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THE

INTERNATIONAL

MONTHLY

MAGAZINE

Of Literature, Science, and Art.


VOLUME V.

JANUARY TO APRIL, 1852.


NEW-YORK:

STRINGER & TOWNSEND, 222 BROADWAY.

FOR SALE BY ALL BOOKSELLERS.

BY THE NUMBER, 25 CTS; THE VOLUME $1; THE YEAR, $3.




ADVERTISEMENT.


The April number of the INTERNATIONAL MONTHLY MAGAZINE completes the
fifth volume, and the series. The Publishers respectfully announce to
its readers and the public, that from the issue of the present Volume,
the Magazine will be blended with _Harpers' Monthly Magazine_, and,
therefore, suspended as a distinct publication.

To the numerous subscribers to THE INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE, the
Publishers beg to say, that each one will be served with HARPER'S
MAGAZINE to the end of his term; or, if preferred, furnished with any
other Magazine to the amount of his unexpired subscription.

The Publishers cannot take leave of the friends of the work, without
expressing in terms of thankfulness their sense of the extensive and
cordial support it has received during the period of its publication.
They are happy to know that its good qualities will be perpetuated in
the prosperous, admirable, and widely circulated periodical with which
it will hereafter be united.

    NEW-YORK, _March 30_, 1852.




CONTENTS.

VOLUME V. JANUARY TO APRIL, 1852.


American War-Engines: Colt and Jennings. (Seven Engravings.)             33

Ariadne, the Story of.--_By Erastus W. Ellsworth_,                       45

Annuaries: A Series of Poems.--_By Alice Carey_,                         87

Autumn Leaves.--_By John R. Thompson_,                                  188

Aztecs, At the Society Library. (Engraving.)                            289

Army Private, A Word About The.                                         315

Ashburner, Mr., in New-York.--_By Frank Manhattan, Jr._,                324

Author of the Fool of Quality, The.                                     460

Adventures of an Army Physician in New-York,                            496

_Arts, The Fine._--Kaulbach's Last Works, 133.--The Publication of the
Works of Ingres, 133.--The Art-Unions, 277.--An Artist Sycophant in
Naples, 277.--Kugler's History of Art, 277.--Copies of Ancient Egyptian
Sculptures, 277.--Drawings by Schiller, 277.--Kaulbach, 277.--Greenough,
267.--Kaulbach's Cartoon of Homer, 424.--Gallaît's Last Moments of
Egmont, 424.--Monument to Metastasio, 424.--New England Art-Union,
Etching of Alston's "Witch of Endor," 425.--Drawing of the American
Art-Union, 425.--Philadelphia Art-Union, 425.

_Authors and Books._--Henry Heine turned Christian, 124.--Dr. Schmidt on
German Romanticism, 125.--German version of Firdusi, 125.--Bulau's
Secret History of Enigmatical Men, 125.--Historical Concert at Dresden,
125.--Leipzig Book Fair, 125.--History of Music, 125.--Works of Bach,
125.--Lachmann, the Philologist, 125.--German work on Jonathan Edwards,
125.--Dr. Andree's _Das Westland_, 126.--The Gotha Almanac, 126.--Fruits
of Humboldt's Kosmos, 126.--Auerbach's Village Stories, 126.--Religious
Novel by Storch, 126.--Schneider's House Chronicles, 126.--Mugge's new
Book, 126.--Wells's Middle Kingdom in German, 126.--Geograpica Italiæ,
126.--German History of the British Empire in India, 126.--Reverence In
Reviewing, 126.--Adolph Stahr, 126.--Countess Hahn-Hahn, 127.--Prince
Windischgratz's History of the Hungarian War, 127.--Menzel's new Novel,
127.--Miss Bremer on the World's Fair, 127.--Frederick the Great,
127.--Kohl's last Book of Travels, 127.--Shakspeare in Swedish,
127.--New History of German Literature, 127.--Listz's new Operas,
127.--Haddock's Somnolism and Psycheism, 127.--Gervinus on German
Poetry, 127.--Silvio Pellico, 127.--English Eclectic Magazine in
Tuscany, 127.--Gioberti on the Regeneration of Italy, 128.--The Israel
of the Alps, 128.--Christian Missions in China, 129.--New work on
Horticulture in Paris, 130.--Laurent's International Law,
130.--Alexander Dumas, 130.--Prudhon's last Absurdities, 130.--M.
Lefranc on the French Revolution, 131.--The Waverly Novels in France,
131.--The Photographic Album, 131.--Guizot's Moral Studies and
Meditations, 131.--F. Arago, 131.--M. Ott, on Socialism, 131.--M.
Reybaud, 131.--Lord Brougham, 131.--Hartzenbusch's Spanish Authors,
131.--The Grenville Papers and the new volumes of Lord Mabon's History
of England, 131.--Sir James Stephens's History of France, 132.--Mr.
Merrivale's History of the Romans, 132.--Memoirs of Dr. Chalmers,
132.--Alice Carey's Clovernook, Grace Greenwood's new volume of Tales
and Letters, and Miss Cheesebro's Dreamland by Daylight, 132.--Daniel
Webster, Mr. Bancroft, and Mr. Irving, on the Life of Washington,
132.--Baucher's Horsemanship, 132.--Heroes and Martyrs of the Missionary
Enterprise, 132.--Gutzkow's Ritter Vom Geiste, 268.--Henry Taylor
reviewed in the _Grenzboten_, 268.--Germany in the Revolutionary Period
of 1522, 268.--Reading Poems, 268.--German views of Carlyle's Life of
Sterling, 268.--Curious German work on Shakspeare, by Veshe, 269.--The
Gothic Runic Alphabet, 269.--Fac Simile of an Ancient copy of the
Gospels, 269.--German Historical Monuments, 269.--Hagberg's Swedish
version, of Shakspeare, 269.--German version of Dunlap's History of
Fiction, 269.--The Vagabonds, by Holtei, 269.--New German Poems,
269.--Richers on Nature and Spirit, 270.--German Domestic Legends,
270.--Fecknor's Zend Avista, 270.--Rappert's Negromancer Virgilius,
270.--German Temperance Tales, 270.--Nichl on Civil Society,
270.--Correspondence of Goethe and Knebel, 270.--New Collection of
Eastern MSS. at Berlin, 270.--German versions of Longfellow, Dr. Mayo,
and Bunyan, 270.--Recent German Historical Literature, 271.--German
Booksellers, 271.--Wholesale system of acquiring Languages, 271.--Adolf
Stahr's Prussian Revolution, 271.--Schleisenger's Wanderings through
London, 271.--Arabic MS. of Euclid, 271.--New work by Baron Eötvös,
271.--Wagner's Journey to Persia, 271.--Continuation of Humboldt's
Kosmos, 271.--German work on Kossuth, 271.--Cheever's Sandwich Islands,
in German, 271.--Silvio Pellico, 271.--Clemens Brentano, 271.--New Books
on Scandinavia, 272.--The Widow of Weber, 272.--Professor Nuytz,
272.--Maria Monk in Germany, 272.--Works of Kepler, 272.--Works
Prohibited in Russia, 272.--Liebeck, on Landscape Gardening,
272.--Cotta's new edition of Faust, 272.--Writings of Spalatin,
272.--Scientific Works from China, 272.--Biot's Translation of an
Ancient Chinese History, 273.--The Library of Cardinal Mezzofanti,
273.--Michelet, 273.--Nicolas and Ritter, 273.--Works of Paganini,
274.--Philarete Chasles on American Literature, 274.--Lafuente's History
of Spain, 274.--New Paris edition of Fenimore Cooper, 274.--Guizot on
Shakspeare, 274.--Paris by a Hungarian, 274.--Villegos, the Spanish
Historian, 274.--Tranion on Land Tenure, 274.--Lady Bulwer's New Novel,
274.--New Works on French History, 275.--Count Joseph de Maistro,
275.--Don Antonio Saco, on Cuba, 275.--New edition of Turner's Anglo
Saxons, 275.--John Howard Hinton on the Voluntary Principle in America,
275.--New Discussions as to Junius, 275.--Smith's Natural History of the
Human Species, 275.--Bonynge's Wealth of America, 276.--The Past and
it's Legacies, by J. D. Nourse, 276.--Head's Bundle of French Sticks,
276.--Legends of Alexander in the East, 414.--Hofner, on Dresses of
Christians, in the Middle Ages, 414.--German Version of Popular
Nomenclature of American Plants, 414.--German Works on History,
414.--Count Von Hugel on India, 414.--Von Rommer's Historical Pocket
Book, 415.--The Art Journal, 415.--Beeker's Roman Antiquities,
415.--Ennemoser's Inquiries Respecting the Human Soul, 415.--New
Edition of Brackhaus's Lexikon, 415.--Sources of Popular German Songs,
415.--Saupe's Schiller and his Paternal House, 416.--German Military
Books, 416.--Thirtieth Volume of the Library of Collected German
Literature, 416.--Biography of Karl Lachmann, 416.--History of German
Literature, 416.--Ludwig Kossuth, 416.--Behse's History of the Austrian
Court, 416.--Forty Questions addressed to Mahomet, by the Jews,
416.--Böckh's Political Economy of the Athenians, 416.--Hettner's
Æsthetic Inquiries into the Modern Drama, 416.--Lepsius on Egyptian
Theology, 417.--History of the Russian Empire, 417.--Bavarian
Traditions. 417.--S. Didung, 417.--Zahn's Pompeii, 417.--Miss Bremer's
American Homes, 417.--A German Wandering Jew, 417.--Mittermaier on
American Systems of Punishment, 417.--History of Costumes, 417.--Amyot
and the Old French Translators, 417.--Silvio Pellico's Works in France,
417.--History of the Bastile, 418.--Count Montalembert, 418.--Greek
Professorship of Edinburgh, 418.--Dr. Smith's Pilgrimage to Palestine,
418.--Turkish Grammar, 418.--Bulwer's Poems, 418.--Lady Bulwer's Letters
to the Morning Post, 418.--Memoir of Lord Jeffrey, 418.--New Candidate
for the authorship of Junius, 419.--Unpublished papers of Torquato
Tasso, 419.--Bancroft's History, 419.--Palfrey's Jewish Scriptures and
Antiquities, 420.--Howadji in Syria, 420.--The History of Classical
Literature by R. W. Browne, 420.--Thompson's Literature of the Southern
States, 420.--Poems of Winthrop Mackworth Praed, 420.--New Book by G. W.
Curtis, 420.--R. H. Stoddard, 420.--Schopenhauer's "Little Philosophical
Writings," 549.--Wachsmuth's History of Civilization, 550.--German
Theology, 550. Wagner's Journey to Persia, 550.--Roman Catholic
Missions, 551.--Professor Brandes on the Mormons, 551.--Constitutions of
the Country Towns in Saxony, 551.--Gottleib Fichte's Ethics,
551.--Memoirs Of the Margravine of Bayreuth, 552.--Fannbacher's
Recollections of Greece, &c., 552.--Remains of Klaproth, 552.--Daumer's
Poems, 552.--Gutzkow's Bitter vom Geiste, 552.--New Scandinavian
Literature, 553. Philology and Politics In Denmark, 553.--Poems of
Annete Von Droste, 553.--Jahn on Beethoven, 553. German Version of
Byron, 553.--Wagner on the Opera and Drama. 553.--Record of Books on
Goethe and Schiller, 553.--German Translations of English Ballads,
553.--New Additions to the Index Expurgatorius, 553.--Hettner's Modern
Drama, 553.--Layard In German, 553.--The Tubingen Theological Quarterly,
554.--George Stephens in Sweden, 554. Eugene Sue, 554.--Villefort,
554.--New Book by Houissaye, 554.--Louis Blanc's New Volume on the
French Revolution, 554.--Edmund Texier on Paris, 554.--The Catacombs of
Rome, 554.--The Shelley Forgeries, 555.--Discovery of a corrected Text
of Shakspeare, 555.--Sir James Stephen, 555.--Miss Vandenhoff's Play,
555.--Mr. Carlyle, 555.--Mrs. Robinson and William Hazlitt,
556.--Literary Men in the English Cabinet, 556.--Life in Bombay and the
Neighboring Nations, 556.--Philarete Chasles on American Literature,
556.--The Standard Speaker, by Epes Sargent, 557.--Memoirs of Margaret
Fulier, 558.--Bayard Taylor in Africa, 558.--Works by American Women In
Press, 558.--Dr. Dunglison's Medical Dictionary, 559.--Illustrated
Edition of General Morris's Poems, 559.--Books on Austria and Hungary,
by Mr. Brace, and Mr. Stiles, 559. Foreign Versions of Ticknor's Spanish
Literature, 559.--Arvine's Anecdotes, 559.--Dr. Gardner's Tractate on
Female Physicians, 559.--Mrs. Conant's Translation of Neander on James,
559.--New Volume of Poems by Boker, 559.--Professor Stuart's Last
Commentary, 559.

Bull Fight at Madrid.--_By the Author of "The Castilian"_,              222

Brooding-Places on the Falkland Islands.--_From the German_,             45

Bancroft's History of the American Revolution,                          461

Colonial Churches in Virginia: St. John's Church, Hampton.--_By Rev.
John C. M'Cabe._ (Three Engravings, after original Drawings, by Rev.
Louis P. Clover.)                                                        39

Cicero, A New Portrait of,                                              162

Columbus at the Gates of Genoa.--_By the Author of
"Nile Notes of a Howadji"_,                                             182

Camargo, Mademoiselle De,                                               282

Chatsworth, A Day At (Thirteen Engravings.)                             291

Cats, A Chapter On,                                                     372

Cagliostro, the Magician.--_By Charles Wyllis Elliott_,                 452

Choice Secrets,                                                         546

Dark Deed of Days Gone By,                                              110

Divination, Witchcraft, and Mesmerism,                                  198

_Deaths, Recent._--Dr. De Kay and Dr. Manley, 140.--Sovigny, the
Naturalist, 140.--The late King of Hanover, 141.--Chevalier Levy,
141.--Augusta Byron (Mrs. Leigh), 142.--General Merchant, 142.--Matthias
Attwood, 142.--Cardinal d'Astes, 142.--Emir Pasha, 142.--Alexis de Saint
Priest, 142.--Joel R. Ponisett, LL.D., 281.--Moses Stuart D.D.,
282.--William Grimshaw, 282.--Marshal Soult, 283.--Karl Frederich
Runinhagen, 283.--Michael Sallantian, 283.--Dr. Graeffe, 283.--General
Kiel, 283.--Wilhelm Meinhold, 283.--J. W. M. Turner, 284.--Basil
Montagu, 286.--Admiral Henry G. Morris, 286.--Mr. Sapio, 286.--General
Jatrako, 284.--Presnitz, 287.--Professor Dunbar, 287.--Henry Luttrell,
287.--R. C. Taylor, 287.--Professor Franz, 287.--William Jacob, F.R.S.,
287.--Paul Burras, 287.--Dr. A. Sidney Doane, 427.--R. A. Davenport,
428.--Giovanni Berchet, 428.--Miss Berry, 428.--Louis Bertin Parant,
428.--Benjamin Laroche, 428.--Eugene Levesque, 428.--Thomas Williams,
428.--Baron Kemenyi, 429.--Herbert Rodwell, 429.--Sir Frederick
Phillipse Robinson, 430.--Rev. John Taylor Jones, 430.--Eliot Warburton,
430.--Frederick Ricci, 430.--Baron D'Ohson, 430.--Mrs. Harlowe,
431.--Acheson Maxwell, 431.--William Ware, 560.--John Frazee, 561.--Dr.
John Park, 561.--William Thompson, 561.--Robert Reinick, 562.--William
Henry Oxberry, 562. Rev. Christopher Anderson, 562.--Madame Thiers,
562.--Thomas Moore, 563.--Samuel Prout. 565.--Archbishop Murray,
565.--Bishop McNicholas, 565. Mr. Holcroft, 565.--M. Benchot,
565.--Professor Kollar, 566.--The Widow of Kotzbue, 566.--Baron
Krudener, 566.--M. de Martigny, 566.--M. Smitz, 566.--Bishop Eylert,
566.--Victor Falck, 566.

Epitaphs.--_By F. Lawrence_,                                            213

Edward Everett and Daniel Webster,                                      307

Elizabeth Barrett Browning and Miss Mitford,                            310

Enemy of Virginia, The.--_By Dr. Smith_,                                312

Election Row in New-York.--_By C. Astor Bristed_,                       341

Emille De Coigny.--_By Richard B. Kimball._ (Illustrated
by Darley.);                                                            444

Franklin, Grave of Sir John: Richardson's Journey,                       30

Falls of the Bounding Deer.--_By Alfred B. Street_,                      49

Fielding, Henry: The man and his Works,                                  71

Fashionable Forger,                                                     118

Faust of Wittenburgh and Faust of Mentz,                                172

Feathertop: A Moralized Legend.--_By Nathaniel Hawthorne_,         182, 333

Freedom of Thought, and the Latest Miracles,                            186

French Missionaries in Tartary and Thibet,                              850

Fete Days at St. Petersburg.--_By Alex. Dumas_,                         508

Greece, Present State of the Ancient Monuments of (Thirteen Engravings.), 4

Good Old Times in Paris: A Tale of Robbers,                             216

Gambling, Chapter On,                                                   337

Ghosts, New Discoveries In,                                             381

Gentlemen's and Ladies' Fashions, (With Engravings.),    143, 287, 431, 566

Guizot and Montalembert, in the Academy,                                523

Homes of Cowley and Fox, at Chertsey. (Thirteen Engravings,)            146

Happiness of Oysters,                                                   311

Hungarian Popular Songs.--_By Charles G. Leland_,                       332

Heirs of Randolph Abbey,                                      375, 400, 477

Historical Review of the Month,                                    163, 288

Hooker, Herman, and his Works. (Portrait),                              442

Jackson, Flint--_By a Police Officer_,                                   74

Jewish Heroine: A Story of Tangier,                                     345

Kossuth, Louis. (Portraits of Kossuth and of his Family.),                1

Leopards: Zoological Notes and Anecdotes,                                54

Legend of the East Neuk of Fife,                                         63

Lee, Jesse, and the Lawyers,                                             84

Love Song.--_By R. S. Chilton_,                                         188

Legend of the Weeping Chamber,                                          219

Leonora to Tasso.--_By Mary E. Hewitt_,                                 331

Lady and the Flower.--_By G. P. R. James_,                              226

Lamb, The White.--_By R. H. Stoddard_,                                  411

Legend from the Spanish, A.--_By Mary E. Hewitt_,                       451

Life in Canada.--_By Mrs. Moodie_,                                      470

My Novel--_By Sir Edward Bulwer Lytton_. (Continued.)     89, 239, 395, 530

Mahon's, Lord, History of the American Revolution, with Sketches of
Washington, Patrick Henry, Franklin, La Fayette, Horne Tooke, Wilkes,
Lord Thurlow, Burke, &c.,                                               164

Men and Women of the Eighteenth Century,                                300

Model Traveller: Frederick Gerstacker,                                  305

Mysterious History, Touching Apparitions,                               306

Murder of La Tour, The.--_By W. H. Stiles_,                             457

New-York Society, by the Last English Traveller,                        443

Niebuhr, Barthold George, The Historian,                                517

_Noctes Amicitiæ._--Ambitious Christenings, 134.--The Passport System,
134.--A Mayor's Proclamation, 134.--Ingenious way of Hiding a Secret,
134.--Last Days of Alexander Lee, 134.--Anecdotes of Elephants,
134.--Madame Kossuth on Woman's Rights, 135.--Story of an English Lord
in Paris, 135.--The Spectator on the sacrilege of Dramatists,
135.--Tipsey Drollery, 266.--Anthony Benezet and his Rats,
266.--Descartes and the Ladies, 266.--An American "Characteristic,"
266.--Broussais and Water Cure, 267.--Story of Tom Cooke, 267.--Odd
Statistics from Portugal, 267.--First Duel in New England, 267.--Ariosto
and Humbugs, 667.--Ole Bull, 267.

Opera, The.--_By Thomas Carlyle_,                                        29

Owen, John, at Oxford: A Biography,                                      80

Old Maid's First Love,                                                  228

Pulszky, Francis,                                                       122

Poems, Some Small.--_By R. H. Stoddard_,                           174, 459

Punishment of Gina Montani,                                             189

Picture Advertising, in South America,                                  530

Reminiscences of Printers, Booksellers, Authors,
&c., in New-York--_By Dr. John W. Francis, LL.D._,                      258

Reclaiming of the Angel--_By Alice Carey_,                              311

Red Feather: An Indian Story.--_By I. McLellen_,                        319

Robinson, John, The Pastor of the Pilgrims,                             367

Rainbow Making: The Ribbon Factories,                                   511

Story of Dr. Lindhorst.--_By Richard B. Kimball_,                       109

Soult, The late Marshal, Duke of Dalmatia. (Portrait.),                 145

Story, Mr. Justice, With Reminiscent Reflections. _By A. Oakey Hall_,   175

Smiles and Tears.--_By Richard Coe_,                                    186

Song Queen, The.--_Written in a Concert Room, by James T, Fields_,      188

Story of Gasper Mendez.--_By Catherine Crowe_,                          362

Simms, William Gilmore, LL.D. (With a Portrait.),                       433

Sunset: A Sonnet.--_By R. S. Chilton_,                                  443

Some Small Poems.--_By R. H. Stoddard_,                                 459

Squier, Mr., in Nicaragua,                                              474

Sequel to the Jewish Heroine,                                           491

String of Proverbs, A.                                                  502

_Scientific Discoveries and Proceedings of Learned Societies._--Papers
in the Paris Academy of Sciences, 139.--African Expeditions,
139.--Perpetual Motion, 139.--Grants of Parliament for Scientific
Purposes, 139.--Balloons in Ancient Nineveh, 139.--Invention for
Determining Distances, 140.--Interesting Experiments by Professor
Gorini, 140.--Count Castelnau's Paper on Men with Tails, 140.--Hatching
Turtles by Artificial Heat, 140.--Process for Contracting Fibres of
Calico, 280.--Memoir on the Production of Wool, 281.--European
Experiments in Electro-Magnetism, 281.--Curious Astronomical Fact
respecting Lalande, 281.--Mr. Squier's Address before the London Royal
Society of Literature on Mexican Hieroglyphics, 425.--Experiments in
Photography, 425.--French experiments in Electro-Magnetism applied to
Locomotives, 425.--Lord Brougham's Optical and Mathematical Inquiries,
425.--Mr. Lea's work on the Genus Unio, &c., 426.--Catlin's plan for a
Museum of Mankind, 426.--French Academy on Yellow Fever,
426.--Dissolution of the Royal Institute of the Netherlands,
426.--Society of Antiquaries at Copenhagen, 426.

Taylor and Stoddard, Poems of. (Portrait of R. H. Stoddard.),            13

Trangott Bromme's Views of America and Americans,                       157

To Sundry Critics,--_By R. H. Stoddard_,                                319

Threnodia,--_By Mrs. R. B. Kimball_,                                    323

The Palaces of Trade, (Six Engravings.),                                435

Treatment of Gold and Gems, The.                                        524

Underground Territories of the United States. (Seven Engravings.),       17

Visit to the Fire Worshippers' Temple at Baku,                          160

Vision of Charles the Twelfth,                                          196

Winter.--_By Alice Carey_,                                               28

Wits About the Throne of Louis the Fourteenth,                           32

Wolf Gathering,                                                         391

Warburton, Eliot, The Late,                                             459




THE INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE

Of Literature, Art and Science.


Vol. V. NEW-YORK, JANUARY 1, 1852. No. 1.



[Illustration]




KOSSUTH.


On the preceding page is the best portrait we have seen of the
illustrious Hungarian, whose presence in America is destined to mark one
of the brightest pages in the history of Liberty. Of his personal
appearance we transcribe the description in the _Tribune_. He is taller
than had generally been supposed, and his face has an expression of
penetrating intellect which is not indicated in any portrait. It is
long, the forehead broad, but not excessively high, though a slight
baldness makes it seem so, and the chin narrow, but square in its form.
His hair is thin in front and of a dark brown, as is his beard, which is
quite long, but not very thick, and arranged with neatness and taste.
His moustache is heavy and rather long. His eyes are very large, and of
a light blue; his complexion is pale like that of a man who is not in
perfect health, and his appearance yesterday was that of the spirit
bearing up against the exhaustion of the body; he was sea-sick during
the passage, and had not slept for two or three nights. His manner in
speaking is at once incomparably dignified and graceful. Gestures more
admirable and effective, and a play of countenance more expressive and
magnetic, we remember in no other public speaker. He stands quite erect,
and does not bend forward like some orators, to give emphasis to a
sentence. His posture and appearance in repose are imposing, not only
from their essential grace and dignity, but from a sense of power they
impress upon the beholder. This sense of unused power, this certainty
that he is not making an effort and doing his utmost, but that behind
all this strength of fascination there are other treasures of strength,
other stores of ability not brought into use, possibly never brought
into use, is perhaps what constitutes the supreme charm of his oratory.
He speaks as if with little preparation, and with that peculiar
freshness which belongs to extemporaneous speaking; there is no effort
about it, and the wonderful compactness and art of his argument are not
felt until you reflect upon it afterward. His every movement is
perfectly easy, and he gesticulates much, equally well with either arm.
Nothing could be more beautiful in its way than the sweep of his right
hand, as it was raised to Heaven, when he spoke of the Deity--nothing
sweeter than the smile which at times mantles his face. His voice is not
very loud, but it was heard distinctly through the large pavilion. On
the whole our previous impression was perfectly confirmed by hearing
him. In speaking, Kossuth occasionally referred to notes which lay on
the stand before him. He was dressed after the Hungarian fashion, in a
black velvet tunic, single breasted, with standing collar and
transparent black buttons. He also wore an overcoat or sack of black
velvet with broad fur and loose sleeves. He wore light kid gloves.
Generally his English is fluent and distinct, with a marked foreign
accent, though at times this is not at all apparent. He speaks rather
slowly than otherwise, and occasionally hesitates for a word. His
command of the language, astonishing as it is in a foreigner, seems
rather the result of an utter abandonment to his thought, and a reliance
on that to express itself, than of an absolute command of the niceties
of the grammar and dictionary. He evidently has no fear of speaking
wrong, and so, as by inspiration, expresses himself often better even
than one to whom the language is native and familiar. Though he often
uses words with a foreign meaning, or a meaning different from that we
usually give them, he does not stop to correct himself, but goes on as
if there were no doubt that he would be perfectly apprehended.

The character of Kossuth has been very amply discussed in all the
journals both before and since his triumphal entry into New-York. The
judgment of the London _Examiner_ is the common judgment of at least the
Saxon race, that, while the extraordinary events of 1848 and 1849,
afforded the fairest opportunities for the advent of a great man, the
people who were ready for battle against oppression, were all stricken
down on account of the incapacity of their leaders--except in one
instance. The exception was in the case of Kossuth. And he was no new
man, but had been steadily building a great fame from his youth; had
labored in the humblest as well as highest offices of patriotism; and as
a thinker, a speaker, and a writer, had been before the public eye of
all Europe for years. He was born in 1806, at Monok, in Hungary, of
parents not rich, yet possessing land, and calling themselves noble. His
native district was a Protestant one, and in the pastor of that district
he found his first teacher. On their death, while he was still young,
more devoted to books than to farming, he was sent to the provincial
college, where he remained until eighteen years of age, and earned the
reputation of being the most able and promising youth of the district.
In 1826, he removed to the University of Pesth, where he came in contact
with the political influences and ideas of the time; and these, blending
with his own historic studies and youthful hopes, soon produced the
ardent, practical patriot, which the world has since seen in him.

According to the Constitution of Hungary, the _Comitats_ or electoral
body treated those elected to sit in the Diet more as delegates than as
deputies. They gave them precise instructions, and expected the members
not only to conform to them, but to send regular accounts of their
conduct to their constituents for due sanction, and with a view to fresh
instructions. This kind of communication was rather onerous for the
Hungarian country gentleman, and hence many of the deputies employed
such young men as Kossuth to transact their political business, and
conduct their correspondence. Acting in this capacity for many members
of the Diet, Kossuth came into intimate relations with the _comitats_,
and acquired skill in public affairs.

He was soon himself made a member, and from the first was distinguished
in the Diet as a speaker. Here he felt, and soon pointed out to his
colleagues, how idle and powerless were their debates unless these were
known to the public in some more efficient manner than by the private
correspondence of the deputies. Influenced by his representations, the
chief members of the Diet resolved to establish a journal for the
publication of their discussions; and Kossuth was selected as one of
those who were to preside over it; but the Archduke Palatine objected,
of course, because the object was to curtail the reports and garble
them. Kossuth, however, was enabled by the more liberal of his
colleagues to publish the reports on his own account. He then extended
the journal by the insertion of leading articles; and his counsels and
criticisms on the instructions of the _comitats_ to the deputies, so
stirred the bile and counteracted the views of the Austrian authorities,
that they interfered and suspended his newspaper by seizing his presses.
But, even this did not stop his pen, nor those of his many amanuenses;
until, at last, Metternich, exasperated by his obstinacy, caused him to
be seized and condemned to three years' imprisonment in the citadel of
Ofen. He was liberated in 1837; and during the years that elapsed
between that epoch and 1848 the history of Hungary was that of Kossuth,
who, amidst the many men of noble birth, wealth, high character, and
singular talents, who surrounded him, still held his ground, and shone
pre-eminent. In 1847 he was the acknowledged leader of the
constitutional party, and member for the Hungarian capital. It is
unnecessary to pursue this narrative. The events of 1848 and 1849 have
passed too recently and vividly before us to need relation. The part
that Kossuth played in those years was but the logical consequence of
his previous life. The struggle was for the rights of Hungary, in all
circumstances and against all foes. For these he fought along with the
Hungarian aristocracy, as long as they had the courage to resist
Austria; and when they wavered, he went on without them, appealing to
the _comitats_ and to the smaller landed proprietors in the absence of
the greater, and to the squires instead of the nobles.

[Illustration: THE WIFE AND CHILDREN OF KOSSUTH--FROM A RECENT
DAGUERREOTYPE.]

The result thus far we all know. The final result perhaps we in America
are to decide.




THE ANCIENT MONUMENTS OF GREECE.


[Illustration: THE ACROPOLIS.]

Every one can understand the regret with which we behold the remains of
ancient grandeur, and the capitals of buried empires. This feeling, so
profound in Jerusalem and Rome, is even more so in Athens,--

        "the eye of Greece, mother of arts
    And eloquence, native to famous wits,
    Or hospitable--"

a city never so large as New-York, but whose inhabitants produced within
the short space of two centuries, reckoning from the battle of Marathon,
as Landor says, a larger number of exquisite models, in war, philosophy,
patriotism, oratory and poetry--in the semi-mechanical arts which
accompany or follow them, sculpture and painting--and in the first of
the mechanical, _architecture_, than the remainder of Europe in six
thousand years.

The monuments of antiquity which still exist in Athens have been
described by Chandler, Clarke, Gell, Stuart, Dodwell, Leake, and other
travellers, the most recent and competent of whom perhaps is Mr. Henry
Cook, of London, author of _Illustrations of a Tour in the Ionian
Islands, Greece, and Constantinople_, who has just made, or rather is
now making for the _Art-Journal_ a series of drawings of those which are
most important, representing them in their present condition. These
drawings by Mr. Cook, so far as they have appeared, we reproduce in the
_International_, making liberal use at the same time of his
descriptions.

Until the sacrilegious hand of the late Lord Elgin despoiled Athens of
"what Goth, and Turk, and Time had spared," the world could still see
enough to render possible a just impression of her old and chaste
magnificence. It is painful to reflect within how comparatively short a
period the chief injuries have been inflicted on such buildings as the
Parthenon, and the temple of Jupiter Olympus, and to remember how recent
is the greater part of the rubbish by which these edifices have been
choked up, mutilated, and concealed. Probably until within a very few
centuries, time had been, simply and alone, the "beautifier of the
dead," "adorner of the ruin," and, but for the vandalism of a few
barbarians, we might have gazed on the remains of former greatness
without an emotion except of admiration for the genius by which they
were created. The salient feature (probably the only one) in the present
rule at Athens is one which affords the highest satisfaction to those
interested in this subject. Slowly, indeed, and with an absence of all
energy, is going on the restoration of some, the disinterment of others,
and the conservation of all the existing monuments; and time will
probably ere long give us back, so far as is possible, all that the
vandalism or recklessness of modern ages has obscured or destroyed. On
the Acropolis the results of these efforts at restoration are chiefly
visible; day by day the debris of ruined fortifications, of Turkish
batteries, mosques, and magazines, are disappearing; every thing which
is not Pentelic marble finds its way over the steep sides of the
fortress, and in due time nothing will be left but the scattered
fragments which really belonged to the ancient temples. "The above
sketch," says Mr. Cook, "represents faithfully the present condition of
this most sublime creation. The details of the partial destruction of
this old fortress--founded 1556 years before the advent of the
Saviour--under the fire of the Venetians, commanded by Morosini, are so
well known, that I have thought it unnecessary to repeat them; but it
is impossible to recall them without a shudder, as the reflection is
forced on one, of what must have been their fate whose wickedness caused
an explosion which could scatter, as a horse's hoof may the sands of the
sea-shore, the giant masses which for ever bear witness to the power of
that mighty agent we have evoked from the earth for our mutual
destruction." At the west end of the Acropolis, by which alone it was
accessible, stood the Propylæa, its gate as well as its defence. Through
this gate the periodical processions of the Panathenaic jubilee were
wont to move, and the marks of chariot wheels are still visible on the
stone floor of its entrance. It was of the Doric order, and its right
wing was supported by six fluted columns, each five feet in diameter,
twenty-nine in height, and seven in their intercolumniation. Of the
Propylæa itself Mr. Cook gives no individual drawing, the only sketch he
had opportunity of making, being in its relation to the Acropolis
generally; "it will, however," he says, "serve in some degree to show
what has been done. Here perhaps the chief work has been accomplished;
all the now detached columns were built up with solid brickwork,
batteries were erected on the spot occupied by the Temple of 'Victory
without wings,' and on the square which answered to it on the opposite
side of the flight of marble steps; the whole of which were deeply
buried (not until they had severely suffered), beneath the ruins of the
fortification which crumbled away under the Venetian guns. These walls
have been removed, the batteries destroyed, and the material of which
they were composed taken away; the steps exhumed, and the five grand
entrances, by which the fortress was originally entered, opened,
although not yet rendered passable. It would be, I imagine, impossible
to conceive an approach more magnificent than this must have been. The
whole is on such a superb scale, the design, in its union of simplicity
and grandeur is so perfect, the material so exquisite, and the view
which one has from it of the Parthenon and the Erechtheum so beautiful,
that no interest less intense than that which belongs to these temples
would be sufficient to entice the stranger from its contemplation."

[Illustration: THE PARTHENON.]

On the right wing of the Propylæa stood the temple of Victory, and on
the left was a building decorated with paintings by the pencil of
Polygnotus, of which Pausanias has left us an account. In a part of the
wall still remaining there are fragments of excellent designs in
basso-relievo, representing the combat of the Athenians with the
Amazons; besides six columns, white as snow, and of the finest
architecture. Near the Propylæa stood the celebrated colossal statue of
Minerva, executed by Phidias after the battle of Marathon, the height of
which, including the pedestal, was sixty feet.

The chief glory of the Acropolis was the Parthenon, or temple of
Minerva. It was a peripteral octostyle, of the Doric order, with
seventeen columns on the sides, each six feet two inches in diameter at
the base, and thirty-four feet in height, elevated on three steps. Its
height, from the base of the pediments, was sixty-five feet, and the
dimensions of the area two hundred and thirty-three feet, by one hundred
and two. The eastern pediment was adorned with two groups of statues,
one of which represented the birth of Minerva, the other the contest of
Minerva with Neptune for the government of Athens. On the metopes was
sculptured the battle of the Centaurs with the Lapithæ; and the frieze
contained a representation of the Panathenaic festivals. Ictinus,
Callicrates, and Carpion, were the architects of this temple; Phidias
was the artist; and its entire cost has been estimated at seven million
and a half of dollars. Of this building, eight columns of the eastern
front and several of the lateral colonnades are still standing. Of the
frontispiece, which represented the contest of Neptune and Minerva,
nothing remains but the head of a sea-horse and the figures of two
women without heads. The combat of the Centaurs and Lapithæ is in better
preservation; but of the numerous statues with which this temple was
enriched, that of Adrian alone remains. The Parthenon, however,
dilapidated as it is, still retains an air of inexpressible grandeur and
sublimity; and it forms at once the highest point in Athens, and the
centre of the Acropolis.

[Illustration: THE ERECHTHEUM.]

To stand at the eastern wall of the Acropolis, and gaze on the
Parthenon, robed in the rich colors by which time has added an almost
voluptuous beauty to its perfect proportions--to behold between its
columns the blue mountains of the Morea, and the bluer seas of Egina and
Salamis, with acanthus-covered or icy-wedded fragments of majestic
friezes, and mighty capitals at your feet--the sky of Greece, flooded by
the gorgeous hues of sunset, above your head--Mr. Cook describes as one
of the highest enjoyments the world can offer to a man of taste. He is
opposed to the projects of its restoration, and says that, "to real
lovers of the picturesque, the Parthenon as it now stands--a ruin in
every sense of the term, its walls destroyed, its columns shivered, its
friezes scattered, its capitals half-buried by their own weight, but
clear of all else--is, if not a grander, assuredly a more impressive
object than when, in the palmiest days of Athenian glory, its marble,
pure as the unfallen snow, first met the rays of the morning sun, and
excited the reverential admiration of the assembled multitudes."

On the northeast side of the Parthenon stood the Erechtheum, a temple
dedicated to the joint worship of Neptune and Minerva. There are
considerable remains of this building, particularly those beautiful
female figures called Caryatides, which support, instead of columns,
three of the porticoes; besides three of the columns in the north
hexastyle with the roof over these last columns, the rest of the roof of
this graceful portico fell during the siege of Athens, in 1827. Lately,
much has been done in the way of excavation; the buried base of this
tripartite temple has been cleared; the walls, which had been built to
make it habitable, have been removed; the abducted Caryatid replaced by
a modern copy, the gift of Lord Guildford, and the whole prepared for a
projected restoration.

The Temple of Victory without wings, already mentioned is, with the
exception of the pavement, entirely a restoration; for nearly two
centuries all trace of it was lost, all mention omitted. In removing one
of the Turkish batteries, in order to clear the entrance to the
Propylæa, some fragments were found which led to a more minute
investigation; and, after a short time, the foundation, the pavement,
and even the bases of some of the columns were disinterred, making its
reconstruction not only very easy, but extremely satisfactory. It is
small, but of exquisite proportions, and now perfect, with the exception
of a portion of the frieze, which is in the British Museum. A
peculiarity of this temple is, that it stands at an angle slightly
differing from that of the Propylæa itself,--a fact for which, as it
clearly formed one of the chief ornaments to, and was certainly built
after, this noble portico, it is difficult to assign any very good
reason.

Such is an outline of the chief buildings of the Acropolis, which, in
its best days, had four distinct characters: being at once the fortress,
the sacred inclosure, the treasury, and the museum of art, of the
Athenian nation. It was an entire offering to the deity, unrivalled in
richness and splendor; it was the peerless gem of Greece, the glory and
the pride of genius, the wonder and envy of the world.

Beneath the southern wall of the Acropolis, near its extremity, was
situated the Athenian or Dionysiac theatre. Its seats, rising one above
another, were cut of the sloping rock. Of these, only the two highest
rows are now visible, the rest being concealed by an accumulation of
soil, the removal of which would probably bring to light the whole shell
of the theatre. Plato affirms it was capable of containing thirty
thousand persons. It contained statues of all the great tragic and comic
poets, the most conspicuous of which were naturally those of Æschylus,
Sophocles, and Euripides, among the former, and those of Aristophanes
and Menander among the latter. On the southwest side of the Acropolis is
the site of the Odeum, or musical theatre of Herodes Atticus, named by
him the theatre of Regilla, in honor of his wife. On the northeast side
of the Acropolis stood the Prytaneum, where citizens who had rendered
services to the state were maintained at the public expense. Extending
southwards from the site of the Prytaneum, ran the street to which
Pausanias gave the name of Tripods, from its containing a number of
small temples or edifices crowned with tripods, to commemorate the
triumphs gained by the Choragi in the theatre of Bacchus. Opposite to
the west end of the Acropolis is the Areopagus, or hill of Mars, on the
eastern extremity of which was situated the celebrated court of the
Areopagus. This point is reached by means of sixteen stone steps cut in
the rock, immediately above which is a bench of stone, forming three
sides of a quadrangle, like a triclinium, generally supposed to have
been the tribunal. The ruins of a small chapel consecrated to St.
Dionysius the Areopagite, and commemorating his conversion by St. Paul,
are here visible. About a quarter of a mile southwest from the centre of
the Areopagus stands Pnyx, the place provided for the public assemblies
at Athens in its palmy days. The steps by which the speaker mounted the
rostrum, and a tier of three seats hewn in the solid rock for the
audience, are still visible. This is perhaps the most interesting spot
in Athens to the lovers of Grecian genius, being associated with the
renown of Demosthenes, and the other famed Athenian orators,

              "whose resistless eloquence
    Wielded at will that fierce democratie,
    Shook the arsenal and fulmined over Greece,
    To Macedon, and Artaxerxes' throne."

[Illustration: THE ARCH OF HADRIAN.]

Descending the Acropolis, the eye is at once arrested by the magnificent
remains of the temple of Jupiter Olympus, and by the Arch of Hadrian.
Whether from its proximity to the gorgeous monument first named, or that
it is intrinsically deficient in that species of merit which appeals
directly to the senses, the Arch of Hadrian attracts comparatively
little notice. It is, however, a highly interesting monument, bearing
unmistakable marks of the decline of art; yet distinguished for much of
that quality of beauty which gives so peculiar a character to the
architecture of the Greeks. The inscriptions on the sides of the
entablature have given rise to much learned discussion, and have led to
a far more lucid arrangement of the city and its chief ornaments, than
would in all probability have been accomplished, had not inquiry and
investigation been spurred on by the difficulty of comprehending their
exact meaning. [Illustration: TEMPLE OF JUPITER OLYMPUS.]

[Illustration: ANOTHER VIEW OF THE TEMPLE OF JUPITER OLYMPUS.]

Of two views of the temple of Jupiter Olympus, Mr. Cook chose that in
which the Acropolis is seen in the distance. The three lofty Corinthian
columns in the other engraving are diminished to the scale of the arch,
while the Acropolis, from its greater complexity of parts, adds,
perhaps, something of a quality in which the subject is rather wanting.
"I am not sure," says Mr. Cook, "that the remains of the temple of
Jupiter Olympus are not the most impressive which Athens offers to the
eye and heart of the traveller, partly from their abstract grandeur--a
grandeur derived from every element which could contribute to such an
end--and partly from a position than which it would be impossible to
conceive any thing more magnificent. The gigantic columns struck me with
a sense of awe and bewilderment, almost oppressive; they consist, as may
be seen by the engraving, of sixteen, the sole representatives of the
one hundred and twenty which once formed this mightiest of Athenian
temples. The least thoughtful person could scarcely avoid the question
of where and how the remaining one hundred and four of these enormous
masses can have vanished; and assisted by the fullest information which
is to be acquired on the subject, it remains a matter of wonder to all.
That time itself has had but little to answer for, the almost perfect
preservation of portions is sufficient to prove; in some cases the
flutings are as sharp and clean as when the hand of the sculptor left
them, while, more generally, they bear disgraceful evidence of ill-usage
of every kind, from that of the cannon ball to the petty mischief of
wanton idleness. The proportion of these columns is quite perfect, and
the mind is lost in charmed wonder, as wandering from part to part of
the vast platform, it is presented at every step with combinations
perpetually changing, yet always beautiful. So difficult do I find it to
determine from what point of view these ruins are seen to the greatest
advantage, that I have appended two engravings, from which the reader
may select that which best conveys to him the magnificence of the
structure which has been thus slightly described." The temple of Jupiter
Olympus was one of the first conceived, and the last executed of the
sacred monuments of Athens. It was begun by Pisistratus, but not
finished till the time of the Roman emperor Adrian, seven hundred years
afterwards.

[Illustration: MONUMENT OF LYSICRATES.]

A proof of the varied character of the Athenian architectural genius may
be found in the exquisite model, the lantern of Demosthenes, or, as it
is more properly called, the Choragic monument of Lysierates. It is, in
common with the greater number of the remains of which we speak, of
Pentelic marble. By whomever conceived, designed, or executed, this must
have been a labor of love, and the result is such as might be
anticipated from the consequent development of the highest powers of one
to whom a people like the Athenians would entrust the task of doing
honor to those who had paid to their native land a similar tribute. It
is small, and formed of a few immense masses: the roof is one entire
block; the temple or monument itself is circular, and is formed of six
slabs of pure white marble, the joints of which are concealed by an
equal number of beautiful Corinthian columns, partly imbedded into, and
partly projecting from them. These have been fitted with such exactness,
that before the "fretting hand of time and change" had done its work,
the whole must have appeared as if cut from one solid mass. We have this
single example of a class of buildings once so numerous that they formed
an entire street; but however grateful one may feel to the hospice,
which, being built over, protected it from the ruin of its companions,
we can scarcely regret its disappearance, through which alone this
exquisite result of intellect and refined taste may be seen as
represented in the engraving.

[Illustration: TEMPLE OF THE WINDS.]

The Temple or Tower of the Winds, has been very justly termed "the most
curious existing monument of the practical gnomonics of antiquity." In
architecture no very elevated rank can be assigned to this edifice, nor
is there, even in its ornamental portions, any very remarkable evidence
of the higher order of Grecian art; the execution, indeed, can in nowise
be considered equal to the conception, which, if somewhat fancifully
elaborated, is at least highly to be esteemed, as uniting in a more
than ordinary degree the practically useful with the poetical ideal.
Near the new Agora, and consequently in the heart of the more densely
populated division of the city, this indicator of the wind and hour must
have been a valuable contribution to the Athenians, and must have given
to its founder, Andronicus Cyrrestes, a proud position among the _bene
merenti_ of the moment. Its form is octagonal, the roof being of marble,
so cut as to represent tiles; upon the upper portion of each face is
sculptured the figure of one of the eight Winds; these floating in an
almost horizontal position convey, either by their dress, the emblems
which they bear, or the expression of their features, the character of
the wind they are respectively intended to personify. Within a very
recent period this building, which was more than half buried, has been
exhumed, and many important facts have been discovered during the
process of excavation. The interior has been cleared, and in the
pavement may be seen the channels by which the water was conveyed to the
machinery by whose agency the hour was indicated, when the absence of
the sun rendered the dials described upon the marble faces of the tower
of no avail. These dials have been tested and pronounced perfectly
correct, by a no less celebrated authority than Delambre. The two arches
on the left of the illustration are the only remaining portions of the
aqueduct by which the necessary supply was conveyed, according to
Stuart, from the spring in the grotto of Pan; it is a matter of
gratulation alike to the antiquarian and the lover of the picturesque,
that these have been spared. From the amount of excavation necessary to
arrive at its basement, it is clear that this portion of the town must
have been raised, by ruins and atmospheric deposits, at least eight or
nine feet above its original level.

The temple of Theseus, apart from the present town, and in a
comparatively elevated and isolated position, built by Cimon, shortly
after the battle of Salarnis, is one of the most noble remains of the
ancient magnificence of Athens, and the most perfect, if not the most
beautiful, existing specimen of Grecian architecture. It is built of
Pentelic marble; the roof, friezes, and cornices still remain; and so
gently has the hand of time pressed upon this venerable edifice, that
the first impression of the mind in beholding it, is doubt of its
antiquity. It was raised thirty years before the Parthenon, unlike which
it appears to have been but sparingly supplied with sculptural
decoration; but that which was so dedicated was of the highest merit,
and remaining in an almost perfect condition, is most deeply interesting
to the artist and the historian: supplying to the one models of beauty,
and to the other the most undeniable data, upon which to establish the
identity of this with the temple raised by the Athenians to the
Hero-God.

[Illustration: TEMPLE OF THESEUS.]

After having been successively denominated the remains of the Palace of
Pericles, of the temple of Jupiter Olympus (an unaccountable blunder),
the Painted Portico, the Forum of the inner Ceremeicus, the magnificent
wreck of which the following engraving may convey a general idea, has
been finally decided to have formed a portion of the Pantheon of
Hadrian. For some time after this opinion had been started by Mr.
Wilkins, and sanctioned by Sir William Gell, great doubts, despite the
remarkable verification afforded by the language of Pausanias, remained
as to its truth; but the Earl of Guildford has at length placed the
matter beyond question. Some extensive excavations made under his
personal direction resulted in the discovery of the Phrygian stone so
minutely described by the enthusiastic traveller.

[Illustration: PANTHEON OF HADRIAN.]

The portico forming the next illustration was a long time considered the
only remaining portion of a temple dedicated to the Emperor Augustus,
but it is now clearly established as having been one of the entrances to
a market-place. This idea, suggested to the mind of Stuart, by certain
minute yet well marked variations in the proportion of the columns from
those devoted to sacred purposes, has been sustained by research, and
finally demonstrated to be correct by the discovery of an inscription
which has put the question at rest for ever. In one of these the names
of two prefects of the market are preserved; and another, still perfect,
is an edict of Hadrian respecting the duties to be levied on certain
articles of consumption, and regulating the sale of oils, &c. Nothing
can be more picturesque than the present condition of this portico, the
latest specimen of the pure Greek Art. Its coloring is rich and varied,
while its state of ruin is precisely that in which the eye of the
painter delights, sufficient to destroy all hardness or angularity, yet
not so great as to rob it of one element of grandeur.

[Illustration: ENTRANCE TO THE MARKET-PLACE: FORMERLY SUPPOSED TO BE
PART OF A TEMPLE DEDICATED TO AUGUSTUS.]

The building called the Monument of Philopappus, despite its somewhat
fantastic elaboration of detail, is very remarkable and interesting; it
was created either during the lifetime, or as a memorial immediately
after his death, to Caius Julius Antiochus Philopappus, a descendant of
the royalty of Syria, and an adopted citizen of Athens. It consists of a
basement supporting a pilastrade of semi-circular form, and presenting
upon its concave surface three niches, containing sitting statues, and
three recesses richly ornamented with the representation in strong
relief of a Roman triumph. Upon the basement also were various
sculptures in honor of the Emperor Trajan. These, and, indeed, all the
decorative sculpture, &c., profusely lavished upon this building have
suffered greatly. The two remaining statues are much dilapidated. From
this point a magnificent view of the Acropolis is obtained, and few are
the sights presented to the traveller, which surpass in historic
interest or actual beauty that meeting his eye, to whichever point of
the compass he may turn when standing at the foot of this remarkably
picturesque monument.

[Illustration: MONUMENT OF PHILOPAPPUS.]

The ages which produced these marvellous works in architecture had other
and different glories. Painting and sculpture reached the highest
perfection; and poetry exhibited all the grace and vigor of the Athenian
imagination. And though time has effaced all traces of the pencil of
Parrhasius, Zeuxis, and Apelles, posterity has assigned them a place in
the temple of fame beside Phidias and Praxiteles, whose works are, even
at the present day, unrivalled for classical purity of design and
perfection of execution. And after the city had passed her noon in art,
and in political greatness, she became the mother of that philosophy at
once subtile and sublime, which, even at the present hour, exerts a
powerful influence over the human mind. This era in her history has been
alluded to by Milton:

    "See there the olive grove of Academe,
    Plato's retirement, where the Attic bird
    Trills her thick-warbled notes the summer long;
    There flowery hill Hymettus with the sound
    Of bees' industrious murmur oft invites
    To studious musing; there Ilyssus rolls
    His whispering stream; within the walls then view
    The schools of ancient sages; who bred
    Great Alexander to subdue the world,
    Lyceum there and painted Stoa next; ...
    To sage philosophy next lend thine ear.
    From Heaven descended to the low roof'd house
    Of Socrates; see there his tenement,
    Whom, well inspired, the oracle pronounced
    Wisest of men; from whose mouth issued forth
    Mellifluous streams that water'd all the schools
    Of Academics old and new, with those
    Surnamed Peripatetics, and the sect
    Epicurean, and the Stoic severe."

[Illustration]

Such is an outline of the remains of the chief Athenian edifices, which
link ancient times with the present, and which, as long as there is
taste to appreciate or genius to imitate, must arrest the attention and
command the admiration of all the generations of mankind.




TAYLOR AND STODDARD[A]


We have placed these names together, not on account of any fancied
resemblance between the two poets, but for the very opposite reason. We
wish to trace the contrasts which may be exhibited by writers living in
the same age, the same country, and under the same system of social
relations. Mr. Stoddard's volume is dedicated with evident warmth of
feeling to Bayard Taylor, and the natural conclusion is that the poets
are personal friends; yet so far from the intellectual nature of the one
having influenced that of the other, they are as strikingly opposed in
thought, feeling, and manner of expression, as two men well can be.

The time has gone by when a volume from the pen of Mr. Taylor can be
dismissed with a careless line or two. Few writers of our day have made
more rapid advances into popular favor, and no one is more justly
entitled to the place which he holds. If we are to trust contemporary
criticism, a goodly army of what are called "promising young poets"
might be raised from any state in the Union. But what becomes of them?
It is one thing to promise, and another to perform, and we fear that
this suggestion contains a hint at the whole mystery. It seems to be
comparatively easy for educated men, blinded to their incapacity by an
unwholesome passion for notoriety which is never the inspiring motive of
a real poet, to reach a certain degree of excellence which may be
denominated "promising." Many a feather has been shed, and many a wing
broken, in attempting to soar beyond it. We shall not describe Mr.
Taylor with the epithet. We see nothing to justify it in his volume, on
every page of which there is actual performance. Maturity may indeed add
to his powers, and further increase his poetical insight; but there is
no necessity for waiting, lest we commit ourselves by a favorable
opinion, and no fear that such an opinion will be falsified by
succeeding efforts.

Richard Henry Stoddard doubtless has been styled a promising young poet
by half the newspaper press; therefore if we venture to say that Mr.
Stoddard has performed, and that the promising season is over with him,
it is not because we do not think that his future poems will exhibit new
and greater excellencies, but because we recognize merits in his present
collection which eminently entitle him to respectful consideration.

The evident source of Mr. Stoddard's inspiration is a love for ideal
beauty, in whatever form it may be manifested. Like all admirers of
ideal beauty, he has a strong sensual element in his composition. He is
not satisfied with the mere dreams of his imagination, but he must also
attempt to realize them through the medium of imitative art. Among the
various modes for expressing the same feelings and ideas, painting,
poetry, sculpture and music, he has chosen poetry as the one best
adapted to his purpose. We would not be understood to assert that an
artist may, at will, express his emotions in any of the arts; for a man
may be insensible to an idea expressed in sculpture or music, which is
perfectly clear to him in poetry or painting; but we assert that all the
arts are but different languages to convey the same ideas. True art
addresses itself to the moral, the intellectual, or the sensual man; and
by the predominance of one of these qualities in the artist, or by
various combinations of the three, all the radical differences between
men of genius can be accounted for, and all the seeming mysteries
explained. This truth is the groundwork of genuine criticism; and the
critic who busies himself about the accidental circumstances, which have
influenced an artist, is only prying into his history, without sounding
the depth of his nature. At least let criticism start here: it may
afterward indulge in microscopic comparisons of style, and in worn-out
accusations of imitation: but it is a sorry thing to see persons
assuming the dignified office of the critic magnifying molehills into
mountains, and similarities into thefts. All men are gifted with various
faculties, but it is not in the superiority of any or all of them that
we can account for the existence of the poet, who has something of the
divine nature in him, having a creative energy that is not a result of
the degree in which he possesses one or more of the ordinary faculties,
but is a special distinction with which he is clothed by the deity.

We will proceed to examine our two poets by the principles before
stated, not forgetting to compare or contrast them, as there may be
opportunity. In Mr. Taylor there is a just equipoise of the moral and
intellectual natures, while the sensual nature, if not so strong as the
former two, is at least calmed and subdued by their united power. With
fine animal spirits, he has but little taste for gross animal
enjoyments; and the mischief which his unlicensed spirits might commit,
is foreseen by a sensitive conscience, and checked by a mind that sees
the end in the act, and provides to-day against the future. Mr. Taylor's
inclinations are for scenes of grandeur. Sublime human actions, nature
in her awful revolutionary states, the wild desolation of a mountain
peak or a limitless desert, the storm, the earthquake, the cataract, the
moaning forest--these are the chief inspirations of his powers. Whatever
is suggestive of high emotions, that act upon his moral nature, and in
turn are acted upon by it, forms an unconquerable incentive to his
poetical exertions. Mere word-painting he has no affection for. A scene
of nature, however beautiful, would be poetically valueless to him,
unless it moved his feelings past the point of silent contemplation. The
first poem in his volume affords a striking illustration of his
apprehension of intellectual bravery. Through fasting that approaches
starvation, unanswered prayers, and repeated discomfitures, the soul of
the hero burns undimmed, and his eyes remain steadily fixed on his
purpose. Physical suffering only strengthens his resolution, and defeat
only nerves him to renewed efforts. Round these ideas the poet lingers
with a triumphant emotion, that proves his sympathies to be centred less
in the outward action of the poem, than in the power of human will--a
power which he conceives to be capable of overcoming all things, even
the gods themselves. We have before stated that nature, unless
suggestive of some intellectual emotion, is nothing to Mr. Taylor. To
arouse himself to song, he must vitalize the world, must make it live,
breathe and feel, must find books in the running brooks, and sermons in
stones, or brooks and stones are to him as if they had not been. In the
"Metempsychosis of the Pine," this characteristic is finely displayed.
The poet imagines himself to have been a pine, and retraces his
experiences while in that state of being. The pine becomes a conscious
creature, revelling in the joys of its own existence, feeling the sap
stir in its veins, and pour through a heart as susceptible as man's.
Many poets have recalled the memories which linger around a particular
tree, or, apostrophising it, have bid it relate certain histories; but
in Mr. Taylor's poem the tree speaks from within its own nature--not
with the feelings of a man, not with what we might suppose would be the
feelings of a common tree, but as a pine of many centuries--and no one
can mistake its voice. A nobler use of the dramatic faculty, in lyrical
poetry, is not within our recollection.

As may be supposed, Mr. Taylor's poetry is written under the excitement
of passion, and does not proceed from that laborious process of
constructing effects, to which a large number of poets owe their
success. The consequence is that his language is vividly metaphorical,
only dealing in similes when in a comparative repose, and never going
out of the way to hunt up one of those eternal _likes_, which have
emasculated our poetic style, and are fast becoming a leading
characteristic in American verse, to the utter destruction of every
thing like real passion. Mr. Taylor is an instructive study in this
respect. He uses ten metaphors to one simile. His ideas come forth
clothed in their figurative language, and do not bring it along neatly
tied up in a separate bundle. From this cause there is a sturdy strength
and genuine feeling about his poems, that more than compensate for the
ingenious trinkets which he despises, and leaves for the adornment of
those who need them. In him imagination predominates over fancy, and the
latter is always sacrificed to the former. We do not intend to say that
Mr. Taylor is without fancy. Far from it--he has fancy, but it never
leads him to be fanciful. His versification is polished, correct and
various, but more harmonious than melodious; that is to say, the whole
rhythmical flow of his verse is more striking than the sweetness of
particular lines. We have not mentioned all the phases of Mr. Taylor's
genius. Some of the smaller poems in his volume border on the sensuous;
and in "Hylas" he has paid a tribute to ancient fable worthy of its
refined inventors; but scenes of moral and natural sublimity are those
in which he succeeds best, and by them he should be characterized.

[Illustration: RICHARD H. STODDARD.]

Mr. Stoddard is the precise opposite to his friend. In him the sensual
vastly outranks the moral or the intellectual quality. Let it not be
supposed that we wish to hold the two latter elements as superior to the
former for poetical purposes; nor do we by asserting the greater
preponderance of any one, deny the possession of the other two. To the
sensuous in man we are indebted for the great body of Grecian poetry,
and Keats wholly, and Tennyson in part, are modern instances of what may
be achieved by imbibing the spirit of the ancient classics. Shallow
critics have professed to discover a resemblance between these English
poets and Mr. Stoddard, and Mr. Taylor has also fallen under the same
accusation, for no better reason, that we can conceive, than that all
four have drunk at the same fountain, and enjoyed its inspirations.

Mr. Stoddard's sympathies are almost entirely given up to ancient
Grecian art. He can scarcely realize that the dream has passed forever.
He sees something vital in its very ruins. For him the Phidian friezes
yet crown the unplundered Parthenon; the gigantic Athena yet gleams
through sacerdotal incense, in all her ivory whiteness, smiling upon
reeking altars and sacrificing priests; Delphos has yet an oracular
voice; Bacchus and Pan and his Satyrs yet lead their riotous train
through a forest whose every tree is alive with its dryad, and whose
every fountain is haunted by its potamid; there are yet patriot veins to
glow at the Iliad; Æschylus can yet fill a theatre; Pericles yet
thunders at Cimon from the Cema, or woos Aspasia, or tempers the
headlong Alcibiades, or prepares his darling Athens for the
Peloponnesian war. These things Mr. Stoddard feels while the locomotive
shrieks in his ears, while the omnibus, speeding to the steamship,
rattles the glass of his window, while the newsboy cries his monotonous
advertisement, or his servant hands to him a telegraphic dispatch; and
he is right. The body in which Grecian art existed, is indeed dead, but
the spirit which animated it is indestructible. There will be poets to
worship and reproduce it, there will be scholars to admire and preserve
it, when every man's field is bounded by a railway, when every housetop
is surmounted by a telegraph wire, and when the golden calf is again set
up amid the people, to be worshipped as the living God.

From the force of his sympathies, Mr. Stoddard can lean but in that
direction. Throughout his volume there is scarcely a poem which is not
the offshoot of these feelings. Some of them are confessedly upon
Grecian subjects, and all of them are animated by a corresponding
spirit. Even his few domestic poems are not treated after that modern
manner, which moralizes in the last stanza, simply to let the reader
understand how well the poet knows his own meaning. Whatever is
beautiful in Mr. Stoddard's themes is distinctly brought forward, while
the darker side of his subject is scarcely touched upon. Take, for
example, a poem of great simplicity and tenderness, filled with a sorrow
so beautiful as almost to make one in love with grief, and contrast it
with a poem, on a similar subject, by Bayard Taylor:

    "Along the grassy slope I sit,
      And dream of other years;
    My heart is full of soft regrets,
      My eyes of tender tears!

    The wild bees hummed about the spot,
      The sheep-bells tinkled far,
    Last year when Alice sat with me
      Beneath the evening star!

    The same sweet star is o'er me now,
      Around, the same soft hours,
    But Alice moulders in the dust
      With all the last year's flowers!

    I sit alone, and only hear
      The wild bees on the steep,
    And distant bells that seem to float
      From out the folds of sleep!"

    _Stoddard_, _page_ 116.

This is very fine and delicate feeling, softened down to the mildest
point of passion; but it does not at all resemble the frenzy of grief
which follows:

    "Moan, ye wild winds! around the pane,
    And fall, thou drear December rain!
    Fill with your gusts the sullen day,
    Tear the last clinging leaves away!
    Reckless as yonder naked tree,
    No blast of yours can trouble me.

    Give me your chill and wild embrace,
    And pour your baptism on my face;
    Sound in mine ears the airy moan
    That sweeps in desperate monotone,
    Where on the unsheltered hill-top beat
    The marches of your homeless feet!

    Moan on, ye winds! and pour, thou rain!
    Your stormy sobs and tears are vain,
    If shed for her whose fading eyes
    Will open soon on Paradise;
    The eye of Heaven shall blinded be,
    Or ere ye cease, if shed for me."

    _Taylor_, _page_ 92.

What a desolation of wo! how the whole man is carried away in one
overwhelming passion! A contrast of the opening poems of these two
volumes, would be a pleasant employment, but their length forbids it.
Mr. Taylor's "Romance of the Maize" we have mentioned already; Mr.
Stoddard's "Castle in the Air" is its complete antithesis. The latter
poem is a magnificent day-dream, abounding in luscious imagery, and
unrivalled for its minute descriptions of ideal scenery and its
voluptuous music of versification, by any similar creation since
Spenser's "Bower of Bliss."

To sum up Mr. Stoddard's poetical character, he has more fancy than
imagination, he is rather exquisitely sensitive than profoundly
passionate, and oftener works up his feelings to the act of composition,
than seeks it as an outlet for uncontrollable emotion. He thoroughly,
and at every point, an artist. His genius is never allowed to run riot,
but is always subjected to the laws of a delicate, but most severe
taste. His poems are probably planned with views to their artistic
effects, and are then constructed from his exhaustless wealth of
poetical material, by a nice adaptation of each part to the perfect
whole of his design. If he has less imagination than Mr. Taylor, he has
a richer and more glowing fancy; if his figures are less apt and
striking, they are more elegant and symmetrical; if the harmonious
dignity of his versification is less, its melodious sweetness is more;
if he has less passion, he has more sensibility; if moral and physical
grandeur are not so attractive to him, ideal and natural beauty are the
only elements in which his life is endurable. We might pursue these
contrasts to the end of our magazine; but if we have called the reader's
attention to them, we have done enough.

From "Love and Solitude," by Mr. Taylor, we extract the following
picture, in order to contrast it with the handling of the same subject
by Mr. Stoddard in "The South:"

    "Some island, on the purple plain
    Of Polynesian main,
    Where never yet adventurer's prore
    Lay rocking near its coral shore:
    A tropic mystery, which the enamored deep
    Folds, as a beauty in a charméd sleep.
    There lofty palms, of some imperial line,
    That never bled their nimble wine,
    Crowd all the hills, and out the headlands go
    To watch on distant reefs the lazy brine
    Turning its fringe of snow.
    There, when the sun stands high
    Upon the burning summit of the sky,
    All shadows wither: Light alone
    Is in the world: and pregnant grown
    With teeming life, the trembling island earth
    And panting sea forebode sweet pains of birth
    Which never come;--their love brings never forth
    The human Soul they lack alone."

    _Taylor_, _page_ 16.

    Half-way between the frozen zones,
      Where Winter reigns in sullen mirth,
    The Summer binds a golden belt
      About the middle of the Earth,
    The sky is soft, and blue, and bright,
    With purple dyes at morn and night:
    And bright and blue the seas which lie
    In perfect rest, and glass the sky;
    And sunny bays with inland curves
      Round all along the quiet shore;
    And stately palms, in pillared ranks
    Grow down the borders of the banks,
      And juts of land where billows roar;
    The spicy woods are full of birds,
      And golden fruits, and crimson flowers;
    With wreathéd vines on every bough,
      That shed their grapes in purple showers;
    The emerald meadows roll their waves,
      And bask in soft and mellow light;
    The vales are full of silver mist,
      And all the folded hills are bright;
    But far along the welkin's rim
    The purple crags and peaks are dim;
    And dim the gulfs, and gorges blue,
      With all the wooded passes deep;
    All steeped in haze, and washed in dew,
      And bathed in atmospheres of Sleep!

    _Stoddard_, _page_ 14.

Passages like these say more for their authors than could any
commendation from the critic. Observe how soon mere description is
abandoned by Mr. Taylor, and he begins to put life and feeling into his
scene. The deep is "enamored," the island is "in a charméd sleep," the
palms are "imperial," and "crowd the hills," and "out the headlands go
to watch the lazy brine," &c. All nature is alive. On the other hand,
Mr. Stoddard loves nature for its beauty alone, without desiring in it
any imaginable animation. The man who can read Mr. Taylor's "Kubla,"
without feeling the blood dance in his veins, should never confess it,
for he is hardening into something beyond the reach of sympathy. In "The
Soldier and the Pard," a poem of curious originality, Mr. Taylor pushes
his belief in the all-pervading existence of moral nature to its last
extreme. It closes with the following emphatic lines:

                "And if a man
    Deny this truth she [_the Pard_] taught me, to his face
    I say he lies: a beast may have a soul!"

Without drawing too much on the tables of contents, we could not
enumerate the many note-worthy pieces in these volumes; and it would
much exceed our limits to give them even a passing word of comment.
Among Mr. Stoddard's unmentioned poems, the "Hymn to Flora," an "Ode" of
delicious melancholy, full of exquisite taste and finely-wrought
fancies, "Spring," "Autumn," a "Hymn to the Beautiful," "The Broken
Goblet," and "Triumphant Music," give the reader a clear insight into
his peculiar characteristics, and open a vision of ideal beauty that no
poet has exhibited in such Grecian perfection since the death of Keats.
A poem, on page 115, is one that awakens peculiar emotions; it describes
a state of half consciousness, when the senses are morbidly alive, and
the perceptive faculties are fettered with dreams, or inspired by a
strange memory that bears within it things not of this world, and hints
at a previous and different existence.

    "The yellow moon looks slantly down,
    Through seaward mists, upon the town;
    And like a mist the moonshine falls
    Between the dim and shadowy walls.

    I see a crowd in every street,
    But cannot hear their falling feet;
    They float like clouds through shade and light,
    And seem a portion of the night.

    The ships have lain, for ages fled,
    Along the waters, dark and dead;
    The dying waters wash no more
    The long black line of spectral shore.

    There is no life on land or sea,
    Save in the quiet moon and me;
    Nor ours is true, but only seems,
    Within some dead old world of dreams!"

    _Stoddard_, _page_ 115.

With this shadowy poem we close, begging our readers not to be terrified
at the boldness with which we claim so high a place for the subjects of
our review. They have that within them which will prove our
commendations just, and establish them in the rank assigned by us, with
a firmness that will need no critic's aid, and can be shaken by no
critic's assault. We but add, let them remember that the fear of the
world is the beginning of mischief. GEORGE H. BOKER.

FOOTNOTES:

[A] _A Book of Romances, Lyrics and Songs._ By BAYARD TAYLOR. Boston,
Ticknor, Reed & Fields. 16mo. _Poems._ By RICHARD HENRY STODDARD Same publishers. 16mo.




THE UNDERGROUND TERRITORIES OF THE UNITED STATES.

[Illustration: ENTRANCE TO THE MAMMOTH CAVE.]


The extraordinary caverns which underlie various parts of this country
are of a description suitable in extent and magnificence to the general
scale of nature here, in lakes, rivers, cataracts, valleys in which
empires are cradled, prairies of scarcely conceivable vastness, and
mountains whose bases are amid perpetual flowers and where frozen seas
have never intermission of their crashing thunders. In Virginia,
New-York, and other states, the caves of Weyer, Schoharie, and many that
are less famous but not inferior in beauty or grandeur, are well known
to travellers; but the MAMMOTH CAVE, under Kentucky, is world renowned,
and such felon states as Naples might hide in it from the scorn of
mankind. Considering the common curiosity respecting that strange
subterranean country, and the fact of its being resorted to in winter by
valetudinarians, on account of its admirable climate--so that our
article is altogether seasonable--we give, chiefly from a letter by Mrs.
Child, a very full description of this eighth wonder of the
world--illustrated by engravings from recent drawings made under the
direction of the Rev. Horace Martin, who proposes soon to furnish for
tourists an ample volume on the subject.

The Mammoth Cave is in the southwest part of Kentucky, about a hundred
miles from Louisville, and sixty from Harrodsburg Springs. The word
_cave_ is ill calculated to impress the imagination with an idea of its
surpassing grandeur. It is in fact a subterranean world; containing
within itself territories extensive enough for half a score of German
principalities. It should be named Titans' Palace, or Cyclops' Grotto.
It lies among the Knobs, a range of hills, which border an extent of
country, like highland prairies, called the Barrens. The surrounding
scenery is lovely. Fine woods of oak, hickory, and chestnut, clear of
underbrush, with smooth, verdant openings, like the parks of English
noblemen.

[Illustration: ENTRANCE TO THE CAVE.--VIEW TAKEN FROM THE INSIDE.]

The cave was purchased by Dr. John Croghan, for ten thousand dollars. To
prevent a disputed title, in case any new and distant opening should be
discovered, he has likewise bought a wide circuit of adjoining land. His
enthusiasm concerning it is unbounded. It is in fact his world; and
every newly-discovered chamber fills him with pride and joy, like that
felt by Columbus, when he first kissed his hand to the fair Queen of the
Antilles. He has built a commodious hotel[B] near the entrance, in a
style well suited to the place. It is made of logs, filled in with lime;
with a fine large porch, in front of which is a beautiful verdant lawn.
Near by, is a funnel-shaped hollow of three hundred acres; probably a
cave fallen in. It is called Deer Park, because when those animals run
into it, they cannot escape. There are troops of wild deer in the
immediate vicinity of the hotel; bear-hunts are frequent, and game of
all kinds abounds.

Walking along the verge of this hollow, you come to a ravine, leading to
Green River, whence you command a view of what is supposed to be the
main entrance to the cave. It is a huge cavernous arch, filled in with
immense stones, as if giants had piled them there, to imprison a
conquered demon. No opening has ever been effected here, nor is it easy
to imagine that it could be done by the strength of man. In rear of the
hotel is a deep ravine densely wooded, and covered with a luxuriant
vegetable growth. It leads to Green River, and was probably once a water
course. A narrow ravine, diverging from this, leads, by a winding path,
to the entrance of the cave. It is a high arch of rocks, rudely piled,
and richly covered with ivy and tangled vines. At the top, is a
perennial fountain of sweet and cool water, which trickles down
continually from the centre of the arch, through the pendent foliage,
and is caught in a vessel below. The entrance of this wide arch is
somewhat obstructed by a large mound of saltpetre, thrown up by workmen
engaged in its manufacture, during the last war. In the course of their
excavations, they dug up the bones of a gigantic man; but,
unfortunately, they buried them again, without any memorial to mark the
spot. They have been sought for by the curious and scientific, but are
not yet found.

As you come opposite the entrance of the cave, in summer, the
temperature changes instantaneously, from about 85° to below 60°, and
you feel chilled as if by the presence of an iceberg. In winter, the
effect is reversed. The scientific have indulged in various speculations
concerning the air of this cave. It is supposed to get completely filled
with cold winds during the long blasts of winter, and as there is no
outlet, they remain pent up till the atmosphere without becomes warmer
than that within; when there is, of course, a continual effort toward
equilibrium. Why the air within the cave should be so fresh, pure, and
equable, all the year round, even in its deepest recesses, is not so
easily explained. Some have suggested that it is continually modified by
the presence of chemical agents. Whatever may be the cause, its
agreeable salubrity is observed by every visitor, and it is said to have
great healing power in diseases of the lungs. The amount of exertion
which can be performed here without fatigue, is astonishing. The
superabundance of oxygen in the atmosphere operates like moderate doses
of exhilarating gas. The traveller feels a buoyant sensation, which
tempts him to run and jump, and leap from crag to crag, and bound over
the stones in his path. The mind, moreover, sustains the body, being
kept in a state of delightful activity, by continual new discoveries and
startling revelations.

The wide entrance to the cavern soon contracts, so that but two can pass
abreast. At this place, called the Narrows, the air from dark depths
beyond blows out fiercely, as if the spirits of the cave had mustered
there, to drive intruders back to the realms of day. This path continues
about fourteen or fifteen rods, and emerges into a wider avenue, floored
with saltpetre earth, from which the stones have been removed. This
leads directly into the Rotunda, a vast hall, comprising a surface of
eight acres, arched with a dome a hundred feet high, without a single
pillar to support it. It rests on irregular ribs of dark gray rock, in
massive oval rings, smaller and smaller, one seen within another, till
they terminate at the top. Perhaps this apartment impresses the
traveller as much as any portion of the cave; because from it he
receives his first idea of its gigantic proportions. The vastness, the
gloom, the impossibility of taking in the boundaries by the light of
lamps--all these produce a deep sensation of awe and wonder.

From the Rotunda, you pass into Audubon's Avenue, from eighty to a
hundred feet high, with galleries of rock on each side, jutting out
farther and father, till they nearly meet at top. This avenue branches
out into a vast half-oval hall, called the Church. This contains several
projecting galleries, one of them resembling a cathedral choir. There is
a gap in the gallery, and at the point of interruption, immediately
above, is a rostrum, or pulpit, the rocky canopy of which juts over. The
guide leads up from the adjoining galleries, and places a lamp each side
of the pulpit, on flat rocks, which seem made for the purpose. There has
been preaching from this pulpit; but unless it was superior to most
theological teaching, it must have been pitifully discordant with the
sublimity of the place. Five thousand people could stand in this
subterranean temple with ease.

So far, all is irregular, jagged rocks, thrown together in fantastic
masses, without any particular style; but now begins a series of
imitations, which grow more and more perfect, in gradual progression,
till you arrive at the end. From the Church you pass into what is called
the Gothic Gallery, from its obvious resemblance to that style of
architecture. Here is Mummy Hall; so called because several mummies have
been found seated in recesses of the rock. Without any process of
embalming, they were in as perfect a state of preservation, as the
mummies of Egypt; for the air of the cave is so dry and unchangeable,
and so strongly impregnated with nitre, that decomposition cannot take
place. A mummy found here in 1813, was the body of a woman five feet ten
inches high, wrapped in half-dressed deer skins, on which were rudely
drawn white veins and leaves. At the feet, lay a pair of moccasons, and
a handsome knapsack, made of bark: containing strings of small shining
seeds; necklaces of bears' teeth, eagles' claws, and fawns' red hoofs;
whistles made of cane; two rattlesnakes' skins, one having on it
fourteen rattles; coronets for the head, made of erect feathers of rooks
and eagles; smooth needles of horn and bone, some of them crooked like
sail-needles; deers' sinews, for sewing, and a parcel of three-corded
thread, resembling twine. I believe one of these mummies is now in the
British Museum. From Mummy Hall you pass into Gothic Avenue, where the
resemblance to Gothic architecture very perceptibly increases. The wall
juts out in pointed arches, and pillars, on the sides of which are
various grotesque combinations of rock. One is an elephant's head. The
tusks and sleepy eyes are quite perfect; the trunk, at first very
distinct, gradually recedes, and is lost in the rock. On another pillar
is a lion's head; on another, a human head with a wig, called Lord
Lyndhurst, from its resemblance to that dignitary.

From this gallery you can step into a side cave, in which is an immense
pit, called the Lover's Leap. A huge rock, fourteen or fifteen feet
long, like an elongated sugar-loaf running to a sharp point, projects
half way over this abyss. It makes one shudder to see the guide walk
almost to the end of this projectile bridge, over such an awful chasm.
As you pass along, the Gothic Avenue narrows, until you come to a porch
composed of the first separate columns in the cave. The stalactite and
stalagmite formations unite in these irregular masses of brownish
yellow, which, when the light shines through them, look like transparent
amber. They are sonorous as a clear-toned bell. A pendent mass, called
the Bell, has been unfortunately broken, by being struck too powerfully.

[Illustration: ENTRANCE TO THE GOTHIC GATE.]

The porch of columns leads to the Gothic Chapel, which has the circular
form appropriate to a true church. A number of pure stalactite columns
fill the nave with arches, which in many places form a perfect Gothic
roof. The stalactites fall in rich festoons, strikingly similar to the
highly ornamented chapel of Henry VII. Four columns in the centre form a
separate arch by themselves, like trees twisted into a grotto, in all
irregular and grotesque shapes. Under this arch stands Wilkins'
arm-chair, a stalactite formation, well adapted to the human figure. The
Chapel is the most beautiful specimen of the Gothic in the cave. Two or
three of the columns have richly foliated capitals, like the Corinthian.

If you turn back to the main avenue, and strike off in another
direction, you enter a vast room, with several projecting galleries,
called the Ball Room. In close vicinity, as if arranged by the severer
school of theologians, is a large amphitheatre, called Satan's Council
Chamber. From the centre rises a mountain of big stones, rudely piled
one above another, in a gradual slope, nearly one hundred feet high. On
the top rests a huge rock, big as a house, called Satan's Throne. The
vastness, the gloom, partially illuminated by the glare of lamps,
forcibly remind one of Lucifer on his throne, as represented by Martin
in his illustrations of Milton. It requires little imagination to
transform the uncouth rocks all around the throne, into attendant
demons. Indeed, throughout the cave, Martin's pictures are continually
brought to mind, by the unearthly effect of intense gleams of light on
black masses of shadow. In this Council Chamber, the rocks, with
singular appropriateness, change from an imitation of Gothic
architecture, to that of the Egyptian. The dark, massive walls resemble
a series of Egyptian tombs, in dull and heavy outline. In this place is
an angle, which forms the meeting point of several caves, and is
therefore considered one of the finest points of view. Here parties
usually stop and make arrangements to kindle the Bengal Lights, which
travellers always carry with them. It has a strange and picturesque
effect to see groups of people dotted about, at different points of
view, their lamps hidden behind stones, and the light streaming into the
thick darkness, through chinks in the rocks. When the lights begin to
burn, their intense radiance casts a strong glare on Satan's Throne; the
whole of the vast amphitheatre is revealed to view, and you can peer
into the deep recesses of two other caves beyond. For a few moments,
gigantic proportions and uncouth forms stand out in the clear, strong
gush of brilliant light! and then--all is darkness. The effect is so
like magic, that one almost expects to see towering genii striding down
the deep declivities, or startled by the brilliant flare, shake off
their long sleep among the dense black shadows.

[Illustration: THE GOTHIC CHAPEL.]

If you enter one of the caves revealed in the distance, you find
yourself in a deep ravine, with huge piles of gray rock jutting out more
and more, till they nearly meet at top. Looking upward, through this
narrow aperture, you see, high, high above you, a vaulted roof of
_black_ rock, studded with brilliant spar, like constellations in the
sky, seen at midnight, from the deep clefts of a mountain. This is
called the Star Chamber. It makes one think of Schiller's grand
description of William Tell sternly waiting for Gessler, among the
shadows of the Alps, and of Wordsworth's picture of

                    "Yorkshire dales
    Among the rocks and winding scars,
    Where deep and low the hamlets lie,
    Beneath their little patch of sky,
    And little lot of stars."

[Illustration: THE STAR CHAMBER.]

In this neighborhood is a vast, dreary chamber, which Stephen, the
guide, called Bandit's Hall, the first moment his eye rested on it; and
the name is singularly expressive of its character. Its ragged roughness
and sullen gloom are indescribable. The floor is a mountainous heap of
loose stones, and not an inch of even surface could be found on roof or
walls. Imagine two or three travellers, with their lamps, passing
through this place of evil aspect. The deep, suspicions-looking recesses
and frightful crags are but partially revealed in the feeble light. All
at once, a Bengal Light blazes up, and every black rock and frowning
cliff stands out in the brilliant glare. The contrast is sublime beyond
imagination. It is as if a man had seen the hills and trees of this
earth only in the dim outline of a moonless night, and they should, for
the first time, be revealed to him in the gushing glory of the morning
sun. But the greatest wonder in this region of the cave, is Mammoth
Dome--a giant among giants. It is so immensely high and vast, that three
of the most powerful Bengal Lights illuminate it very imperfectly. That
portion of the ceiling which becomes visible, is three hundred feet
above your head, and remarkably resembles the aisles of Westminster
Abbey. It is supposed that the top of this dome is near the surface of
the ground. Another route from the Devil's Council Chamber conducts you
to a smooth, level path, called Pensacola Avenue. Here are numerous
formations of crystallized gypsum, but not as beautiful or as various as
are found farther on. From various slopes and openings, caves above and
below are visible. The Mecca's shrine of this pilgrimage is Angelica's
Grotto, completely lined and covered with the largest and richest dog's
tooth spar. A person who visited the place, a few years since, laid his
sacrilegious hands upon it, while the guide's back was turned towards
whim. He coolly demolished a magnificent mass of spar, sparkling most
conspicuously on the very centre of the arch, and wrote his own
insignificant name in its place. This was _his_ fashion of securing
immortality! It is well that fairies and giants are powerless in the
nineteenth century, else had the indignant genii of the cave crushed his
bones to impalpable powder.

[Illustration: THE BOTTOMLESS PIT.]

If you pass behind Satan's Throne, by a narrow ascending path, you come
into a vast hall where there is nothing but naked rock. This empty
dreary place is appropriately called the Deserted Chamber. Walking along
the verge, you arrive at another avenue, inclosing sulphur springs. Here
the guide warns you of the vicinity of a pit, one hundred and twenty
feet deep, in the shape of a saddle. Stooping over it, and looking
upward, you see an abyss of precisely the same shape over head; a fact
which indicates that it began in the upper region, and was merely
interrupted by this chamber.

From this, you may enter a narrow and very tortuous path, called the
Labyrinth, which leads to an immense split, or chasm, in the rocks. Here
is placed a ladder, down which you descend twenty-five or thirty feet,
and enter a narrow cave below, which brings you to a combination of rock
called the Gothic Window. You stand in this recess, while the guided
ascends huge cliffs overhead, and kindles Bengal Lights, by the help of
which you see, two hundred feet above you, a Gothic dome of one solid
rock, perfectly overawing in its vastness and height. Below, is an abyss
of darkness, which no eye but the Eternal can fathom. If, instead of
descending the ladder, you pass straight alongside the chasm, you arrive
at the Bottomless Pit, beyond which no one ever ventured to proceed till
1838. To this fact we probably owe the meagre account given by Lieber,
in the Encyclopædia Americana. He says, "This cave is more remarkable
for extent, than the variety or beauty of its productions; having none
of the beautiful stalactites found in many other caves." For a long
period this pit was considered bottomless, because, when stones were
thrown into it, they reverberated and reverberated along the sides, till
lost to the ear, but seemed to find no resting place. It has since been
sounded, and found to be one hundred and forty feet deep, with a soft
muddy bottom, which returns no noise when a stone strikes upon it. In
1838, the adventurous Stephen threw a ladder across the chasm, and
passed over. There is now a narrow bridge of two planks, with a little
railing on each side; but as it is impossible to sustain it by piers,
travellers must pass over in the centre, one by one, and not touch the
railing, lest they disturb the balance, and overturn the bridge.

This walk brings you into Pensico Avenue. Hitherto, the path has been
rugged, wild, and rough, interrupted by steep acclivities, rocks, and
big stones; but this avenue has a smooth and level floor, as if the sand
had been spread out by gently flowing waters. Through this, descending
more and more, you come to a deep arch, by which you enter the Winding
Way; a strangely irregular and zig-zag path, so narrow that a very stout
man could not squeeze through. In some places, the rocks at the sides
are on a line with your shoulders, then piled high over your head; and
then again you rise above, and overlook them all, and see them heaped
behind you, like the mighty waves of the Red Sea, parted for the
Israelites to pass through. This toilsome path was evidently made by a
rushing, winding torrent. Toward the close, the water not having force
enough to make a smooth bed, has bored a tunnel. This is so low and
narrow, that the traveller is obliged to stoop and squeeze himself
through. Suddenly he passes into a vast hall, called the Great Relief;
and this leads into the River Hall, at the side of which you have a
glimpse of a small cave, called the Smoke House, because it is hung with
rocks perfectly in the shape of hams. The River Hall descends like the
slope of a mountain. The ceiling stretches away--away--before you, vast
and grand as the firmament at midnight. No one, who has never seen this
cave, can imagine the excitement, and awe, with which the traveller
keeps his eye fixed on the rocky ceiling, which, gradually revealed in
the passing light, continually exhibits some new and unexpected feature
of sublimity or beauty.

One of the most picturesque sights in the world, is to see a file of men
and women passing along these wild and craggy paths--slowly,
slowly--that their lamps may have time to illuminate the sky-like
ceiling, and gigantic walls; disappearing behind the high cliffs,
sinking into ravines, their lights shining upward through fissures in
the rocks; then suddenly emerging from some abrupt angle, standing in
the bright gleam of their lamps, relieved against the towering black
masses around them. He who could paint the infinite variety of creation,
can alone give an adequate description of this marvellous region. At one
side of River Hall is a steep precipice, over which you can look down,
by aid of blazing missiles, upon a broad, black sheet of water, eighty
feet below, called the Dead Sea. This is an awfully impressive place,
the sights and sounds of which do not easily pass from memory. He who
has seen it will have it vividly brought before him by Alfieri's
description of Filippo: "Only a transient word or act gives us a short
and dubious glimmer, that reveals to us the abysses of his being; dark,
lurid, and terrific, as the throat of the infernal pool." As you pass
along, you hear the roar of invisible waterfalls, and at the foot of the
slope, the River Styx lies before you, deep and black, overarched with
rock. The first glimpse of it brings to mind the descent of Ulysses into
hell.

    "Where the dark rock o'erhangs the infernal lake,
    And mingling screams eternal murmurs make."

Across these unearthly waters, the guide can convey but two passengers
at once; and these sit motionless in the canoe, with feet turned apart,
so as not to disturb the balance. Three lamps are fastened to the prow,
the images of which are reflected in the dismal pool.

If you are impatient of delay, or eager for new adventures, you can
leave your companions lingering about the shore, and cross the Styx by a
dangerous bridge of precipices overhead. In order to do this, you must
ascend a steep cliff and enter a cave above, from an egress of which you
find yourself on the bank of the river, eighty feet above its surface,
commanding a view of those passing in the boat, and those waiting on the
shore. Seen from this height, the lamps in the canoe glare like fiery
eyeballs; and the passengers sitting there, so hushed and motionless,
look like shadows. The scene is so strangely funereal and spectral, that
it seems as if the Greeks must have witnessed it, before they imagined
Charon conveying ghosts to the dim regions of Pluto. Your companions,
thus seen, do indeed--

              "Skim along the dusky glades,
    Thin airy shoals, and visionary shades."

[Illustration: THE RIVER STYX.]

If you turn your eye from the canoe, to the parties of men and women,
whom you left waiting on the shore, you will see them, by the gleam of
their lamps, scattered in picturesque groups, looming out in bold relief
from the dense darkness around them.

When you have passed the Styx, you soon meet another stream,
appropriately called Lethe. The echoes here are absolutely stunning. A
single voice sounds like a powerful choir; and could an organ be played,
it would deprive the hearer of his senses. When you have crossed, you
enter a high level hall, named the Great Walk, half a mile of which
brings you to another river, called the Jordan. In crossing this, the
rocks, in one place, descend so low, as to leave only eighteen inches
for the boat to pass through. Passengers are obliged to double up, and
lie on each other's shoulders till this gap is passed. This
uncomfortable position is, however, of short duration, and you suddenly
emerge to where the vault of the cave is more than a hundred feet high.
In the fall of the year, this river often rises, almost instantaneously,
over fifty feet above low-water mark; a phenomenon supposed to be caused
by heavy rains from the upper earth. On this account, autumn is an
unfavorable season for those who wish to explore the cave throughout. If
parties happen to be caught on the other side of Jordan, when the sudden
rise takes place, a boat conveys them, on the swollen waters, to the
level of an upper cave, so low that they are obliged to enter on hands
and knees, and crawl through. This place is called Purgatory. People on
the other side, aware of their danger, have a boat in readiness to
receive them. The guide usually sings while crossing the Jordan, and his
voice is reverberated by a choir of sweet echoes. The only animals ever
found in the cave are fish, with which this stream abounds. They are
perfectly white, and without eyes; at least, they have been subjected to
a careful scientific examination, and no organ similar to an eye can be
discovered. It would indeed be a useless appendage to creatures that
dwell for ever in Cimmerian darkness. But, as usual, the acuteness of
one sense is increased by the absence of another. These fish are
undisturbed by the most powerful glare of light, but they are alarmed at
the slightest agitation of the water; and it is therefore exceedingly
difficult to catch them.

The rivers of Mammoth Cave were never crossed till 1840. Great efforts
have been made to discover whence they come, and whither they go. But
though the courageous Stephen has floated for hours up to his chin, and
forced his way through the narrowest apertures under the dark waves, so
as to leave merely his head a breathing space, yet they still remain as
much a mystery as ever--without beginning or end, like eternity. They
disappear under arches, which, even at the lowest stage of the water,
are under the surface of it. From an unknown cause, it sometimes happens
in the neighborhood of these streams, that the figure of a distant
companion will apparently loom up, to the height of ten or twelve feet,
as he approaches you. This occasional phenomenon is somewhat frightful,
even to the most rational observer, occurring as it does in a region so
naturally associated with giants and genii.

From the Jordan, through Silliman's Avenue, you enter a high, narrow
defile, or pass, in a portion of which, called the Hanging Rocks, huge
masses of stone hang suspended over your head. At the side of this
defile, is a recess, called the Devil's Blacksmith's Shop. It contains a
rock shaped like an anvil, with a small inky current running near it,
and quantities of coarse stalagmite scattered about, precisely like
blacksmith's cinders, called slag. In another place, you pass a square
rock, covered with beautiful dog's tooth spar, called the Mile Stone.

This pass brings you into Wellington's Gallery, which tapers off to a
narrow point, apparently the end of the cave in this direction. But a
ladder is placed on one side by which you ascend to a small cleft in the
rock, through which you are at once ushered into a vast apartment,
discovered about two years ago. This is the commencement of Cleveland's
Avenue, the crowning wonder and glory of this subterranean world. At the
head of the ladder, you find yourself surrounded by overhanging
stalactites, in the form of rich clusters of grapes, transparent to the
light, hard as marble, and round and polished, as if done by a
sculptor's hand. This is called Mary's Vineyard; and from it, an
entrance to the right brings you into a perfectly naked cave, whence you
suddenly pass into a large hall, with magnificent columns, and rich
festoons of stalactite, in various forms of beautiful combination. In
the centre of this chamber, between columns of stalactite, stands a mass
of stalagmite, shaped like a sarcophagus, in which is an opening like a
grave. A Roman Catholic priest first discovered this, about a year ago,
and with fervent enthusiasm exclaimed, "The Holy Sepulchre!" a name
which it has since borne.

To the left of Mary's Vineyard, is an inclosure like an arbor, the
ceiling and sides of which are studded with snow-white crystallized
gypsum, in the form of all sorts of flowers. It is impossible to convey
an idea of the exquisite beauty and infinite variety of these delicate
formations. In some places, roses and lilies seem cut on the rock, in
bas-relief; in others, a graceful bell rises on a long stalk, so slender
that it bends at a breath. One is an admirable imitation of Indian corn
in tassel, the silky fibres as fine and flexile as can be imagined;
another is a group of ostrich plumes, so downy that a zephyr waves it.
In some nooks were little parks of trees, in others, gracefully curled
leaves like the Acanthus, rose from the very bosom of the rock. Near
this room is the Snow Chamber, the roof and sides of which are covered
with particles of brilliant white gypsum, as if snowballs had been
dashed all over the walls. In another apartment the crystals are all in
the form of rosettes. In another, called Rebecca's Garland, the flowers
have all arranged themselves into wreaths. Each seems to have a style of
formations peculiar to itself, though of infinite variety. Days might be
spent in these superb grottoes, without becoming familiar with half
their hidden glories. One could imagine that some antediluvian giant had
here imprisoned some fair daughter of earth, and then in pity for her
loneliness, had employed fairies to deck her bowers with all the
splendor of earth and ocean. Like poor Amy Robsart, in the solitary
halls of Cumnor. Bengal Lights, kindled in these beautiful retreats,
produce an effect more gorgeous than any theatrical representation of
fairyland; but they smoke the pure white incrustations, and the guide
is therefore very properly reluctant to have them used. The reflection
from the shining walls is so strong, that lamplight is quite sufficient.
Moreover, these wonderful formations need to be examined slowly and in
detail. The universal glitter of the Lights is worthless in comparison.
From Rebecca's Garland you come into a vast hall, of great height,
covered with shining drops of gypsum, like oozing water petrified. In
the centre is a large rock, four feet high, and level at top, round
which several hundred people can sit conveniently. This is called
Cornelia's Table, and is frequently used for parties to dine upon. In
this hall, and in Wellington's Gallery, are deposits of fibrous gypsum,
snow-white, dry, and resembling asbestos. Geologists, who sometimes take
up their abode in the cave for weeks, and other travellers who choose to
remain over night, find this a very pleasant and comfortable bed.

Cornelia's Table is a safe centre, from which individuals may diverge on
little exploring expeditions; for the paths here are not labyrinthine,
and the hall is conspicuous from various neighboring points of view. In
most regions of the cave, it is hazardous to lose sight of the guide. If
you think to walk straight ahead, even for a few rods, and then turn
short round and return to him, you will find it next to impossible to do
so. So many paths come in at acute angles; they look so much alike; and
the light of a lamp reveals them so imperfectly, that none but the
practised eye of a guide can disentangle their windings. A gentleman who
retraced a few steps, near the entrance of the cave, to find his hat,
lost his way so completely, that he was not found for forty-eight hours,
though twenty or thirty people were in search of him. Parties are
occasionally mustered and counted, to see that none are missing. Should
such an accident happen, there is no danger, if the wanderer will remain
stationary; for he will soon be missed, and a guide sent after him. From
the hall of congealed drops, you may branch off into a succession of
small caves, called Cecilia's Grottoes. Here nearly all the beautiful
formations of the surrounding caves, such as grapes, flowers, stars,
leaves, coral, &c., may be found so low, that you can conveniently
examine their minutest features. One of these little recesses, covered
with sparkling spar, set in silvery gypsum, is called Diamond Grotto.
Alma's Bower closes this series of wonderful formations. As a whole,
they are called Cleveland's Cabinet, in honor of Professor Cleveland, of
Bowdoin College. Silliman calls this admirable series, the Alabaster
Caves. He says: "I was at first at a loss to account for such beautiful
formations, and especially for the elegance of the curves exhibited. It
is however evident that the substances have grown from the rocks, by
increments or additions to the base; the solid parts already formed
being continually pushed forward. If the growth be a little more rapid
on one side than on the other, a well-proportioned curve will be the
result; should the increased action on one side diminish or increase,
then all the beauties of the conic and mixed curves would be produced.
The masses are often evenly and longitudinally striated by a kind of
columnar structure, exhibiting a fascicle of small prisms; and some of
these prisms ending sooner than others, give a broken termination of
great beauty, similar to our form of the emblem of 'the order of the
star.' The rosettes formed by a mammillary disk surrounded by a circle
of leaves, rolled elegantly outward, are from four inches to a foot in
diameter. Tortuous vines, throwing off curled leaves at every flexure,
like the branches of a chandelier, running more than a foot in length,
and not thicker than the finger, are among the varied frost-work of
these grottoes; common stalactites of carbonate of lime, although
beautiful objects, lose by contrast with these ornaments, and dwindle
into mere clumsy, awkward icicles. Besides these, there are tufts of
'hair salt,' native sulphate of magnesia, depending like adhering
snowballs from the roof, and periodically detaching themselves by their
own increasing weight. Indeed, the more solid alabaster ornaments become
at last overgrown, and fall upon the floor of the grotto, which was
found covered with numbers quite entire, besides fragments of others
broken by the fall."

A distinguished geologist has said that he believed Cleveland's Avenue,
two miles in length, contained a petrified form of every vegetable
production on earth. If this be too large a statement, it is at least
safe to say that its variety is almost infinite. Amongst its other
productions, are large piles of Epsom salts, beautifully crystallized.
Travellers have shown such wanton destructiveness in this great temple
of Nature--mutilating beautiful columns, knocking off spar, and crushing
delicate flowers--that the rules are now very strict. It is allowable to
touch nothing, except the ornaments which have loosened and dropped by
their own weight. These are often hard enough to bear transportation.

After you leave Alma's Bower, the cave again becomes very rugged.
Beautiful combinations of gypsum and spar may still be seen occasionally
overhead: but all round you rocks and stones are piled up in the wildest
manner. Through such scraggy scenery, you come to the Rocky Mountains,
an irregular pile of massive rocks, from 100 to 150 feet high. From
these you can look down into Dismal Hollow--deep below deep--the most
frightful looking place in the whole cave. On the top of the mountain is
a beautiful rotunda, called Croghan Hall, in honor of the proprietor.
Stalactites surround this in the richest fringe of icicles, and lie
scattered about the walls in all shapes, as if arranged for a museum. On
one side is a stalagmite formation like a pine-tree, about five feet
high, with regular leaves and branches; another is in a pyramidal form,
like a cypress.

If you wind down the mountains on the side opposite from that which you
ascended, you will come to Serena's Arbor, which is thirteen miles from
the entrance of the cave, and the end of this avenue. A most beautiful
termination it is! In a semicircle of stalactite columns is a fountain
of pure water spouting up from a rock. This fluid is as transparent as
air; all the earthy particles it ever held in suspension, having been
long since precipitated. The stalactite formations in this arbor are
remarkably beautiful.

One hundred and sixty-five avenues have been discovered in Mammoth Cave,
the walk through which is estimated at about three hundred miles. In
some places, you descend more than a mile into the bowels of the earth.
The poetic-minded traveller, after he has traced all the labyrinths,
departs with lingering reluctance. As he approaches the entrance,
daylight greets him with new and startling beauty. If the sun shines on
the verdant sloping hill, and the waving trees, seen through the arch,
they seem like fluid gold; if mere daylight rests upon them, they
resemble molten silver. This remarkable richness of appearance is
doubtless owing to the contrast with the thick darkness, to which the
eye has been so long accustomed.

As you come out of the cave, the temperature of the air rises thirty
degrees instantly (if the season is summer), and you feel as if plunged
in a hot vapor bath; but the effects of this are salutary and not
unpleasant. Nature never seems so miraculous as it does when you emerge
from this hidden realm of marvellous imitations. The "dear goddess" is
so serene in her resplendent and more harmonious beauty! The gorgeous
amphitheatre of trees, the hills, the sky, and the air, all seem to wear
a veil of transfigured glory. The traveller feels that he was never
before conscious how beautiful a phenomenon is the sunlight, how
magnificent the blue arch of heaven!

There are three guides at the service of travellers, all well versed in
the intricate paths of this nether world. Stephen, the presiding genius
of Mammoth Cave, is a mulatto, and a slave. He has lived in this strange
region from boyhood, and a large proportion of the discoveries are the
result of his courage, intelligence, and untiring zeal. His vocation has
brought him into contact with many intellectual and scientific men, and
a prodigious memory, he has profited much by intercourse with superior
minds. He can recollect every body that ever visited the cave, and all
the terms of geology and mineralogy are at his tongue's end. He is
extremely attentive, and peculiarly polite to ladies. Like most of his
race, he is fond of grandiloquent language, and his rapturous
expressions, as he lights up some fine point of view, are at times fine
specimens of glorification. His knowledge of the place is ample and
accurate, and he is altogether an extremely useful and agreeable guide.

FOOTNOTES:

[B] See engraving of this hotel in the _International_ for August, 1851.




THE POEM OF THE MONTH.


The finest new poem that has fallen under our notice is the following,
from _Graham's Magazine_ for the present month. We think few who have
read Miss Carey's recent poems entitled _Lyra_, _Jessie Carol_,
_October_, and _The Winds_, with her prose volume just published by
Redfield, will be disposed to question, that in the brief period in
which she has been before the public she has entitled herself to the
highest rank among the living literary women of the United States.


WINTER, BY ALICE CAREY.

    Now sits the twilight palaced in the snow,
      Hugging away beneath a fleece of gold
    Her statue beauties, dumb and icy cold,
      And fixing her blue steadfast eyes below,
    Where in a bed of chilly waves afar,
      With dismal shadows o'er her sweet face blown,
    Tended to death by eve's delicious star,
      Lies the lost day alone.

    Where late, with red mists bound about his brows,
      Went the swart Autumn, wading to the knees
    Through drifts of dead leaves shaken from the boughs
      Of the old forest trees,
    The gusts upon their baleful errands run
      O'er the bright ruin, fading from our eyes,
    And over all, like clouds about the sun,
      A shadow lies.

    For, fallen asleep upon a dreary world,
      Slant to the light, one late October morn,
    From some rough cavern blew a tempest cold,
      And tearing off his garland of ripe corn,
    Twisted with blue grapes, sweet with delicious wine,
      And Ceres' drowsy flowers, so dully red,
    Deep in his cavern leafy and divine,
      Buried him with his dead.

    Then, with big black beard glistening in the frost,
      Under the icy arches of the north,
    And o'er the still graves of the seasons lost,
      Blustered the Winter forth--
    Spring, with your crown of roses budding new,
      Thought-nursing and most melancholy Fall,
    Summer, with bloomy meadows wet with dew,
      Blighting your beauties all.

    Oh heart, your spring-time dream will idle prove,
      Your summer but forerun the autumn's death,
    The flowery arches in the home of love
      Fall crumbling, at a breath;
    And, sick at last with that great sorrow's shock,
      As some poor prisoner, pressing to the bars
    His forehead, calls on Mercy to unlock
      The chambers of the stars--
    You, turning off from life's first mocking glow
      Leaning it may be, still on broken faith,
    Will down the vale of Autumn gladly go
      To the chill winter, Death.

    Hark! from the empty bosom of the grove
      I hear a sob, as one forlorn might pine--
      The white-limbed beauty of a god is thine,
    King of the seasons! and the night that hoods
      Thy brow majestic, brightest stars enweave--
      Thou surely canst not grieve;

    But only far away
      Makest stormy prophecies; well, lift them higher,
    Till morning on the forehead of the day
      Presses a seal of fire
    Dearer to me the scene
      Of nature shrinking from thy rough embrace,
    Than Summer, with her rustling robe of green,
      Cool blowing in my face.

    The moon is up--how still the yellow beams
      That slantwise lie upon the stirless air,
    Sprinkled with frost, like pearl-entangled hair,
      O'er beauty's cheeks that streams,
    How the red light of Mars their pallor mocks.
      And the wild legend from the old time wins,
    Of sweet waves kissing all the drowning locks
      Of Ilia's lovely twins.

    Come, Poesy, and with thy shadowy hands
      Cover me softly, singing all the night--
    In thy dear presence find I best delight;
      Even the saint that stands
    Tending the gate of heaven, involved in beams
      Of rarest glory, to my mortal eyes
    Pales from the blest insanity of dreams
      That round thee lies.

    Unto the dusky borders of the grove
      Where gray-haired Saturn, silent as a stone,
       Sat in his grief alone,
    Or where young Venus, searching for her love,
      Walked through the clouds, I pray,
       Bear me to-night away.

    Or wade with me through snows
      Drifted in loose fantastic curves aside,
      From humble doors where Love and Faith abide,
    And no rough winter blows,
      Chilling the beauty of affections fair,
       Cabined securely there.

    Where round their fingers winding the white slips
      That crown his forehead, on the grandsire's knees,
    Sit merry children, teasing about ships
      Lost in the perilous seas;
    Or listening with a troublous joy, yet deep,
      To stories about battles, or of storms,
    Till weary grown, and drowsing into sleep,
      Slide they from out his arms.

    Where, by the log-heap fire,
      As the pane rattles and the cricket sings,
    I with the gray-haired sire
      May talk of vanished summer-times and springs,
    And harmlessly and cheerfully beguile
      The long, long hours--
    The happier for the snows that drift the while
      About the flowers.

    Winter, wilt keep the love I offer thee?
      No mesh of flowers is bound about my brow;
    From life's fair summer I am hastening now,
      And as I sink my knee,
    Dimpling the beauty of thy bed of snow--
      Dowerless, I can but say--
    O, cast me not away!




CARLYLE ON THE OPERA.


The London _Keepsake_, for 1852, contains an article by Carlyle. He has
not sent something that was at hand, or thrown off any thing on the spur
of the moment, but set himself to write down to his company, and do his
best in that way. The paper is written in the character of a travelling
and philosophical American, who pours forth his thoughts on the opera;
the topics being the deterioration of music as an art, the small
beneficial result that follows so much outlay and such a combination of
artistical skill, the amount of training bestowed on the singers and
dancers, greater than that which produces great men, and the company
before the curtain, together with reflections thereanent. It is a piece
of forcible description, and of thoughtful though perhaps rather
one-sided reflection. As we heard it remarked a few days ago by a shrewd
critic, Carlyle is never so much himself as when he appears in the
character of another--for examples, in that of the strolling lecturer,
who left with his unpaid lodging-house keeper a denunciation of modern
philanthropists, or in that of the correspondent whose letters he quotes
in the Life of Sterling. In the disguise of a Yankee philosopher he thus
breaks out, after some serious and highly-wrought prefatory phrases on
the glories of true music, while yet true music partook of the divine:

     "Of the account of the Haymarket Opera my account, in fine, is
     this: Lustres, candelabras, painting, gilding at discretion: a
     hall as of the Caliph Alraschid, or him that commanded the
     slaves of the Lamp; a hall as if fitted up by the genies,
     regardless of expense. Upholstery and the outlay of human
     capital, could do no more. Artists, too, as they are called,
     have been got together from the ends of the world, regardless
     likewise of expense, to do dancing and singing, some of them
     even geniuses in their craft. One singer in particular, called
     Coletti, or some such name, seemed to me, by the cast of his
     face, by the tones of his voice, by his general bearing, so far
     as I could read it, to be a man of deep and ardent
     sensibilities, of delicate intuitions, just sympathies;
     originally an almost poetic soul, or man of _genius_, as we
     term it; stamped by Nature as capable of far other work than
     squalling here, like a blind Samson to make the Philistines
     sport! Nay, all of them had aptitudes, perhaps of a
     distinguished kind; and must, by their own and other people's
     labor, have got a training equal or superior in toilsomeness,
     earnest assiduity, and patient travail, to what breeds men to
     the most arduous trades. I speak not of kings' grandees, or the
     like show-figures; but few soldiers, judges, men of letters,
     can have had such pains taken with them. The very ballet girls,
     with their muslin saucers round them, were perhaps little short
     of miraculous; whirling and spinning there in strange mad
     vortexes, and then suddenly fixing themselves motionless, each
     upon her left or right great-toe, with the other leg stretched
     out at an angle of ninety degrees;--as if you had suddenly
     pricked into the floor, by one of their points, a pair, or
     rather a multitudinous cohort, of mad restlessly jumping and
     clipping scissors, and so bidden them rest, with opened blades,
     and stand still, in the Devil's name! A truly notable motion;
     marvellous, almost miraculous, were not the people there so
     used to it. Motion peculiar to the Opera; perhaps the ugliest,
     and surely one of the most difficult, ever taught a female
     creature in this world. Nature abhors it; but Art does at least
     admit it to border on the impossible. One little Cerito, or
     Taglioni the Second, that night when I was there, went bounding
     from the floor as if she had been made of Indian-rubber, or
     filled with hydrogen gas, and inclined by positive levity to
     bolt through the ceiling; perhaps neither Semiramis nor
     Catherine the Second had bred herself so carefully. Such
     talent, and such martyrdom of training, gathered from the four
     winds, was now here, to do its feat, and be paid for it.
     Regardless of expense, indeed! The purse of Fortunatus seemed
     to have opened itself, and the divine art of Musical Sound and
     Rhythmic Motion was welcomed with an explosion of all the
     magnificences which the other arts, fine and coarse, could
     achieve. For you are to think of some Rossini or Bellini in the
     rear of it, too; to say nothing of the Stanfields, and hosts of
     scene-painters, machinists, engineers, enterprisers--fit to
     have taken Gibraltar, written the History of England, or
     reduced Ireland into Industrial Regiments, had they so set
     their minds to it!

     "Alas, and of all these notable or noticeable human talents,
     and excellent perseverances and energies, backed by mountains
     of wealth, and led by the divine art of Music and Rhythm
     vouchsafed by Heaven to them and us, what was to be the issue
     here this evening? An hour's amusement, not amusing either,
     but wearisome and dreary, to a high-dizened select populace of
     male and female persons, who seemed to me not worth much
     amusing! Could any one have pealed into their hearts once, one
     true thought, and glimse of Self-vision: 'High-dizened most
     expensive persons, Aristocracy so called, or _Best_ of the
     World, beware, beware what proofs you give of betterness and
     bestness!' and then the salutary pang of conscience in reply:
     'A select Populace, with money in its purse, and drilled a
     little by the posture-maker: good Heavens! if that were what,
     here and every where in God's Creation, I _am_? And a world all
     dying because I am, and show myself to be, and to have long
     been, even that? John, the carriage, the carriage; swift! Let
     me go home in silence, to reflection, perhaps to sackcloth and
     ashes!' This, and not amusement, would have profited those
     high-dizened persons.

     "Amusement, at any rate, they did not get from Euterpe and
     Melpomene. These two Muses, sent for, regardless of expense, I
     could see, were but the vehicle of a kind of service which I
     judged to be Paphian rather. Young beauties of both sexes used
     their opera-glasses, you could notice, not entirely for looking
     at the stage. And it must be owned the light, in this explosion
     of all the upholsteries, and the human fine arts and coarse,
     was magical; and made your fair one an Armida,--if you liked
     her better so. Nay, certain old Improper-Females (of quality),
     in their rouge and jewels, even these looked some
     _reminiscence_ of enchantment; and I saw this and the other
     lean domestic Dandy, with icy smile on his old worn face; this
     and the other Marquis Singedelomme, Prince Mahogany, or the
     like foreign Dignitary, tripping into the boxes of said
     females, grinning there awhile with dyed moustachios and
     macassar-oil graciosity, and then tripping out again;--and, in
     fact, I perceived that Colletti and Cerito and the Rhythmic
     Arts were a mere accompaniment here.

     "Wonderful to see; and sad, if you had eyes! Do but think of
     it. Cleopatra threw pearls into her drink, in mere waste; which
     was reckoned foolish of her. But here had the Modern
     Aristocracy of men brought the divinest of its Arts, heavenly
     Music itself; and, piling all the upholsteries and ingenuities
     that other human art could do, had lighted them into a bonfire
     to illuminate an hour's flirtation of Singedelomme, Mahogany,
     and these improper persons! Never in Nature had I seen such
     waste before. O Colletti, you whose inborn melody, once of
     kindred as I judged to 'the Melodies eternal,' might have
     valiantly weeded out this and the other false thing from the
     ways of men, and made a bit of God's creation more
     melodious,--they have purchased you away from that; chained you
     to the wheel of Prince Mahogany's chariot, and here you make
     sport for a macassar Singedelomme and his improper-females past
     the prime of life! Wretched spiritual Nigger, oh, if you _had_
     some genius, and were not a born Nigger with mere appetite for
     pumpkin, should you have endured such a lot? I lament for _you_
     beyond all other expenses. Other expenses are light; you are
     the Cleopatra's pearl that should not have been flung into
     Mahogany's claret-cup. And Rossini, too, and Mozart and
     Bellini--Oh, Heavens, when I think that Music too is condemned
     to be mad and to burn herself, to this end, on such a funeral
     pile,--your celestial Opera-house grows dark and infernal to
     me! Behind its glitter stalks the shadow of Eternal Death;
     through it too I look not 'up into the divine eye,' as Richter
     has it, 'but down into the bottomless eyesocket'--not up
     towards God, Heaven, and the Throne of Truth, but too truly
     down towards Falsity, Vacuity, and the Dwelling-place of
     Everlasting Despair."




THE GRAVE OF SIR JOHN FRANKLIN.


Sir John Richardson has just published, in London, a very valuable work,
embracing the results of his recent travels and adventures in the polar
regions, in search of the brave navigator who is probably buried under
their eternal snows. As a narrative it is not particularly interesting;
it is rich rather in scientific facts and observations. It has northern
landscapes, painted by an observer who combines scientific knowledge
with the taste of a lover of nature; exhibitions of zeal and endurance
under hardships; and incidents interesting from their rarity or their
circumstances; but nothing different from other expeditions undertaken
to explore the same region. A large part of the scientific matter is
presented by itself. A curious account of the Indian races whose
territories were travelled over forms a succession of separate chapters,
and a series of elaborate papers on the physical geography of northern
America occupies an appendix, which fills nearly two-thirds of the
second volume. The nature of the country explored gives a freshness to
every thing connected with it, and interest even to casual observation.

This is a curious fact connected with the feeling of heat:

     "The power of the sun this day in a cloudless sky was so great,
     that Mr. Rae and I were glad to take shelter in the water while
     the crews were engaged on the portages. The irritability of the
     human frame is either greater in these Northern latitudes, or
     the sun, notwithstanding its obliquity, acts more powerfully
     upon it than near the Equator; for I have never felt its direct
     rays so oppressive within the Tropics as I have experienced
     them to be on some occasions in the high latitudes. The luxury
     of bathing at such times is not without alloy; for, if you
     choose the mid-day, you are assailed in the water by the
     _tabani_, who draw blood in an instant with their formidable
     lancets; and if you select the morning or evening, then clouds
     of thirsty moschetoes, hovering around, fasten on the first
     part that emerges. Leeches also infest the still waters, and
     are prompt in their aggressions."

The following relate to cold and mid-winter:

     "The rapid evaporation of both snow and ice in the winter and
     spring, long before the action of the sun has produced the
     slightest thaw or appearance of moisture, is made evident to
     residents in the high latitudes by many facts of daily
     occurrence; and I may mention that the drying of linen
     furnishes a familiar one. When a shirt, after being washed, is
     exposed in the open air to a temperature of 40° or 50° below
     zero, it is instantly rigidly frozen, and may be broken if
     violently bent. If agitated when in this condition by a strong
     wind, it makes a rustling noise like theatrical thunder. In an
     hour or two, however, or nearly as quickly as it would do if
     exposed to the sun in the moist climate of England, it dries
     and becomes limber....

     "In consequence of the extreme dryness of the atmosphere in
     winter, most articles of English manufacture made of wood,
     horn, or ivory, brought to Rupert's Land, are shrivelled, bent,
     and broken. The handles of razors and knives, combs, ivory
     scales, and various other things kept in the warm rooms, are
     damaged in this way. The human body also becomes visibly
     electric from the dryness of the skin. One cold night I rose
     from my bed, and having lighted a lantern, was going out to
     observe the thermometer, with no other clothing than my flannel
     night-dress, when, on approaching my hand to the iron latch of
     the door, a distinct spark was elicited. Friction of the skin
     at almost all times in winter produced the electric odor....

     "Even at mid-winter we had three hours and a half of daylight.
     On the 20th of December I required a candle to write at the
     window at ten in the morning. On the 29th, the sun, after ten
     days' absence, rose at the fishery, where the horizon was open;
     and on the 8th of January, both limbs of that luminary were
     seen from a gentle eminence behind the fort, rising above the
     centre of Fishery Island. For several days previously, however,
     its place in the heavens at noon had been denoted by rays of
     light shooting into the sky above the woods. The lowest
     temperature in January was 50° F. On the 1st of February the
     sun rose to us at nine o'clock and set at three, and the days
     lengthened rapidly. On the 23d I could write in my room without
     artificial light from ten A.M. to half-past two P.M., making
     four hours and a half of bright daylight. The moon in the long
     nights was a most beautiful object; that satellite being
     constantly above the horizon for nearly a fortnight together in
     the middle of the lunar month. Venus also shone with a
     brilliancy which is never witnessed in a sky loaded with
     vapors; and, unless in snowy weather, our nights were always
     enlivened by the beams of the Aurora."

Few if any readers will ever be in a situation to use the knowledge of
how to build a snow-house. The Arctic architecture, from a chapter on
the Esquimaux, is worth reading, should it never turn out to be worth
knowing:

     "As the days lengthen, the villages are emptied of their
     inhabitants, who move seaward on the ice to the seal-hunt. Then
     comes into use a marvellous system of architecture, unknown
     among the rest of the American nations. The fine pure snow has
     by that time acquired, under the action of strong winds and
     hard frosts, sufficient coherence to form an admirable light
     building material, with which the Eskimo master-mason erects
     most comfortable dome-shaped houses. A circle is first traced
     on the smooth surface of the snow; and the slabs for raising
     the walls are cut from within, so as to clear a space down to
     the ice, which is to form the floor of the dwelling, and whose
     evenness was previously ascertained by probing. The slabs
     requisite to complete the dome, after the interior of the
     circle is exhausted, are cut from some neighboring spot. Each
     slab is neatly fitted to its place by running a flenching-knife
     along the joint, when it instantly freezes to the wall, the
     cold atmosphere forming a most excellent cement. Crevices are
     plugged up, and seams accurately closed by throwing a few
     shovelfuls of loose snow over the fabric. Two men generally
     work together in raising a house, and the one who is stationed
     within cuts a low door, and creeps out when his task is over.
     The walls being only three or four inches thick, are
     sufficiently translucent to admit a very agreeable light, which
     serves for ordinary domestic purposes; but if more be required
     a window is cut, and the aperture fitted with a piece of
     transparent ice. The proper thickness of the walls is of some
     importance. A few inches excludes the wind, yet keeps down the
     temperature so as to prevent dripping from the interior. The
     furniture--such as seats, tables, and sleeping-places--is also
     formed of snow, and a covering of folded reindeer-skin or
     seal-skin renders them comfortable to the inmates. By means of
     ante-chambers and porches, in form of long, low galleries, with
     their openings turned to leeward, warmth is insured in the
     interior; and social intercourse is promoted by building the
     houses contiguously, and cutting doors of communication between
     them, or by erecting covered passages. Storehouses, kitchens
     and other accessory buildings, may be constructed in the same
     manner, and a degree of convenience gained which would be
     attempted in vain with a less plastic material. These houses
     are durable, the wind has little effect on them, and they
     resist the thaw until the sun acquires very considerable
     power."

The following account of the formation of dry land is from an earlier
portion of the journey, and refers to a region between the 50th and 55th
degrees of latitude:

     "The eastern coast-line of Lake Winipeg is in general swampy,
     with granite knolls rising through the soil, but not to such a
     height as to render the scenery hilly. The pine forest skirts
     the shore at the distance of two or three miles, covering
     gently-rising lands; and the breadth of continuous lake-surface
     seems to be in process of diminution, in the following way. A
     bank of sand is first drifted up, in the line of a chain of
     rocks which may happen to lie across the mouth of an inlet or
     deep bay. Carices, balsam-poplars, and willows, speedily take
     root therein; and the basin which lies behind, cut off from the
     parent lake, is gradually converted into a marsh by the
     luxuriant growth of aquatic plants. The sweet gale next appears
     on its borders, and drift-wood, much of it rotten and
     comminuted, is thrown up on the exterior bank, together with
     some roots and stems of larger trees. The first spring storm
     covers these with sand, and in a few weeks the vigorous
     vegetation of a short but active summer binds the whole
     together by a network of the roots of bents and willows.
     Quantities of drift-sand pass before the high winds into the
     swamp behind, and, weighing down the flags and willow branches,
     prepare a fit soil for succeeding crops. During the winter of
     this climate, all remains fixed as the summer left it; and as
     the next season is far advanced before the bank thaws, little
     of it washes back into the water, but on the contrary, every
     gale blowing from the lake brings a fresh supply of sand from
     the shoals which are continually forming along the shore. The
     floods raised by melting snows cut narrow channels through the
     frozen beach, by which the ponds behind are drained of their
     superfluous waters. As the soil gradually acquires depth, the
     balsam-poplars and aspens overpower the willows; which,
     however, continue to form a line of demarcation between the
     lake and the encroaching forest. Considerable sheets of water,
     are also cut off on the northwest side of the lake, where the
     bird's-eye limestone forms the whole of the coast. Very
     recently this corner was deeply indented by narrow branching
     bays, whose outer points were limestone cliffs. Under the
     action of frost, the thin horizontal beds of this stone split
     up, crevices are formed perpendicularly, large blocks are
     detached, and the cliff is rapidly overthrown, soon becoming
     masked by its own ruins. In a season or two the slabs break
     into small fragments, which are tossed up by the waves across
     the neck of the bay into the form of narrow ridgelike beaches,
     from twenty to thirty feet high. Mud and vegetable matter
     gradually fill up the pieces of water thus secluded; a willow
     swamp is formed; and when the ground is somewhat consolidated,
     the willows are replaced by aspens."

The volumes have all the value of an official survey, and they are the
most important contributions to our knowledge of the _Terra Incognita_
of the Lower Mackenzie, that have been published. The occupants of this
region are the Loucheux Indians. Fine grown men of considerable stature,
and well-knit frames, they have evidently followed the course of the
Mackenzie River, from south to north. These are the Indians of whom from
the scantiness of our previous data, information is most valuable. They
are reasonably considered to belong to the same family as the Dog-rib,
Beaver, Hare, Copper, Carrier, and other Indians, a family which some
call Chepewyan, others Athabascan, but which the present work designates
as _Tinnè_. The Esquimo and Crees, though as fully described, are better
known. The chapters, illustrative of the other branches of the natural
history of North America, are equally valuable.




WITS ABOUT THE THRONE OF LOUIS THE FOURTEENTH.


We copy the following paragraphs from Sir James Stephens's Lectures on
the History of France. The illustrious men referred to are of course
well known by educated men, but to the masses their names are familiar
chiefly from their appearance in the brilliant romances of Dumas.

     "The constellation of genius, wit, and learning, in the midst
     of which Louis shone thus pre-eminently, was too brilliant to
     be obscured by any clouds of royal disfavor; nor would any man
     have shrunken with greater abhorrence than himself, from any
     attempt to extinguish or to eclipse their splendor. He wisely
     felt, and frankly acknowledged, that, their glory was essential
     to his own; and he invited to a seat at his table, Moliere the
     roturier, to whom the lowest of his nobles would have appointed
     a place among his menial servants. As Francis, and Charles, and
     Leo, and Julius, and Lorenzo had assigned science, and poetry,
     and painting, and architecture, and sculpture, as their
     appropriate provinces, to those great master spirits of Italy,
     to whom they forbade the culture of political philosophy, so
     Louis, when he interdicted to the gigantic intellects of his
     times and country all intervention in the affairs of the
     commonwealth, summoned them to the conquest of all the other
     realms of thought in which they might acquire renown, either
     for him, for France, or themselves. The theatres, the
     academies, the pulpits, and the monasteries of his kingdom
     rivalled each other in their zealous obedience to that royal
     command, and obeyed it with a success from which no competent
     and equitable judge can withhold his highest admiration. At
     this day, when all the illusions of the name of Louis are
     exhausted, and in this country, where his Augustan age has
     seldom been regarded with much enthusiasm, who can seriously
     address himself to the perusal of his great tragedians,
     Corneille and Racine--or of his great comedians, Moliere and
     Regnard--or if his great poets, Boileau and La Fontaine--or of
     his great wits, La Rochfaucauld and La Bruyere--or of his great
     philosophers, Des Cartes and Pascal--or of his great divines,
     Bossuet and Arnauld--or of his great scholars, Mabillon and
     Montfaucon--or if his great preachers, Bourdaloue and
     Masillon--and not confess that no other monarch was ever
     surrounded by an assemblage of men of genius so admirable for
     the extent, the variety and the perfection of their powers.

     "And yet the fact that such an assemblage were clustered into a
     group, of which so great a king was the centre, implies that
     there must have been some characteristic quality uniting them
     all to each other and to him, and distinguishing them all from
     the nobles of every other literary commonwealth which has
     existed among men. What, then, was that quality, and what its
     influence upon them?

     "Louis lived with his courtiers, not as a despot among his
     slaves, but as the most accomplished of gentlemen among his
     associates. The social equality was, however, always guarded
     from abuse by the most punctilious observance, on their side,
     of the reverence due to his pre-eminent rank. In that enchanted
     circle men appeared at least to obey, not from a hard
     necessity, but from a willing heart. The bondage in which they
     really lived was ennobled by that conventional code of honor
     which dictated and enforced it. They prostrated themselves
     before their fellow-man with no sense of self-abasement, and
     the chivalrous homage with which they gratified him, was
     considered as imparting dignity to themselves.

     "Louis acknowledged and repaid this tribute of courtesy, by a
     condescension still more refined, and by attentions yet more
     delicate than their own. The harshness of power was so
     ingeniously veiled, every shade of approbation was so nicely
     marked, and every gradation of favor so finely discriminated,
     that the tact of good society--that acquired sense, which
     reveals to us the impression we make on those with whom we
     associate--became the indispensable condition of existence at
     Versailles and Marly. The inmates of those palaces lived under
     a law peculiar to themselves; a law most effective for its
     purposes, though the recompense it awarded to those who pleased
     their common master was but his smile, and though the penalty
     it imposed on those who displeased him was but his frown."




AMERICAN WAR-ENGINES.


The probabilities of a general war in Europe invest the subject of the
following paper with an unusual interest. It is worthy of notice that
America has furnished so large a proportion of the improvements in
war-engines of every description. Fulton's schemes are well known; we
all remember something of the guns invented by Perkins; there is a
gentleman now in daily conference with Mazzini and the revolutionary
committees, in London, who proposes the noiseless discharge of twenty
thousand missiles in a minute, by means of a machine invented in Ohio;
and we find in the _Times_ an abstract of a paper read at the
Institution of Civil Engineers, on the 25th of November, by our famous
countryman Colonel Colt, "On the Application of Machinery to the
Manufacture of Rotating Chambered-Breech Fire-Arms, and the
Peculiarities of those Arms." The communication commenced with a
historical account of such rotating chamber fire-arms as had been
discovered by the author, in his researches after specimens of the early
efforts of armorers for the construction of repeating weapons, the
necessity for which appears to have been long ago admitted; and with the
attention of such an intelligent class devoted to the subject, it is
certainly remarkable that during so long a period so little was really
effected towards the production of serviceable weapons of this sort. The
collections in the Tower of London, the United Service Museum, the
Rotunda at Woolwich, Warwick Castle, the Musée d'Artillerie, and the
Hotel Cluny, at Paris, as well as some ancient Eastern arms brought from
India by Lord William Bentinck, demonstrated the early efforts that had
been made to produce arms capable of rapidly firing several times
consecutively, without the delay of loading after each discharge.
Drawings of these specimens were exhibited, comprising the match-lock,
the pyrites wheel-lock, the flint-lock, down to the percussion-lock, as
adapted by the author. Among the match-lock guns, some had as many as
eight chambers, rotating by hand. Some of the pyrites wheel-lock guns
had also as many as eight chambers, and rotated by hand; one of them,
made in the seventeenth century, had the peculiarity of igniting the
charge close behind the bullet, burning backwards towards the breech--an
arrangement identical in principle with that of the modern Prussian
"needle gun," for which great merit has been claimed. The flint-locks
induced more determined efforts, but all were abortive, as the magazines
for priming and the pan covers were continually blown off on the
explosion of the charge. Indeed, from the earliest match-lock down to
the present time, the premature explosion of several chambers, owing to
the simultaneous ignition of the charges, from the spreading of the fire
at their mouths, had been the great source of difficulty. In some of the
most ancient specimens, orifices were provided in the butt of the barrel
for the escape of the bullets in case of explosion, whilst others had
evidently been destroyed by this action. In a brass model of a pistol of
the time of Charles II., from the United Service Museum, there was an
ingenious attempt to cause the chamber to rotate, by mechanical action,
in some degree similar, but more complicated than the arms constructed
by the author. The "Coolidge" and the "Collier" guns, both flint guns of
comparatively modern manufacture, exhibited the same radical defects of
liability to premature explosion.

The invention of Nock's patent breech, and the Rev. Mr. Forsyth's
introduction of the detonating or percussion guns, which latter
principle, with the necessary mechanical arrangements for the caps, was
essential to the safe construction of repeating fire-arms, constituted a
new era in these weapons.

Colonel Colt gave a detailed and interesting account of his experiments,
which resulted in the invention of his celebrated revolvers. His
communication, the first that had been brought before the institution,
by an American, was received with acclamations; and in the discussion
which ensued, in which our Minister, the Hon. Abbott Lawrence, Captain
Sir Thomas Hastings, R.N., Captain Sir Edward Belcher, R.N., Captain
Riddell, R.N., Mr. Miles, and the members of the council took part, the
most flattering testimony was given of the efficiency of the revolvers
in active service, and the strongest opinions as to the necessity of
their use in all frontier warfare; and that without this arm it was
almost impossible, except with an overwhelming force of troops, to cope
with savage tribes. The discussion was resumed at a meeting of the
Institution, held on the second of December.

A new, and, we understand, a very important invention, in this line, is
also described in the following interesting article by a contributor to
the _International_:


SKETCH OF THE PROGRESS OF INVENTION IN OFFENSIVE ARMS: JENNING'S RIFLE.

WRITTEN FOR THE INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE,

BY W. M. FERRIS.

It may be justly considered that mechanical invention has been the most
prominent characteristic of history for the last four centuries. The
application of science to the useful arts has been pushed to an extent
of which preceding ages never dreamed. In poetry, in painting, in
sculpture, the great masters of ancient times are still the teachers of
mankind. But in all those arts which administer to the necessities,
increase the comforts, or multiply the enjoyments of men, the present is
marvellously in advance of every former age. Prominent among those arts
which have shared in this advancement, is that of war. At first sight it
may appear improper to distinguish as useful, improvements in the method
of taking life. But, experience and philosophy unite in teaching that
every improvement in military skill tends to render war less frequent,
and the nearer its operations approach to those of an exact science, the
more reluctant is each nation to engage in it, and the more careful not
to commit those offences which render a resort to it on the part of
other nations unavoidable.

We purpose to trace a brief sketch of the progress of invention in
offensive weapons, and more particularly in that class of fire-arms used
either in hunting or war, by a single individual, and generally
denominated small-arms, in contradistinction to artillery. Such a sketch
will be interesting, not only in its subject-matter, but also as a
chapter in the general history of human progress.

The learned reader who is curious in such matters, will find in the
Natural History of Pliny (vol. vii. cap. 56, 67), a statement of the
source whence originated most of the mechanical implements, the manners
and customs, and the political and religious institutions known in the
author's time. It is to be presumed that Pliny did not intend to vouch
for the truth of all he has there stated. He probably meant merely to
give a synopsis of the traditions most generally received, and which
assigned to a divine energy almost every thing that contributed to the
happiness of men. He tells us here that "the first combats were made by
the Africans against the Egyptians with a kind of stick, which they
called _phalanges_." The evident Greek origin of this word renders the
story absurd enough, and doubtless most of our readers will continue to
acquiesce in the account given in Holy Writ, that the origin of war was
but little subsequent to the origin of the race, and that fraternal
blood first stained the breast of our mother earth. But this statement
of Pliny contains a grain of truth. The stick, or club, was undoubtedly
the first weapon made use of by men in their combats with each other,
though the spear and the sword followed at a period long anterior to any
known in historical records.

But from the earliest ages men have sought to avoid hand-to-hand
conflicts, and to make skill supply the place of strength. In contests
with wild beasts this was indispensable. Nature had provided man with no
weapon with which he could contend against the boar's tusks, the lion's
teeth, or the tiger's paw. Hence, the substitution of missiles for
manual weapons, has been the end towards which ingenuity has been
constantly directed.

The conversion of the spear into the javelin, as it was the most
obvious, so probably it was the earliest step in advance. Close upon
this followed the sling, and last the arrow and the bow. The invention
of the latter weapon is ascribed by Pliny, in the chapter above cited,
to a son of Jupiter. In the days of Homer it was the weapon of the gods;
and thousands of years after, it was the pride and glory of the English
yeoman. The classical scholar will remember the description in the
fourth book of the Iliad, of the bow with which Pandaros shot at
Menelaus an arrow which would have sent to Hades the hero dear to Mars,
had not the daughter of Jove brushed it aside with her hand, as a mother
doth a fly from her sleeping child. The bow does not appear to have been
extensively used in later times in either the Greek or Roman armies. The
ferocious Spartan preferred the close combat with manual weapons, the
Athenian won his glory upon the sea, and it was with the pike that
Alexander overcame the hosts of Persia. The Cretans, who were the most
celebrated archers in Europe, sometimes formed a separate division in
the Grecian and afterward in the Roman armies. The Romans, however,
generally preferred heavy-armed troops. But it was a peculiarity of
Roman policy always to adopt every improvement in the art of war with
which they became acquainted, whether it originated with friend or foe.
Rome never let slip any opportunity to add to the efficiency of her
legions, and they repaid her care by carrying her eagles in triumph from
the Thames to the Euphrates, and from the Danube to the Nile.

It was in the west of Europe, and from about the eleventh to the
fifteenth century, that archery flourished in the greatest perfection.
The early chronicles are filled with the exploits of the English
archers, and old and young still read with delight those ballads which
tell of the wondrous achievements of "Robin Hood and his merry men."
Indeed, with the name of that famous outlaw are connected all our ideas
of perfect skill in the use of the bow, and in the directions which in
his dying hour, he gave to his faithful man, "Little John," we seem to
hear the dirge of archery itself:

    "Give me my bent bow in my hand,
    And a broad arrow I'll let flee,
    And where that arrow is taken up,
    There shall my grave digg'd be.

    "And lay me a green sod under my head,
    And another at my feet,
    And lay my bent bow by my side,
    Which was my music sweet."

We shall not stop to dwell on the defects of the bow. The great and
insuperable one was its want of power. The strength of a man was the
limit of its capacity, and something more was necessary to pierce the
ironclad breast of the knight. But, until the invention of gunpowder, it
stood at the head of missile engines.

When and where gunpowder was invented it is impossible now to ascertain.
It seems to be described in the pages of Roger Bacon, while many are of
opinion that the returning Crusaders brought it from the east. Certain
it is that it had been known in China for many centuries, and applied to
the blasting of rocks and other useful purposes, though never to the art
of war. But the latter application of it was made by the Europeans
almost contemporaneously with their knowledge of its properties, and for
war it has been chiefly employed until the present time. The invention
of cannon preceded by a century that of small-arms, and it was by a
gradual reduction in the size of the former that the latter were
produced. Barbour, in his metrical Life of Robert Bruce, says, that
cannon were used by Edward III. in his first campaign against the Scots,
in 1327. He calls them "Crakys of war." They are also supposed to have
been employed by the French in the siege of Puy Guillaume, in 1338. But
the first use of them which rests on unimpeachable evidence, and which
seems to have been productive of much effect, was at the battle of
Cressy, in 1346. It is from this epoch that it is most usual to date the
employment of artillery. That day which witnessed the first efficient
use of a weapon destined to revolutionize the art of war, also witnessed
the most splendid achievements of the archers of England. The bowstrings
of the French had become useless by the dampness of the weather, while
those of the English, either on account of greater care or the different
material of which they were made, were uninjured. The cloth-yard arrows
of the English bowmen, directed with unerring skill, made terrible havoc
in the ranks of their enemies, while four pieces of artillery stationed
on a little hill contributed to their victory. The French troops had
none of them ever seen, and most of them never heard of such a weapon,
and the terror inspired by the noise and the smoke did more than the
balls to hasten their defeat.

The first cannons were rude in the extreme. They were made of bars of
iron hooped together like the staves of a barrel, and were larger at the
muzzle than at the breech. The size was very soon decreased, so that two
men could carry one, and fire it from a rest. The 400 cannon with which
Froissart said that the English besieged St. Malo, in 1378, were
probably of this kind. Nearly a century elapsed before small-arms were
invented. Sir S. Meyrick, to whom subsequent writers have been indebted
for most of their knowledge upon this subject, has given, upon the
authority of an eye-witness, the time and place of their invention. "It
was in 1430," says Bilius, "that they were contrived by the Lucquese,
when they were besieged by the Florentines." A French translation of
Quintus Curtius made by Vasqua de Lucene, a Portuguese, in 1468,
preserved among the Burney MSS. of the British Museum, exhibits in one
of its illuminations the earliest representation of hand fire-arms which
has yet been discovered. The following engraving is from a copy of this
illumination, contained in the Penny Cyclopædia.

[Illustration: _B.d.E.K_.]

It will be observed that this gun much resembles one of those small lead
cannons with which patriotic boys, upon each return of our national
anniversary, manifest their appreciation of the blessings of liberty. It
was fastened to a stick, and fired by a match held in the hand. We
proceed to sketch the progress of improvement from this the first gun
until we reach the repeating rifle.

If we analyze the manipulation of fire-arms, it will be found to consist
of three principal operations--namely, to charge the piece, to direct it
toward the object of attack, and to discharge it by in some manner
igniting the powder; or more concisely, to load, take aim, and fire.
That gun with which these operations can be performed most safely,
accurately, and rapidly, is the best.

The process of loading has continued to be essentially the same from the
invention of the gun to the present time. The charge is put in at the
muzzle, and rammed down to the lower end of the barrel. At a very early
period, efforts were made to construct guns which would load at the
breech; but hitherto no such gun has been able to supplant those which
load at the muzzle. The great complication of their parts, their
liability to get out of repair, their insecurity, and the long practice
required to learn their use, have been among the reasons which have
prevented any of these inventions from being adopted. Hence it is that
the muskets with which our soldiers are armed at the present day,
possess no advantage in this respect over the rude little cannon
fastened to the end of a stick, used by the soldiers of Europe four
centuries ago. But in other respects the progress of invention has been
steady and secure.

With the gun represented in the above engraving it was impossible to
take aim. Being perfectly straight, it could not be brought in the
range of the eye. The most that could be expected was, that by pointing
it in the direction of the enemy, it might chance to hit some one, in a
crowd.

The inconveniences attending the discharge of the piece were almost as
great. A puff of wind, or the slightest motion of the soldier himself,
would throw the priming from the touch-hole, and it is almost
unnecessary to add, that in rainy or even very damp weather, such a gun
was utterly useless. The first step in improvement was to place the
touch-hole on the right side of the barrel instead of upon the top, and
to attach a small pan which held the priming. By this means the priming
was kept from being blown away by the wind, though scarce any other
advantage was attained.

About the year 1475 a great advance was made by the invention of the
_arquebus_ or _bow-gun_. A spring let loose by a trigger threw the
match, which was fastened to it, forward, into the pan which contained
the priming. It was from this spring that the gun took its name.

The arquebus is mentioned by Philip de Comines, in his account of the
battle of Morat, in 1476. It appears to have been used in England in
1480.

But as yet no improvement had been made by which the soldier was enabled
to take aim. The butt of the arquebus was perfectly straight, and placed
against the breast when the gun was fired. The danger of being knocked
over by the recoil of the piece was great, that of hurting the enemy
very small. The Germans first conceived the idea of bending the butt
downward, and thus elevating the barrel so as to bring it in the range
of the eye. They also sloped it so as to fit the shoulder instead of
being held against the breast. The arquebus constructed in this manner
was used in England in the time of Henry VIII., and was variously called
haquebut, hakebut, hagbut, and hagbus, names all derived from the hooked
shape of the butt. A small sized arquebus, with a nearly semi-circular
butt, and called a demihaque, was probably the origin of the modern
pistol.

[Illustration: JENNINGS'S RIFLE.]

The musket, invented in Spain, was introduced into France in the reign
of Charles IX., by De Strozzi, Colonel-General of the King's infantry,
and thence into England. At first it was so heavy that each musketeer
was accompanied by a boy to assist him in carrying it. It was, however,
soon decreased in weight sufficiently to enable the musketeer to carry
it himself, though it was still so heavy that he could only fire it from
a rest. This rest, which each musketeer carried with him, consisted of a
stick the height of his shoulder, pointed at the lower end, and having
at the upper an iron fork in which the musket barrel was laid. In a
flask the musketeer carried his coarse powder for loading. His fine
powder for priming was in a touch-box. His bullets were in a leathern
bag, shaped much like a lady's work-bag, the strings of which he was
obliged to draw in order to get at them. In his hand were his burning
match and musket rest, and after discharging his piece he was obliged to
defend himself with his sword. The match was fixed to the cock by a kind
of tongs. Over the priming-pan was a sliding cover, which had to be
drawn back with the hand before pulling the trigger. It was necessary to
blow the ashes from the match, and take the greatest care that the
sparks did not fall upon the priming. After each discharge the match had
to be taken out of the cock and held in the hand until the piece was
reloaded; then, in order that it might come down exactly upon the
priming, the greatest care and nicety were required in fitting it again
to the cock. Other inconveniences attended the use of the match-lock
musket. The light of the burning match betrayed the position of the
soldier, and hence it could not be used by sentinels or on secret
expeditions. Various contrivances were resorted to in order to obviate
these difficulties. Walhuysen, a captain of the town of Danzig, in a
treatise entitled _L'Art Militaire pour l'Infantrie_, printed in 1615,
says: "It is necessary that every musketeer should know how to carry his
match dry in moist or rainy weather, that is, in his pocket or in his
hat, by putting the lighted match between his head and hat, or by some
other means to guard it from the weather. The musketeer should also have
a little tin tube, about a foot long, big enough to admit a match, and
pierced full of little holes, that he may not be discovered by his match
when he stands sentinel or is gone on any expedition."

The learned captain does not state whether the hair of those soldiers
who carried their lighted matches between their heads and hats, was
insured. These inconveniences were so great that many able military men
regarded fire-arms as a failure, and recommended a return to the
long-bow, which had been so terrible a weapon in the hands of the
English archers. But the art of war, like every other, never goes
backward, and men were not disposed to abandon the use of so mighty an
agent as gunpowder, merely for the want of some weapon adapted to its
use.

The fire-lock, named from its producing fire by friction, was the first
improvement upon the match-lock. Its earliest form was that known as the
wheel-lock, which is mentioned in a treatise on artillery by Luigi
Collado, printed at Venice in 1586. He says that it had been lately
invented in Germany. This lock consisted of a solid steel wheel, with an
axle, to which was fastened a chain. The axle was turned by a small
lever, and thus winding around it the chain, drew up a very strong
spring. By pulling the trigger the spring was let go, and the wheel
whirled around with great velocity. The cock was so constructed as to
bring a piece of sulphuret of iron down upon the edge of the wheel,
which was notched, and touched the priming in the pan. The friction
produced the sparks. It was from this use that the sulphuret of iron
derived the name of pyrites, or fire-stone. Afterwards a flint or any
common hard pebble was used. The complicated nature of this lock, and
its uncertainty, prevented its general adoption. The next improvement
was due to the Dutch. About the year 1600 there was in Holland a band of
marauders known as _snaphausen_, or _poultry-stealers_. However free
they were in using the property of others, they were yet unable to incur
the expense of the wheel-lock, and the match-lock, by its burning light,
exposed them on their nightly expeditions. The wit which had been
sharpened by laying "plots" and "inductions dangerous" against
unoffending hens and chickens, was turned to the invention of a gun-lock
better adapted to their purposes. The result of their cogitations was
the lock which, after its inventors, was called the snaphause. It
consisted of a flat piece of steel, furrowed like the edge of the wheel
in the wheel-lock, which was screwed on the barrel beyond the
priming-pan in such a manner as to be movable. By bringing it over the
pan, and pulling the trigger, the flint in the cock struck against the
steel, and the spark was produced. The simplicity and cheapness of this
lock soon rendered it common, and the transition from it to the ordinary
flint-lock followed almost as a matter of course. The last improvement
which we shall notice was the percussion-lock. This is due to the Rev.
Mr. Forsyth, of Belhelvie, in Scotland, though the original form of the
lock has been entirely changed by the introduction of the copper cap.

[Illustration: INTERIOR OF JENNINGS'S BREECH.]

Whilst these improvements were being made in locks, the other parts of
the gun were gradually approaching in lightness, strength, and accuracy
of finish, to the modern standard. The most valuable improvement was the
invention of the rifle barrel. It is mentioned by Pere Daniel, who wrote
in 1693, as being then well known; but the time and place of its origin
has never been ascertained. It was first employed as a military weapon
by the Americans, in the Revolutionary war, and it is in their hands
that it acquired its world-wide reputation.

It would be impossible, in an article like the present, to detail all
the various attempts which have been made, during the last half century,
to increase the efficiency of the rifle. The efforts of scientific men
and mechanics have been constantly directed towards the invention of a
gun which should fire, with the greatest possible rapidity, a number of
times without reloading, and which should possess the indispensable
requisites of safety, durability, and simplicity, both in construction
and in use. Hitherto no invention has combined these advantages in a
sufficient degree to supplant the common rifle.

In our opinion, these ends are all most simply and beautifully attained
by the invention of Mr. Jennings. But of this our readers will be able
to judge for themselves, by the above engravings and the directions for
its use.

[Illustration: CARTRIDGES AND MACHINERY OF JENNINGS'S RIFLES.]

Fill the magazine, on the top of the breech, with percussion pills or
primings, and the tube, under the barrel, with the hollow cartridges
containing gunpowder. Of these cartridges the tube will hold
twenty-four. Place the forefinger in the ring which forms the end of the
lever, _e_, and the thumb on the hammer, elevating the muzzle
sufficiently to let the cartridge nearest the breech slip, by its
gravity, into the carrier _d_; swing the lever forward, and raise the
hammer which moves the breech-pin back, and the carrier up, placing the
cartridge level with the barrel; pull the lever back, and thus force the
breech-pin forward, and shove the cartridge into the barrel, by which
motion a percussion priming is taken from the magazine by means of the
priming-rack _c_, revolving the pinion which forms the bottom of the
magazine, and it also throws up the toggle _a_, behind the breech-pin,
thus placing the piece in the condition to be discharged by a simply
upward pressure of the finger in the ring. After the discharge release
the pressure and repeat the process.

In conclusion, the reader is invited to look at the engraving we have
given of the first gun, and to compare it with the offspring of American
ingenuity we have just described.

Fire-arms are the great pioneers which have opened a way for the
progress of civilized man, and given him victory over the savage beasts
and still more savage men who have opposed his course. Civilization has
in its turn reacted upon fire-arms, and brought them to their present
state of wonderful efficiency.

The heavy match-lock of three centuries ago was almost as dangerous to
him who used it as to the enemy against whom it was directed. It would
be almost impossible for a person to injure himself by the repeating
rifle except by deliberate intention. Skilful military men advised the
abandonment of the match-lock for the bow. A good marksman with the
repeating rifle would kill a score of bowmen, before they could approach
near enough to reach him with their arrows. The practised musketeer, in
the reign of Elizabeth, could hardly fire his piece once in twenty
minutes; the merest novice can fire the repeating rifle twenty times in
one minute.




CLOVER'S COLONIAL CHURCHES IN VIRGINIA.

ST. JOHN'S CHURCH, HAMPTON.

WRITTEN FOR THE INTERNATIONAL MONTHLY MAGAZINE,

BY REV. JOHN C. M'CABE,

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS FROM ORIGINAL DRAWINGS BY REV. LEWIS P. CLOVER

     "Regarded as a building what is there to engage our attention!
     What is it which in this building inspires the veneration and
     affection it commands? We have mused upon it when its gray
     walls dully reflected the glory of the noontide sun. We have
     looked upon it from a neighboring hill when bathed in the pure
     light of a summer's moon, its lowly walls and tiny towers
     seemed to stand only as the shell of a larger and wider
     monument, amidst the memorials of the dead. Look upon it when
     and where we will, we find our affections yearn towards it; and
     we contemplate the little parish church with a delight and
     reverence, that palaces cannot command. Whence then arises
     this? It arises not from the beauties and ornaments of the
     building, but _from the thoughts and recollections associated
     with it_."--Molesworth.

[Illustration: ST. JOHN'S CHURCH.]


The region of country in lower Virginia, bordering, or near the James
River, from the head of tide water to the sea-board, is rich in the
possession of memorials of gone-by days, now turned up from the
bosom of the earth, in the shape of arrow-heads, and broken
war-hatchets--monuments, fragmentary monuments, of a race of forest-born
monarchs: now appealing to the antiquary in the mouldering records of
the County Court offices, and now, silently but eloquently, looking out
imploringly in the ruins of churches and tombs, which meet the eye of
the traveller, as he muses upon the faith and fortunes of generations
long departed.

Rapid as is the progress of steam upon those waters, which, in giving up
their Indian patronymies, gave up the bold hunter and his lithe canoe to
the progress of "manifest destiny," few are those who pass the venerable
site of the first colony in Virginia, Jamestown, without paying a
tribute of a sigh, and perchance a tear, to that solitary tower which is
still standing a mute watcher amid the few almost illegible tombs,--all
that are left of a busy population long departed;--the germ, however, of
a great nation, whose name is even now "a watchword to the earth."

The rank grass waves above those mouldering stones--the green corn of
summer rustles in the breeze, which seems, it its "hollow, solemn
memnonian, but saintly swell," to have "swept the field of mortality for
a hundred centuries,"[C] and that lone, ruined, vine-crested tower,
stands, the only memorial of the house, and the Temple of God. Gone are
the altars where knelt the adventurer and the exile--high-born chivalry
and manly beauty--gentle blood and noble pedigree,--and where rose
"humble voices," and beat "pure hearts," approaching the throne of the
heavenly grace! Jamestown is a city of the dead, and precious is the
dust of its pathless cemetery!

When we turn "from the wreck of the past that has perished," and stand
beside those monuments which have withstood the "corroding tooth of
time," and still stand invested with the sacred and solemn beauty of
antiquity, we approach in the venerating spirit of worshippers, and
render our thank-offerings at their base. Such is likely to be the
feeling with the pilgrim antiquary, as he stands for the first time
beneath the shadows of that venerable cruciform pile, St. John's Church,
Hampton, which has braved "the battle and the breeze" of nearly two
centuries; and then, when he crosses its worn threshold, and treads its
echoing aisles, the wish must arise, involuntarily, to know something
of the history of a spot "so sad, so fair."

With the exception of Jamestown, there is no portion of Virginia
possessing as much historic interest as Hampton, and its vicinity.
Hampton is the county seat of Elizabeth City County, which is one of the
eight original shires in which Virginia was divided. The town is
doubtless the oldest Indian settlement in Virginia, and it is a matter
of historical verity that it was the _first place_ visited by Captain
John Smith after he had cast anchor in these waters. We learn from
Burke, the historian, that while Smith and his company were "engaged in
seeking a fit place for the first settlement, they met five of the
natives, who invited them to their town, _Kecoughtan_, or _Kichotan_,
where Hampton now stands. Here they were feasted with cakes made of
Indian corn, and regaled with tobacco and a dance. In return, they
presented the natives beads and other trinkets."

We have no occasion to go specially into the history of this expedition,
as it is well known to the student, that it was the result of a
successful application on the part of a company, succeeding that of the
ill-fated Sir Walter Raleigh, and for which a charter was obtained from
James the First, in the year 1606, for the settling of Virginia. "The
design," says Stith, the historian of Virginia, "included the
establishment of a northern and southern colony, and among the articles,
instructions, and orders," of the charter, provision was made for the
due carrying out of that which is the highest end of every Christian
colony, for it is expressly ordered, that "the said president, council,
and ministers, should provide that the true word and service of God be
preached, planted, and used, according to the rites and doctrines of the
Church of England; not only in the said colonies, but also as much as
might be amongst the savages bordering upon them, and that all persons
should kindly treat the savages, and heathen people, in those parts, and
use all proper means to draw them to the true service and knowledge of
God."[D] This expedition left the shores of England, December 19, 1606,
and, after a protracted voyage, occasioned by unpropitious winds, which
kept them in sight of home for more than "six weeks," reached the capes
of Virginia. The southern cape was christened "Henry," and the northern,
"Charles," after the King's sons. This was on the 26th day of April,
1607. Accompanying this expedition was Rev. Robert Hunt, of the English
Church, as the first chaplain of that colony, which, though few as the
grains of mustard seed scattered by the morning wind, was the first
planting of that tree which was destined, in coming time, to strike its
roots deep down into the centre of empire, and to shelter beneath its
strong branches, and wide-spread shadows, the exile and the oppressed,
and to furnish home and altar for the pilgrim of civil and religious
freedom.

When we look around now and behold our country, "the observed of all
observers," exalting her "towering head," and "lifting her eyes," the
mind instinctively turns to the colony of Jamestown; and we cannot but
exclaim, in the words of the Psalmist, "Thou hast brought a vine out of
Egypt; Thou hast cast out the heathen and planted it. Thou preparedst
room before it, and didst cause it to take deep root; and it filled the
land. The hills were covered with the shadow of it, and the boughs
thereof were like the goodly cedars. She sent out her boughs unto the
sea, and her branches unto the river." But a sad memory for the days of
toil, and struggle, and blood in that little colony, will remind us that
this tree was not "transplanted from Paradise with all its branches in
full fruitage." Neither was it "sowed in sunshine," nor was it "in
vernal breezes and gentle rains that it fixed its roots, and grew and
strengthened." Oh, no! oh, no! In the mournfully beautiful words of
Coleridge, "With blood was it planted; it was rocked in tempests; the
goat, the ass, and the stag gnawed it, the wild boar whetted its tusk
upon its bark; the deep scars are still extant on its trunk, and the
path of the lightning may be traced among its higher branches!" The
first communion of the body and blood of our Lord was administered by
the pious Hunt, May 4, 1607, the day after the debarkation of the
colonists: and, "here," says the Bishop of Oxford, "on a peninsula, upon
the northern shore of James River, was sown the first seed of
Englishmen, who, in after years, were to grow and to multiply into the
great and numerous American people." It was an offering, this first
sacrament, of the "appointed sacrifice of prayer and thanksgiving;" and
we have an evidence of the pervading spirit of Hunt in that little band,
when we remember that among their very first acts after rearing their
straw-thatched houses for protection from the weather, was to erect the
church of the colony. Hunt was succeeded, after his death, in 1610, by
Master Bucke (the chaplain of Lord de la Ware), whose services were
called forth the very day of his arrival at Jamestown. According to
Purchas, "He (that is Lord Delaware) cast anchor before Jamestown, where
we landed, and our much grieved Governor, first visiting the church,
caused the bell to be rung; at which all such as were able to come forth
of their house, repayered to church, which was neatly trimmed with the
wild flowers of the country, where our minister, Master Bucke, made a
zealous and sorrowful prayer, finding all things so contrary to our
expectations, and full of misery and misgovernment." This state of
things had been brought about by the treacherous conduct of their
neighbors, the savages, domestic feuds, fluctuations in the quantity and
quality of their food, bad water, and severe climatic diseases. While
"Master Bucke" was toiling with the little band at Jamestown, Whitaker
(son of Master Whitaker of St. John's College, Cambridge) was in
Henrico, whose deeds of love and patience in his noble work we would
gladly record, but for the desire of approaching, as speedily as
possible, the beginning and planting of the church in Elizabeth City
County. The first legislature of Virginia was convened under the
administration of Governor Sir George Yeardley, in the year 1626; but
before this we find, during the _first_ administration of Governor
Wyatt, nay, before that, during that of Sir Thomas Yeardley, in 1619, _a
starting point_ for our inquiries and investigations in regard to the
Hampton Church. By reference to the histories of the period, we find
that the pay of their clergy was fixed at £200 worth of corn and
tobacco. One hundred acres were marked off for glebes in every borough,
for each of which the company at home provided six tenants at the public
cost. They applied to the Bishop of London to find them a body of
"pious, learned, and painful ministers,"--"a charitable work," says
Wilberforce, "in which he readily engaged." Two years subsequent to this
occurred the massacre at Jamestown, and two years after that, we find,
amongst thirty-five provisions, the following, for the promotion of
religious knowledge and worship: That there shall be _erected_ a _house
of worship_, and there shall be a _burial ground on every plantation_;
that the colonists, under penalty, shall attend public worship, and that
there shall be uniformity in faith and worship, with the English
Church--prescribing also the observance of the feasts of the Church, and
a fast upon the anniversary of the Jamestown massacre; not forgetting,
by the way, to enjoin "respectful treatment, and the payment of a
settled stipend to the colonial clergy." In the instructions given to
Sir William Berkeley, Governor-General of Virginia, after the return of
the royal exile, Charles the Second, to the throne of his murdered
sire,--passing over, as we do, for the sake of brevity, much that might
interest the reader during the closing period of the reign of James,
that of Charles the First, and also that of the psalm-singing
blood-hunter Cromwell,--we find the recommendation of the duties of
religion, the use of "the booke of Common Prayer, the decent repairs of
Churches, and a competent provision for conforming ministers."[E] These
suggestions, we learn, were at once acted upon by the colonial
legislature, and provision was made for the building and due furniture
of churches, &c., &c. This was in 1660. The oldest records in the County
Court office date as far back as 1635. In 1644, I find the
_churchwardens_ presenting two females for offences, to the Court; and
in 1646, I find that Nicholas Brown, and William Armistead,
_churchwardens_, present one of their body to the Court, requesting that
Thomas Eaton be compelled to collect the _parish levy_, and make his
returns. This fixes the fact, then, that this was a _parish_, and that
there was _a church_ somewhere in this region in 1644, for, from the
English laws respecting the clergy, the object of the creation of
_churchwardens_ is "to protect _the edifice of the Church_, to
superintend the ceremonies of public worship, to promote the observance
of religious duties, &c., &c.[F]" I find, in 1644, the following on
record--"To paid Mr. Mallory for preaching 2 funeral sermons, 800 pounds
of tobacco." The next year I find the Rev. Mr. Justinian Aylmere, who
continued to officiate until the early part of 1667. We now find, in
those same records, the _first mention of the church_ immediately under
consideration, and it is as follows, being an extract from a will, and
bearing date December 21, 1667:

     "I, Nicholas Baker, being very sicke in body, but of perfect
     memory, doe make, constitute, and ordaine this my last will and
     testament, revoking and disclayming all other wills by me made.
     Imprimis, I give my soule unto God my redeemer, and my body to
     bee decently buried in _ye new church of Kighotan_. Item, I
     give and bequeathe unto Mr. Jeremy Taylor, minister,[G] my
     cloath cloak, to bee delivered to him after my corpse carrying
     out of ye house."

From these extracts I learn these two facts, that there was a _new
church_, already built, and that Mr. Jeremy Taylor was the minister, and
the inference is a legitimate one, taking into consideration the
instructions given to Governor Berkeley, and acted upon by him, to which
reference is made above, that the _old church now standing in Hampton_,
built in the form of a cross, and of brick, a drawing of which,
accompanies this communication, was erected at some period about 1660,
or between that and 1667. That it was not built _before_ 1660, we have
strong reasons to presume; and that it was built between that and 1667,
we hope to show hereafter. In the time intervening between the murder of
Charles the First and the restoration, there would have been no churches
built, we presume, in the _form of the cross_--this the minions of
Cromwell would not have allowed; nor for the worship and ritual of the
Church of England, for the same reasons; and, moreover, the will above
referred to, speaks of the church as being "ye _new_ church of
Kighotan."

The tower was an after thought, as we find from the vestry-book, now in
the possession of the writer. The following bears date 2d day of March,
1761:

     "Charles Cooper came into vestry, and agreed to do the brick
     work of the steeple, with good and well burnt bricks and mortar
     of lime, at least fifteen bushels of lime to every thousand
     bricks so laid. The said Cooper to find all materials
     necessary for building the said steeple, and all expenses what
     kind soever at his own proper cost. The said Cooper to give
     bond for the performance, agreeable to a resolve of the said
     vestry on the 6 day of February last."

And, on the 16th day of June, 1761, the record below is made in the
vestry-book:

     "Agreed that the steeple as before to be built, shall be joined
     to the west end of the church wall, and that an half brick be
     added to the thickness of the foundation of the said steeple up
     to the water table."

And, on the 14th day of July, 1762, the following record on the
vestry-book will show its completion:

     "Agreed, that Mr. William Westwood, and Mr. Charles Cooper,
     compute the number of bricks laid in the steeple wall, and if
     they two disagree, that they chuse a third person; and that
     this vestry hath _this day received the said work_, so as not
     to affect the counting or computing the number of bricks laid
     in the said steeple."

The occasion of building the tower is found in the extract following,
made from the same source, and bearing date February 6, 1761:

     "Whereas the late Mr. Andrew Kennedy, did by his last will and
     testament, devise to the parish of Elizabeth City, forty pounds
     sterling, to purchase a bell for the church of the said parish,
     provided the vestry, and churchwardens of the said parish,
     shall undertake to build a belfry for the same in twelve months
     after the said Alexander Kennedy's death; and this vestry,
     willing to embrace the said gift, have accordingly resolved,"
     &c.

Now arises a question of some interest. The will of Nicholas Baker, made
December 21, 1667, makes mention of "ye _new_ church of Kighotan." Was
there an _old_ church of Kighotan? One older than this? We answer, yes!
And now for the writer's reasons for arriving at this conclusion. From
the old record of wills, deeds, &c., in the County Court office, and to
which I have had access freely, through the politeness and kindness of
Samuel Howard, Esq., the gentlemanly clerk of the court, I copy the
following:

     "In the name of God, Amen. I, Robert Brough, clerke of
     Kigquotan, in the county of Elizabeth Citty, being sicke and
     weake in body, but in perfect sense and memory, praised bee God
     for itt, this seven and twentyeth day of Aprill, in the yeare
     of our Lord God 1667, for the quieting of my conscience, desire
     to settle that estate it has pleased God to lend mee, in manner
     and forme following;--And first of all, I commend my soul into
     the hands of ye Almighty God my Maker, and my Saviour and
     Redeemer Christ Jesus, being confident through his meritts and
     blood shedd for mee, to be an inheritor with Him, His saints
     and angells of everlasting life. And my body unto ye earthe
     from whence it came, there to receive decent burial in _the old
     parish church of Kigquotan_ aforesaid," &c.

"The _old_ parish church of Kigquotan," and "ye _new_ church of
Kighotan," cannot be one and the same. We are then led to inquire,
_where_ was the old parish church of Kigquotan, and _when_ was it
probably built? The last branch of this question, we prefer answering
first. By reference to the administration of Sir Thomas Yeardley (not
Sir George Yeardley), we find that, in 1621, among several other
Colonial enactments, provision is made for the _erection_ of a "_house
of worship, and the separation of a burial ground on every plantation_."
We presume, therefore, that it was about this time (1621-2) that the
first church of Kigquotan was erected, and we have not forgotten
the _churchwardens_ of 1644. And now, in answer to the other
question--_where_ was this church built?--we have only to turn our
footsteps to the "_Pembroke Farm_" (the property of John Jones, Esq.),
about one mile from the town of Hampton, and, as we there take our stand
among the few remaining tombs, shout "Eureka, Eureka!" Whether the old
parish church of Kigquotan was of wood, or of brick, we cannot at this
day determine. "Like the baseless fabric of a vision" it has
disappeared; but we opine it was wooden, from the fact, that the first
church (and probably the second also) in Jamestown (both of which were
destroyed by fire) was a wooden one; and the presumption is, the first
brick church erected would be at the _capital_ of the colony. However
this may be, the burial ground at Pembroke could not have been simply a
piece of ground, "bought with the field of Ephron the Hittite, for a
possession of a burying place" for a family; but that it was a _public_
cemetery, even that of the old parish church of Kigquotan, is evident
from the _character_ of the tombs which are still to be seen _above the
surface of the earth_. That there are many covered over with the
deposits of years, I have not the slightest doubt. Those tombs, we now
see, give the best evidence, in their inscriptions, that those whose
remains moulder beneath the moss-grown marbles, were not private
individuals--not members of the family owning the estate--but men in
public service, and who would not have been laid in an obscure private
burial ground, when the church-yard of the new church of Kigquotan was
but a mile distant from the spot. Moreover, it will be perceived by the
inscriptions which we shall presently give, that one of the sleepers at
Pembroke was "_minister of this parish_." Now, is it probable, that the
minister of the parish would have been buried _there_, if it had not
been a _church_-yard, when there was the new church of Kigquotan to
receive his remains, as it was fifty-two years before, to receive those
of Mr. Nicholas Baker? I have no doubt that veneration for the old
cemetery, the site of the first church of the parish, caused many to
bury their dead there, long after the present church-yard was opened.
The oldest tomb we can find in the church-yard at Hampton, and standing
in the northeast angle of the Cross, is to the memory of Captain Willis
Wilson, who departed this life the 19th day of November, 1701. The
latest date upon the stones at Pembroke is 1719. "The lapse of years,
and the ruthless hand of time," have levelled those graves in "ye old
parish church of Kigquotan;" but enough is left to the "tomb searcher,"
even in the inscriptions following, as he reads them by the slanting
rays of the setting sun, and hears the low winds dirging in the pines,
and the moaning and sighing of the distant waves, to lead him to say
with Blair:

                "The time draws on
    When not a single spot of burial earth,
    Whether on land, or in the spacious sea,
    But must give back its long-committed dust
    Inviolate; and faithfully _shall these_
    Make up the full account."

The following coats-of-arms and inscriptions, are taken from four black
marble tablets, six feet high and three wide, lying in a field about one
mile from Hampton.

[Illustration]

     "Here lies ye body of JOHN NEVILLE, Esq., Vice Admiral of His
     Majesty's fleet, and Commander in chiefe of the Squadron
     cruising in ye West Indies, who dyed on board ye Cambridge, ye
     17 day of August, 1697, in ye ninth yeare of the Reign of King
     William ye third, aged 57 years."

[Illustration]

     "In hope of a Blessed Resurrection, here lies the body of
     THOMAS CURLE, gent.: who was born November 24, 1640, in the
     parish of St. Michaels, in Lewis, in the county of Sussex, in
     England, and dyed May 30, 1700.--When a few years are come then
     I shall goe the way whence I shall not return.--Job 16. 22."

A third inscription is as follows:

     "This stone was given by his Excellency FRANCIS NICHOLSON,
     Esq., Lieutenant and Govenour Generall of Virginia. In memory
     of PETER HAYMAN, Esqr., grandson to Sir Peter Hayman of
     Summerfield, in ye county of Kent, he was Collector of ye
     Customs in the Lower District of James River, and went
     voluntary on board ye King's shipp Shoreham, in pursuit of a
     pyrate, who greatly infested this coast. After he had behaved
     himselfe seven hours with undaunted courage, was killed with a
     small shott ye 29 day of Aprill, 1700, in ye engagement he
     stood next ye Gouvenour upon ye quarter deck, and was here
     honorably interred by his order."

And the last, which speaks for itself--

     "Here lyeth the body of the Reverend Mr. ANDREW THOMPSON, who
     was born at Stonehive, in Scotland, and was Minister of this
     Parish seven years, and departed this life the 11 of September,
     1719, in ye 46 yeare of his age, leaving ye character of a
     sober religious man."

The above is followed on the tomb by a long Latin inscription, which has
been so mutilated by some modern Goth, or Goths, that it is impossible
to decipher it intelligibly.

We could fill pages with interesting memoranda from the history of old
parishes in Virginia, but a few more, in relation to the present
subject, must close our article at this time. Should this be received
with favor, perhaps the writer may make more diligent efforts to rescue,
from the perishing records of County Courts, and crumbling stones, and
family relics, _materiel_ for the future historian of the Church, to
weave into his song of her progress in our "own green forest land,"
"from gloom to glory." A closer inspection of the records will doubtless
enable him to trace an "unbroken succession," of parish ministers from
1621 to the present time. The following, however, is as near as can now
be ascertained:--In 1664, Rev. Mr. Mallory; who was succeeded, in 1665,
by Rev. Mr. Justinian Aylmere; succeeded, in 1667, by Rev. Mr. Jeremiah
Taylor; succeeded, in 1677, by Rev. Mr. John Page, who left the colony
about 1687; succeeded, in 1687, by Rev. Mr. Cope Doyley; in 1712, Rev.
Mr. Andrew Thompson, who died 1719; in 1731, Rev. Mr. William Fife, who
died in 1756; succeeded, in 1756, by Rev. Thomas Warrington, who died
1770; succeeded, in 1771, by Rev. William Selden, who either died, or
resigned, in 1783; succeeded, in 1783, by Rev. William Nixon. The
vestry-book here is defaced for some years, owing, I presume, to the
fact that in the change in the Church, from that of England, to the
Protestant Episcopal Church in the United States, begun in 1783,
consummated in 1787, and the first convention in Philadelphia, July 28,
1789, with Bishops presiding, of our own, this parish did not procure a
minister during that period; but the following inscription, on a stone
near the east entrance to the church, will show that very soon after the
change spoken of above, the parish was blessed with regular rectoral
services:

     "Sacred to the memory of the Rev. JOHN JONES SPOONER, Rector of
     the Church in Elizabeth City County; who departed this life
     September 15, 1799, aged forty-two years."

And then to the right of the door entering from the east, another
bearing the following:

     "Departed this life, January 17, 1806, the Rev. BENJAMIN BROWN,
     Rector of Elizabeth City Parish, aged thirty-nine years."

On November 17, 1806, the vestry elected the Rev. Robert Seymour Sims,
and August 11, 1810, they elected the Rev. George Holson. During the
last war with Great Britain (1813), Hampton was sacked, its inhabitants
pillaged--one of its aged citizens sick and infirm, wantonly murdered in
the arms of his wife--and other crimes committed by hireling soldiers,
and by brutalized officers, over which the chaste historian must draw a
veil. The church of God itself was not spared during the saturnalia of
lust and violence. His temple was profaned, and His altars desecrated.
What British ruthlessness had left scathed and prostrate, was soon
looked upon with neglect. The moles and the bats held their revels
undisturbed within its once hallowed courts, and the "obscene owl
nestled and brought forth in the ark of the covenant." The church in
which our fathers worshipped, stabled the horse and stalled the ox. The
very tombs of the dead, sacred in all lands, became a slaughter ground
of the butcher, and an arena for pugilistic contests. A few faithful
ones wept when they remembered Zion, in her day of prosperity, and
beheld her in her hour of homeless travail, and to their cry, "How long,
oh Lord how long!" the following preamble, accompanying a subscription
list, tells the story of her woes, and breathes the language of her
returning hope:

     "Whereas, from a variety of circumstances, the Episcopal Church
     in the town of Hampton, is in a state of dilapidation, and will
     ere long moulder into ruins, unless some friendly hand be
     extended to its relief, and in the opinion of the vestry, the
     only method that can be pursued to accomplish the laudable
     design of restoring it to the order in which our forefathers
     bequeathed it to their children, is to resort to subscription;
     and they do earnestly solicit pecuniary aid from all its
     friends in the full belief, that an appeal will not be made in
     vain. And hoping that God will put it into the hearts of the
     people to be benevolently disposed toward our long neglected
     Zion."

This bears date April 28, 1826.

A committee of the citizens of Hampton was appointed to wait on the
venerable Bishop Moore, "to solicit his advice upon the best manner of
repairing the Protestant Episcopal Church in Hampton, and beg of him his
particular aid and patronage in carrying into effect the same." The
letter below will show how that "old man eloquent," felt on the subject.
It is not among the Bishop's published letters, and is without date:

     "MY DEAR BRETHREN:--My long confinement at the north prevented
     my reception of your letter, until very lately; and the
     feebleness of my frame, since my return, must apologize to you
     for any apparent neglect which has attended my reply. It will
     afford me the greatest pleasure to assist you with my counsel
     in the reorganization of your church, and with that purpose in
     view, I will endeavor to visit Hampton in a short time, of
     which you shall be duly notified, when we can converse at large
     on the subject proposed for my consideration. To see that
     temple repaired in which the former inhabitants of Hampton
     worshipped God, and to see you placed under the care of a
     faithful and judicious clergyman, will inspire my mind with the
     greatest delight. May the Almighty smile on the proposed
     design, and carry it into full and complete effect. Believe me,
     gentlemen, very affectionately, your friend and pastor,

     RICHARD CHANNING MOORE."

The citizens and friends of the church were blessed with the energetic
aid of the Rev. Mark L. Chivers, chaplain at Fortress Monroe, who for
several years officiated once on each Sabbath in Hampton. It is not
saying too much when we assert that mainly through his efforts, the
church was resuscitated. The present rector, the writer of this, with
pleasure makes this acknowledgment.

With the zeal and energy which were brought to bear, the results were
most favorable; and on Friday morning, the 8th of January, 1830, a crowd
might have been seen wending its way to those venerable walls. A rude
staging was erected for the prominent actors, and on that platform knelt
a white-haired soldier of the cross, the venerable Bishop of Virginia,
his face radiant with "faith, hope, and charity." The ritual of the
church was heard once more in that old pile, and in answer to the
invitation, "Oh, come, let us sing unto the Lord, let us heartily
rejoice in the strength of our salvation," there might soon have been
heard those beautiful words:

    "And wilt thou, O Eternal God,
    On earth establish thy abode?
    Then look propitious from thy throne,
    And take this temple for thine own."

In the archives of the church the event is thus recorded:

     "Know all men by these presents, that we, Richard Channing
     Moore, D.D., by Divine permission, Bishop of the Protestant
     Episcopal Church in the Diocese of Virginia, did consecrate to
     the service of Almighty God, on Friday, January 8th, in the
     year of our Lord 1880, St. John's Church, in the town of
     Hampton, Elizabeth City County. In which church the services of
     the Protestant Episcopal Church are to be performed agreeably
     to rubrics in such case made and provided. It is always to be
     remembered, that Saint John's Church thus consecrated and set
     apart to the worship of Almighty God, is by the act of
     consecration thus performed, separated from all worldly and
     unhallowed uses, and to be considered sacred to the service of
     the _Holy and undivided Trinity_.

     "In testimony whereof, I have on the day and year above
     written, subscribed my hand and affixed my seal.

     [Seal.] RICHARD CHANNING MOORE."

The Rev. Mr. Chivers having resigned his afternoon appointment, after
officiating for sixteen years, and ministering to them in their day of
destitution, the Rev. John P. Bausman was elected Rector in 1843, and
resigned in 1845; the Rev. William H. Good was elected in 1845, and
continued until the close of 1848; and the parish remained without
regular rectoral services, until the 1st of January, 1851, when the
writer took charge; since which time an organ (the first one) has been
put up, new pews have been added, and money enough obtained to make
permanent and comfortable repairs. If the design of the true friends of
the church, to make it a temple in which generations to come may worship
God in comfort, fail, the fault and the punishment will lie with those
who "knew their duty and did it not."

FOOTNOTES:

[C] De Quincey.

[D] See Wilberforce's History of the American Church.

[E] Burke Hist. Va.

[F] Stanton's Church Dictionary.

[G] This Jeremy Taylor was very unlike his illustrious namesake, the
Bishop of Down and Conner, for I find by the records, that he was any
thing else but a man of "holy living," whatever else he might have been
when "dying." J C. M.




BROODING-PLACES ON THE FALKLAND ISLANDS.

TRANSLATED FOR THE INTERNATIONAL FROM THE GERMAN.


By the name of "brooding-places," the navigators of the south seas
understand places selected by various sea-fowls, where they in common
build their nests, lay their eggs, and bring up their young. Here they
assemble in immense masses, and in the laying out and construction of
these places, exhibit great caution, judgment, and industry.

When a sufficient number have assembled on the shore, they appear first
to hold a consultation, and then to set about executing the great
purpose for which they have come together. First, they choose out a
level spot of sufficient extent, often of four or five acres, near the
beach. In this they avoid ground that is too stony, which would be
dangerous to their eggs. Next, they deliberate on the plan of their
future camp, after which they lay out distinctly a regular
parallelogram, offering room enough for the brother and sisterhood,
somewhere from one to five acres. One side of the place is bounded by
the sea, and is always left open for entrance and exit; the other three
sides are inclosed with a wall of stones and roots.

These industrious feathered workers first of all remove from the place
all obstacles to their design; they take up the stones with their bills
and carry them to the boundaries to compose the wall. Within this wall
they build a perfectly smooth and even foot-path some six or eight feet
wide, which is used by day as a public promenade, and by night for the
back and forward march of the sentinels.

After they have in this way completed their embankments on the three
landward sides, they lay out the remaining part of the interior into
equal little quadrangles, separated from each other by narrow
foot-paths, crossing at right angles. In each crossing of these paths an
albatross builds his nest, and in the middle of each quadrangle, a
penguin, so that every albatross is surrounded by four penguins, and
every penguin has albatross on four sides as neighbors. In this way the
whole place is regularly occupied, and only at some distance are places
left free for other sea-fowl, such as the green comorant and the
so-called Nelly.

Though the penguin and albatross live so near and in such intimacy they
not only build their nests in very different fashions, but the penguin
plunders the nest of its friend whenever it has an opportunity. The nest
of the penguin is a simple hollow in the ground, just deep enough to
keep its eggs from rolling out, while the albatross raises a little hill
of earth, grass, and muscles, eight or ten inches high, with the
diameter of a water pail, and builds its nest on the top, whence it
looks down on its next neighbors and friends.

None of the nests in the entire brooding-place is left vacant an instant
until the eggs are hatched, and the young ones old enough to take care
of themselves. The male bird goes to the sea for fish, and when he has
satisfied his hunger hurries back and takes the place of the female,
while she in turn goes in pursuit of food. Even when they are changing
places, they know how to manage it so as not to leave their eggs for a
moment uncovered. When, for instance, the male comes back from fishing,
he nestles close beside the female and gradually crowds her off the nest
with such care as to cover the eggs completely with his feathers without
exposing them to the air at all. In this way they guard their eggs
against being stolen by the other females, which are so greedy to raise
large families that they seize every chance to rob the surrounding
nests. The royal penguin is exceedingly cunning in this sort of trick,
and never loses an occasion that is offered: In this way it often
happens that the brood of this bird, on growing up turns out to be of
two or three different species, a sure proof that the parents were no
honester than their neighbors.

It is not only interesting but instructive and even touching to watch
from a little distance the life and movements of these brooding-places.
You can then see the birds walking up and down the exterior path or
public promenade in pairs, or even four, six, or eight together, looking
very like officers promenading on a parade day. Then all at once, the
whole brooding-place is in continuous commotion, a flock of the penguins
come back from the sea and waddle rapidly along through the narrow
paths, to greet their mates after this brief separation; another company
are on the way to get food for themselves or to bring in provisions. At
the same time the cove is darkened by an immense cloud of albatrosses,
that continually hover above the brooding-place, descending from their
excursions or mounting into the air to go upon them. One can look at
these birds for hours, and not grow weary of gazing, observing and
wondering at their busy social life.




ARIADNE.

WRITTEN FOR THE INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE

BY E. W. ELLSWORTH.


                 I.

     [Scene, part of the island of Naxos. Enter, sundry Dryads,
     habited as fair young maidens adorned with flowers, and bearing
     in their hands branches of trees.]

    _Dryad_: We shadowy Oceanides,
    Jove's warders of the island trees,
    The tufted pillars tall and stout,
    And all the bosky camp about,
    Maintain our lives in sounding shades
    Of old æolian colonnades;
    But post about the neighbor land
    In woof of insubstantial wear:
    Our ways are on the water sand,
    Our joy is in the desert air.
    The very best of our delights
    Are by the moon of summer nights.
    Darkness to us is holiday:
    When winds and waves are up at play,
    When, on the thunder-beaten shore,
    The swinging breakers split and roar,
    Then is the moment of our glory,
    In shadow of a promontory,
    To trip and skip it to and fro,
    Even as the flashing bubbles go.
    Or on the bleaker banks that lie,
    For the salt seething wash, too high,
    Where rushes grow so sparse and green,
    With baked and barren floors between.
    We glance about in mazy quire,
    With much of coming and retire;
    Nor let the limber measure fail,
    Till, down behind the ocean bed,
    The night dividing star is sped,
    And Cynthia stoops the marish vale,
    Wound in clouds and vigil pale,
    Trailing the curtains of the west
    About her ample couch of rest.
    Thus, nightly on, we lead the year
    Through all the constellated sphere.
    But more obscure, in brakes and bowers,
    During the sun-appointed hours,
    We lodge, and are at rest, and see,
    Dimly, the day's festivity,
    Nor hail the spangled jewel set
    Upon Aurora's coronet;
    Nor trail in any morning dew;
    Nor roam the park, nor tramp the pool
    Of lucid waters pebble cool,
    Nor list the satyr's far halloo.
    Noon, and the glowing hours, seem
    Mutations of a laboring dream.
    Yet subject, still, to Jove's decree,
    That governs, from the Olympian doors,
    The populous and lonely shores,
    We do a work of destiny;
    When any mortal, sorely spent,
    Girt with the thorns of discontent,
    Or care, or hapless love, invades,
    This ancient neighborhood of shades,
    Our gracious leave is to dispense,
    Of woods, the slumbrous influence;
    The waverings and the murmurings
    Of umber shades and leafy wings;
    Through all the courts of sense applying,
    With sights, and sounds, and odorous sighing,
    To the world-wearied soul of man,
    The gentle universal Pan--
    As now we must: the roots around,
    Of forests clutch a certain sound
    Of weary feet; go, sisters, out:
    Some one is pining, hereabout.


                II.

    [Another part of the Island. Enter Ariadne.]

    _Ariadne_: Here, in the heart of this sea-moated isle,
    Where we, but last night, made a summer's lodge
    Of transient rest from many pendulous days
    Of swinging on the sick unquiet deep,
    Why left he me, so lone, so unattended?
    What converse had he with felonious Night,
    That underneath her dark consenting cloak,
    He stole unchallenged from his Ariadne?
    If, out of hope, I cannot answer that,
    Slant-eyed Conjecture at my elbow stands,
    To whisper me of things I would not hear.
    Ah me, my Theseus, wherefore art thou gone!
    Ah me, my Theseus, whither art thou gone!
    Oh how shall I, an unacquainted maid,
    So uninformed of whereabout I am,
    And in a wild completely solitary,
    Hope to find out my strangely absent lord!
    Sadness there is, and an unquiet fear,
    Within my heart, to trace these hereabouts
    Of idle woods, unthreaded labyrinths,
    Rude mannered brooks, unpastured meadow sides,
    All vagrant, voiceless, pathless, echoless,
    Oh for the farthest breath of mortal sound!
    From lacqueyed hall, or folded peasant hut,--
    Some noontide echo sweetly voluble;
    Some song of toil reclining from the heat,
    Or low of kine, or neigh of tethered steeds,
    Or honest clamor of some shepherd dog,
    Laughter, or cries, or any living breath,
    To make inroad upon this dreariness.
    Methinks no shape of savage insolence,
    No den unblest, nor hour inopportune,
    Could daunt me now, nor warn my maiden feet
    From friendly parle, that am distract of heart,
    With doubt, desertion, utter loneliness.
    Death would I seek to run from lonely fear,
    And deem a hut a heaven, with company.
    Yea, now to question of my true heart's lord,
    And of the ports and alleys of this isle,
    Which way they lead the clueless wanderer
    To fields suburban, and the towers of men,
    I would confront the strangest things that haunt
    In horrid shades of brooding desolation:
    Griffin, or satyr, sphinx, or sybil ape,
    Or lop-eared demon from the dens of night,
    Let loose to caper out of Acheron.
    Ah me, my Theseus, wherefore art thou gone!
    Who left that crock of water at my side?
    Who stole my dog that loved no one but me?
    Why was the tent unstruck, I unawaked,
    I left, most loved, and last to be forgotten
    By much obtaining, much indebted Theseus?
    Left to sleep on, to dream and slumber on;
    Nothing to know, save fancies of the air,
    While he, so strangly covert in his thoughts,
    Was softly stirring to be gone from me.
    Ah me, my Theseus, whither art thou gone!
    Hast thou, in pleasant sport, deserted me?
    Is it a whim, a jest, a trick of task,
    To mesh me in another labyrinth?
    Could Theseus so make mirth of Ariadne?
    Unless he did, I would not think he could.
    And yet I will believe he is in jest.
    More false than that, he could not be to me,
    Since false to me, to his own self were false.
    Now do I hold in hope what I have heard,
    That love will sometimes cunning masks put on,
    Speak with strange tongues, and wear odd liveries,
    Transform himself to seemings most unlike,
    And still be love in fearful opposites.
    So may it be, but my immediate fear
    Jostles that hope aside, and I remember
    Of what my tutor Ætion did forewarn me.
    Oh fond old man! if thou didst know me here,
    Thou wouldst move heaven and earth to have me home.
    Much was his care of my uncaring youth,
    And, with a reverend and considerate wit,
    He curbed the frolic of my pupilage,
    Less by the bridle, than the feeding it
    With stories ending in moralities,
    With applications and similitudes
    Tacked to the merest leaf I looked upon,
    Till, so it was, we two did love each other,
    The sage and child, with mutual amity.
    Oft, hand in hand, we passed my father's gate,
    At evening, when the horizontal day
    Chequered his farewell on the western wall;
    Shying the court, where, for the frolic lords,
    Under the profaned silence of the rose,
    The syrinx, and the stringed sonorous shell,
    Governed the twinkling heeled Terpischore.
    We softly went and turned towards the bay,
    And found another world, contemplative
    Of shells and pebbles by the ocean shore.
    I do remember, once, on such an eve,
    Pacing the polished margin of the deep,
    We found two weeds that had embraced each other,
    And talked of friendship, love and sympathy.
    _My pupil sweet,_ said he, _beware of Love:
    For thou wilt shortly be besieged by him,
    From the four winds of heaven, because thou art
    Daughter of Minos, and already married
    To expectation of a royal dower.
    But O beware! for, listen what I say,
    By strong presentments I have moved thy father
    Bating a fair and well intending nay,
    To leave thy love to thine unmuffled eye.
    This is rare scope, my girl, O use it rarely,
    Be slow and nice in thy sweet liberty,
    And let discretion honor thee in choice.
    For love is like a cup with dregs at bottom!
    Hand it with care, and pleasant it shall be--
    Snatch it, and thou may'st find its bitterness._
    And now, my soon, my all sufficient lord,
    How shall I answer old Sir Oracle?
    It is too true that I have snatched my love,
    And taste already of its bitterness.
      But trifle not with love, my sportful Theseus.
    Affection, when it bears an outward eye,
    Be it of love, or social amity,
    Or open-lidded general charity,
    Becomes a holy universal thing--
    The beauty of the soul, which, therein lodged,
    Surpasses every outward comeliness--
    Makes fanes of shaggy shapes, and, of the fair,
    Such presences as fill the gates of heaven.
    Why is the dog, that knows no stint of heart,
    But roars a welcome like an untamed bear,
    And leaps a dirty-footed fierce caress,
    More valued than the sleek smooth mannered cat,
    That will not out of doors, whoever comes,
    But hugs the fire in graceful idleness?
    Birds of a glittering gilt, that lack a tongue,
    Are shamed to drooping with the euphony
    Of fond expression, and the voice beneath
    The russet jacket of the soul of song.
    What is that girdle of the Queen of Love,
    Wherewith, as with the shell of Orpheus,
    Things high and humble, the enthroned gods,
    And tenants of the far unvisited huts
    Of wildernesses, she alike subdues
    Unto the awe of perfect harmony?
    What else but sweetness tempered all one way,
    And looks of sociable benignity?
    Which when she chooseth to be all herself,
    She doth put on, and in the act thereof,
    Such thousand graces lacquey her about,
    And in her smile such plenitude of joy--
    The extreme perfection of the divine gods--
    Shines affable, as, to partake thereof,
    Hath oftentimes set Heaven in uproar.
    By these, and many special instances,
    It doth appear, or may be plainly shown,
    That, of all life, affection is the savor--
    The soul of it--and beauty is but dross:
    Being but the outer iris--film of love,
    The fleeting shade of an eternal thing.
    Beauty--the cloudy mock of Tantalus;
    Daughter of Time, betrothèd unto Death,
    Who, all so soon as the lank anarch old
    Fingers her palm, and lips her for his bride,
    Suffers collapse, and straightway doth become
    A hideous comment of mortality.
    Know this, my lord, while thou dost run from me,
    The tide of true love hath its hours of ebb,
    If the attendant orb withdraw his light;
    And though there be a love as strong as death,
    There is a pride stronger than death or love;
    And whether 'tis that I am royal born,
    Or kingly blooded, or that once I was
    Sometimes a mistress in my father's court,
    I have of patience much--not overmuch--
    And thou hadst best beware the boundary.
    Oh thou too cruel and injurious thorn!
    What hast thou done to my poor innocent hand!
    Thou art like Theseus, thou dost make me bleed;
    Offenceless I, yet thou dost make me bleed.
    This scratch I shall remember well, my lord!
    Deceiver false! deserter! runaway!
    My quick-heeled slave! my loose ungrateful bird!
    Where'er thou art, or if thou hear or no,
    Know that thou art from this time given o'er,
    To tarry and return what time thou wilt.
    It is most like that thou dost lurk not far,
    In twilight of some envious cave or bower.
    Well, if thou dost--why--lurk thy heart's content.
    Poor rogue! thou art not worth this weariness.
    I will not flutter more, nor cry to thee.
    Since thou art fledged, and toppled from the nest,
    Go--pick thy crumbs where thou canst find them best.


                III.

    Once more, once more, O yet again once more,
    Spent is my breath with fear and weariness!
    Vain toil it is to track this tangled wild--
    This rank o'ergrown imprisoned solitude--
    Whose very flowers are fetters in my way;
    Where I am chained about with vines and briers,
    Led blindfold on through mazes tenantless,
    And not a friendly echo answers me.
    Oh for a foot as airy as the wing
    Of the young brooding dove, to overpass,
    On swift commission of my true heart's love,
    All metes and bournes of this lone wilderness:
    So should I quickly find my truant lord.
    But, as it is, I can no farther go.
    What shall I do? despair? lie down and die?
    If I give o'er my search I shall despair,
    And if I do despair, I quickly die.
    Avaunt Despair! I will not yet despair.
    Begone, grim herald of oblivious Death!
    Strong-pinioned Hope, embrace thy wings about me;
    Shake not my fingers from thy golden chain.
    Oh still bear up and pity Ariadne!
    Alas! what hope have I but only Theseus,
    And Theseus is not here to pity me.
    Ah me, my Theseus, whither art thou gone!
    Thou dost forget that thou hast called me wife,
    And with sweet influence of holy vows
    Grappled and grafted me unto thyself.
    Oh how shall I, not knowing where thou art,
    Be all myself--thou dost dissever me.
    Yonder I'll rest awhile, for now I see,
    Through meshes of the internetted leaves,
    A little plot, girt with a living wall;
    A sylvan chamber, that the frolic Pan
    Has built and bosomed with a leafy dome,
    And windowed with a narrow glimpse of heaven.
    Its floor, sky-litten with the noontide sun,
    Shows garniture of many colored flowers,
    More dainty than the broidered webs of Tyre;
    And all about, from beeches, oaks and pines,
    Recesses deep of vernal solitude,
    Come sounds of calm that woo my ruffled spirits
    To a resigned and quiet contemplation.
    Yond brook, that, like a child, runs wide astray,
    Sings and skips on, nor knows its loneliness;
    A squirrel chatters at a doorless nut:
    A hammer bird drums on his hollow bark;
    And bits of winged life, with aëry voices,
    Tinkle like fountains in a corridor.
    Fair haunt of peace, ye quiet cadences,
    Ye leafy caves of sadness and sweet sounds,
    That have no feeling nor a fellowship
    With the rash moods of terror and of pain,
    I did not think ye could, in such an hour,
    So steal from me, as in a sleep, a dream--
    What is't that comes between me and the light?
    Protect me, Jove! Lo, what untended flowers,
    That all night long, like little wakeful babes,
    Darkly repine, and weep themselves asleep,
    In the orient morning lift their pretty eyes,
    Tear smiling, to behold the sun their sire
    Enter the gilded chambers of the east--
    Strange droopingness! What quality of air?

    [Ariadne falls asleep.--Enter, the Dryads, as before.]

    _1st Dryad_: Sprinkle out of flower bells
    Mortal sense entrapping spells;
      Make no sound
      On the ground;
    Strew and lap and lay around.
      Gnat nor snail
      Here assail,
    Beetle, slug, nor spider here,
      Now descend,
      Nor depend,
    Off from any thorny spear.

    _2d Dryad_: So conclude. Whatever seems,
    We have her in a chain of dreams.

    _3d Dryad_: As fair as foreign! Who is here
    In disarray of princely gear?
    Here were a lass whose royal port
    Might make an awe in Heaven's court;
    But sorrowing beauty testifies
    In tears that journey from her eyes,
    To touches of interior pain;
    And on her hand a sanguine stain.
    Hair unlooped and sandals torn,
    Zone unloosened from its bourne;
    Surely some wandering bride of Sorrow.

    _4th Dryad_: So let her sleep, and bid good morrow.

    _1st Dryad_: But, sisters, me it doth astound,
    What maid it is that we have bound,
    And Bacchus not, nor Ceres found.

    _2d Dryad_: Bacchus has gone to Arcady;
    Where certain swains, that merry be,
    Have found a happy thunder stone,
    That Jove has cast the vale upon;
    So take occasion to be blest,
    And Bacchus was invited guest.
    His shaggy crew have helped the plan.
    Silenus made the pipes of Pan,
    The Satyrs teased the vines about,
    And Bacchus sent a lubber lout,
    Who lurked, and stole, ere wink of moon,
    The heedless Amalthea's horn.
    Now all are gone to Arcady,
    Head bent on rousing jollity.
    Now riot rout will be, anon,
    That shall the very sun aston,
    By waters whilst, and on the leas,
    Under the old fantastic trees.
    The oldest swain with longest cane,
    And sad experience in his brain,
    On such mad mirth shall fail to wink,
    And grimly go aside to think.

    _3d Dryad_: But, cedar-cinctured sister, say,
    What news has winged our Queen away?

    _2d Dryad_: Ceres has gone to see the feast
    Made by the King of all East;
    Who breasts a beard so black and fair;
    And breathes a wealth of gorgeous air,
    Now all divided with Gulnare--
    Whose odorous train came up from far,
    Last night, at shut of evening star,
    And filled, with pomp majestical,
    The gardens and the palace hall.
    So Ceres runs to give them aid,
    In likeness of an Indian maid--
    Presents them each a dove apiece,
    And wishes blessing and increase.

    _3d Dryad_: Hark! hark! I hear her rolling car.
    Our Queen is not so very far.

    _4th Dryad_: Now make your faces long, I ween
    Here comes our sweet majestic Queen.

     [Enter Ceres, in likeness of a stately woman, bearing poppies
     and ears of wheat in her hands, and crowned with a wreath of
     flowers and berries.]

    _Ceres_: What! loose, and chatting here at play,
    All in the broad and staring day!
    Why children! this is something queer!

    _1st Dryad:_ But, mistress, see the sleeper here.

    _Ceres:_ A fair excuse, I own, the sight!
    Theseus deserted her last night.

    _2d Dryad:_ How knew you that, my lady dear?

    _Ceres:_ Well sought--for I was far from here:
    Whiles o'er the crisp Ionian main
    I shook the winnowed dragon rein--

    _3d Dryad:_ Invented error! Sister! fie!
    Our Queen has trapped you in a lie.

    _2d Dryad:_ A lie!

    _Ceres_ A lie?

    _3d Dryad:_ Deceit forgets
    How Truth is always trailing nets.
    While you, sweet Empress, berry crowned,
    Were on the Ionian westward bound,
    Our sister puffed you towards the east,
    With words about a wedding feast.

    _Ceres_ How thin a bubble blame may be!
    I sought for doves in Italy;
    But orient was my main intent,
    And on an Indian nuptial bent.

    _2d Dryad:_ Now honey-lips, the lie is where?

    _4th Dryad:_ She weeps--

    _2d Dryad:_ Fool fingered thing!--

    _Ceres_ Forbear.
    Whiles o'er the crisp Ionian main
    I shook the winnowed dragon rein,
    A Triton clove the wake behind,
    And, with a hailing will, did wind
    Such parley through his crankled horn,
    As all the air was echo torn.
    I stayed--he told what did betide
    Of truant Theseus and his bride;
    Which having heard, I did repair
    Unto that subterranean lair
    Wherein the dreadful Sisters three
    Vex out the threads of destiny,
    But they were sorely overtasked;
    So techy, too, that when I asked
    If he could not be plagued for this
    Unloving piece of business,
    With knots and burs upon his thread,
    They would not speak, nor lift the head:
    Yet saw I how his flax did run
    Smoothly, and much is yet unspun.

    _4th Dryad:_ Sweet Queen, adieu--come, let's away,
    We keep no sunshine holiday.

    _Ceres_ Stay, children, stay.
    Poor things! I do remember me,
    How I did seek Proserpiné.
    We must not leave her thus forlorn:
    Auroral grace in her is born,
    And, rarer else, the finest sense
    Of feeling and intelligence.
    Mortals of such ethereal grain
    Are quickened both for joy and pain;
    Theirs is the affluence of joy,
    And pain that sorely doth annoy.
    And, therefore, if we leave her thus,
    To find the truth of Theseus,
    She will, with such a madness burn,
    And do herself so sad a turn,
    As that the very thought erewhile,
    Will drive us all to quit the isle.

    _1st Dryad:_ Alack! O no! What must be done?

    _Ceres_ Go, you, and you, and every one--
    To stay such heart distracting harm,
    Go, each bring flowers upon her arm:
    Pink, pansy, poppy, pimpernell,
    Acanthus, almond, asphodel.

    [The Dryads disperse and gather flowers with which they return
     to Ceres.]

    _Ceres_ Now all join hands; [They join hands.]
                             Fair fall the eyes
    Of any weary destinies!
    I bruise these flowers, and so set free
    Their virtue for adversity.
    Then, with my unguent finger tips,
    Touch twice and once on cheeks and lips.
    When this sweet influence comes to naught,
    Vexed she shall be, but not distraught.
    And now let music winnow thought:
    Bucolic sound of horn and flute,
    In distant echo nearly mute.
    Then louder borne, and swelling near,
    Make bolder murmur in her ear.

    _2d Dryad:_ See, see, what change is in her face:

    _Ceres_ Break hands, the lady wakes apace.

    [Ceres and the Dryads loose hands and disappear.]


                IV.

    _Ariadne:_ I dreamed a dream of sadness and the sea,
    And I will turn again, if yet I may,
    To where the rolling rondure of the deep
    Broadly affront the sky's infinity.
    Sleeping or waking, knew I naught but this;
    Sorrow and Love, above a desolate main,
    From the sheer battlements of opposite clouds,
    Kissed, and embraced, and parted company....
      This is the self-same bay where we put in,
    Yonder the restless keel did gore the sand.
    There was the sailor's fire, and up and down,
    Are scattered mangled ropes, splinters, and spars,
    Fragments and shreds--but ship and all are gone.
      Here is my wreath. How brief, since yester eve,
    Then, when the sun, like an o'erthirsty god,
    Had stooped his brows behind the ocean brim,
    And the west wind, bearing his martial word,
    The limber-footed and the courier west,
    Went smoothly whist over the furrowed floor,
    To bid the night, then gazing up the sphere,
    Advance his constellated banners there,
    I leaned above the vessel's whispering prow,
    With an unusual joy, and drink, from out
    The heaven of those true repeated depths,
    Infinite calm, as though I did commune
    With the still spirit of the universe.
    So leaning, from my hair did I unwind
    This chain of flowers, and dropped it in the sea;
    Blessing that twilight hour, the port, the bay,
    The deep dim isle of interlunar woods,
    My love, and all the world, and naming them
    Waters of rest--now lies my garland here.
      What words are these thus furrowed on the shore?
    These are the very turns of Theseus' hand:

        If from thy hook the fish to water fall,
        Think not to catch that fish again at all.

    Too well my thought unlocks these cruel lines.
    Oh drench of grief! I thank ye, piteous powers,
    Who sent not this without forewarning drops.
    Oh miserable me! distressful me!
    Despised, disdained, deserted, desolate:
    Oh world of dew! Oh morning water drops!
    Lack-lustre, irksome, dull mortality!
    Oh now, oh now, that heaven all is black,
    Wherein the rainbow of my joy did stand!
    Oh love! oh life! oh life entire in love!
    All lost, all gone, or just so little left
    As is not worth the care to throw away!
    All lost, all gone, wrecked, rifted, sunk, devoured:
    Wrecked with false lights on Theseus' rocky heart!
    Oh man, perverse, dry-eyed, untender man,
    Enchanting man, so sleek so serpent-cold!
    Was it for this that thou didst swear to me,
    By all the gods in the three worlds at once,
    That thou didst love distractedly, and I,
    With certain tender and ingenuous tears,
    Did presently confess to thee as much?
    Was it for this, that I, who had a home,
    Like an Elysium in the lap of Crete,
    Did beckon buffets, and, for thee, did dare
    The rough unknown and outside of the world?
    Was it for this that thou didst hither bring me,
    Unto this isle of thorny loneliness,
    And, in the night, without foreargued cause,
    Any aggrievance, any allegation,
    Didst, like a coward traitor, run from me?
    Thou man of snow! thou art assailed by this--
    Be sure of it--thou art begrimed as black
    As if thou hadst been hanged a thousand years
    Under the murky cope of Pluto's den.
    Oh agony! but thou shalt know my soul,
    Which gropes for daggers at the thought of this.
    Yea, from the day-beams of adoring love,
    Goes headlong to as vast a reprobation.
    Thou, Theseus, wast a cloud, and I a cloud,
    Quickened from thee with such pervading flame,
    As that thou canst not now so part from me
    Without the fiery iterance of my heart.
    Hear, hear me, love, who on the swathèd tops
    Of ribbed Olympus, and thy steadfast throne,
    Dost sit the sùpreme judge of gods and men,
    And bear within thy palm the living bolt,
    High o'er the soilèd air of this wan world;
    Look on yon helot wretch, and, wheresoe'er,
    Coursing what sea, or cabled in what port,
    The greatness of thine eye may light on him,
    Crush him with thunder!
    Thou, too, great Neptune of the lower deeps,
    Heave thy wet head up from the monstrous sea;
    Advance thy trident high as to the clouds,
    And with a not to be repeated blow,
    Dash the sin-freighted ship of that rash man!
    And thou, old iron-sceptred Eolus,
    Shatter the bars of thine enclosed winds;
    Unhinge the doors of thy great kennel house,
    And 'twixt the azure and the roaring deep
    Cry out thy whole inflated Strongyle--
    Cry ruin on that man!
                         But wherefore, thus,
    Do I invoke the speedy desolation
    Of any mighty magisterial soul,
    Whose will is weaponed with the elements!
    For oh--
    Let the great spies of Jove, the sun and moon,
    The stars, and all the expeditious orbs
    That in their motions are retributive,
    Look blindly on, and seem to take no note
    Of any deep and deadly stab of sin--
    Let vengeance gorge a gross Cerberean sop,
    Grovel and snore in swinish sluggardness,
    Yea, quite forget his dagger and his cup--
    It is enough, for any retribution,
    That guilt retain remembrance of itself.
    Guilt is a thing, however bolstered up,
    That the great scale-adjusting Nemesis,
    And Furies iron-eyed, will not let sleep.
    Sail on unscarred--thou canst not sail so far,
    But that the gorgon lash of vipers fanged
    Shall scourge this howler home to thee again.
    Yes, yes, rash man, Jove and myself do know
    That from this wrong shall rouse an Anteros,
    Fierce as an Atë, with a hot right hand,
    That shall afflict thee with the touch of fire,
    Till, scorpion-like, thou turn and sting thyself.
    What dost thou think--that I shall perish here,
    Gnawed by the tooth of hungry savageness?
    Think what thou list, and go what way thou wilt.
    I, that have truth and heaven on my side,
    Though but a weak and solitary woman,
    Forecast no fear of any violence--
    But thou, false hound! thou would'st not dare come back,
    Thou would'st not like to feel my eyes again.
    Go get thee on, to Argos get thee on;
    And let thy ransomed Athens run to thee,
    With portal arms, wide open to her heart--
    To stifling hug thee with triumphant joy.
    Thou canst not wear such bays, thou canst not so
    O'erpeer the ancient and bald heads of honor,
    That I would have the back or follow thee.
    Let nothing but thy shadow follow thee;
    Thy shadow is to thee a curse enough;
    For thou hast done a murder on thyself.
    Thou hast put on the Nessus' fiery hide.
    Thou hast stepped in the labyrinths of woe,
    And in thy fingers caught the clue to Death.
    What solace have the gods for such as thou,
    That is not stabbed by this one thrust through me?
    From this black hour, this curse anointing hour,
    The currents of thy heart are all corrupt;
    The motions of thy thoughts are serpentine;
    And thy death-doing and bedabbled soul
    Is maculate with spots of Erebus.
    Aye me!--and yet--Oh that I should say so!
    Thou wast a noble scroll of Beauty's pen,
    Where every turn was grandly charactered.
    Hadst thou a heart--but thou hadst no such thing--
    And having none, it was not thee I loved;
    Only my maiden thoughts were perfect, Theseus.
    O no, no, no, I never did love thee,
    Thou outside shell and carcase of a man.
    And I--what was it thou didst take me for?
    A paroquet of painted shallowness?
    A silly thing to whistle to and fro,
    And peck at plums, and then be whistled off?
    Oh, Theseus, Theseus, thou didst never know me--
    In this unworthy clasp of woman's mould,
    This poor outside of pliant prettiness,
    There was a heart and in that heart a love,
    And in that love there was an affluence
    Full as the ocean, infinite as time,
    Deep as the spring that never knew an ebb.
    Too truly feeling what I left for thee,
    And with what joy I left it all for thee,
    And how I would have only followed thee,
    With soul, mind, purpose, to the far world's end,
    I cannot think on thee as thou deservest,
    But scorn is drownéd in a well of tears;
    I will go sit and weep.--

     Note.--Theseus, a Grecian hero, according to ancient fable,
     made an expedition into Crete for the purpose of destroying the
     Minotaur, a monster which infested that island. While there he
     made love to Ariadne, (daughter of Minos the king of Crete) who
     returned his affection, assisted him in accomplishing the
     object of his expedition, and sailed with him on his return to
     Athens. She was, however, abandoned by Theseus at Naxos, an
     island in the Ægean sea held sacred to Bacchus. Bacchus
     received Ariadne hospitably, but afterwards he too ran away
     from her. We suspect (as perhaps our poem sufficiently
     indicates) that the root of Ariadne's misfortunes lay in
     certain infirmities of temper, which rendered her at times an
     uncomfortable companion.




THE FALLS OF THE BOUNDING DEER.

WRITTEN FOR THE INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE

BY ALFRED B. STREET.


"Good news! great discovery! new falls!" broke out in full chorus, boys
and girls, at a party given by Jobson, in Monticello.

"How did you happen to find them, Mayfield?" asked Allthings.

"I was fishing, and came upon them all at once. I heard a roar of some
waterfall or other, and the first I knew, I saw the chasm immediately
below me!"

"What was their appearance?"

"There were two falls quite precipitous, and two basins. From the second
basin the stream ran very smooth and placid again through a piece of
woodland."

"Good!--great!--new falls!" came anew the chorus.

"What is the name of the falls, Mayfield?" inquired Allthings once more.

"The people thereabouts call them Gumaer's Falls."

"Horrid!--too common!--awful! Sha'n't have such a name!" was again the
chorus.

"Let's give them a new one at once."

"Well, begin."

"Let us call them the Falls of the Melting Snow," suggested the
sentimental May Blossom.

"That would do in the spring, when the snow is really melting," said Joe
Jobson, a plain, practical young fellow, who never had a gleam of fancy
in his life; "but there's no snow there now, I reckon."

"What a heathen you are, Jobson!" broke in honest Allthings (who always
spoke out); "the name applies to the water, not the snow!"

"Why not the name of the Falls of the Silver Lace?" asked the tall,
superb Lydia Lydell, who was also given to poetry.

"Was there ever any lace made there?" again remarked Jobson.

"I move we call them by an Indian name," said Job Paddock, the
schoolmaster, who was deep in Indian lore. "Let us call them The
Kah-youk-weh-reh Ogh-ne-ka-nos, or, The Arrow Water, or The Water of the
Arrow; just as you fancy."

"Kaw--what?" again interrupted Jobson; "a real queer name
that--Kah-you-qweer-reh Oh-cane-my-nose!"

"Do hold your tongue, Jobson!" said Claypole, "you are enough to drive
one crazy!"

"Mr. Jobson is not much inclined to poetry, I believe," lisped May
Blossom, with a smile dimpling her beautiful mouth.

"Poetry is well enough in its place," grumbled Jobson; "in speaking
exercises, and so on; but what's poetry to do with naming falls of
water, I should like to know?"

"Let us call them Meadow Brook Falls," said beautiful Annie Mapes.

"There's no meadow in sight, and your brook is a torrent," said
Mayfield.

"Well, what _shall_ we call them?" burst out once more the full chorus.

"I think the best way is to go and see them first;" again grumbled
Jobson, not much relishing the idea of all the company turning against
him.

This was really the most practical remark yet made, as none of the
assemblage had seen them but Mayfield, who absolutely declined
suggesting any name, and accordingly Jobson's idea was instantly
adopted.

The next day was settled upon for the jaunt, and consequently the
company assembled at an early hour to start.

It was as bewitching an autumn day as ever beamed on the earth, such an
one as Doughty loves to fasten upon his glorious canvas. It would have
glittered with golden splendor, had it not been toned down by a delicate
haze, which could scarcely be seen near by, but which gradually
thickened on the distant landscape until it brushed away the outlines of
the mountain summits, so that they seemed steeped in a delicious swoon.

We left the village, trotted up hill and down, and skimmed over flats,
until we arrived at the long descent of a mile, beginning at the log-hut
of old Saunsalis, and ending in Mamakating Hollow at the outskirts of
Wurtsboro'. Here we turned short at the left, and pursued our way over a
narrow country road through the enchanting scenery of the Hollow toward
our destination. After passing farm-houses peering from clumps of trees,
meadows, grainfields, and woodlands, we came to a by-road leading
through a field. Here the little brook (Fawn of the "Bounding Deer")
sparkled by our track, crossing in its capricious way the road, thereby
forcing us to ford it, and then recross its ripples. We now came to the
end of our road; and alighting, we tied our steeds to the willows and
alders scattered along the streamlet's bank. Each one (laden with the
pic-nic baskets) then hastened onward, for the low deep bleat of the
"Deer" was sounding in our ears. We directly came to a sawmill, with a
high broken bank in front. Over this impediment our path lay, and over
it must we go. Accordingly we did go; and, descending the other side,
the "Deer" was before us. An amphitheatre of towering summits saluted
our eyes, clothed with wood and steeped in grateful shade. The gleam of
the waterfall cut like a scimetar on our sight, flashing through its
narrow cleft, whilst the bleating of the "Bounding Deer" was louder and
sweeter. A beautiful place for our pic-nic--a mossy log or two by the
streamlet, and a delicious greensward. The ladies busied themselves in
unpacking the baskets, whilst the "boys" distributed themselves about
the rocks. Forms were soon seen dangling from cedar bushes, and treading
carefully among clefts and gullies. Some sat where the silver spray
sprinkled their faces--some clambered the rocks jutting over the higher
Fall--some scaled the still loftier summits. All this time the organ of
the cascade was sounding like the deep strain of the wind in a pine
forest.

In about a half hour our pic-nic table was spread with various viands,
the table composed of boards spread upon two of the mossy logs, the
boards being the product of a sawmill hard by.

The company seated themselves, and immediately a desperate charge was
made by the whole force upon the eatables and drinkables, and immense
havoc ensued. An entire route having been at length effected, again the
vexed question of the name to be given to the "Fall" was brought on the
_tapis_.

"Let us call them the Falls of Aladdin," said enchanting Rose Rosebud,
lifting her azure eyes to the jewelled autumn foliage that glittered
around.

"The Falls of the Ladder!" caught up Jobson: "the very name!--why, it
describes the Falls exactly! I wonder we haven't thought of that name
before. The water looks like a ladder exactly, coming down them big
rocks."

"I'll tell you what," said Paddock, "I've now been all about the
cataract, and seen it at all points. I've hit upon the very name, I
think. What say you to the Falls of the Bounding Deer?"

"But where's the Deer?" grumbled Jobson, now thoroughly out of humor
from the contempt with which his last observation had been treated.

"Do be quiet, Mr. Jobson," chimed in the girls, "and let us hear what
Mr. Paddock urges in favor of his beautiful name."

"See," said Paddock, pointing upward, "see where the upper Fall bounds
from yon dark cleft of rock, and, gathering itself in that basin for
another effort, gives another leap down its path, and then, gathering
itself once more in the lower basin, shoots away to the protecting
woods!"

"Capital name! Just the thing, Mr. Paddock!" again broke out the chorus
of girls, like a dangling of silver bells.

"The Falls of the Bounding Deer be it then!"

The name being thus satisfactorily settled, we all commenced
scrutinizing more closely the lovely lair of the "Bounding Deer."

A dazzling display of tints was on the thickly mantling trees, changing
the whole scene into a gorgeous spectacle. The most striking
contrasts--the richest colors glowing side by side, flashed upon the
delighted vision every where.

The elm dripping with golden foliage from head to foot, in a way which
only that most beautiful tree can show (the drooping naiad of the
brook), shone beside the maple in a splendid flush of scarlet--the
birch, garbed in the richest orange, bent near the pine gleaming with
emerald--the beech displayed its tanny mantle by the dogwood robed in
deepest purple, whilst every nook, crevice, shelf, and hollow of the
umber banks and gray rocks blazed with yellow golden rods and sky-blue
asters.

How beautiful, how radiant, how glorious, the American foliage in
autumn! No pen, unless dipped in rainbows, can do it justice. And,
amidst this brilliant beauty, down her pointed rocks, down flashed the
"Bounding Deer," white with the foam of her eager and headlong speed.

The boys now prepare for another excursion amongst the rocks of the
"Falls."

Some climb the dangling grape vines; some clutch the roots of the
slanting pine trees; and some find footing in the narrow fissures. Soon
the gray rocks and yellow banks are scattered over with them. Ascending
the very loftiest pinnacle by the roots of trees and the profuse bushes,
the scene was wild, picturesque, and romantic in the extreme. A little
below, bristled the points of the rocks with cedars, dwarf pines, and
towering hemlocks shooting from the interstices. At one side, through
its deep gully, flashed the "Bounding Deer"--the waters pouring in its
first deep dark basin, cut in the granite like a goblet, thence twisting
down in another bold leap into the second basin. Not a foam flake was on
the surface of either sable cup, nothing but the wrinkles produced by
the ever circling eddies. Below--past broken edge, grassy shelf, yawning
cleft, and jutting ledge, was the broad deep hollow through which the
"Deer" (mottled with sunshine and shadow) leaped away to the woods
beyond, whilst in the meadow was seen the little "Fawn" tripping along
its green banks until lost in the verdure of the valley. Add to these,
the glittering tints that had been showered from autumn's treasury, and
the effect was complete. But, where are the girls?

_"Oui, oui!"_ exclaimed the Count de ----(a French nobleman of
illustrious descent, and a most amiable, intelligent, and accomplished
gentleman), "where de _demoiselles_--I no see 'em!"

"The what?" asked Jobson.

"De demoiselles; de--de--what _you_ call 'em, Monsieur Job?"

"Girls," answered Jobson.

"Non, non, non,--fie, Monsieur Job,--no girl; dey are--a--a--a--"

"Ladies, Count, you mean," answered Allthings.

"Oui, oui, oui--de ladees--_pas la-bas, pas la-bas!_ They must
be--a--a--_noyées_--what you call when you fall _dans l'eau_ and
_mourez_--eh?"

"Drown," returned Allthings.

"Oui, Monsieur Allting--drown."

"Sure enough," ejaculated Jobson, looking down through the branches,
"the girls are not there! Where can they be?"

_"O ciel!--noyées!--noyées!"_ shouted the Count, plunging down the bank.
_"Mon Dieu!--ces demoiselles dans les eaux!--au secours!--au secours!"_

The last we saw of the excellent Count he was going down the steep bank
on the sliding principle, shouting with all his might, and presenting a
rare sight of "ground and lofty tumbling" quite edifying to behold.

We now all looked. True, the deep hollow beneath was quite forsaken. No
ladies were there to be seen. Marvelling somewhat at the sudden
disappearance, we all descended from our respective perches by the
ladders formed of the branches, roots and tough grape vines, and set
foot upon the hollow where our dinner had transpired. Looking around at
the banks by which we were surrounded, we at length saw the girls emerge
from a twisted ravine at the lower part of the hollow scarcely
discernible from the foliage with which it was roofed, and found from
the wreaths of moss, ground pine and wild flowers in their hair and
around their persons, that they had been also making explorations,
although in a lower region than ours.

The Count now rejoined the party, after having peered most anxiously and
at various points into the lower basin to find the drowned ones, all
clustered together upon the short velvet sward near the streamlet, and
Paddock was called upon for one of his Indian legends.

He said he knew one relating to this very spot, and accordingly
commenced:

"In the old times, before the foot of the white man had startled the
beaver from the stream, or his axe sent the eagle screaming with rage
from his aërie on the lofty pine tree, there dwelt a tribe by these
waters, an offshoot of the powerful Mohawks. They were called the tribe
of the Deer, and had for their chieftain "Os-ko-ne-an-tah," meaning also
the Deer. He had one daughter, beautiful as the day, who was named
"Jo-que-yoh," or the Bluebird, for the melody of her voice. Jo-que-yoh
was affianced to a young brave of her father's tribe named "To-ke-ah,"
or the Oak. They were tenderly attached to each other. Often when the
moon of the summer night transformed these rugged rocks to pearl and
this headlong torrent to plunging silver, did the two seat themselves by
the margin of this very basin, and while Jo-que-yoh touched with simple
skill the strings of her Indian lute, To-ke-ah sang of love and the
sweet charms of his mistress. In the war-path the young brave thought
only of her, and the scalps he took were displayed to her sight in token
of his prowess. In the chase, he still thought of her solely, and the
gray coat of the deer and the brindled skin of the fierce panther were
laid at her feet. The vest of glossy beaver fur which encompassed her
lovely form was the spoil of his arrow. And the eagle plume which rose
gracefully from her brow was plucked by his hand from the wing of the
haughty soarer of the clouds, that his unerring bow had brought to the
dust. Time passed on--the crescent of Jo-que-yoh's beauty was enlarging
into the full height of maiden grace, and the tall sapling of
To-ke-ah's strength maturing into the size and vigor of his manhood's
oak. Another moon, and he was to lead Jo-que-yoh as his bride to his
lodge. The happy day at length arrived, and as soon as the first star
trembled in the heavens, the joyous ceremonial was to take place. Sunset
came, steeping the scene around in lustrous gold, and Jo-que-yoh,
arrayed by the maidens of her tribe, sat in the lodge of her father
awaiting the star that was to bring her love to her presence. Blushing
and trembling she saw "Kah-quah" (the Indian name for the sun) wheeling
down into the crimson west, and now his light was hidden. Blushing and
trembling, she saw the sweet twilight stealing over the endless forests,
and now the star--the bright star of her hope, came creeping, like a
timid fawn, into the purple heavens. She heard a footstep, she
turned--"To-ke-ah," trembled on her lips. But it was not To-ke-ah. It
was Os-ko-ne-an-tah, her father, decked in all his finest splendor, to
give away the bride. To-ke-ah she knew had departed in the afternoon
upon a neighboring trail for a brighter eagle plume to adorn the brow of
his lovely bride on this the evening of their bridal. Something has
detained him, but he will soon come. She fixed her large dark elk-like
eye upon the star. Momentarily it brightened and again another footstep.
It was the maiden she had dispatched upon the rocks to watch for her the
approaching form of To-ke-ah. Large and brighter grew the star, but
still the absent came not. A shuddering fear began to creep into her
bosom. Nothing could detain the absent from her but one reason--death!
Larger and brighter grew the star until now it flashed like the eye of
To-ke-ah from its home in the heavens. Still the absent came not. Tears
began to flow, and she at length started in wild fear from her couch of
sassafras to the towering rock to see if she could not behold the
approaching shape of To-ke-ah. By this time the sky was sparkling with
stars, and a feeble light was shed upon the forests. She saw the pointed
rocks around her--she saw the two leaps of the torrent through their
rugged pathway--she saw the still black basins on which the stars were
glittering, but no To-ke-ah. "To-ke-ah! To-ke-ah! Jo-que-yoh awaits
thee!" she cried, but she heard only the plunging of the torrents, and
the song of the whippowill wailing as if in echo to her woe. Tremblings
seized her limbs, her heart grew sick, and she was nigh swooning upon
the rock, when she saw a form hurrying from the woods where the trail
began. "To-ke-ah!" she shrieked joyfully, "I have been sad without
thee!" and she was about casting herself into the arms of the form, when
she found it was the youth who had accompanied To-ke-ah in the chase.

"Is not the brave here?" asked the youth, with astonishment; "I left him
at the first leap of the torrent, searching for the eagle-nest that is
in the cleft of the rock!"

With a wild scream Jo-que-yoh rushed away again to her wigwam; with a
wild scream she asked for To-ke-ah, and no answer being returned, she
darted to her canoe fastened in the cave above the upper leap.

"I go for To-ke-ah!" she screamed, as she seized the paddle and
unfastened the willow withe, and the canoe darted into the stream
directly towards the bend of the torrent. The star-light displayed her
slender form to the agonized sight of her father, plunging down the
foaming cataract, and she was seen no more! The canoe overturned,
emerged into the basin, and dashed down the curve of the second plunge.
The father, followed by those present, rushed down the precipice to the
basin below, and there were the fragments of the canoe floating around
in the eddying waters. A light shape was also seen in the dark pool, and
leaping in, Os-ko-ne-an-tah dragged to the margin the drooping form of
his daughter. She was dead! A stream of blood poured from her fractured
temple, and the father held in his arms only the remains of the loved
and still lovely Jo-que-yoh. But a warrior now came rushing down the
rocks with "Jo-que-yoh! Jo-que-yoh!" loud upon his tongue. It was
To-ke-ah. He had wandered farther than he thought, and hurrying home had
found the wigwam of Jo-que-yoh empty. Dashing down the precipice in his
mad search, he now came upon the sorrowing group. "Jo-que-yoh!
Jo-que-yoh!" he screamed, tearing the dead from the arms of the father,
but Jo-que-yoh did not answer. "Jo-que-yoh!" said the proud forest man,
bending his head aside in his uncontrollable grief; "I am lost without
thee!" But no Jo-que-yoh spoke. She had gone to the far land of the
happy in search of To-ke-ah.

Then took To-ke-ah the lifeless maiden in his arms and cast himself
prostrate on the earth.

"To-ke-ah!" said the father, "a great warrior should not weep like the
deer in his last agony. Rouse thee! it is Os-ko-ne-an-tah that speaks!"

But To-ke-ah answered not. He only lay and shuddered.

"Shall the tall tree of my tribe turn to a willow?" again asked
Os-ko-ne-an-tah, and this time sternly. "Rise, bravest of my people,
behold! even the maidens see thee!"

But To-ke-ah answered not. He only lay and shuddered.

Then bent Os-ko-ne-an-tah over both and essayed to take from To-ke-ah
the form of Jo-que-yoh. But the moment the father touched his daughter,
To-ke-ah leaped to his feet with Jo-que-yoh in his arms, and pealing his
war-hoop, flourished his keen hatchet over the head of the father.

"Go!" shouted he, whilst his eye flamed madly in the light of the pine
torches that now kindled up the scene. "Go! Jo-que-yoh is mine. In
death as in life, mine and mine only!" and again he threw himself, still
holding her to his heart, headlong on the earth.

Then went Os-ko-ne-an-tah sadly from the spot, followed by all his
people. Still lay To-ke-ah there, grasping the form of his dead bride.
The bright star glittered above the two, and then grew pale in the
advancing dawn, but still he stirred not. Brightly rose the sun,
striking the scene into sudden joy, but still he stirred not. Noon
glowed, and then the sunset fell, but To-ke-ah still lay there with the
dead one in his arms. Night darkened. Again the star stole out in the
red twilight, again grew bright and gleamed above the spot where
To-ke-ah rested, but still no motion there. Once more rose the sun, and
his first beam rested on To-ke-ah, but still there he lay with the dead
one lying on his bosom.

At last he rose, and delving a grave in the sod with his knife and
tomahawk, deposited therein the form of the maiden, and refilling it
with his hands, stretched himself upon the mound. Os-ko-ne-an-tah had in
the mean while often approached him, but the moment he appeared, up
sprang To-ke-ah with his threatening tomahawk, and only when the father
left, did that tomahawk sink, and the Brave again resume his posture.
Eight days and nights passed, the most tempting food and the coolest
water were placed near him upon the rocks, but still he stirred not.
Food and water were untouched. At last, at the close of the ninth day, a
thunder-cloud heaved up its black form in the west. Forth rushed the
blast, out flashed the lightning, and the thunder was terrible to hear.
But in the pauses of the storm there came a strain of guttural music
from the grave of Jo-que-yoh--it was the death song of To-ke-ah. Short
and faint and broken to the listening ear of Os-ko-ne-an-tah came the
song, and at length it ceased. Cautiously approached the father with a
torch, for even then he expected to see the flash of To-ke-ah's hatchet
over his head. Cautiously he approached, but the form stretched above
the grave of his daughter, was motionless. Cautiously he bent over him,
and then he turned him with a sudden movement, so that he could look
upon his face. To-ke-ah was dead! The faithful warrior had departed in
the shadowy trail where Jo-que-yoh had gone, and both were now engaged
in the feast of the strawberry in the bright hunting grounds of
Hah-wen-ne-yo.

When morning came the grave of Jo-que-yoh was opened by Os-ko-ne-an-tah,
and the form of To-ke-ah, still arrayed in the weapons of a chief, was
deposited in a sitting posture by her side. Again was the grave closed,
and often did the young men and the maidens of the tribe repair thither,
the first to celebrate the praises of To-ke-ah, and the latter to sing
the virtues of Jo-que-yoh.

Paddock ceased amidst the plaudits of the company.

"He must have been a great fool to starve himself to death," said
Jobson, "when he could have killed himself in a shorter time with his
hatchet, or even by drowning himself in the pool!"

"What a barbarian you are, Jobson!" said Allthings, "every thing is
matter of fact with you. Do be still!"

"Well, but I don't see the common sense," persisted Jobson, "if he was
determined to kill himself, of leaving all the pies and things that they
brought him, and starving himself and getting wet in the bargain, when
he had a shorter way of doing the job!"

"Suppose you go and ask him, Jobson!" said Paddock, smiling; "I don't
know his reasons, if he had any. At all events, I tell the tale as I
heard it, and can't alter it!"

The Count had listened to the story with all his ears, but evidently,
from his imperfect knowledge of the English language, without half
understanding it.

"Pauvre demoiselle! so she did a--a--a--what ye call dat, (making as if
pitching headlong,) a--a--a--"

"Tumble!" ejaculated Jobson.

"_Oui, oui, oui_, toomball, toomball down de--down de _roches--roches_,
pauvre demoiselle! did she se blesser?"

"She went down the torrent, Count, in her canoe and was dashed to
death!" exclaimed little Annie Mapes.

"Oh, oh, pauvre demoiselle!" answered the Count, sorrowfully. "The
lovaire did _courir_ from her--ah--ah--pauvre demoiselle!"

"No, no, Count!" returned Annie impatiently, "her lover did not forsake
her. She thought he was dead, and went in her canoe after his body!"

"Pauvre demoiselle! and did she _trouver_ him?"

"No. She was killed, and her lover had been detained in the chase, and
he came afterwards and found her dead, as Mr. Paddock has just said!"

"_Oui, oui, oui_, me understand, he try to run away and fall down--me
understand--_oui, oui, oui_--me understand."

"_No, no_, Count, you are all wrong; he starved himself to death from
grief for her loss!"

"_Oui, oui_, me understand; he try to run away--fall down--get no food
in de _roches_--but he sing to keep courage up--_oui, oui_, me
understand--bootiful story, bootiful story, Monsieur Paydook! vrai
bootiful indeed! He lay there _long temps_--six, eight, ten day, you
say! and den he sing, sing, sing, to keep courage up, for want of food!
Bootiful story, bootiful story!"

Finding it was in vain to enlighten the Count, Annie gave over her task,
and the Count kept repeating, as if to himself: "_Oui, oui_, bootiful
story, Monsieur Pay-dook, bootiful story! _bien_ bootiful story indeed!
pauvre demoiselle! pauvre demoiselle! Joe--what you call it. She too
good for Monsieur Took Ear. He run away--he fall down--he sing. She die
to get rid of him. (Shrugging his shoulders and grimacing most
laughably.) He run away--he fall down--he sing! pauvre demoiselle!"

"I think he must have been crazy!" said Jobson, "not to eat when he
could get a chance, and he hungry too, lying there a week or more; and
only think, on the damp ground all this time. I wonder he didn't catch
the rheumatism!"

"No crazy, Monsieur Jobsoon! no crazy! he sing to keep courage up. I
sing sometime to keep courage up ven I think of _la belle France_--of
Paris! Bootiful story, Monsieur Paydook! _vrai_ bootiful story! Mooch
oblege, mooch oblege!"

By this time the sun was setting, and the hollow was filled with sweet
rosy light. Every leaf flashed, and the "Bounding Deer" was tinged with
the beautiful radiance. Soon the light crept up, leaving the bottom of
this huge rocky chalice in shadow, whilst the rim was encompassed with
rich brilliance. The sun poured down one stream of glory through a cleft
in the bank or side of this Titan Goblet, like the visioned future which
glows before the sight of happy youth, and then vanished. The gold rim
vanished also; still there appeared to be no disposition among the party
to leave the scene. Twilight began to shimmer, and now the stars
trembled forth from the dusky sky. At last night settled on the
landscape, and the girls expressed a wish to see the hollow lighted up
with torchlight. Scattering ourselves amongst the trees of the bank,
some splinters of the pitch pine were procured, and matches kindled each
splinter into thick crimson flame. I clambered up as far as the basin of
the first "bound" of the "Deer," and looked down to enjoy the scene.
Scores of dark red torches were flashing in every direction, disclosing
faces, forms, water, trees and grass, in broken fitful glances and in
the most picturesque manner. Sometimes a deep light caught upon the
edges of a hemlock, then upon the form of some graceful girl, then upon
a huge rock, like the gleaming of stormy lightning, whilst the "Deer"
bounded down, tawny as the shell of the chestnut. I looked at the basin
at my foot. There were a score too of stars glittering there, but amidst
them all was one large clear orb burning with pure and steadfast lustre.
It was doubtless the star of Jo-que-yoh, and forthwith I named the basin
the "Bath of the Star!" and the lower pool--oh, that shall be called
"The Ladies' Mirror."

Soon after I descended and once more mingled with the party. Merry song
and talk again winged away the hour, until a pale radiance on the
highest cliffs gave token of the moon. Soon up she came--that hunter's
moon! moon of October! and, like a golden shield, impended from the
heavens. And how she kindled up the scene, that lovely moon of the
hunter! And by her delicious light we left the hollow, put our steeds in
motion, passed through the meadow, skimmed over the valley road, and
then turned to the right, up the turnpike leading over the "Barrens,"
homeward.

How fragrant were the odors of the pine in the pure dry air, as we
slowly toiled up the ascent of a mile towards the hut of old Gaunsalis,
and then up and down over the hills, as the yellow bird flies, we
travelled homeward. Past "Lord's Pond," through the turnpike gate, down
the Neversink Hill, up the opposite one we went until we saw, gleaming
in the heavenly moonlight, the welcome roofs of Monticello.




From Bentley's Miscellany.

LEOPARDS.

ZOOLOGICAL NOTES AND ANECDOTES.

    "Where sacred Ganges pours along the plain,
    And Indus rolls to swell the Eastern Main,
    What awful scenes the curious mind delight!
    What wonders burst upon the dazzled sight!
    There giant palms lift high their tufted heads,
    The plantain wide his graceful foliage spreads;
    Wild in the woods the active monkey springs,
    The chattering parrot claps her painted wings;
    'Mid tall bamboos lies hid the deadly snake,
    The tiger crouches in the tangled brake;
    The spotted axis bounds in fear away;
    The leopard darts on his defenceless prey,
    'Mid reedy pools and ancient forests rude,
    Cool peaceful haunts of awful solitude!"


There is no class of animals which combine in such a marked degree,
beauty of form, with a wily and savage nature, as that to which the
Leopard tribe belongs. The unusual pliability of the spine and joints
with which they are endowed, imparts agility, elasticity, and elegance
to their movements, whilst the happy proportions of their limbs give
grace to every attitude. Their skins, beautifully sleek, yellow above,
and white beneath, are marked with spots of brilliant black, disposed in
patterns according to the species; nor are these spots for ornament
alone; as was remarked by one of the ablest of the writers in the
"Quarterly," the different and characteristic markings of the larger
feline animals, bear a direct relation to the circumstances under which
they carry on their predatory pursuits. The tawny color of the lion
harmonizes with the parched grass or yellow sand, along which he steals
towards, or on which he lies in wait to spring upon, a passing prey; and
a like relation to the place in which other large feline animals carry
on their predatory pursuits, may be traced in their different and
characteristic markings. The royal tiger, for instance, which stalks or
lurks in the jungle of richly-wooded India, is less likely to be
discerned as he glides along the straight stems of the underwood, by
having the tawny ground-color of his coat variegated by dark vertical
stripes, than if it were uniform like the lion's. The leopard and
panther again, which await the approach of their prey, crouching on the
outstretched branch of some tree, derive a similar advantage, by having
the tawny ground-color broken by dark spots like the leaves around them;
but amidst all this variety, in which may be traced the principle of
adaptation to special ends, there is a certain unity of plan, the
differences not being established from the beginning. Thus the young
lion is spotted, during his first year, with dark spots on its lighter
ground, and transitorily shows the livery that is most common in the
genus. It is singular that man has, in a semi-barbarous state,
recognized the same principle as that which constitutes these
differences, and applied it to the same purpose. It is well-known that
the _setts_, or patterns of several of the highland tartans were
originally composed with special reference to concealment among the
heather. And with the Highlanders, perhaps, the hint was taken from the
ptarmigans and hares of their own native mountains, which change their
colors with the season, donning a snow white vest when the ground on
which they tread bears the garb of winter, and resuming their garments
of grayish brown when the summer's sun has restored to the rocks their
natural tints.

There are three species sufficiently resembling each other in size and
general appearance, to be confounded by persons unacquainted with their
characteristics, namely, the leopard, the panther, and the jaguar. The
precise distinction between the first two, is still an open question,
although the best authorities agree in considering, that they are
distinct animals; still confusion exists. An eminent dealer in furs
informed us, that in the trade, panther skins were looked upon as being
larger than leopards', and the spots more irregular, but the specimens
produced were clearly jaguar skins, which made the matter more
complicated.

The panther, _Felis pardus_, is believed to be an inhabitant of a great
portion of Africa, the warmer parts of Asia, and the islands of the
Indian Archipelago; while the leopard, _Felis leopardus_, is thought to
be confined to Africa. The jaguar, _Felis onca_ is the scourge of South
America, from Paraguay almost to the isthmus of Darien, and is
altogether a larger and more powerful animal than either of the others.
Though presenting much resemblance, there are points of distinction by
which the individual may be at once recognized. The jaguar is larger,
sturdier, and altogether more thickset than the leopard, whose limbs are
the beau ideal of symmetry and grace. The leopard is marked with
numerous spots, arranged in small irregular circles on the sides; the
ridge of the back, the head, neck, and limbs, being simply spotted,
without order. The jaguar is also marked with black spots, but the
circles formed by them are much larger, and in almost all, a central
spot exists, the whole bearing a rude resemblance to a rose; along the
back, the spots are so narrow and elongated, as to resemble stripes. The
tail of the jaguar is also considerably shorter than that of the
leopard, which is nearly as long as the whole body.

Leopards and panthers, if taken quite young, and treated with kindness,
are capable of being thoroughly tamed; the poet Cowper, describes the
great difference in the dispositions of his three celebrated hares; so
it is with other wild animals, and leopards among the rest, some
returning kindness with the utmost affection, others being rugged and
untameable from the first. Of those brought to this country, the
characters are much influenced by the treatment they have experienced on
board ship; in some cases they have been made pets by the sailors, and
are as tractable as domestic cats; but when they have been teased and
subjected to ill-treatment during the voyage, it is found very difficult
to render them sociable; there are now (September, 1851) six young
leopards in one den at the Zoological Gardens: of these, five are about
the same age, and grew up as one family; the sixth was added some time
after, and being looked upon as an intruder, was quite sent to Coventry,
and even ill-treated by the others; this he has never forgotten. When
the keeper comes to the den, he courts his caresses, and shows the
greatest pleasure, but if any of his companions advance to share them
with him, he growls and spits, and shows the utmost jealousy and
displeasure.

In the same collection, there is a remarkably fine, full-grown leopard,
presented by her Majesty, who is as tame as any creature can be; mutton
is his favorite food, but the keeper will sometimes place a piece of
beef in the den; the leopard smells it, turns it over with an air of
contempt, and coming forward, peers round behind the keeper's back to
see if he has not (as is generally the case) his favorite food
concealed. If given to him, he lays it down, and will readily leave it
at the keeper's call, to come and be patted, and whilst caressed he
purrs, and shows the greatest pleasure.

There were a pair of leopards in the Tower, before the collection was
broken up, which illustrated well the difference in disposition; the
male, a noble animal, continued to the last, as sullen and savage as on
the day of his arrival. Every kindness was lavished upon him by the
keepers, but he received all their overtures with such a sulky and
morose return, that nothing could be made of his unreclaimable and
unmanageable disposition. The female, which was the older of the two, on
the contrary, was as gentle and affectionate as the other was savage,
enjoying to be patted and caressed by the keeper, and fondly licking his
hands; one failing, however, she had, which brought affliction to the
soul of many a beau and lady fair; it was an extraordinary predilection
for the destruction of hats, muffs, bonnets, umbrellas, and parasols,
and indeed, articles of dress generally, seizing them with the greatest
quickness, and tearing them into pieces, almost before the astonished
victim was aware of the loss; to so great an extent did she carry this
peculiar taste, that Mr. Cops, the superintendent, used to say that she
had made prey of as many of these articles as there were days in the
year. Animals in menageries are sometimes great enemies to the
milliner's art; giraffes have been known to filch the flowers adorning a
bonnet, and we once saw a lady miserably oppressed by monkeys. She was
very decidedly of "a certain age," but dressed in the extreme of
juvenility, with flowers and ribbons of all the colors of the rainbow.
Her complexion was delicately heightened with rouge, and the loveliest
tresses played about her cheeks. As she languidly sauntered through the
former monkey house at the gardens, playfully poking the animals with
her parasol, one seized it so vigorously that she was drawn close to the
den; in the twinkling of an eye, a dozen little paws were protruded, off
went bonnet, curls and all, leaving a deplorable gray head, whilst
others seized her reticule and her dress, pulling it in a very
unpleasant manner. The handiwork of M. Vouillon was of course a wreck,
and the contents of the reticule, her purse, gloves, and delicately
scented handkerchief, were with difficulty recovered from out of the
cheek pouch of a baboon.

On other occasion we saw the elephant, that fine old fellow who died
some years ago, administer summary punishment to a weak minded fop, who
kept offering him cakes, and on his putting out his trunk, withdrawing
them and giving him a rap with his cane instead. One of the keepers
warned him, but he laughed, and after he had teased the animal to his
heart's content, walked away. After a time he was strolling by the spot
again, intensely satisfied with himself, his glass stuck in his eye, and
smiling blandly in the face of a young lady, who was evidently offended
at his impudence, when the elephant, who was rocking backwards and
forwards, suddenly threw out his trunk and seized our friend by the coat
tails; the cloth gave way, and the whole back of the coat was torn out,
leaving nothing but the collar, sleeves, and front. As may be supposed,
this was a damper upon his amatory proceedings; indeed we never saw a
man look so small, as he shuffled away amidst the titters of the
company, who enjoyed his just reward.

That very agreeable writer, Mrs. Lee, formerly Mrs. Bowdich, has related
in the first volume of the "Magazine of Natural History," a most
interesting account of a tame panther which was in her possession
several months. He and another were found very young in the forest,
apparently deserted by their mother; they were taken to the King of
Ashantee, in whose palace they lived several weeks, when our hero, being
much larger than his brother, suffocated him in a fit of romping, and
was then sent to Mr. Hutchinson, the resident, left by Mr. Bowdich at
Coomassie, by whom he was tamed. When eating was going on he would sit
by his master's side and receive his share with gentleness. Once or
twice he purloined a fowl, but easily gave it up on being allowed a
portion of something else; but on one occasion, when a silly servant
tried to pull his food from him, he tore a piece of flesh from the
offender's leg, but never owed him any ill-will afterwards. One morning
he broke the cord by which he was confined, and the castle gates being
shut, a chase commenced, but after leading his pursuers several times
round the ramparts, and knocking over a few children by bouncing against
them, he suffered himself to be caught and led quietly back to his
quarters, under one of the guns of the fortress. By degrees all fear of
him subsided, and he was set at liberty, a boy being appointed to
prevent his intruding into the apartments of the officers. His keeper,
however, like a true Negro, generally passed his watch in sleeping, and
Saï, as the panther was called, roamed at large. On one occasion he
found his servant sitting on the step of the door, upright, but fast
asleep, when he lifted his paw, gave him a pat on the side of the head
which laid him flat, and then stood wagging his tail as if enjoying the
joke. He became exceedingly attached to the governor, and followed him
every where like a dog. His favorite station was at a window in the
sitting-room, which overlooked the whole town; there, standing on his
hind legs, his fore paws resting on the ledge of the window, and his
chin laid between them, he amused himself with watching all that was
going on. The children were also fond of this scene; and one day,
finding Saï's presence an incumbrance, they united their efforts and
pulled him down by the tail. He one day missed the governor, and
wandered with a dejected look to various parts of the fortress in search
of him; while absent on this errand the governor returned to his private
rooms, and seated himself at a table to write; presently he heard a
heavy step coming up the stairs, and raising his eyes to the open door
beheld Saï. At that moment he gave himself up for lost, for Saï
immediately sprang from the door on to his neck: instead, however, of
devouring him, he laid his head close to the governor's, rubbed his
cheek upon his shoulder, wagged his tail, and tried to evince his
happiness. Occasionally, however, the panther caused a little alarm to
the other inmates of the castle, and on one occasion the woman, whose
duty it was to sweep the floors, was made ill by her fright; she was
sweeping the boards of the great hall with a short broom, and in an
attitude approaching all-fours, when Saï, who was hidden under one of
the sofas, suddenly leaped upon her back, where he stood waving his tail
in triumph. She screamed so violently as to summon the other servants,
but they, seeing the panther in the act of devouring her, as they
thought, gallantly scampered off as fast as their heels could carry
them; nor was the woman released from her load till the governor,
hearing the noise, came to her assistance.

Mrs. Bowdich determined to take this interesting animal to England, and
he was conveyed on board ship, in a large wooden cage, thickly barred in
front with iron. Even this confinement was not deemed a sufficient
protection by the canoe men, who were so alarmed that in their confusion
they managed to drop cage and all into the sea. For a few minutes the
poor fellow was given up for lost, but some sailors jumped into a boat
belonging to the vessel, and dragged him out in safety. He seemed
completely subdued by his ducking; and as no one dared to open the cage
to dry it, he rolled himself up in one corner, where he remained for
some days, till roused by the voice of his mistress. When she first
spoke he raised his head, listened attentively, and when she came fully
into his view, he jumped on his legs and appeared frantic, rolling over
and over, howling and seeming as if he would have torn his cage to
pieces; however, his violence gradually subsided, and he contented
himself with thrusting his nose and paws through the bars to receive her
caresses. The greatest treat that could be bestowed upon Saï was
lavender water. Mr. Hutchinson had told Mrs. Bowdich, that on the way
from Ashantee, happening to draw out a scented pocket-handkerchief, it
was immediately seized by the panther, who reduced it to atoms; nor
could he venture to open a bottle of perfume when the animal was near,
he was so eager to enjoy it. Twice a week his mistress indulged him by
making a cup of stiff paper, pouring a little lavender water into it,
and giving it to him through the bars of the cage; he would drag it to
him with great eagerness, roll himself over it, nor rest till the smell
had evaporated.

Quiet and gentle as Saï was, pigs never failed to excite indignation
when they hovered about his cage, and the sight of a monkey put him in a
complete fury. While at anchor in the Gaboon, an orang-outang was
brought on board and remained three days. When the two animals met, the
uncontrollable rage of the one and the agony of the other was very
remarkable. The orang was about three feet high, and very powerful; so
that when he fled, with extraordinary rapidity, from the panther to the
other side of the deck, neither men nor things remained upright if they
opposed his progress. As for the panther, his back rose in an arch, his
tail was elevated and perfectly stiff, his eyes flashed, and as he
howled he showed his huge teeth; then, as if forgetting the bars before
him, he made a spring at the orang to tear him to atoms. It was long
before he recovered his tranquillity; day and night he was on the
listen, and the approach of a monkey or a Negro brought back his
agitation. During the voyage to England the vessel was boarded by
pirates, and the crew and passengers nearly reduced to starvation in
consequence; Saï must have died had it not been for a collection of more
than three hundred parrots; of these his allowance was one per diem, but
he became so ravenous that he had not patience to pick off the feathers,
but bolted the birds whole: this made him very ill, but Mrs. Bowdich
administered some pills, and he recovered. On the arrival of the vessel
in the London Docks, Saï was presented to the Duchess of York, who
placed him in Exeter Change temporarily. On the morning of the duchess's
departure for Oatlands, she went to visit her new pet, played with him,
and admired his gentleness and great beauty. In the evening, when her
royal highness's coachman went to take him away to his new quarters at
Oatlands, Saï was dead from inflammation on the lungs.

To this interesting animal, the following lines by Dryden, might with
propriety have been applied:

    "The Panther, sure the noblest next the Hind
    And fairest creature of the spotted kind;
    Oh, could her inborn stains be washed away,
    She were too good to be a beast of prey!
    How can I praise or blame, and not offend,
    Or how divide the frailty from the friend?
    Her faults and virtues lie so mixed that she,
    Nor wholly stands condemned, nor wholly free."

Mr. Gordon Cumming describes two encounters with leopards, one of which
was nearly attended with fatal consequences: "On the 17th," says he, "I
was attacked with acute rheumatic fever, which kept me to my bed, and
gave me excruciating pain. Whilst I lay in this helpless state, Mr.
Orpen and Present, who had gone up the river to shoot sea cows, fell in
with an immense male leopard, which the latter wounded very baldly. They
then sent natives to camp, to ask me for dogs, of which I sent them a
pair. In about an hour the natives came running to camp, and said that
Orpen was killed by the leopard. On further inquiry, however, I found
that he was not really killed, but frightfully torn and bitten about the
arms and head. They had rashly taken up the spoor on foot, the dogs
following behind them, instead of going in advance. The consequence of
this was, that they came right upon the leopard before they were aware
of him, when Orpen fired and missed him. The leopard then sprang on his
shoulders, and dashing him to the ground lay upon him, howling and
lacerating his hands, arms, and head most fearfully. Presently the
leopard permitted Orpen to rise and come away. Where were the gallant
Present and all the natives, that not a man of them moved to assist the
unfortunate Orpen? According to an established custom among all colonial
servants, the instant the leopard sprang, Present discharged his piece
in the air, and then dashing it to the ground he rushed down the bank
and jumped into the river, along which he swam some hundred yards before
he would venture on _terra firma_. The natives, though numerous and
armed, had likewise fled in another direction."

The tenacity of life of these animals was well shown in the other
encounter: "Having partaken of some refreshment," says Mr. Cumming, "I
saddled two steeds, and rode down the banks of Ngotwani, with the
Bushman, to seek for any game I might find. After riding about a mile
along the river's bank, I came suddenly upon an old male leopard lying
under the shade of a thorn grove, and panting from the great heat.
Although I was within sixty yards of him, he had not heard the horse's
tread. I thought he was a lioness and dismounting, took a rest in my
saddle on the old gray, and sent a bullet into him. He sprang to his
feet, and ran half way down the river's bank, and stood to look about
him, when I sent a second bullet into his person, and he disappeared
over the bank. The ground being very dangerous, I did not disturb him by
following then, but I at once sent Ruyter back to camp for the dogs.
Presently he returned with Wolf and Boxer, very much done up with the
sun. I rode forward, and on looking over the bank, the leopard started
up and sneaked off alongside of the tall reeds, and was instantly out of
sight. I fired a random shot from the saddle, to encourage the dogs, and
shouted to them; they, however, stood looking stupidly round, and would
not take up his scent at all. I led them over his spoor again and again,
but to no purpose; the dogs seemed quite stupid, and yet they were Wolf
and Boxer, my two best. At length I gave it up as a lost affair, and was
riding down the river's bank, when I heard Wolf give tongue behind me,
and galloping back I found him at bay, with the leopard immediately
beneath where I had first fired at him; he was very severely wounded,
and had slipped down into the river's bed, and doubled back, whereby he
had thrown out both the dogs and myself. As I approached, he flew out
upon Wolf and knocked him over, and then running up the bed of the river
he took shelter in a thick bush. Wolf, however, followed him, and at
this moment my other dogs came up, having heard the shot, and bayed him
fiercely. He sprang out upon them, and then crossed the river's bed,
taking shelter beneath some large tangled roots on the opposite bank. As
he crossed the river, I put a third bullet into him, firing from the
saddle, and as soon as he came to bay I gave him a fourth, which
finished him. This leopard was a very fine old male. In the conflict,
the unfortunate Alert was wounded as usual, getting his face torn open.
He was still going on three legs, with all his breast laid bare by the
first water-buck."

Major Denham in his interesting travels, gives the following account of
an adventure with a huge panther, which occurred during the expedition
to Mandara: "We had started several animals of the leopard species, who
ran from us so swiftly, twisting their long tails in the air, as to
prevent our getting near them. We, however, now started one of a larger
kind, which Maramy assured me was so satiated with the blood of a negro,
whose carcase we found lying in the wood, that he would be easily
killed. I rode up to the spot just as a Shonaa had planted the first
spear in him, which passed through the neck a little above the shoulder,
and came down between the animal's legs; he rolled over, broke the
spear, and bounded off with the lower half in his body. Another Shonaa
galloped up within two arms' length and thrust a second through his
loins; and the savage animal, with a woeful howl, was in the act of
springing on his pursuer, when an Arab shot him through the head with a
ball which killed him on the spot. It was a male panther of a very large
size, and measured, from the point of the tail to the nose, eight feet
two inches."

These animals are found in great abundance in the woods bordering on
Mandara; there are also leopards, the skins of which were seen, but not
in great numbers. The panthers are as insidious as they are cruel; they
will not attack any thing that is likely to make resistance, but have
been known to watch a child for hours while near the protection of huts
or people. It will often spring on a grown person, male or female, while
carrying a burthen, but always from behind. The flesh of a child or
young kid it will sometimes devour, but when any full grown animal falls
a prey to its ferocity, it sucks the blood alone.

In India and Ceylon leopards and panthers are called Tree Tigers, and
the following narrative of an exciting encounter with one is given in
The Menageries:--"I was at Jaffna," says the writer, "at the northern
extremity of the island of Ceylon in the beginning of the year 1819,
when one morning my servant called me an hour or two before the usual
time with, 'Master! master! people sent for master's dogs; tiger in the
town!' Now my dogs chanced to be very degenerate specimens of a fine
species called the Poligar dogs. I kept them to hunt jackals, but tigers
are very different things. This turned out to be a panther; my gun
chanced not to be put together, and while my servant was doing it the
collector and two medical men, who had recently arrived, came to my
door, the former armed with a fowling-piece, and the two latter with
remarkably blunt hogspears. They insisted on setting off without waiting
for my gun, a proceeding not much to my taste. The tiger (I must
continue to call him so) had taken refuge in a hut, the roof of which,
as those of Ceylon huts in general, spread to the ground like an
umbrella; the only aperture was a small door about four feet high. The
collector wanted to get the tiger out at once. I begged to wait for my
gun, but, no! the fowling-piece, loaded with ball of course, and the two
hogspears were quite enough; I got a hedge stake and awaited my fate for
very shame. At this moment, to my great delight, there arrived from the
fort an English officer, two artillery-men, and a Malay captain, and a
pretty figure we should have cut without them, as the event will show. I
was now quite ready to attack, and my gun came a minute afterwards. The
whole scene which follows took place within an inclosure, about twenty
feet square, formed on three sides by a strong fence of palmyra leaves,
and on the fourth by the hut. At the door of this, the two artillery-men
planted themselves, and the Malay captain got at the top to frighten the
tiger out by worrying it--an easy operation, as the huts there are
covered with cocoa-nut leaves. One of the artillery-men wanted to go in
to the tiger, but we would not suffer it. At last the beast sprang; this
man received him on his bayonet, which he thrust, apparently, down his
throat, firing his piece at the same moment. The bayonet broke off
short, leaving less than three inches on the musket, the rest remained
in the animal, but was invisible to us: the shot probably went through
his cheek, for it certainly did not seriously injure him, as he
instantly rose upon his legs with a loud roar, and placed his paws upon
the soldier's breast. At this moment the animal appeared to me to be
about to reach the centre of the man's face; but I had scarcely time to
observe this, when the tiger, stooping his head, seized the soldier's
arm in his mouth, turned him half round, staggering, threw him over on
his back and fell upon him. Our dread now was, that if we fired upon the
tiger we might kill the man. For a moment there was a pause, when his
comrade attacked the beast exactly in the same manner the gallant fellow
himself had done. He struck his bayonet into his head; the tiger rose at
him, he fired, and this time the ball took effect, and in the head. The
animal staggered backwards, and we all poured in our fire; he still
kicked and writhed, when the gentlemen with the hogspears advanced and
fixed him, while some natives finished him by beating him on the head
with hedge stakes. The brave artillery-man was after all but slightly
hurt; he claimed the skin, which was very cheerfully given to him; there
was, however, a cry among the natives, that the head should be cut off;
it was, and in doing so, the knife came directly across the bayonet. The
animal measured scarcely less than four feet from the root of the tail
to the muzzle."

The following practical joke is related in the late Rev. T. Acland's
amusing volume on India:--A party of officers went out from Cuttack to
shoot; their men were beating the jungle, when suddenly all the wild cry
ceased, and a man came gliding to where all the Sahibs were standing to
tell them that there was a tiger lying asleep in his den close at hand.
A consultation was instantly held; most of the party were anxious to
return to Cuttack, but Captain B---- insisted on having a shot at the
animal; accordingly he advanced very quickly, until he came to the
place, when he saw, not a tiger, but a large leopard, lying quite still,
with his head resting on his fore-paws. He went up close and fired, but
the animal did not move. This astonished him, and on examination he
found that the brute was already dead. One of his companions had bribed
some Indians to place a dead leopard there, and to say that there was a
tiger asleep. It may be imagined what a laugh there was!

Nature, ever provident, has scattered with a bounteous hand her gifts in
the country of the Orinoco, where the jaguar especially abounds. The
savannahs, which are covered with grasses and slender plants, present a
surprising luxuriance and diversity of vegetation; piles of granite
blocks rise here and there, and, at the margins of the plains, occur
deep valleys and ravines, the humid soil of which is covered with arums,
heliconias, and llianas. The shelves of primitive rocks, scarcely
elevated above the plain, are partially coated with lichens and mosses,
together with succulent plants and tufts of evergreen shrubs with
shining leaves. The horizon is bounded with mountains overgrown with
forests of laurels, among which clusters of palms rise to the height of
more than a hundred feet, their slender stems supporting tufts of
feathery foliage. To the east of Atures other mountains appear, the
ridge of which is composed of pointed cliffs, rising like huge pillars
above the trees. When those columnar masses are situated near the
Orinoco, flamingoes, herons, and other wading birds perch on their
summits, and look like sentinels. In the vicinity of the cataracts, the
moisture which is diffused in the air produces a perpetual verdure, and
wherever soil has accumulated on the plains, it is adorned by the
beautiful shrubs of the mountains.

Such is one view of the picture, but it has its dark side also; those
flowing waters, which fertilize the soil, abound with crocodiles; those
charming shrubs and flourishing plants are the hiding-places of deadly
serpents; those laurel forests, the favorite lurking spots of the fierce
jaguar; whilst the atmosphere, so clear and lovely, abounds with
musquitoes and zancudoes to such a degree that, in the missions of
Orinoco, the first questions in the morning when two people meet, are
"How did you find the zancudoes during the night? How are we to-day for
the musquitoes?"

It is in the solitude of this wilderness that the jaguar, stretched out
motionless and silent, upon one of the lower branches of the ancient
trees, watches for its passing prey; a deer, urged by thirst, is making
its way to the river, and approaches the tree where his enemy lies in
wait. The jaguar's eyes dilate, the ears are thrown down, and the whole
frame becomes flattened against the branch. The deer, all unconscious of
danger, draws near, every limb of the jaguar quivers with excitement;
every fibre is stiffened for the spring; then, with the force of a bow
unbent, he darts with a terrific yell upon his prey, seizes it by the
back of the neck, a blow is given with his powerful paw, and with
broken spine the deer falls lifeless to the earth. The blood is then
sucked, and the prey dragged to some favorite haunt, where it is
devoured at leisure.

Humboldt surprised a jaguar in his retreat. It was near the Joval, below
the mouth of the Cano de la Tigrera, that in the midst of wild and awful
scenery, he saw an enormous jaguar stretched beneath the shade of a
large mimosa. He had just killed a chiguire, an animal about the size of
a pig, which he held with one of his paws, while the vultures were
assembled in flocks around. It was curious to observe the mixture of
boldness and timidity which these birds exhibited; for although they
advanced within two feet of the jaguar, they instantly shrank back at
the least motion he made. In order to observe more nearly their
proceedings, the travellers went into their little boat, when the tyrant
of the forest withdrew behind the bushes, leaving his victim, upon which
the vultures attempted to devour it, but were soon put to flight by the
jaguar rushing into the midst of them. The following night, Humboldt and
his party were entertained by a jaguar hunter, half-naked, and as brown
as a Zambo, who prided himself on being of the European race, and called
his wife and daughter, who were as slightly clothed as himself, Donna
Isabella and Donna Manvela. As this aspiring personage had neither house
nor hut, he invited the strangers to swing their hammocks near his own
between two trees, but as ill-luck would have it, a thunder-storm came
on, which wetted them to the skin; but their troubles did not end here,
for Donna Isabella's cat had perched on one of the trees, and frightened
by the thunder-storm, jumped down upon one of the travellers in his cot;
he naturally supposed that he was attacked by a wild beast, and as smart
a battle took place between the two, as that celebrated feline
engagement of Don Quixote; the cat, who perhaps had most reason to
consider himself an ill-used personage, at length bolted, but the fears
of the gentleman had been excited to such a degree, that he could hardly
be quieted. The following night was not more propitious to slumber. The
party finding no tree convenient, had stuck their oars in the sand, and
suspended their hammocks upon them. About eleven, there arose in the
immediately adjoining wood, so terrific a noise, that it was impossible
to sleep. The Indians distinguished the cries of sapagous, alouates,
jaguars, cougars, peccaris, sloths, curassows, paraquas, and other
birds, so that there must have been as full a forest chorus as Mr.
Hullah himself could desire.

When the jaguars approached the edge of the forest, which they
frequently did, a dog belonging to the party began to howl, and seek
refuge under their cots. Sometimes, after a long silence, the cry of the
jaguars came from the tops of the trees, when it was followed by an
outcry among the monkeys. Humboldt supposes the noise thus made by the
inhabitants of the forest during the night, to be the effect of some
contests that had arisen among them.

On the pampas of Paraquay, great havoc is committed among the herds of
horses by the jaguars, whose strength is quite sufficient to enable them
to drag off one of these animals. Azara caused the body of a horse,
which had been recently killed by a jaguar, to be drawn within
musket-shot of a tree, in which he intended to pass the night,
anticipating that the jaguar would return in the course of it, to its
victim; but while he was gone to prepare for his adventure, behold the
animal swam across a large and deep river, and having seized the horse
with his teeth, dragged it full sixty paces to the river, swam across
again with his prey, and then dragged the carcase into a neighboring
wood; and all this in sight of a person, whom Azara had placed to keep
watch. But the jaguars have also an aldermanic goût for turtles, which
they gratify in a very systematic manner, as related by Humboldt, who
was shown large shells of turtles emptied by them. They follow the
turtles towards the beaches, where the laying of eggs is to take place,
surprise them on the sand, and in order to devour them at their ease,
adroitly turn them on their backs; and as they turn many more than they
can devour in one night, the Indians often profit by their cunning. The
jaguar pursues the turtle quite into the water, and when not very deep,
digs up the eggs; they, with the crocodile, the heron, and the gallinago
vulture, are the most formidable enemies the little turtles have.
Humboldt justly remarks, "When we reflect on the difficulty that the
naturalist finds in getting out the body of the turtle, without
separating the upper and under shells, we cannot enough admire the
suppleness of the jaguar's paw, which empties the double armor of the
_arraus_, as if the adhering parts of the muscles had been cut by means
of a surgical instrument."

The rivers of South America swarm with crocodiles, and these wage
perpetual war with the jaguars. It is said, that when the jaguar
surprises the alligator asleep on the hot sandbank, he attacks him in a
vulnerable part under the tail, and often kills him, but let the
crocodile only get his antagonist into the water, and the tables are
turned, for the jaguar is held under water until he is drowned.

The onset of the jaguar is always made from behind, partaking of the
stealthy, treacherous character of his tribe; if a herd of animals, or a
party of men be passing, it is the last that is always the object of his
attack. When he has made choice of his victim, he springs upon the neck,
and placing one paw on the back of the head, while he seizes the muzzle
with the other, twists the head round with a sudden jerk which
dislocates the spine, and deprives it instantaneously of life;
sometimes, especially when satiated with food, he is indolent and
cowardly, skulking in the gloomiest depths of the forest, and scared by
the most trifling causes, but when urged by the cravings of hunger, the
largest quadrupeds, and man himself, are attacked with fury and success.

Mr. Darwin has given an interesting account of the habits of the jaguar:
the wooded banks of the great South American rivers appear to be their
favorite haunt, but south of the Plata they frequent the reeds bordering
lakes; wherever they are they seem to require water. They are
particularly abundant on the isles of the Parana, their common prey
being the carpincho, so that it is generally said, where carpinchos are
plentiful, there is little fear of the jaguar; possibly, however, a
jaguar which has tasted human flesh, may afterwards become dainty, and,
like the lions of South Africa, and the tigers of India, acquire the
dreadful character of man-eaters, from preferring that food to all
others. It is not many years ago since a very large jaguar found his way
into a church in Santa Fé; soon afterwards a very corpulent padre
entering, was at once killed by him: his equally stout coadjutor,
wondering what had detained the padre, went to look after him, and also
fell a victim to the jaguar; a third priest, marvelling greatly at the
unaccountable absence of the others, sought them, and the jaguar having
by this time acquired a strong clerical taste, made at him also, but he,
being fortunately of the slender order, dodged the animal from pillar to
post, and happily made his escape; the beast was destroyed by being shot
from a corner of the building, which was unroofed, and thus paid the
penalty of his sacrilegious propensities.

On the Parana they have killed many woodcutters, and have even entered
vessels by night. One dark evening the mate of a vessel, hearing a heavy
but peculiar footstep on deck, went up to see what it was, and was
immediately met by a jaguar, who had come on board, seeking what he
could devour: a severe struggle ensued, assistance arrived, and the
brute was killed, but the man lost the use of the arm which had been
ground between his teeth.

The Guachos say that the jaguar, when wandering about at night, is much
tormented by the foxes yelping as they follow him; this may perhaps
serve to alarm his prey, but must be as teasing to him as the attentions
of swallows are to an owl who happens to be taking a daylight promenade;
and if owls ever swear, it is under those circumstances. Mr. Darwin,
when hunting on the banks of the Uruguay, was shown three well-known
trees to which the jaguars constantly resort, for the purpose, it is
said, of sharpening their claws. Every one must be familiar with the
manner in which cats, with outstretched legs and extended claws, will
card the legs of chairs and of men; so with the jaguar; and of these
trees, the bark was worn quite smooth in front; on each side there were
deep grooves, extending in an oblique line nearly a yard in length. The
scars were of different ages, and the inhabitants could always tell when
a jaguar was in the neighborhood, by his recent autograph on one of
these trees.

We have seen tigers stretching their enormous limbs in this manner, and
were recently interested in watching the proceedings of two beautiful
young jaguars now in the Zoological Gardens, Regent's Park; they are
scarcely half-grown and as playful as kittens. After chasing and
tumbling each other over several times, they went as by mutual consent
to the post of their cage, and there carefully and with intensely placid
countenances scraped away with their claws as they would have done
against the trees had they been in their native woods. This proceeding
satisfactorily concluded, they swarmed up and down the post, appearing
to vie with each other as to which should be first. The six young
leopards are equally graceful and active with the above, and the
elegance and quickness of their movements cannot fail to command
admiration. They seem to be particularly fond of bounding up and down
the trees, and sometimes rest in the strangest attitudes, stuck in the
fork of a bough, or sitting, as it were; astride of one, with their hind
legs hanging down. M. Sonnini bears testimony to the extraordinary
climbing powers of the jaguar; "For," says he, "I have seen, in the
forests of Guiana, the prints left by the claws of the jaguar on the
smooth bark of a tree from forty to fifty feet in height, measuring
about a foot and a half in circumference, and clothed with branches near
its summit alone. It was easy to follow with the eye the efforts which
the animal had made to reach the branches; although his talons had been
thrust deeply into the body of the tree, he had met with several slips,
but had always recovered his ground; and attracted, no doubt, by some
favorite prey, had at length succeeded in gaining the very top!"

The following is the common mode of killing the jaguar in Tucuman: The
Guacho, armed with a long strong spear, traces him to his den, and
having found it, he places himself in a convenient position to receive
the animal on the point of the spear at the first spring; dogs are then
sent in, and driving him out he springs with fury upon the Guacho, who,
fixing his eyes on those of the jaguar, receives his onset kneeling, and
with such consummate coolness that he hardly ever fails. At the moment
that the spear is plunged into the animal's body the Guacho nimbly
springs on one side, and the jaguar, already impaled on the spear, is
speedily dispatched.

In one instance the animal lay stretched on the ground, like a gorged
cat, and was in such high good humor after his satisfactory meal, that
on the dogs attacking him he was disposed to play with them; a bullet
was therefore lodged in his shoulder, on which rough salute he sprang
out so quickly on his watching assailant, that he not only received the
spear in his body, but tumbled the man over, and they rolled on the
ground together. "I thought," said the brave fellow, "that I was no
longer a capitaz, as I held up my arm to protect my throat, which the
jaguar seemed in the act of seizing; but at the very moment that I
expected to feel his fangs in my flesh, the green fire which had blazed
upon me from his eyes flashed out--he fell upon me, and with a quiver
died."

Colonel Hamilton relates that when travelling on the banks of the
Magdalena, he remarked a young man with his arm in a sling, and on
inquiring the cause, was told that about a month before, when walking in
a forest, a dog he had with him began to bark at something in a dark
cavern overhung with bushes; and on his approaching the entrance, a
jaguar rushed on him with great force, seizing his right arm, and in the
struggle they both fell over a small precipice. He then lost his senses,
and on recovering found the jaguar had left him, but his arm was
bleeding and shockingly lacerated. On surprise being expressed that the
animal had not killed him, he shrugged up his shoulders, and remarked,
"La bienaventurada virgen Maria le habia salvo." The blessed Virgin had
saved him.

In the province of Buenaventura it is said that the Indians kill the
jaguar by means of poisoned arrows, about eight inches in length, which
are thrown from a blow-pipe: the arrows are poisoned with a moisture
which exudes from the back of a small green frog, found in the provinces
of Buenaventura and Choco. When the Indians want to get this poison from
the frog, they put him near a small fire, and the moisture soon appears
on his back; in this the points of the small arrows are dipped, and so
subtle is the poison that a jaguar struck by one of these little
insignificant weapons, soon becomes convulsed and dies.

The jaguar has the general character of being untameable, and of
maintaining his savage ferocity when in captivity, showing no symptoms
of attachment to those who have the care of him. This, like many other
points in natural history, is a popular error; there is at the present
time a magnificent jaguar in the Zoological Gardens, who is as tame and
gentle as a domestic cat. We have seen this fine creature walking up and
down the front of his den as his keeper walked, rubbing himself against
the bars, purring with manifest pleasure as his back or head was
stroked, and caressing the man's hand with his huge velvet paws. There
is in the collection another jaguar, just as savage as this one is tame.
There was also a jaguar formerly in the Tower, which was obtained by
Lord Exmouth while on the South American Station, and was afterwards
present at the memorable bombardment of Algiers. This animal was equally
gentle with that we have described, and was presented to the Marchioness
of Londonderry by Lord Exmouth on his return to England after that
engagement: it was placed by her Ladyship in the Tower, where it died.

In a state of nature these animals have been known to show not only
forbearance, but even playfulness, of which Humboldt relates the
following instance which occurred at the mission of Atures, on the banks
of the Orinoco: "Two Indian children, a boy and girl, eight or nine
years of age, were sitting among the grass near the village of Atures,
in the midst of a savannah. It was two in the afternoon when a jaguar
issued from the forest and approached the children, gambolling around
them, sometimes concealing itself among the long grass and again
springing forward with his back curved and his head lowered, as is usual
with our cats. The little boy was unaware of the danger in which he was
placed, and became sensible of it only when the jaguar struck him on the
side of the head with one of his paws. The blows thus inflicted were at
first slight, but gradually became ruder; the claws of the jaguar
wounded the child, and blood flowed with violence; the little girl then
took up the branch of a tree, and struck the animal, which fled before
her. The Indians, hearing the cries of the children, ran up, and saw the
jaguar, which bounded off without showing any disposition to defend
itself." In all probability, this fit of good humor was to be traced to
the animal having been plentifully fed; for most assuredly the children
would have stood but little chance, had their visitor been subjected to
a meagre diet for some days previously.

Mr. Edwards, in his voyage up the Amazon, tells of an exchange of
courtesies between a traveller and a jaguar. The jaguar was standing in
the road as the Indian came out of the bushes, not ten paces distant,
and was looking, doubtless, somewhat fiercely as he waited the unknown
comer. The Indian was puzzled for an instant, but summoning his presence
of mind, he took off his broad brimmed hat, and made a low bow, with
"Muito bene dias, men Señhor," or "A very good morning, Sir." Such
profound respect was not wanting on the jaguar, who turned slowly and
marched down the road with proper dignity.

It is difficult to say how many leopards and jaguar skins are annually
imported, as the majority are brought by private hands. We have been
told by an eminent furrier that about five hundred are sold each year to
the London trade. They are chiefly used as shabraques, or coverings to
officers' saddles in certain hussar regiments, but skins used for this
purpose must be marked in a particular manner, and the ground must be of
a dark rich color. Such skins are worth about three pounds; ordinary
leopard and jaguar skins are valued at about two pounds, and are chiefly
used for rugs or mats. The jaguar skins are sometimes of great size,
and we have measured one which was nine feet seven inches from tip to
tip. The leopard skins are exclusively used for military purposes, and
the jaguar's are preferred for rugs.




From the Dublin University Magazine.

A LEGEND OF THE EAST NEUK OF FIFE.


It was a cold night in the March of the year 1708. The hour of ten had
tolled from the old Gothic tower of the Collegiate Church; beating on
his drum, the drummer in the livery of the burgh had proceeded from the
Market-cross to the ruins of St. David's Castle, and from thence to the
chapel of St. Rufus, and having made one long roll or flourish at the
point from whence his peregrination began, he adjourned to the _Thane of
Fife_ to procure a dram, while the good folks of Crail composed
themselves for the night, and the barring of doors and windows announced
that those who were within had resolved to make themselves comfortable
and secure, while those unfortunate wights that were without were likely
to remain so.

Hollowly the German Sea was booming on the rocks of the harbor; and from
its hazy surface a cold east wind swept over the flat, bleak coast of
Crail; a star peeped at times between the flying clouds, and even the
moon looked forth once, but immediately veiled her face again, as if one
glance at the iron shore and barren scenery, unenlivened by hedge or
tree, were quite enough to prevent her from looking again.

The town drummer had received his dram and withdrawn, and Master
Spiggot, the gudeman or landlord of the _Thane of Fife_, the principal
tavern, and only inn or hostel in the burgh, was taking a last view of
the main street, and considering the propriety of closing for the night.
It was broad, spacious, and is still overlooked by many a tall and
gable-ended mansion, whose antique and massive aspect announces that,
like other Fifeshire burghs before the Union in the preceding year, it
had seen better days. Indeed, the house then occupied by Master Spiggot
himself, and from which his sign bearing the panoplied _Thane_ at full
gallop on a caparisoned steed swung creaking in the night wind, was one
of those ancient edifices, and in former days had belonged to the
provost of the adjoining kirk; but this was (as Spiggot said) "in the
auld warld times o' the Papistrie."

The gudeman shook his white head solemnly and sadly, as he looked down
the empty thoroughfare.

"There _was_ a time," he muttered, and paused.

Silent and desolate as any in the ruins of Thebes, the street was half
covered with weeds and rank grass that grew between the stones, and
Spiggot could see them waving in the dim starlight.

Crail is an out-of-the-way place. It is without thoroughfare and without
trade; few leave it and still fewer think of going there, for there one
feels as if on the very verge of society; for there, even by day, reigns
a monastic gloom, a desertion, a melancholy, a uniform and voiceless
silence, broken only by the croak of the gleds and the cawing of the
clamorous gulls nestling on the old church tower, while the sea booms
incessantly as it rolls on the rocky beach.

But there was a time when it was otherwise; when the hum of commerce
rose around its sculptured cross, and there was a daily bustle in the
chambers of its Town-hall, for there a portly provost and bailies with a
battalion of seventeen corpulent councillors sat solemnly deliberating
on the affairs of the burgh; and swelling with a municipal importance
that was felt throughout the whole East Neuk of Fife; for, in those
days, the bearded Russ and red-haired Dane, the Norwayer, and the
Hollander, laden with merchandise, furled their sails in that deserted
harbor, where now scarcely a fisherboat is seen; for on Crail, as on all
its sister towns along the coast, fell surely and heavily the terrible
blight of 1707, and now it is hastening rapidly to insignificance and
decay.

On the sad changes a year had brought about, Spiggot pondered sadly, and
was only roused from his dreamy mood by the sudden apparition of a
traveller on horseback standing before him; for so long and so soft was
the grass of the street that his approach had been unheard by the
dreamer, whose mind was wandering after the departed glories of the East
Neuk.

"A cold night, landlord, for such I take you to be," said the stranger,
in a bold and cheerful voice, as he dismounted.

"A cauld night and a dreary too," sighed poor Boniface, as he bowed, and
hastening to seize the stranger's bridle, buckled it to a ring at the
doorcheek; "but the sicht of a visitor does gude to my heart; step in,
sir. A warm posset that was simmering in the parlor for myself is at
your service, and I'll set the stall-boy to corn your beast and stable
it."

"I thank you, gudeman; but for unharnessing it matters not, as I must
ride onward; but I will take the posset with thanks, for I am chilled to
death by my long ride along this misty coast."

Spiggot looked intently at the traveller as he stooped, and entering the
low-arched door which was surmounted by an old monastic legend, trod
into the bar with a heavy clanking stride, for he was accoutred with
jack-boots and gilded spurs. His rocquelaure was of scarlet cloth,
warmly furred, and the long curls of his Ramillies wig flowed over it.
His beaver was looped upon three sides with something of a military air,
and one long white feather that adorned it, floated down his back, for
the dew was heavy on it. He was a handsome man, about forty years of
age, well sunburned, with a keen dark eye, and close-clipped moustache,
which indicated that he had served in foreign wars. He threw his hat and
long jewelled rapier aside, and on removing his rocquelaure, discovered
a white velvet coat more richly covered with lace than any that Spiggot
had ever seen even in the palmiest days of Crail.

According to the fashion of Queen Anne's courtiers, it was without a
collar, to display the long white cravat of point d'Espagne, without
cuffs, and edged from top to bottom with broad bars of lace, clasps and
buttons of silver the whole length; being compressed at the waist by a
very ornamental belt fastened by a large gold buckle.

"Your honor canna think of riding on to-night," urged Boniface; "and if
a Crail-capon done just to perfection, and a stoup of the best wine, at
least siccan wine as we get by the east seas, since that vile
incorporating Union--"

"Vile and damnable! say I," interrupted the stranger.

"True for ye, sir," said Spiggot with a kindling eye; "but if these puir
viands can induce ye to partake of the hospitality of my puir hostel,
that like our gude burrowtoun is no just what it has been--"

"Gudeman, 'tis impossible, for I must ride so soon as I have imbibed thy
posset."

"As ye please, sir--your honor's will be done. Our guests are now, even
as the visits of angels, unco few and far between; and thus, when one
comes, we are loath to part with him. There is a deep pitfall, and an
ugly gullyhole where the burn crosses the road at the town-head, and if
ye miss the path, the rocks by the beach are steep, and in a night like
this--"

"Host of mine," laughed the traveller, "I know right well every rood of
the way, and by keeping to the left near the Auldlees may avoid both the
blackpit and the sea-beach."

"Your honor kens the country hereawa then," said Spiggot with surprise.

"Of old, perhaps, I knew it as well as thee."

The gudeman of the _Thane_ scrutinized the traveller's face keenly, but
failed to recognize him, and until this moment he thought that no man in
the East Neuk was unknown to him; but here his inspection was at fault.

"And hast thou no visitors with thee now, friend host?" he asked of
Spiggot.

"One only, gude sir, who came here on a brown horse about nightfall. He
is an unco foreign-looking man, but has been asking the way to the
castle o' Balcomie."

"Ha! and thou didst tell of this plaguy pitfall, I warrant."

"Assuredly, your honor, in kindness I did but hint of it."

"And thereupon he stayed. Balcomie--indeed! and what manner of man is
he?"

"By the corslet which he wears under his coat, and the jaunty cock of
his beaver, I would say he had been a soldier."

"Good again--give him my most humble commendations, and ask him to share
thy boasted posset of wine with me."

"What name did you say, sir?"

"Thou inquisitive varlet, I said no name," replied the gentleman, with a
smile, "In these times men do not lightly give their names to each
other, when the land is swarming with Jacobite plotters and government
spies, disguised Jesuits, and Presbyterian tyrants. I may be the Devil
or the Pope for all thou knowest."

"Might ye no be the Pretender?" said Spiggot, with a sour smile.

"Nay, I have a better travelling name than that; but say to this
gentleman that the Major of Marshal Orkney's Dragoons requests the
pleasure of sharing a stoup of wine with him."

"Sir, it mattereth little whether ye give your name or no," replied the
host bitterly; "for we are a' nameless now. Twelve months ago we were
true Scottish men, but _now_--"

"Our king is an exile--our crown is buried for ever, and our brave
soldiers are banished to far and foreign wars, while the grass is
growing green in the streets of our capital--ay, green as it is at this
hour in your burgh of Crail; but hence to the stranger; yet say not,"
added the traveller, bitterly and proudly, "that in his warmth the
Scottish cavalier has betrayed himself."

While the speaker amused himself with examining a printed proclamation
concerning the "Tiend Commissioners and Transplantation off Paroch
Kirkis," which was pasted over the stone mantelpiece of the bar, the
landlord returned with the foreign gentleman's thanks, and an invitation
to his chamber, whither the Major immediately repaired; following the
host up a narrow stone spiral stair to a snugly wainscotted room,
against the well-grated windows of which a sudden shower was now
beginning to patter.

The foreigner, who was supping on a Crail-capon (in other words a
broiled haddock) and stoup of Bourdeaux wine, arose at their entrance,
and bowed with, an air that was undisguisedly continental. He was a man
above six feet, with a long straight nose, over which his dark eyebrows
met and formed one unbroken line. He wore a suit of green Genoese
velvet, so richly laced that little of the cloth was visible; a
full-bottomed wig, and a small corslet of the brightest steel (over
which hung the ends of his cravat), as well as a pair of silver-mounted
cavalry pistols that lay on the table, together with his unmistakable
bearing, decided the Major of Orkney's that the stranger was a brother
of the sword.

"Fair sir, little introduction is necessary between us, as, I believe,
we have both followed the drum in our time," said the Major, shaking the
curls of his Ramillie wig with the air of a man who has decided on what
he says.

"I _have_ served, Monsieur," replied the foreigner, "under Marlborough
and Eugene."

"Ah! in French Flanders? Landlord--gudeman, harkee; a double stoup of
this wine; I have found a comrade to-night--be quick and put my horse to
stall, I will not ride hence for an hour or so. What regiment, sir?"

"I was first under Grouvestien in the Horse of Driesberg."

"Then you were on the left of the second column at Ramillies--on that
glorious 12th of May," said the Major, drawing the high-backed chair
which the host handed him, and spreading out his legs before the fire,
which burned merrily in the basket-grate on the hearth, "and latterly--"

"Under Wandenberg."

"Ah! an old tyrannical dog."

A dark cloud gathered on the stranger's lofty brow.

"I belonged to the Earl of Orkney's Grey Dragoons," said the Major; "and
remember old Wandenberg making a bold charge in that brilliant onfall
when we passed the lines of Monsieur le Mareschal Villars at
Pont-a-Vendin, and pushed on to the plains of Lens."

"That was before we invested Doway and Fort-Escharpe, where old
Albergotti so ably commanded ten thousand well-beaten soldiers."

"And then Villars drew off from his position at sunset and encamped on
the plain before Arras."

"Thou forgettest, comrade, that previously he took up a position in rear
of Escharpe."

"True; but now I am right into the very melée of those old affairs, and
the mind carries one on like a rocket. Your health, sir--by the way, I
am still ignorant of your name."

"I have such very particular reasons for concealing it in this
neighborhood, that--"

"Do not think me inquisitive; in these times men should not pry too
closely."

"Monsieur will pardon me I hope."

"No apology is necessary, save from myself, for now my curiosity is
thoroughly and most impertinently whetted, to find a Frenchman in this
part of the world, here in this out-o'-the-way place, where no one comes
to, and no one goes from, on a bleak promontory of the German Sea, the
East Neuk of Fife."

"Monsieur will again excuse me; but I have most particular business with
a gentleman in this neighborhood; and having travelled all the way from
Paris, expressly to have it settled, I beg that I may be excused the
pain of prevarication. The circumstance of my having served under the
great Duke of Malborough against my own King and countrymen is
sufficiently explained when I acquaint you, that I was then a French
Protestant refugee; but now, without changing my religion, I have King
Louis's gracious pardon and kind protection extended to me."

"And so you were with Wandenberg when his troopers made that daring
onfall at Pont-a-Vendin, and drove back the horse picquets of Villars,"
said the Major, to lead the conversation from a point which evidently
seemed unpleasant to the stranger. "'Twas sharp, short, and decisive, as
all cavalry affairs should be. You will of course remember that
unpleasant affair of Wandenberg's troopers, who were accused of
permitting a French prisoner to escape. It caused a great excitement in
the British camp, where some condemned the dragoons, others Van
Wandenberg, and not a few our great Marlborough himself."

"I did hear something of it," said the stranger in a low voice.

"The prisoner whose escape was permitted was, I believe, the father of
the youths who captured him, a circumstance which might at least have
won them mercy--"

"From the Baron!"

"I forgot me--he was indeed merciless."

"But as I left his dragoons, and indeed the army about that time, I will
be glad to hear _your_ account of the affair."

"It is a very unpleasant story--the more so as I was somewhat concerned
in it myself," said the Major, slowly filling his long stemmed glass,
and watching the white worm in its stalk, so intently as he recalled all
the circumstances he was about to relate, that he did not observe the
face of the French gentleman, which was pale as death; and after a short
pause, he began as follows:

"In the onfall at Pont-a-Vendin, it happened that two young Frenchmen
who served as gentlemen volunteers with you in the dragoon regiment of
Van Wandenberg, had permitted--how, or why, I pretend not to say--the
escape of a certain prisoner of distinction. Some said he was no other
than M. le Mareschal Villars himself. They claimed a court martial, but
the old Baron, who was a savage-hearted Dutchman, insisted that they
should be given up unconditionally to his own mercy, and in an evil
moment of heedlessness or haste, Marlborough consented, and sent me (I
was his Aid-de-Camp) with a written order to that effect, addressed to
Colonel the Baron Van Wandenberg, whose regiment of horse I met _en
route_ for St. Venant, about nightfall on a cold and snowy evening in
the month of November.

"Snow covered the whole country, which was all a dead level, and a cold,
leaden-colored sky met the white horizon in one unbroken line, save
where the leafless poplars of some far-off village stood up, the
landmarks of the plain. In broad flakes the snow fell fast, and
directing their march by a distant spire, the Dutch troopers rode slowly
over the deepening fields. They were all muffled in dark blue cloaks, on
the capes of which the snow was freezing, while the breath of the men
and horses curled like steam in the thickening and darkening air.

"Muffled to the nose in a well furred rocquelaure, with my wig tied to
keep the snow from its curls, and my hat flapped over my face, I rode as
fast as the deep snow would permit, and passing the rear of the column
where, moody and disarmed, the two poor French volunteers were riding
under care of an escort, I spurred to the Baron who rode in front near
the kettle drums, and delivered my order; as I did so, recalling with
sadness the anxious and wistful glance given me by the prisoners as I
passed them.

"Wandenberg, who had no more shape than a huge hogshead, received the
dispatch with a growl of satisfaction. He would have bowed, but his neck
was too short. I cannot but laugh when I remember his strange aspect. In
form he looked nearly as broad as he was long, being nearly eight feet
in girth, and completely enveloped in a rough blue rocquelaure, which
imparted to his figure the roundness of a ball. His face, reddened by
skiedam and the frost, was glowing like crimson, while the broad beaver
hat that overshadowed it, and the feathers with which the beaver was
edged, were incrusted with the snow that was rapidly forming a pyramid
on its crown, imparting to his whole aspect a drollery at which I could
have laughed heartily, had not his well-known acuteness and ferocity
awed me into a becoming gravity of demeanor; and delivering my dispatch
with a tolerably good grace, I reined back my horse to await any reply
he might be pleased to send the Duke.

"His dull Dutch eyes glared with sudden anger and triumph, as he folded
the document, and surveyed the manacled prisoners. Thereafter he seized
his speaking trumpet, and thundered out--

"'Ruyters--halt! form open column of troops, trot!'

"It was done as rapidly as heavily armed Dutchmen on fat slow horses
knee deep among snow could perform it, and then wheeling them into line,
he gave the orders--

"'Forward the flanks--form circle--sling musquetoons!--trumpeters ride
to the centre and dismount.'

"By these unexpected manoeuvres, I suddenly found myself inclosed in a
hollow circle of the Dutch horsemen, and thus, as it were, compelled to
become a spectator of the scene that ensued, though I had his Grace of
Marlborough's urgent orders to rejoin him without delay on the road to
Aire."

"'And--and you saw--'

"Such a specimen of discipline as neither the devil nor De Martinet ever
dreamed of; but thoroughly Dutch I warrant you.

"I have said it was intensely cold, and that the night was closing; but
the whiteness of the snow that covered the vast plain, with the broad
red circle of the half-obscured moon that glimmered through the fast
falling flakes as it rose behind a distant spire, cast a dim light upon
the place where the Dutchmen halted. But deeming that insufficient, Van
Wandenberg ordered half a dozen torches to be lighted, for his troopers
always had such things with them, being useful by night for various
purposes; and hissing and sputtering in the falling snow flakes, their
lurid and fitful glare was thrown on the close array of the Dutch
dragoons, on their great cumbrous hats, on the steeple crowns of which,
I have said, the snow was gathering in cones, and the pale features of
the two prisoners, altogether imparting a wild, unearthly, and terrible
effect to the scene about to be enacted on that wide and desolate moor.

"By order of Van Wandenberg, three halberts were fixed into the frozen
earth, with their points bound together by a thong, after which the
dismounted trumpeters layed hands on one of the young Frenchmen, whom
they proceeded to strip of his coat and vest.

"Disarmed and surrounded, aware of the utter futility of resistance, the
unfortunate volunteer offered none, but gazed wistfully and imploringly
at me, and sure I am, that in my lowering brow and kindling eyes, he
must have seen the storm that was gathering in my heart.

"'Dieu vous benisse, Monsieur Officer," cried the Frenchman in a
mournful voice, while shuddering with cold and horror as he was stripped
to his shirt; 'save me from this foul disgrace, and my prayers--yea, my
life shall be for ever at your disposal.'

"'Good comrade,' said I, 'entreat me not, for here, I am powerless.'

"'Baron,' he exclaimed; 'I am a gentleman--a gentleman of old France,
and I dare thee to lay thy damnable scourge upon me.'

"'Ach Gott! dare--do you say dare? ve vill ze!' laughed Van Wandenberg,
as the prisoner was dragged forward and about to be forcibly trussed to
the halberts by the trumpeters, when animated to the very verge of
insanity, he suddenly freed himself, and rushing like a madman upon the
Baron, struck him from his horse by one blow of his clenched hand. The
horse snorted, the Dutch troopers opened their saucer eyes wider still,
as the great and corpulent mass fell heavily among the deepening snow,
and in an instant the foot of the Frenchmen was pressed upon his throat,
while he exclaimed:

"'If I slay thee, thou hireling dog, as I have often slain thy clodpated
countrymen in other days,' and the Frenchman laughed fiercely, 'by St.
Denis! I will have one foe-man less on this side of Hell!'

"'Gott in Himmel! ach! mein tuyvel! mein--mein Gott!' gasped the
Dutchman as he floundered beneath the heel of the vengeful and
infuriated Frenchman, who was determined on destroying him, till a blow
from the baton of an officer, stretched him almost senseless among the
snow, where he was immediately grasped by the trumpeters, disrobed of
his last remaining garment, and bound strongly to the halberts.

"Meanwhile the other prisoner had been pinioned and resolutely held by
his escort, otherwise he would undoubtedly have fallen also upon Van
Wandenberg, who choking with a tempest of passion that was too great to
find utterance in words, had gathered up his rotund figure, and with an
agility wonderful in a man of his years and vast obesity, so heavily
armed, in a buff coat and jack-boots ribbed with iron, a heavy sword and
cloak, clambered on the back of his horse, as a clown would climb up a
wall; and with a visage alternating between purple and blue, by the
effects of rage and strangulation, he surveyed the prisoner for a moment
in silence, and there gleamed in his piggish gray eyes an expression of
fury and pain, bitterness and triumph combined, and he was only able to
articulate one word--

"'Flog.'

"On the handsome young Frenchman's dark curly hair, glistening with the
whitening snow that fell upon it, and on his tender skin reddening in
the frosty atmosphere, on the swelling muscles of his athletic form, on
a half-healed sabre wound, and on the lineaments of a face that then
expressed the extremity of mental agony, fell full the wavering light of
the uplifted torches. The Dutch, accustomed to every species of
extra-judicial cruelty by sea and land, looked on with the most grave
stolidity and apathetic indifference; while I felt an astonishment and
indignation that rapidly gave place to undisguised horror.

"'_Flog!_'

"The other prisoner uttered a groan that seemed to come from his very
heart, and then covered his ears and eyes with his hands. Wielded by a
muscular trumpeter, an immense scourge of many-knotted cords was brought
down with one full sweep on the white back of the victim, and nine livid
bars, each red, as if seared by a hot iron, rose under the infliction,
and again the terrible instrument was reared by the trumpeter at the
full stretch of his sinewy arm.

"Monsieur will be aware, that _until_ the late Revolution of 1688, this
kind of punishment was unknown here and elsewhere, save in Holland; and
though I have seen soldiers run the gauntlet, ride the mare, and beaten
by the martinets, I shall never, oh, no! never forget the sensation of
horror with which this (to me) new punishment of the poor Frenchman
inspired me; and, sure I am, that our great Duke of Marlborough could in
no way have anticipated it.

"Accustomed, as I have said, to every kind of cruel severity, unmoved
and stoically the Dutch looked on with their gray, lacklustre eyes,
dull, unmeaning, and passionless in their stolidity, contrasting
strongly with the expression of startled horror depicted in the strained
eyeballs and bent brows of the victim's brother, when after a time he
dared to look on this revolting punishment. Save an ill-repressed sob,
or half-muttered interjection from the suffering man, no other sound
broke the stillness of the place, where a thousand horsemen stood in
close order, but the sputtering of the torches, in the red light of
which our breaths were ascending like steam. Yes! there was one other
sound, and it was a horrible one--the monotonous whiz of the scourge, as
it cut the keen frosty air and descended on the lacerated back of the
fainting prisoner. Sir, I see that my story disturbs you.

"A corpulent Provost Mareschal, with a pair of enormous moustachios,
amid which the mouth of his meerschaum was inserted, stood by smoking
with admirable coolness, and marking the time with his cane, while a
drummer tapped on his kettledrum, and four trumpeters had, each in
succession, given their twenty-five lashes and withdrawn; twice had the
knotted scourge been coagulated with blood, and twice had it been washed
in the snow that now rose high around the feet of our champing and
impatient horses; and now the fifth torturer approached, but still the
compressed lips and clammy tongue of the proud Frenchman refused to
implore mercy. His head was bowed down on his breast, his body hung
pendant from the cords that encircled his swollen and livid wrists; his
back from neck to waist was one mass of lacerated flesh, on which the
feathery snowflakes were melting; for the agony he endured must have
been like unto a stream of molton lead pouring over him; but no groan,
no entreaty escaped him, and still the barbarous punishment proceeded.

"I have remarked that there is no event too horrible or too sad to be
without a little of the ridiculous in it, and this was discernible here.

"One trumpeter, who appeared to have more humanity, or perhaps less
skill than his predecessors, and did not exert himself sufficiently, was
soundly beaten by the rattan of the trumpet-major, while the latter was
castigated by the Provost Mareschal, who, in turn for remissness of
duty, received sundry blows from the speaking-trumpet of the Baron; so
they were all laying soundly on each other for a time.

"'Morbleu!' said the Frenchmen, with a grim smile, ''twas quite in the
Dutch taste, that.'

"The Provost Mareschal continued to mark the time with the listless
apathy of an automaton; the smoke curled from his meerschaum, the drum
continued to tap-tap-tap, until it seemed to sound like thunder to my
strained ears, for every sense was painfully excited. All count had long
been lost, but when several hundred lashes had been given, Van
Wandenberg and half his Dutchman were asleep in their saddles.

"It was now snowing thick and fast, but still this hideous dream
continued, and still the scourging went on.

"At last the altered _sound_ of the lash and the terrible aspect of the
victim, who, after giving one or two convulsive shudders, threw back his
head with glazed eyes and jaw relaxed, caused the trumpeter to recede a
pace or two, and throw down his gory scourge, for some lingering
sentiment of humanity, which even the Dutch discipline of King William
had not extinguished, made him respect when dead the man whom he had
dishonored when alive.

"The young Frenchman was dead!

"An exclamation of disgust and indignation that escaped me woke up the
Baron, who after drinking deeply from a great pewter flask of skiedam
that hung at his saddlebow, muttered _schelms_ several times, rubbed his
eyes, and then bellowed through his trumpet to bind up the _other_
prisoner. Human endurance could stand this no more, and though I deemed
the offer vain, I proposed to give a hundred English guineas as a
ransom.

"'Ach Gott!' said the greedy Hollander immediately becoming interested;
'bot vere you get zo mosh guilder.'

"'Oh, readily, Mynheer Baron,' I replied, drawing forth my pocket-book,
'I have here bills on his Grace the Duke of Marlborough's paymaster and
on the Bank of Amsterdam for much more than that.'

"'Bot I cannot led off de brisoner for zo little--hunder pounds dat ver
small--zay two.'

"'If one is not enough, Mynheer Baron, I will refer to the decision of
his grace the captain-general.'

"Ach, der tuyvel! vill you?' said the Dutchman, with a savage gleam in
his little eyes, which showed that he quite understood my hint; 'vell,
me vont quarrel vid you, gib me de bills and de schelm is yours.'

"Resolving, nevertheless, to lay the whole affair before Marlborough,
the moment I reached our trenches at Aire, I gave a bill for the
required sum, and approaching the other Frenchman, requested him to keep
beside me; but he seemed too much confused by grief, and cold, and
horror to comprehend what I said. Poor fellow! his whole soul and
sympathies seemed absorbed in the mangled corpse of his brother, which
was now unbound from the halbert, and lay half sunk among the new fallen
snow. While he stooped over it, and hastily, but tenderly, proceeded to
draw the half-frozen clothing upon the stiffened form, the orders of Van
Wandenberg were heard hoarsely through his speaking-trumpet, as they
rang over the desolate plain, and his troopers wheeled back from a
circle into line--from line into open column of troops, and thereafter
the torches were extinguished and the march begun. Slowly and solemnly
the dragoons glided away into the darkness, each with a pyramid of snow
rising from the steeple crown, and ample brims of his broad beaver hat.

"It was now almost midnight; the red moon had waned, the snow storm was
increasing, and there were I and the young Frenchman, with his brother's
corpse, left together on the wide plain, without a place to shelter us."

"'Proceed, Monsieur,' said the Frenchman, as the narrator paused; 'for I
am well aware that your story ends not there.'

"It does not--you seem interested; but I have little more to relate,
save that I dismounted and assisted the poor Frenchman to raise the body
from the snow, and to tie it across the saddle of my horse; taking the
bridle in one hand, I supported him with the other, and thus we
proceeded to the nearest town."

"'To Armentieres on the Lys," exclaimed the Frenchman, seizing the hands
of the Major as the latter paused again; "to Armentieres, ten miles west
of Lisle, and there you left them, after adding to your generosity by
bestowing sufficient to inter his brother in the Protestant church of
that town, and to convey himself to his native France. Oh! Monsieur, I
am that Frenchman, and here, from my heart, from my soul, I thank you,"
and half kneeling, the stranger kissed the hand of the Major.

"_You!_" exclaimed the latter; "by Jove I am right glad to see you. Here
at Crail, too, in the East Neuk o' Fife--'tis a strange chance; and what
in heaven's name seek ye here? 'Tis a perilous time for a
foreigner--still more a Frenchman, to tread on Scottish ground. The war,
the intrigues with St. Germains, the Popish plots, and the devil only
knows what more, make travelling here more than a little dangerous."

"Monsieur, I know all that; the days are changed since the Scot was at
home in France, and the Frenchman at home in Scotland, for so the old
laws of Stuart and Bourbon made them. A few words will tell who I am and
what I seek here. Excuse my reluctance to reveal myself before, for now
you have a claim upon me. Oh! believe me, I knew not that I addressed
the generous chevalier who, in that hour of despair, redeemed my life
(and more than life), my honor, from the scourge, and enabled me to lay
the head of my poor brother with reverence in the grave. You have heard
of M. Henri Lemercier?"

"What! the great swordsman and fencer--that noble master of the science
of self-defence, with the fame of whose skill and valor all Europe is
ringing?"

"I am he of whom Monsieur is pleased to speak so highly."

"Your hand again, sir; sounds, but I dearly love this gallant science
myself, and have even won me a little name as a handler of the rapier.
There is but one man whom Europe calls your equal, Monsieur Lemercier."

"My superior, you mean, for I have many equals," replied the Frenchman,
very modestly. "You doubtless mean--"

"Sir William Hope, of Hopetoun."

"Ah! Mon Dieu, yes, he has, indeed, a great name in Europe as a fencer
and master of arms, either with double or single falchion, case of
falchions, backsword and dagger, pistol or quarter staff; and it is the
fame of his skill and prowess in these weapons, and the reputation he
has earned by his books on fencing, that hath brought me to-day to this
remote part of Scotland."

"Zounds!" said the Major, shaking back the long powdered curls of his
Ramillie wig, and looking remarkably grave; "you cannot mean to have a
bout with Sir William? He hath a sure hand and a steady eye. I would
rather stand a platoon than be once covered with his pistol."

"Monsieur, I have no enmity to this Sir William Hope, nor am I envious
of his great name as a fencer. Ma foi! the world is quite wide enough
for us both; but here lies my secret. I love Mademoiselle Athalie, the
niece of Madame de Livry--"

"How, the old flame of the great Louis?"

"Oui," said Lemercier, smiling; "and many say that Athalie bears a
somewhat suspicious resemblance to her aunt's royal lover; but that is
no business of mine; she loves me very dearly, and is very good and
amiable. Diable! I am well content to take her and her thirty thousand
louis-d'or without making any troublesome inquiries. It would seem that
my dear little Athalie is immensely vain of my reputation as a master of
fence, and having heard that this Scottish Chevalier is esteemed the
first man of the sword in Britain, and further, that report asserts he
slew her brother in the line of battle at Blenheim, fighting bravely for
a standard, she declared that ere her hand was mine, I must measure
swords with this Sir William, and dip this, her handkerchief, in his
blood, in token of his defeat, and of my conquest."

"A very pretty idea of Mademoiselle Athalie, and I doubt not Hopetoun
will be overwhelmed by the obligation when he hears of it," said the
Major of Orkney's, whose face brightened with a broad laugh; "and so
much would I love to see two such brisk fellows as thou and he yoked
together, at cut-and-thrust, that if permitted, I will rejoice in
bearing the message of M. Lemercier to Sir William, whose Castle of
Balcomie is close by here."

"Having no friend with me, I accept your offer with a thousand thanks,"
said Lemercier.

"Sir William did, indeed, slay an officer, as you have said, in that
charge at Blenheim, where the regiment of the Marquis de Livry was cut
to pieces by Orkney's Scots' Greys; but to be so good and amiable, and
to love you so much withal, Mademoiselle Athalie must be a brisk dame to
urge her favored Chevalier on a venture so desperate; for, mark me,
Monsieur Lemercier," said the Major, impressively, "none can know better
than I, the skill--the long and carefully studied skill--of Sir William
Hopetoun, and permit me to warn you--"

"It matters not--I _must_ fight him; love, honor, and rivalry, too, if
you will have it so, all spur me on, and no time must be lost."

"Enough; I should have been in my stirrups an hour ago; and dark though
the night be, I will ride to Balcomie with your message."

"A million of thanks--you will choose time and place for me."

"Say, to-morrow, at sunrise; be thou at the Standing-stone of Sauchope;
'tis a tall, rough block, in the fields near the Castle of Balcomie, and
doubt not but Sir William will meet you there."

"Thanks, thanks," again said the Frenchman, pressing the hand of the
Major, who, apparently delighted at the prospect of witnessing such an
encounter between the two most renowned swordsmen in Europe, drank off
his stoup of wine, muffled himself in his rocquelaure, and with his
little cocked hat stuck jauntily on one side of the Ramillie wig, left
the apartment, and demanded his horse and the reckoning.

"Then your honor _will_ be fule hardy, and tempt Providence," said the
landlord.

"Nay, gudeman, but you cannot tempt me to stay just now. I ride only
through the town to Balcomie, and will return anon. The Hopetoun family
are there, I believe?"

"Yes; but saving my Lady at the preachings, we see little o' them; for
Sir William has bidden at Edinburgh, or elsewhere, since his English
gold coft the auld tower from the Balcomies of that ilk, the year before
the weary union, devil mend it!"

"Amen, say I: and what callest thou English gold?"

"The doolfu' compensation, o' whilk men say he had his share."

"Man, thou liest, and they who say so lie! for to the last moment his
voice was raised against that traitorous measure of Queensbury and
Stair, and now every energy of his soul is bent to its undoing!" replied
the Major, fiercely, as he put spurs to his horse and rode rapidly down
the dark, and then grassy, street, at the end of which the clank of his
horse's hoofs died away, as he diverged upon the open ground that lay
northward of the town, and by which he had to approach the tower of
Balcomie.

The Frenchman remained long buried in thought, and as he sipped his
wine, gazed dreamily on the changing embers that glowed on the hearth,
and cast a warm light on the blue delft lining of the fireplace. The
reminiscences of the war in Flanders had called up many a sad and many a
bitter recollection.

"I would rather," thought he, "that the man I am about to encounter
to-morrow was not a Scot, for the kindness of to-night, and of that
terrible night in the snow-clad plain of Arras, inspire me with a warm
love for all the people of this land. But my promise must be redeemed,
my adventure achieved, or thou, my dear, my rash Athalie, art lost to
me!" and he paused to gaze with earnestness upon a jewel that glittered
on his hand. It was a hair ring, bound with gold, and a little shield
bearing initials, clasped the small brown tress that was so ingeniously
woven round it.

As he gazed on the trinket, his full dark eyes brightened for a moment,
as the mild memories of love and fondness rose in his heart, and a
bright smile played upon his haughty lip and lofty brow. Other thoughts
arose, and the eyebrows that almost met over the straight Grecian nose
of Lemercier, were knit as he recalled the ominous words of his recent
acquaintance--

"Mademoiselle Athalie must be a brisk dame to urge her favored Chevalier
on a venture so desperate."

One bitter pang shot through his heart, but he thrust the thought aside,
and pressed the ring to his lips.

"Oh, Athalie," he said in a low voice, "I were worse than a villain to
suspect thee."

At that moment midnight tolled from the dull old bell of Crail, and the
strangeness of the sound brought keenly home to the lonely heart of
Lemercier that he was in a foreign land.

The hour passed, but the Major did not return.

Morning came.

With gray dawn Lemercier was awake, and a few minutes found him dressed
and ready. He attired himself with particular care, putting on a coat
and vest, the embroidery of which presented as few conspicuous marks as
possible to an antagonist's eye. He clasped his coat from the cravat to
the waist, and compressed his embroidered belt. He adjusted his white
silk roll-up stockings with great exactness; tied up the flowing curls
of his wig with a white ribbon, placed a scarlet feather in his hat, and
then took his sword. The edge and point of the blade, the shell and
pommel, grasp and guard of the hilt were all examined with scrupulous
care for the last time; he drew on his gloves with care, and giving to
the landlord the reckoning, which he might never return to pay,
Lemercier called for his horse and rode through the main street of
Crail.

Following the directions he had received from his host, he hastily
quitted the deserted and grass-grown street of the burgh (the very
aspect of which he feared would chill him), and proceeded towards the
ancient obelisk still known as the _Standing-stone of Sauchope_, which
had been named as the place of rendezvous by that messenger who had not
returned, and against whom M. Lemercier felt his anger a little excited.

It was a cool March morning; the sky was clear and blue, and the few
silver clouds that floated through it, became edged with gold as the sun
rose from his bed in the eastern sea--that burnished sea from which the
cool fresh breeze swept over the level coast. The fields were assuming a
vernal greenness, the buds were swelling on hedge and tree, and the
vegetation of the summer that was to come--the summer that Lemercier
might never see--was springing from amid the brown remains of the autumn
that had gone, an autumn that he had passed with Athalie amid the
gayeties and gardens of Paris and Versailles.

At the distance of a mile he saw the strong square tower of Balcomie,
the residence of his antagonist. One side was involved in shadow, the
other shone redly in the rising sun, and the morning smoke from its
broad chimneys curled in dusky columns into the blue sky. The caw of the
rooks that followed the plough, whose shining share turned up the
aromatic soil, the merry whistle of the bonneted ploughboys, the voices
of the blackbird and the mavis, made him sad, and pleased was Lemercier
to leave behind him all such sounds of life, and reach the wild and
solitary place where the obelisk stood--a grim and time-worn relic of
the Druid ages or the Danish wars. A rough misshapen remnant of
antiquity it still remains to mark the scene of this hostile meeting,
which yet forms one of the most famous traditions of the East Neuk.

As Lemercier rode up he perceived a gentleman standing near the stone.
His back was towards him, and he was apparently intent on caressing his
charger, whose reins he had thrown negligently over his arm.

Lemercier thought he recognized the hat, edged with white feathers, the
full-bottomed wig, and the peculiar lacing of the white velvet coat, and
on the stranger turning he immediately knew his friend of the preceding
night.

"Bon jour, my dear sir," said Lemercier.

"A good morning," replied the other, and they politely raised their
little cocked hats.

"I had some misgivings when Monsieur did not return to me," said the
Frenchman. "Sir William has accepted my challenge?"

"Yes, Monsieur, and is now before you," replied the other, springing on
horseback. "_I am Sir William Hope, of Hopetoun_, and am here at your
service."

"You!" exclaimed the Frenchman, in tones of blended astonishment and
grief; "ah! unsay what you have said, I cannot point my sword against
the breast of my best benefactor--against him to whom I owe both honor
and life. Can I forget that night on the plains of Arras? Ah! my God!
what a mistake; what a misfortune. Ah! Athalie, to what have you so
unthinkingly urged me?"

"Think of her only, and forget all of me save that I am your antagonist,
your enemy, as I stand between thee and her. Come on, M. Lemercier, do
not forget your promise to Mademoiselle; we will sheath our swords on
the first blood drawn."

"So be it then, if the first is thine," and unsheathing their long and
keen-edged rapiers they put spurs to their horses, and closing up hand
to hand, engaged with admirable skill and address.

The skill of one swordsman seemed equalled only by that of the other.

Lemercier was the first fencer at the Court of France, where fencing
was an accomplishment known to all, and there was no man in Britain
equal to Sir William Hope, whose _Complete Fencing Master_ was long
famous among the lovers of the noble science of defence.

They rode round each other in circles. Warily and sternly they began to
watch each other's eyes, till they flashed in unison with their blades;
their hearts beat quicker as their passions became excited and their
rivalry roused; and their nerves became strung as the hope of conquest
was whetted. The wish of merely being wounded ended in a desire to
wound; and the desire to wound in a clamorous anxiety to vanquish and
destroy. Save the incessant clash of the notched rapiers, as each deadly
thrust was adroitly parried and furiously repeated, the straining of
stirrup-leathers, as each fencer swayed to and fro in his saddle, their
suppressed breathing, and the champing of iron bits, Lemercier and his
foe saw nothing but the gleam and heard nothing but the clash of each
other's glittering swords.

The sun came up in his glory from the shining ocean; the mavis soared
above them in the blue sky; the early flowers of spring were unfolding
their dewy cups to the growing warmth, but still man fought with man,
and the hatred in their hearts waxed fierce and strong.

In many places their richly laced coats were cut and torn. One lost his
hat and had received a severe scar on the forehead, and the other had
one on his bridle hand. They often paused breathlessly, and in weariness
lowered the points of their weapons to glare upon each other with a
ferocity that could have no end but death--until at the sixth encounter,
when Lemercier became exhausted, and failing to parry with sufficient
force a fierce and furious thrust, was run through the breast so near
the heart, that he fell from his horse, gasping and weltering in blood.

Sir William Hope flung away his rapier and sprang to his assistance, but
the unfortunate Frenchman could only draw from his finger the ring of
Athalie, and with her name on his lips expired--being actually choked in
his own blood.

Such was the account of this combat given by the horrified Master
Spiggot, who suspecting "that there was something wrong," had followed
his guest to the scene of the encounter, the memory of which is still
preserved in the noble house of Hopetoun, and the legends of the
burghers of Crail.

So died Lemercier.

Of what Sir William said or thought on the occasion, we have no record.
In the good old times he would have eased his conscience by the
endowment of an altar, or foundation of a yearly mass; but in the year
1708 such things had long been a dead letter in the East Neuk; and so in
lieu thereof he interred him honorably in the aisle of the ancient kirk,
where a marble tablet long marked the place of his repose.

Sir William did more; he carefully transmitted the ring of Lemercier to
the bereaved Athalie, but before its arrival in Paris, she had dried her
tears for the poor Chevalier, and wedded one of his numerous rivals.
Thus, she forgot him sooner than his conqueror, who reached a good old
age, and died at his Castle of Balcomie, with his last breath regretting
the combat at the Standing-stone of Sauchope.




From the London Times.

HENRY FIELDING.[H]


We are glad to see this great humorist's works put forward in a popular
form, and at a price exceedingly low. A man may be very much injured by
perusing maudlin sentimental tales, but cannot be hurt, though he may be
shocked every now and then, by reading works of sound sterling humor,
like the greater part of these, full of benevolence, practical wisdom,
and generous sympathy with mankind.

The work is prefaced by an able biography of Fielding, in which the
writer does justice to the great satirist's memory, and rescues it from
the attacks which rivals, poetasters, and fine gentlemen have made upon
it.

Those who have a mind to forgive a little coarseness, for the sake of
one of the honestest, manliest, kindest companions in the world, cannot,
as we fancy, find a better than Fielding, or get so much true wit and
shrewdness from any other writer of our language.

"With regard to personal appearance," says his biographer, "Fielding was
strongly built, robust, and in height rather exceeding six feet." He was
possessed of rare conversational powers and wit; a nobleman who had
known Pope, Swift, and the wits of that famous clique, declared that
Harry Fielding surpassed them all.

He and Hogarth between them have given us a strange notion of the
society of those days. Walpole's letters, for all their cold elegance,
are not a whit more moral than those rude coarse pictures of the former
artists. Lord Chesterfield's model of a man is more polite, but not so
honest as Tom Jones, or as poor Will Booth, with his "chairman's
shoulders, and calves like a porter."

Let us, then, not accuse Fielding of immorality, but simply admit that
his age was more free-spoken than ours, and accuse it of the fault (such
as it is) rather than him. But there is a great deal of good, on the
other hand, which is to be found in the writings of this great man, of
virtue so wise and practical, that the man of the world cannot read it
and imitate it too much. He gives a strong real picture of human life,
and the virtues which he exhibits shine out by their contrasts with the
vices which he paints so faithfully, as they never could have done if
the latter had not been depicted as well as the former. He tries to give
you, as far as he knows it, the whole truth about human nature; the good
and the evil of his characters are both practical. Tom Jones's sins and
his faults are described with a curious accuracy, but then follows the
repentance which comes out of his very sins, and that surely is moral
and touching. Booth goes astray (we do verily believe that many persons
even in these days are not altogether pure), but how good his remorse
is! Are persons who profess to take the likeness of human nature to make
an accurate portrait? This is such a hard question, that, think what we
will, we shall not venture to say what we think. Perhaps it is better to
do as Hannibal's painter did, and draw only that side of the face which
has not the blind eye. Fielding attacked it in full. Let the reader,
according to his taste, select the artist who shall give a likeness of
him or only half a likeness.

We have looked through many of the pieces of Mr. Roscoe's handsome
volume. The dramatic works could not have been spared possibly, but the
reader will have no great pleasure, as we fancy, in looking at them more
than once. They are not remarkable for wit even, though they have plenty
of _spirits_--a great deal too much perhaps.

But he was an honest-hearted fellow, with affections as tender and
simple as ever dwelt in the bosom of any man; and if, in the heyday of
his spirits and the prodigal outpouring of his jovial good humor, he
could give a hand to many "a lad and lass" whom the squeamish world
would turn its back on (indeed, there was a virtue in his benevolence,
but we dare not express our sympathies now for poor Doll Tearsheet and
honest Mistress Quickly)--if he led a sad riotous life, and mixed with
many a bad woman in his time, his heart was pure, and he knew a good one
when he found her. He married, and (though Sir Walter Scott speaks
rather slightingly of the novel in which Fielding has painted his first
wife) the picture of Amelia, in the story of that name, is (in the
writer's humble opinion) the most beautiful and delicious description of
a character that is to be found in any writer, not excepting Shakspeare.
It is a wonder how old Richardson, girded at as he had been by the
reckless satirist--how Richardson, the author of "Pamela," could have
been so blinded by anger and pique as not to have seen the merits of his
rival's exquisite performance.

Amelia was in her grave when poor Fielding drew this delightful portrait
of her; but, with all his faults, and extravagancies, and vagaries, it
is not hard to see how such a gentle, generous, loving creature as
Fielding was, must have been loved and prized by her. She had a little
fortune of her own, and he at this time inherited a small one from his
mother. He carried her to the country, and like a wise, prudent Henry
Fielding as he was, who, having lived upon nothing very jovially for
some years, thought £5,000 or £6,000 an endless wealth; he kept horses
and hounds, flung his doors open, and lived with the best of his
country. When he had spent his little fortune, and saw that there was
nothing for it but to work, he came to London, applied himself fiercely
to the law, seized upon his pen again, never lost heart for a moment,
and, be sure, loved his poor Amelia as tenderly as ever he had done. It
is a pity that he did not live on his income, that is certain: it is a
pity that he had not been born a lord, or a thrifty stock broker at the
very least; but we should not have had "Joseph Andrews" if this had been
the case, and indeed it is probable that Amelia liked him quite as well
after his ruin as she would have done had he been as rich as Rothschild.

The biographers agree that he would have been very successful at the
bar, but for certain circumstances. These ugly circumstances always fall
in the way of men of Fielding's genius: for though he amassed a
considerable quantity of law, was reputed to be a good speaker, and had
a great wit, and a knowledge of human nature which might serve him in
excellent stead, it is to be remarked that those without a certain
degree of patience and conduct will not insure a man's triumph at the
bar, and so Fielding never rose to be a Lord Chancellor or even a judge.

His days of trouble had now begun in earnest, and indeed he met them
like a man. He wrote incessantly for the periodical works of the day,
issued pamphlets, made translations, published journals and criticisms,
turned his hand, in a word, to any work that offered, and lived as best
he might. This indiscriminate literary labor, which obliges a man to
scatter his intellects upon so many trifles, and to provide weekly
varieties as sets-off against the inevitable weekly butcher's bills, has
been the ruin of many a man of talent since Fielding's time, and it was
lucky for the world and for him that at a time of life when his powers
were at the highest he procured a place which kept him beyond the reach
of weekly want, and enabled him to gather his great intellects together
and produce the greatest satire and two of the most complete romances in
our language.

Let us remark, as a strong proof of the natural honesty of the man, the
exquisite art of these performances, the care with which the situations
are elaborated, and the noble, manly language corrected. When Harry
Fielding was writing for the week's bread, we find style and sentiment
both careless, and plots hastily worked off. How could he do otherwise?
Mr. Snap, the bailiff, was waiting with a writ without--his wife and
little ones asking wistfully for bread within. Away, with all its
imperfections on its head, the play or the pamphlet must go. Indeed, he
would have been no honest man had he kept them longer on his hands, with
such urgent demands upon him as he had.

But as soon as he is put out of the reach of this base kind of want, his
whole style changes, and instead of the reckless and slovenly
hack-writer, we have one of the most minute and careful artists that
ever lived. Dr. Beattie gave his testimony to the merit of "Tom Jones."
Moral or immoral, let any man examine this romance as a work of art
merely, and it must strike him as the most astonishing production of
human ingenuity. There is not an incident ever so trifling but advances
the story, grows out of former incidents and is connected with the
whole. Such a literary providence, if we may use such a word, is not to
be seen in any other work of fiction. You might cut out the half of Don
Quixote, or add, transpose, or alter any given romance of Walter Scott,
and neither would suffer. Roderick Random, and heroes of that sort, run
through a series of adventures, at the end of which the fiddles are
brought and there is a marriage. But the history of Tom Jones connects
the very first page with the very last, and it is marvellous to think
how the author could have built and carried all this structure in his
brain, as he must have done, before he began to put it to paper.

And now a word or two about our darling "Amelia," of which we have read
through every single word in Mr. Roscoe's handsome edition. "As for
Captain Booth, Madam," writes old Richardson to one of his toadies,
"Captain Booth has done his business. The piece is short, is as dead as
if it had been published forty years ago;" indeed, human nature is not
altered since Richardson's time; and if there are rakes, male and
female, as there were a hundred years since, there are in like manner
envious critics now as then. How eager they are to predict a man's fall,
how unwilling to acknowledge his rise! If a man write a popular work, he
is sure to be snarled at; if a literary man rise to eminence out of his
profession, all his old comrades are against him.

Well, in spite of Richardson's prophecies, the piece which was dead at
its birth is alive a hundred years after, and will live, as we fancy, as
long as the English language shall endure. Fielding, in his own noble
words, has given a key to the philosophy of the work. "The nature of
man," cries honest Dr. Harrison, "is far from being in itself evil; it
abounds with benevolence, and charity, and pity, coveting praise and
honor, and shunning shame and disgrace. Bad education, bad habits, and
bad customs debauch our nature, and drive it headlong into vice." And
the author's tale is an exemplification of this text. Poor Booth's
habits and customs are bad indeed, but who can deny the benevolence, and
charity, and pity, of this simple and kindly being? His vices even, if
we may say so, are those of a man; there is nothing morbid or mawkish in
any of Fielding's heroes; no passionate pleasing extenuation, such as
one finds in the pseudo-moral romances of the sentimental character; no
flashy excuses like those which Sheridan puts forward (unconsciously,
most likely), for those brilliant blackguards who are the chief
characters of his comedies. Vice is never to be mistaken for virtue in
Fielding's honest downright books; it goes by its name, and invariably
gets its punishment.

Besides the matchless character of Amelia, whose beauty and charming
innocent consciousness of it (so delicately described by the novelist),
whose tenderness and purity are such that they endear her to a reader as
much as if she were actually alive, his own wife or mother, and make him
consider her as some dear relative and companion of his own, about whose
charms and virtues is scarcely modest to talk in public; besides Amelia,
there are other characters, not so beautiful, but not less admirably
true to nature. Miss Matthews is a wonderful portrait, and the vanity
which inspires every one of the actions of that passionate, unscrupulous
lady, the color as it were which runs through the whole of the picture
is touched with a master's hand. Mrs. James, the indifferent woman, is
not less skilful.

"Can this be my Jenny?" cries poor Amelia, who runs forward to meet her
old friend, and finds a pompous, frigid-looking personage in an enormous
hoop, the very pink of the fashion; to which Mrs. James answers, "Madam,
I believe I have done what was genteel," and wonders how any mortal can
live up three pair of stairs. "Is there," says the enthusiastic for the
first time in her life, "so delightful a sight in the world as the four
honors in one's own hand, unless it be the three natural aces at brag?"
Can comedy be finer than this? Has not every person some Matthews and
James in their acquaintance--one all passion, and the other all
indifference and vapid self-complacency? James, the good-natured fellow,
with passions and without principles: Bath, with his magnificent notions
of throat-cutting and the Christian religion, what admirable knowledge
of the world do all these characters display: what good moral may be
drawn from them by those who will take the trouble to think! This,
however, is not a task that the generality of novel-readers are disposed
to take upon them, and prefer that their favorite works should contain
as little reflection as possible; indeed, it is very probable that Mrs.
James, or Miss Matthews might read their own characters as here
described, and pronounce such writing vastly low and unnatural.

But what is especially worthy of remark is the masterly manner in which
the author paints the good part of those equivocal characters that he
brings upon his stage: James has his generosity, and his silly wife her
good nature; Matthews her starts of kindness; and Old Bath, in his
sister's dressing-gown, cooking possets for her, is really an amiable
object, whom we like while we laugh at him. A great deal of tenderness
and love goes along with this kind of laughter, and it was this mixed
feeling that our author liked so to indulge himself in, and knew so well
how to excite in others. Whenever he has to relate an action of
benevolence, honest Fielding kindles as he writes it: some writers of
fiction have been accused of falling in a passion with their bad
characters: these our author treats with a philosophic calmness: it is
when he comes to the good that he grows enthusiastic: you fancy that you
see the tears in his manly eyes; nor does he care to disguise any of the
affectionate sympathies of his great, simple heart. This is a defect in
art perhaps, but a very charming one.

For further particulars of Fielding's life, we recommend the reader to
consult Mr. Roscoe's biography. Indeed, as much as any of his romances,
his own history illustrates the maxim we have just quoted from Amelia.

Want, sorrow, and pain subdued his body at last, but his great and noble
humor rode buoyant over them all, and his frank and manly philosophy
overcame them. His generous attachment to his family comforted him to
the last; and though all the labors of the poor fellow were only
sufficient to keep him and them in a bare competence, yet it must be
remembered, to his credit, that he left behind him a friend who valued
him so much as to provide for the family he had left destitute, and to
place them beyond the reach of want. It is some credit to a man to have
been the friend of Ralph Allen; and Fielding before his death raised a
monument to his friend a great deal more lasting than bronze or marble,
placing his figure in the romance of Tom Jones under the name of
Allworthy. "There is a day, sir," says Fielding in one of his
dedications to Mr. Allen, "which no man in the kingdom can think of
without fear, but yourself--the day of your death." Can there he a finer
compliment? Nor was Fielding the man to pay it to one whom he thought
was undeserving of it.

Never do Fielding's courage, cheerfulness, and affection forsake him; up
to the last days of his life he is laboring still for his children. He
dies, and is beholden to the admiration of a foreigner, Monsieur de
Meryionnet, French consul at Lisbon, for a decent grave and tombstone.
There he lies, sleeping after life's fitful fever. No more care, no more
duns, no more racking pain, no more wild midnight orgies and jovial
laughter. Of the women who are weeping for him a pious friend takes
care. Here, indeed, it seems as if his sorrow ended; and one hopes and
fancies that the poor but noble fellow's spirit is at last pure and
serene.

FOOTNOTES:

[H] The Works of Henry Fielding, in two volumes, octavo. With a Life,
Portrait, and Autograph. London: Henry G. Bohn, Covent Garden.
[New-York: Stringer and Townsend. 1851.]




From "Recollections of a Police Officer" in Chambers's Edinburgh
Journal.

FLINT JACKSON.


Farnham hops are world-famous, or at least famous in that huge portion
of the world where English ale is drunk, and whereon, I have a thousand
times heard and read, the sun never sets. The name, therefore, of the
pleasant Surrey village, in and about which the events I am about to
relate occurred, is, I may fairly presume, known to many of my readers.
I was ordered to Farnham, to investigate a case of burglary, committed
in the house of a gentleman of the name of Hursley, during the temporary
absence of the family, which had completely nonplussed the unpractised
Dogberrys of the place, albeit it was not a riddle at all difficult to
read. The premises, it was quickly plain to me, had been broken, not
into, but out of; and a watch being set upon the motions of the very
specious and clever person left in charge of the house and property, it
was speedily discovered that the robbery had been effected by herself
and a confederate of the name of Dawkins, her brother-in-law. Some of
the stolen goods were found secreted at his lodgings; but the most
valuable portion, consisting of plate, and a small quantity of jewelry,
had disappeared: it had questionless been converted into money, as
considerable sums, in sovereigns, were found upon both Dawkins and the
woman, Sarah Purday. Now, as it had been clearly ascertained that
neither of the prisoners had left Farnham since the burglary, it was
manifest there was a receiver near at hand who had purchased the missing
articles. Dawkins and Purday were, however, dumb as stones upon the
subject; and nothing occurred to point suspicion till early in the
evening previous to the second examination of the prisoners before the
magistrates, when Sarah Purday asked for pen, ink, and paper for the
purpose of writing to one Mr. Jackson, in whose service she had formerly
lived. I happened to be at the prison, and of course took the liberty of
carefully unsealing her note and reading it. It revealed nothing; and
save by its extremely cautious wording, and abrupt, peremptory tone,
coming from a servant to her former master, suggested nothing. I had
carefully reckoned the number of sheets of paper sent into the cell, and
now on recounting them found that three were missing. The turnkey
returned immediately, and asked for the two other letters she had
written. The woman denied having written any other, and for proof
pointed to the torn fragments of the missing sheets lying on the floor.
These were gathered up and brought to me, but I could make nothing out
of them, every word having been carefully run through with the pen, and
converted into an unintelligible blot. The request contained in the
actually-written letter was one simple enough in itself, merely, "that
Mr. Jackson would not on any account fail to provide her, in
consideration of past services, with legal assistance on the morrow."
The first nine words were strongly underlined; and I made out after a
good deal of trouble that the word "pretence" had been partially
effaced, and "account" substituted for it.

"She need not have wasted three sheets of paper upon such a nonsensical
request as that," observed the turnkey. "Old Jackson wouldn't shell out
sixpence to save her or anybody else from the gallows."

"I am of a different opinion; but tell me, what sort of a person is this
former master of hers?"

"All I know about him is that he's a cross-grained, old curmudgeon,
living about a mile out of Farnham, who scrapes money together by
lending small sums upon notes-of-hand at short dates, and at a
thundering interest. Flint Jackson folk about here call him."

"At all events, forward the letter at once, and to-morrow we shall
see--what we shall see. Good-evening."

It turned out as I anticipated. A few minutes after the prisoners were
brought into the justice-room, a Guilford solicitor of much local
celebrity arrived, and announced that he appeared for both the
inculpated parties. He was allowed a private conference with them, at
the close of which he stated that his clients would reserve their
defence. They were at once committed for trial, and I overheard the
solicitor assure the woman that the ablest counsel on the circuit would
be retained in their behalf.

I had no longer a doubt that it was my duty to know something further of
this suddenly-generous Flint Jackson, though how to set about it was a
matter of considerable difficulty. There was no legal pretence for a
search-warrant, and I doubted the prudence of proceeding upon my own
responsibility with so astute an old fox as Jackson was represented to
be; for, supposing him to be a confederate with the burglars, he had by
this time in all probability sent the stolen property away--to London in
all likelihood; and should I find nothing, the consequences of
ransacking his house merely because he had provided a former servant
with legal assistance would be serious. Under these circumstances I
wrote to headquarters for instructions, and by return of post received
orders to prosecute the inquiry thoroughly, but cautiously, and to
consider time as nothing so long as there appeared a chance of fixing
Jackson with the guilt of receiving the plunder. Another suspicious
circumstance that I have omitted to notice in its place was that the
Guilford solicitor tendered bail for the prisoners to any reasonable
amount, and named Enoch Jackson as one of the securities. Bail was,
however, refused.

There was no need for over-hurrying the business, as the prisoners were
committed to the Surrey Spring Assizes, and it was now the season of the
hop-harvest--a delightful and hilarious period about Farnham when the
weather is fine and the yield abundant. I, however, lost no time in
making diligent and minute inquiry as to the character and habits of
Jackson, and the result was a full conviction that nothing but the fear
of being denounced as an accomplice could have induced such a miserly,
iron-hearted rogue to put himself to charges in defence of the
imprisoned burglars.

One afternoon, whilst pondering the matter, and at the same time
enjoying the prettiest and cheerfulest of rural sights, that of
hop-picking, the apothecary at whose house I was lodging--we will call
him Mr. Morgan; he _was_ a Welshmann--tapped me suddenly on the
shoulder, and looking sharply round, I perceived he had something he
deemed of importance to communicate.

"What is it?" I said quickly.

"The oddest thing in the world. There's Flint Jackson, his deaf old
woman, and the young people lodging with him, all drinking and boozing
away at yon alehouse."

"Show them to me, if you please."

A few minutes brought us to the place of boisterous entertainment, the
lower room of which was suffocatingly full of tipplers and
tobacco-smoke. We nevertheless contrived to edge ourselves in; and my
companion stealthily pointed out the group, who were seated together
near the farther window, and then left me to myself.

The appearance of Jackson entirely answered to the popular prefix of
Flint attached to his name. He was a wiry, gnarled, heavy-browed,
iron-jawed fellow of about sixty, with deep-set eyes aglow with sinister
and greedy instincts. His wife, older than he, and as deaf apparently as
the door of a dungeon, wore a simpering, imbecile look of wonderment, it
seemed to me, at the presence of such unusual and abundant cheer. The
young people who lodged with Jackson were really a very frank, honest,
good-looking couple, though not then appearing to advantage--the
countenance of Henry Rogers being flushed and inflamed with drink, and
that of his wife's clouded with frowns, at the situation in which she
found herself, and the riotous conduct of her husband. Their brief
history was this: They had both been servants in a family living not far
distant from Farnham--Sir Thomas Lethbridge's, I understood--when about
three or four months previous to the present time Flint Jackson, who had
once been in an attorney's office, discovered that Henry Rogers, in
consequence of the death of a distant relative in London, was entitled
to property worth something like £1500. There were, however, some law
difficulties in the way, which Jackson offered, if the business were
placed in his hands, to overcome for a consideration, and in the mean
time to supply board and lodging and such necessary sums of money as
Henry Rogers might require. With this brilliant prospect in view service
became at once utterly distasteful. The fortunate legatee had for some
time courted Mary Elkins, one of the ladies' maids, a pretty,
bright-eyed brunette; and they were both united in the bonds of holy
matrimony on the very day the "warnings" they had given expired. Since
then they had lived at Jackson's house in daily expectation of their
"fortune," with which they proposed to start in the public line.

Finding myself unrecognized, I called boldly for a pot and a pipe, and
after some manoeuvring contrived to seat myself within earshot of
Jackson and his party. They presented a strange study. Henry Rogers was
boisterously excited, and not only drinking freely himself, but treating
a dozen fellows round him, the cost of which he from time to time called
upon "Old Flint," as he courteously styled his ancient friend, to
discharge.

"Come, fork out, Old Flint!" he cried again and again. "It'll be all
right, you know, in a day or two, and a few halfpence over. Shell out,
old fellow! What signifies, so you're happy?"

Jackson complied with an affectation of acquiescent gayety ludicrous to
behold. It was evident that each successive pull at his purse was like
wrenching a tooth out of his head, and yet while the dismallest of
smiles wrinkled his wolfish mouth, he kept exclaiming: "A fine lad--a
fine lad! generous as a prince--generous as a prince! Good Lord, another
round! He minds money no more than as if gold was as plentiful as
gravel! But a fine generous lad for all that!"

Jackson, I perceived, drank considerably, as if incited thereto by
compressed savageness. The pretty young wife would not taste a drop, but
tears frequently filled her eyes, and bitterness pointed her words as
she vainly implored her husband to leave the place and go home with her.
To all her remonstrances the maudlin drunkard replied only by foolery,
varied occasionally by an attempt at a line or two of the song of "The
Thorn."

"But you _will_ plant thorns, Henry," rejoined the provoked wife in a
louder and angrier tone than she ought perhaps to have used--"not only
in my bosom, but your own, if you go on in this sottish, disgraceful
way."

"Always quarrelling, always quarrelling!" remarked Jackson, pointedly,
towards the bystanders--"_always_ quarrelling!"

"Who is always quarrelling?" demanded the young wife sharply. "Do you
mean me and Henry?"

"I was only saying, my dear, that you don't like your husband to be so
generous and free-hearted--that's all," replied Jackson, with a
confidential wink at the persons near him.

"Free-hearted and generous! Fool-hearted and crazy, you mean!" rejoined
the wife, who was much excited. "And you ought to be ashamed of yourself
to give him money for such brutish purposes."

"Always quarrelling, always quarrelling!" iterated Jackson, but this
time unheard by Mrs. Rogers--"_always_, perpetually quarrelling!"

I could not quite comprehend all this. If so large a sum as £1500 was
really coming to the young man, why should Jackson wince as he did at
disbursing small amounts which he could repay himself with abundant
interest? If otherwise--and it was probable he should not be
repaid--what meant his eternal, "fine generous lad!" "spirited young
man!" and so on? What, above all, meant that look of diabolical hate
which shot out from his cavernous eyes towards Henry Rogers when he
thought himself unobserved, just after satisfying a fresh claim on his
purse? Much practice in reading the faces and deportment of such men
made it pretty clear to me that Jackson's course of action respecting
the young man and his money was not yet decided upon in his own mind;
that he was still perplexed and irresolute; and hence the apparent
contradiction in his words and acts.

Henry Rogers at length dropped asleep with his head upon one of the
settle-tables; Jackson sank into sullen silence; the noisy room grew
quiet; and I came away.

I was impressed with a belief that Jackson entertained some sinister
design against his youthful and inexperienced lodgers, and I determined
to acquaint them with my suspicions. For this purpose Mr. Morgan, who
had a patient living near Jackson's house, undertook to invite them to
tea on some early evening, on the pretence that he had heard of a tavern
that might suit them when they should receive their fortune. Let me
confess, too, that I had another design besides putting the young people
on their guard against Jackson. I thought it very probable that it would
not be difficult to glean from them some interesting and suggestive
particulars concerning the ways, means, practices, outgoings and
incomings, of their worthy landlord's household.

Four more days passed unprofitably away, and I was becoming weary of the
business, when about five o'clock in the afternoon the apothecary
galloped up to his door on a borrowed horse, jumped off with surprising
celerity, and with a face as white as his own magnesia, burst out as he
hurried into the room where I was sitting: "Here's a pretty kettle of
fish! Henry Rogers has been poisoned, and by his wife!"

"Poisoned!"

"Yes, poisoned; although, thanks to my being on the spot, I think he
will recover. But I must instantly to Dr. Edwards: I will tell you all
when I return."

The promised "all" was this: Morgan was passing slowly by Jackson's
house, in the hope of seeing either Mr. or Mrs. Rogers, when the
servant-woman, Jane Riddet, ran out and begged him to come in, as their
lodger had been taken suddenly ill. Ill indeed! The surface of his body
was cold as death, and the apothecary quickly discovered that he had
been poisoned with sulphuric acid (oil of vitriol), a quantity of which
he, Morgan, had sold a few days previously to Mrs. Rogers, who, when
purchasing it, said Mr. Jackson wanted it to apply to some warts that
annoyed him. Morgan fortunately knew the proper remedy, and desired
Jackson, who was in the room, and seemingly very anxious and flurried,
to bring some soap instantly, a solution of which he proposed to give
immediately to the seemingly dying man. The woman-servant was gone to
find Mrs. Rogers, who had left about ten minutes before, having first
made the tea in which the poison had been taken. Jackson hurried out of
the apartment, but was gone so long that Morgan, becoming impatient,
scraped a quantity of plaster off the wall, and administered it with the
best effect. At last Jackson came back, and said there was unfortunately
not a particle of soap in the house. A few minutes afterwards the young
wife, alarmed at the woman-servant's tidings, flew into the room in an
agony of alarm and grief. Simulated alarm, crocodile grief, Mr. Morgan
said; for there could, in his opinion, be no doubt that she had
attempted to destroy her husband. Mr. Jackson, on being questioned,
peremptorily denied that he had ever desired Mrs. Rogers to procure
sulphuric acid for him, or had received any from her--a statement which
so confounded the young woman that she instantly fainted. The upshot was
that Mrs. Rogers was taken into custody and lodged in prison.

This terrible news flew through Farnham like wildfire. In a few minutes
it was upon every body's tongue: the hints of the quarrelsome life the
young couple led, artfully spread by Jackson, were recalled, and no
doubt appeared to be entertained of the truth of the dreadful charge. I
had no doubt either, but my conviction was not that of the Farnham folk.
This, then, was the solution of the struggle I had seen going on in
Jackson's mind; this the realization of the dark thought which I had
imperfectly read in the sinister glances of his restless eyes. He had
intended to destroy both the husband and wife--the one by poison, and
the other by the law! Doubtless, then, the £1500 had been obtained, and
this was the wretched man's infernal device for retaining it! I went
over with Morgan early the next morning to see the patient, and found
that, thanks to the prompt antidote administered, and Dr. Edwards's
subsequent active treatment, he was rapidly recovering. The
still-suffering young man, I was glad to find, would not believe for a
moment in his wife's guilt. I watched the looks and movements of Jackson
attentively--a scrutiny which he, now aware of my vocation, by no means
appeared to relish.

"Pray," said I, suddenly addressing Riddet, the woman-servant--"pray,
how did it happen that you had no soap in such a house as this yesterday
evening?"

"No soap!" echoed the woman with a stare of surprise. "Why"--

"No--no soap," hastily broke in her master with loud and menacing
emphasis. "There was not a morsel in the house. I bought some afterwards
in Farnham."

The cowed and bewildered woman slunk away. I was more than satisfied;
and judging by Jackson's countenance, which changed beneath my look to
the color of the lime-washed wall against which he stood, he surmised
that I was.

My conviction, however, was not evidence, and I felt that I should need
even more than my wonted good fortune to bring the black crime home to
the real perpetrator. For the present, at all events, I must keep
silence--a resolve I found hard to persist in at the examination of the
accused wife, an hour or two afterwards, before the county magistrates.
Jackson had hardened himself to iron, and gave his lying evidence with
ruthless self-possession. He had _not_ desired Mrs. Rogers to purchase
sulphuric acid; had _not_ received any from her. In addition also to his
testimony that she and her husband were always quarrelling, it was
proved by a respectable person that high words had passed between them
on the evening previous to the day the criminal offence was committed,
and _that_ foolish, passionate expressions had escaped her about wishing
to be rid of such a drunken wretch. This evidence, combined with the
medical testimony, appeared so conclusive to the magistrates that spite
of the unfortunate woman's wild protestations of innocence, and the
rending agony which convulsed her frame, and almost choked her
utterance, she was remanded to prison till that day week, when, the
magistrates informed her, she would be again brought up for the merely
formal completion of the depositions, and be then fully committed on the
capital charge.

I was greatly disturbed, and walked for two or three hours about the
quiet neighborhood of Farnham, revolving a hundred fragments of schemes
for bringing the truth to light, without arriving at any feasible
conclusion. One only mode of procedure seemed to offer, and that but
dimly, a hope of success. It was, however, the best I could hit upon,
and I directed my steps towards the Farnham orison. Sarah Purday had not
yet, I remembered, been removed to the county jail at Guilford.

"Is Sarah Purday," I asked the turnkey, "more reconciled to her position
than she was?"

"She's just the same--bitter as gall, and venomous as a viper."

This woman, I should state, was a person of fierce will and strong
passions, and in early life had been respectably situated.

"Just step into her cell," I continued, "upon some excuse or other, and
carelessly drop a hint that if she could prevail upon Jackson to get her
brought by _habeas_ before a judge in London, there could be no doubt
of her being bailed."

The man stared, but after a few words of pretended explanation, went off
to do as I requested. He was not long gone. "She's all in a twitteration
at the thoughts of it," he said; "and must have pen, ink, and paper
without a moment's delay, bless her consequence!"

These were supplied; and I was soon in possession of her letter, couched
cautiously, but more peremptorily than the former one. I need hardly say
it did not reach its destination. She passed the next day in a state of
feverish impatience; and no answer returning, wrote again, her words
this time conveying an evident though indistinct threat. I refrained
from visiting her till two days had thus passed, and found her, as I
expected, eaten up with fury. She glared at me as I entered the cell
like a chained tigress.

"You appear vexed," I said, "no doubt because Jackson declines to get
you bailed. He ought not to refuse you such a trifling service,
considering all things."

"All what things?" replied the woman, eyeing me fiercely.

"That you know best, though I have a shrewd guess."

"What do you guess? and what are you driving at?"

"I will deal frankly with you, Sarah Purday. In the first place, you
must plainly perceive that your _friend_ Jackson has cast you
off--abandoned you to your fate; and that fate will, there can be no
doubt, be transportation."

"Well," she impatiently snarled, "suppose so; what then?"

"This--that you can help yourself in this difficulty by helping me."

"As how?"

"In the first place, give me the means of convicting Jackson of having
received the stolen property."

"Ha! How do you know that?"

"Oh, I know it very well--as well almost as you do. But this is not my
chief object; there is another, far more important one," and I ran over
the incidents relative to the attempt at poisoning. "Now," I resumed,
"tell me, if you will, your opinion on this matter."

"That it was Jackson administered the poison, and certainly not the
young woman," she replied, with vengeful promptness.

"My own conviction! This, then, is my proposition: you are sharp-witted,
and know this fellow's ways, habits, and propensities thoroughly--I,
too, have heard something of them--and it strikes me that you could
suggest some plan, some device grounded on that knowledge, whereby the
truth might come to light."

The woman looked fixedly at me for some time without speaking. As I
meant fairly and honestly by her I could bear her gaze without
shrinking.

"Supposing I could assist you," she at last said, "how would that help
me?"

"It would help you greatly. You would no doubt be still convicted of the
burglary, for the evidence is irresistible; but if in the mean time you
should have been instrumental in saving the life of an innocent person,
and of bringing a great criminal to justice, there cannot be a question
that the Queen's mercy would be extended to you, and the punishment be
merely a nominal one."

"If I were sure of that!" she murmured, with a burning scrutiny in her
eyes, which were still fixed upon my countenance; "if I were sure of
that! But you are misleading me."

"Believe me, I am not. I speak in perfect sincerity. Take time to
consider the matter. I will look in again in about an hour; and pray, do
not forget that it is your sole and last chance."

I left her, and did not return till more than three hours had passed
away. Sarah Purday was pacing the cell in a frenzy of inquietude.

"I thought you had forgotten me. Now," she continued with rapid
vehemence, "tell me, on your word and honor as a man, do you truly
believe that if I can effectually assist you it will avail me with Her
Majesty?"

"I am as positive it will as I am of my own life."

"Well, then, I _will_ assist you. First, then, Jackson was a confederate
with Dawkins and myself, and received the plate and jewelry, for which
he paid us less than one-third of the value."

"Rogers and his wife were not, I hope, cognizant of this?"

"Certainly not; but Jackson's wife and the woman-servant, Riddet, were.
I have been turning the other business over in my mind," she continued,
speaking with increasing emotion and rapidity; "and oh, believe me, Mr.
Waters, if you can, that it is not solely a selfish motive which induces
me to aid in saving Mary Rogers from destruction. I was once myself--Ah
God!"

Tears welled up to the fierce eyes, but they were quickly brushed away,
and she continued somewhat more calmly: "You have heard, I dare say,
that Jackson has a strange habit of talking in his sleep?"

"I have, and that he once consulted Morgan as to whether there was any
cure for it. It was that which partly suggested--"

"It is, I believe, a mere fancy of his," she interrupted; "or at any
rate the habit is not so frequent, nor what he says so intelligible, as
he thoroughly believes and fears it, from some former circumstances, to
be. His deaf wife cannot undeceive him, and he takes care never even to
doze except in her presence only."

"This is not, then, so promising as I hoped."

"Have patience. It is full of promise, as we will manage. Every evening
Jackson frequents a low gambling-house, where he almost invariably wins
small sums at cards--by craft, no doubt, as he never drinks there. When
he returns home at about ten o'clock, his constant habit is to go into
the front parlor, where his wife is sure to be sitting at that hour. He
carefully locks the door, helps himself to brandy and water--plentifully
of late--and falls asleep in his arm-chair; and there they both doze
away, sometimes till one o'clock--always till past twelve."

"Well; but I do not see how--"

"Hear me out, if you please. Jackson never wastes a candle to drink or
sleep by, and at this time of the year there will be no fire. If he
speaks to his wife he does not expect her, from her wooden deafness, to
answer him. Do you begin to perceive my drift?"

"Upon my word, I do not."

"What; if upon awaking, Jackson finds that his wife is Mr. Waters, and
that Mr. Waters relates to him all that he has disclosed in his sleep:
that Mr. Hursley's plate is buried in the garden near the lilac-tree;
that he, Jackson, received a thousand pounds six weeks ago of Henry
Rogers's fortune, and that the money is now in the recess on the
top-landing, the key of which is in his breast-pocket; that he was the
receiver of the plate stolen from a house in the close at Salisbury a
twelvemonth ago, and sold in London for four hundred and fifty pounds.
All this hurled at him," continued the woman with wild energy and
flashing eyes, "what else might not a bold, quick-witted man make him
believe he had confessed, revealed in his brief sleep?"

I had been sitting on a bench; but as these rapid disclosures burst from
her lips, and I saw the use to which they might be turned, I rose slowly
and in some sort involuntarily to my feet, lifted up, as it were, by the
energy of her fiery words.

"God reward you," I exclaimed, shaking both her hands in mine. "You
have, unless I blunder, rescued an innocent woman from the scaffold. I
see it all. Farewell!"

"Mr. Waters," she exclaimed, in a changed, palpitating voice, as I was
passing forth; "when all is done, you will not forget me?"

"That I will not, by my own hopes of mercy in the hereafter. Adieu!"

At a quarter past nine that evening I, accompanied by two Farnham
constables, knocked at the door of Jackson's house. Henry Rogers, I
should state, had been removed to the village. The door was opened by
the woman servant, and we went in. "I have a warrant for your arrest,
Jane Riddet," I said, "as an accomplice in the plate-stealing the other
day. There, don't scream, but listen to me." I then intimated the terms
upon which alone she could expect favor. She tremblingly promised
compliance; and after placing the constables outside, in concealment,
but within hearing, I proceeded to the parlor, secured the terrified old
woman, and confined her safely in a distant out-house.

"Now, Riddet," I said, "quick with one of the old lady's gowns, a shawl,
cap, _et cetera_." These were brought, and I returned to the parlor. It
was a roomy apartment, with small, diamond-paned windows, and just then
but very faintly illuminated by the star-light. There were two large
high-backed easy-chairs, and I prepared to take possession of the one
recently vacated by Jackson's wife. "You must perfectly understand,"
were my parting words to the trembling servant, "that we intend standing
no nonsense with either you or your master. You cannot escape; but if
you let Mr. Jackson in as usual, and he enters this room as usual, no
harm will befall you: if otherwise, you will be unquestionably
transported. Now, go."

My toilet was not so easily accomplished as I thought it would be. The
gown did not meet at the back by about a foot; that, however, was of
little consequence, as the high chair concealed the deficiency; neither
did the shortness of the sleeves matter much, as the ample shawl could
be made to hide my too great length of arm; but the skirt was scarcely
lower than a Highlander's, and how the deuce I was to crook my booted
legs up out of view, even in that gloomy starlight, I could hardly
imagine. The cap also was far too small; still, with an ample kerchief
in my hand, my whiskers might, I thought, be concealed. I was still
fidgeting with these arrangements when Jackson knocked at his door. The
servant admitted him without remark, and he presently entered the room,
carefully locked the door, and jolted down, so to speak, in the fellow
easy-chair to mine.

He was silent for a few moments, and then he bawled out: "She'll swing
for it, they say--swing for it, d'ye hear, dame? But no, of course she
don't--deafer and deafer, deafer and deafer every day. It'll be a
precious good job when the parson says his last prayers over her, as
well as others."

He then got up, and went to a cupboard. I could hear--for I dared not
look up--by the jingling of glasses and the outpouring of liquids that
he was helping himself to his spirituous sleeping-draughts. He reseated
himself, and drank in moody silence, except now and then mumbling
drowsily to himself, but in so low a tone that I could make nothing out
of it save an occasional curse or blasphemy. It was nearly eleven
o'clock before the muttered self-communing ceased, and his heavy head
sank upon the back of the easy-chair. He was very restless, and it was
evident that even his sleeping brain labored with affrighting and
oppressive images; but the mutterings, as before he slept, were confused
and indistinct. At length--half an hour had perhaps thus passed--the
troubled meanings became for a few moments clearly audible.
"Ha--ha--ha!" he burst out, "how are you off for soap? Ho--ho! done
there, my boy; ha--ha! But no--no. Wall plaster! Who could have thought
it? But for that I--I--What do you stare at me so for, you infernal
blue-bottle? You--you--" Again the dream-utterance sank into
indistinctness, and I comprehended nothing more.

About half-past twelve o'clock he awoke, rose, stretched himself, and
said: "Come, dame, let's to bed; it's getting chilly here."

"Dame" did not answer, and he again went towards the cupboard. "Here's a
candle-end will do for us," he muttered. A lucifer-match was drawn
across the wall, he lit the candle, and stumbled towards me, for he was
scarcely yet awake. "Come, dame, come! Why, thee beest sleeping like a
dead un! Wake up, will thee--Ah! murder! thieves! mur"--

My grasp was on the wretch's throat; but there was no occasion to use
force: he recognized me, and nerveless, paralyzed, sank on the floor
incapable of motion much less of resistance, and could only gaze in my
face in dumb affright and horror.

"Give me the key of the recess up stairs, which you carry in your breast
pocket. In your sleep, unhappy man, you have revealed every thing."

An inarticulate shriek of terror replied to me. I was silent; and
presently he gasped: "Wha--at, what have I said?"

"That Mr. Hursley's plate is buried in the garden by the lilac-tree;
that you have received a thousand pounds belonging to the man you tried
to poison; that you netted four hundred and fifty pounds by the plate
stolen at Salisbury; that you dexterously contrived, to slip the
sulphuric acid into the tea unseen by Henry Rogers's wife."

The shriek or scream was repeated, and he was for several moments
speechless with consternation. A ray of hope gleamed suddenly in his
flaming eyes. "It is true--it is true!" he hurriedly ejaculated;
"useless--useless--useless to deny it. But you are alone, and poor,
poor, no doubt. A thousand pounds!--more, more than that: _two_ thousand
pounds in gold--gold, all in gold--I will give you to spare me, to let
me escape!"

"Where did you hide the soap on the day when you confess you tried to
poison Henry Rogers?"

"In the recess you spoke of. But think! Two thousand pounds in gold--all
in gold--"

As he spoke, I suddenly grasped the villain's hands, pressed them
together, and in another instant the snapping of a handcuff pronounced
my answer. A yell of anguish burst from the miserable man, so loud and
piercing, that the constables outside hurried to the outer-door, and
knocked hastily for admittance. They were let in by the servant-woman;
and in half an hour afterwards the three prisoners--Jackson, his wife,
and Jane Riddet--were safe in Farnham prison.

A few sentences will conclude this narrative. Mary Rogers was brought up
on the following day, and, on my evidence, discharged. Her husband, I
have heard, has since proved a better and a wiser man. Jackson was
convicted at the Guilford assize of guiltily receiving the Hursley
plate, and sentenced to transportation for life. This being so, the
graver charge of attempting to poison was not pressed. There was no
moral doubt of his guilt; but the legal proof of it rested solely on his
own hurried confession, which counsel would no doubt have contended
ought not to be received. His wife and the servant were leniently dealt
with.

Sarah Purday was convicted, and sentenced to transportation. I did not
forget my promise; and a statement of the previously-narrated
circumstances having been drawn up and forwarded to the Queen and the
Home Secretary, a pardon, after some delay, was issued. There were
painful circumstances in her history which, after strict inquiry, told
favorably for her. Several benevolent persons interested themselves in
her behalf, and she was sent out to Canada, where she had some
relatives, and has, I believe, prospered there.

This affair caused considerable hubbub at the time, and much admiration
was expressed by the country people at the boldness and dexterity of the
London "runner;" whereas, in fact, the successful result was entirely
attributable to the opportune revelations of Sarah Purday.




From the North British Review.

JOHN OWEN AT OXFORD.[I]


Two hundred years ago the Puritan dwelt in Oxford; but, before his
arrival, both Cavalier and Roundhead soldiers had encamped in its
Colleges. Sad was the trace of their sojourn. From the dining-halls the
silver tankards had vanished, and the golden candlesticks of the
cathedral lay buried in a neighboring field. Stained windows were
smashed, and the shrines of Bernard and Frideswide lay open to the
storm. And whilst the heads of marble apostles, mingling with
cannonballs and founders' coffins, formed a melancholy rubbish in many a
corner, straw heaps on the pavement and staples in the wall, reminded
the spectator that it was not long since dragoons had quartered in
All-Souls, and horses crunched their oats beneath the tower of St. Mary
Magdalene.

However, matters again are mending. Broken windows are repaired; lost
revenues are recovered; and the sons of Crispin have evacuated chambers
once more consecrated to syntax and the syllogism. Through these
spacious courts we recognize the progress of the man who has
accomplished the arduous restoration. Tall, and in the prime of life,
with cocked-hat and powdered hair, with lawn tops to his morocco boots,
and with ribbons luxuriant at his knee, there is nothing to mark the
Puritan,--whilst in his easy unembarrassed movements and kindly-assuring
air, there is all which bespeaks the gentleman; but, were it not for the
reverences of obsequious beadles and the recognitions of respectful
students, you would scarce surmise the academic dignitary. That
old-fashioned divine,--his square cap and ruff surmounting the doctor's
gown,--with whom he shakes hands so cordially, is a Royalist and
Prelatist, but withal the Hebrew Professor, and the most famous
Orientalist in England, Dr. Edward Pocock. From his little parish of
Childry, where he passes for "no Latiner," and is little prized, he has
come up to deliver his Arabic lecture, and collate some Syriac
manuscript, and observe the progress of the fig-tree which he fetched
from the Levant; and he feels not a little beholden to the
Vice-Chancellor, who, when the Parliamentary triers had pronounced him
incompetent, interfered and retained him in his living. Passing the gate
of Wadham he meets the upbreaking of a little conventicle. That no
treason has been transacting nor any dangerous doctrine propounded, the
guardian of the University has ample assurance in the presence of his
very good friends, Dr. Wallis the Savilian Professor, and Dr. Wilkins
the Protector's brother-in-law. The latter has published a dissertation
on the Moon and its Inhabitants, "with a discourse concerning the
possibility of a passage thither;" and the former, a mighty
mathematician, during the recent war had displayed a terrible ingenuity
in deciphering the intercepted letters of the Royalists. Their companion
is the famous physician Dr. Willis, in whose house, opposite the
Vice-Chancellor's own door, the Oxford Prelatists daily assemble to
enjoy the forbidden Prayer-Book; and the youth who follows, building
castles in the air, is Christopher Wren. This evening they had met to
witness some experiments which the tall, sickly gentleman in the velvet
cloak had promised to show them. The tall sickly gentleman is the
Honorable Robert Boyle, and the instrument with which he has been
amusing his brother sages, in their embryo Royal Society, is the newly
invented air-pump. Little versant in their pursuits, though respectful
to their genius, after mutual salutations, the divine passes on and pays
an evening visit to his illustrious neighbor, Dr. Thomas Goodwin. In his
embroidered night-cap, and deep in the recesses of his dusky study, he
finds the recluse old President of Magdalene; and they sit and talk
together, and they pray together, till it strikes the hour of nine; and
from the great Tom Tower a summons begins to sound calling to Christ
Church cloisters the hundred and one students of the old foundation. And
returning to the Deanery, which Mary's cheerful management has
brightened into a pleasant home, albeit her own and her little
daughter's weeds are suggestive of recent sorrows, the doctor dives into
his library.

For the old misers it was pleasant to go down into their bullion vaults
and feel that they were rich enough to buy up all the town, with the
proud Earl in his mortgaged castle. And to many people there is a
peculiar satisfaction in the society of the great and learned; nor can
they forget the time when they talked to the great poet, or had a
moment's monopoly of Royalty. But--

    "That place that doth contain
    My books, the best companions, is to me
    A glorious court, where hourly I converse
    With the old sages and philosophers;
    And sometimes for variety I confer
    With kings and emperors, and weigh their counsels."

Not only is there the pleasant sense of property,--the rare editions,
and the wonderful bargains, and the acquisitions of some memorable
self-denial,--but there are grateful memories, and the feeling of a high
companionship. When it first arrived, yon volume kept its owner up all
night, and its neighbor introduced him to realms more delightful and
more strange than if he had taken Dr. Wilkins's lunarian journey. In
this biography, as in a magician's mirror, he was awed and startled by
foreshadowings of his own career; and, ever since he sat at the feet of
yonder sacred sage, he walks through the world with a consciousness,
blessed and not vainglorious, that his being contains an element shared
by few besides. And even those heretics inside the wires--like caged
wolves or bottled vipers--their keeper has come to entertain a certain
fondness for them, and whilst he detests the species, he would feel a
pang in parting with his own exemplars.

Now that the evening lamp is lit, let us survey the Doctor's library.
Like most of its coeval collections, its foundations are laid with
massive folios. These stately tomes are the Polyglotts of Antwerp and
Paris, the Critici Sacri and Poli Synopsis. The colossal theologians who
flank them, are Augustine and Jerome, Anselm and Aquinas, Calvin and
Episcopius, Ballarmine and Jansenius, Baronius and the Magdeburg
Centuriators,--natural enemies, here bound over to their good behavior.
These dark veterans are Jewish Rabbis,--Kimchi, Abarbanel, and, like a
row of rag-collectors, a whole Monmouth Street of rubbish,--behold the
entire Babylonian Talmud. These tall Socinians are the Polish brethren,
and the dumpy vellums overhead are Dutch divines. The cupboard contains
Greek and Latin manuscripts, and those spruce fashionables are Spencer,
and Cowley, and Sir William Davenant. And the new books which crown the
upper shelves, still uncut and fresh from the publisher, are the last
brochures of Mr. Jeremy Taylor and Mr. Richard Baxter.[J]

This night, however, the Doctor is intent on a new book nowise to his
mind. It is the "Redemption Redeemed" of John Goodwin. Its hydra-headed
errors have already drawn from the scabbard the sword of many an
orthodox Hercules on either side of the Tweed; and now, after a
conference with the other Goodwin, the Dean takes up a ream of
manuscript, and adds a finishing touch to his refutation.

At this period Dr. Owen would be forty years of age, for he was born in
1616. His father was minister of a little parish in Oxfordshire, and his
ancestors were princes in Wales; indeed, the genealogists claimed for
him a descent from King Caractacus. He himself was educated at Queen's
College, and, under the impulse of an ardent ambition, the young student
had fully availed himself of his academic privileges. For several years
he took no more sleep than four hours a-night, and in his eagerness for
future distinction he mastered all attainable knowledge, from
mathematics to music. But about the time of his reaching majority, all
his ambitious projects were suspended by a visitation of religious
earnestness. In much ignorance of the divine specific, his conscience
grew tender, and sin appeared exceeding sinful. It was at this
conjuncture that Archbishop Laud imposed on Oxford a new code of
statutes which scared away from the University the now scrupulous
scholar. Years of anxious thoughtfulness followed, partly filled up by
his duties as chaplain successively to Sir Robert Dormer and Lord
Lovelace, when about the year 1641 he had occasion to reside in London.
Whilst there he went one day to hear Edward Calamy; but instead of the
famous preacher there entered the pulpit a country minister, who, after
a fervent prayer, gave out for his text--"Why are ye fearful, O ye of
little faith?" The sermon was a very plain one, and Owen never
ascertained the preacher's name; but the perplexities with which he had
long been harassed disappeared, and in the joy of a discovered gospel
and an ascertained salvation, the natural energy of his character and
the vigor of his constitution found again their wonted play.

Soon after this happy change, his first publication appeared. It was a
"Display of Arminianism," and, attracting the attention of the
Parliamentary "Committee for purging the Church of Scandalous
Ministers," it procured for its author a presentation to the living of
Fordham, in Essex. This was followed by his translation to the more
important charge of Coggeshall, in the same county; and so rapidly did
his reputation rise, that besides being frequently called to preach
before the Parliament, he was, in 1649, selected by Cromwell as the
associate of his expedition to Ireland, and was employed in re-modelling
and resuscitating Trinity College, Dublin. Most likely it was owing to
the ability with which he discharged this service that he was appointed
Dean of Christ Church in 1651, and in the following year Vice-Chancellor
of Oxford. It was a striking incident to find himself thus brought back
to scenes which, fourteen years before, he had quitted amidst contempt
and poverty, and a little mind would have been apt to signalize the
event by a vainglorious ovation, or a vindictive retribution. But Owen
returned to Oxford in all the grandeur of a God-fearing magnanimity, and
his only solicitude was to fulfil the duties of his office. Although
himself an Independent, he promoted well qualified men to responsible
posts, notwithstanding their Presbyterianism or their Prelacy; and
although the law gave him ample powers to disperse them, he never
molested the liturgical meetings of his Episcopalian neighbors. From
anxiety to promote the spiritual welfare of the students, in addition to
his engagements as a Divinity lecturer and the resident head of the
University, along with Dr. Goodwin he undertook to preach, on alternate
Sabbaths, to the great congregation in St. Mary's. And such was the zeal
which he brought to bear on the studies and the secular interests of the
place, that the deserted courts were once more populous with ardent and
accomplished students, and in alumni like Sprat, and South, and Ken, and
Richard Cumberland, the Church of England received from Owen's Oxford
some of its most distinguished ornaments; whilst men like Philip Henry
and Joseph Alleine, went forth to perpetuate Owen's principles; and in
founding the English schools of metaphysics, architecture, and medicine,
Locke and Wren, and Sydenham taught the world that it was no misfortune
to have been the pupils of the Puritan. It would be pleasant to record
that Owen's generosity was reciprocated, and that if Oxford could not
recognize the Non-conformist, neither did she forget the Republican who
patronized the Royalists, and the Independent who befriended the
Prelatists. According to the unsuspected testimony of Grainger, and
Burnet, and Clarendon, the University was in a most flourishing
condition when it passed from under his control; but on the principle
which excludes Cromwell's statue from Westminster Palace, the
picture-gallery at Christ Church finds no place for the greatest of its
Deans.

The retirement into which he was forced by the Restoration was attended
with most of the hardships incident to an ejected minister, to which
were added sufferings and sorrows of his own. He never was in prison,
but he knew what it was to lead the life of a fugitive; and after making
a narrow escape from dragoons sent to arrest him, he was compelled to
quit his rural retreat, and seek a precarious refuge in the capital. In
1676 he lost his wife, but before this they had mingled their tears over
the coffins of ten out of their eleven children; and the only survivor,
a pious daughter, returned from the house of an unkind husband, to seek
beside her father all that was left of the home of her childhood. Soon
after he married again; but though the lady was good, and affectionate,
and rich withal, no comforts and no kind tending could countervail the
effects of bygone toils and privations, and from the brief remainder of
his days, weakness and anguish made many a mournful deduction. Still the
busy mind worked on. To the congregation, which had already shown at
once its patience and its piety, by listening to Caryl's ten quartos on
Job, and which was afterwards to have its patience farther tried and
rewarded, in the long but invalid incumbency of Isaac Watts, Dr. Owen
ministered as long as he was able; and, being a preacher who had
"something to say," it was cheering to him to recognize among his
constant attendants persons so intelligent and influential as the late
Protector's brother-in-law and son-in-law, Colonel Desborough and Lord
Charles Fleetwood, Sir John Hartopp, the Hon. Roger Boyle, Lady Abney,
and the Countess of Anglesea, and many other hearers who adorned the
doctrine which their pastor expounded, and whose expectant eagerness
gave zest to his studies, and animation to his public addresses. Besides
during all this interval, and to the number of more than thirty volumes,
he was giving to the world those masterly works which have invigorated
the theology and sustained the devotion of unnumbered readers in either
hemisphere. Amongst others, folio by folio, came forth that Exposition
of the Hebrews, which, amidst all its digressive prolixity, and with its
frequent excess of erudition, is an enduring monument of its author's
robust understanding and spiritual insight, as well as his astonishing
industry. At last the pen dropped from his band, and on the 23d of
August, 1683, he dedicated a note to his likeminded friend, Charles
Fleetwood: "I am going to him whom my soul has loved, or rather who has
loved me, with an everlasting love, which is the whole ground of all my
consolation. I am leaving the ship of the Church in a storm; but while
the great pilot is in it, the loss of a poor under-rower will be
inconsiderable. Live, and pray, and hope, and wait patiently, and do not
despond; the promise stands invincible--that he will never leave us nor
forsake us. My affectionate respects to your lady, and to the rest of
your relations, who are so dear to me in the Lord, remember your dying
friend with all fervency." The morrow after he had sent this touching
message to the representative of a beloved family was Bartholomew day,
the anniversary of the ejection of his two thousand brethren. That
morning a friend called to tell him that he had put to the press his
"Meditations on the Glory of Christ." There was a moment's gleam in his
languid eye, as he answered, "I am glad to hear it: but, O brother
Payne! the long wished for day is come at last, in which I shall see
that glory in another manner than I have ever done, or was capable of
doing in this world." A few hours of silence followed, and then that
glory was revealed. On the fourth of September, a vast funeral
procession, including the carriages of sixty-seven noblemen and
gentlemen, with long trains of mourning coaches and horsemen, took the
road to Finsbury; and there, in a new burying-ground, within a few paces
of Goodwin's grave, and near the spot where, five years later, John
Bunyan was interred, they laid the dust of Dr. Owen. His grave is with
us to this day; but in the crowded Golgotha, surrounded with
undertakers' sheds, and blind brick walls, with London cabs and
omnibuses whirling past the gate, few pilgrims can distinguish the
obliterated stone which marks the resting-place of the mighty
Non-conformist.[K]

Many of our readers will remember Robert Baillie's description of Dr.
Twiss, the Prolocutor of the Westminister Assembly: "The man, as the
world knows, is very learned in the questions he has studied, and very
good--beloved of all, and highly esteemed--but merely bookish ... and
among the unfittest of all the company for any action." In this respect
Dr. Owen was a great contrast to his studious contemporary; for he was
as eminent for business talent as most ministers are conspicuous for the
want of it. It was on this account that he was selected for the task of
reorganizing the universities of Dublin and Oxford; and the success with
which he fulfilled his commission, whilst it justified his patron's
sagacity, showed that he was sufficiently master of himself to become
the master of other minds. Of all his brethren few were so "fit for
action." To the same cause to which he owed this practical ascendency,
we are disposed to ascribe his popularity as a preacher; for we agree
with Dr. Thompson, (Life of Owen, p. cvi.,) in thinking that Owen's
power in the pulpit must have been greater than is usually surmised by
his modern readers. Those who knew him describe him as a singularly
fluent and persuasive speaker; and they also represent his social
intercourse as peculiarly vivacious and cheerful. From all which our
inference is, that Owen was one of those happy people who, whether for
business or study, whether for conversation or public speaking, can
concentrate all their faculties on the immediate occasion, and who do
justice to themselves and the world, by doing justice to each matter as
it successively comes to their hand.

A well-informed and earnest speaker will always be popular, if he be
tolerably fluent, and if he "shew himself friendly;" but no reputation
and no talent will secure an audience to the automaton who is
unconscious of his hearers, or to the misanthrope, who despises or
dislikes them. And if, as Anthony à Wood informs us, "the persuasion of
his oratory could move and wind the affections of his admiring auditory
almost as he pleased," we can well believe that he possessed the "proper
and comely personage, the graceful behavior in the pulpit, the eloquent
elocution, and the winning and insinuating deportment," which this
reluctant witness ascribes to him. With such advantages, we can
understand how, dissolved into a stream of continuous discourse, the
doctrines which we only know in their crystallized form of heads and
particulars, became a gladsome river; and how the man who spoke them
with sparkling eye and shining face was not shunned as a buckram pedant,
but run after as a popular preacher.

And yet, to his written style Owen is less indebted for his fame than
almost any of the Puritans. Not to mention that his works have never
been condensed into fresh pith and modern portableness by any congenial
Fawcett, they never did exhibit the pathetic importunity and Demosthenic
fervor of Baxter. In his Platonic loftiness Howe always dwelt apart; and
there have been no glorious dreams since Bunyan woke amidst the beatific
vision. Like a soft valley, where every turn reveals a cascade or a
castle, or at least a picturesque cottage, Flavel lures us along by the
vivid succession of his curious analogies and interesting stories;
whilst all the way the path is green with kind humanity, and bright with
Gospel blessedness. And like some sheltered cove, where the shells are
all so brilliant, and the sea-plants all so curious, that the young
naturalist can never leave off collecting, so profuse are the quaint
sayings and the nice little anecdotes which Thomas Brooks showers from
his "Golden Treasury," from his "Box," and his "Cabinet," that the
reader needs must follow where all the road is so radiant. But Owen has
no adventitious attractions. His books lack the extempore felicities and
the reflected fellow-feeling which lent a charm to his spoken sermons;
and on the table-land of his controversial treatises, sentence follows
sentence like a file of ironsides, in buff and rusty steel, a sturdy
procession, but a dingy uniform; and it is only here and there where a
son of Anak has burst his rags, that you glimpse a thought of uncommon
stature or wonderful proportions. Like candidates for the modern
ministry, in his youth Owen had learned to write Latin, Greek, and
Hebrew; but then, as now, English had no place in the academic
curriculum. And had he been urged in maturer life to study the art of
composition, most likely he would have frowned on his adviser. He would
have urged the "haste" which "the King's business" requires, and might
have reminded us that viands are as wholesome on a wooden trencher as on
a plate of gold. He would have told us that truth needs no tinsel, and
that the road over a bare heath may be more direct than the pretty
windings of the valley. Or, rather, he would have said, as he has
written--"Know that you have to do with a person who, provided his words
but clearly express the sentiments of his mind, entertains a fixed and
absolute disregard of all elegance and ornaments of speech."

True: gold is welcome even in a purse of the coarsest canvas; and,
although it is not in such caskets that people look for gems, no man
would despise a diamond because he found it in an earthen porringer. In
the treatises of Owen there is many a sentence which, set in a sermon,
would shine like a brilliant; and there are ingots enough to make the
fortune of a theological faculty. For instance, we open the first
treatise in this new collection of his works, and we read:--"It carrieth
in it a great condecency unto Divine wisdom, that man should be restored
unto the image of God, by Him who was the essential image of the Father;
and that He was made like unto us, that we might be made like unto Him,
and unto God through him;" and we are immediately reminded of a recent
treatise on the Incarnation, and all its beautiful speculation regarding
the "Pattern-Man." We read again till we come to the following
remark:--"It is the nature of sincere goodness to give a delight and
complacency unto the mind in the exercise of itself, and communication
of its effects. A good man doth both delight in doing good, and hath an
abundant reward _for_ the doing it, _in_ the doing of it;" and how can
we help recalling a memorable sermon "On the Immediate Reward of
Obedience," and a no less memorable chapter in a Bridgewater treatise,
"On the Inherent Pleasure of the Virtuous Affections?" And we read the
chapter on "The Person of Christ the great Representative of God," and
are startled by its foreshadowings of the sermons and the spiritual
history of a remarkably honest and vigorous thinker, who, from doubting
the doctrine of the Trinity, was led to recognize in the person of Jesus
Christ the Alpha and Omega of his theology. It is possible that
Archdeacon Wilberforce, and Chalmers, and Arnold, may never have perused
the treatise in question; and it is equally possible that under the
soporific influence of a heavy style, they may never have noticed
passages for which their own minds possessed such a powerful affinity.
But by the legitimate expedient of appropriate language--perhaps by
means of some "ornament or elegance"--Jeremy Taylor or Barrow would have
arrested attention to such important thoughts; and the cause of truth
would have gained, had the better divine been at least an equal orator.

However, there are "masters in Israel," whose style has been remarkably
meagre; and perhaps "Edwards on the Will" and "Butler's Analogy," would
not have numbered many more readers, although they had been composed in
the language of Addison. We must, therefore, notice another obstacle
which has hindered our author's popularity, and it is a fault of which
the world is daily becoming more and more intolerant. That fault is
prolixity. Dr. Owen did not take time to be brief; and in his polemical
writings, he was so anxious to leave no cavil unanswered, that he spent,
in closing loop-holes, the strength which would have crushed the foe in
open battle. No misgiving as to the champion's powers will ever cross
the mind of the spectators; but movements more rapid would render the
conflict more interesting, and the victory not less conclusive.[L] In
the same way, that the effectiveness of his controversial works is
injured by this excursive tendency, so the practical impression of his
other works is too often suspended by inopportune digressions; whilst
every treatise would have commanded a wider circulation if divested of
its irrelevant incumbrances. Within the entire range of British
authorship there exists no grander contributions toward a systematic
Christology than the Exposition of the Hebrews, with its dissertations
on the Saviour's priesthood; but whilst there are few theologians who
have not occasionally consulted it, those are still fewer who have
mastered its ponderous contents; and we have frequently known valiant
students who addressed themselves to the "Perseverance of the Saints,"
or the "Justification," but like settlers put ashore in a cane-brake, or
in a jungle of prickly pears, after struggling for hours through the
Preface or the General Considerations, they were glad to regain the
water's edge, and take to their boat once more.

It was their own loss, however, that they did not reach the interior;
for there they would have found themselves in the presence of one of the
greatest of Theological intellects. Black and Cavendish were born
ready-made chemists, and Linnæus and Cuvier were naturalists, in spite
of themselves; and so, there is a mental conformation which almost
necessitated Augustine and Athanasius, Calvin and Arminius, to be
dogmatists and systematic divines. With the opposite aptitudes for large
generalization and subtile distinction, as soon as some master-principle
had gained possession of their devout understandings, they had no
greater joy than to develop its all-embracing applications, and they
sought to subjugate Christendom to its imperial ascendency. By itself,
the habit of lofty contemplation would have made them pietists or
Christian psalmists, and a mere turn for definition would have made them
quibblers or schoolmen; but the two united, and together animated by a
strenuous faith, made them theologians. In such intellects the
seventeenth century abounded, but we question if in dialectic skill,
guided by sober judgment, and in extensive acquirements, mellowed by a
deep spirituality, it yielded an equivalent to Dr. Owen.

Although there is only one door to the kingdom of heaven, there is many
an entrance to scientific divinity. There is the gate of Free Inquiry as
well as the gate of Spiritual Wistfulness. And although there are
exceptional instances, on the whole we can predict what school the
new-comer will join, by knowing the door through which he entered. If
from the wide fields of speculation he has sauntered inside the sacred
inclosure; if he is an historian who has been carried captive by the
documentary demonstration--or a poet who has been arrested by the
spiritual sentiment--or a philosopher who has been won over by the
Christian theory, and who has thus made a hale-hearted entrance within
the precincts of the faith,--he is apt to patronize that gospel to which
he has given his accession, and like Clemens Alexandrinus, or Hugo
Grotius, or Alphonse de Lamartine, he will join that school where Taste
and Reason alternate with Revelation, and where ancient classics and
modern sages are scarcely subordinate to the "men who spake as they were
moved by the Holy Ghost." On the other hand, if "fleeing from the wrath
to come," through the crevice of some "faithful saying," he has
struggled into enough of knowledge to calm his conscience and give him
peace with Heaven, the oracle which assured his spirit will be to him
unique in its nature and supreme in its authority, and, a debtor to that
scheme to which he owes his very self, like Augustine, and Cowper, and
Chalmers, he will join that school where Revelation is absolute, and
where "Thus saith the Lord" makes an end of every matter. And without
alleging that a long process of personal solicitude is the only right
commencement of the Christian life, it is worthy of remark that the
converts whose Christianity has thus commenced have usually joined that
theological school which, in "salvation-work," makes least account of
man and most account of God. Jeremy Taylor, and Hammond, and Barrow,
were men who made religion their business; but still they were men who
regarded religion as a life _for_ God rather than a life _from_ God, and
in whose writings recognitions of Divine mercy and atonement and
strengthening grace are comparatively faint and rare. But Bolton, and
Bunyan, and Thomas Goodwin, were men who from a region of carelessness
or ignorance were conducted through a long and darkling labyrinth of
self-reproach and inward misery, and by a way which they knew not were
brought out at last on a bright landing-place of assurance and praise;
and, like Luther in the previous century, and like Halyburton, and
Whitefield, and Jonathan Edwards, in the age succeeding, the strong
sense of their own demerit led them to ascribe the happy change from
first to last to the sovereign grace and good Spirit of God. It was in
deep contrition and much anguish of soul that Owen's career began; and
that creed, which is pre-eminently the religion of "broken hearts,"
became his system of theology.

"Children, live like Christians; I leave you the covenant to feed upon."
Such was the dying exhortation of him who protected so well England and
the Albigenses; and "the convenant" was the food with which the devout
heroic lives of that godly time were nourished. This covenant was the
sublime staple of Owen's theology. It suggested topics for his
parliamentary sermons;--"A Vision of Unchangeable Mercy," and "The
Steadfastness of Promises." It attracted him to that book of the Bible
in which the federal economy is especially unfolded. And,
whether discoursing on the eternal purposes, or the extent of
redemption--whether expounding the Mediatorial office, or the work of
the sanctifying Spirit--branches of this tree of life re-appear in every
treatise. In such discussions some may imagine that there can be nothing
but barren speculation, or, at the best, an arduous and transcendental
theosophy. However, when they come to examine for themselves they will
be astonished at the mass of Scriptural authority on which they are
based; and, unless we greatly err, they will find them peculiarly
subservient to correction and instruction in righteousness. Many writers
have done more for the details of Christian conduct; but for purposes of
heart-discipline and for the nurture of devout affections, there is
little uninspired authorship equal to the more practical publications of
Owen. In the Life of that noble-hearted Christian philosopher, the late
Dr. Welsh, it is mentioned that in his latter days, besides the Bible,
he read nothing but "Owen on Spiritual-Mindedness," and the "Olney
Hymns;" and we shall never despair of the Christianity of a country
which finds numerous readers for his "Meditations on the Glory of
Christ," and his "Exposition of the hundred and thirtieth Psalm."

And here we may notice a peculiarity of Owen's treatises, which is at
once an excellence and a main cause of their redundancies. So systematic
was his mind that he could only discuss a special topic with reference
to the entire scheme of truth; and so constructive was his mind, that,
not content with the confutation of his adversary, he loved to state and
establish positively the truth impugned: to which we may add, so devout
was his disposition, that, instead of leaving his thesis a dry
demonstration, he was anxious to suffuse its doctrine with those
spiritual charms which it wore to his own contemplation. All this adds
to the bulk of his polemical writings. At the same time it adds to their
value. Dr. Owen makes his reader feel that the point in debate is not an
isolated dogma, but a part of the "whole counsel of God;" and by the
positive as well as practical form in which he presents it, he does all
which a disputant can to counteract the skeptical and pragmatical
tendencies of religious controversy. Hence, too, it comes to pass that,
with one of the commonplaces of Protestantism or Calvinism for
a nucleus, his works are most of them virtual systems of
doctrino-practical divinity.

The alluvial surface of a country takes its complexion from the
prevailing rock-formation. The Essays of Foster, and the Sermons of
Chalmers excepted, the evangelical theology of the last hundred years
has been chiefly alluvial; and in its miscellaneous composition the
element which we chiefly recognize is a detritus from Mount Owen. To be
sure, a good deal of it is the decomposition of a more recent
conglomerate, but a conglomerate in which larger boulders of the
original formation are still discernible. The sermon-makers of the
present day may read Cecil and Romaine and Andrew Fuller; and in doing
this they are studying the men who studied Owen. But why not study the
original? It does good to an ordinary understanding to hold fellowship
with a master mind; and it would greatly freshen the ministrations of
our pulpits, if, with the electric eye of modern culture, and with minds
alive to our modern exigency, preachers held converse direct with the
prime sources of British theology. We could imagine the reader of Boston
producing a sermon as good as Robert Walker's, and the reader of Henry
producing a commentary as good as Thomas Scott's, and the reader of
Bishop Hall producing sketches as good as the "Horæ Homileticæ:" but we
grow sleepy when we try to imagine Scott diluted or Walker desiccated,
and from a congregation top-dressed with bone-dust from the "Skeletons,"
the crop we should expect would be neither fervent Christians nor
enlightened Churchmen. And, even so, a reproduction of the men who have
repeated or translated Owen, is sure to be commonplace and feeble; but
from warm hearts and active intellects employed on Owen himself, we
could expect a multitude of new Cecils and Romaines and Fullers.

As North British Reviewers, we congratulate our country on having
produced this beautiful reprint of the illustrious Puritan; and from the
fact that they have offered it at a price which has introduced it to
four thousand libraries, we must regard the publishers as benefactors to
modern theology. The editor has consecrated all his learning and all his
industry to his labor of love; and, by all accounts, the previous copies
needed a reviser as careful and as competent as Mr. Goold. Dr.
Thompson's memoir of the author we have read with singular pleasure. It
exhibits much research, and a fine appreciation of Dr. Owen's
characteristic excellencies, and its tone is kind and catholic. Such
reprints, rightly used, will be a new era in our Christian literature.
They can scarcely fail to intensify the devotion and invigorate the
faculties of such as read them. And if these readers be chiefly
professed divines, the people will in the long-run reap the benefit. Let
taste and scholarship and eloquence by all means do their utmost; but it
is little which these can do without materials. The works of Owen are an
exhaustless magazine; and, without forgetting the source whence they
were themselves supplied, there is many an empty mill which their garner
could put into productive motion. Like the gardens of Malta, many a
region, now bald and barren, might be rendered fair and profitable with
loam imported from their Holy Land; and many is the fair structure which
might be reared from a single block of their cyclopean masonry.

FOOTNOTES:

[I] _The Works of John Owen, D.D._ Edited by the Rev. WILLIAM H. GOOLD,
Edinburgh. Vols. 1, 2, 5, 6, 8, 9, 14, (to be completed in Fifteen
Volumes.) London and Edinburgh. 1850-51. New-York, Carter & Brother,
1852.

[J] In his elaborate "Memoirs of Dr. Owen," (p. 345.) Mr. Orme mentions
that "his library was sold in May, 1684, by Millington, one of the
earliest of our book auctioneers;" and adds, "considering the doctor's
taste as a reader, his age as a minister, and his circumstances as a
man, his library, in all probability, would be both extensive and
valuable." Then, in a foot note, he gives some interesting particulars
as to the extent of the early No-conformist libraries, viz., Dr. Lazarus
Seaman's, which sold for £700; Dr. Jacomb's, which sold for £1300; Dr.
Bates's, which was bought for five or six hundred pounds by Dr.
Williams, in order to lay the foundation of Red Cross Street library;
and Dr. Evans's, which contained 10,000 volumes; again subjoining, "It
is probable Dr. Owen's was not inferior to some of these." It would have
gratified the biographer had he known that a catalogue of Owen's library
is still in existence. Bound up with other sale-catalogues in the
Bodleian, is the "Bibliotheca Oweniana; sive catalogus librorum plurimis
facultatibus insignium, instructissimæ Bibliothecæ Rev. Doct. Viri D.
Joan. Oweni (quondam Vice-Cancellarii et Decani Ædis Christi in Academia
Oxoniensi) nuperrime defuncti; cum variis manuscriptis Græcis Latinis,
&c., propria manu Doct. Patricii Junii aliorumq. conscriptis: quorum
auctio habebitur Londini apud domum auctionariam, adverso Nigri Cygni in
vico vulgo dicto Ave Mary Lane, prope Ludgate Street, vicesimo sexto die
Maii, 1684. Per Eduardum Millington, Bibliopolam." In the Preface, the
auctioneer speaks of Dr. Owen as "a person so generally known as a
generous buyer and great collector of the best books;" and after
adverting to his copies of Fathers, Councils, Church Histories, and
Rabbinical Authors, he adds, "all which considered together, perhaps for
their number are not to be paralleled, or upon any terms to be procured,
when gentlemen are desirous of, or have a real occasion for the perusal
of them." The number of volumes is 2889. For the knowledge of the
existence of this catalogue, and for a variety of curious particulars
regarding it, the Reviewer is indebted to one of the dignitaries of
Oxford, whose bibliographical information is only exceeded by the
obligingness with which he puts it at the command of others, the Rev.
Dr. Macbride, Principal of Magdalene Hall.

[K] A copious Latin epitaph was inscribed on his tombstone, of which Mr.
Orme speaks, in 1826, as "still in fine preservation." (Memoirs, p.
346.) We are sorry to say that three letters, faintly traceable, are all
that can now be deciphered. The tomb of his illustrious colleague,
Goodwin, is in a still more deplorable condition: not only is the
inscription effaced, but the marble slab, having been split with
lightning, has never been repaired.

[L] In his delightful reminiscences of Dr. Chalmers, Mr. J. J. Gurney
says, "I often think that particular men bear about with them an analogy
to particular animals: Chalmers is like a good-tempered lion;
Wilberforce is like a bee." Dr. Owen often reminds us of an elephant;
the same ponderous movements--the same gentle sagacity--the same vast
but unobtrusive powers. With a logical proboscis able to handle the
heavy guns of Hugo Grotius, and to untwist withal the tangled threads of
Richard Baxter, in his encounters with John Goodwin he resembles his
prototype in a leopard-hunt, where sheer strength is on the one side,
and brisk ability on the other. And, to push our conceit no further,
they say that this wary animal will never venture over a bridge till he
has tried its strength, and is assured that it can bear him; and if we
except the solitary break-down in the Waltonian controversy, our
disputant was as cautious in choosing his ground as he was formidable
when once he took up his position.




JESSE LEE AND THE LAWYERS.


Jesse Lee, one of the first Methodist preachers in New England, combined
unresting energy, and sensibility, with an extraordinary propensity to
wit. Mr. Stephens, in his new work on the _Memorials of Methodism_,
gives the following specimen of Lee's _bonhommie_:

As he was riding on horseback one day, between Boston and Lynn, he was
overtaken by two young lawyers, who knew that he was a Methodist
preacher, and were disposed to amuse themselves somewhat at his expense.
Saluting him, and ranging their horses one on each side of him, they
entered in a conversation something like the following:--_First Lawyer._
I believe you are a preacher, sir? _Lee._ Yes; I generally pass for one.
_First lawyer._ You preach very often, I suppose? _Lee._ Generally every
day, frequently twice, or more. _Second Lawyer._ How do you find time to
study, when you preach so often? _Lee._ I study when riding, and read
when resting. _First Lawyer._ But you do not write your sermons? _Lee._
No; not very often. _Second Lawyer._ Do you not often make mistakes in
preaching extemporaneously? _Lee._ I do, sometimes. _Second Lawyer._ How
do you do then? Do you correct them? _Lee._ That depends upon the
character of the mistake. I was preaching the other day, and I went to
quote the text: "All liars shall have their part in the lake that
burneth with fire and brimstone;" and, by mistake, I said, "All
_lawyers_ shall have their part"--_Second Lawyer_ (interrupting him).
"What did you do with that? Did you correct it?" _Lee._ "Oh, no, indeed!
It was so nearly true, I didn't think it worth while to correct it."
"Humph!" said one of them, with a hasty and impatient glance at the
other; "I don't know whether you are the more knave or fool!" "Neither,"
he quietly replied, turning at the same time his mischievous eyes from
one to the other; "I believe I am just _between_ the two!"

Finding they were measuring wit with a master, and mortified at their
discomfiture, the knights of the green bag drove on, leaving the victor
to solitude and his own reflections.




ANNUARIES,

BY ALICE CAREY.


                 I.

    A year has gone down silently
      To the dark bosom of the Past,
    Since I beneath this very tree
      Sat hoping, fearing, dreaming, last.
    Its waning glories, like a flame,
      Are trembling to the wind's light touch--
    All just a year ago the same,
      And I--oh! I am changed so much!

    The beauty of a wildering dream
      Hung softly round declining day;
    A star of all too sweet a beam
      In Eve's flushed bosom trembling lay.
    Changed in its aspect, yet the same,
      Still climbs that star from sunset's glow,
    But its embraces of pale flame
      Clasp not the weary world from wo!

    Another year shall I return,
      And cross this solemn chapel floor,
    While round me memory's shrine-lamps burn--
      Or shall this pilgrimage be o'er?
    One that I loved, grown faint with strife,
      When drooped and died the tenderer bloom,
    Folded the white tent of young life
      For the pale army of the tomb.

    The dry seeds dropping from their pods,
      The hawthorn apples bright as dawn,
    And the pale mullen's starless rods,
      Were just as now a year agone.
    But changed is every thing to me,
      From the small flower to sunset's glow,
    Since last I sat beneath this tree,
      A year--a little year--ago.

    I leaned against this broken bough,
      This faded turf my footstep pressed;
    But glad hopes that are not there now,
      Lay softly trembling in my breast:
    Trembling, for though the golden haze,
      Rose, as the dead leaves drifted by,
    As from the Vala of old days,
      The mournful voice of prophecy.

    Give woman's heart one triumph hour,
      Even on the borders of the grave,
    And thou hast given her strength and power
      The saddest ills of life to brave.
    Crush that far hope down, thou dost bring
      To the poor bird the tempest's wrath,
    Without the petrel's stormy wing
     To beat the darkness from its path.

    Once knowing mortal hope and fear,
      Whate'er in heaven's sweet clime thou art,
    Bend, pitying mother, softly near,
      And save, O save me from my heart!
    Be still pale-handed memory,
      My knee is trembling on the sod,
    The heir of immortality,
      A child of the eternal God.


                II.

    When last year took her mournful flight,
      With all her train of wo and ill,
    As pale processions sweep at night
      Across some lonesome burial hill--
    My soul with sorrow for its mate,
      And bowed with unrequited wrong,
    Stood knocking at the starry gate
      Of the wild wondrous realm of song.

    For hope from my poor hert was gone,
      With all the sheltering peace it gave,
    And a dim twilight, stealing on,
      Foretold the night-time of the grave.
    Past is that time of dim unrest,
      Hope reillumes its faded track,
    And the soft hand of love has prest
      Death's deep and awful shadows back.

    A year agone, when wildly shrill
      The wind sat singing on this bough,
    The churchyard on the neighboring hill
      Had not so many graves as now.
    When the May-morn, with hand of light,
      The clouds above her bosom drew,
    And o'er the blue, cold steeps of night
      Went treading out the stars like dew--

    One, whose dear joy it had been ours
      Two little summer times to keep,
    Folded his white hands from the flowers,
      And, softly smiling, fell asleep.
    And when the northern light streamed cold
      Across October's moaning blast,
    One whose brief tarriance was foretold
      All the sweet summer that was past,

    Meekly unlocked from her young arms
      The scarcely faded bridal crown,
    And in death's fearful night of storms
      The dim day of her life went down.
    While still beneath the golden hours,
      That like a roof the woods o'erspread,
    Among the few and faded flowers,
      Musing this idle rhyme I tread.

    Above yon reach of level mist
      Bright shines the cross-crowned spire afar,
    As in the sky's clear amethyst
      The splendor of some steadfast star.
    And still beneath its steady light
      The waves of time heave to and fro,
    From night to day, from day to night,
      As the dim seasons come and go.

    Some eager for ambition's strife,
      Some to love's banquet hurrying on,
    Like pilgrims on the hills of life
      We cross each other, and are gone.
    But though our lives are little drops,
      Welled from the infinite fount above,
    Our deaths are but the mystic stops
      In the great melody of love.


                III.

    Burying the basement of the skies
      October's mists hang dull and red,
    And with each wild gust's fall and rise,
      The yellow leaves are round me spread.
    'Tis the third autumn, ay, so long,
      Since memory 'neath this very bough,
    Thrilled my sad lyre strings into song--
      What shall unlock their music now?

    Then sang I of a sweet hope changed,
      Of pale hands beckoning, glad health fled,
    Of hearts grown careless or estranged,
      Of friends, or living, lost, or dead.
    O living lost, forever lost,
      Your light still lingers, faint and far,
    As if an awful shadow crossed
      The bright disk of the morning star.

    Blow, autumn, in thy wildest wrath,
      Down from the northern woodlands, blow!
    Drift the last wild-flowers from my path--
      What care I for the summer now?
    Yet shrink I, trembling and afraid,
      From searching glances inward thrown;
    What deep foundation have I laid,
      For any joyance, not my own?

    While with my poor, unskilful hands,
      Half hopeful, half in vague alarm,
    Building up walls of shining sands
      That fell and faded with the storm,
    E'en now my bosom shakes with fear,
      Like the last leaflets of this bough,
    For through the silence I can hear,
      "Unprofitable servant, thou!"

    Yet have there been, there are to-day
      In spite of health, or hope's decline,
    Fountains of beauty sealed away
      From every mortal eye but mine.
    Even dreams have filled my soul with light,
      and on my way their beauty left,
    As if the darkness of the night
      Were by some planet's rising cleft.

    And peace hath in my heart been born,
      That shut from memory all life's ills,
    In walking with the blue-eyed morn
      Among the white mists of the hills.
    And joyous, I have heard the wails
      That heave the wild woods to and fro,
    When autumn's crown of crimson pales
      Beneath the winter's hand of snow.

    Once, leaving all its lovely mates,
      On yonder lightning-withered tree,
    That vainly for the springtime waits,
      A wild bird perched and sang for me.
    And listening to the clear sweet strain
      That came like sunshine o'er the day
    My forehead's hot and burning pain,
      Fell like a crown of thorns away.

    But shadows from the western height
      Are stretching to the valley low,
    For through the cloudy gates of night
      The day is passing, solemn, slow.
    While o'er yon blue and rocky steep
      The moon, half hidden in the mist,
    Waits for the loving wind to keep
      The promise of the twilight tryst--

    Come thou, whose meek blue eyes divine,
      What thou, and only thou canst see,
    I wait to put my hand in thine--
      What answer sendest thou to me?
    Ah! thoughts of one whom helpless blight
      Had pushed from all fair hope apart,
    Making it thenceforth hers to fight
      The stormy battles of the heart.

    Well, I have no complaint of wrath,
      And no reproaches for my doom;
    Spring cannot blossom in thy path
      So bright as I would have it bloom.


                IV.

    O sorrowful and faded years,
      Gathered away a time ago,
    How could your deaths the fount of tears
      Have troubled to an overflow?
    I muse upon the songs I made
      Beneath the maple's yellow limbs,
    When down the aisles of thin cold shade
      Sounded the wild birds' farewell hymns.

    But no sad spell my spirit binds
      As when, in days on which it broods,
    October hunted with the winds
      Along the reddening sunset woods.
    Alas, the seasons come and go,
      Brightly or dimly rise and set
    The days, but stir no fount of woe,
      Nor kindle hope, nor wake regret.

    I sit with the complaining night,
      And underneath the waning moon,
    As when the lilies large and white
      Lay round the forehead of the June.
    What time within a snowy grave
      Closed the blue eyes so heavenly dear,
    Darkness swept o'er me like a wave,
      And time has nothing that I fear.

    The golden wings of summer hours
      Make to my heart a dirge-like sound,
    The spring's sweet boughs of bridal flowers
      Lie bright across a smooth-heaped mound.
    What care I that I sing to-day
      Where sound not the old plaintive hymns,
    And where the mountains hide away
      The sunset maple's yellow limbs?




From Blackwood's Magazine.

MY NOVEL:

OR, VARIETIES IN ENGLISH LIFE.[M]

BY PISISTRATUS CAXTON.


BOOK VIII.--CHAPTER IV.

With his hands behind him, and his head drooping on his breast--slow,
stealthy, noiseless, Randal Leslie glided along the streets on leaving
the Italian's house. Across the scheme he had before revolved, there
glanced another yet more glittering, for its gain might be more sure and
immediate. If the exile's daughter were heiress to such wealth, might he
himself hope--He stopped short even in his own soliloquy, and his breath
came quick. Now in his last visit to Hazeldean, he had come in contact
with Riccabocca, and been struck by the beauty of Violante. A vague
suspicion had crossed him that these might be the persons of whom the
Marchesa was in search, and the suspicion had been confirmed by
Beatrice's description of the refugee she desired to discover. But as he
had not then learned the reason for her inquiries, nor conceived the
possibility that he could have any personal interest in ascertaining the
truth, he had only classed the secret in question among those the
farther research into which might be left to time and occasion.
Certainly the reader will not do the unscrupulous intellect of Randal
Leslie the injustice to suppose that he was deterred from confiding to
his fair friend all that he knew of Riccabocca, by the refinement of
honor to which he had so chivalrously alluded. He had correctly stated
Audley Egerton's warning against any indiscreet confidence, though he
had forborne to mention a more recent and direct renewal of the same
caution. His first visit to Hazeldean had been paid without consulting
Egerton. He had been passing some days at his father's house, and had
gone over thence to the Squire's. On his return to London, he had,
however, mentioned this visit to Audley, who had seemed annoyed and even
displeased at it, though Randal well knew sufficient of Egerton's
character to know that such feeling could scarce be occasioned merely by
his estrangement from his half brother. This dissatisfaction had,
therefore, puzzled the young man. But as it was necessary to his views
to establish intimacy with the Squire, he did not yield the point with
his customary deference to his patron's whims. He therefore observed,
that he should be very sorry to do any thing displeasing to his
benefactor, but that his father had been naturally anxious that he
should not appear positively to slight the friendly overtures of Mr.
Hazeldean.

"Why naturally?" asked Egerton.

"Because you know that Mr. Hazeldean is a relation of mine--that my
grandmother was a Hazeldean."

"Ah!" said Egerton, who as it has been before said, knew little, and
cared less, about the Hazeldean pedigree, "I was either not aware of
that circumstance, or had forgotten it. And your father thinks that the
Squire may leave you a legacy?"

"Oh, sir, my father is not so mercenary--such an idea never entered his
head. But the Squire himself has indeed said--'Why, if any thing
happened to Frank, you would be next heir to my lands, and therefore we
ought to know each other.' But--"

"Enough," interrupted Egerton, "I am the last man to pretend to the
right of standing between you and a single chance of fortune, or of aid
to it. And whom did you meet at Hazeldean?"

"There was no one there, sir; not even Frank."

"Hum. Is the Squire not on good terms with his parson? Any quarrel about
tithes?"

"Oh, no quarrel. I forgot Mr. Dale; I saw him pretty often. He admires
and praises you very much, sir."

"Me--and why? What did he say of me?"

"That your heart was as sound as your head; that he had once seen you
about some old parishioners of his; and that he had been much impressed
with a depth of feeling he could not have anticipated in a man of the
world, and a statesman."

"Oh, that was all; some affair when I was member from Lansmere?"

"I suppose so."

Here the conversation had broken off; but the next time Randal was led
to visit the Squire he had formally asked Egerton's consent, who, after
a moment's hesitation, had as formally replied, "I have no objection."

On returning from this visit, Randal mentioned that he had seen
Riccabocca; and Egerton, a little startled at first, said composedly,
"Doubtless one of the political refugees; take care not to set Madame di
Negra on his track. Remember, she is suspected of being a spy of the
Austrian government."

"Rely on me, sir," said Randal; "but I should think this poor Doctor can
scarcely be the person she seeks to discover?"

"That is no affair of ours," answered Egerton; "we are English
gentlemen, and make not a step towards the secrets of another."

Now, when Randal revolved this rather ambiguous answer, and recalled the
uneasiness with which Egerton had first heard of his visit to Hazeldean,
he thought that he was indeed near the secret which Edward desired to
conceal from him and from all--viz., the incognito of the Italian whom
Lord l'Estrange had taken under his protection.

"My cards," said Randal to himself, as, with a deep-drawn sigh, he
resumed his soliloquy, "are become difficult to play. On the one hand,
to entangle Frank into marriage with this foreigner, the Squire could
never forgive him. On the other hand, if she will not marry him without
the dowry--and that depends on her brother's wedding this
countrywoman--and that countrywoman be as I surmise, Violante--and
Violante be this heiress, and to be won by me! Tush, tush. Such delicate
scruples in a woman so placed and so constituted as Beatrice di Negra,
must be easily talked away. Nay, the loss itself of this alliance to her
brother, the loss of her own dowry--the very pressure of poverty and
debt--would compel her into the sole escape left to her option. I will
then follow up the old plan; I will go down to Hazeldean, and see if
there be any substance in the new one;--and then to reconcile
both--aha--the House of Leslie shall rise yet from its ruin--and--"

Here he was startled from his reverie by a friendly slap on the
shoulder, and an exclamation,--"Why, Randal, you are more absent than
when you used to steal away from the cricket ground, muttering Greek
verses at Eton."

"My dear Frank," said Randal, "you--you are so _brusque_, and I was just
thinking of you."

"Were you? And kindly, then, I am sure," said Frank Hazeldean, his
honest handsome face lighted up with the unsuspecting genial trust of
friendship; "and Heaven knows," he added, with a sadder voice, and a
graver expression on his eye and lip--"Heaven knows I want all the
kindness you can give me!"

"I thought," said Randal, "that your father's last supply, of which I
was fortunate enough to be the bearer, would clear off your more
pressing debts. I don't pretend to preach, but really I must say once
more, you should not be so extravagant."

_Frank_ (seriously).--"I have done my best to reform. I have sold off my
horses, and I have not touched dice nor card these six months: I would
not even put into the raffle for the last Derby." This last was said
with the air of a man who doubted the possibility of obtaining belief to
some assertion of preternatural abstinence and virtue.

_Randal._--"Is it possible? But, with such self-conquest, how is it that
you cannot contrive to live within the bounds of a very liberal
allowance?"

_Frank_ (despondingly).--"Why, when a man once gets his head under
water, it is so hard to float back again on the surface. You see, I
attribute all my embarrassments to that first concealment of my debts
from my father, when they could have been so easily met, and when he
came up to town so kindly."

"I am sorry, then, that I gave you that advice."

"Oh, you meant it so kindly, I don't reproach you; it was all my own
fault."

"Why, indeed, I did urge you to pay off that moiety of your debts left
unpaid, with your allowance. Had you done so, all had been well."

"Yes, but poor Borrowwell got into such a scrape at Goodwood; I could
not resist him--a debt of honor, _that_ must be paid; so when I signed
another bill for him, he could not pay it, poor fellow: really he would
have shot himself, if I had not renewed it; and now it is swelled to
such an amount with that cursed interest, that _he_ never can pay it;
and one bill, of course, begets another, and to be renewed every three
months; 'tis the devil and all! So little as I ever got for all I have
borrowed," added Frank with a rueful amaze. "Not £1500 ready money; and
it would cost me almost as much yearly,--if I had it."

"Only £1500."

"Well, besides seven large chests of the worst cigars you ever smoked;
three pipes of wine that no one would drink, and a great bear, that had
been imported from Greenland for the sake of its grease."

"That should at least have saved you a bill with your hairdresser."

"I paid his bill with it," said Frank, "and very good-natured he was to
take the monster off my hands; it had already hugged two soldiers and
one groom into the shape of a flounder. I tell you what," resumed Frank,
after a short pause, "I have a great mind even now to tell my father
honestly all my embarrassments."

_Randal_ (solemnly).--"Hum!"

_Frank._--"What? don't you think it would be the best way? I never can
save enough--never can pay off what I owe; and it rolls like a
snowball."

_Randal._--"Judging by the Squire's talk, I think that with the first
sight of your affairs you would forfeit his favor for ever; and your
mother would be so shocked, especially after supposing that the sum I
brought you so lately sufficed to pay off every claim on you. If you had
not assured her of that, it might be different; but she who so hates an
untruth, and who said to the Squire, 'Frank says this will clear him;
and with all his faults, Frank never yet told a lie.'"

"Oh my dear mother!--I fancy I hear her!" cried Frank with deep emotion.
"But I did not tell a lie, Randal; I did not say that that sum would
clear me."

"You empowered and begged me to say so," replied Randal with grave
coldness; "and don't blame me if I believed you."

"No, no! I only said it would clear me for the moment."

"I misunderstood you, then, sadly; and such mistakes involve my own
honor. Pardon me, Frank; don't ask my aid in future. You see with the
best intentions I only compromise myself."

"If you forsake me, I may as well go and throw myself into the river,"
said Frank in a tone of despair; "and sooner or later my father must
know my necessities. The Jews threaten to go to him already; and the
longer the delay, the more terrible the explanation."

"I don't see why your father should ever learn the state of your
affairs; and it seems to me that you could pay off these usurers, and
get rid of these bills, by raising money on comparatively easy terms."

"How?" cried Frank eagerly.

"Why, the Casino property is entailed on you, and you might obtain a sum
upon that, not to be paid until the property becomes yours."

"At my poor father's death? Oh, no--no! I cannot bear the idea of this
cold-blooded calculation on a father's death. I know it is not uncommon;
I know other fellows who have done it, but they never had parents so
kind as mine; and even in them it shocked and revolted me. The
contemplating a father's death and profiting by the contemplation,--it
seems a kind of parricide--it is not natural, Randal. Besides, don't you
remember what the governor said--he actually wept while he said it,
'Never calculate on my death; I could not bear that.' Oh, Randal, don't
speak of it!"

"I respect your sentiments; but still all the post-obits you could raise
could not shorten Mr. Hazeldean's life by a day. However, dismiss that
idea; we must think of some other device. Ha, Frank! you are a handsome
fellow, and your expectations are great--why don't you marry some woman
with money?"

"Pooh!" exclaimed Frank, coloring. "You know, Randal, that there is but
one woman in the world I can ever think of, and I love her so devotedly,
that, though I was as gay as most men before, I really feel as if the
rest of her sex had lost every charm. I was passing through the street
now,--merely to look up at her windows--"

"You speak of Madame di Negra? I have just left her. Certainly she is
two or three years older than you; but if you can get over that
misfortune, why not marry her?"

"Marry her!" cried Frank in amaze, and all his color fled from his
cheeks. "Marry her!--are you serious?"

"Why not?"

"But even if she, who is so accomplished, so admired--even if she would
accept me, she is, you know, poorer than myself. She has told me so
frankly. That woman has such a noble heart! and--and--my father would
never consent, nor my mother either. I know they would not."

"Because she is a foreigner?"

"Yes--partly."

"Yet the Squire suffered his cousin to marry a foreigner."

"That was different. He had no control over Jemima; and a
daughter-in-law is so different; and my father is so English in his
notions; and Madame di Negra, you see, is altogether so foreign. Her
very graces would be against her in his eyes."

"I think you do both your parents injustice. A foreigner of low
birth--an actress or singer, for instance--of course would be highly
objectionable; but a woman, like Madame di Negra, of such high birth and
connections--"

Frank shook his head. "I don't think the governor would care a straw
about her connections, if she were a king's daughter. He considers all
foreigners pretty much alike. And then, you know"--Frank's voice sank
into a whisper--"you know that one of the very reasons why she is so
dear to me would be an insuperable objection to the old-fashioned folks
at home."

"I don't understand you, Frank."

"I love her the more," said young Hazeldean, raising his front with a
noble pride, that seemed to speak of his descent from a race of
cavaliers and gentlemen. "I love her the more because the world has
slandered her name--because I believe her to be pure and wronged. But
would they at the hall--they who do not see with a lover's eyes--they
who have all the stubborn English notions about the indecorum and
license of Continental manners, and will so readily credit the
worst?--O, no--I love--I cannot help it--but I have no hope."

"It is very possible that you may be right," exclaimed Randal, as if
struck and half-convinced by his companion's argument--"very possible;
and certainly I think that the homely folks at the Hall would fret and
fume at first, if they heard you were married to Madame di Negra. Yet
still, when your father learned that you had done so, not from passion
alone, but to save him from all pecuniary sacrifice--to clear yourself
of debt--to--"

"What do you mean?" exclaimed Frank impatiently.

"I have reason to know that Madame di Negra will have as large a portion
as your father could reasonably expect you to receive with any English
wife. And when this is properly stated to the Squire, and the high
position and rank of your wife fully established and brought home to
him--for I must think that these would tell, despite your exaggerated
notions of his prejudices--and then, when he really sees Madame di
Negra, and can judge of her beauty and rare gifts, upon my word, I
think, Frank, that there would be no cause for fear. After all, too, you
are his only son. He will have no option but to forgive you; and I know
how anxiously both your parents wish to see you settled in life."

Frank's whole countenance became illuminated. "There is no one who
understands the Squire like you, certainly," said he, with lively joy.
"He has the highest opinion of your judgment. And you really believe you
could smooth matters!"

"I believe so, but I should be sorry to induce you to run any risk; and
if, on cool consideration, you think that risk is incurred, I strongly
advise you to avoid all occasion of seeing the poor Marchesa. Ah, you
wince; but I say it for her sake as well as your own. First, you must be
aware, that, unless you have serious thoughts of marriage, your
attentions can but add to the very rumors that, equally groundless, you
so feelingly resent; and, secondly, because I don't think any man has a
right to win the affections of a woman--especially a woman who seems
likely to love with her whole heart and soul--merely to gratify his own
vanity."

"Vanity! Good heavens, can you think so poorly of me? But as to the
Marchesa's affections," continued Frank, with a faltering voice, "do you
really and honestly believe that they are to be won by me?"

"I fear lest they may be half won already," said Randal, with a smile
and a shake of the head; "but she is too proud to let you see any effect
you may produce on her, especially when, as I take it for granted, you
have never hinted at the hope of obtaining her hand."

"I never till now conceived such a hope. My dear Randal, all my cares
have vanished--I tread upon air--I have a great mind to call on her at
once."

"Stay, stay," said Randal. "Let me give you a caution. I have just
informed you that Madame di Negra will have, what you suspected not
before, a fortune suitable to her birth; any abrupt change in your
manner at present might induce her to believe that you were influenced
by that intelligence."

"Ah!" exclaimed Frank, stopping short, as if wounded to the quick. "And
I feel guilty--feel as if I _was_ influenced by that intelligence. So I
am, too, when I reflect," he continued, with a _naïveté_ that was half
pathetic; "but I hope she will not be so _very_ rich--if so, I'll not
call."

"Make your mind easy, it is but a portion of some twenty or thirty
thousand pounds, that would just suffice to discharge all your debts,
clear away all obstacle to your union, and in return for which you could
secure a more than adequate jointure and settlement on the Casino
property. Now I am on that head, I will be yet more communicative.
Madame di Negra has a noble heart, as you say, and told me herself, that
until her brother on his arrival had assured her of this dowry, she
would never have consented to marry you--never crippled with her own
embarrassments the man she loves. Ah! with what delight she will hail
the thought of assisting you to win back your father's heart! But be
guarded, meanwhile. And now, Frank, what say you--would it not be well
if I run down to Hazeldean to sound your parents? It is rather
inconvenient to me to be sure, to leave town just at present; but I
would do more than that to render you a smaller service. Yes, I'll go to
Rood Hall to-morrow, and thence to Hazeldean. I am sure your father will
press me to stay, and I shall have ample opportunities to judge of the
manner in which he would be likely to regard your marriage with Madame
di Negra--supposing always it were properly put to him. We can then act
accordingly."

"My dear, dear Randal. How can I thank you? If ever a poor fellow like
me can serve you in return--but that's impossible."

"Why, certainly, I will never ask you to be security to a bill of mine,"
said Randal, laughing. "I practise the economy I preach."

"Ah!" said Frank with a groan, "that is because your mind is
cultivated--you have so many resources; and all my faults have come from
idleness. If I had any thing to do on a rainy day, I should never have
got into these scrapes."

"Oh! you will have enough to do some day managing your property. We who
have no property must find one in knowledge. Adieu, my dear Frank; I
must go home now. By the way, you have never, by chance, spoken of the
Riccaboccas to Madame di Negra?"

"The Riccaboccas? No. That's well thought of. It may interest her to
know that a relation of mine has married her countryman. Very odd that I
never did mention it; but, to say truth, I really do talk so little to
her; she is so superior, and I feel positively shy with her."

"Do me the favor, Frank," said Randal, waiting patiently till this reply
ended--for he was devising all the time what reason to give for his
request--"never to allude to the Riccaboccas either to her or to her
brother, to whom you are sure to be presented."

"Why not allude to them?"

Randal hesitated a moment. His invention was still at fault, and, for a
wonder, he thought it the best policy to go pretty near the truth.

"Why, I will tell you. The Marchesa conceals nothing from her brother,
and he is one of the few Italians who are in high favor with the
Austrian court."

"Well!"

"And I suspect that poor Dr. Riccabocca fled his country from some mad
experiment at revolution, and is still hiding from the Austrian police."

"But they can't hurt him here," said Frank, with an Englishman's dogged
inborn conviction of the sanctity of his native island. "I should like
to see an Austrian pretend to dictate to us whom to receive and whom to
reject."

"Hum--that's true and constitutional, no doubt; but Riccabocca may have
excellent reasons--and, to speak plainly, I know he has (perhaps as
affecting the safety of friends in Italy),--for preserving his
incognito, and we are bound to respect those reasons without inquiring
further."

"Still, I cannot think so meanly of Madame di Negra," persisted Frank
(shrewd here, though credulous elsewhere, and both from his sense of
honor), "as to suppose that she would descend to be a spy, and injure a
poor countryman of her own, who trusts to the same hospitality she
receives herself at our English hands. Oh, if I thought that, I could
not love her!" added Frank, with energy.

"Certainly you are right. But see in what a false position you would
place both her brother and herself. If they knew Riccabocca's secret,
and proclaimed it to the Austrian government, as you say, it would be
cruel and mean; but if they knew and concealed it, it might involve them
both in the most serious consequences. You know the Austrian policy is
proverbially so jealous and tyrannical!"

"Well, the newspapers say so, certainly."

"And, in short, your discretion can do no harm, and your indiscretion
may. Therefore, give me your word, Frank. I can't stay to argue now."

"I'll not allude to the Riccaboccas, upon my honor," answered Frank;
"still I am sure that they would be as safe with the Marchesa as with--"

"I rely on your honor," interrupted Randal, hastily, and hurried off.


CHAPTER V.

Towards the evening of the following day, Randal Leslie walked slowly
from a village in the main road (about two miles from Rood Hall), at
which he had got out of the coach. He passed through meads and
corn-fields, and by the skirts of woods which had formerly belonged to
his ancestors, but had long since been alienated. He was alone amidst
the haunts of his boyhood, the scenes in which he had first invoked the
grand Spirit of Knowledge, to bid the Celestial Still One minister to
the commands of an earthly and turbulent ambition. He paused often in
his path, especially when the undulations of the ground gave a glimpse
of the gray church tower, or the gloomy firs that rose above the
desolate wastes of Rood.

"Here," thought Randal, with a softening eye--"here, how often,
comparing the fertility of the lands passed away from the inheritance of
my fathers, with the forlorn wilds that are left to their mouldering
hall--here, how often have I said to myself--'I will rebuild the
fortunes of my house.' And straightway Toil lost its aspect of drudge,
and grew kingly, and books became as living armies to serve my thought.
Again--again--O thou haughty Past, brace and strengthen me in the battle
with the Future." His pale lips writhed as he soliloquized, for his
conscience spoke to him while he thus addressed his will, and its voice
was heard more audibly in the quiet of the rural landscape, than amidst
the turmoil and din of that armed and sleepless camp which we call a
city.

Doubtless, though ambition have objects more vast and beneficent than
the restoration of a name--_that_ in itself is high and chivalrous, and
appeals to a strong interest in the human heart. But all emotions, and
all ends, of a nobler character, had seemed to filter themselves free
from every golden grain in passing through the mechanism of Randal's
intellect, and came forth at last into egotism clear and unalloyed.
Nevertheless, it is a strange truth that, to a man of cultivated mind,
however perverted and vicious, there are vouchsafed gleams of brighter
sentiments, irregular perceptions of moral beauty, denied to the brutal
unreasoning wickedness of uneducated villany--which, perhaps ultimately
serve as his punishment--according to the old thought of the satirist,
that there is no greater curse than to perceive virtue, yet adopt
vice. And as the solitary schemer walked slowly on, and his
childhood--innocent at least of deed--came distinct before him through
the halo of bygone dreams--dreams far purer than those from which he now
rose each morning to the active world of man--a profound melancholy
crept over him, and suddenly he exclaimed aloud, "_Then_ I aspired to be
renowned and great--_now_, how is it that, so advanced in my career, all
that seemed lofty in the means has vanished from me, and the only means
that I contemplate are those which my childhood would have called poor
and vile? Ah! is it that I then read but books, and now my knowledge has
passed onward, and men contaminate more than books? But," he continued
in a lower voice, as if arguing with himself, "if power is only so to be
won--and of what use is knowledge if it be not power--does not success
in life justify all things? And who prizes the wise man if he fails?" He
continued his way, but still the soft tranquillity around rebuked him,
and still his reason was dissatisfied, as well as his conscience. There
are times when Nature, like a bath of youth, seems to restore to the
jaded soul its freshness--times from which some men have emerged, as if
reborn. The crises of life are very silent. Suddenly the scene opened on
Randal Leslie's eyes. The bare desert common--the dilapidated
church--the old house, partially seen in the dank dreary hollow, into
which it seemed to Randal to have sunken deeper and lowlier than when he
saw it last. And on the common were some young men playing at hockey.
That old-fashioned game, now very uncommon in England, except at
schools, was still preserved in the primitive simplicity of Rood by the
young yeomen and farmers. Randal stood by the stile and looked on, for
among the players he recognized his brother Oliver. Presently the ball
was struck towards Oliver, and the group instantly gathered round that
young gentleman, and snatched him from Randal's eye; but the elder
brother heard a displeasing din, a derisive laughter. Oliver had shrunk
from the danger of the thick clubbed sticks that plied around him, and
received some strokes across the legs, for his voice rose whining, and
was drowned by shouts of, "Go to your mammy. That's Noll Leslie--all
over. Butter shins."

Randal's sallow face became scarlet. "The jest of boors--a Leslie!" he
muttered, and ground his teeth. He sprang over the stile, and walked
erect and haughtily across the ground. The players cried out
indignantly. Randal raised his hat, and they recognized him, and stopped
the game. For him at least a certain respect was felt. Oliver turned
round quickly, and ran up to him. Randal caught his arm firmly, and
without saying a word to the rest, drew him away towards the house.
Oliver cast a regretful, lingering look behind him, rubbed his shins,
and then stole a timid glance towards Randal's severe and moody
countenance.

"You are not angry that I was playing at hockey with our neighbors,"
said he deprecatingly, observing that Randal would not break the
silence.

"No," replied the elder brother; "but, in associating with his
inferiors, a gentleman still knows how to maintain his dignity. There is
no harm in playing with inferiors, but it is necessary to a gentleman to
play so that he is not the laughing-stock of clowns."

Oliver hung his head and made no answer. They came into the slovenly
precincts of the court, and the pigs stared at them from the palings, as
they had stared, years before, at Frank Hazeldean.

Mr. Leslie, senior, in a shabby straw hat, was engaged in feeding the
chickens before the threshold, and he performed even that occupation
with a maundering lack-a-daisical slothfulness, dropping down the grains
almost one by one from his inert dreamy fingers.

Randal's sister, her hair still and for ever hanging about her ears, was
seated on a rush-bottom chair, reading a tattered novel; and from the
parlor window was heard the querulous voice of Mrs. Leslie, in high
fidget and complaint.

Somehow or other, as the young heir to all this helpless poverty stood
in the courtyard, with his sharp, refined, intelligent features, and his
strange elegance of dress and aspect, one better comprehended how, left
solely to the egotism of his knowledge and his ambition, in such a
family, and without any of the sweet nameless lessons of Home, he had
grown up into such close and secret solitude of soul--how the mind had
taken so little nutriment from the heart, and how that affection and
respect which the warm circle of the hearth usually calls forth had
passed with him to the graves of dead fathers, growing, as it were,
bloodless and ghoul-like amidst the charnels on which they fed.

"Ha, Randal, boy," said Mr. Leslie, looking up lazily, "how d'ye do? Who
could have expected you? My dear--my dear," he cried, in a broken voice,
and as if in helpless dismay, "here's Randal, and he'll be wanting
dinner, or supper, or something." But in the mean while, Randal's sister
Juliet had sprung up and thrown her arms round her brother's neck, and
he had drawn her aside caressingly, for Randal's strongest human
affection was for this sister.

"You are growing very pretty, Juliet," said he, smoothing back her hair;
"why do yourself such injustice--why not pay more attention to your
appearance, as I have so often begged you to do?"

"I did not expect you, dear Randal; you ways come so suddenly, and catch
us _en dish-a-bill._"

"Dish-a-bill!" echoed Randal, with a groan. "_Dishabille!_--you ought
never to be so caught!"

"No one else does so catch us--nobody else ever comes! Heigho," and the
young lady sighed very heartily.

"Patience, patience; my day is coming, and then yours, my sister,"
replied Randal, with genuine pity, as he gazed upon what a little care
could have trained into so fair a flower, and what now looked so like a
weed.

Here Mrs. Leslie, in a state of intense excitement--having rushed
through the parlor--leaving a fragment of her gown between the yawning
brass of the never mended Brummagem work table--tore across the
hall--whirled out of the door, scattering the chickens to the right and
left, and clutched hold of Randal in her motherly embrace. "La, how you
do shake my nerves," she cried, after giving him a most hearty and
uncomfortable kiss. "And you are hungry, too, and nothing in the house
but cold mutton! Jenny, Jenny, I say Jenny! Juliet, have you seen Jenny!
Where's Jenny? Out with the old man, I'll be bound."

"I am not hungry, mother," said Randal; "I wish for nothing but tea."
Juliet, scrambling up her hair, darted into the house to prepare the
tea, and also to "tidy herself." She dearly loved her fine brother, but
she was greatly in awe of him.

Randal seated himself on the broken pales. "Take care they don't come
down," said Mr. Leslie with some anxiety.

"Oh, sir, I am very light; nothing comes down with me."

The pigs stared up, and grunted in amaze at the stranger.

"Mother," said the young man, detaining Mrs. Leslie, who wanted to set
off in chase of Jenny--"mother, you should not let Oliver associate with
those village boors. It is time to think of a profession for him."

"Oh, he eats us out of house and home--such an appetite! But as to a
profession--what is he fit for? He will never be a scholar."

Randal nodded a moody assent; for, indeed, Oliver had been sent to
Cambridge, and supported out of Randal's income from his official
pay;--and Oliver had been plucked for his Little Go.

"There is the army," said the elder brother--"a gentleman's calling. How
handsome Juliet ought to be--but--I left money for masters--and she
pronounces French like a chambermaid."

"Yet she is fond of her book too. She's always reading, and good for
nothing else."

"Reading!--those trashy novels!"

"So like you--you always come to scold, and make things unpleasant,"
said Mrs. Leslie, peevishly. "You are grown too fine for us, and I am
sure we suffer affronts enough from others, not to want a little respect
from our own children."

"I did not mean to affront you," said Randal, sadly. "Pardon me. But who
else has done so?"

Then Mrs. Leslie went into a minute and most irritating catalogue of all
the mortifications and insults she had received; the grievances of a
petty provincial family, with much pretension and small power; of all
people, indeed, without the disposition to please--without the ability
to serve--who exaggerate every offence, and are thankful for no
kindness. Farmer Jones had insolently refused to send his wagon twenty
miles for coals. Mr. Giles, the butcher, requesting the payment of his
bill, had stated that the custom at Rood was too small for him to allow
credit. Squire Thornhill, who was the present owner of the fairest slice
of the old Leslie domains, had taken the liberty to ask permission to
shoot over Mr. Leslie's land, since Mr. Leslie did not preserve. Lady
Spratt (new people from the city, who hired a neighboring country seat)
had taken a discharged servant of Mrs. Leslie's without applying for the
character. The Lord-Lieutenant had given a ball, and had not invited the
Leslies. Mr. Leslie's tenants had voted against their landlord's wish at
the recent election. More than all, Squire Hazeldean and his Harry had
called at Rood, and though Mrs. Leslie had screamed out to Jenny, "Not
at home," she had been seen at the window, and the Squire had actually
forced his way in, and caught the whole family "in a state not fit to be
seen." That was a trifle, but the Squire had presumed to instruct Mr.
Leslie how to manage his property, and Mrs. Hazeldean had actually told
Juliet to hold up her head and tie up her hair, "as if we were her
cottagers!" said Mrs. Leslie, with the pride of a Montfydget.

All these and various other annoyances, though Randal was too sensible
not to perceive their insignificance, still galled and mortified the
listening heir of Rood. They showed, at least, even to the well-meant
officiousness of the Hazeldeans, the small account in which the fallen
family was held. As he sat still on the moss-grown pale, gloomy and
taciturn, his mother standing beside him, with her cap awry, Mr. Leslie
shamblingly sauntered up, and said in a pensive dolorous whine--

"I wish we had a good sum of money, Randal, boy!"

To do Mr. Leslie justice, he seldom gave vent to any wish that savored
of avarice. His mind must be singularly aroused, to wander out of its
normal limits of sluggish, dull content.

So Randal looked at him in surprise, and said, "Do you, sir?--why?"

"The manors of Rood and Dulmansberry, and all the lands therein, which
my great-grandfather sold away, are to be sold again when Squire
Thornhill's eldest son comes of age, to cut off the entail. Sir John
Spratt talks of buying them. I should like to have them back again. 'Tis
a shame to see the Leslie estates hawked about, and bought by Spratts
and people. I wish I had a great--great sum of ready money."

The poor gentleman extended his helpless fingers as he spoke, and fell
into a dejected reverie.

Randal sprang from the paling, a movement which frightened the
contemplative pigs, and set them off squalling and scampering. "When
does young Thornhill come of age?"

"He was nineteen last August. I know it, because the day he was born I
picked up my fossil of the sea-horse, just by Dulmansberry church, when
the joy-bells were ringing! My fossil sea-horse! It will be an
heir-loom, Randal--"

"Two years--nearly two years--yet--ah, ah!" said Randal; and his sister
now appearing to announce that tea was ready, he threw his arm around
her neck and kissed, her. Juliet had arranged her hair and trimmed up
her dress. She looked very pretty, and she had now the air of a
gentlewoman--something of Randal's own refinement in her slender
proportions and well-shaped head.

"Be patient, patient still, my dear sister," whispered Randal, "and keep
your heart whole for two years longer."

The young man was gay and good-humored over his simple meal, while his
family grouped round him. When it was over, Mr. Leslie lighted his pipe,
and called for his brandy and water. Mrs. Leslie began to question about
London and Court, and the new King and the new Queen, and Mr. Audley
Egerton, and hoped Mr. Egerton would leave Randal all his money, and
that Randal would marry a rich woman, and that the King would make him a
prime-minister one of these days; and then she would like to see if
Farmer Jones would refuse to send his wagon for coals! And every now and
then, as the word "riches" or "money" caught Mr. Leslie's ear, he shook
his head, drew his pipe from his mouth, and muttered, "A Spratt should
not have what belonged to my great-great-grandfather. If I had a good
sum of ready-money!--the old family estates!" Oliver and Juliet sat
silent, and on their good behavior; and Randal, indulging his
own reveries, dreamily heard the words "money," "Spratt,"
"great-great-grandfather," "rich, wife," "family estates;" and they
sounded to him vague and afar off, like whispers from the world of
romance and legend--weird prophecies of things to be.

Such was the hearth which warmed the viper that nestled and gnawed at
the heart of Randal, poisoning all the aspirations that youth should
have rendered pure, ambition lofty, and knowledge beneficent and divine.


CHAPTER VI.

When the rest of the household were in deep sleep, Randal stood long at
his open window, looking over the dreary, comfortless scene--the moon
gleaming from skies half-autumnal, hall-wintry, upon squalid decay,
through the ragged fissures of the firs; and when he lay down to rest,
his sleep was feverish, and troubled by turbulent dreams.

However, he was up early, and with an unwonted color in his cheeks,
which his sister ascribed to the country air. After breakfast, he took
his way towards Hazeldean, mounted upon a tolerable horse, which he
hired of a neighboring farmer who occasionally hunted. Before noon, the
garden and terrace of the Casino came in sight. He reined in his horse,
and by the little fountain at which Leonard had been wont to eat his
radishes and con his book, he saw Riccabocca seated under the shade of
the red umbrella. And by the Italian's side stood a form that a Greek of
old might have deemed the Naïad of the Fount; for in its youthful beauty
there was something so full of poetry--something at once so sweet and so
stately--that it spoke to the imagination while it charmed the sense.

Randal dismounted, tied his horse to the gate, and, walking down a
trelised alley, came suddenly to the spot. His dark shadow fell over the
clear mirror of the fountain just as Riccabocca had said, "All here is
so secure from evil!--the waves of the fountain are never troubled like
those of the river!" and Violante had answered in her soft native
tongue, and lifting her dark, spiritual eyes--"But the fountain would be
but a lifeless pool, oh my father, if the spray did not mount towards
the skies!"


CHAPTER VII.

Randal advanced--"I fear, Signior Riccabocca, that I am guilty of some
want of ceremony."

"To dispense with ceremony is the most delicate mode of conferring a
compliment," replied the urbane Italian, as he recovered from his first
surprise at Randal's sudden address, and extended his hand.

Violante bowed her graceful head to the young man's respectful
salutation. "I am on my way to Hazeldean," resumed Randal, "and, seeing
you in the garden, could not resist this intrusion."

_Riccabocca._--"You come from London? Stirring times for you English,
but I do not ask you the news. No news can affect us."

_Randal_, (softly.)--"Perhaps--yes."

_Riccabocca_, (startled.)--"How?"

_Violante._--"Surely he speaks of Italy, and news from that country
affects you still, my father."

_Riccabocca._--"Nay, nay, nothing affects me like this country: its east
winds might affect a pyramid! Draw your mantle round you, child, and go
in; the air has suddenly grown chill."

Violante smiled on her father, glanced uneasily towards Randal's grave
brow, and went slowly towards the house.

Riccabocca, after waiting some moments in silence, as if expecting
Randal to speak, said with affected carelessness, "So you think that you
have news that might affect me? _Corpo di Bacco!_ I am curious to learn
what!"

"I may be mistaken--that depends on your answer to one question. Do you
know the Count of Peschiera?"

Riccabocca winced, and turned pale. He could not baffle the watchful eye
of the questioner.

"Enough," said Randal; "I see that I am right. Believe in my sincerity.
I speak but to warn and to serve you. The Count seeks to discover the
retreat of a countryman and kinsman of his own."

"And for what end?" cried Riccabocca, thrown off his guard, and his
breast dilated, his crest rose, and his eye flashed; valor and defiance
broke from habitual caution and self-control. "But pooh," he added,
striving to regain his ordinary and half-ironical calm, "it matters not
to me. I grant, sir, that I know the Count di Peschiera; but what has
Dr. Riccabocca to do with the kinsmen of so grand a personage?"

"Dr. Riccabocca--nothing. But--" here Randal put his lip close to the
Italian's ear, and whispered a brief sentence. Then retreating a step,
but laying his hand on the exile's shoulder, he added--"Need I say that
your secret is safe with me?"

Riccabocca made no answer. His eyes rested on the ground musingly.

Randal continued--"And I shall esteem it the highest honor you can
bestow on me, to be permitted to assist you in forestalling danger."

_Riccabocca_, (slowly.)--"Sir, I thank you; you have my secret, and I
feel assured it is safe, for I speak to an English gentleman. There may
be family reasons why I should avoid the Count di Peschiera; and,
indeed, he is safest from shoals who steers clearest of his--relations."

The poor Italian regained his caustic smile as he uttered that wise,
villanous Italian maxim.

_Randal._--"I know little of the Count of Peschiera save from the
current talk of the world. He is said to hold the estates of a kinsman
who took part in a conspiracy against the Austrian power."

_Riccabocca._--"It is true. Let that content him; what more does he
desire? You spoke of forestalling danger? What danger? I am on the soil
of England, and protected by its laws."

_Randal._--"Allow me to inquire if, had the kinsman no child, the Count
di Peschiera would be legitimate and natural heir to the estates he
holds?"

_Riccabocca._--"He would. What then?"

_Randal._--"Does that thought suggest no danger to the child of the
kinsman?"

Riccabocca recoiled, and gasped forth, "The child! You do not mean to
imply that this man, infamous though he be, can contemplate the crime of
an assassin?"

Randal paused perplexed. His ground was delicate. He knew not what
causes of resentment the exile entertained against the Count. He knew
not whether Riccabocca would not assent to an alliance that might
restore him to his country--and he resolved to feel his way with
precaution.

"I did not," said he, smiling gravely, "mean to insinuate so horrible a
charge against a man whom I have never seen. He seeks you--that is all I
know. I imagine from his general character, that in this search he
consults his interest. Perhaps all matters might be conciliated by an
interview!"

"An interview!" exclaimed Riccabocca; "there is but one way we should
meet--foot to foot, and hand to hand."

"Is it so? Then you would not listen to the Count if he proposed some
amicable compromise; if, for instance, he was a candidate for the hand
of your daughter?"

The poor Italian, so wise and so subtle in his talk, was as rash and
blind when it came to action, as if he had been born in Ireland, and
nourished on potatoes and Repeal. He bared his whole soul to the
merciless eye of Randal.

"My daughter!" he exclaimed. "Sir, your question is an insult."

Randal's way became clear at once. "Forgive me," he said mildly; "I will
tell you frankly all that I know. I am acquainted with the Count's
sister. I have some little influence over her. It was she who informed
me that the Count had come here, bent upon discovering your refuge, and
resolved to wed your daughter. This is the danger of which I spoke. And
when I asked your permission to aid in forestalling it, I only intended
to suggest that it might be wise to find some securer home, and that I,
if permitted to know that home, and to visit you, could apprise you from
time to time of the Count's plans and movements."

"Sir, I thank you sincerely," said Riccabocca with emotion; "but am I
not safe here?"

"I doubt it. Many people have visited the Squire in the shooting season,
who will have heard of you--perhaps seen you, and who are likely to meet
the Count in London. And Frank Hazeldean, too, who knows the Count's
sister--"

"True, true," interrupted Riccabocca. "I see, I see. I will consider. I
will reflect. Meanwhile you are going to Hazeldean. Do not say a word to
the Squire. He knows not the secret you have discovered."

With those words Riccabocca turned slightly away, and Randal took the
hint to depart.

"At all times command and rely on me," said the young traitor, and he
regained the pale to which he had fastened his horse.

As he remounted, he cast his eyes towards the place where he had left
Riccabocca. The Italian was still standing there. Presently the form of
Jackeymo was seen emerging from the shrubs. Riccabocca turned hastily
round, recognized his servant, uttered an exclamation loud enough to
reach Randal's ear, and then catching Jackeymo by the arm, disappeared
with him amidst the deeper recesses of the garden.

"It will be indeed in my favor," thought Randal as he rode on, "if I can
get them into the neighborhood of London--all occasion there to woo, and
if expedient, to win--the heiress."


CHAPTER VIII.

"By the Lord Harry!" cried the Squire, as he stood with his wife in the
park, on a visit of inspection to some first-rate South-Downs just added
to his stock--"By the Lord, if that is not Randal Leslie trying to get
into the park at the back gate! Hollo, Randal! you must come round by
the lodge, my boy," said he. "You see this gate is locked to keep out
trespassers."

"A pity," said Randal. "I like short cuts, and you have shut up a very
short one."

"So the trespassers said," quoth the Squire: "but Stirn would not hear
of it;--valuable man, Stirn. But ride round to the lodge. Put up your
horse, and you'll join us before we can get to the house."

Randal nodded and smiled, and rode briskly on.

The Squire rejoined his Harry.

"Ah, William," said she anxiously, "though certainly Randal Leslie means
well, I always dread his visits."

"So do I, in one sense," quoth the Squire, "for he always carries away a
bank-note for Frank."

"I hope he is really Frank's friend," said Mrs. Hazeldean.

"Whose else can he be? Not his own, poor fellow, for he will never
accept a shilling from me, though his grandmother was as good a
Hazeldean as I am. But, zounds! I like his pride, and his economy too.
As for Frank--"

"Hush, William!" cried Mrs. Hazeldean, and put her fair hand before the
Squire's mouth. The Squire was softened, and kissed the fair hand
gallantly--perhaps he kissed the lips too; at all events, the worthy
pair were walking lovingly arm-in-arm when Randal joined them.

He did not affect to perceive a certain coldness in the manner of Mrs.
Hazeldean, but began immediately to talk to her about Frank; praise that
young gentleman's appearance; expatiate on his health, his popularity,
and his good gifts personal and mental; and this with so much warmth,
that any dim and undeveloped suspicions Mrs. Hazeldean might have formed
soon melted away.

Randal continued to make himself thus agreeable, until the Squire,
persuaded that his young kinsman was a first-rate agriculturist,
insisted upon carrying him off to the home-farm, and Harry turned
towards the house to order Randal's room to be got ready: "For," said
Randal, "knowing that you will excuse my morning dress, I ventured to
invite myself to dine and sleep at the Hall."

On approaching the farm buildings, Randal was seized with the terror of
an impostor; for, despite all the theoretical learning on Bucolics and
Georgics with which he had dazzled the Squire, poor Frank, so despised,
would have beat him hollow when it came to judging of the points of an
ox or the show of a crop.

"Ha, ha!" cried the Squire, chuckling, "I long to see how you'll
astonish Stirn. Why, you'll guess in a moment where we put the
top-dressing; and when you come to handle my short-horns, I dare swear
you'll know to a pound how much oilcake has gone into their sides."

"Oh, you do me too much honor--indeed you do. I only know the general
principles of agriculture--the details are eminently interesting; but I
have not had the opportunity to acquire them."

"Stuff!" cried the Squire. "How can a man know general principles unless
he has first studied the details? You are too modest, my boy. Ho!
there's Stirn looking out for us!"

Randal saw the grim visage of Stirn peering out of a cattle-shed, and
felt undone. He made a desperate rush towards changing the Squire's
humor.

"Well, sir, perhaps Frank may soon gratify your wish and turn farmer
himself."

"Eh!" quoth the Squire, stopping short. "What now?"

"Suppose he was to marry?"

"I'd give him the two best farms on the property rent free. Ha, ha! Has
he seen the girl yet? I'd leave him free to choose, sir. I chose for
myself--every man should. Not but what Miss Sticktorights is an heiress,
and, I hear, a very decent girl, and that would join in the two
properties, and put an end to that lawsuit about the right of way, which
began in the reign of King Charles the Second, and is likely otherwise
to last till the day of judgment. But never mind her; let Frank choose
to please himself."

"I'll not fail to tell him so, sir. I did fear you might have some
prejudices. But here we are at the farm-yard."

"Burn the farm-yard! How can I think of farm-yards when you talk of
Frank's marriage? Come on--this way. What were you saying about
prejudices?"

"Why, you might wish him to marry an Englishwoman, for instance."

"English! Good heavens, sir, does he mean to marry a Hindoo?"

"Nay, I don't know that he means to marry at all: I am only surmising;
but if he did fall in love with a foreigner--"

"A foreigner! Ah, then Harry was--" The Squire stopped short.

"Who might, perhaps," observed Randal--not truly if he referred to
Madame di Negra--"who might, perhaps, speak very little English?"

"Lord ha' mercy!"

"And a Roman Catholic--"

"Worshipping idols, and roasting people who don't worship them."

"Signior Riccabocca is not so bad as that."

"Rickeybockey! Well, if it was his daughter! But not speak English! and
not go to the parish church! By George! if Frank thought of such a
thing, I'd cut him off with a shilling. Don't talk to me, sir; I would.
I'm a mild man, and an easy man; but when I say a thing, I say it, Mr.
Leslie. Oh, but it is a jest--you are laughing at me. There's no such
painted good-for-nothing creature in Frank's eye, eh?"

"Indeed, sir, if ever I find there is, I will give you notice in time.
At present I was only trying to ascertain what you wished for a
daughter-in-law. You said you had no prejudice."

"No more I have--not a bit of it."

"You don't like a foreigner and a Catholic?"

"Who the devil would?"

"But if she had rank and title?"

"Rank and title! Bubble and squeak! No, not half so good as bubble and
squeak. English beef and good cabbage. But foreign rank and
title!--foreign cabbage and beef!--foreign bubble and foreign squeak!"
And the Squire made a wry face, and spat forth his disgust and
indignation.

"You must have an Englishwoman?"

"Of course."

"Money?"

"Don't care, provided she is a tidy, sensible, active lass, with a good
character for her dower."

"Character--ah, that is indispensable?"

"I should think so, indeed. A Mrs. Hazeldean of Hazeldean; you frighten
me. He's not going to run off with a divorced woman, or a--"

The Squire stopped, and looked so red in the face, that Randal feared he
might be seized with apoplexy before Frank's crimes had made him alter
his will.

Therefore he hastened to relieve Mr. Hazeldean's mind, and assured him
that he had been only talking at random; that Frank was in the habit,
indeed, of seeing foreign ladies occasionally, as all persons in the
London world were; but that he was sure Frank would never marry without
the full consent and approval of his parents. He ended by repeating his
assurance, that he would warn the Squire if ever it became necessary.
Still, however, he left Mr. Hazeldean so disturbed and uneasy, that that
gentleman forgot all about the farm, and went moodily on in the opposite
direction, re-entering the park at its farther extremity. As soon as
they approached the house, the Squire hastened to shut himself with his
wife in full parental consultation; and Randal, seated upon a bench on
the terrace, revolved the mischief he had done, and its chances of
success.

While thus seated, and thus thinking, a footstep approached cautiously,
and a low voice said, in broken English, "Sare, sare, let me speak vid
you."

Randal turned in surprise, and beheld a swarthy saturnine face, with
grizzled hair and marked features. He recognized the figure that had
joined Riccabocca in the Italian's garden.

"Speak-a you Italian?" resumed Jackeymo. Randal, who had made himself an
excellent linguist, nodded assent; and Jackeymo, rejoiced, begged him to
withdraw into a more private part of the grounds.

Randal obeyed, and the two gained the shade of a stately chestnut
avenue.

"Sir," then said Jackeymo, speaking in his native tongue, and expressing
himself with a certain simple pathos, "I am but a poor man; my name is
Giacomo. You have heard of me;--servant to the Signior whom you saw
to-day--only a servant; but he honors me with his confidence. We have
known danger together; and of all his friends and followers, I alone
came with him to the stranger's land."

"Good, faithful fellow," said Randal, examining the man's face, "say on.
Your master confides in you? He confided that which I told him this
day?"

"He did. Ah, sir! the Padrone was too proud to ask you to explain
more--too proud to show fear of another. But he does fear--he ought to
fear--he shall fear," (continued Jackeymo, working himself up to
passion)--"for the Padrone has a daughter, and his enemy is a villain.
Oh, sir, tell me all that you did not tell to the Padrone. You hinted
that this man might wish to marry the Signora. Marry her!--I could cut
his throat at the altar!"

"Indeed," said Randal; "I believe that such is his object."

"But why? He is rich--she is penniless; no, not quite that, for we have
saved--but penniless, compared to him."

"My good friend, I know not yet his motives; but I can easily learn
them. If, however, this Count be your master's enemy, it is surely well
to guard against him, whatever his designs; and, to do so, you should
move into London or its neighborhood. I fear that while we speak, the
Count may get upon his track."

"He had better not come here!" cried the servant menacingly, and putting
his hand where the knife was _not_.

"Beware of your own anger, Giacomo. One act of violence, and you would
be transported from England, and your master would lose a friend."

Jackeymo seemed struck by this caution.

"And if the Padrone were to meet him, do you think the Padrone would say
'Come stà sa Signora?' The Padrone would strike him dead!"

"Hush--hush! You speak of what, in England, is called murder, and is
punished by the gallows. If you really love your master, for heaven's
sake get him from this place--get him from all chance of such passion
and peril. I go to town to-morrow; I will find him a house that shall be
safe from all spies--all discovery. And there, too, my friend, I can
do--what I cannot at this distance--watch over him, and keep watch also
on his enemy."

Jackeymo seized Randal's hand and lifted it towards his lip; then, as if
struck by a sudden suspicion, dropped the hand, and said
bluntly--"Signior, I think you have seen the Padrone twice. Why do you
take this interest in him?"

"Is it so uncommon to take interest even in a stranger who is menaced by
some peril?"

Jackeymo, who believed little in general philanthropy, shook his head
skeptically.

"Besides," continued Randal, suddenly bethinking himself of a more
plausible reason--"besides, I am a friend and connection of Mr. Egerton;
and Mr. Egerton's most intimate friend is Lord L'Estrange; and I have
heard that Lord L'Estrange--"

"The good lord! Oh, now I understand," interrupted Jackeymo, and his
brow cleared. "Ah, if _he_ were in England! But you will let us know
when he comes?"

"Certainly. Now, tell me, Giacomo, is this Count really unprincipled and
dangerous? Remember, I know him not personally."

"He has neither heart, head, nor conscience."

"That makes him dangerous to men; but to women, danger comes from other
qualities. Could it be possible, if he obtained any interview with the
Signora, that he could win her affections?"

Jackeymo crossed himself rapidly, and made no answer.

"I have heard that he is still very handsome."

Jackeymo groaned.

Randal resumed--"Enough; persuade the Padrone to come to town."

"But if the Count is in town?"

"That makes no difference; the safest place is always the largest city.
Every where else a foreigner is in himself an object of attention and
curiosity."

"True."

"Let your master, then, come to London. He can reside in one of the
suburbs most remote from the Count's haunts. In two days I will have
found him a lodging and write to him. You trust to me now?"

"I do indeed--I do, Excellency. Ah, if the Signorina were married, we
would not care!"

"Married! But she looks so high!"

"Alas! not now--not here!"

Randal sighed heavily. Jackeymo's eyes sparkled. He thought he had
detected a new motive for Randal's interest--a motive to an Italian the
most natural, the most laudable of all.

"Find the house, Signor--write to the Padrone. He shall come. I'll talk
to him. I can manage him. Holy San Giacomo bestir thyself now--'tis long
since I troubled thee!"

Jackeymo strode off through the fading trees, smiling and muttering as
he went.

The first dinner-bell rang, and, on entering the drawing-room, Randal
found Parson Dale and his wife, who had been invited in haste to meet
the unexpected visitor.

The preliminary greetings over, Mr. Dale took the opportunity afforded
by the Squire's absence to inquire after the health of Mr. Egerton.

"He is always well," said Randal, "I believe he is made of iron."

"His heart is of gold," said the Parson.

"Ah!" said Randal, inquisitively, "you told me you had come in contact
with him once, respecting, I think, some of your old parishioners at
Lansmere?"

The Parson nodded, and there was a moment's silence.

"Do you remember your battle by the Stocks, Mr. Leslie?" said Mr. Dale
with a good-humored laugh.

"Indeed, yes. By the way, now you speak of it, I met my old opponent in
London the first year I went up to it."

"You did! where?"

"At a literary scamp's--a cleverish man called Burley."

"Burley! I have seen some burlesque verses in Greek by a Mr. Burley."

"No doubt, the same person. He has disappeared--gone to the dogs, I dare
say. Burlesque Greek is not a knowledge very much in power at present."

"Well, but Leonard Fairfield?--you have seen him since?"

"No."

"Nor heard of him?"

"No!--have you?"

"Strange to say, not for a long time. But I have reason to believe that
he must be doing well."

"You surprise me! Why?"

"Because, two years ago, he sent for his mother. She went to him."

"Is that all?"

"It is enough; for he would not have sent for her if he could not
maintain her."

Here the Hazeldeans entered, arm-in-arm, and the fat butler announced
dinner.

The Squire was unusually taciturn--Mrs. Hazeldean thoughtful--Mrs. Dale
languid, and headachy. The Parson, who seldom enjoyed the luxury of
converse with a scholar, save when he quarrelled with Dr. Riccabocca,
was animated, by Randal's repute for ability, into a great desire for
argument.

"A glass of wine, Mr. Leslie. You were saying, before dinner, that
burlesque Greek is not a knowledge very much in power at present. Pray,
sir, what knowledge is in power?"

_Randal_, (laconically.)--"Practical knowledge."

_Parson._--"What of?"

_Randal_,--"Men."

_Parson_, (candidly.)--"Well, I suppose that is the most available sort
of knowledge, in a worldly point of view. How does one learn it? Do
books help?"

_Randal._--"According as they are read, they help or injure."

_Parson._--"How should they be read in order to help?"

_Randal._--"Read specially to apply to purposes that lead to power."

_Parson_, (very much struck with Randal's pithy and Spartan
logic.)--"Upon my word sir, you express yourself very well. I must own
that I began these questions in the hope of differing from you; for I
like an argument."

"That he does," growled the Squire; "the most contradictory creature!"

_Parson._--"Argument is the salt of talk. But now I am afraid I must
agree with you, which I was not at all prepared for."

Randal bowed, and answered--"No two men of our education can dispute
upon the application of knowledge."

_Parson_, (pricking up his ears.)--"Eh! what to?"

_Randal._--"Power, of course."

_Parson_, (overjoyed.)--"Power!--the vulgarest application of it, or the
loftiest? But you mean the loftiest?"

_Randal_, (in his turn interested and interrogative.)--"What do you call
the loftiest, and what the vulgarest?"

_Parson._--"The vulgarest, self-interest; the loftiest, beneficence."

Randal suppressed the half-disdainful smile that rose to his lip.

"You speak, sir, as a clergyman should do. I admire your sentiment, and
adopt it; but I fear that the knowledge which aims only at beneficence
very rarely in this world gets any power at all."

_Squire_, (seriously.)--"That's true; I never get my own way when I want
to do a kindness, and Stirn always gets his when he insists on something
diabolically brutal and harsh."

_Parson._--"Pray. Mr. Leslie, what does intellectual power refined to
the utmost, but entirely stripped of beneficence, most resemble?"

_Randal._--"Resemble?--I can hardly say. Some very great man--almost
any very great man--who has baffled all his foes, and attained all his
ends."

_Parson._--"I doubt if any man has ever become very great who has not
meant to be beneficent, though he might err in the means. Cæsar was
naturally beneficent, and so was Alexander. But intellectual power
refined to the utmost, and wholly void of beneficence, resembles only
one being, and that, sir, is the Principle of Evil."

_Randal_, (startled.)--"Do you mean the Devil?"

_Parson._--"Yes, sir--the Devil; and even he, sir, did not succeed! Even
he, sir, is what your great men would call a most decided failure."

_Mrs. Dale._--"My dear--my dear."

_Parson._--"Our religion proves it, my love; he was an angel, and he
fell."

There was a solemn pause. Randal was more impressed than he liked to own
to himself. By this time the dinner was over, and the servants had
retired. Harry glanced at Carry. Carry smoothed her gown and rose.

The gentlemen remained over their wine; and the Parson, satisfied with
what he deemed a clencher upon his favorite subject of discussion,
changed the subject to lighter topics, till happening to fall upon
tithes, the Squire struck in, and by dint of loudness of voice, and
truculence of brow, fairly overwhelmed both his guests, and proved to
his own satisfaction that tithes were an unjust and unchristianlike
usurpation on the part of the Church generally, and a most especial and
iniquitous infliction upon the Hazeldean estates in particular.


CHAPTER IX.

On entering the drawing-room, Randal found the two ladies seated close
together, in a position much more appropriate to the familiarity of
their school-days than to the politeness of the friendship now existing
between them. Mrs. Hazeldean's hand hung affectionately over Carry's
shoulder, and both those fair English faces were bent over the same
book. It was pretty to see these sober matrons, so different from each
other in character and aspect, thus unconsciously restored to the
intimacy of happy maiden youth by the golden link of some Magician from
the still land of Truth or Fancy--brought together in heart, as each eye
rested on the same thought;--closer and closer, as sympathy, lost in the
actual world, grew out of that world which unites in one bond of feeling
the readers of some gentle book.

"And what work interests you so much?" said Randal, pausing by the
table.

"One you have read, of course," replied Mrs. Dale, putting a book-mark
embroidered by herself into the page, and handing the volume to Randal.
"It has made a great sensation, I believe."

Randal glanced at the title of the work. "True," said he, "I have heard
much of it in London, but I have not yet had time to read it."

_Mrs. Dale._--"I can lend it to you, if you like to look over it
to-night, and you can leave it for me with Mrs. Hazeldean."

_Parson_, (approaching.)--"Oh! that book!--yes, you must read it. I do
not know a work more instructive."

_Randal._--"Instructive! Certainly I will read it then. But I thought it
was a mere work of amusement--of fancy. It seems so, as I look over it."

_Parson._--"So is the _Vicar of Wakefield_; yet what book more
instructive?"

_Randal._--"I should not have said _that_ of the _Vicar of Wakefield_. A
pretty book enough, though the story is most improbable. But how is it
instructive?"

_Parson._--"By its results: it leaves us happier and better. What can
any instruction do more? Some works instruct through the head, some
through the heart; the last reach the widest circle, and often produce
the most genial influence on the character. This book belongs to the
last. You will grant my proposition when you have read it."

Randal smiled and took the volume.

_Mrs. Dale._--"Is the author known yet?"

_Randal._--"I have heard it ascribed to many writers, but I believe no
one has claimed it."

_Parson._--"I think it must have been written by my old college friend,
Professor Moss, the naturalist; its descriptions of scenery are so
accurate."

_Mrs. Dale._--"La, Charles, dear! that snuffy, tiresome, prosy
professor? How can you talk such nonsense? I am sure the author must be
young; there is so much freshness of feeling."

_Mrs. Hazeldean_, (positively,)--"Yes, certainly young."

_Parson_, (no less positively.)--"I should say just the contrary. Its
tone is too serene, and its style too simple for a young man. Besides, I
don't know any young man who would send me his book, and this book has
been sent me--very handsomely bound too, you see. Depend upon it, Moss
is the man--quite his turn of mind."

_Mrs. Dale._--"You are too provoking, Charles dear! Mr. Moss is so
remarkably plain, too."

_Randal._--"Must an author be handsome?"

_Parson._--"Ha, ha! Answer that, if you can, Carry."

Carry remained mute and disdainful.

_Squire_, (with great _naïveté_.)--"Well, I don't think there's much in
the book, whoever wrote it; for I've read it myself, and understand
every word of it."

_Mrs. Dale_.--"I don't see why you should suppose it was written by a
man at all. For my part, I think it must be a woman."

_Mrs. Hazeldean._--"Yes, there's a passage about maternal affection,
which only a woman could have written."

_Parson._--"Pooh, pooh! I should like to see a woman who could have
written that description of an August evening before a thunderstorm;
every wildflower in the hedgerow exactly the flowers of August--every
sign in the air exactly those of the month. Bless you! a woman would
have filled the hedge with violets and cowslips. Nobody else but my
friend Moss could have written that description."

_Squire._--"I don't know; there's a simile about the waste of corn-seed
in hand-sowing, which makes me think he must be a farmer!"

_Mrs. Dale_, (scornfully,)--"A farmer! In hob-nailed shoes, I suppose! I
say it is a woman."

_Mrs. Hazeldean._--"A WOMAN, and A MOTHER!"

_Parson._--"A middle-aged man, and a naturalist."

_Squire._--"No, no, Parson; certainly a young man; for that love scene
puts me in mind of my own young days, when I would have given my ears to
tell Harry how handsome I thought her; and all I could say was--'Fine
weather for the crops, Miss.' Yes, a young man, and a farmer. I should
not wonder if he had held the plough himself."

_Randal_, (who had been turning over the pages.)--"This sketch of Night
in London comes from a man who has lived the life of cities, and looked
at wealth with the eyes of poverty. Not bad! I will read the book."

"Strange," said the Parson, smiling, "that this little work should so
have entered into our minds, suggested to all of us different ideas, yet
equally charmed all--given a new and fresh current to our dull country
life--animated us as with the sight of a world in our breasts we had
never seen before, save in dreams;--a little work like this, by a man we
don't know, and never may! Well, _that_ knowledge _is_ power, and a
noble one!"

"A sort of power, certainly, sir," said Randal, candidly; and that
night, when Randal retired to his own room, he suspended his schemes and
projects, and read, as he rarely did, without an object to gain by the
reading.

The work surprised him by the pleasure it gave. Its charm lay in the
writer's calm enjoyment of the Beautiful. It seemed like some happy soul
sunning itself in the light of its own thoughts. Its power was so
tranquil and even, that it was only a critic who could perceive how much
force and vigor were necessary to sustain the wing that floated aloft
with so imperceptible an effort. There was no one faculty predominating
tyrannically over the others; all seemed proportioned in the felicitous
symmetry of a nature rounded, integral, and complete. And when the work
was closed, it left behind it a tender warmth that played around the
heart of the reader, and vivified feelings that seemed unknown before.
Randal laid the book down softly; and for five minutes the ignoble and
base purposes to which his own knowledge was applied, stood before him,
naked and unmasked.

"Tut," said he, wrenching himself violently away from the benign
influence, "it was not to sympathize with Hector, but to conquer with
Achilles, that Alexander of Macedon kept Homer under his pillow. Such
should be the use of books to him who has the practical world to subdue;
let parsons and women construe it otherwise as they may!"

And the Principle of Evil descended again upon the intellect, from which
the guide of beneficence was gone.


CHAPTER X.

Randal rose at the sound of the first breakfast bell, and on the
staircase met Mrs. Hazeldean. He gave her back the book; and as he was
about to speak, she beckoned to him to follow her into a little
morning-room appropriated to herself. No boudoir of white and gold, with
pictures by Watteau, but lined with walnut-tree presses, that held the
old heir-loom linen strewed with lavender--stores for the housekeeper,
and medicines for the poor.

Seating herself on a large chair in this sanctum, Mrs. Hazeldean looked
formidably at home.

"Pray," said the lady, coming at once to the point with her usual
straightforward candor, "what is all this you have been saying to my
husband as to the possibility of Frank's marrying a foreigner?"

_Randal._--"Would you be as averse to such a notion as Mr. Hazeldean
is?"

_Mrs. Hazeldean._--"You ask me a question, instead of answering mine."

Randal was greatly put out in his fence by these rude thrusts. For
indeed he had a double purpose to serve--first thoroughly to know if
Frank's marriage with a woman like Madame di Negra would irritate the
Squire sufficiently to endanger the son's inheritance, and, secondly, to
prevent Mr. and Mrs. Hazeldean believing seriously that such a marriage
was to be apprehended, lest they should prematurely address Frank on the
subject, and frustrate the marriage itself. Yet, withal, he must so
express himself, that he could not be afterwards accused by the parents
of disguising matters. In his talk to the Squire the preceding day, he
had gone a little too far--farther than he would have done but for his
desire of escaping the cattle-shed and short-horns. While he mused, Mrs.
Hazeldean observed him with her honest sensible eyes, and finally
exclaimed--

"Out with it, Mr. Leslie!"

"Out with what, my dear madam? The Squire has sadly exaggerated the
importance of what was said mainly in jest. But I will own to you
plainly, that Frank has appeared to me a little smitten with a certain
fair Italian."

"Italian!" cried Mrs. Hazeldean. "Well, I said so from the first.
Italian!--that's all, is it?" and she smiled.

Randal was more and more perplexed. The pupil of his eye contracted, as
it does when we retreat into ourselves, and think, watch, and keep
guard.

"And perhaps," resumed Mrs. Hazeldean, with a very sunny expression of
countenance, "you have noticed this in Frank since he was here?"

"It is true," murmured Randal; "but I think his heart or his fancy was
touched even before."

"Very natural," said Mrs. Hazeldean; "how could he help it?--such a
beautiful creature! Well, I must not ask you to tell Frank's secrets;
but I guess the object of attraction; and though she will have no
fortune to speak of--and it is not such a match as he might form--still
she is so amiable, and has been so well brought up, and is so little
like one's general notions of a Roman Catholic, that I think I could
persuade Hazeldean into giving his consent."

"Ah!" said Randal, drawing a long breath, and beginning with his
practised acuteness to detect Mrs. Hazeldean's error, "I am very much
relieved and rejoiced to hear this; and I may venture to give Frank some
hope, if I find him disheartened and disponding, poor fellow!"

"I think you may," replied Mrs. Hazeldean, laughing pleasantly. "But you
should not have frightened poor William so, hinting that the lady knew
very little English. She has an accent, to be sure; but she speaks our
tongue very prettily. I always forget that she's not English born! Ha,
ha, poor William!"

_Randal._--"Ha, ha!"

_Mrs. Hazeldean._--"We had once thought of another match for Frank--a
girl of good English family."

_Randal._--"Miss Sticktorights?"

_Mrs. Hazeldean._--"No; that's an old whim of Hazeldean's. But he knows
very well that the Sticktorights would never merge their property in
ours. Bless you, it would be all off the moment they came to
settlements, and had to give up the right of way. We thought of a very
different match; but there's no dictating to young hearts, Mr. Leslie."

_Randal._--"Indeed no, Mrs. Hazeldean. But since we now understand each
other so well, excuse me if I suggest that you had better leave things
to themselves, and not write to Frank on the subject. Young hearts, you
know, are often stimulated by apparent difficulties, and grow cool when
the obstacle vanishes."

_Mrs. Hazeldean._--"Very possibly; it was not so with Hazeldean and me.
But I shall not write to Frank on the subject, for a different
reason--though I would consent to the match, and so would William, yet
we both would rather, after all, that Frank married an Englishwoman, and
a Protestant. We will not, therefore, do any thing to encourage the
idea. But if Frank's happiness becomes really at stake, _then_ we will
step in. In short, we would neither encourage nor oppose. You
understand?"

"Perfectly."

"And, in the mean while, it is quite right that Frank should see the
world, and try to distract his mind, or at least to know it. And I dare
say it has been some thought of that kind which has prevented his coming
here."

Randal, dreading a further and plainer _éclaircissement_, now rose, and
saying, "Pardon me, but I must hurry over breakfast, and be back in time
to catch the coach"--offered his arm to his hostess, and led her into
the breakfast parlor. Devouring his meal, as if in great haste, he then
mounted his horse, and, taking cordial leave of his entertainers,
trotted briskly away.

All things favored his project--even chance had befriended him in Mrs.
Hazeldean's mistake. She had not unnaturally supposed Violante to have
captivated Frank on his last visit to the Hall. Thus, while Randal had
certified his own mind that nothing could more exasperate the Squire
than an alliance with Madame di Negra, he could yet assure Frank that
Mrs. Hazeldean was all on his side. And when the error was discovered,
Mrs. Hazeldean would only have to blame herself for it. Still more
successful had his diplomacy proved with the Riccaboccas; he had
ascertained the secret he had come to discover; he should induce the
Italian to remove to the neighborhood of London; and if Violante were
the great heiress he suspected her to prove, whom else of her own age
would she see but him? And the old Leslie domains--to be sold in two
years--a portion of the dowry might purchase them! Flushed by the
triumph of his craft, all former vacillations of conscience ceased. In
high and fervent spirits he passed the Casino, the garden of which was
solitary and deserted, reached his home, and, telling Oliver to be
studious, and Juliet to be patient, walked thence to meet the coach and
regain the capital.


CHAPTER XI.

VIOLANTE was seated in her own little room, and looking from the window
on the terrace that stretched below. The day was warm for the time of
year. The orange-trees had been removed under shelter for the approach
of winter; but where they had stood sat Mrs. Riccabocca at work. In the
Belvidere, Riccabocca himself was conversing with his favorite servant.
But the casements and the door of the Belvidere were open; and where
they sat, both wife and daughter could see the Padrone leaning against
the wall, with his arms folded, and his eyes fixed on the floor; while
Jackeymo, with one finger on his master's arm, was talking to him with
visible earnestness. And the daughter from the window, and the wife
from her work, directed tender anxious eyes towards the still thoughtful
form so dear to both. For the last day or two Riccabocca had been
peculiarly abstracted, even to gloom. Each felt there was something
stirring at his heart--neither as yet knew what.

Violante's room silently revealed the nature of the education by which
her character had been formed. Save a sketch book which lay open on a
desk at hand, and which showed talent exquisitely taught (for in this
Riccabocca had been her teacher), there was nothing that spoke of the
ordinary female accomplishments. No piano stood open, no harp occupied
yon nook, which seemed made for one; no broidery frame, nor implements
of work, betrayed the usual and graceful resources of a girl; but ranged
on shelves against the wall were the best writers in English, Italian,
and French; and these betokened an extent of reading, that he who wishes
for a companion to his mind in the sweet company of woman, which softens
and refines all it gives and takes in interchange, will never condemn as
masculine. You had but to look into Violante's face to see how noble was
the intelligence that brought soul to those lovely features. Nothing
hard, nothing dry and stern was there. Even as you detected knowledge,
it was lost in the gentleness of grace. In fact, whatever she gained in
the graver kinds of information, became transmuted, through her heart
and her fancy, into spiritual golden stores. Give her some tedious and
arid history, her imagination seized upon beauties other readers had
passed by, and, like the eye of the artist, detected every where the
Picturesque. Something in her mind seemed to reject all that was mean
and commonplace, and to bring out all that was rare and elevated in
whatever it received. Living so apart from all companions of her age,
she scarcely belonged to the Present time. She dwelt in the Past, as
Sabrina in her crystal well. Images of chivalry--of the Beautiful and
the Heroic--such as, in reading the silvery line of Tasso, rise before
us, softening force and valor into love and song--haunted the reveries
of the fair Italian maid.

Tell us not that the Past, examined by cold Philosophy, was no better
and no loftier than the Present; it is not thus seen by pure and
generous eyes. Let the Past perish, when it ceases to reflect on its
magic mirror the beautiful Romance which is its noblest reality, though
perchance but the shadow of Delusion.

Yet Violante was not merely the dreamer. In her, life was so
puissant and rich, that action seemed necessary to its glorious
development--action, but still in the woman's sphere--action to bless
and to refine and to exalt all around her, and to pour whatever else of
ambition was left unsatisfied into sympathy with the aspirations of man.
Despite her father's fears of the bleak air of England, in that air she
had strengthened the delicate health of her childhood. Her elastic
step--her eyes full of sweetness and light--her bloom, at once soft and
luxuriant--all spoke of the vital powers fit to sustain a mind of such
exquisite mould, and the emotions of a heart that, once aroused, could
ennoble the passions of the South with the purity and devotion of the
North.

Solitude makes some natures more timid, some more bold. Violante was
fearless. When she spoke, her eyes frankly met your own; and she was so
ignorant of evil, that as yet she seemed nearly unacquainted with shame.
From this courage, combined with affluence of idea, came a delightful
flow of happy converse. Though possessing so imperfectly the
accomplishments ordinarily taught to young women, and which may be
cultured to the utmost, and yet leave the thoughts so barren, and the
talk so vapid--she had that accomplishment which most pleases the taste,
and commands the love of the man of talent; especially if his talent be
not so actively employed as to make him desire only relaxation where he
seeks companionship--the accomplishment of facility in intellectual
interchange--the charm that clothes in musical words beautiful womanly
ideas.

"I hear him sigh at this distance," said Violante softly, as she still
watched her father; "and methinks this is a new grief, and not for his
country. He spoke twice yesterday of that dear English friend, and
wished that he were here."

As she said this, unconsciously the virgin blushed, her hands drooped on
her knee, and she fell herself into thought as profound as her father's,
but less gloomy. From her arrival in England, Violante had been taught a
grateful interest in the name of Harley L'Estrange. Her father,
preserving a silence that seemed disdain, of all his old Italian
intimates, had been pleased to converse with open heart of the
Englishman who had saved where countrymen had betrayed. He spoke of the
soldier, then in the full bloom of youth, who, unconsoled by fame, had
nursed the memory of some hidden sorrow amidst the pine-trees that cast
their shadow over the sunny Italian lake; how Riccabocca, then honored
and happy, had courted from his seclusion the English Signor, then the
mourner and the voluntary exile; how they had grown friends amidst the
landscapes in which her eyes had opened to the day; how Harley had
vainly warned him from the rash schemes in which he had sought to
reconstruct in an hour the ruins of weary ages; how, when abandoned,
deserted, proscribed, pursued, he had fled for life--the infant Violante
clasped to his bosom--the English soldier had given him refuge, baffled
the pursuers, armed his servants, accompanied the fugitive at night
towards the defile in the Apennines, and, when the emissaries of a
perfidious enemy, hot in the chase, came near, he said, "You have your
child to save! Fly on! Another league, and you are beyond the borders.
We will delay the foes with parley; they will not harm us." And not till
escape was gained did the father know that the English friend had
delayed the foe, not by parley, but by the sword, holding the pass
against numbers, with a breast as dauntless as Bayard's in the immortal
bridge.

And since then, the same Englishman had never ceased to vindicate his
name, to urge his cause, and if hope yet remained of restoration to land
and honors, it was in that untiring zeal.

Hence, naturally and insensibly, this secluded and musing girl had
associated all that she read in tales of romance and chivalry with the
image of the brave and loyal stranger. He it was who animated her dreams
of the Past, and seemed born to be, in the destined hour, the deliverer
of the Future. Around this image grouped all the charms that the fancy
of virgin woman can raise from the enchanted lore of old Heroic Fable.
Once in her early girlhood, her father (to satisfy her curiosity, eager
for general description) had drawn from memory a sketch of the features
of the Englishman--drawn Harley, as he was in that first youth,
flattered and idealized, no doubt, by art and by partial gratitude--but
still resembling him as he was then; while the deep mournfulness of
recent sorrow yet shadowed and concentrated all the varying expression
of his countenance; and to look on him was to say,--"So sad, yet so
young!" Never did Violante pause to remember that the same years which
ripened herself from infancy into woman, were passing less gently over
that smooth cheek and dreamy brow--that the world might be altering the
nature, as time the aspect. To her, the hero of the Ideal remained
immortal in bloom and youth. Bright illusion, common to us all, where
Poetry once hallows the human form! Who ever thinks of Petrarch as the
old time-worn man? Who does not see him as when he first gazed on
Laura?--

    "Ogni altra cosa ogni pensier va fore;
    E sol ivi von voi rimansi Amore!"


CHAPTER XII.

And Violante, thus absorbed in reverie, forgot to keep watch on the
Belvidere. And the Belvidere was now deserted. The wife, who had no
other ideal to distract _her_ thoughts, saw Riccabocca pass into the
house.

The exile entered his daughter's room, and she started to feel his hand
upon her locks and his kiss upon her brow.

"My child!" cried Riccabocca, seating himself, "I have resolved to leave
for a time this retreat, and to seek the neighborhood of London."

"Ah, dear father, _that_, then, was your thought? But what can be your
reason? Do not turn away; you know how carefully I have obeyed your
command and kept your secret. Ah, you will confide in me."

"I do, indeed," returned Riccabocca, with emotion. "I leave this place,
in the fear lest my enemies discover me. I shall say to others that you
are of an age to require teachers, not to be obtained here. But I should
like none to know where we go."

The Italian said these last words through his teeth, and hanging his
head. He said them in shame.

"My mother--(so Violante always called Jemima)--my mother, you have
spoken to her?"

"Not yet. _There_ is the difficulty."

"No difficulty, for she loves you so well," replied Violante, with soft
reproach. "Ah, why not also confide in her? Who so true? so good?"

"Good--I grant it!" exclaimed Riccabocca. "What then? 'Da cattiva Donna
guardati, ed alla buona non fidar niente,' (from the bad woman, guard
thyself; to the good woman, trust nothing.) And if you must trust,"
added the abominable man, "trust her with any thing but a secret!"

"Fie," said Violante, with arch reproach, for she knew her father's
humors too well to interpret his horrible sentiments literally--"fie on
your consistency, _Padre carissimo_. Do you not trust your secret to
me?"

"You! A kitten is not a cat, and a girl is not a woman. Besides, the
secret was already known to you, and I had no choice. Peace, Jemima will
stay here for the present. See to what you wish to take with you; we
shall leave to-night."

Not waiting for an answer, Riccabocca hurried away, and with a firm step
strode the terrace and approached his wife.

"_Anima mia_," said the pupil of Machiavel, disguising in the tenderest
words the cruelest intentions--for one of his most cherished Italian
proverbs was to the effect, that there is no getting on with a mule or a
woman unless you coax them--"_Anima mia_,--soul of my being--you have
already seen that Violante mopes herself to death here."

"She, poor child! Oh no!"

"She does, core of my heart, she does, and is as ignorant of music as I
am of tent-stitch."

"She sings beautifully."

"Just as birds do, against all the rules, and in defiance of gamut.
Therefore, to come to the point, O treasure of my soul! I am going to
take her with me for a short time, perhaps to Cheltenham, or
Brighton--we shall see."

"All places with you are the same to me, Alphonso. When shall we go?"

"_We_ shall go to-night; but, terrible as it is to part from you--you--"

"Ah!" interrupted the wife, and covered her face with her hands.

Riccabocca, the wiliest and most relentless of men in his maxims, melted
into absolute uxorial imbecility at the sight of that mute distress. He
put his arm round his wife's waist, with genuine affection, and without
a single proverb at his heart--"_Carissima_, do not grieve so; we shall
be back soon, and travelling is expensive; rolling stones gather no
moss, and there is so much to see to at home."

"Mrs. Riccabocca gently escaped from her husband's arms. She withdrew
her hands from her face, and brushed away the tears that stood in her
eyes.

"Alphonso," she said touchingly, "hear me! What you think good, that
shall ever be good to me. But do not think that I grieve solely because
of our parting. No; I grieve to think that, despite of all these years
in which I have been the partner of your hearth and slept on your
breast--all these years in which I have had no thought but, however
humbly, to do my duty to you and yours, and could have wished that you
had read my heart, and seen there but yourself and your child--I grieve
to think that you still deem me as unworthy your trust as when you stood
by my side at the altar."

"Trust!" repeated Riccabocca, startled and conscience-stricken; "why do
you say 'trust?' In what have I distrusted you? I am sure," he
continued, with the artful volubility of guilt, "that I never doubted
your fidelity--hooked-nosed, long-visaged foreigner though I be; never
pryed into your letters; never inquired into your solitary walks; never
heeded your flirtations with that good-looking Parson Dale; never kept
the money; and never looked into the account-books!" Mrs. Riccabocca
refused even a smile of contempt at these revolting evasions; nay, she
seemed scarcely to hear them.

"Can you think," she resumed, pressing her hand on her heart to still
its struggles for relief in sobs--"can you think that I could have
watched, and thought, and tasked my poor mind so constantly, to
conjecture what might best soothe or please you, and not seen, long
since, that you have secrets known to your daughter--your servant--not
to me? Fear not--the secrets cannot be evil, or you would not tell them
to your innocent child. Besides, do I not know your nature? and do I not
love you because I know it?--it is for something connected with these
secrets that you leave your home. You think that I should be
incautious--imprudent. You will not take me with you. Be it so. I go to
prepare for your departure. Forgive me if I have displeased you,
husband."

Mrs. Riccabocca turned away; but a soft hand touched the Italian's arm.

"O father, can you resist this? Trust her!--trust her! I am a woman like
her! I answer for her woman's faith. Be yourself--ever nobler than all
others, my own father."

"_Diavolo!_ Never one door shuts but another opens," groaned Riccabocca.
"Are you a fool, child? Don't you see that it was for your sake only I
feared--and would be cautious?"

"For mine! O then, do not make me deem myself mean, and the cause of
meanness. For mine! Am I not your daughter--the descendant of men who
never feared?"

Violante looked sublime while she spoke; and as she ended she led her
father gently on towards the door, which his wife had now gained.

"Jemima--wife mine!--pardon, pardon," cried the Italian, whose heart had
been yearning to repay such tenderness and devotion, "come back to my
breast--it has been long closed--it shall be open to you now and for
ever."

In another moment, the wife was in her right place--on her husband's
bosom; and Violante, beautiful peacemaker, stood smiling, awhile at
both, and then lifted her eyes gratefully to heaven, and stole away.


CHAPTER XIII.

On Randal's return to town, he heard mixed and contradictory rumors in
the streets, and at the clubs, of the probable downfall of the
Government at the approaching session of Parliament. These rumors had
sprung up suddenly, as if in an hour. True that, for some time, the
sagacious had shaken their heads and said, "Ministers could not last."
True that certain changes in policy, a year or two before, had divided
the party on which the Government depended, and strengthened that which
opposed it. But still its tenure in office had been so long, and there
seemed so little power in the Opposition to form a cabinet of names
familiar to official ears, that the general public had anticipated, at
most, a few partial changes. Rumor now went far beyond this. Randal,
whose whole prospects at present were but reflections from the greatness
of his patron, was alarmed. He sought Egerton, but the minister was
impenetrable, and seemed calm, confident and imperturbed. Somewhat
relieved, Randal then set himself to work to find a safe home for
Riccabocca; for the greater need to succeed in obtaining fortune there,
if he failed in getting it through Egerton. He found a quiet house,
detached and secluded, in the neighborhood of Norwood. No vicinity more
secure from espionage and remark. He wrote to Riccabocca, and
communicated the address, adding fresh assurances of his own power to be
of use. The next morning he was seated in his office, thinking very
little of the details, that he mastered, however, with mechanical
precision, when the minister who presided over that department of the
public service sent for him into his private room, and begged him to
take a letter to Egerton, with whom he wished to consult relative to a
very important point to be decided in the cabinet that day. "I want you
to take it," said the minister, smiling (the minister was a frank,
homely man), "because you are in Mr. Egerton's confidence, and he may
give you some verbal message besides a written reply. Egerton is often
_over_ cautious and brief in the _litera scripta_."

Randal went first to Egerton's neighboring office--he had not been there
that day. He then took a cabriolet and drove to Grosvenor Square. A
quiet-looking chariot was at the door. Mr. Egerton was at home; but the
servant said, "Dr. F. is with him, sir; and perhaps he may not like to
be disturbed."

"What, is your master ill?"

"Not that I know of, sir. He never says he is ill. But he has looked
poorly the last day or two."

Randal hesitated a moment; but his commission might be important, and
Egerton was a man who so held the maxim, that health and all else must
give way to business, that he resolved to enter; and, unannounced, and
unceremoniously, as was his wont, he opened the door of the library. He
startled as he did so. Audley Egerton was leaning back on the sofa, and
the doctor, on his knees before him, was applying the stethoscope to his
breast. Egerton's eyes were partially closed as the door opened. But at
the noise he sprang up, nearly oversetting the doctor. "Who's that?--How
dare you!" he exclaimed, in a voice of great anger. Then recognizing
Randal, he changed color, bit his lip, and muttered drily, "I beg pardon
for my abruptness: what do you want, Mr. Leslie?"

"This letter from Lord ----; I was told to deliver it immediately into
your own hands; I beg pardon--"

"There is no cause," said Egerton, coldly. "I have had a slight attack
of bronchitis; and as Parliament meets so soon, I must take advice from
my doctor, if I would be heard by the reporters. Lay the letter on the
table, and be kind enough to wait for my reply."

Randal withdrew. He had never seen a physician in that house before, and
it seemed surprising that Egerton should even take a medical opinion
upon a slight attack. While waiting in the ante-room there was a knock
at the street door, and presently a gentleman, exceedingly well-dressed,
was shown in, and honored Randal with an easy and half familiar bow.
Randal remembered to have met this personage at dinner, and at the house
of a young nobleman of high fashion, but had not been introduced to him,
and did not even know him by name. The visitor was better informed.

"Our friend Egerton is busy, I hear, Mr. Leslie," said he, arranging the
camelia in his button-hole.

"Our friend Egerton!" It must be a very great man to say, "Our friend
Egerton."

"He will not be engaged long, I dare say," returned Randal, glancing his
shrewd inquiring eye over the stranger's person.

"I trust not; my time is almost as precious as his own. I was not so
fortunate as to be presented to you when we met at Lord Spendquick's.
Good fellow, Spendquick; and decidedly clever."

Lord Spendquick was usually esteemed a gentleman without three ideas.

Randal smiled.

In the meanwhile the visitor had taken out a card from an embossed
morocco case, and now presented it to Randal, who read thereon, "Baron
Levy, No. ----, Bruton St."

The name was not unknown to Randal. It was a name too often on the lips
of men of fashion not to have reached the ears of an _habitué_ of good
society.

Mr. Levy had been a solicitor by profession. He had of late years
relinquished his ostensible calling; and not long since, in consequence
of some services towards the negotiation of a loan, had been created a
baron by one of the German kings. The wealth of Mr. Levy was said to be
only equalled by his good nature to all who were in want of a a
temporary loan, and with sound expectations of repaying it some day or
other.

You seldom saw a finer looking man than Baron Levy--about the same age
as Egerton, but looking younger: so well preserved--such magnificent
black whiskers--such superb teeth! Despite his name and his dark
complexion, he did not, however, resemble a Jew--at least externally;
and, in fact, he was not a Jew on the father's side, but the natural son
of a rich English _grand seigneur_, by a Hebrew lady of distinction--in
the opera. After his birth, this lady had married a German trader of her
own persuasion, and her husband had been prevailed upon, for the
convenience of all parties, to adopt his wife's son, and accord to him
his own Hebrew name. Mr. Levy, senior, was soon left a widower, and then
the real father, though never actually owning the boy, had shown him
great attention--had him frequently at his house--initiated him betimes
into his own highborn society, for which the boy showed great taste. But
when my lord died, and left but a moderate legacy to the younger Levy,
who was then about eighteen, that ambiguous person was articled to an
attorney by his putative sire, who shortly afterwards returned to his
native land, and was buried at Prague, where his tombstone may yet be
seen. Young Levy, however, continued to do very well without him. His
real birth was generally known, and rather advantageous to him in a
social point of view. His legacy enabled him to become a partner where
he had been a clerk, and his practice became great amongst the
fashionable classes of society. Indeed, he was so useful, so pleasant,
so much a man of the world, that he grew intimate with his
clients--chiefly young men of rank; was on good terms with both Jew and
Christian; and being neither one nor the other, resembled (to use
Sheridan's incomparable simile) the blank page between the Old and the
New Testament.

Vulgar, some might call Mr. N. Levy, from his assurance, but it was not
the vulgarity of a man accustomed to low and coarse society--rather the
_mauvais ton_ of a person not sure of his own position, but who has
resolved to swagger into the best one he can get. When it is remembered
that he had made his way in the world, and gleaned together an immense
fortune, it is needless to add that he was as sharp as a needle, and as
hard as a flint. No man had had more friends, and no man had stuck by
them more firmly--as long as there was a pound in their pockets!

Something of this character had Randal heard of the Baron, and he now
gazed, first at his card, and then at him, with--admiration.

"I met a friend of yours at Borrowwell's the other day," resumed the
Baron--"Young Hazeldean. Careful fellow--quite a man of the world."

As this was the last praise poor Frank deserved, Randal again smiled.

The Baron went on--"I hear, Mr. Leslie, that you have much influence
over this same Hazeldean. His affairs are in a sad state. I should be
very happy to be of use to him, as a relation of my friend Egerton's;
but he understands business so well that he despises my advice."

"I am sure you do him injustice."

"Injustice! I honor his caution. I say to every man, 'Don't come to
me--I can get you money on much easier terms than any one else;' and
what's the result? You come so often that you ruin yourself; whereas a
regular usurer without conscience frightens you. 'Cent per cent,' you
say; 'oh, I must pull in.' If you have influence over your friend, tell
him to stick to his bill-brokers, and have nothing to do with Baron
Levy."

Here the minister's bell rung, and Randal, looking through the window,
saw Dr. F. walking to his carriage, which had made way for Baron Levy's
splendid cabriolet--a cabriolet in the most perfect taste--Baron's
coronet on the dark brown panels--horse black, with such
action!--harness just relieved with plating. The servant now entered,
and requested Randal to step in; and addressing the Baron, assured him
that he would not be detained a minute.

"Leslie," said the minister, sealing a note, "take this back to Lord
----, and say that I shall be with him in an hour."

"No other message?--he seemed to expect one."

"I dare say he did. Well, my letter is official, my message is not; beg
him to see Mr. ---- before we meet--he will understand--all rests upon
that interview."

Egerton then, extending the letter, resumed gravely, "Of course you will
not mention to any one that Dr. F. was with me; the health of public men
is not to be suspected. Hum--were you in your own room or the
ante-room?"

"The ante-room, sir."

Egerton's brow contracted slightly.

"And Mr. Levy was there, eh?"

"Yes--the Baron."

"Baron! true. Come to plague me about the Mexican loan, I suppose. I
will keep you no longer."

Randal, much meditating, left the house, and re-entered his hack cab.
The Baron was admitted to the statesman's presence.


CHAPTER XIV.

Egerton had thrown himself at full length on the sofa, a position
exceedingly rare with him; and about his whole air and manner, as Levy
entered, there was something singularly different from that stateliness
of port common to the austere legislator. The very tone of his voice was
different. It was as if the statesman--the man of business--had
vanished; it was rather the man of fashion and the idler, who, nodding
languidly to his visitor, said, "Levy, what money can I have for a
year?"

"The estate will bear very little more. My dear fellow, that last
election was the very devil. You cannot go on thus much longer."

"My dear fellow!" Baron Levy hailed Audley Egerton as "my dear fellow."
And Audley Egerton, perhaps, saw nothing strange in the words, though
his lip curled.

"I shall not want to go on thus much longer," answered Egerton, as the
curl on his lip changed to a gloomy smile. "The estate must, meanwhile
bear £5000 more."

"A hard pull on it. You had really better sell."

"I cannot afford to sell at present. I cannot afford men to say, 'Audley
Egerton is done up--his property is for sale.'"

"It is very sad when one thinks what a rich man you have been--and may
be yet!"

"Be yet! How?"

Baron Levy glanced towards the thick mahogany doors--thick and
impervious as should be the doors of statesmen. "Why, you know that,
with three words from you, I could produce an effect upon the stocks of
three nations, that might give us each a hundred thousand pounds. We
would go shares."

"Levy," said Egerton coldly, though a deep blush overspread his face,
"you are a scoundrel; that is your look out. I interfere with no man's
tastes and consciences. I don't intend to be a scoundrel myself. I have
told you that long ago."

The Baron laughed, without evincing the least displeasure.

"Well," said he, "you are neither wise nor complimentary; but you shall
have the money. But yet, would it not be better," added Levy, with
emphasis, "to borrow it, without interest, of your friend L'Estrange?"

Egerton started as if stung.

"You meant to taunt me, sir!" he exclaimed passionately. "I accept
pecuniary favors from Lord L'Estrange! I!"

"Tut, my dear Egerton, I dare say my Lord would not think so ill now of
that little act in your life which--"

"Hold!" exclaimed Egerton, writhing. "Hold!"

He stopped, and paced the room, muttering in broken sentences, "To blush
before this man! Chastisement, chastisement!"

Levy gazed on him with hard and sinister eyes. The minister turned
abruptly.

"Look you, Levy," said he, with forced composure--"you hate me--why, I
know not. I have never injured you--never avenged the inexpiable wrong
you did me."

"Wrong!--you a man of the world! Wrong! Call it so if you will then," he
added shrinkingly, for Audley's brow grew terrible. "But have I not
atoned it? Would you ever have lived in this palace, and ruled this
country as one of the most influential of its ministers, but for my
management--my whispers to the wealthy Miss Leslie? Come, but for me
what would you have been--perhaps a beggar?"

"What shall I be now if I live? _Then_ I should not have been a beggar;
poor perhaps in money, but rich--rich in all that now leaves my life
bankrupt. Gold has not thriven with me; how should it. And this
fortune--it has passed for the main part into your hands. Be patient,
you will have it all ere long. But there is one man in the world who has
loved me from a boy, and wo to you if ever he learn that he has the
right to despise me!"

"Egerton, my good fellow," said Levy, with great composure, "you need
not threaten me, for what interest can I possibly have in tale-telling
to Lord L'Estrange? As to hating you--pooh! You snub me in private, you
cut me in public, you refuse to come to my dinners, you'll not ask me to
your own; still there is no man I like better, nor would more willingly
serve. When do you want the £5000?"

"Perhaps in one month, perhaps not for three or four. Let it be ready
when required."

"Enough; depend on it. Have you any other commands?"

"None."

"I will take my leave, then. By the by, what do you suppose the
Hazeldean rental is worth--net?"

"I don't know, nor care. You have no designs upon _that_, too?"

"Well, I like keeping up family connections. Mr. Frank seems a liberal
young gentleman."

Before Egerton could answer, the Baron had glided to the door, and,
nodding pleasantly, vanished with that nod.

Egerton remained, standing on his solitary hearth. A drear, single man's
room it was, from wall to wall, despite its fretted ceilings and
official pomp of Bramah escritoires and red boxes. Drear and
cheerless--no trace of woman's habitation--no vestige of intruding,
happy children. There stood the austere man alone. And then with a deep
sigh he muttered, "Thank heaven, not for long--it will not last long."

Repeating those words, he mechanically locked up his papers, and pressed
his hand to his heart for an instant, as if a spasm had shot through it.

"So--I must shun all emotion!" said he, shaking his head gently.

In five minutes more, Audley Egerton was in the streets, his mien erect,
and his step firm as ever.

"That man is made of bronze," said a leader of the Opposition to a
friend as they rode past the minister. "What would I give for his
nerves!"

FOOTNOTES:

[M] Continued from page 692, vol. iv.




From Mr. Kimball's forthcoming "Sequel to St. Leger."

THE STORY OF DR. LINDHORST.


"Dr. Lindhorst has been an intimate friend of my father from the time
they were both together at Heidelberg. The Doctor was born in
Switzerland, and, after finishing the study of medicine, came back to
his native town to practise it. Before this, however, he had become
enthusiastically devoted to geology and its kindred sciences, botany and
mineralogy; and, indeed, to all those pursuits which have direct
relation to nature and her operations. His father dying soon after, and
leaving him a handsome patrimony, he had abundant opportunity to indulge
in them; which he did, without, however, neglecting his profession.
Indeed, he soon acquired a reputation for being skilful and attentive,
while every one spoke in terms of commendation of the young Doctor Paul.
Suddenly there was a change. He declined any longer to visit the sick,
excepting only the most poor and miserable. He absented himself for days
and weeks in the mountains, pursuing his favorite objects with an
unnatural enthusiasm. Then he left Thun for foreign countries, and was
gone two or three years, and returned with an accumulation of various
specimens in almost every department of natural science: with
note-books, herbariums, cabinets, strange animals stuffed to resemble
life, birds, fishes, petrifactions--in short, the air, the water, and
the earth had furnished their quota to satisfy his feverish zeal for
acquisition. He was still a young man, scarce five-and-twenty, yet he
bore the appearance of a person at least forty years old--"

"But the cause of this strange metamorphose?"

"No one pretends to tell," continued Josephine. "There is a report--and
my father, who, I am sure, knows all, does not contradict it--that Paul
Lindhorst was attached to a young girl who resided in the same town, and
that his affection was returned. On one occasion, a detachment of French
soldiers was quartered in Thun for a short time, and a sub-lieutenant,
who had in some way been made acquainted with her, was smitten with the
charms of the pretty Swiss. I suppose, like some of her sex, she had a
spice of coquetry in her composition, and now, possessing two lovers,
she had a good opportunity to practise it. Paul Lindhorst, however, was
of too earnest a nature to bear this new conduct from the dearest object
of his heart with composure, neither was it his disposition to suffer in
silence. He remonstrated, and was laughed at; he showed signs of deep
dejection, and these marks of a wounded spirit were treated with
thoughtless levity or indifference; he became indignant, and they
quarrelled. It is quite the old story; the girl, half in revenge, half
from a fancied liking for her new lover, married him: soon the order for
march came, and, by special permission, she was permitted to accompany
her husband, as the regiment was to be quartered in France, and not to
go on active service. Such," continued Josephine Fluellen, "is the story
which I have heard repeated, and to which was attributed the
extraordinary change in the young physician. His devotion to his
favorite pursuits continued to engross him, he grew more abstracted,
more laborious, more unremitting in his vocation. Again he visited
foreign lands, and was gone another three years. Returning, he brought,
in addition to his various collections, a little bright-eyed,
brown-haired child, a girl, some four years old; and taking her to his
house, which he still retained, he made arrangements for her
accommodation there, by sending to Berne for a distant relative, a widow
lady, who had but one child, also a little girl, about the age of the
stranger. She accordingly took up her residence with Dr. Lindhorst, and
assumed the charge of both the children, while the Doctor continued to
pursue his labors, apparently much lighter of heart than before."

"But the child?"

"I was about to add that I learned from my father the following account
of it. He told me (but I am sure this is not known to any out of our own
family) that as Dr. Lindhorst was returning home after his second long
absence, he entered a small village near Turin, just as a detachment of
'The Army of Italy' were leaving it. The rear presented the usual motley
collection of baggage-wagons, disabled soldiers, sutlers, camp-women,
and hangers-on of all sorts, who attend in the steps of a victorious
troop. As Paul Lindhorst stopped to view the spectacle, and while the
wild strains of music could be heard echoing and re-echoing as the
columns defiled around the brow of a mountain which shut them from his
sight, the rear of the detachment came up and passed. At a short
distance behind, a child, scarcely four years of age, without shoes or
stockings, and thinly clad, her hair streaming in the wind, ran by as
fast as her little feet could carry her, screaming, in a tone of agony
and terror, 'Wait for me, mamma!' 'Here I am, mamma!' 'Do dot leave me,
mamma!' '_Do_ wait for me!' Paul Lindhorst sprang forward, and taking
the child in his arms, he hastened to overtake the detachment, supposing
that by some accident the little creature had been overlooked. On coming
up, he inquired for the child's mother.

"'Bless me!' said one of the women, 'if there is not poor little
Annette!'

"'We can't take her; that's positive,' cried another.

"'How did she get here?' exclaimed a third.

"'Something must be done,' said a wounded soldier, in a compassionate
tone. 'Give her to me; I will carry her in my arms;' and taking the
little Annette, who recognized in him an old acquaintance, he easily
quieted her by saying her mamma would come very soon.

"The Doctor at length discovered that the poor child's mother had died
in the village they were just leaving. He learned also that she was the
wife of an officer who had been wounded some time before, and that she
had made a long journey, just in time to see him breathe his last, and
had remained with the camp until her own death. Some charitable person,
attracted by the sprightly appearance of the little girl, had
volunteered the charge of it, and, the halt at an end, the detachment
had marched on its victorious course. Paul Lindhorst felt a shock, like
the last shock which separates soul from body. He had inquired and been
told the name of the deceased officer; he buried his face in his hands
and wept. Little Annette had fallen asleep in the old soldier's arms,
and the heavy military wagon lumbered slowly on its way. It was more
than he could bear, to give up the child into the hands of
strangers--_her_ child. Old scenes came back to his recollection. He
forgot every resentment. He remembered but his first, his only love. He
walked hastily after the wagon, and readily persuaded the old soldier to
give the little girl to him. Then taking her in his arms while she still
slept, he walked almost with a light heart into the village. It was of
course difficult at first to pacify the little creature; but kindness
and devotion soon do their office, and all the love which she had had
for her mother was transferred to her kind protector. She has always
borne his name, and, I believe, is unacquainted with her history, at
least with the more melancholy portions of it. Do not ask me any more
questions. I know you want to speak of your friend Maclorne. I must not
show you too much favor at one time; besides, we must visit Lina a few
moments. I have quite neglected her of late."




From the New Monthly Magazine.

A DARK DEED OF THE DAYS GONE BY.


I.

In one of the sunniest spots of sunny Tuscany, that favored department
of Italy, may still be seen the ruins of a strong, ancient-built castle,
or palace, surrounded by extensive grounds now run to waste; and which
was, a century or two ago, one of the proudest buildings in that balmy
land.

It was on an evening of delicious coolness, there so coveted, that a
cavalier issued on horseback from the gates of the castle, which was
then at the acme of its pride and strength. Numerous retainers stood on
either side by the drawbridge their heads bared to the evening sun,
until the horseman should have passed, but he went forth unattended; and
the men resumed their caps, and swung to the drawbridge, as he urged his
horse to a quick pace. It was the lord of that stately castle, the young
inheritor of the lands of Visinara. His form, tall and graceful, was
bent occasionally to the very neck of his horse, in acknowledgment of
the homage that was universally paid him, though he sat his steed
proudly, as if conscious that such bearing befitted the descendant of
one of Italia's noblest families. In years he had numbered scarcely more
than a quarter of a century, and yet on his beautiful features might be
traced a shade, which told of perplexity or care.

Turning down a narrow and not much frequented way, which branched off
from the main road, a mile or two distant from his residence, he urged
his horse to a fast pace, and at length came in view of one of those
pretty places, partly mansion, partly cottage, and partly temple, at
that period to be seen in Italy; but which we _now_ meet with rarely
save in pictures. Fastening the bridle of his charger to a tree, he
walked towards the house, and passing down the colonade, which ran along
the south side of it, entered one of the rooms through the open window.

A lady, young and beautiful, sat there alone. She had delicate features,
and a fair, open countenance, the complexion of which resembled more
that of an English than an Italian one, inasmuch as a fine, transparent
color was glowing on the cheeks. The expression of her eyes was mild and
sweet, and her hair, of a chestnut brown, fell in curls upon her neck,
according to the fashion of the times. She started visibly at sight of
the count, and her tongue gave utterance to words, but what she
apparently knew not. "So you have returned, signor?"

"At last, Gina," was the count's answer, as he threw his arm around her
slender waist, and essayed to draw her affectionately towards him.

"Unhand me, Count di Visinara!" she impetuously exclaimed, sliding from
his embrace, and standing apart, her whole form heaving with agitation.

He stood irresolute; aghast at this reception from her, who was his
early and dearest love. "Are you out of your senses?" was his
exclamation.

"No, but I soon shall be. And I have prayed to Heaven that insanity may
fall upon me rather than experience the wretchedness of these last few
days."

"My love, my love, what mean you?"

"_My love!_ you call _me_ your love, Count di Visinara! Be silent,
hypocrite! I know you now. Cajoled that I have been in listening to you
so long!"

"Gina!"

"And so the honorable Count di Visinara has amused his leisure hours in
making love to Gina Montani!" she cried, vehemently. "The lordly
chieftain who----"

"Be silent, Gina!" he interrupted. "Before you continue your strange
accusations, tell me the origin of them. My love has never wandered from
you."

"Yet you are seeking a wife in the heiress of Della Ripa! Ah, Sir Count,
your complexion changes now!" Gina Montani was right: the flush of
excitement on his face had turned to paleness. "Your long and repeated
journeys, for days together, are now explained," she continued. "It was
well to tell me business took you from home."

"I have had business to transact with the Prince of Della Ripa," he
replied, boldly, recovering his equanimity.

"And to combine business with pleasure," she answered, with a curl of
her delicate lip, "you have been wont to linger by the side of his
daughter."

"And what though I have sometimes seen the Lady Adelaide?" he rejoined.
"I have no love for her."

Gina was silent for awhile, as if struggling with her strong emotion,
and then spoke calmly. "My mother has enjoined me, times out of mind,
not to suffer your continued visits here, for that you would never marry
me. You never will, Giovanni."

"Turn to my own faith, Gina," he exclaimed, with emotion, "and I will
marry thee to-morrow."

"They say you are about to marry Adelaide of Della Ripa," she replied,
passing by his own words with a gesture.

"They deceive you, Gina."

"_You_ deceive me," she answered, passionately; "you, upon whose
veracity I would have staked my life. And this is to be my reward!"

"You are like all your sex, Gina--when their jealousy is aroused,
good-by to reason; one and all are alike."

"Can you say that in this case my suspicions are unfounded?"

"Gina," he answered, as he once again would have folded her to his
heart, "let us not waste the hours in vain recriminations: I have no
love for Adelaide of Della Ripa." And, alas! for the credulity of woman,
Gina Montani lent ear once more to his honeyed persuasions, until she
deemed them true: and they were again happy together, as of old. But
this security was not to last long for her. As the weeks and months flew
on, the visits of the count to her mother's house grew few and far
between. He made long stays at the territory of Della Ripa, and people
told it as a fact, no longer disputable, that he was about to make a
bride of the Lady Adelaide.

They had come strangers into Tuscany, the Signora Montani and her
daughter, but a year or two before. The signora was in deep grief for
the loss of her husband, and they lived the most secluded life, making
no acquaintances. They were scarcely known by name or by sight, and,
save the Count di Visinara, no visitors were ever found there. The
signora was of northern extraction, and of the Reformed faith, and had
reared her daughter in the principles of the latter, which of itself
would cause them to court seclusion, at that period, in Italy. And the
Lord of Visinara, independent and haughty as he was by nature and by
position, would no more have dared to take Gina Montani to be his wedded
wife, than he would have braved his Mightiness the Pope in St. Peter's
chair.


II.

It was on a calm moonlight night, that a closely-wrapped-up form stood
in the deep shade of a grove of cypress-trees, within the gates of the
Castle of Visinara, anxiously watching. Parties passed and repassed, and
the figure stirred not; but now there came one, the very echo of whose
footsteps had command in it, and the form advanced stealthily, and
glided out of its hiding-place, right upon the path of the Lord of
Visinara. He stood still, and faced the intruder. "Who are you--and what
do you do here?"

"I came to bid you farewell, my Lord; to wish you joy of your marriage!"
And, throwing back the mantle and hood, Gina Montani's fragile form
stood out to view.

"You here, Gina!"

"Ay; I have struggled long--long. Pride, resentment, jealousy--I have
struggled fiercely with them; but all are forgotten in my unhappy love."
He folded her to his heart, as in their happy days. "You depart
to-morrow morning on your way to bring home your bride. I have seen your
preparations; I have watched the movements of your retainers. No
farewell was given me--no word offered of consolation--no last visit
vouchsafed." It would seem that he could not gainsay her words, for he
made no reply. "Know you how long it is since we met?" she continued;
"how long--"

"Reproach me not," he interrupted. "I have suffered more than you, and,
for a farewell visit, I did not dare to trust myself."

"And so this is to be the end of your enduring love, that you said was
to be mine, and only mine, till death!"

"And before Heaven I spoke the truth. I have never loved--I never shall
love but you. Yet, Gina, what would you have me do? I may not speak to
you of marriage; and it is necessary to my position that I wed."

"_She_ is of your own rank, therefore you have wooed her?"

"And of my own faith. Difference in rank may be overcome; in faith,
never."

"Oh that the time had come when God's children shall be all of one
mind!" she uttered; "when the same mode of worship, and that a pure one,
shall animate us all. In the later ages, this peace may be upon the
earth."

"Would to the saints that it were now, Gina; or that you and I had never
met."

"What! do _you_ wish it?" she contemptuously exclaimed; "you, who
voluntarily sever yourself from me?"

"I have acted an honorable part, Gina," he cried, striding to and fro in
his agitation.

"_Honorable_, did you say?"

"Ay, honorable. You were growing too dear to me, and I could not speak
of marriage to you." There was a long pause. She was standing against
one of the cypress-trees, the moon, through an opening above, casting
its light upon her pure face, down which were coursing tears of anguish.
"So henceforth we must be brother and sister," he whispered.

"Brother and sister," she repeated, in a moaning voice, pressing the
cold tree against her aching temples.

"After awhile, Gina, when time shall have tamed our feelings down. Until
then, we may not meet."

"Not meet!" she exclaimed, startled by the words into sudden pain. "Will
you never come to see us? Shall we never be together again--like brother
and sister, as you have just said?"

"Nay, Gina, I must not do so great wrong to the Lady Adelaide."

"So great wrong!" she exclaimed in amazement.

"Not real wrong, I am aware. But I shall undertake at the altar to love
and cherish her; and though I cannot do the one, I will the other.
Knowing this, it is incumbent on me to be doubly careful of her
feelings."

"I see, I see," interrupted the young lady, indignantly; "_her_ feelings
must be respected whilst mine--Farewell, Giovanni."

"One word yet, Gina," he said, detaining her. "You will probably hear of
me much--foremost in the chase, gayest in the ballroom, last at the
banquet--the gay, fortunate Lord of Visinara; and when you do so,
remember that that gay lord wears about him a secret chain, suspected by
and known to none--a chain, some links of which will remain entwined
around his heart to his dying day, though the gilding that made it
precious must from this time moulder away. Know you what the chain is,
Gina?"

The suffocating sobs were rising in her throat, and she made no answer.

"_His love for you_. Fare thee well, my dearest and best. Nay, another
instant; it is our last embrace in this world."


III.

It was a princely cavalcade that bore the heiress of Della Ripa to her
new territories, and all eyes looked out upon it. The armor of the
warlike retainers of the house of Visinara sparkled in the sun, and the
more peaceful servitors were attired with a gorgeousness that would
have done honor to an Eastern clime. The old Prince of Della Ripa, than
whom one more fierce and brave never existed in all Italy, had that
morning given his daughter's hand to Giovanni of Visinara; and as she
neared the castle that was henceforth to be her home, every point from
which a view of the procession could be obtained was seized upon.

"By my patron saint, but it is a goodly sight!" exclaimed one of a group
of maidens, gathered at a window beneath which the bridal cavalcade was
prancing. "Only look at Master Pietro, the seneschal."

"And at the steel points of the halberds,--how they shine in the crimson
of the setting sun."

"Nay, rather look at these lovely dames that follow--the Lady Adelaide's
tire-women. By the sacred relics! if her beauty exceed that of her
maidens, it must be rare to look upon. See the gold and purple of their
palfreys' horsecloths waving in the air."

"Hist! hist! it is the Count of Visinara in his emblazoned carriage! How
haughtily he sits; but the Visinara is a haughty race. And--yes--see--by
his side--oh, how lovely! Signora Montani, look! That face might win a
kingdom."

Gina Montani, who stood in the corner of the lattice, shielded from view
by its massive frame, may possibly have heard, but she answered not.

"Say what you will of his pride, he is the handsomest man that ever
lived," exclaimed a damsel, enthusiastically. "Look at him as he sits
there now--he rides bareheaded, his plumed cap resting on his
knee--where will you find such a face and form as that!"

"What is _she_ like?" interrupted an old duenna, snappishly, who,
standing behind, could not as yet obtain a view of the coveted sight;
"we know enough of his looks, let us hear something of hers. But you
girls are ever the same: if a troop of sister angels came down from
heaven, headed by the Virgin Mother herself, and a graceless cavalier
appeared at the other side, you would turn your backs to the angels and
your eyes upon Beatrice. Is she as handsome as the young Lady Beatrice,
the count's sister, who married away a year agone?"

"Oh, mother, she is not like her. Beatrice of Visinara had a warm
countenance, with eyes black as the darkest night, and brilliant as a
diamond aigrette."

"And are the wife's not black," screamed out the duenna. "They ought to
be; her blood is pure Italian."

"They are blue as heaven's sky, and her face is dazzling to behold from
its extreme fairness, and her golden hair droops in curls almost to her
waist--it is a band of diamonds, you see, that confines it from the
temples. But you can see her now, mother; remember you one half so
lovely?"

"_Dio mio!_" uttered the woman, startled at the beautiful vision that
now came within her sight; "the Lord of Visinara has not sacrificed his
liberty for nothing."

"Mark you her rich white dress, mother, with its corsage of diamonds,
and the sleeves looped up to the elbow with lace and jewels? And over
it, nearly hiding her fair neck, is a mantle of blue velvet, clasped by
a diamond star. And see, she is taking her glove off, and her hand is
raised to her cheek--small and delicate it is too, as befitteth her rank
and beauty. And--look!--he lays his own upon it as she drops it, but she
would draw it from him to replace the glove. Now he bends to speak to
her, and she steals a glance at him with her blushing cheeks and her eye
full of love. And now he is bowing to the people--hark how they shout,
'Long life to the Lady Adelaide--long life and happiness to the Count
and Countess of Visinara!'"

"She is very beautiful, Bianca; but--"

"Ay, what, you are a reader of countenances, _madra mia_; what see you
there?"

"That she is proud and self-willed. And woe be to any who may hereafter
look upon her handsome husband with an eye of favor, for she loves him."

"Can there be a doubt of that?" echoed Bianca; "has she not married him?
And look at his attractions: see this goodly lot of cavaliers speeding
on to join his banquet; can any there compare with him?"

"Chi é stracco di bonaccie, si mariti," answered the lady; "and have
you, Bianca, yet to learn that the comeliest mates oftentimes bring any
thing but love to the altar?"

Bianca made a grimace, as if she doubted. "It will come sure enough,
then," she said aloud; "for none could be brought into daily contact
with one so attractive and not learn to love him."

"And who should this be in a holy habit, following the bridal equipage
on his mule? Surely the spiritual director of the Lady Adelaide--the
Father Anselmo it must be, that we have heard speak of. A faithful man,
but stern, it is told; and so his countenance would betray. Bend your
heads in reverend meekness, my children, the holy man is bestowing his
blessings."

"How savage I should be if I were the Lady Beatrice, not to be able to
come to the wedding after all," broke in the giddy Bianca. "She reckoned
fully upon it, too, they say, and had caused her dress for the ceremony
to be prepared--one to rival the bride's in splendor."

"She has enough to do with her newly-born infant," mumbled the good
duenna. "Gayety first, care afterwards; a christening usually follows a
wedding. Come, girls, there's nothing more to see."

"Nay, mother mine, some of these dames that follow lack not beauty."

"Pish!" uttered a fair young girl who had hitherto been silent; "it
would be waste of time to look at their faces after the Lady
Adelaide's."

"Who is that going away? The Signora Montani? Why, it has not all
passed, signora. She is gone, I declare! What a curious girl she seems,
that."

"Do you know what they say?" cried little Lisa, Bianca's cousin.

"What do they say?"

"That her mother is a descendant of those dreadful people over the sea,
who have no religion, the heretics."

The pious duenna boxed her niece's ears.

"You sinful little monkey, to utter such heresy!" she cried, when anger
allowed her to speak.

"So they do say so!" sobbed the young lady, dancing about with the
passion she dared not otherwise vent. "And people _do_ say," she
continued, out of bravado, and smarting under the pain, "that they are
heretics themselves, or else why do they never come to mass?"

"The old Signora Montani is bedridden; how could she get to mass?"
laughed Bianca.

"Don't answer her, Bianca. If she says such a thing here again--if she
insinuates that the Signora Gina, knowing herself to be in such league
with the Evil One, would dare to put her head inside a faithful house
such as this, I will cause her to do public penance--the wicked little
calumniator!" concluded the good duenna, adding a few finishing strokes
upon Lisa's ears.


III.

Long lasted the bridal banquet, and merrily it sped. Ere its conclusion,
and when the hours were drawing towards midnight, the young Lady
Adelaide, attended by her maidens, was conducted to her
dressing-chamber, according to the custom of the times and of the
country. She sat down in front of a large mirror whilst they disrobed
her. They took the circlet of diamonds from her head, the jewels from
her neck and arms, and the elegant bridal dress was carefully removed;
and there she sat, in a dressing-robe of cambric and lace, while they
brushed out and braided her beautiful hair. As they were thus engaged,
the lady's eyes ran round and round the costly chamber. The furniture
and appurtenances were of the most _recherché_ description. One article
in particular attracted her admiration. It was a small, but costly
cabinet of malachite marble, exquisitely mounted in silver, and had been
a present to the count from a Russian despot. In the inner part was
fixed a mirror, encircled by a large frame of silver, and on the
projecting slab stood open essence-bottles of pure crystal, in silver
frames, emitting various perfumes. As she continued to look at this
novelty--the marble called malachite was even more rare and costly in
those days than it is in ours--she perceived, lying by the side of the
scent-bottles, a piece of folded paper, and, wondering what it could be,
she desired one of the ladies to bring it to her. It proved to be a
sealed letter, and was addressed to herself. The conscious blush of love
rose to her cheeks, for she deemed it was some communication or present
from her husband. She opened it, and the contents instantly caught her
eye, in the soft, pure light which the lamps shed over the apartment:

    "_To the Lady Adelaide, Countess of Visinara._

     "You fancy yourself the beloved of Giovanni, Count of Visinara,
     but retire not to your rest this night, lady, in any such vain
     imagining. The heart of the count has long been given to
     another, and you know, by your love for him, that such passion
     can never change its object. Had he met you in earlier life, it
     might have been otherwise. He marries you, for your lineage is
     a high one, and she, in the world's eye and in that of his own
     haughty race, was no fit mate for him."

The bridegroom was still at the banquet, for some of his guests drank
deeply, when a hasty summons came to him. Quitting the hall, he found,
standing outside, two of his bride's attendants.

"Sir Count, the Lady Adelaide--"

"Has retired?" he observed, finding they hesitated, yet feeling somewhat
surprised at so speedy a summons.

"Nay, signor, not retired, but--"

"But what? Speak out."

"We were disrobing the Lady Adelaide, Sir Count, when she saw in the
chamber a note addressed to her. And--and--she read it, and fainted, in
spite of the essence we poured on her hands and brow."

"A note!--fainted!" ejaculated the count.

"It was an insulting letter, signor; for Irene, the youngest of the Lady
Adelaide's attendants, read the first line or two of it aloud, before we
could prevent her, it having fallen, open, on the floor. Our lady is yet
insensible, and the Signora Lucrezia desired us to acquaint you, my
lord."

Without another word he turned from them, and passing through the
various corridors, entered the dressing-chamber. The Lady Adelaide was
still motionless, but a faint coloring had begun to appear in her face.
"What is this, signora?" demanded the count of the chief attendant,
Lucrezia.

"It must be owing to this letter, my lord, which was waiting for her on
the cabinet," was the lady's reply, holding out the open note. "The Lady
Adelaide fainted whilst she was perusing it."

"Fold it up," interrupted the count, "and replace it there." Lucrezia
did as she was bid. "You may now go," said Giovanni to the attendants,
advancing to support his bride. "When the countess has need of you, you
shall be summoned."

"You have read that letter?" were the first connected words of the Lady
Adelaide.

"Nay, my love, surely not, without your permission. Will you that I read
it?"

She motioned in the affirmative.

"A guilty, glowing color came over his face as he read. Who could have
written it? That it alluded to Gina Montani there was no doubt. Who
_could_ have sent it? He felt convinced that she had no act or part in
so dishonorable a trick--yet what may not be expected from a jealous
woman? Now came his trial.

"Was it not enough to make me ill?" demanded Adelaide.

He stammered something. He was not yet sufficiently collected to speak
connectedly.

"Giovanni," she exclaimed, passionately, "deceive me not. Tell me what I
have to fear: how much of your love is left for me--if any."

He tried to soothe her. He told her an enemy must have done this; and he
mentioned Gina Montani, though not by name. He said that he had
sometimes visited her house, but not to love; and that the letter must
allude to this.

"You _say_ you did not love her!" she cried, resentment in her tone, as
she listened to the tale.

He hesitated a single second; but, he reasoned to himself, he ought at
all risks to lull her suspicions--it was his duty. So he replied firmly,
though the flush of shame rose to his brow, for he deemed a falsehood
dishonorable. "In truth I did not. My love is yours, Adelaide."

"Why did you visit her?"

"I can hardly tell you. I hardly know myself: want of thought--or of
occupation, probably."

"You surely did not wrong her?" was the next whispered question, as she
turned her face from him.

"Wrong _her!_ Had you known her, you could not have admitted the
possibility of the idea," he answered, resentment in his tone now. "She
has been carefully reared, and is as innocent as you are."

"Who is she?--what is her name?"

"Adelaide, let us rather forget the subject. I have told you I loved her
not: and I should not have mentioned this at all, but that I can think
of nothing else to which that diabolical letter can have alluded.
Believe me, my own wife"--and he drew her to his bosom as he
spoke--"that I have not done you so great an injury as to marry where I
did not love."

"Oh," she exclaimed, wringing her hands, and extricating herself from
him, "that this cruel news had not been given me!"

"My love, be comforted--be convinced. I tell you it is a false letter."

"How can I know it is false?" she lamented--"how can you prove it to
me?"

"Adelaide, I can but tell you so now: the future and my conduct must
prove it."

"Giovanni," she continued vehemently, and half sinking on her knees
before him, "deceive me not. If there be aught of truth in this
accusation, let me depart. I am your wife but in name: a slight ceremony
only has passed between us, and we both know how readily, with such
influence as ours, the Church at Rome would dissolve that. Suffer me to
depart ere I shall be indeed your wife."

"Adelaide," he replied mournfully, as he held her, "I thought you loved
me."

"I do--I do. None, save God, know how passionately. My very life is
bound up in yours; but it is because I so love you, that I could not
brook a rival. Let me know the truth at once--even though it be the
worst; for should I trust to you now, and find afterwards that I had
been deceived, it would be most unhappy for both of us. My whole
affection would be turned to hate; and not only would my own existence
be wretched, but I should render yours so."

"You have no rival, Adelaide. You never shall have one."

"I mean not a rival in the vulgar acceptation of the term," she replied,
a shade of haughtiness mixing with her tone--"but one in your
heart--your mind--this I could not bear."

"Adelaide, hear me. Some enemy, wishing to do me a foul injury, has
thrust himself between us; but, rely on it, they are but false cowards
who stab in the dark. I have sought you these many months; I have
striven to gain your love; I have now made you mine. Why should I have
done this had my affections been another's? Talk not of separation,
Adelaide." She burst into a passionate fit of weeping. "Adelaide," he
whispered, as he fondly clasped her to his heart, "believe that I love
you; believe that you have no rival, and that I will give you none. I
have made you my wife--the wife of my bosom: you are, and ever shall be,
my only love."

Sweet words! And the Lady Adelaide suffered her disturbed mind to yield
to them, resolutely thrusting away the dreadful thought that the heart
of her attractive husband could ever have been given to another.


V.

Months elapsed, and the Lady Adelaide was the happiest of the happy,
although now and again the remembrance of that anonymous letter would
dart before her mind, like a dream. That most rare felicity was, indeed,
hers, of passionately idolizing one from whom she need never be
separated by night or by day. But how was it with him? Love is almost
the only passion which cannot be called forth or turned aside at will,
and though the Count di Visinara treated his wife in all respects, and
ever would, with the most cautious attention, his heart was still true
to Gina Montani. But now the Count had to leave home; business called
him forth; and to remain away fifteen days. In those earlier times women
could not accompany their lords every where, as they may in these; and
when Giovanni rode away from his castle gates, the Lady Adelaide sank
in solitude upon the arm of one of her costly sofas, all rich with
brocaded velvet; and though not a tear dimmed her eye, or a line of pain
marked her forehead, to tell of suppressed feelings, it seemed to her
that her heart was breaking. It was on the morrow, news was brought to
the countess that one craved admission to her--a maiden, young and
beautiful, the servitor said; and the Lady Adelaide ordered her to be
admitted. Young and beautiful indeed, and so she looked, as, with
downcast eyes, the visitor was ushered in--_you_ know her, reader,
though the Lady Adelaide did not. She began to stammer out an incoherent
explanation; that news had reached her of the retirement of one of the
Lady Adelaide's attendants, and of her wish to fill the vacant place.
"What is your name?" inquired the countess, already taken, as the young
are apt to be, with the prepossessing manners and appearance of her
visitor.

"Signora, it is Gina Montani."

"And in whose household have you resided?"

A deep shade rose to Gina's face. "Madam, I am a stranger as yet to
servitude. I was not reared to expect such. But my mother is dead, and I
am now alone in the world. I have heard much, too, of the Countess of
Visinara's gentleness and worth, and should wish to serve her."

Some further conversation, a few preliminary arrangements, and Gina
Montani was installed at the castle as one of the countess's maids in
waiting: a somewhat contradistinctive term, be it understood, to a
_waiting-maid_, these attendants of high-born gentle-women being then
made, in a great degree, their companions. Gina speedily rose in favor.
Her manners were elegant and unassuming, and there was a sadness about
her which, coupled with her great beauty, rendered her eminently
interesting.


VI.

The Lady Adelaide stood at the eastern window of the Purple Room--so
called from its magnificent hangings--watching eagerly for the
appearance of her husband, it being the day and hour of his expected
return. So had she stood since the morning. Ah! what pleasure is there
in this world like that of watching for a beloved one! At the opposite
end of the apartment were her ladies, engaged upon some fancy work, in
those times violently in vogue, like that eternal knitting or
crotchet-work is in ours. "Come hither, Lucrezia," said the lady, at
length. "Discern you yon trees--groups of them scattered about, and
through which an occasional glimpse of the highway may be distinguished?
Nay, not there; far, far away in the distance. See you aught?"

"Nothing but the road, my lady. And yet, now I look attentively, there
seems to be a movement, as of a body of horsemen, Ah! now there is an
open space, and they are more distinct. It should be the count, madam,
and his followers."

"I think it is, Lucrezia," said the Lady Adelaide, calmly, not suffering
her emotion to appear in the presence of her maidens, for that haughty
girl brooked not that others should read her deep love for Giovanni.
"You may return to your embroidery."

The Count di Visinara rode at a sharp trot towards his home, followed by
his retainers; but when he discerned the form of his wife at the window,
he quickened the pace to a gallop, after taking off his plumed cap, and
waving his hand towards her in the distance. She pressed her heart to
still its throbbing, and waited his approach.

She heard him rattle over the drawbridge, and was turning to leave the
apartment to welcome him home, when he entered, so great haste had he
made. Without observing that she was not alone, he advanced, and,
throwing his arms round her, drew aside her fair golden curls, and
kissed her repeatedly, like many a man possessed of a lovely wife will
kiss, though his love may be far away from her. But she shrank from his
embrace, the glowing crimson overspreading her face; and then the count
turned and saw they were not alone. At the extreme end of the apartment,
out of hearing, but within sight, were the damsels seated over their
embroidery. "Gina," murmured one of the girls, still pursuing her work,
"what has made you turn so pale? You are as white as Juliette's dress."

"Is the Signora Montani ill?" demanded Lucrezia, sharply, for she liked
not Gina.

"A sudden pain--a spasm in my side," gasped Gina. "It is over now."

"Is he not an attractive man?" whispered another of the ladies in Gina's
ear.

"He?"

"The Count di Visinara: _you_ never saw him before. They are well
matched for beauty, he and the Lady Adelaide."

"Pray attend to your work, and let this gossiping cease," exclaimed
Lucrezia, angrily.

Giovanni and his wife remained at the window, with their backs towards
the damsels. She suffered her hand to remain in his--they could not see
_that_--and conversed with him in a confidential tone. Then she began
chattering to him of her new attendant, telling how lovely she was, when
a servant entered and announced the mid-day meal.

"Now you shall see my favorite," she exclaimed, as he took her hand to
conduct her to the banquet-hall. "I will stop as I pass them, to look at
their work, and you shall tell me if you do not think her very
beautiful."

"Scarcely, Adelaide, when beside you."

"She is about my age," ran on Adelaide, whose spirits were raised to
exuberance. But it had never entered the mind of that haughty lady to
imagine the possibility of the Lord of Visinara, _her husband_, looking
upon an attendant of hers with an eye of real admiration; or she might
not have discussed their personal merits.

"How do you get on with the work, Lucrezia?" demanded the Lady Adelaide,
stopping close to her attendants.

"Favorably, madam," answered the signora, rising from her seat.

"That is a beautiful part that you are engaged upon, Gina. Bring it
forward, that we may exhibit our handiwork."

Gina Montani, without raising her eyes, and trembling inwardly and
outwardly, rose, and advanced with the embroidery. The Signora Lucrezia
eyed her, covertly.

"Is it not a handsome pattern?" exclaimed Adelaide, her thoughts now
really occupied with the beauty of the work. "And I was so industrious
while you were away, Giovanni. I did a good portion of this myself--I
did, indeed; all the shadings of the rosebuds are my doing, and those
interlaces of silver."

The Lady Adelaide stopped, for, on looking to his face for approbation,
she was startled by the frightful pallor which had overspread it. "Oh,
Giovanni, you are ill!--my husband, what is it? Giovanni--"

"It is nothing," interrupted the count, leading her hurriedly from the
room. "I rode hard, and the sun was hot. A cup of wine will restore me."

But not less awake to this emotion of the count's than she had been to
Gina's, was the Signora Lucrezia, and she came to the conclusion that
there was some unaccountable mystery at the bottom of it, which she
determined to do all in her power to find out.


VII.

Days passed. The count had not yet seen Gina alone, though he had sought
for the opportunity; but one morning when he entered the Lady Adelaide's
embroidery room--so called--Gina sat there alone, sorting silks. He did
not observe her at the first moment, and, being in search of his wife,
called to her, "Adelaide!"

"The Lady Adelaide is not here, signor," was Gina's reply, as she rose
from her seat.

"Gina," he said, advancing cautiously, and speaking in an under tone,
"what in the name of all the saints brought you here--an inmate of my
castle--the attendant of the Lady Adelaide?"

"You shall hear the truth," she gasped, leaning against the wall for
support. "I have lived long, these many months, in my dreary home,
unseeing you, uncared for, knowing only that you were happy with
another. Giovanni, can you picture what I endured? My mother died--you
may have heard of it--and her relations sent for me into their distant
country, and would have comforted me; but I remained on alone to be near
you. I struggled much with my unhappy passion. My very soul was wearing
away with despair. I would see you pass sometimes at a distance with
your retainers--and that was heaven to me. Then came a thought into my
mind; I wrestled with it, and would have driven it away--but there it
was, ever urging me; it may be that my better angel sent it there; it
may be that the Evil One, who is ever tempting us for ill, drove it on."

"What mean you?" he inquired.

"It suggested," she continued in a low voice, "that if but to see you at
a distance, and at rare intervals, could almost compensate for my life
of misery, what bliss would be mine were I living under the roof of your
own castle, liable to see you any hour of the day; hence you find me
numbered amongst your wife's waiting-maids. And blame me not, Giovanni,"
she hastily concluded, seeing him about to interrupt her; "you are the
cause of all, for you sought and gained my love; and such love! I think
none can have ever known such. And yet I must suppress this love. The
fiercest jealousy of the Lady Adelaide rages in my heart--and yet I must
suppress it! Giovanni, you have brought this anguish upon me; so blame
me not."

"It is a dangerous proceeding, Gina. I was becoming reconciled to our
separation; but now--it will be dangerous for both of us."

"Ay," she answered, bitterly, "you had all. Friends, revelry, a wife of
rare beauty, the chase, the bustle of an immense household--in short,
what had you not to aid your mental struggles? I but my home of
solitude, and the jealous pictures, self, but ever inflicted, of your
happiness with the Lady Adelaide."

"I still love but you, Gina," he repeated, "but I will be honorable to
_her_, and must show it not."

"Do I ask you to show it? or think you I would permit it?" she replied
quickly; "no, no; I did not come here to sow discord in your household.
Suffer me to live on unnoticed as of these last few days, but, oh! drive
me not away from you."

"Believe me, Gina, this will never do. I mistrust my own powers of
endurance; ay, and of concealment."

"You can think of me but as the waiting-maid of your lady," she
interrupted, in a tone of bitterness. "In time you will really regard me
as such."

"There would be another obstacle, Gina," he returned, sinking his voice
to a lower tone, as if fearful even to mention the subject--"how can you
live in my household, and not conform to the usages of our faith? You
know that yours must never be suspected."

"Trust to me to manage all," she reiterated; "but send me not away from
you."

"Be it so, Gina," he observed, after reflection; "you deserve more
sacrifice on my part than this. But all confidence must cease between
us: from this time we are to each other as strangers."

"Even so," she acquiesced. "Yet if you deem my enduring affection
deserves requital, give me at times a look as of old; a smile,
unperceived by others, but acknowledged by, and too dear to, my own
heart. It will be a token that you have not driven away all remembrance
of our once youthful love, though it is at an end for ever."

He took her hand and clasped it tenderly, but the next moment he almost
flung it from him, and had turned and quitted the room. Gina burst into
a violent fit of weeping, and slowly retreated to seek the solitude of
her chamber.

Scarcely had the echo of her footsteps died away in the gallery, when
the door of a closet appertaining to the room was cautiously pushed
open, and out stepped the Signora Lucrezia, her eyes and mouth wide
open, and her hair standing on end.

"May all the saints reject me if ever I met with such a plot as this!"
she ejaculated. "I knew there was something going on underneath, but the
deuce himself would never have suspected this. So the innocent-faced
madam has not been winding herself round the Lady Adelaide for
nothing--the she-wolf in sheep's petticoats! Something was said, too,
that I could not catch, about her irreligion. The hypocrite dare not go
to confession, probably, and so keeps away. The letter of the wedding
night is explained now, and that changing, as they both did, to the hue
of a mort-cloth at sight of each other. May I die unabsolved if so sly a
conspiracy ever came up. However, I shall not interfere yet awhile. Let
my baby-mistress look out for herself: she has not pleased me of late,
showering down marks of favor upon this false jade. _Her_ rival! if she
did but know it! I'll keep my eyes and ears open. Two lovers cannot live
for ever under the same roof without betraying their secret; and there
will be an explosion some day, or my name is not Lucrezia Andrini."




From Household Words

A FASHIONABLE FORGER.


I am an attorney and a bill discounter. As it is my vocation to lend
money at high interest to extravagant people, my connection principally
lies among "fools," sometimes among rogues "of quality." Mine is a
pursuit which a prejudiced world either holds in sovereign contempt, or
visits with envy, hatred, and all uncharitableness; but to my mind,
there are many callings, with finer names, that are no better. It gives
me two things which I love--money and power; but I cannot deny that it
brings with it a bad name. The case lies between character and money,
and involves a matter of taste. Some people like character; I prefer
money. If I am hated and despised, I chuckle over the "per contra." I
find it pleasant for members of a proud aristocracy to condescend from
their high estate to fawn, feign, flatter; to affect even mirthful
familiarity in order to gain my good-will. I am no Shylock. No client
can accuse me of desiring either his flesh or his blood. Sentimental
vengeance is no item in my stock in trade. Gold and bank-notes satisfy
my "rage;" or, if need be, a good mortgage. Far from seeking revenge,
the worst defaulter I ever had dealings with cannot deny that I am
always willing to accept a good post-obit.

I say again, I am daily brought in contact with all ranks of society,
from the poverty-stricken patentee to the peer; and I am no more
surprised at receiving an application from a duchess than from a pet
opera-dancer. In my ante-room wait, at this moment, a crowd of
borrowers. Among the men, beardless folly and mustachioed craft are most
prominent: there is a handsome young fellow, with an elaborate cane and
wonderfully vacant countenance, who is anticipating, in feeble follies,
an estate that has been in the possession of his ancestors since the
reign of Henry the Eighth. There is a hairy, high-nosed, broken-down
nondescript, in appearance something between a horse-dealer and a
pugilist. He is an old Etonian. Five years ago he drove his
four-in-hand; he is now waiting to beg a sovereign, having been just
discharged from the Insolvent Court, for the second time. Among the
women, a pretty actress, who, a few years since, looked forward to a
supper of steak and onions, with bottled stout, on a Saturday night, as
a great treat, now finds one hundred pounds a month insufficient to pay
her wine-merchant and her confectioner. I am obliged to deal with each
case according to its peculiarities. Genuine undeserved Ruin seldom
knocks at my door. Mine is a perpetual battle with people who imbibe
trickery at the same rate as they dissolve their fortunes. I am a hard
man, of course. I should not be fit for my pursuit if I were not; but
when, by a remote chance, honest misfortune pays me a visit, as
Rothschilds amused himself at times by giving a beggar a guinea, so I
occasionally treat myself to the luxury of doing a kind action. My
favorite subjects for this unnatural generosity, are the very young, or
the poor, innocent, helpless people, who are unfit for the war of life.
Many among my clients (especially those tempered in the "ice-book" of
fashion and high-life--polished and passionless) would be too much for
me, if I had not made the face, the eye, the accent, as much my study as
the mere legal and financial points of discount. To show what I mean, I
will relate what happened to me not long since:--

One day, a middle-aged man, in the usual costume of a West-End shopman,
who had sent in his name as Mr. Axminster, was shown into my private
room. After a little hesitation, he said, "Although you do not know me,
living at this end of the town, I know you very well by reputation, and
that you discount bills. I have a bill here which I want to get
discounted. I am in the employ of Messrs. Russle and Smooth. The bill
is drawn by one of our best customers, the Hon. Miss Snape, niece of
Lord Blimley, and accepted by Major Munge; whom, no doubt, you know by
name. She has dealt with us for some years, is very, very extravagant;
but always pays." He put the acceptance--which was for two hundred
pounds--into my hands.

I looked at it as scrutinizingly as I usually do at such paper. The
Major's signature was familiar to me; but having succeeded to a great
estate, he has long ceased to be a customer. I instantly detected a
forgery; by whom? was the question. Could it be the man before me?
experience told me it was not. Perhaps there was something in the
expression of my countenance which Mr. Axminster did not like, for he
said, "It is good for the amount, I presume?"

I replied, "Pray, sir, from whom did you get this bill?"

"From Miss Snape herself."

"Have you circulated any other bills made by the same drawer?"

"O yes!" said the draper, without hesitation; "I have paid away a bill
for one hundred pounds to Mr. Sparkle, the jeweller, to whom Miss Snape
owed twenty pounds. They gave me the difference."

"And how long has that bill to run now?"

"About a fortnight."

"Did you endorse it?"

"I did; Mr. Sparkle required me to do so, to show that the bill came
properly into his possession."

"This second bill, you say, is urgently required to enable Miss Snape to
leave town?"

"Yes; she is going to Brighton for the winter."

I gave Mr. Axminster a steady, piercing look of inquiry. "Pray, sir," I
said, "could you meet that one hundred pounds bill, supposing it could
not be paid by the acceptor?"

"Meet it?" The poor fellow wiped from his forehead the perspiration
which suddenly broke out at the bare hint of a probability that the bill
would be dishonored: "Meet it? O no! I am a married man, with a family,
and have nothing but my salary to depend on."

"Then the sooner you get it taken up, and the less you have to do with
Miss Snape's bill affairs, the better."

"She has always been punctual hitherto."

"That may be." I pointed to the cross-writing on the document, and said
deliberately--"_This_ bill is a forgery!"

At these words the poor man turned pale. He snatched up the document;
and, with many incoherent protestations, was rushing toward the door,
when I called to him, in an authoritative tone, to stop. He paused. His
manner indicating not only doubt, but fear. I said to him, "Don't flurry
yourself; I only want to serve you. You tell me that you are a married
man with children, dependent on daily labor for daily bread; and that
you have done a little discounting for Miss Snape out of your earnings.
Now, although I am a bill discounter, I don't like to see such men
victimized. Look at the body of this bill: look at the signature of your
lady customer, the drawer. Don't you detect the same fine, thin,
sharp-pointed handwriting in the words, 'Accepted, Dymmock Munge.'" The
man, convinced against his will, was at first overcome. When he
recovered, he raved: he would expose the Honorable Miss Snape, if it
cost him his bread: he would go at once to the police office. I stopped
him, by saying roughly, "Don't be a fool. Any such steps would seal your
ruin. Take my advice; return the bill to the lady, saying simply that
you cannot get it discounted. Leave the rest to me, and I think the bill
you have endorsed to Sparkle will be paid." Comforted by this assurance,
Axminster, fearfully changed from the nervous, but smug hopeful man of
the morning, departed. It now remained for me to exert what skill I own,
to bring about the desired result. I lost no time in writing a letter to
the Honorable Miss Snape, of which the following is a copy:

     "Madam: A bill, purporting to be drawn by you, has been offered
     to me for discount. There is something wrong about it; and,
     though a stranger to you, I advise you to lose no time in
     getting it back into your own hands.--D. D."

I intended to deal with the affair quietly, and without any view to
profit. The fact is, that I was sorry--you may laugh--but I really _was_
sorry to think that a young girl might have given way to temptation
under pressure of pecuniary difficulties. If it had been a man's case, I
doubt whether I should have interfered. By the return of post, a lady's
maid entered my room, profusely decorated with ringlets, lace, and
perfumed with _patchouli._ She brought a letter from her mistress. It
ran thus:

     "_Sir_--I cannot sufficiently express my thanks for your
     kindness in writing to me on the subject of the bills; of which
     I had also heard a few hours previously. As a perfect
     _stranger_ to you, I cannot estimate your kind consideration at
     too high a value. I trust the matter will be explained; but I
     should much like to see you. If you would be kind enough to
     write a note as soon as you receive this, I will order it to be
     sent to me at once to Tyburn Square. I will wait on you at any
     hour on Friday you may appoint. I believe that I am not
     mistaken in supposing that you transact business for my friend
     Sir John Markham, and you will therefore know the inclosed to
     be his handwriting. Again thanking you most gratefully, allow
     me to remain your much and deeply obliged,

    "JULIANA SNAPE."

This note was written upon delicate French paper, embossed with a coat
of arms. It was in a fancy envelope: the whole richly perfumed, and
redolent of rank and fashion. Its contents were an implied confession of
forgery. Silence, or three lines of indignation, would have been the
only innocent answer to my letter. But Miss Snape thanked me. She let
me know, by implication, that she was on intimate terms with a name good
on a Westend bill. My answer was, that I should be alone on the
following afternoon at five.

At the hour fixed, punctual to a moment, a brougham drew up at the
corner of the street next to my chambers. The Honorable Miss Snape's
card was handed in. Presently, she entered, swimming into my room,
richly yet simply dressed in the extreme of Parisian good taste. She was
pale--or rather colorless. She had fair hair, fine teeth, and a
fashionable voice. She threw herself gracefully into the chair I handed
to her, and began by uncoiling a string of phrases, to the effect that
her visit was merely to consult me on "unavoidable pecuniary
difficulties."

According to my mode, I allowed her to talk; putting in only an
occasional word of question, that seemed rather a random observation
than a significant query. At length, after walking round and round the
subject, like a timid horse in a field, around a groom with a sieve of
oats, she came nearer and nearer the subject. When she had fairly
approached the point, she stopped, as if her courage had failed her. But
she soon recovered, and observed: "I cannot think why you should take
the trouble to write so to me, a perfect stranger." Another pause--"I
wonder no one ever suspected me before."

Here was a confession and a key to character. The cold gray eye, the
thin compressed lips, winch I had had time to observe, were true indexes
to the "lady's inner heart:"--selfish, calculating, utterly devoid of
conscience; unable to conceive the existence of spontaneous kindness;
utterly indifferent to any thing except discovery; and almost
indifferent to that, because convinced that no serious consequences
could affect a lady of her rank and influence.

"Madam," I replied, "as long as you dealt with tradesmen accustomed to
depend on aristocratic customers, your rank and position, and their
large profits, protected you from suspicion; but you have made a mistake
in descending from your vantage ground to make a poor shopman your
innocent accomplice--a man who will be keenly alive to any thing that
may injure his wife or children. His terrors--but for my
interposition--would have ruined you utterly. Tell me, how many of these
things have you put afloat?"

She seemed a little taken aback by this speech, but was wonderfully
firm. She passed her white, jewelled hand over her eyes, seemed
calculating, and then whispered, with a confiding look of innocent
helplessness, admirably assumed, "About as many as amount to twelve
hundred pounds."

"And what means have you for meeting them?"

At this question, so plainly put, her face flushed. She half rose from
her chair, and exclaimed, in the true tone of aristocratic
_hauteur_--"Really, sir, I do not know what right you have to ask me
that question."

I laughed a little, though not very loud. It was rude, I own; but who
could have helped it? I replied, speaking low; but slowly and
distinctly:--"You forget. I did not send for you: you came to me. You
have forged bills to the amount of twelve hundred pounds. Yours is not
the case of a ruined merchant, or an ignorant over-tempted clerk. In
your case a jury" (she shuddered at that word) "would find no
extenuating circumstances; and if you should fall into the hands of
justice, you will be convicted, degraded, clothed in a prison dress, and
transported for life. I do not want to speak harshly; but I insist that
you find means to take up the bill which Mr. Axminster has so
unwittingly endorsed!"

The Honorable Miss Snape's grand manner melted away. She wept. She
seized and pressed my hand. She cast up her eyes, full of tears, and
went through the part of a repentant victim with great fervor. She would
do any thing; any thing in the world to save the poor man. Indeed, she
had intended to appropriate part of the two hundred pound bill to that
purpose. She forgot her first statement, that she wanted the money to go
out of town. Without interrupting, I let her go on and degrade herself
by a simulated passion of repentance, regret, and thankfulness to me,
under which she hid her fear and her mortification at being detected. I
at length put an end to a scene of admirable acting, by recommending her
to go abroad immediately, to place herself out of reach of any sudden
discovery; and then lay her case fully before her friends, who would, no
doubt, feel bound to come forward with the full amount of the forged
bills. "But," she exclaimed, with an entreating air, "I have no money; I
cannot go without money!" To that observation I did not respond;
although I am sure she expected that I should, check-book in hand, offer
her a loan. I do not say so without reason; for, the very next week,
this honorable young lady came again; and, with sublime assurance and a
number of very charming, winning speeches (which might have had their
effect upon a younger man), asked me to lend her one hundred pounds, in
order that she might take the advice I had so obligingly given her, and
retire into private life for a certain time in the country. I do meet
with a great many impudent people in the course of my calling--I am not
very deficient in assurance myself--but this actually took away my
breath.

"Really, madam," I answered, "you pay a very ill compliment to my gray
hairs; and would fain make me a very ill return for the service I have
done you, when you ask me to lend a hundred pounds to a young lady who
owns to having forged to the extent of one thousand two hundred pounds,
and to owing eight hundred pounds besides. I wished to save a personage
of your years and position from a disgraceful career; but I am too good
a trustee for my children to lend money to any body in such a dangerous
position as yourself."

"Oh!" she answered, quite unabashed, without a trace of the fearful,
tender pleading of the previous week's interview--quite as if I had been
an accomplice, "I can give you excellent security."

"That alters the case; I can lend any amount on good security."

"Well, sir, I can get the acceptance of three friends of ample means."

"Do you mean to tell me, Miss Snape, that you will write down the names
of three parties who will accept a bill for one hundred pounds for you?"

Yes, she could, and did actually write down the names of three
distinguished men. Now I knew for certain, that not one of those
noblemen would have put his name to a bill on any account whatever for
his dearest friend; but, in her unabashed self-confidence, she thought
of passing another forgery _on me_. I closed the conference by saying "I
cannot assist you;" and she retired with the air of an injured person.
In the course of a few days, I heard from Mr. Axminster, that his
liability of one hundred pounds had been duly honored.

In my active and exciting life, one day extinguishes the recollection of
the events of the preceding day; and, for a time, I thought no more
about the fashionable forger. I had taken it for granted that, heartily
frightened, although not repenting, she had paused in her felonious
pursuits.

My business, one day, led me to the establishment of one of the most
wealthy and respectable legal firms in the city, where I am well known,
and, I believe, valued; for at all times I am most politely, I may say
most cordially, received. Mutual profits create a wonderful freemasonry
between those who have not any other sympathy or sentiment. Politics,
religion, morality, difference of rank, are all equalized and
republicanized by the division of an account. No sooner had I entered
the _sanctum_, than the senior partner, Mr. Precepts, began to quiz his
junior, Mr. Jones, with "Well, Jones must never joke friend Discount any
more about usury. Just imagine," he continued, addressing me, "Jones has
himself been discounting a bill for a lady; and a deuced pretty one too.
He sat next her at dinner in Grosvenor Square last week. Next day she
gave him a call here, and he could not refuse her extraordinary request.
Gad, it is hardly fair for Jones to be poaching on your domains of
West-end paper!"

Mr. Jones smiled quietly, as he observed,

"Why, you see, she is the niece of one of our best clients; and, really,
I was so taken by surprise, that I did not know how to refuse."

"Pray," said I, interrupting his excuses, "does your young lady's name
begin with S.? Has she not a very pale face, and cold gray eye?"

The partners stared.

"Ah! I see it is so; and can at once tell you that the bill is not worth
a rush."

"Why, you don't mean--?"

"I mean simply that the acceptance is, I'll lay you a wager, a forgery."

"A forgery!"

"A forgery," I repeated as distinctly as possible.

Mr. Jones hastily, and with broken ejaculations, called for the
cash-box. With trembling hands he took out the bill, and followed my
finger with eager, watchful eyes, as I pointed out the proofs of my
assertion. A long pause was broken by my mocking laugh; for, at the
moment, my sense of politeness could not restrain my satisfaction at the
signal defeat which had attended the first experiment of these highly
respectable gentlemen in the science of usury.

The partners did not have recourse to the police. They did not propose a
consultation with either Mr. Forrester or Mr. Field; but they took
certain steps, under my recommendation; the result of which was that at
an early day, an aunt of the Honorable Miss Snape was driven, to save so
near a connection from transportation, to sell out some fourteen hundred
pounds of stock, and all the forgeries were taken up.

One would have thought that the lady who had thus so narrowly escaped,
had had enough; but forgery, like opium-eating, is one of those charming
vices which is never abandoned, when once adopted. The forger enjoys not
only the pleasure of obtaining money so easily, but the triumph of
befooling sharp men of the world. Dexterous penmanship is a source of
the same sort of pride as that which animates the skilful rifleman, the
practised duellist, or well-trained billiard-player. With a clean
Gillott he fetches down a capitalist, at three or six months, for a cool
hundred or a round thousand; just as a Scrope drops over a stag at ten,
or a Gordon Cumming a monstrous male elephant at a hundred paces.

As I before observed, my connection, especially lies among the
improvident--among those who will be ruined--who are being ruined--and
who have been ruined. To the last class belongs Francis Fisherton, once
a gentleman, now without a shilling or a principle; but rich in mother
wit--in fact a _farceur_, after Paul de Kock's own heart. Having in
bygone days been one of my willing victims, he occasionally finds
pleasure and profit in guiding others through the gate he frequented, as
long as able to pay the tolls. In truth, he is what is called a
"discount agent."

One day I received a note from him, to say that he would call on me at
three o'clock the next day, to introduce a lady of family, who wanted a
bill "done" for one hundred pounds. So ordinary a transaction merely
needed a memorandum in my diary, "Tuesday, 3 P.M.; F.F., 100_l._ Bill."
The hour came and passed; but no Frank, which was strange--because every
one must have observed, that, however dilatory people are in paying,
they are wonderfully punctual when they expect to receive money.

At five o'clock, in rushed my Jackall. His story, disentangled from
oaths and ejaculations, amounted to this:--In answer to one of the
advertisements he occasionally addresses "To the Embarrassed," in the
columns of the "Times," he received a note from a lady, who said she was
anxious to get a "bill done"--the acceptance of a well-known man of rank
and fashion. A correspondence was opened and an appointment made. At the
hour fixed, neatly shaved, brushed, gloved, booted,--the revival, in
short, of that high-bred Frank Fisherton, who was so famous

     "In his hot youth, when Crockford's was the thing,"

glowing with only one glass of brandy "just to steady his nerves," he
met the lady at a West-end pastry-cook's.

After a few words (for all the material questions had been settled by
correspondence) she stepped into her brougham, and invited Frank to take
a seat beside her. Elated with a compliment of late years so rare, he
commenced planning the orgies which were to reward him for weeks of
enforced fasting, when the coachman, reverentially touching his hat,
looked down from his seat for orders.

"To ninety-nine, George street, St. James," cried Fisherton, in his
loudest tones.

In an instant, the young lady's pale face changed to scarlet, and then
to ghastly green. In a whisper, rising to a scream, she exclaimed, "Good
heavens! you do not mean to _that_ man's house" (meaning me). "Indeed, I
cannot go to him, on any account; he is a most horrid man, I am told,
and charges most extravagantly."

"Madam," answered Frank, in great perturbation, "I beg your pardon, but
you have been grossly misinformed. I have known that excellent man these
twenty years, and have paid him hundreds on hundreds; but never so much
by ten per cent, as you offered me for discounting your bill."

"Sir, I cannot have any thing to do with your friend." Then, violently
pulling the check-string, "Stop" she gasped; "and _will you_ have the
goodness to get out?"

"And so I got out," continued Fisherton, "and lost my time; and the
heavy investment I made in getting myself up for the assignation; new
primrose gloves, and a shilling to the hair-dresser--hang her! But, did
you ever know any thing like the prejudices that must prevail against
you? I am disgusted with human nature. Could you lend me half a
sovereign till Saturday?"

I smiled; I sacrificed the half sovereign, and let him go, for he is not
exactly the person to whom it was advisable to intrust all the secrets
relating to the Honorable Miss Snape. Since that day I look each morning
in the police reports, with considerable interest; but, up to the
present hour, the Honorable Miss Snape has lived and thrived in the best
Society.




From the Boston Atlas.

FRANCIS PULSZKY.


Francis Pulszky, de Lubocz and Cselfalva, was born in 1814, at Eperies,
in the county of Sáros. He is of an ancient and distinguished Protestant
family. His father, grandfather, and great-grandfather, all held the
office of Inspector of the Protestant College at Eperies; an office to
which Mr. Pulszky was himself appointed in 1840. His grandfather on the
mother's side was Fejèrváry, the Hungarian archæologist, whose valuable
collection has been incorporated with the National Library at Pesth.
After completing his college education, Mr. Pulszky visited Italy. While
in Rome he was made Fellow of the Archæological Institute of that city.
In 1834 he returned to his country, and attended the sittings of the
Diet, at Presburg, as Jurat. In 1835 he established, in conjunction with
Vukovics and Lovassy, the Debating Club which afterwards became the
object of the persecution of the Austrian Government. He formed, at this
time, a friendship with Kolcsey, the poet, with Deák, the celebrated
jurist, and with Kossuth.

In 1836, Mr. Pulszky once more quitted Hungary to travel through
Germany, France and England, in order to enlarge his experience by
observation of the manners and institutions of foreign countries, and
thus qualify himself to render more effectual service to his own. On his
return in 1837, he published an account of England, written in German,
which gained him a wide reputation. Soon after his return he was elected
a Fellow of the Hungarian Academy. During his absence from Hungary his
friend Lovassy, a young man highly distinguished for his brilliant
genius, and for the nobleness of his character, together with some other
members of the Debating Club, were subjected by the Austrian Government
to an imprisonment, under the rigors of which the intellect of Lovassy
was completely shattered. His release found him in a state bordering on
idiocy, in which he has ever since continued.

In 1839, Mr. Pulszky was sent as deputy to the Diet from his native
county of Sáros. In this Diet, the framing of a commercial code was
proposed. Mr. Pulszky was on the Committee appointed to consider this
subject. He was likewise a member of the Committee appointed for the
codification of the criminal law. After the close of the Diet, Mr.
Pulszky repaired to Heidelberg, to study more fully the subject of the
criminal law with the celebrated Mittermaier. The committee intrusted
with the work of the codification of the criminal law of Hungary,
closed its labors in 1843. Mr. Pulszky did not offer himself as a
candidate for re-election to the Diet. In Hungary, the deputies to the
Diet are obliged to vote in conformity with the instructions of their
constituents. The county of Sáros, which Mr. Pulszky had represented,
was a conservative county; and as his principles allied him with the
liberal party, he thus often found himself placed in a false position.
He therefore devoted himself to serving the cause of reform in Hungary,
by his pen. He wrote constantly for the _Pesti Hirlap_, the journal
edited by Kossuth. The character of this journal, and the objects of its
editor, are thus described by Szilagyi, a political opponent, in a work
published at Pesth in 1850; "In 1841 a strange thing happened. He
[Kossuth] who had been imprisoned for editing a journal, came out on the
1st of January of that year as editor of the _Pesti Hirlap_. The first
number of this paper betrayed that it was the organ of the Opposition,
and in a short time it had obtained a reputation which could hardly have
been expected. In reality Kossuth conducted the editorship with much
ability. His leading articles, the stereotyped publications of the
wishes of his heart, scourged the abuses which existed in the counties
and in the cities. The aim of these articles was to raise the importance
of the burgher class, to overthrow the privileges of the nobility--in a
word, _first_, Reform, _secondly_ Reform--a hundred times, Reform."

In 1848, after the Revolutions of Paris and Vienna, while the
ministerial question yet remained to be settled in Hungary, Mr. Pulszky
was sent to Pesth, together with Klauzal and Szemere, by the Archduke
Stephen, the Palatine of Hungary, to take suitable measures for the
maintenance of order. Some disturbances having broken out at
Stuhlweissenburg, Mr. Pulszky went thither to quell them. He was
recommended to take a military force with him, but he refused, confiding
in the power of reason and eloquence. The result showed that he was not
mistaken. He addressed the people with energy, and the disturbances were
appeased without the necessity of a resort to force. In May, 1848, Mr.
Pulszky was appointed Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs in Vienna.
On the 5th of October of the same year, when the Austrian government no
longer felt it necessary to observe any appearances in regard to
Hungary; and when war had been virtually declared against that country
by the Imperial proclamation of Oct. 3rd, which appointed Jellachich
Royal Commissary in Hungary, with full powers civil and military, Mr.
Pulszky was dismissed from his office.

Mr. Pulszky was with Kossuth at the battle of Schwechat, where he acted
as aid to the Hungarian commander, General Moga. He returned with
Kossuth to Pesth, where he was appointed a member of the Committee of
Defence, and was made Minister of Commerce. In December, 1848, he was
sent as accredited Envoy to England, to advocate the interests of
Hungary in that country. Speaking of his appointment to this office,
Schlesinger, the able and impartial historian of the Hungarian War,
says: "Kossuth could not have found a more active, able, and competent
man in Hungary for the post. All that a man could do Pulszky did.
Pulszky possesses the acuteness of a civilian, a penetrating intellect,
readiness of conception, inexhaustible powers of invention, and withal,
indefatigable activity, great knowledge of business, and a healthy and
sober spirit, which is not easily carried away by sanguine hopes." After
a perilous journey through Gallicia, Mr. Pulszky reached France, spent a
short time in Paris, and arrived in England early in March, 1849, where
he has since remained until the time of his embarkation for the United
States. During his residence in England, Mr. Pulszky has served the
cause of his country with equal zeal and ability. His character and his
talents have obtained for him a great influence there. He enjoys the
personal friendship of many of the most eminent men of England; and it
is in a great degree to be ascribed to his exertions, that the merits of
the Hungarian cause are so well apprehended by a large portion of the
British public.

Of the literary labors of Mr. Pulszky and of his wife, who accompanies
him in this country, the Transcript gives the following account, which,
though incomplete, is sufficiently accurate, so far as it goes: "Mr.
Pulszky is distinguished not only as a statesman and a diplomatist, but
as an author. Early in life he acquired a high reputation in his own
country, and in Germany, by various political, archæological and
philological writings. He wrote in German in a singularly pure and
forcible style. For the last two or three years he has resided in
London, where he has published several works in English, written in good
style, and exhibiting a rare combination of practical intellect and
creative imagination." He is a novelist as well as the historian and
vindicator of his country. The most elaborate production of his pen, in
English, is a novel in two volumes, 'The Jacobins in Hungary,' published
last spring. The London Examiner concludes its notice of this work, by
saying, "In a word, 'The Jacobins in Hungary' is a remarkably well told
tale, which will please all readers by the skill and pathos of its
narrative, and surprise many by its fairness and impartiality of tone to
opinions as well as men. But the majority of intelligent Englishmen have
not now to learn, that the closest parallel for a Hungarian rebel of the
nineteenth century, would be an English rebel of the seventeenth; and
they will not feel or express astonishment that what falls from Mr.
Pulszky on any question of society or government, might with equal
propriety for its sobriety and moderation of tone, have fallen from Lord
Somers or Mr. Pym."

The English translation of _Schlesinger's War in Hungary_ was edited by
Mr. Pulszky, who prefaced it with a long and well-written historical
introduction, and added to it a masterly sketch of the life and
character of Görgey, who had been his school-fellow, and with whose
whole career he was intimately acquainted. The estate of the Görgey
family was in fact situated at no great distance from that of Mr.
Pulszky, who was also an intimate friend of the traitor's brother.

To the "_Memoirs of a Hungarian Lady_" by Theresa Pulszky, his wife, Mr.
Pulszky prefixed a most valuable Introduction, containing the best
history of Hungary which we have yet seen in English. It is a clear and
concise sketch of the annals of the nation, from the earliest period to
the year 1848, occupying about 100 pages of the American edition of the
Memoirs. Madame Pulszky, the heroine and author of these interesting
memoirs, is, we believe, a native of Vienna, where, in 1845, she was
married to Mr. Pulszky. She was residing on their estates in Hungary,
about 60 miles from Pesth, when the war broke out; and the _Memoirs_ are
principally devoted to a narrative of her sufferings and adventures in
that exciting and perilous time. They contain, besides, many graphic
descriptions of life and manners in Hungary, and a good historical
narrative of the Revolution and the war.

Besides the _Memoirs_, Madame Pulszky has published in English, a volume
of _Tales and Traditions of Hungary_, which we have not seen, but of
which highly favorable notices have appeared in the Examiner and other
English journals. She is not only a brilliant and powerful writer, but a
most lovely and accomplished lady, as we learn from very reliable
sources in Europe. Her talents and acquirements are said to be quite
extraordinary. In England her husband and herself enjoyed the highest
consideration, both in point of character and ability.

It may be remarked, in addition to this, that the _Memoirs of a
Hungarian Lady_ (Lea & Blanchard, Philadelphia, 1850) give a full
account of Mr. Pulszky's career during the war and the revolution, and
in chapters II. and III. a minute and most interesting sketch of his
estates and tenantry. His novel, the _Jacobins in Hungary_, is
understood to be written with constant reference to the recent history
of his country, though the events on which it is founded occurred sixty
years ago.




Authors and Books.


Henry Heine's long-promised _Romanzero_ has at last appeared in Germany,
where the first edition has been greedily snapped up. It is a collection
of poems of various name and nature, all after the true Heinian vein.
The great curiosity of the book is the preface in which the "dying
Aristophanes" discourses on his alleged conversion to religion, in a
strain which settles the question, so much discussed for the past two or
three years, whether such a conversion has actually taken place or not.
He declares that he has "returned to God, like the profligate son, after
having long kept swine among the Hegelians. Was it suffering that drove
me back? Perhaps a less miserable reason. The celestial home-sickness
came over me, and urged me forth through woods and ravines, over the
dizziest mountain paths of dialectics. On my way I found the God of the
Pantheists, but could not use him." Afterwards he says, that while in
politics his views have not changed, in theology he has gone back to
belief in a personal divinity. But he denies the report that he has
joined any church. "No," he says, "my religions convictions and views
remain free from all ecclesiasticism; no bell-ring has seduced me, no
altar-candle blinded me. I have played with no symbols, nor altogether
renounced my reason. I have sworn off from nothing, not even my old
heathen gods, from whom I have indeed parted, but in all love and
friendship. It was in May, 1848, the day when I last went out, that I
took leave of the gracious idols I had worshipped in the days of my
happiness. It was with difficulty that I dragged myself to the Louvre,
and I almost fainted as I entered the lofty hall where the blessed
goddess of beauty, our dear Lady of Milo, stands on her pedestal. I lay
long at her feet, and wept so vehemently that a stone must have been
filled with pity. The goddess, too, looked down piteously, as if to say,
'Seest thou not that I have no arms, and cannot help thee?'" It seems
evident from this, that whatever change has happened in Heine's notions,
there is no vital piety in his heart, but he is the same heathen as
ever. The _Romanzero_ is divided into three parts--Histories,
Lamentations, and Hebrew Melodies. The former are like the ballads he
has before published, except that many of them go farther in the way of
indecency, while many others are charming conceits, which are sure of
long popularity. The Lamentations are more expressive of the personal
state of mind and experience of the author. The Hebrew Melodies are the
best of all, and betray a profound affection for the Jewish race and
history, which he vainly seeks to hide with sneering and scoffs, and
which proclaims him a genuine son of Abraham as well as of the
nineteenth century. For the rest, the reader of this book will be
reminded of the sharp saying of Gutzkow about Heine: "He is a writer who
tries to disguise spoiled meat with a _sauce piquante_." Heine has also
published "_Doctor Faust_, a Dance Poem, with curious information about
the Devil, Witches and Poetic Art." This is intended to serve as the
ground-work of a ballet and presents the great problems of existence in
the form of a jest and a paradox. It was written for Lumley, the London
manager, but his ballet-master declared the performance of it
impossible.

       *       *       *       *       *

The _Grenzboten_ contains a paper on German _Romanticism_, by Dr. JULIAN
SCHMIDT, written for the purpose of defeating the last attempts which
the romantic school of German writers is making to regain its former
ascendency. Baron Eichendorff, almost the last of the old school, has
lately brought out a pamphlet for that purpose. It has found a full
contradiction in Dr. Schmidt's essay, one which will doubtless be
satisfactory to all but the Baron himself.

       *       *       *       *       *

We cannot too much commend a metrical German translation of the heroic
Sagas (_Heldensagen_) of Firdusi, the chief of Persian poets. It is due
to the learning and taste, we might even say the genius, of HERR VON SCHOCK, and has
lately been published at Berlin. Those who recollect the delicious
illustrations which our Emerson has dug out of this old mine of Persian
poetry, to adorn some of his more recent lectures with, can need no
additional inducement to seek the acquaintance of this book. It contains
ten distinct _sagas_, with an introduction by the translator.

       *       *       *       *       *

A work bearing a somewhat attractive title has recently been published
for FRED BURAU, by Brockhaus, of Leipzig, entitled _The Secret History
of Enigmatic Men, a Collection of Forgotten Notabilities._ Among the
"odd ones" cited, are the Countess of Rochlitz, Dankelmann and
Wartenberg, natural children of the last Stuarts, and of Danish Kings,
Count Lewenhaupt, Lord Peterborough, the Duke of Ormond, Frederic
Augustus the First, John Lilburne, W. Ludwig Weckerlin, and various
other characters, too numerous to mention. We noticed this work while it
was in course of preparation last year.

       *       *       *       *       *

A singular historical concert was given at Dresden, in November. It was
made up of works of distinguished Electoral and Royal Saxon
_Capellmeisters_, in chronological order. First appeared John Walther,
the friend of Luther, and the original master of Protestant Church
music. Next, Heinrich Schutz, the author of the first German opera. The
Italians, Lotti and Porpora, and Hasse (who composed in Italian style),
represented the golden period of the Electoral Court in the past half of
the eighteenth century. Naumann marked the transition to modern German
music, while the most recent schools were represented by Morlacchi,
Reissiger, Weber, and Richard Wagner.

       *       *       *       *       *

The Michaelmas Fair of this year at Leipzig, is, according to its
catalogue, as rich as ever in literary wares. From the Spring Fair up to
September 30, there appeared in Germany 3,860 new books, and 1,130 more
are now in press. Of those published, 106 were on Protestant, and 62 on
Catholic theology; 36 on philosophy; 205, history and biography; 102 on
linguistic subjects; 194, natural sciences; 168, military sciences; 83,
commerce and industry; 87, agriculture and the management of forests;
69, public instruction; 92, classical philology; 80, living languages;
64, theory of music and the arts of design; 168, fine arts in general;
48, books for the people; 28, scientific miscellanies; bibliography, 18.

       *       *       *       *       *

A History of Music in Italy, Germany, and France, from the beginning of
Christianity to the present day, has been published in Germany, from the
pen of PHILIP BRENDEL. It is not to be commended. It is not a real
history, such as indeed is greatly to be desired, but a collection of
sentimentalities and fancies, For instance, in speaking of Beethoven,
the author compares him with Schiller in respect to the substance of his
works, but says that in respect to his artistic form, he far excels that
poet, and even rises to the level of Jean Paul. This may do for
transcendental young people, but it is nonsense to all who like common
sense and real information.

       *       *       *       *       *

About a year since, a society was formed in Germany for the publication
of the works of BACH, the great composer for the organ. Three hundred
and fifty subscribers were obtained, each paying five Prussian Thalers
($3.50), a-year, for which he receives a copy of the issues of the
society. They are not sold to music dealers, and are not intended for
the general market. Of the subscribers, six are in Paris, twenty-three
in London, ten in Russia, thirteen in Austria, but we see none from the
United States. The first publication was to appear in December. It will
contain ten cantatas not before published.

       *       *       *       *       *

On the death of the great philologist LACHMANN JACOB GRIMM, for many
years his co-laborer and friend, was appointed to deliver an oration
before the Academy of Sciences in Berlin, which was done on the 3d of
July last. This speech, recently published, is said to be highly
interesting, as giving the characteristics of both the eulogist and the
deceased, each of them men whose names will henceforth be inseparably
allied in the history of German learning.

A biography of LACHMANN has been published at Berlin; it is by William
Hertz, and will interest those who care to look at the quiet but most
industrious life of a great scholar.

       *       *       *       *       *

A Sketch of _Jona. Edwards and his Works_, has been published in German
at Leipsig.

DR. ANDREE, whose work on America we lately noticed, has commenced at
Bremen a periodical called _Das Westland_, devoted exclusively to the
diffusion of information respecting the new world. The idea is an
excellent one, especially in view of the great numbers of Germans who
are already established on this side the Atlantic, and the still greater
numbers that desire to come here. No man in Europe is so well fitted as
Dr. Andree to conduct such a work. The first number, which we have
received, contains articles on the Lopez Expedition, the Southern States
of the American Union in their relation to the North, Traditions of the
North American Indians, the navigation of the La Plata system of Rivers,
the Welland Canal, &c. Sold in New-York by Westerman Brothers, 240
Broadway.

       *       *       *       *       *

The _Gotha Almanac_ is an indispensable book for those who follow the
history and look after the statistics of the royal families and
governments of Europe. It contains perfect genealogical lists of the
former, and tables of the diplomatic corps, the debt, the revenues, the
expenses, the commercial system, the military and naval forces, the
population, ecclesiastical organization, &c., of the latter. In no other
manual is so much information of the sort condensed into so brief and
convenient a form. The governments and statistics of the new world are
also included. The portraits given for 1852, are Prince Adalbert of
Prussia, Crown Prince Charles of Sweden, Count Leo Thun, Lord
Palmerston, Prince Wolkonski, and Cardinal Schwarzenberg. This is the
eighty-ninth year of the publication.

       *       *       *       *       *

One of the best evidences of the value of Humboldt's _Kosmos_, is the
vast number of popular treatises on various branches of science to which
it has given rise in Germany, and which must exert a powerful influence
in the formation of the growing age. A more solid and extensive
undertaking is an _Atlas_ intended to illustrate the entire original
work. It is by TRAUGOTT BROUVE, and will contain forty-two plates with
explanatory text. The cost will be $4,50 in Germany. The first part has
appeared at Stuttgardt, and is praised as worthy of the great work it
illustrates.

       *       *       *       *       *

Of AUERBACH's _Dorfgeschichten_ (Village Stories), 25,000 copies have
been sold in Germany. He has just published a three-volume novel called
_Neues Leben_ (New Life).

       *       *       *       *       *

A new religious and philosophical novel is _Das Pfarrhaus zu Hallungen_
(The Parsonage at Hallungen), by LUDWIG STORCH. It is said to be full of
exciting interest, but we confess that we have not read it, and do not
mean to. Our taste is for novels of less elaborate purpose.

       *       *       *       *       *

We give our tribute of commendation to the _Haus-Chronik_ (House
Chronicles), which CASPAR BRAUN and FREDERICK SCHNEIDER are now
publishing at Munich. These gentlemen are well known to all readers of
that excellent comic paper, the _Fliegende Blätter_, and here appeal to
all who can enjoy humor and have a taste for studies in the history of
German life in the middle ages.

       *       *       *       *       *

MUGGE, whose romance on _Toussaint L'Ouverture_ was translated by the
Rev. Dr. Furness, of Philadelphia, has published at Leipzig the third
volume of his annual _Vielliebchen_ (My Darling). It contains two tales
and several poems, and is illustrated with seven steel engravings. It is
worthy of notice that this word _Vielliebchen_ is the original of our
mysterious _Filopine_.

       *       *       *       *       *

M. PULSZKY, who is now in this country in the suite of KOSSUTH, has just
published a historical romance at Berlin called _Die Jakobiner in
Ungarn_ (The Jacobines in Hungary). It is in two volumes, and meets a
favorable reception from the critics, and we doubt not, from the public
also. It fared equally well when it was published in English at London
some time since.

       *       *       *       *       *

The _Middle Kingdom_, of our countryman, Mr. S. WELLS WILLIAMS, is the
subject of a most favorable notice in the Augsburg _Allgemeine Zeitung_.
Of this careful and very comprehensive work--the most elaborate and
reliable that has ever appeared in the English language respecting China
and the Chinese--Mr. Wiley has just published a new edition.

       *       *       *       *       *

The public are solemnly warned in a number of the Leipzig _Central
Blatt_, against a lately published work, entitled _Tabula Geographica
Italiæ Antiquæ_, as swarming with errors. Divers towns are cited
therein, at different times under different names, and as standing in
different places, while the names themselves are declared to be sadly
corrupted.

       *       *       *       *       *

PROF. NEUMANN, of Munich, will publish in the course of a year, a
_History of the British Empire in India_, on which he has been long
engaged. It will be as thorough and able as it is impartial, and in
Germany is expected with great interest. The author proposes also to
write the History of Russian domination in Asia.

       *       *       *       *       *

In noticing the poems lately published by GOETHE's nephew (mentioned in
the last _International_), a German reviewer remarks, that the reverence
which he (the reviewer), bears for the name of the uncle, "forbids any
illusion to the book in question."

       *       *       *       *       *

ADOLF STAHR is publishing at Berlin a second edition of his _History of
the Russian Revolution_; it is dedicated to Macauley.

       *       *       *       *       *

The celebrated Countess IDA HAHN-HAHN who was formerly as thorough an
infidel as any member of the Worcester Women's Rights Convention, and as
indecently licentious in her novels as the author of _Alban_, is thus
described in a late number of the _Weser Zeitung_:

     "Daily, about noon, the loungers under the Linden at Berlin are
     startled by the extraordinary appearance of a tall, lanky
     woman, whose thin limbs are wrapped up in a long black robe of
     coarse cloth. An old crumpled bonnet covers her head, which
     continually moving turns restlessly in all directions. Her
     hollow cheeks are flushed with a morbid coppery glow; one of
     her eyes is immovable, for it is of glass, but her other eye
     shines with a feverish brilliancy, and a strange and almost
     awful smile hovers constantly about her thin lips. This woman
     moves with an unsteady quick step, and whenever her black
     mantilla is flung back by the violence of her movements, a
     small rope of hair with a crucifix at the end is plainly seen
     to bind her waist. This ungainly woman is the _quondam_
     authoress, Countess Ida Hahn-Hahn, who has turned a Catholic,
     and is now preparing for a pilgrimage to Rome to crave the
     Pope's absolution for her literary trespasses."

       *       *       *       *       *

PRINCE WINDISCHGRATZ has issued his long promised narrative of the
Hungarian winter campaign in 1848-49. In the preface, he says he has
been induced to depart from a resolution not to publish until a much
later period, by numerous calumnies and misrepresentations which have
been circulated. The book is dedicated to the army.

       *       *       *       *       *

MENZEL, whose work on German Literature had the honor of appearing in
Ripley's excellent series of foreign books, published at Boston some ten
years since, has just published a novel at Leipzig, with the title of
_Farore_. It is the history of a monk and a nun during the thirty years
war.

       *       *       *       *       *

FREDERIKA BREMER has in press a book upon the World's Fair. It is
announced in Germany, but we presume will appear at the same time in
England. Whether it will be historical, philosophical, sentimental, or
mystical, we are not informed, but suppose it will have a touch of all
these qualities.

       *       *       *       *       *

FREDERICK THE GREAT (so-called), is not yet exhausted as a topic for
book-makers, if we may judge by the _Anekdoten und Charakterzüge_
(Anecdotes and Traits of Character), drawn from his life, and just
published at Berlin. The author is an adorer of the selfish old
martinet.

       *       *       *       *       *

KOHL, the indefatigable traveller, has just published, at Dresden, his
_Reise nach Istrien Dalmatien und Montenegro_. A book of travels in
those countries is a novelty, and no explorer could give his reader a
more vivid picture of the peculiarities of a nation and its country than
Kohl. The book is in two volumes.

       *       *       *       *       *

The Shakspeare Society in London, at a recent sitting, received as a
present a translation of Shakspeare, in twelve volumes, into Swedish
verse. This laborious work has been accomplished by Professor HAGBERG,
of the University of Lund, and it was transmitted through the Swedish
Minister to England.

       *       *       *       *       *

A new history of German literature from the most ancient to the most
recent times has just been published at Stuttgart by Dr. EUGEN HAHN. It
is particularly valuable in respect of biography and the history of
mental culture in general.

       *       *       *       *       *

A new work, called _Bilder aus Spainen_ (Pictures from Spain), is among
the recent productions of the German press. Its author, HERR A. LONING,
has already published several works on the Peninsula, where he resided
several years.

       *       *       *       *       *

LISZT, the eminent pianist, has published in French a book on Richard
Wagner's two operas, _Lohengrin_ and _Tannhäuser_. He praises them most
enthusiastically; possibly he may succeed in having Wagner's pieces
produced at Paris.

       *       *       *       *       *

DR. J. W. HADDOCK's work upon _Somnolism and Psycheism_, after having
gone through a second edition in England, has just made its appearance
at Leipzig in a German translation, made by Dr. C. L. Merkel.

       *       *       *       *       *

A new edition of that excellent work, _The History of the Poetic
National Literature of the Germans_, by Gerbinus, has just made its
appearance at Leipzig.

       *       *       *       *       *

SILVIO PELLICO is passing the present winter in Rome.

       *       *       *       *       *

In Tuscany, a periodical similar to the _International_ has been
established under the title of _Rivista Britannica_. The main purpose is
to select articles from English periodicals, and offer them in good
Italian versions. French newspapers, novels, and magazines come in
freely, too freely in Italy. The good ones will sometimes be seized at
the frontier, or at the post-office, by the jealous police of Rome,
Naples, and Tuscany: but against any thing that is corrupt and debauched
no Italian despot, prince, or priest, was ever known to shut his door.
French literature, such as it is under most circumstances, can have only
a bad influence in that enslaved country, and scarcely an Italian is to
be found able to read, who has any difficulty in understanding the
French language. As an antidote to this poison, the editors of the
_Rivista Britannica_ have thought of ministering copious draughts of
healthful English. We wish they might quote English and American
journals with perfect independence of all censorship.

       *       *       *       *       *

GIOBERTI, whose attack upon the Jesuits is fresh in the minds of all
students of European literature, has lately published at Turin an
elaborate work entitled _Del Rinovamento Civile d' Italia_ (Of the Civil
Regeneration of Italy). It is in two parts, the first treating of the
errors and misfortunes that have marked the past, the second of the
remedies practicable in the present, and the hopes existing for the
future. So large is the circle of readers who look with interest for
every one of Gioberti's productions, that two simultaneous editions have
been issued; one in two volumes 8vo. each of eight hundred pages, and
the other in two volumes, 16mo. each of six hundred.

       *       *       *       *       *

The _Israel of the Alps, a History of the Vaudois of Piedmont and of
their Colonies_, is the title of a work, by ALEXIS MUSTON, fulfilling a
promise made by the author in 1834, in a volume on the same subject. It
consists of an account of the martyrdoms of Calabria and Provence, and
embraces a period from the origin of those colonies to the end of the
sixteenth century. In the second part are described the extraordinary
sufferings and deliverances of the Piedmontese--the massacre of
1658--the dispersion of the Vaudois into foreign lands--the return to
their own, under the orders of Colonel Arnaud--and an entirely new
exposition is given of the negotiations which led to the official
re-establishment of the Vaudois in their native valleys. The author has
filled up the gaps of the Vaudois historians, Gilles, Leger, and Arnaud,
and, by the aid of numerous inedited documents, has established a
succession of facts in relation to the history of the churches of the
Piedmontese, and those of the colonies, to which Wirtemberg,
Brandenburg, and Switzerland are indebted for their evangelical faith.
M. Muston, contrary to the opinions of Gieseler, Neander, and Schmidt,
agrees with that school of writers--from Perrin to Monastier--who
suppose that the evangelical churches of Piedmont existed before the
reformer Pierre Waldo, and trace their origin to the apostolic ages.
This opinion has much to support it--in the authority of many centuries,
in the unanimous convictions of the Vaudois historians, and in evidences
given by the most ancient monuments of their language, particularly the
poem entitled the _Noble Lesson_, which bears inscribed its own date
(1100), and the literary perfection of which certainly suggests an
anterior literature. J. Bonnett (_Archives du Christianisme_, for
October 16) notices the work very favorably, but considers it imperfect
in many particulars, and the author is charged especially with omissions
in the catalogue of the defenders of the faith, whose blood was so
profusely spilled in their beautiful valleys, and

                        "Whose bones
    Lie bleaching on the Alpine mountains cold."

"Surely," says M. Bonnett, "the author ought to have given us some
notice of the imposing characters who were early laboring for the
defence of the Vaudois churches, from the episcopate of Maximus (that
intrepid missionary of the Alps whose thundering voice against abuses
recalls the eloquent accents of Luther) to the controversy of Vigilance
and Jerome, and the iconoclastic propositions of Claude de Turin. There
is something inspiring in the remembrance of that prelate, now an
evangelist, and now a warrior, combating with one hand the enemies of
truth, and with the other those of the empire. 'I make,' says he, in one
of his letters, 'continual voyages to the court during the winter. In
the spring, with my arms and my books, I go as a sentinel to watch the
coasts of the sea, and to fight against the Saracen and the Moor. I use
my sword during the night, and my pen by day, to accomplish the works
which I have commenced in solitude.' The military and ecclesiastical
character of Claude de Turin was deserving a remembrance, and in
describing him M. Muston could not have fulfilled better the
expectations of the public. There is another instance of omission--that
of Pierre Waldo. Concerning him all opinions agree. It is just where he
stands that all contradictory systems upon the origin of the Vaudois
meet. Whether he was the father or the son of the churches of the
Valleys his history ought not to be forgotten. With what interest would
not the pen of Muston have clothed the recital! what attraction! what
novelty! How the reformation, which originated in the cell of an obscure
cloister, had already germinated in the mind of Waldo; how the rich
merchant of Lyons, in search of the treasures of the age, was suddenly
changed into a bumble disciple, voluntarily poor; and what were the
principal traits of his ministry, his voyages, his relations, his life,
his death! Concerning such men, we cannot regret too deeply the almost
utter silence of this historian of the Vaudois."

The following interesting fragment is translated from the history of the
Vaudois de Calabre: "One day two young men were at a tavern in Turin,
when a Calabrian lord came in to lodge for the night. The companions, in
talking over their affairs, happened to express a desire to establish
themselves somewhere away from home; for the lands of their own country
were becoming so sterile, that they would soon cease to yield a
sufficient support for the population. The stranger said, 'My friends,
if you come with me, I will give you fruitful plains in exchange for
your rocky wastes.' They accepted the proposal with a condition that
they should gain the consent of their families, and with the hope that
they would be accompanied by others. The inhabitants of the Valleys did
not wish to make any determination before knowing to what kind of
country they were invited, and commissioners were therefore sent to
Calabria, with the youths to whom the lands had been offered.

"In this country," says Gilles, "there are beautiful ranges of fertile
soil, clothed with every kind of fruit trees, such as the olive and
orange; in the plains, vines, and chestnut trees; along the shore, the
hazel and the oak; upon the sides and summits of the mountains, the
larch and the fir tree, as in the Alps--every where were signs both of a
land promising rich rewards to the laborer, and but few inhabitants. The
expatriation was decided on; the young, ready to depart, married;
proprietors sold their farms; some member of every family prepared for
the journey." The joys of the nuptial ceremony mingled with the sorrow of
departure from home, and more than one marriage cortege took its place
in the caravan of exile. But they could say, as the Hebrews going forth
to the promised land, _The tabernacle of the Lord is with us_, for the
travellers took with them an ancestral Bible, the source of all
consolation and courage. At the foot of the mountains, father and son,
and mother and daughter embraced, weeping and praying together, that the
God of their fathers would bless them. And the blessing of heaven was
not wanting to this colony. The industrious cities of Saint-Sixte, la
Quardia, and Montolieu, arose as by magic amid this land of ignorance,
and presented the spectacle of a praying and working Christian people,
refusing homage to the superstitions of the age. The reformation in the
West brought many fears, and the wrath of the Roman pontiffs was not
stayed; the emissaries of the inquisition hunted these faithful people
through their peaceful valleys; they were destined to perish; and the
massacre of the Vaudois of Provence was a mournful pendant to the
extermination of the Vaudois of Calabria. The historian weeps that he
cannot cast a veil over this picture; yet the mind, agonized with scenes
so atrocious, finds repose in the contemplation of such an admirable
character as that of the martyr-pastor, Louis Pascal, exhaling all his
soul in his last letter to his affianced Camilla Guarina: 'The love
which I bear you is increased by that which I bear to God, and as much
as I have been refined by the Christian religion, so much the more have
I been enabled to love you. Adieu. Console yourself in Jesus, and may
you be a pattern of his doctrines.' "There are few subjects," says the
reviewer, "more worthy the ambition of a writer, or that are more
inspiring, than the history of the martyred Vaudois, in the inaccessible
solitudes of the Alps, for some time protected by their obscurity, but
at last devoted for ages to the most cruel persecutions." The mystery of
the origin of this people, the drama of their destiny, the melancholy
interest which attaches itself to the different phases of their
existence, command in their favor the attention of the world, and
suffuse the pages of the historian with that sympathetic emotion so
easily communicated to the reader, and which is the very soul of
departed times.

       *       *       *       *       *

AS WE learn from a recent number of the _Journal des Missions
Evangeliques_, a new work appeared in China toward the end of 1849,
under the title _Of the Geography and History of Foreign Nations_, by
SEU-KE-JU, the viceroy of the important province of Foh-kien. It is in
ten volumes, though the whole of them do not contain more matter than
one of our common school text books, and is accompanied by a map of the
world and several other maps. It has a preface by the Governor-General
of the province, in which he declares that it is better than all
previous geographical works in China, and recommends it to his
countrymen as perfectly worthy of confidence. The two first volumes are
occupied by a general introduction, in which Seu-ke-ju speaks of the
sources from which he has derived information, and of the many
difficulties he has had to contend with; he explains the use of maps,
gives the simplest ideas concerning the spherical form of the earth, and
expatiates on the difference of climates. Nothing can give a better idea
of the profound ignorance of the Chinese upon these subjects, and
nothing prove more decisively that they never can have possessed great
mathematicians and astronomers than such passages as the following:
"Formerly we were aware of the existence of an icy sea at the north
only, but had never heard that there was another at the south. And when
men from the west showed us maps on which such a sea was put down, we
thought they had made a mistake from ignorance of the Chinese language,
and had transferred to the south what ought to be in the north. But when
we inquired about this subject of an American named Abeel (a missionary
at Amoy), he said that the fact was certain, and now it indeed appears
to us undeniable. The provinces of Kwang-tong and Foh-kien are mostly
situated under the Kwang-tau (tropic) of the north, and when we compare
them with the northern provinces in respect of heat, the temperature is
found to be very different. At the time when we did not know that the
sun passed over the middle of the globe, this fact caused us to believe
that the farther one went to the south, the greater was the heat, and
that at the south pole the stones ran in a melted state like a stream of
gold. But this is not so; persons who go from Kwang-tong or Foh-kien,
will find at the distance of five or six thousand _li_ the island of
Borneo, which lies exactly under the Shih-tau (equator), and where the
winter is like our summer. Going thence to the south-west the voyager
reaches the south of Africa, where hail and snow are known; still
farther on is Patagonia or the southern point of South America, near to
the Hih-tau (polar circle) of the south, where ice is continual. Thus
these warm and cold regions are successive, and therefore the region of
the south pole is spoken of as a sea of ice. And why should the Chinese
doubt this, because their ships have never gone so far and the province
of Kwang-tong lies at the frontier of their country? In truth, we must
listen to and accept this explanation."

From this simple piece of instruction, the author of the new Geography
proceeds to describe the regions to the west. We give a specimen from
his account of Europe: "Europe lies at the north-west of Asia, from
which it is separated by the Ural mountains, but is only one quarter as
large. Before the dynasty Hia (2469 B.C.), the inhabitants lived by
hunting, and were clothed in the skins of the animals they killed, as is
the way of the Mongols. But toward the middle of that dynasty (2000
B.C.), civilization, agriculture and the arts began in the states of
Greece, situated at the eastern end of the continent." This is followed
by a very brief review of the rise and decay of the Roman Empire, of the
rise of Moslemism and of the conquests of Tamerlane; next comes a
description of the individual countries, with their resources, military
and naval forces, "all things about which writers give very different
reports, so that it is not possible to be exact, for errors must needs
be many where proofs are wanting." How well Seu-ke-ju understands the
machinery of European states is apparent from what he says about public
debts: "Thus the interest of the borrowed money is paid yearly, while
the debt continually increases, inasmuch as the income of the year
suffices not for the wants of the Government. Then are new taxes laid
upon the people which embitters and makes them rebellious, while the
governments grow weaker and fall into decay. The half of Europe is now
in this condition." To the mental superiority of the western nations,
and especially to the talent and energy of the Americans, Seu-ke-ju
renders full justice. On the whole this book is an indication of real
progress among the Chinese, much as it militates against the old notion
which ascribed to them a considerable degree of scientific knowledge.
There can be no doubt that when the prejudice among them, according to
which the Celestial Empire is the greatest country, and its inhabitants
the most wonderful people of the world, is dissipated, their native
thirst for knowledge will urge them forward with rapidity. The habit of
visiting foreign lands which is springing up among them, will also do
its part, in breaking up the monotony and stagnation into which they
have grown. In addition to this book by Seu-ke-ju, a number of other
geographical works, drawn from English, German, and French sources, have
appeared in Chinese, at the instance mainly of high officers of state.

       *       *       *       *       *

The Society of Horticulture, for Paris and Central France, is about to
issue a large work, entitled _Pomologie Française, ou Monographie
Generale des Arbres Fruitiers_. This will be one of the best works on
fruit trees ever published, and our gardeners will do well to look after
it.

       *       *       *       *       *

The most elaborate and erudite modern work on international law is the
_Histoire du Droit des Gens et des Relations Internationales_, by Prof.
G. LAURENT, of Ghent, of which three volumes were published, in 1850, in
that city. The first volume treats of international law in Hindostan,
Egypt, Judea, Assyria, Media and Persia, Phoenicia, and Carthage; the
second is devoted to Greece, and the third to Rome. The mass of learning
exhibited is astonishing. The idea of the author is that through the
great course of history, humanity is ripening to a state of universal
peace and fraternity. It is unnecessary to say that from this
stand-point, international law becomes a subject of the grandest
proportions and significance. Prof. Laurent treats it with as much
ability as erudition.

ALEXANDRE DUMAS is the subject of a masterly criticism in the
_Grenzboten_, in which justice is done him with that impartiality and
moderation in respect to which a competent German is unequalled among
critics. Among Dumas's dramas, the writer regards _Caligula_ as the best
in spite of its grossness. In all the excesses, indecencies,
improbabilities, and lawlessness of his romances, there is the trace of
splendid talent. It is doubtful whether this talent could have been
developed by industry and an earnest love of art into a higher sphere of
power. Finally, the writer concludes that Dumas is doing more to corrupt
the taste of France and Germany than any other romancer, except,
perhaps, Eugene Sue.

       *       *       *       *       *

Among the French socialists there has recently been considerable
discussion on the principles of Government--discussion which has
resulted in angry separation of the republican party into opposite
camps; Rittinghausen, Considerant, Ledru Rollin, and Girardin having
been severally aiming at the destruction of representative government,
and the erection of _Direct Legislation_--a scheme which LOUIS BLANC, in
his _Plus de Girondins_ and _La Republique Une et Indivisible_, has
opposed with a degree of ability which promised to restore him to a
respectable reputation. But PRUDHON, in his last book, not only
denounces Rollin, Girardin, Blanc, and all the rest, with a school-boy
vehemence, which _The Leader_ says is "pitiless," but he attacks without
disguise _all government_, no matter what its form, as false in
principle and vicious in effect. He believes neither in absolute
monarchy, in constitutional monarchy, nor in democracy; he admits no
divine right, no legal right, no right of majorities. He only believes
in the right of justice in the empire of reason. The principle of
authority he rejects in politics as in religion: he will admit only
liberty--reason. Prudhon has won a name for talents, and has frequently
written with real force--but such propositions are a disgrace to any man
who has ever possessed a good reputation.

       *       *       *       *       *

The _Republique_, a new book just published By Paris, by M. LEFRANC, a
member of the Assembly, treats of the events which have filled up the
time since the revolution of 1848. M. Lefranc is an ardent republican,
and his exhibition of this momentous period is not favorable to the
party which hitherto, at least, has managed to gain the victory, if not
to assure itself the possession of its traits. His style is singularly
animated and impassioned, and it is not without justice that a prominent
Parisian critic (Eugene Pelletan) calls him the most direct inheritor of
that light-armed yet potent style of polemical writing, of which the
famous Camille Desmoulins was so great a master.

       *       *       *       *       *

The popularity of SCOTT, in France, is shown by the appearance of the
_twentieth_ edition of Defauconpret's translation of his novels; and the
announcement of an entirely new translation of them by another hand. If
Defauconpret had been the only translator, _twenty_ editions would have
been an immense success; but there are besides, at the very least,
_twenty_ different translations of the complete works (many of which
have had two, three, or four editions), and innumerable translations of
particular novels, especially of _Quentin Durward_.

       *       *       *       *       *

M. BLANQUART EVRARD, has commenced at Paris what he calls _D'Album
Photographique de l'Artiste et de l'Amateur_. It is a pictorial work,
containing reproductions by photography on paper of well-known works of
art by ancient and modern masters. We have not seen it, but hear it
spoken of as successful.

       *       *       *       *       *

M. GUIZOT has now published under the title of _Méditations et Etudes
Morales_, a collection of essays that had previously appeared on the
immortality of the soul, and kindred topics. To them he has added a new
preface, in which he discusses the question of liberty and authority in
religion.

       *       *       *       *       *

On the night of the 13th of November, FRANCOIS ARAGO, the great
astronomer, was brought from his sick bed to the French Assembly, and
walked up the chamber, supported by the arms of two of his colleagues,
to give his vote in favor of Universal Suffrage.

       *       *       *       *       *

M. OTT has just published at Paris a _Traité d'Economie Sociale_, which
has the merit of giving a careful statement of the doctrines of the
various schools of Economists and Socialists. It makes a good-sized
octavo volume.

       *       *       *       *       *

LOUIS FASQEULLE, professor of modern languages in the University of
Michigan, has published (Mark H. Newman) a _New Method of Learning the
French Language_, embracing the analytic and synthetic modes of
instruction, on the plan of Woodbury's method with the German.

       *       *       *       *       *

M. LOUIS REYBAUD has published at Paris a new work under the title of
_Athanase Robichon Candidat Perpetuel à la Présidence de la Republique_.
M. Reybaud is one of the keenest of political satirists.

       *       *       *       *       *

The French papers state that Lord Brougham, in his retreat at Cannes, is
preparing a work to be entitled _France and England before Europe in
1851_.

       *       *       *       *       *

DON JUAN HARTZENBUSCH has commenced, in Madrid, a reprint of the works
of her most distinguished authors of Spain. From the earliest ages to
the present time. It is entitled _Biblioteca de Autores Espanoles_, and
it is a more difficult undertaking than things of the kind in western
and northern Europe. Since many works of the principal authors never
having been printed at all, the compiler has to hunt after them in
libraries, in convents, and in out of the way places--whilst others,
having been negligently printed, have to be revised line by line.
Hartzenbusch has brought to light _fourteen_ comedies of Calderon de la
Barca, which previous editors were unable to discover. The total number
of Calderon's pieces the world now possesses is therefore 122; and there
is reason to believe that they are all he wrote, with the exception of
two or three, which there is no hope of recovering.

       *       *       *       *       *

The first and second volumes of the _Grenville Papers_--being the
correspondence of Richard, Earl Temple, and George Grenville, their
friends and contemporaries, including Mr. Grenville's Political
Diary--were published in London on the 18th of December. We have before
alluded to this work, as one likely to illustrate some points in
American history, and possibly to furnish new means for determining the
vexed question of the authorship of Junius. Among the contents will be
found letters from George the Third, the Dukes of Cumberland, Newcastle,
Devonshire, Grafton, and Bedford; Marquess Granby; Earls Bute, Temple,
Sandwich, Egremont, Halifax, Hardwicke, Chatham, Mansfield, Northington,
Suffolk, Hillsborough, and Hertford; Lords Lyttleton, Camden, Holland,
Olive, and George Sackville; Marshal Conway, Horace Walpole, Edmund
Burke, George Grenville, John Wilkes, William Gerard Hamilton, Augustus
Hervey, Mr. Jenkinson (first Earl of Liverpool), Mr. Wedderburn, Charles
Yorke, Charles Townsend, Mr. Charles Lloyd, and the author of the
Letters of Junius.

The fifth and sixth volumes of Lord MAHON's _History of England_,
embracing the first years of the American war, 1763-80, were also nearly
ready. We regret that the earlier volumes of this important history,
edited by Professor Reed, of Philadelphia, and published by the
Appletons, have not been so well received as to warrant an expectation
that the continuation will be reprinted.

       *       *       *       *       *

SIR JAMES STEPHEN'S _Lectures on the History of France_, is an
exceedingly interesting work, of which we hope to see an American
edition. The author is well known in this country, by the largely
circulated volume of his _Miscellanies_, published in Philadelphia, a
few years ago. The present work consists of discourses delivered by him
as professor of History in the University of Cambridge, and though not
of the highest rank among systematic histories, it is inferior to very
few in occasional grouping and character painting.

       *       *       *       *       *

The third volume of Mr. MERRIVALE's _History of the Romans under the
Empire_; the ninth and tenth volumes of Mr. GROTE'S _History of Greece_;
and a seventh edition of SHARON TURNER'S _History of the Anglo-Saxons_,
are among the most interesting English announcements in historical
literature.

       *       *       *       *       *

The _Life of Dr. Chalmers_, by Dr. Hanna, will extend to four volumes;
the third, just re-published by the Harpers, is the most interesting yet
issued. We observe that a volume of _Reminiscences of Chalmers_ has been
published in London, by Mr. JOHN ANDERSON.

       *       *       *       *       *

ALICE CAREY'S _Clovernook, or Recollections of our Neighborhood in the
West_, has just been published by Mr. Redfield, in one volume,
illustrated by Darley. To those who have read one of the introductory
chapters of this work which we copied into the _International_ for
November, it seems quite unnecessary to say any thing in illustration or
commendation of the author's genius; they will be likely to purchase
_Clovernook_ as soon as they are advised of its appearance. We have
nothing in our literature, descriptive of country life, to be compared
with it, for effective painting or for truthfulness. The scene is laid
in Ohio--near Cincinnati--while a suburban village is gradually growing
up from the simple cottage in the wilderness till it becomes a favorite
resort of patrician families; and few novelists have been more happy in
describing the "progress of society," or exhibited, in such
performances, more humor, tenderness, or pathos.

We have from Ticknor & Co., of Boston, a second series of _Greenwood
Leaves_, by the public's old favorite, GRACE GREENWOOD. The tales which
it embraces are in the author's happiest vein, and the letters are
dashing and piquant, but liable to some objections which we might make
in a longer notice. The same publishers have issued a capital book for
children, entitled _Recollections of My Childhood_, by the same author.

CAROLINE CHEESEBRO is another young magazinist, whose productions have
been very popular. Her _Dreamland by Daylight_ (published by Redfield),
a collection of tales and sketches, contains much fine sentiment and
displays a ready fancy and a just appreciation of social life, but she
has a little less individuality than Miss Carey or Grace Greenwood.

       *       *       *       *       *

It will gratify every reader of American history to learn that we are
soon to have three phases of the character of Washington, presented by
men so eminent as DANIEL WEBSTER, Mr. IRVING, and Mr. BANCROFT. Mr.
Webster, we have reason to believe, has nearly completed his Memoir of
the Political Life of the great Chief; Mr. Irving's work, which has been
some time announced, will make us familiar with his personal qualities,
and Mr. Bancroft's History of the Revolution will display his military
career as it has never before been exhibited, as it can be presented by
none but our greatest historian. The first volume of Mr. Bancroft's work
on the Revolution is passing rapidly through the press, and it will
doubtless be published early in the spring. It has been kept back by the
author's failure to obtain, until within a few weeks past, certain
important documents necessary to its completion.

       *       *       *       *       *

Mr. HART of Philadelphia, has just published _A Method of Horsemanship,
founded on new Principles, and including the Breaking and Training of
Horses, with Instructions for obtaining a good Seat; illustrated with
Engravings_: by F. BAUCHER. It is translated from the ninth Paris
edition, and makes a handsome duodecimo. Among the many systems of
horsemanship which have appeared none has fallen under our notice so
valuable as this. The chief defect of previous publications has been
that they were mere collections of rules, applicable to particular cases
only, based on no established principles, and therefore as impracticable
for general purposes as crude and unphilosophical in design. Ignorance
was at the root of this. The authors did not understand the nature of
the animal about which they professed to teach so much, and their rules
were quite as applicable to the bear or the hyena. The agent employed by
the old masters was force--severe bitting, hard whipping, and deep
spurring. Some went so far as to recommend the use of fire, in extreme
cases--thus establishing a kind of equine martyrdom, in which the poor
brute suffered indeed, but without any advantage to the faith of his
more brutal persecutors. These various punishments were prescribed with
the utmost coolness, often with jocularity, as if the horse under the
worst tortures were only getting his deserts, and as if the amount and
importance of his laborious services by no means entitled him to any
forbearance. Human ingenuity is capable of absolute development in the
direction of cruelty; it seems to be the most visible and satisfying
side of our capabilities; no man who commits a slow murder, whether on
one animal or another, can doubt that he has done _something_--the proof
stares him in the face. Then again, murder is adapted to the lowest
capacities; there is not a groom in the land less capable of taking life
than the finest gentleman. The issue of all this has been--if the horse
were not killed at once--to shorten his days, to lessen his
intelligence, to injure his form, and to degrade and dwindle his race,
from generation to generation.

Who, after following the old course of training, has a right to complain
of the degeneracy which he sees in the broken-hearted drudges around
him, or, having any feeling, will hesitate in adopting a more humane
course, if one be offered? Such a course is submitted to English readers
for the first time in this translation of M. Baucher. The harsh bit is
entirely cast aside, and the whip and spur are used very sparingly--as
means of persuasion only, never as instruments of punishment. Baucher's
system is intended to develope the better instincts of the animal, not
to punish the vices which we have taught him, in vain efforts to subdue
a strength incalculably greater than ours--which by resolute cruelty we
have forced him to employ in resisting our unjust demands. Baucher lays
it down as an axiom that no horse is naturally vicious, but that his
vices are acquired through bad management. One may possess a higher
temper than another, to be sure, but spirited horses are those which
turn out best under his method of training. The more intelligent the
animal, the more capable of instruction--the more frolicksome but the
more tractable is his disposition. We all remember "Mayfly," a trick
horse at Welch's circus, that could perform anything possible to a
horse: he was a pupil of Baucher. But before falling into his skilful
hands, this animal was so vicious, that on the race course it was
thought necessary to start him from a box, in order to prevent his
injuring himself and the other horses. Here there is an instance in
which confirmed ill habits were completely eradicated by proper
discipline; and how much easier must it be to establish good ones, where
we have nothing but pliant ignorance with which to contend. It is not
within our limits to enter fully into the different merits of Baucher's
treatise. It is sufficient to say that it has been tested, approved and
adopted by the most skilful riders of Europe--the late Duc d'Orleans, a
more than graceful horseman, having been Baucher's patron until the day
of his unfortunate death. The most vigorous and searching inquiries of
the government failed to overthrow the system in a single particular;
and wherever Baucher was led into argument with his opponents, the mere
force of his philosophical reasonings was sufficient to put them down.
His book has gone through nine editions in France, and as many in
Russia, Germany, Belgium and Holland. The present translation is well
executed, in clear comprehensible English; its only defect, if that can
be considered one, is, that it is somewhat too idiomatically precise. So
little does it smell of the usual vulgarity of the stable, that we are
led to believe Baucher has fallen into the hands of a translator of
taste and refinement, who not only admires the system for its practical
uses, but also for its logical exactness and genial humanity. The work
is copiously illustrated with explanatory engravings, and is well
printed on good thick paper, as a manual should be. Nothing is wanting,
but the extensive circulation which it deserves, to make it useful to
equestrians, and beneficial to that much abused animal to which it is
devoted.

       *       *       *       *       *

The _Heroes and Martyrs of the Modern Missionary Enterprise, with some
Sketches of the Earlier Missionaries_, edited by L. E. SMITH, with an
introduction by Rev. Dr. SPRAGUE, will soon be published by P. Brockett
& Co., of Hartford. It will be an octavo of about six hundred pages,
with portraits.




The Fine Arts.


KAULBACH's picture of the Destruction of Jerusalem is at last finished,
in fresco, upon the walls of the New Museum in Berlin. It is worth a
journey thither to see it. Nor is it alone. The other parts of the
series of pictures which adorn the great stairway of that edifice, are
rapidly advancing to completion. The five broad pilasters, which
separate the main pictures, are nearly done, many of the chief figures
being finished in color, while others are drawn in their places. They
will exhaust the history of the early religious and intellectual
development of humanity. The Egyptian, Indian, Persian, Greek, Hebrew,
and Roman religions, are all illustrated with that masterly genius,
comprehensiveness and fertility of imagination, for which Kaulbach is
without a peer among the artists of the age. Each religion is depicted
in the persons of its divinities and early teachers and heroes.
Thoroughly to understand the whole scope of these pictures, requires as
much learning in the theology and mythology of these antique races as
the artist has employed in painting them, not to speak of skill in
deciphering allegories; but to be impressed with their wonderful
richness, grandeur, and beauty, requires no learning, beyond a true eye
and a mind capable of feeling. Besides, these mythological pictures, the
symbolical men of history are introduced, such as Moses and Solon. The
Grecian mythological part is not yet completed, the artist having
reserved that to be done next summer; in it he intends to lay himself
out as on a favorite and congenial subject.

       *       *       *       *       *

The works of INGRES, the eminent French painter, have been published in
splendid style by the great house of Didot at Paris.




Noctes Amicæ.


There are being born into this great city a vast number of young
people--enough babies indeed, every day, to make a great noise in the
world sometime, if every one should turn out to be a Demosthenes or
Cicero, an Alexander, a Cæsar, or a Napoleon. But though every dame may
think her own the prettiest child alive, it seems to us not altogether
agreeable to good taste for her to anticipate the judgment of the future
in naming it after that celebrity that he or she is destined to rival or
eclipse. In seriousness, the habit which prevails so generally of
bestowing illustrious names in baptism, is ridiculous and disgraceful,
and is continually productive of misfortunes to the victims, if they
happen to be possessed of parts to elevate them from a vulgar condition.
In the south they manage these things better; the Cæsars, Hannibals,
Napoleons, Le Grands, Rexes, &c., are all to be found in the negro
yards; but almost every public occasion in the north, affords an
instance by which a "man of the people," hearing his name called in an
assembly, or seeing it printed in a journal, is compelled to feel shame
for the weakness of his parents, by which he is burthened with a name
that belittles the greatest actions of which he is capable.

       *       *       *       *       *

In illustration of the passport system, a good story is told of the
recent arrest of a Turk on the frontier of the Herzegowina. For some
time past, the Turkish Government has allowed its authorities to wring
something out of the people by means of passports and the devices
thereunto belonging, but it chances that a great many persons in power
can neither read nor write, and therefore a shrewd fellow may palm any
species of official-looking paper he thinks proper as his regular pass
on the officials; thus it was that a Turk who had travelled some time in
peace with a document of imposing appearance, which he had picked up in
the streets at Constantinople, at last found one who could read it, and
it was discovered to be one of Jean Maria Farina's Eau de Cologne
labels!

       *       *       *       *       *

A Mayor of the department of the Haute-Saône, France, has had the
following decision placarded on the church door:--

     "Whereas, at all times, there have been disorders, and always
     will be; and whereas, at all times, there have been laws to
     repress them, and always will be; and whereas magistrates are
     appointed to have them properly executed, I ask, ought we, or
     ought we not, to do our duty? If we do our duty, we are
     calumniated. Well, then, taking these things into
     consideration, I declare that if that horde of
     good-for-nothings who are in the habit of frequenting the
     churchyard during Divine service, shall continue to do so, they
     will have to come into collision with me."

       *       *       *       *       *

M. MICHAUD, of the French Academy, is pleased to express literary malice
against those whom he loves and esteems the most. A political man came
one day to confide a secret to him, and recommended to him the strictest
discretion. "_Do not be uneasy_," replied M. Michaud, "_your secret
shall be well kept; I will hide it in the complete works of my friend
Lacretelle_." We think we know of an American author whose "various
writings" would serve the same purpose.

       *       *       *       *       *

In the last _International_ we mentioned the death of the well-known
ballad composer ALEXANDER LEE. Some painfully interesting circumstances
of his last days have since appeared in the journals:

     "About a week before his death, he called on a friend and
     brother pianist, Thirlwall, stated his extreme destitution, and
     asked that a concert might be got up for his relief. This was
     done, generously and promptly. The concert was advertised, Lee
     and Thirlwall to preside at the piano. The other performances
     were to be by Mr. Thirlwall's four daughters, and by half a
     dozen other friends and pupils of Lee, who had offered their
     gratuitous services. On the day of the proposed concert, he for
     whose benefit it was to be given, died. It was thought best to
     perform the concert, however, and to devote the proceeds to
     paying the proper honors to his memory. They did so, but most
     of those who tried their voices were too much affected to sing,
     and the performance was at last brought to an abrupt
     termination by one of his pupils, who burst into a passion of
     tears while endeavoring to sing _The Spirit of Good_, an air by
     the departed master."

       *       *       *       *       *

STORIES of the sagacity of elephants are endless; here are two which
imply complicated processes of thought:

     "Another elephant that was exhibited in London was made to go
     through a variety of tricks, and among them that of picking up
     a sixpence with its trunk; but on one occasion the coin rolled
     near a wall beyond its reach. As the animal was still ordered
     to get it, it paused for a moment as if for consideration, and
     then, stretching forth its trunk to its greatest extent, blew
     with such force on the money that it was driven against the
     wall, and was brought within reach by the recoil. An officer in
     the Bengal army had a very fine and favorite elephant, which
     was supplied daily in his presence with a certain allowance of
     food, but being compelled to absent himself on a journey, the
     keeper of the beast diminished the ration of food, and the
     animal became daily thinner and weaker. When its master
     returned, the elephant exhibited the greatest signs of
     pleasure; the feeding time came, and the keeper laid before it
     the former full allowance of food, which it divided into two
     parts, consuming one immediately, and leaving the other
     untouched. The officer, knowing the sagacity of his favorite,
     saw immediately the fraud that had been practised, and made the
     man confess his crime."

       *       *       *       *       *

A delegation of those disgusting creatures of the feminine or neuter
gender, who hold conventions for the discussion of "Women's Rights,"
obtruded into the presence of the wife of Kossuth, just before the
Hungarian left England, with an address, which, in addition to
expressions of sympathy, contained an intimation that a statement of
opinions was desired respecting their efforts to achieve the "freedom of
their sex." The lady replied that she thanked them for their attentions,
and that, with respect to her views on the emancipation of woman, she
had in earlier years confined herself to the circle of her domestic
duties, and had never been tempted to look beyond it; that latterly the
overwhelming course of events had left her, as might be well supposed,
still less leisure for any speculations of this kind; it would, moreover
(such was the conclusion of her little speech), be forgiven in her, the
wife of Kossuth--a man whom the general voice, not more than her own
heart, pronounced distinguished--if she submitted herself entirely to
his guidance, and never thought of emancipation! Probably this admirable
answer has saved her the annoyance of receiving any such visitors in
this country.

       *       *       *       *       *

We find the following in the _Gazette des Tribunaux_:

     "In 1814, Lord W---- was colonel of an English regiment, and
     joined the allied army which invaded France. Shortly before his
     departure from Dover, where he was in garrison, the Colonel
     married a rich heiress, but he left her with her family whilst
     he went to encounter the risk of combats. The campaign of
     France being terminated, nothing further was heard of the
     colonel; it was known, however, that his regiment had been
     almost entirely destroyed in a combat with the French in the
     south of France, but his death not having been regularly
     proved, some law proceedings took place between the different
     members of his family respecting property to a very large
     amount. These proceedings, which are not yet terminated, will,
     no doubt, receive a solution from the following singular
     circumstances:--Some time ago an old soldier, M. R----,
     residing in the environs of Marseilles, came to Paris on family
     affairs, and took up his residence in a hotel in the quarter of
     the Chaussée d' Antin. Having run short of money, he begged the
     hotel-keeper, M. D----, to advance him 100f., and as a
     guarantee he left him provisionally a superb gold watch,
     ornamented with diamonds, and on the back of which was the
     miniature of a lady, with the initials 'E. W----.' M. R----
     told the hotel-keeper that in a combat in 1814, in the south of
     France, he had wounded and taken prisoner an English colonel;
     that the colonel dying almost immediately after of his wounds,
     his watch had remained in his hands. He recommended M. D----to
     take particular care of the watch, and he went away, some days
     ago, announcing that he would soon send by the messageries the
     sum lent, and demand restitution of the watch. Two days back
     there was such a numerous gathering of travellers in the hotel
     of M. D----, that he was obliged to give up his own room to an
     Englishman. On seeing the watch hanging over the chimney the
     Englishman uttered a cry of surprise, and examined it closely.
     From the miniature on the back, and the replies of the hotel
     keeper to his questions, he recognized it as the property of
     his brother, Colonel W----. With an obstinacy peculiarly
     English, the Englishman would not give up the watch, and
     offered to pay 100,000f. for it if required; for it was, with
     the testimony of R----, the proof of the decease of his
     brother, and the termination of the law proceedings, which had
     been pending thirty years; but in the absence of the proprietor
     of the watch, the hotel-keeper could not dispose of it. To
     satisfy, however, the obstinacy of the Englishman he called in
     the commissary of police, who consented to take it as a
     deposit. The same day the Englishman set out for Marseilles to
     seek for Mr. R----."

       *       *       *       *       *

The London _Spectator_ has the following just observations on a
scandalous exhibition in the theatres:

     "There is a certain degree of elevation, especially in the
     course of human events, which foretells a speedy downfall.
     Tyrannies, before their decline, become more and more
     abominable; and probably the last tyrant is the one who deems
     his position most secure and his impunity best established. We
     are forced to this reflection by a burlesque on Auber's _Enfant
     Prodigue_, brought out this week at the Olympic. Here we have
     the most affecting story of sin and repentance, derived
     moreover from the lips of One whom almost every inhabitant of
     this island esteems as sacred, made the peg whereon to hang the
     ordinary jokes which we hear _usque ad nauseam_, every
     Christmas and Easter. There must be an overweening confidence
     in the safety of burlesque to make such an experiment possible.
     We are by no means anxious to assume the Puritanical tone, or
     to lay down the doctrine that certain subjects are to be
     excluded from any department of art. The most sacred themes are
     worked into oratorio-books, and the most straitlaced portion of
     the community applauds their combination with music. But when a
     subject is in itself solemn, let it be solemnly treated.
     Opinions may be divided as to whether the story of the Prodigal
     Son can with propriety be represented in the form of serious
     opera or spectacle, but that it is an improper theme for
     burlesque there cannot be the shadow of a doubt. Our dramatic
     authors have too long been in the habit of trying to raise a
     laugh about every thing, and we have too long been inundated
     with a species of drama in which the chief wit is anachronism
     and the chief wisdom a Cockney familiarity with the
     disreputable works of the Metropolis. We trust that the _début_
     of the _Prodigal Son_ at Vauxhall and the Casinos is that
     crisis of a disease which precedes a return to health, and that
     henceforth we shall hear less about Haroun Alraschid's views of
     the polka, and Julius Cæesar's estimate of cider cellars and
     cigars. As for the Olympic burlesque itself, it is by no means
     void of humor; nor is it unsuccessful. We only stigmatize it as
     the perfection of a bad genus."

Some time ago when a comic opera founded on the history of Joseph was
produced in England the people refused to hear it.




Historical Review of the Month.


In Great Britain through November, and in all the last month in the
United States, Louis Kossuth has been the object of principal interest
to every class of persons. Arriving in New-York on the 5th of December,
he has delivered a series of brilliant orations, probably unexampled in
all history by any one man, in so short a period, for displays of
various knowledge, effective method, and popular eloquence; and,
whatever his subject or occasion, the central point of every one was the
deliverance of Hungary. The most important result thus far is the
organization of a Finance Committee, consisting of a number of the most
eminent citizens of New-York, to collect voluntary contributions of
money, for the purpose of carrying on a projected resistance to Austria
and Russia by the Hungarians. Of the Government of this country, it is
understood, Kossuth asks no active intervention, but that England and
America shall unite in affirming the policy, that "every nation shall
have the right to make and alter its political institutions to suit its
own condition and convenience," and that the two nations (England and
America) shall not only _respect_ but _cause to be respected_ this
doctrine, so as to prevent Russia from again marching her armies into
Hungary. By a large majority of both Houses of Congress, Governor
Kossuth has been invited to Washington, and it is probable that he will
soon disclose in a speech before the representatives of the nation, more
fully than he has yet done, his plans, his hopes, and his expectations.

The first session of the thirty-second Congress assembled in Washington
on the 1st of December. In both houses there is a strong majority for
the Democratic party. Of the Senators, _twenty-four_ are Whigs, _two_
(Hale and Sumner) distinctive Free Soilers, _thirty-four_ Democrats
including Mr. Chase of Ohio, an avowed Abolitionist, and Messrs. Rhett
and Butler of South Carolina, Secessionists. There are now three
vacancies in the Senate, the last occasioned by the resignation of Mr.
Clay, on account of ill-health and his great age. This illustrious
orator and statesman may now be regarded as having closed his public
career. The present House consists of 233 Members, besides four
Delegates from Territories, who can speak but not vote. Of the Members,
the _Tribune_ reckons, _eighty-six_ Whigs, _five_ distinctive Free
Soilers (besides several attached to one or the other of the great
parties); the remaining _one hundred and forty-two_ are of the
Democratic party, including all the Southern Rights men and such Union
men as were not previously Whigs. The House was organized on the first
day of the session by the election of Linn Boyd, of Kentucky, as
Speaker, by a considerable majority.

The annual Message of the President was delivered on the 2nd. It is a
long document, of much value as a survey of the progress of the nation
in the past year, and of considerable importance for its intimations of
the policy of the administration. The President strongly condemns the
recent invasion of Cuba, and in connection with a history of that affair
states, that after the execution of fifty of the associates of Lopez,
Commodore Parker was sent to Havana to inquire respecting them. They all
acknowledged themselves guilty of the offence charged against them. At
the time of their execution, the main body of invaders was still in the
field, making war upon Spain. Though the invaders had forfeited the
protection of their country, no proper effort has been spared to obtain
the release of those now in confinement in Spanish prisons. The
President advocates adherence to our neutrality and non-intervention
policy. "Our true mission," he says, "is not to propagate our opinions,
or impose upon other countries our form of government, by artifice or
force; but to teach by example and show by our success, moderation, and
justice, the blessings of self-government, and the advantages of free
institutions." The correspondence with England and France respecting the
invasion of Cuba, maintains the principle, on the part of the United
States, that "in every regularly-documented merchant-vessel, the crew
who navigate it and those on board of it will find their protection in
the flag that is over them." The right of Consuls to security in the
country where they reside, is maintained, and mortification is expressed
at the attack on the Spanish Consul at New Orleans, and the insult to
the Spanish flag. The aggregate receipts for the last fiscal year were
$52,312,979.87, with the balance on hand at the commencement, making the
means of the treasury for the year $58,917,524.36, against
$48,005,878.66. The imports of the year ending June 30, 1851, were
$215,725 995, of which $4,967,901 were in specie. The exports were
$217,517,130, of which $178,546,555 were domestic, and $9,738,695
foreign products. Specie exported, $29,231,880. Since December 1850, the
payments of principal of the debt were $7,501,456.56, which is inclusive
of $3,242,400 paid under the 12th article of the treaty with Mexico, and
$2,591,213.45 awards under the late treaty with Mexico. The public debt,
exclusive of stock, authorized to be issued to Texas, was
$62,560,395.26. The receipts for the next fiscal year, are estimated at
$51,800,000, making, with the balance on hand, the available means of
the year $63,258,743.09. The expenditures are estimated at
$42,892,299.19, of which $33,343,198 are for ordinary purposes of
government, and $9,549,101.11 for purposes consequent upon the
acquisition of territory from Mexico. It is estimated that there will be
an unappropriated balance of $20,366,443.90 in the Treasury on the 30th
of June, 1853, to meet $6,237,931.35 of public debt due on the 1st of
July following. The value of the domestic exports for the year ending
June 30, 1851, show an increase of $43,646,322, which is owing to the
high price of cotton during the first half of the year, and the price of
which has since declined one-half. The value of the exports of
breadstuffs is only $21,948,653 against $26,051,373 in 1850, and
$68,701,921 in 1847--our largest year of export in that department of
trade. In rice the decrease this as compared with last year in the
export, is $460,917, which with the decrease in the value of tobacco
exported, makes an aggregate decrease in the two articles of $1,156,751.
From these premises the President draws the conclusion, that the
favorable results anticipated by the advocates of free trade from the
adoption of that policy have not been realized.

The case of Mr. Thrasher, alluded to in our last, is the subject of a
letter from the Secretary of State to our Minister in Madrid, under date
of December 13. Mr. Webster directs efforts to secure Mr. Thrasher's
release from imprisonment Mr. Thrasher was sent to Spain on the 24th
November.

An important violation of the stipulations of our last treaty with Great
Britain occurred in the harbor of San Juan on the ---- of November. The
steamship Prometheus, an American merchant vessel, plying between New
York and San Juan de Nicaragua in the California trade, was levied on by
the municipal authorities of San Juan or Greytown, for certain port
charges established by direction of British agents, as under the
government of the Indian or negro king of Mosquito. These charges the
Captain of the Prometheus refused to pay. A British vessel of war,
however fired on her twice, and after, under the peremptory orders of
the Captain of the brig, the Prometheus had returned to her anchorage,
he compelled her, under threats, to extinguish her fires, and place
herself at his mercy. The pretended dues were at length paid under
protest, and the facts in the case were communicated to Congress in a
Message from the President on the 17th. Commodore Parker has been
ordered to repair at once to the harbor of San Juan, with directions to
protect all merchant vessels from such surveilance in future, of which
he is to notify the British officers on his arrival.

The trial of the persons arrested for taking part in the outrages at
Christiana, in Pennsylvania, was commenced in Philadelphia on the 24th
of November, before Judges Grier and Kane, in the United States Circuit
Court, and on the 12th of December it was brought to a close by the
acquittal of the prisoners.

Information has been received at the State Department of the loss of the
whale ships Arabella and America, of New Bedford; the Henry Thompson and
Armada, of New London; the Mary Mitchell, of San Francisco, and the Sol
Sollares, of Fall River.

From California we have news of continued prosperity in mining, and in
agriculture and general interests. The project for dividing the State
into North and South California appears to have been urged with
determination and hopes of success in the recent convention held to
consider the subject. It is stated also that a large company of
emigrants recently left San Francisco for the Sandwich Islands, to
establish a Republican State there. To this end a Constitution had been
formed in San Francisco prior to their departure. There are many
circumstances which render this statement probable.

A Governor, Lieut. Governor, Attorney General, and members of the
Legislature were elected in Virginia on the 8th of December, under the
new constitution. The democrats elected their ticket by a large
majority. The Legislature of Indiana convened at Indianapolis on the 1st
December. Lieutenant Governor James H. Lane took the chair of the
Senate, and John D. Dunn was chosen Secretary. In the House, John W.
Davis (formerly Speaker at Washington, and since Commissioner to China)
was chosen Speaker by a unanimous vote. The Senate of South Carolina has
refused an application from the Federal Government for the sale of the
lighthouse at Bell's Bay. The House of Representatives has again refused
to allow the people to choose Electors of President and Vice President.
The vote was 66 to 48. The Legislature have passed a bill to provide for
the holding of a Secession Convention. The Texas Legislature assembled
at Austin on the 3d. Advices from Galveston state that Colonel Rogers
has succeeded in effecting a treaty with the Camanche Indians, and
recovered twenty-seven white captives from the Camanches, who had been
in bondage among them.

Of accidents and disasters, there have not been so many as in some
previous months. On the morning of November 27, about two o'clock, a
frightful collision took place between the steamers Die Vernon and
Archer, resulting in the loss of the latter vessel, with serious loss of
life. The accident occurred at Enterprise Island, about five miles above
the mouth of Illinois River. The whole number of lives lost by this
catastrophe was thirty-four, of whom ten were deck hands or firemen
engaged on the boat. On Sunday, December 7, the city of Portland was
visited by one of the most destructive conflagrations that ever occurred
in that place. The extent of the conflagration was owing mainly to the
want of water, the tide being down. There were twenty-seven stores
burnt, nine vessels damaged, and over one hundred thousand dollars worth
of merchandise destroyed.

Public Thanksgiving was held this year on the same day in Maine, New
Hampshire, Massachusetts, Rhode Island, Connecticut, New York, New
Jersey, Pennsylvania, Delaware, Maryland, Virginia, North Carolina,
Georgia, Alabama, Florida, Mississippi, Louisiana, Arkansas, Tennessee,
Kentucky, Missouri, Wisconsin, Iowa, Illinois, Indiana, Michigan, Ohio,
and Texas.

From British America there is not much intelligence of importance. The
recent elections have resulted favorably for the liberal party. A few
days ago the first vessel passed through the new channel of Lake St.
Peter, which has been constructed at a cost of $320,000. The dredging is
to be continued next season; and it is expected that by July the channel
will be 150 feet wide, and of adequate depth. By a new regulation of the
Post Office Department, all newspapers pass free between Canada and the
adjoining lower Provinces. The seat of Government has been changed four
times in 11 years. In 1840 it was at Toronto; next year the union of the
Provinces having been effected, it was at Kingston. From 1843 to 1849 it
was at Montreal. Toronto then became the capital; and now it has moved
to Quebec, under a pledge to come back at the expiration of four years.
Respecting the final result of the late movements of Carvajal in Mexico
it is not easy to form a conclusion, as the accounts are very
contradictory. Notwithstanding his recent discomfiture, it seems to be
believed that in the present distracted and impoverished condition of
Mexico, he may succeed. General Aragua had arrived at Matamoras with 80
men, with several pieces of artillery and one mortar, to reinforce
General Avalos. General Carvajal had not more than five or six hundred
men. The Mexican troops in Matamoras number 2,000.

From Nicaragua we learn, that on the 19th of November General Munoz, his
officers, and twenty-seven Americans, were captured by General Chamorro,
and committed to prison. If this intelligence is true, there is an end
of the war in that quarter.

From South America intelligence is as usual confused and unsatisfactory.
By way of England we have dates from Montevideo to the 12th Oct. The war
in the Banda Oriental was terminated. Oribe had retreated to his country
house at Rinton. The Argentine forces were reported to have joined
Urquiza. The Orientals had joined Gen. Garzon. A Provisional Government
was talked of. The chief results had been effected without bloodshed.

In Chili, the rebel army of 13,000 men, commanded by Carrera and
Arteaga, was met by 850 Government troops at Petorca, about forty
leagues from Santiago, on the 14th of October. They fought three hours,
and the result was the total defeat of the former, with a loss of 70
killed, 200 wounded, and 400 prisoners, including 36 officers. Carrera
and Arteaga have not been taken. The Government army, under Colonel
Vidaure, lost 15 killed and 15 wounded. 400 of the Government troops had
gone by sea to join Bulnes's army; the remainder had sailed for
Coquimbo, so that the affair in the North may be considered quelled. In
the South, General Cruz had an army of 400 regulars, and 2,500 militia,
the latter badly armed and clothed. He had not left the Province of
Conception. Bulnes was expected on the frontier of that province with
1,000 troops of the line and 300 militiamen, all well armed, clothed,
and paid. He appeared determined to run no risks, and it was generally
supposed he would soon restore order and quietness. In Ecuador, the
Presidency of General Urbina has been acceptable, and it is probable
that peace will be maintained for some time. Peru is in perfect
tranquillity, and this peaceable state is greatly contributing to its
advancement. Bolivia is also in peace, although the Congress has not
fulfilled the promises with which it began its meetings. At first, some
of the members dared to claim reforms in the Government, but they were
silenced, and that body will close its session without having done any
thing except abolishing Quina Bank, a measure which Government had
resolved.

Throughout all parts of Europe there seems to be a well grounded
apprehension of an extraordinary effort to put down every species of
despotism during the coming year. An impression prevails that the
occasion of the presidential election in France will be seized on for a
general rising, not only in that country, but in Italy, Germany, and
Hungary, and the Revolutionary Congress, in London, of which the
presiding genius is Mazzini, will predetermine affairs for all the
States, so that each shall have the greatest possible advantage.
Governor Kossuth will be back in time to assume the general leadership
in northern and eastern Europe.

From England we have intelligence of no important movement since the
departure of Kossuth. No subject attracts more attention than that of
the extensive and systematic emigration which is taking place to America
and Australia. We learn from the report of the Registrar-General, for
the three months ended 30th September last, that during those months
85,603 emigrants sailed from the several ports at which government
emigration agents are stationed. This is at the rate of nearly 1,000
persons a day. It is probable that one-half of the total number were
Irish. Of the 85,603, 68,960 sailed for the Atlantic ports of the Union;
and the remaining 16,643 were distributed in the proportions of 9,268 to
British North America, 6,097 to the Australian colonies, and 1,278 to
other places. So far, the total emigration of 1851 exceeded that of the
corresponding period of 1850, and the emigration of 1850 exceeded that
of any former year. The Ecclesiastical Titles Bill remains a dead
letter. The Roman Catholic prelates assume and are called by the
prohibited titles, and no steps are taken to enforce the law. The
attendance of Roman Catholics on the "Godless Colleges" does not appear
to have abated, and the Roman Catholic journals complain of the extent
of proselytism from their Church. The Submarine telegraph between
England and France has been completed, and messages between Paris and
London have been transmitted in half an hour. The event was celebrated
by the firing of cannon alternately at Calais and Dover, the fire for
each explosion being communicated by the electric current from the side
of the channel opposite the gun. An announcement is made by the _Times_
of the intended creation of a fourth Presidency in India, and a proposal
to remove the seat of government from Calcutta to Lahore. The new
province is to be constituted by the spacious province of the Punjab, to
which, on the east, it will annex the broad districts of Agra and
Bengal, up to the banks of the Sone, embracing the populous and
important cities of Allahabad and Benares, To the southwest it will
include our anomalous appendage of Scinde, and will thus extend itself
from the Hindoo Kosh to the mouths of the Indus, and from the mountains
of Beloochistan to the plains of the Ganges.

On the 24th November, about seventy of the principal merchants and
gentlemen in Liverpool, and the members of the American Chamber of
Commerce, entertained R. J. Walker, late Secretary to the Treasury of
the United States, at dinner at the Adelphi Hotel.

The French Legislative Assembly was opened on the 4th of November with a
long message from President Bonaparte. A disorderly and excited
discussion took place on the 18th, on the proposition of the Questors of
the Assembly to put the army in Paris directly under the orders of that
body, thereby removing it from the control of the Minister of War and
the President. The final vote was 300 for the proposition to 408 against
it. The mass of the Republicans opposed it, though General Cavaignac and
some of his immediate friends voted in the affirmative. The principal
topic of discussion in the Assembly has been the Communal Electoral law.
After long discussion, a clause has been adopted, making the time of
residence necessary to qualify a citizen to vote in the communal or
township elections, only two years instead of three as in the general
electoral law. This is regarded as a departure from the rigor of that
law and a step toward universal suffrage. It is thus a triumph for the
President, who seems, on the whole, decidedly to have gained ground
lately. Yet no real progress appears to have been yet made to a
settlement of French difficulties, except in so far as every month
added to the existence of a new government, the result of a revolution,
consolidates it, and enlists in its favor the conservative sentiment.

The prizes of the lottery of L'Ingots d'Or were drawn in the Champs
Elysées on the 16th. An immense crowd attended. A journeyman
hair-dresser obtained the prize of 200,000 francs, and an engine-driver
on a railway the first prize of 400,000 francs.

General Narvaez has returned to Spain, and is again in favor with the
queen.

The new King of Hanover, George the Fifth, has published a proclamation,
in which he pledges his royal word for "the inviolable maintenance of
the constitution of the country." Yet he has abandoned the policy of the
late king by appointing a reactionist ministry.

The Austrian currency appears to be in a worse condition than even our
own "continental" at the close of the Revolution. The proprietors of
houses have again raised their rents 20 and 25 per cent, and the seniors
begin to talk of the _Bancozettel_ period, when 100 florins in silver
sold for 700 florins in paper, and a pair of boots cost 75 paper
florins. Government itself has indirectly countenanced the depreciation
of the currency: the Finance Minister by the conditions of the loan, and
the Director of the Imperial theatre by raising the price of admittance
from 1fl. 24k. to 1fl. 48k., although the salaries of the actors are
less than formerly, as they have to pay the income tax.

The Russians have discovered four important veins of silver ore in the
Caucasus--one in the defile of Sadon, another in that of Ordona, a third
in that of Degorsk, and the fourth near Paltchick. The veins are rich in
the yield of silver. The working of them has already been commenced.

The Emperor of Russia has just ordered 6000 carriages to be built for
the different railways in his empire, in order to facilitate the
conveyance of troops.




Scientific Discoveries and Proceedings of Learned Societies


Ten pages of the last Compte Rendu of the _Paris Academy of Sciences_,
Mr. Walsh says, in a letter to the _Journal of Commerce_, are allotted
to an elaborate report from an able committee, on Mr. Gratiolet's Memoir
concerning the cerebral protuberances and furrows of man and the
_Primates_, the first order of animals in the class Mammalia, which
include the Ape. The inequalities on the brain of man and most
of the mammifers were denominated by the celebrated Willis,
_gyri_,--_convolutiones_,--_plicæ_; the French use the phrase--_plis
cerebraux_. The theories of Willis gave birth to the whole system of Dr.
Gall: the _plicæ_ are found in the class of mammifers alone; they are
rarer and less marked in the lower than in the higher species of the
great family of monkeys and baboons. They have been regarded as
_indicia_ or exponents of more or less perfection in the organ of
intelligence, by their number, their projection, and their measure of
separation by the furrows. The Report puts these two questions--among
the numerous differences of the cerebral _plicæ_, in number, disposition
and proportion. Is it possible to discriminate, in man, and among the
mammifers that have them, constant characters of particular types, of
families, genera, and even of species? 2d. Do some of those types
exclusively distinguish such or such a family, and are they more or less
marked or impaired, but still recognizable, according to the genera? The
Report adds--These questions are solved in the affirmative by the
results of Mr. Gratiolet's researches relatively to the great family of
_Apes_. The importance of these results for the zoologist and the
phrenologist is then signalized, and the insertion of the Memoir in the
volume of Transactions emphatically recommended. According to the
author, it is with the brain of the _Orang-Outang_ that the brain of man
has the most points of resemblance. The distinguishing points in regard
to all the Apes of the superior class are designated, and they
correspond to the physical indications which denote a higher
intellectual power.

       *       *       *       *       *

Respecting the _African Exploring Expeditions_, Miss Overweg (daughter
of one of the travellers) and the Chevalier Bunson, have received in
London interesting letters, stating the continued success of the
adventurous scholars. Previous to the 6th of August Dr. Overweg had
safely joined his companion, Dr. Barth, at Kuka. The latter started on a
highly interesting excursion to the kingdom of Adamowa, while the former
was exploring Lake Tsad. The boat, which had been taken to pieces in
Tripoli, and during a journey of twelve months had with immense trouble
been carried on camels across the burning sands of the Sahrá, had been
put together and launched on the lake; and the English colors were
hoisted in the presence, and to the great delight, of numerous natives.
Dr. Overweg, in exploring the islands of Lake Tsad, had been every where
received with kindness by their Pagan inhabitants.

       *       *       *       *       *

The _Courrier de la Gironde_ states that a civil engineer of Bordeaux,
named De Vignernon, has discovered the perpetual motion. His theory is
said to be to find in a mass of water, at rest, and contained within a
certain space, a continual force able to replace all other moving
powers. The above journal declares that this has been effected, and that
the machine invented by M. de Vignernon works admirably. A model of the
machine was to be exposed at Bordeaux for three days, before the
inventor's departure with it for London.

       *       *       *       *       *

The British Government has granted 1500_l._ to Colonel Rawlinson, to
assist him in his researches among the Assyrian antiquities; and
1200_l._ for the publication of the zoology and botany collected during
the Australian expedition of H.M.S. _Rattlesnake_, commanded by the late
Captain Stanley, son of the late Bishop of Norwich.

       *       *       *       *       *

The _Museum_ of Berlin says that a Prussian has discovered in the ruins
of Nineveh, a basso-relievo, representing a fleet of balloons--another
proof that "there is nothing new under the sun."

An invention by Captain Groetaers of the Belgian engineers has been
lately tested at Woolwich. It is a simple means of ascertaining the
distance of any object against which operations may have to be directed,
and is composed of a staff about an inch square and three feet in
length, with a brass scale on the upper side, and a slide, to which is
attached a plate of tin six inches long and three wide, painted red,
with a white stripe across its centre. A similar plate is held by an
assistant, and is connected with the instrument by a fine wire. When an
observation is to be taken, the observer looks at the distant object
through a glass fixed on the left of the scale, and adjusts the striped
plate by means of the slide; the assistant also looks through his glass,
standing a few feet in advance of his principal at the end of the wire,
and as soon as the two adjustments are effected and declared, the
distance is read off on the scale. In the three trials made at Woolwich,
the distance in one case, although more than 1000 yards, was determined
within two inches; and in two other attempts, within a foot. It is
obvious that such an instrument, if to be depended on, will admit of
being applied to other than military surveys and operations, and may be
made useful in the civil service.

       *       *       *       *       *

SIGNOR GORINI, of the University of Lodi, has recently made some
important discoveries which have been much discussed in the scientific
journals. His experiments to illustrate the origin of mountains are most
interesting. He melts some substances, known only to himself, in a
vessel, and allows the liquid to cool. At first it presents an even
surface, but a portion continues to ooze up from beneath, and gradually
elevations are formed, until at length ranges and chains of hills are
formed, exactly corresponding in shape with those which are found on the
earth. Even to the stratification the resemblance is complete, and M.
Gorini can produce on a small scale the phenomena of volcanoes and
earthquakes. He contends, therefore, "that the inequalities on the face
of the globe are the result of certain materials, first reduced by the
application of heat to a liquid state and then allowed gradually to
consolidate." The professor, has also, it is said, succeeded, to a
surprising extent, in preserving animal matter from decay without
resorting to any known process for that purpose. Specimens are shown by
him of portions of the human body which, without any alteration in their
natural appearance, have been exposed to the action of the atmosphere
for six and seven years; and he states that, at a trifling cost, he can
keep meat for any length of time in such a way that it can be eaten
quite fresh.

       *       *       *       *       *

COUNT CASTELNAU, a French Savant who is well known in the United States,
has lately communicated to the _Geographical Society of Paris_ the
result of some personal inquiries at Bahia, in South America, respecting
a race of human beings with tails. We suppose there is not a particle of
truth in the information he received, but he is so respectable a person
that his report deserves some notice. "I found myself in Bahia," he
says, "in the midst of a host of negro slaves, and thought it possible
to obtain from them information of the unknown parts of the African
continent. I soon discovered that the Mohammedan natives of Soudan were
much farther advanced in mind, than the idolatrous inhabitants of the
coast.--Several blacks of Haoussa and Adamawah related to me that they
had taken part in expeditions against a nation called _Niam Niams_, who
had _tails_. They traced their route, on which they encountered tigers,
giraffes, elephants, and _wild camels_. Nine days were consumed in
traversing an immense forest. They reached at length a numerous people
of the same complexion and frame as themselves, but with tails from
twelve to fifteen inches long, &c., &c."

       *       *       *       *       *

The Paris journals announce that M. Vallée, one of the officials of the
Jardin des Plantes, has succeeded in hatching a turtle by artificial
means. On the 14th of July last, he found some turtles' eggs on the sand
in the inclosure reserved for the turtles, and placed three of them
under his apparatus in the reptile department. On the 14th of this month
he examined the eggs, and found a turtle, about as big as a walnut, in
full life. He hopes to be able to rear it. This is the first case on
record of one of these creatures having been produced artificially.




Recent Deaths.


The _Brussels Herald_ announces that the aged naturalist, Savigny, has
lately died in Paris. Little has been heard of him for some time in the
scientific world. He was for thirty years a member of the Academy of
Sciences, and was among the _savants_ who accompanied Bonaparte to
Egypt.

       *       *       *       *       *

We noticed in the last _International_, the decease of Professor
Pattison and Dr. Kearney Rodgers, two of the most eminent physicians and
surgeons of New-York. Their deaths were succeeded in a few days by those
of Dr. J. E. DE KAY (a brother of the late Commodore De Kay), and Dr.
MANLEY. Dr. De Kay was eminent as a naturalist and as an author. He
wrote a brace of volumes about Turkey, many years ago, which were
published by the Harpers, and two of the quarto volumes of the Natural
History of the State of New-York, published by the Government. He was
intimate with Cooper, Irving, Halleck, Paulding, Dr. Francis, and all
the old set of _litterateurs_ in the city. Dr. Manley (father of the
distinguished authoress, Mrs. Emma C. Embury), was known at the
beginning of this century, for certain political relations, for his
connection with Thomas Paine in the last days of that famous infidel,
and ever since as a conspicuous physician and high-toned
gentleman--foremost especially in all proceedings which had the special
stamp of _New-York_ upon them, but not at all inclined to second any
movement originating in New England. He had lately accompanied his
accomplished and distinguished daughter to Paris, for the benefit of her
health, which has suffered for three or four years.

Ernest, King of Hanover, died at his palace at Herrenhausen, on the 11th
of November. The deceased prince--the fifth and last surviving son of
George the Third, was born at Kew, on the 5th of June, 1771. In 1786, he
accompanied his brothers, the Dukes of Sussex and Cambridge, to the
University of Gottingen. In 1790, he entered the army, and served in the
9th Hanoverian Light Dragoons from that period until 1793, when he
obtained the command of the Regiment. During the following year he took
an active part in the war which raged on the continent, and in a
rencontre near Toumay lost an eye, and was wounded in the arm. In 1799,
he was created Duke of Cumberland, Earl of Armagh, and Duke of
Teviotdale, with a Parliamentary grant of £12,000 per annum. In the
latter part of 1807, he joined the Prussian army, engaged in the
struggle against the encroaching power of Napoleon. On the defeat of the
French by the allied forces, he proceeded to Hanover, and took
possession of that kingdom on behalf of the English crown. In 1810, when
the Regency question formed the subject of much public excitement, he
entered into its discussion, and vehemently opposed the government on
every point, as he opposed the claims of the Roman Catholics, the repeal
of the Test and Corporation Acts, and the Reform Bill. He uniformly
supported in Parliament the opinions which guided the Pitt, Perceval,
and Liverpool Administrations; while he was a warm patron of the
Brunswick Clubs, and also held the office of Grand Master of the
Orangemen of Ireland. In reference to his transactions with this body,
many reports were circulated, imputing to him political designs and
objects of personal ambition connected with the succession to the crown.
On the night of the 31st of May, 1810, an extraordinary attempt was made
on his life. While asleep, he was attacked by a man armed with a sabre,
who inflicted several wounds on his head. He sprang out of bed to give
an alarm, but was followed in the dark by his assailant, and cut across
the thighs. On assistance arriving, Sellis, an Italian valet, who--it is
alleged--had thus attacked the Duke, was found locked in his own room
with his throat cut; and spots of blood were found on the floor of the
passage leading to the apartment which Sellis occupied. The next day a
coroner's inquest was held, and returned a verdict of _felo de se_. The
Duke of Cumberland soon recovered from his wounds, but this event gave
rise to much suspicion. In May, 1815, he was married to the third
daughter of the late reigning Duke of Mecklenburgh-Strelitz, a lady who
had been married twice previously, first to Prince Frederick Louis
Charles of Prussia; and secondly, to Prince Frederick William of
Solms-Braunfels The issue of this union was a prince, born at Berlin
(where the Duke resided from 1818 to 1828), May 27, 1817--the present
King of Hanover, known in England as Prince George of Cumberland. The
Duke continued to reside in England from 1828 until the death of William
IV., by which the Salique Law alienated the Crown of Hanover from that
of Great Britain--bestowing it on the Duke at the same time. At the time
of the suicide of Sellis, a statement was circulated to the effect that
the Duke had murdered his valet; that, in order to conceal this crime,
he had invented the story of a suicide, preceded by an attempt at
assassination, and that the wounds which the Duke received were
inflicted by himself. These accusations were negatived by evidence
produced at the inquest; still the force of that evidence, and even the
lapse of three-and-twenty years, did not prevent a revival of the
imputation, and the Duke in 1833 thought it necessary to institute a
prosecution in the Court of King's Bench, where the defendants were
found guilty. On that occasion he himself was examined as a witness, and
exhibited to the whole court, the marks of the wounds which he had
received in the head, from the inspection of which it was inferred that
they could never have been inflicted by his own hand. His titles were:
Prince Ernest Augustus, Duke of Cumberland, and Teviotdale in Great
Britain, and Earl of Armagh in Ireland, and King of Hanover. He was a
Knight of the Garter, a Knight of St. Patrick, G.C.B.; and G.C.H. He was
also a Knight of the Prussian orders of the Black and Red Eagle, a
Field-Marshal in the British army, Chancellor and Visitor of the
University of Dublin, a Commissioner of the Royal Military College and
Asylum, a Fellow of the Royal Society and of the Society of Arts.

George Frederick, his only son, and only surviving child, succeeds to
the throne of Hanover, but his blindness has suggested the precaution of
swearing in twelve councillors, who, to attend in rotation, two at a
time, will witness and verify all state documents to be signed by the
king. "The new king," says the _Morning Post_, "entirely lacks the
Parliamentary experience by which his father so largely profited; and we
greatly fear that his education in the strictest school of English High
Churchmanship is more calculated to insure his blameless life in a
private station, than to fit him for the arduous career of a king in the
nineteenth century."

The _Times_ sketches the character of the deceased in dark colors,
declaring that he "never concerned himself to disguise his sentiments,
to restrain his passions, or to conciliate the affections of those who
might possibly have been one day his subjects. Relying on the victory
which had been apparently declared for absolutism, inflexible in his
persuasions, and unbending in his demeanor, the Duke treated popular
opinion with a ferocity of contempt which could scarcely be surpassed at
St. Petersburgh or Warsaw. In his pleasures he asserted the license of
an Orleans or a Stuart, and although in this respect he wanted not for
patterns, yet rumor persisted in attaching to his excesses a certain
criminal blackness below the standard dye of aristocratic debauchery. It
is but reasonable to presume, that a man so universally obnoxious should
have suffered, to some extent, from that calumny which the best find it
difficult to repel, and practical evidence was furnished in certain
public suits, that the probabilities against him fell short of legal
proof. The impartial historian, however, will be likely to decide, that
there was little in the known character of Prince Ernest to exempt him
from sure suspicions touching what remained concealed."

       *       *       *       *       *

The Chevalier LAVY, Member of the Council of Mines in Sardinia and of
the Academy of Sciences in Turin, and described as being one of the most
learned of Italian numismatists, died early in November. He had created
at great cost a Museum of Medals, which he presented to his country, and
which bears his name.

THE HON. AUGUSTA MARY BYRON, better known as the Hon. Augusta Leigh,
died near the end of October, at her apartments in St. James's Palace,
in the sixty-eighth year of her age. She was the half-sister of the
author of _Childe Harold_. Her mother was Amelia Darcy, Baroness
Conyers, the divorced Duchess of Leeds, whose future happiness was
thought to be foretold in some homely rhymes which Dr. Johnson loved to
repeat:

    "When the Duke of Leeds shall married be
    To a fine young lady of high quality,
    How happy will that gentlewoman be
    In his Grace of Leeds' good company.
    She shall have all that's fine and fair,
    And the best of silk and satin shall wear;
    And ride in a coach to take the air,
    And have a horse in St. James's-square."

The poet was not, in this instance, a prophet; for the young lady proved
any thing but happy in his Grace of Leeds's good company. She was
divorced in 1779, and married immediately to Captain John Byron, by whom
she had one child, the subject of the present notice. She survived the
birth a year, dying 26th January, 1784. Her son by her former marriage
became the sixth Duke of Leeds. On the 17th August, 1807, the Hon.
Augusta Byron was married at St. George's, Hanover-square, to her
cousin, Lieut.-Colonel George Leigh, of the 10th, or Prince of Wales's
Light Dragoons, son of General Charles Leigh, by Frances, daughter of
Admiral Lord Byron and aunt of Augusta. By this marriage Augusta had
several children, some of whom survive her. She had been a widow for
some time. Lord Byron is known to have entertained for his sister a
higher and sincerer affection than for any other person. His best
friends in his worst moments fell under the vindictive stroke of his
pen, or the bitter denunciation of his tongue. His sister escaped at all
times. "No one," he writes, "except Augusta, cares for me. Augusta wants
me to make it up to Carlisle: I have refused every body else, but can't
deny her any thing." One of the first presentation copies of _Childe
Harold_ was sent to his sister with this inscription:--"To Augusta, my
dearest sister, and my best friend, who has ever loved me much better
than I deserved, this volume is presented by her father's son, and her
most affectionate brother." This attachment he has himself chosen to
account for, but wholly without reason. "My sister is in town," he
writes, "which is a great comfort; for, never having been much together,
we are naturally more attached to each other." One of the last evenings
of Byron's English life was spent with his sister, and to her his heart
turned when, in the midst of his domestic afflictions, it sought for
refuge in song. Those tender, beautiful verses, "Though the day of my
destiny's over," were his parting tribute to her, and were followed by a
poem in the Spenserian stanza, of equal beauty, beginning--

    "My sister, my sweet sister! If a name
    Dearer and purer were, it should be thine."

His will evinces in another way his affection for his sister. Nor was
Augusta forgetful of her brother. She remembered him with that tender
warmth of affection which women only feel, and publicly evinced her
regard for him, by the monument which she erected over his remains in
the little church of Hucknall. She bore, it may be added, no personal
resemblance to her illustrious kinsman.

       *       *       *       *       *

LIEUTENANT-GENERAL COUNT JEAN GABRIEL MARCHANT, grand Cross of the
Legion of Honor, Chevalier of St. Louis, &c., &c., was born at Solbene,
in the department of the Isere, in 1764, and in 1789 became an advocate
at Grenoble. In 1791, he entered the army as commander of a company in
the fourth battalion of his district, and in the long and illustrious
period of the wars of the empire he served with eminent distinction. He
was made a colonel on the 14th June, 1797, general of brigade in 1804,
and general of division on the 31st December, 1805, after a series of
brilliant services under Marshal Ney. He was in the battles of Jena,
Magdeburg, Friedland, &c., and after the latter received the title of
Count, and a dotation of 80,000f. He won new honors in Russia and Spain,
but after the overthrow of his master, so commended himself to Louis
XVIII., as to be confirmed by him in the command of the 7th military
division. After abandoning Grenoble to Napoleon, he was tried by a
council of war for unfaithfulness to the royal authority, but acquitted,
and from 1816 he lived principally in retirement at his chateau of St.
Ismier, near Grenoble, where he died the 12th of November, in the 86th
year of his age.

       *       *       *       *       *

MATTHIAS ATTWOOD, long well known in Parliament, died at his house, in
Dulwich-park, on the 11th of November. He was in his seventy-second
year, and had for some time been in feeble health, which induced him to
retire from Parliament at the last general election, but he still
occasionally attended to business in London till within a short period
of his decease. Mr. Attwood entered Parliament in 1819, and from that
time till 1847, continued to have a seat in the House of Commons. Mr.
Attwood was one of the bankers of London, of the firm of Spooners and
Atwood, and the founder of several successful joint-stock companies.

       *       *       *       *       *

CARDINAL D'ASTRS, Archbishop of Toulouse, died near the end of
September, at an advanced age. He was, it is said, the person who caused
the bull of excommunication, pronounced by Pius VII. against Napoleon,
in 1809, to be posted up on the walls of Paris. The bull was issued in
consequence of the seizure by Napoleon of the States of the Pope, and
their annexation to the French empire. The act of excommunication was
followed by the arrest of Pius VII. through the instrumentality of
General Radet.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE SERASKIER EMIR PASHA, commanding the Turkish army in Syria, has just
died, and his death has caused a great sensation at Constantinople. He
was highly esteemed for his prudence, energy, and incorruptibility. The
rapidity with which he succeeded, in October, 1850, in suppressing the
revolution created by the Emir of Balbek, the care and skill with which
he introduced the Tanzimaut and the Conscription into the Syrian
provinces, had procured him great credit with the government. No
successor has been appointed.

       *       *       *       *       *

The French papers report the death, at Moscow, of M. ALEXIS DE SAINT
PRIEST, a member of the French Academy, formerly a Peer of France, and
the author of several historical works,--of which the most celebrated
are his History of the Fall of the Jesuits, first published in 1844, and
_Histoire de la Royauté_, 1846.




Ladies fashions for January.

[Illustration: I.]


From the journals of fashion in London and Paris it appears that furs
are very much worn abroad this winter, but hitherto we have not marked
their very general adoption in New-York. The sable, ermine, and
chinchilla are, as in previous years, most fashionable. Sable harmonizes
well with every color of silk or velvet, and it is especially beautiful
when worn with the latter material. Cloaks, when trimmed with fur,
should not be either so large or so full as when ornamented with other
kinds of trimming. Many are of the paletot form, and have sleeves. They
are edged with a narrow fur border, the collar being entirely of fur.
For trimming mantles Canada sable is much employed. This fur is neither
so beautifully soft and glossy, nor so rich in color as the Russian
sable; but the difference in price is very considerable. In tone of
color minx comes next to Canada sable. Squirrel will not be among the
favorite furs this winter; it will be chiefly used for lining cloaks and
mantles. Muffs are of the medium size adopted during previous winters.
We may add that fur is not excluded from mourning costume.

_Bonnets_, although fanciful in their appearance, have a warm effect,
being composed of plush, velvet, and terry velvet. Felt and beaver
bonnets are also much in vogue, trimmed simply, but richly, generally
with colors to match, and with drooping feathers. Genin has reproduced
the latest London and continental modes. Bonnets of violet velvet are
also trimmed with a black lace, upon which are sprinkled, here and
there, jet beads; this lace is passed over the bonnet and fixed upon one
of the sides by a noeud of ribbon velvet of different widths; two wide
ends, which droop over the shoulder, serve to attach a quantity of
coques or ends, also of different widths. The interior is decorated with
hearts-ease of velvet and yellow hearts, and is fixed by several ends of
velours opinglé ribbon, the same shade and color as the centre of the
hearts-ease.

_Mantelets_ of all sorts of shapes are worn: the most striking are very
full, and have a hood. It requires great dexterity in cutting out the
mantelet to give a graceful appearance to this innovation. The shape
adopted is that called _capuchin bonne femme_ (or old woman's hood); it
is very comfortable, and the least apt to spoil the flowers or feathers
of the head-dress. There are also mantelets like the above, made of
lace, lined with colored silk, which sets off the pattern; and this is
most in favor. Every thing in preparation for this winter is far from
plain, being trimmed with embroidery, &c., or jet, lace, ribbons,
velvet, blond, braid, half-twisted silk, gold beads, colored embroidery,
in short, all the array of rich ornaments possible will be the order of
the ensuing season.

I. _The Waistcoat Fashion_, of which we have heretofore given an
illustration, is said to increase, and as it is graceful and convenient
it would be more popular but for the ridicule cast on all innovations by
the vulgar or profligate women who expose their natural shamelessness
and ambition of notoriety by appearing in what is called the Bloomer
costume--a costume which, it is scarcely necessary to say, has never yet
been assumed by a really respectable woman.

[Illustration: II.]

II. _Girls Dress._--White satin capote black velvet dress with berthe;
and sleeves trimmed with slight silk fringe. Trousers of English
embroidered work. The Genin hat, of felt or beaver.

[Illustration: III. IV.]

III. _Walking Dress._--Bonnet of purple velvet with black feather; full
mantelet of black velvet, trimmed with lace and buttons; dress of dark
valencias, very full, and plain. Another walking dress consists of
pelisse and paletot of Nankin cachmere, the former beautifully
embroidered.

IV. _Evening Costume._--Dress of Brussels net, worn over a jupon of
white satin; the body is made en stomacher: the waist and point not very
long; two small capes, one of delicately worked net, the other of plain
net, meet, in a point in front en demi-coeur; the short sleeve is
formed by four frills, two of worked net, and two of plain net, placed
alternately; the skirt is long, and extremely full; it has eight
flounces, reaching nearly to the waist, and graduating in width towards
the top; they are placed alternately, of worked and plain net.