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THE MIRROR OF LITERATURE, AMUSEMENT, AND INSTRUCTION.

VOL. 19, No. 549] SUPPLEMENTARY NUMBER [PRICE 2_d_.



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THE ALHAMBRA, IN SPAIN

[Illustration: GENERAL VIEW.]

[Illustration: Palace of Charles V., see page 340.]

       *       *       *       *       *

   Accumulated novelties from Books published within the past month
   have led to the publication of the present Supplement. Although
   its contents have not been drawn from works of unfettered fancy,
   it is hoped they will be found to blend the real with the
   imaginative in such a degree as to render their knowledge not the
   less useful for its being amusive. The Engravings are perhaps as
   appropriate as attractive; since they illustrate, and the artists
   hope not unworthily, the _New Sketch Book_ of WASHINGTON IRVING.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE ALHAMBRA.

    by Geoffrey Crayon, Author Of The Sketch Book, &c.

What! Washington Irving, or, as the title-page will have it, Geoffrey
Crayon, in SPAIN, wandering up and down the deserted halls of the
Alhambra, and weaving its legendary lore with thick coming fancies
into sketches of enchanting interest. The origin of the work, (the
_New Sketch Book_,) as it has been inappropriately styled, is told in
the dedication to David Wilkie, Esq., R.A. Mr. Irving and the great
artist just named were fellow travellers on the continent a few years
since. In their rambles about some of the old cities of Spain, they
were more than once struck with scenes and incidents which reminded
them of passages in the "Arabian Nights." The painter urged Mr.
Irving to write something that should illustrate those peculiarities,
"something in the Haroun Alrasched style" that should have a dash of
that Arabian spice which pervades every thing in Spain. The author set
to work, _con amore,_ and has produced two goodly volumes, with a
few "Arabesque" sketches and tales founded on popular traditions. His
_study_ was THE ALHAMBRA, which must have inspired him for his task.
To quote his own words: "how many legends and traditions, true and
fabulous; how many songs and romances, Spanish and Arabian, of love
and war, and chivalry, are associated with this romantic pile." The
Governor of the Alhambra gave Mr. Irving and his companion, permission
to occupy his vacant apartments in the Moorish Palace. "My companion,"
says the author, "was soon summoned away by the duties of his station;
but I remained for several months, spellbound in the old enchanted
pile."

Such is the plan or frame of the work before us. It has induced us to
select the Embellishments on the annexed page; and their description,
from so graceful a pencil as that of the author, will, we hope,
bespeak the favour of the reader.

"The Alhambra is an ancient fortress or castellated palace of the
Moorish kings of Granada, where they held dominion over this their
boasted terrestrial paradise, and made their last stand for empire in
Spain. The palace occupies but a portion of the fortress, the walls of
which, studded with towers, stretch irregularly round the whole crest
of a lofty hill that overlooks the city, and forms a spur of the
Sierra Nevada, or snowy mountain.

"In the time of the Moors, the fortress was capable of containing
an army of forty thousand men within its precincts, and served
occasionally as a stronghold of the sovereigns against their
rebellious subjects. After the kingdom had passed into the hands
of the Christians, the Alhambra continued a royal demesne, and was
occasionally inhabited by the Castilian monarchs. The Emperor Charles
V. began a sumptuous palace within its walls, but was deterred from
completing it by repeated shocks of earthquakes. The last royal
residents were Philip V. and his beautiful queen Elizabetta of Parma,
early in the eighteenth century. Great preparations were made for
their reception. The palace and gardens were placed in a state of
repair, and a new suite of apartments erected, and decorated by
artists brought from Italy. The sojourn of the sovereigns was
transient, and after their departure the palace once more became
desolate. Still the place was maintained with some military state. The
governor held it immediately from the crown, its jurisdiction extended
down into the suburbs of the city, and was independent of the captain
general of Granada. A considerable garrison was kept up, the governor
had his apartments in the front of the old Moorish palace, and never
descended into Granada without some military parade. The fortress, in
fact, was a little town of itself, having several streets of houses
within its walls, together with a Franciscan convent and a parochial
church.

"The desertion of the court, however, was a fatal blow to the
Alhambra. Its beautiful halls became desolate, and some of them fell
to ruin; the gardens were destroyed, and the fountains ceased to play.
By degrees the dwellings became filled up with a loose and lawless
population; contrabandistas, who availed themselves of its independent
jurisdiction to carry on a wide and daring course of smuggling, and
thieves and rogues of all sorts, who made this their place of refuge
from whence they might depredate upon Granada and its vicinity. The
strong arm of government at length interfered: the whole community was
thoroughly sifted; none were suffered to remain but such as were of
honest character, and had legitimate right to a residence; the greater
part of the houses were demolished and a mere hamlet left, with
the parochial church and the Franciscan convent. During the recent
troubles in Spain, when Granada was in the hands of the French,
the Alhambra was garrisoned by their troops, and the palace was
occasionally inhabited by the French commander. With that enlightened
taste which has ever distinguished the French nation in their
conquests, this monument of Moorish elegance and grandeur was rescued
from the absolute ruin and desolation that were overwhelming it. The
roofs were repaired, the saloons and galleries protected from the
weather, the gardens cultivated, the water courses restored, the
fountains once more made to throw up their sparkling showers; and
Spain may thank her invaders for having preserved to her the most
beautiful and interesting of her historical monuments.

"On the departure of the French they blew up several towers of the
outer wall, and left the fortifications scarcely tenable. Since that
time the military importance of the post is at an end. The garrison is
a handful of invalid soldiers, whose principal duty is to guard some
of the outer towers, which serve occasionally as a prison of state;
and the governor, abandoning the lofty hill of the Alhambra, resides
in the centre of Granada, for the more convenient dispatch of his
official duties.


Interior of the Alhambra


"The Alhambra has been so often and so minutely described by
travellers, that a mere sketch will, probably, be sufficient for the
reader to refresh his recollection; I will give, therefore, a brief
account of our visit to it the morning after our arrival in Granada.

"Leaving our posada of La Espada, we traversed the renowned square of
the Vivarrambla, once the scene of Moorish jousts and tournaments, now
a crowded market-place. From thence we proceeded along the Zacatin,
the main street of what, in the time of the Moors, was the Great
Bazaar, where the small shops and narrow allies still retain the
Oriental character. Crossing an open place in front of the palace of
the captain-general, we ascended a confined and winding street, the
name of which reminded us of the chivalric days of Granada. It is
called the Calle, or street of the Gomeres, from a Moorish family
famous in chronicle and song. This street led up to a massive gateway
of Grecian architecture, built by Charles V. forming the entrance to
the domains of the Alhambra.

"At the gate were two or three ragged and superannuated soldiers,
dozing on a stone bench, the successors of the Zegris and the
Abencerrages; while a tall meagre varlet, whose rusty-brown cloak was
evidently intended to conceal the ragged state of his nether garments,
was lounging in the sunshine and gossiping with an ancient sentinel on
duty. He joined us as we entered the gate, and offered his services to
show us the fortress.

"I have a traveller's dislike to officious ciceroni, and did
not-altogether like the garb of the applicant.

"'You are well acquainted with the place, I presume?'

"'Ninguno mas; pues Senor, soy hijo de la Alhambra.'--(Nobody better;
in fact, Sir, I am a son of the Alhambra!)

"The common Spaniards have certainly a most poetical way of expressing
themselves. 'A son of the Alhambra!' the appellation caught me at
once; the very tattered garb of my new acquaintance assumed a dignity
in my eyes. It was emblematic of the fortunes of the place, and
befitted the progeny of a ruin.

"I put some farther questions to him, and found that his title was
legitimate. His family had lived in the fortress from generation to
generation ever since the time of the conquest. His name was Mateo
Ximenes. 'Then, perhaps,' said I, 'you may be a descendant from the
great Cardinal Ximenes?'--'Dios Sabe! God knows, Senor! It may be so.
We are the oldest family in the Alhambra,--_Christianos Viejos_, old
Christians, without any taint of Moor or Jew. I know we belong to some
great family or other, but I forget whom. My father knows all about
it: he has the coat-of-arms hanging up in his cottage, up in the
fortress.' There is not any Spaniard, however poor, but has some claim
to high pedigree. The first title of this ragged worthy, however, had
completely captivated me, so I gladly accepted the services of the
'son of the Alhambra.'

"We now found ourselves in a deep narrow ravine, filled with beautiful
groves, with a steep avenue, and various footpaths winding through it,
bordered with stone seats, and ornamented with fountains. To our left,
we beheld the towers of the Alhambra beetling above us; to our right,
on the opposite side of the ravine, we were equally dominated by
rival towers on a rocky eminence. These, we were told, were the Torres
Vermejos, or vermilion towers, so called from their ruddy hue. No one
knows their origin. They are of a date much anterior to the Alhambra:
some suppose them to have been built by the Romans; others, by some
wandering colony of Phoenicians. Ascending the steep and shady avenue,
we arrived at the foot of a huge square Moorish tower; forming a kind
of barbican, through which passed the main entrance to the fortress.
Within the barbican was another group of veteran invalids, one
mounting guard at the portal, while the rest, wrapped in their
tattered cloaks, slept on the stone benches. This portal is called the
Gate of Justice, from the tribunal held within its porch during the
Moslem domination, for the immediate trial of petty causes: a custom
common to the Oriental nations, and occasionally alluded to in the
Sacred Scriptures.

"The great vestibule or porch of the gate, is formed by an immense
Arabian arch, of the horse-shoe form, which springs to half the height
of the tower. On the key-stone of this arch is engraven a gigantic
hand. Within the vestibule, on the key-stone of the portal, is
sculptured, in like manner, a gigantic key. Those who pretend to some
knowledge of Mahometan symbols, affirm that the hand is the emblem of
doctrine, and the key of faith; the latter, they add, was emblazoned
on the standard of the Moslems when they subdued Andalusia, in
opposition to the Christian emblem of the Cross. A different
explanation, however, was given by the legitimate son of the Alhambra,
and one more in unison with the notions of the common people, who
attach something of mystery and magic to every thing Moorish, and have
all kind of superstitions connected with this old Moslem fortress.

"According to Mateo, it was a tradition handed down from the oldest
inhabitants, and which he had from his father and grandfather,
that the hand and key were magical devices on which the fate of the
Alhambra depended. The Moorish King who built it was a great magician,
or, as some believed, had sold himself to the devil, and had laid
the whole fortress under a magic spell. By this means it had remained
standing for several hundred years, in defiance of storms and
earthquakes, while almost all other buildings of the Moors had fallen
to ruin, and disappeared. This spell, the tradition went on to say,
would last until the hand on the outer arch should reach down and
grasp the key, when the whole pile would tumble to pieces, and all the
treasures buried beneath it by the Moors would be revealed.

"Notwithstanding this ominous prediction, we ventured to pass through
the spell-bound gateway, feeling some little assurance against magic
art in the protection of the Virgin, a statue of whom we observed
above the portal.

"After passing through the barbican, we ascended a narrow lane,
winding between walls, and came on an open esplanade within the
fortress, called the Plaza de los Algibes, or Place of the Cisterns,
from great reservoirs which undermine it, cut in the living rock by
the Moors for the supply of the fortress. Here, also, is a well of
immense depth, furnishing the purest and coldest of water; another
monument of the delicate taste of the Moors, who were indefatigable in
their exertions to obtain that element in its crystal purity.

"In front of this esplanade is the splendid pile commenced by Charles
V., intended, it is said, to eclipse the residence of the Moslem
kings. With all its grandeur and architectural merit, it appeared
to us like an arrogant intrusion, and, passing by it, we entered
a simple, unostentatious portal, opening into the interior of the
Moorish palace.

"The transition was almost magical: it seemed as if we were at once
transported into other times and another realm, and were treading the
scenes of Arabian story. We found ourselves in a great court, paved
with white marble, and decorated at each end with light Moorish
peristyles: it is called the Court of the Alberca. In the centre was
an immense basin or fish-pond, a hundred and thirty feet in length by
thirty in breadth, stocked with gold-fish and bordered by hedges of
roses. At the upper end of this court rose the great Tower of Comares.

"From the lower end we passed through a Moorish archway into the
renowned Court of Lions. There is no part of the edifice that gives
us a more complete idea of its original beauty and magnificence than
this, for none has suffered so little from the ravages of time. In
the centre stands the fountain famous in song and story. The alabaster
basins still shed their diamond drops; and the twelve lions, which
support them, cast forth their crystal streams as in the days of
Boabdil. The court is laid out in flower-beds, and surrounded by light
Arabian arcades of open filagree work, supported by slender pillars
of white marble. The architecture, like that of all the other parts
of the palace, is characterized by elegance rather than grandeur;
bespeaking a delicate and graceful taste, and a disposition to
indolent enjoyment. When one looks upon the fairy tracery of the
peristyles, and the apparently fragile fretwork of the walls, it is
difficult to believe that so much has survived the wear and tear of
centuries, the shocks of earthquakes, the violence of war, and the
quiet, though no less baneful, pilferrings of the tasteful traveller:
it is almost sufficient to excuse the popular tradition, that the
whole is protected by a magic charm.

"On one side of the court, a portal, richly adorned, opens into a
lofty hall, paved with white marble, and called the Hall of the Two
Sisters. A cupola, or lantern, admits a tempered light from above, and
a free circulation of air. The lower part of the walls is encrusted
with beautiful Moorish tiles, on some of which are emblazoned the
escutcheons of the Moorish monarchs: the upper part is faced with the
fine stucco-work invented at Damascus, consisting of large plates,
cast in moulds, and artfully joined, so as to have the appearance of
having been laboriously sculptured by the hand into light relievos
and fanciful arabesques, intermingled with texts of the Koran,
and poetical inscriptions in Arabian and Cufic character. These
decorations of the walls and cupolas are richly gilded, and the
interstices pencilled with lapis-lazuli, and other brilliant and
enduring colours. On each side of the hall are recesses for ottomans
and couches. Above the inner porch is a balcony, which communicated
with the women's apartments. The latticed 'jalousies' still remain,
from whence the dark-eyed beauties of the haram might gaze unseen upon
the entertainments of the hall below.

"It is impossible to contemplate this once favourite abode of Oriental
manners without feeling the early associations of Arabian romance,
and almost expecting to see the white arm of some mysterious princess
beckoning from the balcony, or some dark eye sparkling through the
lattice. The abode of beauty is here, as if it had been inhabited but
yesterday; but where are the Zoraydas and Lindaraxas?

"On the opposite side of the Court of Lions, is the Hall of the
Abencerrages; so called from the gallant cavaliers of that illustrious
line who were here perfidiously massacred. There are some who doubt
the whole truth of this story; but our humble attendant Mateo pointed
out the very wicket of the portal through which they are said to have
been introduced, one by one, and the white marble fountain in the
centre of the hall where they were beheaded. He showed us also certain
broad ruddy stains in the pavement, traces of their blood, which,
according to popular belief, can never be effaced. Finding we listened
to him with easy faith, he added, that there was often heard at night,
in the Court of Lions, a low, confused sound, resembling the murmuring
of a multitude; with now and then a faint tinkling, like the distant
clank of chains. These noises are probably produced by the bubbling
currents and tinkling falls of water, conducted under the pavement,
through pipes and channels, to supply the fountains; but, according to
the legend of the son of the Alhambra, they are made by the spirits
of the murdered Abencerrages, who nightly haunt the scene of their
suffering, and invoke the vengeance of Heaven on their destroyer.

"From the Court of Lions we retraced our steps through the Court of
the Alberca, or Great Fishpool; crossing which we proceeded to the
Tower of Comares, so called from the name of the Arabian architect. It
is of massive strength and lofty height, domineering over the rest
of the edifice, and overhanging the steep hill-side, which descends
abruptly to the banks of the Darro. A Moorish archway admitted us into
a vast and lofty hall, which occupies the interior of the tower, and
was the grand audience chamber of the Moslem monarchs, thence
called the Hall of Ambassadors. It still bears the traces of past
magnificence. The walls are richly stuccoed and decorated with
arabesques; the vaulted ceiling of cedar-wood, almost lost in
obscurity, from its height, still gleams with rich gilding, and the
brilliant tints of the Arabian pencil. On three sides of the saloon
are deep windows cut through the immense thickness of the walls, the
balconies of which look down upon the verdant valley of the Darro, the
streets and convents of the Albaycin, and command a prospect of the
distant Vega.

"I might go on to describe minutely the other delightful apartments of
this side of the palace; the Tocador, or toilet of the queen, an
open belvidere, on the summit of a tower, where the Moorish sultanas
enjoyed the pure breezes from the mountain, and the prospect of
the surrounding paradise; the secluded little patio, or garden of
Lindaraxa, with its alabaster fountain, its thickets of roses and
myrtles, of citrons and oranges; the cool halls and grottoes of
the baths, where the glare and heat of day are tempered into a soft
mysterious light, and a pervading freshness.

"While the city below pants with the noontide heat, and the parched
vega trembles to the eye, the delicate airs from the Sierra Nevada,
play through these lofty halls, bringing with them the sweetness of
the surrounding gardens. Every thing invites to that indolent repose,
the bliss of southern climes; and while the half-shut eye looks out
from shaded balconies upon the glittering landscape, the ear is lulled
by the rustling of groves, and the murmur of running streams." Here we
must end.

The Sketches bear the very perfection of romance in their titles. Yes,
expectant reader, think of the Alhambra by Moonlight--A Ramble
among the Hills--Legend of the Arabian Astrologer--The Tower of Las
Infantas--Legends of the three beautiful Princesses--The Pilgrim of
Love--The Rose of the Alhambra,--the two discreet Statues, &c. &c.
What hours of spell-bound delight do these two volumes lock up, yet
we hope but for a short season, from all who would vary "life's dull
round" with romantic lore.

       *       *       *       *       *


NATURAL HISTORY.

The remarkably attractive Number of the _Magazine of Natural History_
for the present month enables us to checker our sheet with a page or
two of facts which will be interesting to every inquiring mind.

Hail at Lausanne.

"At Lausanne, on the 14th of July, 1831, about 8 P.M., we witnessed
one of those hail-storms which, every summer, cause such ravages in
the south of Europe. A great proportion of the hailstones were as
big as hen's eggs, and some even bigger: seven nearly filled a common
dinner plate. They were mostly oval or globular; but one piece,
brought to us after the storm, was flat and square, full 2 in. long,
as many broad, and three quarters of an inch thick, with several
projecting knobs of ice as big as large hazel nuts. This mass exactly
resembled a piece of uniformly transparent ice, but the oval and
globular masses had the same conformation as has often been described
in these hailstones, and on which Volta founded his ingenious but
untenable theory of their formation. In the centre of each was a
small, white, opaque nucleus, the size of a pea, and evidently one of
the hailstones usually seen in England, to which the French give the
name of _grésil_, confining the term _gréle_ to the larger masses of
ice now under our observation. This nucleus of _gresil_ was
enclosed in a coat about half an inch thick of ice considerably more
transparent than it, but still somewhat opaque, as though of snow
melted and then frozen again, and externally the rest of the mass was
of ice perfectly transparent, and as compact and hard as possible,
resounding like a pebble, and not breaking when thrown on the floor.
The inhabitants of Lausanne, aware that the cinereous and puffed up
appearance of the clouds charged with this tremendous aerial artillery
portended more than a mere thunder-storm, had adopted the precaution
of closing their Venetian shutters; but such windows as were deprived
of this protection had almost every pane broken: and much damage was
done to the tiles of all the houses, and to the gardens and vineyards;
but less than might have been expected, owing to the short duration of
the storm, which did not last longer than seven or eight minutes, and
to the circumstance of the hailstones not being very numerous."--(W.
Spence.)

Cedar Wood.

"The _cedar_ has been recommended, among other woods, for the purpose
of constructing drawers for cabinets of insects. Let the inexperienced
collector be warned that this is, perhaps, the _very worst_ wood that
can be employed for the purpose; a strong effluvia, or sometimes
a resinous gum, exudes from the wood of the cedar, which is apt to
settle in blotches on the wings of the specimens, especially of the
more delicate Lepidóptera, and entirely discharges the colour. The
Rev. Mr. Bree once had a whole collection of lepidopterous insects
utterly spoiled from having been deposited in cedar drawers; and
he has understood, also, that the insects in the British Museum,
collected, he believes, chiefly by Dr. Leach, have been greatly
injured from the same cause. Possibly, however, cedar wood, after it
has been thoroughly well seasoned, may be less liable to produce these
injurious effects."

Habits of the Common Snake in Captivity.

A Staffordshire Correspondent writes thus familiarly:

"This has been a remarkably good season, both for vegetables and
animals. It has been a singular time for adders, snakes, and lizards;
I never saw so many as I have seen this year in all my life. I have
been trying, a great part of this summer, to domesticate a common
snake, and make it familiar with me and my children; but all to
no purpose, notwithstanding I favoured it with my most particular
attention. It was a most beautiful creature, only 2 ft. 7 in. long. I
did not know how long it had been without food when I caught it; but
I presented it with frogs, toads, worms, beetles, spiders, mice, and
every other delicacy of the season. I also tried to charm it with
music, and my children stroked and caressed it; but all in vain:
it would be no more familiar with any of us than if we had been the
greatest strangers to it, or even its greatest enemies. I kept it in
an old barrel, out of doors, for the first three weeks: during that
time, I can aver, it ate nothing; but, after a very wet night, it
seemed to suffer from the cold. I then put it into a glass vessel, and
set it on the parlour chimney-piece, covering the vessel with a piece
of silk gauze. I caught two live mice, and put them in to it; but they
would sooner have died of hunger than the snake would have eaten them:
they sat shivering on its back, while it lay coiled up as round as a
ball of worstep. I gave the mice some boiled potatoes, which they eat:
but the snake would eat neither the mice nor the potatoes. My
children frequently took it out in their hands, to show it to their
schoolfellows; but my wife, and some others, could not bear the sight
of it. I one day took it in my hand, and opened its mouth with a
penknife, to show a gentleman how different it was from that of the
adder, which I had dead by me: its teeth being no more formidable
or terrific than the teeth of a trout or eel; while the mouth of the
adder had two fangs, like the claws of a cat, attached to the roof of
the mouth, no way connected with its jaw-teeth. While examining the
snake in this manner, it began to smell most horridly, and filled the
room with an abominable odour; I also felt, or thought I felt, a kind
of prickly numbness in the hand I held it in, and did so for some
weeks afterwards. In struggling for its liberty, it twisted itself
round my arm, and discharged its excrements on my coat-sleeve, which
seemed nothing more than milk, or like the chalkings of a woodcock.
It made its escape from me several times by boring a hole through the
gauze; I had lost it for some days at one time, when at length it was
observed peeping out of a mouse-hole behind one of the cellar steps.
Whether it had caught any beetles or spiders in the cellar, I cannot
say; but it looked as fierce as a hawk, and hissed and shook its
tongue, as in open defiance. I could not think of hurting it by
smoking it out with tobacco or brimstone; but called it my fiery
dragon which guarded my ale cellar. At length I caught it, coiled up
on one of the steps. I put it again into an American flour barrel;
but it happened not to be the same as he had been in, and I observed a
nail protruding through the staves about half way up. This, I suppose,
he had made use of to help his escape; for he was missing one morning
about ten o'clock: I had seen him at nine o'clock; so I thought he
could not be far off. I looked about for him for half an hour, when I
gave up the hunt in despair. However, at one o'clock, as the men were
going from dinner, one of them observed the rogue hiding himself under
a stone, fifty yards from the house. 'Dang my buttons,' said he, 'if
here is not master's snake. He came back and told my wife, who
told him to go and kill it. It happened to be _washing-day_: the
washerwoman gave him a pailful of scalding soapsuds to throw on
it; but whether he was most afraid of me or of the snake is still a
question: however, the washerwoman brought it home with the tongs,
and dropped it into the dolly-tub. It dashed round the tub with the
velocity of lightning; my daughter, seeing its agony, snatched it out
of the scalding liquid, but too late: it died in a few minutes. I
was not at all angry with my wife: I had had my whim, and she had had
hers. I had got all the knowledge I wanted to get; I had learned that
it was of no use for a human being, who requires food three times a
day, to domesticate an animal which can live weeks and months without
food: for, as the saying is, 'Hunger will tame any thing;' and without
hunger you can tame nothing. I have also learned that the serpent,
instead of being the emblem of wisdom, should have been an emblem of
stupidity."

"The stench emitted by the common snake, when molested, is
superlatively noisome; and is given off so powerfully and copiously,
that it infects the air around to a diameter of several yards. This I
witnessed on observing a bitch dog kill a rather large snake; in which
act two points beside the odour effused were notable. The coils of the
snake formed, as it were, a circular wall; and in the circular space
between it, the snake sunk its head, as if for protection. The dog's
efforts were to catch and crush the head; and, shrivelling up her
fleshy lips, 'which all the while ran froth,' she kept thrusting the
points of her jaws into the circular pit aforesaid, and catching at
and fracturing the head. During the progress of these acts, she, every
few seconds, snorted, and shook off the froth, of which she seemed
sedulously careful to free herself, and barked at the conquered snake.
The dog was a most determined vermin-killer, and in rats, &c., quite
an accomplished one; but snakes did not often come in her way."--J.D.

       *       *       *       *       *

CURIOUS FACTS IN VEGETATION

(From Part xiv. of _Knowledge for the People, or the Plain Why and
Because._)

Why is it improper to consider the turnip a real bulb?

Because it is an intermediate stem which swells into a bulbous form.
Turnips have not been cultivated in England, in fields, more than a
century; but this agricultural practice now yields an annual return
which probably exceeds the interest of our national debt.--_Sir Walter
Scott._

Why is the Cauliflower so named?

Because of its origin from _caulis,_ the stalk of a herb. Colewort is
of a similar origin.

Why are the stems of the Cabbage tribe considered wholesome food?

Because their acrid flavour is dipersed among an abundance of
mucilage. Cabbages were commonly used among the ancients, and Cato
wrote volumes on their nature. The Indians had so much veneration for
them, that they swore by cabbages, and were therein as superstitious
as the Egyptians, who gave divine honours to leeks and onions, for the
great benefits which they said they received from them.--_Lemery on
Food._

Why do Cabbages emit a strong animal odour?

Because they contain a great quantity of azote or nitrogen, one of the
ultimate elements of animal matter, and strongly characterized in the
destructive distillation of horn, hoofs, or bones.

Why do not the leaves of the Cabbage remain wet, after being immersed
in water, and again taken out of it?

Because they are powdered with a slight layer of resinous matter,
similar to that which covers certain fruits, and, in particular, plums
and grapes. Their sea-green colour is also attributed to this resinous
layer.

Why is Quassia so called? Because it was named in honour of a negro,
Quassia, a drunken doctor, who discovered the virtue of the wood in
curing malignant fevers.

Why is the Ice plant so called?

Because its stem is covered with soft tubercles, or excrescences,
which have a crystalline appearance.

Why do the leaves of some trees fall very early?

Because they are articulated to the branch; that is, they do not unite
with it by the whole of their base, but are simply fixed to it by
a kind of contraction or articulation; as in the maple and horse
chestnut.

Why do leaves fall at the approach of winter?

Because a separation takes place, either in the foot-stalk, or more
usually at its base, and the dying part quits the vigorous one, which
is promoted by the weight of the leaf itself, or the action of the
gales that blow in autumn on its expanded form. M. Richard explains
the cause more philosophically: "Although the fall of the leaves
generally takes place at the approach of winter, cold is not to be
considered as the principal cause of this phenomenon. It is much more
natural to attribute it to the cessation of vegetation, and the want
of nourishment which the leaves experience at that season, when the
course of the sap is interrupted. The vessels of the leaf contract,
dry up, and soon after, that organ is detached from the twig on which
it had been developed."

Why do some trees, as the Oak, the Beech, and the Hornbeam, retain
their leaves to a late period of autumn?

Because the life of the twigs on which they grow is not sufficiently
vigorous to throw them off, after the brown colour indicates that they
are dead.

Why have some plants been termed the Poor Man's Weather-glass?

Because they shut up their flowers against the approach of rain.
Linnaeus, however, thinks, that flowers lose their fine sensibility,
after the anthers have performed their office, or when deprived of
them artificially. Sir James Smith also observes, that some species
are sometimes exhausted by continued wet; "and it is evident that
very sudden thunder showers often take such flowers by surprise, the
previous state of the atmosphere not having been such as to give them
due warning."

Many flowers have a regular time of opening and shutting. We have
already mentioned the Marigold; the goat's-beard is vulgarly called
"John go-to-bed at noon," from its closing at mid-day; and at the Cape
of Good Hope there is a "four o'clock flower," because it invariably
closes at that time. The common daisy is, however, a readier example,
its name being a compound of day's and eye--Day's-eye, in which
way, indeed, it is written by Ben Johnson. It regularly shuts after
sun-set, to expand again with the morning light. Thus,--

  The little dazie, that at evening closes.

Spenser.

  By a daisy, whose leaves spread,
  Shut when Titian goes to bed.--_G. Withers._

Leyden sings of moist or rainy weather foretold by daisies. Thus we
may examine a whole field, and not find a daisy open, except such as
have their flowering nearly over, and have in consequence lost their
sensibility.

The daisy is one of the pet flowers of the poets. Chaucer is ecstatic
in its praise, and calls it his "owne hartes' rest;" Burns, "Wee,
modest, crimson-tipped flower;" and Wordsworth, in beautiful and
touching simplicity, has addressed several poems to "the poet's
darling."

Appended to Richard's valuable "Elements," is the _Horologium Florae,_
(timepiece of Flora,) or a table of the hours at which certain plants
expand and shut, at Upsal, 60 deg. north latitude. The earliest Meadow
Salsafy opens from 3 to 4 A.M.; and closes from 9 to 10 A.M. The
latest A.M. is the _Mesembryanthemum Modiflorum,_ (used in the
manufacture of Maroquin leather,) which opens 10 to 11 A.M.,
and closes at 12 P.M. The latest opening P.M. is the _Cactus
Grandiflorus,_ 9 to 10 P.M., and closing at 12 P.M., thus remaining
open only two or three hours. Other flowers, we may add, are
so peculiarly delicate, as scarcely to bear the contact of the
atmosphere.

Forster, in his "Researches about Atmospheric Phenomena," notices
several prognostics of the weather by plants. Thus, Chickweed has been
said to be an excellent weather-guide. When the flower expands freely,
no rain need be feared for a long time. In showery days the flower
appears half concealed, and this state may be regarded as indicative
of showery weather; when it is entirely shut, we may expect a rainy
day. If the flowers of the Siberian sowthistle remain open all night,
we may expect rain next day. Before showers, the trefoil contracts its
leaves. Lord Bacon observes, that the trefoil has its stalk more
erect against rain. He also mentions a small red flower, growing in
stubble-fields, called by the country people _wincopipe_, which, if it
opens in the morning, assures us of a fine day.

       *       *       *       *       *


TRAVELS

    _Pen and Pencil Sketches of India, being the Journal of a Tour
    in India. By Captain Mundy._

These are two very amusing volumes of scenes and situations full of
stirring interest, as their criticships would say--for example the
four extracts immediately following:

Palankeen Travelling and a Sortie of Tigers.

"To those unitiated into the mysteries of Indian travelling, the
prospect of a journey of six hundred miles, night and day, in a hot
climate, inclosed in a sort of coffin-like receptacle, carried on the
shoulders of men, is somewhat alarming; but to one more accustomed to
that method of locomotion, the palankeen would, perhaps, prove
less fatiguing and harassing, for a long journey, than any other
conveyance.

"The horizontal or reclining position is naturally the most easy to
the body; and the exhaustion consequent upon a journey in the heat of
the day, generally secures to the traveller as much sleep during
the cooller hours of the night, as the frequent interruptions of the
bearers at the several stages will allow him to enjoy. I had laid in a
good store of tea, sugar, and biscuits, a novel, some powder and shot,
a gun, and a sword, and plenty of blankets, as a defence against
the coldness of the night. Our baggage consisted of a dozen boxes
(patarras) appended to bamboos, and carried by men: these, with two
torch-bearers (mussalgees) to each palankeen, completed our cavalcade.

"Nov. 24th, 7 A.M., reached Hazarebaug, a small station, about two
hundred and twenty miles from Calcutta. It is a healthy spot; the
earth sandy and rocky, presenting a strong contrast to the loomy and
alluvial soil of Southern Bengal. From Rogonnâthpore to Hazarebaug the
road runs through an almost uninterrupted jungle, swarming with wild
beasts. At this place we met with a hospitable friend, who stored our
palankeens with provisions, after giving us a capital breakfast.

"At eleven o'clock at night we entered the famous pass of Dunghye. The
road bears the appearance of a deep sandy ravine; the banks are rocky
and woody, and in many places quite overhung by the forest-trees. We
had accomplished about half the defile, when I was suddenly and rudely
awakened from a dozing sleep by the shock of my palankeen coming to
the ground, and by the most discordant shouts and screams. I jumped
out to ascertain the cause of the uproar, and found, on inquiry, that
a foraging party of tigers--probably speculating upon picking up a
straggling bearer--had sprung off the rocks, and dashed across the
road, bounding between my palankeen and that of Colonel D., who was
scarcely ten yards a-head. The bearers of both palankeens were all
huddled together, bellowing like bedlamites, and the mussalgees waving
their torches most vehemently. On mustering our forces, we discovered
that two of our patarra-bearers were missing, and fearing that the
tigers might pick them up, we dispatched four men with spare torches
to bring them on. Meanwhile my friend and myself, having brought
our palankeens together, armed ourselves with patience and a pair of
pistols to await the result. The whole incident, with the time and
scene, was highly interesting and wild, with just enough of the awful
to give an additional piquancy. The night was dark and stormy, and the
wind roared among the trees above our heads: the torches cast a red
and flickering light on the rocks in our immediate neighbourhood, and
just showed us enough of the depths of the forest to make the back
ground more gloomy and unfathomable. The distant halloos of the men
who were gone in search of their comrades, came faintly and wildly
upon the breeze; and the occasional shots that we fired rang through
the rocky jungle with an almost interminable echo. In about three
quarters of an hour our bearers joined us, together with the two
patarra-bearers. These latter, hearing the vociferations of our men,
and guessing the cause, had quietly placed their boxes on the ground,
about a mile in the rear of us, and seating themselves on their heels,
had determined not to proceed until the break of day.

"All being reported present, we resumed our journey, the men screaming
chorus to scare our unwelcome visitors, whom I several times fancied
I heard rustling among the brushwood on the road side, as though they
were moving on our flanks in order to cut off any straggler who might
drop astern. I never saw bearers go more expeditiously, or in more
compact order, every man fearing to be the last in the cavalcade.[1]
A sheet would have covered the whole party! The tigers, if they had
calculated upon one of our number for their evening meal, must have
gone supperless to their lair, for we mustered all our twenty-four men
in the morning. A dâk hurkarah (post messenger) had been carried
off in the same spot two days before, probably by the same family of
tigers, which according to the bearer's account, consisted of two old
ones, and three cubs.

[Footnote 1: It is said, that a tiger lying in wait for a string of
passengers usually selects the last of the party.]

Wild Beast Fights

"Early in the morning, the whole party, including ladies, eager for
the novel spectacle, mounted elephants, and repaired to the private
gate of the royal palace, where the King met the Commander-in-Chief,
and conducted him and his company to a palace in the park, in one of
the courts of which the arena for the combats was prepared. In the
centre was erected a gigantic cage of strong bamboos, about fifty
feet high, and of like diameter, and rooffed with rope network. Sundry
smaller cells, communicating by sliding doors with the main theatre,
were tenanted by every species of the savagest inhabitants of
the forest. In the large cage, crowded together, and presenting a
formidable front of broad, shaggy foreheads well armed with horns,
stood a group of buffaloes sternly awaiting the conflict, with their
rear scientifically appuyé against the bamboos. The trap-doors being
lifted, two tigers, and the same number of bears and leopards, rushed
into the centre. The buffaloes instantly commenced hostilities, and
made complete shuttlecocks of the bears, who, however, finally
escaped by climbing up the bamboos beyond the reach of their horned
antagonists. The tigers, one of which was a beautiful animal, fared
scarcely better; indeed, the odds were much against them, there
being five buffaloes. They appeared, however to be no match for these
powerful creatures, even single-handed, and showed little disposition
to be the assaulters. The larger tiger was much gored in the head, and
in return took a mouthful of his enemy's dewlap, but was finally (as
the fancy would describe it) 'bored to the ropes and floored.' The
leopards seemed throughout the conflict sedulously to avoid a breach
of the peace.

"A rhinoceros was next let loose in open courtyard, and the attendants
attempted to induce him to pick a quarrel with a tiger who was chained
to a ring. The rhinoceros appeared, however, to consider a fettered
foe as quite beneath his enmity; and having once approached the tiger,
and quietly surveyed him, as he writhed and growled, expecting the
attack, turned suddenly round and trotted awkwardly off to the yard
gate, where he capsized a palankeen which was carrying away a lady
fatigued with the sight of these unfeminine sports.

"A buffalo and tiger were the next combatants: they attacked
furiously, the tiger springing at the first onset on the other's head,
and tearing his neck severely; but he was quickly dismounted, and
thrown with such violence as nearly to break his back, and quite to
disable him from renewing the combat.

"A small elephant was next impelled to attack a leopard. The battle
was short and decisive; the former falling on his knees, and thrusting
his blunted tusks nearly through his antagonist.

"On our return from the beast fight a breakfast awaited us at the
royal palace; and the white tablecloth being removed, quails, trained
for the purpose, were placed upon the green cloth, and fought most
gamely, after the manner of the English cockpit. This is an amusement
much in fashion among the natives of rank, and they bet large sums on
their birds, as they lounge luxuriously round, smoking their houkahs.

Hunting with Leopards

"The leopards are each accommodated with a flat-topped cart, without
sides, drawn by two bullocks, and each animal has two attendants. They
are loosely bound by a collar and rope to the back of the vehicle,
and are also held by the keeper by a strap round the loins. A leathern
hood covers their eyes. The antelopes being excessively timid and
wild, the best way to enjoy the sport is to sit on the cart alongside
the driver; for the vehicle being built like the hackeries of the
peasants, to the sight of which the deer are accustomed, it is not
difficult, by skilful management, to approach within two hundred yards
of the game. On this occasion we had three chetahs in the field, and
we proceeded towards the spot where the herd had been seen, in a line,
with an interval of about one hundred yards between each cart. On
emerging from a cotton-field, we came in sight of four antelopes, and
my driver managed to get within one hundred yards of them ere they
took alarm. The chetah was quickly unhooded, and loosed from his
bonds; and as soon as he viewed the deer he dropped quietly off
the cart, on the _opposite_ side to that on which they stood, and
approached them at a slow, crouching canter, masking himself by
every bush and inequality of ground which lay in in his way. As soon,
however, as they began to show alarm, he quickened his pace, and was
in the midst of the herd in a few bounds.

"He singled out a doe, and ran it close for about two hundred yards,
when he reached it with a blow of his paw, rolled it over, and in an
instant was sucking the life-blood from its throat.

"One of the other chetahs was slipped at the same time, but after
making four or five desperate bounds, by which he nearly reached his
prey, suddenly gave up the pursuit, and came growling sulkily back to
his cart.

"As soon as the deer is pulled down, a keeper runs up, hoods the
chetah cuts the victim's throat, and receiving some of the blood in
a wooden ladle, thrusts it under the leopard's nose. The antelope
is then dragged away, and placed in a receptacle under the hackery,
whilst the chetah is rewarded with a leg for his pains."[1]

[Footnote 1: A pair of fine Chetahs, or Hunting Leopards, may be seen
in the Gardens of the Zoological Society.--ED. M.]

An Alligator in the Ganges.

"A beautiful specimen of an alligator's head was here given by Mr.
Alexander to Lord Combermere. He was rather a distinguished monster,
having carried off at different occasions, six or eight brace of men
from an indigo factory in the neighbourhood. A native, who had long
laid wait for him, at length succeeded in slaying him with poisoned
arrows. One of these notoriously ghaut-frequenting alligators is well
nigh as rich a prize to the poor native who is fortunate enough to
capture him, as a Spanish galleon is to a British frigate; for on
ripping open his stomach, and over-hauling its freight, it is not
unfrequently found to contain 'a choice assortment'--as the Calcutta
advertisers have it--of gold, silver, or brass bangles and anklets,
which have not been so expeditiously digested as their fair owners,
victims of the monster's voracity. A little fat Brahminee child,
'farci an ris,' must be a tempting and tender _bonne bouche_ to these
river gourmands. Horrific legends such as the above, together with a
great deal of valuable advice on the subject, were quite thrown away
upon me; for ninety degrees of Fahrenheit, and the enticing blueness
of the water generally betrayed me into a plunge every evening during
my Gangetic voyage."

Nocturnal Bathing.

"On the occasion of a grand nocturnal bathing ceremony, held at the
great tank called the Indra Damân, I went with a party of three or
four others to witness the spectacle. The walls surrounding the pool
and a cluster of picturesque pavilions in its centre were brilliantly
lighted up with hundreds of cheraugs, or small oil-lamps, casting a
flickering lustre upon the heads and shoulders of about five hundred
men, women, and children, who were ducking and praying, _à corps
perdu,_ in the water. As I glanced over the figures nearest to me,
I discovered floating among the indifferent bathers two dead bodies,
which had either been drowned in the confusion, or had purposely
come to die on the edge of the sacred tank; the cool and apathetic
survivors taking not the slightest notice of their soulless
neighbours."

King John at the Cape.

"The largest house in Simon's Town, and, indeed, the greater part of
the town itself, belongs to an Englishman of the name of Osbond,
who, however, is more generally known by the dignified title of 'King
John.' He was carpenter on board the sixty-gun ship Sceptre, which was
wrecked off this coast some yearn ago. Like Juan, he escaped the sea,
and like Juan he found a Haidee. Being well-favoured and sharp-witted,
he won the heart and the hand of a wealthy Dutch widow, whose dollars
he afterwards, in some bold but successful speculations, turned to
good account. He is said to have laid out ten thousand pounds on
these--to every one but himself--_inhospita littora._ King John is
much respected."

Population of Cape Town.

"The variety of nations, and the numerous shades of complexion
among the people in the streets of Cape Town, are very striking to
a stranger. First may be remarked the substantial Dutchman, with his
pretty, smiling, round-faced, and particularly well-dressed
daughter: then the knot of 'Qui hi's,' sent to the Cape, per doctor's
certificate, to husband their threadbare constitutions, and lavish
their rupees: next the obsequious, smirking, money-making China-man,
with his poking shoulders, and whip-like pig-tail: then the
stout, squat Hottentots--who resemble the Dutch in but one
characteristic!--and half castes of every intermediate tint between
black and white. These are well relieved and contrasted by the
tall, warlike figures and splendid costume of his Majesty's 72nd
Highlanders, who, with the 98th regiment, form the garrison of Cape
Town."

Visit to the Residence of Napoleon at St. Helena.

"We soon came in sight of the level plateau of the Longwood estate,
the residence of the late emperor, and six miles from Plantation
House. Here the country gradually assumes a more desolate and a wilder
look; and the English visitor arrives at the unfortunate and unwelcome
conclusion, that the best part of the island was not given to the
illustrious captive. One cannot avoid agreeing with Sir W. Scott, that
Plantation House should have been accorded to him, in spite of the
detering reasons of its vicinity to the sea, and its sequestered
situation. Longwood, however, has better roads, more space for riding
or driving, and in summer must have been much cooler than the less
sheltered parts of the isle. As we turned through the lodges the old
house appeared at the end of an avenue of scrubby and weather-worn
trees. It bears the exterior of a respectable farm-house, but is now
fast running to decay. On entering a dirty courtyard, and quitting
our horses, we were shown by some idlers into a square building, which
once contained the bed-room, sitting-room, and bath of the _Empereur
des François._ The partitions and floorings are now thrown down, and
torn up, and the apartments occupied for six years by the hero before
whom kings, emperors, and popes had quailed, are now tenanted by
cart-horses!

"Passing on with a groan, I entered a small chamber, with two windows
looking towards the north. Between these windows are the marks of a
fixed sofa: on that couch Napoleon died. The apartment is now occupied
by a threshing machine; 'No bad emblem of its former tenant!' said
a sacrilegious wag. Hence we were conducted onwards to a large room,
which formerly contained a billiard-table, and whose front looks out
upon a little latticed veranda, where the imperial peripatetic--I
cannot style him philosopher--enjoyed the luxury of six paces to and
fro,--his favourite promenade. The white-washed walls are scored with
names of every nation; and the paper of the ceiling has been torn off
in strips as holy relics. Many couplets, chiefly French, extolling and
lamenting the departed hero, adorn or disfigure (according to their
qualities) the plaster walls. The only lines that I can recall to
mind--few are worth it--are the following, written ever the door, and
signed '---- ----, Officier de la Garde Impériale.'

  "'Du grand Napoléon le nom toujours cité
  Ira de bouche en bouche à la postérité!'"

The writer doubtless possessed more spirit as a sabreur than as a
poet.

"The emperor's once well-kept garden,

  "'And still where many a garden-flower grows wild,'

"is now overgrown and choked with weeds. At the end of a walk still
exists a small mound, on which it is said the hero of Lodi, Marengo,
and Austerlitz, amused himself by erecting a mock battery. The little
chunamed tank, in which he fed some fresh-water fish, is quite
dried up; and the mud wall, through a hole in which he reconnoitered
passers-by, is, like the great owner, returned to earth!"

Captain Mundy's volumes are illustrated chiefly with sketches of
Indian sports from the master-hand of Land-seer; and for spirit of
execution they deserve to rank among the finest productions of this
distinguished artist.

       *       *       *       *       *


RECENT FRENCH LITERATURE.

A novel picture of Paris has lately appeared with the taking title
of the _Hundred and One._ Its origin, as well as its subject, is
interesting. It is a voluntary association of almost all the literary
talent of France, for the benefit of an enterprising bookseller,
whose affairs have, it seems, fallen into the sere, since the
commercial embarrassments following on the Revolution. A hundred
and one authors of all ranks and political opinions, philosophers,
academicians, journalists, deputies, poets, artists, have combined
in this work to pass in review before us the humours, follies and
opinions of the French capital, painted in colours gay or grave,
sketchy or elaborate, according to the manner or mood of the artist. A
very amusing work, suitable to all tastes, is the result, and, by
aid of the _Foreign Quarterly Review_, we are enabled to present
the reader with a specimen sketch by Leon Guzlan, an author of some
celebrity in this species of writing.[1]

[Footnote 1: Several specimens have been ably translated in the
Athenaeum.]

VISIT TO THE MORGUE, AT PARIS.

(The Morgue, we should premise, is an establishment in Paris for
the reception of all persons found dead in the City or its environs.
Thither it is the duty of the police to convey the bodies, where they
are exposed in a hall open to the public for a stated time,[1] when,
if not identified, and claimed, they are interred in the neighbouring
cemetery.)

[Footnote 1: The bodies are stripped, and placed on sloping slabs of
marble; above each are hung the clothes of the deceased.]

"After describing the exterior, the _Salle de l'Exposition_, which is
the only portion of the building, of course, with which the public
are acquainted, the writer conducts us into the inner recesses of this
house of death, the apartments of the superintendant.

"M. Perrin, is a little old man, who coughs incessantly. When I
explained to him the object of my visit, he very politely offered to
show me all the details of his administration, regretting much, as he
said, that there was not so much variety as could be desired. 'But I
will show you what I have--be pleased to walk up.'

"As we were climbing the narrow stairs, and he was informing me that
his establishment was connected both with the prefecture and the
police, with the one on account of the local expenses, with the other
from its connexion with the public health, we were obliged to stand
close against the wall to allow a troop of young girls to pass, well
dressed, gay, but shivering with the cold, which blew from the river
through the chink which lighted the stair.

"'These are four of my daughters. I have eight children. François, the
keeper, has had four, and he has had the good fortune to get them all
married. François is a kind father.'

"'So,' said I, 'twelve children then have been born in the Morgue.
Dreams of joy, and conjugal endearments, and parental delights, have
been experienced in this chamber of death. Marriage with its orange
flowers, baptism with its black robed sponsors, the communion, and the
embroidered veil, love, religion, virtue, have had their home here as
elsewhere. God has sown the seeds of happiness every where.'

"'Papa, we are going to a distribution of prizes. My sisters are sure
to get a prize. Don't weary, we will be back in good time.'

"'Go, my children,'--and all four embraced him.

"I thought of the body of the little Norman in the dreary room
beneath, and of the mother who even now, perhaps, was anxiously
looking for her from the window.

"'This is the apartment of François'. François did the honours with
the activity of a man who is not ashamed of his establishment. His
room is comfortably furnished; two modern pendules mounted on
bronze, a wardrobe with a Medusa's head, a high bed, and a handsome
rose-coloured curtain. If the room was not overburdened with
furniture, if there was not much of luxury, yet, to those not early
accustomed to superfluities, it might even seem gay. It represented
the tastes, opinions, and habits of its master. Vases of flowers threw
a green reflection on the curtains, for François is fond of flowers.
Among his gallery of portraits were those of Augereau and Kleber, both
in long coats, leaning on immense sabres, with peruques and powder.
Napoleon is there three times.

"'Look at these jars,' said François, 'these are sweetmeats of
my wife's making; she excels in sweetmeats.' I read upon them,
'gooseberries of 1831.' We left François's apartment which forms the
right wing of the Morgue, while the clerk's house is on the left, and
entered the cabinet of administration of M. Perrin.

"If François is fond of flowers, M. Perrin has the same penchant for
hydraulics and the camera obscura; he draws, he makes jets from the
Seine, by an ingenious piece of machinery of his own invention; while
he was retouching his syphon, I asked permission to turn over the
register, where suicides are ranged in two columns.

"The fatal 'unknown' was the prevailing designation; 'brought here at
three in the morning, skull fractured, _unknown;_' 'brought at twelve
at night, drowned under the Pont des Arts, cards in his pocket,
_unknown;_'--'young woman, pregnant, crushed by a fiacre at the corner
of the Rue Mandar, _unknown_;'--'new born child found dead of cold,
at the gate of an hotel, _unknown.'_

"I said to M. Perrin that he must weary here very much occasionally
during the long nights of winter.

"'No,' replied he good humouredly, 'the children sing, we all work,
François and I play at draughts or piquet; the worst of it is, we are
sometimes interrupted; a knock comes, we must go down, get a stone
ready, undress the new comer and register him: that spoils the game;
we forget to mark the points.'

"'And this is the way you generally spend your evenings?'--'Always,
except when François has to go to Vaugirard at four o'clock: then
he must go to bed earlier. Perhaps you do not know that our burying
ground is at Vaugirard: as that burying ground is not much in fashion,
we have been allowed to retain our privilege of having a fosse to
ourselves.'

"'I understand,--it is a fief of the Morgue.'

"'You saw that chariot below near the entrance gate, in which the
children were hiding themselves at play,--that is our hearse.'

"'And rich or poor, all must make use of your conveyance? If for
instance a suicide is recognised, his relations or friends may reclaim
him, take him home, and bestow the rites of sepulture on him at his
own house?'

"'No, the Morgue does not give back what has been once deposited here.
It allows the funeral ceremonies to be as pompous as they will, but
they must all set out from hence; one end of the procession perhaps
is at Notre Dame, while the other is starting from the Morgue. The
Archbishop of Paris may be there; but François's place is fixed. It is
the first.'

"'And the priests of Notre Dame, do they never make any difficulty
about administering the funeral rites to your dead?'

"'Never!'

"'Not even to the suicides?'

"'There are no suicides for Notre Dame: one is drowned by accident,
another killed by the bursting of a gun, a third has fallen from
a scaffold. I invent the excuse, and the conscience of the priest
accepts it. That's enough.'

"So, thought I! Notre Dame, which formerly witnessed the execution at
the stake of sorcerers, alchymists, and gipsies on the Grande Place,
has now no word of reprobation for the carcass of the suicide, once
allowed to rot on the ground, or be devoured by birds. She asks not
here what was his faith. The priest says mildly, 'Peace be with you.'

"We walked down, and François opened the first room, that which
contains the dresses; habits of all shapes, all dimensions, hideously
jumbled together; gaiters pinned to a sleeve, a shawl shading the neck
of a coat; dresses of peasants, workmen, carters and brewers' frocks,
women's gowns, all faded, discoloured, shapeless, flap against each
other in the current of air which entered through the windows. There
is something here appalling in the sight and sound of these objects,
soulless, body-less, yet moving as if they had life, and presenting
the form without the flesh. Your eye rests on a handkerchief, the
property of some poor labourer, suddenly seized with the idea of
suicide, after some day that he has wanted work.

"François, who followed the direction of my eyes to see what
impression the picture produced on me sighed heavily.

"'Does it move you too,' said I? 'Are you discontented with your
lot.--Unhappy?'

"'Not exactly! But, Sir, formerly, you must know, the dresses, after
being six months exhibited, became a perquisite of ours; we sold them.
Now they talk of taking the dresses from us.'

"I reassured François as to the intention of government, and assured
him there was no talk of taking away the dresses.

"The second room, that which adjoins the public exhibition room, is
appropriated for the dissection of those, the mode of whose death
appears to the police to be suspicious. Its only furniture is a marble
table, on which the dissections take place, and a shelf on which are
placed several bottles of chlorate. This room is immediately above
the room of M. Perrin. The dissecting table above just answers to the
girls' piano below.

"In this room, which I crossed rapidly to avoid as much as possible
the sight of a body extended on the plank, I saw the little girl, who
had been stifled the night before in the diligence; she was a lovely
child. The other figure was frightfully disfigured; scarcely even
would his mother have recognised him.

"There remained only the public room; it is narrow, ill aired; ten or
twelve black and sloping stones receive the suicides, who are placed
on it almost in a state of nudity; the places are seldom all occupied,
except perhaps during a revolution. Then it is that the Morgue is
recruited; two more days of glory and immortality in July, and the
plague had been in Paris.

"'It is true,' said M. Perrin, 'we worked hard during the three days,
and we were allowed the use of two assistants. Corpses every where,
within, without, at the gate, on the bank.'--

"'And your girls?'

"'During these days they did not leave their apartment, nor looked
out to the street, nor to the river; besides, you are mistaken if you
think the spectacle would have terrified them. Brought up here,
they will walk at night without a light in front of the glass, which
divides the corpses from the public, without trembling; we become
accustomed to any thing.'

"Methought I heard the poor children, so familiar with the idea of
death, so accustomed to this domestic spectacle of their existence,
asking innocently of the strangers whom they visited,--as one would
ask where is your garden, your kitchen, or your cabinet,--'where do
_you_ keep your dead here?'

"These were all the facts I could gather with regard to the
establishment. I was opening the glass door to breathe the fresh air
again, when the entrance of the crowd drove me back into the interior;
they were following a bier, on which lay a body, from which the water
dripped in a long stream. From one of the hands which were closely
clenched, the keeper detached a strip of coloured linen, and a
fragment of lace. 'Ah!' said he, 'let me look, 'tis she!'

"'Who is it?'

"'The nurse who was here this morning; the nurse of the little Norman
girl. Good! they may be buried together.' And M. Perrin put on
his spectacles, opened his register, and wrote in his best
current-hand--_unknown!_"

       *       *       *       *       *


POETRY.

       *       *       *       *       *

The Maid of Elvar. By Allan Cunningham.

This is one of the most gratifying "appearances" in the literature of
the day. It reminds us that however the poet's harp may have remained
unstrung, it has not lost its vigour or sweetness--its depth of
feeling, or its melody of tone, and these too are ably sustained
through nearly 600 stanzas in an exquisitely embellished narrative.
The poem is "a song of other times;" the story is one of chivalrous
love; the hero is a young warrior and poet; the Maid of Elvar offers
a garland of gold for the best song in honour of one of his victories;
"minstrels meet and sing, but the song of Eustace, though on another
theme, is reckoned the best; the Maid hangs the gold chain round his
neck, and retires, admiring the young stranger;" and thereby hangs the
tale. As our limits will not allow us to detach a scene or incident,
we must be content, for the present, with culling a few of the
choicest flowers of the song.

CIVIL WAR.

  Woe, woe was ours. Chief drew his sword on chief:
  Religion with her relique and her brand,
  Made strife between our bosom-bones, and grief
  And lawless joy abounded in the land;
  Our glass of glory sank nigh its last sand;
  Rank with its treason, priesthood with its craft,
  Turned Scotland's war-lance to a willow-wand.
  But war arose in Scotland--civil war;
  Serf warred with chief, and father warred with son,
  The church too warred with all: her evil star
  That rules o'er sinking realms shone like the sun--
  Her lights waxed dim and died out one by one--
  Woe o'er the land hung like a funeral pall:
  The sword the bold could brave, the coward shun,
  But famine followed fast and fell on all--
  Pale lips cried oft for food which came not at their call.

RURAL PEACE.

  Much mirth was theirs--war was no wonder then;
  Dread fled with danger, and the cottage cocks,
  The shepherd's war-pipe, called the sons of men
  When morning's wheel threw bright dew from its spokes,
  To pastures green to lead again their flocks;
  The horn of harvest followed with its call;
  Fast moved the sickle, and swift rose the shocks,
  Behind the reapers like a golden wall--
  Gravely the farmer smiled, by turns approving all.

  The ripe corn waved in lone Dalgonar glen,
  That, with its bosom basking in the sun,
  Lies like a bird; the hum of working men
  Joins with the sound of streams that southward run,
  With fragrant holms atween: then mix in one
  Beside a church, and round two ancient towers
  Form a deep fosse. Here sire is heired by son,
  And war comes never; ancle deep in flowers
  In summer walk its dames among the sunny bowers.

  He rose, find homeward by the slumbering stream
  Walked with the morn-dew glistening on his shoon.
  The sun was up, and his outbursting beam
  Touched tower and tree and pasture hills aboon;
  The stars were quenched, and vanished was the moon;
  Loud lowed the herds and the glad partridge' cry
  Made corn-fields musical as groves at noon;
  Birds left the perch, bee following bee hummed by,
  And gladness reigned on earth and brightness claimed the sky.

MINSTRELSY.

  I sing of days in which brave deeds of arms
  And deeds of song went hand in hand: our kings
  Heroic feelings had and owned the charms
  Of minstrel lore--they loved the magic strings
  More than the sceptre; still their kingdom rings
  With their gay musings and their harpings high.
  To noble deeds fair poesie lends wings;
  She lifts them up from grovelling earth to sky,
  And bids them sit in light, and live and never die.

FAME.

  Fame, fame--thou warrior's wish, thou poet's thought,
  Thou bright delusion; like the rainbow thou
  Glitterest, yet none may touch thee; thing of naught,
  Star-high with heaven's own brightness on thy brow,
  Blazoned and glorious I beheld thee grow--
  Vision, begone,--for I am none of thine.
  Of all that fills my heart and fancy now,
  From dull oblivion not one word or line
  Wilt thou touch with thy light and render it divine.

  Even be it so. I sing not for thy smiles--
  I sing to keep down sighs and ease the smart
  Of care and sadness, and the daily toils
  Which crush my soul and trample on my heart.
  Far mightier spirits of the inspired art
  Are mute and nameless, mid the muse in grief
  Calls from the eastern to the western airt,
  On tale, tradition, ballad, song, and chief
  On thee, to give their names one passage bright and brief.
  She calls in vain; like to a shooting star
  Their storied rhymes shone brightly in their birth,
  And shot a dazzling lustre near and far;
  Then darkened, died, as all things else on earth.

EVENING.

                                     The sun
  Behind the mountain's summit slowly sank;
  Crows came in clouds down from the moorlands dun,
  And darkened all the pine-trees, rank on rank;
  The homeward milch-cows at the fountains drank;
  Swains dropt the sickle, hinds unloosed the car--
  The twin hares sported on the clover-bank,
  And with the shepherd o'er the upland far,
  Came out the round pale moon, and star succeeding star.
  Star followed star, though yet day's golden light
  Upon the hills and headlands faintly stream'd;
  To their own pine the twin-doves took their flight;
  From crag and cliff the clamorous seamews screamed,
  In glade and glen the cottage windows gleam'd;
  Larks left the cloud, for flight the grey owl sat;
  The founts and lakes up silver radiance steamed;
  Winging his twilight journey, hummed the gnat--
  The drowsy beetle droned, and skimmed the wavering bat.

THE MAID'S FIRST LOVE.

  The maiden heard a light foot on the floor,
  And sidelong looked, and there before her stood
  Young Eustace Graeme: far from the pasture moor
  He came: the fragrance of the dale and wood
  Was scenting all his garments green and good.
  A sudden flush when tie the maiden saw,
  Burned through his temples, kindled up his blood--
  His stifling breath waxed nigh too tight to draw,
  He bowed, and silent stood in wonderment and awe.

  The father smiled, the mother smiled. Now why
  Are her eyes downcast and his white brow glowing?
  Say, have they vowed while heaven was witness by
  With all her radiant lights like fountains flowing,
  To love while water runs and woods are growing,
  And stars glowed conscious of the compact pure?
  They never woo'd, nor, love for love bestowing.
  Met with the moonshine in the green-wood bow'r,
  Nor looked and sighed, and looked and drank love by the hour.

  Yet they have met. Though not fools of the flock,
  On whom love like the tiger gives one bound.
  And then the heart is rent--a thunderstroke
  That makes men dust before they hear the sound--
  A shaft that leaves dark venom in the wound--
  A frost that all the buds of manhood nips--
  A sea of passion in which true love's drowned--
  A demon strangling virtue in his grips--
  A day when reason's son is quenched in dread eclipse.

  True gentle love is like the summer dew,
  Which falls around when all is still and hush--
  And falls unseen until its bright drops strew
  With odours, herb and flower, and bank, and bush
  O love, when womanhood is in the flush,
  And man's a young and an unspotted thing!
  His first breathed word and her half conscious blush,
  Are fair us light in heaven, or flowers in spring--
  The first hour of true love is worth our worshipping.

LOVE OF COUNTRY.

  "I would not leave old Scotland's mountain gray,
  Her hills, her cots, her halls, her groves of pine,
  Dark though they be: yon glen, yon broomy brae,
  Yon wild fox cleugh, yon eagle cliffs outline
  An hour like this--this white right-hand of thine,
  And of thy dark eyes such a gracious glance,
  As I got now, for all beyond the line,
  And all the glory gained by sword or lance,
  In gallant England, Spain, or olive vales of France."

       *       *       *       *       *

_Printed and Published by J. LIMBIRD, 143, Strand. (near Somerset
House,) London; sold by ERNEST FLEISCHER, 626, New Market, Leipsic;
G.G. BENNIS, 55, Rue Neuve, St. Augustin, Paris, and by all Newsmen
and Booksellers._