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THE INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE

Of Literature, Art, and Science.

Vol. II.

NEW-YORK, MARCH 1, 1851.

No. IV.

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




AUSTEN HENRY LAYARD, LL. D.

[Illustration]


In an early number of the _International_ we had the satisfaction of
printing an original and very interesting letter from Dr. Layard, in
which, with more fulness and explicitness than in his great work on
Nineveh, he discusses the subject of Ancient Art. We have carefully
noted from time to time his proceedings in the East, and our readers
will remember that we recently gave engravings of the most remarkable of
the antiquities he sent home last year to the British Museum. Since that
time he has proceeded to Bagdad, and he is now pursuing in that
vicinity, with his wonted sagacity and earnestness, researches for the
remains of Babylon, which in turn will furnish material for another
extensive publication from his pen.

The first public announcement of the discoveries at Nimroud was made in
the _Knickerbocker Magazine_ of this city, in a letter from our
countryman, Minor K. Kellogg, the painter, who was a long time the
intimate friend and travelling companion of Layard in Asia Minor.
Introducing the letters in which the antiquary disclosed the successful
result of his investigations, Mr. Kellogg says:

     "I can scarcely call to mind a person so admirably qualified in
     all respects for prosecuting such laborious researches. He is
     young, of a hardy and enduring constitution, is acquainted with
     the Oriental languages, and speaks the Persian and Turkish
     fluently. He is enthusiastic and indefatigable in every thing
     he undertakes, and plentifully endowed with courage, prudence,
     and good-nature."

This was more than two years before Layard himself, in his "Nineveh and
its Remains," exhibited those triumphs of his intelligence and devotion
which have secured for him a place among the most famous travellers and
antiquaries in the world.

We take the occasion of copying the above portrait from the last number
of _Bentley's Miscellany_ to present, from various authentic sources, a
brief sketch of Dr. Layard's history. He is descended from the noble
French Protestant family of Raymond de Layarde, who accompanied the
Prince of Orange into England. He was born at Paris, during a temporary
visit of his parents to that metropolis, on the 5th of March, 1817. His
father, who was the son of the Rev. Dr. Henry Peter John Layard, Dean of
Bristol, filled a high civil office in Ceylon, between the years 1820
and 1830, and took great interest in the circulation of the Scriptures
among heathen nations. He was a man of considerable classical learning,
and of refined tastes. During the youth of his son, he lived at
Florence, where our young antiquary had free access to the stores of the
Pitti Palace, and of the Tribune. He thus became familiar from his
infancy with the language of Tuscany, and formed his taste for the fine
arts and literature upon the models of painting and sculpture amid which
he lived, and in the rich libraries which he frequented. In this manner
he added a thorough knowledge of modern languages to a competent
acquaintance with those of Greece and Rome. Here, also, he acquired,
almost involuntarily, a power over his pencil, which, long dormant, was
called forth by the sight of slabs with the noblest sculptures and the
finest inscriptions, crumbling into dust. No draughtsman had been
provided for his assistance, and had he not instantly determined to
arrest by the quickness of his eye, and the skill thus acquired,
improved subsequently by Mr. Kellogg's companionship, those fleeting
forms which were about to disappear for ever, many of the finest remains
of ancient art would have been irrecoverably lost.

On his return from Italy to England, he was urged to choose the
profession of the law; but his thirst for knowledge, his love of
adventure, and his foreign tastes and habits, led him, after a brief
apprenticeship, to travel. He left England, with no very definite
object, in the summer of 1839, and, accompanied by a friend, visited
Russia and other northern countries, and afterward, living some time in
Germany and the states on the Danube, made himself master of the German
language, and of several of the dialects of Transylvania. From Dalmatia
he passed into Montenegro, where he remained a considerable time,
assisting an able and active young chief in ameliorating the condition
of his semi-barbarous subjects. Travelling through Albania and Romelia,
where he met with numerous adventures, he arrived at Constantinople,
about the end of 1839. Here he made arrangements for visiting Asia
Minor, and other countries in the East, where he spent some years,
adopting the costume and leading the life of an Arab of the Desert, and
acquiring a thorough knowledge of the manners and languages of Turkey
and Arabia. In 1840 or 1841, he transmitted to the Royal Geographical
Society, an Itinerary from Constantinople to Aleppo, which does not seem
to have been published; but in the eleventh volume of the Journal of
that Society, we have an account of the tour which he performed with Mr.
Ainsworth, in April, 1840. He travelled in Persia in the same year, and
projected a journey for the purpose of examining Susa, and some other
places of interest in the Baktyari mountains, to which Major Rawlinson
had drawn the attention of the Geographical Society. With this view, he
left Ispahan in the middle of September, in company with Schiffeer Khan,
a Baktyari chief; and having crossed the highest part of the great chain
of Mungasht, he visited the ruins of Manjanik, which are of considerable
extent, and resemble those of the Susannian cities. He visited also the
ruins in the plain of Mel Amir, and copied some of their cuneiform
inscriptions. In crossing the hills to Susan, he was attacked by a tribe
of Dinarunis, and robbed of his watch, compass, &c.; but having
complained to the chief, and insisted on the return of every missing
article, he received back the whole of his property. It had been his
practice to traverse these mountains quite alone, and he was never
attacked or insulted, except on this occasion, when the country was in a
state of war. He found scarcely any remains at Susan to indicate the
site of a large city. In 1842 and 1843, he spent a considerable time in
the province of Khuistan, an elaborate description of which he
communicated through Lord Aberdeen to the Royal Geographical Society. It
was during these various journeys that he prepared himself for the great
task to which his best and ripest powers were to be devoted. In his
wanderings through Asia Minor and Syria he had scarcely left a spot
untrodden which tradition hallowed, or a ruin unexamined which was
consecrated by history. His companion shared his feelings and his zeal.
Unmindful of danger, they rode along with no other protection than their
arms. They tended their own horses, and, mixing with the people, they
acquired their manners and their language. He himself says: "I had
traversed Asia Minor and Syria, visiting the ancient seats of
civilization, and the spots which religion had made holy. I now felt an
irresistible desire to penetrate to the regions beyond the Euphrates, to
which history and tradition point as the birthplace of the Wisdom of the
West."

With these feelings, he looked to the banks of the Tigris, and longed to
dispel the mysterious darkness which hung over Assyria and Babylonia.
He, accordingly, made preliminary visits to Mosul, inspected the ruins
of Nimroud and Kuyunjik, and, fortunately, obtained an interview with
Sir Stratford Canning at Constantinople, then on his way to England.
This distinguished man, who was formerly minister to the United States,
and is remembered with well-deserved gratitude by nearly every recent
traveller in the East, immediately discovered and appreciated the
character and talents of Mr. Layard. His knowledge of the East, and of
its manners and languages, recommended him in a peculiar manner to the
notice of the ambassador, who persuaded him to remain, and employed him
on many important public services. Sir Stratford Canning himself took a
deep interest in the researches which had been made by the French, and
he promptly aided his young countryman in carrying out the designs of
which we now have the histories in his books. In the summer of 1845 Mr.
Layard, Count Perpontier of the Prussian Embassy, and Mr. Kellogg,
quitted Constantinople together, and visited Brusa (where Layard was
some time dangerously ill from a _coup de soleil_), Mount Olympus, the
country of the Ourouks or Wandering Tartars, the valley of the
Rhyndacus, the Plain of Toushanloo, Kiutayah, the ruins of Azani, &c.
Shortly after he proceeded to Nimroud, and in December, 1847, he
returned to England with the fruits of his labors. He wrote to Mr.
Kellogg, who was now in New-York, under date of

    "CHELTENHAM, Jan. 16, 1848.

     "MY DEAR KELLOGG:--I was quite delighted to see your
     handwriting again, when a few days ago I received your letter
     of the 15th November, with the diploma of the New-York
     Ethnological Society. I reached home on Christmas day, after
     having been detained three months at Constantinople. As you may
     well conceive, since my return I have not had a moment to
     myself--for what with domestic rejoicings and general honors, I
     have been in one continual movement and excitement. I was
     gratified to find that the results of my labors had created
     much more interest in England than I could possibly have
     expected, and that those connected with art, and interested in
     early history, were really enthusiastic on the subject; so much
     so, indeed, that the Trustees of the British Museum are
     desirous of doing every thing that I think right; and it is
     probable that ere long a very fine work will be published at
     the public expense, containing all the drawings (about 130) and
     inscriptions. I am to write and publish a small descriptive and
     popular work, for my own advantage, just sufficient to satisfy
     the public curiosity about Nineveh and the excavations. It will
     contain an account of the works carried on, a slight sketch of
     the history of Nineveh, a short inquiry into the manners,
     customs and religion of the Assyrians, my own adventures in
     Assyria, and a little information on the language and
     character, with an account of the progress made in deciphering.
     There will be two volumes I presume, and I have already
     advantageous offers from publishers. My reason for entering
     into these details, is to ask you what the law is in America,
     and whether any influential bookseller would be willing to give
     me any thing for the copyright, and if so, how it could be
     managed? If you could do any thing for me in this matter, I
     should really be much obliged to you, and I am willing to abide
     by any arrangement you might think advantageous. I think the
     work will be attractive--particularly in America, where there
     are so many Scripture readers.

     "I took Florence on my way, expressly to see you and Powers.
     Although I was disappointed (and very greatly too) in the
     first, I was greatly gratified in seeing Powers, and can assure
     you I left Florence with as high an admiration for his genius
     and character, as you can have, although unfortunately I was
     only able to pass an hour or two with him, my stay being so
     short. I showed him all my drawings, and, as you may suppose,
     passed a very pleasant morning with him, Kirkup, and
     Migliarini--all enthusiastic in seeing my drawings, and persons
     worth showing such things to. Two hours, spent in this way, go
     far towards recompensing one for any labor and sacrifice. I got
     your address from Powers, intending to write to you as soon as
     I reached England. It gave me the sincerest pleasure to hear
     every one uniting in your praise; I regretted the more that you
     were absent, and that I was unable to see your works. I was
     delighted to find that such brilliant prospects were opening to
     Powers, and I learnt from him, what you hint at in your letter,
     that you also were prospering, and that substantial advantages
     were pretty sure. I have only now to get a little money in my
     pocket, and then inshallah (as the Turks say), I'll have my
     picture out of you. To return to business for a moment (pardon
     me for doing so), I think the drawings will be published in
     first rate style and at a very moderate price: about L10--not a
     shilling a drawing. Pray mention this to any of your bookseller
     friends, and perhaps they may be induced to take a few copies.
     It will be a work which no library ought to be without; it
     will, I hope, quite surpass the French publication both in
     execution and subject, and will be sold at one-tenth of the
     price--theirs coming to nearly L100. I inclose a letter of
     thanks for the Secretary of the Ethnological Society, which
     pray send, and also add on my part, many thanks for this honor,
     which I can assure you I particularly appreciate. My names are
     Austen Henry Layard, and my designation simply "attached to Her
     Britannic Majesty's Embassy, at the Sublime Porte." Lady
     Canning and her family are still in England, Sir Stratford at
     Berne. It is doubtful when they will return to Constantinople,
     but I presume ere long. I am ordered out in May, and am named
     commissioner for the settlement of the boundaries between
     Turkey and Persia. I wish I had you with me during my
     commission, for I shall visit a most interesting country,
     totally unknown, and with magnificent subjects for such a
     pencil as yours. I am sorry I did not know of your visit to
     England. I have many influential friends, who would have been
     glad to welcome you, and who might have been useful. I am now
     passing a month or two at Cheltenham, for the benefit of my
     health, which has suffered a little. I will write to you again
     soon with something more interesting. Believe me, my dear
     Kellogg, yours ever sincerely,

     A. H. LAYARD."

Upon the publication of his great work on Nineveh and its Remains, thus
modestly announced, and his One Hundred Plates, he went back to the
East, to renew his researches. Of the results of his recent labors we
have already written, in the _International_ for December.

Dr. Layard is a person of the most amiable and pleasing character, with
all the social virtues which command affection and respect, and such
capacities in literature as make him one of the most attractive
travel-writers in our language. The world may yet look for several
volumes from his hand, upon the East, and we are sure they will deserve
the large and permanent popularity to which his first work has attained
in every country where it has been printed.




THE ASTOR LIBRARY.

[Illustration]


We present above an accurate view of the exterior of the ASTOR LIBRARY,
in Lafayette Place, from a drawing made for the _International_ under
the direction of the architect, Mr. Alexander Saeltzer. It is destined
to be one of the chief attractions of the city, and information
respecting it will be read with interest by the literary and learned
throughout the country.

It is now three years since John Jacob Astor died, leaving by his will
four hundred thousand dollars for the establishment of a Public Library
in New-York, and naming as the first trustees, the Mayor of the city of
New-York and the Chancellor of the state for the time being. Washington
Irving, William B. Astor, Daniel Lord, Jr., James G. King, Joseph G.
Cogswell, Fitz-Greene Halleck, Henry Brevoort, Jr., Samuel B. Ruggles,
Samuel Ward, and Charles Bristed. On the twentieth of May the trustees
held their first meeting, accepted the trust conferred on them, and
appointed Dr. Cogswell, one of their number, superintendent of the
Library. Of the bequest, $75,000 was authorized to be applied to the
erection of a building, $120,000 to the purchase of books and other
objects in the establishment of the Library, and the residue, after
paying for the site, was to be invested as a fund for its maintenance
and increase. In September, 1848, the trustees selected the site for the
edifice. It is convenient for all public purposes, and affords the
comparative quietude and retirement which are desirable for an
institution of constant resort for study and for the consultation of
authorities. In October, Dr. Cogswell was authorized to go to Europe and
purchase at his discretion books to the value of twenty thousand
dollars. The object of the trustees in sending him abroad at that
particular time was to avail themselves of the opportunity, afforded by
the distracted political condition of Europe and the reduction of prices
consequent upon it, to purchase books at very low rates; and the
purchases were made at prices greatly below the ordinary standard, and
the execution of his trust in all respects amply vindicated the high
opinion entertained of Dr. Cogswell's fitness for his position.

The plans for the edifice submitted by Mr. Saeltzer having been adopted,
the work was commenced and has been vigorously prosecuted until the
present time, when the front and nearly all the exterior are completed.
The Library is of brown stone, and in the Byzantine style, or rather in
that of the palaces of Florence, and is one hundred and twenty feet
long, sixty-five feet wide, and sixty-seven feet high. Scarcely a
particle of wood enters into its composition. No building in the United
States, of this character, is formed to so large an extent of iron. Its
uses, too, are altogether novel, at least in this country, and
ingenious. For instance, the truss beams, supporting the principal
weight of the roof, are constructed of cast iron pipes, in a parabolic
form, on the same plan as the iron bridges in France and other parts of
Europe, with a view to secure lightness and strength. The Library Hall,
which occupies the second floor, is one hundred feet high, and sixty
wide, in the clear. The ascent from the front is by a single line of
thirty-eight Italian marble steps, decorated on either side, at the
entrance, by a stone sphinx. Upon nearing the summit of these steps, the
visitor finds himself near the centre of this immense alcove, surrounded
by fourteen brick piers, plastered and finished in imitation of marble,
and supporting iron galleries, midway between the floor and the ceiling.
The side walls form one continuous shelving, of a capacity sufficient
for 100,000 volumes. This is reached by means of the main gallery, in
connection with which are four iron spiral stairways and an intervening
gallery, of a lighter and smaller description, connected by its eight
staircases with the main gallery. The whole are very ingeniously
arranged and appropriately ornamented, in a style corresponding with the
general architecture of the building. At an elevation of fifty-one feet
above the floor of the main hall, is the principal skylight, fifty-four
feet long and fourteen broad, formed of thick glass set in iron. Besides
this there are circular side skylights of much smaller dimensions. All
needful light is furnished, by these and by the windows in the front and
rear walls. Free ventilation is also secured by iron fretwork, in
suitable portions of the ceiling. In the extreme rear are the two rooms
for the librarian, to which access is had by means of the main
galleries.

The first floor contains lecture and reading-rooms, with accommodations
for five hundred persons. The latter are on each side of the building,
and separated from the library-hall stairway at the front entrance by
two corridors leading to the rear vestibule, and thence to the
lecture-room, still further in the rear. The basement contains the
keeper's rooms, cellars, coal-vaults, air-furnaces, &c. The floors are
of richly-wrought mosaic work, on iron beams. The building will not be
completed, probably, for nearly a year from this time, and the books
collected, about 27,000, are meanwhile accessible at 32 Bond-street.

Dr. Cogswell has had printed, in an octavo volume of 446 pages, an
alphabetical index to the books now collected, and of the proposed
accessions. This catalogue is not published, and there are but few
copies of it. The learned librarian, who sailed a few days ago on a new
mission for the library, to Europe, printed it at his own cost,
convinced that without some such manual it would be extremely difficult,
if not impossible, in making the necessary purchases, to avoid buying
duplicates, and equally difficult to select judiciously so many thousand
volumes as are required. He remarks that the Astor Library is in his
opinion the first of so considerable an extent that has ever been called
at once into existence. "That of Gottingen, the nearest parallel, was
founded more than a century ago, when the whole number of printed books
was less than half the present number. Should the Astor Library ever
become a parallel to that in excellence and completeness, it will be as
great an honor to the new world as that to the old."




THE TEMPER OF WOMEN.


In the _Lexington Papers_, just published in London, we have some good
anecdotes of society two hundred and fifty years ago. Here is one:

"A few days ago two ladies met in a narrow street at ten o'clock in the
morning. Neither chose to permit her carriage to be drawn back, and they
remained without moving for six hours. A little after twelve o'clock
they sent for some refreshment for themselves and food for their horses.
Each was firmly resolved to stay the night there rather than go back;
and they would have done so, but a tavern-keeper in the street, who was
prevented by their obstinacy from bringing to his door a cart laden with
wine, went in search of the commissary of the district, who at length,
but with much trouble, succeeded in effecting an arrangement upon these
terms--that each should retire at the same moment, and that neither
should pass through the street."

And here another, which would versify into a fine horrible ballad--as
grand and ghastly as Alfred Tennyson's "Sisters:"

"The Parliament has lately confirmed the sentence of death passed on two
daughters of a gentleman of Anjou, named Madaillon, for the murder of
the lover of their younger sister. It appears that he was engaged to be
married to the eldest sister, but deserting her, and passing over the
second, he transferred his addresses to the youngest. The two eldest
sisters, in revenge, invited him to play at blind man's buff, and while
one bound his eyes, the other cut his throat."

And this is similar:

"In Piedmont a gentleman addressed at the same time one lady who was
rich and plain, and one who was poor and very beautiful; and they, by
chance becoming acquainted, exhibited to each other their correspondence
with the vacillating lover, and one of them invited him to a meeting, in
which after joining in reproaches, they dexterously each deprived him of
an ear."




ANDREW MARVEL.


Of this Aristides of the poets, and his homes and haunts. Mrs. S. C.
HALL gives us the following interesting sketches in her "Pilgrimages to
English Shrines." The illustrations are from drawings by F. W. Fairholt,
F.S.A.

But a few months ago we had been strolling about Palace-yard, and
instinctively paused at No. 19 York-street, Westminster. It was evening;
the lamplighters were running from post to post, but we could still see
that the house was a plain house to look at, differing little from its
associate dwellings; a common house, a house you would pass without a
thought, unless the remembrance of thoughts that had been given to you
from within the shelter of those plain, ordinary walls, caused you to
reflect; aye, and to thank God, who has left with you the memories and
sympathies which elevate human nature. Here, while Latin secretary to
the Protector, was JOHN MILTON to be found when "at home;" and in his
society, at times, were met all the men who with their great originator,
Cromwell, astonished Europe. Just think of those who entered that
portal; think of them all if you can--statesmen and warriors; or, if you
are really of a gentle spirit, think of two--but two; either of whom has
left enough to engross your thoughts and fill your hearts. Think of JOHN
MILTON and ANDREW MARVEL! think of the Protector of England, with two
such secretaries!

Evening had deepened into night; busy hands were closing shutters, and
drawing curtains, to exclude the dense fog, that crept slowly and
silently, like an assassin, through the streets; the pavement was
clammy, and the carriages rushing through the mist, like huge-eyed,
misshapen spectres, proved how eager even the poor horses were to find
shelter; yet for a long while we stood on the steps of this building,
and at length retraced our steps homeward. Our train of thought,
although checked, was not changed, when seated by a comfortable fire. We
took down a volume of Milton; but "Paradise Lost" was too sublime for
the mood of the moment, and we "got to thinking" of Andrew Marvel, and
displaced a volume of Captain Edward Thompson's edition of his works;
and then it occurred to us to walk to Highgate, and once again enjoy the
sight of his quaint old cottage on the side of the hill just facing
"Cromwell House," and next to that which once owned for its master the
great Earl of Lauderdale.

We know nothing more invigorating than to breast the breeze up a hill,
with a bright clear sky above, and the crisp ground under foot. The wind
of March is as pure champagne to a healthy constitution; and let
mountain-men laugh as they will at Highgate-hill, it is no ordinary
labor to go and look down upon London from its height.

Here then we are, once more, opposite the house where lived the
satirist, the poet, the incorruptible patriot.

It is, as you will see presently, a peculiar-looking dwelling, just such
a one as you might well suppose the chosen of Andrew Marvel--exquisitely
situated, enjoying abundant natural advantages; and yet altogether
devoid of pretension; sufficiently beautiful for a poet, sufficiently
humble for a patriot.

[Illustration: MARVEL'S HOUSE, FRONT VIEW.]

It is an unostentatious home, with simple gables and plain windows, and
is but a story high. In front are some old trees, and a convenient porch
to the door, in which to sit and look forth upon the road, a few paces
in advance of it. The front is of plaster, but the windows are
modernized, and there are other alterations which the exigencies of
tenancy have made necessary since Marvel's days.

The dwelling was evidently inhabited;--the curtains in the deep windows
as white as they were when we visited it some years previous to the
visit concerning which we now write, and the garden as neat as when in
those days we asked permission to see the house, and were answered by an
elderly servant, who took in our message; and an old gentleman came into
the hall, invited us in, and presented us to his wife, a lady of more
than middle age, and of that species of beauty depending upon
expression, which it is not in the power of time to wither, because it
is of the spirit rather than the flesh; and we also remembered a green
parrot, in a fine cage, that talked a great deal, and was the only thing
which seemed out of place in the house. We had been treated with much
courtesy; and, emboldened by the memory of that kindness, we now
ascended the stone steps, unlatched the little gate, and knocked.

[Illustration: MARVEL'S HOUSE, BACK VIEW.]

Again we were received courteously and kindly by the lady we had
formerly seen; and again she blandly offered to show us the house. We
went up a little winding stair, and into several neat, clean bedrooms,
where every thing was so old-fashioned, that you could fancy Andrew
Marvel himself was still its master.

"Look out here," said the old lady; "here's a view! They say this was
Andrew Marvel's writing closet when he wrote _sense_; but when he wrote
_poetry_, he used to sit below in his garden. I have heard there is a
private way under the road to Cromwell House, opposite; but surely that
could not be necessary. So good a man would not want to work in the
dark; for he was a true lover of his country, and a brave man. My
husband used to say, the patriots of those times were not like the
patriots now;--that then, they acted for their country,--now, they talk
about it! Alas! the days are passed when you could tell an Englishman
from every other man, even by his gait, keeping the middle of the road,
and straight on, as one who knew himself, and made others know him. I am
sure a party of roundheads, in their sober coats, high hats, and heavy
boots, would have walked up Highgate Hill to visit Master Andrew Marvel,
with a different air from the young men of our own time,--or of their
own time, I should say,--for _my_ time is past, and _yours_ is passing."

That was quite true; but there is no reason, we thought, why we should
not look cheerfully towards the future, and pray that it may be a bright
world for others, if not for ourselves;--the greater our enjoyment in
the contemplation of the happiness of our fellow-creatures, the nearer
we approach God.

It was too damp for the old lady to venture into the garden; and sweet
and gentle as she was, both in mind and manner, we were glad to be
alone. How pretty and peaceful the house looks from this spot! The
snowdrops were quite up, and the yellow and purple tips of the crocuses
bursting through the ground in all directions. This, then, was the
garden the poet loved so well, and to which he alludes so charmingly in
his poem, where the nymph complains of the death of her fawn--

    "I have a garden of my own,
    But so with roses overgrown,
    And lilies, that you would it guess
    To be a little wilderness."

The garden seems in nothing changed; in fact, the entire appearance of
the place is what it was in those glorious days when inhabited by the
truest genius and the most unflinching patriot that ever sprang from the
sterling stuff that Englishmen were made of in those wonder-working
times. The genius of Andrew Marvel was as varied as it was
remarkable;--not only was he a tender and exquisite poet, but entitled
to stand _facile princeps_ as an incorruptible patriot, the best of
controversialists, and the leading prose wit of England. We have always
considered his as the first of the "sprightly runnings" of that
brilliant stream of wit, which will carry with it to the latent
posterity the names of Swift, Steele, and Addison. Before Marvel's time,
to be witty was to be strained, forced, and conceited; from him--whose
memory consecrates that cottage--wit came sparkling forth, untouched by
baser matter. It was worthy of him; its main feature was an open
clearness. Detraction or jealousy cast no stain upon it; he turned
aside, in the midst of an exalted panegyric to Oliver Cromwell, to say
the finest things that ever were said of Charles I.

The Patriot was the son of Mr. Andrew Marvel, minister and schoolmaster
of Kingston-upon-Hull, where he was born in 1620; his father was also
the lecturer of Trinity Church in that town, and was celebrated as a
learned and pious man. The son's abilities at an early age were
remarkable, and his progress so great, that at the age of thirteen, he
was entered as a student of Trinity College, Cambridge; and it is said
that the corporation of his natal town furnished him with the means of
entering the college and prosecuting his studies there. His shrewd and
inquiring mind attracted the attention of some of the Jesuit emissaries
who were at this time lurking about the universities, and sparing no
pains to make proselytes. Marvel entered into disputations with them,
and ultimately fell so far into their power, that he consented to
abandon the University and follow one of them to London. Like many other
clever youths, he was inattentive to the mere drudgery of university
attendance, and had been reprimanded in consequence; this, and the news
of his escape from college, reached his father's ears at Hull. That good
and anxious parent followed him to London; and, after a considerable
search, at last met with him in a bookseller's shop; he argued with his
son as a prudent and sensible man should do, and prevailed on him to
retrace his steps and return with him to college, where he applied to
his studies with such good-will and continued assiduity, that he
obtained the degree of Bachelor of Arts in 1638. His father lived to see
the fruits of his wise advice, but was only spared thus long; for he was
unfortunately drowned in crossing the Humber, as he was attending the
daughter of an intimate female friend, who, by this event becoming
childless, sent for young Marvel, and by way of making all the return in
her power, added considerably to his fortune.

This accession of wealth gave him an opportunity of travelling, and he
journeyed through Holland, France, and Italy. While at Rome he wrote the
first of those satirical poems which obtained him so much celebrity. It
was a satire on an English priest there, a wretched poetaster named
Flecknoe. From an early period of life Marvel appears to have despised
conceit, or impertinence, and he found another chance to exhibit his
powers of satire in the person of an ecclesiastic of Paris, one Joseph
de Maniban, an abbot who pretended to understand the characters of those
he had never seen, and to prognosticate their good or bad fortune, from
an inspection of their handwriting. Marvel addressed a poem to him,
which, if it did not effectually silence his pretensions, at all events
exposed them fully to the thinking portions of the community.

[Illustration: CROMWELL HOUSE.]

Beneath Italian skies his immortal friendship with Milton seems to have
commenced; it was of rapid growth, but was soon firmly established. They
were, in many ways, kindred spirits, and their hopes for the after
destinies of England were alike. In 1653 Marvel returned to England, and
during the eventful years that followed, we can find no record of his
strong and earnest thoughts, as they worked upwards into the arena of
public life. One glorious fact we know, and all who honor virtue must
feel its force,--that in an age when wealth was never wanting to the
unscrupulous, Marvel, a member of the popular and successful party,
continued Poor. Many of those years he is certain to have passed--

    "Under the destiny severe
    Of Fairfax, and the starry Vere--"

in the humble capacity of tutor of languages to their daughters. It was
most likely, during this period, that he inhabited the cottage at
Highgate, opposite to the house in which lived part of the family of
Cromwell, a house upon which we shall remark presently. In 1657 he was
introduced by Milton to Bradshaw. The precise words of the introduction
ran thus: 'I present to you Mr. Marvel, laying aside those jealousies
and that emulation which mine own condition might suggest to me, by
bringing in such a coadjutor.' His connection with the State took place
in 1657, when he became assistant secretary with Milton in the service
of the Protector. 'I never had,' says Marvel, 'any, not the remotest
relation to public matters, nor correspondence with the persons then
predominant, until the year 1657.'

After he had been some time fellow-secretary with Milton, even the
thick-sighted burgesses of Hull perceived the merits of their townsman,
and sent him as their representative into the House of Commons. We can
imagine the delight he felt at escaping from the crowded and stormy
Commons to breathe the invigorating air of his favorite hill, to enjoy
the society of his former pupils, now his friends; and to gather, in

    '----a garden of his own,'

the flowers that had solaced his leisure hours when he was comparatively
unknown. But Cromwell died, Charles returned, and Marvel's energies
sprung into arms at acts which, in accordance with his principles, he
considered base, and derogatory to his country. His whole efforts were
directed to the preservation of civil and religious liberty.

It was but a short time previous to the Restoration that Marvel had been
chosen by his native town to sit as its representative in Parliament.
The Session began at Westminster in April, 1660, and he acquitted
himself so honorably, that he was again chosen for the one which began
in May, 1661. Whether under Cromwell or Charles, he acted with such
thorough honesty of purpose, and gave such satisfaction to his
constituents, that they allowed him a handsome pension all the time he
continued to represent them, which was till the day of his death. This
was probably the last borough in England that paid a representative.[A]
He seldom spoke in Parliament, but had much influence with the members
of both Houses; the spirited Earl of Devonshire called him friend, and
Prince Rupert particularly paid the greatest regard to his councils; and
whenever he voted according to the sentiments of Marvel, which he often
did, it used to be said, by the opposite party, that 'he had been with
his tutor.' Such certainly was the intimacy between the Prince and
Marvel, that when he was obliged to abscond, to avoid falling a
sacrifice to the indignation of those enemies among the governing party
whom his satirical pen had irritated, the Prince frequently went to see
him, disguised as a private person.

The noted Doctor Samuel Parker published Bishop Bramhall's work, setting
forth the rights of kings over the consciences of their subjects, and
then came forth Marvel's witty and sarcastic poem, 'The Rehearsal
Transposed.'[B] And yet how brightly did the generosity of his noble
nature shine forth at this very time, when he forsook his own wit in
that very poem, to praise the wit of Butler, his rival and political
enemy. Fortune seems about this period to have dealt hardly with him.
Even while his political satires rang through the very halls of the
pampered and impure Charles, when they were roared forth in every
tavern, shouted in the public streets, and attracted the most envied
attention throughout England, their author was obliged to exchange the
free air, apt type of the freedom which he loved, for a lodging in a
court off the Strand, where, enduring unutterable temptations, flattered
and threatened, he more than realized the stories of Roman virtue.

The poet Mason has made Marvel the hero of his 'Ode to Independence,'
and thus alludes to his incorruptible integrity:--

    'In awful Poverty his honest Muse
      Walks forth Vindictive through a venal land;
    In vain Corruption sheds her golden dews,
      In vain Oppression lifts her iron hand;
    He scorns them both, and arm'd with Truth alone,
    Bids Lust and Folly tremble on the throne.'

Marvel, by opposing the ministry and its measures, created himself many
enemies,[C] and made himself very obnoxious to the government, yet
Charles II. took great delight in his conversation, and tried all means
to win him over to his side, but in vain; nothing being ever able to
shake his resolution. There were many instances of his firmness in
resisting the offers of the Court, in which he showed himself proof
against all temptations.

We close our eyes upon this peaceful dwelling of the heroic senator, and
imagine ourselves in the reign of the second Charles, threading our way
into that 'court off the Strand,' where Marvel ended his days. We enter
the house, and climbing the stairs even to the second floor, perceive
the object of our warmest admiration. He is not alone, though there is
no possibility of confounding the poet with the courtier. Andrew Marvel
is plainly dressed, his figure is strong, and about the middle size, his
countenance open, and his complexion of a ruddy cast; his eyes are of a
soft hazel color, mild and steady; his eyebrows straight, and so
flexible as to mould without an effort into a satirical curve, if such
be the mind's desire; his mouth is close, and indicative of firmness;
and his brown hair falls gracefully back from a full and noble forehead.
He sits in an upright and determined manner upon an uneasy-looking
high-backed chair. A somewhat long table intervenes between him and his
visitor; one end of it is covered with a white cloth, and a dish of cold
meat is flanked by a loaf of bread and a dark earthenware jug. On the
opposite end is placed a bag of gold, beside which lies the
richly-embroidered glove which the cavalier with whom he is conversing
has flung off. There is strange contrast in the attitude of the two men.
Lord Danby lounges with the ease of a courtier and the grace of a
gentleman upon a chair of as stiff and uncomfortable an appearance as
that which is occupied after so upright a fashion by Andrew Marvel.

"I have answered you, my lord," said the patriot, "already. Methinks
there need be no further parley on the subject; it is not my first
temptation, though I most fervently desire it may be the last."

[Illustration: STAIRCASE.]

The nobleman took up his glove and drew it on. "I again pray you to
consider," he said, "whether, if with us, the very usefulness you so
much prize would not have a more extensive sphere. You would have larger
means of being useful."

"My lord, I should certainly have the means of tempting usefulness to
forsake duty."

The cavalier rose, but the displeasure that flushed his countenance soon
faded before the serene and holy expression of Milton's friend.

"And are you so determined?" said his lordship, sorrowfully. "Are you
really so determined? A thousand English pounds are there, and thrice
the sum--nay, any thing you ask----"

"My lord! my lord!" interrupted Marvel, indignantly, "this perseverance
borders upon insult. Nay, my good lord, you do not so intend it, but
your master does not understand me. Pray you, note this: two days ago
that meat was hot; it has remained cold since, and there is enough still
for to-morrow; and I am well content. A man so easily satisfied is not
likely to exchange an approving conscience for dross like that!"

We pray God that the sin of Marvel's death did not rest with the great
ones of those times; but it was strange and sudden.[D] He did not leave
wherewith to bury the sheath of such a noble spirit, but his
constituents furnished forth a decent funeral, and would have erected a
monument to his memory in the church of St. Giles-in-the-Fields, where
he was interred; but the rector, blinded by the dust of royalty to the
merits of the man, refused the necessary permission. Marvel's name is
remembered, though the rector's has been long forgotten.[E]

Wood tells us, that Marvel was in his conversation very modest, and of
few words; and Cooke, the writer of his life, observes that he was very
reserved among those whom he did not know, but a most delightful and
improving companion among his friends. John Aubrey, who knew him
personally, thus describes him: 'He was of a middling stature, pretty
strong set, roundish cherry-checked, hazle-eyed, brown-haired.' He was
(as Wood also says) in conversation very modest, and of a very few
words. He was wont to say, that he would not drink high or freely with
any one with whom he would not trust his life.

Marvel lived among friends at Highgate; exactly opposite to his door was
the residence of General Ireton and his wife Bridget, the eldest
daughter of Oliver Cromwell; and which house still bears his name, and
is described in 'Prickett's History of Highgate,' one of those local
topographical works which deserve encouragement:--'Cromwell House is
supposed to have been built by the Protector, whose name it bears, about
the year 1630, as a residence for General Ireton, who married his
daughter and was one of the commanders of his army; it is, however, said
to have been the residence of Oliver Cromwell himself, but no mention is
made, either in history or in his biography, of his having ever lived at
Highgate. Tradition states, there was a subterraneous passage from this
house to the mansion house which stood where the New Church now stands,
but of its reality no proof has hitherto been adduced. Cromwell House
was evidently built and internally ornamented in accordance with the
taste of its military occupant. The staircase, which is of handsome
proportions, is richly decorated with oaken carved figures, supposed to
have been of persons in the general's army, in their costume; and the
balustrades filled in with devices emblematical of warfare. On the
ceilings of the drawing-room are the arms of General Ireton; this and
the ceilings of the other principal apartments are enriched in
conformity with the fashion of those days. The proportion of the noble
rooms, as well as the brick-work in front, well deserves the notice and
study of the antiquarian and the architect. From the platform on the top
of the mansion may be seen a perfect panorama of the surrounding
country.'

The staircase above described is here engraved. It is a remarkably
striking and elegant specimen of internal decoration, of broad and noble
proportion, and of a solid and grand construction suitable to the time
of its erection; the wood-work of the house is every where equally bold
and massive; the door-cases of simple but good design. There are some
ceilings in the first story which are in rich plaster work, ornamented
with the arms of Ireton; and mouldings of fruit and flowers, of a
sumptuous and bold enrichment.

The series of figures which stand upon the newels of the staircase are
all engraved below. There are ten remaining out of twelve, the original
number; the missing two are said to have been figures of Cromwell and
Ireton, destroyed at the Restoration. They stand about a foot in height,
and represent the different soldiers of the army, from the fifer and
drummer to the captain, and originally, to the commanders. They are
curious for more reasons than one; their locality, their truthfulness,
their history, and the picture they help us to realise of the army of
Cromwell are all so many claims on our attention.

FOOTNOTES:

[A] The custom of paying members of the House of Commons for the loss of
time and travelling expenses, was common in the seventeenth century;
constituencies believed such equivalents necessary for the attention to
their interests and wishes which a Parliamentary agent was expected to
give. In the old Corporation books of provincial towns are many entries
for payments to members of Parliament, and in some instances we find
them petitioning to Government for disfranchisement, because they could
not afford to pay the expenses of a Member.

[B] Marvel's first _expose_ of Parker's false logic was in 1672, in the
poem named above, which was immediately answered by Parker, and
re-answered by Marvel, who appears to have had some private threat sent
him, as he says his pamphlet is occasioned by two letters; one the
published 'Reproof' of him by Parker in answer to his first attack; 'the
second, left for me at a friend's house, dated November 3d, 1673,
subscribed J. G., and concluding with these words:--If thou darest to
print any lie or libel against Dr. Parker, by the Eternal--I will cut
thy throat.' This last reply of Marvel's, however, effectually silenced
Parker: 'It not only humbled Parker, but the whole party,' says Burnet,
for, 'from the king down to the tradesman, the book was read with
pleasure.'

[C] 'No stronger satire could be penned than that descriptive of the
Court of Charles, in the poem called 'Britannia and Raleigh:'--

    'A colony of French possess the Court,
  Pimps, priests, buffoons, in privy chambers sport;
  Such slimy monsters ne'er approach'd a throne
  Since Pharaoh's days, nor so defil'd a crown;
  In sacred ears tyrannic arts they croak,
  Pervert his mind, and good intentions choak.'

But not only do the courtiers feel the lash, for when Raleigh implores
Britannia to urge his duty on the king, and save him from the bad who
surround him, she interrupts him with--

  'Raleigh, no more! for long in vain I've try'd
  The Stuart from the tyrant to divide.'


[D] 'Marvel died in 1678, in his fifty-eighth year, not without the
strongest suspicions of having been poisoned; for he was always very
temperate, and of an healthful and strong constitution to the last.'

[E] On the death of this rector, however, the monument and inscription
was placed on the north wall of the church, near the spot where he is
supposed to lie.




A NOVELIST'S APPEAL FOR THE CANADAS.


Among the new English novels is one entitled _Ellen Clayton, or the
Nomades of the West_, by Douglass Huyghue. The author seems to feel for
the red men the same regard which the adventurous artist and traveller
Catlin has expressed in England, and his work comes in aid of those
appeals which Catlin has so often made on their behalf. Such a motive
entitles the author to respect, and gives an additional value to the
book; while the talent with which it is written, renders it a narrative
of unusual interest. In nothing but its _theme_ is it like to any of
Cooper's novels. Its incidents and its characters are not similar, and
they lack truthfulness quite as much as they lack similarity. We know
something of Indian life; in our youth we saw much of it; and we regard
Cooper as its faithfulest delineator in literary art. The time at which
this romance opens is in the year 1600, when the wars between France and
England led to hostilities in Canada, and when an abortive attack was
made upon Quebec by the British and colonial army. The hero and heroine
are victims to the disasters of that war, and in describing their
adventures, Canada, and the condition of its civilized as well as of its
wild inhabitants, are vividly presented. The incidents justify the
author in making this appeal to his English readers when he reminds them
of the associations that should ever be connected with the fortress of
Quebec:--

     "Men of England, look not coldly upon the interests of that
     land for the possession of which your fathers fought and bled.
     Quench not irretrievably the flame of loyalty which burns in
     many an earnest heart, loath to contract these new ties which
     the progress of an irresistible destiny would seem to favor, at
     the sacrifice of affection for the fatherland. The blood of the
     greatest and wisest nation since the days of the Romans, flows
     in the veins of the Anglo-Americans, unadulterated by the air
     of another hemisphere, and stimulated into vigorous action by a
     necessity for continual exertion, combined with an entire
     liberty of thought which calls into play every resource of the
     physical and intellectual man. The sturdy and intelligent race
     that treads the virgin soil of Canada, can surely claim
     equality, at the very least, with the denizens of older Europe;
     cramped as they are for want of room, and enervated by an
     ultra-civilization that wrongs nature, and has almost taken the
     sceptre from her hand to put it into that of art. The British
     colonist enjoys a peculiar exemption from those prejudices,
     which, for so many ages, have retarded progress, and are
     successively being overcome by the convictions of a more
     enlightened era. There is a voice in the woods and mountains of
     a great solitude that elevates the soul and fortifies it with
     courage in the time of need. The great torrents and inland seas
     of that noble country have schooled the generation, nurtured by
     their side, into a strong conception of freedom, and the right
     to be justly dealt with, at the hands of those with whom it is
     connected by the double alliance of kindred predilection. A
     pernicious, temporizing policy has of late caused such wounds
     as may not be healed up very easily, we fear. The upright
     colonist has seen an unprincipled faction permitted to ride
     triumphant over those whose intentions are honest, and whose
     loyalty is proven. Let us hope, that ere long something of the
     chivalrous generosity of other days will pervade the councils
     of the state, and rouse the stalwart spirit of the Briton to
     scourge this ignominy from the land; if encouragement be due at
     all, it surely is to those true-hearted provincials who are
     avowedly proud of the great people from whence they derive
     their character, their language, and their laws--and who are as
     able, as they are willing, to preserve unto their beloved
     Sovereign the colony their sires won."

This is tolerably good rhetoric, but it is not likely to have much
effect when the strong argument and imposing eloquence of statesmen have
failed to arrest attention. We see notices of another political novel
referring to Canada, which deals more directly, if with less talent,
with the disabilities and wishes of the people. It is entitled, _The
Footsteps of Montcalm_, and its hero, descended from a follower of the
brave Frenchman, contrasts with his ideal of freedom and happiness, the
laws, institutions, habits, and miseries, which he regards as
inseparable from the colonial relation. As in the rebellion of 1838,
whatever disaffection now prevails in British America, is probably
shared much less largely by the English than by the French population.
Political, religious, or sectarian novels, however, executed never so
cleverly, are but sugared pills at which the appetite revolts as soon as
the quality is discovered.




DR. WEBSTER, PRESIDENT OF THE NEW-YORK FREE ACADEMY.

[Illustration]


Throughout the world an extraordinary degree of attention has recently
been directed to systems and means of Education, and the truth has at
length been generally recognized that the stability and glory of nations
must depend upon the intelligence and virtue of their inhabitants. In
our own country, which is most of all interested in the diffusion of
knowledge, unexampled efforts are being made not only for the general
improvement of the culture offered in the seminaries, but for that
elevation of the laboring classes which, whatever may be said by
ambitious feeble-minds, seeking for reputation as reformers of the
social system, is really to be found only in a wise development of
individual capacities for the strife that has been and must be waged for
individual well-being.

There have been many improvements suggested or realized lately in
collegiate education. We have been gratified with Professor Sedgwick's
admirable treatise on the subject, which, at this time, is receiving in
England that consideration to which any thing from the mind of one so
distinguished is entitled. In this country we think no one, upon the
whole, has written more wisely than Dr. Wayland, whose views are to be
illustrated in the future government of the university over which he has
so long presided. But we shall not be satisfied until we have a great
institution, as much above the existing colleges as they are above the
common schools in the wards of the city, to which bachelors of arts only
shall be admitted, and to which they, whether coming from Harvard,
Oberlin, or Virginia, shall be admitted without charge.

The establishment of the NEW-YORK FREE ACADEMY is suggestive of many
things, and of this among them. We suppose a discussion whether our
colleges supply the _degree_ of education suitable to our general
condition, could be entertained only by dunces; the point whether they
furnish the kind and quality of culture to fit men for efficient and
just action, in such public affairs and private occupations as the
humblest may be called to in a free state, has been amply discussed, and
it is decided against the colleges.

Our schools, called colleges, have for the most part been fashioned
after the universities of Europe, but they have in all cases been
inadequately endowed, and without the internal police which is necessary
to their vigorous administration. Nine-tenths of the professors are
incompetent, and quite one half of them, in any thing worthy the name of
university could claim admission only to the class of freshmen; while
those who are capable of a reputable performance of their duties--so
uncertain are the revenues of the institutions to which they are
attached--are very frequently compelled to modify regulations and relax
discipline to such a degree that the colleges become only schools of
vice or nurseries of indolence.

The deficiency is of _authority_. It is useless to talk about courses of
study, or any thing else, until the discipline of the schools is as
absolute as that of the camp, the factory, or the counting-room. We are
inclined to believe that the usefulness of the Military Academy at West
Point,--which has furnished so large a proportion of the best civil
engineers, lawyers, physicians, and divines, as well as the soldiers who
and who _alone_ have conducted our armies to real glory,--we are
inclined to believe that this justly celebrated school owes all its
triumphs to its rigid laws and independence of popular clamor.

Discipline is every thing. Without it a man is but a fair model in wood,
which by it is turned to an engine of iron, and by opportunity furnished
with water and fire to impel it on a resistless course through the
world. And a man must be governed by others before he will govern
himself. The silliness about _liberty_ which is sometimes obtruded into
discussions of this subject, is fit for very young children and very old
women. There is no desirable liberty but in obedience. The cant about it
sometimes illustrates only a pitiable feebleness of intellect, but it
more frequently discloses some kind or degree of wilful licentiousness.
The "voluntary system" does very well in the churches. It will not do at
all in the colleges. St. Paul is always found even with the wisdom of
the age in which he is quoted, and he tells us that a youth "differeth
nothing from a servant, though he be lord of all, but is under tutors
and governors." This is the true philosophy. The "sovereign" people who
disregard law, and exult when it is outraged at the cost of an unpopular
party, have not learned what is necessary to freedom; they are not fit
for it; they will destroy its fairest fabrics, if the state does not
prepare its children by a thorough discipline for their inheritance. The
_way_ is by free schools and free colleges, supported by public taxes.
Sects and parties may have as many seminaries as they choose, and with
rules of study and conduct so easily to be complied with, and
administrations so lax, that the most contemptible idler or the most
independent and self-willed simpleton shall see in them nothing to
conflict with his habit or temper; but the graduates of these seminaries
will not ascend the pinnacles of fame nor direct the affairs of nations:
such affairs will be left for those who have learned, with their
arithmetic, the self-denial, reverence and obedience, which are the
conditions of the application of addition and division in the high
mathematics.

In a free college (and the New-York Free Academy is, in all respects,
more justly to be considered a college than are most of the schools
which confer academical "honors"), in a free college, of which the
professors are responsible only to a judicious board of directors,
examinations for admissions and for advancements will be rigid and
impartial, the administration will be vigilant and firm, the reckless
who will not and the imbecile who cannot acquire a good education, will
be dismissed for more congenial pursuits, the rich and the poor will be
upon an equality, and only desert will be honorably distinguished.

The New-York Free Academy is eminently fortunate in its officers. HORACE
WEBSTER, LL. D., is, in all respects, admirably fitted for his position
as its President. He perfectly understands the indispensableness of
thorough organization, and absolute and watchful discipline. Dr. Webster
is a native of Vermont, and is of that family which, in various
departments, has furnished the country some of its most illustrious
names. At an early age, he became a student of the Military Academy, and
so has himself experience of the advantages of that system which he
advocates, and illustrates in his own administration. He graduated with
distinction, and it is properly mentioned as an indication of his
standing at West Point that, while he was a cadet of the first class, he
was selected by the government of the Academy to be temporarily himself
an instructor. In 1818 he joined the army, as a lieutenant, and after
passing one year with his regiment, of which the late General Taylor was
at that time the Major, he was elected Assistant Professor of
Mathematics in the Military Academy, and returned to fulfil for six
years, with constantly increasing reputation, both for scientific
abilities and for personal character, the duties of that office, which
it scarcely need be said are more difficult at West Point than in any
other school in America. Among the distinguished gentlemen who were
associated with him in teaching or as students during this period, were
General Worth, Colonel Bliss, Colonel Thayer, Colonel Mansfield, and
Professors Alexander D. Bache, LL. D., Charles Davies, LL. D., E. C.
Ross, LL. D., and John Torrey, LL. D. Resigning his commission, he was
in 1825 made Professor of Mathematics and Natural Philosophy in Geneva
College, and he filled this place twenty-three years, leaving it in
1848, to accept the Presidency of the New York Free Academy. We conceive
that nothing could have invested this school with a higher claim to
respect, or challenged for it a larger degree of confidence, than the
selection of a man of such experience, capacities, and reputation, to be
its chief officer; and for the class of persons likely to come under his
instruction, no course of study could be more judicious, no training
more admirably adapted, than may be expected from one who has been so
long and so successfully engaged in preparing men for the most difficult
and important offices. His attainments needed no illustration, and his
administrative abilities have been amply vindicated by his government of
the Free Academy.

Candidates for admission to the Free Academy must have passed at least
one year in the public schools, and they are examined in the common
English studies. The standards for admission are not so high as the
colleges demand, because the period of instruction is longer. We cannot
enter into any particular statement of the courses of study, but it
will be interesting if we indicate their character very briefly, and
describe the chief teachers. Edward C. Ross, LL. D., the Professor of
Mathematics, is, like Dr. Webster, a graduate of the Military Academy,
and was many years a successful teacher in that institution and in
Kenyon College. He is assisted by G. B. Docherty, A. M., who was
formerly the Principal of the Flushing Institute. The course embraces
all the studies necessary for the best accomplishment in engineering,
and indeed is as thorough and complete as that pursued at West Point,
with the modifications appropriate to the prospective pursuits of the
pupils. Theodore Irving, A. M., is Professor of History and
Belles-Lettres, assisted by Edward C. Marshall, A. M., and G. W.
Huntsman, A. M. These gentlemen have experience, and we believe their
system of instruction is in some respects original and in every way very
excellent. Mr. Irving is a kinsman of "Geoffrey Crayon," and himself
master of a pleasing and classical style. Oliver Wolcott Gibbs, A. M.,
M. D., Professor of Chemistry, Natural Philosophy, Mineralogy, and
Geology, is one of the best practical chemists in this country, having
completed his own education under the celebrated Liebig, in Germany, and
since in many ways evinced such capacities in this department, as made
his selection for the place he occupies almost a matter of course. John
J. Owen, D. D., whose scholarship is exhibited in his ably edited series
of the classical authors of these languages, is Professor of Greek and
Latin, and we neither agree with nor have much respect for those who
deprecate the attention demanded in the Academy for such studies. The
French, Spanish and German languages are taught by Professors Roemer,
Morales, and Glaubensklee, all of whom are known to the public for such
talents as are necessary in their positions. Mr. Paul P. Duggan, a
painter whose works adorn many of our best collections in art, is
Professor of Drawing.

The Free Academy will fulfil the reasonable expectations of its
founders. It is admirably designed, and its appointments and
administration have thus far been judicious. We lack yet a University:
there is no school in America deserving this title; all our colleges
should be regarded as _gymnasia_, sifting the classes of the common
schools and preparing their more advanced and ingenious pupils for such
an institution; and the Free Academy may be accepted as a model by which
they can be reshaped for their less ambitious but more appropriate
duties. This is a subject ably and properly treated in Professor
Tappan's recent volume on Education, (published by Mr. Putnam,) to which
we beg attention.

The whole number of students now attending the Free Academy is three
hundred and twenty-nine, of whom one hundred and five were admitted at
the last examination, in February. The number for whom the building is
designed is about six hundred.




Authors and Books.


A book which we cannot too highly recommend is the _Briefe ueber
Humboldt's Kosmos_ (Letters on Humboldt's Cosmos), published at Leipzic,
in two octavo volumes, from the pens of Professor COTTA and Professor
SCHALLER. It is intended to serve as a commentary upon that work, which
it is well worthy to accompany. Without attempting an exhaustive
treatise on the details of the various topics touched on by Humboldt,
the writers have expanded some of the leading points of his work into
scientific essays, whose practical utility is none the smaller for an
elegant and attractive style, and a genial enthusiasm, of which Humboldt
need not be ashamed. The first volume, by Professor Cotta, contains
forty letters on the following themes: The enjoyment of nature; matter
and forces, growth and existence; natural philosophy; the fixed stars,
their parallaxes, groups, movements, nebulae; double stars, structure of
the universe, resisting medium; the solar system; the laws of motion,
Kepler and Newton; density of the heavenly bodies; our moon, its orbit,
no atmosphere, no water; comets; meteors, and meteoric stones; form of
the earth; magnetism; volcanic activity; gas-springs; geysers; internal
structure of the earth; history of organisms, their first origin, and
developments; the surface, its forms, and their influence on animated
life; the gradual rising and sinking of the surface in Sweden; the
tides; circulation of water on the earth--springs, cold, warm, mineral,
artesian--rivers, seas, ocean currents, evaporation and condensation;
glaciers; the atmosphere, climate, weather, winds, storm-clouds; organic
life on the earth, its nature, differences, origin of the differences,
original production, creation, first appearance; man, his origin, races,
forms, phrenology, &c. These letters offer, as we have already said, in
a pleasing and attractive form, a condensed and comprehensive view of
what is now known with reference to the sciences treated. The letter
upon Man is especially interesting. Professor Cotta belongs to those who
think the human race to be "the gradual perfection, through thousands of
generations," of a lower order of creatures. "The human individual," he
says, "even now, in the embryonic state, passes through the condition of
various sorts of animals. The most eminent anatomists have shown that
before birth we for a time resemble a polypal animal, then for a time a
fish, next a reptile, till at last appear the characteristics of a
mammalia. This is a fact which bears strongly in favor of our view. The
genesis and development of the entire species seem to be here condensed
in the growth of the individual." But while setting forth this peculiar
view, Professor Cotta, with true German comprehensiveness, takes care to
give a fair statement of opposing doctrines, and evinces nothing like a
narrow dogmatism. The second volume, like the second volume of the
Cosmos, is that which will most interest and delight the general reader.
It contains thirty-two letters, mainly on the following subjects: the
view of nature in general; the religious view; the various forms of the
religious view; the aesthetic view; the inward connection of the aesthetic
enjoyment of nature with its artistic representation; the scientific
view as empirical science and natural philosophy; the relations of the
various views of nature to each other; the poetic comprehension of
nature among the Indians; the poetic comprehension of nature among the
Jews, the Greeks, and the Romans; the Christian contemplation of nature;
German poetry in the middle ages; Italian poetry; the poetic
comprehension of nature in modern times; the representation of nature by
painting, and its gradual appearance in the history of art; the
physiognomy of plants in connection with the physiognomy of nature in
general; description of several plant formations; general outlines of
the animal world; history of the physical view of the universe; natural
science among the Phenicians, the Greeks, at the time of the Ptolemies,
at the time of the Roman Empire, and in the middle ages; natural history
of modern times, Bacon, Copernicus, Kepler, Galileo, Newton; the
mechanical doctrine of modern physics; the dynamic view of nature;
Fichte's doctrine, and the natural philosophy of Schelling and Hegel.
This volume, as will be easily understood, gives at once a history of
religion, philosophy, art, literature, and science, in their relations
to the outward universe. For instance, under the head of natural science
among the Greeks, we have among other things an account of the doctrine
of the Pythagoreans, Plato, and Aristotle; in treating the middle ages,
Professor Schaller speaks of the Scholastics, Thomas Aquinas, Roger
Bacon, Giordano Bruno, and Paracelsus. One of the most interesting parts
of the whole is that on the poetic view of nature among the Hindoos,
Jews, Greeks, Romans, Germans, and Italians, the historical statement
being every where illustrated by copious quotations of admirable
passages from the poets of those nations. The strictly scientific
portions are illustrated by excellent engravings, and are free from mere
technicalities. Sold in New-York by R. Garrigue.

       *       *       *       *       *

The _Vestiges of Creation_ has been translated into German by Charles
Vogt, a savan who in late years has become noted as a radical
politician. The translation is highly praised. Published at Brunswick.

       *       *       *       *       *

The translation of HEGEL'S _Aesthetik_ into French is now nearly
completed at Paris, the fourth volume, which is devoted to the
consideration of music and poetry, having just been published. One
volume more will complete the work. The translator is M. Charles Benard.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE HUMAN RACE AND ITS ORIGIN.--Under the title of _Histoire Generale
des Races Humaines_, M. Eusebe-Francois de Salles has just published at
Paris an elaborate work on Ethnography, for which he had prepared
himself by long and careful personal observation of most of the races on
the globe, his travels having extended into nearly all climes and
regions. He takes the ground of the descent of the entire human family
from a single pair, created adult and perfect in mind and body, not by
any simple evolution of nature, but by a direct act of the Divine Being.
The paradise or home of this pair he places to the north of India and
the east of Persia. All the varieties of men now existing he attributes
to the influence of climate and circumstances. "The first light of
history," he says, "shows us the human family in possession of a
language, and of a certain degree of science, the inheritance of the
past. Its aptitudes, its passions, and outward circumstances, may
increase this inheritance, keep it the same, or diminish it. In peoples
enervated by luxury and by doubt, in tribes softened by too favorable a
climate, or separated too long from the stronger and better educated
masses,--in a family or a couple exiled by a catastrophe, a
shipwreck,--we are to seek the origin of the decline into the various
degrees of _corruption, barbarism_, the _savage state_, and _brutality_.
Imagine a boat from the coast of America, or from the South Sea Islands,
cast by a tempest on some unknown shore or some desert island. A few
young persons, a few children, alone escape from the shipwreck, knowing
imperfectly the language, the arts, and the family traditions of their
parents. Such is the origin of the unfortunates sometimes met with, who
are ignorant even of the use of fire." Against the spontaneous
generation of the human race in several localities he argues at length
as an utter absurdity, the point of his argument being, that isolated
couples so produced would be unable to resist the inhospitality of
nature without miraculous aid, and one miracle, he contends, is more
admissable than ten or a dozen. But the chief grounds upon which he
labors to establish his doctrine are the similitude of the most ancient
traditions among all branches of the human species, the affiliation and
analogy of languages, and the identity of organization and equality of
aptitudes. He finds similar traditions among the Hebrews, the Chaldeans,
the Phoenicians, the Egyptians, the Ethiopians, the Hindoos, the
Persians, the Chinese, the Thibetans, the Scythians, and the Americans.
In the theogonies and cosmogonies of the Aztecs of America, he says that
the traditions of ancient Asia are plainly to be found, while some vague
traces of these primitive narratives are to be found even among the
savages of Oceanica, and the most barbarous and miserable <DW64>s of
western Africa. To the <DW64>s he devotes perhaps the most careful and
learned portion of the work. Starting from the discovery of M. Flaurens
as to the _pigmentum_ or coloring matter of the skin, he contends with
great force that nothing but the gradual influence of climate, giving a
greater and greater intensity to the action of this coloring matter,
which exists in every race and every individual, has caused the
essential difference between whites and blacks. For, he argues, there is
no other difference between them than that of color, all the other
features, such as the prominent mouth, the woolly hair, the facial
angle, being in no wise exclusively peculiar to the Africans. And so,
after having gone over the entire race in detail, proving the identity
of organization in every division, M. de Salles concludes that the
primitive complexion was olive, somewhat like the color of unburnt
coffee, and the original men had red hair. On the affiliation of
languages he reasons at great length, with a striking affluence of
curious and learned detail. Languages, he remarks, become more and more
complicated and perfect as we ascend toward their origin. Next he
considers the modifications by which the present races of men have
departed from the first family, and in so doing he takes up every people
that has ever been known. America, he thinks, was first settled by
Mongol emigration, with religious traditions, between the eighteenth and
the fifteenth century before our era: then, six or eight hundred years
later, there was a second emigration of Hindoo races, with traditions of
architecture. With the Bible and the facts of geology as his starting
point, he demonstrates the falsity of the Egyptian, Hindoo, Chinese, and
Mexican chronologies. The six days of creation he takes as so many great
epochs; the deluge he places at five thousand years before Christ.

In our account of this book we have not strictly followed the order of
the author. Thus he makes the direct miraculous creation of man the
concluding topic of his book, and treats it not without a certain poetic
elevation as comports with such an event. We have aimed only to give the
outlines of his doctrine, and for the rest recommend those of our
readers who are interested in such studies to procure and read the work.

       *       *       *       *       *

JOACHIM LELEWEL (a name honored by all lovers of liberty,) has just
published at Breslau a work on the geography of the middle ages, which
is worthy of the warmest admiration. It consists of an atlas of fifty
plates, engraved by the hand of the venerable author, containing one
hundred and forty-five figures and maps, from eighty-eight different
Arabic and Latin geographers of different epochs, with eleven
explicative or comparative maps and two geographical essays. The whole
work exhibits the most thorough acquaintance and conscientious use of
the labors of previous explorers in the same direction. The cost of
importing a copy into this country would be about eight dollars.

       *       *       *       *       *

MORE NEW GERMAN NOVELS.--_The Siege of Rheinfels_, by Gustave von See,
is a historical romance, founded on an episode from the wars of Louis
XIV., against the German empire. While the Palatinate and the left bank
of the Rhine were ravaged by the French armies, the fortress of
Rheinfels held out obstinately against a siege which was prosecuted with
fury by a much superior force. Amid the scenes of this siege, passes the
love-story that forms the kernel of the novel, which is written with
originality and talent. The historical part is equally attractive and
_vraisemblant_. A collection of romances under the title of _Germania_,
has appeared at Bremen. It is intended to serve as the beginning of an
annual publication. The first number contains seven tales, some of them
by well known romance writers. The first is _Eine Leidenschaft_ (A
Passion), by Louise von G., and is highly praised by the most reliable
critics; it abounds in arch and graceful humor. Spiller von Hauenschildt
is the least successful of the contributors in respect to the artistic
treatment of his subject. His novel is socialistic. Adolph Hahr and
Alfred Meissner are also among the contributors. On the whole the book
is a good one.

Leopold Schefer has published lately in Berlin _The Bishop's Wife, a
Tale of the Papacy_, in which the great Napoleon of the church,
Hildebrand, figures as the hero. The Germans have never succeeded in the
historical novel. With vast resources in materiel, they have always a
vagueness, a want of definite interest, of picturesque arrangement, and
of sustained and disciplined power. Schefer is a scholar, and his
didactic purpose is plain enough, and well enough managed. The Teutonic
character has always instinctively revolted against the practice of
celibacy, a form of ascetism quite natural, and sometimes perhaps
inevitable, as a reaction against the unbridled sensualism of the
Africans and Asiatics, but quite out of place in climes so temperate and
races so moderate, conscientious, and self-respecting as those of
Northern Europe. It needed all the genius and determination of
Hildebrand himself to enforce the celibacy of the German clergy, and
certainly they have never ceased more or less covertly to revolt against
it. It is well understood that, at the present time, there is a very
general wish among the Catholics of Germany--more especially of South
Germany, where they are not jealous of Protestant encroachments--to have
marriage allowed to the parochial clergy; and the clergy themselves are
foremost in this tendency, though it may not accord with their interest
unreservedly to display it. It has, however, betrayed its existence in
various ways, especially in anonymous literary productions, in prose and
verse. So general is this feeling, and so profound the conviction that
something must be done, that in 1848 it was very generally credited that
the Pope was prepared to sanction a relaxation of the laws of the church
in this respect. For this belief, however, there could have been no
just foundation, since Pius IX. is the reputed author of the official
reply, made while he was but a priest, to the Brazilian Archbishop
Feijo, upon this very subject, in which it was alleged that such a
relaxation of discipline would be an abandonment of the "integrity of
the church." Yet without something of the kind, it is thought that a
very extensive schism in catholic Germany will be inevitable.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Der Mensch im Spiegel der Natur_ (Man in the Mirror of Nature), is an
excellent little work for popular use, by Mr. E. A. Rossmaessler,
published at Leipzic, in two neat volumes, with wood-cuts. It sets
forth, in the most attractive form, the elementary facts of science,
they being ingeniously interwoven into a narrative of the journeys,
friendships, and adventures of the author. The work well deserves a
translation into English.

       *       *       *       *       *

A work of extreme interest to geologists is the _Gaea Norwegica_, edited
by Professor KEILHAU of the Christiana University, and published at that
place. The first volume is just completed. No country of Europe is more
important in respect of geological science than Norway, and the labors
of Professor Keilhau and his associates are of the most thorough and
solid kind. The volume contains 516 pages folio. Cost in America $4.50.

       *       *       *       *       *

A GERMAN nobleman lately wrote to the French Academy, offering to give
that body a yearly income of 10,000 francs to be spent in two prizes,
one of 5,000 francs for the best essay in defence of Catholicism, and
another of the same sum for the best essay in defence of Absolutism. The
Academy declined the offer.

       *       *       *       *       *

A SYSTEM of _Christian Ethics_ has lately been published at Regensburg,
by Dr. WERNER, Professor in the Catholic Theological Seminary of St.
Polten. The writer holds that all virtue flows from the mystic fountain
of regeneration, and is confirmed and supported solely by the sacraments
of the church.

       *       *       *       *       *

WILHELM MEINHOLD, author of the _Amber Witch_, lately the pastor of a
parish in Pomerania, is now in Berlin, preparing for admission into the
Roman Catholic Church. It is not long since he forfeited his place in
the Protestant Church by a street fight, for which, we believe, he was
imprisoned.

       *       *       *       *       *

The College of Rabbis, at Padua, offers 1000 florins ($400) as a prize
for the best descriptive and critical work on the political and
religious history of the Israelites from the first siege of Jerusalem to
the time of the latest writers of the Talmud.

       *       *       *       *       *

MRS. ROBINSON'S (_Talvi's_) History of the Colonization of America,
originally published in the German language, has been translated by Mr.
William Hazlitt, and printed in London.

       *       *       *       *       *

GEDICHTE VON JEANNE MARIE (Poems by Jeanne Marie) is the title of one of
the latest products of the German muse. The authoress is well known and
well liked by those readers of German novels who take delight in the
genius of authoresses, and think ladies can write as well as men. Jeanne
Marie has seen much, felt much, and thought almost if not quite as much
as she has seen and felt. Her poetic culture is however still defective,
and her stories are better than her lyrics. The latter lack finish and
correctness, and abound in mere conceits rather than in genuine poetic
images. Where she attempts simply to narrate an event in the ballad
style she is more successful.

       *       *       *       *       *

A BOOK of curious historical interest is now in course of publication in
Germany, the first volume of which has already made its appearance. It
is the Diary of General Patrick Gorton, who served in Russia during a
large part of the seventeenth century, where he attained the highest
military rank. He was in the habit of noting every thing that passed
around him, or with which he was connected, whether of a political,
military, or personal nature. His field of service extended throughout
the entire empire, and embraced the most important events in the reign
of Peter the Great. He participated in the suppression of the corps of
Strelitzes, made two campaigns against the Turks, was active in Peter's
reorganization of the army, &c., &c. The first volume comes down to
1678; the remainder will soon follow. As the whole was written without
any design of being communicated to the world, it is especially valuable
for its glimpses at the domestic habits of the country at that peculiar
period.

       *       *       *       *       *

GEORGE SAND'S NEW DRAMA.--George Sand's _Claudie_ has had a brilliant
fortune at Paris, where it was first performed the second week in
January. It is a drama of peasant life, in three acts, in prose. Jules
Janin says of it: "The success of Claudie is a true, sincere, and
energetic success. It has impassioned the calmest souls; it has calmed
the most agitated. This poem is a veritable festival, full of the rustic
delights of the country, of the most honorable passions of the human
heart, of the noblest sentiments. Add to this, a charm altogether new, a
charm both inspired and inspiring, in the style, which is reason and
good sense in the most delicious costume. Neither effort nor study is
there, but only that simplicity so much sought for in the most precious
passages of _Daphnis and Chloe_ translated to the Marivaux by Amyot
himself. The piece was listened to with ravishment. There was universal
praise among the audience, an inexpressible abundance of tears, of
laughter, of gayety, of sighs, of words fitly spoken, of eloquent
silence." Of the plot we take the following account from an article by
Paul de Musset: From the beginning we feel the air of the country, the
harvest, and the sun of August. Farmer Fauveau is preparing to pay the
harvesters. His employer, Dame Rose, a young and pretty widow, has just
returned from the city, where she had been for a lawsuit. Fauveau, a
shrewd but good-natured man, skilfully calls her attention to the sad
and agitated air of his son, who is no doubt in love with some one, and
with whom can it be except his charming mistress? Dame Rose admits that
Sylvain Fauveau is a handsome fellow, and a good and intelligent
workman, who would manage affairs with discretion, but he would be
jealous of his wife. Jealousy, replies the old man, is a proof of love,
and so Dame Rose begins to cherish the idea that Sylvain is in love with
her. This is not true, but the old man has said it purposely. He
suspects Sylvain of being in love with Claudie, a simple laborer in the
harvest field, without a penny, and gaining her living, with no other
relative than a grandfather of eighty, who may any day become a charge
upon her little earnings. Claudie comes in from work with her
grandfather, and they ask for their pay, the harvest being finished, and
it being six leagues to their home. They are paid, and Sylvain takes
care that they shall receive more than his father intends, and that they
shall be invited to the harvest festival. Claudie aids in the
preparations, and Sylvain, reproaching her tenderly for working after a
day so fatiguing, takes from her the severer part of the duties she has
undertaken. But she only replies in monosyllables, and does not turn her
eyes from the plates and other utensils she is engaged with. Sylvain,
troubled by this, withdraws, murmuring at her coldness and indifference.
We soon see the cause of this. A young peasant appears. It is the
handsome Denis Ronciat, the beau and cajoler of the village girls, who
utters an exclamation of surprise. A brief explanation informs us that
Denis was betrothed to Claudie when she was fifteen, that he had
deceived and abandoned her like a villain, leaving her a child, which
had since died. This explains the gloomy air of Claudie, her
indifference to the advances of Sylvain, and her almost fierce
determination never to marry. To complete his outrages, Denis boldly
avows his intention to marry Dame Rose, and offers money to her he has
betrayed, in order to bribe her to silence. The band of harvesters
appears, bearing in triumph the last sheaf, adorned with flowers and
ribbons. The grandfather, Remy, full of joy, pronounces a discourse of
rude and simple eloquence on the beneficence of Providence, and of the
sun He causes to shine, after which a collection is proposed in favor of
the orator and his granddaughter. Every one gives his offering. Dame
Rose puts in a new five-franc piece, the father Fauveau a penny, Sylvain
his watch, wishing that it were his heart, a child brings an apple, and
finally the last contributor approaches. This is Denis Ronciat: seeing
the seducer of his child, the indignation of the old man breaks out, he
rejects the offering, and falls as if struck with apoplexy, pronouncing
a sort of mysterious malediction, which freezes with horror all who hear
it. In the second act Claudie is still at the farm, her grandfather
having been sick there for two months. She has been engaged as a servant
to the farmer Fauveau, but has not given the least hope to Sylvain, who
has been constant in his attentions. Dame Rose, in the mean time, has
fallen in love with him, and is astonished that he has not declared
himself. Denis Ronciat, seeing his rival preferred, explains to the rich
widow why the lover she desires will not present himself, and from
vengeance and vanity divulges the secret of poor Claudie. Here we expect
a storm of insults and reproaches to fall on the head of the dishonored
girl. But, as in the rest of the work, the author has laid aside the
ordinary traditions, customs, and conventionalities, to draw from the
resources of her own genius. While all are preparing to expel the
domestic who has deceived every body by her air of candor and innocence,
the old man, whose reason has been wandering, listens. He recalls his
recollections, and his presence of mind returns at the critical moment.
He rises, throws his arms around his granddaughter, and naively recounts
the story of the seduction and abandonment of Claudie: how she believed
in Denis, and gave him her heart without distrust; how Denis shamefully
abused her confidence, and abandoned her, when duty obliged him more
than ever to be faithful. The old man adds that he himself had neither
reproached nor cursed her, but that he consoled her, that he took her
child upon his knees, and loved it, and despaired when it died. Finally
he demands who would presume to be severer toward his child, and feel
her wrong more keenly than he. His simplicity, magnanimity, and
goodness, overpower all who hear him. A more gentle sentiment than even
respect and pity takes possession of every heart. The devotion of the
old man raises the fallen girl, and in the admiration he inspires the
fault of Claudie is almost forgotten. But it is too late. The old man
takes the arm of his daughter, and leads her away with him. When the
curtain rises for the last scene, Dame Rose has retained Claudie and her
grandfather at the house, a riot in the village having prevented their
departure. Denis has come near being stoned to death. Finally he
consents to repair his crime by marrying her he has betrayed. He is
refused. Then Sylvain offers himself to Claudie, but she says she is
unworthy of him, and refuses obstinately. Dame Rose, Fauveau, and even
Sylvain's mother, try vainly to change her resolution. The old man at
last decides, by saying that he reads her soul, and knows that she loves
Sylvain. His authority makes her give a silent consent, and here the
curtain falls. _Claudie_ has been brought out in elegant form by a
Parisian publisher. Why should not some poet attempt a version into
English?

       *       *       *       *       *

Several new Plays and Operas have lately attracted attention in Paris.
_Paillasse_, in five acts, by MM. Dennery and Marc Fournier, produced at
the _Gaiete_ in November, was one of the greatest hits during the latter
part of 1850. The character of the conventional French mountebank,
Paillasse, the vagabond juggler of fairs and streets, was regarded as
one of the finest creations of Frederic Lemaitre, and in one of the
Christmas _revues_ a symbol of the piece passed before the eyes of the
audience as one of the types of the past year. It has since been brought
out in London with quite as much success, Madame Celeste (the quondam
star of our _Bowery_?) in the character of the wife of the mountebank.
The musical season at Paris has been signalized by the production of two
successful operas. _L'Enfante Prodigue_ of Auber is running a prosperous
career at the _Academie de Musique_. General opinion speaks highly of
the music, and the piece appears to be one of the most ingenious of M.
Scribe. At the _Opera Comique_ another opera by Scribe and Halevy, _La
Dame de Pique_, has been brought out with success. The _libretto_, taken
from a Russian tale, translated by M. Merimee, is one of the most
fantastic Scribe has constructed. It is founded on an old story about
the Russian Empress Elizabeth, who had found out the secret of
invariably winning at play by means of three cards, of which the Queen
of Spades (_la Dame de Pique_) was one.

       *       *       *       *       *

M. COMBET, a Protestant clergyman of Cevennes, has just published at
Paris in three volumes a work of great interest and value, under the
title of _Histoire de France sous le regne de Henry III. par Mazerai_.
It comprises a full, conscientious and philosophic account of the French
religious civil wars, from the beginning of the Reformation down to the
establishment of religious liberty under the Consulate. To the original
work of Mazerai, M. Combet has prefixed an elaborate introduction, while
he has added in the form of an appendix whatever relates to more recent
matters, with copious notes and commentaries. The whole constitutes an
invaluable contribution to the history of the modern religious movement.

       *       *       *       *       *

Some new contributions to the history of labor have just appeared at
Paris. The most important is the _Histoire de la Classe ouvriere depuis
l'esclave jusqu'au Proletaire de nos Jours_, by M. Robert (du Var), four
volumes. Less general and comprehensive in its aim is _Le Livre d'Or des
Metiers, Histoire des Corporations ouvrieres_, by Paul Lacroix and Ferd.
Serre, six volumes. Both these books are written without an intention to
establish any special theory or system.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE REV. G. R. GLEIG, author of _The Subaltern's Furlough, Saratoga_,
&c., is now Inspector-General of Military Schools, and lives in London.

       *       *       *       *       *

LEOPOLD RANKE, whose "Lives of the Popes of Rome" is familiar to
American readers, has lately discovered in the National Library at Paris
an important long lost MS., by the Cardinal Richelieu. In the MS.
memoirs of the Cardinal, deposited at the Office for Foreign Affairs, an
imperfection has existed, in the total absence of a series of leaves
from the most interesting part of the collection. These appear to have
been found accidentally, by M. Ranke, in a bundle of papers, gathered
from some of the old mansions in Saint Germains. It has been a disputed
question whether Richelieu was the real author of the works under his
name; whether he availed himself of the literary abilities of others,
contributing no more from his own resources than here and there an
observation or a fact. These disputes have had reference to the Memoirs,
the Testament, and the _Histoire de la Mere et du Fils_; for there seems
to be good reason for believing that the books published previous to his
political elevation, such as the _De la Perfection du Chretien_, the
theological tracts, and his political treatise of 1614, were written by
him with no more than the ordinary aids of authorship. It is possible
that the fragment, discovered by M. Ranke, may afford additional
evidence on this curious subject, which was lately debated in the
Academy.

       *       *       *       *       *

Of _bad spelling_ George Sand writes, _apropos_ of some newspaper
controversy in Paris, that so far from bad spelling being a proof of
want of capacity, she has a letter of Jean Jacques Rousseau, in which
there are ten faults of spelling in three lines. Moreover, she assures
us, that she herself frequently makes a _lapsus pennae_ for which a
school-boy would be chastised.

       *       *       *       *       *

LOLA MONTES has made her _debut_ in the literary arena, by the
publication in the _feuilleton_ of a daily newspaper of the first
portion of what she calls her "Memoirs:" a _quasi_-impertinent epistle
to the ex-king of Bavaria. Since, the publication has been suspended. It
promised merely scandal, without wit.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE COUNT DE MONTALEMBERT has been elected a member of the French
Academy, in place of M. Droz. The election gives little satisfaction
outside the Institute; but the Count is not without eminence as a man of
letters. Some of his religious tracts are written with great eloquence
and pungency.

       *       *       *       *       *

The seventh and last volume of the _Glossarium Mediae et Infimae
Latinitatis_ has just been published by the Didots at Paris. It is a
perfect repertory of information as to the middle ages, and cannot be
dispensed with by any one who aims to study the institutions, history,
and monuments of that period.

       *       *       *       *       *

A complete grammar of the Coptic language has been brought out at
Berlin, by Professor SCHWARTZE.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE ITALIAN REVOLUTION.--Books relating to the late revolution in Italy
and the events which preceded it are now published in that country in
considerable numbers. One by Farini, _Lo Stato Romano dall' anno 1815
all' anno 1850_, not yet completed, only two volumes having been
published, will be found valuable to the future historian. Its author is
a constitutionalist, and treats the reign of Pius IX. strictly from that
stand-point. His book must therefore be read with discretion. With the
third volume, which will soon appear, will be issued a second edition of
the first two volumes. Marquis F. A. Gualtiero of Orvieto has just
brought out at Florence the first volume of a large work, _Gli Ultimenti
Rivolgimenti Italiani, Memorie Storiche con Documenti Inediti_. This is
excellent in respect to the pre-revolutionary events, giving a great
variety of information as to persons as well as circumstances, in
considerable detail. It is to be followed by an account of the
revolution itself, treated of course in the same manner. It hardly need
be said that the Marquis must fail to do justice to Mazzini and the
republicans. An elaborate and able article reviewing the whole question
has lately appeared in the _Rivista Italiana_, from the pen of Signor
Berti. One of the best books yet produced on the revolutionary side is
General Pepe's _Guerres d'Italie_.

       *       *       *       *       *

We noticed last month the anniversary meeting of the Archaeological
Institute at Rome. The same society has just published its Annals, or
Annual Memoirs, for 1850, a volume of great value and interest. It
contains Lanza's report on the excavations at Salona, continued down to
the year 1848. An essay is contributed by Canina upon the three temples
of Pietas, Spes, and Juno Sospita, on whose ruins is built the church of
San Nicola _in carcere_, new remains of the temples having been
discovered in 1848. The statue of Apoxyomenos, found a year since at
Trastavere, as well as the series of Amazons _in relievo_ now in the
British Museum, which Emil Braun takes to be relics of the famous
Mausoleum, are treated at length. A little triangular candelabra, found
in the Baths of Titus, is made interesting from the relation of the
figures upon it to the worship of Apollo. The series of Etruscan
frescoes has been greatly enriched by the pictures in two tombs, one of
which was discovered in 1846 by A. Francois, while the other was then
for the first time copied and rescued from entire oblivion. These
pictures, which, like most monumental works, represent funeral feasts
and games, according to Braun, are valuable for a mass of details
relating to antique athletic art, which were before unknown. A Pompeiian
fresco, representing the twelve gods, hitherto little esteemed, is made
the subject of a profound investigation by E. Gerhard. Among the essays
on vases, a long one by Welcker deserves especial mention. It discusses
all the known representations of the Death of Troilus. The sphere of
numismatics is filled by a long essay by Cavedoni on the Roman coins of
the time of Augustus. There are also many other articles of no less
interest to scholars, antiquaries, and artists.

       *       *       *       *       *

M. ANTOINE D'ABBADIE received not long ago from President Bonaparte, the
decoration of the Legion of Honor, for alleged geographical discoveries
in Africa. An "Inquiry" into M. Abbadie's journey has just appeared in
London, from the hand of Dr. Charles T. Beke, and it is not impossible
that the traveller will turn out a Damburger or a Hunter. Dr. Beke is an
Englishman; D'Abbadie, an Irishman by birth, but a Frenchman by name,
education and allegiance. The latter professes to have been the first
European who ever put foot in the African Kingdom of Kaffa; the former
gives reasons for doubting his statements entirely, and does not believe
the Frenchman has even been in the country he describes at all.

       *       *       *       *       *

The great oriental scholar Monsignore MOLSA has been appointed to the
office of Chief Guardian of the Vatican Library, in the room of M.
Laureani, whose melancholy death occurred a few months ago; and the
Abate Martinucci has been nominated to fill the office of sub-chief,
which is one of very considerable importance, and has hitherto been
filled by some of the most eminent of Italian scholars.

       *       *       *       *       *

We are to have from Paris a hitherto unpublished ode of PIRON, the
well-known author of _La Metromanie_. It is entitled _Les Confessions de
mon Oreiller_, (Confessions of my Pillow,) and is considered by
connoisseurs to be decidedly authentic. It is signed and headed thus:
"To be given to the public a hundred years after my death."

       *       *       *       *       *

The vacancy occasioned by the death of M. ALBAN DE VILLENEUVE-BARGEMONT,
in the list of members of the French Academy of Moral and Political
Sciences, has been filled by the election of M. LOUIS REYBAUD, the
author of _Jerome Paturot_, and husband of Madame Reybaud, who wrote the
charming novels of _Le Cadet de Calabriere_, _Helena_, &c.

       *       *       *       *       *

The sons of Rossi, the distinguished economist, and less distinguished
minister of Pius IX., in which capacity he was assassinated, have
published the third volume of his _Cours d'Economie Politique_. It
treats of the distribution of wealth, and is marked by the same ability
and tendencies as the volumes which preceded it, which were upon the
production of riches.

       *       *       *       *       *

H. BAILLIERE, the eminent publisher, of Paris, has established a branch
of his house at 169 Fulton street, New-York, where American scholars may
obtain all the best scientific literature of the time in suitable
editions and at reasonable prices.

       *       *       *       *       *

Of MR. JAMES BAILEY, and the blasphemous rant and fustian and crude
speculation which make up his poem of "Festus," which has had such
extraordinary popularity among our transcendentalists, and which
Shakspeare Hudson so excellently well reviewed in the _Whig Review_ a
year or two ago, we think a correspondent of _The Tribune_ speaks justly
in the following extract from a letter dated at Nottingham, in England:

"Apropos of Nottingham, I have seen Bailey, the author of 'Festus.' His
father is proprietor of the _Nottingham Mercury_, and the editorial
department rests with him. He is a heavy, thick set sort of man; of a
stature below the middle size; complexion dark; and, in years about
eight and thirty. His physiognomy would be clownish in expression, if
his eyes did not redeem his other features. He spoke of 'Festus,' and of
its fame in America, of which he seemed very proud. In England, it has
only reached the third edition, while eight or nine have been published
in the States. You know my opinion of the work. It is as far from being
a great poem as the Thames, compared with the Mississippi or the Ohio,
is from being a great river. Anxiously, anxiously have I sought one
striking original idea in the whole poem (appalling in its length), but
to no purpose. The transcendental literature of Germany absorbs all
that, at first glance, arrests the attention. Without learning,
imagination, or the attraction of a beautiful metre (like that of
Tennyson's 'Princess'), I am at a loss to know what has given this poem
its notoriety. Not its daring speculation, surely, for it is but a timid
compromise between Orthodoxy and Universalism."

       *       *       *       *       *

H. F. CLINTON has published in London the concluding volume of his
_Fasti Romani_: the civil and literary chronology of Rome and
Constantinople from the death of Augustus to the death of Heraclius. The
first volume, containing the chronological tables, was published in
1845, and formed a continuation of the _Fasti Hellenici_, by the same
author. It came down to the death of Justin II., A. D. 578. The present
volume continues the tables from the latter date to the death of
Heraclius, A. D. 641; but the greater part of it consists of a series of
learned dissertations on various points connected with the civil and
literary history of the Roman and Byzantine empires.

       *       *       *       *       *

CAPTAIN J. D. CUNNINGHAM, author of the "History of the Sikhs," who was
dismissed from his political situation at Bhopal, by orders of the Court
of Directors, for having published an official correspondence, without
the permission of his immediate superiors, has been recalled to public
employment by the Governor-General of India, Lord Dalhousie having just
appointed him general superintending engineer in the north-western
provinces.

       *       *       *       *       *

MR. HEPWORTH DIXON, author of "Howard and the Prison-World of Europe,"
has published in London a Life of William Penn, which will be
republished immediately by Lea & Blanchard of Philadelphia.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE LITERARY WOMEN of England were never so active as now. Mrs. Crowe
has commenced in _The Palladium_ magazine a new novel entitled _Estelle
Silvestre_. Miss Anne G. Greene has published the third volume of her
_Lives of the Princesses of England_; Mrs. David Ogilvy, _Traditions of
Tuscany_; Mrs. Gordon, _Musgrave, a Story of Gilsland Spa_; Maria de la
Vaye, _Eugenie, the Young Laundress of the Bastille_; Mrs. Norton, a new
poem; the author of "Olivia," _Sir Philip Hetherington_; Mrs. Ward,
_Helen Charteris, or Sayings and Doings in a Cathedral Town_; Mrs.
Hubbach, niece of the celebrated Miss Austen, _The Wife's Sister, or the
Forbidden Marriage_; Mrs. Jameson, _Legends of the Madonna_, forming the
conclusion of her series illustrating Sacred and Legendary Art; the
authoress of "Mary Powell" has commenced in _Sharpe's Magazine_ a new
work of the same description, under the title of _The Household of Sir
Thomas More_.

       *       *       *       *       *

MISS MARTINEAU began on the first of February, a serial work under the
title of "Half a Century of the British Empire; a History of the Kingdom
and the People, from 1800 to 1850." It will be in six volumes, and it is
intended to present, in handsome octavos at a rate of extraordinary
cheapness, a connected narrative of the most important era in the
history of the modern world. The work of Macaulay professes to be "the
history of England from the accession of King James the Second down to
the time which is within the memory of men still living." "Half a
Century of the British Empire," will chiefly deal with events and states
of society during a period in which many of our contemporaries have
lived and acted.

       *       *       *       *       *

The correspondence of ROBERT SUTTON, Lord LEXINGTON, British Minister at
Vienna in 1694, has just been published by Murray in London, having
recently been discovered in the library of the Suttons, at Kilham. There
is not much absolute value in their contents, historically speaking; but
the letters supply several striking and some amusing illustrations of
characters already known in history, and are a contribution really
important to the history of manners and society at the seventeenth
century. The non-official letters are in this respect most curious and
entertaining.

       *       *       *       *       *

Pensions of L100 a year each have been granted in England to Mrs.
Belzoni, the aged widow of the celebrated traveller; and to Mr. Poole,
the author of _Paul Pry_, and of many contributions to periodical
literature, who is a great sufferer from bodily infirmities.

       *       *       *       *       *

CAPTAIN MEDWIN, whose book about Byron was once read by every body, and
who for some time resided in this country, turns up in Holland, after an
oblivion of several years. He contributes to the last number of the New
Monthly an article entitled, _Hawking at Loo_.

       *       *       *       *       *

JOHN CLARE, the peasant poet, sometimes called the "rural Burns," is now
in the Lunatic Asylum at Northampton. There is much sweetness in some of
poor Clare's verses, of which four volumes appeared many years ago. We
believe he was among the proteges of Southey. His complaints to visitors
of the madhouse are commonly of the injustice done to him by the public
in not recognizing him, instead of Scott and Byron, as the author of
"Marmion" and "Don Juan," and in refusing him the honor of having gained
the battle of Waterloo. Clare was the writer, though not generally known
as such, of the lines, "Here we meet too soon to part"--which, set to
one of Rossini's most beautiful airs, were some time exceedingly
popular.

       *       *       *       *       *

A new volume of the writings of De Quincey has just been published by
Ticknor, Reed & Fields, of Boston. It contains, with other admirable
papers, those "On the Knocking at the Gate, in Macbeth," "Murder
considered as one of the Fine Arts," "Joan of Arc," and "Dinners, Real
and Reputed." These works of one of the greatest of living authors, have
never before been collected, and the publishers confer a most acceptable
benefit by their edition of them. We have from the same house a copy of
the best English version of "Faust," that of Hayward.

       *       *       *       *       *

SIR EDWARD BULWER LYTTON is publishing a complete collection of his
Poems and Dramas. This edition will include several pieces not hitherto
published, and those that have appeared before will receive the author's
last corrections and revision. Each volume will be illustrated with an
appropriate vignette title; and the first will contain, in addition, a
portrait, from a painting by Maclise.

       *       *       *       *       *

One of the most delightful books in natural history that we have ever
seen is "Episodes of Insect Life," recently published in England, and
now in the press of Mr. Redfield, in this city. It is divided into three
"scenes," representing spring, summer, and autumn, and is profusely and
skilfully illustrated. It is even more entertaining than Lord Brougham's
Dialogues on Instinct, which we had regarded as the pleasantest work in
such studies.

       *       *       *       *       *

DR. ACHILLI, whose imprisonment in the Roman Inquisition is a familiar
story, has published "Dealings with the Inquisition, or Papal Rome, her
Priests and her Jesuits; with Important Disclosures." It is an
autobiography.

       *       *       *       *       *

SAMUEL BAILEY, whose "Essays on the Pursuit of Truth and on the Progress
of Knowledge," "Essays on the Formation and Publication of Opinions,"
&c., have been largely read in this country, has just published a volume
entitled, "The Theory of Reasoning, with Comments on the Principal
Points of Scholastic Logic."

       *       *       *       *       *

MAJOR POUSSIN'S "United States, their Power and Progress," a translation
of _La Puissance Americaine_, by Edmund L. Du Barry, U. S. N., has been
published in a large octavo of about five hundred pages, by Lippencott,
Grambo, & Co., of Philadelphia. We take the opportunity to give some
account of the author.

Guillaume Tell Poussin was born in the autumn of the year 1796 in the
department of the Seine and Oise, in France. His father was a painter of
some celebrity, who has left many fine works in the galleries of
Versailles and Rouen. Introduced, while a child, to the favor of
Napoleon, it was ordered by a special decree that, as a descendant of
the great Nicholas Poussin, whose works are among the chief glories of
French art, William Tell Poussin should be educated at the imperial
school of Rouen. There he spent seven years, and passed his examination
for admission to the Polytechnic school. He entered this national
academy of engineering, and in 1814, while yet a youth, distinguished
himself by his patriotic spirit, which prompted him to join his comrades
in the defence of the walls of Paris against an invading enemy. He was
wounded at the village of Aubervilliers, in an attack against the
combined force of British and Russian troops who occupied that position;
and after the surrender of Paris his feelings were so excited that he
could not bring himself to acts of submission to the Bourbon family, but
was arrested on account of his opinions, and released only on the
intervention of powerful friends. He soon embarked for America, and
arrived at New-York in November, 1815, having for recommendation his
ardent desire to be useful and a decided love of liberty. After a short
residence in New-York he proceeded to Philadelphia, where he expected to
meet with some encouragement in his profession as an engineer. Here he
became acquainted with Mr. Fairman, the engraver, and worked for him a
few months with advantage, boarding meanwhile at a French house, into
which the landlady received him in consideration of the devotion of his
leisure to the instruction of her children. The next spring he removed
to Washington, where he had heard that he could be profitably employed
in the rebuilding of the capitol, which the British army had destroyed
in the late war. He now worked as an architect for about a year, when,
several leading senators and representatives having become acquainted
with him, and, taking a particular interest in him for his earnest and
manly character and the remarkable abilities he had evinced as an
engineer, in the incidental opportunities presented by his employment as
an architect, they signed a petition to President Madison for his
admission to the corps of Topographical Engineers, which was then to be
organized, and he was at once transferred to the United States Army. A
short time after, General Bernard, whom Mr. Crawford, the American
Minister at Paris, had engaged to be the chief of the Topographical
Engineers, arrived in Washington, and assuming his office proceeded to
the necessary preparations for that survey of the physical resources of
our territory for national defence, and for tracing the lines required
to form a complete base of operations in time of war, on the assailable
portions of our frontier, for which the service had been instituted.
Before leaving France, General Bernard had received especial
recommendations from the friends of young Poussin to look after his
interests, and when they met, therefore, their acquaintance was made on
the most intimate and agreeable terms on both sides. Upon the
application of General Bernard to the Secretary of War, Poussin was
attached to his person as an aid-de-camp, and left Washington with him
for a military reconnaissance of the coast on the Gulf of Mexico, and of
the delta of the Mississippi. They spent a year and a half upon their
important duties, in New Orleans and its vicinity, regardless of the
dangers of that climate, and in 1817 returned to the seat of government
and submitted to the President a particular and elaborate memoir of
their operations. It was upon this first report, presented by the
Executive, on the Military Defences of the United States,--a report
drawn up in a very large degree by the hand of M. Poussin, and
illustrated throughout with his discovery and suggestion,--that
Congress, by an almost unanimous vote, authorized the erection of the
great line of our military defences, adopting the recommendations of the
commissioner without even the slightest alteration. The Board of
Military Engineers entered subsequently on the yearly execution of their
important duty of examining the coast previous to determining the actual
sites and descriptions of the works of defence which they afterwards
delineated. The young topographical engineer continued in his arduous
scientific labors, and thus contributed largely in the perfecting of
that great national scheme. It was in these military operations, and
afterwards in the surveys for roads and canals, which, under the
supervision of a Board of Internal Improvements, where confided to a
portion of the same officers, assisted by civil engineers, that Poussin
rendered himself so efficient as a practical and scientific surveyor,
and became so perfectly familiar with all the internal resources of our
extensive country, which he had thus most remarkable opportunities to
study and appreciate, by crossing it in all directions, and, in fact, by
visiting every state, and by following up and down every valley and
river of the eastern half of the continent. Few men have had such
occasion of studying _de visu_ the extent and resources of the republic;
and the intelligent readers of the volume before us will acknowledge,
that few persons have shown themselves more conversant with its
astonishing advancement. His first publication was a description of the
works to which he had contributed, under the title of "A History of the
Internal Improvements of the United States;" his second, an account of
all the railroads in this country, which had considerable influence in
developing in Europe a disposition toward our policy in this respect,
and entitles Major Poussin to the gratitude of all lovers of rapid and
safe communication. It was reproduced in Belgium and Germany, and has
long been a textbook upon its subject in those countries, as well as in
France. His third work was the one now translated, _La Puissance
Americaine_, in which he has displayed, most emphatically, his
admiration of our institutions, and offered them as examples to
communities aspiring after rational liberty. It may be said of it, that
it is the American system rendered popular by practical and convincing
illustrations.

Major Poussin returned to France early in 1832, in the hope to cooeperate
in rendering popular in his own country some of the political
institutions of the United States, to which he always attributed our
great prosperity; but he was not fortunate enough to be admitted to
active official life. He employed himself in his profession of surveyor,
and superintended several important public works, and frequently in
pamphlets and in contributions to the journals, labored for the
dissemination of American ideas. At last, when the Revolution of
February, 1848, broke out, he was chosen, with the greatest unanimity by
the Provisional Government, to be the Representative of Republican
France near the Government of the United States. It was deemed the
highest compliment of which France was capable, that she sent as her
minister the citizen most conversant with our affairs, and most eminent
for admiration of our institutions. His arrival in this country, and the
misunderstanding with the cabinet at Washington, which resulted in his
recall by President Bonaparte, cannot have been forgotten by the
observant reader. We believe that few who have carefully studied the
conduct of Major Poussin in that affair, will be disposed, in the
slightest degree, to censure him, while the entire history will readily
be consigned to oblivion by the American who is in any degree sensitive
upon the subject of our national honor.

       *       *       *       *       *

GUILLAUMIN ET CIE, the well known Parisian publishers, are about to add
to their _Collection des Principaux Economistes_ several American works
in this department. One volume, at least, will be devoted to Henry C.
Carey's masterly compositions, with a preface and commentaries; another
volume will be given to the Free Trade party, and will embrace the best
things of Mr. Walker, Mr. Raguet, Mr. Cardozo, Henry Middleton, Dr.
Wayland, &c.; and essays by Mr. Phillips, Horace Greeley, and other
Protectionists, will probably constitute another. The _Collection_ now
embraces Quesnay, Turgot, Dupont Nemours, Le Tronne, the Says, Galliani,
de Montyon, Condillac, Lavoisier, Adam Smith, Hume, Ricardo, Malthus,
Bentham, and a dozen more. The only American name in the list is that of
Franklin quoted in the first volume of the _Melanges_, edited by Daire
and Molinari.

       *       *       *       *       *

JOSEPH GALES, of the _National Intelligencer_, has lately published
several leading articles of such compactness and completeness, such
weight and dignity, as distinguish only the greatest compositions in
philosophy and upon affairs. The intellectual force acting through the
press of this country is habitually underrated. There are a dozen
journals here which may be advantageously compared with any in Europe,
with the single exception of the _Times_. It would perhaps seem
invidious to point them out, from the greater number that are conducted
with ability and energy; but it will not be objected by any one who has
the right to express an opinion in the case, if we say that Mr. Gales is
of the first rank of public men who have ever influenced or illustrated
the course of events by written eloquence or argument. The leading
articles from his hand which in the last twenty-five years have appeared
in the National Intelligencer, would fill many volumes; and if collected
and so submitted to one view, they would astonish by their variety, by
the extraordinary resources of information which they evince, by their
soundness of logic, elevation of sentiment, and uniform adaptation to
their several purposes. If they lack the pungent wit, and fiery energy
of phrase, and adroitly venomous spirit of "Junius," they have, with
their nobler calmness and uniform candor, a far wider sweep, a subtler
apprehension of consequences, and a more statesmanlike aim and capacity.
The diction of "Junius" was calculated to arrest attention, by its
glitter and strength, and by its freshness; for it was in style, after
all, that he was most creative, and since his style has by imitation
become familiar, it is for the mystery of their authorship only that his
works have continued eminence. As materials for history, and as
suggestive guides of policy, we have in American literature very few
works so important as the leading articles of Joseph Gales would
constitute, fitly arranged, and illustrated by such notes as he could
readily furnish, necessary now on account of the time since some of them
were originally printed.

       *       *       *       *       *

The REV. HENRY T. CHEEVER'S "Whale and his Captors," (published last
year by the Harpers,) has been reprinted in London under the title of
"The Whaleman's Adventures in the Northern Ocean," with a highly and
justly commendatory introduction by the Rev. W. Scoresby, D.D. F.R.S. We
have great pleasure in recording evidences of the popularity of such
works as Mr. Cheever's. They have a manly as well as a Christian spirit,
and are needed to counteract the influences of the many infidel books in
which the effects of the Christian civilization in the Island World are
systematically misrepresented. We learn that Mr. Cheever is now engaged
upon "The Autobiography of Captain Obadiah Conger," who was fifty years
a mariner from the port of New-York. He is editing the MS. of the
deceased sailor for the Harpers.

       *       *       *       *       *

MR. JOB R. TYSON, whose careful researches respecting the colonial
history of Pennsylvania have illustrated his abilities and his
predilections in this line, is about to proceed to Europe, for the
consultation of certain documents connected with the subject,
preparatory to the publication of his "History of the American
Colonies," a work in which, doubtless, he will not be liable to the
reproach of histories written by New-Englanders, that they exaggerate
the virtues and the influence of the Puritans. Mr. Tyson is of the best
stock of the Philadelphia Quakers, and the traditional fame of his party
will not suffer in his hands.

       *       *       *       *       *

MR. HENRY JAMES, the author of "Moralism and Christianity," must
certainly be regarded by all who come into his fit audience as one of
the greatest living masters of metaphysics. Mr. James has never been
mentioned in the _North American Review_; but then, that peculiarly
national work has not in all its seventy volumes an article upon
Jonathan Edwards, whom Robert Hall, Dr. Chalmers, Dugald Stuart, Sir
James Mackintosh, Kant, Cousin, and a hundred others scarcely less
famous, have regarded as the chief glory in our intellectual firmament;
it has never let its light shine upon the pages of Legare; it has
preserved the most profound silence respecting Henry Carey, William R.
Williams, and Addison Alexander; so that it must not be considered
altogether conclusive as to Mr. James's merits that he has not had the
seal of the _North American's_ approval. We regard him as one of the
great metaphysicians of the time, not because, like Comte, he has
evolved with irresistible power and majestic order any grand and
complete system, but because he has brought to the discussion of the few
questions he has attempted, so independent a spirit, so pure a method,
such expansive humanity, and such ample resources of learning, as
separately claim admiration, and combined, constitute a teacher of the
most dignified rank, who can and will influence the world. We do not
altogether agree with Mr. James; on the contrary, we have been regarded
as particularly grim in our conservatism; but we are none the less
sensible of Mr. James's surpassing merits as a writer upon the
philosophy of society. We dedicate this paragraph to him on account of
the series of lectures he has just delivered in New-York, upon "The
Symbolism of Property," "Democracy and its Issues," "The Harmony of
Nature and Revelation," "The Past and Future Churches," &c. We
understand that these splendid dissertations will be given to the public
in the more acceptable form of a volume. The popular lecture is not a
suitable medium for such discussions, or certainly not for such
thinking: one of Mr. James's sentences, diluted to the lecture standard,
would serve for an entire discourse, which by those who should
understand it, would be deemed of a singularly compact body, as compared
with the average of such performances.

       *       *       *       *       *

PROFESSOR TORREY, of the University of Vermont, is one of the few
contemporary scholars, whose names are likely to survive with those of
the great teachers of past ages. He has translated Schilling's Discourse
on Fine Arts, and other shorter compositions from the German; but his
chief labor in this way is, a most laborious and admirably executed
version of Neander's History of the Christian Religion and Church,
published in Boston, and now being republished in London, by Bonn, with
Notes, &c., by the Rev. A. T. W. Morison, of Trinity College, Cambridge.

Neander has sometimes been called, but with scarcely sufficient reason,
the Niebuhr of ecclesiastical history. The only point in which he
resembles the historian of Rome, is in that vast range of complete
erudition which makes the Past in its minutest details as familiar as
the Present, which is never content with derivative information, but
traces back every tributary of the great stream of History to its
remotest accessible source. In this respect the two eminent historians
were alike, but with this point of resemblance the similarity ends.
Neander is entirely free from that necessity under which Niebuhr
labored, of regarding every recorded aggregate of facts as a mass of
error which the modern philosophy of history was either to decompose
into a myth, or reconstruct into a new form more consistent with
preconceived theory.

       *       *       *       *       *

The Works of JOHN C. CALHOUN will soon, through the wise munificence of
the state of South Carolina, be accessible by the students of political
philosophy and history in a complete and suitable edition, with such
memoirs as are necessary for their illustration, and for the
satisfaction of the natural curiosity respecting their illustrious
author. The first volume will comprise Mr. Calhoun's elaborate
_Disquisition on Government, and a Discourse on the Constitution and
Government of the United States_, in which are displayed in a systematic
manner the author's opinions upon the whole subject of the philosophy of
government. These treatises were begun many years ago, and though they
had not received the ultimate revision which was intended, they are very
complete, and by the careful and judicious editing of Mr. Cralle, his
intimate friend and confidential secretary, will perhaps appear as
perfect in all their parts as if re-written by Mr. Calhoun himself.
These are now nearly stereotyped; and to correct some misapprehensions
which seem to prevail in South Carolina, we state that only the
stereotype plates are made in New-York, there being no foundries for
stereotyping in Charleston, where the book will be printed and
published. For this purpose the Legislature has appropriated $10,000,
which will meet the expenses for fifteen thousand copies of the first
volume, all but five hundred of which, printed on large paper, for
public libraries, will be sold for the benefit of Mr. Calhoun's family.
Another volume will contain Mr. Calhoun's official papers, and another
his Letters upon Public Affairs. This, we think, will be the most
interesting of the series. Mr. Calhoun wrote always with sincerity and
frankness, and his communications to his friends contain, much more than
his speeches and state papers, the exhibitions of his feeling, his
regrets, fears, expectations, and ambitions. His speeches will probably
make three volumes; the collection formerly printed by the Harpers did
not embrace half of them; many of them have never been printed at all,
but (particularly some of his most elaborate performances previous to
1817) exist in carefully prepared manuscript reports. All these speeches
will be revised and illustrated by Mr. Cralle: and the series will be
completed with the memoirs of the great senator, for which that
gentleman has the most ample and interesting materials.

       *       *       *       *       *

ARCHBISHOP WHATELEY'S very ingenious _Historical Doubts Respecting
Napoleon Bonaparte_, is the cleverest book of the kind yet written, not
excepting the high church pamphlet treating of the Archbishop's own
existence in the same way. But the idea was not original with Whateley:
Mr. William Biglow of Boston wrote half a century ago, _The Age of
Freedom, being an Investigation of Good and Bad Government, in Imitation
of Mr. Paine's Age of Reason_, and intended, by a similar style of
argument respecting the Discovery of America, &c., to expose that
infidel's sophistries. We perceive that the _Life of Jesus_, by Dr.
Strauss, has been met by another such performance in England, under the
title of _Historical Certainties respecting the Early History of
America, developed in a Critical Examination of the Book of the
Chronicles of the Land of Ecnarf; By the Rev. Aristarchus Newlight,
Doctor of Philosophy of the University of Giessen, Corresponding Member
of the Theophilanthropic and Pantisocratical Societies of Leipsig, late
Professor of all Religions in several distinguished Academies at Home
and Abroad, &c_. The author very satisfactorily disposes of the events
between the first French Revolution and the Battle of Waterloo, by
putting them through the "mythic" circle invented by Dr. Strauss. The
joke is carried out with remarkable ingenuity, and with the most
whimsical resources of learning. The good doctor finds, _a la Strauss, a
nucleus_, for here and there a great tradition, but remorselessly wipes
out as altogether incredible many of the most striking and familiar
facts in modern history.

       *       *       *       *       *

Of Mr. SCHOOLCRAFT'S great work, which we have heretofore announced, the
first part has just appeared from the press of Lippencott, Grambo & Co.,
in the most splendid quarto volume that has yet been printed in America.
We shall take an early opportunity to do justice to this truly national
performance and to its author.

       *       *       *       *       *

DR. ROBERT KNOX--whose book of infidel rigmarole, _The Races of Men_,
was lately reprinted by an American house which was never before and we
trust will never again be guilty of such an indiscretion,--we understand
is coming to New-York to lecture upon Ethnology. He has the "gift" of
talking, and is said to have been popular as a demonstrator in anatomy;
but we think it will be best for him to remain a while longer in
England; the sham science of which his last book is a specimen is no
longer, we believe, _profitable_ in this country. The last _Princeton
Review_ says of _The Races of Men_:

     "This book is fairly beneath argument or criticism. It is a
     curious medley of vanity, ignorance, malice, and fanaticism. At
     first it provoked our indignation, by the boldness and
     effrontery of its pretensions; but their very extravagance soon
     began to render them comical. It claims to originate views
     which are to overturn 'long received doctrines, national
     prejudices, stereotyped delusions,' &c., while any tolerable
     scholar in this department is perfectly familiar with them all
     in the works of Virey, Courtet, Bory de St. Vincent, Edwards,
     La Marck, Quetelet, &c. It has not the slightest claim to
     originality, except for the ridiculous ingenuity, with which it
     carries out the more cautious follies of these infidel
     philosophers, into the most glaring absurdities; and sets their
     ingenious physiological speculations, in broad contradiction to
     the most authentic and unquestioned truths of history. We
     certainly should not have noticed this thing at all, but for
     two reasons. In the first place, this subject is now rendered
     so interesting by the important bearings of modern ethnological
     researches, that some of our readers might be cheated by the
     mere title, and by newspaper puffs, out of the market price for
     the book; and in the second place, we wish to express our
     surprise and lift up our remonstrance against such issues from
     a quarter so respectable as that which has given this reprint
     to the American public. Whatever may be the social or
     scientific standing of any influential publishing house, we
     must say, that in our judgment they merit a deliberate rebuke
     from the true science of the country, for reprinting so crude
     and wretched a performance, to say nothing of the low malignity
     which it vents against the Christian sentiment and enterprise
     of an age like the present,--and even against men, who stand in
     the front ranks of science, because they happen to believe that
     the scriptures are entitled to some respect, as authentic
     records; or that other races of men are capable of being
     Christianized, beside the Teutonic. Cuvier was an ignorant and
     stubborn dogmatist, whose era is now past for ever. Buckland
     was an ingenious priest and Jesuit; and even Newton's brain was
     turned by chronology."

       *       *       *       *       *

MR. BOKER'S tragedy of Colaynos, has just been produced at the
Walnut-st. Theatre in Philadelphia, and extremely well received. It had
indeed a successful run. The Betrothal, which in our last we omitted to
notice, is, we understand, to be brought out under the auspices of
Charles Kean, in London. Mr. B. has yet another comedy quite finished,
which will soon be performed in New-York.

       *       *       *       *       *

A LETTER purporting to be by General WASHINGTON, and bearing date
Cambridge, June 24, 1776, was read before the New-Jersey Historical
Society a few weeks ago; the thanks of the Society were voted to Mr.
Chetwood for it; and the _Literary World_ characterizes it as
"interesting," "admirable," &c. The _Literary World_ does not, we
believe, pretend to be an authority in such matters, but that a
"historical society" should receive such a gross imposition is somewhat
surprising. The letter is as much a forgery and imposture as the
"exceedingly interesting letter from General Washington to his wife,"
published a few months ago in the _Day Book_. Without going into any
further statement or argument on this subject, it may be sufficient to
remark, that Washington was not within two hundred miles of Cambridge on
the 24th of June, 1776.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE REV. HENRY W. DUCACHET, D.D., the learned rector of St. Stephen's,
in Philadelphia, has been several years engaged upon a Dictionary of the
Church, which is now nearly ready for publication. Such a work is
properly but a system and history of doctrine and ritual, in a form
suited for the readiest consultation, and it demands, therefore, for its
successful accomplishment, the highest and rarest faculties and
acquisitions. Dr. Ducachet possesses in a very eminent degree, not only
the requisite knowledge and judgment, but he has a certain temperament
and felicity, with a love of and skill in dialectics, which promise even
to the articles for a dictionary, from his hand, the utmost raciness and
attractive interest. We understand this work will be very complete and
voluminous.

       *       *       *       *       *

The Poems of "Edith May," the finest artist among the literary women of
this country, are to be published in a very beautiful edition next
summer by E. H. Butler of Philadelphia.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE AMERICAN PHILOSOPHICAL SOCIETY, which on account of some unfortunate
investments of its capital, has for several years been compelled to
suspend its publications, is now, we are gratified to be informed, again
in a good financial condition, and new volumes of its important
Transactions are in the press.

       *       *       *       *       *

PROFESSOR HOWS, during the last month, has given a very interesting
series of readings from Shakspeare, in which he has displayed not only
the finest capacity for histrionic effect, but a critical sagacity, and
a thorough knowledge of the greatest of the poets, which justify his own
reputation.

       *       *       *       *       *

MR. REDFIELD has in press "The Celestial Telegraph, or Secrets of the
Life to Come, revealed through Magnetism, by M. Cahagnet," a book of the
class of Mrs. Crowe's "Night Side of Nature;" and "The Volcano Diggings,
a Tale of California Law, by a member of the Bar."

       *       *       *       *       *

We believe it is about six years since the Rev. WILLIAM W. LORD, then a
resident graduate at Princeton College, published the volume of poems by
which he was introduced to the literary world. That book had various and
striking merits, and though it had many defects in an artistic point of
view, upon the whole it illustrated a just apprehension of the poetic
principle, and such capacities for execution as justified the sanguine
hopes it occasioned among his friends of his future eminence in the
highest and finest of the arts. From that time until the present, Mr.
Lord has not appeared as an author; but the leisure that could be
withdrawn from professional study has been devoted to the composition of
"_Christ in Hades_," (Appleton & Co.) a poem displaying his best
abilities in art, while it is a suitable offering to religion.

       *       *       *       *       *

"It was my purpose," he says, "in undertaking this work, to give poetic
form, design, and history to the descent of Christ into hell; a fact
that has for so many ages attracted the curiosity of the human mind, as
to furnish occasion for surprise that the attempt has not hitherto been
made. As regards the end for which He descended, I have adhered to the
Christian tradition that it was to free the souls of the ancient saints
confined in the temporal paradise of the Under-world, embracing also in
my design the less general opinion, that it was to demonstrate His
universal supremacy by appearing among the damned.

"A source of additional human interest was suggested by the relation
which men, as a distinct order of beings, might be supposed to sustain
to demons in the place of their common doom, and under new conditions of
existence; such, I conceived, as would make it possible in some degree
to realize even the divine fictions of the Greek mythology, under the
forms and with the attributes accorded them by ancient religions, and by
the poetry of all time. This could not fail to suggest the further
conception of introducing the divinities of our forefathers, and of
other great families of mankind, thus bringing together in action and
contrast the deified men, or various representatives of an heroic
humanity, among different races: nor did it seem too great a stretch of
imaginative probability to conceive that their general characteristics
might be adopted and imitated by beings already invested by the human
mind with an indefinite power, and inhabiting a world in which the
wonderful becomes the probable.

"But it is, after all, the general purpose of exhibiting the triumph of
moral power over all physical and inferior spiritual force, in the
descent of Christ into hell, which gives my design the complex character
of a mythic, heroic, and Christian poem, and, at the same time,
constitutes the unity of its parts. The ancients, whose representative
types I introduce, knew and appreciated but two kinds of power, brute or
physical, and spiritual, including all occult and supernatural efficacy,
and strength of intellect and will. Virtue, triumphant by the aid of
adventitious force, or relying upon unconquerable pride and disdain to
resist it, was the highest reach of their dynamic conceptions. Moral
power is properly a Christian idea. It is not, therefore, without what I
conceive to be a true as well as a poetic apprehension of the design of
the Descent into Hell, that the heroes of profane, and the not fabulous
Titans of sacred antiquity, by their rivalries and contentions, brought
together in arms for a trial of their comparative strength, are suddenly
confronted with a common and dissimilar antagonist, and 'all strength,
all terror, single or in bands, that ever was put forth' opposed to that
novel, and, save in the Temptation, hitherto untested power, represented
by Christ, the author of the theory and master of the example.

"He is not supposed to appear among them 'grasping in his hand ten
thousand thunders,' but endued with an equal power, the result and
expression of perfect virtue and rightful authority. His triumph is
attributed neither to natural, nor to supernatural power; but to moral
superiority, evincing itself in His aspect, and exercising its
omnipotence upon the soul and conscience. That in the conception of a
great Christian poet, His appearance among the rebel angels in Heaven
was distinguished by the former attributes, is due, perhaps, to the
heroic prejudice of a mind thoroughly imbued with the spirit of pagan
writers, and of the Hebrew Scriptures."

The volume opens with this noble invocation, in which there is fit
recognition of Dante and Milton, whose lips aforetime for such song had
been touched by the divinest fire:

      Thou of the darkness and the fire, and fame
    Avenged by misery and the Orphic doom,
    Bard of the tyrant-lay! whom dreadless wrongs,
    Impatient, and pale thirst for justice drove,
    A visionary exile, from the earth,
    To seek it in its iron reign--O stern!
    And not accepting sympathy, accept
    A not presumptious offering, that joins
    That region with a greater name: And thou,
    Of my own native language, O dread bard!
    Who, amid heaven's unshadowed light, by thee
    Supremely sung, abidest--shouldst thou know
    Who on earth with thoughts of thee erects
    And purifies his mind, and, but by thee,
    Awed by no fame, boldened by thee, and awed--
    Not with thy breadth of wing, yet with the power
    To breathe the region air--attempts the height
    Where never Scio's singing eagle towered,
    Nor that high-soaring Theban moulted plume,
    Hear thou my song! hear, or be deaf, who may.

      And if not rashly, or too soon, I heed
    The impulse, but have waited on my heart
    With patience, and its utterance stilled with awe
    Oh what inspired it, till I felt it beat
    True cadence to unconquerable strains;
    Oh, then may she first wooed from heaven by prayer
    From thy pure lips, and sympathy austere
    With suffering, and the sight of solemn age,
    And thy gray Homer's head, with darkness bound,
    To me descend, more near, as I am far
    Beneath thee, and more need her aiding wing.

      Oh, not again invoked in vain, descend,
    Urania! and eyes with common light
    More blinded than were his by Heaven's hand
    Imposed to intercept distracting rays,
    Bathe in the vision of transcendent day;
    And of the human senses (the dark veil
    Before the world of spirit drawn) remove
    The dim material hindrance, and illume;
    That human thought again may dare behold
    The shape and port of spirits, and once more
    Hear voices in that distant, shadowy world,
    To which ourselves, and this, are shadows, they
    The substance, immaterial essence pure--
    Souls that have freed their slave, and given back
    Its force unto the elements, the dread
    Manes, or the more dread Archetypes of men:
    Like whom in featured reason's shape--like whom
    Created in the mould of God--they fell,
    And mixed with them in common ruin, made
    One vast and many-realmed world, and shared
    Their deep abodes--their endless exile, some,--
    Some to return to the ethereous light
    When one of human form, a Savior-Man
    Almighty, not in deity alone,
    But mightier than all angels in the might
    And guard of human innocence preserved,
    Should freely enter their dark empire--these
    To loose, o'er those to triumph; this the theme,
    The adventure, and the triumph of my song.




The Fine Arts.


LEUTZE'S WASHINGTON CROSSING THE DELAWARE.--Our readers are aware of the
accident by fire which happened some months since to Leutze's
nearly-finished picture of Washington Crossing the Delaware, in
consequence of which he abandoned it to the underwriters, intending to
commence the work anew for the party from which he had received the
order to paint it. The underwriters have accordingly paid the insurance,
and are now exhibiting the picture in its incomplete state to the public
of Cologne, where it meets with high approval. The _Koelnische Zeitung_
says of it: "In this picture the artist has depicted the events of the
hour in which the destiny of the Free States of North America was
decided for centuries through the boldness of their courageous and
prudent leader. The means of continuing the war were almost exhausted;
the army threatened in a few days to dissolve itself; the cause of
freedom for that continent, with its inestimable consequences for
ancient Europe, would have been postponed, no one can tell how long,
perhaps for ever. Then the great mind of Washington conceived what the
morally debased, reposing enemy thought impossible. He crossed the
Delaware with his army in the night, amid masses of floating ice, and,
in the twilight of morning, assailed the inactive camp on the other
side. The picture reproduces the moment when the great general,--ahead
of the mass of the army, which had also just embarked, and part of which
are passing off from the shore, and part already struggling with the
driving ice,--is steering to the opposite shore in a small boat,
surrounded by eleven heroic figures, officers, farmers, soldiers, and
boatmen. The tall and majestic form of the man in whose hands at that
hour lay the fate of millions, rises from the group, standing slightly
bent, forward, with one foot on the bottom of the boat, the other on the
forward bench. His mild yet serious and commanding glance seems seeking
to pierce the mist of the farther shore and discover the enemy, while
intimations of the future grandeur of his country rise upon his mind.
Nothing of youthful rashness appears in the expression of this figure,
but the thoughtful artist has depicted the 'heart for any fate' of the
general and statesman in noble, vigorous, and faithful traits. And what
an impulse moves through the group of his companions! Their thought is,
'Forward, invincibly forward, for our country!' This is expressed in
their whole bearing, in every movement, in the eyes and features of all.
Under the influence of this thought they command the raging elements, so
that the masses of ice seem to dissolve before the will and energy of
these men. This is a picture by the sight of which, in this weary and
exhausted time, one can recover health and strength. Let none miss a
draught from such a goblet of nectar. And while we are writing this, it
occurs to us that it was at this very hour seventy-four years ago, in
the ice-cold night, Washington crossed the Delaware. And amid the
ominous concatenation of events which the weak mind calls accident, but
which the clear spirit, whose eye rests on the whole world, regards as
the movement of nature according to eternal laws, there rises from our
soul the ardent prayer that Germany may soon find her Washington! Honor
and fame to the artist whose production has power to work upon the
hearts and inflame the spirits of all that behold it!"

Messrs. Goupil & Co. have purchased the duplicate of this work, to be
completed on the first of July, for seven thousand dollars. The picture
described was unfinished, and has been exhibited by the underwriters, to
whom it was given up after the fire.

       *       *       *       *       *

An Italian picture dealer in London named Campanari, lately bought for a
trifle a portrait which has proved to be a genuine Michel Angelo. It
represents the famous Vittoria Colonna, wife of the Marchese Pescara,
the General of Charles V. She was herself distinguished as a poetess as
well as by the impassioned love and adoration of the great painter, who
not only took her portrait, but left behind him several sonnets in her
honor. Campanari, though himself confident of the genuineness of the
picture, could not procure it to be recognized in England. Accordingly
he sent it to Rome, where the Academy of San Luca, with Minardi at its
head, unanimously decided in its favor. In fact, it contains a grandeur
and sublimity which could be ascribed to nobody but the author of the
prophets and sibyls of the Sistine Chapel. An antique repose is
displayed in the whole work, perfectly agreeing with the character of
the lady as described by Michel Angelo, and which suits the advanced age
at which she is painted. The execution is like that of the picture in
the Florentine Tribune, in the wonderful facility of its execution. In
the coloring a carnation hue is remarkable, like that in Michel Angelo's
Roman works. The hands of the figure are thought to be by some other
artist. Only the head and part of the person seem to be by the author.
The picture has suffered little from time, some parts having apparently
been repaired by a later pencil. It is valued at $30,000.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE MUNICH ART-UNION gives to its subscribers for the next year a
_galvanograph_ of Rubens' Columbus. This is the first time that
galvanography has been applied to such a purpose. The plate from which
the print is taken has been copied by the galvanoplastic process, so
that it can serve for other art-unions also. For 1851 the Munich Union
has decided on engraving four Greek landscapes by C. Rottman. These
plates will also be copied by the same process, and may be had at much
less than the cost of original plates.




GOETHE'S OPINION OF BYRON, SCOTT, AND CARLYLE.


Mr. John Oxenford, who has shown remarkable capacities for
appropriation, in the use he has made of the labors of William Peter,
Parke Godwin, and others, in his various "translations" from the German,
has recently fallen in with Margaret Fuller d'Ossoli's version of the
_Conversations of Goethe with Eckermann_, published many years ago by
Mr. Ripley in his "Specimens of Foreign Literature;" and the result is
two volumes, embracing, with what Margaret Fuller translated, the great
poet's conversations with Soret. Among the chief notable men who existed
at the time of the conversations, and to whom reference is made, are
Scott and Byron. The first, whose _Fair Maid of Perth_ is read as a new
book, is praised for his "objective" qualities. The second is pronounced
the greatest modern poet of England, but censured for his polemic
tendency. Goethe's rapture is kindled when he speaks of him:

     "'Lord Byron,' said Goethe, 'is to be regarded as a man, as an
     Englishman, and as a great talent. His good qualities belong
     chiefly to the man, his bad to the Englishman and the peer, his
     talent is incommensurable. All Englishmen are, as such, without
     reflection, properly so called; distractions and party spirit
     will not permit them to unfold themselves in quiet. But they
     are great as practical men. Thus, Lord Byron could never attain
     reflection on himself, and on this account the maxims in
     general are not successful, as is shown by his creed, 'much
     money, no authority,' for much money always paralyzes
     authority. But where he will create, he always succeeds; and we
     may truly say that with him inspiration supplies the place of
     reflection. He was always obliged to go on poetizing, and then
     every thing that came from the man, especially from his heart,
     was excellent. He produced his best things, as women do pretty
     children, without thinking about it or knowing how it was done.
     He is a great talent, a born talent, and I never saw the true
     poetical power greater in any man than in him. In the
     apprehension of external objects, and a clear penetration into
     past situations, he is quite as great as Shakspeare. But as a
     pure individuality, Shakspeare is his superior. This was felt
     by Byron, and on this account he does not say much of
     Shakspeare, although he knows whole passages by heart. He would
     willingly have denied him altogether, for Shakspeare's
     cheerfulness is in his way, and he feels that he is no match
     for it. Pope he does not deny, for he had no cause to fear him.
     On the contrary, he mentions him, and shows him respect when he
     can, for he knows well enough that Pope is a mere foil to
     himself.'...

     "Goethe seemed inexhaustible on the subject of Byron, and I
     felt that I could not listen enough. After a few digressions,
     he proceeded thus: 'His high rank as an English peer was very
     injurious to Byron; for every talent is oppressed by the outer
     world,--how much more, then, when there are such high birth and
     so great a fortune. A certain middle rank is much more
     favorable to talent, on which account we find all great artists
     and poets in the middle classes. Byron's predilection for the
     unbounded could not have been nearly so dangerous with more
     humble birth and smaller means. But as it was, he was able to
     put every fancy into practice, and this involved him in
     innumerable scrapes. Besides, how could one of such high rank
     be inspired with awe and respect by any rank whatever? He spoke
     out whatever he felt, and this brought him into ceaseless
     conflict with the world. It is surprising to remark,' continued
     Goethe, 'how large a portion of the life of a rich Englishman
     of rank is passed in duels and elopements. Lord Byron himself
     says, that his father carried off three ladies. And let any man
     be a steady son after that. Properly speaking, he lived
     perpetually in a state of nature, and with his mode of
     existence the necessity for self-defence floated daily before
     his eyes. Hence his constant pistol-shooting. Every moment he
     expected to be called out. He could not live alone. Hence, with
     all his oddities, he was very indulgent to his associates. He
     one evening read his fine poem on the Death of Sir John Moore,
     and his noble friends did not know what to make of it. This did
     not move him, but he put it away again. As a poet, he really
     showed himself a lamb. Another would have commended them to the
     devil.'"

Yet Goethe had a curious theory in respect to criticism, and believed it
possible for a foreigner to understand the achievements of a language
not his own better than those to whom it is native--in which we think he
was partially correct. In the following he criticises CARLYLE.

     "'Sit down,' said he, 'and let us talk awhile. A new
     translation of Sophocles has just arrived. It reads well, and
     seems to be excellent; I will compare it with Solgar. Now, what
     say you to Carlyle?' I told him what I had been reading upon
     Fonque. 'Is not that very good?' said Goethe. 'Aye, there are
     clever people over the sea, who know us and can appreciate
     us?... We are weakest in the aesthetic department, and may wait
     long before we meet such a man as Carlyle. It is pleasant to
     see that intercourse is now so close between the French,
     English, and Germans, that we shall be able to correct one
     another. This is the greatest use of a world-literature, which
     will show itself more and more. Carlyle has written a life of
     Schiller, and judged him as it would be difficult for a German
     to judge him. On the other hand, we are clear about Shakspeare
     and Byron, and can, perhaps, appreciate their merits better
     than the English themselves."

Carlyle is frequently referred to, and always thus. The clear-sighted,
great old man, already perceives how much his fame will owe to such an
apostle and preacher of his faith--for he sees also what Carlyle himself
will become. The mention of Lockhart is also very interesting.

     "I asked about Lockhart, and whether he still recollected him.
     'Perfectly well!' returned Goethe. 'His personal appearance
     makes so decided an impression that one cannot easily forget
     him. From all I hear from Englishmen, and from my
     daughter-in-law, he must be a young man from whom great things
     in literature are to be expected. I almost wonder that Walter
     Scott does not say a word about Carlyle, who has so decided a
     German tendency that he must certainly be known to him. It is
     admirable in Carlyle that, in his judgment of our German
     authors, he has especially in view the mental and moral core
     as that which is really influential. Carlyle is a moral force
     of great importance. There is in him much for the future, and
     we cannot foresee what he will produce and effect.'"

Again:

     "'It is pleasant to see,' said Goethe, 'how the earlier
     pedantry of the Scotch has changed into earnestness and
     profundity. When I recollect how the 'Edinburgh Reviewers'
     treated my works not many years since, and when I now consider
     Carlyle's merits with respect to German literature, I am
     astonished at the important step for the better. In Carlyle,'
     said he, 'I venerate most of all the mind and the character
     which lie at the foundation of his tendencies. The chief point
     with him is the culture of his own nation; and, in the literary
     productions of other countries, which he wishes to make known
     to his contemporaries, he pays less attention to the arts of
     talent, than to the moral elevation which can be attained
     through such works. Yes,' said Goethe, 'the temper in which he
     works is always admirable. What an earnest man he is! and how
     he has studied us Germans! He is always more at home in our
     literature than ourselves. At any rate we cannot vie with him
     in our researches in English literature.'"




MR. KELLOGG'S EXPLORATION OF MT. SINAI.


The last volume of _Bohn's Illustrated Library_ (published in New-York
by Bangs & Brother), is "Scripture Lands, Described in a Series of
Historical, Geographical, and Topographical Sketches," by JOHN KITTO,
D.D., F.S.A., the well-known author of the Dictionary of the Bible, &c.
It embraces, in a convenient and condensed form, results of the most
important recent investigations by travellers and scholars in the
countries sacred for their connection with the history of true religion.
With other things by Americans, Dr. Kitto gives a prominent place to Mr.
MINER K. KELLOGG'S account of Mt. Sinai, which we reprint below; and we
cannot let the opportunity pass unimproved, of expressing a hope that
Mr. Kellogg will prepare for the press the voluminous notes which we
know him to possess of his various and interesting travels in the
ancient world, which he saw with the eye of an artist, the head of a
scholar, and the heart of a Christian. If he would, he might give us a
most delightful and instructive book upon the East, and one that would
be eminently popular, though Asia has been of all the continents the
most frequently described. Dr. Kitto says:

"At the foot of the pass which leads up to the sacred shrine beneath the
awful mount, from whose summit Jehovah proclaimed his law to the
trembling hosts of Israel, Dr. Robinson says,--'We commenced the slow
and toilsome ascent along the narrow defile, about south by east,
between blackened, shattered cliffs of granite, some eight hundred feet
high, and not more than two hundred and fifty yards apart, which every
moment threatened to send down their ruins on our heads. Nor is this at
all times an empty threat; for the whole pass is filled with large
stones and rocks, the _debris_ of these cliffs. The bottom is a deep and
narrow water-course, where the wintry torrent sweeps down with fearful
violence. A path has been made for camels, along the shelving rocks,
partly by removing the topmost blocks, sometimes in the manner of a
Swiss mountain-road. But though I had crossed the most rugged passes of
the Alps, and made from Chamouni the whole circuit of Mont Blanc, I had
never found a path so rude and difficult as that we were now ascending.'

"After toiling along for nearly two hours, our travellers continue their
narrative:

"'Here the interior and lofty peaks of the great circle of Sinai began
to open upon us--black, rugged, desolate summits; and, as we advanced,
the dark and frowning front of Sinai itself (the present Horeb of the
monks) began to appear. We were gradually ascending, and the valley
gradually opening; but as yet all was a naked desert. Afterwards, a few
shrubs were sprinkled round about, and a small encampment of black tents
was seen on our right, with camels and goats browsing, and a few donkeys
belonging to the convent. The scenery through which we had now passed
reminded me strongly of the mountains around the Mer de Glace in
Switzerland. I had never seen a spot more wild and desolate.

"'As we advanced, the valley still opened wider and wider with a gentle
ascent, and became full of shrubs and tufts of herbs, shut in on each
side by lofty granite ridges, and rugged, shattered peaks, a thousand
feet high, while the face of Horeb rose directly before us. Both my
companion and myself involuntarily exclaimed, "here is room enough for a
large encampment!"

"'Reaching the top of the ascent or watershed, a fine broad plain lay
before us, sloping down gently towards the south-south-east, inclosed by
rugged and venerable mountains of dark granite, stern, naked, splintered
peaks, and ridges of indescribable grandeur; and terminated, at a
distance of more than a mile, by the bold and awful front of Horeb,
rising perpendicularly in frowning majesty, from twelve to fifteen
hundred feet in height. It was a scene of solemn grandeur, wholly
unexpected, and such as we had never seen; and the associations which at
the moment rushed upon our minds were almost overwhelming.'

"They subsequently ascended the frowning summit of Horeb, and sketched
the scene from that point:--'The whole plain, er-Rahah, lay spread out
beneath our feet, with the adjacent wadys and mountains; while Wady
esh-Sheikh on the right, and the recess on the left, both connected with
and opening broadly from er-Rahah, presented an area which serves nearly
to double that of the plain.

"'Our conviction was strengthened that here, or on some of the adjacent
cliffs, was the spot where the Lord "descended in fire," and proclaimed
the law. Here lay the plain where the whole congregation might be
assembled; here was the mount that could be approached, if not
forbidden; and here the mountain brow, where alone the lightning and the
thick cloud would be visible, and the thunders and the voice of the
trump be heard, when the Lord "came down in the sight of all the people
upon Mount Sinai."

"'We gave ourselves up to the impressions of the awful scene; and read,
with a feeling that will never be forgotten, the sublime account of the
transactions, and the commandments there promulgated, in the original
words as recorded by the great Hebrew legislator.'"

"Other travellers have explored a valley on the southern base of Sinai,
which was shut out from the view of Dr. Robinson in his ascent by a long
ridge of rocks, and which has been found, by measurement of Krafft and
Strauss, and others, to be even greater than the valley of er-Rahah on
the north. This, it is supposed by Ritter and others, may have been
occupied by the Israelites at the giving of the Law. The locality of
this tremendous scene may perhaps be determined by future researches.

"An American artist and scholar, Mr. M. K. Kellogg, has lately given an
interesting account of this valley, which appears to be much more
extensive than er-Rahah, and better suited for the accommodation of the
immense camp of Israel. To reach this station, the Israelites must have
continued their march much further down the coast than on the other
supposition, and turned at a bolder angle up into the mountains near the
modern town of Tur or Tor. Dophkah, Alush, and Rephidim, must also, on
this supposition, be transferred to other localities corresponding with
this supposed line of march.

"If there be such a valley at the southern base of Sinai, it seems very
extraordinary that it should have escaped the notice of travellers. It
must be visible from the summit of Sinai (Jebel Musa); but, seen only
from that lofty summit, and running in an irregular line at the very
base of the mountain, they must have overlooked it in their brief survey
of the scenery, so grand, so gloomy and peculiar, which there engaged
their contemplation. The subject, however, is so curious and
interesting, that we insert in some detail the narrative of the American
traveller to which these remarks refer.

"'Having read a letter which appeared in the _Literary World_[F] of the
20th November, from Dr. Ritter to Dr. Robinson, in which it is said that
Laborde, in his _Commentary_ "has now for the first time established the
plain of Wady Sebaiyeh at the southern base of Sinai;" and that this
"furnishes an important point for the elucidation of the giving of the
Law," I have been induced to submit to the consideration of the public,
some of the notes from a journal which I kept during my travels in that
region in the spring of 1844.[G]

"'Although I have not yet seen the Commentaries of Laborde, and
therefore cannot judge of their correctness in regard to this plain, yet
I am happy in being able to furnish some testimony as to its existence
and extent. Within the last few years a question has arisen as to the
existence of a plain in front of Mount Sinai, capable of containing the
multitude of Israelites who were to receive the commandments.

"'Dr. Robinson is the first, I believe, who has attempted to prove that
no such plain exists. In his _Researches_ he finds a plain at the
north-east extremity of the mountain called er-Rahah, which he says was
"the plain where the congregation of Israel were assembled," and that
the mountain impending over it, the present Horeb, was "the scene of the
awful phenomena in which the Law was proclaimed."

"'He says he was satisfied, after much inquiry, "that in no other
quarter of the peninsula, and certainly not around any of the higher
peaks, is there a spot corresponding in any degree, so fully as this, to
the historical account, and to the circumstances of the case." Starting
upon the hypothesis that there is no other plain than the one he
describes, he has been obliged to give the name of Sinai to one of the
peaks which overlook this plain, in order that the Israelites might
witness the awful ceremonies attending the promulgation of the Law which
took place upon the holy mountain. If this hypothesis is founded on
truth, then tradition is at fault, which has given to another part of
this region the name of Sinai, and a capacious plain beneath it; we must
throw aside all our faith in such tradition, and commence investigations
which shall elicit the whole truth upon the subject.

"'As many late travellers have been led into error respecting the
topography of this district, by adopting, without investigation, the
conclusions of Dr. Robinson, I feel it to be a duty to lay before you
such facts as may be of service to those who shall hereafter journey
into the wilderness of Sinai.

"'On the 6th day of March, 1844, my two companions set out from the
convent at Mount Sinai, for the purpose of ascending the mountain St.
Catharine. I declined going with them, partly through indisposition, and
partly because I thought I could spend the day more usefully in making
sketches in the neighboring convent. After my friend's departure with
the guides, I took a little Arab boy with me to carry my sketch-book and
water-bottle, and walked up Wady Shueib, until I came to the little
Mountain of the Cross (Neja), which almost shuts up the passage into
Wady Sebaiyeh, and where I had, for the first time, a view of the
southern face of Mount Sinai. Here opened an extended picture of the
mountains lying to the south of the Sinaite range, for I was now some
three hundred feet above the adjacent valleys.

"'After much difficulty, I succeeded in climbing over immense masses of
granite, to the side of the Mountain of the Cross, which I ascended
about five hundred feet on its south-western face, in order to obtain a
good view of the peak of Sinai, which I was anxious to sketch. Here,
close at my right, arose, almost perpendicularly, the Holy Mountain; its
shattered pyramidal peak towering above me some 1400 feet, of a brownish
tint, presenting vertical strata of granite, which threw off the
glittering rays of the morning sun. Clinging around its base was a range
of sharp, upheaving crags, from one hundred to two hundred feet in
height, which formed an almost impassable barrier to the mountain itself
from the valley adjoining. These crags were separated from the mountain
by a deep and narrow gorge, yet they must be considered as forming the
projecting base of Sinai.

"'Directly in front of me was a level valley, stretching onward to the
south for two or three miles, and inclosed on the east, west, and south
by low mountains of various altitudes, all much less, however, than that
of Sinai. This valley passed behind the Mountain of the Cross to my
left, and out of view, so that I could not calculate its northern extent
from where I stood. The whole scene was one of inexpressible grandeur
and solemnity, and I seated myself to transfer some of its remarkable
features to the pages of my portfolio.

"'I remained at work until nearly sunset, when I discovered people
coming towards me through the dark ravine between the mountain of Sinai
and the craggy spurs which shoot up around its base. I feared they might
prove to be unfriendly Arabs; but, as they came nearer I discovered them
to be my companions and their guides, who were returning from Mount St.
Catharine. As the shades of evening were approaching, I shut up my
portfolio, and descending the hillside, I joined my friends, and we
returned together to the convent. After dinner, they desired to see what
I had done during the day, and my sketch-book was opened to them. They
remarked, on seeing the drawing I had made, that as there was no plain
on the southern border of the mountain, I might as well have left out
the one seen in the drawing. After my assurance that I had copied what
was before me, they laughed, and remarked that none but a painter's
imagination could have seen the plain in question, for they had passed
entirely around the mountain that day, and could assert _positively_
that there was no such plain. Here was a difference of opinion
certainly, and one that I did not relish much, as it might at some
future time be the means of creating a doubt as to the faithfulness of
my eastern drawings. I begged them, therefore, to accompany me the next
day to that side of the mountain, and be convinced of what I told them.
They remarked that all authority was against me, and time was too
precious to go over the same ground twice.'"

"It seems that one of them, however, accompanied the writer in his
further exploration of the ensuing day, for he uses the plural number,
and speaks of his 'friend.' We thus condense his statements: One day
(7th March) is described as having been spent in Wady es-Sabaiyeh, or
the plain before Mount Sinai. After having penetrated into this wady, he
says: 'We took our course along the base of Jebel Deir, until we came to
a point whence the peak of Sinai was no longer visible, because of the
intervening point of Jebel Deir; then striking across Sebaiyeh to the
right, keeping Sinai in view, we stopped to contemplate the scene. Here
the plain is very wide, and forms one with Wady Sedout, which enters it
from the south-east at a very acute angle, and in the whole of which
Sinai is plainly visible. These two wadys make a width of at least the
third of a mile. The hills rising from the east and south of Sebaiyeh,
in front of Sinai, are of gentle ascent, upon which flocks might feed,
and the people stand in full view of Sinai. For many miles, perhaps six
or more, on the eastern border of this plain, are seen many small plains
high up among the hills, from all of which Sinai is plainly visible.
Near where we stood, a high, rocky platform of granite arose from the
plain, upon which I seated myself, and took a sketch of the valley to
its junction with Wady esh-Sheikh on the north, where stands _Jebel
Fureia_, a very conspicuous and singular mountain. At this point, Wady
Sheikh turns from its eastern course, after leaving Wady Rahah, and runs
north around Jebel Fureia, where it receives Sebaiyeh from the south,
and with it forms one unbroken plain for about twelve miles to the north
of the place where I was seated. Turning back now to the south, we
traversed the plain towards the base of Sinai. The wady grew gently
narrower as we approached Neja, whose base projected far into the plain,
and whose head shuts off the view of Sinai for a distance of about
one-half the width of the plain at its base.

"'As we passed its foot, Sinai again appeared, and we measured the plain
near the pathway which leads up towards Sinai on the southern border of
Neja, and which appears to be the only entrance to the Holy Mountain.
The measured width here was four hundred and thirty feet. Passing on
three hundred and forty-five paces, we arrived at the narrowest part of
the plain, some few yards narrower than where we had measured it. This
may be considered as an entrance-door to the plain, which lies directly
in front of Sinai, which now spreads out level, clear, and broad, going
on to the south with varied widths for about three miles on gently
ascending ground, where it passes between two sloping hills and enters
another wady which descends beyond, from which it is most probable Sinai
may yet be clearly seen.

"'On the east, this plain of Sebaiyeh is bounded by mountains having
long, sloping bases, and covered with wild thyme and other herbs,
affording a good tenting-ground immediately fronting Sinai, which forms,
as it were, a grand pyramidal pulpit to the magnificent amphitheatre
below. The width of the plain immediately in front of Sinai is about
1600 feet, but further south the width is much increased, so that on an
average the plain may be considered as being nearly one-third of a mile
wide, and its length, in view of Mount Sinai, between five and six
miles. The good tenting-ground on the mountain sides mentioned above,
would give much more space for the multitude on the great occasion for
which they were assembled. This estimate does not include that part of
the plain to the north, and Wady esh-Sheikh, from which the peak of
Sinai is not visible; for this space would contain three or four times
the number of people which Sebaiyeh would hold.

"'From Wady Sebaiyeh we crossed over the granite spurs, in order to pass
around the southern border of Sinai into Wady Lejah. These spurs are of
sufficient size to have separate names among the Arabs. Around them were
generally deep and rugged gorges and ravines, or water-courses, whose
sides were formed of ledges of granite nearly perpendicular, of a pink
color, and fine texture. There are no _gravel_ hills, as mentioned by
Dr. Robinson, but a series of low granite hills, much broken up, and of
different colors, principally of a greenish-gray and brown. The plain is
covered with a fine _debris_ of granite. Whilst crossing over these low
hills, my friend pointed out the path between them and Sinai, in the
ravine, through which he had passed yesterday on his return from St.
Catharine; and it was seen that no plain would be visible from any part
of it, owing to the height of the spurs which separated the ravine from
Sebaiyeh, and we concluded that most travellers had been led into false
views concerning this part of the mountain from having taken the same
path, and hence it was that no account has been given respecting the
plain of Sebaiyeh. This ravine around Sinai becomes a deep impassable
gorge, with perpendicular walls, as it enters Wady Lejah, passing
through the high neck connecting with the mountain on the south.

"'Descending into Lejah, under the rocky precipice of Sinai, we found
the wady narrow and choked up with huge blocks of granite which had
tumbled from the sides of the adjacent mountains. We could now see the
olive-ground of the deserted convent of _el-Arbain_, situated in the
bottom of the narrow valley. Passing through this garden, we found a
fine running stream of crystal water, of which we partook freely, for
our thirst was great. The garden was walled, and well irrigated by many
small canals, but nothing seemed to flourish but the olive.

"'Continuing down the valley, amidst loose rocks of granite, upon some
of which were inscriptions in the Sinaite, Greek, and Arabic characters,
and enjoying the wildness of the scene, and the gloomy grandeur of the
lofty mountains of naked rocks which almost overhung our path, we saw
Horeb on our right, and soon entered upon the plain before it called
_Wady Rahah_. After taking a view of Horeb as the sun was setting, we
made our way to the convent, to pass the night within its hospitable
walls. Thus was completed a walk around the whole mountain of Sinai.

"'The results of these investigations, together with the information
afforded by Burckhardt and other travellers, have served to convince my
own mind that this district is every way adapted to the circumstances
attending the encampment of the Israelites during the promulgation of
the law upon Mount Sinai Though other mountains in this vicinity may
answer as well as that of Jebel Musa for this great purpose, still I
cannot see any good reason for taking from this mountain that holy
character with which tradition has invested it for the last fifteen
centuries.'

"Thus," says Dr. Kitto, "it seems that the question as to the
camping-ground of the Israelites, which seemed to have been settled by
the researches of Dr. Robinson and others, must now be regarded as
re-opened for further investigations. The fact is, that a complete and
careful survey of the whole of this central mountain region yet remains
to be taken."

The friend of Mr. Kellogg alluded to in the preceding pages was an
English gentleman, Mr. Ackanth, (of the East India Service,) whose notes
will amply vindicate Mr. Kellogg's conclusions.

FOOTNOTES:

[F] The _Literary World_ at that period was edited by the able, candid,
and universally beloved C.F. Hoffman.--(Ed. Int.)

[G] "The writer seems not to have been aware that this still leaves the
priority to Laborde--whose journey was undertaken even earlier than that
of Robinson, and whose really valuable work, _Commentaire Geographique
sur l'Exode et les Nombres_, which now lies before us, was _published_
in the very year of Mr. Kellogg's journey, 1844. This work certainly
forms the best _literary_ result of Laborde's celebrated journey."




LAFAYETTE, TALLEYRAND, METTERNICH, AND NAPOLEON.

Sketched By Lord Holland.[H]


Lord Holland, says the _Examiner_, has been induced by "the recent
events on the Continent" to publish what his father had written on
foreign politics. "If not wholly impartial," the present Lord Holland
remarks of his father, "he is acknowledged by all who knew him to have
been as candid as he was benevolent." He might have said more than
this--indeed far more than it might have been quite becoming in a son to
say. The late Lord Holland was a noble example of the highest and best
traits of the English character. Throughout his public life he was the
champion of all just causes; the friend of all who fairly sought
redress; the fearless advocate of liberty, religious and civil, in days
disastrous to both; a statesman of singular courage and consistency, a
most accomplished gentleman and scholar. He had learning without
pedantry, and wit without ill-nature. His sweetness of temper and
fascinating grace of manner had been commemorated by many distinguished
men who had felt their winning potency and charm. But above all he had a
store of observation and anecdote of the richest kind, and a power of
applying it with surprising felicity to whatever subject might be under
discussion. This book is a delightful surviving proof of that quality in
his character. Its anecdotes are told with a charming ease and fulness
of knowledge. No one so quickly as Lord Holland detected the notable
points, whether of a book or a man, or turned them to such happy
account. We do not read a page of this volume without feeling that a
supreme master of that exquisite art is speaking to us. It comprises
recollections of the scenes and actors in the stirring drama which was
played out on the Continent between 1791 and 1815. It opens with the
death of Mirabeau and closes with the death of Napoleon. France,
Denmark, Prussia, and Spain are the countries principally treated of.
Lord Holland's first visit to France was in 1791, just after the death
of Mirabeau and the disastrous flight to Varennes. LAFAYETTE seems to
have been more disposed than any other public actor in the revolution to
put faith in the king even after that incident, and his confidence won
over the young English traveller. But the weakness as well as strength
of Lafayette is well hit off.

"Lafayette was, however, then as always, a pure disinterested man, full
of private affection and public virtue, and not devoid of such talents
as firmness of purpose, sense of honor, and earnestness of zeal will, on
great occasions, supply. He was indeed accessible to flattery, somewhat
too credulous, and apt to mistake the forms, or, if I may so phrase it,
the pedantry of liberty for the substance, as if men could not enjoy any
freedom without subscribing to certain abstract principles and arbitrary
tests, or as if the profession and subscription, nay, the technical
observance of such tests and principles, were not, on the other hand,
often compatible with practical oppression and tyranny."

MARIE ANTOINETTE is treated almost as badly as by Mr. Geffeson, who
thought her a devil, far less tenderly than we should have expected. Her
"amours" are spoken of, though with the limitation that "they were not
numerous, scandalous, or degrading." We gather that Talleyrand believed
her to have been guilty in a special instance named, and that Madame
Champan had confessed it to him. At the same time her person is not very
flatteringly described.

"As I was not presented at Court, I never saw the Queen but at the
play-house. She was then in affliction, and her countenance was, no
doubt, disfigured by long suffering and resentment. I should not,
however, suppose that the habitual expression of it, even in happier
seasons, had ever been very agreeable. Her beauty, however extolled,
consisted, I suspect, exclusively in a fair skin, a straight person, and
a stately air, which her admirers termed dignity, and her enemies pride
and disdain. Her total want of judgment and temper no doubt contributed
to the disasters of the Royal Family, but there was no member of it to
whom the public was uniformly so harsh and unjust, and her trial and
death were among the most revolting parts of the whole catastrophe. She
was indeed insensible when led to the scaffold; but the previous
persecution which she underwent was base, unmanly, cruel, and ungenerous
to the last degree."

On the other hand, a better case is made out for Egalite than any writer
has yet been bold enough, or informed enough, to attempt. His false
position with the Court is shown not to have been of his own seeking,
and to have ultimately driven him reluctantly into the ranks of the
extreme party. His courage is vindicated successfully, his sincerity and
truthfulness less so. Lord Holland retained his regard for the Orleans
family to the close of his life. He was one of the warmest defenders of
the late King of the French. There are some capital notices of
TALLYRAND.

"It was in this visit to Paris in 1791, that I first formed acquaintance
with M. Talleyrand. I have seen him in most of his vicissitudes of
fortune; from his conversation I have derived much of the little
knowledge I possess of the leading characters in France before and
during the Revolution. He was then still a bishop. He had, I believe,
been originally forced into holy orders, in consequence of his lameness,
by his family, who, on that account, treated him with an indifference
and unkindness shameful and shocking. He was for some time _aumonier_ to
his uncle, the Archbishop of Rheims; and when Mr. Pitt went to that town
to learn French, after the peace of 1782, he lodged him in an apartment
in the abbey of St. Thierry, where he was then residing with his uncle,
and constantly accompanied him for six weeks, a circumstance to which,
as I have heard M. Talleyrand remark with some asperity, Mr. Pitt never
had the grace to allude either during his embassy, or his emigration, or
in 1794, when he refused to recall the cruel order by which he was sent
away from England under the alien bill. Talleyrand was initiated into
public affairs under M. de Calonne, and learnt from that lively minister
the happy facility of transacting business without effort and without
ceremony in the corner of a drawing-room, or in the recess of a window."

Again--of Talleyrand's bon-mots. The bit at Chateaubriand is one of the
happiest we can remember.

"'Il faut avoir aime Mme. de Stael pour connaitre tout le bonheur
d'aimer une bete,' was a saying of his much quoted at Paris at that
time, in explanation of his passion for Mme. Grand, who certainly did
not win him or any one else by the fascination of her wit or
conversation. For thirty or forty years, the bon-mots of M. de
Talleyrand were more frequently repeated and more generally admired
than those of any living man. The reason was obvious. Few men uttered so
many, and yet fewer any equally good. By a happy combination of neatness
in language and ease and suavity of manner, with archness and sagacity
of thought, his sarcasms assumed a garb at once so courtly and so
careless, that they often diverted almost as much as they could mortify
even their immediate objects. His humorous reproof to a gentleman
vaunting with self-complacency the extreme beauty of his mother, and
apparently implying that it might account for advantages in person in
her descendants, is well known: 'Cetait donc,' said he, 'Monsieur votre
pere qui n'etait pas si bien.' The following is more recent, but the
humor of it hardly less arch or less refined. The celebrity of M. de
Chateaubriand, the vainest of mortals, was on the wane. About the same
time, it happened to be casually mentioned in conversation that
Chateaubriand was affected with deafness, and complained bitterly of
that infirmity. 'Je compends,' said Talleyrand; 'dequis qu'on a cesse de
parler de lui, il se croit sourd.'"

We find a long portrait gallery of ministers, and princes, and
princesses, one more imbecile, ignorant, and corrupt than another. One
minister did not know the difference between Russia and Prussia; another
always wrote Asiatic for Henseatic, and thought his correction
necessary. Much light is thrown on the first quarrel between Ferdinand
and his father; and the narrow escape of the Duke of Infantado is well
told. Godoy, like all who had the honor of Lord Holland's acquaintance,
was in some degree a favorite of his, his good qualities being brought
out to neutralize his many bad ones. Jovellanos and Arguelles appear the
only honest characters in the midst of such a mass of vice, and even
they were pedantic, impracticable, and prejudiced. No history,
narrative, or memoir can be so disgusting as those of Spain and its
court under the dominion of the House of Bourbon. The imagination of no
novelist has ever attained that _acme_ of duplicity, cruelty, villany,
and cowardice, which made up the character of Ferdinand. The general
opinion of PRINCE METTERNICH, since he has become familiar to London
circles, has been rather to diminish former opinion of his superior
wisdom. Lord Holland's early opinion of the prince is thus recorded:

"He seems hardly qualified by any superior genius to assume the
ascendency in the councils of his own and neighboring nations, which
common rumor has for some years attributed to him. He appeared to me, in
the short intercourse I had with him, little superior to the common run
of continental politicians and courtiers, and clearly inferior to the
Emperor of Russia in those qualities which secure an influence in great
affairs. Some who admit the degrading but too prevalent opinion that a
disregard to truth is useful and necessary in the government of mankind,
have on that score maintained the contrary proposition. His manners are
reckoned insinuating. In my slight acquaintance with him in London I was
not struck with them; they seemed such as might have been expected from
a German who had studied French vivacity in the fashionable novels of
the day. I saw little of a sagacious and observant statesman, or of a
courtier accustomed to very refined and enlightened society."

But the statesman who sustained Austria and procured for it the alliance
of France was not Metternich. Napoleon is known to have long wavered as
to whether he would build his European system on a close alliance with
Prussia or with Austria. Bignon we believe it is that gives the reasons
in the imperial mind for and against. Prussia was the preferable ally,
being a new country, untrammelled by aristocratic ideas, ambitious,
military, and eager for domination. But Napoleon had humiliated Prussia
too deeply to be forgiven. And then Napoleon had in those around him
politicians who revered Austria for its antiquity and prestige, and who,
like Lord Aberdeen, made the Caesar of Vienna the pivot on which their
ideas of policy turned. Talleyrand was one of them. He worshipped
Austria, opposed all his master's plans for crushing her, and even dared
to thwart those plans by revealing them to Alexander, and prompting him
secretly to oppose them. Such treachery fully warrants all the suspicion
and harshness with which Napoleon treated Talleyrand. The latter's
conduct is fully revealed in this volume by Lord Holland. In fact, the
way in which Napoleon found his policy most seriously counteracted, and
his projects foiled, was his weakness in employing the men of the
_ancien regime_, the nobles, whom he preferred for their pleasing and
good manners, but who invariably betrayed the _parvenu_ master, who
employed and courted them. By an instance of this grievously misplaced
confidence Napoleon lost his throne. In the last events and negotiations
of 1814 Napoleon employed Caulaincourt, who, had he had full power,
might have made an arrangement. Talleyrand and his party at the same
time employed M. de Vitrolles, and sent him to the Emperor of Austria to
learn on what terms he would be induced either to support Napoleon or
abandon him. The Emperor of Austria was naturally most unwilling to
proceed to the latter extreme. But M. Vitrolles, a secret agent of the
Bourbons, so falsified and misrepresented everything to the Emperor that
the sacrifice of Napoleon was assented to.

Our last extract relates some traits of the great NAPOLEON which seem
more than ordinarily worth his nephew's attention just now. They are
taken from a somewhat elaborate character of the Emperor which occupies
nearly a third of the volume.

"Nothing could exceed the order and regularity with which his household
both as Consul and Emperor was conducted. The great things he
accomplished, and the savings he made, without even the imputation of
avarice or meanness, with the sum comparatively inconsiderable of
fifteen millions of francs a year, are marvellous, and expose his
successors, and indeed all European Princes, to the reproach of
negligence or incapacity. In this branch of his government he owed much
to Duroc. It is said that they often visited the markets of Paris (les
halles) dressed in plain clothes and early in the morning. When any
great accounts were to be submitted to the Emperor, Duroc would apprize
him in secret of some of the minutest details. By an adroit allusion to
them or a careless remark on the points upon which he had received such
recent and accurate information, Napoleon contrived to impress his
audience with a notion that the master's eye was every where. For
instance, when the Tuileries were furnished, the upholsterer's charges
though not very exorbitant, were suspected by the Emperor to be higher
than the usual profit of that trade would have warranted. He suddenly
asked some minister who was with him how much the egg at the end of the
bell-rope should cost? 'J'ignore,' was the answer.--'Eh bien! nous
verrons,' said he, and then cut off the ivory handle, called for a
valet, and bidding him dress himself in plain and ordinary clothes, and
neither divulge his immediate commission or general employment to any
living soul, directed him to inquire the price of such articles at
several shops in Paris, and to order a dozen as for himself. They were
one-third less dear than those furnished to the palace. The Emperor,
inferring that the same advantage had been taken in the other articles,
struck a third off the whole charge, and directed the tradesman to be
informed that it was done at his express command, because on
_inspection_ he had himself discovered the charges to be by one-third
too exorbitant. When afterwards in the height of his glory he visited
Caen with the Empress Maria Louisa, and a train of crowned heads and
princes, his old friend, M. Mechin, the Prefect, aware of his taste for
detail, waited upon him with five statistical tables of the expenditure,
revenue, prices, produce, and commerce of the departments. 'C'est bon,'
said he, when he received them the evening of his arrival, 'vous et moi
nous ferous bien de l'esprit sur tout cela demain au Conseil.'
Accordingly, he astonished all the leading proprietors of the department
at the meeting next day, by his minute knowledge of the prices of good
and bad cyder, and of the produce and other circumstances of the various
districts of the department. Even the Royalist gentry were impressed
with a respect for his person, which gratitude for the restitution of
their lands had failed to inspire, and which, it must be acknowledged,
the first faint hope of vengeance against their enemies entirely
obliterated in almost every member of that intolerant faction. Other
princes have shown an equal fondness for minute details with Napoleon,
but here is the difference. The use they made of their knowledge was to
torment their inferiors and weary their company: the purpose to which
Napoleon applied it was to confine the expanses of the State to the
objects and interests of the community."

Lord Holland dwells at some length on the treatment to which Napoleon
was subjected by the English Government, and on the generous attempts of
Lady Holland to alleviate his captivity. This part of the volume has
much present interest, and will be read with great eagerness by all. Of
the Emperor's temper, he says:

"Napoleon, even in the plenitude of his power, seldom gratified his
revenge by resorting to any act either illegal or unjust, though he
frequently indulged his ill-humor by speaking both of and to those who
had displeased him in a manner mortifying to their feelings and their
pride. The instances of his love of vengeance are very few: they are
generally of an insolent rather than a sanguinary character, more
discreditable to his head than his heart, and a proof of his want of
manners, taste, and possibly feeling, but not of a dye to affect his
humanity. Of what man, possessed of such extended yet such disputed
authority, can so much be said? Of Washington? Of Cromwell? But
Washington, if he had ever equal provocation and motives for revenge,
certainly never possessed such power to gratify it. His glory, greater
in truth than that of Caesar, Cromwell, and Bonaparte, was that he never
aspired: but he disdained such power; he never had it, and cannot
therefore deserve immoderate praise for not exerting what he did not
possess. In the affair of General Lee, he did not, if I recollect, show
much inclination to forgive. Even Cromwell did not possess the power of
revenge to the same extent as Napoleon. There is reason, however, to
infer from his moderation and forbearance that he would have used it as
sparingly. But Cromwell is less irreproachable, on the score of another
vice, viz., ingratitude. Napoleon not only never forgot a favor, but,
unlike most ambitious characters, never allowed subsequent injuries to
cancel his recollection of services. He was uniformly indulgent to the
faults of those whom he had once distinguished. He saw them, he
sometimes exposed and rectified, but he never punished or revenged them.
Many have blamed him for this on the score of policy; but if it was not
sense and calculation, it should be ascribed to good-nature. None, I
presume, will impute it to weakness or want of discernment."

This account of Napoleon's ideas on religion is curious, and we think
new.

"Whatever were the religious sentiments of this extraordinary man, such
companions were likely neither to fix nor to shake, to sway nor to alter
them. I have been at some pains to ascertain the little that can be
known of his thoughts on such subjects, and, though it is not very
satisfactory, it appears to me worth recording.

"In the early periods of the Revolution, he, in common with many of his
countrymen, conformed to the fashion of treating all such matters, both
in conversation and action, with levity and even derision. In his
subsequent career, like most men exposed to wonderful vicissitudes, he
professed, half in jest and half in earnest, a sort of confidence in
fatalism and predestination. But on some solemn public occasions, and
yet more in private and sober discussion, he not only gravely disclaimed
and reproved infidelity, but both by actions and words implied his
conviction that a conversion to religious enthusiasm might befal
himself, or any other man. He had more than tolerance--he had indulgence
and respect for extravagant and ascetic notions of religious duty. He
grounded that feeling not on their soundness or their truth, but on the
uncertainty of what our minds may be reserved for, on the possibility of
our being prevailed upon to admit and even to devote ourselves to tenets
which at first excite our derision. It has been observed that there was
a tincture of Italian superstition in his character; a sort of
conviction from reason that the doctrines of revelation were not true,
and yet a persuasion, or at least an apprehension, that he might live to
think them so. He was satisfied that the seeds of belief were deeply
sown in the human heart. It was on that principle that he permitted and
justified, though he did not dare to authorize, the revival of La Trappe
and other austere orders. He contended that they might operate as a
safety-valve for the fanatical and visionary ferment which would
otherwise burst forth and disturb society. In his remarks on the death
of Duroc, and in the reasons he alleged against suicide, both in calm
and speculative discussion and in moments of strong emotion, (such as
occurred at Fontainbleau in 1814,) he implied a belief both in fatality
and Providence.

"In the programme of his coronation, a part of the ceremony was to
consist in his taking the communion. But when the plan was submitted to
him, he, to the surprise of those who had drawn it, was absolutely
indignant at the suggestion. 'No man,' he said, 'had the means of
knowing, or had the right to say, when or where he would take the
sacrament, or whether he would or not.' On this occasion, he added, that
he would not; nor did he.

"There is some mystery about his conduct in similar respects at St.
Helena, and during the last days of his life. He certainly had mass
celebrated in his chapel while he was well, and in his bedroom when ill.
But though I have reason to believe that the last sacraments were
actually administered to him privately a few days before his death, and
probably after confession, yet Count Montholon, from whom I derive
indirectly my information, also stated that he received Napoleon's
earnest and distinct directions to conceal all the preliminary
preparations for that melancholy ceremony from all his other companions,
and even to enjoin the priest, if questioned, to say he acted by Count
Montholon's orders, but had no knowledge of the Emperor's wishes.

"It seems as if he had some desire for such assurance as the Church
could give, but yet was ashamed to own it. He knew that some at St.
Helena, and more in France, would deem his recourse to such consolation
infirmity; perhaps he deemed it so himself. Religion may sing her
triumph, philosophy exclaim 'pauvre humanite,' more impartial scepticism
despair of discovering the motive, but truth and history must, I
believe, acknowledge the fact."

FOOTNOTES:

[H] _Foreign Reminiscences._ By Henry Richard Lord Holland. Edited by
his Son, Henry Edward Lord Holland. Longman and Co., London. New-York:
Harpers.




JOHN JAMES AUDUBON.

By Rufus W. Griswold.


"Formerly," said Baron Cuvier, in a report to the Royal Academy of
Sciences in Paris, "European naturalists had to make known her own
treasures to America; but now her Mitchells, Harlans, and Charles
Bonapartes, have repaid with interest the debt which she owed to Europe.
The history of the American birds by Wilson, already equals in elegance
our most beautiful works in ornithology, and if ever that of Audubon be
completed, it will have to be confessed that in magnificence of
execution the Old World is surpassed by the New." The work of the
"American backwoodsman" thus alluded to, has long been completed; the
great Cuvier subsequently acknowledged it to be "the most splendid
monument which art has erected in honor of ornithology;" and the
judgment of mankind has placed the name of our countryman first in the
list of authors and artists who have illustrated the beautiful branch of
natural history to which he has devoted so large a portion of his long
and heroic life.

JOHN JAMES AUDUBON was born in Louisiana about the year 1782. He was of
French descent, and his parents perceiving early the bent of his genius
sent him to Paris to pursue his education. While there he attended
schools of natural history and the arts, and in drawing took lessons
from the celebrated David. He returned in his eighteenth year, and his
father soon after gave him a farm near Philadelphia, where the
Perkioming creek falls into the Schuylkill. Its fine woods offered him
numerous subjects for his pencil, and he here commenced that series of
drawings which ultimately swelled into the magnificent collection of The
Birds of America. Here too he was married, and here was born his eldest
son. He engaged in commercial speculations, but was not successful. His
love for the fields and flowers, the forests and their winged
inhabitants, we readily suppose unfitted him for trade. At the end of
ten years he removed to the west. There were then no steamboats on the
Ohio, and few villages and no cities on its shores. Reaching that noble
river in the warm days of autumn, he purchased a small boat in which,
with his wife and child and two rowers, he leisurely pursued his way
down to Henderson, in Kentucky, where his family resided several years.
He appears at first to have engaged in commerce, for he mentions his
meeting with Wilson, of whom till then he had never heard, as having
occurred in his counting-room in Louisville in the spring of 1810. His
great predecessor was procuring subscriptions for his work. He called on
Audubon, explained the nature of his occupations, and requested his
patronage. The merchant was surprised and gratified at the sight of his
volumes, and had taken a pen to add his name to the list of subscribers,
when his partner abruptly said to him in French, "My dear Audubon, what
induces you to do so? your own drawings are certainly far better, and
you must know as much of the habits of American birds as this gentleman.
"Wilson probably understood the remark, for he appeared not to be
pleased, and inquired whether Audubon had any drawings of birds. A large
portfolio was placed upon the table, and all its contents exhibited by
the amateur ornithologist. Wilson was surprised; he had supposed he was
himself the only person engaged in forming such a collection; and asked
if it was intended to publish them. Audubon replied in the negative: he
had never thought of presenting the fruits of his labors to the world.
Wilson was still more surprised; he lost his cheerfulness; and though
before he left Louisville Audubon explored with him the neighboring
woods, loaned him his drawings, and in other ways essayed to promote his
interests and happiness, he shook the dust from his feet when he
departed, and wrote in his diary that "literature or art had not a
friend in the place." Far be it from me to write a word in dispraise of
Alexander Wilson. He was a man of genius, enthusiasm, and patient
endurance; an honor to the country of his birth, and a glory to that of
his adoption; but he evidently could not bear the thought of being
excelled. With all his merits he was even then greatly inferior to
Audubon, and his heart failed him when he contrasted the performances
which had won fame for him with those of the unknown lover of the same
mistress, Nature, whom he thus encountered.

Audubon must soon have abandoned or neglected his day-books and ledgers,
for in 1811 we find him with his rifle and drawing paper among the
bayous of Florida, and in the following years making long and tedious
journeys, searching the forests and prairies, the shores of rivers,
lakes, gulfs, and seas, for the subjects of his immortal work, of the
publication of which, however, he had never yet had a thought.

On the fifth of April, 1824, he visited Philadelphia, where the late Dr.
Mease, whom he had known on his first arrival in Pennsylvania, presented
him to Charles Lucien Bonaparte, who in his turn introduced him to the
Lyceum of Natural History. He perceived that he could look for no
patronage in this city, and so proceeded to New-York, where he was
received with a kindness well suited to elevate his depressed spirits,
and afterwards ascending the Hudson, went westward to the great lakes,
and in the wildest solitudes of the pathless forests renewed his labors.
He now began to think of visiting Europe; the number of his drawings had
greatly increased notwithstanding a misfortune by which two hundred of
them, representing nearly a thousand birds, had been destroyed; and he
fancied his work under the hands of the engraver. "Happy days and nights
of pleasing dreams" followed, as he retired farther from the haunts of
men, determined to leave nothing undone which could be accomplished by
time or toil. Another year and a half passed by; he returned to his
family, then in Louisiana; and having explored the woods of that state,
at last sailed for England, where he arrived in 1826. In Liverpool and
Manchester his works procured him a generous reception from the most
distinguished men of science and letters; and when he proceeded to
Edinburgh and exhibited there his four hundred paintings, "the hearts of
all warmed toward Audubon," says Professor Wilson, "who were capable of
conceiving the difficulties, dangers, and sacrifices that must have been
encountered, endured, and overcome before genius could have embodied
these, the glory of its innumerable triumphs."[I] "The man himself," at
this period writes the same eloquent author in another work, "is just
what you would expect from his productions; full of fine enthusiasm and
intelligence, most interesting in his looks and manners, a perfect
gentleman, and esteemed by all who know him for the simplicity and
frankness of his nature."[J]

His reception encouraged him to proceed immediately with his plans of
publication. It was a vast undertaking which it would take probably
sixteen years to accomplish, and when his first drawings were delivered
to the engraver he had not a single subscriber. His friends pointed out
the rashness of the project and urged him to abandon it. "But my heart
was nerved," he exclaims, "and my reliance on that Power on whom all
must depend brought bright anticipations of success." Leaving his work
in the care of his engravers and agents, in the summer of 1828 he
visited Paris, and received the homage of the most distinguished men of
science in that capital. Humboldt too, whose gigantic intelligence arose
above all others in central Europe, became his warm friend, and remained
until his death a sympathizing correspondent.

The ensuing winter was passed in London, and in April, 1829, he returned
to America to explore anew the woods of the middle and southern states.
Accompanied by his wife he left New Orleans on the eighth of January,
1830, for New-York, and on the twenty-fifth of April, just a year from
the time of his departure, he was again in the Great Metropolis. Before
the close of 1830, he had issued his first volume, containing one
hundred plates, representing ninety-nine species of birds, every figure
of the size and colors of life. The applause with which it was received
was enthusiastic and universal. The kings of England and France had
placed their names at the head of his subscription list; he was made a
fellow of the Royal Societies of London and Edinburgh; a member of the
Natural History Society of Paris, and other celebrated institutions; and
Cuvier, Swainson, and indeed the great ornithologists of every country,
exhausted the words of panegyric in his praise.

On the first of August, 1831, Audubon arrived once more in New-York, and
having passed a few days with his friends there and in Philadelphia,
proceeded to Washington, where the President and other principal
officers of the government gave him letters of assistance and protection
to be used all along the coasts and inland frontiers where there were
collectors of revenue or military or naval forces. He had previously
received similar letters from the king's ministers to the authorities of
the British colonies.

The next winter and spring were passed in the Floridas and in
Charleston; and early in the summer, bending his course northward to
keep pace with the birds in their migrations, he arrived in
Philadelphia, where he was joined by his family. The cholera was then
spreading death and terror through the country, and on reaching Boston
he was himself arrested by sickness and detained until the middle of
August. "Although I have been happy in forming many valuable friendships
in various parts of the world, all dearly cherished by me," he says,
"the outpouring of kindness which I experienced in Boston far exceeded
all that I have ever met with;"[K] and he tells us, with characteristic
enthusiasm, of his gratitude to the Appletons, Everetts, Quincys,
Pickerings, Parkmans, and other eminent gentlemen and scholars of that
beautiful and hospitable city.

Proceeding at length upon his mission, he explored the forests of Maine
and New Brunswick, and the shores of the Bay of Fundy, and chartering a
vessel at Eastport, sailed for the gulf of St. Lawrence, the Magdalen
Islands, and the coast of Labrador. Returning as the cold season
approached, he visited Newfoundland and Nova Scotia, and rejoining his
family proceeded to Charleston, where he spent the winter, and in the
spring, after nearly three years' travel and research, sailed a third
time for England.

Among the warmest of his British friends, was always the congenial
Wilson, great as a poet, greater as critic, and greatest of all as the
author of the _Noctes Ambrosianae_, which contain more wit and humor,
more sound theology, philosophy, and politics, and better and more
various literature, than any other man now living has furnished in a
single work. This almost universal genius, whose relish for the rod and
gun and wild wood was scarcely less than that he felt for the best
suppers of Ambrose, or the sharpest onslaught on the Whigs in
Parliament, thoroughly appreciated and heartily loved our illustrious
countryman, and in Blackwood's Magazine for January, 1835, he gives us
the following admirable sketch of the visit he now made to Edinburgh:

     "We were sitting one night, lately, all alone by ourselves,
     almost unconsciously eyeing the members, fire without flame, in
     the many-visioned grate, but at times aware of the symbols and
     emblems there beautifully built up, of the ongoings of human
     life, when a knocking, not loud but resolute, came to the front
     door, followed by the rustling thrill of the bell-wire, and
     then by a tinkling far below, too gentle to waken the house
     that continued to enjoy the undisturbed dream of its repose. At
     first we supposed it might be but some late-home-going
     knight-errant from a feast of shells, in a mood, 'between
     malice and true-love,' seeking to disquiet the slumbers of Old
     Christopher, in expectation of seeing his night-cap (which he
     never wears) popped out of the window, and of hearing his voice
     (of which he is charry in the open air) simulating a scold upon
     the audacious sleep-breaker. So we benevolently laid back our
     head on our easy-chair, and pursued our speculations on the
     state of affairs in general--and more particularly on the
     floundering fall of that inexplicable people--the Whigs. We had
     been wondering, and of our wondering found no end, what could
     have been their chief reasons for committing suicide. It
     appeared a case of very singular _felo-de-se_--for they had so
     timed the 'rash act,' as to excite strong suspicions in the
     public mind that his Majesty had committed murder.
     Circumstances, however, had soon come to light, that proved to
     demonstration, that the wretched Ministry had laid violent
     hands on itself, and effected its purpose by strangulation.
     There--was the fatal black ring visible round the neck--through
     a mere thread; there--were the blood-shot eyes protruding from
     the sockets; there--the lip-biting teeth clenched in the last
     convulsions; and there--sorriest sight of all--was the ghastly
     suicidical smile, last relic of the laughter of despair. But
     the knocking would not leave the door--and listening to its
     character, we were assured that it came from the fist of a
     friend, who saw light through the chinks of the shutter, and
     knew, moreover, that we never put on the shroud of death's
     pleasant brother sleep, till 'ae wee short hour ayont the
     twal,' and often not till earliest cock-crow, which chanticleer
     utters somewhat drowsily, and then replaces his head beneath
     his wing, supported on one side by a partlet, on the other by a
     hen. So we gathered up our slippered feet from the rug, lamp in
     hand stalked along the lobbies, unchained and unlocked the oak
     which our faithful night porter Somnus had sported--and lo! a
     figure muffled up in a cloak, and furred like a Russ, who
     advanced familiarly into the hall, extended both hands and then
     embracing us, bade God bless us, and pronounced, with somewhat
     of a foreign accent, the name in which we and the world
     rejoice--Christopher North!' We were not slow in returning the
     hug fraternal--for who was it but the 'American
     Woodsman?'--even Audubon himself--fresh from the Floridas--and
     breathing of the pure air of far-off Labrador!

     "Three years and upwards had fled since we had taken farewell
     of the illustrious Ornithologist--on the same spot--at the same
     hour; and there was something ghostlike in such return of a
     dear friend from a distant region--almost as if from the land
     of spirits. It seemed as if the same moon again looked at
     us--but then she was wan and somewhat sad--now clear as a
     diamond, and all the starry heavens wore a smile. "Our words
     they were na mony feck'--but in less time than we have taken to
     write it--we two were sitting cheek by jowl, and hand in hand,
     by that essential fire--while we showed by our looks that we
     both felt, now they were over, that three years were but as one
     day! The cane coal-scuttle, instinct with spirit, beeted the
     fire of its own accord, without word or beck of ours, as if
     placed there by the hands of one of our wakeful Lares; in globe
     of purest crystal the Glenlivet shone; unasked the bright brass
     kettle began to whisper its sweet 'under song;' and a centenary
     of the fairest oysters native to our isle turned towards us
     their languishing eyes, unseen the Nereid that had on the
     instant wafted them from the procreant cradle beds of
     Prestonpans. Grace said, we drew in to supper, and hobnobbing,
     from elegant long-shank, down each naturalist's gullet
     graciously descended, with a gurgle, the mildest, the meekest,
     the very Moses of Ales.

     "Audubon, ere half an hour had elapsed, found an opportunity of
     telling us that he had never seen us in a higher state of
     preservation--and in a low voice whispered something about the
     eagle renewing his youth. We acknowledged the kindness by a
     remark on bold bright birds of passage that find the seasons
     obedient to their will, and wing their way through worlds still
     rejoicing in the perfect year. But too true friends were we not
     to be sincere in all we seriously said; and while Audubon
     confessed that he saw rather more plainly than when we parted
     the crowfeet in the corners of our eyes, we did not deny that
     we saw in him an image of the Falco Lencocephalus, for that,
     looking on his 'carum caput,' it answered his own description
     of that handsome and powerful bird, viz. 'the general color of
     the plumage above is dull hair-brown, the lower parts being
     deeply brown, broadly margined with greyish white.' But here he
     corrected us: for 'surely, my dear friend,' quoth he, 'you must
     admit I am a living specimen of the Adult Bird, and you
     remember my description of him in my First Volume.' And thus
     blending our gravities and our gayeties, we sat facing one
     another, each with his last oyster on the prong of his trident,
     which disappeared, like all mortal joys, between a smile and a
     sigh.

     "How similar--in much--our dispositions--yet in almost all how
     dissimilar our lives! Since last we parted, 'we scarcely heard
     of half a mile from home'--he tanned by the suns and beaten by
     the storms of many latitudes--we like a ship laid up in
     ordinary, or anchored close in shore within the same sheltering
     bay--with sails unfurled and flags flying but for sake of show
     on some holyday--he like a ship that every morning had been
     dashing through a new world of waves--often close-reefed or
     under bare poles--but oftener affronting the heavens with a
     whiter and swifter cloud than any hoisted by the combined
     fleets in the sky. And now, with canvas unrent, and masts
     unsprung, returned to the very buoy she left. Somewhat faded,
     indeed, in her apparelling--but her hull sound as ever--not a
     speck of dry rot in her timbers--her keel unscathed by
     rock--her cut-water yet sharp as new-whetted scythe ere the
     mower renews his toil--her figure-head, that had so often
     looked out for squalls, now 'patient as the brooding dove'--and
     her bowsprit--but let us man the main-brace; nor is there purer
     spirit--my trusty frere--in the Old World or the New.

     "It was quite a Noctes. Audubon told us--by snatches--all his
     travels, history, with many an anecdote interspersed of the
     dwellers among the woods--bird, beast, and man.

     "All this and more he told us, with a cheerful voice and
     animated eyes, while the dusky hours were noiselessly wheeling
     the chariot of Night along the star-losing sky; and we too had
     something to tell him of our own home-loving obscurity, not
     ungladdened by studies sweet in the Forest--till Dawn yoked her
     dappled coursers for one single slow stage--and then jocund
     Morn leaping up on the box, took the ribbons in her rosy
     fingers, and, after a dram of dew, blew her bugle, and drove
     like blazes right on towards the gates of Day."

     "His great work," says Wilson, elsewhere, "was indeed a
     perilous undertaking for a stranger in Britain, without the
     patronage of powerful friends, and with no very great means of
     his own--all of which he embarked in the enterprise dearest to
     is heart. Had it failed, Audubon would have been a ruined
     man--and that fear must have sometimes dismally disturbed him,
     for he is not alone in life, and is a man of strong family
     affections. But happily those nearest his breast are as
     enthusiastic in the love of natural science as himself--and
     were all willing to sink or swim with the beloved husband and
     venerated father. America may well be proud of him--and he
     gratefully records the kindness he has experienced from so many
     of her most distinguished sons. In his own fame he is just and
     generous to all who excel in the same studies; not a particle
     of jealousy is in his composition; a sin, that, alas! seems too
     easily to beset too many of the most gifted spirits in
     literature and in science; nor is the happiest
     genius--imaginative or intellectual--such is the frailty of
     poor human nature at the best--safe from the access of that
     dishonouring passion."

The second volume of The Birds of America was finished in 1834, and in
December of that year he published in Edinburgh the second volume of the
Ornithological Biography. Soon after, while he was in London, a nobleman
called upon him, with his family, and on examining some of his original
drawings, and being told that it would still require eight years to
complete the work, subscribed for it, saying, "I may not see it
finished, but my children will." The words made a deep impression on
Audubon. "The solemnity of his manner I could not forget for several
days," he writes in the introduction to his third volume; "I often
thought that neither might I see the work completed, but at length
exclaimed, 'My sons may;' and now that another volume, both of my
illustrations and of my biographies, is finished, my trust in Providence
is augmented, and I cannot but hope that myself and my family together
may be permitted to see the completion of my labors." When this was
written, ten years had elapsed since the publication of his first plate.
In the next three years, among other excursions he made one to the
western coast of the Floridas and to Texas, in a vessel placed at his
disposal by our government; and at the end of this time appeared the
fourth and concluding volume of his engravings, and the fifth of his
descriptions. The whole comprised four hundred and thirty-five plates,
containing one thousand and sixty-five figures, from the Bird of
Washington to the Humming Bird, of the size of life, and a great variety
of land and marine views, and coral and other productions, of different
climates and seasons, all carefully drawn and  after nature. Well
might the great naturalist felicitate himself upon the completion of his
gigantic task. He had spent nearly half a century "amid the tall grass
of the far-extended prairies of the west, in the solemn forests of the
north, on the heights of the midland mountains, by the shores of the
boundless ocean, and on the bosoms of our vast bays, lakes and rivers,
searching for things hidden since the creation of this wondrous world
from all but the Indian who has roamed in the gorgeous but melancholy
wilderness." And speaking from the depth of his heart he says, "Once
more surrounded by all the members of my dear family, enjoying the
countenance of numerous friends who have never deserted me, and
possessing a competent share of all that can render life agreeable, I
look up with gratitude to the Supreme Being, and feel that I am happy."

In 1839, having returned for the last time to his native country and
established himself with his family near the city of New-York, Audubon
commenced the publication of The Birds of America in imperial octavo
volumes, of which the seventh and last was issued in the summer of 1844.
The plates in this edition, reduced from his larger illustrations, were
engraved and  in the most admirable manner by Mr. Bowen of
Philadelphia, under the direction of the author, and excepting The Birds
of America in folio, there has never been published so magnificent a
work on ornithology.

Audubon was too sincere a worshipper of nature to be content with
inglorious repose, even after having accomplished in action more than
was ever dreamed of by any other naturalist; and while the "edition for
the people" of his Birds of America was in course of publication, he was
busy amid the forests and prairies, the reedy swamps of our southern
shores, the cliffs that protect our eastern coasts, by the currents of
the Mexican gulf and the tide streams of the Bay of Fundy, with his
sons, Victor Gifford and John Woodhouse, making the drawings and writing
the biographies of the _Quadrupeds of America_, a work in no respect
inferior to that on our birds, which he began to publish about five
years ago. The plates, on double imperial folio paper, engraved and
 by Mr. Bowen after the original drawings made from nature by
Audubon and his sons, are even more magnificent than those of the Birds
of America, which twenty years ago delighted and astonished the
naturalists of Europe.

The Biography of American Quadrupeds, accompanying these plates, and of
which the first volume appeared in New-York in 1846, was written
principally by the Rev. John Bachman, D.D., of Charleston, a long-tried
and enthusiastic friend, of whose introduction to him Audubon thus
speaks in the preface of the second volume of his Ornithological
Biography:

     "It was late in the afternoon when we took our lodgings in
     Charleston. Being fatigued, and having written the substance of
     my journey to my family, and delivered a letter to the Rev. Mr.
     Gilman, I retired to rest. At the first glimpse of day the
     following morning, my assistants and myself were already
     several miles from the city, commencing our search in the
     fields and woods, and having procured abundance of subjects
     both for the pencil and the scalpel, we returned home, covered
     with mud, and so accoutred as to draw towards us the attention
     of every person in the streets. As we approached the
     boarding-house, I observed a gentleman on horseback close to
     our door. He looked at me, came up, inquired if my name was
     Audubon, and on being answered in the affirmative, instantly
     leaped from his saddle, shook me most cordially by the
     hand--there is much to be expressed and understood by a shake
     of the hand--and questioned me in so kind a manner, that I for
     a while felt doubtful how to reply. At his urgent desire, I
     removed to his house, as did my assistants. Suitable apartments
     were assigned to us; and once introduced to the lovely and
     interesting group that composed his family, I seldom passed a
     day without enjoying their society. Servants, carriages,
     horses, and dogs were all at our command, and friends
     accompanied us to the woods and plantations, and formed parties
     for water excursions. Before I left Charleston, I was truly
     sensible of the noble and generous spirit of the hospitable
     Carolinians."

Audubon and Bachman (the same Bachman who recently refuted the heresies
of Agassiz respecting the unity of the human race) were from this time
devoted friends and co-workers. For several years the health of the hero
naturalist had declined, and he was rarely if ever seen beyond the
limits of his beautiful estate on the banks of the Hudson, near this
city, where, on the twenty-seventh of January, 1851, he died, full of
years, and illustrious with the most desirable glory.

Audubon's highest claim to admiration is founded upon his drawings in
natural history, in which he has exhibited a perfection never before
attempted. In all our climates--in the clear atmosphere, by the dashing
waters, amid the grand old forests with their peculiar and many-tinted
foliage, by him first made known to art--he has represented our
feathered tribes, building their nests and fostering their young, poised
on the tip of the spray and hovering over the sedgy margin of the lake,
flying in the clouds in quest of prey or from pursuit, in love, enraged,
indeed in all the varieties of their motion and repose and modes of
life, so perfectly that all other works of the kind are to his as
stuffed skins to the living birds.

But he has also indisputable claims to a high rank as a man of letters.
Some of his written pictures of birds, so graceful, clearly defined,
and brilliantly , are scarcely inferior to the productions of his
pencil. His powers of general description are not less remarkable. The
waters seem to dance to his words as to music, and the lights and shades
of his landscapes show the practised hand of a master. The evanescent
shades of manners, also, upon the extreme frontiers, where the
footprints of civilization have hardly crushed the green leaves, have
been sketched with graphic fidelity in his journals.

No author has more individuality. The enthusiastic, trustful and loving
spirit which breathes through his works distinguished the man. From the
beginning he surrendered himself entirely to his favorite pursuit, and
was intent to learn every thing from the prime teacher, Nature. His
style as well as his knowledge was a fruit of his experiences. He had
never written for the press until after the age at which most authors
have established their reputation; and when he did write, his page
glowed like the rich wild landscape in the spring, when Nature, then
most beautiful, "bathes herself in her own dewy waters." We seem to hear
his expressions of wondering admiration, as unknown mountains, valleys
and lakes burst upon his view, as the deer at his approach leaped from
his ambush into the deeper solitudes, as the startled bird with rushing
wings darted from his feet into the sky; or his pious thanksgiving, as
at the end of a weary day the song of the sparrow or the robin relieved
his mind from the heavy melancholy that bore it down.

When the celebrated Buffon had completed the ornithological portion of
his great work on natural history, he announced with unhesitating
assurance that he had "finished the history of the birds of the world."
Twenty centuries had served for the discovery of only eight hundred
species, but this number seemed immense, and the short-sighted
naturalist declared that the list would admit of "no material
augmentation" which embraced hardly a sixteenth of those now known to
exist. To this astonishing advance of the science of ornithology, no one
has contributed more than Audubon, by his magnificent painting and
fascinating history.

Mr. Audubon left unpublished a voluminous autobiography, which we hope
will be published with as little delay as possible.

FOOTNOTES:

[I] Wilson's Miscellanies, vol. ii. p. 118.

[J] Noctes Ambrosianae, vol. ii. p. 103.

[K] Introduction to the second volume of Ornithological Biography, p.
xvii.




Original Poetry.


OLD AGE.

By Alfred B. Street.

      All day the chill bleak wind had shrieked and wailed
      Through leafless forests, and o'er meadows sear;
      Through the fierce sky great sable clouds had sailed;
        Outlines were hard--all nature's looks were drear.
      Gone, Indian Summer's bland, delicious haze,
      Thickening soft nights and filming mellow days.
      Then rose gray clouds; thin fluttered first the snow,
        Then like loose shaken fleeces, then in dense streams
      That muffled gradually all below
        In pearly smoothness. Then outburst the gleams
      At sunset; nature shone in flashing white,
      And the last rays tinged all with rosy light.
      So Life's bland Autumn o'er, may old age come
    In muffling peace, and death display hope's radiant bloom.


THE CASTLE IN THE AIR.[L]

By R. H. Stoddard.


    I.

          We have two lives about us,
          Within us, and without us;
          Two worlds in which we dwell,
          Alternate Heaven and Hell:
          Without, the sombre Real,
    Within our heart of hearts, the beautiful Ideal!
      I stand between the thresholds of the two,
      Fettered and bound with many a heavy chain;
      I strive to rend their links, but all in vain;
      The False is strong, and holds me from the True.
      Only in dreams my spirit wanders o'er
      The starry portal of the world of bliss,
      And lives the life which Fate denies in this,
    Which may have once been mind, but will be, nevermore.

    II.

          My Castle stands alone,
          Away from Earth and Time,
          In some diviner clime,
          In Fancy's tropic zone,
          Beneath its summer skies,
    Where all the live-long year the summer never dies!
      A stately marble pile whose pillars rise,
      From sculptured bases, fluted to the dome,
      With wreathed friezes crowned, all carven nice
      With pendant leaves, like ragged rims of foam;
      A thousand windows front the rising sun,
      Deep-set between the columns, many paned,
      Tri-arched, emblazoned, gorgeously stained,
      Crimson and purple, green and blue, and dun,
      And all their wedded colors fall below,
      Like rainbows shattered on a field of snow;
      A bordering gallery runs along the roof,
      Topt by a cupola, whose glittering spire
      Pierces the brooding clouds, a glowing woof,
    With golden spindles wove in Morning's loom of fire!

    III.

          What fine and rare domains
          Untold for leagues around;
          Green parks, and meads, and plains,
          And bosky woods profound,--
    A realm of leafiness, and sweet enchanted ground!
      Before the palace lies a shaven lawn,
      Sloping and shining in the dews of dawn,
      With turfy terraces, and garden bowers,
      Where rows of slender urns are full of flowers;
      Broad oaks o'erarch the winding avenues,
      Edged round with evergreens of fadeless bloom,
      And pour a thousand intermingling hues,
      A many tinted flood of golden gloom;
      Far-seen through twinkling leaves,
      The fountains gush aloft like silver sheaves,
      Drooping with shining ears, and crests of spray,
      And foamy tassels blowing every way,
      Shaking in marble basins white and cold,
      A bright and drainless shower of beaded grain,
      Which winnows off, in sun-illumined rain
      The dusty chaff, a cloud of misty gold;
      Around their volumes, down the plashy tide,
      The swans are sailing mixed in lilies white,
      Like virgin queens in soft disdain and pride,
      Sweeping amid their maids with trains of light;
      A little herd of deer with startled looks,
      In shady parks where all the year they browse,
      Head-down are drinking at the lucid brooks,
      Their antlers mirrored with the tangled boughs;
      My rivers flow beyond, with guardant ranks
      Of silver-liveried poplars, on their banks;
      Barges are fretting at the castle piers,
      Rocking with every ripple in the tide;
      And bridges span the stream with arches wide,
      Their stony 'butments mossed and gray with years;
      An undulating range of vales, and bowers,
      And columned palaces, and distant towers,
      And on the welkin mountains bar the view,
    Shooting their jagged peaks sublimely up the blue!

    IV.

          I saunter up the walks;
          My sandals wetted through
          With dripping flowers and stalks,
          That line the avenue;
    My broidered mantle all bedabbled with the dew!
      I climb a flight of steps with regal pride,
      And stroll along an echoing colonnade,
      Sweeping against its pillared balustrade,
      Adown a porch, and through a portal wide,
      And I am in my Castle, Lord of all;
      My faithful groom is standing in the hall
      To doff my shining robe, while servitors,
      And cringing chamberlains beside the doors
      Waving their gilded wands, obsequious wait,
    And bow me on my way in royal pomp and state!

    V.

          My chamber lies apart,
          The Castle's very heart,
          And all things rich and rare,
          From land, and sea, and air,
    Are lavished with a wild and waste profusion there!
      The carpeting was woven in Turkish looms,
      From softest wool of fine Circassian sheep;
      Tufted like springy moss in forests deep,
      Illuminate with all its autumn blooms;
      The antique chairs are made of cedar trees,
      Veined with the rings of vanished cennturies
      And touched with winter's frost, and summer's sun;
      Sofas and couches, stuffed with cygnet's fleece,
      Loll round inviting dreaminess and ease;
      The gorgeous window curtains, damask red,
      Suspended, silver-ringed, on bars of gold,
      Droop heavily, in many a fluted fold,
      And, rounding outward, intercept, and shed
      The prisoned daylight o'er the slumbrous room,
      In streams of rosy dimness, purple gloom;
      Hard by are cabinets of curious shells,
      Twisted and jointed, horned, wreathed, and curled,
      And some like moons in rosy mist impearled,
      With coral boughs from ocean's deepest cells;
      Cases of rare medallions, coins antique,
      Found in the dust of cities, Roman, Greek;
      Etruscan urns, transparent, soft, and bright,
      With fawns and dancing shepherds on their sides;
      And costly marble vases dug from night
      In Pompeii, beneath its lava tides:
      Clusters of arms, the spoil of ancient wars;
      Old scimitars of true Damascus brand,
      Short swords with basket hilts to guard the hand,
      And iron casques with rusty visor bars;
      Lances, and spears, and battle axes keen,
      With crescent edges, shields with studded thorns,
      Yew bows, and shafts, and curved bugle horns,
      With tasseled baldricks of the Lincoln green:
      And on the walls with lifted curtains, see!
      The portraits of my noble ancestry;
      Thin featured, stately dames with powdered locks,
      And courtly shepherdesses tending flocks;
      Stiff lords in wigs, and ruffles white as snow,
      Haught peers, and princes centuries ago,
      And dark Sir Hugh, the bravest of the line,
    With all the knightly scars he won in Palestine!

    VI.

          My gallery sleeps aloof,
          Soft-lighted through the roof,
          Enshrining pictures old,
          And groups of statues cold,
    The gems of Art, when Art was in her Age of Gold!
      Not picked from any single age or clime,
      Nor one peculiar master, school, or tone;
      Select of all, the best of all alone,
      The spoil and largesse of the Earth and Time;
      Food for all thoughts and fancies, grave or gay;
      Suggestive of old lore, and poets' themes;
      These filled with shapes of waking life, and day,
      And those with spirits and the world of dreams;
      Let me draw back the curtains, one by one,
      And give their muffled brightness to the sun:

    THE PICTURES.

      Helen and Paris on their bridal night,
      Under the swinging cressets' starry light,
      With Priam and his fifty sons around,
      Feasting in all their majesty and bloom,

      Filling their golden cups with eager hands,
      To drink a health, while pale Cassandra stands
      With all her raven tresses unbound,
      Her soul o'ershadowed by the coming doom.

      Andromache, with all her tearful charms,
      Folded upon the mighty Hector's breast,
      And the babe shrinking in its Nurse's arms,
      Affrightened by the nodding of his crest.

      The giant Cyclops, sitting in his cave,
      Helped by the diving Ulysses, old and wise,
      Spilling the wine in rivers down his beard,
      Shaggy and grim,--his shoulder overleered
      By swart Silenus, sly and cunning knave,
      Who steals a puffy skin with twinkling eyes.

      Anacreon, lolling in the myrtle shades,
      Bibbing his Teian draughts with rich delight,
      Pledging the dancing girls and Cyprian maids,
      Pinching their little ears, and shoulders white.

      A cloudless sunrise on the glittering Nile,
      A bronzed Sphinx, and temple on the shore,
      And robed priests that toss their censers while
      Abased in dust, the populace adore;

      A beaked galley fretting at its curb,
      With reedy oars, and masts, and silken sails,
      And Cleopatra walks the deck superb,
      Slow-followed by her court in spangled veils.

      The Virgin Mother, and the Holy Child,
      Holding a globe and sceptre, sweet and mild;
      The Magi bring their gifts with reverent looks,
      And the rapt Shepherds lean upon their crooks.

      A summer fete, a party on a lawn;
      Bowing gallants, with plumed caps in hand,
      And ladies with guitars, and, far withdrawn,
      The rustic people dancing in a band.

      A bleak defile, a pass in mountains deep,
      Whose whitened summits wear their morning glow,
      And dark banditti winding down the steep
      Of shelvy rocks, pointing their guns below.

      A harvest scene, a vineyard on the Rhine;
      Arbors, and wreathed pales, and laughing swains
      Pouring their crowded baskets into wains,
      And vats, and trodden presses gushing wine.

      A Flemish Tavern: boors and burghers hale
      Drawn round a table, o'er a board of chess,
      Smoking their heavy pipes, and drinking ale,
      Blowing from tankard brims the frothiness.

      A picture of Cathay, a justice scene;
      Pagodas, statues, and a group around;
      And, in his sedan chair, the Mandarin,
      Reading the scroll of laws to prisoners bound,
      Bambooed with canes, and writhing on the ground;
      And many more whose veils I will undraw
      Some other day, exceeding fresh and fine;
      And statues of the Grecian gods divine,
      In all their various moods of love and awe:
      The Phidean Jove, with calm creative face,
      Like Heaven brooding o'er the deeps of Space;
      Imperial Juno, Mercury, winged-heeled,
      Lit with a message. Mars with helm and shield,
      Apollo with the discus, bent to throw,
      The piping Pan, and Dian with her bow,
      And Cytherca just risen from the swell
      Of crudded foam, half-stooping on her knee,
      Wringing her dripping tresses in the sea
      Whose loving billows climb the curved shell
      Tumultuously, and o'er its edges flow,
    And kiss with pallid lips her nakedness of snow!

    VII.

          My boots may lie and mould,
          However rare and old;
          I cannot read to-day,
          Away! with books, away!
          Full-fed with sweets of sense,
    I sink upon my couch in honied indolence!
      Here are rich salvers full of nectarines,
      Dead-ripe pomegranates, sweet Arabian dates,
      Peaches and plums, and clusters fresh from vines,
      And all imaginable sweets, and cakes,
      And here are drinking-cups, and long-necked flasks
      In wicker mail, and bottles broached from casks,
      In cellars delved deep, and winter cold,
      Select, superlative, and centuries old.
      What more can I desire? what book can be
      As rich as Idleness and Luxury?
      What lore can fill my heart with joy divine,
      Like luscious fruitage, and enchanted wine?
      Brimming with Helicon I dash the cup;
      Why should I waste my years in hoarding up
      The thoughts of eld? Let dust to dust return:
      No more for me,--my heart is not an urn!
      I will no longer sip from little flasks,
      Covered with damp and mould, when Nature yields,
      And Earth is full of purple vintage fields;
      Nor peer at Beauty dimmed with mortal masks,
      When I at will may have them all withdrawn,
      And freely gaze in her transfigured face;
      Nor limp in fetters in a weary race,
      When I may fly unbound, like Mercury's fawn;
      No more contented with the sweets of old,
      Albeit embalmed in nectar, since the trees,
      The Eden bowers, the rich Hesperides,
    Droop all around my path, with living fruits of gold!

    VIII.

          Oh what a life is mine,
          A life of joy and mirth,
          The sensuous life of Earth,
          Forever fresh and fine.
    A heavenly worldliness, mortality divine!
      When eastern skies, the sea, and misty plain,
      Illumined slowly, doff their nightly shrouds,
      And Heaven's bright archer Morn begins to rain
      His golden arrows through the banded clouds,
      I rise and tramp away the jocund hours,
      Knee-deep in dewy grass, and beds of flowers;
      I race my eager greyhound on the hills,
      And climb with bounding feet the craggy steeps,
      Peak-lifted, gazing down the cloven deeps,
      Where mighty rivers shrink to threaded rills;
      The ramparts of the mountains loom around,
      Like splintery fragments of a ruined world;
      The cliff-bound dashing cataracts, downward hurled
      In thunderous volumes, shake the chasms profound:
      The imperial eagle, with a dauntless eye
      Wheels round the sun, the monarch of the sky;
      I pluck his eyrie in the blasted wood
      Of ragged pines, and when the vulture screams,
      I track his flight along the solitude,
      Like some dark spirit in the world of dreams!
      When Noon in golden armor, travel spent,
      Climbing the azure plains of Heaven, alone,
      Pitches upon its topmost steep his tent,
      And looks o'er Nature from his burning throne,
      I loose my little shallop from its quay,
      And down the winding rivers slowly float,
      And steer in many a shady cove and bay,
      Where birds are warbling with melodious note;
      I listen to the humming of the bees,
      The water's flow, the winds, the wavy trees,
      And take my lute and touch its silver chords,
      And set the Summer's melody to words;
      Sometimes I rove beside the lonely shore,
      Margined and flanked by slanting shelvy ledges,
      And caverns echoing Ocean's sullen roar;
      Threading the bladdery weeds, and paven shells,
      Beyond the line of foam, the jewelled chain,
      The largesse of the ever giving main.
      Tossed at the feet of Earth with surgy swells,
      I plunge into the waves, and strike away,
      Breasting with vigorous strokes the snowy spray;
      Sometimes I lounge in arbors hung with vines,
      The which I sip, and sip, with pleasure mute,
      O'er mouthful bites of golden-rinded fruit;
      When evening comes, I lie in dreamy rest,
      Where lifted casements front the glowing west,
      And watch the clouds, like banners wide unfurled,
      Hung o'er the flaming threshold of the world:
      Its mission done, the holy Day recedes,
      Borne Heavenward in its car, with fiery steeds,
      Leaving behind a lingering flush of light,
      Its mantle fallen at the feet of Night;
      The flocks are penned, the earth is growing dim;
      The moon comes rounding up the welkin's rim,
      Glowing through thinnest mist, an argent shell,
      Washed up the sky from Night's profoundest cell;
      One after one the stars begin to shine
      In drifted beds, like pearls through shallow brine;
      And lo! through clouds that part before the chase
      Of silent winds--a belt of milky white,
      The Galaxy, a crested surge of light,
      A reef of worlds along the sea of Space:
      I hear my sweet musicians far withdrawn,
      Below my wreathed lattice, on the lawn,
      With harp, and lute, and lyre,
      And passionate voices full of tears and fire;
      And envious nightingales with rich disdain
      Filling the pauses of the languid strain;
      My soul is tranced and bound,
      Drifting along the magic sea of sound,
      Driving in a barque of bliss from deep to deep,
    And piloted at last into the ports of Sleep!

    IX.

       Nor only this, though this
          Might seal a life of bliss,
          But something more divine,
          For which I once did pine,
          The crown of worlds above,
    The heart of every heart, the Soul of Being--Love!
      I bow obedient to my Lady's sway,
      The sovereignty that won my soul of yore,
      And linger in her presence night and day,
      And feel a heaven around her evermore;
      I sit beside her couch in chambers lone,
      And soft unbraid, and lay her locks apart,
      And take her taper fingers in my own,
      And press them to my lips with leaps of heart;
      Sometimes I kneel to her with cups of wine,
      With pleading eyes, beseeching her to taste,
      With long-delaying lips, the draught divine;
      And when she sips thereof, I clasp her waist,
      And kiss her mouth, and shake her hanging curls,
      And in her coy despite unloose her zone of pearls!
      I live for Love, for Love alone, and who
      Dare chide me for it? who dare call it folly?
      It is a holy thing, if aught is holy,
      And true indeed, if Truth herself is true:
      Earth cleaves to earth, its sensuous life is dear,
      Mortals should love mortality while here,
      And seize the glowing hours before they fly:
      Bright eyes should answer eyes, warm lips should meet,
      And hearts enlocked to kindred hearts should beat,
    And every soul that lives, in love should live and die!

    X.

          My dear and gentle wife,
          The Angel of my life,
          Oppressed with sweetest things,
          Has folded up her wings,
          And lies in slumber deep,
    Like some divinest Dream upon the couch of Sleep!

      Nor sound, nor stir profanes the stilly room,
      Haunted by Sleep and Silence, linked pair;
      The very light itself muffled in gloom,
      Steals in, and melts the enamored air
      Where Love doth brood and dream, while Passion dies,
      Breathing his soul out in a mist of sighs!
      Lo! where she lies behind the curtains white,
      Pillowed on clouds of down,--her golden hair
      Braided around her forehead smooth and fair,
      Like a celestial diadem of light:--
      Her soft voluptuous lips are drawn apart,
      Curving in fine repose, and maiden pride;
      Her creamy breast,--its mantle brushed aside
      Swells with the long pulsation of her heart:
      One languid arm rests on the coverlid,
      And one beneath the crumpled sheet is hid,
      (Ah happy sheets! to hide an arm so sweet!)
      Nor all concealed amid their folds of snow,
      The soft perfection of her shape below,
      Rounded and tapering to her little feet!
      Oh Love! if Beauty ever left her sphere,
      And sovereign sisters, Art and Poesy,
      Moulded in loveliness she slumbers here,
      Slumbers, dear love, in thee!
      It is thy smile that makes the chamber still;
      It is thy breath that fills the scented air;
      The light around is borrowed from thy hair,
      And all things else are subject to thy will,
      And I am so bewildered in this deep
      Ambrosial calm, and passionate atmosphere,
      I know not whether I am dreaming here,
          Or in the world of Sleep!

    XI.

          My eyes are full of tears,
          My heart is full of pain,
          To wake, as now, again,
    And walk, as in my youth, the wilderness of Years!
      No more! no more! the autumn winds are loud
      In stormy passes, howling to the Night:
      Behind a cloud the moon doth veil her light,
      And the rain pours from out the horned cloud.
      And hark! the solemn and mysterious bell,
      Swinging its brazen echoes o'er the wave:
      Not mortal hands, but spirits ring the knell,
    And toll the parting ghost of Midnight to its grave.


TO A BEREAVED MOTHER.

BY HERMANN.

    Its smile and happy laugh are lost to thee,
    Earth must his mother and his pillow be.

    W. G. CLARK.


    Mother, now thy task is done,
      Now thy vigil ended;
    With the coming of the sun,
      Grief and joy are blended.

    Grief that thus thy flower of love
      From its stem is riven;
    Joy that will bloom above,
      Midst the bowers of Heaven.

    Gone, as oft expires the light
      Of thy nightly taper:
    Gone, as 'fore the sunshine bright,
      Early morning's vapor.

    Kiss its lips so mute and cold,
      Cold as chiselled marble,
    They will now to harp of gold
      Glad Hosannas warble.

    At the last they sweetly smiled,
      Told it not for gladness;
    Would'st thou now recall thy child
      To a world of sadness?

    It is hard to gather up,
      Ties so rudely riven;
    But thou'lt find this bitter cup
      For thy weal was given.

    Kiss again its hands so white,
      Kiss its marble forehead;
    Soon the grave will hide from sight,
      That thou only borrowed.

    Thou will meet thy child again,
      Where no death or sorrow
    Bring their sad to-day of pain,
      And their dread to-morrow.

FOOTNOTES:

[L] This poem, in an unfinished form, was published some months ago in
_Sartain's Magazine_. It has since been re-written for the
_International_, and is now much more than before deserving of the
applause with which it was received.




THE AMBITIOUS BROOKLET.

BY A. OAKEY HALL.


CHAPTER I.

     _How the Brooklet was born; and lodged; and wandered off one
     rainy day._

There was once a Brooklet born of a modest spring that circled through a
smiling meadow. All the hours of the Spring, and the Summer, and the
Autumn, kept she her musical round; greeting the sun at his rising,
together with the meadow-larks which came to dip their beaks in the
sparkling water-drops; and singing to the moon and stars all night, as
she bore their features within her bosom, in grateful remembrance of
their beauty. The laborer in the field hard by often came to visit her,
and wet his honest, toil-browned brow with her cooling drops; and often,
too, the laborer's daughter came at sunset time to sit by a mossy stone,
with so lovely a face that the Brooklet, as she mirrored the features of
the beautiful visitor, leaped about the pebbles with ripplings of
admiration.

And so this Brooklet lived on, only ceasing her merry flow and circling
journey when the bushes by her side became white with snow, and when the
rabbits from the brushwood fence at her head came out to stand upon the
slippery casing that the Brooklet often saw spreading over her, and
shutting out the warm sunshine by day, and at nightfall blurring the
radiance of moon and stars.

One stormy spring day the Brooklet seemed to rise higher among the twigs
of the alder-bushes than ever before; the rain came down faster and
heavier, and beat into her bosom, until her tiny waves were rough and
sore with pain, and she was fain to nestle closer to the sedgy grass
that now bent lowly to the pebbles at the roots. Growing higher every
minute was the Brooklet; and frightened somewhat, and longing for the
sunlight, or the laborer, and for the lovely daughter's face to cheer
her up, she looked off over a track of country wider and greener than
she had ever seen before. And so the Brooklet, all frightened as she
was, said to herself, "I'll run along a bit into this country spot, so
wide and green, and maybe I shall find the sunlight and the lovely
face."

Faster came the rain; and so the Brooklet, leaping wildly over a rock
whose top until then her eyes had never seen, went flowing on upon this
country spot, so wide and green. The new sights coming in view at every
bound quite made the Brooklet forget her terrors from the beating rain;
she was pained no longer by the heavy drops, but soothed herself among
the velvet grass; and turned between little flowers scarcely above the
ground, and which, as she passed them, seemed to be as frightened by the
wind and rain as herself had been before the meadow was left behind.

The Brooklet had thus run on until she saw the country spot so wide and
green was well passed over, and trees and bushes, darker and thicker
than she had ever known before, were close at hand. And while she
thought of stopping in her way and going back, she heard not far before
an echo of a sound most like unto her own; and so kept on to find it
out. Clearer and louder increased the sound, as now through mouldy
leaves and dark thickets, and under decayed logs and insect-burrowed
moss, she kept a course, until presently, over a fallen tree, she saw a
Brooklet, larger, wider, and evidently much older than herself, which,
on her near approach, ran by the fallen tree's side, and said, "Good
morning, sister: what is so delicate a being, as you seem to be, doing
in this dark forest?"

The wanderer Brooklet became silent with wonder. She had never been
addressed before, though often trying to talk with the laborer, and to
the lovely face of her meadow acquaintance, without the slightest notice
upon their part of the overtures.

"Good morning, sister, I say," was repeated over the fallen tree. "Where
are you going at so slow a pace? Come over, and let us talk a bit."

"I cannot, for I am terribly frightened, and I've lost my way. I want to
quit this dark place, and go where I can hear the lark again, and see
the pretty face which used to look at mine when I was circling in yonder
meadow, now, I fear, far, far behind."

"Larks and pretty faces, indeed! Why what a spooney sister, you are, to
be sure. I'll show you more birds than ever you heard sing before, and
prettier faces than ever you saw before."

"No, no, I must go back," replied the wanderer; "I have come too far
already, and see, the rain has almost ceased."

"More's the pity for that," returned the other; "the faster it rains the
faster I go, and that is what I want. I have left my family brooks a
long time since, and I'm going on my travels to be somebody. I'm tired
of my lonesome life among the meadows. I'm the _ambitious Brooklet_.
Come over, then, and go along; we'll travel the faster in company."

"I'm not ambitious; and as you may see, I cannot come."

"You're almost to the log top now. I'll kiss you soon," triumphed the
ambitious Brooklet, circling gayly round a tuft of green.

It must have been the terrible rain, or the fright of her dark
journeying place, that had taken her strength away:--the wandering
Brooklet felt that it must be: for now her strength of will was almost
gone. Nearer the log top came in view, until with a bound she swept its
polished surface, and with a dash came over upon the ambitious Brooklet.

"Good! that's the way to do it; now we shall journey gayly on," said the
latter, "I have lost much time in stopping here, and there are such rare
sights ahead!"

The wanderer felt the oddest sensations she had ever known, and said,
"Sister--ambitious sister--how much warmer than I are you!"

"Oh, you are young, I suppose--fresh from the icy spring. But journey
on more southward yet, away from these dark trees, and you'll be warmer
yet; come, I say."

"I like your feel; but then I shall be lost, I know I shall; and so I'll
stay behind."

"You cannot; for, ambitious as I am, I want your help. See how much
faster we travel together when your strength is joined to mine; and I'm
the strongest, and you can't go back."

The wandering Brooklet looked fearfully around, and saw indeed that the
log she had leaped was now fast fading away, and felt that her strength
became less and less as the ambitious Brooklet clung closer to her side.

Presently they came in sight of a ledge of rocks. "Oh, this is rare
indeed!" said the stronger sister Brooklet, "Let us pause a bit for
breath, and then for a merry leap adown the valley of pines you see
before."

The Brooklets stopped, and became stronger, and leaped over the rocks;
the one with an exulting bound--the other carried tremblingly along.

The leap was a long one, and a hard one; for there were craggy rocks
beneath, which they had not seen. And the ambitious Brooklet cried
sharply and loudly--foaming in her rage as she went between the stony
points, and quite forgetting her weaker sister in her pain. The latter
was sorely injured too, and cut into little foam-bits; but she kept her
wits about her, looking around everywhere for a place to rest. Soon she
espied one--a little bowl of marshy ground, hemmed in by rocks, into
which a straggling dropping from the chasm above slowly came.

"Here will I go and rest," she said. So waiting for the ambitious
Brooklet to get far out of sight, she collected all her strength for a
jump into the bowl, where the drops came sparkling in. There was no need
for fear of the sister on before; her she heard going over rock after
rock, crying and wailing in her craggy journey. Then the tired wanderer,
with a violent effort of her exhausted strength, jumped a rock and fell
panting into the marshy bowl.


CHAPTER II.

     _How the Brooklet lived on in her new quarters; and how
     misfortune made her discontented._

The dropping of the water from the rocks above her new abode, was cold
and grateful to the Brooklet in her fevered state. It made her think of
the spring she came from; and so of the meadow; and the alder-bushes;
and the lovely face a weary way off now she knew, and fenced away from
her return by cruel jagged rocks.

Days passed by; and the sun came out all brightly. And the moon and
stars were seen again; and larger and sweeter birds than she had heard
before, now perched upon the trees about, warbling and chirruping from
day-break to twilight. So the time passed on. The wanderer began to feel
unsettled in her solitude. But there was no return by the path she came;
still were the sharp rocks seen above; and still she felt a twinge of
pain when thinking of her weary journey on that rainy day. Often too she
thought of her ambitious sister, wondering where she was now and what
she was about; and sometimes she almost fancied she would have been
happier had she gone along. It was quite evident to herself that she was
getting discontented.

There was one pleasure she prized much. Following in the train of the
ambitious Brooklet had been a score of fishes, which, frightened by the
leap upon the jagged rocks, had staid behind with the timid wanderer,
until they became part of her family in the new retreat. Overlooking,
and enjoying the gambols of these fish, the discontented Brooklet often
amused herself. Observing how when the sun came slanting through the
sides of the foliage about, they would dart out from their hiding-places
in the old dead leaves at the feet of the Brooklet, and so jump up to
greet the warming rays: or how, when a fly fell down from the
overhanging boughs, and tried to swim away, they would jump to nab a bit
of lunch, scrabbling and tugging as they went; or how, when the largest
fish of all threw off his dignity, and played with them at hide and seek
under the foot-deep bottom of mud, they would all shoot about her
life-blood drops without regard to the angles of pain their fins would
leave behind!

Thus the summer-time came on, and was passing by, when one day the
Brooklet felt a shadow upon her, and looked up to see the cause--when
high upon the rocks above, there stood a bright-eyed boy, with curling
locks that blew about in golden beauty with the breeze. In his hand he
held a little stick, which he turned over from time to time, and would
take up and then lay it down, as if preparing for something wonderful.
The curiosity of the Brooklet was aroused to know what he could mean,
when presently she saw him sit upon the rock, and from the stick drop
down upon her face a worm, which when the fishes saw they darted out to
eat.

"It is a beautiful boy; and a kind boy," said the artless Brook unto
herself; "and he has come to feed the little fishes with a worm. I have
not seen one since I left my little meadow on that rainy day. How like
the lovely face I used to see, is his which now looks down."

While thus the Brook was soliloquizing, a fish more cunning than the
rest, had seized the worm within his mouth, and was swimming away to his
favorite hole by an old willow stump to there complete a meal. He was
just entering it, when the Brook saw him suddenly flash from her
embrace, floundering and pulling as he went up, up through the air, unto
the mossy bank above the rock from which fell the shadow of the boy. And
now the Brook, more curious than ever, saw the face so like the
laborer's daughter overspread with smiles as the tiny hands grasped the
fish, and with a wrench tore out the worm from his gills, a piece of
which fell on the Brook athwart the shadow of the laugher.

"What a fine one!" said the boy, and started up;--started up to slip
against a smooth worn stone, and fall over the rock into the Brook,
close by the willow stump; the captive fish held tightly as he went, but
slipping from the falling grasp into its welcome element once more.

The Brook had never felt so hard a blow before. The rain and hail were
nothing to this. It made her splash and leap and swell against the rocky
bank, until she could have called with pain.

How still the boy laid on her breast! his head against the willow stump,
over which there trickled a tiny purple stream smaller than the
spring-drops from the rock! How richly his golden locks floated upon the
Brook! but how widely strained his bright blue eyes glaring at the sky
and tree-tops above, and how he gasped from his mouth; a mouth so like
the one the laborer had often prest in harvest-time to the Brook, when
it was yet circling in the meadow! The Brook said to herself, "I will
put some of my ripples into this mouth, as I have seen the laborer do;
perhaps, like him, it will make his eye sparkle, and send him away
again; for he lies heavy on my breast." And so the ripples went into the
opened mouth by dozens; but the blue sky and tree-tops faded from his
eyes, and the lips lost their bright color, and the purple trickling on
the willow stump grew thick and settled into a dark pool.

All night the dead boy lay upon the breast of the Brook; and the fishes
played around him, wondering what it was; and the little insects hopped
over him at early sunlight; until the purple pool dried up, and only
left a stain behind.

And soon the Brook heard the hum of voices sounding over the rocks, as
she listened from her solitude; and soon more shadows fell upon her
face. Then looking up she saw the laborer once again; and the Brook
rejoiced to think perhaps she was going back again into her pleasant
meadow. He had taken up the stick the boy had used; and was looking down
below upon the Brook, as the face--the lovely face, with more of the old
sorrow in it--of the laborer's daughter, raised itself above his
shoulder.

"My brother!--drowned and dead!--and no more to come home alive to share
his sister's home."

This the Brook heard, and the fishes swam away into their holes, as
piercing, sorrowful human tones mingled with the passing breeze; and
they struck deeper into the willow roots as a pair of brawny arms
readied out and caught the dead boy, and carried him away.

The boy was gone, but the stain was there; and still a weight remained
upon the Brook. For still day after day a shadow fell upon her, and the
Brook looking up beheld the lovely but mournful face of the sorrowing
sister, who would sit upon the mossy bank and sigh a sob; kissing a lock
of golden hair the while. And heavier grew the weight on the breast of
the Brook, as scalding tears fell from the rock above upon her face.

And now the Brook again became discontented: and thought of her
ambitious sister; and what might have happened had she followed after on
a weary round of travels. The old meadow and the alders were out of the
question now: for the winter was coming on, and the laborer and the
lovely face would no more come to her side; and if they did they would
sing no more, but sigh and sob, and look so sad, as now, upon the mossy
rock above.

The summer weather was long over; and the leaves were showering down,
and had quite hidden the clouds and blue sky, and moon and stars from
the sight of the Brook. The birds had ceased to sit and warble on the
trees above. The breezes ceased their music, and instead were heard the
hoarse notes of the Autumn wind.


CHAPTER III.

     _How the Brooklet and the Mountain-Torrent met._

One day the leaves thickened more than ever over the Brook, and, as she
peeped between, she saw the clouds were heavier and darker than usual.
The wind roared louder, and the trees which grew so high above her bent
down their branches until they brushed her face with their trailing. And
soon the rain began to fall in torrents; and it fell and fell all day;
all night too. Then the Brook rejoiced to think the leaves which she had
been angry with before for choking her, protected from the pattering
strokes. And soon the Brook heard a sound, like that made by her
ambitious sister in the spring-time;--nearer and nearer it came; through
the trees; over the rocks; tearing, splashing, dashing, and foaming at a
direful rate.

"It is my ambitious sister come for me. I'm glad," said the discontented
Brook.

"Glad of what?" exclaimed a roaring voice, coming over the rock, and
sweeping away the leaves as if they had been a mere handful; and
covering up the ugly purple stain upon the willow stump. "Ain't I a
famous fellow, though? When once my blood is up, can't I go on and
frighten people? Can't I mine out the earth, and sweep along big trees
like boats? Can't I tumble down the rocks that dare to stop my path?
Can't I drown men and boys, and all the cattle in the land? I've
swallowed a dozen haystacks for my breakfast, and killed the finest
mill-dam over the world this morning. I said I would as soon as winter
came, when they dammed me up last spring, so many miles away! Oh, such a
mass of stone and timber which they put up to fret me in my path; and
what a joke to think this solid mass is scattered through the land since
yesternight, and I am free once more."

"This is not my ambitious sister! no indeed," murmured the Brook.

"Why here is a little Brook," continued the voice, "a dainty, prudish,
modest Brook, collected in a hole to die! Come out, my fair one! I will
wed thee, as I have wedded fifty thousand of your sex in my short day!
Come out; no fear; if I am the Mountain-Torrent, I'm not so great a
monster as they say, especially to hurt a modest Brook."

So saying the Mountain-Torrent caught up the shrinking Brook in his
powerful embrace, and away they hurried through the very heart of the
forest, miles and miles below.

"This, this is life indeed," said the wedded Brook, once more a wanderer
over the land, as with a thousand other Brooks they travelled on for
many hours with impetuous speed, making dreadful havoc everywhere they
touched. Havoc among the farmers and the villagers, who fought them inch
by inch, with sticks and trees, and mounds of stone and clay, all which
they licked up and swallowed, as if they had been pebbles and clumps of
leaves. Havoc with the Creeks upon the route, who dared to scorn their
overtures, and wed the Torrent, willingly; for spurning the placid,
humble Creeks one side, they tore along their paths, and vented their
fury on the bridges overhead, bringing down in general destruction,
turnpikes and railroads with their pressing weight of travel.

Havoc to themselves!

For, tearing on so madly, the Mountain-Torrent, after a while, perceived
his strength to fail, and his endurance to give out. But still he
hurried on, though feebly, in hopes to meet more Brooks, perhaps a Lake,
and so recruit himself the while. The wedded Brook was wearied too--a
little; not much; at first the Mountain-Torrent had held her tightly in
embrace, and carried her along with scarcely an effort; but as he
wearied himself, much of the toil was thrown upon the Brook, and she was
compelled to help herself. On went the Torrent, weaker every step, until
at last he stopped and said:

"Oh wedded Brook! my strength is gone; here must I pause; but you go on.
Perhaps before long I shall meet you again. Go slowly; over the meadows
and through the villages make me a path; I'll know which way you went."

And so they parted; and so the lonely Brook meandered on, and finding
out a bubbling spring, was well recruited for the journey. As she went
she heard, across a little knoll, a remembered voice, and stopped. "I
know you, sister Brook," cried out the voice, "go on a bit and turn
towards your left, and there I'll meet you."

And towards the left the lonely Brook met her ambitious sister. She was
violent no more; but sober and sedate; calm as the evening sky reflected
from her face.

"I'm the 'ambitious one,'" said she, "ambitious yet, though all my
strength has departed. Here on this spot was I caught and fastened up.
They darkened my daylight with that smoking monster yonder, and killed
my peace of mind with such a horrid din and clang, I've not a morsel of
energy left. I'm a factory slave; and so are you, too, for that matter,
now! Don't start; it's not my fault--the way that you were going on, you
would have brought up in the Pond below, where there is yet another
smoking monster; only worse than this of mine. The Pond there is a
horrid fellow; poisoning with some horrid purple dye: I've seen him
often when I venture near the dam and look below."

"Sister, take courage," cried the other Brook. "I'm glad I met you. I'm
ambitious too, for I was lately wedded to a glorious fellow, and have
been on such a glorious tour: scampering over all the land. He calls
himself the 'Mountain-Torrent.' He is now behind a mile or so, and may
be down upon us before long, to free us from this distressing
imprisonment you speak of."

The monster smoked on; and the clanging din about maddened all the air.
Huge wheels went racking and rumbling under huge brick walls. And day by
day, a minute at a time, some youthful faces, pale and shadowy, looked
wistfully upon the landscape below. But little knew the monster, and the
clanging din, and racking wheels; and little hoped the shadowy faces of
what the Brooklets plotted at the very factory door.


CHAPTER IV.

     _How the Mountain-Torrent freed the Brooks; and their fate._

The frost dropped on the Brooks, and once more blurred the moon and
stars, and shut the sunlight out; and starred a thousand jewels on the
mill-dam's brow; and sparkled a myriad icicles from the rumbling wheels.
Far away into the country it spread a white mantle, and froze into the
very heart of all the Ponds and Creeks above. And then the sun came out
and shone so brightly; and then the clouds over-covered it, and the rain
came pattering down as of the olden time, when first its peltings stung
the meadow Brook and tempted her to roam. And higher swelled the Brooks
behind their mill-dam prison, and sent more of their life-blood to
refresh the poisoned Pond below.

"I am getting stronger; I am very strong to-day, sister Brook," said the
ambitious one. "I think that with our efforts now united, we can push
this mill-dam over and escape."

"Wait for my darling Mountain-Torrent. I hear him on his way; he follows
after us. And see down yonder hill-side how he tears along; and hark!
how gladly, as he sees us from his rocky bed, he roars a song of
courage."

And the sister Brooks triumphed together as they saw the keepers of the
smoking monster cease their clanging din, and rush for timbers to uphold
the dam; and fly about with tools that were but baby toys for what was
coming now.

"Bring trees; bring stones; bring every thing," cried out the Brooks,
as they saw the Mountain-Torrent come rushing nearer on, sweeping away
the fences, and ploughing out a path more fitting for his travels than
the brookside one he kept in view.

"Welcome, my fair ones," roared he, as with heavy timbers in his maw he
caught the Brooks again in strong embrace, and dashing at the smoking
monster, knocked him down at once. Down came the mill-dam with an
earthquake noise; the din upon the air was not of clanging tools and
hammer stroke; the wheels were racking and rumbling, not beneath brick
walls, but over the rocks and ruined factories below; while the pale and
shadowy faces looked no longer wistfully on the landscape, but madly
rushed about to spread the tale of ruin through the land.

The same old thing! The same old journey over the country. The same old
havoc as they went. But the strength of a thousand Brooks seemed given
to the Mountain-Torrent as, looking miles away, he saw a wide expanse of
water fringed with brown and bluish lines. "It is the Ocean, fair ones,"
cried he; "when your feeble sights shall see it, bless my power, for at
length we reach a home no art of man can invade to fetter us or bind us
down. Ten millions of our species mingle there; in small harmony it is
true, but better fight among ourselves than ever thus to wage a war with
man. Now too approaches the time of our revenge: we'll take his life;
we'll sink his ships; we'll break his boasted wealth into uncounted
atoms, and scatter it."

The Brooks trembled in the strong grasp of the Mountain-Torrent to hear
the vehemence with which he spoke these threatening words; but lost
their fears in greater astonishment, as now they neared the ocean waste,
fringed with the lines of brown and blue of which he spoke.

"Why, sister, what a noise!" cried one of the Brooks, "our own is not to
be heard."

"See what a dreadful wall appears to rise and fall as we approach,"
answered the other. And they both clung closer to the embrace of the
Torrent as he crossed the beach they reached at last, and plunged, with
sticks and stones and all, upon the wall of foam and sand, which parted
as the Mountain-Torrent and the Brooks joined forces with old _Ocean's_
solemn waste.

In an instant the meadow-born Brook writhed in pain, pressed on by
thousands of Mountain-Torrents every way at once. She foamed and fought,
and fought and foamed; under and over, up and below she plunged, but no
escape; one weary work for ages yet to come!

"Revenge once more! Gather and rage! Dash to ruin ships and sailors!"
growled a tone which made the writhing Brook tremble into a million
foam-beads, as simultaneously a roaring Tempest clattered by with
thunder and lightning in its train, while a clashing hiss, as of
something rushing madly through the water, bade the Brook--the sea-slave
Brook--look up.

No time for thought; for still the tone was heard, "Revenge once more!
gather and rage! dash to ruin ship and sailors!" And still the tempest
clattered, and still the hissing of the gallant ship's prow was heard
cleaving the maddened waves. On, on! a dash; a crash; a march of
maddening waves; a stunning tempest howl, and then the hiss was heard no
more. But far and wide were hurried and mashed in one chaotic mass the
fragments of the gallant ship.

"How wise he is; how true my Mountain-Torrent spoke," thought the
frightened sea-slave Brook, as the clattering tempest, with thunder and
lightning in its train, passed out of sight and hearing leagues beyond.
"And now I'll rest me on this sandy beach, for this ambitious life is
wearisome indeed."

And she nestled closely to a rock, and so crept into grateful rest. But
as she lay, she looked beyond her sandy bed to see the lovely face of
her early meadow life, when she was but a humble Brook. Pale and ghastly
it lay upon a rounded stone; the hair floating out like fairy circles
from the marked brow, and on the temple such a purple thickened stain as
once had been upon the willow stump.

The Brook came by her side and watched her gently as she lay. Then going
farther out, the Brook brought strings of sea-weed, and strung them
gayly and softly round her form, and watched her thus again. "Here will
I stay," thought the Brook, "and fancy I am still in the sunlight meadow
before I wandered forth into ambitious company. There's nought but
trouble and pain crossed my path since the rainy days of the latest
spring-time. Here will I stay, and ever mourn that I listened to
ambitious counselling."




LAST CASE OF THE SUPERNATURAL.


A writer in the January number of _Fraser's Magazine_, at the conclusion
of a tale crammed with the intensest horrors, presents us with one
instance in which the architect of such machinery was foiled.

When the recital was finished, and the company were well-nigh breathless
with its skilfully cumulative terror, cried Tremenheere--

"Humph! that is rather an uncomfortable story to go to bed upon."

And presently--

"You have been lately in Spain, Melton; what news from Seville?"

"Oh," replied Melton, "you must have heard of Don Juan de Murana, of
terrible memory?"

"Not we," said they.

"One gloomy evening Don Juan de Murana was returning along the quay
where the Golden Tower looks down upon the Guadalquivir, so lost in
thought that it was some time before he perceived that his cigar had
gone out, though he was one of the most determined smokers in Spain. He
looked about him, and beheld on the other side of the broad river an
individual whose brilliant cigar sparkled like a star of the first
magnitude at every aspiration.

"Don Juan, who, thanks to the terror which he had inspired, was
accustomed to see all the world obedient to his caprices, shouted to the
smoker to come across the river and give him a light.

"The smoker, without taking that trouble, stretched out his arm towards
the Don, and so effectually that it traversed the river like a bridge,
and presented to Don Juan a glowing cigar, which smelt most abominably
of sulphur.

"If Don Juan felt something like a rising shudder, he suppressed it,
coolly lighted his own cigar at that of the smoker, and went on his way,
singing, _Los Toros a la puerta_."

"But who was the smoker?"

"Who could he be, but the Prince of Darkness in person, who had laid a
wager with Pluto that he would frighten Don Juan De Murana, and went
back to his place furious at having lost?

"If you would learn more of Don Juan de Murana, how he went to his own
funeral, and died at last in the odor of sanctity, read that most
spirited series of letters, _De Paris a Cadix_, wherein Alexander Dumas
has surpassed himself. And now, Good night!"




A STORY WITHOUT A NAME[M]

Written For The International Monthly Magazine

BY G. P. R. JAMES, ESQ.

_Continued from Page 348._


CHAPTER XIV.

Occasionally in the life of man, as in the life of the
world--History--or in the course of a stream towards the sea, come quiet
lapses, sunny and calm, reflecting nothing but the still motionless
objects around, or the blue sky and moving clouds above. Often too we
find that this tranquil expanse of silent water follows quickly after
some more rapid movement, comes close upon some spot where a dashing
rapid has diversified the scene, or a cataract, in roar and confusion
and sparkling terror, has broken the course of the stream.

Such a still pause, silent of action--if I may use the term--followed
the events which I have related in the last chapter, extending over a
period of nearly six months. Nothing happened worthy of any minute
detail. Peace and tranquillity dwelt in the various households which I
have noticed in the course of this story, enlivened in that of Sir
Philip Hastings by the gay spirit of Emily Hastings, although somewhat
shadowed by the sterner character of her father; and in the household of
Mrs. Hazleton brightened by the light of hope, and the fair prospect of
success in all her schemes which for a certain time continued to open
before her.

Mr. Marlow only spent two days at her house, and then went away to
London, but whatever effect her beauty might have produced upon him, his
society, brief as it was, served but to confirm her feelings towards
him, and before he left her, she had made up her mind fully and
entirely, with her characteristic vigor and strength of resolution, that
her marriage with Mr. Marlow was an event which must and should be.
There was under this conviction, but not the less strong, not the less
energetic, not the less vehement, for being concealed even from
herself--a resolution that no sacrifice, no fear, no hesitation at any
course, should stand in the way of her purpose. She did not anticipate
many difficulties certainly; for Mr. Marlow clearly admired her; but the
resolution was, that if difficulties should arise, she would overcome
them at all cost. Hers was one of those characters of which the world
makes its tragedies, having within itself passions too strong and deep
to be frequently excited--as the more profound waters which rise into
mountains when once in motion require a hurricane to still
them--together with that energetic will, that fixed unbending
determination, which like the outburst of a torrent from the hills,
sweeps away all before it. But let it be ever remembered that her
energies were exerted upon herself as well as upon others, not in
checking passion, not in limiting desire, but in guarding scrupulously
every external appearance, guiding every thought and act with careful
art towards its destined object. Mrs. Hazleton suffered Mr. Marlow to be
in London more than a month before she followed to conclude the mere
matters of business between them. It cost her a great struggle with
herself, but in that struggle she was successful, and when at length she
went, she had several interviews with him. Circumstances--that great
enemy of schemes, was against her. Sometimes lawyers were present at
their interviews, sometimes impertinent friends; but Mrs. Hazleton did
not much care: she trusted to the time he was speedily about to pass in
the country, for the full effect, and in the meantime took care that
nothing but the golden side of the shield should be presented to her
knight.

The continent was at that time open to Englishmen for a short period,
and Mr. Marlow expressed his determination of going to the Court of
Versailles for a month or six weeks before he came down to take
possession of Hartwell place, everything now having been settled between
them in regard to business.

Mrs. Hazleton did not like his determination, yet she did not much fear
the result; for Mr. Marlow was preeminently English, and never likely to
weal a French woman. Still she resolved that he should see her under
another aspect before he went. She was a great favorite of the Court of
those days; her station, her wealth, her beauty, and her grace rendered
her a brightness and an ornament wherever she came. She was invited to
one of the more private though not less splendid assemblies at the
Palace, and she contrived that Mr. Marlow should be invited also, though
neither by nature or habit a courtier. She obtained the invitation for
him skilfully, saying to the Royal Personage of whom she asked it, that
as he won a lawsuit against her, she wished to show him that she bore no
malice. He went, and found her the brightest in the brilliant scene; the
great and the proud, the handsome and the gay, all bending down and
worshipping, all striving for a smile, and obtaining it but scantily.
She smiled upon _him_, however, not sufficiently to attract remark from
others, but quite sufficiently to mark a strong distinction for his own
eyes, if he had chosen to use them. He went away to France, and Mrs.
Hazleton returned to the country; the winter passed with her in
arranging his house for him; and, in so doing, she often had to write to
him. His replies were always prompt, kind, and grateful; and at length
came the spring, and the pleasant tidings that he was on his way back to
his beloved England.

Alas for human expectation! Alas for the gay day-dream of
youth--maturity--middle age--old age--for they have all their daydreams!
Every passion which besets man from the cradle to the grave has its own
visionary expectations. Each creature, each animal, from the tiger to
the beetle, has its besetting insect, which preys upon it, gnaws it,
irritates it, and so have all the ages of the soul and of the heart.
Alas for human speculation of all kinds! Alas for every hope and
aspiration! for those that are pure and high, but, growing out of earth,
bear within themselves the bitter seeds of disappointment; and those
that are dark or low produce the germ of the most poisonous hybrid,
where disappointment is united with remorse.

Happy is the man that expecteth nothing, for verily he shall not be
disappointed! It is a quaint old saying; and could philosophy ever stem
the course of God's will, it would be one which, well followed, might
secure to man some greater portion of mortal peace than he possesses.
But to aspire was the ordinance of God; and, viewed rightly, the
withering of the flowers upon each footstep we have taken upwards, is no
discouragement; for if we shape our path aright, there is a wreath of
bright blossoms crowning each craggy peak before us, as we ascend to
snatch the garland of immortal glory, placed just beyond the last awful
leap of death.

Mrs. Hazleton's aspirations, however, were all earthly. She thought of
little beyond this life. She had never been taught so to think. There
are some who are led astray from the path of noble daring, to others as
difficult and more intricate, by some loud shout of passion on the right
or on the left--and seek in vain to return; some who, misled by an
apparent similarity in the course of two paths, although the finger post
says, "Thus shalt thou go!" think that the way so plainly beaten, and so
seemingly easy, must surely lead them to the same point. Others again
never learn to read the right path from the wrong (and she was one),
while others shut their eyes to all direction, fix their gaze upon the
summit, and strain up, now amidst flowers and now amidst thorns, till
they are cast back from the face of some steep precipice, to perish in
the descent or at the foot.

Mrs. Hazleton's aspirations were all earthly; and that was the secret of
her only want in beauty. That divine form, that resplendent face, beamed
with every earthly grace: sparkled forth mind and intellect in every
glance, but they were wanting in soul, in spirit, and in heart. Life was
there, but the life of life, the intense flame of immortal, over-earthly
intelligence, was wanting. She might be the grandest animal that ever
was seen, the most bright and capable intellect that ever dealt with
mortal things; but the fine golden chain which leads on the electric
fire from intellectual eminence to spiritual preeminence, from mind to
soul, from earth to heaven, was wanting, or had been broken. Her
loveliness none could doubt, her charm of manner none could deny, her
intellectual superiority all admitted, her womanly softness added a
grace beyond them all; but there was one grace wanting--the grace of a
high, holy soul, which, in those who have it, be they fair, be they
ugly, pours forth as an emanation from every look and every action, and
surrounds them with a cloud of radiance, faintly imaged by the artist's
glory round a saint.

Alas for human aspirations! Alas for the expectations of this fair frail
creature! How eagerly she thought of Mr. Marlow's return! how she had
anticipated their meeting again! How she had calculated upon all that
would be said and done during the next few weeks! The first news she
received was that he had arrived, and with a few servants had taken
possession of his new dwelling. She remained all day in her own house;
she ordered no carriage; she took no walk: she tried to read; she played
upon various instruments of music; she thought each instant he would
come, at least for a few minutes, to thank her for all the care she had
bestowed to make his habitation comfortable. The sun gilded the west;
the melancholy moon rose up in solemn splendor; the hours passed by, and
he came not.

The next morning, she heard that he had ridden over to the house of Sir
Philip Hastings, and indignation warred with love in her bosom. She
thought he must certainly come that day, and she resolved angrily to
upbraid him for his want of courtesy. Luckily, however, for her, he did
not come that day; and a sort of melancholy took possession of her.
Luckily, I say; for when passion takes hold of a scheme it is generally
sure to shake it to pieces, and that melancholy loosens the grasp of
passion for a time. The next day he did come, and with an air so easy
and unconscious of offence as almost to provoke her into vehemence
again. He knew not what she felt--he had no idea of how he had been
looked for. He was as ignorant that she had ever thought of him as a
husband, as she was that he had ever compared her in his mind to his
own mother.

He talked quietly, indifferently, of his having been over to the house
of Sir Philip Hastings, adding merely--not as an excuse, but as a simple
fact--that he had been unable to call there as he had promised before
leaving the country. He dilated upon the kind reception he had met with
from Lady Hastings, for Sir Philip was absent upon business; and he went
on to dwell rather largely upon the exceeding beauty and great grace of
Emily Hastings.

Oh how Mrs. Hazleton hated her! It requires but a few drops of poison to
envenom a whole well.

He did worse: he proceeded to descant upon her character--upon the
blended brightness and deep thought--upon the high-souled emotions and
child-like sparkle of her disposition--upon the simplicity and
complexity, upon the many-sided splendor of her character, which, like
the cut diamond, reflected each ray of light in a thousand varied and
dazzling hues. Oh how Mrs. Hazleton hated her--hated, because for the
first time she began to fear. He had spoken to her in praise of another
woman--with loud encomiums too, with a brightened eye, and a look which
told her more than his words. These were signs not to be mistaken. They
did not show in the least that he loved Emily Hastings, and that she
knew right well; but they showed that he did not love her; and there was
the poison in the cup.

So painful, so terrible was the sensation, that, with all her mastery
over herself, she could not conceal the agony under which she writhed.
She became silent, grave, fell into fits of thought, which clouded the
broad brow, and made the fine-cut lip quiver. Mr. Marlow was surprised
and grieved. He asked himself what could be the matter. Something had
evidently made her sorrowful, and he could not trace the sorrow to its
source; for she carefully avoided uttering one word in depreciation of
Emily Hastings. In this she showed no woman's spirit. She could have
stabbed her, had the girl been there in her presence; but she would not
scratch her. Petty spite was too low for her, too small for the
character of her mind. Hers was a heart capable of revenge, and would be
satisfied with nothing less.

Mr. Marlow soothed her, spoke to her kindly, tenderly, tried to lead her
mind away, to amuse, to entertain her. Oh, it was all gall and
bitterness to her. He might have cursed, abused, insulted her, without,
perhaps--diminishing her love--certainly without inflicting half the
anguish that was caused by his gentle words. It is impossible to tell
all the varied emotions that went on in her heart--at least for me.
Shakspeare could have done it, but none less than Shakspeare. For a
moment she knew not whether she loved or hated him; but she soon felt
and knew it was love; and the hate, like lightning striking a rock, and
glancing from the solid stone to rend a sapling, all turned away from
him, to fall upon the head of poor unconscious Emily Hastings.

Though she could not recover from the blow she had received, yet she
soon regained command over herself, conversed, smiled, banished
absorbing thoughts, answered calmly, pertinently, even spoke in her own
bright, brilliant way, with a few more figures and ornaments of speech
than usual; for figures are things rather of the head than of the heart,
and it was from the head that she was now speaking.

At length Mr. Marlow took his leave, and for the first time in life she
was glad he was gone.

Mrs. Hazleton gave way to no burst of passion: she shed not a tear; she
uttered no exclamation. That which was within her heart, was too intense
for any such ordinary expression. She seated herself at a table, leaned
her head upon her hand, and fixed her eyes upon one bright spot in the
marquetry. There she sat for more than an entire hour, without a motion,
and in the meantime what were the thoughts that passed through her
brain? We have shown the feelings of her heart enough.

She formed plans; she determined her course; she looked around for
means. Various persons suggested themselves to her mind as instruments.
The three women, I have mentioned in a preceding chapter--the good sort
of friends. But it was an agent she wanted, not a confidant. No, no,
Mrs. Hazleton knew better than to have a confidant. She was her own best
council-keeper, and she knew it. Nevertheless, these good ladies might
serve to act in subordinate parts, and she assigned to each of them
their position in her scheme with wonderful accuracy and skill. As she
did so, however, she remembered that it was by the advice of Mrs.
Warmington that she had brought Mr. Marlow to Hartwell Place; and in her
heart's secret chamber she gave her fair friend a goodly benediction.
She resolved to use her nevertheless--to use her as far as she could be
serviceable; and she forgot not that she herself had been art and part
in the scheme that had failed. She was not one to shelter herself from
blame by casting the whole storm of disappointment upon another. She
took her own full share. "If she was a fool so to advise," said Mrs.
Hazleton, "'twas a greater fool to follow her advice."

She then turned to seek for the agent. No name presented itself but that
of Shanks, the attorney; and she smiled bitterly when she thought of
him. She recollected that Sir Philip Hastings had thrown him
head-foremost down the steps of the terrace, and that was very
satisfactory to her; for, although Mr. Shanks was a man who sometimes
bore injuries very meekly, he never forgot them.

Nevertheless, she had somewhat a difficult part to play, for most agents
have a desire of becoming confidants also, and that Mrs. Hazleton
determined her attorney should not be. The task was to insinuate her
purposes rather than to speak them--to act, without betraying the
motive of action--to make another act, without committing herself by
giving directions.

Nevertheless, Mrs. Hazleton arranged it all to her own satisfaction; and
as she did so, amongst the apparently extinct ashes of former schemes,
one small spark of hope began to glow, giving promise for the time to
come. What did she propose? At first, nothing more than to drive Sir
Philip Hastings and his family from the country, mingling the
gratification of personal hatred with efforts for the accomplishment of
her own purposes. It was a bold attempt, but Mrs. Hazleton had her plan;
and she sat down and wrote for Mr. Shanks, the attorney.


CHAPTER XV.

Decorum came in with the house of Hanover. I know not whether men and
women in England were more virtuous before--I think not--but they
certainly were more frank in both their virtues and their vices. There
were fewer of those vices of conventionality thrown around the human
heart--fewer I mean to say of those cold restraints, those gilded chains
of society, which, like the ornaments that ladies wear upon their necks
and arms, seem like fetters; but, I fear me, restrain but little human
action, curb not passion, and are to the strong will but as the green
rushes round the limbs of the Hebrew giant. Decorum came into England
with the house of Hanover; but I am speaking of a period before that,
when ladies were less fearful of the tongue of scandal, when scandal
itself was fearful of assailing virtue, when honesty of purpose and
purity of heart could walk free in the broad day, and men did not
venture to suppose evil acts perpetrated whenever, by a possibility,
they could be committed.

Emily Hastings walked quietly along by the side of Mr. Marlow, through
her father's park. There was no one with him, no keen matron's ear to
listen to and weigh their words, no brother to pretend to accompany
them, and either feel himself weary with the task or lighten it by
seeking his own amusement apart. They were alone together, and they
talked without restraint. Ye gods, how they did talk! The dear girl was
in one of her brightest, gayest moods. There was nothing that did not
move her fancy or become a servant to it. The clouds as they shot across
the sky, the blue fixed hills in the distance, the red and yellow and
green coloring of the young budding oaks, the dancing of The stream, the
song of the bird, the whisper of the wind, the misty spring light which
spread over the morning distance, all had illustrations for her
thoughts. It seemed that day as if she could not speak without a
figure--as if she revelled in the flowers of imagination, like a child
tossing about the new mown grass in a hay-field. And he, with joyous
sport, took pleasure in furnishing her at every moment with new material
for the bounding play of fancy.

They had not known each other long; but there was something in the young
man's manner--nay, let me go farther--in his character, which invited
confidence, which besought the hearts around to throw off all strange
disguise, and promised that he would take no base advantage of their
openness. That something was perhaps his earnestness: one felt that he
was true in all he said or did or looked: that his words were but his
spoken feelings: his countenance a paper on which the heart at once
recorded its sensations. But let me not be mistaken. Do not let it be
supposed that when I say he was earnest, I mean that he was even grave.
Oh no! Earnestness can exist as well in the merriest as in the soberest
heart. One can be as earnest, as truthful, even as eager in joy or
sport, as in sorrow or sternness. But he was earnest in all things, and
it was this earnestness which probably found a way for him to so many
dissimilar hearts.

Emily knew not at all what it was doing with hers; but she felt that he
was one before whom she had no need to hide a thought: that if she were
gay, she might be gay in safety: that if she were inclined to muse, she
might muse on in peace.

Onward they walked, talking of every thing on earth but love. It was in
the thoughts of neither. Emily knew nothing about it: the tranquil
expanse of life had never for her been even rippled by the wing of
passion. Marlow might know more; but for the time he was lost in the
enjoyment of the moment. The little enemy might be carrying on the war
against the fortress of each unconscious bosom; but if so, it was by the
silent sap and mine, more potent far than the fierce assault or
thundering cannonade--at least in this sort of warfare.

They were wending their way towards a gate, at the very extreme limit of
the park, which opened upon a path leading by a much shorter way to Mr.
Marlow's own dwelling than the road he usually pursued. He had that
morning come to spend but an hour at the house of Sir Philip Hastings,
and he had an engagement at his own house at noon. He had spent two
hours instead of one with Emily and her mother, and therefore short
paths were preferable to long ones for his purpose, Emily had offered to
show him the way to the gate, and her company was sure to shorten the
road, though it might lengthen the time it took to travel.

Now in describing the park of Sir Philip Hastings, I have said that
there was a wide open space around the mansion; but I have also said,
that at some distance the trees gathered thick and sombre. Those nearest
the house gathered together in clumps, confusing the eye in a wilderness
of hawthorns, and bushes, and evergreen oaks, while beyond appeared a
dense mass of wood; and, through the scattered tufts of trees and thick
woodland at the extreme of the park ran several paths traced by deer,
and park-keepers, and country folk. Thus for various reasons some
guidance was needful to Marlow on his way, and for more reasons still he
was well pleased that the guide should be Emily Hastings. In the course
of their walk, amongst many other subjects they spoke of Mrs. Hazleton,
and Marlow expatiated warmly on her beauty, and grace, and kindness of
heart. How different was the effect of all this upon Emily Hastings from
that which his words in her praise had produced upon her of whom he
spoke! Emily's heart was free. Emily had no schemes, no plans, no
purposes. She knew not that there was one feeling in her bosom with
which praise of Mrs. Hazleton could ever jar. She loved her well. Such
eyes as hers are not practised in seeing into darkness. She had divined
the Italian singer--perhaps by instinct, perhaps by some distinct trait,
which occasionally will betray the most wily. But Mrs. Hazleton was a
fellow-woman--a woman of great brightness and many fine qualities.
Neither had she any superficial defects to indicate a baser metal or a
harder within. If she was not all gold, she was doubly gilt.

Emily praised her too, warmed with the theme; and eagerly exclaimed,
"She always seems to me like one of those dames of fairy tales, upon
whom some enchanter has bestowed a charm that no one can resist. It is
not her beauty; for I feel the same when I hear her voice and shut my
eyes. It is not her conversation; for I feel the same when I look at her
and she is silent. It seems to breathe from her presence like the odor
of a flower. It is the same when she is grave as when she is gay."

"Aye, and when she is melancholy," replied Marlow. "I never felt it more
powerfully than a few days ago when I spent an hour with her, and she
was not only grave but sad."

"Melancholy!" exclaimed Emily. "I never saw her so. Grave I have seen
her--thoughtful, silent--but never sad; and I do not know that she has
not seemed more charming to me in those grave, stiller moods, than in
more cheerful ones. Do you know that in looking at the beautiful statues
which I have seen in London, I have often thought they might lose half
their charm if they would move and speak? Thus, too, with Mrs. Hazleton;
she seems to me even more lovely, more full of grace, in perfect
stillness than at any other time. My father," she added, after a
moment's pause, "is the only one who in her presence seems spell-proof."

Her words threw Marlow into a momentary fit of thought. "Why," he asked
himself, "was Sir Philip Hastings spell-proof when all others were
charmed?"

Men have a habit of depending much upon men's judgment, whether justly
or unjustly I will not stop to inquire. They rely less upon woman's
judgment in such matters; and yet women are amongst the keenest
discerners--when they are unbiassed by passion. But are they often so?
Perhaps it is from a conviction that men judge less frequently from
impulse, decide more generally from cause, that this presumption of
their accuracy exists. Woman--perhaps from seclusion, perhaps from
nature--is more a creature of instincts than man. They are given her for
defence where reason would act too slowly; and where they do act
strongly, they are almost invariably right. Man goes through the slower
process, and naturally relies more firmly on the result; for reason
demonstrates where instinct leads blindfold. Marlow judged Sir Philip
Hastings by himself, and fancied that he must have some cause for being
spell-proof against the fascinations of Mrs. Hazleton. This roused the
first doubt in his mind as to her being all that she seemed. He repelled
the doubt as injurious, but it returned from time to time in after days,
and at length gave him a clue to an intricate labyrinth.

The walk came to an end, too soon he thought. Emily pointed out the gate
as soon as it appeared in sight, shook hands with him and returned
homeward. He thought more of her after they had parted, than when she
was with him. There are times when the most thoughtful do not
think--when they enjoy. But now, every word, every look of her who had
just left him, came back to memory. Not that he would admit to himself
that there was the least touch of love in his feelings. Oh no! He had
known her too short a time for such a serious passion as love to have
any thing to do with his sensations. He only thought of
her--mused--pondered--recalled all she had said and done, because she
was so unlike any thing he had seen or heard of before--a something
new--a something to be studied.

She was but a girl--a mere child, he said; and yet there was something
more than childish grace in that light, but rounded form, where beauty
was more than budding, but not quite blossomed, like a moss-rose in its
loveliest state of loveliness. And her mind too; there was nothing
childish in her thoughts except their playfulness. The morning dew-drops
had not yet exhaled; but the day-star of the mind was well up in the
sky.

She was one of those, on whom it is dangerous for a man afraid of love
to meditate too long. She was one the effect of whose looks and words is
not evanescent. That of mere beauty passes away. How many a face do we
see and think it the loveliest in the world; yet shut the eyes an hour
after, and try to recall the features--to paint them to the mind's eye.
You cannot. But there are others that link themselves with every feeling
of the heart, that twine themselves with constantly recurring thoughts,
that never can be effaced--never forgotten--on which age or time,
disease or death, may do its work without effecting one change in the
reality embalmed in memory. Destroy the die, break the mould, you may;
but the medal and the cast remain. Had Marlow lived a hundred years--had
he never seen Emily Hastings again, not one line of her bright face, not
one speaking look, would have passed from his memory. He could have
painted a portrait of her had he been an artist. Did you ever gaze long
at the sun, trying your eyes against the eagle's? If so, you have had
the bright orb floating before your eyes the whole day after. And so it
was with Marlow: throughout the long hours that followed, he had Emily
Hastings ever before him. But yet he did not love her. Oh dear no, not
in the least. Love he thought was very different from mere admiration.
It was a plant of slower growth. He was no believer in love at first
sight. He was an infidel as to Romeo and Juliet, and he had firmly
resolved if ever he did fall in love, it should be done cautiously.

Poor man! he little knew how deep he was in already.

In the meanwhile, Emily walked onward. She was heart-whole at least. She
had never dreamed of love. It had not been one of her studies. Her
father had never presented the idea to her. Her mother had often talked
of marriage, and marriages good and bad; but always put them in the
light of alliances--compacts--negotiated treaties. Although Lady
Hastings knew what love is as well as any one, and had felt it as
deeply, yet she did not wish her daughter to be as romantic as she had
been, and therefore the subject was avoided. Emily thought a good deal
of Mr. Marlow, it is true. She thought him handsome, graceful,
winning--one of the pleasantest companions she had ever known. She liked
him better than any one she had ever seen; and his words rang in her
ears long after they were spoken. But even imagination, wicked spinner
of golden threads as she is, never drew one link between his fate and
hers. The time had not yet come, if it was to come.

She walked on, however, through the wood; and just when she was emerging
from the thicker part into the clumps and scattered trees, she saw a
stranger before her, leaning against the stump of an old hawthorn, and
seeming to suffer pain. He was young, handsome, well-dressed, and there
was a gun lying at his feet. But as Emily drew nearer, she saw blood
slowly trickling from his arm, and falling on the gray sand of the path.

She was not one to suffer shyness to curb humanity; and she exclaimed at
once, with a look of alarm, "I am afraid you are hurt, sir. Had you not
better come up to the house?"

The young man looked at her, fainted, and answered in a low tone, "The
gun has gone off, caught by a branch, and has shattered my arm. I
thought I could reach the cottage by the park gates, but I feel faint."

"Stay, stay a moment," cried Emily, "I will run to the hall and bring
assistance--people to assist you upon a carriage."

"No, no!" answered the stranger quickly, "I cannot go there--I will not
go there! The cottage is nearer," he continued more calmly; "I think
with a little help I could reach it, if I could staunch the blood."

"Let me try," exclaimed Emily; and with ready zeal, she tied her
handkerchief round his arm, not without a shaking hand indeed, but with
firmness and some skill.

"Now lean upon me," she said, when she had done; "the cottage is indeed
nearer, but you would have better tendance if you could reach the hall."

"No, no, the cottage," replied the stranger, "I shall do well there."

The cottage was perhaps two hundred yards nearer to the spot on which
they stood than the hall; but there was an eagerness about the young
man's refusal to go to the latter, which Emily remarked. Suspicion
indeed was alive to her mind; but those were days when laws concerning
game, which have every year been becoming less and less strict, were
hardly less severe than in the time of William Rufus. Every day, in the
country life which she led, she heard some tale of poaching or its
punishment. The stranger had a gun with him; she had found him in her
father's park; he was unwilling even in suffering and need of help to go
up to the hall for succor; and she could not but fancy that for some
frolic, perhaps some jest, or some wild whim, he had been trespassing
upon the manor in pursuit of game. That he was an ordinary poacher she
could not suppose; his dress, his appearance forbade such a supposition.

But there was something more.

In the young man's face--more in its expression than its features
perhaps--more in certain marking lines and sudden glances than in the
general whole--there was something familiar to her--something that
seemed akin to her. He was handsomer than her father; of a more perfect
though less lofty character of beauty; and yet there was a strange
likeness, not constant, but flashing occasionally upon her brow, in
what, when, she could hardly determine.

It roused another sort of sympathy from any she had felt before; and
once more she asked him to go up to the hall.

"If you have been taking your sport," she said, "where perhaps you ought
not, I am sure my father will look over it without a word, when he sees
how you are hurt. Although people sometimes think he is stern and
severe, that is all a mistake. He is kind and gentle, I assure you, when
he does not feel that duty requires him to be rigid."

The stranger gave a quick start, and replied in a tone which would have
been haughty and fierce, had not weakness subdued it, "I have been
shooting only where I have a right to shoot. But I will not go up to the
hall, till--but I dare say I can get down to the cottage without help,
Mistress Emily. I have been accustomed to do without help in the world;"
and he withdrew his arm from that which supported him. The next moment,
however, he tottered, and seemed ready to fall, and Emily again hurried
to help him. There were no more words spoken. She thought his manner
somewhat uncivil; she would not leave him, and the necessity for her
kindness was soon apparent. Ere they were within a hundred yards of the
cottage, he sunk slowly down. His face grew pale and death-like, and his
eyes closed faintly as he lay upon the turf. Emily ran on like lightning
to the cottage, and called out the old man who lived there. The old man
called his son from the little garden, and with his and other help,
carried the fainting man in.

"Ay, master John, master John," exclaimed the old cottager, as he laid
him in his own bed; "one of your wild pranks, I warrant!"

His wife, his son, and he himself tended the young man with care; and a
young boy was sent off for a surgeon.

Emily did not know what to do; but compassion kept her in the cottage
till the stranger recovered his consciousness, and then after inquiring
how he felt, she was about to withdraw, intending to send down further
aid from the hall. But the stranger beckoned her faintly to come nearer,
and said in tones of real gratitude, "Thank you a thousand times,
Mistress Emily; I never thought to need such kindness at your hands. But
now do me another, and say not a word to any one at the mansion of what
has happened. It will be better for me, for you, for your father, that
you should not speak of this business."

"Do not! do not! Mistress Emily!" cried the old man, who was standing
near. "It will only make mischief and bring about evil."

He spoke evidently under strong apprehension, and Emily was much
surprised, both to find that one quite a stranger to her knew her at
once, and to find the old cottager, a long dependant upon her family,
second so eagerly his strange injunction.

"I will say nothing unless questions are asked me," she replied; "then
of course I must tell the truth."

"Better not," replied the young man gloomily.

"I cannot speak falsely," replied the beautiful girl, "I cannot deal
doubly with my parents or any one," and she was turning away.

But the stranger besought her to stop one moment, and said, "I have not
strength to explain all now; but I shall see you again, and then I will
tell you why I have spoken as you think strangely. I shall see you
again. In common charity you will come to ask if I am alive or dead. If
you knew how near we are to each other, I am sure you would promise!"

"I can make no such promise," replied Emily; but the old cottager seemed
eager to end the interview; and speaking for her, he exclaimed, "Oh, she
will come, I am sure, Mistress Emily will come;" and hurried her away,
seeing her back to the little gate in the park wall.


CHAPTER XVI.

Mrs. Hazleton found Mr. Shanks, the attorney, the most difficult person
to deal with whom she had ever met in her life. She had remarked that he
was keen, active, intelligent, unscrupulous, confident in his own
powers, bold as a lion in the wars of quill, parchment, and red tape;
without fear, without hesitation, without remorse. There was nothing
that he scrupled to do, nothing that he ever repented having done. She
had fancied that the only difficulty which she could have to encounter
was that of concealing from him, at least in a degree, the ultimate
objects and designs which she herself had in view.

So shrewd people often deceive themselves as to the character of other
shrewd people. The difficulty was quite different. It was a peculiar
sort of stolidity on the part of Mr. Shanks, for which she was utterly
unprepared.

Now the attorney was ready to do any thing on earth which his fair
patroness wished. He would have perilled his name on the roll in her
service; and was only eager to understand what were her desires, even
without giving her the trouble of explaining them. Moreover, there was
no point of law or equity, no manner of roguery or chicanery, no object
of avarice, covetousness, or ambition, which he could not have
comprehended at once. They were things within his own ken and scope, to
which the intellect and resources of his mind were always open. But to
other passions, to deeper, more remote motives and emotions, Mr. Shanks
was as stolid as a door-post. It required to hew a way as it were to his
perceptions, to tunnel his mind for the passage of a new conception.

The only passion which afforded the slightest cranny of an opening was
revenge; and after having tried a dozen other ways of making him
comprehend what she wished without committing herself, Mrs. Hazleton got
him to understand that she thought Sir Philip Hastings had injured--at
all events, that he had offended--her, and that she sought vengeance.
From that moment all was easy. Mr. Shanks could understand the feeling,
though not its extent. He would himself have given ten pounds out of his
own pocket--the largest sum he had ever given in life for any thing but
an advantage--to be revenged upon the same man for the insult he had
received; and he could perceive that Mrs. Hazleton would go much
further, without, indeed, being able to conceive, or even dream of, the
extent to which she was prepared to go.

However, when he had once got the clue, he was prepared to run along the
road with all celerity; and now she found him every thing she had
expected. He was a man copious in resources, prolific of schemes. His
imagination had exercised itself through life in devising crooked paths;
but in this instance the road was straight-forward before him. He would
rather it had been tortuous, it is true; but for the sake of his dear
lady he was ready to follow even a plain path, and he explained to her
that Sir Philip Hastings stood in a somewhat dangerous position.

He was proceeding to enter into the details, but Mrs. Hazleton
interrupted him, and, to his surprise, not only told him, but showed
him, that she knew all the particulars.

"The only question is, Mr. Shanks," she said, "can you prove the
marriage of his elder brother to this woman before the birth of the
child?"

"We think we can, madam," replied the attorney, "we think we can. There
is a very strong letter, and there has been evidently----"

He paused and hesitated, and Mrs. Hazleton demanded, "There has been
what, Mr. Shanks?"

"There has been evidently a leaf torn out of the register," replied the
lawyer.

There was something in his manner which made the lady gaze keenly in his
face; but she would ask no questions on that subject, and she merely
said, "Then why has not the case gone on, as it was put in your hands
six months ago?"

"Why, you see, my dear madam," replied Shanks, "law is at best
uncertain. One wants two or three great lawyers to make a case. Money
was short; John and his mother had spent all last year's annuity.
Barristers won't plead without fees, and besides----"

He paused again, but an impatient gesture from the lady urged him on.
"Besides," he said, "I had devised a little scheme, which, of course, I
shall abandon now, for marrying him to Mistress Emily Hastings. He is a
very handsome young fellow, and----"

"I have seen him," said Mrs. Hazleton thoughtfully, "but why should you
abandon this scheme, Mr. Shanks? It seems to me by no means a bad one."

The poor lawyer was now all at sea again and fancied himself as wide of
the lady's aim as ever.

Mrs. Hazleton suffered him to remain in this dull suspense for some
time. Wrapped up in her own thoughts, and busy with her own
calculations, she suffered several minutes to elapse without adding a
word to that which had so much surprised the attorney. Then, however,
she said, in a meditative tone, "There is only one way by which it can
be accomplished. If you allow it to be conducted in a formal manner, you
will fail utterly. Sir Philip will never consent. She will never even
yield."

"But if Sir Philip is made to see that it will save him a tremendous
lawsuit, and perhaps his whole estate," suggested Mr. Shanks.

"He will resist the more firmly," answered the lady; "if it saved his
life, he would reject it with scorn--no! But there is a way. If you can
persuade her--if you can show her that her father's safety, his position
in life, depends upon her conduct, perhaps you may bring her by degrees
to consent to a private marriage. She is young, inexperienced,
enthusiastic, romantic. She loves her father devotedly, and would make
any sacrifice for him."

"No great sacrifice, I should think, madam," replied Mr. Shanks, "to
marry a handsome young man who has a just claim to a large fortune."

"That is as people may judge," replied the lady; "but at all events this
claim gives us a hold upon her which we must not fail to use, and that
directly. I will contrive means of bringing them together. I will make
opportunity for the lad, but you must instruct him how to use it
properly. All I can do is to co-operate without appearing."

"But, my dear madam, I really do not fully understand," said Mr. Shanks.
"I had a fancy--a sort of imagination like, that you wished--that you
desired----"

He hesitated; but Mrs. Hazleton would not help him by a single word, and
at last he added, "I had a fancy that you wished this suit to go on
against Sir Philip Hastings, and now--but that does not matter--only do
you really wish to bring it all to an end, to settle it by a marriage
between John and Mistress Emily?'

"That will be the pleasantest, the easiest way of settling it, sir,"
replied Mrs. Hazleton, coolly; "and I do not at all desire to injure,
but rather to serve Sir Philip and his family."

That was false, for though to marry Emily Hastings to any one but Mr.
Marlow was what the lady did very sincerely desire; yet there was a long
account to be settled with Sir Philip Hastings which could not well be
discharged without a certain amount of injury to him and his. The lady
was well aware, too, that she had told a lie, and moreover that it was
one which Mr. Shanks was not at all likely to believe. Perhaps even she
did not quite wish him to believe it, and at all events she knew that
her actions must soon give it contradiction. But men make strange
distinctions between speech and action, not to be accounted for without
long investigation and disquisition. There are cases where people shrink
from defining in words their purposes, or giving voice to their
feelings, even when they are prepared by acts to stamp them for
eternity. There are cases where men do acts which they dare not cover by
a lie.

Mrs. Hazleton sought for no less than the ruin of Sir Philip Hastings;
she had determined it in her own heart, and yet she would not own it to
her agent--perhaps she would not own it to herself. There is a dark
secret chamber in the breast of every one, at the door of which the eyes
of the spirit are blindfolded, that it may not see the things to which
it is consenting. Conscience records them silently, and sooner or later
her book is to be opened; it may be in this world: it may be in the
next: but for the time that book is in the keeping of passion, who
rarely suffers the pages to be seen till purpose has been ratified by
act, and remorse stands ready to pronounce the doom.

There was a pause after Mrs. Hazleton had spoken, for the attorney was
busy also with thoughts he wished to utter, yet dared not speak. The
first prospect of a lawsuit--the only sort of the picturesque in which
he could find pleasure--a long, intricate, expensive lawsuit, was fading
before his eyes as if a mist were coming over the scene. Where were his
consultations, his letters, his briefs, his pleas, his rejoinders, his
demurrers, his appeals? Where were the fees, the bright golden fees?
True, in the hopelessness of his young client's fortunes, he had urged
the marriage with a proviso, that if it took place by his skilful
management, a handsome bonus was to be his share of the spoil. But then
Mrs. Hazleton's first communication had raised brighter hopes, had put
him more in his own element, had opened to him a scene of achievements
as glorious to his notions as those of the listed field to knights of
old; and now all was vanishing away. Yet he did not venture to tell her
how much he was disappointed, still less to show her why and how.

It was the lady who spoke first; and she did so in as calm, deliberate,
passionless a tone as if she had been devising the fashion of a new
Mantua.

"It may be as well, Mr. Shanks," she said, "in order to produce the
effect we wish upon dear Emily's mind"--dear Emily!--"to commence the
suit against Sir Philip--I mean to take those first steps which may
create some alarm. I cannot of course judge what they ought to be, but
you must know; and if not, you must seek advice from counsel learned in
the law. You understand what I mean, doubtless."

"Oh, certainly, madam, certainly," replied Mr. Shanks, with a profound
sigh of relief. "First steps commit us to nothing: but they must be
devised cautiously, and I am very much afraid that--that----"

"Afraid of what, sir?" asked Mrs. Hazleton, in a tone somewhat stern.

"Only that the expense will be greater than my young client can afford,"
answered the lawyer, seeing that he must come to the point.

"Let not that stand in the way," said Mrs. Hazleton at once; "I will
supply the means. What will be the expense?"

"Would you object to say five hundred pounds?" asked the lawyer,
cautiously.

"A thousand," replied the lady, with a slight inclination of the head;
and then, weary of circumlocution, she added in a bolder tone than she
had yet used, "only remember, sir, that what is done must be done
effectually; no mistakes, no errors, no flaws! See that you use all your
eyes--see that you bend every nerve to the task. I will have no
procrastination for the sake of fresh fees--nothing omitted one day to
be remembered the next--no blunders to be corrected after long delays
and longer correspondence. I know you lawyers and your ways right well;
and if I find that for the sake of swelling a bill to the bursting, you
attempt to procrastinate, the cause will be taken at once from your
hands and placed in those who will do their work more speedily. You can
practise those tricks upon those who are more or less in your power; but
you shall not play them upon me."

"I declare, my dear madam, I can assure you," said Mr. Shanks; but Mrs.
Hazleton cut him short. "There, there," she said, waving her fair hand,
"do not declare--do not assure me of any thing. Let your actions speak,
Mr. Shanks. I am too much accustomed to declarations and assurances to
set much value upon them. Now tell me, but in as few words and with as
few cant terms as possible, what are the chances of success in this
suit? How does the young man's case really stand?"

Mr. Shanks would gladly have been excused such explanations. He never
liked to speak clearly upon such delicate questions, but he would not
venture to refuse any demand of Mrs. Hazleton's, and therefore he began
with a circumlocution in regard to the uncertainty of law, and to the
impossibility of giving any exact assurances of success.

The lady would not be driven from her point, however. "That is not what
I sought to know," she said. "I am as well aware of the law's
uncertainty--of its iniquity, as you. But I ask you what grounds you
have to go upon? Were they ever really married? Is this son legitimate?"

"The lady says they were married," replied Mr. Shanks cautiously, "and I
have good hope we can prove the legitimacy. There is a letter in which
the late Mr. John Hastings calls her 'my dear little wife;' and then
there is clearly a leaf torn out of the marriage register about that
very time."

Mr. Shanks spoke the last words slowly and with some hesitation; but
after a pause he went on more boldly and rapidly. "Then we have a
deposition of the old woman Danby that they were married. This is clear
and precise," he continued with a grin: "she wanted to put in something
about 'in the eyes of God,' but I left that out as beside the question;
and she did the swearing very well. She might have broken down under
cross-examination, it is true; and therefore it was well to put off the
trial till she was gone. We can prove, moreover, that the late Sir John
always paid an annuity to both mother and child, in order to make them
keep secret--nay more, that he bribed the old woman Danby. This is our
strong point; but it is beyond doubt--I can prove it, madam--I can prove
it. All I fear is the mother; she is weak--very weak; I wish to heaven
she were out of the way till the trial is over."

"Send her out of the way," cried Mrs. Hazleton, decidedly; "send her to
France;" and then she added, with a bitter smile, "she may still figure
amongst the beauties of Versailles."

"But she will not go," replied Mr. Shanks. "Madam, she will not go. I
hinted at such a step--mentioned Cornwall or Ireland--any where she
could be concealed."

"Cornwall or Ireland!" exclaimed Mrs. Hazleton, "of course she would not
go. Why did not you propose Africa or the plantations? She shall go, Mr.
Shanks. Leave her to me. She shall go. And now, set to work at
once--immediately, I say--this very day. Send the youth to-morrow, and
let him bring me word that some step is taken. I will instruct him how
to act, while you deal with the law."

Mr. Shanks promised to obey, and retired overawed by all he had seen and
heard. There had, it is true, been no vehement demonstration of passion;
no fierce blaze; no violent flash; but there had been indications enough
to show the man of law all that was raging within. It had been for him
like gazing at a fine building on fire at that period of the
conflagration where dense smoke and heavy darkness brood over the
fearful scene, while dull, suddenly-smothered flashes break across the
gloom, and tell how terrible will be the flame when it does burst freely
forth.

He had never known Mrs. Hazleton before--he had never comprehended her
fully. But now he knew her--now, though perhaps the depths were still
unfathomable to his eyes, he felt that there was a strong commanding
will within that beautiful form which would bear no trifling. He had
often treated her with easy lightness--with no want of apparent respect
indeed--but with the persuasions and arguments such as men of business
often address to women as beings inferior to themselves either in
intellect or experience. Now Mr. Shanks wondered how he had escaped so
long and so well, and he resolved that for the future his conduct should
be very different.

Mrs. Hazleton, when he left her, sat down to rest--yes, to rest; for she
was very weary. There had been the fatiguing strife of strong passions
in the heart--hopes--expectations--schemes-contrivances; and, above all,
there had been a wrestling with herself to deal calmly and softly where
she felt fiercely. It had exhausted her; and for some minutes she sat
listlessly, with her eyes half shut, like one utterly tired out. Ere a
quarter of an hour had passed, wheels rolled up to the door; a
carriage-step was let down, and there was a foot-fall in the hall.

"Dear Mrs. Warmington, delighted to see you!" said Mrs. Hazleton, with a
smile sweet and gentle as the dawn of a summer morning.


CHAPTER XVII.

Circumstance will always have its finger in the pie with the best-laid
schemes; but it does not always happen that thereby the pie is spoiled.
On the contrary, circumstance is sometimes a very powerful auxiliary,
and it happened so in the present instance with the arrangements of Mrs.
Hazleton. Before that lady could bring any part of her scheme for
introducing Emily to the man whom she intended to drive her into taking
as a husband, to bear, the introduction had already taken place, as we
have seen, by an accident.

It was likely, indeed, to go no further; for Emily thought over what had
occurred, before she gave way to her native kindness of heart. She
remembered how tenacious all country gentlemen of that day were of their
sporting rights, and especially of what she had often heard her father
declare, that he looked upon any body who took his game off his
property, according to every principle of equity and justice, as no
better than a common robber.

"If the only excuse be that it is more exposed to depredation than other
property," said Sir Philip, "it only shows that the plunderer of it is a
coward as well as a villain, and should be punished the more severely."
Such, and many such speeches she had heard from her father at various
times, and it became a case of conscience, which puzzled the poor girl
much, whether she ought or ought not to have promised not to mention
what had occurred in the park. She loved no concealment, and nothing
would have induced her to tell a falsehood; but she knew that if she
mentioned the facts, especially while the young man whom she had seen
crossing the park with a gun lay wounded at the cottage, great evil
might have resulted; and though she somewhat reproached herself for
rashly giving her word, she would not break it when given.

As to seeing him again, however--as to visiting him at the cottage, even
to inquire after his health, when he had refused all aid from her
father's house, that was an act she never dreamed of. His last words,
indeed, had puzzled her; and there was something in his face, too, which
set her fancy wandering. It was not exactly what she liked; but yet
there was a resemblance, she thought, to some one she knew and was
attached to. It could not be to her father, she said to herself, and yet
her father's face recurred to her mind more frequently than any other
when she thought of that of the young man she had seen; and from that
fact a sort of prepossession in the youth's favor took possession of
her, making her long to know who he really was.

For some days Emily did not go near the cottage, but at length she
ventured on the road which passed it--not without a hope, indeed, that
she might meet one of the old people who tenanted it, and have an
opportunity of inquiring after his health--but certainly not, as some
good-natured reader may suppose, with any expectation of seeing him
herself. As she approached, however, she perceived him sitting on a
bench at the cottage-door, and, by a natural impulse, she turned at once
into another path, which led back by a way nearly as short to the hall.
The young man instantly rose, and followed her, addressing her by name,
in a voice still weak, in truth, but too loud for her not to hear, or to
affect not to hear.

She paused, rather provoked than otherwise, and slightly inclined her
head, while the young man approached, with every appearance of respect,
and thanked her for the assistance she had rendered him.

He had had his lesson in the mean time, and he played his part not
amiss. All coarse swagger, all vulgar assumption was gone from his
manner; and referring himself to some words he had spoken when last they
had met, he said: "Pardon me, Miss Hastings, for what I said some days
ago, which might seem both strange and mysterious, and for pressing to
see you again; but at that time I was faint with loss of blood, and knew
not how this might end. I wished to tell you something I thought you
ought to hear; but now I am better; and I will find a more fitting
opportunity ere long."

"It will be better to say any thing you think fit to my father," replied
Emily. "I am not accustomed to deal with any matters of importance; and
any thing of so much moment as you seem to think this is, would, of
course, be told by me to him."

"I think not," replied the other, with a mysterious smile; "but of that
you will judge when you have heard all I have to say. Your father is the
last person to whom I would mention it myself, because I believe,
notwithstanding all his ability, he is the last person who would judge
sanely of it, as he would of most other matters; but, of course, you
will speak of it or not, as you think proper. At present," he added, "I
am too weak to attempt the detail, even if I could venture to detain you
here. I only wished to return you my best thanks, and assure you of my
gratitude," and bowing low, he left her to pursue her way homeward.

Emily went on musing. No woman's breast is without curiosity--nor any
man's, either--and she asked herself what could be the meaning of the
stranger's words, at least a dozen times. What could he have to tell
her, and why was there so much mystery? She did not like mystery,
however; and though she felt interested in the young man--felt _pity_,
in fact--yet it was by no means the interest that leads to, nor the pity
which is akin to love. On the contrary, she liked him less than the
first time she saw him. There was a certain degree of cunning in his
mysterious smile, a look of self-confidence, almost of triumph in his
face, which, in spite of his respectful demeanor, did not please her.

Emily's father was absent from home at this time; but he returned two or
three days after this last interview, and remarked that his daughter was
unusually grave. To her, and to all that affected her in any way, his
eyes were always open, though he often failed to comprehend that which
he observed. Lady Hastings, too, had noticed Emily's unusual gravity,
and as she had no clue to that which made her thoughtful, she concluded
that the solitude of the country had a depressing influence upon her
spirits, as it frequently had upon her own; and she determined to speak
to her husband upon the matter. To him she represented that the place
was very dull; that they had but few visitors; that even Mr. Marlow had
not called for a week; and that Emily really required some variety of
scene and amusement.

She reasoned well according to her notions, and though Sir Philip could
not quite comprehend them, though he abhorred great cities, and loved
the country, she had made some impression at least by reiteration, when
suddenly a letter arrived from Mrs. Hazleton, petitioning that Emily
might be permitted to spend a few days with her.

"I am quite alone," she said, "and not very well (she never was better
in her life), and I propose next week to make some excursions to all the
beautiful and interesting spots in the neighborhood. But you know, dear
Lady Hastings, there is but small pleasure in such expeditions when they
must be solitary; but with such a mind as that of your dear Emily for my
companion, every object will possess a double interest."

The reader has perceived that the letter was addressed to Lady Hastings;
but it was written for the eye of Sir Philip, and to him it was shown.
Lady Hastings observed, as she put the note into her husband's hand,
that it would be much better to go to London. The change from their own
house to Mrs. Hazleton's was not enough to do Emily any good; and that,
as to these expeditions to neighboring places, she had always found them
the dullest things imaginable.

Sir Philip thought differently, however. He had been brought to the
point of believing that Emily did want change, but not to the conviction
that London would afford the best change for her. He inquired of Emily,
however, which she would like best, a visit of a week to Mrs.
Hazleton's, or a short visit to the metropolis. Much to his
satisfaction, Emily decided at once in favor of the former, and Mrs.
Hazleton's letter was answered, accepting her invitation.

The day before Emily went, Mr. Marlow spent nearly two hours with her
and her father in the sort of musy, wandering conversation which is so
delightful to imaginative minds. He paid Emily herself no marked or
particular attention; but he never suffered her to doubt that even while
talking with her father, he was fully conscious of her presence, and
pleased with it. Sometimes his conversation was addressed to her
directly, and when it was not, by a word or look he would invite her to
join in, and listened to her words as if they were very sweet to his
ear.

She loved to listen to him, however, better than to speak herself, and
he contrived to please and interest her in all he said, gently moving
all sorts of various feelings, sometimes making her smile gayly,
sometimes muse thoughtfully, and sometimes rendering her almost sad. If
he had been the most practiced love-maker in the world, he could not
have done better with a mind like that of Emily Hastings.

He heard of her proposed visit to Mrs. Hazleton with pleasure, and
expressed it. "I am very glad to hear you are to be with her," he said,
"for I do not think Mrs. Hazleton is well. She has lost her usual
spirits, and has been very grave and thoughtful when I have seen her
lately."

"Oh, if I can cheer and soothe her," cried Emily eagerly, "how
delightful my visit will be to me. Mrs. Hazleton says in her letter that
she is unwell; and that decided me to go to her, rather than to London."

"To London!" exclaimed Mr. Marlow, "I had no idea that you proposed such
a journey. Oh, Sir Philip, do not take your daughter to London. Friends
of mine there are often in the habit of bringing in fresh and beautiful
flowers from the country; but I always see that first they become dull
and dingy with the smoke and heavy air, and then wither away and perish;
and often in gay parties, I have thought that I saw in the young and
beautiful around me the same dulling influence, the same withering, both
of the body and the heart."

Sir Philip Hastings smiled pleasantly, and assured his young friend that
he had no desire or intention of going to the capital except for one
month in the winter, and Emily looked up brightly, saying, "For my part,
I only wish that even then I could be left behind. When last I was
there, I was so tired of the blue velvet lining of the gilt _vis-a-vis_,
that I used to try and paint fancy pictures of the country upon it as I
drove through the streets with mamma."

At length Emily set out in the heavy family coach, with her maid and Sir
Philip for her escort. Progression was slow in those days compared with
our own, when a man can get as much event into fifty years as Methuselah
did into a thousand. The journey took three hours at the least; but it
seemed short to Emily, for at the end of the first hour they were
overtaken by Mr. Marlow on horseback, and he rode along with them to the
gate of Mrs. Hazleton's house. He was an admirable horseman, for he had
not only a good but a graceful seat, and his handsome figure and fine
gentlemanly carriage never appeared to greater advantage than when he
did his best to be a centaur. The slow progress of the lumbering vehicle
might have been of some inconvenience, but his horse was trained to
canter to a walk when he pleased, and, leaning to the window of the
carriage, and sometimes resting his hand upon it, he contrived to carry
on the conversation with those within almost as easily as in a
drawing-room.

Just as the carriage was approaching the gate, Marlow said: "I think I
shall not go in with you, Sir Philip; for I have a little business
farther on, and I have ridden more slowly than I thought;" but before
the sentence was well concluded, the gates of the park were opened by
the porter, and Mrs. Hazleton herself appeared within, leaning on the
arm of her maid. She had calculated well the period of Emily's arrival,
and had gone out to the gate for the purpose of giving her an extremely
hospitable welcome. Probably, had she not hated her as warmly and
sincerely as she did, she would have stayed at home; our attention is
ever doubtful.

But what were Mrs. Hazleton's feelings when she saw Mr. Marlow riding by
the side of the carriage? I will not attempt to describe them; but for
one instant a strange dark cloud passed over her beautiful face. It was
banished in an instant; but not before Marlow had remarked both the
expression itself and the sudden glance of the lady's eyes from him to
Emily. For the first time a doubt, a suspicion, a something he did not
like to fathom, came over his mind; and he resolved to watch. Neither
Emily nor her father perceived that look, and as the next moment the
beautiful face was once more as bright as ever, they felt pleased with
her kind eagerness to meet them; and alighting from the carriage, walked
on with her to the house, while Marlow, dismounted, accompanied them,
leading his horse.

"I am glad to see you, Mr. Marlow," said Mrs. Hazleton, in a tone from
which she could not do what she would--banish all bitterness. "I suppose
I owe the pleasure of your visit to that which you yourself feel in
escorting a fair lady."

"I must not, I fear, pretend to such gallantry," replied Marlow. "I
overtook the carriage accidentally as I was riding to Mr. Cornelius
Brown's; and to say the truth, I did not intend to come in, for I am
somewhat late."

"Cold comfort for my vanity," replied the lady, "that you would not have
paid me a visit unless you had met me at the gate."

She spoke in a tone rather of sadness than of anger; but Marlow did not
choose to perceive any thing serious in her words, and he replied,
laughing: "Nay, dear Mrs. Hazleton, you do not read the riddle aright.
It shows, when rightly interpreted, that your society is so charming
that I cannot resist its influence when once within the spell, even for
the sake of the Englishman's god--Business."

"A man always succeeds in drawing some flattery for woman's ear out of
the least flattering conduct," answered Mrs. Hazleton.

The conversation then took another turn; and after walking with the rest
of the party up to the house, Marlow again mounted and rode away. As
soon as the horses had obtained some food and repose, Sir Philip also
returned, and Emily was left, with a woman who felt at her heart that
she could have poniarded her not an hour before.

But Mrs. Hazleton was all gentle sweetness, and calm, thoughtful,
dignified ease. She did not suffer her attention to be diverted for one
moment from her fair guest: there were no reveries, no absence of mind;
and Emily--poor Emily--thought her more charming than ever.
Nevertheless, while speaking upon many subjects, and brightly and
intelligently upon all, there was an under-current of thought going on
unceasingly in Mrs. Hazleton's mind, different from that upon the
surface. She was trying to read Marlow's conduct towards Emily--to judge
whether he loved her or not. She asked herself whether his having
escorted her to that house was in reality purely accidental, and she
wished that she could have seen them together but for a few moments
longer, though every moment had been a dagger to her heart. Nay, she did
more: she strove by many a dexterous turn of the conversation, to lure
out her fair unconscious guest's inmost thoughts--to induce her, not to
tell all, for that she knew was hopeless, but to betray all. Emily,
however, happily for herself, was unconscious; she knew not that there
was any thing to betray. Fortunately, most fortunately, she knew not
what was in her own breast; or perhaps I should say, knew not what it
meant. Her answers were all simple, natural and true; and plain candor,
as often happens, disappointed art.

Mrs. Hazleton retired for the night with the conviction that whatever
might be Marlow's feelings towards Emily, Emily was not in love with
Marlow; and that was something gained.

"No, no," she said, with a pride in her own discernment, "a woman who
knows something of the world can never be long deceived in regard to
another woman's heart." She should have added, "except by its
simplicity."

"Now," she continued, mentally, "to-morrow for the first great stop. If
this youth can but demean himself wisely, and will follow the advice I
have given him, he has a fair field to act in. He seems prompt and ready
enough: he is assuredly handsome, and what between his good looks, kind
persuasion by others, and her father's dangerous position, this girl
methinks may be easily driven--or led into his arms; and that
stumbling-block removed. He will punish her enough hereafter, or I am
mistaken."

Punish her for what, Mrs. Hazleton?

FOOTNOTES:

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




THE FRIENDSHIP OF JOSEPHUS AND ST. PAUL.


In the _Princeton Review_, the _Church of England Quarterly_, and other
periodicals, there have appeared recently several very interesting
articles upon the Voyage of St. Paul to Rome; and in a work entitled
"Gleanings on the Overland Route," by the author of "Forty Days in the
Desert," just published in London, we find a dissertation "On the
Shipwreck of the Apostle Paul, and the historian Josephus," which goes
far to prove that Josephus accompanied the apostle to Rome, and that he
was in some measure the means of procuring the introduction of the
Christians into "Caesar's household." After a summary account of the
shipwreck as narrated by St. Luke, aided by such elucidatory particulars
as have been supplied by Mr. James Smith in his "Voyage and Shipwreck of
St. Paul," the author says:--

"The only real difference between the two accounts of St. Luke and of
Josephus is, that Josephus does not mention the stay of three months on
the island of Malta. He writes as if the ship were wrecked in the open
sea, and he was saved by being at once taken up into the second ship.
This very great disagreement in the two narratives we must set to the
account of Josephus's inaccuracy. The second ship he rightly calls a
ship of Cyrene, for the Alexandrian vessel, in a favorable voyage, may
have touched at that port. He adds to the apostolic history the
interesting information, that it was through the Jewish actor,
Alituries, that he, and, we may add, the Apostle and Christianity,
gained an introduction into 'Caesar's household.' That Josephus sailed
in the same ship with Paul, we may hold for certain. No Jews born in
Judea had the privilege of Roman citizenship; of Jews who had that
privilege, the number was so small, that it is not probable that two
such appeals to Rome, by Jews from the province of Judea, should have
been allowed in the reign of Nero. That two ships, carrying such Hebrew
applicants from Judea, should have been wrecked in the Adriatic, from
both of which the passengers should have been saved, and landed at
Puteoli, and that within the space of three years, we may pronounce
impossible. So then the Jewish historian Josephus, when a young man,
made the voyage from Caesarea to Italy with the Apostle Paul, the
Evangelist Luke, and their friend Aristarchus, and, for part of the way,
with the young Titus. He calls the Apostle his friend, though worldly
prudence forbade his naming him. From these fellow-travellers he must
have heard the opinions of the Christians. He was able to contradict or
confirm all that they said of the founder of our religion, for he was
born only eight years after the crucifixion. But Josephus, when he wrote
his history and life, was a courtier, and even a traitor to his
country--he wanted moral courage, he did not mean to be a martyr, and
any testimony in favor of a despised sect is not to be expected from
him. The passage in his Antiquities in which Jesus is praised we may
give up as a forgery of the third century: it is enough for us to
remark, that after having lived for five months with Paul on the voyage
from Judea to Italy, he does not write against this earnest teacher of
Christianity, as either a weak enthusiast or a crafty impostor. But he
praises his piety and virtues, and boasts that he was of use in
obtaining his release from prison."

Mr. Smith, to whom allusion is made above, is said to be a gentleman of
liberal fortune, and to have carefully studied navigation, and in
numerous voyages in his yacht through these seas to have practised it,
for the especial purpose of investigating and illustrating the points
embraced in this interesting portion of the sacred history. He has
pretty satisfactorily established the precise route of the Apostle on
this famous journey, which is the most universally familiar of all in
ancient or modern life. The curious suggestion of such personal
relations between Paul and Josephus is not new; it was made some time in
the seventh century in the Reflections of Bernardin Pastouret, and
perhaps at an earlier time by others. The author whose words are here
quoted, is Mr. John Sharpe, and he has very clearly presented the case.




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

Translated For The International Monthly Magazine From the French of H.
De St. Georges.

_Continued from page 359._


BOOK IV.


I. EXPLANATION OF THE ENIGMA.

While the events we have described are taking place at Sorrento, we will
retrace our steps to the Etruscan House, where we left Monte-Leone and
Taddeo when the latter placed in the hands of the former the letter of
La Felina. The Count opened the letter, and read:

"Taddeo--You told me in the prison of the palace of the Dukes of Palma,
whither I went to find you, '_Love which speculates is not love. Mine
will obey you for obedience' sake. Try, however, to ask something grand
and difficult, that you may judge it by its fruits._'"

"Then you love her?" said Monte-Leone, interrupting himself.

"Read on," said Taddeo.

"'Your heart, Taddeo, is noble,' replied I. 'I have faith in it. May God
grant that your strength do not betray your courage. In four days you
will learn what I expect from you.' I write down what I expect, for I
have not courage to tell you. I cannot crush your hopes, though I know
that they cannot be realized. The feelings you have avowed to me,
Taddeo, demand entire confidence: for it would be a crime to deceive a
heart like yours. I will therefore tell you the truth, painful as it may
be. It is a year since I came to Naples, having been attracted thither
by a brilliant engagement at San Carlo. My success was as great as it
had been in the other capitals of Italy. After the applause and ovations
of the public--the truest and most discriminating of all--came
privileged admirers; those, who, from their rank, birth, and fortune,
have a right to pass the curtain of the sanctuary, and cast incense at
the very foot of the idol; who can compliment the artiste on the stage,
and follow her with their commonplaces to her very box. There was no
scarcity of sacrificers. The noblest of Naples overwhelmed me with
adulations; from compliments they came to declaration, and there, as at
Rome, Venice, and elsewhere, I was persecuted by the insipid gallantries
of suitors, to which every successful artiste possessed of any personal
attraction must submit. To all these advances my heart remained cold,
and my insensibility cost me nothing; for I neither loved nor wished to.
A strange event, however, changed my plans. It was an evening of last
autumn, and the air was as sultry as possible. Exhausted by the heat of
the theatre, after the performance was over I sent my carriage home, and
resolved, in company with my _confidante_, to return on foot. I avoided
my many suitors, and escaped from the theatre by a back-door. The air
was so pure, and the night so beautiful, that I walked for some time on
the _chiaja_. It was late when I returned homeward. Crossing an isolated
street, which I had taken to shorten the walk, my _confidante_ and
myself were unexpectedly attacked by a party of men who stood beneath
the portico of a palace. They had well-nigh stifled our cries with
scarfs, which had been thrown over our heads, and we should possibly
have been murdered, when a man, rushing sword in hand, I know not
whence, attacked our aggressors, disarmed three of them, whom he put to
flight, and killed the fourth by a dagger-thrust. Rapidly as possible,
he then took off the bandages from our faces, and gave me, half dead
with terror, his arm.

"A carriage passed, the stranger called to it, placed us in it, and
said: 'A lady, signora, of your appearance, met in the streets of Naples
at such an hour, doubtless is under the influence of some secret motive
she would be unwilling to expose. My services to you have been too
slight to warrant my questioning you. Now you have nothing to fear, and
this carriage will take you any where you please. I will inquire into no
orders which you may give.' 'But your name, signore?' said I. 'Count
Monte-Leone,' said he, as he disappeared."

"That is true," said the Count. "I never knew, though, whom I had
rescued from the hands of bandits."

He then began again to read:

"From that time the Count was, in spite of myself, the object of my
constant thoughts and secret meditations. I was very anxious, at least,
to know the features of the man, whom I had only seen in the dark; for
the services he had rendered me, the courage he had displayed, even the
sound of his voice, spoke both to my head and heart. One day, as I was
crossing the street of Toledo, some young persons pointed out to me a
cavalier, mounted on a noble horse. 'No one but Monte-Leone can ride
such an animal as that. No one else rides so well.' 'He is the
handsomest and most brilliant of our young nobles,' said another. 'What
a pity he gives himself so completely to the people,' said a third. The
Count, whom I saw then for the first time, was the realization of all my
youthful dreams and illusions. I loved the Count, though I did not know
it. From the moment I saw him, my heart and soul were consecrated to
him."

A painful sigh, uttered near Monte-Leone, made the Count look at young
Rovero, the pallor of whom indicated intense suffering.

"My friend," said the Count, taking his hand, "what matters it if Felina
love me, provided I do not love her?"

"Some day you may love her," said Taddeo.

"No," said the Count.

"And why?"

"Because I have but one heart, and that is another's."

A happy smile lighted up the face of Rovero, and Monte-Leone continued
to read, with as much _sang-froid_ as if another were the subject of the
letter:

"You wished to know which of the four I loved; excuse me, Taddeo, but
now I have told you all. From that time I conceived an ardent devotion
to Monte-Leone. My passion was, however, of that kind which only demands
the gratification of the soul. All I had heard of the Count's character,
of his errors, follies, and numerous passions, far from alienating,
rendered him still dearer to me. It seemed that his lofty, generous
disposition, full of courage and honor, had wanted nothing but a guide,
or rather an angel, to wrest him from the torment of the life he had
prepared for himself."

The Count paused, and reflected for a few moments, which seemed
centuries to Rovero. He then began again to read:

"Ah, had I met Monte-Leone in the days of my innocence, in the days when
I also looked for some one to guide my early steps, with my hand in his,
with my heart beating against his, I should, perhaps, have avoided the
rocks on which I have been wrecked? To the Count, however, I could be
now but an ordinary woman, whose attractions might, perhaps, for the
moment fascinate him, but whom he would soon cast aside, as he has his
other conquests: then I feel _I should have killed him!_"

The Count quietly read on:

"I loved him too fondly to become his mistress; yet his image pursued me
by night and day. At last my heart, in its immense and pure love,
inspired me with the noblest and purest idea: 'Be more than a woman, be
more than a mistress to him,' said I to myself, 'be a providence, a
secret and protecting providence which preserves him in all dangers, and
provides all his happiness.' Alas! I fancied that I had to defend
Monte-Leone only against the ordinary perils of life, against the
rivalry excited by his triumphs, and not against the serious dangers to
which his opinions subjected him. I soon heard the rumors which were
being circulated about the Count, learned of his danger, and the
perilous part he had to play in relation to the secret societies. I
learned all this from public rumor, but I needed other aid and
information to guide me in the defence of him I loved. Among those most
carried away by my talent, and if I must say so, most captivated by my
beauty, was the Duke of Palma, minister of police. I received the
minister kindly, and without yielding to his persuasions, conferred
trifling favors on him. His confidence in me was immense. When I was
stern to him he became desperate, but he professed there was such a
charm in my company that he sought constantly to see me. Minister as he
was, he became not my _sicisbeo_, for that I would consent to at no
price, but my _cavaliero sirviente_, thus occupying the second grand
hierarchy of love. I learned from the minister himself the snares
prepared for Monte-Leone, twenty times I informed your friend of them,
and enabled him to avoid them. In the same manner I heard of your
imprudent folly at the ball of San-Carlo, and you know what I did to
avert its consequences. A certain Lippiani, a skilful officer placed by
means of my influence in the Neapolitan police, while paying a visit of
inspection to the jailor of the Castle _Del Uovo_, contrived to
introduce into the prisoner's loaf the mysterious information he
received. The imagination, or rather the genius of the Count, inspired
him with a design to secure his liberty. To assure the success of this
ruse, the Count escaped for some hours from his prison, and amid that
season of trouble, energy, and anguish, Monte-Leone lost the famous ring
he always wears. This loss again placed his life and liberty in danger.
Then I conceived a hardy and bold plan, which cannot succeed without
your aid and devotion. On that, however, for you so promised me, I rely.
I learned that you were a prisoner, but were about to be released. You
can then aid me, but it is necessary to awake no suspicion. Aware of
every outlet to the palace, which had often been shown to me by the Duke
of Palma, I remembered a certain secret passage and door hidden in a
pillar, whither the Duke often comes, to hear, unseen, the examinations
of prisoners. Thither I sought to come. The porter admitted me at night;
doubtless, fancying I was come to keep an appointment with his master.
Of what value, however, were honor and reputation to me compared with
his danger. Now, Taddeo, read with attention the lines I am about to
write; follow my advice exactly, or Monte-Leone is lost.

"I obtained possession for a few days of the emerald lost by the Count,
and which had been sent by his enemies to the Duke of Palma. At a great
cost I caused a similar one to be made by one of the most skilful
workmen of Naples. The copy will be easily recognized: _that is what I
wish_. I have substituted it for the original, and placed it myself in
the minister's jewel case, the key of which he had given to me to take
an antique _cameo_, the design of which I wished. The false ring will be
given to the Count, instead of the true one, which is in the _coffret_ I
have placed by you. Go to Monte-Leone's house, during the night after
your release. I am too closely watched now, to dare go thither myself.
Give this ring to the old servant, tell him to deliver it to the judges,
but not till the trial. The enemies of whom I spoke will be overcome by
this pretended proof of their imposition, and the safety of the Count
will be sure. I have told you all. Now, Taddeo, excuse me for having
pained you by my disclosure. Excuse me for having unfolded all my heart
to you, excuse me for having permitted you to read my most secret
sentiments. Your love deserves something better than mine; but if it
inspire you with any pity for me, rescue the Count from the executioner,
and know that to save Monte-Leone is to save La Felina."

"What a woman!" said the Count, as he let fall the letter; "what passion
and devotion!"

"Ah!" said Taddeo, who looked anxiously into the eyes of the Count, to
divine the effect produced by the singer's letter, "you see her devotion
pleases and touches you:--that you love her----"

"Taddeo," said the Count, with great emotion, "that woman was my
providence, and defended me against my accusers.... She saved my
life.... It is a noble heart that thus hopelessly devotes itself. Let me
give her all my gratitude.... A poor and sterile recompense for such
devotion. The other sentiments of my heart you shall also know!"

Rising up with the dignified and lofty air of a noble, he said:

"Taddeo Rovero, Count Monte-Leone asks of you the hand of Aminta Rovero,
your sister."

Just then a painful exclamation was heard in the next room. Monte-Leone
seized his dagger and rushed to the door. He threw it open, and a
strange spectacle presented itself to him. A woman, pale and trembling,
leaned on the arm of an old man. Her eyes, fixed and tearful, seemed to
look without seeing, and her ears appeared to catch no sound. It was La
Felina. She was sustained by old Giacomo.

"Excuse me, Monsignore, she was permitted to come in; for Signor Rovero,
when he brought your ring, said you owed your safety to her."

"Felina!" said Taddeo. He fell at the singer's feet.

She remained motionless as a statue whose lips only were living.

"Signore Monte-Leone," said she, "I leave Naples to-night, and for ever.
Before I did so, however, I wished to see and give you a piece of
advice. Death menaces you from all sides, and your most insignificant
actions are observed. Escape from the country, for here you will no
longer find the faithful friends who have watched over you."

"Say, Signora, the _faithful friend_, the generous providence who saved
me from the axe of the executioner."

"You know all, Signor," said La Felina; and she looked at Taddeo--"my
secret has been revealed to you--for blushing, however, I now
acknowledge with pride that it is true, for it has won for me the
expressions you uttered just now. Alas!" said she bitterly, "I should
have fled and have heard no more."

Tears filled her eyes; overcoming her emotion, however, she said:

"My mission is fulfilled, Count Monte-Leone, for you will live and be
happy. If misfortune, though, befall you, do not forget that one heart
in the world will taste of all your sorrow.--Taddeo," said she, giving
the young man her hand, "time and reason will exert their influence on
so noble a heart, and ere long you will find one worthy of you. Forget
me," she added, when she saw him about to reply, "do not speak to me of
sentiments the intensity of which I know--and I will assist you to
triumph. To-morrow you will love me less. I know so. To-morrow."

"To-morrow!" said Taddeo.

"Yes," said Felina, "and in a little time I shall be but the shadow of a
dream, which some reality will expel from your heart."

She went towards the door.

"Signori," said she, when she saw Monte-Leone and Taddeo preparing to
follow her, "I came hither with confidence in the honor of two
gentlemen, who, I am sure, will not leave the room until I shall have
left. Do not be afraid," she continued, with a faint smile on her lips,
"a carriage awaits, but not to convey me to the Castle _Del Uovo_."

Then casting on the Count a glance instinct with sadness and regret, she
offered her hand to Taddeo, who covered it with kisses, and preceded by
Giacomo left the room. For some moments the two friends looked at each
other in silence. Taddeo then went towards the door, saying:

"But I am a fool to let her escape thus."

He crossed the court and went to the door of the room. The carriage,
however, was gone, and far in the distance he heard the sound of the
wheels.


II.--A LAST APPEARANCE.

The hearts of Monte-Leone and of Taddeo Rovero were, after the departure
of the singer, in very different conditions. Monte-Leone, delighted with
the present, and with the prospect of future success, to be attained as
the husband of Aminta, forgot all else--even the terrible responsibility
which weighed on him as the chief of a faction of forbidden societies,
and the perpetual dangers with which it menaced him. Monte-Leone had an
energetic heart but a volatile mind, over which the accidents of life
glide like the runner of a sleigh over polished ice, almost without
leaving traces.

A circumstance of which we will speak of by and by, aroused the Count
from his peace of soul to cast him in the waves of that sea of politics
where shipwrecks are so common and tempests so usual. The only idea
which occupied Taddeo was to see La Felina again. He said rightly enough
that the rays of such a star could not long be concealed; that its glory
and success would always betray it, and that the farewell token of
Monte-Leone in the Etruscan house would not be for ever.

Under the influence, then, of very different sentiments, the two friends
returned to the Count's hotel at Naples. Less beautiful than the
magnificent palace of Monte-Leone, it did not, like the latter, render
indispensable the numerous and imposing array of servants, of which his
somewhat restricted fortune deprived Monte-Leone. Descried by its master
during the whole time of his seclusion, this hotel had been the scene of
the ruinous pleasures of the Count. Splendid festivals had been given
there; joyous suppers had been proposed, and the shadow of more than
one graceful dame, wrapped in silken folds, had been traced at midnight
on the great white marble wall of the portico.

Giacomo, who had left the Etruscan house at an early hour, had
superintended the preparation of the hotel for its master, and the
unfolding of the tall wide windows made the house seem to stare on the
sunlight, like blind persons who but recently have recovered their
sight. The resuscitation of the hotel of Monte-Leone, as people in the
Toledo-street said, created a great sensation in that quarter. The Count
and Taddeo had been there but a short time, when Giacomo, evidently in a
very bad humor, announced Signor Pignana. Many of the Count's friends
who had heard of his return came to see him and crowded around him. They
arose to leave when the new-comer was announced; but they paused when
they saw the strange person introduced.

"_Buon giorno caro mio Pignana_,"[O] said the Count, advancing to meet
him. "You are not the last to visit me, and I am deeply touched by your
visit. He is my landlord, Signori, an excellent man. Something of an
Arab, it is true, in money matters; but as he is an old tradesman, you
see it is impossible for him to change his habits. For twenty years he
furnished the family liveries, and the result is that now he is richer
than me."

"Ah, my Lord," said Pignana, "you flatter me."

"Not at all, Signor," said Monte-Leone. "Now you can yourself have
liveries with the Pignana arms, '_Two winged shears on a field argent_,'
a regular tailor's escutcheon."

"How then," asked one of the young men, "is Signor Pignana your
landlord--is it of this hotel or of your beautiful palace?"

"Ah," said the Count, "he is not exactly my landlord yet, but he will be
if my friend and creditor, Signor Pignana, continues to lend me money at
cent. per cent. At present, however, the excellent man only owns my
Etruscan house, a very gem of a thing, which he rents to me, and for
which I am much obliged."

"It is I who am obliged," muttered Pignana.

"Ah!" said the Count, with a smile, "I believe you. That house had
nearly become historical. If the executioner of Naples, the father of a
family, and passionately fond of flowers," continued the Count to his
friends, "with whom I passed a fortnight at the Castle _Del Uovo_, had
been forced to arrange matters for me, the house in which Monte-Leone
was arrested would have become historical. Pignana could have let it out
to tourists, and could have retailed the stores for the London museums.
Instead of this piece of good fortune, which I am very glad was not
Pignana's, he possesses a good tenant, who will some day pay him
punctually, when he has himself been paid all that is due him; for you
can fancy how the arrest of one man discourages the business of others.
All his debtors, all the friends of his purse, leap with joy; he seems
at once outlawed, especially to those who are indebted to him. The most
honest merely pray that his imprisonment may be prolonged; the least
delicate pray that the executioner may send them a receipt."

"But the Count also has some true friends who would be distressed at his
death," said Pignana. "Monsignore counts me among them."

Pignana probably uttered these words under the influence of great
emotion, for a tear hung on the lid of his eye above an aquiline nose of
immense size.

"My dear Pignana," said the Count, "I know how far I can depend on you,
for _I know you_."

Monte-Leone accented this word, the significance of which to Pignana was
very expressive, for he looked proudly around, as if the Count had given
him a certificate of valor and courage.

"I am about to give you the list of our men--that is to say of our
transactions,"[P] said the old man, eagerly correcting himself.

"Yes," said Monte-Leone, who had glanced sternly at him, "the list of
our transactions. Go on, Pignana, go on, prove your account and diminish
the total, contrary to your wont; above all, exhibit your vouchers; that
is especially important."

"Do not trouble yourself, Monsignore: I have all regular, and now you
must pay in person."

"In person," replied the Count. "Yes, Pignana, I will thus discharge my
obligations without having recourse to a third party. Go thither,
however, at once," said he, and he pushed the tailor into the next room.
"You will find writing materials," he added, aside, "and no one to
listen to you."

"Excuse me, Signori," said he, speaking to his friends; "you have seen
one of the greatest misfortunes of our rank, the necessity of civility
to a fool who is a creditor."

Just then Taddeo Rovero, who had gone out when Pignana entered, came in,
introducing a handsome lad of about eighteen.

"Count," said he, to Monte-Leone, "let me introduce you to Signor
Gaetano Brignoli, a friend of my family."

"Then, Signor," said the Count, "you are a friend of mine; for all whom
they love are dear to me."

"Ah! Count," said Gaetano, "how much uneasiness your trial has caused
all at Sorrento! Especially to myself, who was particularly charged by
the charming Aminta to inform her of all the details of the trial. I set
out on the night before your trial to be one of the first in the hall."

"I scarcely dare," said the Count, with an expression of great pleasure,
"to think the Signorina entertains such interest in my behalf."

"It was not precisely of yourself that she spoke," replied Gaetano,
"but of my friend Taddeo, her brother, who was known to be compromised
with you, and about whom she, naturally enough, was interested."

The Count grew slightly pale as he saw this gratification wrested from
him.

"By-the-by, Signori," said Gaetano, "you have heard the news with which
all the city and suburbs echo, and which makes almost as much noise as
the trial of the Count Monte-Leone."

"I trust," said the Count, bitterly, "that the news is more pleasant."

"Infinitely more so," continued Gaetano. "Every one is talking of it,
and crazed with it--especially myself, who am a _pazzo per la musica_,
like the here of Fioravanti. You know, Signori, nothing is more pleasant
than to win again a pleasure we fancy to have been lost to us."

"Go on," said Taddeo, who had a presentiment that something pleasant was
about to be related. The very mention of music made him quiver.

"Well, Signori," said Gaetano, "the Sicilian siren, the fairy _La
Felina_, sings to-night at San Carlo."

"La Felina?" said all the listeners at once.

"La Felina! impossible!" said Rovero. "She left Naples last night."

"Certainly she did," said Gaetano; "and that makes the matter more
charming and pleasant. _La Felina_ has her caprices as all pretty women,
and singers especially. That is the condition and very qualification of
talent. A _prima donna_ who did not keep the public uneasy about her
health, her business, or her amours, one who did not outrage the
manager, would not be a complete woman. How could she? One does not earn
a hundred thousand francs a year for acting as if the salary was only a
thousand crowns. It would be vulgar and common and altogether unbecoming
a fine lady. La Felina, therefore, annoyed by the effect produced on the
public mind by the drama of the Trial of Count Monte-Leone, which
occupied the attention she thought should be engrossed by her own
performances, would not appear while the trial was going on. She was
about to throw up her engagement, and actually did so, when she was at
the Porta-Capuana. The patrons of the opera, with the empresario at
their head, accompanied by the orchestra and troupe, not wanting an
enormous crowd of other admirers of _la Diva_, and they are many,
prevented the carriage from passing. She was surrounded, pressed, and
besought to such a degree that she was dragged back to her hotel, and
promised to sing once more in the Griselda of the _Maestro Paer_, the
best of all her characters. You can fancy the enthusiasm thus excited,
and how all struggle to secure seats. I paid for mine thrice the usual
price, and think I am very fortunate."

For a moment Taddeo said nothing, he saw nothing, and scarcely breathed.
He was half stifled with joy and surprise. To see one again, from whom
he had expected to be separated for so long a time, and perhaps for
ever, seemed to him a dream from which he seemed afraid to awake. The
friends of the Count left: all hurried to the theatre to secure an
opportunity of being present at the solemnity.

"Come, come," said Taddeo, hurrying young Brignoli away. "I must go to
San Carlo to-night at any price, even at that of my life!"

"Indeed!" said Gaetano, "I did not think you so passionate a dilettante.
You exceed me--to pay for music with gold is well enough, but with
life--ah, that is altogether a different thing; mine is valuable, and I
keep it for greater occasions."

The Count stopped Rovero just as he was about to leave.

"What," said he, with an air of deep concern, "will you not go with me
to-morrow to Sorrento?"

"To-morrow, to-morrow, for pity's sake," said Taddeo in a low tone. "Let
me be happy to-day, and I will devote all my life to you."

He left with Gaetano.

"No, no," said Monte-Leone, "I will not wait a day, not an hour, before
I see Aminta,--even if I go to Sorrento alone. I will go thither at
once."

"Impossible," said a grave voice behind the Count.

The latter turned around and saw Pignana, who had glided unseen from the
room as soon as he heard the young people leave.

"Why so?" said the Count.

"Why, Monsignore?" replied Pignana, who, casting aside the air and
manner of a retired tradesman, became a dry and cold old man with a
dignified bearing. "Because our brothers, terrified at your arrest, were
on the point of dissolving the _vente_.--Because, it has been reported
that your excellency was on the point of abandoning the cause, and
laying aside the functions of supreme chief:--Because, the principal
_Carbonari_, the agent of whom I am, wish to be informed of your
intentions, and to be assured by you personally that you will not
abandon them."

"Then," said the Count, with a gesture of ill-restrained temper, for
these political embarrassments came in conflict with ideas which were
far dearer to him, "that is the meaning of what you said just now. How
can I restore confidence to our associates? The Neapolitan police
watches over me; the least imprudence, the slightest exhibition of the
existence of our association, would revive all, and endanger the fate
and future success of the society, and also my life. You have few men of
energy among you; you, who are one of the most devoted, trembled _in the
presence of my friends_. You deserve to be hissed like a bad actor in a
good part! Listen to me, Pignana: I wish to be your chief; I wish to
risk a heavy stake in your cause; but now, especially when heavy matters
weigh on me, I do not purpose to appear in _political comedy_. I wish
to play a serious part, the theories of which are actions, with many
deeds and few words. I will do all that is necessary to serve our cause,
but nothing more. Remember this. The Castle _Del Uovo_, dungeons beneath
the sea, the executioner and conversations with the Grand-Judge, warn me
to be careful and prudent. Ask me, then, nothing more. In eight days our
great general _venta_ will be held at the monastery of San Paola, fifty
leagues from Naples. I will be there, and will tell you what our
brethren in France and Germany have informed me of. Until then, however,
question me about nothing."

"We do not, Monsignore," replied Pignana, who was aware of the firmness
of the Count, and saw at once that he had mistaken his course. "The
association, which admires your excellency, especially since the trial,
which looks on your excellency as a martyr, asks nothing except one
favor, which will overwhelm it with gratitude and joy."

"And what is that favor?" rejoined the Count.

"That Monsignore will appear to-night at San Carlo in a box, the key of
which I have with me. This box may be seen from every part of the house.
All of our principal men will be present, and if Monsignore will
advance, during the interlude, to the front of the box, _placing his
hand on his heart_, all our friends will know that they may rely on
him."

"By my faith, shrewd as the Duke of Palma is, suspicious as the police
may be, I do not think this can be construed into an act of treason. It
pledges me to nothing. The ladies to whom we make the gesture understand
it. I will then make this exhibition of my person, as the English say,
and I will increase the interest of the performance by my presence. In a
word, I will appear for the benefit of La Felina. The brave girl and
myself will not even then be quits."

"Thank you, Count," said Pignana, as he left--"and now, adieu, until we
meet at San Carlo."

       *       *       *       *       *

A few hours after the scene we have described, an immense crowd thronged
every entry to the theatre of San Carlo. It was not, however, the joyous
crowd intoxicated with folly which we have seen hurry into its precincts
at the commencement of this story. On this occasion the public seemed
rather busy than in search of pleasure. It was a matter of importance,
indeed, to be present at the last appearance of La Felina. The keys of
the boxes, therefore, according to the Italian custom, were sold at the
door of the theatre, and at double the usual price. I speak only of the
small number of boxes, the proprietors of which were absent from Naples.
We may also as well add, that in Naples a box is often _property_. All
the other boxes were occupied by illustrious personages, or by the
wealthiest inhabitants of the great city. San Carlo on that night was
brilliant as possible. The Count had just come. The women glittered with
flowers and diamonds. As on the occasion of the masked ball, the theatre
was illuminated _a giorno_. No detail of the festival, no beauty present
could escape observation. Count Monte-Leone appeared in the box which
had been reserved for him, which soon became the object of every
lorgnette and the theme of every conversation. He bore this annoying
attention with icy _sang-froid_, seeming even not to observe it. His
vanity, however, was secretly gratified, and we have said that this was
his weak point. The overture began, and the curtain was finally raised.
During this time, and the first scenes of the opera, the private
conversation was so loud and animated that the singers and orchestra
were almost overpowered. Suddenly silence was restored--admiration as
respectful as that which precedes a sovereign's arrival pervaded all.

The true Queen of Naples, at this moment, was La Felina. This complete
calmness was soon succeeded by a thunder of applause. A thousand voices
uttered a long shout of commingled bravos and hurras. La Felina was on
the stage. This delirium produced by a single person, this passionate
worship expressed by an almost furious admiration, those thousand hearts
hung to the lips of a single person, is found only on the stage, and was
one of the triumphs which Naples decreed to the greatest artist in
Italy. A report was in circulation, also, which added to this almost
furious admiration. It was said, that she was about to retire for ever,
and that this was her last appearance. The eyes of love have a secret
and admirable instinct, enabling them to see what persons who are
indifferent cannot discover. Among this eager and compact crowd, the
glances of La Felina were immediately attracted to a point of the hall,
to a single box in which Monte-Leone sat. To him Felina acted and sang,
and she was sublime. At the moment when Paer's heroine appeared, a
single voice was heard above all others, and the person who had uttered
it, having exhausted all the powers of his soul, during the whole time
Felina was on the stage, stood with his eyes fixed on her, as if he had
been fascinated by some charm he could not shake off.

"Poor Taddeo," said the Count, when he saw him, "why does she not love
him?"

The first act was concluded by a torrent of bouquets, which the audience
threw at the feet of their favorite actress. The curtain fell. This was
the moment expected by the associate of Monte-Leone. Faithful to his
promise, the Count leaned forward in his box, naturally as possible, and
looked around the brilliant assembly. He then placed his hand on his
heart, and disappeared in the recess of his box. Before, however, he
left, he heard a confused and joyous murmur, which rose from the parquet
to the boxes, and became lost in the arch of the gilded ceiling.

"_They were there_," said Monte-Leone, "and Pignana must be satisfied. I
have done all he asked literally."

A few friends joined the Count in his box.

"Indeed, dear Monte-Leone," said one of these, with whom he was most
intimate, a friend of his childhood, "You have resumed your old habits."

"What do you mean?"

"That, scarcely out of prison, I saw you from my box beginning a new
intrigue by exchanging signs with some fair unknown. This, too, at San
Carlo. This is bold, indeed, unless the hand on your heart is the
resumption of an old intrigue, interrupted, perhaps, by your
imprisonment."

"I do not understand you, Barberini," said the Count, not a little
annoyed. "I made no sign to any one."

"Perhaps so: if you please, I was mistaken. But if I am, it is all the
better; for it proves to me that you no longer adhere to the plans you
once confided to me. I was delighted, too, at what I heard yesterday
evening."

"Of what plans do you speak?" replied the Count, moved, in spite of
himself, by this half-confidence.

"Mon Dieu! of your own. Did you not tell me that you were passionately
fond of the sister of Taddeo de Sorrento, of the beautiful Aminta
Rovero, daughter of the old minister of finances of Murat?"

"True," said the Count.

"Well," continued Barberini, "I hope you are cured of that love, for you
have a rival."

"A rival!" said the Count.

"Yes, and perhaps a happy one."

"Signor," said Monte-Leone, restraining himself with difficulty, "let me
tell you I purpose to make that lady my wife. All that touches her
honor, touches mine also."

"I say nothing derogatory to it, but merely repeat what I have heard."

"What have you heard?" said Monte-Leone, and the blood rushed to his
head.

"One of my young relations," continued Count Barberini, "was at an
entertainment given on the recurrence of her daughter's birthday by
Signora Rovero. He spoke to me of a Frenchman who is with them, and who
seems passionately fond of the young Aminta."

"And then?" said Monte-Leone, with the same tone in which he would have
asked the executioner to strike him with certainty.

"And then! why that is all," said Barberini, who had become terrified at
Monte-Leone's manner. "I heard nothing more.... If I did, I would take
care to be silent when you look so furiously. All this interests me very
slightly. One's own love affairs are too troublesome to enable us to
occupy ourselves with those of others.... There, too, is the Countess
d'Oliviero, waving her bouquet so impatiently to and fro that I see she
will break it to pieces unless I go. I must leave you, to save her
flowers." The young man left.

"I was right," said he, "not to tell the story of the night affair of
which my kinsman was a witness. I think he would have killed me at
once."


III. A PATERNAL LETTER

On the day after the terrible night during which Aminta had strayed in
her sleep to the room of Maulear, two ladies met at about nine in the
morning in the saloon of the villa of Sorrento, and were locked in each
other's arms.

"Yes, my child," said one of them, "your sleep has given an
interpretation to all that has passed, and I understand all. Your honor
cannot suffer, for you are chaste and pure."

"In your eyes, dear mother, I am; but in those of the world, which they
tell me is so envious and malicious! Even last night, when every eye was
fixed on me, I fancied that I read suspicion and contempt in the
expression of more than one."

"No, my child," replied Signora Rovero, clasping her to her heart, "I
saw almost all our guests this morning, immediately before they left.
They had already heard of your somnambulism, and our servants had told
how you suffered with it from your childhood. All are convinced of your
innocence."

"Dear mother, do not think so. They spoke to you only with their lips,
but believe me guilty."

"Mother," added she, with that strange emotion to which she was
sometimes a victim, "I think that this unfortunate affair is but the
beginning of the realization of the unfortunate fate which I know is
reserved for me. It seems to me that on yesterday our evil days began."

She hid her head in her mother's bosom to conceal her tears, and to find
a refuge against the misfortunes she feared.

A servant came in, and said, "The Marquis de Maulear wishes to wait on
the ladies."

"Mother, mother," said Aminta, "how can I refrain from blushing before
him?"

Signora Rovero bade the servant show the Marquis in. Then arranging
Aminta's beautiful hair, she kissed her forehead, and said:

"Daughter, one never blushes in the presence of a husband."

Aminta, with great surprise, looked at her mother.

"Ah, ah!" said Madame Rovero, with a smile, "a parent's eyes see much."

Before Aminta had time to speak, the Marquis entered. He was pale and
excited.

"Signora," said he to Aminta's mother, "I come to beg you to pardon me
for a great fault."

"To what, Signor, do you refer?"

"Of the greatest of all faults, after the manner in which I have been
received, and your kindness towards me--for not having confided in you,
and said yesterday what I wish to say to-day. Yet only from you have I
kept my secret. Yesterday, nothing obliged you to grant me the favor I
am about to solicit: yesterday, you might have refused it. To-day,
perhaps, it will be less difficult. A circumstance favorable only to
myself," added he, with a timid glance at Aminta, "marks out my
conduct, which assumes now the aspect of an obligation. It fulfils all
my wishes, and makes me the happiest of men. In one word, signora, I
come to beg that you will suffer me to become allied to your family."

"Marquis," said Signora Rovero, "I expected to hear you speak thus, for
I was sure of your honor. But far from wishing that now for the first
time you had informed my daughter of the sentiments with which she has
inspired you, I rejoice that your course has been different. Without
this motive, signor, neither my daughter nor I would accept the alliance
you wish to offer us. _No reparation can be exacted, where no fault has
been committed._ I wish to strengthen your conscience, by assuring you,
that in my opinion nothing obliges you to the course you have adopted,
if it interferes with your prospects and success."

The last expressions of Signora Rovero produced a deep sensation on
Maulear, and a shadow of uneasiness passed over his brow. She had
ignorantly touched a sensitive chord of the heart of the young lover.
Led astray by his heart, seduced invincibly by charms which were so new
to him, Maulear, under the influence of passion, had entered on the
flowery route, at the end of which he caught a glimpse of happiness. In
the delirium of passion, he had forgotten that a severe judge, that the
imperious master of his destiny, that a father, with principles
eminently aristocratic, like all fathers in 1768, awaited to absolve or
acquit him, to receive or repel him, to unite or to sever--in one word,
to make him happy or miserable. All these important ideas were at once
evoked in the mind of Maulear by the last sentence Signora Rovero had
uttered. It was this hidden and sombre apparition which arose between
Maulear and her he loved, the sinister aspect of which was reflected in
a manner by the expression of Aminta's lover.

Signorina Rovero perceived it, and with the acute discrimination she
possessed to so high a degree, said, in the melodious tones which
touched all who heard them:

"Marquis, my mother has spoken for her family, I will speak for myself.
You have informed us of the noble family to which you belong. I know
that your wife one day will be a princess, and I wish you to remember,
that she, to whom you offer this title, is the daughter of 'a noble of
yesterday;' the glory of whom is derived from her daughter's virtues.
This, Marquis, I say not for you, but for others. Excuse me, too, for
what you are about to hear. If I have need of courage to own it to you,
perhaps you will require all your generosity to hearken to it." With a
trembling voice she added: "As yet, I do not reciprocate the sentiments
you have expressed. To the hope, though, which I permitted you to
entertain yesterday, let me add, that I am additionally gratified by the
offer of your hand; for in the eyes of many persons, signor, in the eyes
of those who were witnesses of our presence together last night, you
would not now marry her you were anxious to espouse yesterday.

"I shall marry an angel!" said Maulear, falling on his knees before
Aminta, "an angel of candor and virtue. If your heart does not yet
reciprocate the love you inspire, my care and tenderness will so delight
you, that some day you will love me."

"Well, then," said she to Maulear, "grant me one favor. Suffer me to
await that day. Take pity on a poor girl full of terror and
apprehension, at a tie she has always feared. Grant her heart time to
make itself worthy of you, Marquis, and remember that until then you are
free. As my mother has told you, nothing binds you to me. Now you owe me
nothing, nor will you, until I shall confide my destiny to your hands,
when you will owe me the happiness you promise me."

"You do not consent? Then, Signorina, I will wait. Henceforth, however,
I am pledged _to you_; and my hand and heart are yours."

Just then a servant told Maulear that a courier from Naples had brought
him important letters. The Marquis bade adieu to the two ladies, and
left.

"My child," said Signora Rovero, in a tone of affectionate reproach,
"what must a man do to win your love?"

"I do not know; I am certainly foolish, but I am afraid!"

Maulear found the courier of the French embassy in his room. "An urgent
letter from France," said he, to Maulear.

Henri read the direction and shuddered. It was from the Prince de
Maulear. The Prince wrote rarely. What did he ask? The son who felt that
he had acted incorrectly in disposing of his hand, without consulting
the head of his family, trembled before he broke the seal. The character
of Maulear was weak, as we have said, and, like people of this kind, the
prospect of danger and misfortune annoyed him more than the reality
itself. At last he resolved to know all, and with a trembling hand
opened the letter. He read as follows:

    "Paris, April 10, 1816.

"MY SON:--I often hear of you, not through your own letters, for you
write rarely, but through other friends, whom I have requested to keep
me _au fait_. I know what kind of life you lead at Naples, and am
dissatisfied with you. The son of a shop-keeper and a banker would act
more like a gentleman than you. People talk of you here no better than
they do of the deputy of the hangman. I had hoped the Marquis de Maulear
would behave more correctly in a foreign country. I was no older than
you are, when I went as secretary of legation to Madrid. Three months
afterwards I was recalled. I had run away with three women, fought four
duels, and lost at cards fifty thousand crowns. That was something to be
recalled for. It was an assurance that in future I would be reasonable.
When our youth reasons, and does not laugh, things go wrong. The King
spoke to me yesterday about you. He asked me, if you found any thing to
amuse you at Naples. I replied that you found too much to amuse you. 'I
am glad of it,' said the King, 'so our family honor at least is saved.'
Since, however, you are most ignobly virtuous, I have tried to turn the
affair to the best advantage. I have brought about a magnificent match
for you, to supersede one I have heard you were making for yourself. The
lady is rich, noble, and beautiful. She is the daughter of the Duke
d'Harcourt, one of the gentlemen in waiting of his majesty. You may,
perhaps, at Naples have seen Rene d'Harcourt, the brother of the lady.
The marriage will take place three months hence. I trust I have
surprised you not unpleasantly. Adieu, my son. Your aunt, the Countess,
sends her love to you, and amuses herself with the preparation of your
_corbeille_.

    "LE PRINCE DE MAULEAR.

"P.S. You have three months' more folly before you, and for the rest of
your life you must be prudent. I have opened a credit of one hundred
thousand livres in your favor, with the banker Antonio Lamberti."

The letter fell from the hands of the Marquis, and he sank on his chair
completely overwhelmed. Like a thunder-bolt, it aroused him from a happy
dream. There are, in fact, in all love matters, certain moments of
intoxication, when men, ordinarily sensible, become blunderers. For a
month the Marquis had been in this condition, half reasonable, half mad.
Living with one thought prominent, all others were indistinct to him. To
him love was every thing. His father, with his antiquated obstinacy,
imbued with retrograde principles, disappeared like a ghost before the
brilliant reality of passion. Besides, fear of a rival, dread of the
brilliant Count Monte-Leone, who, full of love, as Henri had heard,
aspired to nothing more than to become the husband of Aminta left him no
other alternative, than to do what another was about to--make an
offering of his hand and faith. Lovers, too, see nothing but the object
of their passion; and Henri sometimes thought his father would agree
with him. The strange epistle of the Prince had however reversed all his
dreams. The anger of the Prince when he should learn that a marriage had
been contracted, contrary to his wishes, and in spite of his orders,
might possibly exert a terrible influence on the fortune and future fate
of the young couple; without regarding the chagrin and humiliation to
which he would subject Aminta by bringing her into a family without the
consent of its head.

Maulear passed three days in this cruel perplexity, sometimes hoping and
then fearing that Aminta would yield to his prayer. His heart wished.
His mind feared. If Signorina Rovero should accept his hand, it would be
necessary for him to decide, to act; and then, from the weakness of his
character, Maulear would be subjected to cruel uncertainty.

A few days after the scene which had occurred in his room, Maulear and
the ladies sat together in a boudoir near the _salon_, which opened on
the park, a view of which Aminta was taking. The Marquis had been
reading to the ladies the trial of Count Monte-Leone from the _Diario di
Napoli_. This curious story, full of surprises, the noble energy, the
wonderful _sang-froid_ of the Count, the remarks of the journalist on
the character of the prisoner, and the unjust accusation to which he had
been subjected, and which he had so completely refuted, and to which he
had submitted with such nobleness and heroism, all was listened to with
the greatest interest. Maulear had read all this much to his own
dissatisfaction, because Signora Rovero had requested it. The praises of
Monte-Leone were most unpleasant to him.

Aminta heard every word. Every detail of the Count's daring, every
change of character in this judicial drama, awakened an inexplicable
emotion in her. It seemed that Count Monte-Leone, to whose singular
story she had listened, was a far different man from the one she had
imagined him to be. His powerful mind, his exalted soul, all the powers
of which had been developed by the trial, conferred on Monte-Leone new
proportions hitherto not realized by her. Count Monte-Leone, whom she
had seen at home, almost timid in the presence of her he adored, annoyed
by his false position as a refugee, suffering from a passion he dared
not own, was not the person of whom she had heard for the past month.
Looking down on her drawing, which her increasing absence of mind made
almost invisible to her, Aminta sought to recall the features of the
Count which had been nearly effaced from her memory. Gradually, however,
they arose before her. Had her mother then spoken, had her glances been
diverted from the album on which they were fixed, a strange trouble and
confusion would have been visible, when aroused from this meditation.
The sound of wheels entering the court yard of the villa broke the charm
which entranced Aminta, and made Signora Rovero utter a cry of joy.

"It is he," cried she. "It is he who returns, my son Taddeo. Daughter,
let us hurry to meet him. Let us be the first to embrace him."

Accompanied by Maulear, the two ladies hurried into the vestibule, which
they crossed, standing at the villa-door just as the carriage stopped. A
man left it and bowed respectfully to Signora Rovero and her daughter.
This man was MONTE-LEONE.


IV.--TWO RIVALS.

Much had passed since Count Barberini had told Monte-Leone of the love
of Maulear for Aminta Rovero. Monte-Leone felt all the furies of hell
glide into his heart at this revelation. The idea that Aminta could love
any one had never entered his mind. Whether from confidence in her, or
from that error so common to lovers that they are entitled to love
because they love themselves, Monte-Leone flattered himself that he had
left a pleasant recollection in Aminta's mind. We may therefore imagine
how painfully the Count was disturbed by the half-confidence of
Barberini. Yet Taddeo, his friend, whom, he loved as a brother, could
not have deceived him, and have concealed what had taken place at
Sorrento, when he had received so cordially the hand of his sister.
Taddeo, then, was ignorant of it. Monte-Leone, a prey to a thousand
thoughts, left his box, forgetful of the opera, his friends and
companions, with but one object and wish. He was determined to see
Taddeo, to question him and find out who was the rival that menaced his
happiness, and whom Aminta probably loved. The Count went to that part
of the theatre in which he had seen Aminta. The second act, however, was
about to begin; and the efforts of Monte-Leone to get near his friend
created such murmurs, complaints, and anger, that he was obliged to wait
for a more favorable opportunity. La Griselda was singing the _andante_
of her cavatina, and the artist's magnificent, powerful, and tender
voice, echoing through the vastness of the hall, fell in pearly notes
like a shower of diamonds on the ears of the spectators. After the
_andante_ came the _caballeta_, and then the _coda-finale_. For a while
one might have thought the four thousand spectators had but one breath,
and were animated by a single heart, that they restrained the first to
prevent the pulsations of the other from being disturbed. This gem of
the opera was at last concluded, and mad applause rose from every part
of the room. We are constrained, however, to say, that from this time
the accents of La Felina were less passionate and brilliant, and that a
veil, as it were, was extended over all the rest of the representation,
so that a person who had heard only the second act of La Griselda would
have asked with surprise, if it was really the wonderful prima donna,
the songs of whom were purchased with gold, and the wonderful talent of
whom, had enslaved the audiences of the great Italian theatres. The
reason was, that, after the second act, the star which shone on La
Felina had become eclipsed. Monte-Leone had left his box--the box which
had been the source of Griselda's inspiration from the commencement of
the first act. Hope had sustained the singer during the cavatina, at the
beginning of the second act. She fancied that he whom she loved possibly
heard her from the recess of some other box. When, however, she was
satisfied that he was gone, despair took possession of her. "Nothing
touches his heart," said she, with pain. "Neither my love nor my talent
are able to captivate him--to attach him to me for a time." Thenceforth,
as she sang for him alone, she sang for no one. The holy fire was
extinguished. Genius unfurled its wings and flew to the unknown regions
of art, whence passion had won it. La Felina finished the opera, as a
prima donna should, rendering the music precisely and distinctly, note
for note, and as her score required. She neither added a single
_fioritura_ nor a single ornament which had not been noted by the
composer. In one word, the audience at San Carlo on that day heard the
opera of the _Maestro_ Paer and not La Felina. During this, Monte-Leone,
who had given up all hopes of reaching Taddeo, and whom Taddeo, paying
attention only to the _artiste_, had neither heard nor seen, Monte-Leone
walked in front of the opera-house, a prey to the greatest agitation,
impatiently waiting for the conclusion of the representation, to see his
friend and hear from him what he had to hope or fear at Sorrento.

The opera ended. The crowd slowly dispersed, and Monte-Leone, wrapped up
in his cloak, watched with anxiety every spectator who left the theatre.
Taddeo did not come. The doors of the theatre were closed, and the Count
still waited. Surprised and impatient he went to his hotel, where Taddeo
also lived, but he was not there. Night passed away, and he did not
come. About three in the morning a stranger was shown in, and gave
Monte-Leone three letters. One of them was addressed to the Count: he
opened it anxiously.

"Excuse me, my dear friend, at quitting you thus. Excuse me, especially
the uneasiness I have created in your mind"--wrote Taddeo--"I have
learned that she left Naples to-night, and if I leave her I shall die. I
will follow her by post and on horseback, without stopping, until I
shall learn whither she has gone. What will I do then! I do not
know,--but at least I will know where she is, and I will not fancy that
she is lost to me for ever. 'To-morrow,' said she, when she left us,
'you will love me less.' She was mistaken, my friend, or she has
deceived me; for to-day I love her better than I did yesterday. My heart
suffers too much for me not to sympathize with yours, and I understand
how impatient you are to go to Sorrento. I send a letter to my good
mother--give it yourself to her. I beg her to receive you as a friend,
and as she would receive a brother of mine. Stay with her until I come
back. Say that in three days I will come back to ask her to give you
Aminta's hand."

"Has the person who gave you these letters gone?" asked Monte-Leone of
the messenger.

"He went an hour since from the post-house, on one of our best horses,"
said the messenger.

Monte-Leone gave him a piece of gold and dismissed him.

"Poor Taddeo!" said he, "to suffer as well as I do--no no, not so much
as I do; for earthly love cannot be compared with heavenly passion.
Jealousy such as I suffer can be compared to nothing; and all is derived
from the serpent's stings, with which Barberini pricked my heart."

The time until day seemed interminable to Monte-Leone. It came at last.
The Count rang for Giacomo and dressed himself elegantly. The old man
on this occasion assisted him cheerfully and zealously, as he had
previously shown repugnance on the night of the terrible expedition at
Torre-del-Greco. Monte-Leone ordered his handsomest equipage. A few
minutes afterwards the horses pawed impatiently in the court-yard, so
that the driver could with difficulty restrain them. When the Count came
down, he found Giacomo standing in the door of the saloon so as to bar
his egress. Pale and agitated, the old man restrained the Count, and in
a stern, quarrelsome voice said:

"What is the matter now? what new folly are you about to commit?"

"What the devil do you mean?" asked the Count, taking hold of the
intendant's hand.

"No, Monsignore, you shall not go," said Giacomo, extending his arms so
as completely to shut the door, "unless you serve me as you did Stenio
Salvatori. Is it not a shame that the noblest of the gentlemen of
Naples, that the son of my master, should walk abroad armed like the
bravo of Venice--with a sword, poniard and pistol in his bosom? What, if
you please, was that box of pistols, placed by little Jack, your groom,
as those animals are called in England, in your carriage?"

"What is it to you?" said the Count, impatiently.

"What is it to me?" asked the old man with tears in his eyes. "Are you
not again about to risk your life against I know not whom nor why? What
is it to me? That you may live, that my last days may not be passed in
uneasiness and despair, like those which have gone by--for I love you.
Count," said the old man, kneeling before his master, "I love you as a
father loves his son. I held you in my arms when you were a child. For
heaven's sake renounce your dangerous plans, renounce the acquaintance
of those rascally mysterious looking men who come so often to see you.
Have nothing to say to that rascally Signor Pignana, whom I would so
gladly see hung. Be again happy, gay, and joyous, as you used to he.
True, we were ruining ourselves, but we were not conspirators."

The Count gave his hand to Giacomo.

"Giacomo, my good fellow," said he, "I am about to engage in no
conspiracy."

"What then?"

"I am about to marry," said Monte-Leone, with a smile.

"Marry! with a case of pistols as a wedding present?"

"Why!" said the Count, moodily, "I may perhaps meet enemies on the road.
Now I have more than life to protect: I have my honor."

Monte-Leone, making an affectionate gesture to the old man, descended
gayly and sprang into the coach, which bore him rapidly towards
Sorrento, and stopped at the door of Signora Rovero's house, as we have
previously said.

When she saw Monte-Leone, instead of Taddeo, Signora Rovero trembled.

"Signor," said she to the Count, "for heaven's sake tell me what evil
tidings you bear. What misfortune has befallen Taddeo?"

"In two days, Signora, Taddeo will be here, and I have the difficult
duty to excuse his absence. He has, however, asked me to deliver you his
letter, which explains all."

Signora Rovero took the letter and opened it with eagerness.

"Excuse me, Signor," said she to the Count, "but you must make allowance
for a mother's anxiety."

"So be it," she observed, after having read it. "Taddeo is in no danger
if we except that his fortune may be bad. A hunting party in the
mountains will detain him for two days from us."

"Count," said Signora Rovero, "my son speaks so affectionately of you
that I am led to offer you my own love."

"I have the advantage in that respect, Signora, for the kindness with
which you treated me while here, and the memories I bore away, have ever
since inspired the deepest affection for you."

They entered the saloon, and Signora Rovero introduced Maulear to
Monte-Leone. They saluted each other with the most exquisite politeness,
but without exchanging a glance.

Between love and hate there is this in common: it sees without the eye;
it hears without the ear. Love has a presentiment of love, and hatred of
hatred.

Monte-Leone approached Aminta. All his power and energy were
insufficient to triumph over the violent agitation which took possession
of him when he spoke to the young girl. His loving heart offered but
faint opposition to the torrent of passion, which had been so long
repressed that it was ready to bear away every obstacle. Aminta blushed
and became troubled when she recognized in the vibration of his voice
all the emotion Monte-Leone experienced. The conversation became
general. Signora Rovero spoke to the Count of his trial, the incidents
of which the Marquis had been kind enough to read. The Count bowed to
the Marquis as if to acknowledge a favor. Maulear looked away to avoid
the necessity of acknowledging it. The Count seemed not to perceive it.
Aminta became aware that if he kept silent longer the circumstance would
be remarked.

"During your imprisonment, Count, in the Castle _Del Uovo_, I have heard
that a terrible episode occurred, the details of which the _Diaro_ does
not give."

"The reason was the _Diario_ did not know them. True, like other
journalists he might have invented them, but he did not do so; and,
perhaps, acted well, for his fancies could not have equalled the truth."

The Count then simply, without exaggeration, and especially without that
petition for pity which is so frequently met with, told the story of the
terrible scene in the prison.

Aminta listened to every word. She suffered with the prisoner, hoped
with him, and followed all the details of the story, exhibiting the most
profound pity for the occurrence. Signora Rovero sympathized with her
daughter, and, for the time, Monte-Leone was the hero of the villa. All
the prejudices of Aminta disappeared in a moment in the presence of
Monte-Leone, as the morning vapors are dispersed by the first rays of
the sun.

Maulear, in icy silence, listened to the Count and looked at Aminta. As
he did so, his brow became covered with clouds precisely as that of
Aminta began to grow bright. The latter, perceiving the painful
impressions of the Marquis, extended every attention to him, so that
Monte-Leone began to grow moody. The two rivals passed the whole day in
alternations of hope and fear, happiness and suffering. The state of
things, however, was too tense to be of long duration. These few hours
seemed centuries to the adorers of Aminta, and if any one had been able
to look into the depths of their ulcerated hearts, he would have seen
that a spark would have produced an explosion. Many of the neighbors of
Signora Rovero, who had not visited her since the ball, ventured to
return. Among others present was Gaetano Brignoli. All loved him for his
frank and pleasant off-hand speeches, and all received him with good
humor and confidence. Maulear, who had laid aside his dislike, received
him kindly, as he had previously done distantly. The _Rose of Sorrento_
reproached Gaetano with having forgotten his promise.

"You should yourself on the next day," said she, "have given me news of
Taddeo and of Monte-Leone's trial. You, however, only wrote. Friends
like you, and brothers like mine, are unworthy of the affection bestowed
on them." Then, like a child _making friends_ with a playmate, she took
Gaetano into the embrasure of a meadow, and began to talk with him in a
low tone. The night promised to be brilliant and serene, and the air to
be soft and pleasant. The evening breeze penetrated into the saloon,
refreshing the atmosphere with the respiration of the sea. "What a
magnificent evening, Marquis," said Monte-Leone to Maulear, as he
approached him, and looked at the stars which had begun to dot the sky.

It was the first time the Count had spoken to the Marquis directly. The
latter trembled as a soldier who hears the sound of the first battle
signal. His emotion was short, and saluting the Count affably as
possible, he replied:

"It, is a winter evening in Italy, Count, but in France it would be one
of summer."

"Do you not think," said Monte-Leone, "that this is the proper hour for
exercise, in this country? The complete repose of nature, the eloquent
silence of night, all invite us to confidence, and make us wish for
isolation and solitude--"

"Count," said Maulear, "do you wish for a half solitude; a desert
inhabited by two persons?"

"Certainly, that is what I mean."

"So do I, and would participate in yours."

"Come, then, I never saw a more beautiful night, and I shall be charmed
to enjoy it with you."

These two men, with rage in their hearts, each being an impregnable
barrier to the happiness of the other, loving the same woman in the same
way, resolved to contend for her, to their last breath;--these two men
left the saloon, with smiles on their lips, like friends about to listen
to the secret thoughts of each other beneath the shadow of some
beautiful landscape, in happiness and pleasure.

Aminta saw them go out. She grew pale, and suffered so that she leaned
against the window-case.


V. THREE RIVALS.

Count Monte-Leone and the Marquis de Maulear entered together a vast and
beautiful avenue, silvered over by a brilliant moon.

"Signor," said the Count to Maulear, "do you ever have waking dreams?
Can you, by the power of your imagination, transport yourself into the
future, and, as it were, read your destiny, with all its prosperous and
unfortunate incidents, its pleasures and chagrins? This often happens to
me, especially by day and when I am unhappy. For a long time, too, I
have been unhappy. For instance, not long ago, when shut up in a dark
prison, with no prospect before me but that of an unjust death, and the
headsman's axe bringing to a close my sad and eventful career, my good
angel certainly, for I believe in such beings, sent, two hundred feet
below the surface of the earth, a vision of dazzling light and beauty. I
was transported beneath the green shadows of myrtles and orange-trees; I
breathed an atmosphere impregnated with intoxicating and balsamic
perfumes, while near me, with her hand in mine, and her heart beating on
my bosom, was a young girl, destined to be my guide through this life of
misery; the angel, in fact, of whom I spoke just now. Sorrows,
suffering, injustice, the dungeon, and the executioner, all disappeared,
and I enjoyed all the luxury of this heavenly revelation; and I said,
for the realization of this heavenly revelation, the heart's blood would
not be too dear a price. Do you not think so, Marquis?"

"I do, Count," said Maulear, "and especially so, because what your rich
imagination has created for you, chance, or my good genius--for I too
have faith in them--has displayed before me, not in the delirium of a
dream, but in reality. I have seen the myrtle groves of which you
dreamed: I have breathed the perfumes you describe so well: I have found
the woman your imagination has shadowed to me. I found her one day when
I did not expect to do so. I found one more beautiful than I had fancied
woman could be, gifted with such charms, grace, and virtue, that I ask
myself frequently whether such a being can belong to earth."

"Marquis," said Monte-Leone, and as he spoke he led the Count towards a
darker alley, lighted up only by a few rays of the moon, which
penetrated the interstices of the branches, "would it not be best to
conclude this conversation rather in the dark than in the light? Our
words need not any light, and neither you nor I pay any attention to the
expression of our faces."

"So be it," said Maulear, and they entered the dark alley.

"Marquis," said Monte-Leone, "the divinity of my dream and the object of
your passion are so alike, that I am sure we worship the same idol, and
kneel before the same altar. Fortune has led two men of soul and honor
into the same route. We both struggle for an object which one only can
reach. One of us must tread on a carcass, which must be either yours or
mine."

"Count," said Maulear, "we understand each other. We adore the same
idol, but you are not ignorant that our rights to offer it homage are
different; that I have rights which you have not."

The Count trembled. A word might crush all his hopes. For a few moments
he hesitated, and then in a calm voice said,

"Does she love you?"

Without replying to the question, the Marquis said,

"Signora Rovero, for her name is too deeply engraven on our hearts for
it not to spring to our lips, is aware of my sentiments, of which I have
already told her."

"And has accepted them?" said Monte-Leone, in yet greater trouble.

"No," said the Marquis, honorably; "but bade me hope that some day she
would."

"Then," said the Count, with joy, "nothing is lost. Marquis, the past is
yours, but the future is mine. Had I the mind and grace of a French
nobleman, I would, perhaps, propose to you a contest of courtesy, and
might rely on my hope, my love, my attention, to triumph. But the
contest must be of a different kind; for I will expose myself to no
risks." Lowering his voice, he continued: "Not one and the other can
present his love to the Signorina Rovero, but _one without the other_.
You or I alone; and, as I told you just now, there is a life too many."

"Very well, signor,--you wage your life against mine. I consent,--but
must observe that this duel should, at least, accrue to the interest of
one or the other of us; and yet I do not think that Signorina Rovero
would touch a blood-stained hand."

"Signor," said Monte-Leone, "from the moment you accept my challenge,
the mystery and secrecy with which it must be shrouded shall be my
affair; and, if you please, I will tell you of my plans."

"Do so, signor," said Maulear, coldly.

"Let us leave this alley, and go towards that group of trees in that
direction."

He led Maulear towards the sea. When they stood on the shore, he said,
"Below there is a kind of cove, and in it a gondola like those of
Venice--a pleasure-skiff--built formerly by the minister Rovero for his
family. At this hour to-morrow, we will meet in this wood and go to the
boat-house. We will then put to sea, and with no witness but the sea and
sky, we will settle our affair. Two men will steer the bark to sea, and
one wilt guide it back----"

In spite of his courage, Maulear could not but shudder at one who
detailed with such coolness so horrible a plan. The manner of death
frequently enhances our terror, and he who in a forest would bare his
bosom to his adversary's ball, would shrink from it on the immensity of
the ocean.

"But," said Maulear, "is all this romantic preparation, is this naval
drama in which you insist on appearing, necessary to our purpose? Any
other secret encounter would have the same effect, and would eventuate
equally satisfactorily. At the distance of a few days' travel, would we
not be able to fight more safely than here?"

"No, Marquis, I must remain in this villa until Taddeo de Sorrento shall
have returned. Neither I nor you can leave it without arousing
suspicions, and in two days hence, we would no longer be equals; for
honor compels me to say that Taddeo has promised me his sister's hand,
and that the influence he exerts over his mother will without doubt
induce her to decide in my favor. If, however, you prefer to run that
risk, I will not oppose you."

"No no," said Maulear, who remembered what Taddeo had said to him in
relation to his sister, "I will fight for her I love at the very foot of
the altar--"

"Signor," said Monte-Leone, "let us avoid all scandal. The death of him
who falls may be easily accounted for; and as you said, we must never
suffer her we love to think that the happiness of one of us has cost the
other his life."

"So be it," said Maulear, "I accept your offer."

"To-morrow we will meet," said the Count.

The two enemies returned to the villa calm, and apparently undisturbed,
as if they had been the best friends possible. When they came into the
room again, Aminta sat by her mother. The eyes of the young girl,
however, turning constantly towards the door, seemed to expect the
return of the two young men with anxiety. Her cheeks became slightly
flushed when they entered. The Count approached her and besought her to
sing as he had often heard her. Aminta sat at the piano. Scarcely,
however, had she sung the first bar, than the door of the saloon opened
and Scorpione glided in and sat at the feet of the young girl, where he
laid down as he used to do; not, however, daring to look at her. Since
the scandal he had caused, he had been in disgrace with all the family,
and his mistress did not speak to him. The Count, who had become
acquainted with Tonio during his first visit to Sorrento, could not
repress a movement of horror at the appearance of the wretch. Far,
however, from being angry, Tonio seemed glad to see him, and testified
his pleasure by various affectionate signs. Gaetano, who was absent from
the room, just then returned, and at the request of Signora Rovero sang
several duets with Aminta. An extraordinary feeling seemed to influence
the young man, and only with the greatest difficulty could he get
through his part. When the evening was over, all retired. The next day
rolled by in embarrassing constraint to all the inhabitants of the
villa. An atmosphere of sadness surrounded them, like the dark clouds
which seem at the approach of a storm to overhang the earth. Count
Monte-Leone alone seemed master of himself, and sought to cure the
general _atony_ in which even Maulear was involved. A sensible
difference was remarked between the two men, each of whom loved the same
woman, while one of them must lose her forever. The Count did not take
his eyes from her, and seemed thus to lay in a provision of pleasure for
eternity, which seemed ready to open before him. Maulear, on the other
hand, was sad and pensive, and scarcely dared to lift his eyes to
Aminta, fearing, beyond doubt, that he would thus increase his sorrow
and distress, and diminish his courage when the crisis came. As the day
wore on. Aminta, feeling unwell, retired to her room. Signora Rovero,
accustomed to see her daughter have similar attacks, sat to play
_reversis_ with Count Brignoli and two other persons. Monte-Leone and
Maulear exchanged a mysterious sign and left the room nearly at the same
time. The night was not so beautiful as the preceding one had been. The
disk of the moon sometimes was clouded, and the wind whistled among the
trees of the park; all nature, deeply agitated, seemed to sympathize
with the thoughts which agitated the minds of the two enemies. The dark
and cloudy sky was a meet back-ground for such a picture.

Nine o'clock was struck by the bell of the Church at Sorrento, when two
men met at the cove we have described. One of them wrapped in a cloak
had a case under his arm. They went towards the bank and found the
gondola there. This boat was long, like those of Venice, in imitation of
which it had been made--had a little cabin in its stern, which now was
closed. In it the ladies used to take refuge when bad weather interfered
with their pleasure. The two men used all their strength to detach the
gondola from the shore. At last they succeeded. The most robust then
took one of the oars and pushed the boat from the bank. Just as they
were about to put off, a burst of demoniac laughter rung in their ears.
A very demon, a breathing spirit of evil, had witnessed all their
preparations, and had learned, from its shape, the contents of the box;
the idea of what they meditated caused him to utter this shout of
laughter. This demon was Scorpione. This deformity was the rival of
Monte-Leone and Maulear.

The blue and azure waves of the sea of Naples on that night seemed dark
as ink. The wind agitated them. Calm as they usually are, and like a
vast cemetery, the tombs of which open to receive the dead, they opened
before the prow of the boat like a grave, as they were intended to be.
At a distance of about three hundred fathoms the two adversaries ceased
to row and replaced the oars in the gondola. Without speaking, they took
out the pistols, examined their locks, and opened them.

"Signor," said Monte-Leone, "I thank you for the honor you have done me
in deigning to use my arms."

"The arms of Count Monte-Leone are not to be refused."

"A true hand gives them."

"A true hand receives them."

Nothing more was said. They then proceeded to place themselves at the
several ends of the boat. The Count uncovered himself. Maulear did also.
They let fall their cloaks and opened the linen which covered their
bosoms. They raised their pistols, took aim, and were about to fire.

       *       *       *       *       *

The door of the cabin was thrown open, and Aminta rushed to the centre
of the gondola. Gaetano followed her. The weapons fell from the hands of
the rivals; and in terror and surprise they looked on this apparition.
Not a cry escaped from their lips. Pale and motionless, they looked at
each other without, at first, recognizing Aminta. Not a word passed
their lips. Terror-stricken, they fancied themselves in the presence of
some heavenly being, sent, like the angel of peace, to rescue them from
death. The voice of Aminta, full of trouble and terror, echoed over the
waves, like that of an angel, and alone aroused them from the ecstatic
state in which they were plunged.

"Signori," said she, "I might sooner have put a stop to this atrocious
duel, the very idea of which terrifies me; had it not have been so near
its completion, you would, perhaps, have denied the intention to fight
after all, within a few days. Thanks to the assistance of Gaetano, my
childhood's friend, who yesterday evening became acquainted with your
intention, I have by God's aid been able to prevent it. I wished my
presence to be grave and solemn, that you might never renew the attempt;
in order that, as it were, in the presence of God and of death, you
might know my fixed determination. I would not be burdened with an
existence which had cost the life of a fellow-being: you, Signor
Monte-Leone, by the revered manes of your father; and you, Marquis de
Maulear, by all you love, I conjure to swear that you will respect the
life of him I shall accept as my husband."

"Impose no such oath on me," said Monte-Leone.

"Let me die first," said Maulear.

"Not you only, but I will die also. If I do not hear you swear, I will
throw myself into the sea."

She placed her foot on the gunwale of the boat.

"We swear," said the rivals, rushing towards her.

"Thanks, Signori, I will trust your oath. Count Monte-Leone," said she,
"the Marquis de Maulear saved my life; you will also learn, hereafter,
how generously he resolved to save my honor when it was compromised. My
heart is de Maulear's, and I give him my hand."

The Marquis fell at Aminta's feet.

"To you," she continued, "Count Monte-Leone, I can offer only my respect
and esteem."

"Signorina," said Monte-Leone, with a voice full of dignity and despair,
"I accept even the boon you offer me; and henceforth he whom you love is
sacred to me."

By a violent effort over himself he extended his hand to Maulear. The
waves had borne the bark towards the shore, and all who had participated
in this scene returned safely to the villa. Signora Rovero, who did not
know what had passed, on the next day received a letter from
Monte-Leone, who, during the night, had left the villa.


VI.--MARRIAGE.

Nothing can describe the intensity of Count Monte-Leone's grief when he
was again in the carriage, which, on the evening before, had borne him
to happiness, and now took him back to Naples, sad and despairing. The
Count had overcome his own nature, and this was a great victory to one
who usually yielded to every prompting of passion. On this occasion he
had restrained himself and overcome his rage at his rival's triumph. He
overcame his agony at the wreck of his hopes. When he left Sorrento, and
awoke, so to say, from the stupefaction into which he had plunged, the
excitable brain and fiery heart again re-opened.

"I was a fool," said he, "I was a fool when I yielded my happiness to
another. I was yet more mad when I swore to respect his life, when
something far more violent than mine is wrested from me. Has he not
crushed and tortured my heart? I regret even my place of imprisonment,"
continued he. "There I had dreams of love; and had death reached me in
that abyss, I should have borne away hopes of the future which now are
crushed for ever."

Two torrents of tears rolled down the cheeks of this iron-hearted man,
over which they had rarely flown before.

On the morning after Monte-Leone's return to his hotel, he might have
been observed sitting before the portrait of the victim of Carlo III.,
the holy martyr of conscience, as he called his father, looking on his
noble brow with the most tender respect. We have spoken of the almost
superstitious faith of the Count in the fact that his father protected
him in all the events of his life. We have heard him call on his father
when about to be buried in the waves of the sea, and then become
resigned to death in the pious faith that his father waited for him.
Whenever danger menaced Monte-Leone; whenever he was unexpectedly
prosperous, or was involved in misfortune; whenever his life was lighted
up with prosperity, or misfortune overwhelmed him, he always looked to
this parent. He thought his pure spirit hovered above him; and
encouraged by this celestial aid, he trusted to the mutations of fortune
without fear or apprehension. When he looked at this adored image,
consolation seemed always to descend on his soul. Overcome by the
boundless love Aminta had inspired, he had forgotten the political
duties to which he was devoted. It seemed to him that this cause, to
which he had consecrated his life, had wonderfully diminished in
importance since his trial.

"Can it be, oh my father, that you were unwilling for my love to
interfere with the prospects of the duties imposed on me by your death?
Or, is it that in your pity you have feared that, in my dangers, the
angel to whom I have devoted my existence would be overwhelmed. If, oh
my father, it be thy will that I suffer these cruel torments; if I am to
reserve my energy for the cause I defend, be rejoiced at my sufferings,
for I am able to bear them. Ere long I will again see those who have
trusted me with their fate, and the suspicions of whom offend and wound
me. They will know my resolutions, and I shall know whether I shall
remain their leader or tread my weary way alone."

Just then the door of his cabinet opened, and a man appeared, or rather
a spectre, so much had his appearance been changed by fatigue and
suffering. He rushed into the arms of Monte-Leone.

"Taddeo," said he, "my God! what has happened? How pale you are! Why are
these tears in your eyes."

"My friend, La Felina has deceived me only by a day. She was, however,
mistaken herself. To-morrow, said she, you will _love me less_. To-day I
love her no more. You see I have done better than she even hoped."

He fell, with his heart crushed, on a chair, and sobbed.

"Speak, speak to me," said Monte-Leone, forgetful of his friend's
suffering in his own.

"As I wrote to you," said Taddeo, "I determined to follow her, and find
out her retreat at all events. Had it been necessary, I would have
followed her to the end of the world. Leaving the horse I had in a
street near the theatre, I went to the door whence I supposed La Felina
would come. I had been there an hour when I saw a post-carriage
approach. A few moments had elapsed when a woman, accompanied by a
servant, left the theatre, and after looking anxiously around, to be
sure that she was unobserved, entered the carriage. The valet got up
behind, and the postillion, who had not left the saddle, whipped up his
horses and left in a gallop. I mounted my horse and followed the
carriage, keeping just two hundred yards behind it. The carriage was
driven towards Rome, and at every post-house the horses were changed, on
which occasions I kept out of sight, and then resumed my pursuit. Thus
we travelled about fifteen leagues; when, however, we reached the eighth
post-house, the carriage spring became broken and the body was thrown
into a ditch. I rushed towards it, opened the door, and, in a fainting
condition, received the person it contained. I bore her to the road,
and, to give her air, threw aside her veil. I uttered a cry of rage and
agony. The woman in my arms was not La Felina. The sound of my voice
aroused the stranger's attention, and she looked at me as if she were
afraid. 'Who are you?' said she, trembling. 'What do you wish?' 'To save
La Felina, whom I thought was here.' 'La Felina! You were in search of
La Felina!' 'Certainly.' 'And you are the horseman whom Giuseppe, the
courier, told me at the last relay, followed us, are you?' 'Certainly I
am.' The woman examined her arms, etc., to see that she was not hurt,
looked at me most ironically, and then bursting into laughter, said:
'Well, after all, the trick was well played.' 'What trick?' 'The one La
Felina has played on all her lovers, the most ardent of whom you are.' I
looked at the woman so earnestly, and sorrow seemed so deeply marked on
my countenance, that I saw an expression of pity steal over her face.
'Poor young man!' said she, 'then you really loved her?' 'I did, and if
I lose her I shall die.' 'Come,' said she, 'you will not die. If all who
have told me the same thing died, Naples would be like the catacombs of
Rome. Come with me,' she continued, 'to the post-house, for now I feel
by the pain I suffer that my arm is out of place. There I will tell you
all.' I went with the woman to the post-house, when a few drops of
cordial soon invigorated her. 'This is the explanation of what is a
matter of so much surprise to you. Perhaps I should be silent; but you
seem to love La Felina so truly, and a young man who really loves is so
interesting that I will tell you all.' The circumlocution of this woman
almost ran me mad! She finally said: 'My mistress was afraid some of her
lovers would follow her, and wishing to conceal the route she had gone,
took the idea of substituting me for herself, and sent me to Rome, where
she is to write me her destination. You followed me instead of her. She
was right, and had good reason to act as she did.' 'Then she has not yet
left,' asked I, thinking of a means to rejoin her. 'She was to leave
Naples,' said the woman, 'an hour after me, and is, no doubt, now far
from the city.' 'And does she travel alone on these dangerous roads?'
said I. 'Oh, no, she travels with him.' 'With him! of whom, for heaven's
sake, do you speak?' 'Ah,' said the woman, 'La Felina would never
forgive me if I told you. He, too, might make me pay dearly for my
indiscretion.' I begged, I besought the woman to conceal nothing from
me, and gave her all the money I had, promising to increase the sum
tenfold. She yielded at last, and told me that _La Felina_ had left
Naples with her lover. Her lover! do you hear?" continued Taddeo, in a
delirium of rage, "and her lover is the minister of police, the Duke of
Palma."

"More perfidious than the water!" said Monte-Leone, contemptuously.
"Poor Taddeo!"

"Do not pity me," said the latter, in a paroxysm of terrible rage. "I
was to be pitied when I loved her, when a divinity dwelt in my soul,
when my love was ecstatic and endowed her with an innocence, which my
reason told me she did not possess. I was fool enough to deceive myself.
Now this woman to be sure is but a woman; she is less than feminine, as
the mistress of a rich and powerful noble, the Duke of Palmo. Love might
have killed me, but contempt has stifled love."

His head fell on his chest, and he wept. He wept as man weeps for a
departed passion, which has vivified his heart, but which yields to
death, or worse still, another passion.

"My friend," said Monte-Leone, "your grief is cruel, but I suffer more
intensely!" Monte-Leone told Taddeo what had taken place at Sorrento.

The friends were again locked in the arms of each other, and mingled
their tears--the one for the loss of an _earthly passion_, and the other
for a _celestial affection_, as Monte-Leone characterized the two
sentiments when he read a letter of Rovero's. Taddeo had appointed the
following day for his return to Sorrento, and faithful to his promise he
left Naples for the villa of his mother. The farewell of the two men was
sad and touching, for a long time must elapse before they met again.
Monte-Leone had resolved to leave Naples for some time. The proximity of
Sorrento lacerated his heart, and to see her he loved the wife of
another would to him be insupportable. Taddeo was aware of the reasons
why the Count had determined to travel, and had he no mother he would
also have been anxious to leave the country.

"Taddeo," said Monte-Leone to his friend, when the former was about to
set out, "I have a favor to ask of you on which I place an immense
estimate, and for which I must be indebted to your love. Here," said he,
presenting the magnificent emerald wrought by Benvenuto Cellini, "take
this ring, and beg your sister to accept it. Tell her, as she offered me
her friendship, I have a right to send a testimonial to her of my
devotion." Then with a voice trembling with emotion, he added, "Say this
ring preserved my life. This will not add to its value in her eyes; but
tell her in confidence the history of this ring, and some day," said he,
with a bitter smile, "it may be looked on as a curious relic."

"Not so, not so," said Taddeo, kissing the ring. "To us it cannot but be
a precious treasure."

Perhaps while he acted thus, Taddeo thought not only of his friend, but
of the woman who had preserved him from death.

Taddeo left.

Fifteen days after his reaching home, all Sorrento put on its holiday
attire. The church of the town, splendidly decorated, the lighted
torches, the people in their gala dresses, all announced that some
remarkable event was about to take place in the village. The bells rung
loud peals, and young girls dressed in white, with flowers in their
hands, stood on the church portico. Certainly a great event was about to
take place. The _White Rose of Sorrento_ was about to be married to a
French nobleman of high rank, _Henri Marquis de Maulear_.

About noon there was a rumor among the crowd in front of the church that
the bridal party were near. All hurried to meet them, and Aminta was
seen leaning on her brother's arm, while the Marquis escorted Signora
Rovero.

The appearance of the beautiful young girl, whiter than her veil, paler
than the flowers which adorned her brow, produced a general sensation of
admiration. Mingled with this, however, was a kind of sadness, when the
melancholy on her brow was observed. The Marquis seemed also to be ill
at ease, and to suffer under the influence of feelings which on such a
day were strange indeed. All care, all anxiety should be lost in the
intoxication of love. Maulear had purchased his happiness by an error,
and this oppressed him. After the noble decision of Aminta, and the
preference she had so heroically expressed at the time of his purposed
duel with Monte-Leone, Maulear had not dared to mention the letter of
his father. He had simply told Signora Rovero, that he was master of his
own actions, and sure of his father's consent and approbation to the
marriage he was about to contract. The Signora, who was credulous, was
confident that a brilliant match was secured for Aminta, and suffered
herself to be easily persuaded. Maulear, too, became daily more
infatuated; and, listening to passion alone, had informed his father,
not that he was about to marry, but that when the letter reached him he
would be married. Yet when he had sent the letter, and the time was
come, all his fears were aroused, and he shuddered at the apprehension
of the consequences of what he was about to do. In this state of mind he
went to the altar, and nothing but the beauty of his bride and the
solemnity of the ceremony could efface the sombre clouds which obscured
his brow. The priest blessed the pair, and a few minutes after the young
Marquis of Maulear, with his beautiful _Marquise_, left the village.

Just when the venerable village priest, in God's name, placed Aminta's
hand in Henri's, the terrible cry we have already heard twice echoed
through the arches of the church, and a man was seen to rush towards the
sea. The shout, though it filled the church, was uttered in the portico,
and had not interrupted the service. Thenceforth _Scorpione_ was never
seen at Sorrento.

FOOTNOTES:

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

[O] _Anglice._ Good day, my dear Pignana.

[P] The original of this sentence is _Je vais vous donner la liste ...
c'est a dire le compte de_ NOS HOMMES ... _non de_ NOS SOMMES, _etc.,
etc._ It is scarcely probably that MONTE-LEONE and Pignana, speaking
Italian, indulged in French _jeux des mots_.




THE ABBE DE VOISENON AND HIS TIMES.

From Frazer's Magazine


The province of Brie, in France, divided and subdivided since the
Revolution of 1789, into departments, arondissements, and cantons, is
filled with chateaux, which, in the reign of Louis XV., were inhabited
by those gold-be-spangled marquises, those idle, godless abbes, and
those obese financiers, whom the secret memoirs of Grimm and Bachaumont,
and the letters of the Marquis de Lauraguais, have held up to such
unsparing ridicule and contempt. This milky and cheese-producing Brie,
this inexhaustible Io, was, at the epoch of the regent Orleans and his
deplorable successor, a literal cavern of pleasures, in the most impure
acceptation of the term; every chateau which the Black Band has not
demolished is, as it were, a half-volume of memoirs in which may be read
the entire history of the times. Here is the spot where formerly stood
the chateau of Samuel Bernard, the prodigal, it is true, of an anterior
age, but worthy of the succeeding one; there is the pavilion of Bourei,
another financier, another Jupiter of all the Danaes of the Theatre
Italien: on this side we see Vaux, the residence of that most princely
of finance ministers, whose suddenly acquired power and wealth, and as
sudden downfall, may surely point a moral for all ministers present and
to come; on that side we have the chateau of Law, the trigonometrical
thief; and Brunoy, the residence of the greatest eccentric perhaps in
the annals of French history: in a word, wherever the foot is placed,
there arises a sort of lamentation of the eighteenth century--that
celebrated century, whose limits we do not pretend to circumscribe as
the astronomers would, but whose beginning may be dated from the decline
of the reign of Louis XIV., its career closing with Barras, whose
immodest chateau still displays at the present day its restored
foundations on the soil upon which Vaux, Brunoy, and Voisenon, shone so
fatally.

It was in this last named little chateau that was born and educated the
celebrated abbe, the friend of Voltaire, of Madame Favart, and of the
Duc de la Valliere; and here it was, also, that in manhood its possessor
would occasionally resort, though not the least in the world a man who
could appreciate rural enjoyments, for the purpose of reposing from the
fatigues of some of his epicurean pilgrimages to his friends at Paris or
Montrouge, and which was his final sojourn when age and infirmities
rendered it imperatively necessary for him to breathe the pure air of
his native place, far away from the heating _petits soupers_ of the
capital, and the various other dearly cherished scenes of his earlier
years.

Claude Henri Fusee de Voisenon, Abbe of Jard, and Minister
Plenipotentiary of the Prince-Bishop of Spire, was born at Voisenon on
the 8th of June, 1708. Biographers have, perhaps, laid too much stress
on the debility of constitution which he brought with him into the
world, inherited, they say, from his mother, an exceedingly delicate
woman. Since the examples of longevity given by Fontenelle and Voltaire,
of whom the first lived to the use of a hundred, and the second to
upwards of four-score years, and yet both of whom came into the world
with very doubtful chances of existence, it is become a very hazardous
task to determine, or even to foretell, length of days by the state of
health at birth. They add, that an unhealthy nurse, aggravating the
hereditary weakness of the child, infused with her milk into his blood
the germs of that asthma from which he suffered all his life, and of
which he eventually died. These facts accepted--a delicate mother, an
unhealthy nurse, an asthma, and constant spittings of blood--it follows
that, even with these serious disadvantages to contend with, a man may
live and even enjoy life up to the age of sixty-eight. How many healthy
men there are who would be content to attain this age! And if the Abbe
de Voisenon did not exceed the bounds of an age of very fair
proportions, we must bear in mind that, though even an invalid, he
constantly trifled with his health with the imprudence of a man of
vigorous constitution; eating beyond measure, drinking freely, presiding
at all the _petits soupers_--_petit_ only in name--of the capital,
passing the nights in running from _salon_ to _salon_, and seldom
retiring to rest before morning: a worthy pupil of that Hercules of
debauchery, Richelieu, his master and his executioner. Terrified at the
delicate appearance of his child, his father dared not send him to
school, but had him brought up under his own eye, with all the patience
of an indulgent parent and the solicitude of a physician. Five years'
cares were sufficient to develop the intellectual capacities of a mind
at once lively and clear, and marvellously fitted by nature to receive
and retain the lessons of preceptors. At eleven years of age he
addressed a rhyming epistle to Voltaire, who replied,--

"You love verses, and I predict that you will make charming ones. Come
and see me, and be my pupil."

If Voisenon justified the prediction, he scarcely surpassed the
favorable sense which it incloses. Verbose, incorrect, poor in form,
pale and washy as diluted Indian ink, his verses occasionally display
witty touches, because every one was witty in the eighteenth century;
but to class them with the works of the poets of his day as _poetry_ is
impossible--they merit only being considered in the light of lemonade
made from Voltaire's well-squeezed lemons.

In many respects the prose of the eighteenth century, not being an art,
but rather the resource of unsuccessful poets, lent itself better than
did the muse to the idle fantasies of the Abbe de Voisenon. His facetiae,
his historiettes, his Oriental tales, reunited later (at least in part)
with the works of the Comte de Caylus, and with the libertine tales of
Duclos and the younger Crebillon, prove the facility with which he could
imitate Voltaire, while his lucubrations must be considered as far
inferior to the short tales of the latter author. For the most part too
free, too indecent, in short, to show their faces beside some
elaborately serious fragments which form what are called his works, they
figure in the work we have just named under the title of _Recueil de ces
Messieurs; Aventures des Bals des Bois; Etrennes de la St. Jean; Les
Ecosseuses; les Oeufs de Paques_, &c. We know, by the memoirs of the
time, that a society of men of letters, formed by Mademoiselle Quinaut
du Frene, and composed of fourteen members chosen by her, had proposed
to itself the high and difficult mission of supping well at stated
intervals, and of being immensely witty and extravagantly gay. At the
end of the half-year these effusions of wit and gayety were printed by
the society at the mutual expense of its members, and given to the world
under the title of _Recueil de ces Messieurs_.[Q] Deprived of the
illusive accompaniments of the lights, the sparkling eyes, the tinkling
glasses, and the indulgent good-nature engendered by an excellent
dinner, good wines, and an ample dessert, these table libertinages, when
read nearly a century afterwards, lose all their piquancy of flavor and
become simply nauseous. The readings, and consequently the dinners, took
place sometimes at the house of Mademoiselle Quinaut, sometimes at that
of the Comte de Caylus.

Having conceived a disgust for the profession of arms--for which he had
been originally intended--in consequence of having fought with and
wounded a young officer in a duel, he determined upon embracing the
ecclesiastical state; and shortly after taking orders was inducted by
Cardinal Fleury to the royal abbey of Jard--an easy government, the seat
of which was his own chateau of Voisenon.

As soon as he was actually a dignitary of the Church, he turned his
thoughts entirely to the stage! In compliance with the request of
Mademoiselle Quinaut, the new Abbe of Jard wrote a series of dramatic
pieces, among which may be cited, _La Coquette fixee_, _Le Reveil de
Thalie_, _Les Mariages assortis_, and _Le Jeune Grecque_, little
drawing-room comedies, which have not kept possession of the stage, and
to which French literature knows not where to give a place at the
present day, so far are they from offering a single recommendable
quality. The only style of composition in which the Abbe de Voisenon
might have, perhaps, distinguished himself, had he been seconded by an
intelligent musician, was the operatic. In this _baladin_ talent of his
there was something of the freedom and sparkle of the Italian abbes; and
yet the Abbe de Voisenon enjoyed during his life-time a high degree of
celebrity. Seeing the utter impossibility of justifying this celebrity
by his works, we must presume that it proceeded chiefly from his amiable
character, his pointed epigrammatical conversation, and in a great
measure, also, from his brilliant position in the world. And, after all,
did celebrity require other causes at a time when a man's success was
established, not by the publicity of the press, but from the words
dropped from his lips in the "world," and from the occasional
enunciation of a sparkling _bon mot_ quickly caught up and for a length
of time repeated? Were we to protest against this species of
_illustration_, as the French call it, we should be in the wrong: each
epoch has its own; since then times are altered: now-a-days, in France,
a man obtains celebrity through the medium of the press, formerly it was
by the _salons_. In general, the French _litterateurs_, especially the
journalists, may be said to write better now than they did then; but
where, we should like to know, is there now to be found a young writer
of thirty capable of creating and sustaining a conversation in a society
consisting of upwards of a hundred distinguished persons? The lackeys of
M. de Boufflers were, in all probability, more in their place in a
_salon_ than would be the most learned or witty writers of the present
day.

If the Abbe de Voisenon was not exactly an eagle as regards common sense
and intellectual attainments, what are we to think of M. de Choiseul,
who wished to appoint him minister of France at some foreign court? The
Abbe de Voisenon a minister! that man whom M. de Lauraguais called _a
handful of fleas_! But if he became not minister of France, it was
decreed by fate that he should be minister of somebody or other; he was
too incapable to escape this honor. Some years after the failure of this
ridiculous project of M. de Choiseul, the Prince-bishop of Spire
appointed him his minister plenipotentiary at the Court of France. His
admission into the bosom of the French Academy was all that was now
required to complete his happiness, and this honor was shortly
afterwards conferred upon him, for he was duly elected to the chair
vacated by the death of Crebillon.

At the age of fifty-two, with the intention of getting rid of his
asthma, his constant companion through life, he determined to try the
effect of mineral waters upon his enfeebled constitution. His journey
from Paris to Cautarets, and his sojourn in this head-quarters of
bitumen and sulphur, as related by himself in his letters to his
friends, may be considered as an historical portraiture of the method of
travelling, as pursued by the grandees of the time, as well as being the
truest pages of the idle, epicurean, pleasure-loving, yet infirm,
existence of the narrator.

     "We passed through Tours yesterday (writes he to his friend
     Favart, in his first letter, dated from Chatelherault the 8th
     day of June, 1761), where Madame la Duchess de Choiseul
     received all the honors due to the _gouvernante_ of the
     province: we entered by the Mall, which is planted with trees
     as beautiful as those of the Parisian Boulevards. Here we found
     a mayor, who came to harangue the duchess. It happened that M.
     Sainfrais, during the harangue, had posted himself directly
     behind the speaker, so that every now and then his horse, which
     kept constantly tossing its head, as horses will do, would give
     him a little tap on the back--a circumstance which cut his
     phrases in half in the most ludicrous manner possible; because
     at every blow the orator would turn round to see what was the
     matter, after which he would gravely resume his discourse,
     while I was ready to burst with laughter the whole time. Two
     leagues further on we had another rich scene; an ecclesiastic
     stopped the carriage, and commenced a pompous harangue
     addressed to M. Poisonnier, whom he kept calling _mon Prince_.
     M. Poisonnier replied, that he was more than a prince, and that
     in fact the lives of all princes depended upon him, for he was
     a physician. 'What!' exclaimed the priest, 'you are not M. le
     Prince de Talmont?' 'He has been dead these two years,' replied
     the Duchesse de Choiseul. 'But who, then, is in this carriage?'
     'It is Madame la Duchesse de Choiseul,' replied some one.
     Forthwith, not a whit disconcerted, he commenced another
     harangue, in which he lauded to the skies the excellent
     education she had bestowed on her son. 'But I have no son,
     monsieur,' replied the duchess quietly. 'Ah! you have no son; I
     am very sorry for that;' and so saying his reverence put his
     harangue in his pocket, and walked off.

     "Adieu, my worthy friend. We shall reach Bordeaux on Thursday.
     I intend to feed well when I get there."

What an edifying picture of the state of the high and low clergy of
France at this epoch is presented to us! The Abbe de Voisenon rolling
along in his carriage, indulging in the anticipatory delights of some
good 'feeds' when he shall get to Bordeaux; and a hungry priest
haranguing right and left the first comers who may present themselves,
in order to obtain the wherewithal to procure a dinner.

It is to Madame Favart that Voisenon writes from Bordeaux:--

     "We arrived here at ten o'clock yesterday evening, and found
     Marshal de Richelieu, who had crossed the Garonne to meet the
     Duchesse de Choiseul. This city is beautiful viewed at a
     distance--all that appertains to the exterior is of the best;
     but what afflicts me most of all, is the sad fact that there
     are no sardines to be had on account of the war. I was not
     aware that the sardines had taken part against; however, I
     revenged myself upon two ortolans, which I devoured for supper,
     along with a _pate_ of red partridges _aux truffes_, which,
     though made as long back as November last--as Marshal de
     Richelieu assured me--was as fresh and as _parfume_ as if it
     had been made but the night before."

If the reader should feel astonished that an asthmatical patient could
eat partridges and truffles without being horribly ill, his astonishment
will not be of long continuance. The following day Voisenon wrote to
Favart:--

     "Oh, my dear friend, I have passed a frightful night. I was
     obliged to smoke and take my _kermes_. I shall not be able to
     see any of the 'lions' of the place. If I am three days
     following in this state after I get to Cauterets, you will have
     me back again with you by the end of the month."

One would suppose that after this gentle hint our abbe would be more
prudent; not a bit of it. In the same letter he adds:--

     "The dinner-table yesterday was covered with sardines. At the
     very first start I eat six in as many mouthfuls--a truly
     delicious _morceau_; despite my _kermes_, I reckon upon eating
     as many to-day, along with my two ortolans. We leave to-morrow,
     and on Wednesday we shall reach Cauterets."

Thus, ill on the 11th in consequence of a monstrous supper taken on the
10th, we find him, for all that, on the following day devouring sardines
by the half-dozen, and ortolans again! On the 18th he writes from
Cauterets to his friend Favart:--

     "I arrived yesterday in good health, but have slept badly,
     because the house in which I lodge is situated over a torrent,
     which makes a frightful noise. This country I can only compare
     to an icy horror, like the tragedy of _Teree_."

Twelve days afterwards, Voisenon writes to Madame Favart:--

     "Madame de Choiseul's uncle, who paid you so many compliments
     in the green-room, arrived yesterday: he lodges in the same
     house with me.... I introduced him this morning into one of the
     best houses in Cauterets--indeed the very best house--where, I
     must confess, I myself spend three parts of the entire day; in
     a word, it is the pastry-cook's. This learned individual
     compounds admirable tartlets, as well as some little cakes of
     singular lightness; but above all, certain delicious little
     puffs composed of cream and millet-flour, which he calls
     _millassons_. I stuff them all day long. This makes the waters
     turn sour on my stomach, and myself turn very yellow; but I am
     tolerably well notwithstanding."

This gormandizing Abbe de Voisenon, ever hanging, as it were, between
_pates_ and his grave, becomes now a rather interesting subject of
study. We begin to speculate upon what it is that will finally carry him
off: his asthma, or the confectionary he daily swallows.

He writes to Favart:--

     "I bathe every morning, and during this operation I bear a
     striking resemblance to a match dipped in sulphur. I keep my
     health, however, tolerably well, though still suffering from my
     asthma, of which I fear I shall never be cured."

It would be a wonder if he should be cured, with his unfortunate table
excesses, which would have killed half-a-dozen healthy men. In vain do
we seek in his correspondence with Favart and his wife, a single thought
unconnected with the pleasures of the stomach. We have read with what
delight he sings the praises of a pastry-cook established at Cauterets,
famous for his millet-cakes and cream-puffs. His happiness did not stop
here:--

"A second pastry-cook (he cries), upon my reputation, has set up here.
There is a daily trial of skill between the two artists; I eat and
judge, and it is my stomach that pays the cost. I go to the bath, and
return to the oven. I shall come here again in the thrush season. We
have red partridges, which are brought here from all parts; they are
delicious."

In short, he remained so long stuffing confectionary at Cauterets, where
he had gone solely to take care of himself, and to live with the
strictest regularity, that on the eve of his departure he wrote sadly to
Madame Favart:--'I am just the same as when you saw me last: sometimes
asthmatical, and always gormandizing.' The sufferings which he
experienced during his sojourn at, Bareges, previous to his final return
to Paris, are proofs of the deplorable effects of the mineral waters
upon his health:--

     "I am suffering dreadfully; and am now, while I write, laboring
     under so violent an attack of asthma, that I cannot doubt but
     that the air of this country is as bad for me as that of
     Montrouge. If I am as bad to-morrow, I shall return to pass the
     week at Cauterets, and on Saturday go on to Pau, where I shall
     wait for the ladies who are to pass through on Monday, on their
     way to Bayonne. I know I shall be in a miserable state during
     the journey."

Such were the benefits derived by the Abbe de Voisenon from his four
months' sojourn at the baths of Cauterets and Bareges. He returned to
Voisenon infinitely worse than when he left it. On the eve of his
departure for home, where, as he said some time afterwards, he wished
_to be on the same floor with the tombs of his ancestors_, he devoured a
monstrous dinner on the Bareges mountains.

Finding that the mineral waters of the Pyrenees had failed in
reestablishing his health--that is, if he ever had health--the Abbe de
Voisenon abandoned physicians and their fruitless prescriptions, to seek
elsewhere remedies for the cure of his asthma, which became more and
more troublesome as he began to get into years. As he was constantly
speaking of his disease to everybody, and as everybody--at least all
those who wished to get into his good graces--spoke of it to him, he
learned one day that there existed in some garret of Paris a certain
abbe deeply learned in all the mysteries of occult chemistry, an adept
of the great Albert, the master of masters in empirical art. Like all
sorcerers, and all _savants_ of the eighteenth century, this abbe was
represented as being in a state of frightful misery and destitution. He
who possessed the secrets of plants and minerals, of fire and light, of
the generation of beings, had not the wherewithal to procure himself a
decent _soutane_, nor even a morsel of bread. Though, by the efforts of
his magic, he had reached a dizzy height on the paths of knowledge, it
was, alas! a fact but too true, that he was unable to maintain himself
more than a month in the same apartment--perhaps on account of his
indifference to the interests of his landlords. For all that he was a
marvellous being, inventing specifics for the cure of all diseases, and
consequently of asthma among the rest. It was even whispered, but
secretly and mysteriously, and with a sort of awe--for they were very
superstitious, though very atheistical, in the eighteenth century--that
all these specifics were comprised in one remedy, namely, the
celebrated AURUM POTABILE, or fluid gold. Now every one knows, or at
least ought to know, that potable gold, that is, gold in a cold and
fluid state, like wine, triumphs over every malady to which the human
frame is subject: it is health itself, perpetual youth, and would be no
less than immortality had not Paracelsus, who, they say, also possessed
the secret of potable gold, unfortunately died at the age of
thirty-three, or thirty-five: thus establishing a fatal argument against
its virtues in this respect. But one thought now possessed
Voisenon--that of getting hold, somehow or other, of this magic abbe,
and of enticing him to his chateau; but an insensate and monstrous
desire was this--a desire almost impossible to be satisfied, for it was
stated that this Prometheus repelled all advances. Persecuted by the
faculty, censured by the ecclesiastical tribunal, maltreated by the
police, who would not suffer anything in the shape of gold-making, he
had, in his savage misanthropy, renounced all further thoughts of
alleviating the pains of humanity at the cost of his repose and safety.
Here was a terrible state of perplexity for our asthmatical abbe, who,
for all that, did not lose courage, but set to work with all his might
to discover the great physician.

But where, or how, was he to discover a sorcerer in Paris? To whom could
he decently address himself? To what professional class? There are so
many people in the world ready to ridicule even the most respectable
things. Every time that Voisenon elbowed at the Tuileries, or in the
Palais Royal, an individual in a seedy cassock, he fancied that he had
discovered his man. Forthwith he would enter into conversation with him,
his heart fluttering with hope, until the moment came which would
convince him that he had been deceived. Though for the moment cast into
despair, he did not lose hope, but would the next day recommence his
voyages of discovery in search of potable gold. One morning he had a
sudden illumination:--"Since the archbishop," thought he, "has censured
the conduct of the abbe I have been so long in search of, the archbishop
must know where he lodges." Just as if sorcerers had lodgings! That very
day he repaired to the archbishop's court. If the reader wonders why our
abbe did not give the clerks whom he interrogated the name of his
mysterious priest, the answer is easy: it is simply because he did not
know his name; magicians seldom make themselves known but by their
works. This name, however, to his great and inexpressible joy, he was
soon to learn. After some researches made in the register of the
episcopal court, the clerk informed him that this abbe (a deplorable
subject by all accounts) was called Boiviel, and, at the period when the
acts of censure were passed upon him, lodged in the Rue de Versailles,
Faubourg Saint Marceau. Voisenon was there almost as soon as the words
were out of the clerk's mouth.

Voisenon knocked at every kennel of this deplorable street; not even a
bark replied to the name of the Abbe Boiviel. At length, at a seventh
floor above the mud, an old woman, who resided in a loft, to which
access was obtained by means of a rope-ladder, informed him that the
Abbe Boiviel had quitted the apartment about six months before, with the
avowed intention of going to lodge at Menilmontant; she added, that this
delay gave fair grounds for supposing that he must necessarily have
changed his quarters at least five or six times in the course of these
six months. Disappointed, but not discouraged, Voisenon descended from
the dizzy height, reflecting upon the sad distress to which a man might
be reduced, although possessing the secret of potable gold.

An almost incredible chance had so willed it, that the Abbe Boiviel had
changed his abode but three times since his descent from the garret of
the Rue de Versailles. From Menilmontant he had removed to Passy, and
from Passy to La Chapelle, where he now resided.

At length the two abbes met; but to what delicate manoeuvres the
seigneur of Voisenon was obliged to have recourse in accosting his
rugged _comfrere_, who was at that moment engaged in eating his
breakfast off a chair. He had sense enough to put off as long as
possible the true subject of his visit; besides, what cared he for
delays? He had found him at last, he was face to face with the
mysterious, infallible physician, the successor of the great Albert.
Boiviel was even more savage and morose than the Abbe de Voisenon had
anticipated. He spoke of offering his services to the Missionary Society
in order to get appointed to preach the Gospel in Japan, although, to
tell the truth, he did not believe over-much in Christianity. "And I do
not believe in Japan," might have perhaps replied the Abbe de Voisenon,
had he been in a joking humor: but the fact is, he was thunderstruck at
the enunciation of such a project. It was too provoking, when he, had at
length found the Abbe Boiviel, to hear that the Abbe Boiviel was going
to immolate himself in Japan.

Inspired by circumstance, that tenth muse which is worth all the nine
put together, Voisenon said to Boiviel, that he was aware of all the
persecutions which the clergy of Paris had made him endure for causes
which he did not desire to know; he refrained also from entering on the
subject of fluid gold. Touched by the exhibition of so much constancy in
misfortune, he had come, he said, to propose to the Abbe Boiviel to
inhabit his chateau of Voisenon, where, in the calm and repose of a
peaceful existence, and with a mind freed from the harassing cares of
the world, he would have leisure to meditate and write; that this
proceeding of his, though strange in appearance, was excusable, and to
be judged with an indulgent eye; he, the Abbe de Voisenon, was happy,
rich, powerful even. The Abbe Boiviel would be quite at home at the
chateau de Voisenon; his feelings of independence would not be
outraged; when he should be tired of sojourning there, he might quit the
chateau, remain absent as long as it pleased him, and return when it
suited his fancy. It is hardly necessary to say that the wild boar
allowed itself to be muzzled; that very evening a hired carriage
conducted the chemist, the sorcerer, the magician Boiviel, to the
Chateau de Voisenon. "I shall have my potable gold at last," thought the
triumphant Abbe, radiant with hope and exultation.

Installed at the chateau, the Abbe Boiviel conformed himself with a very
good grace to the monachal existence led by its inmates. The good
regimen of the house tended also to considerably soften the former
asperities of his demeanor; he spoke no more of Japan, but neither did
he speak of the potable gold, although Voisenon on several occasions
endeavored to obtain from him an explanation on this essential point.
Whenever our asthmatical abbe would lead the conversation towards
subjects relating to chemistry or alchemy, Boiviel would either avoid a
direct reply or else fall into a state of profound taciturnity: and yet
all his debts had been paid, including the various outstanding accounts
due to his numerous landlords, and his dinners at the Croix de
Lorraine--that memorable tavern, where all the abbes who received
fifteen sous for every mass said at St. Sulpice were accustomed to feed
daily. Several cassocks had also been purchased for him, several pairs
of stockings, and many shirts.

After a three months' residence at the chateau he had become fat, fresh,
and rosy, such as he had never before been at any previous epoch of his
life. Emboldened by the friendship he had shown to his guest, Voisenon
ventured one day to say to the Abbe Boiviel, that, skeptical and
atheistical as they falsely imagined him to be in the world, he
possessed, nevertheless, an absolute faith in alchemy; he denied neither
the philosopher's stone, nor the universal panacea, nor even the potable
gold. Now did he, or did he not, believe in potable gold? This was a
home-thrust Boiviel could no longer recoil; he _did_ believe in it; but
according to his idea the audacious chemist committed a great sin in
composing it: it was, so to speak, as though attacking the decrees of
creation to change into liquid what had been ordained a metal. A
sorcerer troubled with religious scruples appeared a strange spectacle
to the Abbe de Voisenon and one, too, that rather embarrassed him. He
did not, however, entirely renounce his conquest of the potable gold; he
waited three months longer, and during these three months fresh favors
were lavished on Boiviel, who habituated himself to these proceedings
with praiseworthy resignation.

Treated as a friend, called also by that title, Boiviel justified the
Abbe de Voisenon in saying to him one day, that he had no longer a hope
in any remedy whatsoever, save the potable gold, for the cure of his
asthma. Without the specific, as much above other remedies as the sun is
above fire, the only course left him was to die. Boiviel was moved, his
iron resolves were shaken, and his qualms of conscience ceded to the
voice of friendship. He warned his friend, however, that in order to
compose a little fluid gold much solid gold would be required. The first
essay would cost ten thousand livres at the very least. Voisenon, who
would have given twenty thousand to be cured, consented to the
sacrifice, thanking heartily his future liberator, who, on the following
day, commenced the great work. What sage deliberation did he bring to
the task! and how slowly did the work proceed! Day followed day, month
followed month, but as yet no gold, except that which the Abbe de
Voisenon himself contributed in pieces of twenty-four livres each. The
day at length arrived in which, the ten thousand livres being exhausted,
Boiviel informed his patient that the fluid gold was in flasks, and
would be ready for use in a month.

It was during this month that the alchemist Boiviel took leave of the
Abbe de Voisenon, on the pretext of going to see his old father, who
resided in Flanders. Before two months were out he would return to the
chateau, in order to observe the beneficial effects of the liquified
metal. Warmly embraced by his friend, overwhelmed with presents,
solicited to return as speedily as possible, Boiviel quitted the Chateau
de Voisenon, where he had lived for nearly a year, and in what manner we
have seen.

After the time allowed by Boiviel for the fluid gold to be fit for use
had elapsed, the Abbe de Voisenon began his course of the medicine. He
emptied the first, the second, and the third flask, awaiting the result
with exemplary patience; but an asthma is not to be cured in a week,
especially an asthma of forty years' standing.

Boiviel had not yet returned; he had now been four months in Flanders;
to these four months succeeded another four, but no Boiviel; the year
revolved, the flasks diminished, but still no Boiviel.

It is scarcely necessary to say that the Abbe Boiviel never reappeared,
and that he was nothing better than a charlatan and a thief. But the
singular part of the matter is, that the Abbe de Voisenon found his
asthma considerably relieved after a course of the fluid gold composed
by Boiviel; and his sole regret at the end of his days was, not having
foreseen the death, or disappearance--a matter quite as disastrous--of
his alchemist, who could have furnished him with the means of
compounding the elixir for himself as it might be wanted.

In order to show himself superior to the assaults of his enemy, our Abbe
would often endeavor to persuade himself that he was every whit as
active as he had formerly been; more active even than he had been in
his youth. On these occasions he would jump up from his easy-chair,
where he had been sitting groaning under an attack of the asthma; he
would cast his pillows on one side, his night-cap on the other, would
pitch his slippers to the other end of the room, and call loudly for his
domestics. In one of these deceitful triumphs of his will over his
feeble constitution, he rang one cold winter's morning for his _valet de
chambre_.

"My thick cloth trousers!" cried he, "my thick cloth trousers!"

"Why, Monsieur l'Abbe," timidly objected his faithful servitor, "what
can you be thinking of? you were very bad yesterday evening."

"That's very probable; I have nothing to do with what I was yesterday
evening. My thick cloth trousers, I tell you--now, my furred waistcoat!
Come, look sharp!"

"But, Monsieur l'Abbe, why quit your warm room, your snug arm-chair? You
are so pale."

"Pale, am I! that's better than ever, for I have been as yellow as a
quince all my life! Good, I have my trousers and waistcoat; fetch me my
redingote!"

"Your redingote! that you only put on when you are going out?"

"And it is precisely because I am going out that I ask for it. You argue
to-day like a true stage valet. Why should I not put on my redingote?
Are you afraid of it becoming shabby? Do you wish to steal it from me
while it is new?"

"I am afraid that you will increase your cough if you don't keep the
house to-day. It is very cold this morning."

"Very cold, is it, eh? so much the better. I like cold weather."

"It snows even very much, Monsieur l'Abbe."

"In that case, my large Polish boots."

"Your large Polish boots! And for what purpose?"

"Not to write a poem in, probably; for if Boileau very sensibly
remarked, that in order to write a good poem time and taste were
necessary, he did not add that boots were indispensable. Once for all, I
want my Polish boots to go out shooting in. Is not that plain enough,
Monsieur Mascarille?"

"Cough shooting, Monsieur l'Abbe?"

"_Maraud!_ wolf-shooting--in the wood. Come, quick, my boots, and no
chattering."

"Here are your boots, Monsieur l'Abbe. Truly you have no thought for
your health."

"Have you a design upon my boots, also? Be so good, most discursive
valet, as to fetch me my deer-skin gloves, my hat, and gun."

The Abbe de Voisenon was soon equipped with the aid of his valet, who,
during the operation of dressing, never ceased repeating to him:

"It is fearfully cold this morning. Dogs have been found frozen to death
in their kennels, fish dead in the fish-ponds, cattle dead in the
stables, birds dead on the trees, and even wolves dead in the forest."

"My good friend," replied the Abbe de Voisenon, "you have said too much;
your story of the wolves prevents me believing the rest: upon this I
start. Now listen to me. On my return from shooting I expect to find my
poultices ready, my asses-milk properly warmed, and my _tisanes_ mixed;
give directions about all this in the kitchen."

"Yes, Monsieur l'Abbe. He'll never return, that's certain," murmured the
valet, as he packed up his master in his great-coat, and drew his fur
cap well down over his ears.

Followed by three of his dogs, our abbe started on his shooting
excursion. At the very first step he took on leaving the court-yard, he
fell; but he was up in an instant, and brushed speedily along. It must
have been a strange spectacle to see this old man, as black as a mute at
a funeral, with his black gloves, black boots, black coat, all black in
short, tripping gayly along over the snow with three dogs at his heels,
sometimes whistling and shouting aloud, sometimes cracking his
pocket-whip, and occasionally pointing his fowling-piece in the
direction of a flight of crows.

He had passed through the village of Voisenon, and had just gained the
open country, when he was stopped at the entrance of a lane of small
cottages by a young girl, who, the instant she perceived him, cried out,

"Ah, monseigneur" (for many people styled him monseigneur), "it is
surely Providence that has sent you to us!"

"What is the matter?" inquired the abbe.

"Our grandfather is dying, and he is unwilling to die without
confession."

"But I have nothing to do with that, my child; that is the priest's
business."

"But are you not a priest, monseigneur?"

"Almost," replied our abbe, rather taken aback by this home-thrust, and
in a very bad humor besides at the interruption, "almost; but address
yourself in preference to the prior of the convent. Run to the chateau,
ring at the convent-gate; ring loudly, and reserve me for a better
occasion."

"Monseigneur," repeated the girl, "our grandfather has not time to wait;
he is dying--you must come."

"I tell you," replied the abbe, confused within himself at his refusal,
"I cannot go. I am, as you see, out shooting: the thing is utterly
impossible."

With these words he sought to pursue his way; but the young girl, who
could not comprehend the bad arguments made use of by the abbe, clung
obstinately to his coat skirts, and compelled him to turn round. Aroused
by the noise of this altercation, a few of the male population appeared
on the thresholds of their doors, others at their windows; and as a
village resembles a bundle of dry hay, which a spark will set in a
blaze, the wives joined their husbands, the children their mothers, and
soon the entire population flocked into the street to see what was the
matter.

The Abbe du Jard, seigneur of Voisenon, king of the country, felt deeply
humiliated amid the crowd which surrounded him, and which had already
begun to murmur at this refusal, as irreligious as it was inhuman.

But our poor abbe was not inhuman. The fact was, he had completely
forgotten the formula used on such occasions; and if the truth must be
told, as he was careless and indifferent in religious matters, rather
than hypocritical, his conscience reproached him for going to absolve or
condemn a fellow-creature when he inwardly felt how utterly unworthy he
was himself of judging others at the tribunal of the confessional.

Necessity, however, prevailed over his just scruples; which scruples,
however, be it said, could not be made use of as excuses to his vassals:
so, with downcast eyes and his reversed fowling-piece under his arm, he
permitted himself to be led to the cottage where lay the old man, who
was unwilling to render his last sigh without having made the official
avowal of his sins.

The villagers knelt in a circle before the door, whilst the abbe seated
himself by the side of the dying man, in order the better to receive his
confession.

Since the unlucky moment in which the Abbe de Voisenon had been balked
of his morning's sport, he had lost--for he had at times his intervals
of superstitious terror--the proud determination he had formed of not
believing himself ill on that day. But then, what signs of evil augury
had greeted him! He had tripped and fallen on leaving home; he had seen
flocks of crows; a weeping girl had dragged him to the bedside of a
terrified sinner--even now they were repeating the prayers for the dying
around him. The Abbe de Voisenon was overcome; his former temerity oozed
palpably away, he felt sick at heart, his ears tingled, his asthma
groaned within his chest.

"I am ill," thought he. "I was in the wrong to come out; why did I not
take my old servant's advice, and remain at home?"

Finally he lent an ear to the old man's confession.

"You were born the same day as myself!" exclaimed the abbe, at the
patient's first confidential communication; "you were born the same day
as myself!"

The old man continued, and here a new terror arose for our abbe.

"You have never heard mass to the end! And I," thought he, "have never
heard even the beginning for these last thirty years!"

The penitent continued:--

"I have committed, monseigneur, the great sin that you know."

"The great sin that I know! I know so many," thought the abbe. "What
sin, my friend?"

"Yea, the great sin--although married--"

"Ah! I understand!" Then, _sotto voce_, "My great sin, although a
priest."

A deplorable fatality, if it was a fatality, had so willed it that the
vassal should have fallen into the same snares as had his lord, who was
now called to judge him at his last hour.

When the confession was ended, the Abbe de Voisenon consulted his own
heart with inward terror, and after some hesitation he remitted his
penitent's sins, inwardly avowing to himself that the dying man ought,
at least, out of gratitude, to render him the same service.

The ceremony over, the abbe rose to depart: but his limbs failed him,
and they were actually obliged to carry him home, where he arrived in a
state of prostration that seriously alarmed his household. During the
remainder of that day he spoke to no one; wrapped up in the silence of
his own melancholy thoughts, he opened his lips only to cough. The night
was bad; icy shiverings passed over his frame: the image of this man, of
the same age, and burdened with the same sins as he himself had
committed, would not leave his memory. By daylight his trouble of mind
and body was at its height; he desired his valet to summon his physician
and the prior of the convent. "And immediately," added he,
"immediately."

Comprehending better this time the wishes of his master, the domestic
hastened to arouse the prior, whose convent almost adjoined the chateau,
and the physician, who had apartments in the chateau itself. This
physician was a young man, chosen by the celebrated Tronchin from among
his cleverest pupils at the express desire of the Abbe de Voisenon.

Seriously alarmed at the danger of the abbe, both prior and physician
hastened to obey the summons. M. de Voisenon was so ill last night.
Should they arrive in time? So equal and so prompt was their zeal that
both reached the abbe's bedroom door together. But when they opened it,
what was their astonishment to find that the bird had flown; our abbe
had got over his little fright, and had gone out shooting again.

The end of that fatal eighteenth century was now approaching; undermined
by years and debauchery, it was now like a ruined spend-thrift moving
away from the calendar of the world in rags; it was hideously old, but
its years inspired not respect. Old king, old ministers, old
generals--if indeed there were generals,--old courtiers, old mistresses,
old poets, old musicians, old opera dancers, broken down with _ennui_,
pleasure, and idleness--toothless, faded, rouged, and wrinkled--were
descending slowly to the tomb. Louis XV. formed one of the funeral
procession; he was taken to St. Denis between two lines of _cabarets_
filled with drunken revellers, madly rejoicing at being rid of this
plague, which another plague had carried off to the grave. Crebillon was
dead; the son of the great Racine, honored by the famous title of Member
of the Academy of Inscriptions and Belles Lettres, was taken off by a
malignant fever, and obtained from the grateful publicity of the day
the following necrological eulogium, as brief as it was eloquent: "M.
Racine, last of the name, died yesterday of a malignant fever; as a man
of letters he was long dead, having become stupefied by wine and
devotion." Twelve days afterwards Marivaux followed Racine to the grave.
The Abbe Prevost died of a tenth attack of apoplexy in the forest of
Chantilly. In the following spring the celebrated Madame de Pompadour
descended, at the age of forty-four, into the grave, after having
exhaled a _bon mot_ in guise of confession. Desirous, as it would
appear, of leaving this world like the rest of his worthy _comperes_,
the composer Rameau cried furiously to his confessor, whose lugubrious
note while intoning the service at his bedside offended the delicacy of
his ear, 'What the devil are you muttering there, Monsieur le Cure? you
are horribly out of tune!' And thereupon Master Rameau expired of a
putrid fever. And what think you, worthy reader, occupied the public the
day following the death of the most celebrated musician in Europe, the
king of the French school? Why, nothing less than this wonderful piece
of news: "Mademoiselle Mire, of the Opera, more celebrated as a
courtesan than as a _danseuse_, has interred her lover; on his tomb are
engraven these words:

    MI RE LA MI LA."

A touching funeral oration, truly, for poor Rameau! Panard, the father
of the French vaudeville, died some days after Rameau; and the Parisian
public, with its national tenderness of heart, merely remarked, that
"the words could not be separated from the accompaniment."

You see, reader, how the ranks were thinning, how all these old candles
were expiring in their sockets, how the ball was approaching its end.

"Piron died yesterday," writes a journalist; and he adds, "They say he
received the cure of St. Roche very badly." What an admirable piece of
buffoonery! these cures going in turn to shrive the writers of the
eighteenth century, and having flung at their heads epigrams composed
for the occasion, perhaps, ten years before.

Louis XV. died soon after Piron. A few hours before his death he said to
Cardinal de la Roche-Aymon: "Although the king is answerable to God
alone for his conduct, you can say that he is sorry for having caused
any scandal to his subjects, and that from henceforth he desires to live
but for the support of faith and religion, and for the happiness of his
people!"

Like Rameau, Piron, Helvetius, and Pompadour, this good little king
Louis XV. must have his _bon mot_; he was sorry for having caused any
scandal to his subjects, and at his last moment of existence would live
from henceforth for the sole happiness of his people! "Can any thing be
finer than this?"

Finally came the Abbe de Voisenon's turn. Witty to his last hour, when
they brought home the leaden coffin, the exact form and dimensions of
which he had himself arranged and ordered beforehand, he said to one of
his domestics,--

"There is a great-coat, any how, that you will not be tempted to steal
from me."

He died on the 22d of November, 1775, aged sixty-eight.

FOOTNOTES:

[Q] This was the celebrated society called the _Academie de ces
Messieurs_: it numbered among its members all the more celebrated wits
of the day.




IRELAND IN THE LAST AGE.

Recollections of Curran.

From the London Times


If the work of Mr. Charles Phillips were a description of the Roman bar
in the time of Hadrian, it would scarcely be more completely than at
present the picture of a time and system entirely passed away; yet he
professes to give us--and performs his promise--a somewhat gossipping
and very amusing description of the Irish bar, and the great men
belonging to it, very little more than half a century since. But we
travel and change quickly in these days of steam and railroads; even
Time himself appears now to have attached his travelling carriage to a
locomotive, and in the space of one man's life performs a journey that
in staid and ancient days would have occupied the years of many
generations, and, as if in illustration of the fleeting nature of men
and things and systems at this time, here we find a contemporary (at
this moment hardly past the prime of life) giving us portraits, and
relating anecdotes of men with whom he, in his youth, lived in intimate
and professional relations, but who seem now as absolutely to belong to
a bygone order of things, as if they had wrangled before the Dikasts of
Athens, or pleaded before the Praetor at Rome. Mr. Phillips seems to feel
this, and, as the gay days of his sanguine youth flit by his memory, the
retrospect brings, as it will ever bring, melancholy, and even sadness,
with it. Yielding himself up to the dominion of feeling, in place of
keeping his reason predominant, he mourns over the past, as if, in
comparison with the present, it were greatly more worthy. Forgetting
that there is a change also in himself; that the capacity for enjoyment
is largely diminished; that hope has been fulfilled, or is for ever
frustrate; he tests the present by his own emotions, instead of weighing
with philosophic _indifference_ the relative merits of the system that
he describes, and of that in which he lives. We are told--

    "'Tis distance lends enchantment to the view;"

but, when age comes upon us, we must turn and look back, if we desire to
enjoy this pleasing hallucination.

But in what is the present of Ireland so different from the past, in
which our fathers lived? And what do these repinings mean? What is the
charm that has for ever faded? The answer to this question, if complete,
would occupy a volume, for the composition of which that of Mr. Phillips
might well serve in the character of _une piece historique_, abounding,
as it does, in apt and instructive illustration, and giving, by its
aggregation of anecdotes and descriptions, a somewhat confused but
still interesting and lively picture of a very curious and stirring
period. There lies, indeed, at the bottom of this inquiry a question
with which the practical statesman has now little reason to trouble
himself, but which, nevertheless, to the speculative philosopher, cannot
fail to be a subject of never-failing interest.

The great physical discoveries of modern times, by which the powers of
nature are made to act in subservience to the use and comfort of
mankind, steadily tend to one great political result, viz., the
permanently uniting and knitting together of much larger numbers of men
into one and the same community, and subjecting them to one and the same
Government, and that Government one of law and not of force, than was
ever known or possible during the early days of man's history. This
result, as regards the peace of the world and all the material comforts
of life, is highly favorable. Whether the same can be said, of the
mental vigor and moral excellence of the human race is a question upon
which men may speculate, but which time alone can satisfactorily answer.

The small, contentious, and active communities of Greece; the little,
ill-governed, yet vigorous Republics of modern Italy, stand out in the
history of mankind bright and illustrious beyond all hope of comparison;
and, from the wondrous intellects that appeared among them, they have
proved to all succeeding times a never-failing subject of admiration,
envy, and despair. Just in proportion to our own advancement in art,
literature, and science, is the intensity of our astonishment, of our
envy, and of our despondency. We endeavor to compete with, but can never
equal them; we imitate, but, like all imitators, we are condemned to
mediocrity; it is only when we attempt to explore some new and untrod
region of art or science that we can pretend to the dignity even of
comparison. And these regions are rare indeed.

But, if we compare our own social condition with that of the Greeks or
the Italians--if we look into their houses, their cities, and their
fields,--if we acquire an accurate and vivid conception of the
insecurity of life, of property, and of peace among them,--and if we
measure the happiness of life by the comforts of every day existence,
then, indeed, the superiority belongs to ourselves; and we may be led to
ask, whether the advantages of both conditions of political and social
existence may not be united; and to that end seek to learn what it was
that brought out into such vigorous relief the wonderful mental activity
of the two periods, which form such peculiar and hitherto unequalled
epocha in the history of mankind. We shall find, if we pursue this
inquiry into other times and among other people, that there was one
circumstance, among many others indeed, of peculiar weight and
importance, which then exercised and has never failed to exercise,
wheresoever it has existed, a vast influence upon the mental and moral
character of the people--we mean a feeling of intense _nationality_.
This feeling is not all that is required; without it no great
originality or vigor in a people is probable, and where it has been
strongly manifest, it has generally led to great deeds, and much mental
activity. The character of this manifestation will, indeed, greatly
depend upon the natural character of the people--upon the peculiar state
of their civilization, and upon their political condition. If these be
all favorable, the spirit of nationality is divine, and manifest in
great and ennobling deeds and thoughts; but, if adverse, then the spirit
will be destructive, and vice will be quickened into fatal activity.

In Ireland, at the end of the eighteenth century, a remarkable series of
events cherished, if it did not indeed produce, this sentiment of a
separate nationality and independence. Conquerors and conquered, in
spite of social and religious distinctions, had long since coalesced
into one people; and the successful revolt of our American colonies,
induced the people of Ireland to demand for themselves freedom and
independence also. With arms in their hands the Volunteers wrung from
England an independent Parliament in 1782; and in the eighteen years
which followed, all that is really great in the history of Ireland, is
comprised. The Volunteers, indeed, obtained independence, but that was
all. The constitution of the Irish was, as before, narrow and
mischievous, oppressive and corrupt; but it was Irish, and independent
of the Parliament of England. And the struggles of an independent
people, endeavoring, by their own efforts, to reform their own
institutions, led to the rising of that brilliant galaxy of statesmen,
orators, wits, and lawyers, to which Irishmen of the present day, almost
without exception, refer with grief and despondency, not unmixed with
indignation, when wishing to make the world appreciate the evils their
country has suffered in consequence of its union with England. But,
unhappily, the great spirit of freedom was awakened in evil times.
Great, vigorous, and almost glorious was this wonderful manifestation of
its power; but eventually the horrible corruption and vice of the period
bore all before it, and extinguished every chance of benefit from the
acquisition of independence. Great men appeared, but they were
powerless. Of the remarkable period in which they lived, however, every
memorial is of interest. With the society of which they formed a part,
so different from our own--with the character and manners of the men
themselves, their history, their good sayings and wild deeds, every
student of history wishes to become acquainted, and seizes with avidity
upon every piece of evidence from which authentic information respecting
them may be gathered--and, as a portion of this evidence, the work of
Mr. Phillips deserves consideration.

Among the most remarkable of the many distinguished characters of this
stirring period was John Philpot Curran,--among Irish advocates, as was
Erskine among those of England, _facile princeps_. With him, when on
the bench as Master of the Rolls in Ireland, Mr. Phillips, himself then
a junior at the Irish bar, became acquainted. Acquaintance became
intimacy, and intimacy led to friendship, which lasted without
interruption to the day of Curran's death. Admiration and affection
induced Mr. Phillips to gather together memorials of his deceased
friend, round whose portrait he has grouped sketches of many of his
celebrated cotemporaries. He says in his preface--

"My object has been, touching as lightly as possible on the politics of
the time, to give merely personal sketches of the characters as they
appeared upon the scene to me. Many of them were my acquaintances--some
of them my intimates; and the aim throughout has been a verisimilitude
in the portraiture;--in short, to make the reader as familiar with the
originals as I was myself."

And a more curious collection of likenesses was never crowded into one
canvas. They all, indeed, have a strong family resemblance, but
certainly they are like nothing else in nature; and to us, living in
grave, and possibly dull and prosaic England--and in this our matter of
fact and decorous age--the doings of the society which they have made
illustrious, appear more like a mad _saturnalia_ than the sober and
commonplace procedure of rational men. The whole people--every class,
profession, and degree--seemed to consider life but a species of
delirious dance, and a wild and frantic excitement the one sole
pleasure. Repose, thoughtfulness, and calm, they must have considered a
premature death. Every emotion was sought for in its extreme, and a
rapid variation from merriment to misery, from impassioned love to
violent hate, was the ordinary (if in such an existence any thing could
be deemed ordinary)--the common and ordinary condition of life.
Laughter, that was ever on the brink of tears--a wild joy, that might in
an instant be followed by hopeless despondency--alternations from
sanguine and eager hope to blank and apparently crushing despair,--such
was Irish life, in which every one appeared to be acting a part, and
striving to appear original by means of a strained and laborious
affectation. Steady, continued, and rational industry, was either
unknown or despised; economy was looked upon as meanness--thrift was
called avarice--and the paying a just debt, except upon compulsion, was
deemed conduct wholly unworthy of a gentleman. Take the account Mr.
Phillips himself gives. He speaks of the Irish squire; but the Irish
squire was the raw material out of which so-called Irish gentlemen were
made. "The Irish squire of half a century ago _scorned_ not to be in
debt; it would be beneath his dignity to live within his income; and
next to not incurring a debt, the greatest degradation would have been
voluntarily to _pay one_." And yet was there great pretension to
_honor_, but a man of honor of those days would in our time be
considered a ruffian certainly, and probably a blackleg or a swindler.
"It was a favorite boast of his (the first Lord Norbury) that he began
life with fifty pounds, and a pair of hair-trigger pistols." "They
served his purpose well.... The luck of the hair-triggers triumphed, and
Toler not only became Chief Justice, but the founder of two peerages,
and the testator of an enormous fortune. After his promotion, the code
of honor became, as it were, engrafted on that of the Common Pleas; the
noble chief not unfrequently announcing that he considered himself a
judge only while he wore his robes." The sort of law dispensed by this
fire-eating judge might be easily conceived even without the aid of such
an anecdote as the following: "A nonsuit was never heard of in his time.
Ill-natured people said it was to draw suitors to his court." Toler's
reason for it was that he was too _constitutional_ to interfere with a
jury, Be that as it may, a nonsuit was a nonentity, 'I hope, my Lord,'
said counsel in a case actually commanding one, 'your Lordship will, for
once, have the courage to nonsuit? In a moment the hair-triggers were
uppermost. 'Courage! I tell you what, Mr. Wallace, there are two sorts
of courage--courage to shoot, and courage to nonshoot--and I have both;
but nonshoot now I certainly will not; and argument is only a waste of
time.' "I remember well," says Mr. Phillips, when speaking of another
judge, Mr. Justice Fletcher, "at the Sligo summer assizes for 1812,
being counsel in the case of 'The King _v._ Fenton,' for the murder of
Major Hillas in a duel, when old Judge Fletcher thus capped his summing
up to the jury: 'Gentlemen, it's my business to lay down the law to you,
and I will. The law says, the killing a man in a duel is murder, and I
am bound to tell you it is murder; therefore, in the discharge of my
duty, I tell you so; but I tell you at the same time, a _fairer duel_
than this I never heard of in the whole _coorse_ of my life.' It is
scarcely necessary to add that there was an immediate acquittal." By way
of giving some idea of the character of society then, the following
enumeration is supplied by the memory of Mr. Phillips:--

     "Lord Clare, afterwards Lord Chancellor, fought Curran,
     afterwards Master of the Rolls. So much for equity; but common
     law also sustained its reputation. Clonmel, afterwards Chief
     Justice, fought two Lords and two Commoners,--to show his
     impartiality, no doubt. Medge, afterwards Baron, fought his own
     brother-in-law, and two others. Toler, afterwards Chief Justice
     of the Common Pleas, fought three persons, one of whom was
     Fitzgerald, even in Ireland the 'fire-eater,' _par excellence_.
     Patterson, also afterwards Chief Justice of the same court,
     fought three country gentlemen, one of them with guns, another
     with swords, and wounded them all! Corry, Chancellor of the
     Exchequer, fought Mr. Grattan. The Provost of Dublin
     University, a Privy Councillor, fought Mr. Doyle, a Master in
     Chancery, and several others. His brother, collector of
     Customs, fought Lord Mountmorris. Harry Deane Grady, counsel to
     the Revenue, fought several duels; and 'all hits,' adds
     Barrington, with unction. Curran fought four persons, one of
     whom was Egan, Chairman of Kilmainham; afterwards his friend,
     with Lord Buckinghamshire. A duel in these days was often a
     prelude to intimacy."

In spite, nevertheless, of this rude, nay, almost wild condition of
society,--in spite of a most fantastic affectation attending nearly
every act and thought and word,--yet were Curran and his cotemporaries
men of great and vigorous ability. Grattan, Curran, and Flood, deserve
indeed to take rank among the foremost class of their own age,--among
the men of genius of every age and country. If we speak of them as
orators, and wish to judge of their excellence with relation to the
great orators of our own country, we must bear in mind the character of
the society in which they lived, and of the assemblies they addressed.
It would be unjust to try them by the rules of our fastidious taste and
undemonstrative manners. They addressed Irishmen, and Irishmen just when
most excited, and indulging in all the wild sallies of a dearly-prized
and lately acquired independence. What to us would appear offensive rant
and disgusting affectation, would, in the Irish House of Commons, have
been but the usual manifestation of strong feeling, and was absolutely
required, if the speaker desired to move as well as convince his
auditory.

If, however, we seek to know what was the virtue of these men, more
especially that of Curran, we must probe to the bottom the corruptions
and baseness of that society, which deserves to be branded as among the
most base and the most corrupt that history has hitherto described. The
temptations which England employed, the horrible corruption and
profligacy she fostered, must be fully known, if we desire to do justice
to the men who came out undefiled from that filthy ordeal.




THE LOST LETTER.

From Chambers' Papers for the People.


I.

One night, between twenty and thirty years ago, a party were assembled
in the drawing-rooms of a house situated in one of the most spacious
squares of the great metropolis. The brightly lighted lamps lent an
additional lustre to yet brighter eyes, and the sprightly tones of
various instruments accompanied the graceful evolutions of the dancers,
as they threaded the mazes of the country-dance, cotillon, or quadrille;
for waltz, polka, and schottish, were then unknown in our ball-rooms.
Here and there sat a couple in a quiet corner, evidently enjoying the
pleasures of a flirtation, while one pair, more romantic or more serious
than the others, had strayed out upon the balcony, to indulge more
unrestrainedly in the conversation, which, to judge by their low and
earnest tones, and abstracted air, seemed deeply interesting to both.

It was now long past the hour 'of night's black arch, the keystone,' and
the early dawn of a midsummer morning was already bestowing its first
calm sweet smile on the smoke-begrimed streets and world-worn
thoroughfares of mighty London, as well as on the dewy hay-fields, shady
lanes, green hedgerows, and quiet country homes of rural England. The
morning star, large, mild, and lustrous, was declining in the clear sky;
and on the left of the lovely planet lay a soft purple cloud, tinged on
the edge with the lucid amber of the dawning day. A light breeze just
stirred the leaves of the trees in the square garden, and fanned the
warm cheeks of the two spectators, as, suddenly silent, they stood
feasting their eyes and hearts on the surpassingly beautiful scene
before them, and marvelling at the remarkable purity of the atmosphere,
which, in the foggy metropolis of Britain, seemed almost to realize the
Venetian transparency of the pictures of Canaletti. Perhaps it may be as
well to take advantage of the pause to describe the two lovers, for that
they were lovers you have of course already guessed.

A handsomer pair, I am sure, you would never wish to see! The well-knit,
well-proportioned figure of the gentleman bespoke at once activity and
ease, while the spirited, intelligent expression of his
countenance--dark-complexioned as that of an Andalusian--would have
given interest to far plainer features. The glance of his dark eye, as
it rested fondly on his fair companion, or was turned abroad on the
world, told alternately of a loving heart and a proud spirit. Philip
Hayforth was one who would have scorned to commit an ignoble action, or
to stain his soul with the shadow of a falsehood for all the treasures
and the blessings the earth has to bestow; but he was quick to resent an
injury, and slow to forget it, and not for all the world would he have
been the first to sue for a reconciliation. Like many other proud
people, however, he was open-hearted and generous, and ready to forgive
when forgiveness was asked; the reason of which might be, that a
petition for pardon is, to the spirit of a proud man, a sort of homage
far more gratifying than the most skilful flattery, since it establishes
at once his own superiority. But to his Emily, Philip was all
consideration and tenderness, and she, poor girl, with the simple faith
of youth and love, believed him to be perfection, and admired even his
pride. A very lovely girl was Emily Sherwood--gifted with a beauty of a
rare and intellectual cast. As she now stood leaning on the arm of her
companion, her tall yet pliant and graceful figure enveloped in the airy
drapery of her white dress, with her eyes turned in mute admiration
towards the dawning day, it would have required but a slight stretch of
the imagination to have beheld in her a priestess of the sun, awaiting
in reverent adoration the appearance of her fire-god. Her complexion and
features, too, would have helped to strengthen the fantasy, for the one
was singularly fair, pale, and transparent, and the other characterized
by delicacy, refinement, and a sort of earnest yet still enthusiasm. Her
hair, of the softest and palest brown, was arranged in simple yet
massive plaits around her finely-shaped head, and crowned with a wreath
of 'starry jessamine.' From the absence of color, one might have
imagined that her beauty would have been cold and statue-like; but you
had only to glance at her soft, intellectual mouth, or to look into her
large, clear, hazel eyes, which seemed to have borrowed their sweet,
thoughtful, chastened radiance from the star whose beams were now fast
paling in the brightening sky, to learn that Emily Sherwood could both
think and love.

"Dear Philip," she said at last, in that low tone which is the natural
expression of all the finer and deeper emotions, "is it not beautiful? I
feel at this moment as if I were almost oppressed with happiness--as if
this were but an intense dream of love and beauty, that must, as
sentimental people say, 'be too bright to last.' I never felt as I do
now in all my life before."

"Nor I neither, my Emily, my sweet little poetess; but I suppose it is
because we love, for love intensifies all the feelings."

"All the best feelings."

"The whole nature, I think. It is, for instance, more difficult to bear
a slight from those we love than from a comparatively indifferent
person."

"A slight! but there can be no such thing as a slight between those who
love perfectly--as we do. Are we not all in all to each other? Is not
our happiness indivisible?"

"It is my pride and joy to believe so, my sweet Emily. I know in my own
heart that the needle is not more true to the magnet than my thoughts
and feelings are to you. It shall be the chief care of my life to save
you from all uneasiness; but, Emily, I expect the same devotion I give:
unkindness from you, of all the world, I could not and would not
endure."

"Oh, Philip, Philip!" she said, half tenderly, half reproachfully, "why
should you say this? I do not doubt _you_, dear Philip, for I judge your
love by my own."

He looked into the truthful and affectionate eyes which were raised so
trustingly to his face, and replied, in a voice tremulous with emotion,
"Forgive me, Emily. I trust you entirely; but I had started an idea, the
barest contemplation of which was insupportable--maddening, because of
the very excess of my affection. In short, Emily, I know--that is, I
suspect--your father looked for a higher match for you than I am. Report
says that his prejudices are strong in favor of birth, and that he is
very proud of his ancient blood; and the idea did cross me for a moment,
that when you were with him he might influence you to despise me."

"My father _is_ proud; but, dear Philip, is nobody proud but he? And
notwithstanding his prejudices, as you call them, I can assure you, you
are not more honorable yourself in every act and thought than he is. He
has consented to our marriage, and therefore you need not fear him, even
if you cannot trust me alone."

"Oh, Emily, pardon me! And so you think me proud. Well, perhaps I am;
and it is better that you should know it, as you will bear with it, I
know, for my sake, my best, my truest Emily; and I shall repay your
goodness with the most fervent gratitude. Yes, I feel with you that no
cloud can ever come between us two."

Emily Sherwood was the eldest daughter of Colonel Sherwood, a cadet of
one of the proudest families in England; and which, though it had never
been adorned with a title, looked down with something like contempt on
the abundant growth of mushroom nobility which had sprung up around it,
long after it had already obtained the dignity which, in the opinion of
the Sherwoods, generations alone could bestow. Colonel Sherwood
inherited all the pride of his race--nay, in him it had been increased
by poverty; for poverty, except in minds of the highest class--that rare
class who estimate justly the true value of human life, and the true
nature of human dignity--is generally allied either with pride or
meanness. Of course when I speak of poverty I mean comparative
poverty--I allude to those who are poorer than their station. In a
retired part of one of the eastern counties, Colonel Sherwood struggled
upon his half-pay to support a wife and seven children, and as far as
possible to keep up the appearance he considered due to his birth and
rank in society. Emily had been for two seasons the belle of the country
balls; and the admiration her beauty and manners had everywhere excited,
had created in the hearts of her parents a hope that she was destined to
form an alliance calculated to shed a lustre on the fading glory of the
Sherwoods. But, alas! as Burns sings--

    "The best laid schemes of mice and men
       Gang aft ajee."

During a visit to some relatives in London, Emily became acquainted with
Philip Hayforth; and his agreeable manners and person, his intelligent
conversation and devotion to herself, had quickly made an impression
upon feelings which, though susceptible, were fastidious, and therefore
still untouched. Then, too, the romantic ardor with which his attachment
was expressed, the enthusiasm he manifested for whatever was great,
good, or beautiful, aroused in Emily all the latent poetry of her
nature. Naturally imaginative, and full even of passionate tenderness,
but diffident and sensitive, she had hitherto, from an instinctive
consciousness that they would be misunderstood or disapproved,
studiously concealed her deeper feelings. Hence had been generated in
her character a degree of thoughtfulness and reserve unusual in one of
her years. Now, however, that she beheld the ideas and aspirations she
had so long deemed singular, perhaps reprehensible, shadowed forth more
powerfully and definitely by a mind more mature and a spirit more
daring than her own, her heart responded to its more vigorous
counterpart; and at the magic touch of sympathy, the long pent-up waters
flowed freely. She loved, was beloved, and asked no more of destiny. It
was not, it may be supposed, without some reluctance that Colonel
Sherwood consented to the demolition of the aerial castles of which his
beautiful Emily had so long been the subject and the tenant, and made up
his mind to see her the wife of a man who, though of respectable
parentage, could boast neither title nor pedigree, and was only the
junior partner in a mercantile firm. But then young Hayforth bore the
most honorable character; his prospects were said to be good, and his
manners unexceptionable; and, above all, Emily was evidently much
attached to him; and remembering the days of his own early love, the
father's heart of the aristocratic old colonel was fairly melted, and he
consented to receive the young merchant as his son-in-law. The marriage,
however, was not to take place till the spring of the following year.
Meanwhile the lovers agreed to solace the period of their separation by
long and frequent letters. Philip's last words to Emily, as he handed
her into the postchaise in which she was to commence her homeward
journey, were, "Now write to me very often, my own dearest Emily, for I
shall never be happy but when hearing from you or writing to you; and if
you are long answering my letters, I shall be miserable, and perhaps
jealous." She could only answer by a mute sign, and the carriage drove
away. Poor, agitated Emily, half happy, half sad, leaned back in it, and
indulged in that feminine luxury--a hearty fit of tears. As for Philip,
he took a few turns in the park, walking as if for a wager, and feeling
sensible of a sort of coldness and dreariness about every object which
he had never remarked before. Then he suddenly recollected that he must
go to the counting-house, as he was "very busy." He did not, however,
make much progress with his business that day, as somehow or other he
fell into a reverie over every thing he attempted.

Nothing could exceed the regularity of the lovers' correspondence for
the first two or three months, while their letters were written on the
largest orthodox sheets to be had from the stationer's--post-office
regulations in those days not admitting of the volumes of little notes
now so much in vogue. At last Emily bethought herself of working a purse
for Philip, in acknowledgment of a locket he had lately sent her from
London. Generally speaking, Emily was not very fond of work; but somehow
or other no occupation, not even the perusal of a favorite poem or
novel, had ever afforded her half the pleasure that she derived from the
manufacture of this purse. Each stitch she netted, each bead she strung,
was a new source of delight--for she was working for Philip. Love is the
true magic of life, effecting more strange metamorphoses than ever did
the spells of Archimago, or the arts of Armida--the moral alchemy which
can transmute the basest things into the most precious. It is true of
all circumstances, as well as of personal qualities, that

    "Things base and vile, holding no quantity,
    Love can transpose to form and dignity."

The purse was quickly finished, and dispatched to Philip, together with
a letter. Emily was in high spirits at the prospect of the answer. She
danced about the house, singing snatches of songs and ballads, and
displaying an unusual amount of gayety; for, though generally cheerful,
she was of too thoughtful a disposition to be often merry. Philip, she
was sure, would write by return of post. How she wished the time were
come! She knew pretty well, to be sure, what he would say; but what did
that signify? She longed to feast her eyes on the words his hand had
traced, and to fancy the tones and the looks which would have
accompanied them had they been spoken instead of written. The expected
day came at last, but the post-bag contained no letter for Emily. At
first she could hardly believe it; her countenance fell, and for a few
minutes she seemed much disappointed; but never mind, the letter would
come to-morrow, and she soon began to trip about and to sing almost as
gayly as before. But another day passed, and another and another, and
still no letter! Poor Emily's blithe voice was mute now, and her light
step rarely heard. Sometimes she tried to read, or to play on the piano,
but without much success; while her anxious looks, and the tear which
occasionally might be seen to glisten in her eye, betrayed the trouble
within. A whole week elapsed, a longer period than had ever passed
before without a letter from Philip Hayforth--a fortnight--a month--and
the poor girl's appetite failed, her nights were sleepless, and her
drooping figure and pining looks told of that anxious suffering, that
weary life-gnawing suspense, which is ten times more hard to bear than
any evil, however great, of which we can ascertain the nature and
discern the limits. Could Philip be ill? Could he--No, he could not be
inconstant. Ought she to write to him again? But to this question her
parents answered "No. It would be unfeminine, unladylike, undignified.
If Mr. Hayforth were ill, he would doubtless write as soon as he was
able; and if he were well, his conduct was inexcusable, and on Emily's
part rendered any advance impossible." Poor Emily shrank from
transgressing what her parents represented as the limits due to delicacy
and decorum, and she would have died rather than have been guilty of a
real impropriety, or have appeared unfeminine in the eyes of Philip
Hayforth; and yet it did often suggest itself to her mind--rather,
however, in the shape of an undefined feeling than of a conscious
thought--that the shortest, best, most straight-forward way of
proceeding, was to write at once to Mr. Hayforth, and ask an
explanation. She could not herself see clearly how this could be wrong;
but she supposed it must be so, and she acknowledged her own ignorance
and inexperience. Emily was scarcely twenty; just at the age when an
inquiring and thoughtful mind can no longer rely with the unquestioning
faith of childhood on assertions sanctioned merely by authority, and
when a diffident one is too timid to venture to trust to its own
suggestions. It is only after much experience, or one of those bitter
mistakes, which are the great lessons of life, that such a character
learns that self-reliance, exercised with deliberation and humility, is
the only safeguard for individual rectitude. Emily, therefore, did not
write, but lived on in the silent, wasting agony of constant expectation
and perpetual disappointment. Her mother, in the hope of affording her
some relief, inquired in a letter she was writing to her relative in
London, if the latter had lately seen Mr. Hayforth. The answer was like
a death-blow to poor Emily. Her mother's correspondent had "met Mr.
Hayforth walking with a lady. He had passed her with a very stiff bow,
and seemed inclined to avoid her. He had not called for a long time. She
could not at all understand it." Colonel Sherwood could now no longer
contain his indignation. He forbade the mention of Philip Hayforth's
name, declaring that "his Emily was far too good and beautiful for the
wife of a low-born tradesman, and that he deserved the indignity now
thrown upon his family for ever having thought of degrading it by the
permission of such a union. And his darling child would, he knew, bear
up with the spirit of the Sherwoods." Poor Emily had, it is to be
feared, little of the spirit of the Sherwoods, but she tried to bear up
from perhaps as good a motive. But it was a difficult task, for she was
well-nigh broken-hearted. She now never mentioned Philip Hayforth, and
to all appearance her connection with him was as if it had never been;
but, waking or sleeping, he was ever present to her thoughts. Oh! was it
indeed possible that she should never, _never_ see him again? No, it
could not be; he would seek her, claim her yet, her heart said; but
reason whispered that it was madness to think so, and bade her at once
make up her mind to her inevitable fate. But this she could not do--not
yet at all events. Month after month of the long dreary winter dragged
slowly on; her kind parents tried to dissipate her melancholy by taking
her to every amusement within reach, and she went, partly from
indifference as to what became of her, partly out of gratitude for their
kindness. At last the days began to lengthen, and the weather to
brighten; but spring flowers and sunny skies brought no corresponding
bloom to the faded hopes and the joyless life of Emily Sherwood. The
only hope she felt was "the hope which keeps alive despair."

One May morning, as she was listlessly looking over in a newspaper the
list of marriages, her eye fell upon a well-known name--the name of one
who at that very time ought to have knelt at the altar with her. She
uttered neither scream nor cry, but clasping her hands with one upward
look of mute despair, fell down in a dead faint. For many days she was
very ill, and sometimes quite delirious; but her mother tended her with
the most assiduous affection, while her comfort and recreation seemed
her father's sole care. They were repaid at last by her recovery, and
from that time forth she was less miserable. In such a case as Emily's,
there is not only the shock to the affections, but the terrible wrench
of all the faculties to be overcome, which ensues on the divorce of the
thoughts from those objects and that future to which they have so long
been wedded. There is not only the breaking heart to be healed, but the
whole mental current to be forcibly turned into a different channel from
that which alone habit has made easy or pleasant. "The worst," as it is
called, is, however, easier to be endured than suspense; and if Emily's
spirits did not regain their former elasticity, she ere long became
quite resigned, and comparatively cheerful.

More than a year had elapsed since that bright spring morning on which
she had beheld the irrefragable proof of her lover's perfidy, when she
received an offer of marriage from a gentleman, of good family and large
property. He had been struck by her beauty at a party where he had seen
her; and after a few meetings, made formal proposals to her father
almost ere she was aware that he admired her. Much averse to form a new
engagement, she would at once have declined receiving his addresses, had
her parents not earnestly pressed the match as one in every respect
highly eligible. Overcome at last by their importunities, and having, as
she thought, no object in existence save to give pleasure to them, she
yielded so far to their wishes as to consent to receive Mr. Beauchamp as
her future husband, on condition that he should be made acquainted with
the history of her previous engagement, and the present state of her
feelings. She secretly hoped that when he learned that she had no heart
to give with her hand, he would withdraw his suit. But she was mistaken.
Mr. Beauchamp, it is true, knew that there was such a word as _heart_,
had a notion that it was a term much in vogue with novel-writers, and
was sometimes mentioned by parsons in their sermons; but that _the
heart_ could have any thing to do with the serious affairs of life never
once entered into his head to suppose. He therefore testified as much
satisfaction at Emily's answer, as if she had avowed for him the deepest
affection. They were shortly afterwards married, and the pensive bride
accompanied her husband to her new home--Woodthorpe Hall; an ancient,
castellated edifice, situated in an extensive and finely-wooded park on
an estate in the East Riding of Yorkshire.

But I have too long neglected Philip Hayforth--too long permitted a
cloud to rest upon his honor and constancy. He was not, in truth, the
heartless, light-minded wretch that I fear you may think him. Pride,
not falsehood or levity, was the blemish in his otherwise fine
character; but it was a very plague-spot, tainting his whole moral
nature, and frequently neutralizing the effect of his best qualities. He
had been quite as much charmed with Emily's present and Emily's letter,
as she had ever ventured to hope, and had lost not a moment in writing
to her in return a long epistle full of the fervent love and gratitude
with which his heart was overflowing. He had also mentioned several
affairs of mutual interest and of a pressing nature, but about which he
was unwilling to take any steps without the concurrence of "his own
dearest and kindest Emily." He therefore entreated her to write
immediately; "to write by return of post, if she loved him." But this
letter never reached its destination: it was lost--a rare occurrence
certainly, but, as most of us are aware from our own experience, not
unknown. And now began with Philip Hayforth the same agony which Emily
was enduring--nay, a greater agony; for there was not only the same
disappointed affection, the same heart-sickness, the same weary
expectation, but there was the stronger suffering of a more passionate
and less disciplined temper; and, above all, there was the incessant
struggle between pride and love--the same fearful strife which, we are
told, once made war in Heaven.

Sometimes he thought that Emily might be ill; but then that did not seem
likely, as her health was generally good; and she was, when she had last
written, perfectly well, and apparently in excellent spirits. Should he
write to her again? No, she owed him a letter, and if she loved him,
would doubtless answer it as soon as circumstances would permit; and he
'would let that haughty old aristocrat, her father, see that Philip
Hayforth, the merchant, had more of the spirit of a man in him than to
cringe to the proudest blood in England. And as for Emily, she was his
betrothed bride--the same as his wife; and if he was not more to her
than any father on earth, she was unworthy of the love he had given her.
Let her only be true to him, and he was ready to devote his life to
her--to die for her.' As the time wore slowly away, he became more and
more exasperated, fevered, wretched. Sometimes it seemed to him that he
could no longer endure such torment; that life itself was a burthen too
intolerable to be borne. But here pride came to the aid of a better
principle. His cheek tinged at the thought of being spoken of as the
slighted lover, and his blood boiled at the bare idea of Colonel
Sherwood's contemptuous pity for the vain plebeian who had dared to
raise his thoughts to an alliance with his beautiful, high-born
daughter. He 'would show the world that he was no love-sick, despairing
swain; and Miss Sherwood's vanity should never be gratified by the
display of the wounds her falsehood had inflicted. He would very soon,
he knew, forget the fair coquette who had trampled thus upon his most
sacred feelings.' So he tried to persuade himself, but his heart misgave
him. No: he could not forget her--it was in vain to attempt it; but the
more his feelings acknowledged her power, even the more the pride she
had wounded in its tenderest point rose up in wrath against her; and he
chafed at his own powerlessness to testify towards her his scorn and
contempt. At such times as these he seemed even to himself on the verge
of madness. But he had saner moments--moments when his better nature
triumphed, and pride resigned for a brief space her stormy empire to the
benigner sway of the contending passion.

In the midst of those terrific tornados, which in the West Indies and
elsewhere carry in their path, over immense districts, ruin and
desolation, there is a pause, often of considerable duration, caused,
the scientific inform us, by the calm in the centre of the atmospheric
vortex of which they are composed. Such a calm would occasionally rest
upon the mind of Philip Hayforth, over the length and breadth of which
the whirlwind of passion had lately been tearing. One night, after one
of those hidden transports, which the proud man would have died rather
than any mortal eye should have scanned, he threw himself upon his bed
(for he rarely _went to bed_ now, in the accepted sense of the phrase)
in a state approaching exhaustion, mental and bodily. By degrees a sort
of dream-like peace fell upon his spirit; the present vanished away, and
the past became, as it were, once more a living reality. He thought of
Emily Sherwood as he had first seen her--a vision of loveliness and
grace. He thought of her as he had beheld her almost the last time on
that clear summer morning, and like refreshing dew on his scorched and
desolated heart fell the remembrance of her gentle words and loving
looks. Could they have deceived? Ah no! and his whole nature seemed
suddenly softened. He seemed to see her before him now, with her angel
face and her floating white robes; he seemed even yet to be looking into
those soft, bright eyes, and to read there again, as he had read before,
love unspeakable, truth unchangeable. His heart was filled with a
yearning tenderness, an intense and longing fondness, and he extended
his arms, as if to embrace that white-robed image of truth and
gentleness: but she was not there; it was but her spirit which had come
to still his angry passions with the calm of trust and love. And in the
fond superstition that so it was, he sprang from his couch, seized a
pen, and wrote to her a passionate, incoherent epistle, telling her that
she had tried him almost beyond his strength, but that he loved and
believed in her still, and if she answered immediately, that he was
ready to forgive her for all the pain she had caused him. This letter
finished, he threw himself upon his bed once again, and after a space,
slept more soundly than he had done for many a long night before. When
he rose in the morning he read over his letter, and felt, as he read,
some faint misgivings; but these were put to flight by the recollection
of Emily, as she had appeared to him in the vision of the previous
night. As the post, however, did not go out till evening, he would keep
the letter till then. Alas for the delay! It changed for ever his own
fate and that of Emily Sherwood. It chanced that very afternoon that,
taking up a provincial newspaper in a coffee-room into which he had
strolled, on his way to the post-office, the following paragraph met his
eye:--'We understand that there is a matrimonial alliance in
contemplation between J---- R----, Esq., eldest son of Sir J---- R----,
Bart., and the lovely and accomplished Miss Sherwood, daughter of
Colonel Sherwood, late of the --th dragoons, and granddaughter of the
late R. Sherwood, Esq., of ---- Park.' On reading this most unfounded
rumor, Philip Hayforth waited not another moment, but rushed home as if
driven by the furies; and tearing his letter in a thousand pieces, threw
it and the purse, Emily's gift, into the fire, and vowed to bestow not
another thought on the heartless woman who had perjured her own faith
and sold his true and fervent love for riches and title. Oh how he
scorned her! how he felt in his own true heart that all the wealth and
grandeur of the earth would have been powerless to tempt one thought of
his from her!

To conceal all suspicion of his sufferings from the world, and, if
possible, banish their remembrance from his own mind, he now went even
more than formerly into society; and when there, simulated a gayety of
manner that had hitherto distinguished his most vivacious moments. He
had always been a general favorite, and now his company was more sought
after than ever. Among the young persons of the opposite sex with whom
his engagements most frequently brought him in contact, was a young girl
of the name of Fanny Hartley, pretty, gentle, excessively amiable, but
without much mind, and with no literary taste whatever. She had nothing
to say, but she listened to him, and he felt in her society a sort of
repose, which was at present peculiarly grateful to his angry, troubled
spirit. Her very silence soothed him, while the absorbing nature of his
own feelings prevented him at first from thinking of hers. Philip
Hayforth had certainly not more than an average share of human vanity,
but he did at last suspect, partly from an accidental circumstance which
had first drawn his attention to the subject, that he had created in the
heart of the innocent Fanny a deeper interest than he had ever intended.
He was touched, grateful, but at first grieved, for _he_ "could never
love again." But the charm of being loved soon began to work: his heart
was less desolate, his feelings were less bitter, when he thought of
Fanny Hartley, and began to ask himself if he were wise to reject the
consolation which Providence seemed to offer him in the affection of
this amiable and artless young creature. And when he thought of the pain
she might perchance be suffering on his account, all hesitation upon the
subject was removed at once. If she loved him, as he believed, his
conduct, it seemed to his really kind heart, had already been barbarous.
He ought not to delay another day. And accordingly that very evening he
offered his hand to Fanny Hartley, and was accepted with trembling joy.

Their marriage proved a happy one. Fanny was as amiable as she had
appeared, and in the conduct of the commoner affairs of life,
good-feeling with her supplied in a great measure any deficiency of
strong sense. Philip did perhaps occasionally heave a gentle sigh, and
think for a moment of Emily Sherwood, when he found how incapable his
wife was of responding to a lofty or poetic thought, or of appreciating
the points of an argument, unless it were upon some such subject as the
merits of a new dress or the seasoning of a pudding. But he quickly
checked the rising discontent, for Fanny was so pure in heart, and so
unselfish in disposition, that it was impossible not to respect as well
as to love her. In short, Philip Hayforth was a fortunate man, and what
is more surprising, knew himself to be so. And when, after twenty years
of married life, he saw his faithful, gentle Fanny laid in her grave, he
felt bereaved indeed. It seemed to him then, as perhaps, at such a time,
it always does to a tender heart, that he had never done her justice,
never loved her as her surpassing goodness deserved. And yet a kinder
husband never lived than he had been; and Fanny had died blessing him,
and thanking him, as she said, "for twenty years of happiness." "How
infinitely superior," he now daily and hourly thought, "was her sweet
temper and loving disposition to all the intellect and all the poetry
that ever were enshrined in the most beautiful form." And yet Philip
Hayforth certainly was not sorry that his eldest daughter--his pretty,
lively Fanny--should have turned out not only amiable and affectionate,
but clever and witty. He was, in truth, very proud of Fanny. He loved
all his children most dearly; but Fanny was the apple of his eye--the
very delight of his existence. He had now almost forgotten Emily
Sherwood; but when he did think of her, it was with indifference rather
than forgiveness. He had not heard of her since his marriage, having,
some time previous to that event, completely broken off the slight
acquaintance he had formed with her relations; while a short absence
abroad, at the time of her union with Mr. Beauchamp, had prevented him
from seeing its announcement in the papers.

Meanwhile poor Emily's married life had not been so happy as that of her
former lover. Mr. Beauchamp was of a pompous, tyrannical disposition,
and had a small, mean mind. He was constantly worrying about trifles,
perpetually taking offence with nothing, and would spend whole days in
discussing some trivial point of etiquette, in the breach of which, he
conceived himself aggrieved. A very miserable woman was his wife amid
all the cold magnificence of her stately home. Often, very often, in
her hours of loneliness and depression, her thoughts would revert to the
brief, bright days of her early love, and her spirit would be rapt away
by the recollection of that scene on the balcony, when Philip Hayforth
and she had stood with locked hands and full hearts gazing at the
sinking star and the sweetly breaking day, and loving, feeling,
thinking, as if they had but one mind between them, till the present
seemed all a fevered dream, and the past alone reality. She could not
have been deceived then: then, at least, he had loved her. Oh, had she
not wronged him? had there not been a mistake--some incident
unexplained? He had warned her that his temper was proud and jealous,
and she felt now that she ought to have written and asked an
explanation. She had thrown away her happiness, and deserved her fate.
Then she recollected that such thoughts in her, the wife of Mr.
Beauchamp, were worse than foolish--they were sinful; and the
upbraidings of her conscience added to her misery.

But Emily had a strong mind, and a lofty sense of right; and in those
solitary struggles was first developed the depth and strength of her
character. Partly to divert her thoughts from subjects dangerous to her
peace, and partly from the natural bent of her inclinations, she sought
assiduously to cultivate the powers of her mind, while her affections
found ample scope for their exercise in the love of her infant son, and
in considerate care for her many dependants, by all of whom she was
loved and reverenced in no common degree. She learned thus the grand
lessons--'to suffer and be strong,' and to make the best of destiny; and
she felt that if she were a sadder woman, she was also a wiser one, and
at any price wisdom, she knew, is a purchase not to be despised.

Mrs. Beauchamp had been married little more than five years when her
husband died. His will showed, that however unhappy he had made her
during his life, he had not been insensible to her merit, for he left
her the sole guardian of their only son, and, while she should remain
unmarried, the mistress of Woodthorpe Hall. In the childish affection
and opening mind of her little boy poor Emily at last found
happiness--unspeakable happiness, although it was of course qualified by
the anxiety inseparable from parental love. She doted upon him; but her
love was of too wise and unselfish a nature to permit her to spoil him,
while her maternal affection furnished her with another motive for the
cultivation of her own mind and the improvement of her own character.
She was fired with the noble ambition of being the mother of her child's
mind, as well as of that mind's mere perishable shrine.


II.

Twenty-five years have passed away, with all their changes--their many
changes; and now,

    'Gone are the heads of silvery hair,
    And the young that were have a brow of care:'

And the babe of twenty-five years ago is now a man, ready to rush into
the thickest and the hottest of the great battle of life.

It was Christmas time; the trees were bare on Woodthorpe Chase; the
lawns were whitened by a recent shower of snow, and crisped by a sharp
frost; the stars were coming out in the cold cloudless sky; and two
enormous fires, high piled with Christmas logs, blazed, crackled, and
roared in the huge oaken chimneys of the great oak hall. Mrs. Beauchamp
and her son sat together in the drawing-room, in momentary expectation
of the arrival of their Christmas guests--a party of cousins, who lived
at about ten miles' distance from Woodthorpe Hall. Edmund Beauchamp was
now a very promising young man, having hitherto fulfilled the hopes and
answered the cares of his fond and anxious mother. He had already reaped
laurels at school and college, and his enlightened and liberal views,
and generous, enthusiastic mind, gave earnest of a career alike
honourable and useful. In person and features, though both were
agreeable, he did not much resemble his mother; but he had the same
large, soft, thoughtful eyes, the same outward tranquillity of demeanour
hiding the same earnest spirit. At present he was silent, and seemed
meditative. Mrs. Beauchamp gazed at him long and fondly, and as she
gazed, her mother's heart swelled with love and pride, and her eyes
glistened with heartfelt joy. At last she remarked, "I hope the
Sharpes's new governess is as nice a person as the old one."

"Oh, much nicer!" cried Edmund suddenly, and as if awakening from a
reverie.

"Indeed! I used to think Miss Smith a very nice person."

"Oh, so she was--very good-natured and obliging; but Miss Dalton is
altogether a different sort of person."

"I wonder you never told me you found her so agreeable."

"I--Oh, I did not----That is, you never asked me."

"Is she young?"

"Yes--not much above twenty I should think."

"Is she pretty?"

"I--I don't exactly know," he said, hesitating and colouring; "I
suppose--most persons----I should think she is." "How foolish I am!"
thought Edmund. "What will my mother think of all this?" He then
continued in a more composed manner--"She is a very excellent girl at
least. She is the daughter of a London merchant--a remarkably honourable
man--who has been ruined by these bad times; and though brought up in
luxury, and with the expectation of large fortune, she has conformed to
her circumstances in the most cheerful manner, and supports, it seems,
with the fruits of her talents and industry, two little sisters at
school. The Sharpes are all so fond of her, and she is the greatest
favorite imaginable with the children." Edmund spoke with unwonted
warmth. His mother looked at him half-sympathisingly, half-anxiously.
She seemed about to speak, when the sound of carriage wheels, and the
loud knock of a footman at the hall-door, announced the arrival of the
Sharpes, and Mrs. Beauchamp and her son hastened into the hall to
welcome their guests. Mrs. Beauchamp's eye sought for the stranger,
partly because she was a stranger, and partly from the interest in her
her son's conversation had created. But Miss Dalton was the last to
enter.

Edmund had not erred in saying she was a pretty girl. Even beneath the
cumbrous load of cloaks and furs in which she was now enveloped, you
could detect the exquisite proportions of her _petite_ figure, and the
sprightly grace of her carriage; while a pretty winter bonnet set off to
advantage a face remarkable for the intelligence and vivacity of its
expression. Her features, though not regular, were small, while the
brilliancy of her colour, though her complexion was that of a brunette,
lent a yet brighter glow to her sparkling dark eyes, and contrasted well
with the glossy black ringlets which shaded her animated countenance. At
this moment, however, her little head was carried somewhat haughtily,
and there was a sort of something not unlike bashfulness or awkwardness
in her manner which seemed hardly natural to it. The truth was, Miss
Dalton had come very unwillingly to share in the festivities of
Woodthorpe Hall. She was not acquainted with Mrs. Beauchamp, and report
said she was a very dignified lady, which Fanny Dalton interpreted to
mean a very proud one; and from her change of circumstances, rendered
unduly sensitive, she dreaded in her hostess the haughty neglect or
still haughtier condescension by which vulgar and shallow minds mark out
their sense of another's social inferiority. And therefore it was that
she held her head so high, and exhibited the constraint of manner to
which I have alluded. But all her pride and shyness quickly melted
before the benign presence and true heart-politeness of Mrs. Beauchamp.
Dignified the latter certainly was; but her dignity was tempered with
the utmost benevolence of expression, and the most winning sweetness of
manner; and when she took the hand of her little stranger-guest between
both of hers, and holding it kindly, said, "You are the only stranger
here, Miss Dalton; but for my sake you must try to feel at home," an
affection for Mrs. Beauchamp entered into the heart of the young girl,
which has continued ever since steadily to increase. That she should
conceive such an affection was not unnatural, for there was something in
the appearance and manners of Mrs. Beauchamp, combined with her position
in life, calculated to strike the imagination and touch the feelings of
a warm-hearted and romantic girl such as Fanny Dalton, more especially
one circumstanced as she was. Even her previous prejudice, with the
reaction natural to a generous mind, was likely to heighten her
subsequent admiration. But it is not so easy to account for the sudden
interest the pretty governess created at first sight in the heart of her
hostess. Many girls as pretty and as intelligent looking as Miss Dalton
she had seen before, without their having inspired a spark of the
tenderness she felt towards this unknown stranger. She could not
comprehend it herself. She was not prone "to take fancies," as the
phrase is; and yet, whatever might be the case, certain it was that
there was a nameless something about this girl, which seemed to touch
one of the deepest chords of her nature, and to cause her heart to yearn
towards her with something like a mother's love. She felt that if Miss
Dalton were all that she had heard, and that if she should really prove
her son's choice, he should not be gainsaid by her.

The Christmas party at Woodthorpe Hall was generally a merry one; and
this year it was even merrier than usual. Fanny Dalton was the life of
the party; her disposition was naturally a lively one, and this hour of
sunshine in her clouded day called forth all its vivacity. But Fanny was
not only clever, lively, and amiable; her conduct and manners
occasionally displayed traits of spirit--nay, of pride; the latter,
however, of a generous rather than an egotistical description. Nothing
was so certain to call it forth as any tale of meanness or oppression.
One morning Miss Sharpe had been relating an anecdote of a gentleman in
the neighborhood who had jilted (odious word!) an amiable and highly
estimable young lady, to whom he had long been engaged, in order to
marry a wealthy and titled widow. There were many aggravating
circumstances attending the whole affair, which had contributed to
excite still more against the offender the indignation of all
right-thinking persons. The unfortunate young lady was reported to be
dying of a broken heart.

Fanny, who had been all along listening to the narration with an eager
and interested countenance, now exclaimed--"Dying of a broken heart!
Poor thing! But if I were she, _I_ would not break my heart--I would
scorn him as something far beneath me, poor and unimportant as I am. No,
I might break my heart for the loss of a true lover, but never for the
loss of a false one!" As Fanny's eyes shone, and her lip curled with a
lofty contempt, as her naturally clear, merry tones grew deeper and
stronger with the indignation she expressed, a mist seemed suddenly to
be cleared away from the eyes of Mrs. Beauchamp, and in that slight
young girl she beheld the breathing image of one whom she had once
intimately known and dearly loved--in those indignant accents she seemed
to recognize the tones of a voice long since heard, but the echoes of
which yet lingered in her heart. Why she had so loved Fanny Dalton was
no mystery now--she saw in her but the gentler type of him whom she had
once believed the master of her destiny--even of Philip Hayforth, long
unheard of, but never forgotten. But what connection could there be
between Philip Hayforth and Fanny Dalton? and whence this strange
resemblance, which lay not so much in form or in feature, as in that
nameless, intangible similarity of expression, gesture, manner, and
voice, so frequently exhibited by members of the same family.

As soon as Mrs. Beauchamp could quit the table, she withdrew to her own
room, where she remained for some time in deep meditation, the result of
which was a determination to fathom the mystery, if mystery there was.
It was just possible, too, that the attempt might assist her to find a
key to the riddle of her own destiny.

Accordingly, on the afternoon of the same day, she took an opportunity
of being alone with Miss Dalton and her son, to say to the former--"I
think you told me, my dear, that your father was alive?"

"Oh yes, thank God, _he_ is alive! How I wish you knew him, Mrs.
Beauchamp! I think you would like him, and I am _sure_ he would like and
admire you."

"Does your father at all resemble you in appearance?"

"I am not sure. I have been told that I was like him, and I always
consider it a great compliment; for papa is still a very handsome man,
and was of course even handsomer when he was young, and before his hair
became grey. I have a miniature likeness of him, taken before his
marriage, which I have with me, and will show you, if you will so far
indulge my vanity."

Mrs. Beauchamp having replied that she should like exceedingly to see
it, Fanny tripped away, and returned in a few minutes, carrying in her
hand a handsome, but old-fashioned, morocco case. Mrs. Beauchamp had
never seen it before, but she well remembered having given directions
for the making of a case of that very size, shape, and color, for a
miniature which was to have been painted for her. Her heart began to
beat. She seemed upon the brink of a discovery. Fanny now opened the
case, and placing it before Mrs. Beauchamp, exclaimed, "Now, isn't he a
handsome man?" But Mrs. Beauchamp could not answer. One glance had been
sufficient. A cold mist gathered before her eyes, and she was obliged to
lean for support, upon the back of a chair.

"Dear Mrs. Beauchamp, are you ill?"

"My dear mother!" cried Edmund.

"It is nothing," she answered, quickly recovering herself; "only a
little faintness." And then with the self-command which long habit had
made easy, she sat down and continued with her usual calm sweetness--"I
could almost fancy I had seen your father; but I do not remember ever
knowing any one of the name of Dalton but yourself."

"Oh, but perhaps you might have seen him before he changed his name; and
yet it seems hardly likely. His name used to be Hayforth; but by the
will of his former partner, who, dying without near relations, left papa
all his money, he took the name of Dalton. The money is all gone now, to
be sure," she continued with the faintest possible sigh; "but we all
loved the dear old man, and so we still keep his name."

Fanny had seated herself beside Mrs. Beauchamp, and as she finished
speaking, the latter, obeying the impulse of her heart, drew her towards
her and kissed her. Fanny, whose feelings were not only easily touched,
and very strong, but even unusually demonstrative, threw her arms round
Mrs. Beauchamp, and cried, with tears in her eyes, "How kind you are to
me, Mrs. Beauchamp! You could hardly be kinder, if you were my mother."

"Dear Fanny," she answered in a low and affectionate tone, "I wish,
indeed, I were your mother!"

As she spoke, Edmund, who had been standing in a window apart, made a
sudden movement towards the two ladies, but as suddenly checked himself.
At this moment his eyes encountered those of his mother, and colouring
violently, he abruptly quitted the room. This little scene passed quite
unnoticed by Fanny, who at the instant was thinking only of Mrs.
Beauchamp, and of her own gentle mother, now beneath the sod.

The daughter of Philip Hayforth became a frequent guest at Woodthorpe
Hall, spending most of her Sundays with Mrs. Beauchamp, who would
frequently drive over to the Sharpes's for her of a Saturday afternoon,
and send her back on the Monday morning. She was invited to spend the
Easter holidays at the Hall--a most welcome invitation, as she was not
to return home till the midsummer vacation. A most agreeable time were
these Easter holidays! Never had Fanny seemed more bright and joyous.
Her presence operated as perpetual sunshine on the more pensive natures
of the mother and son. It was therefore a great surprise to Mrs.
Beauchamp when, one day at luncheon, about a week before the time fixed
for the termination of her visit, Fanny announced her intention of
leaving Woodthorpe that afternoon, if her friend could spare her the
carriage.

"I can certainly spare it, Fanny; but I should like to know the reason
of this sudden determination?"

"You must excuse my telling you, Mrs. Beauchamp; but I hope you will
believe me when I say that it is from a sense of duty." As she spoke,
she raised her head with a proud look, her eyes flashed, and she spoke
in the haughty tone which always brought before Mrs. Beauchamp the image
of her early lover; for it was in her proud moments that Fanny most
resembled her father.

"Far be it from me, Fanny," she replied, with her wonted sweetness and
benignity, "to ask any one to tamper with duty; but, my child, our
faults, our _pride_ frequently mislead us. You shall go to-night, if you
please; but I wish, for my sake, you could stay at least till to-morrow
morning. I have not offended you, Fanny?"

"Oh, dearest Mrs. Beauchamp!" and the poor girl burst into tears. "I
wish--I _wish_ I could only show you how I love you--how grateful I am
for all your goodness; but you will never, never know."

Mrs. Beauchamp looked anxiously at her, and began, "Fanny"----But
suddenly stopped, as if she knew not how to proceed. Immediately
afterwards the young girl left the room, silently and passionately
kissing Mrs. Beauchamp's hand as she passed her on her way to the door.

A few hours later in the day, as Mrs. Beauchamp sat reading in her
boudoir, according to her custom at that particular hour, Edmund
abruptly entered the little room in a state of agitation quite foreign
to his ordinary disposition and habits.

"Mother!" he cried.

"My love! what is the matter?"

"Mother! I love Fanny Dalton--I love her with all my soul. I think her
not only the loveliest and most charming of women, but the best and
truest! I feel that she might make my life not only happier, but better.
Oh, mother! is not love as real a thing as either wealth or station? Is
it not as sufficient for all noble works? Is it not in some shape the
only motive for all real improvement? It seems to me that such is the
lesson I have been learning from you all my life long."

"And in that you have learned it I am deeply grateful, and far more than
repaid for all my care and anxiety on your account; and now thank you
for your confidence, my dear Edmund, though I think you might have
bestowed it after a calmer fashion. It would have been better, I think,
to have said all those violent things to Fanny than to me."

"I _have_ said more than all these to Fanny, and--she has rejected me!"

"Rejected you! my dearest Edmund! I am grieved indeed; but I do not see
how I can help you."

"And yet I should not be quite hopeless if you would plead my cause.
Miss Dalton says that you have loaded her with kindness which she can
never repay; that she values your affection beyond all expression; and
that she is determined not to prove herself unworthy of it by being the
means of disappointing the expectations you may have formed for your
son, for whom, she says, she is no match either in wealth or station.
She would not listen to me when I attempted to speak to her but this
instant in the Laurel Walk, but actually _ran_ away, positively
commanding me not to follow; and yet, I do think, if she had decidedly
disliked me, she would have given me to understand so at once, without
mentioning you. Mother! what do _you_--what _do_ you think?"

"You shall hear presently, Edmund; but in the first place let us find
Miss Dalton."

They went out together, and had not sought her long, when they
discovered her pacing perturbedly up and down a broad walk of
closely-shaven grass, inclosed on both sides by a tall impenetrable
fence of evergreens. As soon as she saw them, she advanced quickly to
meet them, her face covered with blushes, but her bearing open and
proud. Ere Mrs. Beauchamp had time to speak, she exclaimed, "Mrs.
Beauchamp, I do not deserve your reproaches. Never till this morning was
I aware of Mr. Beauchamp's sentiments towards me. Dear, kind friend, I
would have suffered any tortures rather than that this should have
happened."

Fanny was violently agitated; while Mrs. Beauchamp, on the contrary,
preserved a calm exterior. She took one of the young girl's hands
between both of hers, and answered soothingly, "Compose yourself, my
dear Fanny, I entreat you. Believe me, I do not blame you for the
affection my son has conceived for you."

"Oh thank you! Indeed you only do me justice."

"But, Fanny, I blame you very much for another reason."

"For what reason, then, madam?"

"For the same reason which now causes your eye to flash, and makes you
call your friend by a ceremonious title. I blame you for your _pride_,
which has made you think of me harshly and unjustly. Unkind Fanny! What
reason have I ever given you to think me heartless or worldly? Do you
not know that those who love are equals? and that if it be a more
blessed thing to give, yet to a generous heart, for that very reason, it
ought to be a pleasure to receive? Are you too proud, Fanny, to take any
thing from us, or is it because my son's affection is displeasing to you
that you have rejected him?"

Fanny was now in tears, and even sobbing aloud. "Oh, forgive me," she
cried, "forgive me! I acknowledge my fault. I see that what I believed
to be a sense of duty was at least partly pride. Oh, Mrs. Beauchamp, you
would forgive me if you only knew how miserable I was making myself
too!"

"Were you--were you indeed making _yourself_ miserable?" cried Edmund.
"Oh say so again, dearest Fanny; and say you are happy now!"

Mrs. Beauchamp smiled fondly as she answered, "I will do more than
forgive you, my poor Fanny, if you will only love my son. Will you make
us both so happy?"

Fanny only replied by a rapid glance at Edmund, and by throwing herself
into the arms of Mrs. Beauchamp, which were extended to receive her. And
as she was pressed to that fond, maternal heart, she whispered audibly,
"My mother!--our mother!"

Mrs. Beauchamp then taking her hand, and placing it in that of her son,
said with evident emotion, "Only make Edmund happy, Fanny, and all the
gratitude between us will be due on my side; and oh, my children, as you
value your future peace, believe in each other through light and
darkness. And may Heaven bless you both!" She had turned towards the
house, when she looked back to ask, "Shall I countermand the carriage,
Fanny?" And Edmund added, half-tenderly, half-slyly, "Shall you go
to-morrow?"

Fanny's tears were scarcely dry, and her blushes were deeper than ever,
but she answered immediately, with her usual lively promptitude, "That
depends upon the sort of entertainment you may provide as an inducement
to prolong my visit."

And Edmund, finding that he had no chance with Fanny where repartee or
badinage was in question, had recourse again to the serious vein, and
rejoined, "If my power to induce you to prolong your visit were at all
equal to my will, you would remain for ever, my own dearest Fanny."

We must now pass over a few months. The early freshness and verdure of
spring had passed away, and the bloom and the glory of summer had
departed. The apple-trees were now laden with their rosy treasures, the
peach was ripe on the sunny wall, and the summer darkness of the woods
had but just begun to be varied by the appearance of a few yellow
leaves. It was on a September afternoon, when the soft light of the
autumn sunset was bathing in its pale golden rays the grey turrets of
Woodthorpe Hall, and resting like a parting smile on the summits of the
ancestral oaks and elms, while it cast deep shadows, crossed with bright
gleams, on the spreading lawns, or glanced back from the antlers of the
deer, as they ever and anon appeared in the hollows of the park or
between the trees, that a travelling carriage passed under the old
Gothic archway which formed the entrance to Woodthorpe Park, and drove
rapidly towards the Hall. It contained Edmund and Fanny, the
newly-married pair, who had just returned from a wedding trip to Paris.
They were not, however, the only occupants of the carriage. With them
was Mr. Dalton, whom we knew in former days as Philip Hayforth, and who
had been specially invited by Mrs. Beauchamp to accompany the bride and
bridegroom on their return to Woodthorpe Hall.

And now the carriage stops beneath the porch, and in the arched doorway
stands a noble and graceful figure--the lady of the mansion. The
slanting sunbeams, streaming through the stained windows at the upper
end of the oak hall, played upon her dress of dark and shining silk,
which was partly covered by a shawl or mantle of black lace, while her
sweet pale face was lighted up with affection, and her eyes were full of
a grave gladness. Her fair hair, just beginning to be streaked with
silver, was parted over her serene forehead, and above it rested a
simple matronly cap of finest lace. Emily Beauchamp was still a
beautiful woman--beautiful even as when in the early prime of youth and
love she had stood in the light of the new-born day, clad in her robes
of vestal whiteness. The change in her was but the change from morning
to evening--from spring to autumn; and to some hearts the waning light
and the fading leaves have a charm which sunshine and spring-time cannot
boast. Having fondly but hastily embraced her son and daughter, she
turned to Mr. Dalton, and with cordial warmth bade him welcome to
Woodthorpe Hall. He started at the sound of the gentle, earnest tones
which, as if by magic, brought palpably before him scenes and images
which lay far remote, down the dim vista of years, obscured, almost
hidden, by later interest and more pressing cares. He looked in Mrs.
Beauchamp's face, and a new wonder met him in the glance of her large
brown eyes, so full of seriousness and benignity, while the smooth white
hand which yet held his in its calm friendly clasp seemed strangely like
one he had often pressed, but which had always trembled as he held it.
What could all this mean? Was he dreaming? He was aroused from the
reverie into which he had fallen by the same voice which had at first
arrested his attention.

"We must try to become acquainted as quickly as possible, Mr. Dalton,"
said Mrs. Beauchamp, "and learn to be friends for our children's sake."

Bowing low, he replied, "I have already learned from my daughter to know
and to esteem Mrs. Beauchamp."

The more Mr. Dalton saw of Mrs. Beauchamp, the more bewildered he
became. He fancied what appeared to him the strangest impossibilities,
and yet he found it impossible to believe that there was no ground for
his vague conjectures. His life had been one of incessant toil, lately
one of heavy distress and anxious cares, which had frequently sent him
to a sleepless pillow; but never had he spent a more wakeful night than
this, his first under the stately roof which his daughter--his darling
Fanny--called that of her home. He felt that he could not endure another
day of this uncertainty. He must be satisfied at all hazards, and he
resolved to make an opportunity, should such not spontaneously present
itself. But he was spared the necessity; for after breakfast the
following morning his hostess offered to show him the grounds--an offer
which, with his desired end in view, he eagerly accepted. They commenced
their walk in silence, and seemed as if both were suddenly under the
influence of some secret spell. At last, in a hoarse voice and a
constrained manner, Mr. Dalton abruptly inquired, "Pray, madam, may I
ask--though I fear the question may seem an unceremonious, perhaps a
strange one--if you have any relations of the name of Sherwood?"

He saw her start, as she answered with forced composure, "Yes, Mr.
Dalton, I have. It was indeed my own name before I married."

As she made this avowal, both stood still, it would seem by a sort of
tacit, mutual consent, and earnestly looked at each other.

Philip Hayforth Dalton was now a man past the meridian of life; his once
handsome and still striking countenance was deeply marked with lines of
sorrow and care, and his dark luxuriant locks were thinned and grizzled,
while his features, which had long been schooled to betray no sign of
emotion of a transient or superficial nature, were now, as his eyes met
those of Mrs. Beauchamp's, convulsed as by the working of a strong
passion. A slight blush tinged Emily's usually pale cheek; she drew a
rapid breath, and her voice faltered perceptibly as she said at last,
"Yes, Philip Hayforth, I am Emily Sherwood!"

Not immediately did he reply either by word or look--not till she had
asked somewhat eagerly, "We are friends, Mr. Dalton--are we not?"

Pride wrestled for a minute with the better nature of Philip Hayforth;
but whether it were that his self-command was now greater than in the
fiery and impassioned season of youth, or that it was difficult to
maintain anger and resentment in the gentle, soothing, and dignified
presence in which he now found himself, I undertake not to tell; but
certain it is that this time at least he crushed the old demon down, and
forced himself to answer, though with a formal manner and somewhat harsh
tone, "Friends, Mrs. Beauchamp! Certainly, we are friends, if _you_ wish
it. Your goodness to my poor motherless Fanny has completely cancelled
all wrongs ever done to Fanny's father. Let the past be forgotten!"

"Not so, if you please," she answered gently, "rather let it be
explained. Mr. Dalton, we are neither of us young now, and have both, I
trust, outlived the rashness of youth. Never till our mutual truth is
made mutually clear, can we be the friends we ought to be--the friends I
wish we were for Edmund's and Fanny's sake. Let us both speak plainly
and boldly, and without fear of offence on either side. I promise, on
mine, to take none at the truth, whatever it may be."

Mr. Dalton, as she spoke, regarded her earnestly and wonderingly,
saying, as she finished, half in reverie, half addressing her, it would
seem, "The same clear good sense, the same sweet good temper, which I
had persuaded myself was but the effect of a delusive imagination! But I
entreat your pardon, madam, and I promise as you have done."

"Tell me then, truly, Mr. Dalton, why you never answered the last letter
I wrote to you, or acknowledged the receipt of the purse I sent?"

He started, as if he had received a pistol-shot; the formal, distant Mr.
Dalton had disappeared, and the eager, vehement Philip Hayforth stood
before her once more. "I did answer it, Emily. Out of the fulness of my
heart--and how full it was I cannot tell you now--I answered your
letter; but you, Emily, you never answered mine."

"Indeed I never received it."

It was some minutes after this announcement ere either was able to
speak, but at last Mr. Dalton exclaimed, "Oh how I have wronged you?
Emily, at this instant I catch, as it were, at the bottom of a dark gulf
a glimpse of the evil of my nature. I begin to believe that I have
cherished a devil in my bosom, and called it by the name of a good
angel. Emily, if I am not too old to improve, you will have been the
instrument of my improvement. I do not ask you to forgive me, generous
woman, because I feel that you have already done so."

Mrs. Beauchamp felt what it must have cost the proud man to make this
acknowledgment, and she honored him for the effort. "We have both been
to blame," she said, "and therefore stand in need of mutual forgiveness.
But it would be idle now to lament the past; rather let us rejoice that
our friendship, re-established on the firm basis of perfect confidence,
is cemented by the union of our dear children."

Mr. Dalton only answered by offering her his arm, with the kind and
familiar politeness of an old friend, as she looked a little fatigued,
and they walked together some distance in silence. At last Mrs.
Beauchamp inquired, "Was Fanny's mother like herself?"

"No, Emily. My poor dead Fanny," and his voice trembled slightly, "was
very sweet and amiable, but not at all like my living one."

"Your marriage was happy then? I am glad of that."

"I should have been the most ungrateful of men had it not been so; and
yours too, Emily I hope"----

He stopt, he hardly knew why, while, with her eyes fixed on the ground,
she answered slowly, "I am happy, very happy now!"

A feeling of profound respect and admiration held Mr. Dalton silent for
a few seconds, and then he said, in the tone of one who expresses an
earnest conviction, "You are the most noble minded woman I ever knew."

Mrs. Beauchamp made no answer, and it was not till they stood together
in the hall, that she said in her natural tone of kind and calm
cheerfulness, "And now, Mr. Dalton, let us look for Edmund and Fanny;
and if you please, in order that they may learn of our mistakes that
trust is the nobler part of love, we shall tell them this story of THE
LOST LETTER."




LIFE AT A WATERING-PLACE.

THE LIONNE.

By Charles Astor Bristed.

From Frazer's Magazine.


One day at Oldport Springs went off pretty much like another. There was
the same continual whirl, and flurry, and toiling after pleasure--never
an hour of repose--scarcely enough cessation for the two or three
indispensable meals. When they had walked, and flirted, and played
ten-pins, and driven, and danced all day, and all night till two in the
morning, the women retired to their rooms, and the men retired to the
gambling-house (which being an illegal establishment had, on that
account, a greater charm in their eyes), and kept it up there till broad
daylight; notwithstanding which, they always contrived to appear at
breakfast a few hours after as fresh as ever, and ready to begin the
same round of dissipation. Indeed it was said that Tom Edwards and his
most ardent followers among the boys never went to bed at all, but on
their return from "fighting the tiger," bathed, changed their linen, and
came down to the breakfast-room, taking the night's sleep for granted.
It was a perpetual scene of excitement, relieved only by the heavy and
calm figure of Sumner, who, silent and unimpassioned, largely capacious
of meat and drink, a recipient of every diversion, without being excited
by any, went through all the bowling, and riding, and polking, and
gambling, with the gravity of a _commis_ performing the national French
dance at the Mabille. There was much rivalry in equipages, especially
between Ludlow, Benson, and Loewenberg, who drove the three four-in-hands
of the place, and emulated one another in horses, harness, and
vehicles--even setting up attempts at liveries, in which they found some
imitators (for you can't do any thing in America, however unpopular,
without being imitated): and every horse, wagon, man-servant, and
livery, belonging to every one, was duly chronicled in the Oldport
correspondence of the _Sewer_ and the _Jacobin_, which journals were
wont one day to Billingsgate the "mushroom aristocracy of wealth," and
the next to play Jenkins for their glorification. Le Roi, who owned no
horses, and had given up dancing as soon as he found that there were
many of the natives who could out-dance him, and that the late hours
were bad for his complexion, attached himself to any or every married
lady who was at all distinguished for beauty or fortune; and then went
about asking, with an ostentatious air of mystery,--_"Est-ce qu' on
parle beaucoup de moi et Madame Chose?"_ Sometimes he deigned to turn
aside for an heiress; and as he was a very amusing and rather ornamental
man, the girls were always glad to have his company; but the good
speculations took care not to fall in love with him, or to give him
sufficient encouragement (although a Frenchman does not require a great
deal) to justify a declaration on his part. Perhaps the legend about the
mutual-benefit subscription club hurt his prospects, or it may have been
his limited success in dancing. The same reason--as much, at least, as
the assumed one of their vulgarity--kept Mr. Simpson, and other "birds"
of his set, out of the exclusive society. For dancing was the one great
article in the code of the fashionables to which all other amusements or
occupations were subordinate. There was a grand dress-ball once a week
at one or other of the hotels, and two undress-balls--_hops_ they were
called: but most of the exclusives went to these also in full dress, and
both balls and hops usually lasted till three or four in the morning.
Then on the off-nights "our set" got up their own little extempore balls
in the large public parlor, to the music of some volunteer pianist, and
when the weather was bad they danced in the same place all day; when it
was good these informal _matinees_ did not generally last more than two
or three hours. Then there were serenades given about day-break, by
young men who were tired of "the tiger"--nominally to some particular
ladies, but virtually, of course, to the whole hotel, or nearly so--and
the only music they could devise for these occasions were waltzes or
polkas. Ashburner made a calculation that, counting in the serenades,
the inhabitants of Oldport were edified by waltz, polka, and redowa
music (in those days the _Schottisch_ was not), eleven hours out of the
twenty-four, daily. And at last, when Mr. Monson, the Cellarius of
New-York, came down with various dancing-girls, native and imported, to
give lessons to such aspiring young men as might desire it, first Mrs.
Harrison and other women, who, though wealthy and well-known, were not
exactly "of us," used to drop in to look at the fun; and, finally, all
the exclusives, irresistibly attracted by the sound of fiddles and
revolving feet, thronged the little room up-stairs, where the dancing
class was assembled, and from looking on, proceeded to join in the
exercises. Ladies, beaux, and dancing-girls, were all mingled together,
whirling and capering about in an apartment fifteen feet square, which
hardly gave them room to pass one another. Benson was the only person
who entered his protest against the proceeding. He declared it was a
shame that his countrywomen should degrade themselves so before
foreigners; but his expostulations were only laughed at: nor could he
even persuade his wife and sister-in-law to quit the place, though he
stalked off himself in high dudgeon, and wrote a letter to the
_Episcopal Banner_, inveighing against the shameless dissipation of the
watering-places. For Harry was on very good terms with the religious
people in New-York, and was professedly a religious man, and had some
sort of idea that he mixed with the fashionables to do them good; which
was much like what we sometimes hear of a parson who follows the hounds
to keep the sportsmen from swearing, and about as successful. Trying
with all his might to serve God, and to live with the exclusives, he was
in a fair way to get a terrible fall between two stools.

Talking of religion brings us naturally to Sunday, which at Oldport was
really required as a day of rest. But whether it would have been so or
not is doubtful, only that the Puritan habits of the country made
dancing on that day impossible. It was a violation of public opinion,
and of the actual law of the land, which no one cared to attempt. The
fashionables were thus left almost without resource. The young men went
off to dine somewhere in the vicinity, not unfrequently taking with them
some of Mr. Monson's dancing-girls; the wearied men, and the women
generally, were in a sad state of listlessness. Some of them literally
went to bed and slept for the rest of the week; others, in very despair
of something to do, went to church and fell asleep there. Ashburner took
advantage of the lull to fill up his journal, and put down his
observations on the society about him, in which he had remarked some
striking peculiarities, apart from the dancing mania and other outward
and open characteristics.

The first thing that surprised him was the great number of
misunderstandings and quarrels existing among the not very large number
of people who composed the fashionable set. They seemed to quarrel with
their relatives in preference, as a matter of course; and to admit
strangers very readily to the privilege of relatives. The Robinsons were
at feud with all their cousins: Benson with most of his, except Ludlow.
Ludlow, White, Sumner, every man he knew, had his set of private
enemies, with whom he was not on speaking or bowing terms. Mrs.
Harrison, who was very friendly to most of the men, scarcely spoke to a
single woman in the place; but this was, perhaps, only carrying the war
into Africa, as the ladies of "our set" generally had intended not to
recognize her as one of them. These numberless feuds made it very
difficult to arrange an excursion, or to get up a dinner at the
_restaurant_ of a "<DW52> gentleman," whose timely settlement in
Oldport had enabled Mr. Grabster's guests to escape in some measure the
pangs of hunger. On studying the cause of these disagreeable
hostilities, he found that, among relatives, they were often caused by
disputes upon money matters; that between persons not related they
frequently sprung from the most trivial sources--frivolous points of
etiquette, petty squabbles at cards, imaginary jealousies--but that in
both cases the majority of them could be traced to the all-pervading
spirit of scandal. His purely intellectual education, if it had not made
him somewhat of a misogynist, had at least prevented him from gaining
any accurate knowledge or appreciation of women: he set them down _en
masse_ as addicted to gossip, and was not surprised to find in the
American ladies what he assumed as a characteristic of the whole sex.
But he was surprised to find the same quality so prevalent among the
men. Not that they were in the habit of killing reputations to give
themselves _bonnes fortunes_, as Frenchmen might have done under similar
circumstances; their defamatory gossip was more about men than about
women, and seemed to arise partly from a general disbelief in virtue,
and partly from inability to maintain an interesting conversation on
other than personal topics. And though much of this evil speaking was
evidently prompted by personal enmities, much also of it seemed to
originate in no hostile feeling at all; and it was this that
particularly astonished Ashburner, to find men speaking disparagingly of
their friends--those who were so in the real sense of that much-abused
term. Thus there could be no reasonable doubt that the cousins, Benson
and Ludlow, were much attached to each other, and fond of each other's
society; that either would have been ready to take up the other's
quarrel, or endorse his notes, had circumstances required it. Yet Harry
could never refrain from laughing before third parties at Gerard's
ignorance of books, and making him the hero of all the Mrs.
Malaprop-isms he could pick up or invent; or, as we have seen, speaking
very disrespectfully of the motives which had led him to commit
matrimony; and Gerard was not slow to make corresponding comments on
various foibles of Harry. But the spirit of detraction was most fully
developed in men who were not professionally idle, but had, or professed
to have, some little business on hand. Of this class was Arthur Sedley,
an old acquaintance and groomsman of Benson, and a barrister--(they are
beginning to talk about barristers now in New-York, though it is a
division of labor not generally recognized in the country)--of some
small practice. Really well educated, well read, and naturally clever,
his cleverness and knowledge were vastly more disagreeable than almost
any amount of ignorance or stupidity could have been. When he cut up
right and left every man or woman who came on the _tapis_, his sarcasms
were so neatly pointed that it was impossible to help laughing with him;
but it was equally impossible to escape feeling that, as soon as your
back was turned, he would be laughing at you. Riches and rich people
were the commonest subject of his sneers, yet he lost no opportunity of
toadying a profitable connection, and was always supposed to be on the
look-out for some heiress.

The next thing which made Ashburner marvel was the extreme youth of the
fashionable set, particularly the male portion of it; or, to speak more
critically, the way in which the younger members of the set had
suppressed their elders, and constituted themselves _the_ society. A
middle-aged man, particularly if, like Loewenberg, he happened to be
rich, might be admitted to terms of equality, but the papas and mammas
were absolutely set aside, and became mere formulas and appendages. The
old people were nowhere; no one looked after their comfort in a crowd,
or consulted them about any arrangement till after the arrangement was
made. They had no influence and no authority. When Miss Friskin rode a
wild colt bareheaded through the streets of Oldport, or danced the
Redowa with little Robinson in so very _chateau-rouge_ a style that even
Mrs. Harrison turned away, poor Mrs. Friskin could interpose no
impediment to the young lady's amusement; and even her father, the
respected senior of the wealthy firm, Friskin & Co., who must have heard
from afar of his daughter's vagaries (for all these things were written
in the note-book of the _Sewer_), seemed never to have dreamed of the
propriety or possibility of coming up to Oldport to put a stop to them.
When Tom Edwards was squandering his fortune night after night at the
faro-table, and his health day after day in ceaseless dissipation, there
was no old friend of his family who dared to give him advice or warning,
for there was none to whose advice or warning he would have listened.
Once when Ashburner was conversing with Benson on some subject which
brought on a reference to this inverse order of things, the latter gave
his explanation of it, which was to this effect:--

"The number of foreigners among us, either travelling for pleasure or
settled for purposes of business, is so great that they become an
appreciable element in our society. It is, therefore, requisite that a
fashionable should be able to associate easily with foreigners; and for
this it is necessary that he or she should have some knowledge of
foreign customs and languages, and, in the first place, of the French
language. Now, if we go back a generation, we shall find that the men of
that day were not educated to speak French. Go into the Senate Chamber
at Washington, for instance, and you will not meet with many of the
honorable senators who can converse in the recognized language of
courts. Many of our most distinguished statesmen and _diplomats_ can
speak no tongue but their own. And to descend to private life, with
which we have more particularly to do, when a foreigner presents himself
with his letters at the dwelling of an old city merchant or professional
man, it is generally the younger branches of the family who are called
on to amuse him and play interpreters for the rest. This gives the young
people a very decided advantage over their elders, and it is not
surprising that they have become a little vain of it. And similarly with
regard to foreign dresses, dances, cookery, and habits generally. The
young men, having been the latest abroad, are the freshest and best
informed in these things. It does not require any great experience or
wisdom to master them, only some personal grace and aptitude for
imitation to start with, and an _a plomb_ to which ignorance is more
conducive than knowledge. Hence the standard of excellence has become
one of superficial accomplishment, and the man of matured mind who
enters into competition with these handsome, showy, and illiterate boys,
puts himself at a discount. Look at Loewenberg. All his literary
acquirements and artistic tastes (and he really has a great deal of
both) go for nothing. The little beaux can speak nearly as many
languages as he can, and dance and dress better. The only thing they can
appreciate about him is his money, and the horses and dinners consequent
thereon. If little Robinson, there, with his _ne plus ultra_ tie and
varnished shoes, were to have the same fortune left him to-morrow, he
would be the better man of the two, because he can polk better, and
because, being neither a married man nor the agent of a respectable
house, he can gamble and do other things which Loewenberg's position does
not allow him to do."

This was a great confession for Benson to make against the country;
nevertheless, it was not perfectly satisfactory to Ashburner, who
thought that it did not explain all the phenomena of the case. It seemed
to him that there was at work a radical spirit of insubordination, and a
principle of overturning the formerly recognized order of domestic rule.
The little children ate and drank what they liked, went to bed when they
liked, and altogether were very independent of their natural rulers.
Benson's boy rode rough-shod over his nurse, bullied his mother, and
only deigned to mind his father occasionally. The wives ruled their
husbands despotically, and acted as if they had taken out a patent for
avenging the inferiority of their sex in other parts of the world.
Benson did not like dancing: he only danced at all because he thought it
his business to know a little of every thing, and because society
thought it the duty of every young man who was not lame to understand
the polka. But his wife kept him going at every ball for six hours,
during five of which he was bored to death. Ludlow, whose luxurious
living made violent exercise necessary for his health, and who,
therefore, delighted in fencing, boxing, and "constitutionals" that
would have tired a Cantab, was made to drive about Mrs. Ludlow all day
till he hated the sight of his own horses. As to Mrs. Harrison, she
treated her husband, when he made his appearance at Oldport (which was
not very often) as unceremoniously as one would an old trunk, or any
other piece of baggage which is never alluded to or taken notice of
except when wanted for immediate use.

Ashburner first met this lady a very few days after his arrival at
Oldport; indeed, she was so conspicuous a figure in the place that one
could not be there long without taking notice of her. About mid-day
there was usually a brief interval between the ten-pin bowling and the
informal dance; and during one of these pauses he perceived on the
smoking-piazza where ladies seldom ventured, a well-dressed and rather
handsome woman smoking a cigarette, and surrounded by a group of beaux
of all sizes, from men like White and Sumner to the little huge-cravated
boys in their teens. She numbered in her train at least half-a-dozen of
these cavaliers, and was playing them off against one another and
managing them all at once, as a circus-rider does his four horses, or a
juggler his four balls. In a country where beauty is the rule rather
than the exception, she was not a remarkable beauty--at least, she did
not appear such to Ashburner, from that distance; nor was her dress,
though sufficiently elegant and becoming, quite so artistically put on
as that of Mrs. Benson and the other belles of the set; still there was
clearly something very attractive and striking about her, and he was
immediately induced to inquire her name, and, on learning that she was a
real lady (though not of "our set" of ladies), to request an
introduction to her. But Benson, to whom he first applied, instead of
jumping at the opportunity with his usual readiness to execute or
anticipate his friend's wishes, boggled exceedingly, and put off the
introduction under frivolous and evidently feigned pretences. It was so
uncommon for Benson to show any diffidence in such matters, and his
whole air said so plainly, "I will do this out of friendship for you if
you wish it, but for my own part I would rather not," that Ashburner
saw there was something in the wind, and let the subject drop. Ludlow,
to whom he next had recourse, told him, with the utmost politeness but
in very decided terms, that "his family" (he was careful not to insist
on his own personality in the affair) "had not the honor of Mrs.
Harrison's acquaintance." The next man who happened to come along was
Mr. Simpson, and to him Ashburner made application, thinking that,
perhaps, the fair smoker might more properly belong to the "second set,"
though so surrounded by the beaux of the first. But even Simpson, though
the last man in the world to be guilty of any superfluous delicacy,
hesitated very much, and made some allusion to Mrs. Simpson; and then
Ashburner began to comprehend the real state of the case,--that most of
the married women had declared war against Mrs. Harrison, that she had
retaliated upon them all, and that the husbands were drawn into their
wives' quarrels, and obliged to fight shy of her before strangers. It
was clear, then, that he must apply to a bachelor; and accordingly he
waylaid Sumner, who "was too happy" to introduce him at once in due
form.

As Ashburner came up to Mrs. Harrison she began to play off her eyes at
him, and he then perceived that they constituted her chief beauty. They
were of that deep blue which, in certain lights, passes for
black,--large, expressive, and pleasing; the sort of eyes that go right
through a man and look him down to nothing. Indeed, they had such effect
on him that he lost all distinctive idea of her other features. Her
manner, too, had something very attractive, though he could not have
defined wherein it consisted. She did not exhibit the _empressement_
with which most of her countrywomen seek to put a stranger at his ease
at once; or the _exigence_ of a spoiled lady waiting to be amused; or
the haughtiness of a great lady, who does not care if she is amused
herself and deigns no effort to amuse others. Neither did she attack him
with raillery and irony, as Mrs. Benson had done on their first meeting.
But she behaved as if she were used to seeing men like Ashburner every
day of her life, and was willing to meet them half-way and be agreeable
to them, if they were so to her, without taking any particular trouble,
for there was no appearance of effort to please, or even of any strong
desire to please, in her words and gestures; yet she _did_ please and
attract very decidedly.

"So I saw you in Mrs. Harrison's train!" said Benson, when they next
met.

"Yes, and I fancy I know why you hesitated to introduce me."

As Ashburner spoke he glanced towards the parlor, where "our set"--Mrs.
Benson, of course, conspicuous among them--were engaged in their
ordinary occupation of dancing.

"Oh, I assure you, _madame_ is not disposed to be jealous, nor am I a
man to take part in women's quarrels. I don't like the lady myself, to
begin with; and were I a bachelor, should have as little to say to her
as I have now. In the first place she is too old----"

"Too old! she cannot be thirty."

"Of course a lady never _is_ thirty, until she is fifty, at least; but
at any rate I may say, without sacrilege, that Mrs. H. is pretty high up
in the twenties. Now, at that age a woman ought--not to give up society,
that would be an absurdity in the other extreme, but--to leave the
romping dances and the young men to the girls, who want them more and
whom they become better. Then I don't like her face. You must have taken
notice that all the upper part of it is fine and intellectual, and she
has glorious eyes----"

"Yes," said Ashburner.

"But all the lower part is heavy and over-sensuous. Now, not only does
this, in my opinion, entirely disfigure a woman's looks, but it suggests
unpleasant ideas of her character. A man may have that ponderous chin
and voluptuous mouth, without their disturbing the harmony of an
otherwise handsome face. I do not think a woman can; and as in the
physical so in the moral. A man can stand a much greater amount of
sensuousness in his composition than a woman. I do not mean to allude to
the different standards of morality for the two sexes admitted by
society; for I don't admit it, and think it very unjust; and I am proud
to say that our people generally entertain more virtuous as well as more
equitable views on this point than the Europeans. I mean literally that
a man having so many opportunities for leading an active life, and being
able to reason himself into or out of a great many things to or from
which a woman's only guide is her feelings, may be very sensuous without
its doing any positive harm to himself or others; but with a woman, who
is compelled to lead a comparatively idle life, such an element
predominating in her character is sure to bring her into mischief."

"Do you mean to say, then, that----" and Ashburner stopped short, but
his look implied the remainder of his interrupted question.

"Do you ask me from a personal motive?"

Ashburner , and was proceeding to disclaim any such motive with
an air of injured innocence.

"No, I don't mean any thing of the sort," said Benson, who felt that he
had gone rather too far, and might unintentionally have slandered his
countrywoman. "I believe the lady is as pure as--as my wife, or any one
else. The number of her beaux, and the equality with which she treats
them, prove conclusively to my mind that her flirting never runs into
any thing worse. I don't think a woman runs any danger of that kind when
she has such a lot of cavaliers; they keep watch on her and on one
another. I remember when my brother lived in town, he once was away from
home for two or three weeks, and when he came back an old maid who lived
in his street, and used to keep religious watch over the goings-out and
comings-in of every one in the vicinity, said to him, "How very gay
your wife is, Mr. Benson! she has been walking with a different
gentleman every day since you were gone.' 'Dear me!' says Carl; 'a
different man every day! How glad I am! If you had told me she was
walking with the _same_ man every day I might have been a little
scared.' But a woman may be perfectly chaste herself, and yet cause a
great deal of unchasteness in other people. Here is this Mrs. Harrison,
smoking cigarettes--and cigars, too, sometimes, in the open air;
drinking grog at night, and sometimes in the morning; letting Tom
Edwards and the foolish boys who imitate him talk slang to her without
putting them down; always ready for a walk or drive with the last
handsome young man who has arrived; and utterly ignoring her husband,
except when she makes some slighting mention of him for not sending her
money enough: what is the effect of all this upon the men? The
foreigners; there are plenty of them here every season; I wonder there
are so few this time: instead of one decent Frenchman like Le Roi, you
usually find half-a-dozen disreputable ones; Englishmen many, not always
of the best sort; Germans, Russians, and Spaniards, occasionally: they
all are inclined to look upon her--especially considering her
belligerent attitude towards the rest of the female population--as
something _tres legere_, and to attempt to go a little too far with her.
Then she puts them down fast enough, and they in spite say things about
her, the discredit of which extends to our ladies generally--in short,
she exposes the country before foreigners. Then for the natives, she
catches some poor boy just loose upon the world, dances with, flatters
him--for she has a knack of flattering people without seeming to do so,
especially by always appearing to take an interest in what is said to
her,--keeps him dangling about her for a while; then some day he says or
does something to make a fool of himself, and she extinguishes him. The
man gets a check of this sort at his entry into society that is enough
to make him a misogynist for life. And the little scenes that she used
to get up last summer with married men, just to make their wives
jealous!"

"Which, I suppose, is the reason none of your wives will let you speak
to her?" said Ashburner, who began to feel, he hardly knew why, a
sentiment of partisanship for Mrs. Harrison. "But granting that her
face, as you describe it, is an index of her character, I should draw
from that exactly the opposite inference. I believe that the women who
make mischief in the way you mention are your unsensuous and passionless
ones--that the perfect flirt, single or married, must be a perfectly
cold woman, because it is only one of such a temperament who can thus
trifle with others without danger to herself. I speak hesitatingly, for
all women are a mystery, and my experience is as yet very limited; but
such opportunities of observation as have fallen to my lot confirm me in
the theory."

Somewhat to Ashburner's surprise his friend made no attempt to
controvert his argument. He only turned it aside, saying,----

"Well, I don't like her, at any rate. If I had no other reason, the way
she talks of her husband would be enough to make me."

"Oh, there _is_ a Mr. Harrison, then? One hears so little of him----"

"And sees so nothing of him, you may say."

"Exactly--that I took him for a mythological personage--a cousin of our
Mrs. Harris."

"Nevertheless I assure you Mr. Harrison exists very decidedly--a
Wall-street speculator, and well known as such by business people, a
capital man behind a trotter, an excellent judge of wine. Probably he
will come here from the city once or twice before we leave, and I shall
find an opportunity to introduce you to him, for he is really worth
knowing and considerable of a man, as we say--no fool at all, except in
the way he lets his wife bully him."

"If he made an unsuitable match that does not show his wisdom
conspicuously."

"It was an unsuitable match enough, Heaven knows! But when he proposed
he was in the state of mind in which sensible people do the most foolish
things. He was a great man in stocks--controlled the market at one
time--had been buying largely just before the election of '44, when we
all expected Henry Clay would get in with plenty to spare. When Polk was
elected, great was the terror of all respectable citizens. My brother
caught such a fright then that I don't think he has fairly recovered
from it to this day. How the stocks did tumble down! Harrison had about
nine millions on his hands; he couldn't keep such a fund, and was forced
to sell at any price, and lost just one third. Just as he was beginning
to pick himself up after the shock and wonder, like the sailor whom the
conjurer blew up, what was to come next? Mr. Whitey of the _Jacobin_,
now the honorable Pompey Whitey--and one doesn't see why he shouldn't
be, for after all an editor is not, generally speaking, a greater
blackguard than most of our Congressmen--Whitey, I say, who for our sins
is nominally attached to the Conservative party, conceived the bright
idea of overbidding the enemy for popular favor, and proposed--no, he
didn't actually propose in so many words, but only strongly hinted at
the desirableness of the measure--that there should be no more paying
rent, and a general division of property. I am not sure but there were
some additional suggestions on the expediency of abolishing the
Christian religion and the institution of matrimony, but that has
nothing to do with politics. This last drop in the bucket quite
overflowed poor Harrison; so, as if he had said to himself, "Let us eat
and drink and get married, for to-morrow we shall have a proscription
and _novae tabulae_," he rushed off and proposed to Miss Macintyre."

"Then, if she accepted him after he lost his fortune, it shows she did
not marry for money, at any rate."

"There you have missed it. He lost the whole of _a_ fortune, but not the
whole of _his_. He must have a million of dollars left, and a man with
that is not poor in any country--certainly it was a great catch for Miss
Macintyre, without a red cent of her own. She jilted a Frenchman for
him: the unfortunate, or fortunate cast-off had ordered much jewelry and
other wedding presents, and when left in the lurch he quietly proposed
that, as he had no longer any use for the articles, Harrison, who had,
should take them off his hands; and this offer was accepted. Very French
in him to make it--don't you think so?--and rather American in the other
to take it. Well, I hope Harrison will come this way soon; I should
really like you to know him."

One or two days after this conversation Ashburner met his friend walking
up and down the interminable piazza of the Bath Hotel, arm-in-arm with a
middle-aged man, who presented as great a contrast to Benson's usual
associates, and to Benson himself, as could well be imagined. The
new-comer was short of stature and square-built, rather ugly, and any
thing but graceful; he wore very good clothes, but they were badly put
on, and looked as if they had never undergone the brush since leaving
the tailor's hands; he wore no gloves, and in short had altogether an
unfashionable appearance. But though indubitably an unfashionable man,
he did not give you the impression of a vulgar one; there was nothing
snobbish or pretentious in his ugliness, and his cavernous black eye
could have belonged only to an intelligent and able man. Benson was
joking or pressing upon him some matter which he seemed unwilling to
explain.

"But do tell me," said Harry, as they passed Ashburner, "what _have_ you
been doing to yourself? Sprained your finger by working too hard the
night before last packet day? or tumbled down from running too fast in
Wall-street, and not thinking which way you were going?" And he took in
his own delicate white hand the rough paw of the stranger, which was
partly bound up as if suffering from some recent injury.

"If you must know," said the other, stopping short his walk, "I broke my
knuckles on an Irish hackman's teeth. Last week the fellow drove me from
the North River boat to my house in Union Square, and I offered him
seventy-five cents. He was very insolent and demanded a dollar. If I had
had a dollar-note about me I might have given it to him, but it happened
that I had only the six shillings in change; and so, knowing that was
two shillings more than his legal fare, I became as positive as he. At
last he seized my trunk, and then I could not resist the temptation of
giving him a left-hander that sent him clean down the steps into the
gutter."

"And then?

"He made a great bawling, and was beginning to draw a crowd about the
house, when I walked off to the nearest police-station; and as it turned
out that my gentleman was known as a troublesome character, they
threatened to take away his license and have him sent to Blackwell's
Island if he didn't keep quiet; so he was too glad to make himself
scarce."

"By Jove, you deserve a testimonial from the city! I once got twenty
dollars damages from an omnibus-driver for running into my brougham,
knocking off a wheel, and dumping my wife and child into the street; and
I thought it was a great exploit, but this performance of yours throws
me into the shade."

Just then Benson caught sight of Ashburner, and excusing himself to the
other, rushed up to him.

"Let me tell you now, before I forget it. We are going over to the glen
to-morrow to dine, and in fact spend the day there. You'll come, of
course?"

"With great pleasure," said Ashburner; "but pray don't let me take you
away from your friend."

"Oh, that's only Harrison."

We meant, of course, our set, with such foreign lions as the place
afforded, foremost among whom stood Ashburner and Le Roi. Benson,
Ludlow, and some of the other married men undertook to arrange it,
always under the auspices of the Robinsons.

These Robinsons were evidently the leaders in every movement of the
fashionables, but why they were so was not so clear--at least, to
Ashburner, though he had abundant opportunities of studying the whole
family. There was a father in some kind of business, who occupied the
usual position of New-York fathers; that is to say, he made the money
for the rest of the family to spend, and showed himself at Oldport once
a fortnight or so--possibly to pay the bills. There was a mother, stout
and good-humored, rather vulgar, very fussy, and no end of a talker: she
always reminded Ashburner of an ex-lady-mayoress. There were three or
four young men, sons and cousins, with the usual amount of white tie and
the ordinary dexterity in the polka; and two daughters, both well out of
their teens. The knowing ones said that one of these young ladies was to
have six thousand a year by her grandfather's will, and the other little
or nothing; but it was not generally understood which was the heiress,
and the old lady manoeuvred with them as if _both_ were. This fact,
however, was not sufficient to account for their rank as _belles_, since
there were several other girls in their circle quite as well, or better
off. Nor had their wit or talent any share in giving them their
position; on the contrary, people used to laugh at the _betises_ of the
Robinsons, and make them the butt of real or imaginary good stories.
And, in point of birth, they were not related to the Van Hornes, the
Bensons, the Vanderlyns, or any of the old Dutch settlers; nor like
White Ludlow, and others of their set, sprung from the British families
of long standing in the city. On the very morning of the proposed
excursion Sedley was sneering at them for _parvenus_, and trying to
amuse Ashburner at their expense with some ridiculous stories about
them.

"And yet," said the Englishman, "these people are your leaders of
fashion. You can't do any thing without them. They are the head of this
excursion that we are just going upon." Benson tells me "the Robinsons
are to be there," as if that settled the propriety and desirability of
my being there also."

"As to that," replied Sedley, "fashionable society is a vast absurdity
anywhere, and it is only natural that absurd people should be at the
head of it. The Robinsons want to be fashionable--it is their only
ambition--they try hard for it; and it is generally the case that those
who devote themselves to any pursuit have some success in it, and only
right that it should be so. Then they are hopelessly good-natured folks,
that you can't insult or quarrel with." Sedley had so little of this
quality himself that he looked on the possession of it as a weakness
rather than a virtue. "Then they are very fond of good living."

"Yes, I remember hearing Benson say that he always liked to feed Mrs.
Robinson at a ball,--it was a perfect pleasure to see her eat; and that
when Loewenberg, in the pride of his heart, gave a three-days'
_dejeuner_, or lunch, or whatever it was, after his marriage, she was
seen there three times each day."

"And he might have told you that they are as liberal of their own good
things as fond of those of others. Old Robinson has some first-rate
Madeira, better by a long chalk than that Vanderlyn Sercial that Harry
Benson is always cramming down your throat--metaphorically, I mean, not
literally. The young men like to drop in there of an evening, for they
are sure to find a good supper and plenty of materials ready for punch
and polka. Then they always manage to catch the newest lions. When I
first saw you in their carriage along-side of Miss Julia, I said to
myself, "That Englishman must be somebody, or the Robinsons would not
have laid hold of him so soon." But their two seasons in Paris were the
making of them,--and the unmaking, too, in another sense; for they ate
such a hole in their fortune--or, rather, their French guests did for
them--that it has never recovered its original dimensions to this day.
They took a grand hotel, and gave magnificent balls, and filled their
rooms with the Parisian aristocracy. My uncle, who is an _habitue_ of
Paris, was at the Jockey Club one day, and heard two exquisites talking
about them. "_Connaissez-vous ce Monsieur Robinson?_" asked one.
"_Est-ce que je le connais!_" replied the other, shrugging his
shoulders. "_Je mange ses diners, je danse a ses bals; v'la tout." Voila
tout_, indeed! That is just all our people get by keeping open house for
foreigners."

Just then Benson and Ludlow came up, the former under much excitement,
and the latter in a sad state of profanity. As they both insisted on
talking at once, it was some time before either was intelligible; at
length Ashburner made out that the excursion had met with a double
check. In the first place, all the bachelors had demanded that Mrs.
Harrison should be of the party, in which they were sustained by
Loewenberg, who, though partly naturalized by his marriage, still
considered himself sufficiently a stranger to be above all spirit of
clique. All the other married men had objected, but the Harrisonites
ultimately carried their point. Of the two principal opponents, Ludlow
was fairly talked off his feet by the voluble _patois_ of Loewenberg, and
Benson completely put down by the laconic and inflexible Sumner. So far
so bad, but worse was to follow; for after the horses had been ordered,
and most of the ladies, including the Robinsons, bonneted and shawled
for the start, the _lionne_, who had, doubtless, heard of the
unsuccessful attempt to blackball her, and wished to make a further
trial of her power, suddenly professed a headache, whereupon her
partisans almost unanimously declared that, as she couldn't go, they
didn't want to go; and thus the whole affair had fallen through. Such
was the substance of their melancholy intelligence, which they had
hardly finished communicating when a _dea ex machina_ appeared in the
person of Mrs. Benson. She declared that it was "a shame," and "too
bad," and she "had never," &c.; and brought her remarks to a practical
conclusion by vowing that _she_ would go, at any rate, whoever chose to
stay with that woman; "and if no one else goes with us I'm sure Mr.
Ashburner will:" at which Ashburner was fain to express his readiness to
follow her to the end of the world, if necessary. Then she followed up
her advantage by sending a message to Sumner, which took him captive
immediately; and as she was well seconded by the Robinsons, who on their
part had brought over Le Roi, the party was soon reorganized pretty much
on its original footing. When the cause of all the trouble found herself
likely to be left in a minority her headache vanished immediately, in
time for her to secure beaux enough to fill her barouche, and Mr.
Harrison was put into a carriage with the musicians. Mrs. Benson's
vehicle was equally well filled; and Harry, who, by his wife's orders,
and much against his own will, had lent his wagon and ponies to a young
Southerner that was doing the amiable to Miss Vanderlyn, had nothing
left for it but to go on horseback; in which Ashburner undertook to join
him, having heard that there was a good bit of turf on the road to the
glen.

"If you go that way," said Mrs. Robinson, when he announced his
intention, "you will have another companion. Mr. Edwards means to ride."

Ashburner had seen Edwards driving a magnificent trotter about Oldport,
but could not exactly fancy him outside of a horse, and conjectured that
he would not make quite so good a figure as when leading the redowa down
a long ball-room. But the hero of the dance was not forthcoming for
some time, so they mounted, Benson his pet Charlie, and the Englishman
the best horse the stables of Oldport could furnish, which it is hardly
necessary to say was not too good a one, and were leaving the village
leisurely to give the carriages a good start of them, when they heard
close behind the patter of a light-stepping horse, and the next moment
Tom Edwards ranged up along side. The little man rode a bright bay mare,
rising above fifteen hands, nearly full-blooded, but stepping steadily
and evenly, without any of that fidget and constant change of gait which
renders so many blood-horses any thing but agreeable to ride, and
carrying her head and tail to perfection. He wore white cord trousers, a
buff waistcoat, and a very natty white hair-cloth cap. His coat was
something between a summer sack and a cutaway,--the color, a rich green
of some peculiar and indescribable shade. His spurs were very small, but
highly polished; and, instead of a whip, he carried a little red cane
with a carved ivory head. In his marvellously fitting white buckskin
glove he managed a rein of some mysterious substance that looked like a
compound of india-rubber and sea-weed. He sat his mare beautifully--with
a little too much aim at effect, perhaps; but gracefully and firmly at
the same time. Ashburner glanced at his own poor beast and wished for
Daredevil, whose antics he had frequently controlled with great success
at Devilshoof; and Benson could not help looking a little mortified, for
Charlie was not very well off for tail, and had recollections of his
harness days, which made him drop his head at times and pull like a
steam engine; besides which, Harry--partly, perhaps, from motives of
economy, partly, as he said, because he thought it snobbish to ride in
handsome toggery--always mounted in the oldest clothes he had, and with
a well-used bridle and saddle. But there was no help for it now, so off
the three went together at a fair trot, and soon overtook most of the
party, Edwards putting his spurs into the bay mare and showing off her
points and his horsemanship at every successive vehicle they passed.

The piece of turf which Benson had promised his friend was not quite so
smooth as Newmarket heath, but it was more than three-quarters of a mile
long, and sufficiently level to be a great improvement on the heavy and
sandy road. So unaccustomed, however, are Americans to "riding on
grass," that Edwards could not be persuaded to quit the main path until
Benson had repeatedly challenged him to a trot on the green. As soon as
the two horses were fairly along-side they went off, without waiting the
signal from their riders, at a pace which kept Ashburner at a
hand-gallop. For awhile they were neck-and-neck, Benson and Charlie
hauling against each other, the rider with his weight thrown back in the
stirrups and laboring to keep his "fast crab" from breaking, while the
mare struck out beautifully with a moderate pull of the rein. Then as
Benson, who carried no whip, began to get his horse more in hand, he
raised a series of yells in true jockey fashion, to encourage his own
animal and to break up Edwards's. The mare skipped--Tom caught her in an
instant, but she fell off in her stroke from being held up, and Charlie
headed her a length; then he gave her her head, and she broke--once,
twice, three times; and every time Benson drew in his horse, who was now
well settled down to his work, and waited for Edwards to come on. At
last, his mare and he both lost their tempers at once. She started for a
run, and he dropped the reins on her back and let her go. At the same
instant Benson stuck both spurs into Charlie, who was a rare combination
of trotter and runner, and away went the two at full gallop. Ashburner's
hack was left behind at once, but he could see them going on close
together, tooling their horses capitally; Edwards's riding, being the
more graceful, and Benson's the more workmanlike; the mare leading a
trifle, as he thought, and Charlie pressing her close. Suddenly Edwards
waved his cane as in triumph, but the next moment he and his mare
disappeared, as if the earth had swallowed them up, while Benson's horse
sheered off ten feet to the left.




TO ONE IN AFFLICTION.

By John R. Thompson.

From the Southern Literary Messenger.


    Dear friend! if word of mine could seal
      The bitter fount of all thy tears,
      And, through the future's cloudy years,
    Some glimpse of sunshine yet reveal--

    That word I might not dare to speak:
      A father's sorrow o'er his child
      So sacred seems and undefiled,
    To bid it cease we may not seek.

    Thy little boy has passed away
      From mortal sight and mortal love,
      To join the shining choir above
    And dwell amid the perfect day;

    All robed in spotless innocence,
      And fittest for celestial things,
      O'ershadowed by her rustling wings
    The angel softly led him hence:

    As pure as if the gentle rain
      Of his baptismal morn had sought
      His bosom's depths, and e'ery thought
    Had sweetly cleansed from earthly stain:

    Such blest assurance brings, I know,
      To bleeding hearts but sad relief--
      The dark and troubled tide of grief
    _Must_ have its ebb and flow--

    And most of all when thou dost plod,
      _Alone_, upon these wintry days,
      Along the old familiar ways
    Wherein _his_ little feet have trod.

    And thou dost treasure up his words,
      The fragments of his earnest talk,
      On some remembered morning walk,
    When, at the song of earliest birds,

    He'd ask of thee, with charmed look,
      And smile upon his features spread,
      Whose careful hand the birds had fed,
    And filled the ever-running brook?

    Or viewing, from the distant glade,
      The dim horizon round his home,
      With simplest speech and air would come
    And ask why were the mountains made?

    Be strong, my friend, these days of doom
      Are but the threads of darkest hue,
      That daily enter to renew
    The warp of the Eternal Loom.

    And when to us it shall be given
      In joy _to see the other side_
      These threads the brightest shall abide
    In the fair tapestries of Heaven!




MY NOVEL:

OR, VARIETIES IN ENGLISH LIFE.

By Pisistratus Caxton.

_Continued from page 421._

From Blackwood's Magazine


PART VI.--CHAPTER XIII.

Whatever may be the ultimate success of Miss Jemima Hazeldean's designs
upon Dr. Riccabocca, the Machiavellian sagacity with which the Italian
had counted upon securing the services of Lenny Fairfield was speedily
and triumphantly established by the result. No voice of the Parson's,
charmed he ever so wisely, could persuade the peasant boy to go and ask
pardon of the young gentleman, to whom, because he had done as he was
bid, he owed an agonizing defeat and a shameful incarceration. And, to
Mrs. Dale's vexation, the widow took the boy's part. She was deeply
offended at the unjust disgrace Lenny had undergone in being put in the
stocks; she shared his pride, and openly approved his spirit. Nor was it
without great difficulty that Lenny could be induced to resume his
lessons at school; nay, even to set foot beyond the precincts of his
mother's holding. The point of the school at last he yielded, though
sullenly; and the Parson thought it better to temporize as to the more
unpalatable demand. Unluckily Lenny's apprehensions of the mockery that
awaited him in the merciless world of his village were realized. Though
Stirn at first kept his own counsel, the Tinker blabbed the whole
affair. And after the search instituted for Lenny on the fatal night,
all attempt to hush up what had passed would have been impossible. So
then Stirn told his story, as the Tinker had told his own; both tales
were very unfavorable to Leonard Fairfield. The pattern boy had broken
the Sabbath, fought with his betters, and been well mauled into the
bargain; the village lad had sided with Stirn and the authorities in
spying out the misdemeanors of his equals; therefore Leonard Fairfield,
in both capacities of degraded pattern boy and baffled spy, could expect
no mercy;--he was ridiculed in the one, and hated in the other.

It is true that, in the presence of the schoolmaster, and under the eye
of Mr. Dale, no one openly gave vent to malignant feelings; but the
moment those checks were removed, popular persecution began.

Some pointed and mowed at him; some cursed him for a sneak, and all
shunned his society; voices were heard in the hedgerows, as he passed
through the village at dusk, "Who was put in the stocks?--baa!" "Who got
a bloody nob for playing spy to Nick Stirn?--baa!" To resist this
species of aggression would have been a vain attempt for a wiser head
and a colder temper than our poor pattern boy's. He took his resolution
at once, and his mother approved it; and the second or third day after
Dr. Riccabocca's return to the Casino, Lenny Fairfield presented himself
on the terrace with a little bundle in his hand. "Please, sir," said he
to the Doctor, who was sitting cross-legged on the balustrade, with his
red silk umbrella over his head.

"Please, sir, if you'll be good enough to take me now, and give me any
hole to sleep in, I'll work for your honor night and day; and as for the
wages, mother says 'just suit yourself, sir.'"

"My child," said the Doctor, taking Lenny by the hand, and looking at
him with the sagacious eye of a wizard, "I knew you would come! and
Giacomo is already prepared for you! As to wages, we'll talk of them
by-and-by."

Lenny being thus settled, his mother looked for some evenings on the
vacant chair, where he had so long sate in the place of her beloved
Mark; and the chair seemed so comfortless and desolate, thus left all to
itself, that she could bear it no longer.

Indeed the village had grown as distasteful to her as to Lenny--perhaps
more so; and one morning she hailed the Steward as he was trotting his
hog-maned cob beside the door, and bade him tell the Squire that "she
would take it very kind if he would let her off the six months' notice
for the land and premises she held--there were plenty to step into the
place at a much better rent."

"You're a fool," said the good-natured Steward; "and I'm very glad you
did not speak to that fellow Stirn instead of to me. You've been doing
extremely well here, and have the place, I may say, for nothing."

"Nothin' as to rent, sir, but a great deal as to feeling," said the
widow. "And now Lenny has gone to work with the foreign gentleman, I
should like to go and live near him."

"Ah, yes--I heard Lenny had taken himself off to the Casino--more fool
he; but, bless your heart, 'tis no distance--two miles or so. Can't he
come home every night after work?"

"No, sir," exclaimed the widow almost fiercely; "he shan't come home
here, to be called bad names and jeered at!--he whom my dead good man
was so fond and proud of. No, sir; we poor folks have our feelings, as I
said to Mrs. Dale, and as I will say to the Squire hisself. Not that I
don't thank him for all favors--he be a good gentleman if let alone; but
he says he won't come near us till Lenny goes and axes pardin. Pardin
for what, I should like to know? Poor lamb! I wish you could ha' seen
his nose, sir--as big as your two fists. Ax pardin! If the Squire had
had such a nose as that, I don't think it's pardin he'd been ha' axing.
But I let's the passion get the better of me--I humbly beg you'll excuse
it, sir. I'm no scollard, as poor Mark was, and Lenny would have been,
if the Lord had not visited us otherways. Therefore just get the Squire
to let me go as soon as may be; and as for the bit o' hay and what's on
the grounds and orchard, the new-comer will no doubt settle that."

The Steward, finding no eloquence of his could induce the widow to
relinquish her resolution, took her message to the Squire. Mr.
Hazeldean, who was indeed really offended at the boy's obstinate refusal
to make the _amende honorable_ to Randal Leslie, at first only bestowed
a hearty curse or two on the pride and ingratitude both of mother and
son. It may be supposed, however, that his second thoughts were more
gentle, since that evening, though he did not go himself to the widow,
he sent his "Harry." Now, though Harry was sometimes austere and
_brusque_ enough on her own account, and in such business as might
especially be transacted between herself and the cottagers, yet she
never appeared as the delegate of her lord except in the capacity of a
herald-of-peace and mediating angel. It was with good heart, too, that
she undertook this mission, since, as we have seen, both mother and son
were great favorites of hers. She entered the cottage with the
friendliest beam in her bright blue eye, and it was with the softest
tone of her frank cordial voice that she accosted the widow. But she was
no more successful than the Steward had been. The truth is, that I don't
believe the haughtiest duke in the three kingdoms is really so proud as
your plain English rural peasant, nor half so hard to propitiate and
deal with when his sense of dignity is ruffled. Nor are there many of my
own literary brethren (thin-skinned creatures though we are) so
sensitively alive to the Public Opinion, wisely despised by Dr.
Riccabocca, as the same peasant. He can endure a good deal of contumely
sometimes, it is true, from his superiors, (though, thank Heaven! _that_
he rarely meets with unjustly;) but to be looked down upon, and mocked,
and pointed at by his own equals--his own little world--cuts him to the
soul. And if you can succeed in breaking his pride, and destroying this
sensitiveness, then he is a lost being. He can never recover his
self-esteem, and you have chucked him half way--a stolid, inert, sullen
victim--to the perdition of the prison or the convict-ship.

Of this stuff was the nature both of the widow and her son. Had the
honey of Plato flowed from the tongue of Mrs. Hazeldean, it could not
have turned into sweetness the bitter spirit upon which it descended.
But Mrs. Hazeldean, though an excellent woman, was rather a bluff,
plain-spoken one--and, after all, she had some little feeling for the
son of a gentleman, and a decayed fallen gentleman, who, even by Lenny's
account, had been assailed without any intelligible provocation; nor
could she, with her strong common sense, attach all the importance which
Mrs. Fairfield did to the unmannerly impertinence of a few young cubs,
which she said truly, "would soon die away if no notice was taken of
it." The widow's mind was made up, and Mrs. Hazeldean departed--with
much chagrin and some displeasure.

Mrs. Fairfield, however, tacitly understood that the request she had
made was granted, and early one morning her door was found locked--the
key left at a neighbor's to be given to the Steward; and, on farther
inquiry, it was ascertained that her furniture and effects had been
removed by the errand-cart in the dead of the night. Lenny had succeeded
in finding a cottage, on the road-side, not far from the Casino; and
there, with a joyous face, he waited to welcome his mother to breakfast,
and show how he had spent the night in arranging her furniture.

"Parson!" cried the Squire, when all this news came upon him, as he was
walking arm-in-arm with Mr. Dale to inspect some proposed improvement in
the Alms-house, "this is all your fault. Why did not you go and talk to
that brute of a boy, and that dolt of a woman? You've got 'soft sawder
enough,' as Frank calls it in his new-fashioned slang."

"As if I had not talked myself hoarse to both!" said the Parson in a
tone of reproachful surprise at the accusation. "But it was in vain! O
Squire, if you had taken my advice about the stocks--_quieta non
movere_!"

"Bother!" said the Squire. "I suppose I am to be held up as a tyrant, a
Nero, a Richard the Third, or a Grand Inquisitor, merely for having
things smart and tidy! Stocks indeed!--your friend Rickeybockey said he
was never more comfortable in his life--quite enjoyed sitting there. And
what did not hurt Rickeybockey's dignity (a very gentlemanlike man he
is, when he pleases) ought to be no such great matter to Master Leonard
Fairfield. But 'tis no use talking! What's to be done now? The woman
must not starve; and I'm sure she can't live out of Rickeybockey's wages
to Lenny--(by the way, I hope he don't board him upon his and Jackeymo's
leavings: I hear they dine upon newts and sticklebacks--faugh!) I'll
tell you what, Parson, now I think of it--at the back of the cottage
which she has taken there are some fields of capital land just vacant.
Rickeybockey wants to have 'em, and sounded me as to the rent when he
was at the Hall. I only half promised him the refusal. And he must give
up four or five acres of the best land round the cottage to the
widow--just enough for her to manage--and she can keep a dairy. If she
want capital, I'll lend her some in your name--only don't tell Stirn;
and as for the rent--we'll talk of that when we see how she gets on,
thankless obstinate jade that she is! You see," added the Squire, as if
he felt there was some apology due for this generosity to an object whom
he professed to consider so ungrateful, "her husband was a faithful
servant, and so--I wish you would not stand there staring me out of
countenance, but go down to the woman at once, or Stirn will have let
the land to Rickeybockey, as sure as a gun. And hark ye, Dale, perhaps
you can contrive, if the woman is so cursedly stiff-backed, not to say
the land is mine, or that it is any favor I want to do her--or, in
short, manage it as you can for the best." Still even this charitable
message failed. The widow knew that the land was the Squire's, and worth
a good L3 an acre. "She thanked him humbly for that and all favors; but
she could not afford to buy cows, and she did not wish to be beholden
to any one for her living. And Lenny was well off at Mr.
Rickeybockey's, and coming on wonderfully in the garden way--and she did
not doubt she could get some washing; at all events, her haystack would
bring in a good bit of money, and she should do nicely, thank their
honors."

Nothing farther could be done in the direct way, but the remark about
the washing suggested some mode of indirectly benefiting the widow. And
a little time afterwards, the sole laundress in that immediate
neighborhood happening to die, a hint from the Squire obtained from the
landlady of the inn opposite the Casino such custom as she had to
bestow, which at times was not inconsiderable. And what with Lenny's
wages, (whatever that mysterious item might be,) the mother and son
contrived to live without exhibiting any of those physical signs of fast
and abstinence which Riccabocca and his valet gratuitously afforded to
the student in animal anatomy.


CHAPTER XIV.

Of all the wares and commodities in exchange and barter, wherein so
mainly consists the civilization of our modern world, there is not one
which is so carefully weighed--so accurately measured--so plumbed and
gauged--so doled and scraped--so poured out in _minima_ and balanced
with scruples--as that necessary of social commerce called "an apology!"
If the chemists were half so careful in vending their poisons, there
would be a notable diminution in the yearly average of victims to
arsenic and oxalic acid. But, alas, in the matter of apology, it is not
from the excess of the dose, but the timid, niggardly, miserly manner in
which it is dispensed, that poor humanity is hurried off to the Styx!
How many times does a life depend on the exact proportions of an
apology! Is it a hairbreadth too short to cover the scratch for which
you want it? Make your will--you are a dead man! A life do I say?--a
hecatomb of lives! How many wars would have been prevented, how many
thrones would be standing, dynasties flourishing--commonwealths brawling
round a _bema_, or fitting out galleys for corn and cotton--if an inch
or two more of apology had been added to the proffered ell! But then
that plagy, jealous, suspicious, old vinegar-faced Honor, and her
partner Pride--as penny-wise and pound-foolish a she-skinflint as
herself--have the monopoly of the article. And what with the time they
lose in adjusting their spectacles, hunting in the precise shelf for the
precise quality demanded, then (quality found) the haggling as to
quantum--considering whether it should be Apothecary's weight or
Avoirdupois, or English measure or Flemish--and, finally, the hullaboloo
they make if the customer is not perfectly satisfied with the monstrous
little he gets for his money,--I don't wonder, for my part, how one
loses temper and patience, and sends Pride, Honor, and Apology, all to
the devil. Aristophanes, in his "Comedy of _Peace_" insinuates a
beautiful allegory by only suffering that goddess, though in fact she is
his heroine, to appear as a mute. She takes care never to open her lips.
The shrewd Greek knew very well that she would cease to be Peace, if she
once began to chatter. Wherefore, O reader, if ever you find your pump
under the iron heel of another man's boot, heaven grant that you may
hold your tongue, and not make things past all endurance and forgiveness
by bawling out for an apology!


CHAPTER XV.

But the Squire and his son, Frank, were large-hearted generous creatures
in the article of apology, as in all things less skimpingly dealt out.
And seeing that Leonard Fairfield would offer no plaister to Randal
Leslie, they made amends for his stinginess by their own prodigality.
The Squire accompanied his son to Rood Hall, and none of the family
choosing to be at home, the Squire in his own hand, and from his own
head, indited and composed an epistle which might have satisfied all the
wounds which the dignity of the Leslies had ever received.

This letter of apology ended with a hearty request that Randall would
come and spend a few days with his son. Frank's epistle was to the same
purport, only more Etonian and less legible.

It was some days before Randall's replies to these epistles were
received. The replies bore the address of a village near London, and
stated that the writer was now reading with a tutor preparatory to
entrance at Oxford, and could not, therefore, accept the invitation
extended to him.

For the rest, Randall expressed himself with good sense, though not with
much generosity, he excused his participation in the vulgarity of such a
conflict by a bitter but short allusion to the obstinacy and ignorance
of the village boor; and did not do what you, my kind reader, certainly
would have done under similar circumstances--viz. intercede in behalf of
a brave and unfortunate antagonist. Most of us like a foe better after
we have fought him--that is, if we are the conquering party; this was
not the case with Randal Leslie. There, so far as the Etonian was
concerned, the matter rested. And the Squire, irritated that he could
not repair whatever wrong that young gentleman had sustained, no longer
felt a pang of regret as he passed by Mrs. Fairfield's deserted cottage.


CHAPTER XVI.

Lenny Fairfield continued to give great satisfaction to his new
employers, and to profit in many respects by the familiar kindness with
which he was treated. Riccabocca, who valued himself on penetrating into
character, had from the first seen that much stuff of no common quality
and texture was to be found in the disposition and mind of the English
village boy. On farther acquaintance, he perceived that, under a
child's innocent simplicity, there were the workings of an acuteness
that required but development and direction. He ascertained that the
pattern boy's progress at the village school proceeded from something
more than mechanical docility and readiness of comprehension. Lenny had
a keen thirst for knowledge, and through all the disadvantages of and
circumstance, there were the indications of that natural genius which
converts disadvantages themselves into stimulants. Still, with the germs
of good qualities lay the embryos of those which, difficult to separate,
and hard to destroy, often mar the produce of the soil. With a
remarkable and generous pride in self-repute, there was some
stubbornness; with great sensibility to kindness, there was also strong
reluctance to forgive affront.

This mixed nature in an uncultivated peasant's breast interested
Riccabocca, who, though long secluded from the commerce of mankind,
still looked upon man as the most various and entertaining volume which
philosophical research can explore. He soon accustomed the boy to the
tone of a conversation generally subtle and suggestive; and Lenny's
language and ideas became insensibly less rustic and more refined. Then
Riccabocca selected from his library, small as it was, books that,
though elementary, were of a higher cast than Lenny could have found
within his reach at Hazeldean. Riccabocca knew the English language
well, better in grammar, construction, and genius than many a not
ill-educated Englishman; for he had studied it with the minuteness with
which a scholar studies a dead language, and amidst his collection he
had many of the books which had formerly served him for that purpose.
These were the first works he had lent to Lenny. Meanwhile Jackeymo
imparted to the boy many secrets in practical gardening and minute
husbandry, for at that day farming in England (some favored counties and
estates excepted) was far below the nicety to which the art has been
immemorially carried in the north of Italy--where, indeed, you may
travel for miles and miles as through a series of market-gardens--so
that, all these things considered, Leonard Fairfield might be said to
have made a change for the better. Yet in truth, and looking below the
surface, that might be fair matter of doubt. For the same reason which
had induced the boy to fly his native village, he no longer repaired to
the church of Hazeldean. The old intimate intercourse between him and
the Parson became necessarily suspended, or bounded to an occasional
kindly visit from the father--visits which grew more rare, and less
familiar, as he found his former pupil in no want of his services, and
wholly deaf to his mild entreaties to forget and forgive the past, and
come at least to his old seat in the parish church. Lenny still went to
church--a church a long way off in another parish--but the sermons did
not do him the same good as Parson Dale's had done; and the clergyman,
who had his own flock to attend to, did not condescend, as Parson Dale
would have done, to explain what seemed obscure, and enforce what was
profitable, in private talk, with that stray lamb from another's fold.

Now I question much if all Dr. Riccabocca's sage maxims, though they
were often very moral, and generally very wise, served to expand the
peasant boy's native good qualities, and correct his bad, half so well
as the few simple words, not at all indebted to Machiavelli, which
Leonard had once reverently listened to when he stood by his father's
chair, yielded up for the moment to the good Parson, worthy to sit in
it; for Mr. Dale had a heart in which all the fatherless of the parish
found their place. Nor was this loss of tender, intimate, spiritual love
so counterbalanced by the greater facilities for purely intellectual
instruction, as modern enlightenment might presume. For, without
disputing the advantage of knowledge in a general way, knowledge, in
itself, is not friendly to content. Its tendency, of course, is to
increase the desires, to dissatisfy us with what is, in order to urge
progress to what may be; and, in that progress, what unnoticed martyrs
among the many must fall, baffled and crushed by the way! To how large a
number will be given desires they will never realize, dissatisfaction of
the lot from which they will never rise! _Allons!_ one is viewing the
dark side of the question. It is all the fault of that confounded
Riccabocca, who has already caused Lenny Fairfield to lean gloomily on
his spade, and, after looking round and seeing no one near him, groan
out querulously--

"And am I born to dig a potato ground?"

_Pardieu_, my friend Lenny, if you live to be seventy, and ride in your
carriage;--and by the help of a dinner-pill digest a spoonful of curry,
you may sigh to think what a relish there was in potatoes, roasted in
ashes after you had digged them out of that ground with your own stout
young hands. Dig on, Lenny Fairfield, dig on! Dr. Riccabocca will tell
you that there was once an illustrious personage[R] who made experience
of two very different occupations--one was ruling men, the other was
planting cabbages; he thought planting cabbages much the pleasanter of
the two!


CHAPTER XVII.

Dr. Riccabocca had secured Lenny Fairfield, and might therefore be
considered to have ridden his hobby in the great whirligig with
adroitness and success. But Miss Jemima was still driving round in her
car, bundling the reins, and flourishing the whip, without apparently
having got an inch nearer to the flying form of Dr. Riccabocca.

Indeed, that excellent and only too susceptible spinster, with all her
experience of the villany of man, had never conceived the wretch to be
so thoroughly beyond the reach of redemption as when Dr. Riccabocca took
his leave, and once more interred himself amidst the solitudes of the
Casino, without having made any formal renunciation of his criminal
celibacy. For some days she shut herself up in her own chamber, and
brooded with more than her usual gloomy satisfaction on the certainty of
the approaching crash. Indeed, many signs of that universal calamity
which, while the visit of Riccabocca lasted, she had permitted herself
to consider ambiguous, now became luminously apparent. Even the
newspaper, which during that credulous and happy period had given half a
column to births and marriages, now bore an ominously long catalogue of
deaths; so that it seemed as if the whole population had lost heart, and
had no chance of repairing its daily losses. The leading articles spoke,
with the obscurity of a Pythian, of an impending CRISIS. Monstrous
turnips sprouted out from the paragraphs devoted to general news. Cows
bore calves with two heads, whales were stranded in the Humber, showers
of frogs descended in the High-street of Cheltenham.

All these symptoms of the world's decrepitude and consummation, which by
the side of the fascinating Riccabocca might admit of some doubt is to
their origin and cause, now, conjoined with the worst of all, viz.--the
frightfully progressive wickedness of man--left to Miss Jemima no ray of
hope save that afforded by the reflection that she could contemplate the
wreck of matter without a single sentiment of regret.

Mrs. Dale, however, by no means shared the despondency of her fair
friend, and, having gained access to Miss Jemima's chamber, succeeded,
though not without difficulty, in her kindly attempts to cheer the
drooping spirits of that female philanthropist. Nor, in her benevolent
desire to speed the car of Miss Jemima to its hymenial goal, was Mrs.
Dale so cruel towards her male friend, Dr. Riccabocca, as she seemed to
her husband. For Mrs. Dale was a woman of shrewdness and penetration, as
most quick-tempered women are; and she knew that Miss Jemima was one of
those excellent young ladies who are likely to value a husband in
proportion to the difficulty of obtaining him. In fact, my readers of
both sexes must often have met, in the course of their experience, with
that peculiar sort of feminine disposition, which requires the warmth of
the conjugal hearth to develop all its native good qualities; nor is it
to be blamed over-much if, innocently aware of this tendency in its
nature, it turns towards what is best fitted for its growth and
improvement, by laws akin to those which make the sun-flower turn to the
sun or the willow to the stream. Ladies of this disposition, permanently
thwarted in their affectionate bias, gradually languish away into
intellectual inanition, or sprout out into those abnormal eccentricities
which are classed under the general name of "oddity" or "character."
But, once admitted to their proper soil, it is astonishing what
healthful improvement takes place--how the poor heart, before starved
and stinted of nourishment, throws out its suckers, and bursts into
bloom and fruit. And thus many a belle from whom the beaux have stood
aloof, only because the puppies think she could be had for the asking,
they see afterwards settled down into true wife and fond mother, with
amaze at their former disparagement, and a sigh at their blind hardness
of heart.

In all probability, Mrs. Dale took this view of the subject; and
certainly, in addition to all the hitherto dormant virtues which would
be awakened in Miss Jemima when fairly Mrs. Riccabocca, she counted
somewhat upon the mere worldly advantage which such a match would bestow
upon the exile. So respectable a connection with one of the oldest,
wealthiest and most popular families in the shire, would in itself give
him a position not to be despised by a poor stranger in the land; and
though the interest of Miss Jemima's dowry might not be much, regarded
in the light of English pounds, (not Milanese _lire_,) still it would
suffice to prevent that gradual process of dematerialization which the
lengthened diet upon minnows and sticklebacks had already made apparent
in the fine and slow-evanishing form of the philosopher.

Like all persons convinced of the expediency of a thing, Mrs. Dale saw
nothing wanting but opportunities to insure success. And that these
might be forthcoming, she not only renewed with greater frequency, and
more urgent instance than ever, her friendly invitations to Riccabocca
to drink tea and spend the evening, but she artfully so chafed the
Squire on his sore point of hospitality, that the doctor received weekly
a pressing solicitation to dine and sleep at the Hall.

At first the Italian pished and grunted, and said _Cospetto_, and _Per
Bacco_, and _Diavola_, and tried to creep out of so much proffered
courtesy. But, like all single gentlemen, he was a little under the
tyrannical influence of his faithful servant; and Jackeymo, though he
could bear starving as well as his master when necessary, still, when he
had the option, preferred roast beef and plum-pudding. Moreover, that
vain and incautious confidence of Riccabocca, touching the vast sum at
his command, and with no heavier drawback than that of so amiable a lady
as Miss Jemima--who had already shown him (Jackeymo) many little
delicate attentions--had greatly whetted the cupidity which was in the
servant's Italian nature? a cupidity the more keen because, long
debarred its legitimate exercise on his own mercenary interests, he
carried it all to the account of his master's!

Thus tempted by his enemy, and betrayed by his servant, the unfortunate
Riccabocca fell, though with eyes not unblinded, into the hospitable
snares extended for the destruction of his--celibacy! He went often to
the parsonage, often to the Hall, and by degrees the sweets of the
social domestic life, long denied him, began to exercise their
enervating charm upon the stoicism of our poor exile. Frank had now
returned to Eton. An unexpected invitation had carried off Captain
Higginbotham to pass a few weeks at Bath, with a distant relation, who
had lately returned from India, and who, as rich as Croesus, felt so
estranged and solitary in his native isle, that, when the Captain
"claimed kindred there," to his own amaze "he had his claims allowed;"
while a very protracted sitting of Parliament still delayed in London
the Squire's habitual visitors in the later summer; so that--a chasm
thus made in his society--Mr. Hazeldean welcomed with no hollow
cordiality the diversion or distraction he found in the foreigner's
companionship. Thus, with pleasure to all parties, and strong hopes to
the two female conspirators, the intimacy between the Casino and Hall
rapidly thickened; but still not a word resembling a distinct proposal
did Dr. Riccabocca breathe. And still, if such an idea obtruded itself
on his mind, it was chased therefrom with so determined a _Diavolo_,
that perhaps, if not the end of the world, at least the end of Miss
Jemima's tenure in it, might have approached, and seen her still Miss
Jemima, but for a certain letter with a foreign postmark that reached
the doctor one Tuesday morning.


CHAPTER XVIII.

The servant saw that something had gone wrong, and, under pretence of
syringing the orange trees, he lingered near his master, and peered
through the sunny leaves upon Riccabocca's melancholy brows.

The doctor sighed heavily. Nor did he, as was his wont, after some such
sigh, mechanically take up that dear comforter, the pipe. But though the
tobacco pouch lay by his side on the balustrade, and the pipe stood
against the wall between his knees, child-like lifting up its lips to
the customary caress--he heeded neither the one nor the other, but laid
the letter silently on his lap, and fixed his eyes upon the ground.

"It must be bad news indeed!" thought Jackeymo, and desisted from his
work. Approaching his master, he took up the pipe and the tobacco pouch,
and filled the bowl slowly, glancing all the while to that dark musing
face on which, when abandoned by the expression of intellectual
vivacity, or the exquisite smile of Italian courtesy, the deep downward
lines revealed the characters of sorrow. Jackeymo did not venture to
speak; but the continued silence of his master disturbed him much. He
laid that peculiar tinder which your smokers use upon the steel, and
struck the spark--still not a word, nor did Riccabocca stretch forth his
hand.

"I never knew him in this taking before," thought Jackeymo; and
delicately he insinuated the neck of the pipe into the nerveless fingers
of the hand that lay supine on those quiet knees--the pipe fell to the
ground.

Jackeymo crossed himself, and began praying to his sainted namesake with
great fervor.

The doctor rose slowly, and, as if with effort, he walked once or twice
to and fro the terrace; and then he halted abruptly, and said--

"Friend!"

"Blessed Monsignore San Giacomo, I knew thou wouldst hear me!" cried the
servant; and he raised his master's hand to his pipe, then abruptly
turned away and wiped his eyes. "Friend," repeated Riccabocca, and this
time with a tremulous emphasis, and in the softest tone of a voice never
wholly without the music of the sweet South, "I would talk to thee of my
child."----


CHAPTER XIX.

"The letter, then, relates to the Signorina. She is well?"

"Yes, she is well now. She is in our native Italy."

Jackeymo raised his eyes involuntarily towards the orange-trees, and the
morning breeze swept by and bore to him the odor of their blossoms.

"Those are sweet even here, with care," said he, pointing to the trees.
"I think I have said that before to the Padrone."

But Riccabocca was now looking again at the letter, and did not notice
either the gesture or the remark of his servant.

"My aunt is no more!" said he, after a pause.

"We will pray for her soul!" answered Jackeymo, solemnly. "But she was
very old, and had been a long time ailing. Let it not grieve the Padrone
too keenly, at that age, and with those infirmities, death comes as a
friend."

"Peace be to her dust!" returned the Italian. "If she had her faults, be
they now forgotten for ever; and in the hour of my danger and distress,
she sheltered my infant! That shelter is destroyed. This letter is from
the priest, her confessor. You know that she had nothing at her own
disposal to bequeath my child, and her property passes to the male
heir--mine enemy."

"Traitor!" muttered Jackeymo; and his right hand seemed to feel for the
weapon which the Italians of lower rank often openly wear in their
girdles.

"The priest," resumed Riccabocca, calmly, "has rightly judged in
removing my child as a guest from the house in which my enemy enters as
lord."

"And where is the Signorina?"

"With that poor priest. See, Giacomo--here, here--this is her
handwriting at the end of the letter--the first lines she ever yet
traced to me."

Jackeymo took off his hat, and looked reverently on the large characters
of a child's writing. But large as they were, they seemed indistinct,
for the paper was blistered with the child's tears, and on the place
where they had _not_ fallen, there was a round fresh moist stain of the
tear that had dropped from the lids of the father. Riccabocca
renewed,--"The priest recommends a convent."

"To the devil with the priest!" cried the servant; then crossing himself
rapidly, he added, "I did not mean that, Monsignore San
Giacomo--forgive me! But your excellency[S] does not think of making a
nun of his only child!"

"And yet why not?" said Riccabocca, mournfully; "what can I give her in
the world? Is the land of the stranger a better refuge than the home of
peace in her native clime?"

"In the land of the stranger beats her father's heart!"

"And if that beat were stilled, what then? Ill fares the life that a
single death can bereave of all. In a convent at least (and the priest's
influence can obtain her that asylum amongst her equals and amidst her
sex) she is safe from trial and penury--to her grave."

"Penury! Just see how rich we shall be when we take those fields at
Michaelmas."

"_Pazzie!_" (follies) said Riccabocca, listlessly. "Are these suns more
serene than ours, or the soil more fertile? Yet in our own Italy, saith
the proverb, 'he who sows land, reaps more care than corn.' It were
different," continued the father after a pause, and in a more irresolute
tone, "if I had some independence, however small, to count on--nay, if
among all my tribe of dainty relatives there were but one female who
would accompany Violante to the exile's hearth--Ishmael had his Hagar.
But how can we two rough-bearded men provide for all the nameless, wants
and cares of a frail female child? And she has been so delicately
reared--the woman-child needs the fostering hand and tender eye of a
woman."

"And with a word," said Jackeymo, resolutely, "the Padrone might secure
to his child all that he needs, to save her from the sepulchre of a
convent; and ere the autumn leaves fall, she might be sitting on his
knee. Padrone, do not think that you can conceal from me the truth, that
you love your child better than all things in the world--now the Patria
is as dead to you as the dust of your fathers--and your heart-strings
would crack with the effort to tear her from them, and consign her to a
convent. Padrone, never again to hear her voice--never again to see her
face! Those little arms that twined round your neck that dark night,
when we fled fast for life and freedom, and you said, as you felt their
clasp, 'Friend, all is not yet lost!'"

"Giacomo!" exclaimed the father, reproachfully, and his voice seemed to
choke him. Riccabocca turned away, and walked restlessly to and fro the
terrace; then, lifting his arms with a wild gesture as he still
continued his long irregular strides, he muttered, "Yes, heaven is my
witness that I could have borne reverse and banishment without a murmur,
had I permitted myself that young partner in exile and privation. Heaven
is my witness that, if I hesitate now, it is because I would not listen
to my own selfish heart. Yet never, never to see her again--my child!
And it was but as the infant that I beheld her! O friend, friend----"
(and, stopping short with a burst of uncontrollable emotion, he bowed
his head upon his servant's shoulder;) "thou knowest what I have endured
and suffered at my hearth, as in my country; the wrong, the perfidy,
the--the--" His voice again failed him; he clung to his servant's
breast, and his whole frame shook.

"But your child, the innocent one--I think now only of her!" faltered
Giacomo, struggling with his own sobs.

"True, only of her," replied the exile, raising his face--"only of her.
Put aside thy thoughts for thyself, friend--counsel me. If I were to
send for Violante, and if, transplanted to these keen airs, she drooped
and died--look, look--the priest says that she needs such tender care;
or if I myself were summoned from the world, to leave her in it alone,
friendless, homeless, breadless perhaps at the age of woman's sharpest
trial against temptation, would she not live to mourn the cruel egotism
that closed on her infant innocence the gates of the House of God?"

Giacomo was appalled by this appeal; and indeed Riccabocca had never
before thus reverently spoken of the cloister. In his hours of
philosophy, he was wont to sneer at monks and nuns, priesthood and
superstition. But now, in that hour of emotion, the Old Religion
reclaimed her empire; and the skeptical world-wise man, thinking only of
his child, spoke and felt with a child's simple faith.


CHAPTER XX.

"But again I say," murmured Jackeymo, scarce audibly, and after a long
silence, "if the Padrone would make up his mind--to marry!"

He expected that his master would start up in his customary indignation
at such a suggestion--nay, he might not have been sorry so to have
changed the current of feeling; but the poor Italian only winced
slightly, and mildly withdrawing himself from his servant's supporting
arm, again paced the terrace, but this time quietly and in silence. A
quarter of an hour thus passed. "Give me the pipe," said Dr. Riccabocca,
passing into the Belvidere.

Jackeymo again struck the spark, and, wonderfully relieved at the
Padrone's return to his usual adviser, mentally besought his sainted
namesake to bestow a double portion of soothing wisdom on the benignant
influences of the weed.


CHAPTER XXI.

Dr. Riccabocca had been some little time in the solitude of the
Belvidere, when Lenny Fairfield, not knowing that his employer was
therein, entered to lay down a book which the Doctor had lent him, with
injunctions to leave on a certain table when done with. Riccabocca
looked up at the sound of the young peasant's step.

"I beg your honor's pardon--I did not know----"

"Never mind; lay the book there. I wish to speak with you. You look
well, my child; this air agrees with you as well as that of Hazeldean?"

"Oh yes, sir."

"Yet it is higher ground, more exposed?"

"That can hardly be, sir," said Lenny; "there are many plants grow here
which don't flourish at the Squire's. The hill yonder keeps off the east
wind, and the place lays to the south."

"Lies, not _lays_, Lenny. What are the principal complaints in these
parts?"

"Eh, sir?"

"I mean what maladies, what diseases?"

"I never heard tell of any, sir, except the rheumatism."

"No low fevers?--no consumption?"

"Never heard of them, sir."

Riccabocca drew a long breath, as if relieved.

"That seems a very kind family at the Hall."

"I have nothing to say against it," answered Lenny, bluntly. "I have not
been treated justly. But as that book says, sir, 'It is not every one
who comes into the world with a silver spoon in his mouth.'"

Little thought the Doctor that those wise maxims may leave sore thoughts
behind them. He was too occupied with the subject most at his own heart
to think then of what was in Lenny Fairfield's.

"Yes; a kind, English, domestic family. Did you see much of Miss
Hazeldean?"

"Not so much as of the Lady."

"Is she liked in the village, think you?"

"Miss Jemima? Yes. She never did harm. Her little dog bit me once--she
did not ask me to beg its pardon, she asked mine! She's a very nice
young lady; the girls say she's very affable; and," added Lenny with a
smile, "there are always more weddings going on when she's down at the
Hall."

"Oh!" said Riccabocca. Then, after a long whiff, "Did you ever see her
play with the little children? Is she fond of children, do you think?"

"Lord, sir, you guess every thing! She's never so pleased as when she's
playing with the babies."

"Humph!" grunted Riccabocca. "Babies--well, that's womanlike. I don't
mean exactly babies, but when they're older--little girls."

"Indeed, sir, I dare say; but," said Lenny, primly, "I never as yet kept
company with the little girls."

"Quite right, Lenny; be equally discreet all your life. Mrs. Dale is
very intimate with Miss Hazeldean--more than with the Squire's lady. Why
is that, think you?"

"Well, sir," said Leonard, shrewdly, "Mrs. Dale has her little tempers,
though she's a very good lady; and Madam Hazeldean is rather high, and
has a spirit. But Miss Jemima is so soft: any one could live with Miss
Jemima, as Joe and the servants say at the Hall."

"Indeed! Get my hat out of the parlor, and--just bring a clothesbrush,
Lenny. A fine sunny day for a walk."

After this most mean and dishonorable inquisition into the character and
popular repute of Miss Hazeldean, Signore Riccabocca seemed as much
cheered up and elated as if he had committed some very noble action; and
he walked forth in the direction of the Hall with a far lighter and
livelier step than that with which he had paced the terrace.

"Monsignore San Giacomo, by thy help and the pipe's, the Padrone shall
have his child!" muttered the servant, looking up from the garden.


CHAPTER XXII.

Yet Dr. Riccabocca was not rash. The man who wants his wedding-garment
to fit him must allow plenty of time for the measure. But, from that
day, the Italian notably changed his manner towards Miss Hazeldean. He
ceased that profusion of compliment in which he had hitherto carried off
in safety all serious meaning. For indeed the Doctor considered that
compliments, to a single gentleman, were what the inky liquid it
dispenses is to the cuttle-fish, that by obscuring the water sails away
from its enemy. Neither did he, as before, avoid prolonged conversations
with that young lady, and contrive to escape from all solitary rambles
by her side. On the contrary, he now sought every occasion to be in her
society; and, entirely dropping the language of gallantry, he assumed
something of the earnest tone of friendship. He bent down his intellect
to examine and plumb her own. To use a very homely simile, he blew away
that froth which there is on the surface of mere acquaintanceships,
especially with the opposite sex; and which, while it lasts, scarce
allows you to distinguish between small beer and double X. Apparently
Dr. Riccabocca was satisfied with his scrutiny--at all events, under
that froth there was no taste of bitter. The Italian might not find any
great strength of intellect in Miss Jemima, but he found that,
disentangled from many little whims and foibles--which he had himself
the sense to perceive were harmless enough if they lasted, and not so
absolutely constitutional but what they might be removed by a tender
hand--Miss Hazeldean had quite enough sense to comprehend the plain
duties of married life; and if the sense could fail, it found a
substitute in good old homely English principles and the instincts of
amiable kindly feelings.

I know not how it is, but your very clever man never seems to care so
much as your less gifted mortals for cleverness in his helpmate. Your
scholars, and poets, and ministers of state, are more often than not
found assorted with exceedingly humdrum good sort of women, and
apparently like them all the better for their deficiencies. Just see how
happily Racine lived with his wife, and what an angel he thought her,
and yet she had never read his plays. Certainly Goethe never troubled
the lady who called him "Mr. Privy Councillor" with whims about
'monads,' and speculations on 'color,' nor those stiff metaphysical
problems on which one breaks one's shins in the Second Part of the
Faust. Probably it may be that such great geniuses--knowing that, as
compared with themselves, there is little difference between your clever
woman and your humdrum woman--merge at once all minor distinctions,
relinquish all attempts that could not but prove unsatisfactory, at
sympathy in hard intellectual pursuits, and are quite satisfied to
establish that tie which, after all, best resists wear and tear--viz.
the tough household bond between one human heart and another.

At all events, this, I suspect, was the reasoning of Dr. Riccabocca,
when one morning, after a long walk with Miss Hazeldean, he muttered to
himself--

         "Duro con duro
    Non fece mai buon muro."

Which may bear the paraphrase, "Bricks without mortar would make a very
bad wall." There was quite enough in Miss Jemima's disposition to make
excellent mortar: the Doctor took the bricks to himself.

When his examination was concluded, our philosopher symbolically evinced
the result he had arrived at by a very simple proceeding on his
part--which would have puzzled you greatly if you had not paused, and
meditated thereon, till you saw all that it implied. _Dr. Riccabocca
took off his spectacles!_ He wiped them carefully, put them into their
shagreen case, and locked them in his bureau:--that is to say, he left
off wearing his spectacles.

You will observe that there was a wonderful depth of meaning in that
critical symptom, whether it be regarded as a sign outward, positive,
and explicit, or a sign metaphysical, mystical, and esoteric. For, as to
the last--it denoted that the task of the spectacles was over; that,
when a philosopher has made up his mind to marry, it is better
henceforth to be short-sighted--nay, even somewhat purblind--than to be
always scrutinizing the domestic felicity to which he is about to resign
himself, through a pair of cold, unillusory barnacles. And for the
things beyond the hearth, if he cannot see without spectacles, is he not
about to ally to his own defective vision a good sharp pair of eyes,
never at fault where his interests are concerned? On the other hand,
regarded positively, categorically, and explicitly, Dr. Riccabocca, by
laying aside those spectacles, signified that he was about to commence
that happy initiation of courtship, when every man, be he ever so much a
philosopher, wishes to look as young and as handsome as time and nature
will allow. Vain task to speed the soft language of the eyes through the
medium of those glassy interpreters! I remember, for my own part, that
once, on a visit to Adelaide, I was in great danger of falling in
love--with a young lady, too, who would have brought me a very good
fortune--when she suddenly produced from her reticule a very neat pair
of No. 4, set in tortoise-shell, and, fixing upon me their Gorgon gaze,
froze the astonished Cupid into stone! And I hold it a great proof of
the wisdom of Riccabocca, and of his vast experience in mankind, that he
was not above the consideration of what your pseudo sages would have
regarded as foppish and ridiculous trifles. It argued all the better for
that happiness which is our being's end and aim, that, in condescending
to play the lover, he put those unbecoming petrifiers under lock and
key.

And certainly, now the spectacles were abandoned, it was impossible to
deny that the Italian had remarkably handsome eyes. Even through the
spectacles, or lifted a little above them, they were always bright and
expressive; but without those adjuncts, the blaze was softer and more
tempered: they had that look which the French call _veloute_, or
velvety; and he appeared altogether ten years younger. If our Ulysses,
thus rejuvinated by his Minerva, has not fully made up his mind to make
a Penelope of Miss Jemima, all I can say is, that he is worse than
Polyphemus, who was only an Anthropophagos;----

He preys upon the weaker sex, and is a Gynopophagite!


CHAPTER XXIII.

"And you commission me, then, to speak to our dear Jemima?" said Mrs.
Dale, joyfully, and without any bitterness whatever in that "dear."

_Dr. Riccabocca._--"Nay, before speaking to Miss Hazeldean, it would
surely be proper to know how far my addresses would be acceptable to the
family."

_Mrs. Dale._--"Ah!"

_Dr. Riccabocca._--"The Squire is of course the head of the family."

_Mrs. Dale_ (absent and _distrait_.)--"The Squire--yes, very true--quite
proper." (Then looking up, and with _naivete_)--"Can you believe me, I
never thought of the Squire. And he is such an odd man, and has so many
English prejudices, that really--dear me, how vexatious that it should
never once have occurred to me that Mr. Hazeldean had a voice in the
matter! Indeed, the relationship is so distant--it is not like being her
father; and Jemima is of age, and can do as she pleases; and--but, as
you say, it is quite proper that he should be consulted as the head of
the family."

_Dr. Riccabocca._--"And do you think that the Squire of Hazeldean might
reject my alliance! Pshaw! that's a grand word, indeed;--I mean, that he
might object very reasonably to his cousin's marriage with a foreigner,
of whom he can know nothing, except that which in all countries is
disreputable, and is said in this to be criminal--poverty."

_Mrs. Dale_ (kindly.)--"You misjudge us poor English people, and you
wrong the Squire, Heaven bless him! for we were poor enough when he
singled out my husband from a hundred for the minister of his parish,
for his neighbor and his friend. I will speak to him fearlessly----"

_Dr. Riccabocca._--"And frankly. And now I have used that word, let me
go on with the confession which your kindly readiness, my fair friend,
somewhat interrupted. I said that if I might presume to think my
addresses would be acceptable to Miss Hazeldean and her family, I was
too sensible of her amiable qualities not to--not to--"

_Mrs. Dale_ (with demure archness.)--"Not to be the happiest of
men--that's the customary English phrase, Doctor."

_Riccabocca_ (gallantly.)--"There cannot be a better. But," continued
he, seriously, "I wish it first to be understood that I have--been
married before."

_Mrs. Dale_ (astonished.)--"Married before!"

_Riccabocca._--"And that I have an only child, dear to me--inexpressibly
dear. That child, a daughter, has hitherto lived abroad; circumstances
now render it desirable that she should make her home with me. And I own
fairly that nothing has so attached me to Miss Hazeldean, nor so induced
my desire for our matrimonial connection, as my belief that she has the
heart and the temper to become a kind mother to my little one."

_Mrs. Dale_ (with feeling and warmth.)--"You judge her rightly there."

_Riccabocca._--"Now, in pecuniary matters, as you may conjecture from my
mode of life, I have nothing to offer to Miss Hazeldean correspondent
with her own fortune, whatever that may be!"

_Mrs. Dale._--"That difficulty is obviated by settling Miss Hazeldean's
fortune on herself, which is customary in such cases."

Dr. Riccabocca's face lengthened. "And my child, then?" said he,
feelingly. There was something in that appeal so alien from all sordid
and merely personal mercenary motives, that Mrs. Dale could not have had
the heart to make the very rational suggestion--"But that child is not
Jemima's, and you may have children by her."

She was touched, and replied, hesitatingly--"But, from what you and
Jemima may jointly possess, you can save something annually--you can
insure your life for your child. We did so when our poor child whom we
lost was born," (the tears rushed into Mrs. Dale's eyes;) "and I fear
that Charles still insures his life for my sake, though Heaven knows
that--that.----"

The tears burst out. That little heart, quick and petulant though it
was, had not a fibre of the elastic muscular tissues which are
mercifully bestowed on the hearts of predestined widows. Dr. Riccabocca
could not pursue the subject of life insurances further. But the
idea--which had never occurred to the foreigner before, though so
familiar to us English people when only possessed of a life
income--pleased him greatly. I will do him the justice to say, that he
preferred it to the thought of actually appropriating to himself and to
his child a portion of Miss Hazeldean's dower.

Shortly afterwards he took his leave, and Mrs. Dale hastened to seek her
husband in his study, inform him of the success of her matrimonial
scheme, and consult him as to the chance of the Squire's acquiescence
therein. "You see," said she, hesitatingly, "though the Squire might be
glad to see Jemima married to some Englishman, yet, if he asks who and
what is this Dr. Riccabocca, how am I to answer him?"

"You should have thought of that before," said Mr. Dale, with unwonted
asperity; "and, indeed, if I had ever believed any thing serious could
come out of what seemed to me so absurd, I should long since have
requested you not to interfere in such matters. Good heavens!" continued
the Parson, changing color, "if we should have assisted, underhand as it
were, to introduce into the family of a man to whom we owe so much, a
connection that he would dislike! how base we should be!--how
ungrateful!"

Poor Mrs. Dale was frightened by this speech, and still more by her
husband's consternation and displeasure. To do Mrs. Dale justice,
whenever her mild partner was really either grieved or offended, her
little temper vanished--she became as meek as a lamb. As soon as she
recovered the first shock she experienced, she hastened to dissipate the
Parson's apprehensions. She assured him that she was convinced that, if
the Squire disapproved of Riccabocca's pretensions, the Italian would
withdraw them at once, and Mrs. Hazeldean would never know of his
proposals. Therefore, in that case, no harm would be done.

This assurance coincided with Mr. Dale's convictions as to Riccabocca's
scruples on the point of honor, tended much to compose the good man; and
if he did not, as my reader of the gentler sex would expect from him,
feel alarm lest Miss Jemima's affections should have been irretrievably
engaged, and her happiness thus put in jeopardy by the Squire's refusal,
it was not that the Parson wanted tenderness of heart, but experience in
woman-kind; and he believed, very erroneously, that Miss Jemima
Hazeldean was not one upon whom a disappointment of that kind would
produce a lasting impression. Therefore Mr. Dale, after a pause of
consideration, said kindly----

"Well, don't vex yourself--and I was to blame quite as much as you. But,
indeed, I should have thought it easier for the Squire to have
transplanted one of his tall cedars into his kitchen-garden, than for
you to inveigle Dr. Riccabocca into matrimonial intentions. But a man
who could voluntarily put himself into the parish stocks for the sake of
experiment, must be capable of any thing! However, I think it better
that I, rather than yourself, should speak to the Squire, and I will go
at once."


CHAPTER XXIV.

The Parson put on the shovel hat, which--conjoined with other details in
his dress peculiarly clerical, and already, even then, beginning to be
out of fashion with churchmen--had served to fix upon him, emphatically,
the dignified but antiquated style and cognomen of "Parson;" and took
his way towards the Home Farm, at which he expected to find the Squire.
But he had scarcely entered upon the village green when he beheld Mr.
Hazeldean, leaning both hands on his stick, and gazing intently upon the
parish stocks. Now, sorry am I to say that, ever since the Hegira of
Lenny and his mother, the anti-stockian and revolutionary spirit in
Hazeldean, which the memorable homily of our Parson had awhile averted
or suspended, had broken forth afresh. For though, while Lenny was
present to be moved and jeered at, there had been no pity for him, yet
no sooner was he removed from the scene of trial, than a universal
compassion for the barbarous usage he had received produced what is
called "the reaction of public opinion." Not that those who had mowed
and jeered repented them of their mockery, or considered themselves in
the slightest degree the cause of his expatriation. No; they, with the
rest of the villagers, laid all the blame upon the stocks. It was not to
be expected that a lad of such exemplary character could be thrust into
that place of ignominy, and not be sensible of the affront. And who, in
the whole village, was safe, if such goings-on and puttings-in were to
be tolerated in silence, and at the expense of the very best and
quietest lad the village had ever known? Thus, a few days after the
widow's departure, the stocks was again the object of midnight
desecration: it was bedaubed and bescratched--it was hacked and
hewed--it was scrawled all over with pithy lamentations for Lenny, and
laconic execrations for tyrants. Night after night new inscriptions
appeared, testifying the sarcastic wit and the vindictive sentiment of
the parish. And perhaps the stocks themselves were only spared from axe
and bonfire by the convenience they afforded to the malice of the
disaffected: they became the Pasquin of Hazeldean.

As disaffection naturally produces a correspondent vigor in authority,
so affairs had been lately administered with greater severity than had
been hitherto wont in the easy rule of the Squire and his predecessors.
Suspected persons were naturally marked out by Mr. Stirn, and reported
to his employer, who, too proud or too pained to charge them openly with
ingratitude, at first only passed them by in his walks with a silent and
stiff inclination of his head; and afterwards gradually yielding to the
baleful influence of Stirn, the Squire grumbled forth that "he did not
see why he should be always putting himself out of his way to show
kindness to those who made such a return. There ought to be a difference
between the good and the bad." Encouraged by this admission, Stirn had
conducted himself towards the suspected parties, and their whole kith
and kin, with the iron-handed justice that belonged to his character.
For some, habitual donations of milk from the dairy, and vegetables from
the gardens, were surlily suspended: others were informed that their
pigs were always trespassing on the woods in search of acorns; or that
they were violating the Game Laws in keeping lurchers. A beer-house,
popular in the neighborhood, but of late resorted to over-much by the
grievance-mongers, (and no wonder, since they had become the popular
party,) was threatened with an application to the magistrates for the
withdrawal of its license. Sundry old women, whose grandsons were
notoriously ill-disposed towards the stocks, were interdicted from
gathering dead sticks under the avenues, on pretence that they broke
down the live boughs; and, what was more obnoxious to the younger
members of the parish than most other retaliatory measures, three
chestnut trees, one walnut, and two cherry trees, standing at the bottom
of the park, and which had, from time immemorial, been given up to the
youth of Hazeldean, were now solemnly placed under the general defence
of "private property." And the crier had announced that, henceforth, all
depredators on the fruit trees in Copse Hollow would be punished with
the utmost rigor of the law. Stirn, indeed, recommended much more
stringent proceedings than all these indications of a change of policy,
which, he averred, would soon bring the parish to its senses--such as
discontinuing many little jobs of unprofitable work that employed the
surplus labor of the village. But there the Squire, falling into the
department, and under the benigner influence of his Harry, was as yet
not properly hardened. When it came to a question that affected the
absolute quantity of loaves to be consumed by the graceless mouths that
fed upon him, the milk of human kindness--with which Providence has so
bountifully supplied that class of the mammalia called the "Bucolic,"
and of which our Squire had an extra "yield"--burst forth, and washed
away all the indignation of the harsher Adam.

Still your policy of half measures, which irritates without crushing its
victims, which flaps an exasperated wasp-nest with a silk pocket
handkerchief, instead of blowing it up with a match and train, is rarely
successful; and, after three or four other and much guiltier victims
than Lenny had been incarcerated in the stocks, the parish of Hazeldean
was ripe for any enormity. Pestilent jacobinical tracts, conceived and
composed in the sinks of manufacturing towns--found their way into the
popular beer-house--heaven knows how, though the Tinker was suspected of
being the disseminator by all but Stirn, who still, in a whisper,
accused the Papishers. And, finally, there appeared amongst the other
graphic embellishments which the poor stocks had received, the rude
_gravure_ of a gentleman in a broad-brimmed hat and top-boots, suspended
from a gibbet, with the inscription beneath--"A warnin to hall
tirans--mind your hi!--sighnde Captins Traw."

It was upon this significant and emblematic portraiture that the Squire
was gazing when the parson joined him.

"Well, Parson," said Mr. Hazeldean, with a smile which he meant to be
pleasant and easy, but which was exceedingly bitter and grim, "I wish
you joy of your flock--you see they have just hanged me in effigy!"

The Parson stared, and, though greatly shocked, smothered his emotions;
and attempted, with the wisdom of the serpent and the mildness of the
dove, to find another original for the effigy.

"It is very bad," quoth he, "but not so bad as all that, Squire; that's
not the shape of your hat. It is evidently meant for Mr. Stirn."

"Do you think so?" said the Squire softened. "Yet the top-boots--Stirn
never wears top-boots."

"No more do you--except in hunting. If you look again, those are not
tops--they are leggings--Stirn wears leggings. Besides, that flourish,
which is meant for a nose, is a kind of a hook like Stirn's; whereas
your nose--though by no means a snub--rather turns up than not, as the
Apollo's does, according to the plaster cast in Riccabocca's parlor."

"Poor Stirn!" said the Squire, in a tone that evinced complacency, not
unmingled with compassion, "that's what a man gets in this world by
being a faithful servant, and doing his duty with zeal for his employer.
But you see that things have come to a strange pass, and the question
now is, what course to pursue. The miscreants hitherto have defied all
vigilance, and Stirn recommends the employment of a regular nightwatch
with a lanthorn and bludgeon."

"That may protect the stocks certainly; but will it keep those
detestable tracts out of the beer-house?"

"We shall shut the beer-house up at the next sessions."

"The tracts will break out elsewhere--the humor's in the blood!"

"I've half a mind to run off to Brighton or Leamington--good hunting at
Leamington--for a year, just to let the rogues see how they can get on
without me!"

The Squire's lip trembled.

"My dear Mr. Hazeldean," said the Parson, taking his friend's hand, "I
don't want to parade my superior wisdom; but if you had taken my advice,
_quieta non movere_. Was there ever a parish so peaceable as this, or a
country-gentleman so beloved as you were before you undertook the task
which has dethroned kings and ruined states--that of wantonly meddling
with antiquity, whether for the purpose of uncalled-for repairs or the
revival of obsolete uses."

At this rebuke, the Squire did not manifest his constitutional
tendencies to choler; but he replied almost meekly, "If it were to do
again, faith, I would leave the parish to the enjoyment of the shabbiest
pair of stocks that ever disgraced a village. Certainly I meant it for
the best--an ornament to the green; however, now they are rebuilt, the
stocks must be supported. Will Hazeldean is not the man to give way to a
set of thankless rapscallions."

"I think," said the Parson, "that you will allow that the House of
Tudor, whatever its faults, was a determined resolute dynasty
enough--high-hearted and strong-headed. A Tudor would never have fallen
into the same calamities as the poor Stuart did!"

"What the plague has the House of Tudor got to do with my stocks?"

"A great deal. Henry the VIII. found a subsidy so unpopular that he gave
it up; and the people, in return, allowed him to cut off as many heads
as he pleased, besides those in his own family. Good Queen Bess, who, I
know, is your idol in history----"

"To be sure! she knighted my ancestor at Tilbury Fort."

"Good Queen Bess struggled hard to maintain a certain monopoly; she saw
it would not do, and she surrendered it with that frank heartiness which
becomes a sovereign, and makes surrender a grace."

"Ha! and you would have me give up the stocks?"

"I would much rather they had stayed as they were, before you touched
them; but, as it is, if you could find a good plausible pretext--and
there is an excellent one at hand;--the sternest kings open prisons, and
grant favors, upon joyful occasions. Now a marriage in the royal family
is of course a joyful occasion!--and so it should be in that of the King
of Hazeldean." Admire that artful turn in the Parson's eloquence!--it
was worthy of Riccabocca himself. Indeed, Mr. Dale had profited much by
his companionship with that Machiavellian intellect.

"A marriage--yes; but Frank has only just got into long tails!"

"I did not allude to Frank, but to your cousin Jemima!"


CHAPTER XXV.

The Squire staggered as if the breath had been knocked out of him, and,
for want of a better seat, sat down on the stocks.

All the female heads in the neighboring cottages peered, themselves
unseen, through the casements. What could the Squire be about?--what new
mischief did he meditate? Did he mean to fortify the stocks? Old Gaffer
Solomons, who had an indefinite idea of the lawful power of squires, and
who had been for the last ten minutes at watch on his threshold, shook
his head and said--"Them as a cut out the mon, a-hanging, as a put it in
the Squire's head!"

"Put what?" asked his granddaughter.

"The gallus!" answered Solomons--"he be a-goin' to have it hung from the
great elm-tree. And the Parson, good mon, is a-quoting Scripter agin
it--you see, he's a taking off his gloves, and a putting his two han's
togither, as he do when he pray for the sick, Jeany."

That description of the Parson's mien and manner, which, with his usual
niceness of observation, Gaffer Solomons thus sketched off, will convey
to you some idea of the earnestness with which the Parson pleaded the
cause he had undertaken to advocate. He dwelt much upon the sense of
propriety which the foreigner had evinced in requesting that the Squire
might be consulted before any formal communication to his cousin; and he
repeated Mrs. Dale's assurance, that such were Riccabocca's high
standard of honor and belief in the sacred rights of hospitality, that,
if the Squire withheld his consent to his proposals, the Parson was
convinced that the Italian would instantly retract them. Now,
considering that Miss Hazeldean was, to say the least, come to years of
discretion, and the Squire had long since placed her property entirely
at her own disposal, Mr. Hazeldean was forced to acquiesce in the
Parson's corollary remark, "That this was a delicacy which could not be
expected from every English pretender to the lady's hand." Seeing that
he had so far cleared ground, the Parson went on to intimate, though
with great tact, that, since Miss Jemima would probably marry sooner or
later, (and, indeed, that the Squire could not wish to prevent her,) it
might be better for all parties concerned that it should be with some
one who, though a foreigner, was settled in the neighborhood, and of
whose character what was known was certainly favorable, than run the
hazard of her being married for her money by some adventurer or Irish
fortune-hunter at the watering-places she yearly visited. Then he
touched lightly on Riccabocca's agreeable and companionable qualities;
and, concluded with a skilful peroration upon the excellent occasion the
wedding would afford to reconcile Hall and parish, by making a voluntary
holocaust of the stocks.

As he concluded, the Squire's brow, before thoughtful, though not
sullen, cleared up benignly. To say truth, the Squire was dying to get
rid of the stocks, if he could but do so handsomely and with dignity;
and if all the stars in the astrological horoscope had conjoined
together to give Miss Jemima "assurance of a husband," they could not so
have served her with the Squire, as that conjunction between the altar
and the stocks which the Parson had effected!

Accordingly, when Mr. Dale had come to an end, the Squire replied with
great placidity and good sense, "That Mr. Rickeybockey had behaved very
much like a gentleman, and that he was very much obliged to him; that he
(the Squire) had no right to interfere in the matter, farther than with
his advice; that Jemima was old enough to choose for herself, and that,
as the Parson had implied, after all, she might go farther and fare
worse--indeed, the farther she went, (that is, the longer she waited,)
the worse she was likely to fare. I own, for my part," continued the
Squire, "that, though I like Rickeybockey very much, I never suspected
that Jemima was caught with his long face; but there's no accounting for
tastes. My Harry, indeed, was more shrewd, and gave me many a hint, for
which I only laughed at her. Still I ought to have thought it looked
queer when Mounseer took to disguising himself by leaving off his
glasses, ha--ha! I wonder what Harry will say; let's go and talk to
her."

The Parson, rejoiced at this easy way of taking the matter, hooked his
arm into the Squire's, and they walked amicably towards the Hall. But on
coming first into the gardens, they found Mrs. Hazeldean herself,
clipping dead leaves or fading flowers from her rose-trees. The Squire
stole slily behind her, and startled her in her turn by putting his arm
round her waist, and saluting her smooth cheek with one of his hearty
kisses; which, by the way, from some association of ideas, was a
conjugal freedom that he usually indulged whenever a wedding was going
on in the village.

"Fie, William!" said Mrs. Hazeldean coyly, and blushing as she saw the
Parson, "Well, who's going to be married now?"

"Lord, was there ever such a woman?--she's guessed it!" cried the Squire
in great admiration. "Tell her all about it, Parson."

The Parson obeyed.

Mrs. Hazeldean, as the reader may suppose, showed much less surprise
than her husband had done; but she took the news graciously, and made
much the same answer as that which had occurred to the Squire, only with
somewhat more qualification and reserve. "Signor Riccabocca had behaved
very handsomely; and though a daughter of the Hazeldeans of Hazeldean
might expect a much better marriage in a worldly point of view, yet as
the lady in question had deferred finding one so long, it would be
equally idle and impertinent now to quarrel with her choice--if indeed
she should decide on accepting Signor Riccabocca. As for fortune, that
was a consideration for the two contracting parties. Still, it ought to
be pointed out to Miss Jemima that the interest of her fortune would
afford but a very small income. That Dr. Riccabocca was a widower was
another matter for deliberation; and it seemed rather suspicious that he
should have been hitherto so close upon all matters connected with his
former life. Certainly his manners were in his favor, and as long as he
was merely an acquaintance, and at most a tenant, no one had a right to
institute inquiries of a strictly private nature; but that, when he was
about to marry a Hazeldean of Hazeldean, it became the Squire at least
to know a little more about him--who and what he was. Why did he leave
his own country? English people went abroad to save; no foreigner would
choose England as a country in which to save money! She supposed that a
foreign doctor was no very great things; probably he had been a
professor in some Italian university. At all events, if the Squire
interfered at all, it was on such points that he should request
information.

"My dear madam," said the Parson, "what you say is extremely just. As to
the causes which have induced our friend to expatriate himself, I think
we need not look far for them. He is evidently one of the many Italian
refugees whom political disturbances have driven to our shore, whose
boast is to receive all exiles of whatever party. For his respectability
of birth and family he certainly ought to obtain some vouchers. And if
that be the only objection, I trust we may soon congratulate Miss
Hazeldean on a marriage with a man who, though certainly very poor, has
borne privations without a murmur; has preferred all hardships to debt;
has scorned to attempt betraying her into any clandestine connection;
who, in short, has shown himself so upright and honest, that I hope my
dear Mr. Hazeldean will forgive him if he is only a Doctor--probably of
Laws--and not, as most foreigners pretend to be, a marquis, or a baron
at least."

"As to that," cried the Squire, "'tis the best think I know about
Rickeybockey, that he don't attempts to humbug us by any such foreign
trumpery. Thank heaven, the Hazeldeans of Hazeldean were never
turf-hunters and title-mongers; and if I never ran after an English
lord, I should certainly be devilishly ashamed of a brother-in-law whom
I was forced to call markee or count! I should feel sure he was a
courier, or runaway valley-de-sham. Turn up your nose at a doctor,
indeed, Harry!--pshaw, good English style that! Doctor! my aunt married
a Doctor of Divinity--excellent man--wore a wig, and was made a dean! So
long as Rickeybockey is not a doctor of physic, I don't care a button.
If he's _that_, indeed, it would be suspicious; because, you see, those
foreign doctors of physic are quacks, and tell fortunes, and go about on
a stage with a Merry-Andrew."

"Lord, Hazeldean! where on earth did you pick up that idea?" said Harry,
laughing.

"Pick it up!--why, I saw a fellow myself at the cattle fair last
year--when I was buying short-horns--with a red waistcoat and a cocked
hat, a little like the Parson's shovel. He called himself Doctor
Phoscophornio--wore a white wig and sold pills! The Merry-Andrew was the
funniest creature--in salmon- tights--turned head over heels, and
said he came from Timbuctoo. No, no; if Rickeybockey's a physic Doctor,
we shall have Jemima in a pink tinsel dress, tramping about the country
in a caravan!"

At this notion, both the Squire and his wife laughed so heartily that
the Parson felt the thing was settled, and slipped away, with the
intention of making his report to Riccabocca.


CHAPTER XXVI.

It was with a slight disturbance of his ordinary suave and well-bred
equanimity that the Italian received the information, that he need
apprehend no obstacle to his suit from the insular prejudices or the
worldly views of the lady's family. Not that he was mean and cowardly
enough to recoil from the near and unclouded prospect of that felicity
which he had left off his glasses to behold with unblinking naked
eyes:--no, there his mind was made up; but he had met with very little
kindness in life, and he was touched not only by the interest in his
welfare testified by a heretical priest, but by the generosity with
which he was admitted into a well-born and wealthy family, despite his
notorious poverty and his foreign descent. He conceded the propriety of
the only stipulation, which was conveyed to him by the Parson with all
the delicacy that became a man professionally habituated to deal with
the subtler susceptibilities of mankind--viz., that, amongst
Riccabocca's friends or kindred, some one should be found whose report
would confirm the persuasion of his respectability entertained by his
neighbors;--he assented, I say, to the propriety of this condition; but
it was not with alacrity and eagerness. His brow became clouded. The
Parson hastened to assure him that the Squire was not a man _qui stupet
in titulis_, (who was besotted with titles,) that he neither expected
nor desired to find an origin and rank for his brother-in-law above that
decent mediocrity of condition to which it was evident, from
Riccabocca's breeding and accomplishments, he could easily establish his
claim. "And though," said he, smiling, "the Squire is a warm politician
in his own country, and would never see his sister again, I fear, if she
married some convicted enemy of our happy constitution, yet for foreign
politics he does not care a straw; so that if, as I suspect, your exile
arises from some quarrel with your government--which, being foreign, he
takes for granted must be insupportable--he would but consider you as he
would a Saxon who fled from the iron hand of William the Conqueror, or a
Lancastrian expelled by the Yorkists in our Wars of the Roses."

The Italian smiled. "Mr. Hazeldean shall be satisfied," said he simply.
"I see, by the Squire's newspaper, that an English gentleman who knew me
in my own country has just arrived in London. I will write to him for a
testimonial, at least to my probity and character. Probably he may be
known to you by name--nay, he must be, for he was a distinguished
officer in the late war. I allude to Lord L'Estrange."

The parson started.

"You know Lord L'Estrange?--a profligate bad man, I fear."

"Profligate!--bad!" exclaimed Riccabocca. "Well, calumnious as the world
is, I should never have thought that such expressions would be applied
to one who, though I knew him but little--knew him chiefly by the
service he once rendered to me--first taught me to love and revere the
English name!"

"He may be changed since----" The parson paused.

"Since when?" asked Riccabocca, with evident curiosity.

Mr. Dale seemed embarrassed. "Excuse me," said he, "it is many years
ago; and, in short, the opinion I then formed of the gentleman in
question was based upon circumstances which I cannot communicate."

The punctilious Italian bowed in silence but he still looked as if he
should have liked to prosecute inquiry.

After a pause, he said, "Whatever your impressions respecting Lord
L'Estrange, there is nothing, I suppose, which would lead you to doubt
his honor, or reject his testimonial in my favor?"

"According to fashionable morality," said Mr. Dale, rather precisely, "I
know of nothing that could induce me to suppose that Lord L'Estrange
would not, in this instance, speak the truth. And he has unquestionably
a high reputation as a soldier, and a considerable position in the
world." Therewith the Parson took his leave. A few days afterwards Dr.
Riccabocca inclosed to the Squire, in a blank envelope, a letter he had
received from Harley L'Estrange. It was evidently intended for the
Squire's eye, and to serve as a voucher for the Italian's
respectability; but this object was fulfilled, not in the coarse form of
a direct testimonial, but with a tact and delicacy which seemed to show
more than the fine breeding to be expected from one in Lord L'Estrange's
station. It argued that most exquisite of all politeness which comes
from the heart: a certain tone of affectionate respect (which even the
homely sense of the Squire felt, intuitively, proved far more in favor
of Riccabocca than the most elaborate certificate of his qualities and
antecedents) pervaded the whole, and would have sufficed in itself to
remove all scruples from a mind much more suspicious and exacting than
that of the Squire of Hazeldean. But, lo and behold! an obstacle now
occurred to the Parson, of which he ought to have thought long
before--viz., the Papistical religion of the Italian. Dr. Riccabocca was
professedly a Roman Catholic. He so little obtruded that fact--and,
indeed, had assented so readily to any animadversions upon the
superstition and priestcraft which, according to Protestants, are the
essential characteristics of Papistical communities--that it was not
till the hymeneal torch, which brings all faults to light, was fairly
illumined for the altar, that the remembrance of a faith so cast into
the shade burst upon the conscience of the Parson. The first idea that
then occurred to him was the proper and professional one--viz., the
conversion of Dr. Riccabocca. He hastened to his study, took down from
his shelves long neglected volumes of controversial divinity, armed
himself with an arsenal of authorities, arguments, and texts; then,
seizing the shovel-hat, posted off to the Casino.


CHAPTER XXVII.

The Parson burst upon the philosopher like an avalanche! He was so full
of his subject that he could not let it out in prudent driblets. No, he
went souse upon the astounded Riccabocca--

              "Tremendo,
    Jupiter ipse ruens tumultu."

The sage--shrinking deeper into his arm-chair, and drawing his
dressing-robe more closely round him--suffered the Parson to talk for
three quarters of an hour, till indeed he had thoroughly proved his
case; and, like Brutus, "paused for a reply."

Then said Riccabocca mildly, "In much of what you have urged so ably,
and so suddenly, I am inclined to agree. But base is the man who
formally forswears the creed he has inherited from his fathers, and
professed since the cradle up to years of maturity, when the change
presents itself in the guise of a bribe;--when, for such is human
nature, he can hardly distinguish or disentangle the appeal to his
reason from the lure to his interests--here a text, and there a
dowry!--here Protestantism, there Jemima!--Own, my friend, that the
soberest casuist would see double under the inebriating effects produced
by so mixing his polemical liquors. Appeal, my good Mr. Dale, from
Philip drunken to Philip sober!--from Riccabocca intoxicated with the
assurance of your excellent lady, that he is about to be "the happiest
of men," to Riccabocca accustomed to his happiness, and carrying it off
with the seasoned equability of one grown familiar with stimulants--in a
word, appeal from Riccabocca the wooer to Riccabocca the spouse. I may
be convertible, but conversion is a slow process; courtship should be a
quick one--ask Miss Jemima. _Finalmente_, marry me first, and convert me
afterwards!"

"You take this too jestingly," began the Parson; "and I don't see why,
with your excellent understanding, truths so plain and obvious should
not strike you at once."

"Truths," interrupted Riccabocca profoundly, "are the slowest growing
things in the world! It took 1500 years from the date of the Christian
era to produce your own Luther, and then he flung his Bible at Satan, (I
have seen the mark made by the book on the wall of his prison in
Germany,) besides running off with a nun, which no Protestant clergyman
would think it proper and right to do now-a-days." Then he added, with
seriousness, "Look you, my dear sir,--I should lose my own esteem if I
were even to listen to you now with becoming attention,--now, I say,
when you hint that the creed I have professed may be in the way of my
advantage. If so, I must keep the creed and resign the advantage. But
if, as I trust--not only as a Christian, but a man of honor--you will
defer this discussion, I will promise to listen to you hereafter; and
though, to say truth, I believe that you will not convert me, I will
promise you faithfully never to interfere with my wife's religion."

"And any children you may have?"

"Children!" said Dr. Riccabocca, recoiling--"you are not contented with
firing your pocket-pistol right in my face; you must also pepper me all
over with small-shot. Children! well, if they are girls, let them follow
the faith of their mother; and if boys, while in childhood, let them be
contented with learning to be Christians; and when they grow into men,
let them choose for themselves which is the best form for the practice
of the great principles which all sects have in common."

"But," began Mr. Dale again, pulling a large book from his pocket.

Dr. Riccabocca flung open the window, and jumped out of it.

It was the rapidest and most dastardly flight you could possibly
conceive; but it was a great compliment to the argumentative powers of
the Parson, and he felt it as such. Nevertheless, Mr. Dale thought it
right to have a long conversation, both with the Squire and Miss Jemima
herself, upon the subject which his intended convert had so
ignominiously escaped.

The Squire, though a great foe to Popery, politically considered, had
also quite as great a hatred to turn-coats and apostates. And in his
heart he would have despised Riccabocca if he could have thrown off his
religion as easily as he had done his spectacles. Therefore he said
simply--"Well, it is certainly a great pity that Rickeybockey is not of
the Church of England, though, I take it, that would be unreasonable to
expect in a man born and bred under the nose of the Inquisition," (the
Squire firmly believed that the Inquisition was in full force in all the
Italian states, with whips, racks, and thumbscrews; and, indeed, his
chief information of Italy was gathered from a perusal he had given in
early youth to _The One-Handed Monk_;) "but I think he speaks very
fairly, on the whole, as to his wife and children. And the thing's gone
too far now to retract. It is all your fault for not thinking of it
before; and I've now just made up my mind as to the course to pursue
respecting those--d----d stocks!"

As for Miss Jemima, the Parson left her with a pious thanksgiving that
Riccabocca at least was a Christian, and not a Pagan, Mahometan, or Jew!


CHAPTER XXVIII.

There is that in a wedding which appeals to a universal sympathy. No
other event in the lives of their superiors in rank creates an equal
sensation amongst the humbler classes.

From the moment the news had spread throughout the village that Miss
Jemima was to be married, all the old affection for the Squire and his
house burst forth the stronger for its temporary suspension. Who could
think of the stocks in such a season? They were swept out of
fashion--hunted from remembrance as completely as the question of Repeal
or the thought of Rebellion from the warm Irish heart, when the fair
young face of the Royal Wife beamed on the sister isle.

Again cordial courtesies were dropped at the thresholds by which the
Squire passed to his home farm; again the sunburnt brows uncovered--no
more with sullen ceremony--were smoothed into cheerful gladness at his
nod. Nay, the little ones began again to assemble at their ancient
rendezvous by the stocks, as if either familiarized with the phenomenon,
or convinced that, in the general sentiment of good-will, its powers of
evil were annulled.

The Squire tasted once more the sweets of the only popularity which is
much worth having, and the loss of which a wise man would reasonably
deplore; viz., the popularity which arises from a persuasion of our
goodness, and a reluctance to recall our faults. Like all blessings, the
more sensibly felt from previous interruption, the Squire enjoyed this
restored popularity with an exhilarated sense of existence; his stout
heart beat more vigorously, his stalwart step trod more lightly; his
comely English face looked comelier and more English than ever;--you
would have been a merrier man for a week to have come within hearing of
his jovial laugh.

He felt grateful to Jemima and to Riccabocca as the special agents of
Providence in this general _integratio amoris_. To have looked at him,
you would suppose that it was the Squire who was going to be married a
second time to his Harry!

One may well conceive that such would have been an inauspicious moment
for Parson Dale's theological scruples. To have stopped that
marriage--chilled all the sunshine it diffused over the village--seen
himself surrounded again by long, sulky visages,--I verily believe,
though a better friend of Church and State never stood on a hustings,
that, rather than court such a revulsion, the Squire would have found
jesuitical excuses for the marriage if Riccabocca had been discovered to
be the Pope in disguise! As for the stocks, their fate was now
irrevocably sealed. In short, the marriage was concluded--first
privately, according to the bridegroom's creed, by a Roman Catholic
clergyman, who lived in a town some miles off, and next publicly in the
village church of Hazeldean.

It was the heartiest rural wedding! Village girls strewed flowers on the
way;--a booth was placed amidst the prettiest scenery of the park, on
the margin of the lake--for there was to be a dance later in the day; an
ox was roasted whole. Even Mr. Stirn--no, Mr. Stirn was _not_ present,
so much happiness would have been the death of him! And the Papisher
too, who had conjured Lenny out of the stocks; nay, who had himself sat
in the stocks for the very purpose of bringing them into contempt--the
Papisher! he had as lief Miss Jemima had married the devil! Indeed, he
was persuaded that, in point of fact, it was all one and the same.
Therefore Mr. Stirn had asked leave to go and attend his uncle the
pawnbroker, about to undergo a torturing operation for the stone! Frank
was there, summoned from Eton for the occasion--having grown two inches
taller since he left--for the one inch of which nature was to be
thanked, for the other a new pair of resplendent Wellingtons. But the
boy's joy was less apparent than that of others. For Jemima was a
special favorite with him, as she would have been with all boys--for she
was always kind and gentle, and made many pretty presents whenever she
came from the watering-places. And Frank knew that he should miss her
sadly, and thought she had made a very queer choice.

Captain Higginbotham had been invited; but, to the astonishment of
Jemima, he had replied to the invitation by a letter to herself, marked
"_private and confidential_." "She must have long known," said the
letter, "of his devoted attachment to her; motives of delicacy, arising
from the narrowness of his income and the magnanimity of his sentiments,
had alone prevented his formal proposals; but now that he was informed
(he could scarcely believe his senses, or command his passions) that her
relations wished to force her into a BARBAROUS marriage with a foreigner
of MOST FORBIDDING APPEARANCE, and most _abject circumstances_, he lost
not a moment in laying at her feet his own hand and fortune. And he did
this the more confidently, inasmuch as he could not but be aware of Miss
Jemima's SECRET feelings towards him, while he was _proud_ and _happy_
to say, that his dear and distinguished cousin, Mr. Sharpe Currie, had
honored him with a warmth of regard, which justified the most
_brilliant_ EXPECTATIONS--likely to be _soon_ realized--as his eminent
relative had contracted a _very bad liver complaint_ in the service of
his country, and could not last long!"

In all the years they had known each other, Miss Jemima, strange as it
may appear, had never once suspected the Captain of any other feelings
to her than those of a brother. To say that she was not gratified by
learning her mistake, would be to say that she was more than woman.
Indeed, it must have been a source of no ignoble triumph to think that
she could prove her disinterested affection to her dear Riccabocca, by a
prompt rejection of this more brilliant offer. She couched the
rejection, it is true, in the most soothing terms. But the Captain
evidently considered himself ill used; he did not reply to the letter,
and did not come to the wedding.

To let the reader into a secret, never known to Miss Jemima, Captain
Higginbotham was much less influenced by Cupid than by Plutus in the
offer he had made. The Captain was one of that class of gentlemen who
read their accounts by those corpse-lights, or will-o'-the-wisps, called
_expectations_. Ever since the Squire's grandfather had left him--then
in short clothes--a legacy of L500, the Captain had peopled the future
with expectations! He talked of his expectations as a man talks of
shares in a Tontine; they might fluctuate a little--be now up and now
down--but it was morally impossible, if he lived on, but that he should
be a _millionaire_ one of these days. Now, though Miss Jemima was a good
fifteen years younger than himself, yet she always stood for a good
round sum in the ghostly books of the Captain. She was an _expectation_
to the full amount of her L4000, seeing that Frank was an only child,
and it would be carrying coals to Newmarket to leave _him_ any thing.

Rather than see so considerable a cipher suddenly spunged out of his
visionary ledger--rather than so much money should vanish clean out of
the family, Captain Higginbotham had taken what he conceived, if a
desperate, at least a certain, step for the preservation of his
property. If the golden horn could not be had without the heifer, why,
he must take the heifer into the bargain. He had never formed to himself
an idea that a heifer so gentle would toss and fling him over. The blow
was stunning. But no one compassionates the misfortunes of the covetous,
though few perhaps are in greater need of compassion. And leaving poor
Captain Higginbotham to retrieve his illusory fortunes as he best may
among "the expectations" which gathered round the form of Mr. Sharpe
Currie, who was the crossest old tyrant imaginable, and never allowed at
his table any dishes not compounded with rice, which played Old Nick
with the Captain's constitutional functions,--I return to the wedding at
Hazeldean, just in time to see the bridegroom--who looked singularly
well on the occasion--hand the bride (who, between sunshiny tears and
affectionate smiles, was really a very interesting and even a pretty
bride, as brides go) into a carriage which the Squire had presented to
them, and depart on the orthodox nuptial excursion amidst the blessings
of the assembled crowd.

It may be thought strange by the unreflective that these rural
spectators should so have approved and blessed the marriage of a
Hazeldean of Hazeldean with a poor, outlandish, long-haired foreigner;
but, besides that Riccabocca, after all, had become one of the
neighborhood, and was proverbially 'a civil-spoken gentleman,' it is
generally noticeable that on wedding occasions the bride so monopolizes
interest, curiosity, and admiration, that the bridegroom himself goes
for little or nothing. He is merely the passive agent in the affair--the
unregarded cause of the general satisfaction. It was not Riccabocca
himself that they approved and blessed--it was the gentleman in the
white waistcoat who had made Miss Jemima--Madam Rickeybocky!

Leaning on his wife's arm, (for it was a habit of the Squire to lean on
his wife's arm rather than she on his, when he was specially pleased;
and there was something touching in the sight of that strong sturdy
frame thus insensibly, in hours of happiness, seeking dependence on the
frail arm of woman),--leaning, I say, on his wife's arm, the Squire,
about the hour of sunset, walked down to the booth by the lake.

All the parish--young and old, man, woman, and child--were assembled
there, and their faces seemed to bear one family likeness, in the common
emotion which animated all, as they turned to his frank fatherly smile.
Squire Hazeldean stood at the head of the long table: he filled a horn
with ale from the brimming tankard beside him. Then he looked round, and
lifted his hand to request silence; and, ascending the chair, rose in
full view of all. Every one felt that the Squire was about to make a
speech, and the earnestness of the attention was proportioned to the
rarity of the event; for (though he was not unpractised in the oratory
of the hustings), only thrice before had the Squire made what could
fairly be called 'a speech' to the villagers of Hazeldean--once on a
kindred festive occasion, when he had presented to them his bride--once
in a contested election for the shire, in which he took more than
ordinary interest, and was not quite so sober as he ought to have
been--once in a time of great agricultural distress, when, in spite of
reduction of rents, the farmers had been compelled to discard a large
number of their customary laborers; and when the Squire had said,--"I
have given up keeping the hounds, because I want to make a fine piece of
water (that was the origin of the lake), and to drain all the low lands
round the park. Let every man who wants work come to me!" And that sad
year the parish rates of Hazeldean were not a penny the more.

Now, for the fourth time, the Squire rose, and thus he spoke. At his
right hand, Harry; at his left, Frank. At the bottom of the table, as
vice-president, Parson Dale, his little wife behind him, only obscurely
seen. She cried readily, and her handkerchief was already before her
eyes.


CHAPTER XXIX.--THE SQUIRE'S SPEECH.

"Friends and neighbors:--I thank you kindly for coming round me this
day, and for showing so much interest in me and mine. My cousin was not
born amongst you as I was, but you have known her from a child. It is a
familiar face, and one that never frowned, which you will miss at your
cottage doors, as I and mine will miss it long in the old hall----"

Here there was a sob from some of the women, and nothing was seen of
Mrs. Dale but the white handkerchief. The Squire himself paused, and
brushed away a tear with the back of his hand. Then he resumed, with a
sudden change of voice that was electrical--"For we none of us prize a
blessing till we have lost it! Now, friends and neighbors,--a little
time ago, it seemed as if some ill-will had crept into the
village--ill-will between you and me, neighbors!--why, that is not like
Hazeldean!"

The audience hung their heads! You never saw people look so thoroughly
ashamed of themselves. The Squire proceeded--"I don't say it was all
your fault; perhaps it was mine."

"Noa-noa-noa," burst forth in a general chorus.

"Nay, friends," continued the Squire humbly, and in one of those
illustrative aphorisms which, if less subtle than Riccabocca's, were
more within reach of the popular comprehension; "nay--we are all human;
and every man has his hobby; sometimes he breaks in the hobby, and
sometimes the hobby, if it is very hard in the mouth, breaks in him. One
man's hobby has an ill habit of always stopping at the public house!
(Laughter.) Another man's hobby refuses to stir a peg beyond the door
where some buxom lass patted its neck the week before--a hobby I rode
pretty often when I went courting my good wife here! (Much laughter and
applause.) Others, have a lazy hobby, that there's no getting
on;--others, a runaway hobby that there's no stopping: but to cut the
matter short, my favorite hobby, as you well know, is always trotted out
to any place on my property which seems to want the eye and hand of the
master. I hate (cried the Squire warming), to see things neglected and
decayed, and going to the dogs! This land we live in is a good mother to
us, and we can't do too much for her. It is very true, neighbors, that I
owe her a good many acres, and ought to speak well of her; but what
then? I live amongst you, and what I take from the rent with one hand, I
divide amongst you with the other, (low, but assenting murmurs.) Now the
more I improve my property, the more mouths it feeds. My
great-grandfather kept a Field-Book, in which were entered not only the
names of all the farmers and the quantity of land they held, but the
average number of the laborers each employed. My grandfather and father
followed his example: I have done the same. I find, neighbors, that our
rents have doubled since my great-grandfather began to make the book.
Ay--but there are more than four times the number of laborers employed
on the estate, and at much better wages too! Well, my men, that says a
great deal in favor of improving property, and not letting it go to the
dogs. (Applause.) And therefore, neighbors, you will kindly excuse my
hobby: it carries grist to your mill. (Reiterated applause.) Well--but
you will say, 'What's the Squire driving at?' Why this, my friends:
There was only one worn-out, dilapidated, tumble-down thing in the
Parish of Hazeldean, and it became an eyesore to me; so I saddled my
hobby, and rode at it. O ho! you know what I mean now! Yes, but
neighbors, you need not have taken it so to heart. That was a scurvy
trick of some of you to hang me in effigy, as they call it."

"It warn't you," cried a voice in the crowd, "it war Nick Stirn."

The Squire recognized the voice of the tinker; but though he now guessed
at the ringleader,--on that day of general amnesty, he had the prudence
and magnanimity not to say, "Stand forth, Sprott: thou art the man." Yet
his gallant English spirit would not suffer him to come off at the
expense of his servant.

"If it was Nick Stirn you meant," said he gravely, "more shame for you.
It showed some pluck to hang the master; but to hang the poor servant,
who only thought to do his duty, careless of what ill-will it brought
upon him, was a shabby trick--so little like the lads of Hazeldean, that
I suspect the man who taught it to them was never born in the parish.
But let bygones be bygones. One thing is clear, you don't take kindly to
my new pair of stocks! They have been a stumbling-block and a grievance,
and there's no denying that we went on very pleasantly without them. I
may also say that in spite of them we have been coming together again
lately. And I can't tell you what good it did me to see your children
playing again on the green, and your honest faces, in spite of the
stocks, and those diabolical tracts you've been reading lately, lighted
up at the thought that something pleasant was going on at the Hall. Do
you know, neighbors, you put me in mind of an old story which, besides
applying to the Parish, all who are married, and all who intend to
marry, will do well to recollect. A worthy couple, named John and Joan,
had lived happily together many a long year, till one unlucky day they
bought a new bolster. Joan said the bolster was too hard, and John that
it was too soft. So, of course, they quarrelled. After sulking all day,
they agreed to put the bolster between them at night." (Roars of
laughter amongst the men; the women did not know which way to look,
except, indeed, Mrs. Hazeldean, who, though she was more than usually
rosy, maintained her innocent genial smile, as much as to say, "There is
no harm in the Squire's jests.") The orator resumed--"After they had
thus lain apart for a little time, very silent and sullen, John sneezed.
'God bless you!' says Joan over the bolster. 'Did you say God bless me?'
cries John;--'then here goes the bolster!'"

Prolonged laughter and tumultuous applause.

"Friends and neighbors," said the Squire when silence was restored, and
lifting the horn of ale, "I have the pleasure to inform you that I have
ordered the stocks to be taken down, and made into a bench for the
chimney nook of our old friend Gaffer Solomons yonder. But mind me,
lads, if ever you make the Parish regret the loss of the stocks, and the
overseers come to me with long faces and say, 'the stocks must be
rebuilded,' why--" Here from all the youth of the village rose so
deprecating a clamor, that the Squire would have been the most bungling
orator in the world if he had said a word further on the subject. He
elevated the horn over his head--"Why, that's my old Hazeldean again!
Health and long life to you all!"

The Tinker had sneaked out of the assembly, and did not show his face in
the village for the next six months. And as to those poisonous tracts,
in spite of their salubrious labels, "the Poor Man's Friend," or "the
Rights of Labor," you could no more have found one of them lurking in
the drawers of the kitchen-dressers in Hazeldean, than you would have
found the deadly nightshade on the flower-stands in the drawing-room of
the Hall. As for the revolutionary beer-house, there was no need to
apply to the magistrates to shut it up; it shut itself up before the
week was out.

O young head of the great House of Hapsburg, what a Hazeldean you might
have made of Hungary! What a "_Moriamur pro rege nostro_" would have
rang in your infant reign,--if you had made such a speech as the
Squire's!

FOOTNOTES:

[R] The Emperor Diocletian.

[S] The title of Excellency does not, in Italian, necessarily express
any exalted rank: but it is often given by servants to their masters.




Historical Review of the Month.


In this number of the _International_, copying the example of the oldest
magazine in the world, _The Gentleman's_, which for a hundred years has
found its account in such a department, we present a carefully prepared
and succinct summary of the history of the world, as it has come to our
knowledge during the past month. It is intended hereafter to continue
this feature in the _International_, devoting to it such attention that
our pages shall always be deserving of consultation as an authority in
regard to contemporary events. In the general characteristics of this
department we shall offer nothing very original; the examples of our
English contemporaries will be generally adhered to; but the utmost care
and candor will be evinced in every _resume_ of affairs or opinions
admitted to our pages.


THE UNITED STATES.

As the session of Congress draws near to its close, its proceedings
become more animated and interesting. It is already evident, however,
that but few of the questions recommended for its consideration can be
disposed of before its adjournment. One of its most important acts was
the passage of the Cheap Postage Bill, in the House, on the seventeenth
of January, by a vote of 130 to 75. This bill provides for a uniform
rate of three cents per half-ounce, on letters, and a material reduction
in the rates charged for newspapers and periodicals. The Senate
Committee to whom the bill was referred, have reported amendments
raising the postage to five cents on unpaid letters, striking out the
provision allowing newspapers to go free within thirty miles of their
place of publication, and reducing postage on magazines fifty per cent
when prepaid. The French Spoliation Bill, after considerable discussion,
passed the Senate on Friday, January 24th. The bill provides for the
payment of claims based on the detention of vessels in the port of
Bordeaux, the forcible capture and detention of American citizens, and
depredations on American commerce in the West Indies, to the amount of
$5,000,000.

The bill to ascertain and settle Private Land Claims in California,
introduced by Mr. Fremont towards the close of last session, was called
up by Mr. Gwin, his colleague, on the twenty-seventh of January. Mr.
Gwin offered a substitute, which was agreed to in Committee of the
Whole, when the bill was reported to the Senate. After a most animated
debate, in which the bill was strongly opposed by Mr. Benton, it finally
passed the Senate on the sixth of February.

The bill introduced in the House for the establishment of Branch Mints
in New-York and San Francisco gave rise to an exciting debate. The bill
was discussed for several days, the Pennsylvania members opposing it in
a body. Its defeat was finally accomplished on Wednesday, February 5th.
Since then Mr. Gwin has introduced in the Senate a separate bill for the
establishment of a Branch Mint in San Francisco. A joint resolution,
reported to the Senate by Mr. Rusk, providing that dead letters
remaining in the post-offices of California and Oregon shall be opened
at the post-office in San Francisco, under care of a special agent, was
adopted.

In the Senate, February 5th, the Committee on Foreign Relations, of
which Mr. Foote is chairman, reported a resolution that in all future
treaties by the United States, provisions should be made for settling
difficulties by arbitration, before resorting to war. The Judiciary
Committee also reported in favor of Messrs. Winthrop and Ewing (senators
appointed by the governors of Massachusetts and Ohio to fill vacancies)
holding their seats till their regularly-elected successors appear to
claim their places. Mr. Winthrop, however, on Friday, February 7th,
presented the credentials of his successor, Mr. Rantoul, (who had not
yet arrived,) and vacated his seat. The credentials of Mr. Bright, as
senator from Indiana for the ensuing term, were presented on the
twenty-eighth of January.

A bill for the relief of Mrs. Charlotte Lynch, mother of Miss Anne C.
Lynch, the poetess, passed the House by a majority of 11. It had
previously passed the Senate. Mrs. Lynch is the only surviving child of
Colonel Ebenezer Gray, of the Connecticut line, who served in the army
of the Revolution. The bill provides five years' full pay, as an
equivalent for the losses sustained by him through the substitution of
the commutation certificates issued in 1783.

The American Minister at Rio Janeiro has transmitted some important
information to the Government in regard to the Brazilian traffic in
slaves under the American flag. A considerable portion of the infamous
trade, by which from forty to fifty thousand <DW64>s are annually
imported into Brazil, is carried on in American-built vessels, under the
protection of our flag. It has been found impossible to enforce the
Brazilian statutes on the subject, the authorities charged with their
execution, almost without exception, conniving at the traffic. In spite
of the exertions of the American Minister, our flag is still used as a
protection, and its influence is given to the support of the
slave-dealer. The communications of the American Minister have been
referred by the Senate to the Committee on Commerce. Mr. Clay spoke at
some length in favor of adopting more efficient measures to prevent
American vessels and seamen from engaging in the slave-trade.

The project of establishing a line of steamers between several American
ports and the coast of Africa, Gibraltar, and England,--familiarly known
as the "Ebony Line,"--has been strongly recommended to Congress by
petitions from all quarters. The Legislature of Virginia, and the
Constitutional Convention of the same State, now in session, have both
passed resolutions in its favor. Several other States have done, or are
about to do the same thing. The session is already so far advanced,
however, that the subject will probably be left without action for the
next Congress.

The Senate Committee on the Post-office has reported in favor of
granting to a company the right of way and subscription to the stock of
an Atlantic and Pacific Telegraph Company.

Mr. Kaufman, a member of the House, from Texas, died very suddenly on
the thirty-first of January. His funeral took place on the Monday
following, February 3d. Mr. Kaufman was born in Pennsylvania in 1813,
graduated in Princeton College in 1833, practiced law in Louisiana, and
removed to Texas in 1835.

The subject of most general interest in the political world is the
election of United States Senator, in a number of the States, for the
term commencing on the 4th of March. Several elections have taken place,
and others have not been accomplished in spite of repeated ballots. In
New-York, the Constitution provides for an election on the first
Wednesday of February. On that day the Whig candidate, ex-Governor
Hamilton Fish, received a majority of 37 in the House: the Senate, after
two ineffectual ballots, adjourned. A special law will therefore be
required to elect a senator. In Massachusetts, the Democratic candidate,
Robert Rantoul, Jr., was elected to fill the vacancy occasioned by Mr.
Webster's acceptance of a place in the Cabinet. All attempts to elect a
senator for the ensuing term have failed up to this period. Mr. Sumner,
the Free Soil candidate, lacked but two votes of an election on the
twelfth ballot, but afterwards lost. It was finally postponed to the
twenty-seventh of February. In the Ohio Legislature, ten successive
ballots were cast without arriving at an election, after which the
subject was indefinitely postponed. In Rhode Island, General Charles T.
James, the Democratic candidate, was elected; in Florida, Stephen R.
Mallory, in place of Hon. D. L. Yulee, both Democrats; and in Delaware,
James A. Bayard, Democrat, in the place of Mr. Wales, the present Whig
senator. Hon. Henry Dodge was reelected by the Legislature of Wisconsin,
by a majority of one, on the fifth vote. In Pennsylvania, Hon. Richard
Brodhead was elected in place of Mr. Sturgeon, both members of the
Democratic party. Henry S. Geyer, Whig, has been elected by the State of
Missouri, as United States Senator, in place of Col. Thomas H. Benton,
who is superseded after an uninterrupted service of thirty years.

William H. Ross, the new Governor of Delaware, was inaugurated at Dover,
on the twenty-first of January. The most important feature of his
address was the recommendation of a revision of the State Constitution.
George F. Fort, the new Governor of New Jersey, has been inaugurated.
His address takes ground in favor of the compromise measures passed by
Congress. He also advocates the Free School System, and the election of
Judges by the people. Governor French, of Illinois, in his annual
message, represents the State as being in a prosperous condition, the
revenue being sufficient to meet the demands upon the treasury. He
recommends a geological survey of the State, and the passage of a
Homestead Exemption Law. The schools of the State are in a flourishing
condition. The message of Governor Dewey, of Wisconsin, also shows an
improved condition of State affairs. The finances are represented as
being sound, and the credit of the State relieved from all fear of
bankruptcy. Apprehensions of danger to the citizens residing north of
Wisconsin river, from the return of the Winnebagoes, have been quieted
by the appointment of an agent to confer with that tribe. The message of
Governor Ramsey to the second Legislative Assembly of Minnesota
Territory is an interesting document. Among other subjects recommended
to the attention of the Assembly are the agricultural interests of the
Territory, and the improvement of the Mississippi river, both above and
below the Falls of St. Anthony. The extinction of the Indian title at
Pembina will admit of the laws of the Territory being extended over the
half-breeds at that place. It is said that there are hundreds of
half-breed hunters on the British side of the line, who are only waiting
the extinction of the Indian title to change their homes and allegiance.
The assessed value of property in the five principal counties of
Minnesota is $805,417.48.

The returns of the Seventh Census will shortly be completed. A number of
States have recently sent in their full reports, among which are the
following: New-York 3,099,000, being an increase of 670,029 since 1840;
Virginia 1,428,863, an increase of 189,066; Maryland 580,633, an
increase of 111,401; New Hampshire 317,999, an increase of 33,425;
Missouri 681,547, an increase of 297,845; Ohio 1,981,940, an increase of
462,473; Kentucky 993,344, an increase of 213,516; Indiana, 990,000; New
Jersey 490,763, an increase of 117,874; and Wisconsin, 305,556. The
entire population of the United States in 1850 is estimated at
23,500,000.

A warrant for the arrest of Governor Quitman of Mississippi, for
participation in the Cuban Expedition, was issued by Judge Gholson in
New Orleans, early in January. Governor Quitman at first resisted the
authority, but afterwards resigned his office as Governor, and on the
seventh of February reached New Orleans, under arrest. He appeared in
court, and gave bail for future appearance, asking a speedy trial.

Several diplomatic appointments have recently been made. Hon. Richard H.
Bayard, who was appointed Charge d'Affaires to Belgium, has departed for
his mission. Hon. Robert C. Schenck, of Ohio, has been appointed
Minister to Brazil, and Hon. J. S. Pendleton, of Virginia, Charge
d'Affaires to New Grenada. The Chevalier Gomez, Special Envoy to Rome
from the states of Guatemala and San Salvador, has arrived at
Washington, and assumed, provisionally, the office of Charge from those
states. He has addressed a letter to the Secretary of State in relation
to the present condition of the Central American States.

General Mosquera, ex-President of New Grenada, is now travelling in this
country, and was lately in Washington, where he received distinguished
attentions. General Paez, the distinguished exile from Venezuela, is
also in Washington. Dr. Frank Taylor, of Pennsylvania, who has recently
returned from Constantinople and Asia Minor, has received letters from
the illustrious Kossuth, addressed to the Secretary of State, and
soliciting the intervention of the United States with the Turkish
Government, to procure the release of himself and his compatriots, and
their transportation to the United States. Mr. Webster immediately
complied with the request, and has dispatched instructions to Mr. Marsh,
the American Minister at Constantinople, to procure from the Turkish
Government the release of the Hungarians.

The frigate St. Lawrence has sailed from New-York for Southampton, with
articles for the World's Fair. She carries out between four and five
hundred articles, embracing nearly all branches of manufacture, and the
principal mineral and agricultural productions of the country. The
contributions are in charge of Charles F. Stansbury, Esq., agent of the
Central Committee of Washington. The tender of the authorities of
Southampton, offering the use of that port, with free transportation of
the goods to Vauxhall, London, has been accepted by the Secretary of
State.

There have been several serious wrecks, with loss of life, on the
Atlantic coast and the Mississippi river. The steamboat America, which
left Wilmington, N.C., on the fourteenth of January, for Mobile,
foundered on the 29th. The schooner Champion, of Boston, picked up one
boat's crew, containing six men. A second boat, containing ten men, was
picked up by the schooner Star, and taken to Washington. A third boat,
containing six men, has not been heard from. The steamer John Adams, on
her way from New Orleans to Cincinnati, struck on a snag in the
Mississippi river, on the morning of January 27th. The cabin parted from
the hull, which went down in sixty feet water. Out of 230 cabin and deck
passengers, firemen, and crew, 123 were lost, of whom 82 were German and
Irish emigrants, and returning Californians. On the ninth of February,
the steamer Autocrat, from New Orleans to Memphis, came in contact with
the steamer Magnolia, coming down the river, and sank instantly. Thirty
lives were lost.

A calamitous fire took place at New Orleans, on the eighteenth of
January, destroying the magnificent St. Charles Hotel, together with two
churches and several other buildings. The total loss is about $500,000,
less than half of which was covered by insurance. Jenny Lind arrived at
New Orleans from Havana on the 8th of February. Her reception was in the
highest degree enthusiastic. Her first concert took place on the 10th,
the receipts therefrom amounting to $20,000. The first ticket was
purchased for $240 by a New Orleans hatter, the fortunate drawer of
Powers' Greek Slave in the Cincinnati Art Union.

Two more of the unfortunate Hungarian refugees have reached this city:
Captain Eduard Becsey, who served during the war as adjutant to General
Bern, and Lieutenant Aurel Kiring. Captain Becsey was taken prisoner by
the Russians, and carried to Kiev, on the Dneiper, where he was detained
a year. After being released, he made his way to the Mediterranean, and
obtained a passage to New-York.

Our latest news from Eagle Harbor, the port of the mining region on Lake
Superior, state that the propeller Independence, which had just taken
on board her last cargo of copper for the season, was blown on shore by
a heavy gale, and imbedded in the sand, where she must remain till
Spring. The Napoleon had arrived from Saut St. Mary, with provisions and
stores for the winter.

Texas papers of the thirty-first of January state that Judge Rollins,
the United States Agent, had effected a treaty with the Indians,
providing for a cessation of hostilities, and the restoration of all
stolen property and prisoners. Lieuts. Smith and Mechler had completed a
survey of the Rio Grande from its mouth to a point about four hundred
and fifty miles above Camargo. They report that the river can be made
navigable for boats of light draught to a short distance above Loredo
for several months in the year. Col. Anderson, of the corps of
Topographical Engineers has received orders to make a survey of the
Brazos and Guadalupe rivers. A fight had occurred between Lieutenant
King, with seven men, of the Texan volunteers, and a body of Indians,
who were driving off a number of stolen horses. They were pursued for
fifteen or twenty miles, when they abandoned the horses, and escaped
with the loss of three or four of their number. The total vote on the
Pierce Boundary Bill, as officially reported, is 9,250 ayes, 3,366 noes.

On the eighteenth of December the whole of the American Boundary
Commission had arrived at Paso del Norte, with the exception of an
ox-train carrying supplies. The military escort, under the command of
Col. Craig, was encamped on the American side of the Rio del Norte, but
was soon to start for the copper-mines near the headwaters of the Gila.
The Mexican Commissioner, General Conde, with his escort, was quartered
in the town of El Paso. Several conferences took place between the
Commissioners before they could agree on the starting-point for the
boundary, the existing maps being as inconsistent with the terms of the
treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo as with the topography of the country
itself. The winter, throughout the valley of the Del Norte has been very
severe. The thermometer fell to six degrees at El Paso on the sixth of
December, and the Rio Grande was frozen over for the first time in the
memory of the inhabitants.

The settlements of New Mexico are threatened with scarcity. On the tenth
of January corn was selling at three dollars the bushel, and vegetables
not to be had at any price. The appearance of the agents for taking the
census of New-Mexico had occasioned great alarm among the pueblos or
villages. They feared that the account of their property was taken by
the Government for the purpose of extortion and seizure. The Apaches
have committed no depredations of late, but the Navajoes have broken
their treaty by stealing several thousand sheep from the settlements on
the Rio del Norte.

In the Utah Territory the Mormons have temporarily settled the question
of slavery, by leaving it to the choice of the slaves themselves. If the
slave chooses to leave his master, there is no power to retain him; if
he chooses to stay, no one is allowed to interfere.

Our news from California is to the first of January. The steamers
Carolina and Columbus sailed from San Francisco on that day, with 330
passengers and about $1,500,000 in gold dust. Business was very dull,
both in the ports and inland towns of California, and the trading
communities among the mines. The immense shipments of goods which had
arrived from the Atlantic States had produced a complete stagnation in
the market, bringing many kinds of merchandise below cost prices. After
the first showers of the rainy season, early in December, the miners
withdrew to the dry diggings, when the rains ceased, and three or four
weeks of clear and delightful weather left them without employment. The
richest localities are very thickly populated, the miners having built
themselves log-cabins and organized communities for the winter. On parts
of Feather river, the American Fork, and the Mokelumne, Tuolumne, and
Mariposa rivers, the diggings were still yielding a good return. New
discoveries of rich veins of quartz-bearing gold continue to be made. A
mine of silver ore, of a very rich quality, is reported to have been
discovered in the neighborhood of Monterey. A company is being formed at
that place for the purpose of working the mine upon an extensive scale.
The Sacramento papers state that a large mine of lead, in an almost pure
state, exists near Johnson's Ranche, about thirty miles from that city.
The ore is represented to lie on the surface of the earth, in heavy
masses, so that vast quantities could be obtained without sinking a
shaft.

On the evening of December 14th another fire broke out in San Francisco,
in a large zinc building owned by Cooke, Baker & Co. By the exertions of
the firemen and the citizens the conflagration was subdued, after
consuming this building and three or four others of less value. The
large building belonging to the Pacific Mail Steamship Company was in
the utmost danger, having been greatly scorched by the flames. The total
loss by this fire was $75,000. The city, on the first of January, was
fully prepared for the rainy season. By the enterprise of the
inhabitants, upward of seven and a half miles of street had been graded
and four miles planked, while capacious piers and wharves were built far
out into the bay, so that vessels were enabled to load and unload
without the use of lighters. The cholera had entirely disappeared, not
only from San Francisco, but from all parts of California. Its ravages
have been much lighter than was anticipated, a fact which speaks well
for the health of the country.

The _Pacific News_ contains some interesting statistics of the condition
of San Francisco at the close of the year 1850. The population of the
city is estimated at 35,000. One hundred and seven miles of street are
already laid out, one quarter of which is built upon and occupied. The
business streets are substantially built of brick or iron. In addition
to seventeen large auction firms and eight express companies, the city
boasts of ten first class hotels and seven daily papers. The amount of
gold-dust regularly shipped and entered for exportation during the year
1850 was $30,000,000; the estimated amount taken away by passengers,
$12,000,000. The amount of bullion received was $1,722,600. The number
of vessels which arrived during the year was 1,743 bringing 35,333 male
and 1,248 female passengers; the number of clearances amounts to 1,461
vessels, carrying away 26,593 male and eight female passengers. The
total value of the merchandise received by foreign and domestic vessels
during the year was between four and five millions of dollars. In
addition to 14 steamers running regularly between San Francisco and
Panama, and three on the Oregon route, there are 45 steamers and 270
other craft of various kinds on the bay and inland streams.

We have news from Oregon to the middle of December, at which time the
Legislature was in session. The message of Governor Gaines recommends
the establishment of a liberal system of education, and asks for the
passage of a law for protection against the Indian tribes. It also
maintains the importance of a liberal policy on the part of the General
Government in the donation of lands to actual settlers. The country
appears to be in a highly prosperous condition; all the towns on the
Columbia and its tributaries are growing rapidly. The news from the gold
placers on the Klamath and Umpqua rivers, near the borders of
California, is encouraging as to the yield of dust, but the Oregonians
place their main reliance on their agricultural interests. The yield of
wheat is said to be not only double per acre that of the Atlantic
States, but it is a never-failing crop. The people in Oregon City are
agitating the subject of a railroad to connect the Willamette Valley
with the Columbia river, at some point accessible to large vessels. It
is estimated that the whole cost will only be about $500,000, which it
is proposed to raise in one thousand shares of $500 each. Twelve months,
it is believed, will complete the work.


EUROPE.

On the first of February, England was in a tranquil condition, the
anti-Papal agitation having almost entirely subsided. The journals were
engaged in discussing law reform, the New-York Revised Code being
commended as a model in many quarters. In the Queen's speech at the
opening of Parliament--an advance copy having been forwarded to this
country--a thorough reform of the Equity courts is recommended, as well
as the introduction of an act for the registration of deeds, equally
applicable to each of the three kingdoms. Her Majesty alludes in terms
of comparative mildness to the Wiseman affair, commending the question
to the attention of Parliament. Public opinion is strongly in favor of a
large reduction in taxation, and it is anticipated that the window tax
will be abolished. The quarterly returns of the revenue have been highly
satisfactory, since, notwithstanding the abolition of the tax on bricks
and the reduction of the stamp duty, the income exceeds that of the
previous year by about L165,000.

The great crystal palace in Hyde Park is rapidly advancing towards its
completion. The immense structure is exciting the wonder and admiration
of the metropolis, and the opening of the fair is anticipated with great
interest. The strength of the building has been amply tested by a severe
storm of hail and wind, which passed over without breaking a pane of
glass. All quarters of the world are sending specimens of their
manufactures and natural productions. South Africa, Australia, and the
islands of the sea will be represented, while Cashmere shawls, robes of
pearl, and Runjeet Singh's golden saddle, will be sent from India.

The U.S. Mail steamer Atlantic, which sailed from Liverpool on the
twenty-eighth of December, arrived in the harbor of Cork on the
twenty-second of January, having been at sea twenty-five days. When in
lat. 46 deg. 12', lon. 41 deg. 30', about midway between Cape Clear and
New-York, her main shaft broke, rendering the engines useless. After
running westward two days under sail, a heavy gale arose, when Captain
West put her head about, and made for Cork, a distance of 1400 miles,
which she made in eleven days. The steamer Cambria was instantly
chartered to take her place, but most of her passengers left Liverpool
in the Africa, on February 1st. It is stated on the authority of Earl
Monteagle, that the British Government have resolved to make Holyhead
the port of arrival and departure for the transatlantic mail steamers.

In France, a ministerial revolution has taken place, resulting in
widening the breach between President Napoleon and the National
Assembly. Several general orders of General Changarnier to the army of
Paris having been published in one of the journals, in which he commands
the troops to pay no attention to any orders but those of the
Lieutenant-General. Changarnier was called upon in the Assembly for
explanation. He denied that these instructions were meant to be
permanent, but only to be put in force when an emeute was apprehended.
His conduct was approved by the Assembly, but Louis Napoleon, who had
long regarded Changarnier with fear and jealousy, withdrew from him the
command of the army at Paris, which he divided between two or three
generals of lower rank. This gave rise to a most excited debate in the
National Assembly, in which Lamartine made a speech in the President's
defence. Baroche, Minister of the Interior, General Changarnier, M.
Thiers, and General Cavaignac followed, the three latter speakers taking
strong ground against the ministry. After several days of stormy
discussion, the resolution of M. de St. Beuve, that the Assembly
"declares that it has no confidence in the ministry," was carried by a
majority of 139. The ministers tendered their resignation to the
President the same evening. A ministerial interregnum followed, which
was terminated on the twenty-fourth of January by a message of the
President, appointing a "transition ministry," composed of employees
from the different departments, not one of them having a seat in the
Assembly. The following is the list, as given in the _Moniteur_:

    Public Instruction            M. Giraud, (de l'Institute.)
    Interior                      M. Vaisse.
    Foreign Affairs               M. Brennier.
    War                           General Randon.
    Marine                        Admiral Levaillant.
    Commerce                      M. Schneider.
    Finances                      M. de Germiny.
    Public Works                  M. Magne.
    Justice                       M. de Royer.

Lamartine, it is stated, was urged by Louis Napoleon to accept an
appointment in the ministry, but declined on account of his being bound
to furnish his publishers with two volumes a month, under heavy
penalties.

The Conference of the German States at Dresden was opened with much
ceremony early in January. All the states were represented, but the
negotiations were kept profoundly secret. It has transpired, however,
that the formation of the new Diet agreed upon gives two votes to
Prussia, two to Austria, one each to Bavaria, Saxony, Hanover, and
Wurtemberg, and three more portioned among the smaller principalities,
making eleven in all. It is also understood that a Provisional Central
Power will be proclaimed, Prussia and Austria retaining to themselves
exclusively the right of deciding for the Confederation all questions
of peace and war.

Austria still labors under financial embarrassments of an almost
hopeless character. As a measure of temporary relief, the Government has
contracted two loans, one from Russia, of fifty millions of florins, and
the other, of one hundred millions, on state obligations, at six per
cent. The manufacturers of Austria strongly oppose the proposed
compromise of the Zollverein, and advocate a tariff of a decidedly
protective character. Great dissatisfaction has been manifested in
Hungary, on account of the newly imposed tax on tobacco, which is one of
the principal productions of the country. In consequence of this
opposition the excise corps has been greatly enlarged, and serious
difficulties are apprehended.

The smaller German states are now completely overruled by the Austrian
and Prussian troops. The Elector of Hesse Cassel has returned to his
Capital, with his Prime Minister, Hassenpflug, under their protection.
The Constitution is virtually abolished by their presence, and those who
supported it are subjected to the most shameful persecutions. Many of
the best citizens are obliged to leave the country. Schleswig Holstein
has been 'pacified' in a similar manner. Through the instrumentality of
the Austrian and Prussian Commissioners, backed by a military force, the
army of Schleswig Holstein has been disbanded, and the country occupied
by the troops of Denmark. On the sixteenth of January, the proclamation
of the King of Denmark, administering the oath of fidelity to the
military, was read in the marketplace of Rendsburg. Hamburgh has been
occupied by 4000 Austrian troops.

A treaty of amity and commerce has been concluded with the Swiss Diet,
by Mr. Dudley Mann, Diplomatic Agent of the United States. Its
provisions are of the most liberal and friendly character. The entire
reciprocity and equality of the citizens of both countries, is
guaranteed, so far as the right of establishment is concerned; a citizen
of the United States being allowed to settle in one of the Swiss Cantons
upon the same conditions as a citizen born in another Canton. Entire and
unconditional liberty in disposing of property is mutually stipulated,
as well as equal taxation of the individuals established, their
exemption from military duties, and the grant of indemnity for damages
in case of war. The commercial intercourse of the two countries is also
arranged upon the most liberal and advantageous basis. Switzerland has
remained tranquil, with the exception of a riot in the Canton of Berne,
occasioned by the attempted extradition, on the part of the Government,
of a Prussian Jew, a noted socialist, residing at St. Imier. This person
was very popular among the poor, who resisted the authorities, whereupon
the troops were ordered to be in readiness to support them. The Swiss
Government has determined to forward a beautiful stone from the Alps, to
be placed in the National Monument to Washington.

ITALY is still in an unquiet state. There seems to be a growing
apprehension and uneasiness among all classes in the Papal States, and
it is rumored that Pope Pius, wearied with the anxieties of his
situation, wishes to resign the Pontificate, and retire to a Convent.

In NAPLES, the Government, alarmed by rumors of Mazzini's revolutionary
designs, has made many arrests, and instituted a more vigorous police
system. All cafes and places of public amusement are strictly watched.
The army is to be increased by 18,000 men, and as English opinions are
assigned to be dangerous, those Neapolitans who intended to visit the
Great Exhibition in London, have been refused their passports.

AUSTRIAN ITALY is even in a worse condition. Several conspiracies have
been discovered, and a large number of arrests made in consequence. A
large number of persons have been executed, in the Lombardo-Venetian
provinces.

The most interesting news from SPAIN is that of another resignation of
the Ministry. The resignation of General Narvaez was not accepted by the
Queen, whereupon that gentleman assembled his colleagues, and
commissioned them to inform the Queen that unless she released him at
once from his office, he should blow his brains out! This threat had the
desired effect, and the following Cabinet was then appointed:

    President of the Council and Minister of Finance   Bravo Murillo.
    Foreign Office                                     Bertran de Lys.
    Grace and Justice                                  Gonzales Romero.
    Home Department                                    Arteta.
    War                                                Count Mirasol.
    Marine                                             Bustillos.
    Commerce, &c.                                      Fernandez Negrete.

The project of a revision of the Constitution, which has been so warmly
agitated in Sweden, has entirely failed. The proposition of the King has
been rejected by two of the four chambers constituting the Legislative
Assembly, three being required in its favor, to form a constitutional
majority. Sweden will therefore preserve her present system of a
separate representation of the nobility, clergy, citizens, and peasants.

In TURKEY, the subjection of the rebellious Bosnians was consummated on
the seventeenth of December, when Omar Pasha made his triumphal entry
into Bosna Serai. The captive Pashas and Cadis marched on foot in the
procession. It is rumored that the Porte has at length agreed to accept
the offer of the British and American Governments to transport the
Hungarian refugees to America, and will order their immediate release.
Three hundred Polish refugees, who arrived at Constantinople from Varna,
on the thirty-first of December, were to be sent to Liverpool at the
expense of the Turkish Government. Two Commissioners, Ismet Pasha and
Sami Pasha, have been appointed to travel through Asiatic and European
Turkey, for the purpose of noting whether the new reforms in favor of
the Christians have been carried out.

There is nothing from GREECE, but accounts of the depredations of the
robbers which now infest all parts of the country. In the provinces of
Acarnania, Levadia and Attica, several villages have been sacked, and
the inhabitants put to the torture.


MEXICO

The Mexican Congress assembled in the Capital on the first of January,
when General Herrera, the President, made his annual address. He dwelt
with satisfaction on the relations existing between the United States
and Mexico, considering them much more harmonious and mutually
advantageous than was anticipated at the close of the war. The financial
condition of the country has been somewhat improved by the retrenchment
of the Government expenses and the consolidation of the Interior Debt: a
revision of the Revenue Laws is strongly advocated as a still further
reform in this direction. President Herrera favors the colonization of
the public lands by immigrants from Europe; he also alludes with
satisfaction to the increase of manufactures and the improved prospects
of the silver mines, which last year yielded upwards of $30,000,000.

The two branches of Congress met on the eighth, to count the votes for
the election of the President of the Republic. The votes of twelve
States were found to be in favor of General Arista. He was consequently
declared to be duly elected. On the fifteenth, in the Chamber of
Deputies, in the presence of the Mexican Congress, he took the oath of
office and made a short inaugural address, in which he alluded to the
maintenance of the federal system as necessary to the prosperity of the
country, and pledged himself to preserve peace and order at all hazards.
The President of Congress, Don Mariano Yanez, replied in a short address
of congratulation. Te Deum was chanted in the Cathedral in the presence
of the new President, and in the evening the German residents honored
him with a serenade and torch light procession. Arista's Cabinet is
composed as follows: Minister of Foreign Affairs, Don Mariano Yanez;
Minister of Justice, Don Jose Maria Aguirre; Minister of Finance, Don
Manuel Payno; Minister of War and Marine, Don Manuel Robles.

Early in January a rebellion broke out in the State of Guanajuato. The
insurgents, headed by two brothers named Liceagas, obtained possession
of the city of Guanajuato, with the Government arms and ammunition, but
were defeated on the night of the 13th by the Government troops under
Generals Bustamente and Uraga. Several of the chiefs were executed, and
the movement, which was in favor of Santa Anna, was entirely crushed.

The Tehuantepec treaty was ratified on the 25th of January. On the
following day, Mr. Letcher, the American Minister, left the capital for
the United States, on leave of absence. Senor Lacunza, the Ex-Minister
of Foreign Affairs, has been appointed Minister to England, and Senor
Valdiviesco Minister to France. The Mexican Government has ceded in
perpetuity to Don Gayetano Rubio, Don Eustace Barron, Senor Garay, and
the firm of Yecker, Torre & Co., the whole of the public lands in the
State of Sonora, including the mines, between lat. 30 deg. N. and the Gila
River. This grant embraces several millions of acres, and the richest
mineral land of the Republic. It is said to have been intended to smooth
the passage of a bill abolishing all tariff prohibitions, which have
hitherto operated greatly to the advantage of the parties named.

Maj. Barnard's Company for surveying the Isthmus of Tehuantepec reached
the town of Minatitlan, on the Coatzocoalcos River, in the steamer
Alabama, on the 25th of December. At the last accounts, one party had
penetrated a distance of sixty miles into the country, a second was
engaged in an examination of the river, and a third had set out for
Tehuantepec, on the Pacific Coast.


BRITISH AMERICA.

The lawyers in Lower Canada have been making strikes and holding
meetings to protest against the imposition of the new tariff regulating
their fees. The Bar of Quebec and of Trois Rivieres have struck,
declining to serve their clients until the legality of the tariff shall
be decided by the Court of Appeals. It has been decided to admit
American reprints of English copyright works into Canada, on paying 20
per cent. duty, which is to be paid over by the Custom House to the
English authors or proprietors of copyright, who are required to furnish
a list of their works. Under this law, American reprints will still be
much cheaper than English editions, and popular English authors may
therefore look forward to some increase of their revenue. The Imperial
Cabinet has also assented to the Post-Office Law, enacted at the last
Session of the Canadian Legislature, and establishing a uniform rate of
three pence for single letters throughout the British Provinces.

Meetings have been held in Toronto, protesting against the intended
removal of the Seat of Government from that city, while, on the other
hand, the French members have resolved not to vote the supplies unless
it is removed to Quebec in the spring. Lord Elgin, however, has stated
that the Seat of Government will be transferred to Quebec at the
completion of its two years in Toronto.


THE WEST INDIES.

We have news from Havana to the 3d of February. The administration of
Gen. Concha appears to be more liberal and energetic than that of his
predecessor, and gives very general satisfaction.

Jenny Lind gave but four concerts in Havana, only the first and last of
which were well attended. Her Italian songs produced much more effect
than her Swedish ballads. The proceeds of the last concert, amounting to
$5000, was devoted to objects of charity. A grand ball was given in her
honor by the Count de Penalver, after which she visited Matanzas and the
extensive sugar plantations in its neighborhood. Senor Salvi, the great
tenor, was engaged by Mr. Barnum to sing at her concerts in New-York, in
April. On the 1st February, Frederika Bremer reached Havana, and the two
renowned Swedes met, for the first time in the new world.

News from Jamaica to the 1st of February state that the cholera was
still prevailing in many localities, although it had decreased in some
and entirely disappeared in others.


CENTRAL AMERICA--THE ISTHMUS.

In the State of Nicaragua, the elections have taken place and Don Jose
Sacasa has been chosen Director, from the 1st of May, on which the term
of Director Raminez expires. The National Convention of Delegates from
the States of Nicaragua, Honduras and San Salvador, met at Chinandega on
the 21st of December, and organized by choosing as President Don Jose
Barrundia, the author of the Central-American Constitution of 1820. The
little steamer Director, belonging to the Nicaraguan Company, passed the
rapids of Machuca, on San Juan River, and entered Lake Nicaragua on the
1st of January. She is now running between Granada and San Carlos, a
distance of 95 miles, at $20 a passenger. The engineers employed to
survey the route of the proposed ship canal, were at work between
Granada and San Juan del Sur, on the Pacific. By the 1st of January,
upwards of four thousand returning Californians had passed through
Nicaragua, on their way to the United States.

Disturbances have broken out in some of the mountain provinces of
Guatemala, growing out of the refusal of the inhabitants to concur in
the policy adopted by the Government at the instance of the English
consul, Mr. Chatfield. The insurgents declared in favor of a Federal
Union of all the Central-American States. The Government troops, under
Gen. Carrera, in attempting to put down this opposition, were defeated
at Chiquimula. A blockade of the ports of San Salvador has been ordered
by Mr. Chatfield, who threatens Honduras and Nicaragua with a similar
blow, unless they accede to certain demands. In a letter to the
Nicaraguan Minister of Foreign Affairs, he arbitrarily lays down the
boundary line between Honduras, Nicaragua and Musquitia--an assumed
kingdom, under cover of which the British authorities have taken
possession of the port of San Juan. Mr. Chatfield states that unless
these boundaries are accepted, no canal or other improved method of
transit across the Isthmus can be established. There is much excitement
in Central America, on account of his arbitrary course.

The winter rains are at an end on the Isthmus of Panama, and the roads
are in good condition. Upwards of 800 workmen are employed on the Panama
Railroad, and the track is already prepared for the rails from Navy Bay,
the Atlantic terminus, to Gatun, on the Chagres River, a distance of
three and a half miles.


SOUTH AMERICA.

The Congress of VENEZUELA met on 20th of January, all the members being
present. It had previously been feared that the Executive Power would be
violently seized by Guzman, Vice-President of the Republic, who was one
of the unsuccessful candidates in the electoral colleges, in case there
should not be a quorum in Congress. Gen. Monagas, brother of the present
Executive, lacked only two or three votes of the two-thirds required by
the Constitution in the electoral colleges, and having received
sixty-five out of the eighty votes of Congress, was declared elected
President of Venezuela. Guzman, who had used all his power to defeat
Monagas, notwithstanding he was indebted to the latter for his life, met
him upon the steps of the Government House after the election, and
begged pardon, in tears, for the injuries he had done him. Monagas
forgave him, and the happiest results for Venezuela are anticipated from
an administration commenced under such circumstances.

The Presidential Election in PERU took place on the 20th of December.
The prominent candidates were Generals Echinique and San Ramon, and at
the last accounts it was believed the former was elected.

BOLIVIA is entirely tranquil, the health of Gen. Belzu having been
completely restored since his attempted assassination, and the
conspirators against him, Ballivian and Linares, having fled from the
country. The partisans of Ballivian were totally routed in the southern
provinces, where they attempted to make a stand, and their leader fled
in disguise to Copiape, in Chili. Linares escaped into the Argentine
Republic, and a requisition for his delivery was about to be issued.

In CHILI, the extra session of Congress convened on the 16th of
December. In his message calling the session, the President recommended
to legislative attention, the subjects of reform in the customs and the
coinage system, appropriations for the current year, the regulation of
the standing army, and a revision of the taxes.

Early in December a destructive fire broke out in Valparaiso, which was
finally quelled through the labors of the sailors from the English and
French vessels of war lying in the harbor, after destroying $250,000
worth of property. On the 5th of the month, the volcano of Portillo,
near Santiago, which had been quiet since 1845, suddenly broke out into
violent eruption. The following day a very severe shock of an earthquake
was felt, lasting twenty seconds, but fortunately doing little damage.
Since then, however, a more violent earthquake has entirely destroyed
the city of Conception, in the southern part of Chili.

Hon. Bailey Peyton, the American Minister, left Valparaiso on the 27th
of December, in the U.S. Ship _Vincennes_, on a visit to Talcuhuana, the
province of Conception and the island of Juan Fernandez. Henri Herz, the
distinguished pianist, has been giving concerts in Santiago.

At the latest dates from BRAZIL, nothing of political importance had
transpired. Accounts from Buenos Ayres to Dec. 12th, state that there
was a prospect of an amicable settlement of the difficulties between
that country and Brazil. There had been a conflict between the forces of
Paraguay and those of Buenos Ayres, relative to the occupancy of some
neutral lands, by the forces of the latter. The finances of the State
were said to be in an encouraging condition.


AFRICA.

The Monitor, a paper published at Cape Town, South Africa, gives an
account of a dreadful massacre committed by the noted Namagua chief,
Yonker Afrikaner, on the neophytes of the German Missionary station at
New-Barmen, in Damaraland, between South Africa and the Kingdom of
Loango.

A curious piece of history has made its way to us from the island of
Madagascar. Rainharo, the Prime Minister of the reigning Queen of the
island, determined, in June last, to exterminate all the Christians in
the province of Imirena. Accordingly, when they were all assembled one
evening at their religious exercises, the various communities were
suddenly arrested, to the number of eight thousand, and condemned to
death. Eighteen of them had already been executed, when the rest
escaped, and surrounding the palace of the young Prince, the heir to the
throne of Madagascar, implored his protection. The Queen sent orders
through the Prime Minister that they should be given up. The Prince
refused, and in the dispute which followed, drew his sword and aimed a
blow at the Minister's head, cutting off one of his ears. When the Queen
heard of this, fearing a revolt in the province of Imirena, to sustain
the Prince, she suffered the Christians to return to their homes and
worship as usual. They have since been visited by the Prince, who
declares his intention to protect them.

The Republic of LIBERIA was in a flourishing condition at the
commencement of the year. Several explorations of the interior have been
made, to the distance of two or three hundred miles from the coast. The
parties brought back enthusiastic accounts of the richness and beauty of
the country and the salubrity of the climate. President Roberts had sent
his message to the Liberian Congress, giving a very favorable account of
the condition and prospects of the country. The agricultural operations
at Bassa Cove and Bexley have produced very satisfactory results. The
slave trade is said to be almost destroyed in the neighborhood of
Gallinas and Ambrize.




Recent Deaths.


THE REV. WALTER COLTON was born in Rutland, Vermont, about the year
1797. When sixteen years of age he determined to acquire a liberal
education, and commenced with industrious energy his preparatory
studies. In 1818 he entered Yale College, where he received the
Berkleyan Prize in Latin and Greek, and delivered the valedictory poem,
when he graduated, in 1822. He soon afterwards entered the Theological
Seminary at Andover, where he remained three years, giving much of his
tune to literature, and writing, besides various moral and critical
dissertations, a _Sacred Drama_, which was acted by the students at one
of their rhetorical exhibitions, and an elaborate poem pronounced when
his class received their diplomas. On being ordained an evangelist,
according to the usage of the Congregational Church, he became Professor
of Moral Philosophy and Belles-Lettres in the Scientific and Military
Academy at Middletown, then under the presidency of Captain Alden
Partridge. Besides attending to the more immediate duties of his
position, he wrote while here a prize _Essay on Duelling_; a _Discussion
of the Genius of Coleridge_; _The Moral Power of the Poet, Painter, and
Sculptor, contrasted_, and many contributions in verse and prose to the
public journals, under the signature of "Bertram." In 1828 he resigned
his professorship, and settled in Washington, as editor of the _American
Spectator_, a weekly gazette which he conducted with industry, and such
tact and temper, that he preserved the most intimate relations with the
leaders of the political party to which it was most decidedly opposed.
He was especially a favorite with President Jackson, who was accustomed
to send for him two or three times in a week to sit with him in his
private chamber, and when Mr. Colton's health declined, so that a sea
voyage was recommended by his physicians, the President offered him
without solicitation a consulship or a chaplaincy in the Navy. The
latter was accepted, and from 1830 till the end of his life, he
continued as a chaplain in the naval service.

His first appointment was to the West India squadron, where his
reputation was increased by several incidents illustrative of his
personal character. On one occasion a murderous affray had taken place
between a boat's crew of American sailors and a party of Spaniards
belonging to Pensacola, in which several sailors were killed. Mr. Colton
drew up the official report of the outrage, in which he handled the
police with just severity. The mayor, himself a Spaniard, and a man of
desperate character, was greatly enraged, and swore he would take ample
vengeance. He watched his opportunity, and attempted to rush on the
chaplain with his long knife before he could protect himself. But the
latter, drawing his pistols at the instant, levelled one of them at his
breast, and told the mayor if he stirred his hand except to return his
knife to its belt, he would put a ball through his heart. The Spaniard
hesitated for a few minutes, and reluctantly complied.

Returning from the West Indies Mr. Colton was appointed to the
Constellation frigate, and sailed for the Mediterranean, and in the
three years during which he was connected with this station, he
travelled through Spain, Italy, Greece, and Asia Minor; visited
Constantinople, and made his way to Paris and London. The results of his
observations he partially gave to the public in volumes entitled _Ship
and Shore_, and _A Visit to Constantinople and Athens_. Soon after the
publication of these works, he was appointed Historiographer to the
South Sea Surveying and Exploring Expedition; but the ultimate reduction
of the force designed for the Pacific squadron, and the resignation of
his associates, induced him to forego the advantages of this office, for
which he had made very careful preparations in ethnographical studies.

He was now stationed at Philadelphia, where he was chaplain successively
of the Navy Yard and of the Naval Asylum. In this city we became
acquainted with him, and for several years enjoyed his frequent society
and intimate friendship, so that few have had more ample opportunities
of judging of his character. In 1841 and 1842, with the consent of the
Government, he added to his official duties the editorship of the
Philadelphia _North American_, and in these and the following years he
wrote much upon religious and literary subjects for other journals. We
believe it was in 1844 that he delivered before the literary societies
of the University of Vermont, a poem entitled _The Sailor_, which has
not yet been published. In the summer of 1846 he was married, and we
were selected by him for that occasion to fill the office commonly
falling to the nearest friend. A few months afterward he was ordered to
the Congress, the flag-ship of the Pacific squadron, in which he arrived
off the western coast of America soon after the commencement of the late
war with Mexico. The incidents of the voyage round Cape Horn are
detailed with more than his usual felicity in his book, _Deck and Port_,
published last summer in this city by Barnes & Co.

Soon after the arrival of the squadron at Monterey, he was appointed
alcalde, or chief magistrate of that city, an office of difficult duties
and large responsibilities, demanding the most untiring industry, zeal,
and fortitude. These were discharged with eminent faithfulness and
ability, so that he won as much the regard of the conquered inhabitants
of the country, as the respect of his more immediate associates. In
addition to the ordinary duties of his place, Mr. Colton established the
first newspaper printed in California, _The Californian_, now published
in San Francisco, under the title of the "Alta California;" he built the
first _school-house_ in California; and also a large hall for public
meetings--said to be the finest building in the state, which the
citizens called "Colton Hall," in honor of his public spirit and
enterprise. It was during his administration of affairs at Monterey that
the discovery of gold in the Sacramento Valley was first made; and,
considering the vast importance which this discovery has since assumed,
it may not be uninteresting to state that the honor of first making it
publicly known in the Atlantic States, whether by accident or otherwise,
belongs properly to him. It was first announced in a letter bearing his
initials, which appeared in the Philadelphia _North American_, and the
next day in a letter also written by him, in the New-York _Journal of
Commerce_.

Mr. Colton returned to his home early last summer, with anticipations of
years of undisturbed happiness. With a family deeply attached to him, a
large circle of friends, good reputation, and a fortune equal to his
desires, he applied himself leisurely to the preparation of his MS.
journals for the press, and the revision of his earlier publications.
He had published, besides _Deck and Port_, already mentioned, _Three
Years in California_, and had nearly ready for the printer a much
enlarged and improved edition of _Ship and Shore_, which was to be
followed by _A Visit to Constantinople, Athens, and the AEgean_, a
collection of his _Poems_, and a volume of _Miscellanies of Literature
and Religion_. His health however began to decline, and a cold, induced
by exposure during a late visit to Washington, ended in granular dropsy,
which his physician soon discovered to be incurable. Being in
Philadelphia on the 22d of January, we left our hotel to pay him an
early visit, and found the death signs upon his door; he had died at two
o'clock that morning, surrounded by his relations, and in the presence
of his friends the Rev. Albert Barnes and the Rev. Dr. Herman
Hooker--died very calmly, without mortal enemies and at peace with God.

Mr. Colton was of an eminently genial nature, fond of society, and with
such qualities as made him always a welcome associate. His extensive and
various travel had left upon his memory a thousand delightful pictures,
which were reflected in his conversation so distinctly and with such
skilful preparation of the mind, that his companions lived over his life
with him as often as he chose to summon its scenes before them. We
believe him to have been very sincere in all the professions of honor
and religion, and fully deserving of the respectful regrets with which
he will be remembered during the lives of his contemporaries.


AUGUSTE D'AVEZAC, descended from an illustrious French family, was born
in the island of St. Domingo, about the year 1787. He was educated at
the celebrated college of La Fleche, in France; emigrated to the United
States; studied medicine at Edenton, North Carolina; and on the
acquisition of Louisiana removed to New Orleans. Here his sister was
married to Chancellor Livingston, and he himself became a successful
lawyer. When General Jackson arrived in New Orleans, d'Avezac became one
of his aid-de-camps, and he served with him to the end of the war, and
remained all his life among his most devoted friends. When General
Jackson became President he appointed Major d'Avezac _Charge d'Affaires
to Naples_, and afterwards to the Netherlands, whence he was recalled by
Mr. Van Buren, but under circumstances which did not prevent his hearty
support of the President's administration. He then took up his residence
in New-York, and in 1841 and 1843 was elected from this city to the
Legislature. In 1845, he was appointed _Charge d'Affaires_ to the Hague,
and he remained there until superseded last year by Mr. Folsom, when he
again returned to New-York, where he died on the 16th ultimo. He was an
eminently agreeable man in society, and wrote in French and English with
ease and vivacity, upon literature, art, politics, and history.


At the Hague, a _cortege_ of upwards of three thousand persons have just
accompanied to the grave, at the premature age of forty-two, M. ASSER, a
judge of high reputation in that city, and author of various works on
comparative legislation.


France has lost one of her geographical celebrities, M. PIERRE LAPIE,
from whose hand have issued a multitude of valuable maps.


DR. HEINRICH FREDERICK LINK, Professor of Botany in the University of
Berlin, and Director of the Royal Botanic Garden of that city, died on
the first of January, in the eighty-second year of his age. His literary
career extends back for more than half a century, his first botanical
essay, consisting of some observations on the plants of the Botanic
Garden at Rostock, having been published in 1795. He was contemporary
with Linnaeus, having been eighteen years old when the great author of
the "Systema Naturae" died, and, from his botanical tastes, was probably
acquainted with that naturalist's writings long before his decease.

He graduated at Gottingen in 1789, having read on that occasion an
inaugural thesis on the Flora of Gottingen, referring more particularly
to those found in calcareous districts. Shortly afterwards he was
appointed Professor of Botany at Rostock; subsequently he held the same
chair at Breslau; but the latter and larger portion of his scientific
life was spent at Berlin. He practised at Berlin as a physician among an
extensive circle of friends, who had a high opinion of his medical
skill. Although the name of Link fills a large space in the literature
of botany, his mind was not of the highest order, and his contributions
to science are not likely to make a very permanent impression. Still, he
was an energetic, active man, with an observant mind, a retentive
memory, and with considerable power of systematic arrangement. Hence his
works, like those of Linnaeus, have been among the most valuable of the
contributions to the botany of the century in which he lived. Of these,
his "Elementa Philosophiae Botanicae" may be quoted as the most useful.
This work, which was published in 1824, has served as the basis of most
of our manuals and introductions to botany since that period. He devoted
considerable time and attention to the description of new species of
plants, most of which he published in a continuation of Willdenow's
"Species Plantarum." With Count Hoffmansegg, he commenced a Flora of
Portugal, and he also published a memoir on the plants of Greece. He
contributed several valuable papers on physiological botany to the
Transactions of the Natural History Society of Berlin; but he has done
more service for vegetable physiology in his annual reports than in any
other of his writings. They comprise a summary of all that had been
published in botany during the year, accompanied with many valuable
remarks and sound criticisms of his own. In these reports he had to
defend himself and others from the heavy artillery directed against them
by Schleiden, who, whilst claiming for himself a large margin for
liberty of opinion, is most unscrupulous and pertinaciously offensive
towards those who differ from him. In these literary contests, however,
Link showed that the experience of above fifty years had not been lost
upon him, and he was not unfrequently more than a match for the vigor
and logic of his youthful and more precipitate adversary. According to
custom, a funeral oration was pronounced over his grave; but
unfortunately the clergyman selected being a strictly orthodox person,
and not being able to approve of the spirit of the whole of the writings
of the deceased, censured them, it is said, in most unbecoming language,
to the indignation of the numerous friends present.


The Italian poet LUIGI CARRER, died at Venice on the twenty-third of
December.


GENERAL DON JOSE DE SAN MARTIN, formerly the "Protector of Peru," and
one of the most deservedly eminent of the public men of the Spanish
American States, died in August, 1850, at Bologna, in the seventy-second
year of his age. His death has but recently been announced, and we
receive the information now, not from Europe or from South America, but
by way of the Sandwich Islands. The Honolulu _Polynesian_ of December
fourteenth, translating from the _Panameno_, gives us the following
particulars of his life. General San Martin was a native of one of the
Provinces of Buenos Ayres, but previous to the war of independence,
passed over to Spain, where he entered into the army, and distinguished
himself at the battle of Baylen. In the Spanish army, he rose to the
rank of Lieutenant Colonel. After his native country, Buenos Ayres, had
declared itself independent of the mother country, he returned from
Spain, and fought with great bravery, against Artigas, and in other
military contests. He thereby gained so much reputation with his
countrymen, that when an expedition to liberate Chile was determined
upon, he was the chief chosen to organize and command it. He fulfilled
that trust, in an admirable manner, at Mendoza--carried his small army
successfully across the Andes, through an able piece of strategy,
confided to a brave young Chilian, Don Manuel Rodriguez, at a point
where the Spanish forces did not expect the invading army, and signally
defeated them, on the plains of _Chacabuco_, near the Capital of Chile.
The defeated Spaniards had to retire and concentrate themselves in the
South. San Martin occupied the whole country and shut them up in
_Talcachuano_. Expecting that the Spaniards would be soon reinforced
from Peru, San Martin, with the aid of several foreign officers, French
and English, recruited his forces in Chile, and raised his army to about
9000 men. A strong reinforcement having arrived from Peru, at
Talcahuano, under the command of General Ossioro, the Spaniards regained
possession of the Province of Concepcion, took the offensive, and
advanced towards the Capital. San Martin, with forces numerically
superior, advanced to drive them back. The two armies met at _"Cancha
Rayada,"_ where, on San Martin's birth day, in 1819, the Spaniards
attacked his army at night, signally defeated and dispersed them. The
only division that retired unbroken, was that commanded by General Don
Gregorio de las Heras, and the army of the Andes left on the field its
whole artillery, excepting only one piece which was saved by the
personal exertions and cool intrepidity of Captain Miller, of that army,
now H. B. M. Consul General for these Islands. After that unexpected
defeat, the greatest consternation prevailed in the Capital of Chile,
the cause of the Republic was considered desperate, but the Supreme
Director, General Don Bernardo Ohiggins, made immense exertions to
reunite the scattered army and to strengthen it, by new levies; the
patriotism of the Chilians roused itself with an energy equal to the
emergency; resident foreign merchants, wishing well to the country and
alarmed by a report that it was the intention of the Spanish Commander
in Chief to shoot them all and confiscate their property (it being then
contrary to the laws of Spain that foreigners should reside in or trade
with her Colonies without special license), supplied money, arms and
accoutrements. An army was thus reformed with extraordinary expedition;
its confidence was restored by a troop of cavalry sent to reconnoitre,
headed by Major Vial, a brave French officer, who gallantly charged and
routed a superior force of the enemy, and, under the command of General
San Martin, on the 5th of April, 1850, on the plain of _Maypu_, it
defeated the Spanish army so completely, that only a few of the
fugitives reached Talcahuano.

But experience having shown that the independence of Chile could never
be considered secure so long as the Spaniards retained their hold on
Peru, it was resolved to make an attempt to liberate that Vice-Royalty.
Colonel Miller, whose promotion after the affair of _Cancha Rayadu_ had
been rapid, was sent with a small but active force to land at _Arica_
and operate in the Southern Provinces, where by astute strategy and
several brilliant successes he confirmed his high reputation. San Martin
soon after followed with the main army, escorted by the Chilian squadron
under command of Lord Cochran; in running down the coast, he took in
Colonel Miller with his troops, and knowing the powerful diversion that
the latter had made in the South, he proceeded northward to Pisco, where
a force was landed under the command of Colonel Charles and Colonel
Miller, that made itself master of the place, after a bloody combat, in
which the former gallantly fell while cheering on his troops, and the
latter received several musket balls, one of which passed through his
liver.

According to the plan of General San Martin, the force landed to the
South of Lima, advanced into the interior to the silver mines of Pasco
under the command of General Arenales, where it defeated the Spanish
forces under General Oreilly, while San Martin himself, with the main
body, effected his landing near Huacho to the North of Lima. By this
plan, ably conceived and no less ably executed, the Spaniards were
reduced to the Capital and Callao, which port at the same time was
strictly blockaded by Lord Cochran's squadron. The fall of both Lima and
Callao was only a question of time; it was retarded for some months
owing to the great sickness that weakened San Martin's ranks; but these
were filled up by desertions from the enemy; the whole regiment of
_Numancia_ passed over to the Patriot side, and at last San Martin
entered the Capital at the head of his troops, amidst the acclamations
of the inhabitants. He was soon after declared Protector of Peru, and
General-in-Chief of the Army. Having now a Peruvian character, and
having come to liberate--not to conquer the country, he considered it
right to create a Peruvian Army. As a _nucleus_ for its formation, the
_Peruvian Legion_ (intended to consist of several Batallions), was
raised, and placed under the command of Colonel Miller. But Lima and its
luxuries proved the _Capua_ of San Martin's army--national jealousies
arose between the Buenos Ayrean and the Chilian chiefs--San Martin's
confidence in foreign officers and his endeavors to create a national
army in Peru gave great umbrage to both; a secret political Lodge was
formed among the leading chiefs of corps, and he was openly charged with
latent designs to make himself the King or Perpetual Dictator of Peru.

The Spanish army, which had evacuated the Capital unbroken, profiting by
these dissensions and the delay of the Patriot army in the Capital, had
largely recruited itself in the valley of Jauja; they were every day
gaining more strength, while the Patriot army was becoming daily weaker
both physically and morally; under these circumstances General San
Martin sought an interview with _Bolivar_, at Guayaquil, and shortly
after his return to Lima, in 1822, he resigned his high post of
Protector and General-in-chief, and embarked for Europe. On his arrival
in Europe, after a short visit to the East of Fife, San Martin passed
his time chiefly in Brussels and Paris, so much respected by all who
knew him, and so esteemed for his probity, that _Sor Aguado_, the rich
Spanish Banker, on his death-bed, named San Martin his Executor.

It is believed that he retired from Peru, disgusted with the false
charges that were brought against him, and after having obtained a
promise from his great rival, Bolivar, that he would finish the war,
which it would have been much for San Martin's own glory to have
concluded himself. If so, he had the _magnanimity_ to prefer the good of
Peru to his own glory, a virtue never found except amongst men of great
nobleness of soul. San Martin may have even thought that under the
circumstances, his great rival was fitter to conclude the war than he
was himself; and if he did so, the result proved at once his modesty and
the soundness of his judgment, for when the Peruvian Government had
fairly intrusted their destinies to Bolivar, in rapid succession, he
fought the bloody battles of Junin and Ayacucho, the result of which was
the final and total liberation of Peru.

Nor was Bolivar less just to foreign officers of merit than San Martin.
Amongst his Generals and Aid-de-camps ranked General Brawn, General
Oleary, Colonel Wilson, and many others; and Colonel Miller (who had
been raised to the rank of General), as the reward of his gallant
conduct in the last hard-fought fields of Junin and Ayacucho, received
the further honor of being declared a _Marescal de Agacucho_. To other
officers of Peru, of Chile and of Buenos Ayres, Bolivar was equally
just, thus showing that he was superior to any petty jealousy of those
chiefs with whose aid San Martin, his illustrious predecessor, had made
those great achievements which a weaker mind might have looked upon with
envy as, in some respects, overwhelming his own.


FREDERICK BASTIAT, the political economist, whose health had been very
feeble for nearly a year, and of whose death last summer in Italy a
report was copied into the _International_, died in Rome on the 24th of
December. He was born at Bayonne in 1801, and after completing his
education, he retired to a quiet village in the department of Landes, to
pursue his favorite studies of trade and society. He was successively
called to various offices of the department, and to the present National
Assembly he was chosen by a vote of 56,000, being the second in the list
of seven representing the Landes. His first book, we believe, was
_Cobden et la Ligue_, published in 1844, from which period he was an
industrious writer. Without being a discoverer of new truths, he
possessed in an eminent degree the faculty of expanding, with clearness
and vigor, the grounds and the effects of complex natural laws already
developed by the technical processes of philosophy. His writings have
been exceedingly popular. The whole or nearly the whole, of the tracts
written by him under the generic title of 'Sophismes Economiques,'
originally appeared in the _Journal des Economistes_--a periodical of
which for the last six years he had been a principal supporter. The
disease of which he died was a very painful and peculiar affection of
the throat. He had suffered from it more or less, for some years; and
the hard work of the last session of the Assembly brought the disorder
to a crisis which the strength of the patient did not enable him to
overcome. He may be regarded as the virtual leader of the Free Trade
party in France. He aided with all his energies the Association
Francaise pour la Liberte des Echanges, and he did his utmost to spread
among his countrymen that new philosophy of trade. His last and most
important work, _Les Harmonies Economiques_, we lately noticed in these
pages. His _Sophismes Economiques_ were translated a few years ago by a
daughter of Langdon Cheves, of South Carolina, and published in this
city by Mr. Putnam. The extent to which M. Bastiat was indebted to our
countryman, Henry C. Carey, may be inferred from a note in the February
number of the _International_, page 402.


BENJAMIN W. CROWNINSHIELD, died in Boston, on Monday the 3d of February.
He had left his carriage and entered a store, when he suddenly fell and
expired, having previously suffered from a disease of the heart, which
is supposed to have been the cause of his death, although he was about
77 years of age. He had been a resident of Boston nearly twenty years,
during the greater part of which period he had been retired from public
life. He had previously resided in Salem, where the Crowninshields were
long distinguished for wealth and commercial enterprise. He was many
years a prominent leader of the old democratic republican party. In
December, 1814, he received, from President Madison, the appointment of
Secretary of the Navy, which office he held (being continued by
President Monroe) until he resigned, in November, 1818, when he was
succeeded by Smith Thompson, afterwards judge of the Supreme Court. In
1823 he was chosen a member of Congress from Essex South District, and
was continued by his constituents in that station until 1831--eight
years. He was in Congress when John Quincy Adams was elected President
of the United States, by that body; he participated in that election by
giving his vote for Mr. A., and was a zealous supporter of his
administration, acting subsequently with the whig party. He was
repeatedly, at different periods of his life, a member of the state
legislature, and although not distinguished for eminent talents, in all
the stations which he filled he enjoyed, in a high degree, the public
confidence.


PROFESSOR ANSTEY, lately connected with St. Mary's College, at
Wilmington, died in the early part of February. He was dismissed from
his station on account of intemperate habits, but continued his
dissipation until reduced to the utmost destitution, wandering about
homeless and friendless. He was discovered at length in an almost frozen
state, in an old hovel, with a bottle of whiskey by his side, and soon
died from the effects of his suffering. Professor Anstey was a young man
of fine classical attainments, and was the author of a work published a
year or two since in Philadelphia, entitled, "Elements of Literature, or
an introduction to the Study of Rhetoric and Belle Lettres."


DONALD MCKENZIE, born in Scotland, June 15, 1783, died on the 20th of
January, at Mayville, in New-York. At the age of seventeen he came over
to Canada and joined the North West Company, and continued eight years
with them. In 1809 he became one of the partners with the late John
Jacob Astor, in establishing the fur trade west of the Rocky Mountains,
and with Mr. Hunt, of St. Louis, made the overland route to the mouth of
the Columbia River, a feat then rarely attempted, and full of perils,
and remained at Astoria until it was surrendered by McDougal to the
British. He converted every thing he could into available funds, which
he carried safely through the wilderness to Mr. Astor. Washington
Irving, in "Astoria," narrates a few of Mr. McKenzie's adventures on the
frontiers, although the friends of McKenzie claim that injustice has
been done him by Mr. Irving, relative to the betrayal of Astoria. They
contend that to him alone was Mr. Astor indebted for all that was saved.
After the restoration of peace, McKenzie exerted himself to secure for
the United States the exclusive trade of Oregon, but after a long
negotiation with Mr. Astor, and through him with Messrs. Madison,
Gallatin, and other leading individuals in and out of office, the matter
was abandoned, and McKenzie, in March, 1821, joined the Hudson Bay
Company, and was immediately appointed one of the Council, and Chief
Factor. In August, 1825, he was married to Adelegonde Humburt (who
survives him), and was shortly after appointed Governor. At this time he
resided at Fort Garry, Red River settlement, where he continued to
reside until 1832, in active and prosperous business, in which he
amassed a large fortune. In August of the following year he went to
reside in Mayville, where he spent the rest of his life.


HORACE EVERETT, LL.D., formerly a distinguished representative in
Congress from Vermont, died at Windsor in that State on the 30th of
January, in the seventy-second year of his age. Elected to Congress by
the opponents of General Jackson, he entered the House of
Representatives in 1829, and was continued by his constituents,
inhabiting one of the strongest and most enlightened whig districts in
the Union, for fourteen consecutive years--his last term expiring in
March, 1843. During his career in Congress, he was one of the most
prominent whigs of the House, occupying the front rank, as one of the
most able of parliamentary debaters, distinguished also as much his good
sense and acquirements, as for his eloquence. Among his best speeches,
were several on the Indian Bill, so called, growing out of the
difficulties between Georgia and the Cherokees.


The London _Morning Chronicle_ has a brief notice of JAMES HARFIELD, who
was connected with that journal more than twenty years. His reading, in
every department of literature, was prodigious, and his memory almost a
phenomenon. On all matters connected with Parliamentary history,
precedent, and etiquette in particular, Mr. Harfield was an encyclopaedia
of information, while the stores of his learning, in every department,
were always freely at the command of his friends and colleagues. In
early life, Mr. Harfield was a _protege_ of, and afterwards acted as
secretary to, Jeremy Bentham, who acknowledged his sense of his young
friend's services by bequeathing to him a magnificent library.


WILLIAM WILSON, a painter of considerable reputation, died in
Charleston, S. C, on the 28th of January. The Charleston _Evening News_
says:--"He was a native of Yorkshire, England, but for the last twenty
years has resided in this country, and during the last eleven, in
Georgia and South Carolina. In all the relations of life, as husband,
father, son, and brother, he was irreproachable, while his gentle and
winning manners conciliated general esteem and regard. At his death Mr.
Wilson had attained a distinguished reputation as a portrait painter, in
which department he first attracted attention in 1836, by the exhibition
of a portrait of an intimate friend at the first exhibition of the
"American Art-Union," at the Apollo Gallery. In 1837 he exhibited
several heads of the Academy of Design, which attracted much attention.
In 1844 he exhibited a head of a brother artist, which was more
generally admired than any similar production for years. In 1846 Mr. W.
received a commission from the State of Georgia to execute two
portraits--one of William H. Crawford, former Secretary of the Treasury,
and the other of Gen. Jackson. After a tedious and troublesome journey
to the North, in search of Jarvis's portrait of Crawford, which could
not be traced, he returned to Charleston, and while copying from
Vanderlyn's portrait of Gen. Jackson in the City Hall, he was presented
by Charles Fraser, Esq., with a proof engraving of Jarvis's Crawford,
from which, on his return to Augusta, he produced a most striking
portrait of Georgia's greatest statesman. These pictures of Jackson and
Crawford, which adorn the State House at Milledgeville, will be lasting
memorials of his excellence as an artist."


JAMES WALLACE, D.D., the distinguished Mathematician, several years
Professor of Mathematics in Columbia College, New-York, died in
Lexington District, South Carolina, on the 15th of January. After
completing his course of Theology, he was ordained a clergyman of the
Roman Catholic Church, and was then appointed to the chair of
Mathematics in Georgetown College, D.C. A few years later he removed to
Columbia, S. C., and was appointed Professor of Mathematics in South
Carolina College. While in New-York he published his justly celebrated
"Treatise on Globes and Practical Astronomy," and had prepared materials
for an entire course of Natural Philosophy and Astronomy, but was
compelled to relinquish his design on account of ill-health and advanced
age. He was also the author of numerous scientific articles in the
Southern Quarterly Review. He possessed one of the choicest and most
extensive scientific libraries in the United States, which was almost
entirely destroyed by the great conflagration of 1837: the remnant of
it, with his scientific apparatus, was bequeathed to the Catholic
Theological Seminary of Charleston. He was a resident of South Carolina
during the last thirty-eight years.


JOSHUA MILNE, the author of the celebrated treatise on "Annuities and
Assurances," we see by the English papers died recently near London at
the advanced age of seventy-eight. He is said to have left behind him
the most complete collection extant on subjects connected with the
statistics of vitality, of which a portion at least will probably be
given to the public.


The Hungarian General BEM, expired with the half-century. Born at
Tarnon, a Pole, he died at Aleppo, a Turk. In early youth he served in
the Russian army against Napoleon in his disastrous campaign. He was the
friend, companion, and favorite of the Grand Duke Constantine, until
certain indignities to himself and cruelties to his countrymen made him
the implacable foe of Russia. He joined the Polish insurrection of 1831,
and performed prodigies of valor at the battle of Ostrolenka. Like many
others, he became a fugitive and a wanderer. Unsuccessful patriotism
reduced the companion of royalty to be a pensioner on the charity of the
friends of Poland in London. 1848 gave Bern once more a career. He went
to Vienna, and when the people were in the ascendant, in October, he
held a command. But the Viennese could not trust the Pole. Incompetent
men were placed over him. Vienna fell before the artillery of
Windischgratz and Jellachich in November. Slaughter, terror, violation
reigned. Never will the Viennese forget the red cloaks of the Croats.
The educated youth of Vienna were shot in clusters. Robert Blum was led
out to perish. The Odeon, although used as an hospital, was laid in
ashes, with the wounded in it. Great rewards were offered for the
apprehension of the popular leaders and generals still alive. The search
for Bem was vigilant. He doffed the costume of a hackney coachman,
filled his vehicle with a Hungarian family of nurses and children,
mounted the box under the eyes of spies and soldiers, laughed at
inspection, and drove off to Hungary. For ten mouths he was victorious
there over the Austrians. "Bem beat the Ban." Splinters from an old
wound escaping from his leg all the time, and able only to sit on
horseback.


T. S. DAVIES, F.R.S., F.A.S., and a Professor of Mathematics in the
Royal Military Academy at Woolwich, died on the 6th of January at
Shooter's Hill, Kent, in the fifty-seventh year of his age. Mr. Davies
was a very distinguished mathematician, and the author of several works
on mathematics. He possessed, also, extensive and varied acquirements in
different branches of science and literature. Nor was he unmindful of
the claims of the more humble aspirant to mathematical honors; his
encouragement and advice were liberally bestowed, as many deserving
young men could testify.


HENRY CHRISTIAN SCHUMACHER, the celebrated Danish Astronomer, died at
Altona on the 28th of December, aged about seventy years. He commenced
his professional career at the age of twenty-five, as professor of
astronomy in the University of Copenhagen. In 1822, his royal master,
Frederic VI., caused to be built, expressly that Schumacher might be
placed at the head of it, the Observatory of Altona. From 1820 to 1829
he published his "_Auxiliary Tables of Astronomy_", in ten volumes,
_quarto_. His _Astronomical Annals_, continued from 1830 to the date of
his death, have, with his _Tables_, given him a high and wide
reputation. In 1832 the King of Denmark established the reward of a
golden medal for the discovery of new microscopic comets; and it was
upon his favorite Schumacher exclusively that he devolved the duty of
verifying the title of claimants and assigning the medal. Since 1847
Schumacher has been the correspondent of the Academy of Sciences of
Paris.


MAXWELL, the Irish novelist, and author of innumerable humorous sketches
in the periodical literature of the day, expired on the 29th of
December, at Musselberge, near Edinburgh. His generally vigorous health
had of late broken down, and he crept into the retirement of this
sequestered village to die. He had been in early life a captain in the
British army, and was of course the delight of the mess-room, and a
general favorite in social circles. He subsequently entered the church,
and was some years prebendary of Balla, a wild Connaught church living,
without any congregation or cure of souls attached to it; though it
afforded what he was admirably capable of dealing with, plenty of game.
Of a warm-hearted, kind, and manly temperament, he made friends of all
who came within the range of his wit or the circle of his acquaintance.
He was the founder of that school which counts the "Harry Lorrequers"
and others among its humble disciples; but the "Story of my Life," and
"Wild Sports of the West," will not be easily surpassed in the peculiar
qualities of that gay and off-hand style of which he was the originator.
Among his other more successful works are "Stories of Waterloo," "Hector
O'Halloran," and "Rambling Recollections of a Soldier of Fortune."
Besides his novels, he wrote "Notes and Reflections during a Ramble in
Germany," "Victories of the British Armies," and a "Life of Field
Marshal the Duke of Wellington".


ALEXANDER MACDONALD, well known to the public as an antiquary, died
early in January at Edinburgh. He was one of Mr. Thompson's earliest
assistants in the publication of the "Acts of the Parliaments of
Scotland," and other works, undertaken by the Record Commissioners. He
was long a most active member of the Society of Antiquaries of Scotland;
and the library and museum of that body owe much to his industry and
intelligence. He edited several volumes of the Maitland Club, to which
he contributed "The Register of Ministers in the year 1567"--the
earliest extant record of the ecclesiastical appointments of the
Reformed Church in Scotland. Mr. Macdonald also largely supplied the
materials of Sir Walter Scott's notes and illustrations of the "Waverley
Novels." He held many years the office of Keeper of the Register of
Deeds and Protests in Scotland.




Scientific Miscellanies


MR. WALSH writes from Paris to the _Journal of Commerce_, in the last
month, as follows:

The _Annuaire_, or Annual for the present year, has been issued by the
Board of Longitude. M. Arago has appended to it nearly 200 pages on the
Calendar in which he treats of all the divisions of time among the
ancients and the moderns. This celebrated astronomer does not belie, in
this notice, his reputation for handling scientific subjects so as to
make them clear to common apprehension. He announces, in his second
page, that he has completed and will soon publish a _Treatise of Popular
Astronomy_; a desideratum for France. Sir John Herschel has supplied it
for English readers, in his Outlines. The present history and
explanations of the Calendar may be recommended, as material, to your
Professor Loomis. In the section concerning the period at which the
Paris clocks were first regulated on the mean or true time, Arago
observes: "It will not happen again that an astronomer shall hear for a
half hour, the same hour struck by different clocks, as Delambre told me
he had often experienced. M. Chabrol, the Prefect of the Department of
the Seine, before he would introduce this useful change, required, as a
guaranty for himself, a report from the Board of Longitude: he was
fearful that the change might provoke the working population to
insurrection; that they might refuse to accept a mid-day or noon which,
by a contradiction in terms, would not correspond to the middle of the
day; which would divide in two unequal portions the time comprised
between the rising and the setting of the sun. But this sinister
anticipation was not realized; the operation passed without being
perceived." It is all important, on the railroads, that the clocks at
the different stations should be so regulated. Arago remarks that among
the ancients it would have been dangerous to announce the existence of
more than seven planets, owing to the "mysterious virtues" ascribed to
that number; to complete it the sun was counted among the planets. He
discusses the point--which is the first day of the week, and decides for
Sunday. He devotes a section to the question--"Will the period come when
the days will be equal between themselves, and have the same temperature
throughout the year?" He concludes, of course, in the negative. He
decides, also, that the nineteenth century began only on the 1st of
January, 1801. Particular interest may be attributed to the section on
the long series of ages which the ancients invested with the title "The
Great Year." The high names of Plato, Cicero, Seneca, Plutarch, should
not prevent us from regarding the opinions of antiquity on the relations
of the great year, with the events of every kind observable on the
earth, as among the crudest conceptions that have descended to the
moderns.

At the sitting of the _Academy of Sciences_ on the 24th ult., M.
AUGUSTIN CAUCHY read a memoir on the transversal vibrations of ether,
and of the dispersion of colors. He furnished a simple, and easily
intelligible mathematical theory of the various phenomena of light, and
particularly, the theory of the dispersion of colors. Lord Brougham read
a paper of his _Researches, Experimental and Analytical, on Light_. His
Lordship's ambition is to shine in optics, as in every thing else; but
you will see by a London paragraph that his researches have nearly cost
him his eyesight. Dr. Aran submitted a Memoir, which seems to be quite
important, on local anesthetic medication. "In the medical point of
view," he remarks, "the number of cases in which local anesthetic
applications may be employed, is truly immense. My experiments and
researches, during many months, have conducted me to this practical
result, which is worthy of all attention. Whenever an acute pain exists
in any part of the animal economy, whether the pain constitute the
malady in itself or be only an integral and principal part of it, the
physician can relieve the patient of it for a longer or shorter time, by
one or various local anesthetic applications. Great service, too, may be
rendered by the precedent use of them in various surgical cases. The
medication is wonderfully useful in articular acute rheumatism."

"Local anesthetic properties belong to all the agents in which the
general have been found. They depend on the degree of fixity of the
substance. A number of the anesthetics are irritating for the skin;
chloroform in particular. According to Dr. Aran, the best agent for
topical use is _ether chlorhydique chlore_. This is efficacious in a few
minutes. Monsieur Recamier has submitted to the Academy of Medicine a
_galvanic cataplasm_, by which, when it is applied to the skin, the
benefit of electricity is fully conveyed, without the least pain. The
reporter exclaims, 'Yes, who would have thought it? Electricity is
transformed into cataplasm. This mysterious power, which, perhaps, is
life itself, is reduced to an humble and common part in pharmaceutical
science.'

"At the sitting of the _Academy of Sciences_ on the 30th ult., a very
interesting memoir (the 4th) was read by M.A. Masson, with the title,
Studies of Electrical Photometry. He thinks that he has ascertained the
cause of electrical light. He ascribes the Aurora Borealis to currents
of great intensity situate in the higher regions of our atmosphere." The
Report of Lieut. J.C. Walsh on his soundings, was referred for
examination to Duperroy, the member most eminent in hydrography.


MONSIEUR POUILLET, the great Professor of Physics, has published in
Paris a work entitled _General Notions of Natural Philosophy and
Meteorology, for the use of young persons_; and Mr. Boussingault,
eminent as a scientific agriculturist, the second edition of his _Rural
Economy considered in its Relations with Chemistry, Physics, and
Mineralogy_. The _Treatise of Mineralogy_ by Dufresnoy, the celebrated
Professor, who is of the Academy of Sciences, is complete, and at least
equal to any other extant. There are four volumes octavo. The 22d volume
of the memoirs of the Academy was ready in September last; the 23d is in
the press; the 11th volume of Foreign Communications will appear this
month. Twelve vacancies from death of foreign correspondents, are soon
to be filled by election. All merit is ascribed to the work of Dr.
Fairet, entitled _Clinical Instructions respecting Mental Maladies_. The
author, pupil and successor of Pinel and Esquirol, is the physician of
the Salpetriere. Along with the able Doctor Voison, he has a noble
Lunatic Asylum of his own, not far from the capital.


SIR DAVID BREWSTER, it seems, has become a convert to that part of
Animal Magnetism called Electro Biology, and which consists in willing a
person to be somebody else. After describing some wonderful experiments,
made in the presence of several scientific gentlemen, by a Mr. DARLING,
he says, "they were all as convinced as I was, that the phenomena which
we witnessed were real phenomena, and as well established as any other
facts in physical science. The process by which the operator produces
them--the mode by which that process acts upon the mind of the
patient--and the reference of the phenomena to some general law in the
constitution of man--may long remain unknown; but it is not difficult to
see in the recent discoveries of M. DUBOIS REYMOND and MATTEUCIA, and in
the laws which regulate the relative intensity of the external and
internal impressions on the nerves of sensation, some not very
indistinct indications of that remarkable process by which minds of
peculiar sensibility are temporarily placed under the dominion of
physical influences developed and directed by some living agent."

[Illustration]




Ladies' Fashions for Early Spring.


More attention than previously for many seasons appears to have been
given this winter to ladies' fashions, and some that have come out are
remarkably tasteful, while generally in fabric and manufacture they
appear to be unusually expensive. We compile this month mainly from the
London _World of Fashion_.

_Bonnets_ are remarkable for a novel form, the front of the rims
continuing large and open, the crowns round, low, and small. Of an
elegant style are those made of Orient gray pearl, half satin, half
_velours epingle_, having a very rich effect, and decorated with
_touffes Marquises_, composed of _marabouts_. Then, we see bonnets of
green satin, ornamented at the edge, over the front, and upon the crown,
with a stamped velvet imitating lace, and decorated upon the left side
with a small _plumet_ in a weeping feather, the ends of which are tied
or knotted with green, of two different shades; this is a very favorite
and _recherche_ style. Also a bonnet of grayish green velvet, ornamented
with a bunch of feathers composed of the _grebe_ and the ostrich.
Drooping low feathers of every description are in request for decorating
bonnets.

_Ball Dresses_ of light materials are most in vogue, and are generally
made of two and three skirts; as white _tulle_, with three skirts,
trimmed all round with a broad, open-worked satin ribbon; the third
skirt being raised on one side, and attached with a large bouquet of
flowers, whilst the ribbon is twisted, and ascends to the side of the
waist, where it finishes; the same kind of flowers serves to ornament
the sleeves and centre of the corsage, which is also trimmed with a deep
drapery of _tulle_. Feather trimmings are in vogue, disposed as fringes
of _marabout_, and placed at the edges of the double skirts of _tulle_.
Another pretty style, composed also of white _tulle_, and _a double
jupes_, the under one having a border of white _marabout_ fringe
sprinkled with small golden grains falling over them in a perfect
shower; the second _jupe_ having attached to the edge of the hem a
narrower fringe; the two sides of the upper skirt being open to the
waist, is ornamented upon each side with an embroidery of gold and white
silk, caught at regular distances with _noeuds_ of white and gold
gauze ribbon, the floating ends of which are edged with fringe; body _a
la Grecque_.

_Capotes_ of velvet are considerably lightened in appearance, by a
novelty consisting of a kind of open stamped velvet, which is placed
over satin; either a pretty contrast in color, or of the same hue;
whilst those of plain velvet are relieved with trimmings of black lace,
with _mancinis_ formed of the convolvulus, made in green velvet. The
form of the present style of _capotes_ is very open in front, flat upon
the top of the head, and shallow and sloping at the back. Some are of
green satin, trimmed with ribbons of an open pattern in black and green.
Others are decorated with rows of fancy ribbon-velvet, the interior
having loops of narrow ribbon-velvet of two colors, charmingly blended.

I. A high dress of green silk, the body opening in front _a la demi
coeur_; the waist is long and rounded in front; the sleeves, reaching
a little below the elbow, are moderately wide, and finished either by a
_ruche_ or rich _guimpe_ trimming; the skirt is plain, long, and full.
_Pardessus manteau_ of claret velvet, fastening to the throat; it is
ornamented with a narrow silk trimming: this _manteau_ is lined with
white silk, quilted in large squares. Bonnet of green velvet, with
feathers of the same color placed low at the left side.

II. _Robe_ of blue _brocade_; the high body opens in the front nearly to
the waist; the fronts of the skirt are lined with amber satin, and a
fulling of the same is placed on the edge of the fronts, graduating in
width towards the top; it is carried round the neck of the dress; the
sleeves are very wide from the elbow, and lined with amber satin; the
edge of the sleeve is left plain, but there is a _ruche_ of satin round
the middle of the sleeve, just above the elbow. Under dress of jaconet
muslin, trimmed with lace or embroidery. Cap of _tulle_, with blue
trimmings.

[Illustration]

III. A dress of pink _tulle_, spotted and _brode_ in silver; the _jupe_
composed of three skirts, each waved round the lower part; plain
close-fitting body, made very low, and pointed at the waist; the upper
part decorated with a narrow cape, descending in a point upon the front
of the corsage, and decorated with a splendid bouquet of roses; a second
row of frilling forms the loose short sleeve; the whole worn over a
dress of pale pink satin; a narrow row of white blonde encircling the
neck. The hair is arranged in a similar form to figure I; the only
difference being that the _noeud_ of ribbon is replaced by a beautiful
drooping branch of pink shaded roses and light foliage; a spray of the
three green leaves being placed upon the centre of the front, just over
the parting of the hair.

IV. A dress of green satin; the skirt, long and full, has four rows of
braid up the front; the body is high, open a little in the front, the
braid being carried round it; it is plaited from the shoulder to the
waist; wide sleeves, with broad cuffs turned back; they have three rows
of braid on them. _Mantelot_ of grey cachmere, the sleeves _a la
Maintenon_; the edges are all scalloped and trimmed with braid. Bonnet
of ultra marine velvet; a broad black lace is turned back over the edge;
it has a deep curtain.

_For a Young Lady's Dress_, _Capote_ formed of rows of narrow pink fancy
ribbon. Frock of dark blue cachmere; the skirt trimmed with two rows of
ribbon-velvet; the cape formed of narrow folds, open in the front,
continued across with bands of velvet. Pantaloons of embroidered
cambric.






End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The International Monthly, Volume 2,
No. 4, March, 1851, by Various

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