of the notes, were
inserted in the evening and following morning papers. A day or two
afterward, a considerable reward was offered for such information as
might lead to the apprehension of the offenders. No result followed; and
in spite of the active exertions of the officers employed, not the
slightest clew could be obtained to the perpetrators of the robbery. The
junior partner in the firm, M. Bellebon, in the mean time arrived in
England, to assist in the investigation, and was naturally extremely
urgent in his inquiries; but the mystery which enveloped the affair
remained impenetrable. At last a letter, bearing the St. Martin-le-Grand
post-mark, was received by the agent, M. Alexandre le Breton, which
contained an offer to surrender the whole of the plunder, with the
exception of the gold, for the sum of one thousand pounds. The property
which had been abstracted was more than ten times that sum, and had been
destined by the French house to meet some heavy liabilities falling due
in London very shortly. Le Breton had been ordered to pay the whole
amount into Hoare's to the account of the firm, and had indeed been
severely blamed for not having done so as he received the different
notes and bills; and it was on going to the chest immediately on his
return from Paris, for the purpose of fulfilling the peremptory
instructions he had received, that M. le Breton discovered the robbery.

The letter went on to state that should the offer be acceded to, a
mystically-worded advertisement--of which a copy was inclosed--was to be
inserted in the "Times," and then a mode would be suggested for
safely--in the interest of the thieves of course--carrying the agreement
into effect. M. Bellebon was half-inclined to close with this proposal,
in order to save the credit of the house, which would be destroyed
unless its acceptances, now due in about fourteen days, could be met;
and without the stolen moneys and bills of exchange, this was, he
feared, impossible. The superintendent, to whom M. Bellebon showed the
letter, would not hear of compliance with such a demand, and threatened
a prosecution for composition of felony if M. Bellebon persisted in
doing so. The advertisement was, however, inserted, and an immediate
reply directed that Le Breton, the agent, should present himself at the
Old Manor-House, Green Lanes, Newington, unattended, at four o'clock on
the following afternoon, bringing with him of course the stipulated sum
_in gold_. It was added, that to prevent any possible treason
(_trahison_, the letter was written in French), Le Breton would find a
note for him at the tavern, informing him of the spot--a solitary one,
and far away from any place where an ambush could be concealed--where
the business would be concluded, and to which he must proceed
unaccompanied, and on foot! This proposal was certainly quite as
ingenious as it was cool, and the chance of out-witting such cunning
rascals seemed exceedingly doubtful. A very tolerable scheme was,
however, hit upon, and M. le Breton proceeded at the appointed hour to
the Old Manor-House. No letter or message had been left for him, and
nobody obnoxious to the slightest suspicion could be seen near or about
the tavern. On the following day another missive arrived, which stated
that the writer was quite aware of the trick which the police had
intended playing him, and he assured M. Bellebon that such a line of
conduct was as unwise as it would be fruitless, inasmuch as if "good
faith" was not observed, the securities and notes would be inexorably
destroyed or otherwise disposed of, and the house of Bellebon and
Company be consequently exposed to the shame and ruin of bankruptcy.

Just at this crisis of the affair I arrived in town from an unsuccessful
hunt after some fugitives who had slipped through my fingers at
Plymouth. The superintendent laughed heartily, not so much at the trick
by which I had been duped, as at the angry mortification I did not
affect to conceal. He presently added, "I have been wishing for your
return, in order to intrust you with a tangled affair, in which success
will amply compensate for such a disappointment. You know French too,
which is fortunate; for the gentleman who has been plundered understands
little or no English." He then related the foregoing particulars, with
other apparently slight circumstances; and after a long conversation
with him, I retired to think the matter over, and decide upon the
likeliest mode of action. After much cogitation, I determined to see M.
Bellebon _alone_; and for this purpose I dispatched the waiter of a
tavern adjacent to his lodgings, with a note expressive of my wish to
see him instantly on pressing business. He was at home, and immediately
acceded to my request. I easily introduced myself; and after about a
quarter of an hour's conference, said carelessly--for I saw he was too
heedless of speech, too quick and frank, to be intrusted with the dim
suspicions which certain trifling indices had suggested to me--"Is
Monsieur le Breton at the office where the robbery was committed?"

"No: he is gone to Greenwich on business, and will not return till late
in the evening. But if you wish to re-examine the place, I can of
course enable you to do so."

"It will, I think, be advisable; and you will, if you please," I added,
as we emerged into the street, "permit me to take you by the arm, in
order that the _official_ character of my visit may not be suspected by
any one there."

He laughingly complied, and we arrived at the house arm-in-arm. We were
admitted by an elderly woman; and there was a young man--a mustached
clerk--seated at a desk in an inner room writing. He eyed me for a
moment, somewhat askance, I thought, but I gave him no opportunity for a
distinct view of my features; and I presently handed M. Bellebon a card,
on which I had contrived to write, unobserved, "send away the clerk."
This was more naturally done than I anticipated; and in answer to M.
Bellebon's glance of inquiry, I merely said, "that as I did not wish to
be known there as a police-officer, it was essential that the minute
search I was about to make should be without witnesses." He agreed; and
the woman was also sent away upon a distant errand. Every conceivable
place did I ransack; every scrap of paper that had writing on it I
eagerly perused. At length the search was over, apparently without
result.

"You are quite sure, Monsieur Bellebon, as you informed the
superintendent, that Monsieur le Breton has no female relations or
acquaintances in this country?"

"Positive," he replied. "I have made the most explicit inquiries on the
subject both of the clerk Dubarle, and of the woman-servant."

Just then the clerk returned, out of breath with haste, I noticed, and I
took my leave without even now affording the young gentleman so clear a
view of my face as he was evidently anxious to obtain.

"No female acquaintance!" thought I, as I re-entered the private room of
the tavern I had left an hour before. "From whom came, then, these
scraps of perfumed note-paper I have found in his desk, I wonder?" I sat
down and endeavored to piece them out, but after considerable trouble,
satisfied myself that they were parts of different notes, and so small,
unfortunately, as to contain nothing which separately afforded any
information except that they were all written by one hand, and that a
female one.

About two hours after this I was sauntering along in the direction of
Stoke-Newington, where I was desirous of making some inquiries as to
another matter, and had passed the Kingslaw Gate a few hundred yards,
when a small discolored printed handbill, lying in a haberdasher's shop
window, arrested my attention. It ran thus: "Two guineas reward.--Lost,
an Italian gray-hound. The tip of its tail has been chopped off, and it
answers to the name of Fidele." Underneath, the reader was told in
writing to "inquire within."

"Fidele!" I mentally exclaimed. "Any relation to M. le Breton's fair
correspondent Fidele, I wonder?" In a twinkling my pocket-book was out,
and I reperused by the gas-light on one of the perfumed scraps of paper
the following portion of a sentence, "_ma pauvre Fidele est per_--" The
bill, I observed, was dated nearly three weeks previously. I forthwith
entered the shop, and pointing to the bill, said I knew a person who had
found such a dog as was there advertised for. The woman at the counter
said she was glad to hear it, as the lady, formerly a customer of
theirs, was much grieved at the animal's loss.

"What is the lady's name?" I asked.

"I can't rightly pronounce the name," was the reply. "It is French, I
believe; but here it is, with the address, in the day-book, written by
herself."

I eagerly read--"Madame Levasseur, Oak Cottage; about one mile on the
road from Edmonton to Southgate." The handwriting greatly resembled that
on the scraps I had taken from M. le Breton's desk; and the writer was
French too! Here were indications of a trail which might lead to
unhoped-for success, and I determined to follow it up vigorously. After
one or two other questions, I left the shop, promising to send the dog
to the lady the next day. My business at Stoke-Newington was soon
accomplished. I then hastened westward to the establishment of a
well-known dog-fancier, and procured the loan, at a reasonable price, of
an ugly Italian hound: the requisite loss of the tip of its tail was
very speedily accomplished, and so quickly healed, that the newness of
the excision could not be suspected. I arrived at the lady's residence
about twelve o'clock on the following day, so thoroughly disguised as a
vagabond Cockney dog-stealer, that my own wife, when I entered the
breakfast parlor just previous to starting, screamed with alarm and
surprise. The mistress of Oak Cottage was at home, but indisposed, and
the servant said she would take the dog to her, though, if I would take
it out of the basket, she herself could tell me if it was Fidele or not.
I replied that I would only show the dog to the lady, and would not
trust it out of my hands. This message was carried up-stairs, and after
waiting some time outside--for the woman, with natural precaution,
considering my appearance, for the safety of the portable articles lying
about, had closed the street-door in my face--I was re-admitted, desired
to wipe my shoes carefully, and walk up. Madame Levasseur, a
showy-looking woman, though not over-refined in speech or manners, was
seated on a sofa, in vehement expectation of embracing her dear Fidele;
but my vagabond appearance so startled her, that she screamed loudly for
her husband, M. Levasseur. This gentleman, a fine, tall, whiskered,
mustached person, hastened into the apartment half-shaved, and with his
razor in his hand.

"Qu'est ce qu'il y a donc?" he demanded.

"Mais voyez cette horreur la," replied the lady, meaning me, not the
dog, which I was slowly emancipating from the basket-kennel. The
gentleman laughed; and reassured by the presence of her husband, Madame
Levasseur's anxieties concentrated themselves upon the expected Fidele.

"Mais, mon Dieu!" she exclaimed again as I displayed the aged beauty I
had brought for her inspection, "why, that is not Fidele!"

"Not, marm?" I answered, with quite innocent surprise. "Vy, ere is her
wery tail;" and I held up the mutilated extremity for her closer
inspection. The lady was not, however, to be convinced even by that
evidence; and as the gentleman soon became impatient of my persistence,
and hinted very intelligibly that he had a mind to hasten my passage
down stairs with the toe of his boot, I, having made the best possible
use of my eyes during the short interview, scrambled up the dog and
basket, and departed.

"No female relative or acquaintance hasn't he?" was my exulting thought
as I gained the road. "And yet if that is not M. le Breton's picture
between those of the husband and wife, I am a booby, and a blind one." I
no longer in the least doubted that I had struck a brilliant trail; and
I could have shouted with exultation, so eager was I not only to
retrieve my, as I fancied, somewhat tarnished reputation for activity
and skill, but to extricate the plundered firm from their terrible
difficulties; the more especially as young M. Bellebon, with the
frankness of his age and nation, had hinted to me--and the
suddenly-tremulous light of his fine expressive eyes testified to the
acuteness of his apprehensions--that his marriage with a long-loved and
amiable girl depended upon his success in saving the credit of his
house.

That same evening, about nine o'clock, M. Levasseur, expensively, but
withal snobbishly attired, left Oak Cottage, walked to Edmonton, hailed
a cab, and drove off rapidly toward town, followed by an English swell
as stylishly and snobbishly dressed, wigged, whiskered, and mustached as
himself: this English swell being no other than myself, as prettily
metamorphosed and made up for the part I intended playing as heart could
wish.

M. Levasseur descended at the end of the Quadrant, Regent-street, and
took his way to Vine-street, leading out of that celebrated
thoroughfare. I followed; and observing him enter a public-house,
unhesitatingly did the same. It was a house of call and general
rendezvous for foreign servants out of place. Valets, couriers, cooks,
of many varieties of shade, nation, and respectability, were assembled
there, smoking, drinking, and playing at an insufferably noisy game,
unknown, I believe, to Englishmen, and which must, I think, have been
invented in sheer despair of cards, dice, or other implements of
gambling. The sole instruments of play were the gamesters' fingers, of
which the two persons playing suddenly and simultaneously uplifted as
many, or as few as they pleased, each player alternately calling a
number; and if he named precisely how many fingers were held up by
himself and opponent, he marked a point. The hubbub of cries--"cinq,"
"neuf," "dix," &c.--was deafening. The players--almost every body in the
large room--were too much occupied to notice our entrance; and M.
Levasseur and myself seated ourselves, and called for something to
drink, without, I was glad to see, exciting the slightest observation.
M. Levasseur, I soon perceived, was an intimate acquaintance of many
there; and somewhat to my surprise, for he spoke French very well, I
found that he was a Swiss. His name was, I therefore concluded, assumed.
Nothing positive rewarded my watchfulness that evening; but I felt quite
sure Levasseur had come there with the expectation of meeting some one,
as he did not play, and went away about half-past eleven o'clock with an
obviously discontented air. The following night it was the same; but the
next, who should peer into the room about half-past ten, and look
cautiously round, but M. Alexandre le Breton! The instant the eyes of
the friends met, Levasseur rose and went out. I hesitated to follow,
lest such a movement might excite suspicion; and it was well I did not,
as they both presently returned, and seated themselves close by my side.
The anxious, haggard countenance of Le Breton--who had, I should have
before stated, been privately pointed out to me by one of the force
early on the morning I visited Oak Cottage--struck me forcibly,
especially in contrast with that of Levasseur, which wore only an
expression of malignant and ferocious triumph, slightly dashed by
temporary disappointment. Le Breton staid but a short time; and the only
whispered words I caught were--"He has, I fear, some suspicion."

The anxiety and impatience of M. Bellebon while this was going on became
extreme, and he sent me note after note--the only mode of communication
I would permit--expressive of his consternation at the near approach of
the time when the engagements of his house would arrive at maturity,
without any thing having in the meantime been accomplished. I pitied him
greatly, and after some thought and hesitation, resolved upon a new and
bolder game. By affecting to drink a great deal, occasionally playing,
and in other ways exhibiting a reckless, devil-may-care demeanor, I had
striven to insinuate myself into the confidence and companionship of
Levasseur, but hitherto without much effect; and although once I could
see, startled by a casual hint I dropped to another person--one of
ours--just sufficiently loud for him to hear--that I knew a sure and
safe market for stopped Bank of England notes, the cautious scoundrel
quickly subsided into his usual guarded reserve. He evidently doubted
me, and it was imperatively necessary to remove those doubts. This was
at last effectually, and, as I am vain enough to think, cleverly done.
One evening a rakish-looking man, who ostentatiously and repeatedly
declared himself to be Mr. Trelawney, of Conduit-street, and who was
evidently three parts intoxicated, seated himself directly in front of
us, and with much braggart impudence boasted of his money, at the same
time displaying a pocket-book, which seemed pretty full of Bank of
England notes. There were only a few persons present in the room besides
us, and they were at the other end of the room. Levasseur I saw noticed
with considerable interest the look of greed and covetousness which I
fixed on that same pocket-book. At length the stranger rose to depart. I
also hurried up and slipped after him, and was quietly and slyly
followed by Levasseur. After proceeding about a dozen paces, I looked
furtively about, but _not_ behind; robbed Mr. Trelawney of his
pocket-book, which he had placed in one of the tails of his coat;
crossed over the street, and walked hurriedly away, still, I could hear,
followed by Levasseur. I entered another public-house, strode into an
empty back-room, and was just in the act of examining my prize, when in
stepped Levasseur. He looked triumphant as Lucifer, as he clapped me on
the shoulder, and said in a low exulting voice, "I saw that pretty
trick, Williams, and can, if I like, transport you!"

My consternation was naturally extreme, and Levasseur laughed immensely
at the terror he excited. "_Soyez tranquille_," he said at last, at the
same time ringing the bell, "I shall not hurt you." He ordered some
wine, and after the waiter had fulfilled the order, and left the room,
said, "Those notes of Mr. Trelawney's will of course be stopped in the
morning, but I think I once heard you say you knew of a market for such
articles?"

I hesitated, coyly unwilling to further commit myself. "Come, come,"
resumed Levasseur, in a still low but menacing tone, "no nonsense. I
have you now; you are, in fact, entirely in my power: but be candid, and
you are safe. Who is your friend?"

"He is not in town now," I stammered.

"Stuff--humbug! I have myself some notes to change. There, now we
understand each other. What does he give, and how does he dispose of
them?"

"He gives about a third generally, and gets rid of them abroad. They
reach the Bank through _bona-fide_ and innocent holders, and in that
case the Bank is of course bound to pay."

"Is that the law also with respect to bills of exchange?"

"Yes, to be sure it is."

"And is _amount_ of any consequence to your friend?"

"None, I believe, whatever."

"Well, then, you must introduce me to him."

"No, that I can't," I hurriedly answered. "He won't deal with
strangers."

"You _must_, I tell you, or I will call an officer." Terrified by this
threat, I muttered that his name was Levi Samuel.

"And where does Levi Samuel live?"

"That," I replied, "I _can not_ tell; but I know how to communicate with
him."

Finally, it was settled by Levasseur that I should dine at Oak Cottage
the next day but one, and that I should arrange with Samuel to meet us
there immediately afterward. The notes and bills he had to dispose of, I
was to inform Samuel, amounted to nearly twelve thousand pounds, and I
was promised L500 for effecting the bargain.

"Five hundred pounds, remember, Williams," said Levasseur, as we parted;
"or, if you deceive me, transportation. You can prove nothing regarding
_me_, whereas, I could settle _you_ offhand."

The superintendent and I had a long and rather anxious conference the
next day. We agreed that, situated as Oak Cottage was, in an open space
away from any other building, it would not be advisable that any officer
except myself and the pretended Samuel should approach the place. We
also agreed as to the probability of such clever rogues having so placed
the notes and bills that they could be consumed or otherwise destroyed
on the slightest alarm, and that the open arrest of Levasseur, and a
search of Oak Cottage, would in all likelihood prove fruitless. "There
will be only two of them," I said, in reply to a remark of the
superintendent as to the somewhat dangerous game I was risking with
powerful and desperate men, "even should Le Breton be there; and surely
Jackson and I, aided by the surprise and our pistols, will be too many
for them." Little more was said, the superintendent wished us luck, and
I sought out and instructed Jackson.

I will confess that, on setting out the next day to keep my appointment,
I felt considerable anxiety. Levasseur _might_ have discovered my
vocation, and set this trap for my destruction. Yet that was hardly
possible. At all events, whatever the danger, it was necessary to face
it; and having cleaned and loaded my pistols with unusual care, and bade
my wife a more than usually earnest farewell, which, by the way, rather
startled her, I set off, determined, as we used to say in Yorkshire, "to
win the horse or lose the saddle."

I arrived in good time at Oak Cottage, and found my host in the highest
possible spirits. Dinner was ready, he said, but it would be necessary
to wait a few minutes for the two friends he expected.

"_Two_ friends!" I exclaimed, really startled. "You told me last evening
there was to be only one, a Monsieur le Breton."

"True," rejoined Levasseur carelessly; "but I had forgotten that another
party as much interested as ourselves would like to be present, and
invite himself if I did not. But there will be enough for us all, never
fear," he added, with a coarse laugh, "especially as Madame Levasseur
does not dine with us."

At this moment a loud knock was heard. "Here they are!" exclaimed
Levasseur, and hastened out to meet them. I peeped through the blind,
and to my great alarm saw that Le Breton was accompanied by the clerk
Dubarle! My first impulse was to seize my pistols and rush out of the
house; but calmer thoughts soon succeeded, and the improbability that a
plan had been laid to entrap me recurred forcibly. Still, should the
clerk recognize me? The situation was undoubtedly a critical one; but I
was in for it, and must therefore brave the matter out in the best way I
could.

Presently a conversation, carried on in a loud, menacing tone in the
next room between Levasseur and the new-comers, arrested my attention,
and I softly approached the door to listen. Le Breton, I soon found was
but half a villain, and was extremely anxious that the property should
not be disposed of till at least another effort had been made at
negotiation. The others, now that a market for the notes and securities
had been obtained, were determined to avail themselves of it, and
immediately leave the country. The almost agonizing entreaties of Le
Breton that they would not utterly ruin the house he had betrayed, were
treated with scornful contempt, and he was at length silenced by their
brutal menaces. Le Breton, I further learned, was a cousin of Madame
Levasseur, whose husband had first pillaged him at play, and then
suggested the crime which had been committed as the sole means of
concealing the defalcations of which he, Levasseur, had been the
occasion and promoter.

After a brief delay, all three entered the dining-room, and a slight but
significant start which the clerk Dubarle gave, as Levasseur, with mock
ceremony, introduced me, made my heart, as folk say, leap into my mouth.
His half-formed suspicions seemed, however, to be dissipated for the
moment by the humorous account Levasseur gave him of the robbery of Mr.
Trelawney, and we sat down to a very handsome dinner.

A more uncomfortable one, albeit, I never assisted at. The furtive looks
of Dubarle, who had been only partially reassured, grew more and more
inquisitive and earnest. Fortunately Levasseur was in rollicking spirits
and humor, and did not heed the unquiet glances of the young man; and as
for Le Breton, he took little notice of any body. At last this terrible
dinner was over, and the wine was pushed briskly round. I drank much
more freely than usual, partly with a view to calm my nerves, and partly
to avoid remark. It was nearly the time for the Jew's appearance, when
Dubarle, after a scrutinizing and somewhat imperious look at my face,
said abruptly, "I think, Monsieur Williams, I have seen you somewhere
before?"

"Very likely," I replied, with as much indifference as I could assume.
"Many persons have seen me before--some of them once or twice too
often."

"True!" exclaimed Levasseur, with a shout; "Trelawney, for instance!"

"I should like to see monsieur with his wig off!" said the clerk, with
increasing insolence.

"Nonsense, Dubarle; you are a fool," exclaimed Levasseur; "and I will
not have my good friend Williams insulted."

Dubarle did not persist, but it was plain enough that some dim
remembrance of my features continued to haunt and perplex him.

At length, and the relief was unspeakable, a knock at the outer door
announced Jackson--Levi Samuel I mean. We all jumped up and ran to the
window. It was the Jew sure enough, and admirably he had dressed and now
looked the part. Levasseur went out, and in a minute or two returned,
introducing him. Jackson could not suppress a start as he caught sight
of the tall, mustached addition to the expected company; and, although
he turned it off very well, it drove the Jewish dialect in which he had
been practicing, completely out of his thoughts and speech, as he said,
"You have more company than my friend Williams led me to expect?"

"A friend--one friend extra, Mr. Samuel," said Levasseur; "that is all.
Come, sit down, let me help you to a glass of wine. You are an English
Jew I perceive?"

"Yes."

A silence of a minute or two succeeded, and then Levasseur said, "You
are, of course, prepared for business?"

"Yes--that is, if you are reasonable."

"Reasonable! the most reasonable men in the world," rejoined Levasseur,
with a loud laugh. "But pray, where is the gold you mean to pay us
with?"

"If we agree, I will fetch it in half an hour. I do not carry bags of
sovereigns about with me into _all_ companies," replied Jackson, with
much readiness.

"Well, that's right enough: and how much discount do you charge?"

"I will tell you when I see the securities."

Levasseur arose without another word, and left the apartment. He was
gone about ten minutes, and on his return, deliberately counted out the
stolen Bank-of-England notes, and bills of exchange. Jackson got up from
his chair, peered close to them, and began noting down the amounts in
his pocket-book. I also rose, and pretended to be looking at a picture
by the fire-place. The moment was a nervous one, as the signal had been
agreed upon, and could not now be changed or deferred. The clerk Dubarle
also hastily rose, and eyed Jackson with flaming but indecisive looks.
The examination of the securities was at length terminated,
and Jackson began counting the Bank-of-England notes aloud,
"One--two--three--four--FIVE!" As the signal word passed his lips, he
threw himself upon Le Breton, who sat next to him; and at the same
moment I passed one of my feet between Dubarle's, and, with a dexterous
twist hurled him violently on the floor; another instant and my grasp
was on the throat of Levasseur, and my pistol at his ear. "Hurra!" we
both shouted, with eager excitement; and, before either of the villains
could recover from his surprise, or indeed perfectly comprehend what had
happened, Levasseur and Le Breton were handcuffed, and resistance was
out of the question. Young Dubarle was next easily secured.

Levasseur, the instant he recovered the use of his faculties, which the
completeness and suddenness of the surprise and attack had paralyzed,
yelled like a madman with rage and anger, and but for us, would, I
verily believe, have dashed his brains out against the walls of the
room. The other two were calmer, and having at last thoroughly pinioned
and secured them, and carefully gathered up the recovered plunder, we
left Oak Cottage in triumph, letting ourselves out, for the
woman-servant had gone off, doubtless to acquaint her mistress with the
disastrous turn affairs had taken. No inquiry was made after either of
them.

An hour afterward the prisoners were securely locked up, and I hurried
to acquaint M. Bellebon with the fortunate issue of our enterprise. His
exultation, it will be readily believed, was unbounded; and I left him
busy with letters to the firm, and doubtless one to "cette chere et
aimable Louise," announcing the joyful news.

The prisoners, after a brief trial, were convicted of felonious
conspiracy, and were all sentenced to ten years' transportation. Le
Breton's sentence, the judge told him, would have been for life, but for
the contrition he had exhibited shortly before his apprehension.

As Levasseur passed me on leaving the dock, he exclaimed in French, and
in a desperately savage tone, "I will repay you for this when I return,
and that infernal Trelawney too." I am too much accustomed to threats of
this kind to be in any way moved by them, and I therefore contented
myself by smiling, and a civil "Au revoir--allons!"




[From Dickens's Household Words.]

ATLANTIC WAVES.


One brisk March morning, in the year 1848, the brave Steam-Ship Hibernia
rolled about in the most intoxicated fashion on the broad Atlantic, in
north latitude fifty-one, and west longitude thirty-eight, fifty--the
wind blowing a hard gale from the west-southwest. To most of the
passengers the grandeur of the waters was a mockery, the fine bearing of
the ship only a delusion and a snare. Every thing was made tight on
deck; if any passenger had left a toothpick on one of the seats, he
would assuredly have found it lashed to a near railing. Rope was coiled
about every imaginable item; and water dripped from every spar of the
gallant vessel. Now it seemed as though she were traveling along through
a brilliant gallery, flanked on either side by glittering walls of
water; now she climbed one of the crested walls, and an abyss dark and
terrible as the famous Maelstrom, which can't be found any where, yawned
to receive her. The snorts of the engine seemed to defy the angry
waters; and occasionally when a monster wave coiled about the ship, and
thundered against her, she staggered for a moment, only to renew the
battle with fresh energy.

The cooks and stewards went placidly through their several daily
avocations on board this rolling, fighting, shaking craft. If they had
been Belgravian servants, or club-house waiters, they could not have
performed their duties with more profound unconcern. Their coolness
appeared nothing less than heroic to the poor tumbled heaps of clothes
with human beings inside, who were scattered about the cabins below. An
unhappy wight, who had never before been five miles from Boston, was
anxiously inquiring of the chief steward the precise time in the course
of that evening that the vessel might be expected to founder; while
another steward, with provoking pertinacity, was asking how many would
dine in the saloon at six, with the same business-like unconcern, as if
the ship were gliding along on glass. So tremendous was the tossing, so
extreme the apparent uncertainty of any event except a watery terminus
to all expectation, that this sort of coolness appeared almost wicked.

Then there was a monster in British form actually on deck--not braving,
it was said, but tempting the storm to sweep him into eternity. He
astonished even the ship's officers. The cook did not hesitate to
venture a strong opinion against the sanity of a man who might, if he
chose, be snugly ensconced in the cabin out of harm's way, but who
_would_ remain upon deck, in momentary danger of being blown overboard.
The cook's theory was not ill supported by the subject of it; for he was
continually placing himself in all manner of odd places and grotesque
postures. Sometimes he scrambled up on the cuddy-roof; then he rolled
down again on the saloon deck; now he got himself blown up on the
paddle-box; _that_ was not high enough for him, for when the vessel sunk
into a trough of the sea, he stood on tip-toe, trying to look over the
nearest wave. A consultation was held in the cuddy, and a resolution was
unanimously passed that the amateur of wind and water (which burst over
him every minute) was either an escaped lunatic or--a College Professor.

It was resolved _nem. con._ that he was the latter; and from that moment
nobody was surprised at any thing he might choose to do, even while the
Hibernia was laboring in what the mate was pleased to call the most
"lively" manner. The Professor, however, to the disgust of the sufferers
below, who thought it was enough to _feel_ the height of the waves,
without going to the trouble of measuring them, pursued his observations
in the face of the contempt of the official conclave above mentioned. He
took up his position on the cuddy roof, which was exactly twenty-three
feet three inches above the ship's line of flotation, and there watched
the mighty mountains that sported with the brave vessel. He was anxious
to ascertain the height of these majestic waves, but he found that the
crests rose so far above the horizon from the point where he was
standing, that it was utterly impossible, without gaining a greater
height for observation, that he could arrive at any just estimate on the
subject. His observations from the cuddy-roof proved, however, beyond a
doubt, that the majority of these rolling masses of water attained a
height of considerably more than twenty-four feet, measuring from the
trough of the sea to the crests of the waves. But the Professor was not
satisfied with this negative proof; and in the pursuit of his
interesting inquiry, did not feel inclined to be baffled. It is
impossible to know what the secret thoughts of the men at the wheel
were, when the valiant observer announced his intention of making the
best of his way from the cuddy-roof to the larboard paddle-box. Now he
was to be seen tumbling about with the motion of the ship; at one moment
clinging to a chain-box; at the next, throwing himself into the arms of
the second mate. Now he is buried in spray, and a few minutes afterward
his spare form is seen clinging to the rails which connect the
paddle-boxes.

Despite the storm without, a calm mathematical process is going on
within the mind of that ardent observer. The Professor knew he was
standing at a height of twenty-four feet nine inches above the flotation
mark of the ship: and allowing five feet six inches as the height of his
eye, he found the elevation he had obtained to be altogether thirty feet
three inches. He now waited till the vessel subsided fairly for a few
minutes into the trough of the sea in an even and upright position,
while the nearest approaching wave had its maximum altitude. Here he
found also, that at least one-half part of the wave intercepted by a
considerable elevation his view of the horizon. He declared that he
frequently observed long ranges extending one hundred yards on one or
both sides of the ship--the sea then coming right aft--which rose so
high above the visible horizon, as to form an angle estimated at two to
three degrees when the distance of the wave's crest, was about a hundred
yards off. This distance would add about thirteen feet to the level of
the eye. This immense elevation occurred about every sixth wave. Now and
then, when the course of a gigantic wave was impertinently interfered
with by another liquid giant, and they thundered together, their
breaking crests would shoot upward at least ten or fifteen feet
higher--about half the height of the monument--and then pour down a
mighty flood upon the poor Professor in revenge for his attempt to
measure their majesties. No quantity of salt water, however, could wash
him from his post, till he had satisfactorily proved, by accurate
observation, that the average wave which passed the vessel was fully
equal to the height of his eye--or thirty feet three inches--and that
the mean highest waves, not including the fighting or broken waves, were
about forty-three feet above the level of the hollow occupied at the
moment by the ship.

Satisfied at length of the truth of his observations, the Professor,
half-pickled by the salt water, and looking, it must be confessed, very
cold and miserable, descended to the cabin. Throughout dinner-time a
conversation was kept up between the Professor and the captain--the
latter appearing to be about the only individual on board who took any
interest whatever in these scientific proceedings. The ladies, one and
all, vowed that the Professor was a monster, only doing "all this stuff"
in mockery of their sufferings. Toward night the wind increased to a
hurricane; the ship trembled like a frightened child before the terrible
combat of the elements. Night, with her pall, closed in the scene: it
was a wild and solemn time. Toward morning the wind abated. For thirty
hours a violent northwest gale had swept over the heaving bosom of the
broad Atlantic.

This reflection hastened the dressing and breakfasting operations of the
Professor, who tumbled up on deck at about ten o'clock in the morning.
The storm had been subdued for several hours, and there was a visible
decrease in the height of the waves. He took up his old position on the
cuddy-roof, and soon observed, that, even then, when the sea was
comparatively quiet, ten waves overtook the vessel in succession, which
all rose above the apparent horizon; consequently they must have been
more than twenty-three feet--probably about twenty-six feet--from ridge
to hollow. From the larboard paddle-box, to which the Professor once
more scrambled, he observed that occasionally four or five waves in
succession rose above the visible horizon--hence they must have been
more than thirty feet waves. He also observed that the waves no longer
ran in long ridges, but presented more the form of cones of moderate
elongation.

Having so far satisfied himself as to the height of Atlantic waves in a
gale of wind (the Professor's estimate must not be taken as the
measurement of the highest known waves, but simply as that of a rough
Atlantic sea), he directed his attention to minuter and more difficult
observations. He determined to measure the period of time occupied by
the regular waves in overtaking the ship, their width from crest to
crest, and the rate of their traveling. The first point to be known was
the speed of the ship; this he ascertained to be nine knots. His next
object was to note her course in reference to the direction of the
waves. He found that the true course of the vessel was east, and that
the waves came from the west-northwest, so that they passed under the
vessel at a considerable angle. The length of the ship was stated to be
two hundred and twenty feet. Provided with this information the
Professor renewed his observations. He proceeded to count the seconds
the crest of a wave took to travel from stern to stem of the vessel;
these he ascertained to be six. He then counted the time which
intervened between the moment when one crest touched the stern of the
vessel, and the next touched it, and he found the average interval to
be sixteen seconds and a fraction. These results gave him at once the
width between crest and crest. As the crest traveled two hundred and
twenty feet (or the length of the vessel) in six seconds, and sixteen
seconds elapsed before the next crest touched the stern, it was clear
that the wave was nearly three times the length of the vessel; to write
accurately, there was a distance of six hundred and five feet from crest
to crest.

The Professor did not forget that the oblique course of the ship
elongated her line over the waves; this elongation he estimated at
forty-five feet, reducing the probable average distance between crest
and crest to five hundred and fifty-nine feet.

Being quite satisfied with the result of this experiment, the hardy
Professor, still balancing himself on his giddy height, to the wonder
and amusement of the sailors, found that the calculations he had already
made did not give him the actual velocity of the waves. A wave-crest
certainly passed from stern to stem in six seconds, but then the ship
was traveling in the same direction, at the rate of nine geographical
miles per hour, or 15.2 feet per second; this rate the Professor added
to the former measure, which gave 790.5 feet for the actual distance
traversed by the wave in 16.5 seconds, being at the rate of 32.67
English miles per hour. This computation was afterward compared with
calculations made from totally different data by Mr. Scott Russell, and
found to be quite correct.

With these facts the Professor scrambled from the larboard paddle-box of
the Hibernia. He had also made some observations on the forms of waves.
When the wind blows steadily from one point, they are generally regular;
but when it is high and gusty, and shifts from point to point, the sea
is broken up, and the waves take a more conical shape, and assume
fantastical crests. While the sea ran high, the Professor observed now
and then a ridge of waves extending from about a quarter to a third of a
mile in length, forming, as it were, a rampart of water. This ridge was
sometimes straight, and sometimes bent as of a crescent form, with the
central mass of water higher than the rest, and not unfrequently with
two or three semi-elliptical mounds in diminishing series on either side
of the highest peak.

When the wind had subsided, a few of the bolder passengers crawled upon
deck in the oddest imaginable costumes. They had not much to encounter,
for about a third part of the greater undulations averaged only
twenty-four feet, from crest to hollow, in height. These higher waves
could be seen and selected from the pigmy waves about them, at the
distance of a quarter of a mile from the ship.

The Professor had been very unpopular on board while the stormy weather
lasted, and the ladies had vowed that he was a sarcastic creature, who
_would_ have his little joke on the gravest calamities of life, but as
the waves decreased in bulk, and the wind lulled, and the sun shone,
and the men took off their oil-skin coats, and the cabin-windows were
opened, the frowns of the fair voyagers wore off. Perfect good-will was
general before the ship sighted Liverpool; and even the cook, as he
prepared the last dinner for the passengers, was heard to declare (in
confidence to one of the stokers) that, after all, there might be
something worth knowing in the Professor's observations.

When the Professor landed at Liverpool, he would, on no account, suffer
the carpet-bag, containing his calculations, to be taken out of his
sight. Several inquisitive persons, however, made the best use of their
own eyes, to ascertain the name of the extraordinary observer, and found
it to be legibly inscribed with the well-known name of Scoresby.

That his investigations may be the more readily impressed on the
reader's mind, we conclude with a summary of them. It would seem from
Dr. Scoresby's intrepid investigations, that the highest waves of the
Atlantic average in

  Altitude                                43 feet
  Mean Distance between each Wave        559  "
  Width from Crest to Crest              600  "
  Interval of Time between each wave      16 seconds
  Velocity of each Wave per hour          32-1/2 miles.




HOW TO KILL CLEVER CHILDREN.[24]


At any time in life, excessive and continued mental exertion is hurtful;
but in infancy and early youth, when the structure of the brain is still
immature and delicate, permanent injury is more easily produced by
injudicious treatment than at any subsequent period. In this respect,
the analogy is complete between the brain and the other parts of the
body, as is exemplified in the injurious effects of premature exercise
of the bones and muscles. Scrofulous and rickety children are the most
usual sufferers in this way. They are generally remarkable for large
heads, great precocity of understanding, and small, delicate bodies. But
in such instances, the great size of the brain, and the acuteness of the
mind, are the results of morbid growth, and even with the best
management, the child passes the first years of its life constantly on
the brink of active disease. Instead, however, of trying to repress its
mental activity, as they should, the fond parents, misled by the promise
of genius, too often excite it still further by unceasing cultivation
and the never-failing stimulus of praise; and finding its progress, for
a time, equal to their warmest wishes, they look forward with ecstasy to
the day when its talents will break forth and shed a lustre on their
name. But in exact proportion as the picture becomes brighter to their
fancy, the probability of its becoming realized becomes less; for the
brain, worn out by premature exertion, either becomes diseased or loses
its tone, leaving the mental powers feeble and depressed for the
remainder of life. The expected prodigy is thus, in the end, easily
outstripped in the social race by many whose dull outset promised him an
easy victory.

To him who takes for his guide the necessities of the constitution, it
will be obvious that the modes of treatment commonly resorted to should
in such cases be reversed; and that, instead of straining to the utmost
the already irritable powers of the precocious child, leaving his dull
competitors to ripen at leisure, a systematic attempt ought to be made,
from early infancy, to rouse to action the languid faculties of the
latter, while no pains should be spared to moderate and give tone to the
activity of the former. But instead of this, the prematurely intelligent
child is generally sent to school, and tasked with lessons at an
unusually early age, while the healthy but more backward boy, who
requires to be stimulated, is kept at home in idleness merely on account
of his backwardness. A double error is here committed, and the
consequences to the active-minded boy are not unfrequently the permanent
loss both of health and of his envied superiority of intellect.

In speaking of children of this description, Dr. Brigham, in an
excellent little work on the influence of mental excitement on health,
remarks as follows: "Dangerous forms of scrofulous disease among
children have repeatedly fallen under my observation, for which I could
not account in any other way than by supposing that the brain had been
excited at the expense of the other parts of the system, and at a time
in life when nature is endeavoring to perfect all the organs of the
body; and after the disease commenced, I have seen, with grief, the
influence of the same cause in retarding or preventing recovery. I have
seen several affecting and melancholy instances of children, five or six
years of age, lingering a while with diseases from which those less
gifted readily recover, and at last dying, notwithstanding the utmost
efforts to restore them. During their sickness they constantly
manifested a passion for books and mental excitement, and were admired
for the maturity of their minds. The chance for the recovery of such
precocious children is, in my opinion, small when attacked by disease;
and several medical men have informed me that their own observations had
led them to form the same opinion, and have remarked that, in two cases
of sickness, if one of the patients was a child of superior and
highly-cultivated mental powers, and the other one equally sick, but
whose mind had not been excited by study, they should feel less
confident of the recovery of the former than of the latter. This mental
precocity results from an unnatural development of one organ of the body
at the expense of the constitution."

There can be little doubt but that ignorance on the part of parents and
teachers, is the principal cause that leads to the too early and
excessive cultivation of the minds of children, and especially of such
as are precocious and delicate. Hence the necessity of imparting
instruction on this subject to both parents and teachers, and to all
persons who are in any way charged with the care and education of the
young. This necessity becomes the more imperative from the fact that the
cupidity of authors and publishers has led to the preparation of
"children's books," many of which are announced as purposely prepared
"for children from _two_ to _three_ years old!" I might instance
advertisements of "Infant Manuals" of botany, geometry, and astronomy!

In not a few isolated families, but in many neighborhoods, villages, and
cities, in various parts of the country, children _under three years of
age_ are not only required to commit to memory many verses, texts of
Scripture, and stories, but are frequently sent to school for six hours
a day. Few children are kept back later than the age of _four_, unless
they reside a great distance from school, and some not even then. At
home, too, they are induced by all sorts of excitements to learn
additional tasks, or peruse juvenile books and magazines, till the
nervous system becomes enfeebled, and the health broken. "I have
myself," says Dr. Brigham, "seen many children who are supposed to
possess almost miraculous mental powers, experiencing these effects and
sinking under them. Some of them died early, when but six or eight years
of age, but manifested to the last a maturity of understanding, which
only increased the agony of separation. Their minds, like some of the
fairest flowers were 'no sooner blown than blasted;' others have grown
up to manhood, but with feeble bodies and disordered nervous system,
which subjected them to hypochondriasis, dyspepsy, and all the Protean
forms of nervous disease; others of the class of early prodigies exhibit
in manhood but small mental powers, and are the mere passive instruments
of those who in early life were accounted far their inferiors."

This hot-bed system of education is not confined to the United States,
but is practiced less or more in all civilized countries. Dr. Combe, of
Scotland, gives an account of one of these early prodigies, whose fate
he witnessed. The circumstances were exactly such as those above
described. The prematurely developed intellect was admired, and
constantly stimulated by injudicious praise, and by daily exhibition to
every visitor who chanced to call. Entertaining books were thrown in its
way, reading by the fireside encouraged, play and exercise neglected,
the diet allowed to be full and heating, and the appetite pampered by
every delicacy. The results were the speedy deterioration of a weak
constitution, a high degree of nervous sensibility, deranged digestion,
disordered bowels, defective nutrition, and, lastly, _death_, at the
very time when the interest excited by the mental precocity was at its
height.

Such, however, is the ignorance of the majority of parents and teachers
on all physiological subjects, that when one of these infant prodigies
dies from erroneous treatment, it is not unusual to publish a memoir of
his life, that other parents and teachers may see by what means such
transcendent qualities were called forth. Dr. Brigham refers to a memoir
of this kind, in which the history of a child, aged four years and
eleven months, is narrated as approved by "several judicious persons,
ministers and others, all of whom united in the request that it might be
published, and all agreed in the opinion that a knowledge of the manner
in which the child was treated, together with the results, would be
profitable to both parents and children, and a benefit to the cause of
education." This infant philosopher was "taught hymns before he could
speak plainly;" "reasoned with," and constantly instructed until his
last illness, which, "_without any assignable cause_," put on a violent
and unexpected form, and carried him off!

As a _warning to others_ not to force education too soon or too fast,
this case may be truly profitable to both parents and children, and a
benefit to the cause of education; but _as an example to be followed_,
it assuredly can not be too strongly or too loudly condemned.


    FOOTNOTE:

    [24] From MAYHEW's Treatise on "Popular Education," soon to be
    issued from the press of Messrs. Harper and Brothers.




[From the Dublin University Magazine.]

MAURICE TIERNAY, THE SOLDIER OF FORTUNE.

(_Continued from Page 639._)


CHAPTER XVI.

"AN OLD GENERAL OF THE IRISH BRIGADE."

In obedience to an order which arrived at Saumur one morning in the July
of 1798, I was summoned before the commandant of the school, when the
following brief colloquy ensued:

"Maurice Tiernay," said he, reading from the record of the school, "why
are you called l'Irlandais?"

"I am Irish by descent, sir."

"Ha! by descent. Your father was then an Emigre?"

"No, sir--my great grandfather."

"_Parbleu!_ that is going very far back. Are you aware of the causes
which induced him to leave his native country?"

"They were connected with political troubles, I've heard, sir. He took
part against the English, my father told me, and was obliged to make his
escape to save his life."

"You then hate the English, Maurice?"

"My grandfather certainly did not love them, sir."

"Nor can you, boy, ever forgive their having exiled your family from
country and home: every man of honor retains the memory of such
injuries."

"I can scarcely deem that an injury, sir, which has made me a French
citizen," said I, proudly.

"True, boy--you say what is perfectly true and just; any sacrifice of
fortune or patrimony is cheap at such a price; still you have suffered a
wrong--a deep and irreparable wrong--and as a Frenchman you are ready to
avenge it."

Although I had no very precise notion, either as to the extent of the
hardships done me, nor in what way I was to demand the reparation, I
gave the assent he seemed to expect.

"You are well acquainted with the language, I believe?" continued he.

"I can read and speak English tolerably well, sir."

"But I speak of Irish, boy--of the language which is spoken by your
fellow-countrymen," said he, rebukingly.

"I have always heard, sir, that this has fallen into disuse, and is
little known, save among the peasantry in a few secluded districts."

He seemed impatient as I said this, and referred once more to the paper
before him, from whose minutes he appeared to have been speaking.

"You must be in error, boy. I find here that the nation is devotedly
attached to its traditions and its literature, and feels no injury
deeper than the insulting substitution of a foreign tongue for their own
noble language."

"Of myself I know nothing, sir; the little I have learned was acquired
when a mere child."

"Ah, then you probably forget, or may never have heard the fact; but it
is as I tell you. This, which I hold here, is the report of a
highly-distinguished and most influential personage, who lays great
stress upon the circumstance. I am sorry, Tiernay, very sorry, that you
are unacquainted with the language."

He continued for some minutes to brood over this disappointment, and, at
last, returned to the paper before him.

"The geography of the country--what knowledge have you on that subject?"

"No more, sir, than I may possess of other countries, and merely learned
from maps."

"Bad again," muttered he to himself. "Madyett calls these 'essentials;'
but we shall see." Then addressing me, he said, "Tiernay, the object of
my present interrogatory is to inform you that the Directory is about to
send an expedition to Ireland to assist in the liberation of that
enslaved people. It has been suggested that young officers and soldiers
of Irish descent might render peculiar service to the cause, and I have
selected you for an opportunity which will convert those worsted
epaulets into bullion."

This, at least, was intelligible news, and now I began to listen with
more attention.

"There is a report," said he, laying down before me a very capacious
manuscript, "which you will carefully peruse. Here are the latest
pamphlets setting forth the state of public opinion in Ireland; and here
are various maps of the coast, the harbors, and the strongholds of that
country, with all of which you may employ yourself advantageously; and
if, on considering the subject, you feel disposed to volunteer--for as
a volunteer only could your services be accepted--I will willingly
support your request by all the influence in my power."

"I am ready to do so at once, sir," said I, eagerly; "I have no need to
know any more than you have told me."

"Well said, boy; I like your ardor. Write your petition, and it shall be
forwarded to-day. I will also try and obtain for you the same regimental
rank you hold in the school"--I was a sergeant--"it will depend upon
yourself afterward to secure a further advancement. You are now free
from duty; lose no time, therefore, in storing your mind with every
possible information, and be ready to set out at a moment's notice."

"Is the expedition so nearly ready, sir?" asked I, eagerly.

He nodded, and with a significant admonition as to secrecy, dismissed
me, bursting with anxiety to examine the stores of knowledge before me,
and prepare myself with all the details of a plan in which already I
took the liveliest interest. Before the week expired, I received an
answer from the minister, accepting the offer of my services. The reply
found me deep in those studies, which I scarcely could bear to quit even
at meal-times. Never did I experience such an all-devouring passion for
a theme as on that occasion. "Ireland" never left my thoughts; her
wrongs and sufferings were everlastingly before me; all the cruelties of
centuries--all the hard tyranny of the penal laws--the dire injustice of
caste oppression--filled me with indignation and anger; while, on the
other hand, I conceived the highest admiration of a people who,
undeterred by the might and power of England, resolved to strike a great
blow for liberty.

The enthusiasm of the people--the ardent darings of a valor whose
impetuosity was its greatest difficulty--their high romantic
temperament--their devotion--their gratitude--the child-like
trustfulness of their natures, were all traits, scattered through the
various narratives, which invariably attracted me, and drew me more
strongly to their cause--even from affection than reason.

Madyett's memoir was filled with these, and he, I concluded, must know
them well, being, as it was asserted, one of the ancient nobility of the
land, and who now desired nothing better than to throw rank, privilege,
and title into the scale, and do battle for the liberty and equality of
his countrymen. How I longed to see this great man, whom my fancy
arrayed in all the attributes he so lavishly bestowed upon his
countrymen, for they were not only, in his description, the boldest and
the bravest, but the handsomest people of Europe.

As to the success of the enterprise, whatever doubts I had at first
conceived, from an estimate of the immense resources of England, were
speedily solved, as I read of the enormous preparations the Irish had
made for the struggle. The Roman Catholics, Madyett said, were three
millions, the Dissenters another million, all eager for freedom and
French alliance, wanting nothing but the appearance of a small armed
force to give them the necessary organization and discipline. They were
somewhat deficient, he acknowledged, in fire-arms--cannon they had none
whatever; but the character of the country, which consisted of
mountains, valleys, ravines, and gorges, reduced war to the mere
chivalrous features of personal encounter. What interminable
descriptions did I wade through of clubs and associations, the very
names of which were a puzzle to me--the great union of all appearing to
be a society called "Defenders," whose oath bound them to "fidelity to
the united nations of France and Ireland."

So much for the one side. For the other, it was asserted that the
English forces then in garrison in Ireland, were below contempt: the
militia, being principally Irish, might be relied on for taking the
popular side; and as to the Regulars, they were either "old men, or
boys," incapable of active service; and several of the regiments, being
Scotch, greatly disaffected to the government. Then, again, as to the
navy, the sailors in the English fleet were more than two-thirds
Irishmen, all Catholics, and all disaffected.

That the enterprise contained every element of success, then, who could
doubt? The nation, in the proportion of ten to one, were for the
movement. On their side lay not alone the wrongs to avenge, but the
courage, the energy, and the daring. Their oppressors were as weak as
tyrannical, their cause was a bad one, and their support of it a hollow
semblance of superiority.

If I read these statements with ardor and avidity, one lurking sense of
doubt alone obtruded itself on my reasonings. Why, with all these
guarantees of victory, with every thing that can hallow a cause, and
give it stability and strength--why did the Irish ask for aid? If they
were, as they alleged, an immense majority--if theirs was all the
heroism and the daring--if the struggle was to be maintained against a
miserably inferior force, weakened by age, incapacity, and
disaffection--what need had they of Frenchmen on their side? The answer
to all such doubts, however, was "the Irish were deficient in
organization."

Not only was the explanation a very sufficient one, but it served in a
high degree to flatter our vanity. We were, then, to be organizers of
Ireland; from us were they to take the lessons of civilization, which
should prepare them for freedom--ours was the task to discipline their
valor, and train their untaught intelligence. Once landed in the
country, it was to our standard they were to rally; from us were to go
forth the orders of every movement and measure; to us this new land was
to be an _Eldorado_. Madyett significantly hinted every where at the
unbounded gratitude of Irishmen; and more than hinted at the future fate
of certain confiscated estates. One phrase, ostentatiously set forth in
capitals, asserted that the best general of the French Republic could
not be any where employed with so much reputation and profit. There was,
then, every thing to stimulate the soldier in such an enterprise--honor,
fame, glory, and rich rewards were all among the prizes.

It was when deep in the midst of these studies poring over maps and
reports, taxing my memory with hard names, and getting off by heart
dates, distances, and numbers, that the order came for me to repair at
once to Paris, where the volunteers of the expedition were to assemble.
My rank of sergeant had been confirmed, and in this capacity, as "sous
officier," I was ordered to report myself to General Kilmaine, the
Adjutant-General of the expedition, then living in the "Rue
Chantereine." I was also given the address of a certain Lestaing--Rue
Tarbout--a tailor, from whom, on producing a certificate, I was to
obtain my new uniform.

Full as I was of the whole theme, thinking of the expedition by day, and
dreaming of it by night, I was still little prepared for the enthusiasm
it was at that very moment exciting in every society of the capital. For
some time previous a great number of Irish emigrants had made Paris
their residence; some were men of good position and ample fortune; some
were individuals of considerable ability and intelligence. All were
enthusiastic, and ardent in temperament--devotedly attached to their
country--hearty haters of England, and proportionately attached to all
that was French. These sentiments, coupled with a certain ease of
manner, and a faculty of adaptation, so peculiarly Irish, made them
general favorites in society; and long before the Irish question had
found any favor with the public, its national supporters had won over
the hearts and good wishes of all Paris to the cause.

Well pleased, then, as I was, with my handsome uniform of green and
gold, my small chapeau, with its plume of cock's feathers, and the
embroidered shamrock on my collar, I was not a little struck by the
excitement my first appearance in the street created. Accustomed to see
a hundred strange military costumes--the greater number, I own, more
singular than tasteful--the Parisians, I concluded, would scarcely
notice mine in the crowd. Not so, however; the print-shops had already
given the impulse to the admiration, and the "Irish Volunteer of the
Guard" was to be seen in every window, in all the "glory of his
bravery." The heroic character of the expedition, too, was typified by a
great variety of scenes, in which the artist's imagination had all the
credit. In one picture the "jeune Irlandais" was planting a national
flag of very capacious dimensions on the summit of his native mountains;
here he was storming "La chateau de Dublin," a most formidable fortress
perched on a rock above the sea; here he was crowning the heights of "La
citadelle de Cork," a very Gibraltar in strength, or he was haranguing
the native chieftains, a highly picturesque group--a cross between a
knight crusader and a south-sea islander.

My appearance, therefore, in the streets was the signal for general
notice and admiration, and more than one compliment was uttered,
purposely loud enough to reach me, on the elegance and style of my
equipment. In the pleasant flurry of spirits excited by this flattery, I
arrived at the general's quarters in the Rue Chantereine. It was
considerably before the time of his usual receptions, but the glitter of
my epaulets, and the air of assurance I had assumed, so far imposed upon
the old servant who acted as valet, that he at once introduced me into a
small saloon, and after a brief pause presented me to the general, who
was reclining on a sofa at his breakfast. Although far advanced in
years, and evidently broken by bad health, General Kilmaine still
preserved traces of great personal advantages, while his manner
exhibited all that polished ease and courtesy which was said to be
peculiar to the Irish gentleman of the French court. Addressing me in
English, he invited me to join his meal; and on my declining, as having
already breakfasted, he said, "I perceive, from your name, we are
countrymen; and as your uniform tells me the service in which you are
engaged, we may speak with entire confidence. Tell me then, frankly, all
that you know of the actual condition of Ireland."

Conceiving that this question applied to the result of my late studies,
and was meant to elicit the amount of my information, I at once began a
recital of what I had learned from the books and reports I had been
reading. My statistics were perfect--they had been gotten off by heart;
my sympathies were, for the same reason, most eloquent; my indignation
was boundless on the wrongs I deplored, and in fact, in the fifteen
minutes during which he permitted me to declaim without interruption, I
had gone through the whole "cause of Ireland," from Henry II. to George
III.

"You have been reading Mr. Madyett, I perceive," said he, with a smile;
"but I would rather hear something of your own actual experience. Tell
me, therefore, in what condition are the people at this moment, as
regards poverty?"

"I have never been in Ireland, general," said I, not without some shame
at the avowal coming so soon after my eloquent exhortation.

"Ah, I perceive," said he, blandly, "of Irish origin, and a relative
probably of that very distinguished soldier, Count Maurice de Tiernay,
who served in the Garde du Corps."

"His only son, general," said I, blushing with eagerness and pleasure at
the praise of my father.

"Indeed!" said he, smiling courteously, and seeming to meditate on my
words. "There was not a better nor a braver sabre in the corps than your
father--a very few more of such men might have saved the monarchy--as it
was, they dignified its fall. And to whose guidance and care did you
owe your early training, for I see you have not been neglected?"

A few words told him the principal events of my early years, to which he
listened with deep attention. At length he said, "And now you are about
to devote your acquirements and energy to this new expedition?"

"All, general! Every thing that I have is too little for such a cause."

"You say truly, boy," said he, warmly; "would that so good a cause had
better leaders. I mean," added he, hurriedly, "wiser ones. Men more
conversant with the actual state of events, more fit to cope with the
great difficulties before them, more ready to take advantage of
circumstances, whose outward meaning will often prove deceptive. In
fact, Irishmen of character and capacity, tried soldiers, and good
patriots. Well, well, let us hope the best. In whose division are you?"

"I have not yet heard, sir. I have presented myself here to-day to
receive your orders."

"There again is another instance of their incapacity," cried he,
passionately. "Why, boy, I have no command, nor any function. I did
accept office under General Hoche, but he is not to lead the present
expedition."

"And who is, sir?"

"I can not tell you. A week ago they talked of Grouchy, then of Hardy;
yesterday it was Humbert; to-day it may be Bonaparte, and to-morrow
yourself! Ay, Tiernay, this great and good cause has its national
fatality attached to it, and is so wrapped up in low intrigue and
falsehood, that every minister becomes in turn disgusted with the
treachery and mendacity he meets with, and bequeaths the question to
some official underling, meet partisan for the mock patriot he treats
with."

"But the expedition will sail, general?" asked I, sadly discomfited by
this tone of despondency.

He made me no answer, but sat for some time absorbed in his own
thoughts. At last he looked up, and said, "You ought to be in the army
of Italy, boy; the great teacher of war is there."

"I know it, sir, but my whole heart is in this struggle. I feel that
Ireland has a claim on all who derived even a name from her soil. Do you
not believe that the expedition will sail?"

Again he was silent and thoughtful.

"Mr. Madyett would say, Yes," said he, scornfully, "though, certes, he
would not volunteer to bear it company."

"Colonel Cherin, general!" said the valet, as he flung open the door for
a young officer in a staff-uniform. I arose at once to withdraw, but the
general motioned to me to wait in an adjoining room, as he desired to
speak with me again.

Scarcely five minutes had elapsed when I was summoned once more before
him.

"You have come at a most opportune moment, Tiernay," said he; "Colonel
Cherin informs me that an expedition is ready to sail from Rochelle at
the first favorable wind. General Humbert has the command; and if you
are disposed to join him I will give you a letter of presentation."

Of course I did not hesitate in accepting the offer; and while the
general drew over his desk to write the letter, I withdrew toward the
window to converse with Colonel Cherin.

"You might have waited long enough," said he, laughing, "if the affair
had been in other hands than Humbert's. The delays and discussions of
the official people, the difficulty of any thing like agreement, the
want of money, and fifty other causes, would have detained the fleet
till the English got scent of the whole. But Humbert has taken the short
road in the matter. He only arrived at La Rochelle five days ago, and
now he is ready to weigh anchor."

"And in what way has he accomplished this?" asked I, in some curiosity.

"By a method," replied he, laughing again, "which is usually reserved
for an enemy's country. Growing weary of a correspondence with the
minister, which seemed to make little progress, and urged on by the
enthusiastic stories of the Irish refugees, he resolved to wait no
longer; and so he has called on the merchants and magistrates to advance
him a sum on military requisition, together with such stores and
necessaries as he stands in need of."

"And they have complied?" asked I.

"Parbleu! that have they. In the first place, they had no other choice;
and in the second, they are but too happy to get rid of him and his
'Legion Noir,' as they are called, so cheaply. A thousand louis and a
thousand muskets would not pay for the damage of these vagabonds each
night they spent in the town."

I confess that this description did not tend to exalt the enthusiasm I
had conceived for the expedition; but it was too late for
hesitation--too late for even a doubt. Go forward I should, whatever
might come of it. And now the general had finished his letter, which,
having sealed and addressed, he gave into my hand, saying, "This will
very probably obtain you promotion, if not at once, at least on the
first vacancy. Good-by, my lad; there may be hard knocks going where you
will be, but I'm certain you'll not disgrace the good name you bear, nor
the true cause for which you are fighting. I would that I had youth and
strength to stand beside you in the struggle. Good-by."

He shook me affectionately by both hands; the colonel, too, bade me
adieu not less cordially; and I took my leave with a heart overflowing
with gratitude and delight.


CHAPTER XVII.

LA ROCHELLE.

La Rochelle is a quiet little town at the bottom of a small bay, the
mouth of which is almost closed up by two islands. There is a sleepy,
peaceful air about the place--a sort of drowsy languor pervades every
thing and every body about it, that tells of a town whose days of busy
prosperity have long since passed by, and which is dragging out life,
like some retired tradesman--too poor for splendor, but rich enough to
be idle. A long avenue of lime-trees incloses the harbor; and here the
merchants conduct their bargains, while their wives, seated beneath the
shade, discuss the gossip of the place over their work. All is
patriarchal and primitive as Holland itself; the very courtesies of life
exhibiting that ponderous stateliness which insensibly reminds one of
the land of <DW18>s and broad breeches. It is the least "French" of any
town I have ever seen in France; none of that light merriment, that gay
volatility of voice and air which form the usual atmosphere of a French
town. All is still, orderly, and sombre; and yet on the night in
which--something more than fifty years back--I first entered it, a very
different scene was presented to my eyes.

It was about ten o'clock; and by a moon nearly full, the diligence
rattled along the covered ways of the old fortress, and crossing many a
moat and draw-bridge, the scenes of a once glorious struggle, entered
the narrow streets, traversed a wide place, and drew up within the ample
portals of "La Poste."

Before I could remove the wide capote which I wore, the waiter ushered
me into a large salon where a party of about forty persons were seated
at supper. With a few exceptions they were all military officers, and
sous-officiers of the expedition, whose noisy gayety and boisterous
mirth sufficiently attested that the entertainment had begun a
considerable time before.

A profusion of bottles, some empty, others in the way to become so,
covered the table, amidst which lay the fragments of a common
table-d'hote supper--large dishes of segars and basins of tobacco
figuring beside the omelettes and the salad.

The noise, the crash, the heat, the smoke, and the confusion--the
clinking of glasses, the singing, and the speech-making, made a scene of
such turmoil and uproar, that I would gladly have retired to some
quieter atmosphere, when suddenly an accidental glimpse of my uniform
caught some eyes among the revelers, and a shout was raised of "Holloa,
comrades! here's one of the 'Gardes' among us." And at once the whole
assembly rose up to greet me. For full ten minutes I had to submit to a
series of salutations, which led to every form, from hand-shaking and
embracing to kissing; while, perfectly unconscious of any cause for my
popularity, I went through the ceremonies like one in a dream.

"Where's Kilmaine?" "What of Hardy?" "Is Grouchy coming?" "Can the Brest
fleet sail?" "How many line-of-battle ships have they?" "What's the
artillery force?" "Have you brought any money?" This last question, the
most frequent of all, was suddenly poured in upon me, and with a
fortunate degree of rapidity, that I had no time for a reply, had I even
the means of making one.

"Let the lad have a seat and a glass of wine before he submits to this
interrogatory," said a fine, jolly-looking old chef-d'escadron at the
head of the table, while he made a place for me at his side. "Now, tell
us, boy, what number of the Gardes are to be of our party?"

I looked a little blank at the question, for in truth I had not heard of
the corps before, nor was I aware that it was their uniform I was then
wearing.

"Come, come, be frank with us, lad," said he; "we are all comrades here.
Confound secrecy, say I."

"Ay, ay!" cried the whole assembly together--"confound secrecy. We are
not bandits nor highwaymen; we have no need of concealment."

"I'll be as frank as you can wish, comrades," said I; "and if I lose
some importance in your eyes by owning that I am not the master of a
single state secret, I prefer to tell you so, to attempting any unworthy
disguise. I come here, by orders from General Kilmaine, to join your
expedition; and except this letter for General Humbert, I have no claim
to any consideration whatever."

The old chef took the letter from my hands and examined the seal and
superscription carefully, and then passed the document down the table
for the satisfaction of the rest.

While I continued to watch with anxious eyes the letter on which so much
of my own fate depended, a low whispering conversation went on at my
side, at the end of which the chef said:

"It's more than likely, lad, that your regiment is not coming; but our
general is not to be balked for that. Go he will; and let the government
look to themselves if he is not supported. At all events, you had better
see General Humbert at once; there's no saying what that dispatch may
contain. Santerre, conduct him up stairs."

A smart young fellow arose at the bidding, and beckoned me to follow
him.

It was not without difficulty that we forced our way up stairs, down
which porters, and sailors, and soldiers were now carrying a number of
heavy trunks and packing-cases. At last we gained an ante-room, where
confusion seemed at its highest, crowded as it was by soldiers, the
greater number of them intoxicated, and all in a state of riotous and
insolent insubordination. Among these were a number of the townspeople,
eager to prefer complaints for outrage and robbery, but whose subdued
voices were drowned amid the clamor of their oppressors. Meanwhile,
clerks were writing away receipts for stolen and pillaged articles, and
which, signed with the name of the general, were grasped at with eager
avidity. Even personal injuries were requited in the same cheap fashion,
orders on the national treasury being freely issued for damaged noses
and smashed heads, and gratefully received by the confiding populace.

"If the wind draws a little more to the southward before morning, we'll
pay our debts with the top-sail sheet, and it will be somewhat shorter,
and to the full as honest," said a man in a naval uniform.

"Where's the officer of the 'Regiment des Guides,'" cried a soldier from
the door at the further end of the room; and before I had time to think
over the designation of rank given me, I was hurried into the general's
presence.

General Humbert, whose age might have been thirty-eight or forty, was a
tall, well-built, but somewhat over-corpulent man; his features frank
and manly, but with a dash of coarseness in their expression,
particularly about the mouth; a sabre-cut, which had divided the upper
lip, and whose cicatrix was then seen through his mustache, heightening
the effect of his sinister look; his carriage was singularly erect and
soldierlike, but all his gestures betrayed the habits of one who had
risen from the ranks, and was not unwilling to revive the recollection.

He was parading the room from end to end when I entered, stopping
occasionally to look out from an open window upon the bay, where by the
clear moonlight might be seen the ships of the fleet at anchor. Two
officers of his staff were writing busily at a table, whence the
materials of a supper had not been removed. They did not look up as I
came forward, nor did he notice me in any way for several minutes.
Suddenly he turned toward me, and snatching the letter I held in my
hand, proceeded to read it. A burst of coarse laughter broke from him as
he perused the lines; and then throwing down the paper on the table, he
cried out,

"So much for Kilmaine's contingent. I asked for a company of engineers
and a battalion of 'les Gardes,' and they send me a boy from the
cavalry-school of Saumur. I tell them that I want some fellows
conversant with the language and the people, able to treat with the
peasantry, and acquainted with their habits, and here I have got a raw
youth whose highest acquirement, in all likelihood, is to daub a map
with water-colors, or take fortifications with a pair of compasses! I
wish I had some of these learned gentlemen in the trenches for a few
hours. Parbleu! I think I could teach them something they'd not learn
from Citizen Carnot. Well, sir," said he, turning abruptly toward me,
"how many battalions of the 'Guides' are completed?"

"I can not tell, general," was my timid answer.

"Where are they stationed?"

"Of that also I am ignorant, sir."

"Peste!" cried he, stamping his foot passionately; then suddenly
checking his anger, he asked, "How many are there coming to join this
expedition? Is there a regiment, a battalion, a company? Can you tell me
with certainty that a sergeant's guard is on the way hither?"

"I can not, sir; I know nothing whatever about the regiment in
question."

"You have never seen it?" cried he, vehemently.

"Never, sir."

"This exceeds all belief," exclaimed he, with a crash of his closed fist
upon the table. "Three weeks letter-writing! Estafettes, orderlies, and
special couriers to no end! And here we have an unfledged cur from a
cavalry institute, when I asked for a strong reinforcement. Then what
brought you here, boy?"

"To join your expedition, general."

"Have they told you it was a holiday-party that we had planned? Did they
say it was a junketing we were bent upon?"

"If they had, sir, I would not have come."

"The greater fool _you_, then! that's all," cried he, laughing; "when I
was your age, I'd not have hesitated twice between a merry-making and a
bayonet-charge."

While he was thus speaking, he never ceased to sign his name to every
paper placed before him by one or other of the secretaries.

"No, parbleu!" he went on, "La maitresse before the mitraille any day
for me. But what's all this, Girard. Here I'm issuing orders upon the
national treasury for hundreds of thousands without let or compunction."

The aid-de-camp whispered a word or two in a low tone.

"I know it, lad; I know it well," said the general, laughing heartily;
"I only pray that all our requisitions may be as easily obtained in
future. Well, Monsieur le Garde, what are we to do with you."

"Not refuse me, I hope, general," said I, diffidently.

"Not refuse you, certainly; but in what capacity to take you, lad,
that's the question. If you had served--if you had even walked a
campaign--"

"So I have, general--this will show you where I have been;" and I handed
him the "livret" which every soldier carries of his conduct and career.

He took the book, and casting his eyes hastily over it, exclaimed,

"Why, what's this lad? You've been at Kehl, at Emenendingen, at
Rorshach, at Huyningen, through all that Black Forest affair with
Moreau! You _have_ seen smoke, then. Ay! I see honorable mention of you
besides, for readiness in the field and zeal during action. What! more
brandy! Girard. Why, our Irish friends must have been exceedingly
thirsty. I've given them credit for something like ten thousand 'velts'
already! No matter, the poor fellows may have to put up with short
rations for all this yet--and there goes my signature once more. What
does that blue light mean, Girard?" said he, pointing to a bright blue
star that shone from a mast of one of the ships of war.

"That is the signal, general, that the embarkation of the artillery is
complete."

"Parbleu!" said he, with a laugh, "it need not have taken long; they've
given in two batteries of eights, and one of them has not a gun fit for
service. There goes a rocket, now. Isn't that the signal to heave short
on the anchors? Yes, to be sure. And now it is answered by the other!
Ha! lads, this does look like business at last!"

The door opened as he spoke, and a naval officer entered.

"The wind is drawing round to the south, general; we can weigh with the
ebb if you wish it."

"Wish it!--if I wish it! Yes, with my whole heart and soul I do! I am
just as sick of La Rochelle as is La Rochelle of me. The salute that
announces our departure will be a 'feu-de-joie' to both of us. Ay, sir,
tell your captain that I need no further notice than that _he_ is ready.
Girard, see to it that the marauders are sent on board in irons. The
fellows must learn at once that discipline begins when we trip our
anchors. As for you," said he, turning to me, "you shall act upon my
staff with provisional rank as sous-lieutenant: time will show if the
grade should be confirmed. And now hasten down to the quay, and put
yourself under Colonel Lerrasin's orders."

Colonel Lerrasin, the second in command, was, in many respects, the very
opposite of Humbert. Sharp, petulant, and irascible, he seemed quite to
overlook the fact, that, in an expedition which was little better than a
foray, there must necessarily be a great relaxation of the rules of
discipline, and many irregularities at least winked at, which, in
stricter seasons, would call for punishment. The consequence was, that a
large proportion of our force went on board under arrest, and many
actually in irons. The Irish were, without a single exception, all
drunk; and the English soldiers, who had procured their liberation from
imprisonment on condition of joining the expedition, had made
sufficiently free with the brandy-bottle to forget their new alliance,
and vent their hatred of France and Frenchmen in expressions whose only
alleviation was, that they were nearly unintelligible.

Such a scene of uproar, discord, and insubordination never was seen. The
relative conditions of guard and prisoner elicited national animosities
that were scarcely even dormant, and many a bloody encounter took place
between those whose instinct was too powerful to feel themselves any
thing but enemies. A cry, too, was raised, that it was meant to betray
the whole expedition to the English, whose fleet, it was asserted, had
been seen off Oleron, that morning; and although there was not even the
shadow of a foundation for the belief, it served to increase the alarm
and confusion. Whether originating or not with the Irish, I can not say,
but certainly they took advantage of it to avoid embarking; and now
began a schism which threatened to wreck the whole expedition, even in
the harbor.

The Irish, as indifferent to the call of discipline as they were
ignorant of French, refused to obey orders save from officers of their
own country; and, although Lerrasin ordered two companies to "load with
ball and fire low," the similar note for preparation from the
insurgents, induced him to rescind the command and try a compromise. In
this crisis I was sent by Lerrasin to fetch what was called the
"Committee," the three Irish deputies who accompanied the force. They
had already gone aboard of the Dedalus, little foreseeing the
difficulties that were to arise on shore.

Seated in a small cabin next the wardroom, I found these three
gentlemen, whose names were Tone, Teeling, and Sullivan. Their attitudes
were gloomy and despondent, and their looks anything but encouraging, as
I entered. A paper on which a few words had been scrawled, and signed
with their three names underneath, lay before them, and on this their
eyes were bent with a sad and deep meaning. I knew not then what it
meant, but I afterward learned that it was a compact formally entered
into and drawn up, that if, by the chance of war, they should fall into
the enemy's hands, they would anticipate their fate by suicide, but
leave to the English government all the ignominy and disgrace of their
death.

They seemed scarcely to notice me as I came forward, and even when I
delivered my message they heard it with a half indifference.

"What do you want us to do, sir?" said Teeling, the eldest of the party.
"We hold no command in the service. It was against our advice and
counsel that you accepted these volunteers at all. We have no influence
over them."

"Not the slightest," broke in Tone. "These fellows are bad soldiers and
worse Irishmen. The expedition will do better without them."

"And _they_ better without the expedition," muttered Sullivan, drily.

"But you will come, gentlemen, and speak to them," said I. "You can at
least assure them that their suspicions are unfounded."

"Very true, sir," replied Sullivan, "we can do so, but with what
success? No, no. If you can't maintain discipline here on your own soil,
you'll make a bad hand of doing it when you have your foot on Irish
ground. And, after all, I for one am not surprised at the report gaining
credence."

"How so, sir," asked I, indignantly.

"Simply that when a promise of fifteen thousand men dwindles down to a
force of eight hundred; when a hundred thousand stand of arms come to be
represented by a couple of thousand; when an expedition, pledged by a
government, has fallen down to a marauding party; when Hoche or
Kleber--But never mind, I always swore that if you sent but a corporal's
guard, I'd go with them."

A musket-shot here was heard, followed by a sharp volley and a cheer,
and, in an agony of anxiety, I rushed to the deck. Although above half a
mile from the shore, we could see the movement of troops hither and
thither, and hear the loud words of command. Whatever the struggle, it
was over in a moment, and now we saw the troops descending the steps to
the boats. With an inconceivable speed the men fell into their places,
and, urged on by the long sweeps, the heavy launches swept across the
calm water of the bay.

If a cautious reserve prevented any open questioning as to the late
affray, the second boat which came alongside revealed some of its
terrible consequences. Seven wounded soldiers were assisted up the side
by their comrades, and in total silence conveyed to their station
between decks.

"A bad augury this!" muttered Sullivan, as his eye followed them. "They
might as well have left that work for the English!"

A swift six-oar boat, with the tricolor flag floating from a flag-staff
at her stern, now skimmed along toward us, and as she came nearer, we
could recognize the uniforms of the officers of Humbert's staff, while
the burly figure of the general himself was soon distinguishable in the
midst of them.

As he stepped up the ladder, not a trace of displeasure could be seen on
his broad bold features. Greeting the assembled officers with a smile,
he asked how the wind was?

"All fair, and freshening at every moment," was the answer.

"May it continue!" cried he, fervently. "Welcome a hurricane, if it only
waft us westward!"

The foresail filled out as he spoke, the heavy mass heaved over to the
wind, and we began our voyage.

(_To be continued._)




[From Colburn's Magazine.]

THE WAHR-WOLF; OR, THE LOVERS OF HUNDERSDORF.


There are few rambles that so well repay the summer wanderer who seeks
for novelty, after the fatigues of a London season, as a voyage down the
Danube from Ratisbon to Vienna. In the days when the charming "Lady
Mary" passed along the swelling waters of the dark river in one of the
"wooden houses" which she found so convenient, the romantic solitudes of
the majestic Boehmer-wald had never been disturbed by the hissing of
steam; and swiftly as her boat glided onward between the solemn banks of
the then little frequented stream, the pace of the steamer which now
bears the traveler to his destination, would shame the rowers of the
enterprising embassadress, and leave her far behind.

The native boats, _Weitz-zille_, are not, however, altogether banished
from the watery way which they traversed alone but a few years since;
and very picturesque is it to meet them as they float lazily on, urged
by their two rowers, and guided by primitive-looking paddles. Many are
the long, deal, raft-shaped vessels which still convey goods from one
town to another; and strange do they appear with their sides painted
with broad black stripes, some of them upward of a hundred feet long.

From the deck of the narrow and elongated steamer the traveler can now
with proud pity watch those relics of a simple period, and congratulate
himself that his course is both swifter and surer.

A party of strangers from Ratisbon had taken their places on board the
steam-packet, and were rapidly clearing the waters beneath the rock of
Donaustauf, gazing with admiration on the evidence of two eras presented
in the gray ruins of the formidable middle-age fortress which crowns one
height, and the piled-up white marble blocks of the recently completed
temple of Valhalla, which shines so gloriously on the other, fairly
eclipsing its antique brother, and lording it over the spreading waters,
in which the image of its snowy columns lies reflected.

There were travelers of many nations on board, and all, attracted by the
sudden vision of this magnificent structure, fraternized to welcome it
with exclamations of delight, uttered in various languages. Germans,
French, and English were alike carried away with admiration; and those
who had already beheld its wonders within became quite eloquent in
describing to their neighbors the treasures with which this
unapproachably splendid temple is filled to overflowing.

This incident, at the very beginning of the voyage, made most of the
passengers acquainted, so that the usual coldness and reserve common to
northern nations was at once swept away, and animated conversation
ensued. Among the passengers were two young Englishmen, who had been
pointed out to the party leaving Ratisbon, by the porter of the Goldene
Kreutz--(the house in which it is said Don Juan of Austria, the famous
son of Charles V., was born in secrecy)--as "milors," though their
weather-worn costumes gave but little idea of the importance of their
station; they had attached themselves to a stately but courteous
Bohemian baron, who, with a train of servants and carriages more than
commonly well-appointed, was on his way to his castle situated opposite
Vilshofen on the left bank of the river.

The baron was well acquainted with every nook and corner in every valley
of the winding Danube; and as he was full of good-humor, and described
well, and, besides, was flattered at the interest his hearers took in
his conversation, he enlivened the voyage by a continuous narration of
circumstances which had fallen under his observation.

A legend seldom comes amiss to an Englishman, and enthusiasm is never
wanting in his mind for magnificent scenery, such as abounds on this
glorious river, which possesses much of the beauty of the Rhine, and
superior grandeur and sublimity. Perhaps its waters are scarcely so
abounding, or its bed so filled to the brim, as that of the Rhine
throughout its course; but, at times, one is half inclined to give the
palm, even in this respect, to the more majestic rival of the beautiful
torrent now so familiar to tourists as to have become an unappreciated
treasure of picturesque riches.

The baron directed the attention of his companions to all that was wild
and striking in the scenes around them. As they passed Straubing he told
the sad tale of poor Agnes Bernauer, the Agnes de Castro of the Danube,
whose fate was even more terrible. The Englishmen shuddered as they
looked on the spot where the old bridge stood, from whence the fair
unfortunate was cast, and felt inclined to reproach the very waves which
submitted to assist the crime of the cruel wretch whose hook dragged the
shrieking beauty under water, and drowned her as she struggled to reach
the shore.

He told stories of the dark Bogenberg, as they now approached, now lost
it in the windings of the capricious river; and related how the Emperor
Charlemagne had visited a holy hermit there, whom he beheld, after
cutting down a tree, hang his ax upon a sunbeam, a feat frequently
performed by saints, who, in days of yore, seemed to have no other pegs
for their mantles, caps, &c.

His Satanic Majesty also figured as a conspicuous actor in the baron's
legends, and the evidences of his prowess are sufficiently remarkable,
it must be confessed, in these regions.

For instance, it would be absurd to imagine any influence but that of
the foul fiend could have been exerted to place the perpendicular rock
of Natternberg in the way of the steamer, rising up suddenly, as it
does, several hundred feet above the waters, and exhibiting on its
rugged summit the ruins of the famous castle of Bogen, to reach which
must have required help from the bad spirit himself, perched thus high
out of reach. The lords of this castle were, however, such zealous
worshipers of his, that doubtless he was not niggardly to them in
lending a helping hand when called upon.

It was while the steamer was gliding past the village of Hundersdorf,
which lies at the embouchure of the stream of Kinzach, that the baron
bethought himself of a circumstance which occasioned him to smile, as he
exclaimed,

"There is nothing very striking, you will say, in that little place; but
a story was once told me concerning it which gives it a sort of fearful
interest. But I have already tired you with too many of my legends, and
will spare you this."

"By no means," said one of the Englishmen. "We can not let you off so.
Of course, in a place so close to the mysterious Bogenberg, there must
be something more than common."

"Oh, if you really like to hear what attracts me toward this
insignificant village," replied the baron, "I am ready to tell the story
as it was told to me."

His auditors, grouping themselves round him as he spoke, he accordingly
continued as follows:

After a gloomy cold day the evening set in chill and dreary, and in
spite of all the efforts I had made to reach Vilshofen before dark, I
found myself, owing to various vexatious delays, benighted in one of
the desolate passes of the majestic mountain range which borders the
left bank of the Danube. The gloom became every moment deeper and
deeper, and to proceed appeared almost impracticable; however, as the
prospect of passing the night in the woods held out but small
temptation, I urged my people forward, and accordingly we drove rapidly
on, hoping at least to reach some spot more sheltered than the spectral
valley where we found ourselves. Our haste was of little avail; the
spirits of the mountains seemed to laugh our efforts to scorn; and to
prove how much travelers are in their power, they so contrived it that
the wheels of my carriage coming in contact with a heap of rugged
stones, a violent overturn took place, and our further progress was
altogether stopped. We had no choice now but to kindle a fire under a
huge tree, dispose our cloaks and baggage so as to afford us some
protection from the night air, and wait for dawn before we attempted to
trust ourselves again in the shattered vehicle.

Resolving to submit with a good grace to our misfortune, we produced our
stock of provisions, which hunger made particularly palatable. The fire
soon blazed cheerfully; and as masters and men drew round it, we began
to think our adventure less woeful than we at first considered it. It
was agreed that those of our party who were the most fatigued should
endeavor to procure some sleep, while the watchful should nurse the
useful flame which not only warmed but might protect us from the visits
of wild animals, should any be attracted toward our neighborhood. We had
with us a stout Bavarian, whose lively eyes told that he had little more
inclination to sleep than myself: he and I therefore seated ourselves on
the knotted roots of the ancient oak, and to beguile the time I asked
him some particulars of the country, new at that time to me, but with
which he seemed well acquainted. We are at this moment passing the
places he named; and he said he had traversed these mountains during
many years, indeed, had we followed his advice at Straubing, we had not
then been sitting by the fire, benighted wanderers, listening to him as
you now listen to me.

"It is unlucky," said the Bavarian, "that there is no moon, for these
heights look well in her broad light and shade; I could otherwise point
out to you many a remarkable spot hereabouts. On the summit of the
highest of these mountains stand the ruins of the famous Stammschloss of
Bogenberg, once belonging to the powerful counts of that race, who
lorded it over all the country they could see from their strong-hold,
far into Bohemia. But it is long since their revels are over, and all is
silent enough in those walls, except on the festivals of the
Wahr-wolves, and then indeed there is such a noise and riot that one
might think the old knights and their vassals were once more engaged in
contest with their ancient enemies of Ortenburg."

"What mean you," asked I, "by the Wahr-wolves?"

He stared with astonishment.

"Is it possible," said he, "that you have not heard of them? They are
certainly more rare of late years, yet there are still too many in the
country."

"Are they banditti?" said I, instinctively laying my hand on my pistol.

"Not so," he replied; "since you seem so surprised I will explain. A
Wahr-wolf is a man who has entered into a compact with the Black
Huntsman, which enables him to change his human shape for that of a
wolf, and resume his own form at will. There are many men whom you would
never suspect of such a thing who are known to be of the fraternity.
They meet sometimes in bands and scour the country, doing more mischief
than natural wolves, for when they get into a farm they make wild havoc,
and are mighty beer-drinkers; sometimes, not content with drinking up
all the beer they can find, they pile up the empty barrels in the middle
of the cellar, and go off howling loud enough to scare the whole
country. You smile, but I know a fact relating to one of them which many
besides myself can vouch for as having occurred. A farmer from
Straubing, with some of his people, was passing through these very
mountains, and being overtaken by night, as we are, but not like us
furnished with provisions, one of his men offered to procure some food,
if they would all promise not to tell how he did it. Whereupon he went
away, and in a short time they heard the howling of a wolf; presently
one came in sight bearing a sheep which he had killed. They ran to hide
themselves, but he quietly laid down his prey, and, turning about, ran
off to the heights. Their companion returned not long after, quite out
of breath and much fatigued. They proceeded to cut up and roast part of
the slaughtered animal; but none of them would hold fellowship with the
man afterward, because they knew him at once to be a Wahr-wolf."

"Do you really credit this?" said I; "and could you suspect a companion
of so incredible a propensity?"

"When I tell you what was witnessed and recounted to me by my own
father," said the Bavarian, with great gravity, "you will allow that I
have reasons for my belief.

"Hundersdorf is the native place of our family, and there, when my
father was quite young, lived a mother and her two daughters, Margaret
and Agatha. The first was soon married to a worthy man, a farmer, who by
ill-luck took into his service a young fellow named Augustin Schultes.
No one, to look at him, would have thought his face boded aught but
good, he was so handsome, so gay, and obliging.

"It was not long before he fell in love with the pretty Agatha, who was
the general favorite of the village, though somewhat proud and shy. At
first she looked down upon the servant of her brother-in-law, but by
degrees was won by his insinuating behavior, for women seldom look
beyond the outside. Her mother, however, would not listen to his or her
entreaties, and nothing but weeping, scolding, and discontent was to be
found in the cottage. All on a sudden every thing seemed altered; and
whereas Augustin never dared to cross the threshold of their house, he
was now a constant guest. By-and-by he left off service and bought a bit
of land of his own and some sheep, having had, according to his own
report, a legacy left him. This latter circumstance explained the change
in the behavior of Agatha's mother, for a poor suitor and a rich one are
widely different persons, and many who had never said a word in
Augustin's favor, now came forward with offers of friendship. Heinrich
Ziegler, however, an unsuccessful lover of Agatha's, was still heard on
all occasions to speak slightingly of Augustin, throwing out hints that
his money was not got in an honest way, so that his insinuations filled
the minds of the neighbors with suspicions which they could not account
for. Some thought he dealt in magic, or had found the Great Secret; but
none imagined the truth, which at last came to light.

"It happened one evening that my father was returning from work, and had
to pass through a small wood which leads to the village; and, as the
shades began to fall, he hurried on, because there are many strange
things happen in these places which no good Christian should care to
look upon. Suddenly he heard voices not far off, and, as he thought he
recognized them, he stopped to ascertain, when he clearly distinguished
those of Heinrich and Augustin, at least so it seemed to him.

"'Augustin,' said the former, 'it is of no use; if you do not resign her
I will tell the whole truth, and force you to give her up; for as soon
as it is known what you are--'

"'Tush!' interrupted the other, 'what better are you yourself? Did we
not take the oath together, and are not you as deeply implicated as I
am. Our master provides us with all we want, and our duty is not so very
hard.'

"'I tell you,' muttered Heinrich, sullenly, 'my duty is much worse than
yours; the worst of yours is over, mine is but begun. Am I not obliged
to scour the country in the darkest night _to bring sheep to your
fold_?'

"My father shuddered, a fearful suspicion darkened his mind, which was
soon confirmed by what followed. Heinrich continued:

"'You get the reward and I the pain; but I will no longer endure it;
either give me up the gold you obtain through my means, or give me up
Agatha.'

"They then spoke together, too low to be heard, but my father gathered
enough to learn that Augustin promised to take from his comrade the hard
duty he complained of being obliged to perform at night; and still
muttering to each other words of import which my father could not
comprehend, they passed on, and he, terrified and his hair bristling
with horror, hurried through the wood and reached home he scarcely knew
how.

"He resolved to watch the proceedings of the two comrades narrowly, and
in a little time observed that Augustin's looks were much impaired;
that he went about in the daytime fatigued and haggard, while Heinrich,
who before was dull and heavy, assumed a more cheerful aspect. At length
the time was fixed for the marriage of Agatha and Augustin, and as it
approached he felt greatly disturbed, on considering the conversation he
had overheard: he tried to persuade himself that he had mistaken the
voices or the words, but he still could not divest himself of the
conviction that the two men whose mysterious words he had listened to
were no other than Augustin and Heinrich, and they were, beyond all
possibility of doubt, Wahr-wolves!

"The day before the wedding was to take place, he directed his steps to
the cottage, and there found Agatha's mother alone; she was sitting in
the window, with a face of wonder and alarm, and held in her hand a
small piece of paper, which, as he entered, she handed to him.

"'Read this,' said she; 'you are an old friend, advise me what to do to
save my poor child.'

"On the paper was written, 'Let Agatha fly from the Wahr-wolf.'

"My father turned pale, and on the widow's earnest entreaties that he
would assist her with his advice, he related all he knew. Great was her
amazement and despair; the more so, as she felt certain that Agatha
would never credit the fact, and must inevitably fall a sacrifice. While
we were in this perplexity, we were startled by the sudden appearance of
Heinrich. His face was very pale, and his eyes wild.

"'You doubtless wonder,' said he, 'to see me here, and the more so when
I tell you that I come as a saviour to your daughter. I alone have the
means of delivering her, and if you will confide in me, she shall escape
the fate which hangs over her.'

"He then proceeded to relate that, won over by the deceitful persuasions
of Augustin, he had consented to become his companion in his unhallowed
proceedings; but, having repented, he now resolved to reveal the wicked
practices of his late friend; and if the mother of Agatha would be
guided by him, he would deliver her daughter from all harm. After much
difficulty the mother, by my father's persuasions, at last agreed to
trust him, as no better means offered; and accordingly, having obliged
Heinrich to take a solemn oath of his sincerity, they resolved to
assemble several neighbors, and to put themselves under the guidance of
this new friend.

"It was night when the whole party met, not far from the gate of
Augustin's cottage. Heinrich advanced first, and, at a signal from him,
every man concealed himself till it was observed that Augustin came out
of the house, and proceeded cautiously onward till he reached the
cemetery just without the village; the watchful band still close on his
track.

"He there began to undress himself, and having done so, hid his clothes
under a grave-stone. Scarcely had he finished this arrangement, when
the hoarse cry of a raven seemed to startle him, and the sound was
presently answered by a low howl, when, to the inexpressible horror of
all present, a hideous wolf rushed forth, as if from the tombs, and was
lost in the surrounding gloom.

"No one could stir from the spot where each stood but Heinrich, who
darted toward the place where the garments were hid, and drawing them
forth, wrapped them in a heap, and calling to the petrified group who
looked on, bade them follow. They did so, and having returned to the
village, prepared to complete the directions of Heinrich, who ordered a
large fire to be made, into which all the clothes were thrown; but, to
the surprise of all, among them was discovered the hood and vail of a
female. They were burned with the rest, and as the last spark of the
fire died away, the face of Heinrich seemed to have caught its glow, so
fierce was the expression of his eyes, as he exclaimed,

"'Now the work of vengeance is complete; now the Black Huntsman has his
own!'

"He told the trembling lookers-on that on the destruction of these
habiliments depended the Wahr-wolf's power of resuming his human shape,
which had now become quite impossible.

"After all these ceremonies, each person returned to his respective
dwelling; but my father was unable to obtain a moment's rest all night,
for the continual shrieking of a raven close to his window. As day
dawned the annoyance ceased, and he rose the next morning hoping all he
had witnessed the preceding night was a dream. However, he hastened to
the house of Agatha, and there he found all in confusion and dismay. She
could be nowhere found, nor any trace of her discovered. Heinrich was in
more consternation than any one, and hurried up and down almost
distracted.

"My father now related how his rest had been disturbed by the hoarse
cries of the raven, and said that such an omen boded no good. He then
proposed seeking for the unfortunate girl in the cemetery, as perhaps,
her mysterious lover had murdered and buried her in one of the tombs. At
the mention of this suspicion, a new light seemed to burst on the
awe-struck Heinrich. He suddenly called out in a piercing voice,

"'The hood--the vail!--it is too plain, I have betrayed him, and lost
her forever. I burnt her garments, and doubtless, he had taught her his
infernal art, so that she can never be restored to her human form. She
will remain a raven, and he a Wahr-wolf, forever!'

"So saying, he gnashed his teeth with rage, and, with a wild look,
rushed from the house. No one observed where he went, but, from that
hour, neither he, nor Augustin, nor Agatha, were ever beheld in the
village of Hundersdorf; though often, on a wintry night, the howling of
wolves is heard not far off, and the ill-boding scream of the raven is
sure to echo their horrid yells."

Such was the wild tale of the Bavarian; and when he had finished, I was
so impressed with the earnestness of his manner, and the firm belief he
attached to this strange relation, that I was not sorry to hear the
voices of my awaking companions, nor unrelieved to observe that day was
breaking. We soon resumed our journey, and it was with little regret I
quitted the gloomy valley where I had listened to the fearful legend of
the Wahr-wolf.

The superstition is scarcely even yet done away with in these parts, in
spite of the march of civilization, which has sent steam-boats on the
Danube to drive away such follies. I believe, however, there are few
places now, except in the Boehmer-wald, where such monstrous fables are
believed. Such a belief was once current all over France, and, indeed,
wherever wolves existed; but as our robber chiefs end black bands are
pretty well rooted out, no one has any interest in keeping up the credit
of these imaginary culprits.

"But see," exclaimed the baron, "we are arrived at Vilshofen, and I am
obliged to leave off my gossip, and allow you to pursue your way toward
Vienna. Yonder are the walls of my domicile, and here I must bid you
farewell."




A TRUE GHOST STORY.


"Did you ever hear," said a friend once to me, "a real true ghost story,
one you might depend upon?"

"There are not many such to be heard," I replied, "and I am afraid it
has never been my good fortune to meet with those who were really able
to give me a genuine, well-authenticated story."

"Well, you shall never have cause to say so again; and as it was an
adventure that happened to myself, you can scarcely think it other than
well authenticated. I know you to be no coward, or I might hesitate
before I told it to you. You need not stir the fire; there is plenty of
light by which you can hear it. And now to begin. I had been riding hard
one day in the autumn for nearly five or six hours, through some of the
most tempestuous weather to which it had ever been my ill luck to be
exposed. It was just about the time of the Equinox, and perfect
hurricanes swept over the hills, as if every wind in heaven had broken
loose, and had gone mad, and on every hill the rain and driving sleet
poured down in one unbroken shower.

"When I reached the head of Wentford valley--you know the place, a
narrow ravine with rocks on one side, and those rich full woods (not
that they were very full then, for the winds had shaken them till there
was scarcely a leaf on their bare rustling branches) on the other, with
a clear little stream winding through the hollow dell--when I came to
the entrance of this valley, weather-beaten veteran as I was, I scarcely
knew how to hold on my way; the wind, as it were, held in between the
two high banks, rushed like a river just broken loose into a new
course, carrying with it a perfect sheet of rain, against which my poor
horse and I struggled with considerable difficulty: still I went on, for
the village lay at the other end, and I had a patient to see there, who
had sent a very urgent message, entreating me to come to him as soon as
possible. We are slaves to a message, we poor medical men, and I urged
on my poor jaded brute with a keen relish for the warm fire and good
dinner that awaited me as soon as I could see my unfortunate patient,
and get back to a home doubly valued on such a day as that in which I
was then out. It was indeed dreary riding in such weather; and the scene
altogether, through which I passed, was certainly not the most conducive
toward raising a man's spirits; but I positively half wished myself out
in it all again, rather than sit the hour I was obliged to spend by the
sick-bed of the wretched man I had been summoned to visit. He had met
with an accident the day before, and as he had been drinking up to the
time, and the people had delayed sending for me, I found him in a
frightful state of fever; and it was really an awful thing either to
look at or to hear him. He was delirious, and perfectly furious; and his
face, swelled with passion, and crimson with the fever that was burning
him up, was a sight to frighten children, and not one calculated to add
to the tranquillity even of full-grown men. I dare say you think me very
weak, and that I ought to have been inured to such things, minding his
ravings no more than the dash of the rain against the window; but,
during the whole of my practice, I had never seen man or woman, in
health or in fever, in so frightful a state of furious frenzy, with the
impress of every bad passion stamped so broadly and fearfully upon the
face; and, in the miserable hovel that then held me with his old
witch-like mother standing by, the babel of the wind and rain outside
added to the ravings of the wretched creature within. I began to feel
neither in a happy nor an enviable frame of mind. There is nothing so
frightful as where the reasonable spirit seems to abandon man's body,
and leave it to a fiend instead.

"After an hour or more waiting patiently by his bedside, not liking to
leave the helpless old woman alone with so dangerous a companion (for I
could not answer for any thing he might do in his frenzy), I thought
that the remedies by which I hoped in some measure to subdue the fever,
seemed beginning to take effect, and that I might leave him, promising
to send all that was necessary, though fearing much that he had gone
beyond all my power to restore him; and desiring that I might
immediately be called back again, should he get worse instead of better,
which I felt almost certain would be the case, I hastened homeward, glad
enough to be leaving wretched huts and raving men, driving rain and
windy hills, for a comfortable house, dry clothes, a warm fire, and a
good dinner. I think I never saw such a fire in my life as the one that
blazed up my chimney; it looked so wonderfully warm and bright, and
there seemed an indescribable air of comfort about the room which I had
never noticed before. One would have thought I should have enjoyed it
all intensely after my wet ride, but throughout the whole evening, the
scenes of the day would keep recurring to my mind with most
uncomfortable distinctness, and it was in vain that I endeavored to
forget it all in a book, one of my old favorites too; so at last I
fairly gave up the attempt, as the hideous face would come continually
between my eyes and an especially good passage; and I went off to bed
heartily tired, and expecting sleep very readily to visit me. Nor was I
disappointed: I was soon deep asleep, though my last thought was on the
little valley I had left. How long this heavy and dreamless sleep
continued, I can not tell, but gradually I felt consciousness returning,
in the shape of the very thoughts with which I fell asleep, and at last
I opened my eyes, thoroughly roused by a heavy blow at my window. I can
not describe my horror, when, by the light of a moon struggling among
the heavy surge-like clouds, I saw the very face, the face of _that_ man
looking in at me through the casement, the eyes distended and the face
pressed close to the glass. I started up in bed, to convince myself that
I really was awake, and not suffering from some frightful dream; there
it staid, perfectly moveless, its wide ghastly eyes fixed unwaveringly
on mine, which, by a kind of fascination, became equally fixed and
rigid, gazing upon the dreadful face, which alone without a body was
visible at the window, unless an indefinable black shadow, that seemed
to float beyond it, might be fancied into one. I can scarcely tell how
long I so sat looking at it, but I remember something of a rushing
sound, a feeling of relief, a falling exhausted back upon my pillow, and
then I awoke in the morning ill and unrefreshed. I was ill at ease, and
the first question I asked, on coming down stairs, was, whether any
messenger had come to summon me to Wentford. A messenger had come, they
told me, but it was to say I need trouble myself no further, as the man
was already beyond all aid, having died about the middle of the night. I
never felt so strangely in my life as when they told me this, and my
brain almost reeled as the events of the previous day and night passed
through my mind in rapid succession. That I had seen something
supernatural in the darkness of the night, I had never doubted, but when
the sun shone brightly into my room in the morning, through the same
window, where I had seen so frightful and strange a sight by the
spectral light of the moon, I began to believe more it was a dream, and
endeavored to ridicule myself out of all uncomfortable feelings, which,
nevertheless, I could not quite shake off. Haunted by what I considered
a painful dream, I left my room, and the first thing I heard was a
confirmation of what I had been for the last hour endeavoring to reason
and ridicule myself out of believing. It was some hours before I could
recover my ordinary tranquillity; and then it came back, not slowly as
you might have expected, as the impression gradually wore off, and time
wrought his usual changes in mind as in body, but suddenly--by the
discovery that our large white owl had escaped during the night, and had
honored my window with a visit before he became quite accustomed to his
liberty."




[From the London Critic.]

SKETCHES OF LIFE. BY A RADICAL.


It was an error to call this work[25] the autobiography of an
individual. It is a picturing--faithful, minute, and eloquent--of the
hardships, the sufferings, and the miseries endured by a large mass of
our fellow men. It is an earnest and honest exposure of the hollowness
that infests English society--an insight to the weakness of the
substratum. It shows what education should have done, and what
corruption really has done. ALTON LOCKE is also a personification of the
failings, as well as of the sufferings, that make up the sum of
existence of a large class.

The author has effectually carried out his design--we will not say
altogether with artistic consistency, or with book-making propriety. We
know it is deemed a great offense against taste to make a novel the
medium of exposing social dangers, or political inequalities and wrongs.
We know that those who stick up for "the model," would have a fiction
all fiction, or at least that the philosophy be very subordinate and the
social aim be hidden so completely as not to be discernible excepting to
the professional reader. But _Alton Locke_ is an exception to all these
objections. Spite of its defects, it is a perfect work--perfect, that it
is invested with an air of the wildest romance, while it goes home to
the heart and the judgment as a faithful picture--perfect, that it is
eloquent and natural, and consistent with itself. It is one of those
books which defy classification. We have not seen its like. And to those
readers who accept our eulogy in earnest, _Alton Locke_ will ever remain
a token of rich enjoyment, and a memento that 1850 did produce at least
one cherishable book.

The story of the biography will not impress so much or so favorably as
the style. The hero is a widow's only child: his mother is a stern
Calvinist. Her teachings, and the teaching of the vipers in religious
form who come to administer consolation and to drink the old lady's tea,
are hateful to an intense degree to ALTON. He is of a poetic
temperament, and a great admirer of nature. Opportunities of indulging
his natural tastes are denied him. Born in a close London street, very
rigidly watched and governed by his mother and the good men who come to
visit her, his life is any thing but pleasant. But he subsequently
becomes a tailor, reads largely, writes verses, turns Chartist, falls
in love, and is imprisoned for spouting Chartism. The upshot of his
rough life is, that he becomes a true Christian.

Several characters are hit off with great perfection. Such is the mother
of ALTON; and such is SANDYE MACKAYE, a friend to whom the boy
occasionally ran for sympathy, and to borrow books.

But we will now draw upon the pages of the work itself, merely repeating
that it is a remarkable composition, and one which men in high places
would do well to ponder. It is a growth from the defects of our time,
and should be taken as a presage that change must come. The working-men
of this country will be indebted to ALTON LOCKE for the manner in which
he pleads their cause; all men should be gratified that the warning
voice, which he will inevitably be deemed, is so moderate in tone and so
philosophical in manner.

ALTON'S youth, we have said, was not happy. The following are his
descriptions of his mother, and one of her associates:


ALTON'S MOTHER AND THE MISSIONARY.

"My mother moved by rule and method; by God's law, as she considered,
and that only. She seldom smiled. Her word was absolute. She never
commanded twice, without punishing. And yet there were abysses of
unspoken tenderness in her, as well as clear, sound, womanly sense and
insight. But she thought herself as much bound to keep down all
tenderness as if she had been some ascetic of the middle ages--so do
extremes meet! It was 'carnal,' she considered. She had as yet no right
to have any 'spiritual affection' for us. We were still 'children of
wrath and of the devil'--not yet 'convinced of sin,' 'converted, born
again.' She had no more spiritual bond with us, she thought, than she
had with a heathen or a <DW7>. She dared not even pray for our
conversion, earnestly as she prayed on every other subject. For though
the majority of her sect would have done so, her clear, logical sense
would yield to no such tender inconsistency. Had it not been decided
from all eternity? We were elect, or we were reprobate. Could her
prayers alter that? If He had chosen us, He would call us in His own
good time: and, if not, ----. Only, again and again, as I afterward
discovered from a journal of hers, she used to beseech God with agonized
tears to set her mind at rest by revealing to her His will toward us.
For that comfort she could at least rationally pray. But she received no
answer. Poor, beloved mother! If thou couldst not read the answer,
written in every flower and every sunbeam, written in the very fact of
our existence here at all, what answer would have sufficed thee? And
yet, with all this, she kept the strictest watch over our morality.
Fear, of course, was the only motive she employed; for how could our
still carnal understandings be affected with love to God? And love to
herself was too paltry and temporary to be urged by one who knew that
her life was uncertain, and who was always trying to go down to deepest
eternal ground and reason of every thing, and take her stand upon that.
So our god, or gods rather, till we were twelve years old, were hell,
the rod, the Ten Commandments, and public opinion. Yet under them, not
they, but something deeper far, both in her and us, preserved us pure.
Call it natural character, conformation of the spirit--conformation of
the brain, if you like, if you are a scientific man and a phrenologist.
I never yet could dissect and map out my own being, or my neighbor's, as
you analysts do.

       *       *       *       *       *

"My heart was in my mouth as I opened the door to them, and sunk back
again to the very lowest depths of my inner man when my eyes fell on the
face and figure of the missionary--a squat, red-faced, pig-eyed,
low-browed man, with great soft lips that opened back to his very ears;
sensuality, conceit, and cunning marked on every feature--an innate
vulgarity, from which the artisan and the child recoil with an instinct
as true, perhaps truer, than that of the courtier, showing itself in
every tone and motion--I shrunk into a corner, so crest-fallen that I
could not even exert myself to hand round the bread-and-butter, for
which I got duly scolded afterward. Oh! that man!--how he bawled and
contradicted, and laid down the law, and spoke to my mother in a
fondling, patronizing way, which made me, I knew not why, boil over with
jealousy and indignation. How he filled his teacup half full of the
white sugar to buy which my mother had curtailed her yesterday's
dinner--how he drained the few remaining drops of the three-penny worth
of cream, with which Susan was stealing off to keep it as an unexpected
treat for my mother at breakfast next morning--how he talked of the
natives, not as St. Paul might of his converts, but as a planter might
of his slaves; overlaying all his unintentional confessions of his own
greed and prosperity, with cant, flimsy enough for even a boy to see
through, while his eyes were not blinded with the superstition that a
man must be pious who sufficiently interlards his speech with a jumble
of old English picked out of our translation of the New Testament. Such
was the man I saw. I don't deny that all are not like him. I believe
there are noble men of all denominations doing their best, according to
their light, all over the world; but such was the one I saw--and the men
who are sent home to plead the missionary cause, whatever the men may be
like who stay behind and work, are, from my small experience, too often
such. It appears to me to be the rule that many of those who go abroad
as missionaries, go simply because they are men of such inferior powers
and attainments that if they staid in England they would starve."


ALTON'S STUDY.

"I slept in a little lean-to garret at the back of the house, some ten
feet long by six wide. I could just stand upright against the inner
wall, while the roof on the other side ran down to the floor. There was
no fire-place in it or any means of ventilation. No wonder I coughed all
night accordingly, and woke about two every morning with choking throat
and aching head. My mother often said that the room was 'too small for a
Christian to sleep in, but where could she get a better?' Such was my
only study. I could not use it as such, however, at night without
discovery; for my mother carefully looked in every evening, to see that
my candle was out. But when my kind cough woke me, I rose, and creeping
like a mouse about the room--for my mother and sister slept in the next
chamber, and every sound was audible through the narrow partition--I
drew my darling books out from under a board in the floor one end of
which I had gradually loosened at odd minutes, and with them a
rushlight, earned by running on messages, or by taking bits of work
home, and finishing them for my fellows. No wonder that with this scanty
rest, and this complicated exertion of hands, eyes, and brain, followed
by the long dreary day's work of the shop, my health began to fail; my
eyes grew weaker and weaker; my cough became more acute; my appetite
failed me daily. My mother noticed the change, and questioned me about
it, affectionately enough. But I durst not, alas! tell the truth. It was
not one offense, but the arrears of months of disobedience which I
should have had to confess; and so arose infinite false excuses, and
petty prevarications, which embittered and clogged still more my already
overtasked spirit. Before starting forth to walk two miles to the shop
at six o'clock in the morning, I sat some three or four hours shivering
on my bed, putting myself into cramped and painful postures, not daring
even to cough, lest my mother should fancy me unwell, and come in to see
me, poor dear soul!--my eyes aching over the page, my feet wrapped up in
the bed-clothes to keep them from the miserable pain of the cold;
longing, watching, dawn after dawn, for the kind summer mornings, when I
should need no candlelight. Look at the picture awhile, ye comfortable
folks, who take down from your shelves what books you like best at the
moment, and then lie back, amid prints and statuettes, to grow wise in
an easy chair, with a blazing fire and a camphine lamp. The lower
classes uneducated! Perhaps you would be so too, if learning cost you
the privation which it costs some of them."

       *       *       *       *       *

But ALTON read largely, notwithstanding his privations. What of his time
was not spent on the tailor's board, was devoted to the writings of the
great spirits of the age. On a holiday he visited the National Gallery,
and learned to love and bless the painters. He studied narrowly MILTON
and TENNYSON, and many other writers, and among them "that great prose
poem, the single epic of modern days, THOMAS CARLYLE'S _French
Revolution_." ALTON'S daydreams were more numerous than we should
imagine are those of the majority of men who are steeped in poverty as
he was; and he has described them well. When he did learn to walk into
the fields, he truly enjoyed the liberty thus attained.


THE FIRST SIP OF FREEDOM.

"It was a glorious morning at the end of May; and when I escaped from
the pall of smoke which hung over the city, I found the sky a sheet of
cloudless blue. How I watched for the ending of the rows of houses,
which lined the road for miles--the great roots of London, running far
out into the country, up which poured past me an endless stream of food,
and merchandise, and human beings--the sap of the huge metropolitan
life-tree! How each turn of the road opened a fresh line of terraces or
villas, till hope deferred made the heart sick, and the country
seemed--like the place where the rainbow touches the ground, or the El
Dorado of Raleigh's Guiana settlers--always a little farther off! How,
between gaps in the houses right and left, I caught tantalizing glimpses
of green fields, shut from me by dull lines of high-spiked palings! How
I peeped through gates and over fences at trim lawns and gardens, and
longed to stay, and admire, and speculate on the names of the strange
plants and gaudy flowers; and then hurried on, always expecting to find
something still finer ahead--something really worth stopping to look
at--till the houses thickened again into a street, and I found myself,
to my disappointment, in the midst of a town! And then more villas and
palings; and then a village: when would they stop, those endless houses?
At last they did stop. Gradually the people whom I passed began to look
more and more rural, and more toil-worn and ill-fed. The houses ended,
cattle yards and farm buildings appeared; and right and left, far away,
spread the low rolling sheet of green meadows and corn-fields. Oh, the
joy! The lawns with their high elms and firs, the green hedgerows, the
delicate hue and scent of the fresh clover-fields, the steep clay banks
where I stopped to pick nosegays of wild flowers, and became again a
child--and then recollected my mother, and a walk with her on the river
bank toward the Red House. I hurried on again, but could not be unhappy,
while my eyes ranged free, for the first time in my life, over the
checkered squares of cultivation, over glittering brooks, and hills
quivering in the green haze, while above hung the skylarks, pouring out
their souls in melody. And then, as the sun grew hot, and the larks
dropped one by one into the growing corn, the new delight of the blessed
silence! I listened to the stillness; for noise had been my native
element; I had become in London quite unconscious of the ceaseless roar
of the human sea, casting up mire and dirt. And now, for the first time
in my life, the crashing, confusing hubbub had flowed away, and left my
brain calm and free. How I felt at that moment a capability of clear,
bright meditation, which was as new to me, as I believe it would have
been to most Londoners in my position. I can not help fancying that our
unnatural atmosphere of excitement, physical as well as moral, is to
blame for very much of the working-men's restlessness and fierceness. As
it was, I felt that every step forward, every breath of fresh air, gave
me new life. I had gone fifteen miles before I recollected that, for the
first time for many months, I had not coughed since I rose."

       *       *       *       *       *

The following is the utterance in a more eloquent mode, of some
startling facts revealed by the London Correspondent of _The Morning
Chronicle_:


THE TERRORS OF THE COMPETITIVE SYSTEM.

"Well: one day our employer died. He had been one of the old sort of
fashionable West-end tailors in the fast decreasing honorable trade;
keeping a modest shop, hardly to be distinguished from a dwelling-house,
except by his name on the window blinds. He paid good prices for work,
though not as good, of course, as he had given twenty years before, and
prided himself upon having all his work done at home. His work-rooms, as
I have said, were no elysiums; but still, as good, alas! as those of
three tailors out of four. He was proud, luxurious, foppish; but he was
honest and kindly enough, and did many a generous thing by men who had
been long in his employ. At all events, his journeymen could live on
what he paid them.

"But his son, succeeding to the business, determined, like Rehoboam of
old, to go ahead with the times. Fired with the great spirit of the
nineteenth century--at least with that one which is vulgarly considered
its especial glory--he resolved to make haste to be rich. His father had
made money very slowly of late; while dozens, who had begun business
long after him, had now retired to luxurious ease and suburban villas.
Why should he remain in the minority? Why should he not get rich as fast
as he could? Why should he stick to the old, slow-going, honorable
trade? Out of some 450 West-end tailors, there were not one hundred left
who were old-fashioned and stupid enough to go on keeping down their own
profits by having all their work done at home and at first-hand.
Ridiculous scruples! The government knew none such. Were not the army
clothes, the post-office clothes, the policemen's clothes, furnished by
contractors and sweaters, who hired the work at low prices, and let it
out again to journeymen at still lower ones? Why should he pay his men
two shillings where the government paid them one? Were there not cheap
houses even at the West-end, which had saved several thousands a year
merely by reducing their workmen's wages? And if the workmen chose to
take lower wages, he was not bound actually to make them a present of
more than they asked for. They would go to the cheapest market for any
thing they wanted, and so must he. Besides, wages had really been quite
exorbitant. Half his men threw each of them as much money away in gin
and beer yearly, as would pay two workmen at a cheap house. Why was he
to be robbing his family of comforts to pay for their extravagance? And
charging his customers, too, unnecessarily high prices--it was really
robbing the public!

"Such, I suppose, were some of the arguments which led to an official
announcement, one Saturday night, that our young employer intended to
enlarge his establishment, for the purpose of commencing business in the
'show trade;' and that, emulous of Messrs. Aaron, Levi, and the rest of
that class, magnificent alterations were to take place in the premises,
to make room for which our work-rooms were to be demolished, and that
for that reason--for of course it was only for that reason--all work
would in future be given out, to be made up at the men's own homes....

"'We were all bound to expect this. Every working tailor must come to
this at last, on the present system; and we are only lucky in having
been spared so long. You all know where this will end--in the same
misery as fifteen thousand out of twenty thousand of our class are
enduring now. We shall become the slaves, often the bodily prisoners, of
Jews, middlemen, and sweaters, who draw their livelihood out of our
starvation. We shall have to face, as the rest have, ever decreasing
prices of labor, ever increasing profits made out of that labor by the
contractors who will employ us--arbitrary fines, inflicted at the
caprice of hirelings--the competition of women, and children, and
starving Irish--our hours of work will increase one-third, our actual
pay decrease to less than one-half; and in all this we shall have no
hope, no chance of improvement in wages, but ever more penury, slavery,
misery, as we are pressed on by those who are sucked by fifties--almost
by hundreds--yearly, out of the honorable trade in which we were brought
up, into the infernal system of contract work, which is devouring our
trade and many others, body and soul. Our wives will be forced to sit up
night and day to help us; our children must labor from the cradle
without chance of going to school, hardly of breathing the fresh air of
heaven; our boys, as they grow up, must turn beggars or paupers; our
daughters, as thousands do, must eke out their miserable earnings by
prostitution. And after all, a whole family will not gain what one of us
had been doing, as yet, single-handed.'...

"'Government--government? You a tailor, and not know that government are
the very authors of this system? Not to know that they first set the
example, by getting the army and navy clothes made by contractors, and
taking the lowest tenders? Not to know that the police clothes, the
postmen's clothes, the convicts' clothes, are all contracted for on the
same infernal plan, by sweaters, and sweaters' sweaters, and sweaters'
sweaters' sweaters, till government work is just the very last, lowest
resource to which a poor, starved-out wretch betakes himself to keep
body and soul together? Why, the government prices, in almost every
department, are half, and less than half, the very lowest living price.
I tell you, the careless iniquity of government about these things will
come out some day. It will be known, the whole abomination; and future
generations will class it with the tyrannies of the Roman emperors and
the Norman barons. Why, it's a fact, that the colonels of the
regiments--noblemen, most of them--make their own vile profit out of us
tailors--out of the pauperism of the men, the slavery of the children,
the prostitution of the women. They get so much a uniform allowed them
by government to clothe the men with; and then--then, they let out the
jobs to the contractors at less than half what government give them, and
pocket the difference. And then you talk of appealing to government!'"

       *       *       *       *       *

Only DICKENS or THACKERAY could have rivaled the following sketch of a
discussion on


THE REAL OFFICE OF POETRY.

"'What do you mean, Mr. Mackaye!' asked I, with a doleful and
disappointed visage.

"'Mean--why, if God had meant ye to write about Pacifics, He'd ha put ye
there--and because He means ye to write aboot London town, He's put ye
there--and gien ye an unco sharp taste o' the ways o't; and I'll gie ye
anither. Come along wi' me.'

"And he seized me by the arm, and hardly giving me time to put on my
hat, marched me out into the streets, and away through Clare Market to
St. Giles's.

"It was a foul, chilly, foggy Saturday night. From the butchers' and
greengrocers' shops the gas-lights flared and flickered, wild and
ghastly, over haggard groups of slip-shod, dirty women, bargaining for
scraps of stale meat, and frost-bitten vegetables, wrangling about short
weight and bad quality. Fish-stalls and fruit-stalls lined the edge of
the greasy pavement, sending up odors as foul as the language of the
sellers and buyers. Blood and sewer-water crawled from under doors and
out of spouts, and reeked down the gutters among offal, animal and
vegetable, in every stage of putrefaction. Foul vapors rose from
cow-sheds and slaughter-houses, and the doorways of undrained alleys,
where the inhabitants carried the filth out on their shoes from the back
yard into the court, and from the court up into the main street; while
above hanging like cliffs over the streets--those narrow, brawling
torrents of filth, and poverty, and sin--the houses with their teeming
load of life were piled up into the dingy choking night. A ghastly,
deafening, sickening sight it was. Go, scented Belgravian! and see what
London is! and then go to the library which God has given thee--one
often fears in vain--and see what science says this London might be!

"'Ay,' he muttered to himself, as he strode along, 'sing awa; get
yoursel' wi' child wi' pretty fancies and gran' words, like the rest of
the poets, and gang to hell for it.'

"'To hell, Mr. Mackaye?'

"'Ay, to a verra real hell, Alton Locke, laddie--a warse ane than ony
fiend's' kitchen, or subterranean Smithfield that ye'll hear o' in the
pulpits--the hell on earth o' being a flunkey, and a humbug, and a
useless peacock, wasting God's gifts on your ain lusts and
pleasures--and kenning it--and not being able to get oot o' it, for the
chains o' vanity and self-indulgence. I've warned ye. Now look there--'

"He stopped suddenly before the entrance of a miserable alley:

"'Look! there's not a soul down that yard, but's either beggar,
drunkard, thief, or warse. Write aboot that! Say how ye saw the mouth o'
hell, and the twa pillars thereof at the entry--the pawnbroker's shop o'
one side and the gin palace at the other--twa monstrous deevils, eating
up men and women, and bairns, body and soul. Look at the jaws o' the
monsters, how they open and open, and swallow in anither victim and
anither. Write aboot that.'

"'What jaws, Mr. Mackaye!'

"'Thae faulding-doors o' the gin shop, goose. Are na they a mair
damnable man-devouring idol than ony red-hot statue o' Moloch, or wicker
Gogmagog, wherein thae auld Britons burnt their prisoners? Look at _thae
barefooted, barebacked hizzies, with their arms roun' the men's necks,
and their mouths full o' vitriol and beastly words_! Look at that
Irishwoman pouring the gin down the babbie's throat! Look at that raff
o' a boy gaun out o' the pawnshop, where he's been pledging the
handkerchief he stole the morning, into the ginshop, to buy beer
poisoned wi' grains o' paradise, and cocculus indicus, and saut, and a'
damnable, maddening, thirst-breeding, lust-breeding drugs! Look at that
girl that went in wi' a shawl on her back and cam out wi'out ane!
_Drunkards frae the breast!--harlots frae the cradle!--damned before
they're born!_ John Calvin had an inkling o' the truth there, I'm a'most
driven to think, wi' his reprobation deevil's doctrines!'

"'Well--but--Mr. Mackaye, I know nothing about these poor creatures.'

"'Then ye ought. What do ye ken aboot the Pacific? Which is maist to
your business?--thae bare-backed hizzies that play the harlot o' the
other side o' the warld, or these--these thousands o' barebacked hizzies
that play the harlot o' your ain side--made out o' your ain flesh and
blude? You a poet! True poetry, like true charity, my laddie, begins at
hame. If ye'll be a poet at a', ye maun be a cockney poet; and while the
cockneys be what they be, ye maun write, like Jeremiah of old, o'
lamentation and mourning and woe, for the sins o' your people. Gin ye
want to learn the spirit o' a people's poet, down wi' your Bible and
read thae auld Hebrew prophets; gin ye wad learn the style, read your
Burns frae morning till night; and gin ye'd learn the matter, just gang
after your nose, and keep your eyes open, and ye'll no miss it.'"

       *       *       *       *       *

One other extract, and we will have done with this original but
captivating and convincing volume. ALTON speaks prophetically of


THE DANGERS THAT ARE LOOMING.

"Ay, respectable gentlemen and ladies, I will confess all to you--you
shall have, if you enjoy it, a fresh opportunity for indulging that
supreme pleasure which the press daily affords you of insulting the
classes whose powers most of you know as little as you do their
sufferings. Yes; the Chartist poet is vain, conceited, ambitious,
uneducated, shallow, inexperienced, envious, ferocious, scurrilous,
seditious, traitorous.--Is your charitable vocabulary exhausted? Then
ask yourselves, how often have you yourself, honestly resisted and
conquered the temptation to any one of these sins, when it has come
across you just once in a way, and not as they came to me, as they come
to thousands of the working-men, daily and hourly, 'till their torments
do, by length of time, become their elements?' What, are we covetous,
too? Yes? And if those who have, like you, still covet more what wonder
if those who have nothing, covet something? Profligate too? Well, though
that imputation as a generality is utterly calumnious, though your
amount of respectable animal enjoyment per annum is a hundred times as
great as that of the most self-indulgent artisan, yet, if you had ever
felt what it is to want, not only every luxury of the senses, but even
bread to eat, you would think more mercifully of the man who makes up by
rare excesses, and those only of the limited kinds possible to him, for
long intervals of dull privation, and says in his madness, 'Let us eat
and drink, for to-morrow we die!' We have our sins, and you have yours.
Ours may be the more gross and barbaric, but yours are none the less
damnable; perhaps all the more so, for being the sleek, subtle,
respectable, religious sins they are. You are frantic enough if our part
of the press calls you hard names, but you can not see that your part of
the press repays it back to us with interest. _We_ see those insults,
and feel them bitterly enough; and do not forget them, alas! soon
enough, while they pass unheeded by your delicate eyes as trivial
truisms. Horrible, unprincipled, villainous, seditious, frantic,
blasphemous, are epithets of course when applied to--to how large a
portion of the English people, you will some day discover to your
astonishment. When will that day come, and how? In thunder, and storm,
and garments rolled in blood? Or like the dew on the mown grass, and the
clear shining of the sunlight after April rain?"


    FOOTNOTE:

    [25] ALTON LOCKE, Tailor and Poet--An Autobiography. In the press
    of Messrs. Harper and Brothers.




BURKE AND THE PAINTER BARRY.


Burke delighted in lending a helping hand to genius struggling against
adversity; and many who were wasting their powers in obscurity were led
by his assistance to the paths of eminence. Barry, the painter, was
among those to whom he had shown great kindness; he found pleasure in
the society of that eccentric being. A long time had passed without his
having seen him, when one day they met accidentally in the street. The
greeting was cordial, and Barry invited his friend to dine with him the
next day. Burke arrived at the appointed hour, and the door was opened
by Dame Ursula, as she was called. She at first denied her master, but
when Burke mentioned his name, Barry, who had overheard it, came running
down stairs. He was in his usual attire; his thin gray hair was all
disheveled; an old and soiled green shade and a pair of mounted
spectacles assisted his sight; the color of his linen was rather
equivocal, but was evidently not fresh from the bleach-green; his
outward garment was a kind of careless _roquelaire_. He gave Burke a
most hearty welcome, and led him into the apartment which served him for
kitchen, parlor, studio, and gallery; it was, however, so filled with
smoke that its contents remained a profound mystery, and Burke was
almost blinded and nearly suffocated. Barry expressed the utmost
surprise, and appeared utterly at a loss to account for the state of the
atmosphere. Burke, however, without endeavoring to explain the mystery
on philosophical principles, at once brought the whole blame of the
annoyance home to Barry--as it came out that he had removed the stove
from its wonted situation by the chimney-piece, and drawn it into the
very middle of the room. He had mounted it on an old dripping-pan, to
defend the carpet from the burning ashes; he had in vain called in the
assistance of the bellows, no blaze would come--but volumes of smoke
were puffed out ever and anon, as if to show that the fire could do
something if it pleased. Burke persuaded Barry to reinstate the stove in
its own locality, and helped him to replace it; this done and the
windows opened, they got rid of the smoke, and the fire soon looked out
cheerfully enough on them, as if nothing had happened. Barry invited
Burke to the upper rooms to look at his pictures. As he went on from one
to the other, he applied the sponge and water with which he was
supplied, to wash away the dust which obscured them. Burke was delighted
with them, and with Barry's history of each, and his dissertation as he
pointed out its particular beauties. He then brought him to look at his
bedroom; its walls were hung with unframed pictures, which had also to
be freed from the thick covering of dust before they could be admired;
these, like the others, were noble specimens of art. In a recess near
the fire-place the rough stump-bedstead stood, with its coverlet of
coarse rug.

"That is my bed," said the artist; "you see I use no curtains; they are
most unwholesome, and I breathe as freely and sleep as soundly as if I
lay upon down and snored under velvet. Look there," said he, as he
pointed to a broad shelf high above the bed, "that I consider my
_chef-d'oeuvre_; I think I have been more than a match for them; I have
outdone them at last."

Mr. Burke asked of whom it was he spoke.

"The rats," replied he, "the nefarious rats, who robbed me of every
thing in the larder. But now all is safe; I keep my food beyond their
reach. I may now defy all the rats in the parish."

Barry had no clock, so depended on the cravings of his stomach to
regulate his meals. By this unerring guide, which might have shamed the
most correct regulator in a watchmaker's shop, he perceived that it was
time for dinner; but forgot that he had invited Burke to partake of it,
till reminded by a hint.

"I declare, my dear friend, I had totally forgotten, I beg your
pardon--it quite escaped my memory; but if you'll just sit down here and
blow the fire, I'll get a nice beef-steak in a minute."

Burke applied all his energies to the bellows, and had a nice clear fire
when Barry returned with the steak rolled up in cabbage-leaves, which he
drew from his pocket; from the same receptacle he produced a parcel of
potatoes; a bottle of port was under each arm, and each hand held a
fresh French-roll. A gridiron was placed on the fire, and Burke was
deputed to act as cook while Barry performed the part of butler. While
he laid the cloth the old woman boiled the potatoes, and at five
o'clock, all being duly prepared, the friends sat down to their repast.
Burke's first essay in cookery was miraculously successful, for the
steak was done to admiration, and of course greatly relished by the
cook. As soon as dinner was dispatched the friends chatted away over
their two bottles of port till nine o'clock. Burke was often heard to
say that this was one of the most amusing and delightful days he had
ever spent.




[From Hogg's Instructor.]

THE IRON RING.

A TALE OF GERMAN ROBBERS AND GERMAN STUDENTS.


"I am inclined to side with our friend," said the venerable pastor, "and
I would rather not see you so skeptical, Justus. I have known, in my own
experience, several remarkable instances of presentiments; indeed, on
one occasion, I and those who were with me, all save one, greatly
profited by the strange prophetic apprehension of one of our party.
Would we had listened to him sooner! But it was not so to be."

"Come, tell us the story, dear grandfather," said Justus; "it will
doubtless edify our guest; and, as for me, I do not object to be
mystified now and then."

"Justus, Justus, lay aside that scoffing mask. You put it on, I know, to
look like another Mephistopheles, but you don't succeed."

"Don't I?" returned Justus, with a smile. "Well, grandfather, that ought
to be a comfort to you."

"No, you don't, so you may as well give up trying. But come, if you
would really like to hear the story" (the fact was, that the good man
was anxious to tell it, and feared to lose the opportunity), "I shall be
happy to please you. I think, however, we shall be better out of doors.
Let us go and take our wine under the great plane-tree. You had as well
bring your chair with you, my young friend" (this was addressed to me),
"for the bench is somewhat hard. And Trinchen, my girl, put glasses on a
tray, and some bottles of wine in a pail, and bring them out to us under
the great plane-tree. And you, Justus, my boy, be kind enough to
transport thither this big chair of mine, like a dutiful grandson and a
stout, as you are."

We were soon established in the pleasant shade. The pastor took an easy
posture in his chair, when, after many efforts, Justus had coaxed it
into touching the ground with all its four legs at once; I straddled
across the seat of mine, and, placing my arms on the back, reposed the
bowl of my long pipe on the ground; and Justus, with his cigar in his
mouth--the twentieth, or thereby, that day--threw himself down on the
turf at a convenient distance from the wine-pail, prepared to replenish
our glasses, as need might be. Noble glasses they were, tall and green,
with stalks to be grasped, not fingered.

"It is now nearly sixty years ago," began the pastor, when our
arrangements were complete, "a long time--a long time, indeed, to bear
the staff of one's pilgrimage. I was then in my third year at the
university, and was something like what you are now, Justus--a merry,
idle, and thoughtless student, but not a very bad boy either."

"Thank you, grandfather," said Justus; "however, that accounts for your
being the man you are at your years."

"No, it does not," said the old man, smiling; "but let me tell my story,
my boy, without interrupting me--at least, unless you have something
better to say than that. As I was saying, I was in my third year, and,
of course, I had many acquaintances. I had, however, only two friends.
One was a countryman of yours, young gentleman, and his name was
Macdonald. The name of the other was Laurenberg."

"Why, that was my grandmother's name!" said Justus.

"Laurenberg was your grandmother's brother," continued the pastor, "and
the event I am about to relate to you was the means of my becoming
acquainted with her. But has any one ever told you his fate, Justus?"

"No," said Justus, "I never before even heard of him."

"That is not wonderful, my boy; for, since his sister was taken from me,
there has been no one but me to remember my poor Laurenberg. But, as I
was saying, these two were my only friends. That summer, when the
vacation came, we three resolved to make a pedestrian tour together.
(Fill our glasses, Justus.) So, after some discussion, we decided on
visiting the great Thuringian Forest, and one fine morning off we set.
Just as we got beyond the town, Macdonald said, 'My dear brothers, let
us return; this expedition will bring us no good.' 'You would almost
make one think you were a prophet,' said Laurenberg, with mock gravity.
'And what if I be?' cried the other, quickly. 'Why, then, don't be a
prophet of evil--that is to say, unless you can not help it. Come, my
dear fellow.' 'I tell you,' interrupted Macdonald, 'that, if we go on,
one of us will never see Goettingen again--and Laurenberg, my beloved
Laurenberg, it is you who will be that one. You will never return,
unless you return now. I tell you this, for I know it.' 'Oh, nonsense,'
said the other; 'pray, how do you know it?' It seemed to me that
Macdonald slightly shuddered at the question, but he went on as if not
heeding it: 'He of us three who first left the house, is destined never
to enter it again, and that was the reason why I tried to get out before
you. You, Laurenberg, in your folly, ran past me, and it is thus on you
that the lot has fallen. Laugh if you will; if you had let me go before
you, I would have said nothing; but as it is, I say, laugh if you will,
and call me a dreamer, or what you please, only return, my friends,
return. Let us go back.' 'Let us go on. Forward!' cried Laurenberg; 'I
do not laugh at you, my brother, but I think you are scarcely
reasonable; for either you have truly foreseen what is to happen, or you
have not. If you have, then what is to happen _will_ happen, and we can
not avoid it; if you have not, why, then it will not happen, and that is
all. Either you foresee truly my destiny--' He was going on, but
Macdonald interrupted him: 'It is with such reasoning that men lose
themselves in this world--and in the next,' he added, after a pause.
'Oho! dear schoolfox,' returned the other, 'we have not undertaken our
march to chop logic and wind metaphysics, but, on the contrary, to be
merry and enjoy ourselves. So,' and he sung,

    'There wander'd three Burschen along by the Rhine;
    At the door of a wine-house, they knocked and went in,
    Landlady, have you got good beer and wine?'

'Laurenberg, your gayety is oppressive,' interrupted Macdonald; 'why
sing that song? You know there is death in it.' 'It is true,' replied
Laurenberg, somewhat gravely, 'the poor little daughter of the landlady
lies in her coffin. Another stave, then, if you like it better,

    'Up, brothers! up! enjoy your life!'

and so on he went with that stupid song."

"Stupid!" cried Justus, rising suddenly on his elbow; "stupid, did you
say, grandfather?"

"Well, my boy, I think it stupid now, though at your age, perhaps, I
thought differently. But there," continued the pastor, "I was sure of
it; I never can keep both my pipe and my story going at the same time.
Give me a light, Justus. Thank you. Those matches are a great invention.
In our time, it was all flint, and steel, and trouble. Now, fill our
glasses, and then I shall go on again."

Justus obeyed, and his worthy relative thus proceeded:

"Notwithstanding all his singing, Laurenberg was evidently more
impressed by our companion's words than he was willing to own; and, as
for me, I was much struck with them, for your countryman, young
stranger, was no common man. But all that soon wore off. Even Macdonald
seemed to forget his own forebodings. We marched on right cheerfully.
That night we stopped at Heiligenstadt, very tired, for it was a long
way for lads so little used to walking as we were."

"Did you put up at the Post, grandfather?" asked Justus. "It is a
capital inn, and the landlady is both pretty and civil. I staid there
when I went from Cassel to Halle."

"I don't remember where we put up," replied the pastor, "but it is
scarcely likely we put up at the Post. In those days, students preferred
more modest hostelries. Don't interrupt me. The next night we slept at
Dingelstadt; and I remember that at supper Laurenberg knocked over the
salt-cellar, and that Macdonald said, 'See, I told you! every thing
shows it!' Next night we were at Muelhausen, making short journeys, you
see; for, after all, our object was to enjoy, not to tire ourselves.
Muelhausen is a very prettily situated town, and, though I have never
been there since, I remember it quite well. The next afternoon we got to
a place whose name I forget at this moment. Stay--I think it was
Langensalza; yes, it was Langensalza; and the following day we arrived
in Gotha, and lodged at the sign of the Giant, in the market-place.
Gotha is the chief town in the duchy, and--"

Here the worthy pastor diverged into a description of Gotha and its
environs. This, however, I lost, for, the interest of the story ceasing,
I went off into a sort of reverie, from which I was awakened only by the
abrupt cessation of the tale, and the words, "Justus, my boy, you are
not asleep, are you? Give me a cigar; my pipe is out again."

Justus complied, and the old man, leaning his long pipe, with the rich
bowl, against the great plane-tree, received "fire" from his grandson,
lit the Cuba, and, after admonishing the youth to fill our glasses, thus
went on:

"Our new friends were students from Jena. They were each of a different
country. One was a Frenchman; one a Pole; the third alone was a German.
They were making a sort of pilgrimage to the different places remarkable
for events in the life of Luther--had been at Erfurt, to see his cell in
the orphan-house there, and were now going to Eisenach and the Castle of
Wartburg, to visit the Patmos of 'Junker George.' However, on hearing
that we proposed marching through the Thuringian Forest, they gave up
their original plan, and agreed to join us, which pleased us much, for
all three were fine fellows. That night we got to Ohrdruff, and the next
day we set off for Suhl. But we were not destined ever to reach that
town. About noon, Laurenberg said, 'Come, brothers, do you not find this
road tiresome? This is the way every body goes. Suppose we strike off
the road, and take this footpath through the wood. Is it not a pleasure
to explore an unknown country, and go on without knowing where you will
come to? For my part, I would not have come so far only to follow a
beaten track, where you meet carts and carriages, and men and women, at
every step. If all we wanted was to walk along a road, why, there are
better roads near Goettingen. Into the wood, say I! Why, who knows but
there may be an adventure before us? Follow me!' Macdonald would have
remonstrated, but our new friends, and I also, I am sorry to say, felt
much as Laurenberg did, so we took the footpath, and plunged into the
forest. We soon thought ourselves repaid. The solitude seemed to deepen
as we proceeded. Excepting the almost imperceptible footpath, every
thing bespoke the purest state of nature. The enormous pines that
towered over our heads seemed the growth of ages. Great red deer stared
at us from a distance through the glades, as if they had never before
seen such animals as we, and then bounded away in herds. High up we saw
many bustards--"

Here my excellent host launched in a current of descriptive landscape,
which, though doubtless very fine, was almost entirely lost to me, for
my thoughts again wandered. From time to time, the words "valleys,"
"mountains," "crags," "streamlets," "gloom," "rocks," "Salvator Rosa,"
"legends," "wood-nymphs," and the like, fell on my ear, but failed to
recall my attention. And this must have lasted no little time, for I was
at length aroused by his asking for another cigar, the first being done.

"The glen gradually opened out into a plain," resumed the pastor, "and
our progress became easier. We, however, had no idea where we were, or
which way to turn in order to find a resting-place for the night; we
were completely lost, in short. Nevertheless, we pressed on as fast as
our tired limbs would admit of, and after half an hour's march across
the wooded level, we were rewarded by coming on a sort of road. It was,
indeed, nothing more than the tracks of hoofs upon the turf, but we were
in ecstasies at its appearance. After some deliberation as to whether we
should take to the right or to the left along it, we resolved on
following it to the right. Half an hour more, and we saw before us a
house among the trees. It was a cheerful sight to us, and we gave a
shout of joy. 'I trust they will give us hospitality,' said Richter, the
German from Jena. 'If not,' exclaimed his French friend, 'it is my
opinion that we will take it.' 'What! turn robbers?' said the Pole,
laughing. 'It is a likely looking place for robbers,' remarked
Macdonald, looking rather uneasily round him. We soon reached the house.
It was a long building, with low walls, but a very high thatched roof.
At one end was a kind of round tower, which seemed much older than the
rest of the structure. It might at one time have been much higher than
it then was, but in its actual state it scarcely overtopped the gable
built against it. Fill our glasses, Justus, if you please."

"Ready, grandfather," said Justus. "But, before you go on, tell us
something of the personal appearance of Laurenberg and Macdonald. As for
the Jena boys, I don't care about them."

"Laurenberg, Justus, was a tall and very handsome lad. His golden hair
curled over his shoulders, for he wore it very long, and his blue eyes
were like his sister's. Macdonald, again, was rather under the middle
height; his features were dark, and his expression composed, or perhaps,
I should rather say, melancholy. Laurenberg was always gay, vivacious,
and even restless; Macdonald, on the contrary, was usually listless,
almost indolent. But, as you will see, when the time of need came, he
was a man of iron. But where was I? Yes, I remember. Well, we came up to
the door, and knocked at it. It was opened, after a short delay, by a
young girl. The evening shadows were closing in, but, even by the
imperfect light we had, we could see she was very beautiful."

"Ha! grandfather, come, that is very interesting!" cried Justus.

"Don't interrupt me, my boy. We could see she was very beautiful. We
asked if we could be accommodated for the night, and she answered very
readily that we could, but that we should have to sleep all in one room,
and that we must be content with a poor supper. 'You will give us the
best you have, at all events,' said Richter; 'we are well able to pay
for it;' and he jingled his money-pouch. 'Oh, that I do not doubt!' said
she, her eyes glistening at the sound; 'but my old grandmother and I
live alone here, so we have not much to offer.' 'You two live alone in
this large house?' said Macdonald, rather harshly. The girl turned her
eyes on him for the first time--Richter had been our spokesman--and she
seemed somewhat confused at the scrutinizing glance she met. 'Yes,' said
she, at last; 'my father, and his father before him, were foresters
here--we were not always so poor--and since their death, we have been
allowed still to occupy the place.' 'I beg your pardon,' said Macdonald,
in a softer tone. 'But why,' resumed he, in a sharp, quick way--'why
must we all sleep in one room?' The girl gave him a keen, inquiring
look, as if to ask what he meant by his questions, and then answered,
firmly, 'Because, sir, besides our own room, we have only one other
furnished. But had you not better walk in? You seem tired, gentlemen;
have you come far?' 'To be sure we have, my pretty girl,' said the
Frenchman; 'and the fact is, we have lost our way. But why do we stand
talking here? Let us go in, my lads.' 'Stay a moment, my friends,'
interposed Macdonald. 'We should perhaps be burdensome to you,' said he,
addressing the girl: 'how far is it to the nearest inn?' 'About two
hours' good walking,' replied she. 'And which is the way?' he asked.
'This bridle-road,' said she, 'will bring you in an hour to a
country-road. By turning to your left, you will then reach Arnstadt in
another.' 'Good,' said Macdonald, 'many thanks. It is my advice, my
friends, that we push on to Arnstadt.' 'What!' cried the Pole, 'two
hours more walking! If we were on horseback it would be different; but
on foot, I will not go another yard;' and, as he spoke, he entered the
house. 'I beg you a thousand pardons, mademoiselle, for keeping you here
so long, and a heavy dew falling, too. Come, let us in at once,' said
the Frenchman, and he followed the Pole. 'It would certainly be far more
comfortable to have good beds at Arnstadt,' said Richter, 'instead of
sleeping six in a room; but I am too tired;' and he, too, went in.
Macdonald cast an imploring look at Laurenberg, who seemed irresolute.
But at the same moment the girl, who had already made a step to follow
our Jena companions into the house, turned slowly round, and, throwing a
bewitching glance at my poor friend, said, in a voice full of
persuasion, 'And you, fair young sir?' At that moment, the moon, which
had risen, passed from behind a cloud, and, throwing her light on the
maiden's features, gave them an almost unearthly beauty. As for
Macdonald, he remained in the shade; but his expressive eye flashed a
look of stern warning such as I had never seen it assume before. I shall
never forget that scene. Laurenberg was between his good and his evil
angel. But so it is ever. Poor humanity is constantly called on to make
the choice; and, alas! how much oftener is the evil preferred than the
good! In this world--"

But here Justus, who seemed greatly to dread his grandfather's homilies,
and to have an instinctive presentiment of their approach, rose on his
knees to fill our glasses. This done, he exclaimed, "That's a bad cigar,
grandfather. It does not burn even, and, besides, the ash is quite
black: throw it away, and take another."

The interruption was successful. "Thank you, my boy," said the pastor.
"Don't, however, break in so often on my story. Where was I?"

"Laurenberg was just about to go into the house with the beautiful
maiden--at least, I suppose so," said Justus.

"Yes," resumed the old man. "After a moment's hesitation, he took her
hand, which she yielded easily, and they entered together. 'Come,' said
Macdonald to me, with a sigh, 'since it must be so, we must go with
them.' He took my arm, and continued, 'We enter here according to our
degrees of wisdom and folly--the Pole first, you and I last; but who is
to pay for their blindness?' Give me a light, Justus. Is that the same
wine? It seems to me a little hard."

"It is the same wine," said Justus. "Perhaps you find it hard, because
it is cooler than the first."

"It may be so. Well, we went in, entering by a passage into a kind of
hall. Here we heard the Frenchman's voice: 'Come along, my beauty, and
show us your wonderful and enchanted chamber, where we are to sleep; for
I suppose it is there we are to sup, too. I have been trying all the
doors, and not one of them will open.' 'This way, gentlemen,' said the
girl, disengaging herself from Laurenberg, and opening one of several
doors which entered off the place we were in. 'That is your grandmother,
I suppose?' said Macdonald, pointing to a figure bending over a small
fire, which was expiring on the hearth. 'Good evening, my good woman;
you seem to feel chilly;' and, as he addressed these latter words to the
crouching creature, he made a step as if he would approach; but the
girl, quickly grasping his arm, whispered in his ear, 'Do not disturb
her. Since my father's death, she scarcely ever speaks to any one but
me. She is very old and feeble. Pray, leave her alone.' Macdonald threw
another of his penetrating glances at the girl, but said nothing, and he
and I followed her along a passage, some twenty paces in length, and
very narrow. At the end of it was another door, and this opened into the
chamber we were to occupy. It was a round room, and we immediately
guessed that it formed the under story of the tower we had remarked. The
girl brought a lamp, and we found that the furniture consisted of a
table and some stools, a large press, a heap of mattresses and bedding,
a few mats of plaited straw, and a pile of fire-wood. The most curious
thing about the place, however, was a strong pole, or rather mast, which
stood in the very centre, and seemed to pass through the roof of the
room. This roof, which was at a considerable distance from the floor,
was formed--a thing I had never seen before--of furze-bushes, supported
upon slender branches of pine, and appeared so rickety as to threaten
every moment to come down about our heads. On questioning the girl, I
was told that the mast supported the outer roof, which was possible
enough. 'In the first place,' said Richter to the damsel, when we had
seated ourselves, and she seemed to wait for our orders, 'is this an
inn, or is it not?' 'You may see, gentlemen,' replied she, 'by the
scantiness of the accommodation, that it is not exactly an inn.
Nevertheless, you can make yourselves at home, as if it was, and
welcome.' 'Good. Then, in the second place, have you any wine?' 'Plenty.
We sell a good deal to the foresters, who pass here often, and so have
always a supply.' 'Where is it?' asked Macdonald. 'Below, in the
cellar.' 'Very well,' returned he. 'I and two more of us will go down
and help you to bring up a dozen bottles or so, if you will show us the
way.' 'Certainly,' said she. While Macdonald and two of the others were
absent with her, I contrived to light a fire, and the Frenchman, on
exploring the press, having found that it contained plates, knives, and
forks, he and the Pole laid the table; so that when the others, laden
with bottles, re-appeared, the place had somewhat of a more cheerful
look. 'They have not had time to drug our wine, at least,' whispered
Macdonald to me. 'Pooh, my friend,' returned I, 'you are far too
suspicious. You will smile to-morrow at having had such ideas.' 'We
shall see,' said he. Presently, the girl brought in some bacon, some
eggs, and a piece of venison. These we cooked ourselves, staying our
appetite, in the mean time, with bread and wine. Then we made a hearty
supper, and became very merry. Richter and the Pole plied the bottle
vigorously, while Laurenberg and the Frenchman vied with each other in
somewhat equivocal gallantries to the damsel. As for Macdonald, he wore
an expression of mingled resignation, vigilance, and resolution, which
made me uncomfortable, I knew not why--"

"Come, grandfather, don't keep us so long in suspense. Tell us at once
if Macdonald's suspicions were well-founded," exclaimed Justus. "Had you
fallen into a den of thieves, or were you among honest people? Were you
all robbed and murdered before morning, or were you not?"

"Justus, my boy, you must let me tell my story my own way," said the old
pastor; "and pray don't interrupt me again. Where was I?"

"At supper grandfather."

"True. When we had supped, smoked a few pipes, and finished our wine, we
began to make our beds. As we were so occupied, the girl came in and
offered to help us. We readily consented, for we were tired enough. In a
very short time, she had made six beds on the floor. 'Why do you lay
them all with the head to the middle of the room?' asked Macdonald,
observing that all the pillows were ranged round the mast in a circle,
and as near it as possible.--'That is the way I always do,' said she,
with a careless air. But she did not succeed in concealing a certain
strange expression which her features assumed for a moment, and which
both Macdonald and I remarked, without understanding it. We well
understood afterward what it meant. As she was retiring, the Frenchman
and Laurenberg assailed her with some rather too free jokes. She turned,
and cast on them a look of ineffable indignation and scorn; then,
without a word, she passed out at the door, and closed it behind her. We
all admired her for her modesty and virtue. Fill our glasses, Justus.
But appearances are deceitful; this world is but a vain show; all is not
gold that glitters; and--"

But, a second time, Justus cut short the homily. He dextrously spilt
some of the wine, as he performed his Ganymedian office, and so drew
down on himself a mild sarcasm for his awkwardness.

Forgetting the sermon he had begun, the old man therefore thus went on:
"All, except Macdonald, were soon in bed. We had, however, only half
undressed. As for Macdonald, he drew a stool toward the fire, and,
seating himself, buried his face in his hands, as if in thought. I
almost immediately fell asleep, and must have slept for some time, for
when I awoke the fire was out. But I did not awaken of myself; it was
Macdonald who aroused me. He did the same to the others. He had thrown
himself on his bed, and spoke in a whisper, which, however, as our heads
were close together, was audible to all. 'Brothers,' said he, 'listen;
but for your lives make no noise, and, above all, do not speak. From the
first moment we arrived at this house, I feared that all was not right;
now I am sure of it. It seemed odd to me that two solitary women should
inhabit so large a house; that the girl should have been so ready, or
rather so anxious to receive us; that she should have shown no fear of
six young men, all strangers to her; and I said to myself, 'She and her
grandmother do not live here alone; she depends upon aid, if aid be
necessary, and that aid is not far off.' Again, I am used to read the
character in the countenance, and, despite her beauty, if ever treachery
was marked on the human face, it is on hers. Then why make us all sleep
in one room? If the others are empty, our beds would be as well on the
floor in them as in this one. However, all that was mere suspicion. But
there is more. You saw me examine the windows during supper. I could
then open the outside shutters; they have since been fastened; and, what
is more, the door is locked or barred on us, and will not yield. But,
what is most important, my ear, which is very quick, caught the sound of
steps in the passage--heavy steps, though taken on tiptoe--steps, in
short, of a man, or rather, I should say of men, for there were at least
two. I stole to the door, and I distinctly heard whisperings. Now, what
do you think of all that? Speak one at a time, and low.'--'Bah!'
whispered the Frenchman, 'I think nothing of it. It is quite common to
fasten the shutters outside; and, as for the door, your friend and I
were rather free with the girl last night, and she may have locked us in
for her own security, or she might be afraid of our decamping in the
morning without paying the reckoning. As for the footsteps, I doubt if
you can distinguish a man's from a woman's; and the whisperings were
probably the girl and the old woman conversing. Their voices, coming
along the passage, would sound like whisperings.' This explanation was
so plausible, that all expressed themselves satisfied with it. But
Macdonald resumed, and this time he spoke in a whisper so terrible--so
full of mysterious power, that it went straight to every heart, and
curdled all our blood. 'Brothers,' he said, 'be wise in time. If you
will not listen to common sense, take warning of a supernatural sense.
Have you never had a dim presentiment of approaching evil? I know you
have. Now, mark. I have at this moment the sure certitude of coming
evil. I know, I _know_, I KNOW, that if you continue to lie here, and
will not listen to my words, neither you nor I will ever see another
sun. I _know_ that we shall all certainly die before the morning. Will
you be advised? If not, your blood be on your own heads! As for mine, I
forgive it you. Decide!--resolve!'--These words, the tones in which they
were uttered, and our knowledge of the speaker, produced a profound
impression. As for me, I shuddered; but it was less at the idea of the
threatened material danger, than at that of an occult influence hovering
round us, inspiring Macdonald, and filling the place with its mysterious
presence. Laurenberg was the first to speak, or rather to whisper.
'Macdonald,' said he, 'I yield myself to your guidance.' I immediately
said, 'And I.' The others followed the example. Macdonald immediately
took the command on himself. 'Rise,' said he, 'but make not the
slightest noise. Collect yourselves and pay attention to the slightest
thing. Leave your shoes; take your swords'--I should tell you, my young
friend," said the pastor, addressing me, "that in those days students
wore swords, especially when they traveled. And they were not such
swords, Justus, as you fight your absurd duels with--not slim things,
that you can bend double, and of which only a foot or so is sharp--not
playthings to scratch each other's faces with; but good steel blades,
meant for thrusting as well as cutting--blades not to be trifled with
when wielded by a skillful and strong arm. But where was I? I remember.
'Take your swords,' said Macdonald. 'As it is so dark, there will
probably be confusion. We must have watchwords, therefore. Let them be
_Jena_ and _Goettingen_. Also, to avoid our blindly encountering each
other, let each of us, if it comes to a fight, keep calling _Burschen!
Burschen!_ I believe the attack I apprehend will come from the door. Let
us range ourselves three on each side of it. We from Goettingen will take
the right side, you from Jena the left. When they open the door, we rush
into the passage. I will lead my file, and do you brother,' said he to
the Frenchman, 'lead yours. When you hear me cry _Burschen!_ follow me,
and, remember, you strike for your lives.' All this was said in the
lowest whisper, but at the same time so distinctly and deliberately,
that we did not lose a word. We took the places assigned us, grasping
our bared swords. For a time--it seemed an interminable time--so we
stood silent, and hearing nothing. Of course, we could not see each
other, for the place was quite dark. At last our excited ears heard
footsteps cautiously approaching. Some one came to the door, and was
evidently listening. In about a minute, we heard the listener whisper to
some one in the passage--'They must all be asleep now. Tell Hans to cut
loose.' Our hearts beat quick. There was a pause of some minutes; then
suddenly we heard overhead a cracking sound among the furze bushes which
composed the roof of the room, and the next instant something fell to
the ground with a crash so tremendous that the whole house seemed to
shake. Then we heard a bolt withdrawn, then a key was turned. The door
began to open. '_Burschen!_' cried Macdonald, as he dashed it wide ajar,
and sprang into the passage. '_Burschen!_' cried the Frenchman, and the
next moment he was by our comrade's side. '_Burschen!_' cried we all, as
we made in after them."

"_Die Burschen sollen leben!_" (Students forever!) exclaimed Justus, in
a state of no little excitement.

"The robbers retreated precipitately into the hall, where we had seen
the old woman the previous night. It was brightly illuminated by a large
fire which was blazing on the hearth. Here we fought. '_Burschen!_'
thundered Macdonald, as he struck down a man armed with a hatchet. '_A
bas les voleurs!_' cried the Frenchman, quitting German for his mother
tongue, in the heat of the moment. '_Jena! Goettingen!_' shouted some of
us, forgetting in our excitement that these names were our passwords and
not our war-cry. '_Burschen!_' cried Laurenberg, as he drove into a
corner one of the enemy armed with a dagger and a sword. '_Burschen!_'
cried he again, as he passed his weapon twice through the robber's body.
'_Jena!_' yelled Richter, as his left arm, which he interposed to defend
his head, was broken by a blow with an iron bar. '_And Goettingen!_'
added he with a roar, as he laid his assailant at his feet. Meanwhile
the Pole and I had sustained a fierce attack from three robbers, who, on
hearing the cries and the clashing of arms, had rushed out of one of the
doors opening into the hall. The Pole was already slightly wounded, and
it was going hard with us, when the others came to our assistance. This
decided the fight, and we found ourselves victors."

"Bravo!" cried Justus, throwing his cap into the air. "That wasn't bad,
grandfather!" and taking the old man's hand, he kissed his cheek.

"You are a good boy, Justus," said the pastor, "but don't interrupt me.
Where was I? Oh, yes. We had gained the victory, and all the robbers lay
about the floor, killed or wounded. We stood still a moment to take
breath. At this moment, the girl of the previous evening rushed into the
hall, and threw herself on the body of the man who had fallen by the
hand of Laurenberg. She put her hand on his heart, then she approached
her cheek to his mouth. 'He is dead!' cried she, starting to her feet.
'You have killed my Heinrich! my beloved Heinrich! you have killed my
Heinrich! Dead! dead! dead!' Still speaking, she disappeared. But she
returned almost instantly. She had a pistol in each hand. 'It was _you_,
young sir,' said she, calmly and deliberately. 'I saw you,' and, as she
spoke, she covered Laurenberg with her weapon, taking a cool aim. With a
bound, Macdonald threw himself before the victim. But the generous
movement was in vain. She fired; and the bullet, grazing Macdonald's
shoulder, passed through poor Laurenberg's throat, and lodged in a door
behind him. He staggered and fell."

"Oh, weh!" exclaimed Justus.

"We all stood thunderstruck. 'Your life for his--and mine,' said the
girl. With these words, she discharged her other pistol into her bosom,
and sank slowly upon the corpse of her lover."

"What a tragedy!" cried Justus.

"It was indeed a tragedy," resumed the pastor, in a low voice. "I knelt
down beside my friend, and took his hand. Macdonald raised him up a
little, supporting him in a sitting posture. He said, 'My
pocket-book--the letter--my last wish.' Then he pressed my hand. Then he
said, 'Farewell, comrades--farewell, my brothers. Remember me to my
mother and Anna.' Then he pressed my hand again. And so he died."

Here the worthy pastor's voice faltered a little, and he paused. Justus
and I were silent. At last the old man began again. "Many, many years
have passed since then, but I have never forgotten my early friend, nor
ceased to mourn him. We laid him gently on his back; I closed his blue
eyes. Macdonald placed his sword upon his gallant breast, now still
forever, and crossed his arms over it. Meanwhile the Frenchman and the
Pole, finding the girl quite dead, had laid her decently by the side of
the man she had called Heinrich. 'That is enough in the mean time,' then
said Macdonald, 'the living before the dead. We must see to our own
safety first, and attend to the wounded.' We accordingly went over the
house, and satisfied ourselves that no one else was concealed in it; we
examined the fastenings of all the doors and windows, to guard against
an attack from any members of the gang who might be outside. We found a
considerable quantity of arms and ammunition, and congratulated
ourselves on having surprised our enemies, as otherwise we might have
been shot down like dogs. Returning to the door where we had supped, we
found that the thing which had fallen from the roof, with such a crash,
was an enormous ring or circle of iron, bigger than a cart-wheel. It was
lying on our beds, the mast being exactly in the centre of it, and
serving, as we found, to sustain it when it was hoisted up. Had we not
obeyed Macdonald's voice, we certainly should all have been crushed to
death, as it was plain many a victim had already been, for the infernal
thing was stained with blood, and in some places, patches of hair were
still sticking to it."

"And the old woman? the old grandmother?" asked Justus.

"We found her clothes, but not herself. Hence, we guessed that some one
of the gang had personated the character, and Macdonald reminded us how
the girl had prevented his approaching her supposed relative, and how he
had got no answer to his address, the man in disguise being probably
afraid that his voice might betray him. On examining the field of
battle, we found that the robbers were nine in number, and that two
besides Heinrich were dead. We bound the wounds of the others as well
as we could. They were all sturdy fellows, and, when we considered their
superior strength and numbers, we wondered at our own success. It was to
be attributed solely--of course, I mean humanly speaking--to our attack
being so unexpected, sudden, and impetuous. Indeed the combat did not
last five minutes, if nearly so long. On our side, there was the
irreparable loss of Laurenberg. Richter's broken arm gave him much pain,
and the Pole had lost a considerable quantity of blood; but, besides
this, we had only a few scratches. 'Now, lie down and rest,' said
Macdonald, 'for you have all need of it. As for me, I can not sleep, and
so will keep watch till morning.' We did as he recommended, for in
truth, now that the excitement was over, I could scarcely keep my eyes
open, and the rest were like me. Even Richter slept. Give us some wine,
Justus, my boy."

"He was a fine fellow that Macdonald," said Justus, as he obeyed.

"It was several hours before he awakened us," continued the pastor. "My
first thoughts were of poor Laurenberg. I remembered what he said about
a pocket-book. I searched his dress, and found it. What it contained, I
shall tell you presently. We breakfasted on some bread and wine, and
then Macdonald called a council of war. After putting a negative on the
absurd proposal of the Pole, that we should set fire to the house, and
to the stupid suggestion of Richter (he was in a state of fever from his
hurt) that, before doing any thing else, we should empty the cellar, we
unanimously agreed that our first step should be to give information to
the proper authorities of all that had happened. The Frenchman and I
were deputed to go and seek them out. 'You remember what the girl said
about the way to Arnstadt?' said Macdonald. 'I think you may so far rely
on it; but you must trust a good deal to your own judgment to find your
way.' With this piece of advice, we started."

The journey to Arnstadt, the interview with the buergermeister, the
reference to the rural amptman, the expedition of that functionary to
the scene of the tragedy, the imprisonment of the surviving robbers,
their trial, confession, and punishment, were all minutely dwelt upon by
the worthy but somewhat diffuse narrator; none of these circumstances,
however, interested me, and I took little note of them. At last, the
pastor returned to personages more attractive of attention.

"We buried Laurenberg by night," said he. "There chanced to be some
students from other universities in the neighborhood of Arnstadt, and
they joined us in paying him all due honor. We followed the coffin, on
which lay his sword and cap, walking two-and-two, and each bearing a
torch. When the body was lowered into the grave, we quenched the
torches, and sung a Latin dirge. Such was the end of my friend."

"And the pocket-book?" asked Justus.

"It contained a letter to me, a very curious letter. It was dated
Gotha, and bore, in substance, that Macdonald's presentiments were
weighing on the mind of the writer, more than he was willing should be
known until _after_ the anticipated catastrophe, if, indeed, any should
take place. But, that such a thing being _possible_, he took that
opportunity of recommending his mother and sister to my care, and of
expressing his hope that I should find I could love Anna, and that so I
would one day make her my wife. I need not relate to you how I performed
the sad duty of bearing the news of his death to his two dear relatives.
As you know, Justus, Anna in about three years afterward became mine.
And here, in this house, young stranger, we lived very happily for
thirty years. Here, too, she died. And yonder, in the church-yard, near
the west porch, she awaits being rejoined by her own--by her children,
and her husband."

We were all silent for some time. At length Justus, whose emotions were
yet as summer clouds, inquired of his grandfather, "And your other
comrades in the Thuringian Forest affair?"

"Of the Jena students I heard no more till many years afterward. It was
in November, 1813; Napoleon was retreating from the nation-fight at
Leipsic. The battle of Hanau, too, had been fought. A wounded French
officer asked hospitality of me here. Of course, I granted it, and he
remained more than two months with me; for, though not for several days
after his arrival, I discovered that he was the French student who, with
Richter and the Pole, had joined our party at Gotha. He had returned to
France about a year after our fatal adventure, had entered the army, and
had been fighting almost ever since. When he left me, he was sent to
Mainz, a prisoner on parole; but, at the Restoration in his own country,
he was allowed to return. On the return of Napoleon from Elba, he
however once more took up arms for his old master, and, with the many
other victims of one man's ambition, and the, alas! too prevalent thirst
for military glory common among his countrymen, he was killed at
Waterloo. When will such things cease? When--"

"And Richter?" asked Justus, nipping in the bud the dreaded moralizing.

"Richter was killed in a duel--"

"And Macdonald?"

"Don't interrupt me, my boy; fill our glasses instead. Richter was
killed in a duel; so the Frenchman told me. I also heard of the fate of
the Pole through him. It was a strange and melancholy one. He, too, had
gone to France, and entered the army, serving zealously and with
distinction. In 1807, being then with the division that was advancing on
the Vistula, he obtained leave to visit his father, whom he had not seen
for years, but whom he hoped to find in the paternal mansion, situated
in a wild part of the country, but not very far from the route which his
corps was taking. He was, however, surprised by the night, as he was
still riding through a forest of firs which seemed interminable. He
therefore put up at a small roadside inn, which presented itself just
as he reached the limits of the wood. Here the Frenchman's account of
the matter became rather obscure, indeed, his friend the Pole had never
told him very exactly all the circumstances. Suffice it that there were
two ladies in the inn--a mother and daughter--two Polish ladies, who
were hurrying to meet the husband of one of them, a colonel in Jerome
Bonaparte's army. They were in a great state of alarm, the conduct of
the people about the place having roused their suspicions. At their
request, the Pole took up his quarters in a room from which their
chamber entered, so that no one could reach them without passing by him.
The room he thus occupied was on the first floor, and at the top of a
staircase, from which access was obtained by a trap-door. This trap the
officer shut, and fastened by a wooden bolt belonging to it. Then,
telling the ladies to fear nothing, he placed his sword and pistols on a
table beside him, and resolved to keep good watch. About midnight, he
heard steps on the staircase. No answer was returned to the challenge he
immediately made; on the contrary, some one tried to force the trap. The
officer observing a hole two or three inches square in it, passed the
muzzle of one of his pistols through it, and fired. There was the sound
of a body rolling down the staircase. But the attempt was soon after
renewed; this time, however, differently. A hand appeared through the
hole, and grasped the bolt. The bolt was even half withdrawn, when the
Pole, at a single blow, severed the hand from the body it belonged to.
There followed groans and horrid imprecations; but nothing more took
place that night. In the morning, a squadron of French cavalry arrived,
and the ladies were placed in safety. Not a single person was found in
the inn. The officer continued his way to his father's house. One thing,
however, had much struck him; the hand he had cut off was very small,
delicate, and white; moreover, one of the fingers wore a ring of
considerable value. This ring he took possession of, with a strange,
uncomfortable feeling of coming evil, which increased as he went on.
Arrived at his father's house, he was told that his parent was ill, and
in bed. He was, however, soon introduced to his presence. The old man
was evidently suffering great pain; but he conversed with his son for
some time, with tolerable composure. Suddenly, however, by a convulsive
movement, he threw off the bedclothes, and the officer, to his horror,
saw that his father's right hand was wanting. 'It was then you! and this
is your ring!' he cried, in an agony of conflicting passions, as,
throwing the jewel on the floor, he rushed out of the house, mounted his
horse, and rode off at full speed. A few weeks afterward, he sought and
found his death amid the bloody snows of Prussian Eylau."

"Poor fellow!" said Justus. "And Macdonald?"

"Of Macdonald's fate," said the pastor, gravely, "I know nothing. When I
returned to Goettingen, after visiting Anna and her mother, he was gone.
He had left his rooms the previous day with a stranger, an elderly man,
dressed in gray. And he never returned. I made every inquiry all round
Goettingen, but could get no tidings of him, no one on any road had seen
him or his companion pass. In short, I never saw or heard any thing more
of him. His books and things were sold some two or three months after; I
bought every thing I thought he cared for, in order some day to restore
them to him. But he has never appeared to claim them, and so I have them
still. His sword hangs between Laurenberg's and mine, in my study. But
come, the dew is falling, let us go in. Justus, my boy, be kind enough
to carry in my chair for me. Trinchen will come out for the rest of the
things."

So ended the worthy pastor's story.




THE COUNTESS--A TALE OF THE FRENCH REVOLUTION.

BY PERCY B. ST. JOHN.


The Citizen Aristides Godard was the very beau ideal of a republican
patriot during the early times of the Terror. During the day, the
Citizen Godard sold cloth to his brother and sister democrats, and
talked politics by the yard all the while. He was of the old
school--hated an aristocrat and a poet with an intensity which
degenerated into the comic, and never once missed a feast of reason, or
any other solemnity of those days. Enter his shop to purchase a few
yards of cloth, and he would eagerly ask you for the latest news,
discuss the debate of the previous night in the Convention, and invite
you to his club. His club! for it was here the Citoyen Godard was great.
The worthy clothier could scarcely read, but he could talk, and better
still, he could perorate with remarkable emphasis and power, knew by
heart all the peculiar phrases of the day, and even descended to the
slang of political life.

The Citoyen Godard was a widower, with an only son, who having inherited
a small fortune from his mother, had abandoned trade, and given up his
whole time to the affairs of the nation. Paul Godard was a young man, of
handsome form and mien, of much talent, full of sincerity and
enthusiasm; and with these characteristics was, though not more than
four-and-twenty, president and captain of his section, where he was
distinguished for his eloquence, energy, and civism. Sincerely attached
to the new ideas of the hour, he, however, had none of the violence of a
party man; and though some very exaggerated patriots considered him
lukewarm, the majority were of a very different opinion.

It was eight o'clock on one gloomy evening in winter, when the Citizen
Godard entered the old convent, where sat the Jacobin Club. The hall
was, as usual, very full. The locality contained nearly fourteen hundred
men, seated upon benches placed across the room, in all the strange and
varied costumes of the time. Red caps covered many heads, while
tricolored vests and pantaloons were common. The chief characteristic
was poverty of garb, some of the richest present wearing wooden shoes,
and using a bit of cord for strings and buttons. The worst dressed were,
of course, the men who assumed the character of Jacobins as a disguise.

One of these was speaking when Godard entered, and though there was
serious business before the club, was wasting its time in denouncing
some fabulous aristocratic conspiracy. Godard, who was late, had to take
his place in the corner, where the faint glimmer of the taller candles
scarcely reached him. Still, from the profound silence which as usual
prevailed, he could hear every word uttered by the orator. The Jacobins,
except when there was a plot to stifle an unpopular speaker, listened
attentively to all. The eloquent rhetorician, and the unlettered
stammerer, were equally attended to--the matter, not the manner, being
cared for.

The orator who occupied the tribune was young. His face was covered with
a mass of beard, while his uncombed hair, coarse garments, dirty hands,
and a club of vast dimensions, showed him to be a politician by
profession. His language was choice and eloquent, though he strove to
use the lowest slang of the day.

"Word of a patriot!" said the Citoyen Godard, after eying the speaker
suspiciously for some time. "I know that voice. He is fitter for the
_Piscine des Carmagnoles_[26] than for the tribune."

"Who is the particular?" asked a friend of the clothier, who stood by.

"It is the Citizen Gracchus Bastide," said a third, in a soft and shrill
tone, preventing the reply of Godard; and then the speaker bent low, and
added--"Citoyen Godard, you are a father and a good man. I am Helene de
Clery; the orator is my cousin. Do not betray him!"

The Citoyen Godard looked wildly at the speaker, and then drew the young
woman aside. Her garb was that of a man. A red cap confined her
luxuriant hair; a full coat, loose tricolored pantaloons, and a sword
and brace of pistols completed her attire.

"_Citoyenne!_" said the revolutionary clothier, drily, "thou art an
aristocrat. I should denounce thee!"

"But thou wilt not?" replied the young woman, with a winning smile, "nor
my cousin, though playing so foolish, so unworthy a part."

"Oh!" said Godard, "thou ownest this, then?"

"Papa Godard," answered the young countess, in a low, imploring tone,
"my father was once thy best customer, and thou hadst never reason to
complain of him. He was a good man. For his and for my sake, spare my
cousin, led away by bad counsels and by fatal ambition."

"I will spare him," said the clothier, moving away, "but let him take
the warning I shall give him."

The clothier had noticed that the Citoyen Gracchus Bastide was about to
finish, and he hurried to ask a hearing, which was instantly granted
him. The Citoyen Godard was not an orator, and, as is the case under
such circumstances, his head, arms, and feet were more active than his
tongue. Ascending the tribune, he struck the desk three times with his
feet, while his eyes seemed ready to start out of his head, at the same
time that his lips moved inarticulately. At length, however, he spoke:

"The truths spoken by the citizen who preceded me are truths of which
every man is fully aware, and I am not here in consequence to reiterate
them. The friends of the defunct Louis Capet are conspiring in the midst
of us every day. But the citoyen _preopinant_ forgot to say, that they
come to our very forum--that they dress like true patriots--that they
take names which belong rightly only to the faithful--and denounce often
true men to cheat us. Many a Gracchus hides a marquis--many a _bonnet
rouge_ a powdered crown! I move the order of the day."

The citizen Gracchus Bastide had no sooner caught sight of Godard
advancing toward the tribune, than he hurried toward the door, and ere
the conclusion of the other's brief oration, had vanished. Godard's
object gained, he descended from the forum, and gave way to a speaker
big with one of those propositions which were orders to the Legislature,
and which swayed the fate of millions at that eventful period.

Godard reassumed his former post, which he patiently kept until a late
hour, when the sitting being terminated, after speeches from Danton,
Robespierre, and Camille Desmoulins, he sallied forth into the open air.

It was eleven o'clock, and the streets of Paris were dark and gloomy.
The order for none to be out after ten, without a _carte de civisme_,
was in force, and few were inclined to disobey it. At that time, Paris
went to bed almost at night-fall, with the exception of those who did
the government business of the hour, and they never rested. Patriots,
bands of armed men guarding prisoners, volunteers returning from
festivals, the chiefs of different parties sitting in committees, the
orators writing their speeches for next day, the sections organizing
public demonstrations--such was the picture of this great town by night.
Dawn was the most unwelcome of times, for then the statesman had to
renew his struggle for existence, the accused had to defend himself, the
suspected began again to watch the hours as they flew, and the terrific
machine that depopulated the earth was at work--horrid relic of
ignorance and barbarism, that killed instead of converting.

Father Godard had scarcely left the Jacobins, when from a narrow passage
darted a slight figure, which he instantly recognized as that of Helene
de Clery. The young girl caught hold of his arm and began speaking with
extreme volubility, she said that her father had been dead six months,
leaving her and a hot-headed cousin alone in the world. This young man
embraced with fiery zeal the cause of the exiled royal family, and had
already twice narrowly escaped--once on the occasion of the king's
execution, and on that of the queen's. Every royalist conspiracy, every
movement for insurrection against the Committee of Public Safety, found
him mixed up in it. For some time they had been able to exist on what
remained of her father's money, but now their resources were utterly
exhausted. It was only by the charity of royalist friends that she
starved not, and to obtain even this she had to disguise herself, and
act with her party. But Helene said, that she had no political instinct.
She loved her country, but she could not join with one party against
another.

"Give me some work to do--show me how to earn a livelihood, with my
fingers, Father Godard, and I will bless you."

"No person shall ask me how to be a good citizen in vain. Citoyenne
Helene, thou art under my protection. My wife is dead: wilt thou be too
proud to take charge of my household?"

"Surely too grateful."

"And thy cousin?"

"Heaven have mercy on him. He will hear no reason. I have begged and
implored him to leave the dark road of conspiracy, and to seek to serve
his country, but in vain. Nothing will move him."

"Let the wild colt have his course," replied Godard, adding rather
coarsely, "he will end by sneezing in Samson's sack."

Helene shuddered, but made no reply, clinging firmly to the old
_sans-culotte's_ arm as he led her through the deserted streets.

It was midnight when the residence of the clothier was reached. It was
in a narrow street running out of the Rue St. Honore. There was no
coach-door, and Godard opened with a huge key that hung suspended at his
girdle. Scarcely had the old man inserted the key in the key-hole when a
figure darted forth from a guard-house close at hand.

"I thought I should find the old Jacobin," said a merry, hearty voice;
"he never misses his club. I am on duty to-night in the neighborhood,
and, says I, let us see the father, and get a crust out of him."

"Paul, my boy, thou art a good son, and I am glad to see thee. Come in:
I want to talk seriously to thee."

The clothier entered, Helene followed him closely, and Paul closed the
door. A lantern burned in the passage, by which some candles were soon
lit in the cosy back sitting-room of the old _sans-culotte_. Paul looked
curiously at the stranger, and was about to let a very impertinent grin
cross his face, when his father taking off his red cap, spoke with some
emotion, laying aside, under the impression of deep feeling, all his
slang.

"My son, you have heard me speak often of my benefactor and friend, the
Count de Clery, who for some trifling service, rendered when a lad, gave
me the means of starting in life. This is his daughter and only child.
My boy, we know how terrible are the days. The daughter of the royalist
Count de Clery is fated to die if discovered. We must save her."

Paul, who was tall, handsome, and intellectual in countenance, bowed low
to the agitated girl. He said little, but what he said was warm and to
the point. Helene thanked both with tears in her eyes, begging them also
to look to her cousin. Paul turned to his father for an explanation,
which Papa Godard gave.

"Let him beware," said Paul, drily. "He is a spy, and merits death. Ah!
ah! what noise is that?"

"Captain," cried half a dozen voices in the street, "thou art wanted. We
have caught a suspicious character."

"'Tis perhaps Albert, who has followed me," cried Helene. "He thinks I
would betray him."

Paul rushed to the door. Half a dozen national guards were holding a
man. It was Citizen Gracchus Bastide. Paul learned that no sooner had he
entered the house, than this man crept up to the door, listened
attentively, and stamped his feet as if in a passion. Looking on this as
suspicious, the patriots had rushed out and seized him.

"Captain," cried the Citizen Gracchus, "what is the meaning of this? I
am a Jacobin, and a known patriot."

"Hum!" said Paul, "let me look at thee. Ah! pardon, citizen, I recognize
thee now; but why didst thou not knock? We wait supper for thee. Come
in. Bravo, my lads, be always on the alert. I will join you soon."

And pushing the other into the passage, he led him without another word
into the parlor. For an instant all remained silent. Paul then spoke:

"Thou art a spy and a traitor, and as such worthy of death. Not content
with foreign armies and French traitors on the frontiers, we must have
them here in Paris. Albert de Clery, thou hast thy choice--the
guillotine, or a voluntary enrollment in the army. Go forth, without
regard to party, and fight the enemies of thy country, and in one year
thou shalt find a cousin, a friend, and, I suppose, a wife."

Godard, Helene, Paul, all spoke in turns. They joined in regretting the
misery of Frenchmen fighting against Frenchmen. They pointed out that,
no matter what was its form of government, France was still France.
Albert resisted for some time, but at last the strong man yielded. The
four men then supped in common, and the young royalist, as well as the
republican, found that men may differ in politics, and yet not be
obliged to cut each other's throats. They found ample subjects for
agreement in other things. Before morning, Albert, led away by the
eloquence of young Paul, voluntarily pledged himself not to fight
against France. Next day he took service, and, after a tearful adieu,
departed. He went with a ragged band of raw recruits to fight the
battles of his country, a little bewildered at his new position; but not
unconvinced that he was acting more wisely than in fomenting the evil
passions of the hour.

Immediately after the leave-taking, Helene commenced her new existence
in plain and ordinary garb, taking her post as the old clothier's
housekeeper. An old woman was cook and housemaid, and with her aid
Helene got on comfortably. The warm-hearted _sans-culotte_ found, in
additional comfort, and in her society, ample compensation for his
hospitality. Helene, by gentle violence, brought him to the use of clean
linen, which, like Marat, and other semi-insane individuals, Godard had
originally affected to reject, as a sign of inferior civism. He became,
too, more humanely disposed in general to his enemies, and, ere three
months, ardently longed for the end of the awful struggle which was
desolating the land. Aristides Godard felt the humanizing influence of
woman, the best attribute of civilization--an influence which, when men
can not feel it, they at once stamp their own character.

Paul became an assiduous visitor at his father's house. He brought the
fair countess news from the army, flowers, books, and sometimes letters
from cousin Albert. They soon found much mutual pleasure in each other's
society, but Paul never attempted to offer serious court to the
affianced wife of the young Count de Clery. Paul was of a remarkably
honorable character. Of an ardent and passionate temperament, he had
imbibed from his mother a set of principles which were his guide through
life. He saw this young girl, taken away from the class in which she was
brought up, deprived of the pleasures of her age and rank, and compelled
to earn her living, and he did his utmost to make her time pass
pleasantly. Helene was but eighteen, and the heart at this age, knows
how to bound away from sorrow, as from a precipice, when a better
prospect offers; and Helene, deeply grateful at the attention paid her,
both by father and son, soon became reconciled to her new mode of
existence, and then quite happy. Paul devoted every spare hour to her,
and as he had read, thought, and studied, the once spoiled child of
fortune found much advantage in his society.

At the end of three months, Albert ceased to write, and his friend
became anxious. Inquiries were made, which proved that he was alive and
well, and then they ceased to hear of him. A year passed, two years, and
calmer days came round, but no tidings reached of the absent one. Helene
was deeply anxious--her cheeks grew pale--she became thin. Paul did all
he could to rouse her. He took her out, he showed her all the amusements
and gayeties of Paris, but nothing seemed to have any effect. The poor
fellow was in despair, as he was deeply attached to the orphan girl.
Once a week, at least, he pestered the war office with inquiries about
Bastide, the name under which the cousin had enrolled himself.

Father Godard, when the days of the club were over, doubly grateful for
the good deed he had done, and which had its full reward, retired from
business, took a simple lodging in a more lively quarter, and found in
Helene a dutiful and attached daughter. For a wonder, there was a garden
attached to the house, and here the retired tradesman, on a summer's
evening, would smoke his pipe and take his coffee, while Paul and Helene
strolled about the alleys or chatted by his side.

One evening in June--one of those lovely evenings which makes Paris half
Italian in look, when the boulevards are crowded with walkers, when
thousands crowd open-air concerts, and all is warm, and balmy, and
fragrant, despite a little dust--the trio were collected. Father Godard
was smoking his second pipe, Helene was sipping some sugar and water,
and Paul, seated close by her side, was thinking. The young man's face
was pale, while his eyes were fixed on Helene with a half-melancholy,
half-passionate expression. There was a world of meaning in that look,
and Paul perhaps felt that he was yielding to an unjustifiable emotion,
for he started.

"A flower for your thoughts, Paul," said Helene, quietly.

"My thoughts," replied Paul, with rather a forced laugh, "are not worth
a flower."

Helene seemed struck by the tone, and she bowed her head and blushed.

"Helene," said Paul, in a low, hushed, and almost choking tone, "this
has been too much; the cup has at last overflowed. I was wrong, I was
very wrong to be near you so much, and it has ended as I should have
expected. I love you, Helene! I feel it, and I must away and see you no
more. I have acted unwisely--I have acted improperly."

"And why should you not love me, Paul?" replied Helene, with a great
effort, but so faintly none else but a lover could have heard.

"Are you not Albert's affianced wife?" continued Paul, gravely.

"At last I can explain that which fear of being mistaken has made me
never say before. I and Albert were never affianced, never could be, for
I could not love him."

"Helene! Helene!" cried Paul, passionately, "why spoke you not two years
ago? I said he should find his cousin, his friend, and his affianced
wife when he came back, and I must keep my word."

"True, true--but Paul, he could not have heard you. But you are
right--you are right."

"Let me know all," said the young man, moodily, "but for this
unfortunate accident."

"Paul, you have been to me more than a brother and I will be just toward
you. Influenced by this mistake you clearly did not care more for me
than a friend, and what else has made me ill, and pale, and gloomy but
shame, because--"

"Because what?" asked the young man, eagerly.

"Because, under the circumstances in which I was placed, I had let my
heart lean where it could find no support."

No man could hear such a confession unmoved, and Paul was half wild with
delight; but he soon checked himself, and, gravely rising, took Helene's
hand respectfully.

"But I have been wrong to ask you this until Albert gives me back my
word."

At this instant a heavy step was heard, the clanking of spurs and arms
on the graveled way, and now a tall cavalry officer of rank, preceded by
a woman-servant running, was seen coming toward them. Both trembled--old
Godard was asleep--and stood up, for both recognized Albert de Clery.

"Ah! ah! my friend," cried the soldier, gayly; "I find you at last,
Helene, my dear cousin. Let me embrace you! Eh! how is it? Still
mademoiselle, or are you madam by this time? Paul, my good friend, give
me your hand again. But come into the house. I have brought my wife to
show you--an Italian, a beauty, and an heiress. How do you do, Papa
Godard?"

"Hum--ah! I was asleep. Ah! Citizen Gracchus--Monsieur Albert, I
mean--glad to see you."

"Guide me to the house," continued the soldier, "my wife is impatient to
see you. Give me your arm, Papa Godard; follow, cousin, and let us talk
of old times."

One look, one pressure of the hand, and arm-in-arm they followed, happy
in reality for the first time for two years.

Madame de Clery was indeed a fascinating and beautiful Italian, and upon
her Albert laid the blame of his not writing. He had distinguished
himself greatly, and, remarked by his officers, had risen with
surprising rapidity to the rank of lieutenant-colonel. On the Rhine, he
was one day located in the house of a German baron, with two handsome
daughters. An Italian girl, an heiress, a relation by marriage, was
there, and an attachment sprung up between the young people. The
difficulties in the way of marriage were many; but it is an old story,
how love delights in vanquishing them. Antonia contrived to enter France
under a safe conduct, and then was married. Albert had obtained a
month's leave of absence. He thought at once of those who had paved the
way for his success.

Godard, who had seen something of what had been going on, frankly
explained why Helene was still unmarried. Albert turned round, and shook
Paul by the hand.

"My dear friend, I scarcely heard your sentence. But you are a noble
fellow. I shall not leave Paris until you are my cousin."

This sentence completed the general delight. The meeting became doubly
interesting to all, and ere ten days the wedding took place, Albert
carrying every thing with a high hand, as became a gallant soldier. He
did more. He introduced Paul to influential members of the government,
and obtained for him an excellent position, one that gave him an
occupation, and the prospect of serving his country. Old Godard was
delighted, but far more so when some years after, in a garden near
Paris, he scrambled about with the children of Madame Paul and Madame de
Clery, who resided with the first, her husband being generally on
service. Paul and his wife were very happy. They had seen adversity, and
been chastened by it. Helene doubly loved her husband, from his nobility
of character in respecting her supposed affianced state; and never once
did the descendant of the "ancient and noble" House of Clery regret that
in finding that great and sterling treasure, a good husband, she had
lost the vain and empty satisfaction of being called Madame "the
Countess."


    FOOTNOTE:

    [26] Another slang word for the guillotine.




[From Bentley's Miscellany.]

A MIDNIGHT DRIVE.--A TALE OF TERROR.


I was sitting one night in the general coach-office in the town of ----,
reflecting upon the mutability of human affairs, and taking a
retrospective glance at those times when I held a very different
position in the world, when one of the porters of the establishment
entered the office, and informed the clerk that the coach, which had
long been expected, was in sight, and would be at the inn in a few
minutes. I believe it was the old Highflyer, but at this distance of
time I can not speak with sufficient certainty. The strange story I am
about to relate, occurred when stage-coaches were the usual mode of
conveyance, and long before any more expeditious system of traveling had
engaged the attention of mankind.

I continued to sit by the fire till the coach arrived, and then walked
into the street to count the number of the passengers, and observe their
appearance. I was particularly struck with the appearance of one
gentleman, who had ridden as an inside passenger. He wore a large black
cloak, deeply trimmed with crape; his head was covered with a black
traveling-cap, surmounted with two or three crape rosettes, and from
which depended a long black tassel. The cap was drawn so far over his
eyes that he had some difficulty to see his way. A black scarf was
wrapped round the lower part of his face, so that his countenance was
completely concealed from my view. He appeared anxious to avoid
observation, and hurried into the inn as fast as he could. I returned to
the office and mentioned to the clerk the strange appearance of the
gentlemen in question, but he was too busy to pay any attention to what
I had said.

Presently afterward a porter brought a small carpet-bag into the office,
and placed it upon the table.

"Whose bag is that, Timms?" inquired the clerk.

"I don't wish to be personal," replied the man, "but I think it belongs
to ----," and the fellow pointed to the floor.

"You don't mean _him_, surely?" said the clerk.

"Yes, I do though; at any rate, if he is not the gentleman I take him
for, he must be a second cousin of his, for he is the most unaccountable
individual that ever I clapped my eyes on. There is not much good in
him, I'll be bound."

I listened with breathless anxiety to these words. When the man had
finished, I said to him,

"How was the gentleman dressed?"

"In black."

"Had he a cloak on?"

"Yes."

"A traveling-cap drawn over his eyes?"

"Yes."

"It's the man I saw descend from the coach," I said to the clerk.

"Where is he?" inquired that gentleman.

"In the inn," replied the porter.

"Is he going to stay all night?" I inquired.

"I don't know."

"It's very odd," observed the clerk, and he put his pen behind his ear,
and placed himself in front of the fire; "very odd," he repeated.

"It don't look well," said the porter; "not at all."

Some further conversation ensued upon the subject, but as it did not
tend to throw any light upon the personage in question, it is
unnecessary for me to relate it.

Awhile afterward, the clerk went into the hotel to learn, if possible,
something more relative to this singular visitor. He was not absent more
than a few minutes, and when he returned his countenance, I fancied, was
more sedate than usual. I asked him if he had gathered any further
information.

"There is nobody knows any thing concerning him," he replied; "for when
the servants enter the room, he always turns his back toward them. He
has not spoken to a single individual since he arrived. There is a man
who came by the same coach, who attends upon him, but he does not look
like a servant."

"There is something extraordinary in his history, or I am much
deceived."

"I am quite of your opinion," observed the clerk.

While we were conversing, some persons entered the office to take places
by the mail, which was to leave early on the following morning. I
hereupon departed, and entered the inn with the view of satisfying my
curiosity, if possible, which was now raised to the utmost pitch. The
servants, I remarked, moved about more silently than usual, and
sometimes I saw two or three of them conversing together, _sotto voce_,
as though they did not wish their conversation to be overheard by those
around them. I knew the room that the gentleman occupied, and
stealthily and unobserved stole up to it, hoping to hear or see
something that might throw some light upon his character. I was not,
however, gratified in either respect.

I hastened back to the office and resumed my seat by the fire. The clerk
and I were still conversing upon the subject, when one of the girls came
in, and informed me that I was to get a horse and gig ready immediately,
to drive a gentleman a distance of fifteen or twenty miles.

"To-night!" I said in surprise.

"Immediately!"

"Why, it's already ten o'clock!"

"It's the master's orders; I can not alter them," tartly replied the
girl.

This unwelcome intelligence caused me to commit a great deal of sin, for
I made use of a number of imprecations and expressions which were quite
superfluous and perfectly unavailing. It was not long before I was ready
to commence the journey. I chose the fastest and strongest animal in the
establishment, and one that had never failed me in an emergency. I lit
the lamps, for the night was intensely dark, and I felt convinced that
we should require them. The proprietor of the hotel gave me a paper, but
told me not to read it till we had proceeded a few miles on the road,
and informed me at the same time in what direction to drive. The paper,
he added, would give me further instructions.

I was seated in the vehicle, busily engaged in fastening the leathern
apron on the side on which I sat, in order to protect my limbs from the
cold, when somebody seated himself beside me. I heard the landlord cry,
"Drive on;" and, without looking round, I lashed the mare into a very
fast trot. Even now, while I write, I feel in some degree the
trepidation which stole over me when I discovered who my companion was.
I had not gone far before I was made acquainted with this astounding
fact. It was as though an electric shock had suddenly and unexpectedly
been imparted to my frame, or as, in a moment of perfect happiness, I
had been hastily plunged into the greatest danger and distress. A
benumbing chilliness ran through me, and my mouth all at once became dry
and parched. Whither was I to drive? I knew not. Who and what was my
companion? I was equally ignorant. It was the man dressed so
fantastically whom I had seen alight from the coach; whose appearance
and inexplicable conduct had alarmed a whole establishment, whose
character was a matter of speculation to every body with whom he had
come in contact. This was the substance of my knowledge. For aught I
knew, he might be--. But no matter. The question that most concerned me
was, how was I to extricate myself from this dilemma? Which was the best
course to adopt? To turn back, and declare I would not travel in such a
night, with so strange a person, or to proceed on my journey? I greatly
feared the consequences of the former step would be fatal to my own
interests. Besides, I should be exposed to the sneers and laughter of
all who knew me. No: I had started, and I would proceed, whatever might
be the issue of the adventure.

In a few minutes we had emerged from the town. My courage was now put to
the severest test. The cheerful aspect of the streets, and the light
thrown from the lamps and a few shop-windows, had hitherto buoyed me up,
but my energy and firmness, I felt, were beginning to desert me. The
road on which we had entered was not a great thoroughfare at any time,
but at that late hour of the night I did not expect to meet either
horseman or pedestrian to enliven the long and solitary journey. I cast
my eyes before me, but could not discern a single light burning in the
distance. The night was thick and unwholesome, and not a star was to be
seen in the heavens. There was another matter which caused me great
uneasiness. I was quite unarmed, and unprepared for any attack, should
my companion be disposed to take advantage of that circumstance. These
things flashed across my mind, and made a more forcible impression than
they might otherwise have done, from the fact of a murder having been
committed in the district only a few weeks before, under the most
aggravated circumstances. An hypothesis suggested itself. Was this man
the perpetrator of that deed--the wretch who was endeavoring to escape
from the officers of justice, and who was stigmatized with the foulest,
the blackest crime that man could be guilty of? Appearances were against
him. Why should he invest himself with such a mystery? Why conceal his
face in so unaccountable a manner? What but a man conscious of great
guilt, of the darkest crimes, would so furtively enter an inn, and
afterward steal away under the darkness of the night, when no mortal eye
could behold him? If he was sensible of innocence, he might have
deferred his journey till the morning, and faced, with the fortitude of
a man, the broad light of day, and the scrutiny of his fellow-men. I
say, appearances were against him, and I felt more and more convinced,
that whatever his character was--whatever his deeds might have
been--that the present journey was instigated by fear and apprehension
for his personal safety. But was I to be the instrument of his
deliverance? Was I to be put to all this inconvenience in order to favor
the escape of an assassin? The thought distracted me. I vowed that it
should not be so. My heart chafed and fretted at the task that had been
put upon me. My blood boiled with indignation at the bare idea of being
made the tool of so unhallowed a purpose. I was resolved. I ground my
teeth with rage. I grasped the reins with a tighter hold. I determined
to be rid of the man--nay, even to attempt to destroy him rather than it
should be said that I had assisted in his escape. At some distance
further on there was a river suitable for that purpose. When off his
guard, he could in a moment be pushed into the stream; in certain
places it was sufficiently deep to drown him. One circumstance perplexed
me. If he escaped, he could adduce evidence against me. No matter; it
would be difficult to prove that I had any intention of taking away his
life. But should he be the person I conceived, he would not dare to come
forward.

Hitherto we had ridden without exchanging a word. Indeed, I had only
once turned my eyes upon him since we started. The truth was, I was too
busy with my own thoughts--too intent upon devising some plan to
liberate myself from my unparalleled situation. I now cast my eyes
furtively toward him. I shuddered as I contemplated his proximation to
myself. I fancied I already felt his contaminating influence. The cap,
as before, was drawn over his face; the scarf muffled closely round his
chin, and only sufficient space allowed for the purpose of respiration.
I was most desirous of knowing who he was; indeed, had he been "the Man
with the Iron Mask," so many years incarcerated in the French Bastile,
he could scarcely have excited a greater curiosity.

I deemed it prudent to endeavor to draw him into conversation, thinking
that he might drop some expression that would, in some measure, tend to
elucidate his history. Accordingly, I said,

"It's a very dark, unhealthy night, sir."

He made no reply. I thought he might not have heard me.

"A bad night for traveling!" I shouted, in a loud tone of voice.

The man remained immovable, without in the least deigning to notice my
observation. He either did not wish to talk, or he was deaf. If he
wished to be silent, I was contented to let him remain so.

It had not occurred to me till now that I had received a paper from the
landlord which would inform me whither my extraordinary companion was to
be conveyed. My heart suddenly received a new impulse--it beat with hope
and expectation. This document might reveal to me something more than I
was led to expect; it might unravel the labyrinth in which I was
entangled, and extricate me from all further difficulty. But how was I
to decipher the writing? There was no other means of doing so than by
stopping the vehicle and alighting, and endeavoring to read it by the
aid of the lamp, which, I feared, would afford but a very imperfect
light, after all. Before I had recourse to this plan, I deemed it
expedient to address once more my taciturn companion.

"Where am I to drive you to?" I inquired, in so loud a voice that the
mare started off at a brisker pace, as though I had been speaking to
her. I received no reply, and, without further hesitation, I drew in the
reins, pulled the paper from my pocket, and alighted. I walked to the
lamp, and held the paper as near to it as I could. The handwriting was
not very legible, and the light afforded me so weak, that I had great
difficulty to discover its meaning. The words were few and pointed. The
reader will judge of my surprise when I read the following laconic
sentence: "_Drive the gentleman to Grayburn Church-yard!_" I was more
alarmed than ever; my limbs shook violently, and in an instant I felt
the blood fly from my cheeks. What did my employer mean by imposing such
a task upon me? My fortitude in some degree returned, and I walked up to
the mare and patted her on the neck.

"Poor thing--poor thing!" I said; "you have a long journey before you,
and it may be a dangerous one."

I looked at my companion, but he appeared to take no notice of my
actions, and seemed as indifferent as if he were a corpse. I again
resumed my seat, and in part consoled myself with the prospect of being
speedily rid of him in some way or other, as the river I have already
alluded to was now only two or three miles distant. My thoughts now
turned to the extraordinary place to which I was to drive--Grayburn
Church-yard! What could the man do there at that hour of the night? Had
he somebody to meet? something to see or obtain? It was
incomprehensible--beyond the possibility of human divination. Was he
insane, or was he bent upon an errand perfectly rational, although for
the present wrapped in the most impenetrable mystery? I am at a loss for
language adequate to convey a proper notion of my feelings on that
occasion. He shall never arrive, I internally ejaculated, at Grayburn
Church-yard; he shall never pass beyond the stream, which even now I
almost heard murmuring in the distance! Heaven forgive me for harboring
such intentions! but when I reflected that I might be assisting an
assassin to fly from justice, I conceived I was acting perfectly correct
in adopting any means (no matter how bad) for the obviation of so horrid
a consummation. For aught I knew, his present intention might be to
visit the grave of his victim, for now I remembered that the person who
had so lately been murdered was interred in this very church-yard.

We gradually drew nearer to the river. I heard its roaring with fear and
trepidation. It smote my heart with awe when I pondered upon the deed I
had in contemplation. I could discover, from its rushing sound, that it
was much swollen, and this was owing to the recent heavy rains. The
stream in fine weather was seldom more than a couple of feet deep, and
could be crossed without danger or difficulty; there however were places
where it was considerably deeper. On the occasion in question, it was
more dangerous than I had ever known it. There was no bridge constructed
across it at this place, and people were obliged to get through it as
well as they could. Nearer and nearer we approached. The night was so
dark that it was quite impossible to discern any thing. I could feel the
beatings of my heart against my breast, a cold, clammy sweat settled
upon my brow, and my mouth became so dry that I fancied I was choking.
The moment was at hand that was to put my resolution to the test. A few
yards only separated us from the spot that was to terminate my journey,
and, perhaps, the mortal career of my incomprehensible companion. The
light of the lamps threw a dull, lurid gleam upon the surface of the
water. It rushed furiously past, surging and boiling as it leaped over
the rocks that here and there intersected its channel. Without a
moment's hesitation, I urged the mare forward, and in a minute we were
in the midst of the stream. It was a case of life or death! The water
came down like a torrent--its tide was irresistible. There was not a
moment to be lost. My own life was at stake. With the instinctive
feeling of self-preservation, I drove the animal swiftly through the
dense body of water, and in a few seconds we had gained the opposite
bank of the river. We were safe, but the opportunity of ridding myself
of my companion was rendered, by the emergency of the case, unavailable.

I know not how it was, but I suddenly became actuated by a new impulse.
Wretch though he was, he had intrusted his safety, his life, into my
hands. There was, perhaps, still some good in the man; by enabling him
to escape, I might be the instrument of his eternal salvation. He had
done me no injury, and at some period of his life he might have rendered
good offices to others. I pitied his situation, and determined to render
him what assistance I could. I applied the whip to the mare. In a moment
she seemed to be endowed with supernatural energy and swiftness. Though
he was a murderer--though he was henceforth to be driven from society as
an outcast, he should not be deserted in his present emergency. On, on
we sped; hedges, trees, houses were passed in rapid succession. Nothing
impeded our way. We had a task to perform--a duty to fulfill; dangers
and difficulties fled before us. A human life depended upon our
exertions, and every nerve required to be strained for its preservation.
On, on we hurried. My enthusiasm assumed the appearance of madness. I
shouted to the mare till I was hoarse, and broke the whip in several
places. Although we comparatively flew over the ground, I fancied we did
not go fast enough. My body was in constant motion, as though it would
give an impetus to our movements. My companion appeared conscious of my
intentions, and, for the first time, evinced an interest in our
progress. He drew out his handkerchief, and used it incessantly as an
incentive to swiftness. Onward we fled. We were all actuated by the same
motive. This concentration of energy gave force and vitality to our
actions.

The night had hitherto been calm, but the rain now began to descend in
torrents, and at intervals we heard distant peals of thunder. Still we
progressed; we were not to be baffled, not to be deterred; we would yet
defy pursuit. Large tracts of country were passed over with amazing
rapidity. Objects, that at one moment were at a great distance, in
another were reached, and in the next left far behind. Thus we sped
forward--thus we seemed to annihilate space altogether. We were endowed
with superhuman energies--hurried on by an impulse, involuntary and
irresistible. My companion became violent, and appeared to think we did
not travel quick enough. He rose once or twice from his seat, and
attempted to take the remnant of the whip from my hand, but I resisted,
and prevailed upon him to remain quiet.

How long we were occupied in this mad and daring flight, I can not even
conjecture. We reached, at length, our destination; but, alas! we had no
sooner done so, than the invaluable animal that had conveyed us thither
dropped down dead!

My companion and I alighted. I walked up to where the poor animal lay,
and was busy deploring her fate, when I heard a struggle at a short
distance. I turned quickly round, and beheld the mysterious being with
whom I had ridden so fatal a journey, in the custody of two powerful
looking men.

"Ha, ha! I thought he would make for this here place," said one of them.
"He still has a hankering after his mother's grave. When he got away
before, we nabbed him here."

The mystery was soon cleared up. The gentleman had escaped from a
lunatic asylum, and was both deaf and dumb. The death of his mother, a
few years before, had caused the mental aberration.

The horrors of the night are impressed as vividly upon my memory as
though they had just occurred. The expenses of the journey were all
defrayed, and I was presented with a handsome gratuity. I never ceased,
however, to regret the loss of the favorite mare.




[From Dickens's Household Words.]

SPIDER'S SILK.


Urged by the increased demand for the threads which the silk-worm
yields, many ingenious men have endeavored to turn the cocoons of other
insects to account. In search of new fibres to weave into garments, men
have dived to the bottom of the sea, to watch the operations of the
pinna and the common mussel. Ingenious experimentalists have endeavored
to adapt the threads which hold the mussel firmly to the rock, to the
purposes of the loom; and the day will probably arrive when the minute
thread of that diminutive insect, known as the money-spinner, will be
reeled, thrown, and woven into fabrics fit for Titania and her court.

In the early part of last century, an enthusiastic French gentleman
turned his attention to spiders' webs. He discovered that certain
spiders not only erected their webs to trap unsuspecting flies, but that
the females, when they had laid their eggs, forthwith wove a cocoon, of
strong silken threads, about them. These cocoons are known more
familiarly as spiders' bags. The common webs of spiders are too slight
and fragile to be put to any use; but the French experimentalist in
question, Monsieur Bon, was led to believe that the cocoons of the
female spiders were more solidly built than the mere traps of the
ferocious males. Various experiments led M. Bon to adopt the
short-legged silk spider as the most productive kind. Of this species he
made a large collection. He employed a number of persons to go in search
of them; and, as the prisoners were brought to him, one by one, he
inclosed them in separate paper cells, in which he pricked holes to
admit the air. He kept them in close confinement, and he observed that
their imprisonment did not appear to affect their health. None of them,
so far as he could observe, sickened for want of exercise; and, as a
jailer, he appears to have been indefatigable, occupying himself
catching flies, and delivering them over to the tender mercies of his
prisoners. After a protracted confinement in these miniature Bastiles,
the grim M. Bon opened the doors, and found that the majority of his
prisoners had beguiled their time in forming their bags. Spiders exude
their threads from papillae or nipples, placed at the hinder part of
their body. The thread, when it leaves them, is a glutinous liquid,
which hardens on exposure to the air. It has been found that, by
squeezing a spider, and placing the finger against its papillae, the
liquid of which the thread or silk is made may be drawn out to a great
length.

M. Reaumur, the rival experimentalist to M. Bon, discovered that the
papillae are formed of an immense number of smaller papillae, from each of
which a minute and distinct thread is spun. He asserted that, with a
microscope, he counted as many as seventy distinct fibres proceeding
from the papillae of one spider, and that there were many more threads
too minute and numerous to compute. He jumped to a result, however, that
is sufficiently astonishing, namely, that a thousand distinct fibres
proceed from each papillae; and there being five large papillae, that
every thread of spider's silk is composed of at least five thousand
fibres. In the heat of that enthusiasm, with which the microscope filled
speculative minds in the beginning of last century, M. Leuwenhoek
ventured to assert that a hundred of the threads of a full-grown spider
were not equal to the diameter of one single hair of his beard. This
assertion leads to the astounding arithmetical deduction, that if the
spider's threads and the philosopher's hair be both round, ten thousand
threads are not bigger than such a hair; and, computing the diameter of
a thread spun by a young spider as compared with that of an adult
spider, four millions of the fibres of a young spider's web do not equal
a single hair of M. Leuwenhoek's beard. The enthusiastic experimentalist
must have suffered horrible martyrdom under the razor, with such an
exaggerated notion of his beard as these calculations must have given
him. A clever writer, in Lardner's Cyclopaedia notices these
measurements, and shows that M. Leuwenhoek went far beyond the limits of
reality in his calculation.

M. Bon's collection of spiders continued to thrive; and, in due season,
he found that the greater number of them had completed their cocoons or
bags. He then dislodged the bags from the paper boxes; threw them into
warm water, and kept washing them until they were quite free from dirt
of any kind. The next process was to make a preparation of soap,
saltpetre, and gum-arabic dissolved in water. Into this preparation the
bags were thrown, and set to boil over a gentle fire for the space of
three hours. When they were taken out and the soap had been rinsed from
them, they appeared to be composed of fine, strong, ash- silk.
Before being carded on fine cards, they were set out for some days to
dry thoroughly. The carding, according to M. Bon, was an easy matter:
and he affirmed that the threads of the silk he obtained were stronger
and finer than those of the silk-worm. M. Reaumur, however, who was
dispatched to the scene of M. Bon's investigations by the Royal Academy
of Paris, gave a different version of the matter. He found, that whereas
the thread of the spider's bag will sustain only thirty-six grains, that
of the silkworm will support a weight of two drachms and a half--or four
times the weight sustained by the spider-thread. Though M. Bon was
certainly an enthusiast on behalf of spiders, M. Reaumur as undoubtedly
had a strong predilection in favor of the bombyx; and the result of
these contending prejudices was, that M. Bon's investigations were
overrated by a few, and utterly disregarded by the majority of his
countrymen. He injured himself by rash assertions. He endeavored to make
out that spiders were more prolific, and yielded a proportionably larger
quantity of silk than silkworms. These assertions were disproved, but in
no kindly spirit, by M. Reaumur. To do away with the impression that
spiders and their webs were venomous, M. Bon not only asserted, with
truth, that their bite was harmless, but he even went so far as to
subject his favorite insect to a chemical analysis, and he succeeded in
extracting from it a volatile salt which he christened Montpelier drops,
and recommended strongly as an efficacious medicine in lethargic states.

M. Bon undoubtedly produced, from the silk of his spiders, a material
that readily absorbed all kinds of dyes, and was capable of being worked
in any loom. With his carded spider's silk the enthusiastic
experimentalist wove gloves and stockings, which he presented to one or
two learned societies. To these productions several eminent men took
particular exceptions. They discovered that the fineness of the separate
threads of the silk detracted from its lustre, and inevitably produced a
fabric less refulgent than those woven from the silkworm. M. Reaumur's
most conclusive fact against the adoption of spider's silk as an
article of manufacture, was deduced from his observations on the
combativeness of spiders. He discovered that they had not arrived at
that state of civilization when communities find it most to the general
advantage to live on terms of mutual amity and confidence; on the
contrary, the spider-world, according to M. Reaumur (we are writing of a
hundred and forty years ago), was in a continual state of warfare; nay,
not a few spiders were habitual cannibals. Having collected about five
thousand spiders (enough to scare the most courageous old lady), M.
Reaumur shut them up in companies varying in number from fifty to one
hundred. On opening the cells, after the lapse of a few days, "what was
the horror of our hero," as the graphic novelist writes, "to behold the
scene which met his gaze!" Where fifty spiders, happy and full of life,
had a short time before existed, only about two bloated insects now
remained--they had devoured their fellow spiders! This horrible custom
of the spider-world accounts for the small proportion of spiders in
comparison to the immense number of eggs which they produce. So
formidable a difficulty could only be met by rearing each spider in a
separate cage; whether this separation is practicable--that is to say,
whether it can be made to repay the trouble it would require--is a
matter yet to be decided.

Against M. Bon's treatise on behalf of spider's silk, M. Reaumur urged
further objections. He asserted that, when compared with silkworm's
silk, spider's silk was deficient both in quality and in quantity. His
calculation went to show that the silk of twelve spiders did not more
than equal that of one bombyx; and that no less than fifty-five thousand
two hundred and ninety-six spiders must be reared to produce one pound
of silk. This calculation is now held to be exaggerated; and the spirit
of partisanship in which M. Reaumur's report was evidently concocted,
favors the supposition that he made the most of any objections he could
bring to bear against M. Bon.

M. Bon's experiments are valuable as far as they go; spider's silk may
be safely set down as an untried raw material. The objections of M.
Reaumur, reasonable in some respects, are not at all conclusive. It is
of course undeniable that the silkworm produces a larger quantity of
silk than any species of spider; but, on the other hand, the spider's
silk may possess certain qualities adapted to particular fabrics, which
would justify its cultivation. At the Great Industrial Show, we shall
probably find some specimens of spider's silk; such contributions would
be useful and suggestive. The idea of brushing down cobwebs to convert
them into ball-room stockings, forces upon us the association of two
most incongruous ideas; but that this transformation is not impossible,
the Royal Society, who are the possessors of some of M. Bon's
spider-fabric, can satisfactorily demonstrate.




[From the Dublin University Magazine.]

THE RAILWAY.


    The silent glen, the sunless stream,
        To wandering boyhood dear,
    And treasur'd still in many a dream,
        They are no longer here;
    A huge red mound of earth is thrown
    Across the glen so wild and lone,
        The stream so cold and clear;
    And lightning speed, and thundering sound,
    Pass hourly o'er the unsightly mound.

    Nor this alone--for many a mile
        Along that iron way,
    No verdant banks or hedgerows smile
        In summer's glory gay;
    Thro' chasms that yawn as though the earth
    Were rent in some strange mountain-birth,
        Whose depth excludes the day,
    We're born away at headlong pace,
    To win from time the wearying race!

    The wayside inn, with homelike air,
        No longer tempts a guest
    To taste its unpretending fare,
        Or seek its welcome rest.
    The prancing team--the merry horn--
    The cool fresh road at early morn--
        The coachman's ready jest;
    All, all to distant dream-land gone,
    While shrieking trains are hurrying on.

    Yet greet we them with thankful hearts,
        And eyes that own no tear,
    'Tis nothing now, the space which parts
        The distant from the dear;
    The wing that to her cherish'd nest
    Bears home the bird's exulting breast,
        Has found its rival here.
    With speed like hers we too can haste,
    The bliss of meeting hearts to taste.

    For me, I gaze along the line
        To watch the approaching train,
    And deem it still, 'twixt me and mine,
        A rude, but welcome chain
    To bind us in a world, whose ties
    Each passing hour to sever tries,
        But here may try in vain;
    To bring us near home many an art,
    Stern fate employs to keep apart.




[From Bentley's Miscellany.]

THE BLIND SISTER, OR CRIME AND ITS PUNISHMENT.


For real comfort, snugness, and often rural beauty, where are there in
the wide world any dwellings that can equal the cottage homes of
England's middle classes? Whether they be clad with ivy and woodbine,
half hidden by forest-trees, and approached by silent, shady lanes, or,
glaring with stucco and green paint, stand perched upon flights of
steps, by the side of dusty suburban roads--whether they be
cockney-christened with fine titles, and dignified as villas, halls, or
lodges, or rejoice in such sweet names as Oak Cottage or Linden
Grove--still within their humble walls, before all other places, are to
be found content, and peace, and pure domestic love.

Upon the <DW72> of a gentle hill, about a mile from a large town, where I
was attending to the practice of an absent friend, there stood a neat
and pretty residence, with slated roof and trellised porch. A light
verandah shaded the narrow French windows, opening from the favorite
drawing-room upon a trim, smooth lawn, studded with gay parterres, and
bounded by a sweetbriar hedge; and here old Mrs. Reed, the widow of a
clergyman, was busily employed, one lovely autumn afternoon, peering
through her spectacles at the fast-fading flowers, or plucking from some
favorite shrub the "sear and yellow leaf" that spoke of the summer
passed away, and the dreary season hurrying on apace. Her daughter, a
pale and delicate-looking girl, sat with her drooping head leant against
the open window-frame, watching her mother sorrowfully as she felt her
own declining health, and thought how her parent's waning years might
pass away, uncared for, and unsolaced by a daughter's love. Within the
room, a young man was reclining lazily upon a sofa; rather handsome,
about the middle height, _but_ had it not been for a stubby mustache,
very long hair, and his rather slovenly costume--peculiarities which he
considered indispensable to his profession as an artist--there was
nothing in his appearance to distinguish him from the generality of
young English gentlemen of his age and station. Presently there fell
upon his ear the notes of a beautiful symphony, played with most
exquisite taste upon the harp, and gradually blending with a woman's
voice, deep, soft and tremulous, every now and then, as if with intense
feeling, in one of those elaborate yet enervating melodies that have
their birth in sunny Italy. The performer was about twenty-five years of
age, of haughty and dazzling beauty. Her dark wavy hair, gathered behind
into a large glossy knot, was decked on one side with a bunch of pink
rose buds. A full white robe, that covered, without hiding, the outline
of her bust and arms, was bound at the waist with a thick cord and
tassel of black silk and gold, adding all that dress could add to the
elegance of her tall and splendid figure. Then, as she rose and
stretched out her jeweled hand to tighten a loose string, the ineffable
grace of the studied attitude in which she stood for some moments showed
her to be well skilled in those fascinating arts that so often captivate
the senses before the heart is touched.

This lady was the daughter of Mrs. Reed's only sister, who in her youth
had run away with an Italian music master. Signor Arnatti, although a
poor adventurer, was not quite devoid of honor, for, when first married,
he really loved his English wife, and proudly introduced her to his
friends at Florence, where her rank and fortune were made much of, and
she was caressed and feted until half wild with pleasure and excitement.
But this was not to last. Her husband, a man of violent and
ungovernable temper, was heard to utter certain obnoxious political
opinions; and it being discovered that he was connected with a dangerous
conspiracy against the existing government, a speedy flight alone saved
him from the scaffold or perpetual imprisonment. They sought a temporary
home in Paris, where, after dissipating much of their little fortune at
the gambling-table, he met with a sudden and violent death in a
night-brawl, just in time to save his wife and child from poverty. The
young widow, who of late had thought more of her infant than its father,
was not long inconsolable. Discarded by her own relations, who, with
bitter and cruel taunts, had refused all communication with her, and now
too proud to return to them again, she settled with her little girl in
Italy, where a small income enabled her to lead a life of unrestrained
gayety, that soon became almost necessary to her existence. Here young
Catherine was reared and educated, flattered and spoiled by all about
her; and encouraged by her vain mother to expect nothing less than an
alliance with high rank and wealth, she refused many advantageous offers
of marriage, and ere long gained the character of a heartless and
unprincipled coquette, especially among the English visitors, who
constituted a great part of the society in which she moved. Her mother
corresponded occasionally with Mrs. Reed; and the sisters still
cherished an affection for each other, which increased as they advanced
in years; but their ideas, their views, even their religion was
different, and the letters they exchanged once, or at most twice a year,
afforded but little satisfaction to either. When the cholera visited
Italy, Madame Arnatti was seized with a presentiment that fate had
already numbered her among its victims, and, under the influence of this
feeling, wrote a long and touching letter to her sister, freely
confessing the sin and folly of her conduct in regard to her daughter's
management, of whom she gave a long description, softened, it is true,
by a mother's hand, yet containing many painful truths, that must have
caused the doting parent infinite sorrow to utter. She concluded by
repeating her conviction that her end was near, and consigning Catherine
to her sister's care, with an entreaty that she would take her from the
immoral and polluted atmosphere in which they lived, and try the effect
of her piety, and kindness, and steady English habits on the young
woman's violent and ungovernable passions. Months passed away; and then
Mrs. Reed received a letter from Catherine herself, telling of her
mother's death; also one from a lady, in whose company she was traveling
homeward, in accordance with her mother's dying wish. Another long
interval elapsed, and the good lady was preparing to visit London for
the purpose of consulting an eminent physician on her daughter's state
of health when news reached the cottage of Miss Arnatti's arrival in
that city, which had been retarded thus long by tedious quarantine laws,
illness, and other causes.

Her guardian was apparently glad enough to get rid of the charge she had
undertaken, and within a week Catherine removed to her aunt's lodgings,
where she was received and treated with every affectionate attention;
but a constant yearning after gayety and amusements, indelicate and
unfeeling as it appeared to her relatives, so soon after the loss of an
only parent; the freedom and boldness of her manners when in company or
in public, and her overbearing conduct to those about her, augured but
little in favor of such an addition to their circle. However, the good
aunt hoped for better things from the removal to her quiet country-home.
Their stay in London was even shorter than they had intended, and, for
some time after their return to the cottage, Miss Arnatti endeavored to
adapt herself to the habits that must have been so strange and new to
her; she even sought, and made herself agreeable in the very orderly but
cheerful society where her aunt and cousin introduced her, although
Annie Reed's increasing weakness prevented them from receiving much
company at their own house.

Edwin Reed, Catherine's other cousin, was absent on a tour in Wales, and
had only returned a few days previous to the afternoon on which we have
described him as listening, enraptured, to the lady's native music.
Seating herself at the piano, she followed this by a brilliant waltz,
the merry, sparkling notes of which made the eye brighten and the brain
whirl, from very sympathy; and then returning to her favorite
instrument, she sang, to a low, plaintive accompaniment, a simple
English ballad, telling of man's heartlessness, and woman's frailty and
despair. The last verse ran:

    So faith and hope her soul forsaking,
    Each day to heavier sorrow waking
    This cruel love her heart was breaking
        Yet, ere her breath
        Was hushed in death,
        She breathed a prayer
        For her betrayer--
    Angels to heaven her poor soul taking.

Scarcely had she finished, when, as if in thorough contempt of the
maiden's weakness, she drew her hand violently across the strings with a
discordant crash, that startled poor little Annie painfully, and pushing
the harp from her with an impatient gesture, abruptly quitted the room.

The old lady had gone in to enjoy a gossip with her next-door neighbor,
and so the brother and sister were alone. The signs of tears were on the
latter's cheek as Edwin approached and sat down by her side; attributing
this to her extreme sensibility wrought upon by what they had just
heard, he spoke some kind and cheering words, and then began to talk
enthusiastically of their cousin's beauty and accomplishments. She
listened to him quietly for some time, and then,

"Dear brother," she said, timidly, "you must forgive me for what I am
about to say, when it is to warn and caution you against those very
charms that have already made such an impression on you. I am not one,
Edwin, as you know, to speak ill, even of my enemies, if such there be;
and to any other but yourself would hide her faults, and try to think of
some pleasing trait on which to dwell, when her name was mentioned. Nay,
do not interrupt me, for rest assured, I am only prompted by a sister's
love. I have seen much of Catherine, and heard more; I fear her dreadful
temper--her different faith; although, indeed, she seems to neglect all
religious duties, even those of her own church. Then I think of her
rudeness and inattention to our dear mother, who is so kind and gentle
to her. Had you been in London when we first met, you would not wonder
at our being shocked and pained at all we witnessed there."

"But, Annie, dear," said her brother, "why should you talk thus
earnestly to me? Surely I may admire and praise a handsome woman,
without falling hopelessly in love."

"You may, or you may not," continued Annie, warmly. "But this I know and
feel, that, unless she were to change in every manner, thought, and
action, she is the last person in the world that I would see possess a
hold upon my brother's heart. Why, do you know, she makes a boast of the
many lovers she has encouraged and discarded; and even shows, with
ill-timed jests, letters from her admirers, containing protestations of
affection, and sentiments that any woman of common feeling would at
least consider sacred."

"And have you nothing, then, to say in her favor?" said young Reed,
quietly. "Can you make no allowance for the manner in which she has been
brought up? or, may she never change from what you represent her?"

"She may, perhaps; but let me beg of you, Edwin, to pause, and think,
and not be infatuated and led away, against your better judgment, as so
many have already been."

"Why, my dear sister," he replied, "if we were on the point of running
off together, you could not be more earnest in the matter; but I have
really never entertained such thoughts as you suggest, and if I did,
should consider myself quite at liberty to act as I pleased, whether I
were guided by your counsel or not."

"Well, Edwin, be not angry with me; perhaps I have spoken too strongly
on the subject. You know how much I have your happiness at heart, and
this it is that makes me say so much. I often think I have not long to
live, but while I am here would have you promise me--"

A chilly breeze swept over the lawn, and the invalid was seized with a
violent fit of coughing; her brother shut the casement, and wrapped the
shawl closer round her slight figure. Mrs. Reed entered the room at the
same instant, and their conversation ended.

Catherine Arnatti was in her own chamber, the open window of which was
within a few yards of where her cousins had been talking. Attracted
thither by the sound, she listened intently, and leaning out, apparently
employed in training the branches of a creeping plant, she had heard
every word they uttered.

The winter passed away pleasantly enough, for two at least of the party
at the cottage.

Catherine and Edwin were of necessity much thrown together; she sat to
him as a model, accompanied him in his walks, and flattered him by
innumerable little attentions, that were unnoticed by the others; but
still her conduct to his mother and sister, although seemingly more kind
of late, was insincere, and marked by a want of sympathy and affection,
that often grieved him deeply. Her temper she managed to control, but
sometimes not without efforts on her part that were more painful to
witness than her previous outbreaks of passion. Six months had elapsed
since Miss Arnatti had overheard, with feelings of hatred toward one,
and thorough contempt of both speakers, the dialogue in which her faults
had been so freely exposed. Yet she fully expected that young Reed would
soon be at her feet, a humble follower, as other men had been; but
although polite, attentive, and ever seeking her society, he still
forbore to speak of love, and then, piqued and angry at his conduct, she
used every means to gain his affection, without at first any real motive
for so doing; soon, however, this wayward lady began to fancy that the
passion she would only feign was really felt--and being so unexpectedly
thwarted gave strength to this idea--and in proportion also grew her
hatred toward Miss Reed, to whose influence she attributed her own
failure. Before long she resolved that Edwin _should_ be her husband, by
which means her revenge on Annie would be gratified, and a tolerable
position in the world obtained for herself, for she had ascertained that
the young man's fortune, although at present moderate, was yet
sufficient to commence with, and that his prospects and expectations
were nearly all that could be desired.

Neither was Edwin altogether proof against her matchless beauty. At
times he felt an almost irresistible impulse to kneel before her, and
avow himself a slave forever, and as often would some hasty word or
uncongenial sentiment turn his thoughts into another channel; and then
they carried him away to an old country seat in Wales, where he had
spent the summer of last year on a visit to some friends of his family.
A young lady, of good birth and education, resided there as governess to
some half-dozen wild and turbulent children. Her kind and unobtrusive
manners and gentle voice first attracted his attention toward her; and
although perhaps not handsome, her pale sweet face and dark blue eye
made an impression that deepened each day as he discovered fresh
beauties in her intellectual and superior mind. After an acquaintance of
some months he made an offer of his hand, and her conduct on this
occasion only confirmed the ardent affection he entertained for her.
Candidly admitting that she could joyfully unite her lot with his, she
told her previous history, and begged the young man to test his feelings
well before allying himself to a poor and portionless girl, and for this
purpose prayed that twelve months might elapse before the subject of
their marriage were renewed. She would not doubt him then; still he
might see others, who would seem more worthy of his regard: but if, in
that time, his sentiments were unchanged, all that she had to give was
his forever. In vain he tried to alter this resolution; her arguments
were stronger than his own, and so at last, with renewed vows of
fidelity, he reluctantly bade her farewell. For various reasons he had
kept this attachment a secret from his family, not altogether sure of
the light in which they might view it; and the position of the young
governess would have been rendered doubly painful, had those under whose
roof she dwelt been made acquainted with the circumstances. Although
fully aware in cooler moments that, even had he known no other, his
cousin Catherine was a person with whom, as a companion for life, he
could never hope for real happiness, still he knew the danger of his
situation, and resolved not without a struggle, to tear himself away
from the sphere of her attractions; and so, one evening, Edwin announced
his intention of setting off next day on a walking excursion through
Scotland, proposing to visit Wales on his return. Different were the
feelings with which each of the ladies received this intelligence.
Catherine, who had but the day before refused a pressing invitation to
join a gay party, assembled at the London mansion of one of her old
acquaintances, turned away and bit her lip with rage and chagrin, as
Miss Reed repeated to her mother, who had grown deaf of late, over and
over again to make her understand, that Edwin was about to leave them
for a time--was going to Scotland, and purposed leaving by the mail on
the morrow night. She had of course no objection to offer, being but too
glad to believe that nothing more than friendship existed between her
son and sister's child; yet wondered much what had led to such a sudden
resolution.

Catherine Arnatti never closed her eyes that night; one instant fancying
that Edwin loved her, and only paused to own it for fear of a refusal,
and flattering herself that he would not leave without. These thoughts
gave way to bitter disappointment, hatred, and vows of revenge against
him, and all connected with him, more particularly his sister, whose
words she now recalled, torturing herself with the idea that Annie had
extorted a promise from her brother never to wed his cousin while she
lived; and the sickly girl had improved much since then, and might,
after all, be restored to perfect health; then, the first time for
years, she wept--cried bitterly at the thought of being separated from
one against whom she had but just before been breathing threats and
imprecations, and yet imagined was the only man she had ever really
loved. A calmer mood succeeded, and she lay down, resolving and
discarding schemes to gain her wishes, that occupied her mind till
daylight.

The next day passed in busy preparations; Edwin avoiding, as he dreaded,
the result of a private interview with his cousin. Toward the afternoon
Miss Reed and her mother happened to be engaged with their medical
attendant, who opportunely called that day, and often paid longer visits
than were absolutely necessary; and Catherine, who with difficulty had
restrained her emotions, seizing on the opportunity, and scarcely
waiting to knock at the door, entered Edwin's apartment. He was engaged
in packing a small portmanteau, and looking up, beheld her standing
there, pale and agitated, more beautiful he thought than ever, and yet a
combination of the angel and the fiend. Some moments passed in silence;
then, advancing quickly, holding out her hand, she spoke in a husky
voice:

"Edwin, I have come to bid you a farewell--if, indeed, you go to-night,
in this world we shall never meet again; neither hereafter, if half that
you believe is true. It sets one thinking, does it not? a parting that
we feel to be for ever, from those with whom we have been in daily
intercourse, even for a few short months."

"And pray, Catherine," he asked, trying to talk calmly, "why should we
not meet again? Even if I were about to visit the antipodes I should
look forward to return some day; indeed it would grieve me much to think
that I should never enjoy again your company, where I have spent so many
pleasant hours, and of which, believe me, I shall ever cherish a
grateful recollection. Be kind to poor Annie and my mother when I am
gone, and if you think it not too great a task, I shall be very glad
sometimes to hear the news from you, and in return will write you of my
wanderings in the Highlands."

"Well, good-by, Edwin," she repeated; "for all you say, my words may yet
prove true."

"But I do not go yet for some hours, and we shall meet again below
before I leave; why not defer good-by till then?"

There was another pause before she answered, with passionate energy, and
grasping his arm tightly:

"And is this all you have to say? Now listen to me, Edwin: know that I
love you, and judge of its intensity by my thus owning it. I am no
bashful English girl, to die a victim to concealment or suspense, but
_must_ and _will_ know all at once. Now, tell me, sir, have I misplaced
my love? Tell me, I say, and quickly; for, by the powers above, you
little know how much depends upon your answer."

She felt his hand, cold and trembling; his face was even paler than her
own, as, overwhelmed with confusion, Edwin stammered out,

"Really, Miss Arnatti--Catherine--I was not aware; at least, I am so
taken by surprise. Give me time to think, for--"

"What, then, you hesitate," she said, stamping her foot; and then, with
desperate calmness, added, in a softer tone, "Well, be it so; body and
soul I offer, and you reject the gift." A violent struggle was racking
the young man's breast, and, by the working of his countenance she saw
it, and paused. But still he never raised his eyes to hers, that were so
fixed on him; and she continued, "You ask for time to think, oh! heaven
and hell, that I should come to this! But take it, and think well; it is
four hours before you quit this roof; I will be there to say adieu. Or
better, perhaps, if you will write, and give at leisure the result of
your deliberations."

She spoke the last words with a bitter sneer; yet Edwin caught at the
suggestion, and replied,

"Yes, I will write, I promise you, within a month. Forgive my apparent
coldness; forgive--"

"Hush!" interrupted Catherine; "your sister calls; why does she come
here now? You will not mention what has passed, I know; remember, within
a month I am to hear. Think of me kindly, and believe that I might make
you love me even as I love you. Now, go to her, go before she finds you
here."

Edwin pressed her hand in parting, and she bent down her forehead, but
the kiss imprinted there was cold and passionless. He met his sister at
the door, and led her back affectionately to the drawing-room she had
just quitted.

The old gardener had deposited a portmanteau and knapsack on the very
edge of the footpath by the side of the high road, and had been watching
for the mail, with a great horn lantern, some half-hour or so before it
was expected; while the housemaid was stationed inside the gate, upon
the gravel-walk, ready to convey the intelligence, as soon as the lights
were visible coming up the hill; and cook stood at the front-door,
gnawing her white apron. The family were assembled in that very
unpleasant state of expectation, that generally precedes the departure
of a friend or relative; Edwin walking about the room, wrapped up for
traveling, impatient and anxious to be off. At last, the gardener
halloed out lustily; Betty ran toward the house, as if pursued by a wild
beast, and screaming, "It's a-coming;" and cook, who had been standing
still all the time, rushed in, quite out of breath, begging Mr. Edwin to
make haste, for the coach never waited a minute for nobody; so he
embraced his mother and sister; and then, taking Catherine's hand,
raised it hastily, but respectfully to his lips. Miss Reed watched the
movement, and saw how he avoided the piercing gaze her cousin fixed upon
him, not so intently though, but that she noted the faint gleam of
satisfaction that passed over Annie's pale face; and cursed her for it.
Strange, that the idea of any other rival had never haunted her.

"Good-by, once more," said Edwin. "I may return before you expect me;
God bless you all!"

And, in another five minutes, he was seated by the side of the frosty
old gentleman who drove the mail, puffing away vigorously at his
meerschaum.

The ladies passed a dismal evening; more so, indeed, than the
circumstances would seem to warrant. Annie commenced a large piece of
embroidery, that, judging from its size and the slow progress made,
seemed likely to afford her occupation and amusement until she became an
old woman; while Mrs. Reed called to mind all the burglaries and murders
that had been committed in the neighborhood during the last twenty
years; deploring their unprotected situation, discussing the propriety
of having an alarm-bell hung between two of the chimney-pots, and making
arrangements for the gardener to sleep on the premises for the future.
Miss Arnatti never raised her eyes from the book over which she bent.
Supper, generally their most cheerful meal, remained untouched, and,
earlier than usual, they retired to their respective chambers.

For several hours, Catherine sat at her open window, looking out into
the close, hazy night. The soft wind, that every now and then had
rustled through the trees, or shaken dewdrops from the thick ivy
clustered beneath the overhanging eaves, had died away. As the mist
settled down, and a few stars peeped out just over head, a black curtain
of clouds seemed to rise up from the horizon, hiding the nearest objects
in impenetrable darkness. The only sounds now heard were those that told
of man's vicinity, and his restlessness: the occasional rumble of a
distant vehicle; the chime of bells; sometimes the echo of a human
voice, in the direction of the town; the ticking of a watch, or the hard
breathing of those that slept; and these fell on the ear with strange
distinctness, amid the awful stillness of nature. Presently, the clouds,
that hung over a valley far away, opened horizontally for an instant,
while a faint flash of lightning flickered behind, showing their
cumbrous outline. In a few minutes a brighter flash in another quarter
was followed by the low roll of distant thunder; and so the storm worked
round, nearer and nearer, until it burst in all its fury over the hill
on which the cottage stood.

Miss Reed, who from her childhood had always felt an agonizing and
unconquerable fear during a thunder-storm, roused from her light
slumber, lay huddled up, and trembling, with her face buried in the
pillow. She did not hear the door open or the footstep that approached
so stealthily, before a hand was laid upon her shoulder; and starting up
she recognized her cousin.

"Oh, Catherine!" she faltered, covering her eyes, "do stay with me
awhile; I am so terrified--and think of Edwin, too, exposed as he must
be to it."

"I _have_ been thinking of him, Annie."

"But you are frightened, also, a little, are you not--with all your
courage, or what made you shake so then?" said the poor girl, trying to
draw her cousin nearer as flash after flash glared before her eyelids,
and louder claps of thunder followed each other at shorter intervals.

"I frightened?" replied the dauntless woman, "I frightened; and what
at? Not at the thunder, surely; and as for lightning, if it strikes,
they say, it brings a sudden and painless death, leaving but seldom even
a mark upon the corpse. Who would not prefer this, to lingering on a bed
of sickness."

"Do not say so, Catherine, pray do not; only think if--O God, have mercy
on us! Was not _that_ awful?"

"Was it not grand? Magnificent--awful if you will. Think of its raging
and reveling uncontrolled, and striking where and what it will, without
a bound or limit to its fury. And fancy such a storm pent up in the
narrow compass of a human breast, and yet not bursting its frail prison.
What can the torments that they tell us of, hereafter, be to this?"

"And what reason can you have, dear cousin, for talking thus. Kneel down
by me, for once, and pray; for surely, at such a time as this, if at no
other, you must feel there is a God."

"No; you pray, Annie Reed, if it will comfort you; pray for us both.
There, now, lie down again, and hide your face. I will stand by your
side and listen to you."

She drew the slender figure gently back. Then, with a sudden movement,
seizing a large pillow dashed it over Annie's face, pressing thereon
with all her strength. The long, half-smothered, piteous cry that
followed, was almost unheard in the roaring of the storm that now was at
its height. By the vivid light that every instant played around, she saw
the violent efforts of her victim, whose limbs were moving up and down,
convulsively, under the white bed-clothes. Then, throwing the whole
weight of her body across the bed, she clutched and strained upon the
frame, to press more heavily. Suddenly all movement ceased, and the
murderess felt a short and thrilling shudder underneath her. Still, her
hold never relaxed; untouched by pity or remorse, exulting in the
thought that the cruel deed was nearly done, so easily, and under
circumstances where no suspicion of the truth was likely to arise;
dreading to look upon the dead girl's face too soon, lest the mild eyes
should still be open, and beaming on her with reproach and horror. But
what was it she felt then, so warm and sticky, trickling down her arm?
She knew it to be blood, even before the next flash showed the crimson
stain, spreading slowly over the pillow. Again the electric fluid darted
from the clouds, but this time charged with its special mission from on
high. The murderess was struck! and springing up, she fell back with one
shrill, wild, piercing shriek, that reached the ears of those below,
before it was drowned in the din of falling masonry, and the tremendous
crash that shook the house to its foundation, until the walls quivered,
like the timbers of a ship beating on a rocky shore.

That night I had been to visit a patient at some distance, and finding
no shelter near when returning, had ridden on through the storm. Just
entering the town, I overtook a man, pressing on quickly in the same
direction. Making some passing remark upon the weather, I was recognized
by the old gardener, who begged me for God's sake to hurry back; the
cottage, he said, was struck by lightning, and two of the ladies either
dying or dead from the injuries they had received. In a few minutes my
horse was at the gate. I had just time to observe that two of the
chimneys were thrown down, and some mischief done to the roof. On
entering the house, I was guided, by the low, wailing sound of intense
grief, to an upper room, where I beheld one of those scenes that, in an
instant, stamp themselves upon the memory, leaving their transfer there
forever.

Day was just breaking; a cold gray light slowly gaining strength over
the yellow glare of some unsnuffed candles, while the occasional boom of
distant thunder told that the storm was not yet exhausted. Extended on a
low couch, and held by the terrified servants, was the wreck of the once
beautiful Catherine Arnatti; at short intervals her features became
horribly distorted by an epileptic spasm, that seized one side of the
body, while the other half appeared to be completely paralyzed; and the
unmeaning glare of the eye, when the lid was raised, told that the organ
of vision was seriously injured, if not entirely destroyed. Close by,
the mother bent sobbing over the helpless form of her own child,
blanched and inanimate, with a streak of blood just oozing from her
pallid lips. I found afterward, that Miss Reed, in her fearful struggle,
had ruptured a vessel, and, fainting from the loss of blood, had lain
for some time to all appearance dead. Shortly, however, a slight
fluttering over the region of the heart, and a quiver of the nostril,
told that the principle of life still lingered in the shattered
tenement. With the aid of gentle stimulants, she recovered sufficiently
to recognize her mother; but as her gaze wandered vacantly around, it
fell on the wretched and blasted creature, from whose grasp she had been
so wonderfully rescued. As if some magnetic power was in that glance,
Catherine rose up suddenly, despair and horror in the glassy stare she
fixed on the corpse-like form before her, as, with another yell, such as
burst forth when first struck by the hand of God, she relapsed into one
of the most dreadful and violent paroxysms I have ever witnessed. Annie
clung tightly to her mother, crying, in a faint, imploring voice, "Oh,
save me--save me from her!" ere, with a heavy sigh, she once more sank
into insensibility. It was not until late in the afternoon, and then
only with great difficulty, that she was able to make those around her
understand what had taken place, and account for the intense horror that
seized upon her, when at times a groan or cry was heard from the
adjoining chamber, in which Miss Arnatti lay. It became, therefore,
necessary that this person should be removed, and accordingly, the same
night she was taken to lodgings in the town. Her conduct there was such
as to induce a belief that she might be insane, and steps were taken
toward placing her in a private asylum. Once only, a few days after her
removal, she asked, suddenly, if Miss Reed were not dead; but appeared
to betray no emotion on being informed, that although still alive, her
cousin was in most imminent danger, and, turning away, from that time
maintained a determined silence, which nothing could induce her to
break, obstinately refusing all medical aid.

I visited her in company with the physician in attendance, about six
weeks afterward, when she appeared to have recovered, in a great
measure, the use of her limbs; but every lineament of the face was
altered; the sight of one eye quite destroyed, and drawn outward, until
little could be seen but a discolored ball, over which the lid hung down
flabby and powerless; while a permanent distortion of the mouth added to
the frightful appearance this occasioned. The beautiful hair was gone,
and the unsightly bristles that remained were only partly concealed by
the close-fitting cap she wore. It was indeed a sight to move the
sternest heart. That proud and stately woman who had so cruelly abused
the power her personal beauty alone had given her; trifling alike with
youth's ardent and pure first love, as with the deeper and more lasting
affection of manhood, and glorying in the misery and wretchedness she
caused! Stopped in her full career, her punishment began already. Yet
was there no index on that stolid face to tell how the dark spirit
worked within; whether it felt remorse or sorrow for the crime, and pity
for its victim, fearing a further punishment in this world or the next;
whether the heart was torn by baffled rage and hatred still, scheming
and plotting, even now that all hope was gone. Or was the strong
intellect really clouded?

That night her attendant slept long and heavily; she might have been
drugged, for Miss Arnatti had access to her desk and jewel case, in the
secret drawers of which were afterward found several deadly and
carefully prepared poisons.

In a room below was a large chimney-glass, and here Catherine first saw
the full extent of the awful judgment that had befallen her. A cry of
rage and despair, and the loud crash of broken glass, aroused the
inmates early in the morning: they found the mirror shivered into a
thousand fragments, but their charge was gone. We learned that day, that
a person answering to her description, wearing a thick vail, and walking
with pain and difficulty, had been one of the passengers on board a
steam-packet that left the town at daylight.

For a long time Annie Reed lay in the shadow of death. She lived,
however, many years, a suffering and patient invalid. Edwin married his
betrothed and brought her home, where his fond mother and sister soon
loved her as they loved him; and Annie played aunt to the first-born,
and shared their happiness awhile; and when her gentle spirit passed
away, her mother bent to the heavy blow, living resigned and peacefully
with her remaining children to a good old age.

All efforts to trace the unhappy fugitive proved unavailing, and much
anxiety was felt on her account; but about ten months after her
disappearance, Mrs. Reed received a letter relative to the transfer of
what little property her niece had possessed to a convent in Tuscany.
The lady-abbess, a distant relative of Miss Arnatti's, had also written
much concerning her, from which the following is extracted:

"When a child, Catherine was for two years a boarder in this very house.
Fifteen years passed since then, and she came to us travel-worn, and
weak, and ill. Her history is known only to her confessor and myself;
and she has drawn from us a promise that the name of England should
never more be mentioned to her; and whatever tidings we may hear, in
consequence of this communication, from those she had so cruelly
injured, whether of life and health, or death--of forgiveness, or hatred
and disgust at her ingratitude--that no allusion to it should be ever
made to her. She follows rigidly the most severe rules of the
establishment, but avoids all intercourse with the sisters. Much of her
time is spent at the organ, and often, in the dead of night, we are
startled or soothed by the low melancholy strains that come from the
dark chapel. Her horror always on the approach of thunder-storms is a
thing fearful to witness, and we think she can not long survive the
dreadful shocks she suffers from this cause. They leave her, too, in
total darkness many days. A mystery to all, we only speak of her as the
BLIND SISTER."




[From Chambers's Edinburgh Journal.]

FORTUNES OF THE GARDENER'S DAUGHTER.


Between Passy and Auteuil were still to be seen, some few years ago, the
remains of what had been a gentleman's residence. The residence and the
family to whom it had belonged had both fallen during the first
Revolution. The bole of a once magnificent tree, stag-headed, owing to
the neighboring buildings having hurt the roots, was all the evidence
that remained of a park; but bits of old moss-grown wall--broken steps
that led to nothing--heads and headless trunks of statues that once
adorned the edges of what, now a marsh, had formerly been a piece of
ornamental water--little thickets of stunted trees stopped in their
growth by want of care--all hinted of what had been, although they could
give no idea of the beauty which had once made Bouloinvilliers the pride
of the neighborhood and its possessor. Such was the aspect of the place
recently; but when the following anecdote begins, France was to external
appearance prosperous, and Bouloinvilliers was still in its bloom.

At a cottage within the gate which entered the grounds lived the
gardener and his wife. They had been long married, had lost all their
children, and were considered by every body a staid, elderly couple,
when, to the astonishment of all, a girl was born. This precious plant,
the child of their old age, was the delight especially of Pierre's life:
he breathed but in little Marie, and tended her with the utmost care.
Although attired in the costume appropriate to her station, her clothes
were of fine materials; every indulgence in their power was lavished
upon her, and every wish gratified, except the very natural one of going
outside the grounds--_that_ was never permitted to her whom they had
dedicated to the blessed Virgin, and determined to keep "unspotted from
the world." Pierre himself taught her to read very well, and to write a
little; Cecilon to knit, sew, and prepare the _pot-au-feu_; and
amusement she easily found for herself. She lived among green leaves and
blossoms: she loved them as sisters: all her thoughts turned toward the
flowers that surrounded her on every side; they were her sole
companions, and she never wearied playing with them. An old lime, the
branches of which drooped round like a tent, and where the bees sought
honey as long as there was any lingering on its sweetly-odorous
branches, was her house, as she termed it; a large acorn formed a
coffee-pot; its cups her cups, plates, porringers, and saucers,
according to their size and flatness; and bits of broken porcelain,
rubbed bright, enlivened the knotted stump, which served for shelves,
chimney, and all; a water-lily was her _marmite_; fir-cones her cows; a
large mushroom her table, when mushrooms were in season, at other times
a bit of wood covered with green moss or wild sorrel. Her dolls even
were made of flowers--bunches of lilies and roses formed the faces, a
bundle of long beech-sprigs the bodies; and for hours would she sit
rocking them, her low song chiming in with the drowsy hum of the
insects.

When grown older, and become more adventurous, she used to weave little
boats from rushes upon bits of cork, and freight them with flowers.
These she launched on the lake, where the fresh air and fresh water kept
them sometimes longer from fading than would have otherwise been their
fate, during the hot dry days of July and August, on their native beds.
Thus passed her happy childhood: often and often she dreamed over it in
after-life, pleasing herself with the fancy, that perhaps as God, when
he made sinless man in his own image, gave him a garden as his home, so
for those who entered into "the joy of our Lord" a garden might be
prepared in heaven, sweeter far than even that of Bouloinvilliers--one
where sun never scorched, cold never pinched, flowers never faded, birds
never died. The death of a bird was the greatest grief she had known, a
cat the most ferocious animal she had as yet encountered. She attended
the private chapel on Sundays and saints' days. The day she made her
first communion was the first of her entry into the world, and much
distraction of mind did the unwonted sight of houses, shops, and crowds
of people, cause to our little recluse, which served for reflection,
conversation, and curious questioning for many a day after. On a
white-painted table with a drawer there stood a plaster-cast of the
Virgin Mary, much admired by its innocent namesake, and associated in
her mind with praises and sugar-plums--for whenever she had been
particularly good she found some there for her. It was her office to
dust it with a feather brush, supply water to the flowers amid which the
little figure stood, and replace them with fresh ones when faded.
Whenever she was petulant a black screen was placed before the table,
and Marie was not suffered to approach it. This was her only punishment;
indeed the only one she required, for she heard and saw nothing wrong;
her parents never disputed, and they were so gentle and indulgent to
her, that she never felt tempted to disguise the truth. The old priest
often represented to the father that unless he intended his child for
the cloister, this mode of bringing her up in such total seclusion and
ignorance was almost cruel; but Pierre answered that he could give her a
good fortune, and would take care to secure a good husband for her; and
her perfect purity and innocence were so beautiful, that the
kind-hearted but unwise ecclesiastic did not insist farther.

In the mean time she grew apace; and her mother being dead, Marie lived
on as before with her father, whose affection only increased with his
years, both of them apparently thinking that the world went on as they
did themselves, unchanged in a single idea. Alas! "we know not what a
day may bring forth," even when we have an opportunity of seeing and
hearing all that passes around us. Pierre and Marie were scarcely aware
of the commencement of the Revolution until it was at its height--the
marquis, his son, and the good priest massacred--madame escaped to
England--and the property divided, and in the possession of others of a
very different stamp from his late kind patron, a model of suavity and
grace of manner even in that capital which gave laws of politeness to
the rest of Europe. All this came like a clap of thunder upon the
astonished Pierre; and although he continued to live in his old cottage,
he never more held up his head. Finally he became quite childish, and
one day died sitting in his chair, his last words being "Marie," his
last action pointing to the little figure of the Virgin. When his death,
however, became known, the new proprietaire desired that the cottage
should be vacated, and came himself to look after its capabilities. He
was astonished at the innocent beauty of the youthful Marie, but not
softened by it; for his bold, coarse admiration, and loud, insolent
manner, so terrified the gentle recluse, that as soon as it was dark she
made a bundle of her clothes, and taking the cherished little earthern
image in her hand, went forth, like Eve from paradise, though, alas! not
into a world without inhabitants. Terrified to a degree which no one not
brought up as she had been can form the least idea of, but resolved to
dare any thing rather than meet that bold, bad man again, she plunged
into the increasing gloom, and wandered, wearied and heart broken, she
knew not whither, until, hungry and tired, she could go no farther. She
lay down, therefore, at the foot of a tree, with her head on her bundle,
and the Virgin in her hand, and soon fell sound asleep.

She was awakened from a dream of former days by rough hands, and upon
regaining her recollection, found that some one had snatched the bundle
from beneath her head, and that nothing remained to her but the little
image, associated in her mind with that happy childhood to which her
present destitute and friendless condition formed so terrible a
contrast. The sneers, and in some cases the insults of the passers-by,
terrified her to such a degree, that, regardless of consequences, she
penetrated further into the Bois de Boulogne, when at length weak, and
indeed quite exhausted, from want of food, she sank down, praying to God
to let her die, and take her to heaven. She waited patiently for some
time, hoping, and more than half expecting, that what she asked so
earnestly would be granted to her. About an hour passed, and Marie,
wondering in her simple faith that she was still alive, repeated her
supplications, uttering them in her distraction in a loud tone of voice.
Suddenly she fancied she heard sounds of branches breaking, and the
approach of footsteps, and filled with the utmost alarm lest it might be
some of those much-dreaded men who had derided and insulted her, she
attempted to rise and fly; but her weakness was so great, that after a
few steps she fell.

"My poor girl," said a kind voice, "are you ill? What do you here, so
far from your home and friends?"

"I have no home, no friend but God, and I want to go to Him. Oh, my God,
let me die! let me die!"

"You are too young to die yet: you have many happy days in store, I
hope. Come, come; eat something, or you _will_ die."

"But eating will make me live, and I want to die, and go to my father
and mother."

"But that would be to kill yourself, and then you would never see either
God or your parents, you know. Come, eat a morsel, and take a mouthful
of wine."

"But when _you_ go, there is no one to give me any more, so I shall only
be longer in dying."

"Self-destruction, you ought to know, if you have been properly brought
up, is the only sin for which there _can_ be no pardon, for that is the
only sin we _can not_ repent."

Marie looked timidly up at the manly, sensible, kind face which bent
over her, and accepted the food he offered. He was dressed as a workman,
and had on his shoulders a hod of glass: in fact, he was an itinerant
glazier. His look was compassionate, but his voice, although soft, was
authoritative. Refreshed by what she had taken, Marie sat up, and very
soon was able to walk. She told her little history, one word of which
he never doubted.

"But what do you mean to do?" asked the young man.

"To stay with you always, for you are kind and good, and no one else is
so to me."

"But that can not be: it would not be right, you know."

"And why would it not be right? Oh, _do_ let me! don't send me away! I
will be so good!" answered she, her entire ignorance and innocence
preventing her feeling what any girl, brought up among her
fellow-creatures, however carefully, would at once have done.

Auguste was a Belgian, without any relations at Paris, and with little
means of supporting a wife; but young, romantic, and kind-hearted, he
resolved at once to marry his innocent protegee, as soon at least as he
could find a priest to perform the ceremony--no easy task at that time,
and in the eyes of the then world of Paris no necessary one, for
profligacy was at its height, and the streets were yet red with the
blood of the virtuous and noble. They began life, then, with his load of
glass and her gold cross and gold ear-rings, heir-looms of considerable
value, which providentially the robbers had not thought of taking from
her. With the produce of the ear-rings they hired a garret and some
humble furniture, where they lived from hand to mouth, Marie taking in
coarse sewing, and her husband sometimes picking up a few sous at his
trade. Often, however, they had but one meal a day, seldom any fire; and
when their first child was born, their troubles of course materially
increased, and Auguste often returned from a weary ramble all over Paris
just as he had set out--without having even gained a solitary sou. The
cross soon followed the ear-rings, and they had now nothing left that
they could part with except the little plaster figure so often alluded
to, which would not bring a franc, and which was loved and cherished by
Marie as the sole remaining object connected with Bouloinvilliers, and
the last thing her father had looked at on earth. The idea of parting
with this gave her grief which is better imagined than described; for,
although the furniture of the cottage undoubtedly belonged to Marie, her
husband knew too well that at a time when might was right, any steps
taken toward recovering its value would be not only fruitless, but
dangerous: he, therefore, never even attempted to assert their rights.

One day, however, they had been without food or firing for nearly
twenty-four hours, and the little Cecile was fractious with hunger,
incessantly crying, "Du pain! du pain!" Marie rose, and approaching the
Virgin, said, "It is wicked to hesitate longer: go, Auguste, and sell it
for what you can get."

She seized it hastily, as though afraid of changing her resolution, and
with such trepidation, that it slipped through her fingers, and broke in
two. Poor Marie sank upon her face at this sight, with a superstitious
feeling that she had meditated wrong, and was thus punished. She was
weeping bitterly, when her husband almost roughly raised her up,
exclaiming in joyful accents, "Marie, Marie, give thanks to God! Now I
know why your father pointed when he could not speak! Sorrow no more: we
are rich!"

In the body of the statuette were found bills to the amount of fifteen
hundred francs--Marie's fortune, in fact, which her father had told the
chaplain he had amassed for her. We need not dwell upon the happiness of
this excellent couple, or the rapture, mingled with gratitude, in which
the remainder of this day was passed. Those who disapprove of
castle-building may perhaps blame them; for several castles they
constructed, on better foundations, however, than most of those who
spend their time in this pleasing but unprofitable occupation. Next day
they took a glazier's shop, stocked it, provided themselves with decent
clothing and furniture, and commenced their new life with equal
frugality and comfort--Marie doing her own work, and serving in the shop
when her husband was out engaged in business. But in time he was able to
hire an assistant, and she a young girl, to look after the children
while she pursued the avocation of a _couturiere_, in which she soon
became very expert. The little image was fastened together again, placed
upon a white table, similar to that which used to stand in her
childhood's home, surrounded with flowers, and made, as of old, the
abode of sugar-plums and rewards of good conduct. But alas! there are
not many Maries in the world. In spite of her good example and good
teaching, her children would at times be naughty. They sometimes
quarreled, sometimes were greedy; and what vexed their simple-minded
mother more than all the rest, sometimes told stories of one another.
Still they were good children, as children go; and when the black screen
was superseded by punishments a little more severe, did credit to their
training. They were not permitted to play in the street, or to go to or
from school alone, or remain there after school-hours. Their father took
pains with their deportment, corrected false grammar, and recommended
the cultivation of habits more refined than people in his humble
although respectable position deem necessary. As their prosperity
increased, Marie was surprised to observe her husband devote all his
spare time to reading, and not only picture-cleaning and repairing, but
painting, in which he was such an adept, that he was employed to paint
several signs.

"How did you learn so much?" she said one day. "Did your father teach
you?"

"No; I went to school."

"Then he was not so _very_ poor?"

"He was very poor, but he lived in hopes that I might one day possess a
fortune."

"It would seem as if he had a foreknowledge of what my little statue
contained?"

"No, my love; he looked to it from another source; for a title without a
fortune is a misfortune."

"A title! Nay, now you are playing with my simplicity."

"No, Marie; I am the nephew of the Vicomte de ----, and for aught I
know, may be the possessor of that name at this moment--the legal heir
to his estate. My father, ruined by his extravagance, and, I grieve to
add, by his crimes, had caused himself to be disowned by all his
relations. He fled with me to Paris, where he soon after died, leaving
me nothing but his seal and his papers. I wrote to my uncle for
assistance; but although being then quite a boy, and incapable of having
personally given him offense, he refused it in the most cruel manner;
and I was left to my own resources at a time when my name and education
were rather a hindrance than a help, and I found no opening for entering
into any employment suited to my birth. My uncle had then two fine,
healthy, handsome boys; the youngest is dead; and the eldest, I heard
accidentally, in such a state of health that recovery is not looked for
by the most sanguine of his friends. I never breathed a word of all this
to you, because I never expected to survive my cousins, and resolved to
make an independent position for myself sooner or later. Do you remember
the other day an old gentleman stopping and asking some questions about
the coat of arms I was painting?"

"Yes; he asked who had employed you to paint those arms, but I was
unable to inform him."

"Well, my dear, he came again this morning to repeat the question to
myself; and I am now going to satisfy him, when I expect to bring you
some news."

Marie was in a dream. Unlike gardeners' daughters of the present day,
she had read no novels or romances, and it appeared to her as impossible
that such an event should happen as that the cap on her head should turn
into a crown. It _did_ happen, however. The old gentleman, a distant
relation and intimate friend of the uncle of Auguste, had come to Paris,
at his dying request, to endeavor to find out his nephew and heir; and
the proofs Auguste produced were so plain, that he found no difficulty
in persuading M. B----de that he was the person he represented himself
to be. He very soon after went to Belgium, took legal possession of all
his rights, and returned to hail the gentle and long-suffering Marie as
Vicomtesse de ----, and conduct her and the children to a handsome
apartment in the Rue ----, dressed in habiliments suitable to her
present station, and looking as lady-like as if she had been born to
fill it. She lived long and happily, and continued the same pure,
humble-minded being she had ever been, whether blooming among the
flowers at Bouloinvilliers, or pining for want in a garret in the
Faubourg St. Antoine. Two of her daughters are alive now. Her son, after
succeeding to his father, died, without children, of the cholera, in
1832; and the son of his eldest sister has taken up the _title_, under a
different name, these matters not being very strictly looked after in
France.




[From Dickens's Household Words.]

THE PRODIGAL'S RETURN.


Many travelers know the "Rutland Arms" at Bakewell, in the Peak of
Derbyshire. It is a fine large inn, belonging to his Grace of Rutland,
standing in an airy little market-place of that clean-looking little
town, and commanding from its windows pleasant peeps of the green hills
and the great Wicksop Woods, which shut out the view of Chatsworth, the
Palace of the Peak, which lies behind them. Many travelers who used to
traverse this road from the south to Manchester, in the days of long
coaches and long wintry drives, know well the "Rutland Arms," and will
recall the sound of the guard's bugle, as they whirled up to the door,
amid a throng of grooms, waiters, and village idlers, the ladder already
taken from its stand by the wall, and placed by the officious Boots in
towering position, ready, at the instant of the coach stopping, to clap
it under your feet, and facilitate your descent. Many travelers will
recall one feature of that accommodating inn, which, uniting
aristocratic with commercial entertainment, has two doors; one lordly
and large in front, to which all carriages of nobility, prelacy, and
gentility naturally draw up; and one at the end, to which all gigs,
coaches, mails, and still less dignified conveyances, as naturally are
driven. Our travelers will as vividly remember the passage which
received them at this entrance, and the room to the left, the
Travelers'-room, into which they were ushered. To that corner room,
having windows to the market-place in front, and one small peeping
window at the side, commanding the turn of the north road, and the
interesting arrivals at the secondary entrance, we now introduce our
readers.

Here sat a solitary gentleman. He was a man apparently of
five-and-thirty; tall, considerably handsome; a face of the oval
character, nose a little aquiline, hair dark, eyebrows dark and strong,
and a light, clear, self-possessed look, that showed plainly enough that
he was a man of active mind, and well to do in the world. You would have
thought, from his gentlemanly air, and by no means commercial manner,
that he would have found his way in at the great front door, and into
one of the private rooms; but he came over night by the mail, and, on
being asked, on entering the house, by the waiter, to what sort of room
he would be shown, answered, carelessly and abruptly, "any where."

Here he was, seated in the back left-hand corner of the room, a large
screen between himself and the door, and before him a table spread with
a goodly breakfast apparatus--coffee, eggs, fresh broiled trout from the
neighboring Weye, and a large round of corned beef, as a _dernier
ressort_.

It was a morning as desperately and delugingly rainy as any that showery
region can send down. In the phrase of the country, it _siled_ down, or
run, as if through a sieve. Straight down streamed the plenteous
element, thick, incessant, and looking as if it would hold on the whole
day through. It thundered on the roof, beat a sonorous tune on porches
and projections of door and window, splashed in torrents on
window-sills, and streaming panes, and rushed along the streets in
rivers. The hills were hidden, the very fowls driven to roost--and not a
soul was to be seen out of doors.

Presently there was a sound of hurrying wheels, a spring-cart came up to
the side door, with two men in it, in thick great coats, and with sacks
over their shoulders; one huge umbrella held over their heads, and they
and their horse yet looking three parts drowned. They lost no time in
pitching their umbrella to the hostler, who issued from the passage,
descending and rushing into the inn. In the next moment the two
countrymen, divested of their sacks and great coats, were ushered into
this room, the waiter, making a sort of apology, because there was a
fire there--it was in the middle of July. The two men, who appeared Peak
farmers, with hard hands, which they rubbed at the fire, and tanned and
weather-beaten complexions, ordered breakfast--of coffee and broiled
ham--which speedily made its appearance, on a table placed directly in
front of the before solitary stranger, between the side look-out window
and the front one.

They looked, and were soon perceived by our stranger to be, father and
son. The old man, of apparently upward of sixty, was a middle-sized man,
of no Herculean mould, but well knit together, and with a face thin and
wrinkled as with a life-long acquaintance with care and struggle. His
complexion was more like brown leather than any thing else, and his
hair, which was thin and grizzled, was combed backward from his face,
and hung in masses about his ears. The son was much taller than the
father, a stooping figure, with flaxen hair, a large nose, light blue
eyes, and altogether a very gawky look.

The old man seemed to eat with little appetite, and to be sunk into
himself, as if he was oppressed by some heavy trouble. Yet he every now
and then roused himself, cast an anxious look at his son, and said,
"Joe, lad, thou eats nothing."

"No, fayther," was the constant reply; "I towd you I shouldn't. This
reen's enough te tak any body's appetite--and these t'other things,"
casting a glance at the stranger.

The stranger had, indeed, his eyes fixed curiously upon the two, for he
had been watching the consumptive tendency of the son; not in any cough
or hectic flush, or peculiar paleness, for he had a positively sunburnt
complexion of his own, but by the extraordinary power he possessed of
tossing down coffee and ham, with enormous pieces of toast and butter.
Under his operations, a large dish of broiled ham rapidly disappeared,
and the contents of the coffee-pot were in as active demand. Yet the old
man, ever and anon, looked up from his reverie, and repeated his
paternal observation:

"Joe, lad, thou eats nothing!"

"No, fayther," was still the reply; "I towd you I shouldn't. It's this
reen, and these t'other things"--again glancing at the stranger.

Presently the broiled ham had totally vanished--there had been enough
for six ordinary men. And while the son was in the act of holding the
coffee-pot upside down, and draining the last drop from it, the old man
once more repeated his anxious admonition: "Joe, lad, thou eats
nothing!"--and the reply was still, "No, fayther, I towd you I
shouldn't. It's this reen, and these t'other things."

This was accompanied by another glance at the stranger, who began to
feel himself very much in the way, but was no little relieved by the son
rising with his plate in his hand, and coming across the room, saying,
"You've a prime round of beef there, sir; might I trouble you for some?"

"By all means," said the stranger, and carved off a slice of thickness
and diameter proportioned to what appeared to him the appetite of this
native of the Peak. This speedily disappeared; and as the son threw down
the knife and fork, the sound once more roused the old man, who added,
with an air of increased anxiety, "Joe, lad, thou eats nothing."

"No, fayther," for the last time responded the son. "I towd you I
shouldn't. It's this reen, and this t'other matter--but I've done, and
so let's go."

The father and son arose and went out. The stranger who had witnessed
this extraordinary scene, but without betraying any amusement at it,
arose, too, the moment they closed the door after them, and, advancing
to the window, gazed fixedly into the street. Presently the father and
son, in their great coats, and with their huge drab umbrella hoisted
over them, were seen proceeding down the market-place in the midst of
the still pouring rain, and the stranger's eyes followed them intently
till they disappeared in the winding of the street. He still stood for
some time, as if in deep thought, and then turning, rung the bell,
ordered the breakfast-things from his table, and producing a
writing-case, sat down to write letters. He continued writing, pausing
at intervals, and looking steadily before him as in deep thought, for
about an hour, when the door opened, and the Peak farmer and his son
again entered. They were in their wet and steaming greatcoats. The old
man appeared pale and agitated; bade the son see that the horse was put
in the cart, rung the bell, and asked what he had to pay. Having
discharged his bill, he continued to pace the room, as if unconscious of
the stranger, who had suspended his writing, and was gazing earnestly at
him. The old man frequently paused, shook his head despairingly, and
muttered to himself, "Hard man!--no fellow feeling!--all over! all
over!" With a suppressed groan, he again continued his pacing to and
fro.

The stranger arose, approached the old man, and said, with a peculiarly
sympathizing tone,

"Excuse me, sir, but you seem to have some heavy trouble on your mind; I
should be glad if it were any thing that were in my power to alleviate."

The old man stopped suddenly--looked sternly at the stranger--seemed to
recollect, himself, and said rather sharply, as if feeling an
unauthorized freedom--"Sir!"

"I beg pardon," said the stranger. "I am aware that it must seem strange
in me to address you thus; but I can not but perceive that something
distresses you, and it might possibly happen that I might be of use to
you."

The old man looked at him for some time in silence, and then said,

"I forgot any one was here; but you can be of no manner of use to me. I
thank you."

"I am truly sorry for it; pray excuse my freedom," said the stranger
with a slight flush; "but I am an American, and we are more accustomed
to ask and communicate matters than is consistent with English reserve.
I beg you will pardon me."

"You are an American?" asked the old man, looking at him. "You are quite
a stranger here?"

"Quite so, sir," replied the stranger, with some little embarrassment.
"I was once in this country before, but many years ago."

The old man still looked at him, was silent awhile, and then said, "You
can not help me, sir; but I thank you all the same, and heartily. You
seem really a very feeling man, and so I don't mind opening my mind to
you--I am a ruined man, sir."

"I was sure you were in very deep trouble, sir," replied the stranger.
"I will not seek to peer into your affairs; but I deeply feel for you,
and would say that many troubles are not so deep as they seem. I would
hope yours are not."

"Sir," replied the old man--the tears starting into his eyes, "I tell
you I am a ruined man. I am heavily behind with my rent, all my stock
will not suffice to pay it; and this morning we have been to entreat the
steward to be lenient, but he will not hear us; he vows to sell us up
next week."

"That is hard," said the stranger. "But you are hale, your son is young;
you can begin the world anew."

"Begin the world anew!" exclaimed the old man, with a distracted air.
"Where?--how? when? No, no! sir, there is no beginning anew in this
country. Those days are past. That time is past with me. And as for my
son: Oh, God! Oh, God! what shall become of him, for he has a wife and
family, and knows nothing but about a farm."

"And there are farms still," said the stranger.

"Yes; but at what rentals? and, then, where is the capital?"

The old man grew deadly pale, and groaned.

"In this country," said the stranger, after a deep silence, "I believe
these things are hard, but in mine they are not so. Go there, worthy old
man; go there, and a new life yet may open to you."

The stranger took the old man's hand tenderly; who, on feeling the
stranger's grasp, suddenly, convulsively, caught the hand in both his
own, and shedding plentiful tears, exclaimed, "God bless you, sir; God
bless you for your kindness! Ah! such kindness is banished from this
country, but I feel that it lives in yours--but there!--no, no!--there I
shall never go. There are no means."

"The means required," said the stranger, tears, too, glittering in his
eyes, "are very small. Your friends would, no doubt--"

"No, no!" interrupted him the old man, deeply agitated; "there are no
friends--not here."

"Then why should I not be a friend so far?" said the stranger. "I have
means--I know the country. I have somehow conceived a deep interest in
your misfortunes."

"You!" said the old man, as if bewildered with astonishment; "you!--but
come along with us, sir. Your words, your kindness, comfort me; at least
you can counsel with us--and I feel it does me good."

"I will go with all my heart," said the stranger. "You can not live far
from here. I will hence to Manchester, and I can, doubtless, make it in
my way."

"Exactly in the way!" said the old man, in a tone of deep pleasure, and
of much more cheerfulness, "at least, not out of it to signify--though
not in the great highway. We can find you plenty of room, if you do not
disdain our humble vehicle."

"I have heavy luggage," replied the stranger, ringing the bell. "I will
have a post-chaise, and you shall go in it with me. It will suit you
better this wet day."

"Oh no! I can not think of it, sir," said the farmer. "I fear no rain. I
am used to it, and I am neither sugar nor salt. I shall not melt."

The old man's son approached simultaneously with the waiter, to say that
the cart was ready. The stranger ordered a post-chaise to accompany the
farmer, at which the son stood with an open-mouthed astonished stare,
which would have excited the laughter of most people, but did not move a
muscle of the stranger's grave and kindly face.

"This good gentleman will go with us," said the old man.

"Oh, thank you, sir!" said the son, taking off his hat and making a low
bow, "you are heartily welcome; but it's a poor place, sir."

"Never mind that," said the old man. "Let us be off and tell Millicent
to get some dinner for the gentleman."

But the stranger insisted that the old man should stay and accompany him
in the chaise, and so the son walked off to prepare for their coming.
Soon the stranger's trunks were placed on the top of the chaise, and
the old man and he drove off.

Their way was for some time along the great high-road; then they turned
off to the left, and continued their course up a valley till they
ascended a very stony road, which wound far over the swell of the hill,
and then approached a large gray stone house, backed by a wood that
screened it from the north and east. Far around, lay an immense view,
chiefly of green, naked, and undulating fields, intersected by stone
walls. No other house was near; and villages lying at several miles
distant, naked and gray on the uplands, were the only evidences of human
life.

The house was large enough for a gentleman's abode, but there were no
neatly kept walks; no carefully cultivated shrubberies; no garden lying
in exquisite richness around it. There was no use made of the barns and
offices. There were no servants about. A troop of little children who
were in the field in front, ran into the house and disappeared.

On entering the house, the stranger observed that its ample rooms were
very naked and filled only by a visible presence of stern indigence. The
woodwork was unpainted. The stone floors were worn, and merely sanded.
The room into which he was conducted, and where the table was already
laid for dinner, differed only in having the uncarpeted floor marked in
figures of alternating ochre and pipe-clay, and was furnished with a
meagre amount of humblest chairs and heavy oak tables, a little shelf of
books and almanacs, and a yellow-faced clock. A shabby and tired-looking
maid-servant was all the domestics seen within or without.

Joe, the simple-looking son, received them, and the only object which
seemed to give a cheering impression to the stranger, was Joe's wife,
who presented herself with a deep courtesy. The guest was surprised to
see in her a very comely, fresh , and modestly sensible woman,
who received him with a kindly cordiality and native grace, which made
him wonder how such a woman could have allied herself to such a man.
There were four or five children about her, all evidently washed and put
into their best for his arrival, and who were pictures of health and
shyness.

Mrs. Warilow took off the old man's great coat with an affectionate
attention, and drew his plain elbow chair, with a cushion covered with a
large-patterned check on its rush bottom, toward the fire; for there was
a fire, and that quite acceptable in this cold region after the heavy
rain. Dinner was then hastily brought in; Mrs. Warilow apologizing for
its simplicity, from the short notice she had received, and she might
have added from the painful news which Joe brought with him; for it was
very evident, though she had sought to efface the trace of it, by
copious washing, that she had been weeping.

The old man was obviously oppressed by the ill result of his morning's
journey to the steward, and the position of his affairs. His
daughter-in-law cast occasional looks of affectionate anxiety at him,
and endeavored to help him in such a manner as to induce him to eat; but
appetite he had little. Joe played his part as valiantly as in the
morning; and the old man occasionally rousing from his reverie, again
renewed the observation of the breakfast-table.

"Joe, lad, thou eats nothing;" adding too now, "Milly, my dear, thou
eats nothing. You eat nothing, sir. None of you have any appetite, and I
have none myself. God help me!"

An ordinary stranger would scarcely have resisted a smile--none appeared
on the face of the guest.

After dinner they drew to the fire, which consisted of large lumps of
coal burning under a huge beamed chimney. There a little table was set
with spirits and home-made wine, and the old man and Joe lit their
pipes, inviting the stranger to join them, which he did with right
good-will. There was little conversation, however; Joe soon said that he
must go over the lands to see that the cattle was all right; he did
more, and even slept in his chair, and the stranger proposed to Mrs.
Warilow a walk in the garden, where the afternoon sun was now shining
warmly. In his drive hither in the chaise, he had learned the exact
position of the old farmer. He was, as he had observed, so heavily in
arrear of rent, that his whole stock would not discharge it. When they
had seated themselves in the old arbor, he communicated his proposal to
her father-in-law to remove to America; observing, that he had conceived
so great a sympathy for him, that he would readily advance him the means
of conveying over the whole family.

Mrs. Warilow was naturally much surprised at the disclosure. Such an
offer from a casual stranger, when all friends and family connections
had turned a deaf ear to all solicitations for aid, was something so
improbable that she could not realize it. "How can you, sir, a stranger
to us, volunteer so large a sum, which we may never be in a position to
repay?"

The stranger assured her that the sum was by no means large. That to him
it was of little consequence, and that such was the scope for industry
and agricultural skill in America, that in a few years they could
readily refund the money. Here, from what the old gentleman had told him
of the new augmented rate of rental, there was no chance of recovering a
condition of ease and comfort.

Mrs. Warilow seemed to think deeply on the new idea presented to her,
and then said, "Surely God has sent Mr. Vandeleur (so the stranger had
given his name), for their deliverance. Oh, sir!" added she, "what shall
we not owe you if by your means we can ever arrive at freedom from the
wretched trouble that now weighs us down. And oh! if my poor father
should ever, in that country, meet again his lost son!"

"He has lost a son?" said the stranger, in a tone of deep feeling.

"Ah, it is a sad thing, sir," continued Mrs. Warilow, "but it is that
which preys on father's mind. He thinks he did wrong in it, and he
believes that the blessing of Heaven has deserted him ever since. Sure
enough, nothing has prospered with him, and yet he feels that if the
young man lives he has not been blameless. He had not felt and forgiven
as a son should. But he can not be living--no, he can not for all these
years have borne resentment, and sent no part of his love or his fortune
to his family. It is not in the heart of a child to do that, except in a
very evil nature, and such was not that of this son."

"Pray go on," said the stranger, "you interest me deeply."

"This thing occurred twenty years ago. Mr. Warilow had two sons. The
eldest, Samuel, was a fine active youth, but always with a turn for
travel and adventure, which was very trying to his father's mind, who
would have his sons settle down in this their native neighborhood, and
pursue farming as their ancestors had always done. But his eldest son
wished to go to sea, or to America. He read a vast deal about that
country, of winter nights, and was always talking of the fine life that
might be led there. This was very annoying to his father, and made him
very angry, the more so that Joseph, the younger son, was a weakly lad,
and had something left upon him by a severe fever, as a boy, that seemed
to weaken his limbs and his mind. People thought he would be an idiot,
and his father thought that his eldest brother should stay and take care
of him, for it was believed that he would never be able to take care of
himself. But this did not seem to weigh with Samuel. Youths full of life
and spirit don't sufficiently consider such things. And then it was
thought that Samuel imagined that his father cared nothing for him, and
cared only for the poor weakly son. He might be a little jealous of
this, and that feeling once getting into people, makes them see things
different to what they otherwise would, and do things that else they
would not.

"True enough, the father was always particularly wrapped up in Joseph.
He seemed to feel that he needed especial care, and he appeared to watch
over him and never have him out of his mind, and he does so to this day.
You have no doubt remarked, sir, that my husband is peculiar. He never
got over that attack in his boyhood, and he afterward grew very rapidly,
and it was thought he would have gone off in a consumption. It is
generally believed that he is not quite sharp in all things. I speak
freely to you, sir, and as long habit, and knowing before I married
Joseph what was thought of him, only could enable me to speak to one who
feels so kindly toward us. But it is not so--Joseph is more simple in
appearance than in reality. No, sir, he has a deal of sense, and he has
a very good heart; and it was because I perceived this that I was
willing to marry him, and to be a true help to him, and, sir, though we
have been very unfortunate, I have never repented it, and I never
shall."

The stranger took Mrs. Warilow's hand, pressed it fervently, and said,
"I honor you, Madam--deeply, truly--pray go on. The eldest son left, you
say."

"Oh yes, sir! Their mother died when the boys were about fifteen and
seventeen. Samuel had always been strongly attached to his mother, and
that, no doubt, kept him at home; but after that he was more restless
than ever, and begged the father to give him money to carry himself to
America. The father refused. They grew mutually angry; and one day, when
they had had high words, the father thought Samuel was disrespectful,
and struck him. The young man had a proud spirit. That was more than he
could bear. He did not utter a word in reply, but turning, walked out of
the house, and from that hour has never once been heard of.

"His father was very angry with him, and for many years never spoke of
him but with great bitterness and resentment, calling him an unnatural
and ungrateful son. But of late years he has softened very much, and I
can see that it preys on his mind, and as things have gone against him,
he has come to think that it is a judgment on him for his hardness and
unreasonableness in not letting the poor boy try his fortune as he so
yearned to do.

"Since I have been in the family, I have led him by degrees to talk on
this subject, and have endeavored to comfort him, telling him he had
meant well, and since, he had seen the thing in a different light. Ah,
sir! how differently we see things when our heat of mind is gone over,
and the old home heart begins to stir in us again. But, since he has
done this, and repented of it, God can not continue his anger, and so
that can not be the cause of his misfortunes. No, sir, I don't think
that--but things have altered very much of late years in this country.
The farms up in this Peak country used to be let very low, very low
indeed; and now they have been three several times valued and raised
since I can remember. People can not live on them now, they really can
not. Then the old gentleman, as farming grew bad, speculated in lead
mines, and that was much worse; he did not understand it, and was sorely
imposed on, and lost a power of money; oh! so much that it is a misery
to think of. Then, as troubles, they say, fly like crows in companies,
there came a very wet summer, and all the corn was spoiled. That put a
finish to father's hopes. He was obliged to quit the old farm where the
Warilows had been for ages, and that hurt him cruelly--it is like
shifting old trees, shifting old people is--they never take to the new
soil.

"But as Joseph was extremely knowing in cattle, father took this
farm--it's a great grazing farm, sir, seven hundred acres, and we feeden
cattle. You would not believe it, sir, but we have only one man on this
farm besides Joseph and father."

"It is very solitary," said the stranger.

"Ah, sir, very, but that we don't mind--but it is a great burden, it
does not pay. Well, but as to the lost son. I came to perceive how
sorely this sat on father's mind, by noticing that whenever I used to
read in the old Bible, on the shelf in the house-place, there, that it
opened of itself at the Prodigal Son. A thought struck me, and so I
watched, and I saw that whenever the old gentleman read in it on
Sundays, he was always looking there. It was some time before I ventured
to speak about it; but, one day when father was wondering what could
have been Samuel's fate, I said, 'Perhaps, father, he will still come
home like the Prodigal Son in the Scripture, and if he does we'll kill
the fatted calf for him, and no one will rejoice in it more truly than
Joseph will.'

"When I had said it, I wished I had not said it--for father seemed
struck as with a stake. He went as pale as death, and I thought he would
fall down in a fit; but, at last, he burst into a torrent of tears, and,
stretching out his arms, said, 'And if he does come, he'll find a
father's arms open to receive him.'

"Ah, sir! it was hard work to comfort him again. I thought he would
never have got over it again; but, after that, he began at times to
speak of Samuel to me of himself, and we've had a deal of talk together
about him. Sometimes father thinks he is dead, and sometimes he thinks
he is not; and, true enough, of late years, there have come flying
rumors from America, from people who have gone out there, who have said
they have seen him there--and that he was a very great gentleman--they
were sure it was him. But then there was always something uncertain in
the account, and, above all, father said he never could believe that
Samuel was a great gentleman, and yet never could forgive an angry blow,
and write home through all these years. These things, sir, pull the old
man down, and, what with his other troubles, make me tremble to look
forward."

Mrs. Warilow stopped, for she was surprised to hear a deep suppressed
sob from the stranger; and, turning, she saw him sitting with his
handkerchief before his face. Strange ideas shot across her mind. But at
this moment the old farmer, having finished his after-dinner nap, was
coming out to seek them. Mr. Vandeleur rose, wiped some tears from his
face, and thanked Mrs. Warilow for her communication. "You can not
imagine," he said, with much feeling, "how deeply you have touched me.
You can not believe how much what you have said resembles incidents in
my own life. Depend upon it, madam, your brother will turn up. I feel
strongly incited to help in it. We will have a search after him, if it
be from the St. Lawrence to the Red River. If he lives, he will be
found; and I feel a persuasion that he will be."

They now met the old man, and all walked into the house. After tea,
there was much talk of America. Mr. Vandeleur related many things in his
own history. He drew such pictures of American life, and farming, and
hunting in the woods; of the growth of new families, and the prosperous
abundance in which the people lived; that all were extremely interested
in his account. Joe sate devouring the story with wonder, luxuriating
especially in the idea of those immense herds of cattle in the prairies;
and the old man even declared that there he should like to go and lay
his bones. "Perhaps," added he, "there I should, some day, find again my
Sam. But no, he must be dead, or he would have written: Many die in the
swamps and from fever, don't they, sir?"

"Oh! many, many," said Mr. Vandeleur, "and yet there are often as
miraculous recoveries. For many years I was a government surveyor. It
was my business to survey new tracts for sale. I was the solitary
pioneer of the population; with a single man to carry my chain, and to
assist me in cutting a path through the dense woods. I lived in the
woods for years, for months seeing no soul but a few wandering Indians.
Sometimes we were in peril from jealous and savage squatters; sometimes
were compelled to flee before the monster grisly bear. I have a strange
fascinating feeling now of those days, and of our living for weeks in
the great caves in the White Mountains, since become the resort of
summer tourists, with the glorious 'Notch' glittering opposite, far
above us, and above the ancient woods. These were days of real hardship,
and we often saw sights of sad sorrow. Families making their way to
distant and wild localities, plundered by the inhuman squatters, or by
the Indians, and others seized by the still more merciless swamp fever,
perishing without help, and often all alone in the wilderness.

"Ah! I remember now one case--it is nearly twenty years ago, but I never
can forget it. It was a young, thin man--he could scarcely be twenty. He
had been left by his party in the last stage of fever. They had raised a
slight booth of green bushes over him, and placed a pumpkin-shell of
water by his side, and a broken tea-cup to help himself with; but he was
too weak, and was fast sinking there all alone in that vast wilderness.
The paleness of death appeared in his sunken features, the feebleness of
death in his wasted limbs. He was a youth who, like many others, had
left his friends in Europe, and now longed to let them know his end. He
summoned his failing powers to give me a sacred message. He mentioned
the place whence he last came."

"Where was it?" exclaimed the old man, in a tone of wild excitement.
"Where--what was it? It must be my Sam!"

"No, that could not be," said the stranger, startled by the old man's
emotion; "it was not this place--it was--I remember it--it was another
name--Well--Well--Welland was the place."

The old man gave a cry, and would have fallen from his chair, but the
stranger sprung forward and caught him in his arms. There was a moment's
silence, broken only by a deep groan from the old man, and a low murmur
from his lips, "Yes! I knew it--he is dead!"

"No, no! he is not dead!" cried the stranger; "he lives--he recovered!"

"Where is he, then? Where is my Sam? Let me know!" cried the old man,
recovering and standing wildly up--"I must see him!--I must to him!"

"Father! father! it is Sam!" cried his son Joe; "I know him!--I know
him!--this is he!"

"Where?--who?" exclaimed the father, looking round bewildered.

"Here!" said the stranger, kneeling before the old man, and clasping his
hand and bathing it with tears. "Here, father, is your lost and unworthy
son. Father!--I return like the Prodigal Son. 'I have sinned before
Heaven and in thy sight; make me as one of thy hired servants.'"

The old man clasped his son in his arms, and they wept in silence.

But Joe was impatient to embrace his recovered brother, and he gave him
a hug as vigorous as one of those grisly bears that Sam had mentioned.
"Ah! Sam!" he said, "how I have wanted thee; but I always saw thee a
slim chap, such as thou went away, and now thou art twice as big, and
twice as old, and yet I knew thee by thy eyes."

The two brothers cordially embraced, and the returned wanderer also
embraced his comely sister affectionately, and said, "You had nearly
found me out in the garden."

"Ah, what a startle you gave me!" she replied, wiping away her tears;
"but this is so unexpected--so heavenly." She ran off, and returning
with the whole troop of her children, said, "There, there is your dear,
lost uncle!"

The uncle caught them up, one after another, and kissed them
rapturously.

"Do you know," said the mother, laying her hand on the head of the
eldest boy, a fine, rosy-looking fellow, "what name this has? It is
Samuel Warilow! We did not forget the one that was away."

"He will find another Samuel in America," said his uncle, again
snatching him up, "and a Joe, and a Thomas, the grandfather's name. My
blessed mother there lives again in a lovely blue-eyed girl; and should
God send me another daughter, there shall be a Millicent, too!"

Meantime, the old man stood gazing insatiably on his son. "Ah, Sam!"
said he, as his son again turned, and took his hand, "I was very hard to
thee, and yet thou hast been hard to us, too. Thou art married, too,
and, with all our names grafted on new stems, thou never wrote to us. It
was not well."

"No, father, it was not well. I acknowledge my fault--my great fault;
but let me justify myself. I never forgot you; but for many years I was
a wanderer, and an unsuccessful man. My pride would not let me send,
under these circumstances, to those who had always said that I should
come to beggary and shame. Excuse me, that I mention these hard words.
My pride was always great; and those words haunted me.

"But at length, when Providence had blessed me greatly, I could endure
it no longer. I determined to come and seek forgiveness and
reconciliation; and, God be praised! I have found both. We will away
home together, father. I have wealth beyond all my wants and wishes; my
greatest joy will be to bestow some of it on you. My early profession of
a surveyor gave me great opportunities of perceiving where the tide of
population would direct itself, and property consequently rise rapidly
in value. I therefore purchased vast tracts for small sums, which are
now thickly peopled, and my possessions are immense. I am a member of
Congress."

The next day, the two brothers drove over to Bakewell, where Joe had the
satisfaction to see the whole arrears paid down to the astonished
steward, on condition that he gave an instant release from the farm; and
Joe ordered, at the auctioneer's, large posters to be placarded in all
the towns and villages of the Peak, and advertisements to be inserted in
all the principal papers of the Midland counties, of the sale of his
stock that day fortnight.

We have only to record that it sold well, and that the Warilows of
Welland, and more recently of Scarthin Farm, are now flourishing on
another and more pleasant Welland on the Hudson. There is a certain
tall, town-like house which the traveler sees high on a hill among the
woods, on the left bank of the river, as the steamer approaches the
Catskill Mountains. There live the Warilows; and, far back on the rich
<DW72>s that lie behind the mountains, and in richer meadows, surrounded
by forests and other hills, rove the flocks and herds of Joe; and there
comes Squire Sam, when the session at Washington is over, and,
surrounded by sons and nephews, ranges the old woods, and shoots the
hill-turkey and the roe. There is another comely and somewhat matronly
lady sitting with the comely and sunny-spirited Millicent, the happy
mistress of the new Welland; and a little Millicent tumbles on the
carpet at their feet. The Warilows of Welland all bless the Prodigal
Son, who, unlike the one of old, came back rich to an indigent father,
and made the old man's heart grow young again with joy.




[From Sharpe's Magazine.]

THE LIGHT OF HOME.


It was years ago when we first became acquainted with Lieutenant
Heathcote, an old half-pay officer who resided with his young
grand-daughter in a tiny cottage. It was a very humble place, for they
were poor; but it was extremely pretty, and there were many comforts,
even elegances, to be found in the small rooms. The old gentleman
delighted in cultivating the garden; the window of the sitting-room
opened on it, and beneath this window, grew the choicest roses and
pinks, so that the atmosphere of the apartment was in summer laden with
their fragrance. The furniture was poor enough. Mrs. ---- of ---- Square
would have said with a genteel sneer, that "all the room contained was
not worth five sovereigns." To her--no! but to the simple hearted
inmates of the cottage every chair and table was dear from long
association, and they would not have exchanged them for all the grandeur
of Mrs. ----'s drawing-room suite, albeit her chairs were of inlaid
rosewood, and cost six guineas apiece.

If you went into that little humbly-furnished parlor about four o'clock
on a summer's afternoon, you would find Lieutenant Heathcote seated in
his easy chair (wheeled by careful hands to the precise angle of the
window that he liked), his spectacles on, and the broad sheet of the
newspaper spread before him. Occasionally he puts down the newspaper for
awhile, and then his eyes rove restlessly about the room, till at length
they light on the figure of his unconscious grand-daughter. Once there,
they stay a good while, and when they turn to the newspaper again, there
is a serene light in them, as though what they had seen had blessed
them.

Yet an ordinary gazer would have found little or nothing attractive in
the appearance of Rose Heathcote, for she was but a homely,
innocent-looking girl, such as we meet with every day of our lives. Her
eyes were neither "darkly blue," nor "densely black," her tresses
neither golden, nor redundant. She had, to be sure, a sufficient
quantity of dark brown hair, which was very soft and pleasant to touch,
her grandfather thought, when he placed his hand caressingly on her
head, as he loved to do: and this hair was always prettily
arranged--braided over her forehead in front, and twisted into a thick
knot behind--a fashion which certainly showed to advantage the graceful
form of her head, the solitary beauty, speaking critically, which the
young girl possessed. However, Lieutenant Heathcote thought his little
Rose the prettiest girl in the world. Eyes that look with love, lend
beauty to what they gaze on. And no one who knew Rose as she was in her
home, could fail to love her.

She was always up with the lark, and busied in various employments till
her grandfather came down to breakfast. Then she poured out the tea, cut
the bread-and-butter, or made the toast, talking and laughing the while,
in the spontaneous gayety of her heart. To eke out their little income,
she had pupils who came to her every morning, and whom she taught all
she knew, with a patient earnest zeal that amply compensated for her
deficiency in the showy accomplishments of the day. So, after breakfast,
the room was put in order, the flowers were watered, the birds were
tended, grandpapa was made comfortable in his little study, and then the
school books, the slates and copy-books were placed in readiness for the
little girls: and then they came, and the weary business began, of
English history, geography, arithmetic, and French verbs. The children
were not very clever--sometimes, indeed, they were absolutely stupid,
and obstinate, moreover; they must have tried her patience very often;
but a harsh rebuke never issued from her lips: it was a species of
selfishness in her not to chide them, for if she did so, though ever so
mildly, the remembrance of it pained her gentle heart all day, and she
was not quite happy until the little one was kissed and forgiven again.

The children loved her very much and her pupils gradually increased in
number. Dazzling visions danced before her eyes, visions of wealth
resulting from her labors; yes, wealth! for, poor innocent, the four or
five golden sovereigns she had already put by, _her first earnings_,
multiplied themselves wonderfully in her sanguine dreams. She had
magnificent schemes floating in her little brain of luxuries to be
obtained with this money--luxuries for her grandfather; a new easy
chair, cushioned sumptuously, and a new pair of spectacles, gold
mounted, and placed in a case of her own embroidery. Thoughts of
possible purchases for her own peculiar enjoyment sometimes intruded.
There was a beautiful geranium she would like, and a new cage for her
bird--a new bonnet, even for herself; for Rose was not free from a
little spice of womanly vanity, which is excusable, nay, lovable,
because it is so womanly, and she was quite susceptible of the pleasure
most young girls feel in seeing themselves prettily dressed.

That these dreams might be realized, Rose worked hard. She sat up late
at night, arranging the exercises and lessons of her pupils, and rose
early in the morning, in order that none of her household duties should
be neglected. And in the course of time, this unceasing exertion began
to injure her health, for she was not strong, although, hitherto, she
had been but little prone to ailments. One morning she arose languid,
feverish, and weak; she was compelled to give herself a holiday, and all
day she lay on the sofa in the sitting-room, in a kind of dreamy yet
restless languor she had never felt before. Her grandfather sat beside
her, watching and tending her with all the care of a mother, reading
aloud from her favorite books, ransacking his memory for anecdotes to
amuse her, and smiling cheerfully when she raised her heavy eyes to his.
But when she fell into a fitful doze, the old man's countenance changed;
an indefinable look of agony and doubt came over his features; and
involuntarily, as it seemed, he clasped his hands, while his lips moved
as if in prayer. He was terrified by this strange illness; for the first
time, the idea occurred to him that his darling might be taken away from
him. The young sometimes left the world before the old, unnatural as it
seemed; what if she should die? We always magnify peril when it comes
near our beloved, and the old man gradually worked himself into a frenzy
of anxiety respecting his child. The next day she was not better--a
doctor was sent for, who prescribed rest and change of air if possible,
assuring Lieutenant Heathcote that it was no serious disorder--she had
overworked herself, that was all.

It was the summer time, and some of Rose's pupils were about to proceed
to the sea-side. Hearing of their dear Miss Heathcote's illness, they
came to invite her to go with them, and the grandfather eagerly and
joyfully accepted the offer for her, although she demurred a little. She
did not like to leave him alone; she could not be happy, she said,
knowing he would be dull and lonely without her; but her objections were
overruled, and she went with her friends, the Wilsons.

It was pleasant to see the old man when he received her daily epistles.
How daintily he broke the envelope, so as not to injure the little seal,
and how fondly he regarded the delicate handwriting. The letters brought
happier tidings every day; she was better, she was much better, she was
well, she was stronger and rosier than ever, and enjoying herself much.
Those letters--long, beautiful letters they were--afforded the old man
his chief pleasure now. His home was very desolate while she was away;
the house looked changed, the birds sang less joyously, and the flowers
were not so fragrant. Every morning he attended to her pets, himself,
and then he wandered about the rooms, taking up her books, her papers,
and her various little possessions, and examining the contents of her
work-basket with childish curiosity. In the twilight he would lean back
in his chair, and try to fancy she was in the room with him. Among the
shadows, it was easy to imagine her figure, sitting as she used to sit,
with drooped head and clasped hands, thinking. At these times, her
letter received that morning, was taken from his bosom and kissed, and
then the simple, loving old man would go to bed and dream of his
grandchild.

At length she came home. She rushed into her grandfather's arms with a
strange eagerness: it was as if she sought there a refuge from peril; as
if she fled to him for succor and comfort in some deep trouble. Poor
Rose! she wept so long and so passionately; it could scarce have been
all for joy.

"Darling! you are not sorry to come home, are you?"

"Oh no! so glad, so very, very glad!" and then she sobbed again, so
convulsively, that the old man grew alarmed, and as he tried to soothe
her into calmness, he gazed distrustfully in her face. Alas! there was a
look of deep suffering on her pale features that he had never seen there
before; there was an expression of hopeless woe in her eyes, which it
wrung his loving heart to behold.

"Rose!" he cried, in anguish, "what has happened? you are changed!"

She kissed him tenderly, and strove to satisfy him by saying, that it
was only the excitement of her return home that made her weep; she would
be better the next morning, she said. But she was not better then. From
the day of her return she faded away visibly. It was evident, and _he_
soon saw it, that some grief had come to her, which her already weakened
frame was unable to bear. He remembered, only too well, that her mother
had died of consumption, and when he saw her gradually grow weaker day
by day, the hectic on her cheek deepen, and her hands become thin till
they were almost transparent, all hope died in his heart, and he could
only pray that heaven would teach him resignation, or take him too, when
_she_ went.

For a little while, Rose attempted to resume her teaching, but she was
soon compelled to give up. Only, till the last she flitted about the
cottage, performing her household duties as she had ever done, and being
as she had ever been, the presiding spirit of the home that was so dear
to her grandfather. In the winter evenings, too, they sat together, she
in her olden seat at his feet, looking into the fire, and listening to
the howling wind without, neither speaking, except at rare intervals,
and then in a low and dreamy tone that harmonized with the time. One
evening they had sat thus for a long time, the old man clasping her
hands, while her head rested on his knee. The fire burned low and gave
scarcely any light; the night was stormy, and the wind blew a hurricane.
At every blast he felt her tremble.

"God help those at sea," he cried, with a sudden impulse.

"Amen, Amen!" said Rose, solemnly, and though she started and shivered
when he spoke, she kissed his hands afterward, almost as if in
gratitude.

There was a long pause; then she lifted her head, and said in a very low
voice: "Remember, dear grandpapa, if at any time, by-and-by, you should
feel inclined to be angry, vexed, with--any one--because of me; you are
to forgive them, for my sake: for my sake, my own grandpapa.--Promise!"

He did so, and she wound her arms lovingly round his neck, and kissed
his brows, as of old she had done every night before retiring to rest.
And then her head sunk on his shoulder, and she wept. In those tears how
much was expressed that could find no other utterance! the lingering
regret to die that the young must ever feel, even when life is most
desolate; the tender gratitude for the deep love her grandfather had
ever borne her; sorrow for him, and for herself! And he, silent and
tearless as he sat, understood it all, and blessed her in his heart.

The next day she died quietly, lying on her little bed, with her pale
hands meekly folded on her breast; for her last breath exhaled in prayer
for her grandfather--and one other. It happened that the Wilsons and
some other acquaintances came in the evening to inquire how she was. For
sole reply, Lieutenant Heathcote, whose tearless eyes and rigid lips
half frightened them, led them where she lay. They retired, weeping,
subdued, and sad, and as they were leaving the cottage, he heard Mrs.
Wilson say to her friend, while she dried her eyes: "Poor girl, poor
girl! She was very amiable, we all liked her exceedingly. I am afraid
though, on one occasion, I was rather harsh to her, and, poor child, she
seemed to take it a good deal to heart. But the fact was, that our
Edward, I half fancied"--there followed a whispering, and then, in a
louder tone--"but his father, thinking with me, sent him off to sea, and
there was an end of the matter."

An end of the matter! Alas! think of the bereaved old man, wandering
about his desolate abode, _home_ to him no longer; with the sad, wistful
look on his face of one who continually seeks something that is not
there. The cottage, too, was very different now to what it had been; the
_home_ that was so beautiful was gone with her. He set her little bird
at liberty the day she died; he could not bear to hear it singing,
joyously as when _she_ had been there to listen. But for this, the
parlor always remained in the same state it was in on that last evening.
The empty cage in the window, a bunch of withered flowers on a chair
where they had fallen from her bosom, and the book she had been reading,
open at the very page she had left off. Every morning the old man stole
into the room to gaze around on these mute memorials of his lost
darling. This was the only solace of his life now, and we may imagine
what it cost him to leave it. But when they came and told him he must
give up possession of his cottage, that it was to be razed to the ground
shortly, he only remonstrated feebly, and finally submitted. He was old,
and he hoped to die soon, but death does not always come to those
longing for it. He may be living yet, for aught we know; but he has
never been heard of in his old neighborhood for years, and we may hope
that he is happier, that he has at length gone home to _her_.




[From Dickens's Household Words.]

HOW WE WENT WHALING OFF THE CAPE OF GOOD HOPE.


At Algoa Bay, in the eastern provinces of the Cape Colony, there is, and
has been for thirty years, a whaling establishment. By what instinct
these monsters of the deep ascertain the settlement of man on the shores
they frequent, it would be difficult to say. But that they do so, and
that they then comparatively desert such coasts is undoubted. Where one
whale is now seen off the southeastern coast of Africa, twenty were seen
in former times, when the inhabitants of the country were few. It is the
same in New Zealand, and every other whale-frequented coast.
Nevertheless, the whaling establishment I have mentioned is still kept
up in Algoa Bay--and with good reason. _One_ whale per annum will pay
all the expenses and outgoings of its maintenance; every other whale
taken in the course of a year is a clear profit.

The value of a whale depends, of course, upon its size--the average is
from three hundred pounds to six hundred pounds. The establishment in
Algoa Bay consists of a stone-built house for the residence of the
foreman, with the coppers and boiling-houses attached; a wooden
boat-house, in which are kept three whale-boats, with all the lines and
tackle belonging to them; and a set of javelins, harpoons, and
implements for cutting up the whales' carcases. Then, there are a boat's
crew of picked men, six in number, besides the coxswain and the
harpooner. There are seldom above two or three whales taken in the
course of a year; occasionally not one.

The appearance of a whale in the bay is known immediately, and great is
the excitement caused thereby in the little town of Port Elizabeth,
close to which the whaling establishment is situated. It is like a
sudden and unexpected gala, got up for the entertainment of the
inhabitants, with nothing to pay.

A treat of this sort is suddenly got up by the first appearance of a
whale in those parts. Tackle-boats and men are got ready in a twinkling.
We jump into the stern-sheets of the boat. Six weather-beaten, muscular
tars are at work at the oars, and there, in the bows, stands the
harpooner, preparing his tackle; a boy is by his side. Coils of line lie
at their feet, with harpoons attached to them, and two or three spears
or javelins.

"Pull away, boys; there she blows again!" cries the coxswain, and at
each stroke the strong men almost lift the little craft out of the
water. The harpooner says nothing; he is a very silent fellow; but woe
to the unlucky whale that comes within the whirl of his unerring
harpoon!

Meantime, our fat friend of the ocean is rolling himself about, as if
such things as harpoons never existed; as if he were an infidel in
javelins. We are approaching him, a dozen more strokes and we shall be
within aim. Yet the harpooner seems cool and unmoved as ever; he holds
the harpoon it is true, but he seems to grasp it no tighter, nor to make
any preparation for a strike. He knows the whale better than we
do--better than his crew. He has been a harpooner for thirty years, and
once harpooned twenty-six whales in one year with his own hand. He was
right not to hurry himself, you see, for the whale has at last caught
sight of us, and has plunged below the surface.

Now, however, the harpooner makes an imperceptible sign to the coxswain.
The coxswain says, "Give way, boys," scarcely above his breath, and the
boat skims faster than ever over the waves. The harpooner's hand
clutches more tightly the harpoon, and he slowly raises his arm; his
mouth is compressed, but his face is as calm as ever. A few yards ahead
of us a wave seems to swell above the others--"Whiz"--at the very moment
you catch sight of the whale's back again above the water, the harpoon
is in it eighteen inches deep, hurled by the unerring arm of the silent
harpooner.

The red blood of the monster gushes forth, "incarnadining" (as Macbeth
says) the waves. "Back water," shouts the harpooner, as the whale
writhes with the pain, and flings his huge body about with force enough
to submerge twenty of our little crafts at one blow. But he has plunged
down again below the surface, and the pace at which he dives you may
judge of, by the wonderful rapidity with which the line attached to the
harpoon runs over the bows of the boat. Now, too, you see the use of the
boy who is bailing water from the sea in a small bucket, and pouring it
incessantly over the edge of the boat where the line runs, or in two
minutes the friction would set fire to it.

You begin to think the whale is never coming back; but the crew know
better. See too, the line is running out more slowly every instant; it
ceases altogether now, and hangs slackly over the boat's side. He is
coming up exhausted to breathe again. There are a few moments of
suspense, during which the harpooner is getting ready and poising one of
the javelins. It is longer, lighter, and sharper than the harpoon, but
it has no line attached to it. The harpoon is to catch--the javelin to
kill. Slowly the whale rises again, but he is not within aim. "Pull
again boys"--while the boy is hauling in the line as fast as he can. We
are near enough now. Again a whiz--again another--and the harpooner has
sent two javelins deep into the creature's body; while the blood flows
fast. Suddenly, the whale dashes forward. No need of pulling at the oars
now; we are giving him fresh line as fast as we can, yet he is taking us
through the water at the rate of twenty miles an hour at least. One
would fancy that the harpoons and the javelins have only irritated him,
and that the blood he has lost has diminished nothing of his strength.
Not so, however; the pace slackens now: we are scarcely moving through
the water.

"Pull again, boys," and we approach; while another deadly javelin
pierces him. This time he seems to seek revenge. He dashes toward
us--what can save us?

"Back water," cries the harpooner, while the coxswain taking the hint at
the same moment, with a sweep of his oar the little boat performs a kind
of curvet backward, and the monster has shot past us unharming, but not
unharmed; the harpooner, cool as ever, has hurled another javelin deep
into him, and smiles half pityingly at this impotent rage, which, he
knows full well, bodes a termination of the contest. The red blood is
spouting forth from four wounds, "neither as deep as a well, nor as wide
as a church-door," but _enough_ to kill--even a whale. He rolls over
heavily and slowly; a few convulsive movements shake his mighty frame;
then he floats motionless on the water--and the whale is dead!

Ropes are now made fast round him, and he is slowly towed away to shore,
opposite the whaling establishment. A crowd is collected to see his huge
body hauled up on to the beach, and to speculate on his size and value.
In two days all his blubber is cut away and melting in the coppers.
Vultures are feeding on his flesh, and men are cleansing his bones. In
two months, barrels of his oil are waiting for shipment to England. The
fringe-work which lined his mouth, and which we call whalebone, is ready
for the uses to which ladies apply it. His teeth, which are beautiful
ivory, are being fashioned into ornaments by the turner; and his immense
ribs are serving as landmarks on the different farms about the country,
for which purpose they are admirably adapted. Meanwhile our friend the
harpooner and his crew are reposing on their laurels, and looking out
for fresh luck; while the proprietor of the establishment is five
hundred pounds the richer from this "catching a whale."




HYDROPHOBIA.


M. Buisson has written to the Paris Academy of Sciences, to claim as
his, a small treatise on hydrophobia, addressed to the academy so far
back as 1835, and signed with a single initial. The case referred to in
that treatise was his own. The particulars, and the mode of cure
adopted, were as follows:--He had been called to visit a woman who, for
three days, was said to be suffering under this disease. She had the
usual symptoms--constriction of the throat, inability to swallow,
abundant secretion of saliva, and foaming at the mouth. Her neighbors
said that she had been bitten by a mad dog about forty days before. At
her own urgent entreaties, she was bled, and died a few hours after, as
was expected.

M. Buisson, who had his hands covered with blood, incautiously cleansed
them with a towel which had been used to wipe the mouth of the patient.
He then had an ulceration upon one of his fingers, yet thought it
sufficient to wipe off the saliva that adhered, with a little water. The
ninth day after, being in his cabriolet, he was suddenly seized with a
pain in his throat, and one, still greater, in his eyes. The saliva was
continually pouring into his mouth; the impression of a current of air,
the sight of brilliant bodies, gave him a painful sensation; his body
appeared to him so light that he felt as though he could leap to a
prodigious height. He experienced, he said, a wish to run and bite, not
men, but animals and inanimate bodies. Finally, he drank with
difficulty, and the sight of water was still more distressing to him
than the pain in his throat. These symptoms recurred every five minutes,
and it appeared to him as though the pain commenced in the affected
finger, and extended thence to the shoulder.

From the whole of the symptoms, he judged himself afflicted with
hydrophobia, and resolved to terminate his life by stifling himself in a
vapor bath. Having entered one for this purpose, he caused the heat to
be raised to 107 deg. 36" Fahr., when he was equally surprised and delighted
to find himself free of all complaint. He left the bathing-room well,
dined heartily, and drank more than usual. Since that time, he says, he
has treated in the same manner more than eighty persons bitten, in four
of whom the symptoms had declared themselves; and in no case has he
failed, except in that of one child, seven years old, who died in the
bath. The mode of treatment he recommends is, that the person bit should
take a certain number of vapor baths (commonly called Russian), and
should induce every night a violent perspiration, by wrapping himself in
flannels, and covering himself with a feather-bed; the perspiration is
favored by drinking freely of a warm decoction of sarsaparilla. He
declares, so convinced is he of the efficacy of his mode of treatment,
that he will suffer himself to be inoculated with the disease. As a
proof of the utility of copious and continual perspiration, he relates
the following anecdote: A relative of the musician Gretry was bitten by
a mad dog, at the same time with many other persons, who all died of
hydrophobia. For his part, feeling the first symptoms of the disease, he
took to dancing, night and day, saying that he wished to die gayly. He
recovered. M. Buisson also cites the old stories of dancing being a
remedy for the bite of a tarantula; and draws attention to the fact,
that the animals in whom this madness is most frequently found to
develop itself spontaneously, are dogs, wolves, and foxes, which never
perspire.




THE DOOM OF THE SLAVER.

AN ENGLISH STORY OF THE AFRICAN BLOCKADE.


On a glorious day, with a bright sun and a light breeze, Her Majesty's
brig Semiramis stood along under easy sail, on a N.W. course up the
Channel of Mozambique. Save the man at the wheel and the "look-outs" in
the tops, every one seemed taking it easy. And indeed there was no
inducement to exertion; for the sky was cloudless, and the temperature
of that balmy warmth that makes mere existence a luxury. The men,
therefore, continued their "yarns" as they lounged in little groups
about the deck; the middies invented new mischief, or teased the cook;
the surgeon divided his time between watching the flying-fish and
reading a new work on anatomy (though he never turned a fresh page);
while the lieutenant of the watch built "chateux-en-Espagne," or
occasionally examined, with his telescope, the blue hills of Madagascar
in the distance.

"Sail ho!" shouted the look-out in the foretop.

"Where away?" cried the lieutenant, springing to his feet, while at the
same moment every man seemed to have lost his listlessness, and to be
eager for action of any kind.

"Over the starboard quarter, making sou' west."

The captain hastened on deck, while the second lieutenant ran aloft to
have a look at the strange craft.

"What do you make her out, Mr. Saunders?" asked the captain.

"A fore-and-aft schooner, hull down."

"'Bout ship," cried the captain; and in an instant every man was at his
post.

"Helm's a lee--raise tacks and sheets"--"mainsail haul," &c.; and in
five minutes the Semiramis was standing in pursuit of the stranger,
while the men were employed in "cracking on" all sail to aid in the
chase.

What is it that makes a chase of any kind so exciting? The indescribable
eagerness which impels human nature to hunt any thing huntable is not
exaggerated in "Vathek," in which the population of a whole city is
described as following in the chase of a black genie, who rolled himself
up into a ball and trundled away before them, attracting even the halt
and the blind to the pursuit. But who shall describe the excitement of a
chase at sea? How eagerly is every eye strained toward the retreating
sails! how anxiously is the result of each successive heaving of the log
listened for! how many are the conjectures as to what the stranger ahead
may prove to be! and how ardent are the hopes that she may turn out a
prize worth taking! For be it remembered that, unlike the chase of a fox
on land, where no one cares for the object pursued, cupidity is enlisted
to add to the excitement of a chase at sea. Visions of prize-money float
before the eyes of every one of the pursuers, from the captain to the
cabin-boy.

The Semiramis, being on the tack she had now taken, considerably to the
windward of the stranger, there was every chance of her soon overtaking
her, provided the latter held the course she was now steering. But who
could hope that she would do that! Indeed, all on board the brig
expected every moment to hear that she was lying off and running away.
If she did not do so, it would be almost a proof that she was engaged in
lawful commerce, and not what they had expected, and, in truth, hoped.

An hour had passed; and the Semiramis had visibly gained on the
schooner; so much so, that the hull of the latter, which was long, low,
black, and rakish-looking, could now be seen from the brig's tops.

"Surely they must see us," said the captain.

"She's just the build of the Don Pedro we took off this coast," said the
second lieutenant, from the maintop.

"I hope she will turn out a better prize," replied the captain.

The truth is, they had captured that same Don Pedro, condemned her, and
broken her up. The captain and owners of her had appealed; proved to the
satisfaction of the Admiralty that she was _not_ engaged in the slave
trade; and, consequently, every man on board the Semiramis who had
assisted at her capture, was obliged to cash up his quota of "damages"
instead of pocketing prize-money. The Don Pedro, therefore, was a sore
subject on board the Semiramis.

Another hour elapsed: the hull of the schooner began to be visible from
the deck of the cruiser. She was a wicked-looking craft; and Jack
slapped his pockets in anticipation of the cash she would bring into
them.

"Well, it's odd she don't alter course, anyhow," said the boatswain on
the forecastle; "may be she wants to throw us off the scent, by
pretending to be all right and proper, and not to have a notion that we
can be coming after her."

"Show the colors," cried the captain on the quarter-deck; "let's see
what flag she sports."

The British ensign was soon floating from the Semiramis; but the
schooner at first showed no colors in reply.

Presently the first lieutenant, who was watching her through the glass,
cried out, "Brazilian by Jove!"

There was a short pause. Every sort of spy-glass in the ship was in
requisition. Every eye was strained to its utmost visual tension. The
captain broke the silence with "Holloa! She's easing off; going to run
for it at last."

"She's a _leetle_ too late," said the lieutenant. "Before the wind these
fore-and-aft schooners are tubs, though _on_ the wind they're clippers."

However, it was clear that the schooner had at last resolved to run for
her life. By going off with the wind she got a good start of the brig;
and, although it was her worst point of sailing, still the breeze was so
light that, while it suited her, it was insufficient to make the heavier
brig sail well.

For three hours the chase continued, and neither vessel seemed to gain
on the other; but the breeze was now freshening, and the Semiramis at
length began to diminish the distance between herself and the Brazilian.
Right ahead, in the course they were pursuing, lay a point of land
projecting far into the sea, and the chart showed a tremendous reef of
rocks extending some three miles beyond it. It was certain that neither
vessels could clear the reef, if they held the course they were then
steering.

"Keep her a little more to windward," cried the captain. "We shall have
her; she will be obliged to haul up in about an hour's time, and then
she can't escape, as we shall be well to windward."

The hour went by; and still the schooner showed no signs of altering her
course. The captain of the Semiramis again examined his charts; but the
reef was clearly laid down, and it seemed utterly impossible that the
schooner could weather it by the course she was then steering. Yet,
either from ignorance of the danger, or from the determination to brave
it, she tried; knowing that if she escaped it and cleared the point, she
would have gained an immense advantage over her pursuers.

It would be impossible to describe the anxiety with which all on board
the Semiramis now watched the little Brazilian. She was literally
rushing into the jaws of destruction; and, as she rose over each
successive wave, it seemed as if she must be dashed on the treacherous
reef at the next dip. Still she stood bravely on; and, though doubtless
the lips of those on board her might be quivering at that moment in the
agony of suspense, the little craft looked so beautiful, and sailed so
gayly, her white sails and slender spars flashing in the sunlight that
even her pursuers mentally prayed for her safety, quite irrespective of
the prize-money they would lose by her destruction on the rocks. Jack
does not like to see a pretty craft run ashore, at any price.

They began almost to think the schooner "bore a charmed life;" for she
seemed to be floating over the very reef itself, and the white foam of
the breakers could be seen all round her.

"Blessed, if I don't think she's the Flying Dutchman," said one blue
jacket to another.

"Gammon, Bill--ain't we round the Cape? and don't you know that's just
where the Flying Dutchman never could get to?" replied his messmate.

The little schooner bounded onward merrily--suddenly she staggers, and
every spar shivers.

"She has struck!" cried twenty voices at once.

Now she rises with a coming wave, and now she settles down again with a
violence that brings her topmasts on the deck.

"Out with the boats," is the order on board the Semiramis, and the men
fly to execute it.

Another wave lifts the schooner--another fearful crash--she rolls
over--her decks are rent asunder--her crew are struggling in the
water--and with them (every man shudders at the sight) hundreds of
<DW64>s, manacled to each other and fettered to the lower deck, are shot
out into the foam.

Bravely pulled the seamen in the boats of the Semiramis; but two strong
swimmers, who had fought their way through the boiling surf were all
they saved. So slight was the build of the little schooner that she had
gone to pieces instantly on striking; and, within sight of the
Semiramis, within hearing of the death-shrieks that rent the air from
_six hundred and thirty human beings_, who, shackled together with heavy
irons, were dashed among the waters, and perished a slow and helpless
death, two only of their jailers survived to tell of the number that had
sunk!

Surely this sad tale may at least be added to the catalogue of ills
produced by England's "good intentions" in striving to suppress the
slave trade.




INDUSTRY OF THE INSANE.


The change that has taken place of late years in the treatment of insane
patients, presents one of the finest features in the civilization of the
age; but the boon of wholesome labor is, perhaps, the greatest benefit
that has yet been conferred upon this class of sufferers. The fact is
strikingly illustrated in the annual report for the last year of the
Royal Edinburgh Asylum. The number of patients treated was 738, and at
the close of the year there remained as inmates 476. Of this latter
number, upward of 380 were employed daily, and sometimes as many as 100
working in the open air in the extensive grounds of the asylum. "Among
these," says Dr. Skae, "may be daily seen many of the most violent and
destructive of the inmates busily engaged in wheeling earth, manure, or
stones, who for years have done little else than destroy their clothing,
or spend their days and nights in restless agitation, or incoherent
raving. The strong necessity which appears to exist, in many cases, for
continual movement, or incessant noise, seems to find vent as naturally
in active manual labor, if it can with any propriety be substituted and
regulated." And a curious illustration of this is given in the case of
"one of the most violent, restless, and unmanageable inmates of the
asylum during the past year," whose calling was that of a miner. He was
"tall and muscular, and occupied himself, if permitted to mix with
others, in pursuing his fellow-patients, and fighting with them; if left
alone in the airing courts, in running round and knocking his elbows
violently on the stone walls; and if secluded, in continual
vociferations and incessant knocking on the wall. I directed him to be
sent to the grounds, and employed with the wheelbarrow--a special
attendant being intrusted with him on his _debut_. Hard work seemed to
be all he required. He spent his superfluous energies in wheeling
stones; he soon proved himself to be one of the most useful and
able-bodied of the awkward squad, and ere long was restored to his
natural condition--that of a weak-minded but industrious coal-miner."

Oakum-picking proves a useful occupation not only for imbeciles capable
of no higher industry, but for malingerers and idlers, who are soon
anxious to escape from it into the shoemaker's, tailor's, blacksmith's,
or carpenter's shops. "In the same manner the females have been
gradually broken into habits of industry to a degree hitherto
unprecedented. Those who have done nothing for many years but mutter to
themselves, or crouch in corners, now sew or knit from morning till
night. Knitting, sewing, straw-bonnet making, and other occupations, are
carried on throughout the house to such an extent that, I fear, in a
very short time, unless some outlet is obtained for exportations, we
shall be at a loss to know what to do." In addition to the usual
handicraft employments, which are all practiced in the establishment, it
is interesting to observe that some patients occupy themselves in
engraving, drawing, and land-surveying. A considerable portion of one of
the houses has been elegantly painted, and in part refurnished, by the
patients.--_Chambers._




MONTHLY RECORD OF CURRENT EVENTS.


Congress adjourned on the 30th of September, in accordance with the
resolution noticed in the last number of the Magazine. Very little
business of general interest was transacted in addition to that of which
a record has already been made. The appropriation bills were passed, and
in one of them was inserted a prohibition of flogging in the navy and
aboard merchant vessels of the United States, which received the
sanction of both houses and became a law. A provision was also inserted,
granting land bounties to soldiers in the war of 1812, and in any of the
previous wars of the United States. The passage of the bill involving,
directly or indirectly, the slavery issue, of which we have already
given a full account, restored a greater degree of harmony and of
calmness to both branches of Congress than had hitherto prevailed, and
the same influence has had an important effect, though to a less extent,
upon the country at large.

The political incidents of the month have not been without interest. A
State Convention, representing the Whigs of New York, assembled at
Syracuse, on the 27th of September, for the nomination of State
officers. Hon. Francis Granger was chosen President, and a committee was
appointed to report resolutions expressing the sentiments of the
Convention,--Hon. William Duer, member of Congress from the Oswego
district, being Chairman. The resolutions were at once reported. They
expressed confidence in the national administration, approved the
measures recently adopted by Congress connected with slavery, and
declared the respect of the Convention for the motives which had
animated the Whig Senator from New York, and the majority of the New
York Congressional delegation in the course they had taken upon them. By
a vote of the majority, the Convention proceeded to the nomination of
State officers--the minority refusing to participate in the current
business until the resolutions should have been acted on. Hon.
Washington Hunt was nominated for Governor, George J. Cornell, of New
York City, for Lieutenant Governor, Ebenezer Blakely, for Canal
Commissioner, Abner Baker, for State Prison Inspector, and Wessel S.
Smith, for Clerk of the Court of Appeals. After the nominations had been
made, the resolutions were taken up. A substitute for part of them was
offered by Hon. George W. Cornwell of Cayuga County, expressing
confidence in the ability, patriotism, and statesmanship of President
Fillmore, and approving of the course pursued by Mr. Seward in the
Senate of the United States. The latter resolution passed by a vote of
76 to 40; and the minority immediately withdrew from the Convention, the
President, Mr. Granger, leaving the chair, and organized anew elsewhere.
One of the Vice Presidents took the chair thus vacated, and the
Convention, after completing its business, and appointing a State Whig
Central Committee, adjourned. The seceders appointed a committee to
issue an address, and adjourned. The Address soon after appeared, and
after reciting the history of the Syracuse Convention, aiming to show
that its approval of the course of Senator Seward deprived its doings of
all binding force, concluded by calling a convention of delegates,
representing those Whigs who disapproved of the action at Syracuse, to
be held at Utica, on the 17th of October. Delegates were accordingly
elected in nearly all the counties of the state, and the Convention met
on the day appointed. Hon. Francis Granger was elected President.
Resolutions, setting forth the position and principles of those
represented, were passed, and the candidates nominated at Syracuse were
adopted. The Convention appointed another State Central Committee, and
then adjourned. It will be observed that the only point in which the two
conventions came into collision, so far as future political movements
are concerned, is in the appointment of those two committees. Each will,
undoubtedly, endeavor to exercise the ordinary functions of such
committees, in calling state conventions, &c., and thus will arise a
direct conflict of claims which may lead to a permanent division of the
party.----Hon. WASHINGTON HUNT has written a letter in reply to
inquiries from Mr. GRANGER, in which he declines to express any opinion
as to the differences which arose at Syracuse. So far as that difference
relates to the merits of individuals, he considers it unworthy the
attention of a great party, each individual of which must be left
entirely at liberty to entertain his own opinion and preferences. He
considers the Whigs of the North pledged to oppose the extension of
slavery into free territory, and refers to their previous declarations
upon the subject, to show that the South must not ask or expect them to
abandon that position. He says that the terms on which the Texas
boundary dispute was settled, were not altogether satisfactory to him,
but he nevertheless cheerfully acquiesces in them since they have become
the law of the land. He expresses dissatisfaction with the provisions of
the Fugitive Slave bill, thinking it far more likely to increase
agitation than allay it, and says that it will require essential
modifications. He very earnestly urges union and harmony in the councils
of the Whig party.----The Anti-Renters held a convention at Albany, and
made up a ticket for state offices, selected from the nominations of
the two political parties. Hon. Washington Hunt was adopted as
their candidate for Governor, and Ebenezer Blakely for Canal
Commissioner--both being the Whig nominees for the same offices: the
others were taken from the Democratic ticket.----Considerable excitement
prevails in some of the Southern States in consequence of the admission
of California at the late session of Congress. Governor Quitman of
Mississippi has called an extra session of the Legislature, to commence
on the 23d of November, to consider what measures of resistance and
redress are proper. In South Carolina a similar sentiment prevails,
though the Governor has decided, for prudential reasons, not to convene
the Legislature in extra session. In Georgia a state convention,
provided for in certain contingencies at the late session of the
Legislature, is soon to meet, and a very active popular canvass is going
on for the election of delegates--the character of the measures to be
adopted forming the dividing line. Some are for open resistance and
practical secession from the Union, while others oppose such a course as
unwarranted by any thing experienced thus far, and as certain to entail
ruin upon the Southern States. Hon. C.J. JENKINS, who declined a seat in
the Cabinet, tendered to him by President FILLMORE, has taken very high
ground against the disunionists, saying that no action hostile to the
South has been had by Congress, but that all her demands have been
conceded. In every Southern State a party exists warmly in favor of
preserving the Union, and in most of them it will probably be
successful.----The Legislature of Vermont commenced its annual session
on the 13th ult. Hon. SOLOMON FOOTE has been elected U.S. Senator to
succeed Hon. S.S. PHELPS whose term expires in March next.----GEORGE N.
BRIGGS has been nominated by the Whigs for re-election as Governor of
Massachusetts.----The _Arctic_, the third of the American line of mail
steamers, between New York and Liverpool, is completed, and will very
soon take her place; the _Baltic_ will soon be ready.----The assessed
value of real and personal property in the City of New York, according
to a late report of the Board of Supervisors, is set at 286 millions;
the tax on which is $339,697. This property is all taxed to about 6,000
persons. The increase for the year is thirty millions, nearly 10 per
cent. The value of the real and personal estate of the State of New
York, according to the last report of the Comptroller, was $536,161,901.
The State tax of 1849 amounted to $278,843.10; of which $130,000, or
nearly one half, was paid by the city.----Some years since a colony of
Swedes settled in the northwestern part of Illinois, in Henry county,
near the Mississippi. They are represented as an industrious and
thriving people, supporting themselves chiefly by the manufacture of
table-cloths, napkins, sheets, and other linens. Last year they suffered
much from the cholera; but their numbers will soon be increased by a
new colony of about 300 members who are now on their way from Sweden,
and are expected soon to arrive with a considerable amount of capital,
the fruits of the sale of their own property, and the property of their
brethren already here.----A good deal of excitement prevails in some of
the Northern States in regard to the execution of the new law for the
recovery of fugitive slaves. The first instance in which it was carried
into effect occurred in New York city, where a fugitive named James
Hamlet, who had lived in Williamsburgh for some two years with his
family, was apprehended, taken to Baltimore, and restored to his owner.
The process was so summary that no resistance was offered or excitement
created: but after the whole was over a great deal of feeling was
elicited, and money enough was speedily raised by subscription to
purchase the slave, who was returned to his family amidst great public
demonstrations of rejoicing among the <DW52> population. In Detroit an
attempt to arrest a fugitive excited a popular resistance to suppress
which it was found necessary to call out troops of the United States;
the <DW64> was seized, but purchased by voluntary subscriptions. Large
public meetings have been held in various cities and towns, to protest
against the law, and to devise measures for defeating its operation. One
of the largest was held at Boston on the 4th ult., at which Hon. Josiah
Quincy presided. The tone of the address and resolutions was less
inflammatory than in many other places, as obedience to the law while it
stands upon the statute book was enjoined; but its spirit was warmly
reprobated, and the necessity of agitating for its immediate repeal was
strongly urged. Fugitives from service at the South are very numerous in
portions of the Northern States. Many of them, since the passage of the
law, have taken refuge in Canada, while others depend on the sympathy of
the community in which they live for immunity from the operation of the
law. The law undoubtedly requires modification in some of its details,
but the main object it is designed to secure is so clearly within the
provisions of the Federal Constitution that its enforcement is
universally felt to be a public duty.----JENNY LIND, whose arrival and
public reception in New York were mentioned in our last number, has been
giving concerts in that city, Boston, Providence, and Philadelphia. In
each place there has been a strong competition in the purchase of the
first ticket for the first concert. In New York it was sold for $250; in
Boston for $625; in Providence $650; and in Philadelphia $625. The
evident object of the purchaser in each case was notoriety. Her concerts
have been densely crowded, and the public excitement in regard to her
continues unabated.----Intelligence has been received from Rome, that
the Pope, at the request of the late council assembled in Baltimore, has
erected the See of New York into an Arch-episcopal See, with the Sees of
Boston, Hartford, Albany, and Buffalo, as Suffragan Sees. The Right
Rev. Bishop HUGHES is, of course, elevated to the dignity of Archbishop.
The brief of the Pope is signed by Cardinal Lambruschini, and is dated
on the 19th of July last.----Public sentiment in Texas seems to be
decidedly in favor of accepting the terms offered in the Boundary Bill.
No official action has yet been had upon the subject, but it is believed
that the Legislature will either accept the proposition at once or
submit it to a popular vote. Mr. KAUFMAN, one of the Members of Congress
from that State, has addressed a circular to his constituents, refuting
many of the objections that have been urged against the bill. The area
of Texas, with the boundary now established, is 237,321 miles, which is
more than five times that of New-York.----An interesting official
correspondence between our Government and that of Central America, has
recently been published, mainly relating to the subject of canals and
railroads across the Isthmus. Mr. CLAYTON'S plan appears to have been to
encourage, by every constitutional means, every railroad company, as
well as every canal company, that sought to shorten the transit between
the American States on both oceans. For this purpose he endeavored to
extend the protection of this Government to the railroads at Panama and
Tehuantepec. It was not his purpose to exclude other nations from the
right of passage, but to admit them all on the same terms; that is,
provided they would all agree equally to protect the routes--a principle
adopted originally by President JACKSON, in pursuance of a resolution of
the Senate, of which Mr. CLAYTON was the author, while a member of that
body, on the 3d of March, 1835. The principles of this resolution were
fully sustained by General JACKSON, who sent Mr. BIDDLE to Central
America and New Grenada for the purpose, and were afterward fully
adopted by President POLK, as appears by his message transmitting to the
Senate the treaty for the Panama railroad. General TAYLOR followed in
the same train with his predecessors, as appears by his message of
December last, thus fully sustaining the views of the Senate resolution
of the 3d of March, 1835, the principles of which may now be considered
as illustrating the policy of the American Government on this
subject.----In accordance with the provisions of the treaty recently
concluded with the United States, the British Government has withdrawn
all its demands for port and other dues from the harbor of San Juan de
Nicaragua, and the navigation of that noble river and the lakes
connected with it are fully open to American enterprise.----A shock of
an earthquake was felt at Cleveland, Ohio, on the 1st of October. The
shock lasted about two seconds, and was so violent as to produce a
jarring and rattling of windows and furniture, and was accompanied by a
rumbling sound, like distant thunder, which lasted three or four
seconds. On the same night a very brilliant meteor was observed in the
Eastern States, and a very remarkable aurora at sea.----The General
Convention of the Episcopal Church has been in session at Cincinnati.
The House of Bishops, to which the subject had been referred by the
Diocese of New York, has decided against the restoration of Bishop
Onderdonk, by a vote of two to one, and the General Convention has
provided for the election of an Assistant Bishop in such
cases.----Conventions in Virginia and Indiana are in session for the
revision of the Constitutions of those States.----The U.S. Consul at
Valparaiso has written a letter concerning the establishment of a line
of monthly steamers between that port and Panama. Since the discovery of
the gold mines in California, he says, the travel and trade upon that
coast has increased fivefold. For the last ten years there has been in
successful operation a line of English steamers plying between Panama,
in New Grenada, and Valparaiso, in Chili, with a grant from the British
Government of _one hundred thousand dollars per annum_, for the purpose
of carrying the English mail; which, together with the immense amount of
travel, in the last four years, renders it a most lucrative monopoly.
The charter, originally granted to the company for ten years, has lately
expired, and the liberal Republics of Chili, Peru, Ecuador, and Bolivia
have peremptorily refused to renew the monopoly, and have generously
opened their ports to the competition of American steamers. Between
Valparaiso and Panama there are twenty-one different ports at which
these steamers stop, in performing their monthly trips to and fro, for
freight and passengers, leaving Panama on the 27th and Valparaiso on the
30th of each month. The voyage is punctually performed in twenty-four
days. The feasibility of establishing an American line of steamers upon
that coast is strongly urged. The wealth of the silver mines of Copiapo
is so great that every English steamer at Panama transmits hundreds of
thousands of dollars' worth to England in solid bars.

       *       *       *       *       *

From CALIFORNIA we have intelligence to the 15th of September. The
disturbances at Sacramento City, growing out of resistance to the land
claims, have entirely subsided, the squatters having been dispersed.
Three or four persons were killed upon each side in the riots of which
we have already given an account. A gentleman had arrived in California
deputed by Mr. LETCHER, U.S. Minister in Mexico, to attend to the
settlement of land titles. He had expressed the belief that most of the
grants made by the Governors before the acquisition of California by the
United States will be confirmed by our Government, on the evidence Mr.
Letcher is prepared to furnish from the official records in the city of
Mexico, as to the invariable practice of the Mexican Government in this
particular. His assurances upon the subject had given general
satisfaction.----Early in September there was a complete panic in the
money market at San Francisco, and several of the most prominent houses
had failed. Confidence, however, had been fully restored at the date of
our latest advices. The losses by the three great fires which had
visited the city were supposed to have occasioned the monetary
difficulties.----Fears were entertained that the overland emigrants
would suffer greatly during the present season. It was believed that ten
thousand were on the way who had not crossed the Great Desert, one half
of whom would be destitute of subsistence and teams on reaching Carson
River. They had been deceived into taking a longer and more difficult
route, and had lost most of their animals, and not unfrequently men,
women, and children had sunk under the hardships of the road, and
perished of hunger or thirst.----Indian difficulties still continued in
different parts of California, the troops and citizens were making some
progress in breaking up the bands which caused them the most
difficulty.----The accounts from the mines continue to be highly
encouraging. It is unnecessary to give in detail the reports from the
various localities; they were all yielding abundant returns. It was
believed that much larger quantities of gold will be taken from the
mines this season than ever before.----From the 1st of August to Sept.
13th, there arrived at San Francisco by sea 5940 persons, and 4672 had
left.----The tax upon foreign miners does not succeed as a revenue
measure.----The expedition which sailed in July last to the Klamath and
Umpqua rivers, has returned to San Francisco. It has been ascertained
that the Klamath and Trinity unite, and form the river which discharges
its waters into the sea, in latitude 41 deg. 34' north, and that there is no
river answering to the description of the Klamath, in 42 deg. 26', as laid
down in the charts of Fremont and Wilkes. From this river, the
expedition visited the Umpqua, which they found to have an opening into
the sea, of nearly one mile in width, with some three or four fathoms of
water on the bar, and navigable about thirty miles up, when it opens
into a rich agricultural district.

       *       *       *       *       *

From OREGON our advices are to Sept. 2. There is no news of general
interest. The country seems to be steadily prosperous. New towns are
springing up at every accessible point, and a commercial interest being
awakened that is highly commendable. The frequency of communication by
steam between California and Oregon strongly identifies their interests.

       *       *       *       *       *

From ENGLAND there is no intelligence of much interest. The reception of
Baron Haynau by the brewers of London has engaged the attention, and
excited the discussion of all the organs of opinion in Europe. Most of
the English journals condemn in the most earnest language the conduct of
the mob, as disgraceful to the country, while only a few of them express
any special sympathy with the victim of it. The London _Times_ is more
zealous in his defense than any other paper. It not only denounces the
treatment he received at the hands of the English populace, but
endeavors to vindicate him from the crimes laid to his charge, and
assails the Hungarian officers and soldiers in turn with great
bitterness. In its anxiety to apologize for Haynau, it asserts that
English officers, and among them the Duke of Wellington and General Sir
Lacy Evans, committed acts during their campaigns quite as severe as
those with which he is charged. This line of defense, however, avails
but little with the English people. The public sentiment is unanimous in
branding Haynau as one of the most ruthless monsters of modern times,
and the verdict is abundantly sustained by the incidents and deeds of
his late campaigns. After his expulsion from England he returned to
Austria, being received with execrations and indignities at several
cities on his route.----Further advices have been received from the
Arctic Expedition sent in search of Sir John Franklin, but they contain
no satisfactory intelligence. A report, derived from an Esquimaux Indian
whom Sir John Ross met near the northern extremity of Baffin's Bay,
states that in the winter of 1846 two ships were broken by the ice a
good way off from that place, and destroyed by the natives, and that the
officers and crews, being without ammunition, were killed by the
Indians. The story is very loosely stated, and is generally discredited
in England. The vessel, Prince Albert, attached to the Expedition, has
arrived at Aberdeen, and announced the discovery, at Cape Reilley and
Beechy Island, at the entrance of the Wellington Channel, of traces of
five places where tents had been fixed, of great quantities of beef,
pork, and birds' bones, and of a piece of rope with the Woolwich mark
upon it. These were considered, with slight grounds, however, undoubted
traces of Sir John Franklin's expedition. The exploring vessels were
pushing boldly up Wellington Channel.----The preparations for the great
Industrial Exhibition of 1851, are going on rapidly and satisfactorily.
In nearly every country of Europe, extensive arrangements are in
progress for taking part in it, while in London the erection of the
necessary buildings is steadily going forward.----A curious and
interesting correspondence with respect to the cultivation of cotton in
Liberia has taken place between President Roberts, of Liberia, Lord
Palmerston, the Board of Trade, and the Chamber of Commerce at
Manchester, tending to show that cotton may be made a most important
article of cultivation in the African republic.----Lord Clarendon has
been making the tour of Ireland, and has been received in a very
friendly manner by the people of every part of the island. He took every
opportunity of encouraging the people to rely upon their own industry
and character for prosperity, and pledged the cordial co-operation of
the country in all measures that seemed likely to afford them
substantial aid or relief.----The statutes constituting the Queen's
University in Ireland have received the sanction of the Queen, and gone
into effect.----A Captain Mogg has been tried and fined for endangering
lives by setting the wheels of his steamboat in operation while a number
of skiffs and other light boats were in his immediate vicinity.----The
ship Indian, a fine East Indiaman, was wrecked on the 4th of April, near
the Mauritius. She struck upon a reef and almost immediately went to
pieces. The utmost consternation prevailed among the officers and crew.
The captain seized and lowered the boat, and with eight seamen left the
ship: they were never heard of again. Those who remained succeeded in
constructing a rude raft, on which they lived fourteen days, suffering
greatly from hunger and thirst, and were finally rescued by a passing
ship.----Two steamers, the Superb and Polka, were lost, the former on
the 16th, and the latter on the 24th, between the island of Jersey and
St. Malo. No lives were lost by the Superb, but ten persons perished in
the wreck of the Polka.----The Queen has been visiting Scotland.----Some
of the Irish papers have been telling astounding stories of apparitions
of the _Great Sea Serpent_. A Mr. T. Buckley, writing from Kinsale on
the 11th instant, informs the Cork Reporter that he was induced by some
friends to go to sea, in the hope of falling in with the interesting
stranger, and that he was not long kept in suspense, for "a little to
the west of the Old Head the monster appeared." Its size, he truly
avers, is beyond all description, and the head, he adds, very like a
(bottle-nose) whale. One of the party fired the usual number of shots,
but, of course, without effect.

       *       *       *       *       *

Of LITERARY INTELLIGENCE there is but little in any quarter. A good deal
of interest has been excited by a discreditable attack made by the Whig
Review upon the distinguished author Mr. G.P.R. JAMES. The Review
discovered in an old number of the Dublin University Magazine some
verses written by Mr. JAMES for a friend who without his knowledge sent
them for publication. They were upon the clamor that was then afloat
about war between England and the United States: Mr. James, alluding to
the threats from America against England, had said that "bankrupt states
were blustering high;" and had also spoken of Slavery in the United
States as a "living lie," which British hands in the event of a war,
would wipe out and let their bondmen free. The Review denounces Mr.
James, in very coarse and abusive terms for the poem, and seeks to
excite against him the hostility of the American people. The matter was
commented upon in several of the journals, and Mr. James wrote a manly
letter to his legal adviser Mr. M.B. FIELD, which is published in the
_Courier and Enquirer_, in which he avows himself the author of the
verses in question, explains the circumstances under which they were
written, and urges the injustice of making them the ground of censure or
complaint. His letter has been received with favor by the press
generally, which condemns the unjust and unwarrantable assault of the
Review upon the character of this distinguished author. It is stated
that Mr. James intends to become an American citizen, and that he has
already taken the preliminary legal steps.----The principal publishers
are engaged in preparing gift-books for the coming holidays. The
APPLETONS have issued a very elegant and attractive work, entitled "Our
Saviour with Prophets and Apostles," containing eighteen highly finished
steel engravings, with descriptions by leading American divines. It is
edited by Rev. Dr. WAINWRIGHT and forms one of the most splendid volumes
ever issued in this country. They have also issued a very interesting
volume of Tales by Miss MARIA J. McINTOSH, entitled "Evenings at
Donaldson Manor," which will be popular beyond the circle for which it
is immediately designed.----Other works have been issued of which
notices will more appropriately be found in another department of this
Magazine.----The English market for the month is entirely destitute of
literary novelties.----A series of interesting experiments has been
undertaken by order of Government, for the purpose of testing the value
of iron as a material for the construction of war-steamers. When the
vessels are comparatively slight, it is found that a shot going through
the side exposed, makes a clean hole of its own size, which might be
readily stopped; but on the opposite side of the vessel the effect is
terrific, tearing off large sheets; and even when the shot goes through,
the rough edges being on the outside, it is almost impossible to stop
the hole. If the vessels are more substantially constructed the
principal injury takes place on the side exposed; and this is so great
that two or three shot, or even a single one, striking below water line,
would endanger the ship. As the result of the whole series of
experiments, the opinion is expressed that iron, whether used alone or
in combination with wood, can not be beneficially used for the
construction of vessels of war.----The wires of the submarine telegraph
having been found too weak to withstand the force of the waves, it has
been determined to incase the wires in a ten-inch cable, composed of
what is called "whipped plait," with wire rope, all of it chemically
prepared so as to protect it from rot, and bituminized. A wire thus
prepared is calculated to last for twenty years.----In the allotment of
space in the Industrial Exhibition, 85,000 square feet have been
assigned to the United States; 60,000 to India; 47,050 to the remaining
British colonies and possessions; 5000 to China. Hamburg asked for
28,800, and France for 100,000 feet. Commissions have been formed in
Austria, Spain, and Turkey.----A correspondent of the Chronicle says
that the great beauty of the leaves of some American trees and plants
renders them an appropriate article of ornament, and suggests that
specimens preserved be sent to the Exhibition; and that a large demand
for them would ensue.----An edition of the Works of JOHN OWEN, to be
comprised in sixteen volumes, under the editorial charge of Rev.
William H. Goold, has been commenced. The doctrinal works will occupy
five volumes, the practical treatises four, and the polemical seven. The
first volume contains a life of Owen, by Rev. Andrew Thomson of
Edinburgh. This edition is edited with remarkable fidelity and care, and
will prove a valuable accession to theological literature.----Washington
Irving has received from Mr. Murray L9767 for copyrights and L2500 from
Mr. Bentley, who has paid nearly L16,000 to Cooper, Prescott, and Herman
Melville.----The Principal Theological Faculties in Germany are those of
Berlin and Halle. The subjoined list will show that almost all the
Professors have attained a wide reputation in the department of sacred
letters. At Berlin the Professors are: NITZSCH, Theology, Dogmatic, and
Practical; HENGSTENBERG and VATKE, Exegesis of the Old and New
Testaments, and Introduction; TWESTEN, Exegesis of the New Testament,
Dogmatic Theology; F. STRAUSS, Homiletics; JACOBI, Ecclesiastical
History; UBBMANN, Oriental Languages. The Professors at Halle are:
JULIUS MULLER, Theology, Dogmatic, and Practical; THOLUCK, Exegesis and
Moral Philosophy; HUPFELD, Hebrew and Oriental Languages; GUERICKE,
Ecclesiastical History, Introduction; HERZOG, MAYER, and THILO,
Ecclesiastical History.----A new apparatus for the production of heat
has been invented by Mr. D.O. Edwards. It is named the "atmopyre," or
solid gas fire. A small cylinder of pipe clay, varying in length from
two to four inches, perforated with holes the fiftieth of an inch in
diameter, in imitation of Davy's safety lamp, is employed. The cylinder
has a circular hole at one end, which fits upon a "fish-tail" burner;
gas is introduced into the interior of the cylinder, with the air of
which it becomes mixed, forming a kind of artificial fire-damp. This
mixture is ignited on the outside of the vessel, and burns entirely on
the exterior of the earthenware, which is enveloped in a coat of pale
blue flame. The clay cylinder which Mr. Edwards calls a "hood," soon
becomes red hot, and presents the appearance of a solid red flame. All
the heat of combustion is thus accumulated on the clay, and is thence
radiated. One of these cylinders is heated to dull redness in a minute
or two; but an aggregate of these "hoods" placed in a circle or cluster,
and inclosed in an argillaceous case, are heated to an orange color, and
the case itself becomes bright red. By surrounding this "solid gas fire"
with a series of cases, one within another, Mr. Edwards has obtained a
great intensity of heat, and succeeded in melting gold, silver, copper,
and even iron. Mr. Palmer, the engineer of the Western Gas-light
Company, by burning two feet of gas in an atmopyre of twelve "hoods,"
raised the temperature of a room measuring 8551 cubic feet, five degrees
of Fahrenheit in seventeen minutes. The heat generated by burning gas in
this way is 100 per cent. greater than that engendered by the ordinary
gas flame when tested by the evaporation of water. 25 feet of gas burnt
in an atmopyre per hour, produces steam sufficient for one-horse power.
Hence the applicability of the invention to baths, brewing, &c.----At
the late meeting of the British Association, Major Rawlinson, after
enumerating many interesting particulars of the progress of Assyrian
discoveries, stated that Mr. Layard, in excavating part of the palace at
Nineveh had found a large room filled with what appeared to be the
archives of the empire, ranged in successive tables of terra cotta, the
writings being as perfect as when the tablets were first stamped. They
were piled in huge heaps, from the floor to the ceiling, and he had
already filled five large cases for dispatch to England, but had only
cleared out one corner of the apartment. From the progress already made
in reading the inscriptions, he believed we should be able pretty well
to understand the contents of these tables--at all events, we should
ascertain their general purport, and thus gain much valuable
information. A passage might be remembered in the Book of Ezra, where
the Jews having been disturbed in building the Temple, prayed that
search might be made in the house of records for the edict of Cyrus
permitting them to return to Jerusalem. The chamber recently found might
be presumed to be the House of Records of the Assyrian Kings, where
copies of the Royal edicts were duly deposited. When these tablets had
been examined and deciphered, he believed that we should have a better
acquaintance with the history, the religion, the philosophy, and the
jurisprudence of Assyria 1500 years before the Christian era, than we
had of Greece or Rome during any period of their respective
histories.----M. Guillen y Calomarde has just discovered a new
telescopic star between the polar star and Cynosure, near to the rise of
the tail of the Little Bear--a star at least that certainly did not
exist in October last. According to the observations of M. Calomarde,
the new star should have an increasing brilliancy, and it is likely that
in less than a month this star, which now is visible only through a
telescope, may be seen with the naked eye.----The Senate of the
University of Padua is at present preparing for publication two curious
works, of which the manuscripts are in the library of that
establishment. One is a translation in Hebrew verse of the "Divina
Commedia," of Dante, by Samuel Rieti, Grand Rabbi of Padua, in the 16th
century. The second is a translation of Ovid's "Metamorphoses," likewise
in Hebrew, in stanzas of 18 verses of a very complicated metre, from the
pen of the Rabbi.----ELIOT WARBURTON is engaged in collecting materials
for a History of the Poor, which is to appear in the spring.

The captain and second mate of the steamer Orion, which was wrecked in
June, have been sentenced, the former to eighteen months' imprisonment,
the latter to ten years' transportation, for gross and culpable
negligence of duty.----Lieutenant Gale, somewhat celebrated as an
aeronaut, lost his life while making an ascent on horseback at
Bordeaux. He had descended in safety, and the horse was removed; the
diminution of the weight caused the balloon to ascend rapidly, with the
aeronaut, who was somewhat intoxicated, clinging to it. He of course
soon fell, and, a day or two after, his body was found, with the limbs
all broken, and mutilated by dogs.----Mr. Mongredien, a London
corn-factor, has published a pamphlet, in which he endeavors to estimate
the probable amount of home-grown food upon which Ireland can calculate
the coming year. As the result of extensive inquiries, he is of the
opinion that the potato crop will suffice as food for the masses only
until January; and that the wheat-crop amounts to but three-fourths of
last year's amount.----The Postmaster General has directed that all
letters addressed to the United States, shall be forwarded by the first
mail packet that sails, whether British or American, unless specially
directed otherwise.----Viscount Fielding, who occupied the chair at the
great Church Meeting in Free-Mason's Hall, on the 23d of July, has
abandoned the English Church for that of Rome.----A number of the
Catholic bishops of Ireland were appointed by government as official
visitors of the New College, to which they were known to be bitterly
opposed. The appointments have been scornfully rejected by the
bishops.----The Britannia Bridge, one of the greatest triumphs of modern
engineering, was completed on the 13th of September, by the lowering of
the last of the tubes to its permanent resting-place. Some curious
acoustic effects have been observed in connection with this work. Pistol
shots, or any sonorous noises, are echoed within the tube half a dozen
times. The cells at the top and bottom, are used by the engineers as
speaking tubes, and they can carry on conversation through them in
whispers; by elevating the voice persons may converse through the length
of the bridge--nearly a quarter of a mile. The total cost of the entire
structure has been L601,865. The total weight of each of the wrought
iron roadways now completed, represents 12,000 tons, supported on a
total mass of masonry of a million and a half cubic feet, erected at the
rate of three feet in a minute.----Mount Blanc was ascended on the 29th
of September, to its top-most peak, by two gentlemen from Ireland, Mr.
Gratton, late of the army, and Mr. Richards, with a party of the brave
mountaineers of Chamouni. The enterprise was considered so dangerous,
that the guides left their watches and little valuables behind, and the
two gentlemen made their wills, and prepared for the worst. The ascent
is always accompanied with great peril, as steps have to be cut up the
sloping banks of the ice; one of the largest glaciers has to be passed,
where one false step entails certain death, as the unfortunate falls
into a crevice of almost unknown depth, from which no human hand could
extricate him. A night has to be passed on the cold rock amidst the
thunders of the avalanche, and spots have to be passed where, it is
said, no word can be spoken lest thousands of tons of snow should be set
in motion, and thus hurl the party into eternity, as was the case some
years back when a similar attempt was made. This latter impression,
however, as to the effect of the voice upon masses of snow, is
unquestionably absurd. An avalanche may have occurred simultaneously
with a conversation; but that the latter caused the former is
incredible.----The Turkish government has manifested its intention to
set Kossuth and his companions at liberty in September, the end of the
year stipulated in the Convention. Austria, however, remonstrates,
contending that the year did not commence till the moment of
incarceration. The prisoners are to be sent in a government vessel
either to England or America, and are to be furnished with 500 piastres
each, to meet their immediate wants on landing.----The two American
vessels, Advance and Rescue, sent in search of Sir John Franklin, had
been seen by an English whale-ship west of Devil's Thumb, in Greenland,
having advanced 500 miles since last heard from.----The new Cunard
Steamer Africa, of the same dimensions with the Asia, is nearly ready to
take her place in the line, and the Company are about to commence
another ship of still larger size and power.----Disastrous inundations
have destroyed all the crops in the province of Brescia, in Lombardy.
Subscriptions were opened in Milan, the aggregate amount of which (about
50,000 francs) was sent to the relief of the unfortunate
inhabitants.----There are in the prisons at Naples at present no less
than 40,000 political prisoners; and the opinion is that, from the
crowded state of the jails, the greater number will go mad, become
idiots, or die.----Lines of electric telegraph are extending rapidly
over Central Europe. Within four months, 1000 miles have been opened in
Austria, making 2000 in that empire, of which 500 are under ground.
Another 1000 miles will be ready next year. The telegraph now works from
Cracow to Trieste, 700 miles.----On the 1st of October, the new
telegraph union between Austria, Prussia, Saxony, and Bavaria, was to
come into operation, under a uniform tariff, which is one-half of the
former charges.----The Hungarian musicians accustomed to perform their
national airs in the streets of Vienna, have been ordered to quit the
city. It is said they will go through Europe, in order to excite popular
sympathy in behalf of their unfortunate country, by means of their
music, the great characteristic of which is a strange mixture of wild
passion and deep melancholy.----After eight years' labor, the gigantic
statue of the King of Bavaria has been finished, and is now placed on
the hill of Saint Theresa, near Munich. The bronze of the statue cost
92,600 florins, or L11,800.----The will of Sir Robert Peel prohibits his
executors investing any of his real or personal property on securities
in Ireland.----From a late parliamentary return, it appears there are
thirty-two iron steamers in Her Majesty's Navy.----Recent letters from
the East speak of very valuable and expensive sulphur mines just
discovered upon the borders of the Red Sea, in Upper Egypt. The products
of these mines are said to be so abundant, that a material fall in the
prices of Sicilian sulphur must inevitably soon take place. The working
of the newly-discovered mine and its productiveness are greatly
facilitated by its proximity to the sea. The Egyptian Government, which
at first leased the mines to a private company, is now about to resume
possession and work them on its own account.

       *       *       *       *       *

From FRANCE the only intelligence of interest relates to political
movements, concerning which, moreover, there is nothing but partisan and
unreliable rumors. The President, in his various letters, addresses,
&c., insists uniformly on the necessity of maintaining the existing
order of things, and speaks confidently of an appeal to the people.
Contradictory rumors prevail as to his intentions--some believing that
he meditates a _coup-d'etat_, but most regarding his movements as aimed
to secure the popular vote. The Assembly is to meet on the 11th of
November, and his opponents intend then to force him to some
ultra-constitutional act which will afford them ground for an appeal. A
series of military reviews has engaged public attention; they have been
closely watched for incidents indicative of the President's purposes: it
is remarked that those who salute him as Emperor are always rewarded for
it by some preference over others.----The Councils-general of France
have closed their annual session. The chief topic of their deliberations
has been the revision of the Constitution, and the result is of interest
as indicating the state of public opinion upon that subject. It seems
that twenty-one councils separated without taking the subject into
consideration; ten rejected propositions for revision; two declared that
the constitution ought to be respected; thirty-three departments,
therefore, refused, more or less formally, to aid the revision. On the
other hand, forty-nine councils came to decisions which the revisionist
party claim for themselves. But a very great diversity is to be
perceived in these decisions. Thirty-two pronounced in favor of revision
only "so far as it should take place under legal conditions," or "so far
as legality should be observed;" two of those called attention to the
forty-fifth article of the constitution, which makes Louis Napoleon
incapable of being immediately rechosen; but another demanded that his
powers should be prolonged. One council voted for revision, and also
desired to prolong the President's power; ten simply voted for revision;
five pronounced for immediate revision, but by very small majorities;
one went further, and proposed to give the present Assembly--which is
legislative and not constituent--authority to effect the revision. Three
councils express merely a desire for a remedy to the present situation.
Thirty-three departments have not pronounced for the revision, or have
pronounced against it; thirty-three are in favor of a legal revision;
thirteen demand the revision without explaining on what conditions they
desire to see it effected; and six demand it immediately; making the
total of eighty-five.

       *       *       *       *       *

From GERMANY the most important intelligence relates to the Electorate
of Hesse Cassel, a state containing less than a million of inhabitants,
and having a revenue of less than two and a half millions of dollars. By
the Constitution the Chamber has the exclusive right of voting taxes.
The Elector, acting probably under the advice of Austria, resolved to
get rid of the Constitution; and as the first step toward it, he
appointed as his minister Hassenpflug, a man wholly without character,
and who had been convicted of forgery in another State, and with him was
associated Haynau, brother of the infamous Austrian General. Months past
away without the Chamber being summoned, but at the time when the
session usually closed, the Parliament was called together, and an
immediate demand made for money and for powers to raise the taxes,
without specific votes of the Chamber. The Parliament replied by an
unanimous vote, that however little the ministers possessed the
confidence of Parliament, they would not go the length of refusing the
supplies, but requested to have a regular budget laid before them, which
they promised to examine, discuss, and vote. To so fair and
constitutional a resolution the minister replied by dissolving the
Parliament, and proceeding to levy the taxes in spite of the Parliament
and the Constitution. The cabinet went to the extremity of proclaiming
the whole Electorate in a state of siege, and investing the
commander-in-chief with dictatorial powers against the press, personal
liberty, and property. The town council unanimously protested against
these arbitrary acts; and such a spirit of resistance was excited that
the Elector and his minister were constrained to seek safety in flight.
The Elector left Cassel on the morning of the 13th, and arrived the same
evening at Hanover, where he was afterward joined by Hassenpflug. Some
of the accounts state that M. Hassenpflug was agitated by terror in his
flight. On the 16th, the Elector and his ministers were at Frankfort.
The government of the Electorate had been assumed by the Permanent
Committee of the Assembly.----In Mecklenberg-Schwerin a similar
revolution seems likely to take place. In October, 1849, a new
Constitution was formed by the deputies of this Duchy, which received
the assent of the Duke. This Constitution was quite democratic in
character. The Duke now feeling himself strong enough coolly pronounces
the Constitution invalid, absolves his subjects from all allegiance to
it, and restores the old Constitution, which was formed in 1755. It is
supposed that the Diet will adopt the Hesse Cassel system of stopping
the supplies, and so starving out their sovereign.




LITERARY NOTICES.


A new work by Rev. WILLIAM R. WILLIAMS, the eminent Baptist clergyman in
New York, has just been issued by Gould, Kendall, and Lincoln, entitled
_Religious Progress_, consisting of a series of Lectures on the
development of the Christian character, founded on the beautiful
gradation of religious excellencies described by St. Peter in his second
Epistle. The subjects, which succeed each other in the order of the
text, are, Religion a Principle of Growth, Faith its Root, Virtue,
Knowledge, Temperance, Patience, Godliness, Brotherly Kindness, Charity.
No one who has read any of the former productions of the author can fall
into the error of supposing that these topics are treated according to
any prescribed, stereotyped routine of the pulpit, or that they labor
under the dullness and formality which are often deemed inseparable from
moral disquisitions. On the contrary, this volume may be regarded as a
profound, stringent, and lively commentary on the aspects of the present
age, showing a remarkable keenness of observation, and a massive
strength of expression. The author, although one of the most studious
and erudite men of the day, is by no means a mere isolated scholar. His
vision is not confined by the walls of his library. Watching the
progress of affairs, from the quiet "loop-holes of his retreat," he
subjects the pictured phantasmagoria before him to a rigorous and
searching criticism. He is not apt to be deluded by the dazzling shows
of things. With a firm and healthy wisdom, acquired by vigilant
experience, he delights to separate the genuine from the plausible, the
true gold from the sounding brass, and to bring the most fair-seeming
pretenses before the tribunal of universal principles. The religious
tone of this volume is lofty and severe. Its sternness occasionally
reminds us of the sombre, passionate, half despairing melancholy of John
Foster. The modern latitudinarian finds in it little either of sympathy
or tolerance. It clothes in a secular costume the vast religious ideas
which have been sanctioned by ages, but makes no attempt to mellow their
austerity, or reduce their solemn grandeur to the level of superficial
thought and worldly aspirations. The train of remark pursued in any one
of these Lectures can never be inferred from its title. The suggestive
mind of the writer is kindled by the theme, and luxuriates in a singular
wealth of analogies, which lead him, it is true, from the beaten track,
but only to open upon us an unexpected prospect, crowned with original
and enchanting beauties. His power of apt and forcible illustration is
almost without a parallel among recent writers. The mute page springs
into life beneath the magic of his radiant imagination. But this is
never at the expense of solidity of thought or strength of argument. It
is seldom indeed that a mind of so much poetical invention yields such a
willing homage to the logical element. He employs his brilliant fancies
for the elucidation and ornament of truth, but never for its discovery.
On this account, he inspires a feeling of trust in the sanity of his
genius, although its conclusions may not be implicitly adopted. Still,
with the deep respect with which we regard the intellectual position of
Dr. Williams, we do not think his writings are destined to obtain a wide
popularity. Their condensation of thought, the elaborate and often
antique structure of their sentences, the profoundly meditative cast of
sentiment with which they are pervaded, and even their Oriental
profusion of imagery, to say nothing of the adamantine rigor of their
religious views, are not suited to the great mass of modern readers,
whose tastes have been formed on models less distinguished for their
austerity than for their airiness and grace.

Gould, Kendall, and Lincoln, Boston, have recently issued neat reprints
of _The Poetry of Science_, by ROBERT HUNT, a popular English work,
exhibiting the great facts of science, in their most attractive aspects,
and as leading the mind to the contemplation of the Universe; _The
Footprints of the Creator_, by HUGH MILLER, with a memoir of the author,
by Professor AGASSIZ, who characterizes his geological productions as
possessing "a freshness of conception, a power of argumentation, a depth
of thought, a purity of feeling, rarely met with in works of that
character, which are well calculated to call forth sympathy, and to
increase the popularity of a science which has already done so much to
expand our views of the plan of Creation;" and a third edition of _The
Pre-Adamite Earth_, by JOHN HARRIS, whose valuable contributions to
theological science have won for him a high reputation both in England
and our own country.

Harper and Brothers have published Nos. 7 and 8 of LOSSING'S _Pictorial
Field Book of the American Revolution_. The character of this popular
serial may be perceived from the extracts at the commencement of the
present number of our Magazine. With each successive issue, Mr.
Lossing's picturesque narrative gains fresh interest; he throws a charm
over the most familiar details by his quiet enthusiasm and winning
naivete; and under the direction of such an intelligent and genial guide
it is delightful to wander over the battle-fields of American history,
and dwell on the exploits of the heroes by whose valor our national
Independence was achieved. Among the embellishments in these numbers, we
observe a striking likeness of the venerable Timothy Pickering, of
Massachusetts, portraits of Gen. Stark, Joel Barlow, Gen. Wooster, and
William Livingston, and exquisite sketches of Baron Steuben's
Headquarters, View near Toby's Eddy, The Susquehanna at Monocasy Island,
The Livingston Mansion, The Bennington Battle-Ground, and other
beautiful and interesting scenes in the history of the Revolution.

_Household Surgery; or Hints on Emergencies_, by JOHN F. SOUTH (H.C.
Baird, Philadelphia), is a reprint of a popular and amusing work by an
eminent London surgeon, designed for non-professional readers, and
pointing out the course to be pursued in case of an accident, when no
surgical aid is at hand. The author puts in a caveat against
misapprehending the purpose of his book, which he wishes should be
judged solely on its merits. No one is to expect in it a whole body of
surgery, nor to obtain materials for setting up as an amateur surgeon,
to practice on every unfortunate individual who may fall within his
grasp; but directions are given which may be of good service on a pinch,
when the case is urgent, and no doctor is to be had. In the opinion of
the author, whoever doctors himself when he can be doctored, is in much
the same case with the man who conducted his own cause, and had a fool
for his client. With this explanation, Dr. South's volume may be
consulted to great advantage; and although no one would recommend a
treatise on bruises and broken bones for light reading, it must be
confessed, that many popular fictions are less fertile in entertainment.

An exquisite edition of _Gray's Poetical Works_ has been issued by H.C.
Baird, with an original memoir and notes, by the American Editor, Prof.
HENRY REED, of Philadelphia. It was the intention of the Editor to make
this the most complete collection of Gray's Poems which has yet
appeared, and he seems to have met with admirable success in the
accomplishment of his plan. The illustrations of Radclyffe, engraved in
a superior style of art, by A.W. Graham, form the embellishments of this
edition. We have rarely, if ever, seen them surpassed in the most costly
American gift-books. The volume is appropriately dedicated to JAMES T.
FIELDS, the poet-publisher of Boston.

The second volume of the _Memoirs of Dr. Chalmers_, by his son-in-law,
WILLIAM HANNA, is issued by Harper and Brothers, comprising a most
interesting account of his labors during his residence at Glasgow, and
bringing his biography down to the forty-third year of his age. The
whole career of this robust and sinewy divine is full of instruction,
but no part of it more abounds with important events than the period
devoted to efforts in bringing the destitute classes of Glasgow under
the influence of Christian ministrations. Whether in the pulpit, in the
discharge of his parochial duties, in the construction of his noble
schemes for social melioration, or in the bosom of his family, Dr.
Chalmers always appears the same whole-hearted, frank, generous,
energetic man, commanding our admiration by the splendor of his
intellect, and winning our esteem by the loveliness of his character.
Some interesting reminiscences of the powerful but erratic preacher,
Edward Irving, who was at one time the assistant of Dr. Chalmers in the
Tron Church, are presented in this volume.

_History of Propellers and Steam Navigation_, by ROBERT MACFARLANE
(G.P. Putnam), is the title of a useful work, describing most of the
propelling methods that have been invented, which may prevent ingenious
men from wasting their time, talents, and money on visionary projects.
It also gives a history of the attempts of the early inventors in this
department of practical mechanics, including copious notices of Fitch,
Rumsey, Fulton, Symington, and Bell. A separate chapter, devoted to
Marine Navigation, presents a good deal of information on the subject
rarely met with in this country.

_The Country Year-Book; or, The Field, The Forest, and The Fireside_
(Harper and Brothers), is the title of a new rural volume by the bluff,
burly, egotistic, but good-natured and humane Quaker, WILLIAM HOWITT,
filled with charming descriptions of English country life, redolent of
the perfume of bean-fields and hedge-rows, overflowing with the affluent
treasures of the four seasons, rich in quaint, expressive sketches of
old-fashioned manners, and pervaded by a generous zeal in the cause of
popular improvement. A more genial and agreeable companion for an autumn
afternoon or a winter's evening could scarcely be selected in the shape
of a book.

_Success in Life. The Mechanic_, by Mrs. L.C. TUTHILL, published by G.P.
Putnam, is a little volume belonging to a series, intended to illustrate
the importance of sound principles and virtuous conduct to the
attainment of worldly prosperity. Without believing in the necessary
connection between good character and success in business, we may say,
that the examples brought forward by Mrs. Tuthill are of a striking
nature, and adapted to produce a deep and wholesome impression. In the
present work, she avails herself of incidents in the history of John
Fitch, Dr. Franklin, Robert Fulton, and Eli Whitney, showing the
obstacles which they were compelled to encounter, and the energy with
which they struggled with difficulties. She writes in a lively and
pleasing manner; her productions are distinguished for their elevated
moral tone; and they can scarcely fail to become favorites with the
public.

_Alton Locke, Tailor and Poet; An Autobiography_, is the quaint title of
a political and religious novel, understood to be written by a clergyman
of the Church of England, which is said to have fallen like a bomb-shell
on the old-fashioned schools of political economy in that country. It
purports to be the history of a youth of genius, doomed to struggle with
the most abject poverty, and forced by the necessity of his position to
become a Chartist and a Radical. Brought up in the sternest school of
ultra-Calvinism, he passes by natural transitions from a state of
hopeless and desperate infidelity, to a milder and more cheerful
religious faith, and having taken an active part in schemes for the
melioration of society by political action, he learns by experience the
necessity of spiritual influences for the emancipation of the people.
The tone of the narrative is vehement, austere, and often indignant;
never vindictive; and softened at intervals by a genuine gush of poetic
sentiment. With great skill in depicting the social evils which are
preying on the aged heart of England, the author is vague and
fragmentary in his statement of remedies, and leads us to doubt whether
he has discovered the true "Balm of Gilead" for the healing of nations.
The book abounds with weighty suggestions, urgent appeals, vivid
pictures of popular wretchedness, deep sympathy with suffering, and a
pure devotion to the finer and nobler instincts of humanity. With all
its outpouring of fiery radicalisms, it is intended to exert a
reconciling influence, to bring the different classes of society into a
nearer acquaintanceship, and to oppose the progress of licentious and
destructive tendencies, by enforcing the principles of thorough reform.
Such a work can not but be read with general interest. Its strong
humanitary spirit will recommend it to a large class of readers, while
its acknowledged merits as a work of fiction will attract the literary
amateur.--Published by Harper and Brothers.

_The Builder's Companion_, and _The Cabinetmaker and Upholsterer's
Companion_, are two recent volumes of the _Practical Series_, published
by H.C. Baird, Philadelphia, reprinted from English works of standard
excellence. They present a mass of valuable scientific information, with
succinct descriptions of various mechanical processes, and are well
suited to promote an intelligent interest in industrial pursuits.

_Lessons from the History of Medical Delusions_ (Baker and Scribner), is
a Prize Essay by Dr. WORTHINGTON HOOKER, whose former work on a similar
subject has given him considerable reputation as a writer in the
department of medical literature. He is a devoted adherent to the old
system of practice, and spares no pains to expose what he deems the
quackeries of modern times. His volume is less positive than critical,
and contains but a small amount of practical instruction. There are many
of his suggestions, however, which can not be perused without exciting
profound reflection.

RUSCHENBERGER'S _Lexicon of Terms used in Natural History_, a valuable
manual for the common use of the student, is published by Lippincott,
Grambo, and Co., Philadelphia.

Another volume of LAMARTINE'S _Confidences_, translated from the French,
under the title of _Additional Memoirs of My Youth_, is published by
Harper and Brothers, and can not fail to excite the same interest which
has been called forth by the previous autobiographical disclosures of
the author. It is written in the rich, glowing, poetical style in which
LAMARTINE delights to clothe his early recollections, and with a naive
frankness of communication equal to that of Rousseau, is pervaded with a
tone of tender, elevated, and religious sentiment. The description of a
troop of family friends gives a lively tableau of the old school of
French gentlemen, and furnishes the occasion for the picturesque
delineation of manners, in which LAMARTINE commands such an admirable
pen. The Confessions would not be complete without one or two love
episodes, which are accordingly presented in a sufficiently romantic
environment.

Harper and Brothers have published a cheap edition of _Genevieve_,
translated from the French of LAMARTINE, by A.R. SCOBLE. This novel,
intended to illustrate the condition of humble life in France, and to
furnish popular, moral reading for the masses, is written with more
simplicity than we usually find in the productions of Lamartine, and
contains many scenes of deep, pathetic interest. The incidents are not
without a considerable tincture of French exaggeration, and are hardly
suited, one would suppose, to exert a strong or salutary influence in
the sphere of common, prosaic, unromantic duties. As a specimen of the
kind of reading which LAMARTINE deems adapted to the moral improvement
of his countrymen, _Genevieve_ is a literary curiosity.

Little and Brown, Boston, have published a handsome edition of Prof.
ROSE's _Chemical Tables for the Calculation of Quantitative Analyses_,
recalculated and improved, by the American Editor, W.P. DEXTER.

Harper and Brothers have issued _The History of Pendennis_, No. 7,
which, to say the least, is of equal interest with any of the preceding
numbers, showing the same felicitous skill in portraying the every-day
aspects of our common life, which has given Thackeray such a brilliant
eminence as a painter of manners. The unconscious case with which he
hits off a trait of weakness or eccentricity, his truthfulness to
nature, his rare common sense, and his subdued, but most effective
satire, make him one of the most readable English writers now before the
public.

STOCKHARDT'S _Principles of Chemistry_, translated from the German, by
C.H. PEIRCE, is published by John Bartlett, Cambridge. This work is
accompanied with a high recommendation from Prof. Horsford of Harvard
University, which, with its excellent reputation as a textbook in
Germany, will cause it to be sought for with eagerness by students of
chemistry in our own country.

_Petticoat Government_, by Mrs. TROLLOPE, is the one hundred and
forty-eighth number of Harper's _Library of Select Novels_, and in spite
of the ill odor attached to the name of the authoress, will be found to
exhibit a very considerable degree of talent, great insight into the
more vulgar elements of English society, a vein of bitter and caustic
satire, and a truly feminine minuteness in the delineation of character.
The story is interspersed with dashes of broad humor, and with its
piquant, rapid, and not overscrupulous style, will reward the enterprise
of perusal.

George P. Putnam has published _A Series of Etchings_, by J.W. EHNINGER,
illustrative of Hood's "Bridge of Sighs." The plates, which are eight in
number, are executed with a good deal of spirit and taste, representing
the principal scenes suggested to the imagination by Hood's exquisitely
pathetic poem.

A.S. Barnes and Co. have published _The Elements of Natural Philosophy_,
by W.H.C. BARTLETT, being the first of three volumes intended to present
a complete system of the science in all its divisions. The present
volume is devoted to the subject of Mechanics.

G.P. Putnam has issued a new and improved edition of Prof. CHURCH's
_Elements of the Differential and Integral Calculus_.

_Lonz Powers, or the Regulators_, by JAMES WEIR, Esq. (Philadelphia,
Lippincott, Grambo, and Co.), is a genuine American romance, written in
defiance of all literary precedents, and a vigorous expression of the
individuality of the author, as acted on by the wild, exuberant frontier
life in the infancy of Western Society. The scenes and characters which
are evidently drawn from nature, are portrayed with a bold, dramatic
freedom, giving a perpetual vitality and freshness to the narrative, and
sustaining the interest of the reader through a succession of
adventures, which in the hands of a less skillful chronicler, would have
become repulsive by their extravagance and terrible intensity. In
addition to the regular progress of the story, the author leads us
through a labyrinth of episodes, most of them savoring of the jovial
forest life, in which he is so perfectly at home, though dashed with
occasional touches of deep pathos. The reflections and criticisms, in
which he often indulges to excess, though considerately printed in a
different type to show that they may be skipped without damage, are too
characteristic to be neglected, and on the whole, we are glad that he
had enough verdant frankness to present them to his readers just as they
sprung up in his mercurial brain. We imagine that the fame of Milton
will survive his attacks, in spite of the mean opinion which he
cherishes of the Paradise Lost. With all its exaggerations and
eccentricities, Lonz Powers has many of the elements of a superior
novel--glowing imagination, truthfulness of description, lively humor,
spicy satire, and an acute perception of the fleeting lights and shades
of character. If it had ten times its present faults, it would be
redeemed from a severe judgment, by its magnetic sympathies, and the
fascinating naturalness with which it pours forth its flushed and joyous
consciousness of life.

_The History of Xerxes_, by JACOB ABBOTT (Harper and Brothers), is
intended for juvenile reading and study, but its freshness and
simplicity of manner give it a charm for all ages, making it a
delightful refreshment to those who wish to recall the remembrance of
youthful studies.

_Universal Dictionary of Weights and Measures_, by J.H. ALEXANDER,
published by Wm. Minifie and Co., Baltimore, is a work of remarkable
labor and research, presenting a comparative view of the weights and
measures of all countries, ancient and modern, reduced to the standards
of the United States of America. It is executed in a manner highly
creditable to the learning and accuracy of the author, and will be found
to possess great practical utility for the man of business as well as
the historical student.

_America Discovered_ (New York, J.F. Trow), is the title of an anonymous
poem in twelve books, founded on a supposed convention of the heavenly
hierarchs among the mountains of Chili in the year 1450, to deliberate
on the best mode of making known the American continent to Europeans.
Two of their number are elected delegates to present the subject before
the Court of Heaven. In the course of their journey, after meeting with
various adventures, they fall in with two different worlds, one of which
has retained its pristine innocence, while the other has yielded to
temptation, and become subject to sin. Their embassy is crowned with
success, and one of them is deputed to break the matter to Columbus,
whose subsequent history is related at length, from his first longings
to discover a new world till the final consummation of his enterprise.
The poet, it will be seen, soars into the highest supernal spheres, but,
in our opinion, displays more ambition than discretion. He does not
often come down safe from his lofty flights to solid ground.

_Christianity Revived in the East_, by H.G.O. DWIGHT (Baker and
Scribner), is a modest narrative of missionary operations among the
Armenians of Turkey, in which the author was personally engaged for a
series of several years. The volume describes many interesting features
of Oriental life, and presents a vivid picture of the toils and
sacrifices by which a new impulse was given to the progress of
Christianity in the East. The suggestions of the author with regard to
the prosecution of the missionary enterprise are characterized by
earnestness and good sense, but they are sometimes protracted to so
great an extent as to become tedious to the general reader.

_Grahame; or, Youth and Manhood_ (Baker and Scribner), is the title of a
new romance by the author of _Talbot and Vernon_, displaying a natural
facility for picturesque writing in numerous isolated passages, but
destitute of the sustained vigor and inventive skill which would place
it in the highest rank of fictitious composition. The scene, which is
frequently shifted, without sufficient regard to the locomotive
faculties of the reader, betrays occasional inaccuracies and
anachronisms, showing the hand of a writer who has not gained a perfect
mastery of his materials. Like the previous work of the same author, the
novel is intended to support a certain didactic principle, but for the
accomplishment of this purpose, recourse is had to an awkward and
improbable plot, many of the details of which are, in a high degree,
unnatural, and often grossly revolting. The pure intentions of the
writer redeem his work from the charge of immorality, but do not set
aside the objections, in an artistic point of view, which arise from the
primary incidents on which the story is founded. Still, we are bound to
confess, that the novel, as a whole, indicates a freshness and fervor of
feeling, a ready perception of the multifarious aspects of character
and society, a lively appreciation of natural beauty, and a racy vigor
of expression, which produce a strong conviction of the ability of the
author, and awaken the hope that the more mature offerings of his genius
may be contributions of sterling value to our native literature.

_George Castriot, surnamed Scandeberg, King of Albania_, by CLEMENT C.
MOORE (D. Appleton and Co.), is an agreeable piece of biography, which
owes its interest no less to the simplicity and excellent taste of the
narrative, than to the romantic adventures of its subject. Castriot was
a hero of the fifteenth century, who gained a wide renown for his
exploits in the warfare of the Christians against the Turks, as well as
for the noble and attractive qualities of his private character. Dr.
Moore has made free use of one of the early chronicles, in the
construction of his narrative, and exhibits rare skill in clothing the
events in a modern costume, while he retains certain quaint and
expressive touches of the antique.

George P. Putnam has issued the second volume of _The Leather Stocking
Tales_, by J. FENIMORE COOPER, in the author's revised edition,
containing _The Last of the Mohicans_, to which characteristic and
powerful work Mr. Cooper is so largely indebted for his world-wide
reputation. He will lose nothing by the reprint of these masterly Tales,
as they will introduce him to a new circle of younger readers, while the
enthusiasm of his old admirers can not fail to be increased with every
fresh perusal of the experiences of the inimitable Leather Stocking.

C.M. Saxton has published a neat edition of Professor JOHNSTON'S
_Lectures on the Relations of Science and Agriculture_, which produced a
very favorable impression when delivered before the New York State
Agricultural Society, and the Members of the Legislature, in the month
of January last. Among the subjects discussed in this volume, are the
relations of physical geography, of geology, and mineralogy, of botany,
vegetable physiology, and zoology to practical agriculture; the
connection of chemistry with the practical improvement of the soil, and
with the principles of vegetable and animal growth; and the influence of
scientific knowledge on the general elevation of the agricultural
classes. These lectures present a lucid exposition of the latest
discoveries in agricultural chemistry, and it is stated by competent
judges, that their practical adaptation to the business of the farmer
will gain the confidence of every cultivator of the soil by whom they
are perused.

An elaborate work from the pen of a native Jew, entitled _A Descriptive
Geography of Palestine_, by RABBI JOSEPH SCHWARTZ, has been translated
from the Hebrew by ISAAC LEESER, and published by A. Hart, Philadelphia.
The author, who resided for sixteen years in the Holy Land, claims to
have possessed peculiar advantages for the preparation of a work on this
subject, in his knowledge of the languages necessary for successful
discovery, and in the results of personal observations continued for
several years with uncommon zeal and assiduity. The volume is handsomely
embellished with maps and pictorial illustrations, the latter from the
hand of a Jewish artist, and appears, in all respects, to be well
adapted to the race, for whose use it is especially intended.

_The Life of Commodore Talbot_, by HENRY T. TUCKERMAN (New York, J.C.
Riker), was originally intended for the series of American Biography,
edited by President Sparks, but on the suspension of that work, was
prepared for publication in a separate volume. Commodore Talbot was born
in Bristol county, Massachusetts, and at an early age commenced a
seafaring life in the coasting trade, between Rhode Island and the
Southern States. Soon after the breaking out of the Revolution--having
been present at the siege of Boston as a volunteer--he offered his
services to General Washington, and was at once employed in the
discharge of arduous and responsible duties. At a subsequent period,
after having distinguished himself by various exploits of almost
reckless valor, he received a commission as Captain in the Navy of the
United States. His death took place in 1813, in the city of New York,
and his remains were interred under Trinity Church. Mr. Tuckerman has
gathered up, with commendable industry, the facts in his career, which
had almost faded from the memory, and rescued from oblivion the name of
a brave commander and devoted patriot. The biography abounds with
interesting incidents, which, as presented in the flowing and graceful
narrative of the author, richly reward perusal, as well as present the
character of the subject in a very attractive light. Several pleasing
episodes are introduced in the course of the volume, which relieve it
from all tendency to dryness and monotony.

_The Quarterlies for October._--The first on our table is _The American
Biblical Repository_, edited by J.M. SHERWOOD (New York), commencing
with an article on "The Hebrew Theocracy," by Rev. E.C. Wines, which
presents, in a condensed form, the views which have been brought before
the public by that gentleman in his popular lectures on Jewish Polity.
"The Position of the Christian Scholar" is discussed in a sound and
substantial essay, by Rev. Albert Barnes. Dyer's "Life of Calvin"
receives a summary condemnation at the hands of a sturdy advocate of the
Five Points. Professor Tayler Lewis contributes a learned dissertation
on the "Names for Soul" among the Hebrews, as an argument for the
immortality of the soul. Other articles are on Lucian's "de Morte
Peregrini," "The Relations of the Church to the Young," "The Harmony of
Science and Revelation," and "Secular and Christian Civilization." The
number closes with several "Literary and Critical Notices," written, for
the most part, with ability and fairness, though occasionally betraying
the influence of strong theological predilections.

_The North American Review_ sustains the character for learned
disquisition, superficial elegance, and freedom from progressive and
liberal ideas, which have formed its principal distinction under the
administration of its present editor. This venerable periodical, now in
its thirty-eighth year, has been, in some sense, identified with the
history of American literature, although it can by no means be regarded
as an exponent of its present aspect and tendencies. It belongs
essentially to a past age, and shows no sympathy with the earnest,
aspiring, and aggressive traits of the American character. Indeed its
spirit is more in accordance with the timid and selfish conservatism of
Europe, than with the free, bold, and hopeful temperament of our
Republic. The subjects to which the present number is mainly devoted, as
well as the manner in which they are treated, indicate the peculiar
tastes of the Review, and give a fair specimen of its recent average
character. The principal articles are on "Mahomet and his Successors,"
"The Navigation of the Ancients," "Slavic Language and Literature,"
"Cumming's Hunter's Life," "The Homeric Question," all of which are
chiefly made up from the works under review, presenting admirable models
of tasteful compilation and abridgment, but singularly destitute of
originality, freshness, and point. An article on "Everett's Orations"
pays an appreciative tribute to the literary and rhetorical merits of
that eminent scholar. "The Works of John Adams" receive an appropriate
notice. "Furness's History of Jesus" is reviewed in a feeble and shallow
style, unworthy the magnitude of the heresy attacked, and the number
closes with a clever summary of "Laing's Observations on Europe," and
one or two "Critical Notices."

The _Methodist Quarterly Review_ opens with a second paper on "Morell's
Philosophy of Religion," in which the positions of that writer are
submitted to a severe logical examination. The conclusions of the
reviewer may be learned from the passage which closes the article. "We
believe Mr. Morell to be a sincere and earnest man, one who reverences
Christianity, and really desires its advancement, but we also believe
that for this very reason his influence may be the more pernicious; for
in attempting to make a compromise with the enemies of truth, he has
compromised truth itself; and in abandoning what he deemed mere
antiquated outposts to the foe, he has surrendered the very citadel."
The next article is a profound and learned statement of the "Latest
Results of Ethnology," translated from the German of Dr. G.L. KRIEGK.
This is followed by a discussion of the character of John Calvin, as a
scholar, a theologian, and a reformer. The writer commends the manifest
impartiality of Dyer's "Life of Calvin," although he believes that it
will not be popular with the "blind admirers of the Genevan Reformer,
and that the Roman Catholics, as in duty bound, will prefer the
caricature of Monsieur Audin." "The Church and China," "Bishop
Warburton," and "California," are the subjects of able articles, and
the number closes with a variety of short reviews, miscellanies, and
intelligence. The last named department is not so rich in the present
number, as we usually find it, owing probably to the absence of Prof.
M'Clintock in Europe, whose cultivated taste, comprehensive learning,
and literary vigilance admirably qualify him to give a record of
intellectual progress in every civilized country, such as we look for in
vain in any contemporary periodical.

_The Christian Review_ is a model of religious periodical literature,
not exclusively devoted to theological subjects, but discussing the
leading questions of the day, political, social, and literary, in
addition to those belonging to its peculiar sphere, from a Christian
point of view, and almost uniformly with great learning, vigor,
profoundness, and urbanity, and always with good taste and exemplary
candor. The present number has a large proportion of articles of
universal interest, among which we may refer to those on "Socialism in
the United States," and "The Territories on the Pacific," as presenting
a succinct view of the subjects treated of, and valuable no less for the
important information they present, than for the clearness and strength
with which the positions of the writers are sustained. The first of
these articles is from the pen of Rev. Samuel Osgood, minister of the
Church of the Messiah, in this city, and the other is by Prof. W.
Gammel, of Brown University. "The Confessions of Saint Augustine," "The
Apostolical Constitutions," "Philosophical Theology," and a critical
examination of the passage in Joshua describing the miracle of the sun
standing still, are more especially attractive to the theological
reader, while a brilliant and original essay on "Spirit and Form," by
Rev. Mr. Turnbull, can not fail to draw the attention of the lovers of
aesthetic disquisition. The brief sketches of President Taylor and of
Neander are written with judgment and ability, and the "Notices of New
Publications" give a well-digested survey of the current literature of
the last three months. The diligence and zeal exhibited in this
department, both by the Christian Review and the Methodist Quarterly
present a favorable contrast to the disgraceful poverty of the North
American in a branch which was admirably sustained under the editorship
of President Sparks and Dr. Palfrey.

_Brownson's Quarterly_ is characterized by the extravagance of
statement, the rash and sweeping criticisms, and the ecclesiastical
exclusiveness for which it has obtained an unenviable preeminence. Its
principal articles are on "Gioberti," "The Confessional," "Dana's Poems
and Prose Writings," and the "Cuban Expedition." Some inferences may be
drawn as to the Editor's taste in poetry from his remarks on Tennyson,
in whom he "can discover no other merit than harmonious verse and a
little namby-pamby sentiment." He strikes the discriminating reviewer as
"a man of feeble intellect," and "a poet for puny transcendentalists,
beardless boys, and miss in her teens."




Fashions for November.


[Illustration: FIG. 1.--PROMENADE AND CARRIAGE COSTUMES.]

As the cold weather approaches, different shades of brown, dust color,
green, and other grave hues, predominate, diversified with pink, blue,
lilac, and purple. The beautiful season of the Indian Summer, which
prevails with us in November, allows the use of out-of-door costume, of
a character similar to that of September, the temperature being too high
to require cloaks or pelises. Bonnets composed of Leghorn and fancy
straws, are appropriate for the season. They are trimmed with _noeuds_
of pink, straw color, and white silk, which are used to decorate
Florence straws. These are ornamented, in the interior, with _mancini_,
or bunches of harebells, heaths, and jacinths, intermixed with rose-buds
and light foliage. There are plain and simple _pailles de riz_, having
no other ornament than a kind of _noeud_ of white silk, placed at the
side, and the interior of the front lined with pink or white _tulle_,
and clusters of jacinths, tuberoses, and rose-buds, forming a most
charming _melange_. Fancy straws, called _paille de Lausanne_, are very
fashionable abroad, resembling embroideries of straw, and trimmed with a
bouquet of the wild red poppies, half blown, while those which are
placed next the face are of a softer hue, with strings of straw 
silk ribbon.

FIG. 1 represents a graceful afternoon promenade costume, and a carriage
costume. The figure on the left shows the promenade costume. The dress
is made quite plain, with low body and long sleeves, with cuffs of plain
fulled muslin; chemisette of lace, reaching to the throat, and finished
with a narrow row encircling the neck. _Pardessus_ of silk or satin,
trimmed in an elegant manner, with lace of the same color, three rows of
which encircle the lower part, and two rows the half long sleeves. These
rows are of broader lace than the rows placed on either side of the
front of the _pardessus_. Drawn white crape bonnet, decorated with small
straw  flowers, both in the interior and on the exterior.

The figure on the right shows the carriage costume. It is a dress of
pale pink _poult de soie_; the corsage, high on the shoulders, opens a
little in the front. It has a small cape, falling deep at the back, and
narrowing toward the point, pinked at the edge; the waist and point
long; the sleeves reach but a very little below the elbow, and are
finished with broad lace ruffles. The skirt has three deep scalloped
flounces, a beautiful spray of leaves being embroidered in each scallop.
Manteau of India muslin, trimmed with a broad frill, the embroidering of
which corresponds with the flowers of the dress. The bonnet of _paille
de riz_; trimmed inside and out with bunches of roses; the form very
open. There are others of the same delicate description, lined with pink
_tulle_, and decorated with tips of small feathers, shaded pink and
white, or terminated with tips of pink _marabout_.

[Illustration: FIG. 2.--MORNING COSTUME.]

FIG. 2 represents a morning costume. Dress high, with a small ruffle
and silk cravat. The material is plain _mousseline de soie_, white, with
a small frill protruding from the slightly open front. The body is full,
and the skirt has a broad figured green stripe. Sleeves full and
demi-long, with broad lace ruffles. The skirt is very full, and has
three deep flounces.

[Illustration: FIG. 3.--OPERA COSTUME.]

FIG. 3 is a plain, and very neat costume for the opera. The body,
composed of blue or green silk, satin, or velvet, fits closely. The
sleeves are also tight to the elbows, when they enlarge and are turned
over, exhibiting a rich lining of pink or orange, with scalloped edges.
The corsage is open in front, and turned over, with a collar, made of
material like that of the sleeves, and also scalloped. Chemisette of
lace, finished at the throat with a fulled band and _petite_ ruffle.
Figures 2 and 3 show patterns of the extremely simple CAPS now in
fashion; simple, both in their form and the manner in which they are
trimmed. Those for young ladies partake mostly of the lappet form,
simply decorated with a pretty _noeud_ of ribbon, from which droop
graceful streamers of the same, or confined on each side the head with
half-wreaths of the wild rose, or some other very light flower. Those
intended for ladies of a more advanced age are of a _petit_ round form,
and composed of a perfect cloud of _gaze_, or _tulle_, intermixed with
flowers.

TRAVELING DRESSES are principally composed of _foulard coutit_, or of
flowered jaconets, with the _cassaquette_ of the same material. Plain
cachmires are also much used, because they are not liable to crease.
They are generally accompanied by _pardessus_ of the same material. When
the dress is of a sombre hue, the trimmings are of a different color, so
as to enliven and enrich them. The skirts are made quite plain, but very
long and of a moderate breadth; the bodies high and plain, and
embroidered up the fronts.




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.

Captions added to captionless illustrations.

Obvious printer's errors have been repaired, other inconsistent
spellings have been kept, including:
- use of hyphen (e.g. "birth-day" and "birthday");
- any other inconsistent spellings (e.g. "panel" and "pannel").

Following proper names have been corrected:
- Pg 728, "Fanueil" corrected to be "Faneuil" (Faneuil Hall).
- Pg 773, "Hazledeans" corrected to be "Hazeldeans" (The Hazeldeans in
chorus) and "Higgingbotham's" corrected to be "Higginbotham's" (Captain
Higginbotham's lead).
- Pg 800, "Agatha mother's" corrected to be "Agatha's mother" (found
Agatha's mother alone).
- Pg 846, "tartantula" corrected to be "tarantula" (bite of a
tarantula).
- Pg 860, "Lowz" corrected to be "Lonz" (Lonz Powers).
- Pg 860, "Minifee" corrected to be "Minifie" (Wm. Minifie and Co.).

Following corrections are by removal or addition of a word:
- Pg 723, word "by" removed (surrounded by [by] tall trees).
- Pg 781, word "in" added (and in spite of).
- Pg 801, word "I" added (that I was not sorry).
- Pg 855, word "are" removed (there are [are] thirty-two).





End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Harper's New Monthly Magazine, No. VI,
November 1850, Vol. I, by Various

*** 