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  HARPER'S

  NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.

  No. XVIII.--NOVEMBER, 1851.--VOL. III.


   [Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1851, by Harper
   and Brothers, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the
   Southern District of New York.]




NAPOLEON BONAPARTE.

BY JOHN S.C. ABBOTT.

IV. THE SIEGE OF MANTUA.


Early in July, 1796, the eyes of all Europe were turned to Mantua.
Around its walls these decisive battles were to be fought which were to
establish the fate of Italy. This bulwark of Lombardy was considered
almost impregnable. It was situated upon an island, formed by lakes and
by the expansion of the river Mincio. It was approached only by five
long and narrow causeways, which were guarded by frowning batteries. To
take the place by assault was impossible. Its reduction could only be
accomplished by the slow, tedious, and enormously expensive progress of
a siege.

[Illustration: THE ENCAMPMENT.]

Napoleon, in his rapid advances, had not allowed his troops to encumber
themselves with tents of any kind. After marching all day, drenched with
rain, they threw themselves down at night upon the wet ground, with no
protection whatever from the pitiless storm which beat upon them. "Tents
are always unhealthy," said Napoleon at St. Helena. "It is much better
for the soldier to bivouac in the open air, for then he can build a fire
and sleep with warm feet. Tents are necessary only for the general
officers who are obliged to read and consult their maps." All the
nations of Europe, following the example which Napoleon thus
established, have now abandoned entirely the use of tents. The sick, the
wounded, the exhausted, to the number of fifteen thousand, filled the
hospitals. Death, from such exposures, and from the bullet and sword of
the enemy, had made fearful ravages among his troops. Though Napoleon
had received occasional reinforcements from France, his losses had kept
pace with his supplies, and he had now an army of but thirty thousand
men with which to retain the vast extent of country he had overrun, to
keep down the aristocratic party, ever upon the eve of an outbreak, and
to encounter the formidable legions which Austria was marshaling for his
destruction. Immediately upon his return from the south of Italy, he was
compelled to turn his eyes from the siege of Mantua, which he was
pressing with all possible energy, to the black and threatening cloud
gathering in the North. An army of sixty thousand veteran soldiers under
General Wurmser, an officer of high renown, was accumulating its
energies in the wild fastnesses of the northern Alps, to sweep down upon
the French through the gorges of the Tyrol, like a whirlwind.

About sixty miles north of Mantua, at the northern extremity of Lake
Garda, embosomed among the Tyrolean hills, lies the walled town of
Trent. Here Wurmser had assembled sixty thousand men, most abundantly
provided with all the munitions of war, to march down to Mantua, and
co-operate with the twenty thousand within its walls in the annihilation
of the audacious foe. The fate of Napoleon was now considered as sealed.
The republicans in Italy were in deep dismay. "How is it possible," said
they, "that Napoleon, with thirty thousand men, can resist the combined
onset of eighty thousand veteran soldiers?" The aristocratic party were
in great exultation, and were making preparations to fall upon the
French the moment they should see the troops of Napoleon experiencing
the slightest reverse. Rome, Venice, Naples began to incite revolt, and
secretly to assist the Austrians. The Pope, in direct violation of his
plighted faith, refused any further fulfillment of the conditions of the
armistice, and sent Cardinal Mattei to negotiate with the enemy. This
sudden development of treachery, which Napoleon aptly designated as a
"Revelation," impressed the young conqueror deeply with a sense of his
hazardous situation.

Between Mantua and Trent there lies, extended among the mountains, the
beautiful Lake of Garda. This sheet of water, almost fathomless, and
clear as crystal, is about thirty miles in length, and from four to
twelve in breadth. Wurmser was about fifteen miles north of the head of
this lake at Trent; Napoleon was at Mantua, fifteen miles south of its
foot. The Austrian general, eighty years of age, a brave and generous
soldier, as he contemplated his mighty host, complacently rubbed his
hands, exclaiming, "We shall soon have the boy now." He was very
fearful, however, that Napoleon, conscious of the utter impossibility of
resisting such numbers, might, by a precipitate flight, escape. To
prevent this, he disposed his army at Trent in three divisions of twenty
thousand each. One division, under General Quasdanovich, was directed to
march down the western bank of the lake, to cut off the retreat of the
French by the way of Milan. General Wurmser, with another division of
twenty thousand, marched down the eastern shore of the lake, to relieve
Mantua. General Melas, with another division, followed down the valley
of the Adige, which ran parallel with the shores of the lake, and was
separated from it by a mountain ridge, but about two miles in width. A
march of a little more than a day would reunite those vast forces, thus
for the moment separated. Having prevented the escape of their
anticipated victims, they could fall upon the French in a resistless
attack. The sleepless vigilance and the eagle eye of Napoleon, instantly
detected the advantage thus presented to him. It was in the evening of
the 31st of July, that he first received the intimation from his scouts
of the movements of the enemy. Instantly he formed his plan of
operations, and in an hour the whole camp was in commotion. He gave
orders for the immediate abandonment of the siege of Mantua, and for the
whole army to arrange itself in marching order. It was an enormous
sacrifice. He had been prosecuting the works of the siege with great
vigor for two months. He had collected there, at vast labor and expense,
a magnificent battering train and immense stores of ammunition. The city
was on the very point of surrender. By abandoning his works all would be
lost, the city would be revictualed, and it would be necessary to
commence the whole arduous enterprise of the siege anew. The promptness
with which Napoleon decided to make the sacrifice, and the unflinching
relentlessness with which the decision was executed, indicated the
energetic action of a genius of no ordinary mould.

The sun had now gone down, and gloomy night brooded over the agitated
camp. But not an eye was closed. Under cover of the darkness every one
was on the alert. The platforms and gun carriages were thrown upon the
campfires. Tons of powder were cast into the lake. The cannon were
spiked and the shot and shells buried in the trenches. Before midnight
the whole army was in motion. Rapidly they directed their steps to the
western shore of Lake Garda, to fall like an avalanche upon the division
of Quasdanovich, who dreamed not of their danger. When the morning sun
arose over the marshes of Mantua, the whole embattled host, whose
warlike array had reflected back the beams of the setting sun, had
disappeared. The besieged, who were half famished, and who were upon the
eve of surrender, as they gazed, from the steeples of the city, upon the
scene of solitude, desolation, and abandonment, could hardly credit
their eyes. At ten o'clock in the morning, Quasdanovich was marching
quietly along, not dreaming that any foe was within thirty miles of him,
when suddenly the whole French army burst like a whirlwind upon his
astonished troops. Had the Austrians stood their ground they must have
been entirely destroyed. But after a short and most sanguinary conflict
they broke in wild confusion, and fled. Large numbers were slain, and
many prisoners were left in the hands of the French. The discomfited
Austrians retreated to find refuge among the fastnesses of the Tyrol,
from whence they had emerged. Napoleon had not one moment to lose in
pursuit. The two divisions which were marching down the eastern side of
the lake, heard across the water the deep booming of the guns, like the
roar of continuous thunder, but they were entirely unable to render any
assistance to their friends. They could not even imagine from whence the
foe had come, whom Quasdanovich had encountered. That Napoleon would
abandon all his accumulated stores and costly works at Mantua, was to
them inconceivable. They hastened along with the utmost speed to reunite
their forces, still forty thousand strong, at the foot of the lake.
Napoleon also turned upon his track, and urged his troops almost to the
full run. The salvation of his army depended upon the rapidity of his
march, enabling him to attack the separated divisions of the enemy
before they should reunite at the foot of the mountain range which
separated them. "Soldiers?" he exclaimed, in hurried accents, "it is
with your legs alone that victory can now be secured. Fear nothing. In
three days the Austrian army shall be destroyed. Rely only on me. You
know whether or not I am in the habit of keeping my word."

Regardless of hunger, sleeplessness, and fatigue, unincumbered by
baggage or provisions, with a celerity, which to the astonished
Austrians seemed miraculous, he pressed on, with his exhausted, bleeding
troops, all the afternoon and deep into the darkness of the ensuing
night. He allowed his men at midnight to throw themselves upon the
ground an hour for sleep, but he did not indulge himself in one moment
of repose. Early in the morning of the 3d of August, Melas, who but a
few hours before had heard the thunder of Napoleon's guns, over the
mountains and upon the opposite shore of the lake, was astonished to see
the solid columns of the whole French army marching majestically upon
him. Five thousand of Wurmser's division had succeeded in joining him,
and he consequently had twenty-five thousand fresh troops drawn up in
battle array. Wurmser himself was at but a few hours' distance, and was
hastening with all possible speed to his aid, with fifteen thousand
additional men. Napoleon had but twenty-two thousand with whom to meet
the forty thousand whom his foes would thus combine. Exhausted as his
troops were with the Herculean toil they had already endured, not one
moment could be allowed for rest. It was at Lonato, in a few glowing
words he announced to his men their peril, the necessity for their
utmost efforts, and his perfect confidence in their success. They now
regarded their young leader as invincible, and wherever he led they were
prompt to follow. With delirious energy, they rushed upon the foe. The
pride of the Austrians was roused and they fought with desperation. The
battle was long and bloody. Napoleon, as cool and unperturbed as if
making the movements in a game of chess, watched the ebb and the flow of
the conflict. His eagle eye instantly detected the point of weakness and
exposure. The Austrians were routed and in wild disorder took to flight
over the plains, leaving the ground covered with the dead, and five
thousand prisoners and twenty pieces of cannon in the hands of the
victors. Junot, with a regiment of cavalry, dashed at full gallop into
the midst of the fugitives rushing over the plain, and the wretched
victims of war were sabred by thousands and trampled under iron hoofs.

The battle raged until the sun disappeared behind the mountains of the
Tyrol, and another night, dark and gloomy, came on. The groans of the
wounded and of the dying, and the fearful shrieks of dismembered and
mangled horses, struggling in their agony, filled the night air for
leagues around. The French soldiers, utterly exhausted, threw themselves
upon the gory ground by the side of the mutilated dead, the victor and
the bloody corpse of the foe reposing side by side, and forgot the
horrid butchery in leaden sleep. But Napoleon slept not. He knew that
before the dawn of another morning, a still more formidable host would
be arrayed against him, and that the victory of to-day might be followed
by a dreadful defeat upon the morrow. The vanquished army were falling
back to be supported by the division of Wurmser, coming to their rescue.
All night long Napoleon was on horseback, galloping from post to post,
making arrangements for the desperate battle to which he knew that the
morning sun must guide him.

Four or five miles from Lonato, lies the small walled town of
Castiglione. Here Wurmser met the retreating troops of Melas, and
rallied them for a decisive conflict. With thirty thousand Austrians,
drawn up in line of battle, he awaited the approach of his indefatigable
foe. Long before the morning dawned, the French army was again in
motion. Napoleon, urging his horse to the very utmost of his speed, rode
in every direction to accelerate the movements of his troops. The peril
was too imminent to allow him to intrust any one else with the execution
of his all-important orders. Five horses successively sank dead beneath
him from utter exhaustion. Napoleon was every where, observing all
things, directing all things, animating all things. The whole army was
inspired with the indomitable energy and ardor of their young leader.
Soon the two hostile hosts were facing each other, in the dim and misty
haze of the early dawn, ere the sun had arisen to look down upon the
awful scene of man's depravity about to ensue.

A sanguinary and decisive conflict, renowned in history as the battle of
Castiglione, inflicted the final blow upon the Austrians. They were
routed with terrible slaughter. The French pursued them, with merciless
massacre, through the whole day, in their headlong flight, and rested
not until the darkness of night shut out the panting, bleeding fugitives
from their view. Less than one week had elapsed since that proud army,
sixty thousand strong, had marched from the walls of Trent, with
gleaming banners and triumphant music, flushed with anticipated victory.
In six days it had lost in killed, wounded, and prisoners forty thousand
men, ten thousand more than the whole army which Napoleon had at his
command. But twenty thousand tattered, exhausted, war-worn fugitives
effected their escape. In the extreme of mortification and dejection
they returned to Trent, to bear themselves the tidings of their swift
and utter discomfiture. Napoleon, in these conflicts, lost but seven
thousand men. These amazing victories were to be attributed entirely to
the genius of the conqueror. Such achievements history had never before
recorded. The victorious soldiers called it, "_The six days' campaign_."
Their admiration of their invincible chief now passed all bounds. The
veterans who had honored Napoleon with the title of _corporal_, after
"the terrible passage of the bridge of Lodi," now enthusiastically
promoted him to the rank of _sergeant_, as his reward for the signal
victories of this campaign.

The aristocratic governments which, upon the marching of Wurmser from
Trent, had perfidiously violated their faith, and turned against
Napoleon, supposing that he was ruined, were now terror-stricken,
anticipating the most appalling vengeance. But the conqueror treated
them with the greatest clemency, simply informing them that he was fully
acquainted with their conduct, and that he should hereafter regard them
with a watchful eye. He, however, summoned Cardinal Mattei, the legate
of the perjured Pope, to his head-quarters. The cardinal, conscious that
not a word could be uttered in extenuation of his guilt, attempted no
defense. The old man, high in authority and venerable in years, bowed
with the humility of a child before the young victor, and exclaimed
"peccavi! peccavi!"--_I have sinned! I have sinned!_ This apparent
contrition disarmed Napoleon, and in jocose and contemptuous indignation
he sentenced him to do penance for three months, by fasting and prayer,
in a convent.

During these turmoils, the inhabitants of Lombardy remained faithful in
their adherence to the French interests. In a delicate and noble letter
which he addressed to them, he said, "When the French army retreated,
and the partisans of Austria considered that the cause of liberty was
crushed, you, though you knew not that this retreat was merely a
stratagem, still proved constant in your attachment to France and your
love of freedom. You have thus deserved the esteem of the French nation.
Your people daily become more worthy of liberty, and will shortly appear
with glory on the theatre of the world. Accept the assurance of my
satisfaction, and of the sincere wishes of the French people to see you
free and happy."

In the midst of the tumultuous scenes of these days of incessant battle,
when the broken divisions of the enemy were in bewilderment, wandering
in every direction, attempting to escape from the terrible energy with
which they were pursued, Napoleon, by mere accident, came very near
being taken a prisoner. He escaped by that intuitive tact and promptness
of decision which never deserted him. In conducting the operations of
the pursuit, he had entered a small village, upon the full gallop,
accompanied only by his staff and guards. A division of four thousand of
the Austrian army, separated from the main body, had been wandering all
night among the mountains. They came suddenly and unexpectedly upon this
little band of a thousand men, and immediately sent an officer with a
flag of truce, demanding their surrender. Napoleon, with wonderful
presence of mind, commanded his numerous staff immediately to mount on
horseback, and gathering his guard around him, ordered the flag of truce
to be brought into his presence. The officer was introduced, as is
customary, blindfolded. When the bandage was removed, to his utter
amazement he found himself before the commander-in-chief of the French
army, surrounded by his whole brilliant staff. "What means this insult?"
exclaimed Napoleon in tones of affected indignation. "Have you the
insolence to bring a summons of surrender to the French
commander-in-chief, in the middle of his army! Say to those who sent
you, that unless in five minutes they lay down their arms, every man
shall be put to death." The bewildered officer stammered out an apology.
"Go!" Napoleon sternly rejoined, "unless you immediately surrender at
discretion, I will, for this insult, cause every man of you to be shot."
The Austrians, deceived by this air of confidence, and disheartened by
fatigue and disaster, threw down their arms. They soon had the
mortification of learning that they had capitulated to one-fourth of
their own number, and that they had missed making prisoner the
conqueror, before whose blows the very throne of their empire was
trembling.

It was during this campaign that one night Napoleon, in disguise, was
going the rounds of the sentinels, to ascertain if, in their peculiar
peril, proper vigilance was exercised. A soldier, stationed at the
junction of two roads, had received orders not to let any one pass
either of those routes. When Napoleon made his appearance, the soldier,
unconscious of his rank, presented his bayonet and ordered him back. "I
am a general officer," said Napoleon, "going the rounds to ascertain if
all is safe." "I care not," the soldier replied, "my commands are to let
no one go by; and if you were the Little Corporal himself you should not
pass." The general was consequently under the necessity of retracing his
steps. The next day he made inquiries respecting the character of the
soldier, and hearing a good report of him, he summoned him to his
presence, and extolling his fidelity, raised him to the rank of an
officer.

[Illustration: THE LITTLE CORPORAL AND THE SENTINEL]

Napoleon and his victorious army again returned to Mantua. The besieged,
during his absence, had emerged from the walls and destroyed all his
works. They had also drawn all his heavy battering train, consisting of
one hundred and forty pieces, into the city, obtained large supplies of
provisions, over sixty thousand shot and shells, and had received a
reinforcement of fifteen thousand men. There was no suitable siege
equipage which Napoleon could command, and he was liable at any moment
to be again summoned to encounter the formidable legions which the
Austrian empire could again raise to crowd down upon him. He therefore
simply invested the place by blockade. After the terrible struggle
through which they had just passed, the troops, on both sides, indulged
themselves in repose for three weeks. The Austrian government, with
inflexible resolution, still refused to make peace with France. It had
virtually inserted upon its banners, "Gallia delenda est"--"The French
Republic shall be destroyed." Napoleon had now cut up two of their most
formidable armies, each of them nearly three times as numerous as his
own.

The pride and the energy of the whole empire were aroused in organizing
a third army to crush republicanism. In the course of three weeks
Wurmser found himself again in command of fifty-five thousand men at
Trent. There were twenty thousand troops in Mantua, giving him a force
of seventy-five thousand combatants. Napoleon had received
reinforcements only sufficient to repair his losses, and was again in
the field with but thirty thousand men. He was surrounded by more than
double that number of foes.

Early in September the Austrian army was again in motion, passing down
from the Tyrol for the relief of Mantua. Wurmser left Davidovich at
Roveredo, a very strong position, about ten miles south of Trent, with
twenty-five thousand men to prevent the incursions of the French into
the Tyrol. With thirty thousand men he then passed over to the valley of
the Brenta, to follow down its narrow defile, and convey relief to the
besieged fortress. There were twenty thousand Austrians in Mantua.
These, co-operating with the thirty thousand under Wurmser, would make
an effective force of fifty thousand men to attack Napoleon in front and
rear.

Napoleon contemplated with lively satisfaction this renewed division of
the Austrian force. He quietly collected all his resources, and prepared
for a deadly spring upon the doomed division left behind. As soon as
Wurmser had arrived at Bassano, following down the valley of the Brenta,
about sixty miles from Roveredo, where it was impossible for him to
render any assistance to the victims upon whom Napoleon was about to
pounce, the whole French army was put in motion. They rushed, at double
quick step, up the parallel valley of the Adige, delaying hardly one
moment either for food or repose. Early on the morning of the 4th of
September, just as the first gray of dawn appeared in the east, he burst
like a tempest upon the astounded foe. The battle was short, bloody,
decisive. The Austrians were routed with dreadful slaughter. As they
fled in consternation, a rabble-rout, the French cavalry rushed in among
them, with dripping sabres, and for leagues the ground was covered with
the bodies of the slain. Seven thousand prisoners and twenty pieces of
cannon graced the triumph of the victor. The discomfited remains of this
unfortunate corps retired far back into the gorges of the mountains.
Such was the battle of Roveredo, which Napoleon ever regarded as one of
his most brilliant victories. Next morning Napoleon, in triumph, entered
Trent. He immediately issued one of his glowing proclamations to the
inhabitants of the Tyrol, assuring them that he was fighting, not for
conquest, but for peace; that he was not the enemy of the _people_ of
the Tyrol; that the Emperor of Austria, incited and aided by British
gold, was waging relentless warfare against the French Republic; and
that, if the inhabitants of the Tyrol would not take up arms against
him, they should be protected in their persons, their property, and in
all their political rights. He invited the people, in the emergence, to
arrange for themselves the internal government of the country, and
intrusted them with the administration of their own laws.

Before the darkness of the ensuing night had passed away Napoleon was
again at the head of his troops, and the whole French army was rushing
down the defiles of the Brenta, to surprise Wurmser in his straggling
march. The Austrian general had thirty thousand men. Napoleon could
take with him but twenty thousand. He, however, was intent upon gaining
a corresponding advantage in falling upon the enemy by surprise. The
march of sixty miles was accomplished with a rapidity such as no army
had ever attempted before. On the evening of the 6th, Wurmser heard with
consternation that the corps of Davidovich was annihilated. He was awoke
from his slumbers before the dawn of the next morning by the thunders of
Napoleon's cannon in his rear. The brave old veteran, bewildered by
tactics so strange and unheard of, accumulated his army as rapidly as
possible in battle array at Bassano. Napoleon allowed him but a few
moments for preparation. The troops on both sides now began to feel that
Napoleon was invincible. The French were elated by constant victory. The
Austrians were disheartened by uniform and uninterrupted defeat. The
battle at Bassano was but a renewal of the sanguinary scene at Roveredo.
The sun went down as the horrid carnage continued, and darkness vailed
the awful spectacle from human eyes. Horses and men, the mangled, the
dying, the dead, in indiscriminate confusion were piled upon each other.
The groans of the wounded swelled upon the night air; while in the
distance the deep booming of the cannon of the pursuers and the pursued
echoed along the mountains. There was no time to attend to the claims of
humanity. The dead were left unburied, and not a combatant could be
spared from the ranks to give a cup of water to the wounded and the
dying. Destruction, not salvation was the business of the hour.

Wurmser, with but sixteen thousand men remaining to him of the proud
array of fifty-five thousand with which, but a few days before, he had
marched from Trent, retreated to find shelter within the walls of
Mantua. Napoleon pursued him with the most terrible energy, from every
eminence plunging cannon-balls into his retreating ranks. When Wurmser
arrived at Mantua the garrison sallied out to aid him. Unitedly they
fell upon Napoleon. The battle of St. George was fought, desperate and
most bloody. The Austrians, routed at every point, were driven within
the walls. Napoleon resumed the siege. Wurmser, with the bleeding
fragment of his army, was held a close prisoner. Thus terminated this
campaign of _ten days_. In this short time Napoleon had destroyed a
third Austrian army, more than twice as numerous as his own. The field
was swept clean of his enemies. Not a man was left to oppose him.
Victories so amazing excited astonishment throughout all Europe. Such
results had never before been recorded in the annals of ancient or
modern warfare.

While engaged in the rapid march from Roveredo, a discontented soldier,
emerging from the ranks, addressed Napoleon, pointing to his tattered
garments, and said, "We soldiers, notwithstanding all our victories, are
clothed in rags." Napoleon, anxious to arrest the progress of discontent
among his troops, with that peculiar tact which he had ever at command,
looked kindly upon him and said, "You forget, my brave friend, that with
a new coat, your honorable scars would no longer be visible." This well
timed compliment was received with shouts of applause from the ranks.
The anecdote spread like lightning among the troops, and endeared
Napoleon still more to every soldier in the army.

[Illustration: THE SOLITARY BIVOUAC]

The night before the battle of Bassano, in the eagerness of the march,
Napoleon had advanced far beyond the main column of the army. He had
received no food during the day, and had enjoyed no sleep for several
nights. A poor soldier had a crust of bread in his knapsack. He broke
it in two, and gave his exhausted and half famished general one half.
After this frugal supper, the commander-in-chief of the French army
wrapt himself in his cloak, and threw himself unprotected upon the
ground, by the side of the soldier, for an hour's slumber. After ten
years had passed away, and Napoleon, then Emperor of France, was making
a triumphal tour through Belgium, this same soldier stepped out from the
ranks of a regiment, which the emperor was reviewing, and said, "Sire!
on the eve of the battle of Bassano, I shared with you my crust of
bread, when you were hungry. I now ask from you bread for my father, who
is worn down with age and poverty." Napoleon immediately settled a
pension upon the old man, and promoted the soldier to a lieutenancy.

After the battle of Bassano, in the impetuosity of the pursuit,
Napoleon, spurring his horse to his utmost speed, accompanied but by a
few followers, entered a small village quite in advance of the main body
of his army. Suddenly Wurmser, with a strong division of the Austrians,
debouched upon the plain. A peasant woman informed him that but a moment
before Napoleon had passed her cottage. Wurmser, overjoyed at the
prospect of obtaining a prize which would remunerate him for all his
losses, instantly dispatched parties of cavalry in every direction for
his capture. So sure was he of success, that he strictly enjoined it
upon them to bring him in alive. The fleetness of Napoleon's horse saved
him.

In the midst of these terrible conflicts, when the army needed every
possible stimulus to exertion, Napoleon exposed himself like a common
soldier, at every point where danger appeared most imminent. On one of
these occasions a pioneer, perceiving the imminent peril in which the
commander-in-chief had placed himself, abruptly and authoritively
exclaimed to him, "Stand aside." Napoleon fixed his keen glance upon
him, when the veteran with a strong arm thrust him away, saying, "If
thou art killed who is to rescue us from this jeopardy?" and placed his
own body before him. Napoleon appreciated the sterling value of the
action, and uttered no reproof. After the battle he ordered the pioneer
to be sent to his presence. Placing his hand kindly upon his shoulder he
said, "My friend! your noble boldness claims my esteem. Your bravery
demands a recompense. From this hour an epaulet instead of a hatchet
shall grace your shoulder." He was immediately raised to the rank of an
officer.

The generals in the army were overawed by the genius and the magnanimity
of their young commander. They fully appreciated his vast superiority,
and approached him with restraint and reverence. The common soldiers,
however, loved him as a father, and went to him freely, with the
familiarity of children. In one of those terrific battles, when the
result had been long in suspense, just as the searching glance of
Napoleon had detected a fault in the movements of the enemy, of which
he was upon the point of taking the most prompt advantage, a private
soldier, covered with the dust and the smoke of the battle, sprung from
the ranks and exclaimed, "General! send a squadron _there_, and the
victory is ours." "You rogue!" rejoined Napoleon, "where did you get my
secret?" In a few moments the Austrians were flying in dismay before the
impetuous charges of the French cavalry. Immediately after the battle
Napoleon sent for the soldier who had displayed such military genius. He
was found dead upon the field. A bullet had pierced his brain. Had he
lived he would but have added another star to that brilliant galaxy,
with which the throne of Napoleon was embellished.

  "Perhaps in that neglected spot is laid,
    A heart once pregnant with celestial fire,
  Hands which the rod of empire might have swayed.
    Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre."

The night after the battle of Bassano, the moon rose cloudless and
brilliant over the sanguinary scene. Napoleon, who seldom exhibited any
hilarity or even exhilaration of spirits in the hour of victory, rode,
as was his custom, over the plain, covered with the bodies of the dying
and the dead, and, silent and thoughtful, seemed lost in painful
reverie. It was midnight. The confusion and the uproar of the battle had
passed away, and the deep silence of the calm starlight night was only
disturbed by the moans of the wounded and the dying. Suddenly a dog
sprung from beneath the cloak of his dead master, and rushed to
Napoleon, as if frantically imploring his aid, and then rushed back
again to the mangled corpse, licking the blood from the face and the
hands, and howling most piteously. Napoleon was deeply moved by the
affecting scene, and involuntarily stopped his horse to contemplate it.
In relating the event, many years afterward, he remarked, "I know not
how it was, but no incident upon any field of battle ever produced so
deep an impression upon my feelings. This man, thought I, must have had
among his comrades friends; and yet here he lies forsaken by all except
his faithful dog. What a strange being is man! How mysterious are his
impressions! I had, without emotion, ordered battles which had decided
the fate of armies. I had, with tearless eyes, beheld the execution of
those orders, in which thousands of my countrymen were slain. And yet
here my sympathies were most deeply and resistlessly moved by the
mournful howling of a dog. Certainly in that moment I should have been
unable to refuse any request to a suppliant enemy."

[Illustration: THE DEAD SOLDIER AND HIS DOG.]

Austria was still unsubdued. With a perseverance worthy of all
admiration, had it been exercised in a better cause, the Austrian
government still refused to make peace with republican France. The
energies of the empire were aroused anew to raise a fourth army.
England, contending against France wherever her navy or her troops could
penetrate, was the soul of this warfare. She animated the cabinet of
Vienna, and aided the Austrian armies with her strong co-operation and
her gold. The _people_ of England, republican in their tendencies, and
hating the utter despotism of the old monarchy of France, were clamorous
for peace. But the royal family and the aristocracy in general, were
extremely unwilling to come to any amicable terms with a nation which
had been guilty of the crime of renouncing monarchy.

All the resources of the Austrian government were now devoted to
recruiting and equipping a new army. With the wrecks of Wurmser's
troops, with detachments from the Rhine, and fresh levies from the bold
peasants of the Tyrol, in less than a month an army of nearly one
hundred thousand men was assembled. The enthusiasm throughout Austria,
in raising and animating these recruits, was so great that the city of
Vienna alone contributed four battalions. The empress, with her own
hand, embroidered their colors and presented them to the troops. All the
noble ladies of the realm devoted their smiles and their aid to inspire
the enterprise. About seventy-five thousand men were rendezvoused in the
gorges of the northern Tyrol, ready to press down upon Napoleon from the
north, while the determined garrison of twenty-five thousand men, under
the brave Wurmser, cooped up in Mantua, were ready to emerge at a
moment's warning. Thus in about three weeks another army of one hundred
thousand men was ready to fall upon Napoleon. His situation now seemed
absolutely desperate. The reinforcements he had received from France had
been barely sufficient to repair the losses sustained by disease and the
sword. He had but thirty thousand men. His funds were all exhausted. His
troops, notwithstanding they were in the midst of the most brilliant
blaze of victories, had been compelled to strain every nerve of
exertion. They were also suffering the severest privations, and began
loudly to murmur. "Why," they exclaimed, "do we not receive succor from
France? We can not alone contend against all Europe. We have already
destroyed three armies, and now a fourth, still more numerous, is rising
against us. Is there to be no end to these interminable battles?"
Napoleon was fully sensible of the peril of his position, and while he
allowed his troops a few weeks of repose, his energies were strained to
their very utmost tension in preparing for the all but desperate
encounter now before him. The friends and the enemies of Napoleon alike
regarded his case as nearly hopeless. The Austrians had by this time
learned that it was not safe to divide their forces in the presence of
so vigilant a foe. Marching down upon his exhausted band with
seventy-five thousand men to attack him in front, and with twenty-five
thousand veteran troops, under the brave Wurmser, to sally from the
ramparts of Mantua and assail him in the rear, it seemed to all
reasonable calculation that the doom of the French army was sealed.
Napoleon in the presence of his army assumed an air of most perfect
confidence, but he was fearfully apprehensive that, by the power of
overwhelming numbers, his army would be destroyed. The appeal which,
under the circumstances, he wrote to the Directory for reinforcements,
is sublime in its dignity and its eloquence. "All of our superior
officers, all of our best generals, are either dead or wounded. The army
of Italy, reduced to a handful of men, is exhausted. The heroes of
Millesimo, of Lodi, of Castiglione, of Bassano, have died for their
country, or are in the hospitals. Nothing is left to the army but its
glory and its courage. We are abandoned at the extremity of Italy. The
brave men who are left me have no prospect but inevitable death amidst
changes so continual and with forces so inferior. Perhaps the hour of
the brave Augereau, of the intrepid Massena is about to strike. This
consideration renders me cautious. I dare not brave death when it would
so certainly be the ruin of those who have so long been the object of my
solicitude. The army has done its duty. I do mine. My conscience is at
ease, but my soul is lacerated. I never have received a fourth part of
the succors which the minister of war has announced in his dispatches.
My health is so broken that I can with difficulty sit upon horseback.
The enemy can now count our diminished ranks. Nothing is left me but
courage. But that alone is not sufficient for the post which I occupy.
Troops, or Italy is lost."

Napoleon addressed his soldiers in a very different strain, endeavoring
to animate their courage by concealing from them his anxieties. "We have
but one more effort to make," said he, "and Italy is our own. True, the
enemy is more numerous than we; but half his troops are recruits, who
can never stand before the veterans of France. When Alvinzi is beaten
Mantua must fall, and our labors are at an end. Not only Italy, but a
general peace is to be gained by the capture of Mantua."

During the three weeks in which the Austrians were recruiting their army
and the French were reposing around the walls of Mantua, Napoleon made
the most Herculean exertions to strengthen his position in Italy, and to
disarm those states which were manifesting hostility against him. During
this period his labors as a statesman and a diplomatist were even more
severe than his toils as a general. He allowed himself no stated time
for food or repose, but day and night devoted himself incessantly to his
work. Horse after horse sunk beneath him, in the impetuous speed with
which he passed from place to place. He dictated innumerable
communications to the Directory, respecting treaties of peace with Rome,
Naples, Venice, Genoa. He despised the feeble Directory, with its
shallow views, conscious that unless wiser counsels than they proposed
should prevail, the republic would be ruined. "So long," said he, "as
your general shall not be the centre of all influence in Italy, every
thing will go wrong. It would be easy to accuse me of ambition, but I am
satiated with honor and worn down with care. Peace with Naples is
indispensable. You must conciliate Venice and Genoa. The influence of
Rome is incalculable. You did wrong to break with that power. We must
secure friends for the Italian army, both among kings and people. The
general in Italy must be the fountain-head of negotiation as well as of
military operations." These were bold assumptions for a young man of
twenty-five. But Napoleon was conscious of his power. He now listened to
the earnest entreaties of the people of the duchy of Modena and of the
papal states of Bologna and Ferrara, and, in consequence of treachery on
the part of the Duke of Modena and the Pope, emancipated those states
and constituted them into a united and independent Republic. As the
whole territory included under this new government extended south of the
Po, Napoleon named it the Cispadane Republic, that is the _This side of
the Po_ Republic. It contained about a million and a half of
inhabitants, compactly gathered in one of the most rich, and fertile,
and beautiful regions of the globe. The joy and the enthusiasm of the
people, thus blessed with a free government, surpassed all bounds.
Wherever Napoleon appeared he was greeted with every demonstration of
affection. He assembled at Modena a convention, composed of lawyers,
landed proprietors, and merchants to organize the government. All leaned
upon the mind of Napoleon, and he guided their counsels with the most
consummate wisdom. Napoleon's abhorrence of the anarchy which had
disgraced the Jacobin reign in France, and his reverence for law were
made very prominent on this occasion. "Never forget," said he in an
address to the Assembly, "that laws are mere nullities without the
necessary force to sustain them. Attend to your military organization,
which you have the means of placing upon a respectable footing. You will
then be more fortunate than the people of France. You will attain
liberty without passing through the ordeal of revolution."

The Italians were an effeminate people and quite unable to cope in arms
with the French or the Austrians. Yet the new republic manifested its
zeal and attachment for its youthful founder so strongly, that a
detachment of Austrians having made a sally from Mantua, they
immediately sprang to arms, took it prisoner, and conducted it in
triumph to Napoleon. When the Austrians saw that Napoleon was
endeavoring to make soldiers of the Italians, they ridiculed the idea,
saying that they had tried the experiment in vain, and that it was not
possible for an Italian to make a good soldier. "Notwithstanding this,"
said Napoleon, "I raised many thousands of Italians, who fought with a
bravery equal to that of the French, and who did not desert me even in
my adversity. What was the cause? I abolished flogging. Instead of the
lash I introduced the stimulus of honor. Whatever debases a man can not
be serviceable. What honor can a man possibly have who is flogged before
his comrades. When a soldier has been debased by stripes he cares little
for his own reputation or for the honor of his country. After an action
I assembled the officers and soldiers and inquired who had proved
themselves heroes. Such of them as were able to read and write I
promoted. Those who were not I ordered to study five hours a day, until
they had learned a sufficiency, and then promoted them. Thus I
substituted honor and emulation for terror and the lash."

He bound the Duke of Parma and the Duke of Tuscany to him by ties of
friendship. He cheered the inhabitants of Lombardy with the hope, that
as soon as extricated from his present embarrassments, he would do
something for the promotion of their independence. Thus with the skill
of a veteran diplomatist he raised around him friendly governments, and
availed himself of all the resources of politics to make amends for the
inefficiency of the Directory. Never was a man placed in a situation
where more delicacy of tact was necessary. The Republican party in all
the Italian states were clamorous for the support of Napoleon, and
waited but his permission to raise the standard of revolt. Had the
slightest encouragement been given the whole peninsula would have
plunged into the horrors of civil war; and the awful scenes which had
been enacted in Paris would have been re-enacted in every city in Italy.
The aristocratic party would have been roused to perfect desperation,
and the situation of Napoleon would have been still more precarious. It
required consummate genius as a statesman, and moral courage of the
highest order, to wield such opposing influences. But the greatness of
Napoleon shone forth even more brilliantly in the cabinet than in the
field. The course which he had pursued had made him extremely popular
with the Italians. They regarded him as their countryman. They were
proud of his fame. He was driving from their territory the haughty
Austrians whom they hated. He was the enemy of despots, the friend of
the people. Their own beautiful language was his mother tongue. He was
familiar with their manners and customs, and they felt flattered by his
high appreciation of their literature and arts.

Napoleon, in the midst of these stormy scenes, also dispatched an
armament from Leghorn, to wrest his native island of Corsica from the
dominion of the English. Scott, in allusion to the fact that Napoleon
never manifested any special attachment for the obscure island of his
birth, beautifully says, "He was like the young lion, who, while he is
scattering the herds and destroying the hunters, thinks little of the
forest cave in which he first saw the light." But at St. Helena Napoleon
said, and few will read his remarks without emotion, "What recollections
of childhood crowd upon my memory, when my thoughts are no longer
occupied with political subjects, or with the insults of my jailer upon
this rock. I am carried back to my first impressions of the life of man.
It seems to me always in these moments of calm, that I should have been
the happiest man in the world, with an income of twenty-five hundred
dollars a year, living as the father of a family, with my wife and son,
in our old house at Ajaccio. You, Montholon, remember its beautiful
situation. You have often despoiled it of its finest bunches of grapes,
when you ran off with Pauline to satisfy your childish appetite. Happy
hours! The natal soil has infinite charms. Memory embellishes it with
all its attractions, even to the very odor of the ground, which one can
so realize to the senses, as to be able with the eyes shut, to tell the
spot first trodden by the foot of childhood. I still remember with
emotion the most minute details of a journey in which I accompanied
Paoli. More than five hundred of us, young persons of the first families
in the island, formed his guard of honor. I felt proud of walking by
his side, and he appeared to take pleasure in pointing out to me, with
paternal affection, the passes of our mountains which had been witnesses
of the heroic struggle of our countrymen for independence. The
impression made upon me still vibrates in my heart. Come, place your
hand," said he to Montholon, "upon my bosom! See how it beats!" "And it
was true," Montholon remarks, "his heart did beat with such rapidity as
would have excited my astonishment, had I not been acquainted with his
organization, and with the kind of electric commotion which his thoughts
communicated to his whole being." "It is like the sound of a church
bell," continued Napoleon. "There is none upon this rock. I am no longer
accustomed to hear it. But the tones of a bell never fall upon my ear
without awakening within me the emotions of childhood. The Angelus bell
transported me back to pensive yet pleasant memories, when in the midst
of earnest thoughts and burdened with the weight of an imperial crown, I
heard its first sounds under the shady woods of St. Cloud. And often
have I been supposed to have been revolving the plan of a campaign or
digesting an imperial law, when my thoughts were wholly absorbed in
dwelling upon the first impressions of my youth. Religion is in fact the
dominion of the soul. It is the hope of life, the anchor of safety, the
deliverance from evil. What a service has Christianity rendered to
humanity! What a power would it still have, did its ministers comprehend
their mission."

Early in November the Austrians commenced their march. The cold winds of
winter were sweeping through the defiles of the Tyrol, and the summits
of the mountains were white with snow. But it was impossible to postpone
operations; for unless Wurmser were immediately relieved Mantua must
fall, and with it would fall all hopes of Austrian dominion in Italy.
The hardy old soldier had killed all his horses, and salted them down
for provisions; but even that coarse fare was nearly exhausted, and he
had succeeded in sending word to Alvinzi that he could not possibly hold
out more than six weeks longer. Napoleon, the moment he heard that the
Austrians were on the move, hastened to the head-quarters of the army at
Verona. He had stationed General Vaubois, with twelve thousand men, a
few miles north of Trent, in a narrow defile among the mountains to
watch the Austrians, and to arrest their first advances. Vaubois and his
division, overwhelmed by numbers, retreated, and thus vastly magnified
the peril of the army. The moment Napoleon received the disastrous
intelligence, he hastened, with such troops as he could collect, like
the sweep of the wind, to rally the retreating forces and check the
progress of the enemy. And here he singularly displayed that thorough
knowledge of human nature which enabled him so effectually to control
and to inspire his army. Deeming it necessary, in his present peril,
that every man should be a hero, and that every regiment should be
nerved by the determination to conquer or to die, he resolved to make a
severe example of those whose panic had proved so nearly fatal to the
army. Like a whirlwind, surrounded by his staff, he swept into the camp,
and ordered immediately the troops to be collected in a circle around
him. He sat upon his horse, and every eye was fixed upon the pale and
wan, and wasted features of their young and adored general. With a stern
and saddened voice he exclaimed, "Soldiers! I am displeased with you.
You have evinced neither discipline nor valor. You have allowed
yourselves to be driven from positions where a handful of resolute men
might have arrested an army. You are no longer French soldiers! Chief of
the staff, cause it to be written on their standards, _They are no
longer of the army of Italy_."

The influence of these words upon those impassioned men, proud of their
renown and proud of their leader, was almost inconceivable. The terrible
rebuke fell upon them like a thunderbolt. Tears trickled down the cheeks
of these battered veterans. Many of them actually groaned aloud in their
anguish. The laws of discipline could not restrain the grief which burst
from their ranks. They broke their array, crowded around the general,
exclaiming, "we have been misrepresented; the enemy were three to our
one; try us once more; place us in the post of danger, and see if we do
not belong to the army of Italy!" Napoleon relented, and spoke kindly to
them, promising to afford them an early opportunity to retrieve their
reputation. In the next battle he placed them in the van. Contending
against fearful odds they accomplished all that mortal valor could
accomplish, rolling back upon the Austrians the tide of victory. Such
was the discipline of Napoleon. He needed no blood-stained lash to scar
the naked backs of his men. He ruled over mind. His empire was in the
soul. "My soldiers," said he "are my children." The effect of this
rebuke was incalculable. There was not an officer or a soldier in the
army who was not moved by it. It came exactly at the right moment, when
it was necessary that every man in the army should be inspired with
absolute desperation of valor.

Alvinzi sent a peasant across the country to carry dispatches to Wurmser
in the beleaguered city. The information of approaching relief was
written upon very thin paper, in a minute hand, and inclosed in a ball
of wax, not much larger than a pea. The spy was intercepted. He was seen
to swallow the ball. The stomach was compelled to surrender its trust,
and Napoleon became acquainted with Alvinzi's plan of operation. He left
ten thousand men around the walls of Mantua, to continue the blockade,
and assembled the rest of his army, consisting only of fifteen thousand,
in the vicinity of Verona. The whole valley of the Adige was now
swarming with the Austrian battalions. At night the wide horizon seemed
illuminated with the blaze of their camp fires. The Austrians,
conscious of their vast superiority in numbers, were hastening to
envelop the French. Already forty thousand men were circling around the
little band of fifteen thousand who were rallied under the eagles of
France. The Austrians, wary in consequence of their past defeats, moved
with the utmost caution, taking possession of the most commanding
positions. Napoleon, with sleepless vigilance, watched for some exposed
point, but in vain. The soldiers understood the true posture of affairs,
and began to feel disheartened, for their situation was apparently
desperate. The peril of the army was so great, that even the sick and
the wounded in the hospitals at Milan, Pavia, and Lodi, voluntarily left
their beds and hastened, emaciate with suffering, and many of them with
their wounds still bleeding, to resume their station in the ranks. The
soldiers were deeply moved by this affecting spectacle, so indicative of
their fearful peril and of the devotion of their comrades to the
interests of the army. Napoleon resolved to give battle immediately,
before the Austrians should accumulate in still greater numbers.

A dark, cold winter's storm was deluging the ground with rain, as
Napoleon roused his troops from the drenched sods upon which they were
slumbering. The morning had not yet dawned through the surcharged
clouds, and the freezing wind, like a tornado, swept the bleak hills. It
was an awful hour in which to go forth to encounter mutilation and
death. The enterprise was desperate. Fifteen thousand Frenchmen, with
frenzied violence, were to hurl themselves upon the serried ranks of
forty thousand foes. The horrid carnage soon began. The roar of the
battle, the shout of onset, and the shriek of the dying, mingled in
midnight gloom, with the appalling rush and wail of the tempest. The
ground was so saturated with rain that it was almost impossible for the
French to drag their cannon through the miry ruts. As the darkness of
night passed and the dismal light of a stormy day was spread around
them, the rain changed to snow, and the struggling French were smothered
and blinded by the storm of sleet whirled furiously into their faces.
Through the live-long day this terrific battle of man and of the
elements raged unabated. When night came the exhausted soldiers,
drenched with rain and benumbed with cold, threw themselves upon the
blood-stained snow, in the midst of the dying and of the dead. Neither
party claimed the victory, and neither acknowledged defeat. No pen can
describe, nor can imagination conceive, the horrors of the dark and
wailing night of storm and sleet which ensued. Through the long hours
the groans of the wounded, scattered over many miles swept by the
battle, blended in mournful unison with the wailings of the tempest. Two
thousand of Napoleon's little band were left dead upon the field, and a
still larger number of Austrian corpses were covered with the
winding-sheet of snow. Many a blood-stained drift indicated the long and
agonizing struggle of the wounded ere the motionlessness of death
consummated the dreadful tragedy. It is hard to die even in the
curtained chambers of our ceiled houses, with sympathizing friends
administering every possible alleviation. Cold must have been those
pillows of snow, and unspeakably dreadful the solitude of those death
scenes, on the bleak hill sides and in the muddy ravines, where
thousands of the young, the hopeful, the sanguine, in horrid mutilation,
struggled through the long hours of the tempestuous night in the agonies
of dissolution. Many of these young men were from the first families in
Austria and in France, and had been accustomed to every indulgence. Far
from mother, sister, brother, drenched with rain, covered with the
drifting snow, alone--all alone with the midnight darkness and the
storm--they writhed and moaned through lingering hours of agony.

The Austrian forces still were accumulating, and the next day Napoleon
retired within the walls of Verona. It was the first time he had seemed
to retreat before his foes. His star began to wane. The soldiers were
silent and dejected. An ignominious retreat after all their victories,
or a still more ignominious surrender to the Austrians appeared their
only alternative. Night again came. The storm had passed away. The moon
rose clear and cold over the frozen hills. Suddenly the order was
proclaimed, in the early darkness, for the whole army, in silence and
celerity, to be upon the march. Grief sat upon every countenance. The
western gates of the city, looking toward France were thrown open. The
rumbling of the artillery wheels, and the sullen tramp of the dejected
soldiers fell heavily upon the night air. Not a word was spoken. Rapidly
the army emerged from the gates, crossed the river, and pressed along
the road toward France, leaving their foes slumbering behind them,
unconscious of their flight. The depression of the soldiers thus
compelled at last, as they supposed, to retreat, was extreme. Suddenly,
and to the perplexity of all, Napoleon wheeled his columns into another
road, which followed down the valley of the Adige. No one could imagine
whither he was leading them. He hastened along the banks of the river,
in most rapid march, about fourteen miles, and, just at midnight,
recrossed the stream, and came upon the rear of the Austrian army. Here
the soldiers found a vast morass, many miles in extent, traversed by
several narrow causeways, in these immense marshes superiority in number
was of little avail, as the heads of the column only could meet. The
plan of Napoleon instantly flashed upon the minds of the intelligent
French soldiers. They appreciated at once the advantage he had thus
skillfully secured for them. Shouts of joy ran through the ranks. Their
previous dejection was succeeded by corresponding elation.

It was midnight. Far and wide along the horizon blazed the fires of the
Austrian camps, while the French were in perfect darkness. Napoleon,
emaciate with care and toil, and silent in intensity of thought, as calm
and unperturbed as the clear, cold, serene winter's night, stood upon
an eminence observing the position, and estimating the strength of his
foes. He had but thirteen thousand troops. Forty thousand Austrians,
crowding the hill sides with their vast array, were manoeuvring to
envelop and to crush him. But now indescribable enthusiasm animated the
French army. They no longer doubted of success. Every man felt confident
that the _Little Corporal_ was leading them again to a glorious victory.

In the centre of these wide spreading morasses was the village of
Arcola, approached only by narrow dykes and protected by a stream,
crossed by a small wooden bridge. A strong division of the Austrian army
was stationed here. It was of the first importance that this position
should be taken from the enemy. Before the break of day the solid
columns of Napoleon were moving along the narrow passages, and the
fierce strife commenced. The soldiers, with loud shouts, rushed upon the
bridge. In an instant the whole head of the column was swept away by a
volcanic burst of fire. Napoleon sprung from his horse, seized a
standard, and shouted, "Conquerors of Lodi, follow your general!" He
rushed at the head of the column, leading his impetuous troops through a
perfect hurricane of balls and bullets, till he arrived at the centre of
the bridge. Here the tempest of fire was so dreadful that all were
thrown into confusion. Clouds of smoke enveloped the bridge in almost
midnight darkness. The soldiers recoiled, and trampling over the dead
and dying, in wild disorder retreated. The tall grenadiers seized the
fragile and wasted form of Napoleon in their arms as if he had been a
child, and regardless of their own danger, dragged him from the mouth of
this terrible battery. But in the tumult they were forced over the dyke,
and Napoleon was plunged into the morass and was left almost smothered
in the mire. The Austrians were already between Napoleon and his column,
when the anxious soldiers perceived, in the midst of the darkness and
the tumult, that their beloved chief was missing. The wild cry arose,
"Forward to save your general." Every heart thrilled at this cry. The
whole column instantly turned, and regardless of death, inspired by love
for their general, rushed impetuously, irresistibly upon the bridge.
Napoleon was extricated and Arcola was taken.

[Illustration: THE MARSHES OF ARCOLA.]

As soon as the morning dawned, Alvinzi perceived that Verona was
evacuated, and in astonishment he heard the thunder of Napoleon's guns
reverberating over the marshes which surrounded Arcola. He feared the
genius of his adversary, and his whole army was immediately in motion.
All day long the battle raged on those narrow causeways, the heads of
the columns rushing against each other with indescribable fury, and the
dead and the dying filling the morass. The terrible rebuke which had
been inflicted upon the division of Vaubois still rung in the ears of
the French troops, and every officer and every man resolved to prove
that _he_ belonged to the army of Italy. Said Augereau, as he rushed
into the mouth of a perfect volcano of flame and fire, "Napoleon may
break my sword over my dead body, but he shall never cashier _me_ in the
presence of my troops." Napoleon was every where, exposed to every
danger, now struggling through the dead and the dying on foot, heading
the impetuous charge; now galloping over the dykes, with the balls from
the Austrian batteries plowing the ground around him. Wherever his voice
was heard, and his eye fell, tenfold enthusiasm inspired his men.
Lannes, though severely wounded, had hastened from the hospital at
Milan, to aid the army in this terrible emergence. He received three
wounds in endeavoring to protect Napoleon, and never left his side till
the battle was closed. Muiron, another of those gallant spirits, bound
to Napoleon by those mysterious ties of affection which this strange man
inspired, seeing a bomb shell about to explode, threw himself between it
and Napoleon, saving the life of his beloved general by the sacrifice of
his own. The darkness of night separated the combatants for a few hours,
but before the dawn of the morning the murderous assault was renewed,
and continued with unabated violence through the whole ensuing day. The
French veterans charged with the bayonet, and hurled the Austrians with
prodigious slaughter into the marsh. Another night came and went. The
gray light of another cold winter's morning appeared faintly in the
east, when the soldiers sprang again from their freezing, marshy beds,
and in the dense clouds of vapor and of smoke which had settled down
over the morass, with the fury of blood-hounds rushed again to the
assault. In the midst of this terrible conflict a cannon-ball fearfully
mangled the horse upon which Napoleon was riding. The powerful animal,
frantic with pain and terror, became perfectly unmanageable. Seizing the
bit in his teeth, he rushed through the storm of bullets directly into
the midst of the Austrian ranks. He then, in the agonies of death,
plunged into the morass and expired. Napoleon was left struggling in the
swamp up to his neck in the mire. Being perfectly helpless, he was
expecting every moment either to sink and disappear in that inglorious
grave, or that some Austrian dragoon would sabre his head from his body
or with a bullet pierce his brain. Enveloped in clouds of smoke, in the
midst of the dismay and the uproar of the terrific scene, he chanced to
evade observation, until his own troops, regardless of every peril,
forced their way to his rescue. Napoleon escaped with but a few slight
wounds. Through the long day, the tide of war continued to ebb and to
flow upon these narrow dykes. Napoleon now carefully counted the number
of prisoners taken and estimated the amount of the slain. Computing thus
that the enemy did not outnumber him by more than a third, he resolved
to march out into the open plain for a decisive conflict. He relied upon
the enthusiasm and the confidence of his own troops and the dejection
with which he knew that the Austrians were oppressed. In these
impassable morasses it was impossible to operate with the cavalry. Three
days of this terrible conflict had now passed. In the horrible carnage
of these days Napoleon had lost 8000 men, and he estimated that the
Austrians could not have lost less, in killed, wounded, and prisoners,
than 20,000. Both armies were utterly exhausted, and those hours of
dejection and lassitude had ensued in which every one wished that the
battle was at an end.

It was midnight. Napoleon, sleepless and fasting, seemed insensible to
exhaustion either of body or of mind. He galloped along the dykes from
post to post, with his whole soul engrossed with preparations for the
renewal of the conflict. Now he checked his horse to speak in tones of
consolation to a wounded soldier, and again by a few words of kind
encouragement animated an exhausted sentinel. At two o'clock in the
morning the whole army, with the ranks sadly thinned, was again roused
and ranged in battle array. It was a cold, damp morning, and the weary
and half-famished soldiers shivered in their lines. A dense, oppressive
fog covered the flooded marsh and added to the gloom of the night.
Napoleon ordered fifty of the guards to struggle with their horses
through the swamp, and conceal themselves in the rear of the enemy. With
incredible difficulty most of them succeeded in accomplishing this
object. Each dragoon had a trumpet. Napoleon commenced a furious attack
along the whole Austrian front. When the fire was the hottest, at an
appointed signal, the mounted guards sounded with their trumpets loudly
the charge, and with perfect desperation plunged into the ranks of the
enemy. The Austrians, in the darkness and confusion of the night,
supposing that Murat,[1] with his whole body of cavalry, was thundering
down upon their rear, in dismay broke and fled. With demoniacal energy
the French troops pursued the victory, and before that day's sun went
down, the proud army of Alvinzi, now utterly routed, and having lost
nearly thirty thousand men, marking its path with a trail of blood, was
retreating into the mountains of Austria. Napoleon, with streaming
banners and exultant music, marched triumphantly back into Verona, by
the eastern gates, directly opposite those from which, three days
before, he had emerged. He was received by the inhabitants with the
utmost enthusiasm and astonishment. Even the enemies of Napoleon so
greatly admired the heroism and the genius of this wonderful
achievement, that they added their applause to that of his friends. This
was the fourth Austrian army which Napoleon had overthrown in less than
eight months, and each of them more than twice as numerous as his own.
In Napoleon's dispatches to the Directory, as usual, silent concerning
himself, and magnanimously attributing the victory to the heroism of the
troops, he says, "Never was a field of battle more valiantly disputed
than the conflict at Arcola. I have scarcely any generals left. Their
bravery and their patriotic enthusiasm are without example."

In the midst of all these cares he found time to write a letter of
sympathy to the widow of the brave Muiron. "You," he writes, "have lost
a husband who was dear to you; and I am bereft of a friend to whom I
have been long and sincerely attached. But our country has suffered more
than us both, in being deprived of an officer so pre-eminently
distinguished for his talents and his dauntless bravery. If it lies
within the scope of my ability to yield assistance to yourself, or your
infant, I beseech you to reckon upon my utmost exertions." It is
affecting to record that in a few weeks the woe-stricken widow gave
birth to a lifeless babe, and she and her little one sank into an
untimely grave together. The woes of war extend far and wide beyond the
blood-stained field of battle. Twenty thousand men perished around the
marshes of Arcola. And after the thunders of the strife had ceased, and
the groans of the dying were hushed in death, in twenty thousand distant
homes, far away on the plains of France, or in the peaceful glens of
Austria, the agony of that field of blood was renewed, as the tidings
reached them, and a wail burst forth from crushed and lacerated hearts,
which might almost have drowned the roar of that deadly strife.

How Napoleon could have found time in the midst of such terrific scenes
for the delicate attentions of friendship, it is difficult to conceive.
Yet to a stranger he wrote, announcing the death of a nephew, in the
following affecting terms: "He fell with glory and in the face of the
enemy, without suffering a moment of pain. Where is the man who would
not envy such a death? Who would not gladly accept the choice of thus
escaping from the vicissitudes of an unsatisfying world. Who has not
often regretted that he has not been thus withdrawn from the calumny,
the envy, and all the odious passions which seem the almost exclusive
directors of the conduct of mankind." It was in this pensive strain that
Napoleon wrote, when a young man of twenty-six, and in the midst of a
series of the most brilliant victories which mortal man had ever
achieved.

The moment the Austrians broke and fled, while the thunders of the
pursuing cannonade were reverberating over the plains, Napoleon seized a
pen and wrote to his faithful Josephine, with that impetuous energy, in
which "sentences were crowded into words, and words into letters." The
courier was dispatched, at the top of his speed, with the following
lines, which Josephine with no little difficulty deciphered. She deemed
them worth the study. "My adored Josephine! at length I live again.
Death is no longer before me, and glory and honor are still in my
breast. The enemy is beaten. Soon Mantua will be ours. Then thy husband
will fold thee in his arms, and give thee a thousand proofs of his
ardent affection. I am a little fatigued. I have received letters from
Eugene and Hortense. I am delighted with the children. Adieu, my
adorable Josephine. Think of me often. Should your heart grow cold
toward me, you will be indeed cruel and unjust. But I am sure that you
will always continue my faithful friend as I shall ever continue your
fond lover. Death alone can break the union which love, sentiment, and
sympathy have formed. Let me have news of your health. A thousand and a
thousand kisses."

A vein of superstition pervaded the mind of this extraordinary man. He
felt that he was the child of destiny--that he was led by an arm more
powerful than his own, and that an unseen guide was conducting him along
his perilous and bewildering pathway. He regarded life as of little
value, and contemplated death without any dread. "I am," said he, "the
creature of circumstances. I do but go where events point out the way. I
do not give myself any uneasiness about death. When a man's time is
come, he must go." "Are you a Predestinarian?" inquired O'Meara. "As
much so," Napoleon replied, "as the Turks are. I have been always so.
When destiny wills, it must be obeyed. I will relate an example. At the
siege of Toulon I observed an officer very careful of himself, instead
of exhibiting an example of courage to animate his men. 'Mr. Officer,'
said I, 'come out and observe the effect of your shot. You know not
whether your guns are well pointed or not.' Very reluctantly he came
outside of the parapet, to the place where I was standing. Wishing to
expose as little of his body as possible, he stooped down, and partially
sheltered himself behind the parapet, and looked under my arm. Just then
a shot came close to me, and low down, which knocked him to pieces. Now,
if this man had stood upright, he would have been safe as the ball would
have passed between us without hurting either." Maria Louisa, upon her
marriage with Napoleon, was greatly surprised to find that no sentinels
slept at the door of his chamber; that the doors even were not locked;
and that there were no guns or pistols in the room where they slept.
"Why," said she, "you do not take half so many precautions as my father
does." "I am too much of a fatalist," he replied, "to take any
precautions against assassination." O'Meara, at St. Helena, at one time
urged him to take some medicine. He declined, and calmly raising his
eyes to heaven, said, "That which is written is written. Our days are
numbered." Strange and inconsistent as it may seem, there is a form
which the doctrine of Predestination assumes in the human mind, which
arouses one to an intensity of exertion which nothing else could
inspire. Napoleon felt that he was destined to the most exalted
achievements. Therefore he consecrated himself through days of toil and
nights of sleeplessness to the most Herculean exertions that he might
work out his destiny. This sentiment which inspired Napoleon as a
philosopher, animated Calvin as a Christian. Instead of cutting the
sinews of exertion, as many persons would suppose it must, it did but
strain those sinews to their utmost tension.

Napoleon had obtained, at the time of his marriage, an exquisite
miniature of Josephine. This, in his romantic attachment, he had
suspended by a ribbon about his neck, and the cheek of Josephine ever
rested upon the pulsations of his heart. Though living in the midst of
the most exciting tumults earth has ever witnessed, his pensive and
reflective mind was solitary and alone. The miniature of Josephine was
his companion, and often during the march, and in the midnight bivouac,
he gazed upon it most fondly. "By what art is it," he once passionately
wrote, "that you, my sweet love, have been able to captivate all my
faculties, and to concentrate in yourself my moral existence? It is a
magic influence which will terminate only with my life. My adorable
wife! I know not what fate awaits me, but if it keep me much longer from
you, it will be insupportable. There was a time when I was proud of my
courage. When contemplating the various evils to which we are exposed, I
could fix my eyes steadfastly upon every conceivable calamity, without
alarm or dread. But now the idea that Josephine may be ill, and, above
all, the cruel thought that she may love me less, withers my soul, and
leaves me not even the courage of despair. Formerly I said to myself,
Man can not hurt him who can die without regret. But now to die without
being loved by Josephine is torment. My incomparable companion! thou
whom fate has destined to make, along with me, the painful journey of
life, the day on which I shall cease to possess thy heart will be to me
the day of utter desolation." On one occasion the glass covering the
miniature was found to be broken. Napoleon considered the accident a
fearful omen of calamity to the beloved original. He was so oppressed
with this presentiment, that a courier was immediately dispatched to
bring him tidings from Josephine.

It is not surprising that Napoleon should thus have won, in the heart of
Josephine the most enthusiastic love. "He is," said she, "the most
fascinating of men." Said the Duchess of Abrantes, "It is impossible to
describe the charm of Napoleon's countenance when he smiled. His soul
was upon his lips and in his eyes." "I never," said the Emperor
Alexander, "loved any man as I did that man." Says the Duke of Vicenza,
"I have known nearly all the crowned heads of the present day--all our
illustrious contemporaries. I have lived with several of those great
historical characters on a footing quite distinct from my diplomatic
duties. I have had every opportunity of comparing and judging. But it is
impossible to institute any comparison between Napoleon and any other
man. They who say otherwise did not know him." Says Duroc, "Napoleon is
endowed with a variety of faculties, any one of which would suffice to
distinguish a man from the multitude. He is the greatest captain of the
age. He is a statesman who directs the whole business of the country,
and superintends every branch of the service. He is a sovereign whose
ministers are merely his clerks. And yet this Colossus of gigantic
proportions can descend to the most trivial details of private life. He
can regulate the expenditure of his household as he regulates the
finances of the empire."

Notwithstanding Napoleon had now destroyed four Austrian armies, the
imperial court was still unsubdued, and still pertinaciously refused to
make peace with republican France. Herculean efforts were immediately
made to organize a fifth army to march again upon Napoleon. These
exciting scenes kept all Italy in a state of extreme fermentation. Every
day the separation between the aristocratic and the republican party
became more marked and rancorous. Austria and England exerted all their
arts of diplomacy to rouse the aristocratic governments of Rome, Venice,
and Naples to assail Napoleon in the rear, and thus to crush that spirit
of republican liberty so rapidly spreading through Italy, and which
threatened the speedy overthrow of all their thrones. Napoleon, in
self-defense, was compelled to call to his aid the sympathies of the
republican party, and to encourage their ardent aspirations for free
government.

And here again the candid mind is compelled to pause, and almost to
yield its assent to that doctrine of destiny which had obtained so
strong a hold upon the mind of Napoleon. How could it be expected that
those monarchs, with their thrones, their wealth, their pride, their
power, their education, their habits, should have submissively
relinquished their exalted inheritance, and have made an unconditional
surrender to triumphant democracy. Kings, nobles, priests, and all the
millions whose rank and property were suspended upon the perpetuity of
those old monarchies, could, by no possibility have been led to such a
measure. Unquestionably many were convinced that the interests of
humanity demanded the support of the established governments. They had
witnessed the accomplishments of democracy in France--a frenzied mob
sacking the palace, dragging the royal family, through every conceivable
insult, to dungeons and a bloody death, burning the chateaus of the
nobles, bruising with gory clubs upon the pavements, the most venerable
in rank and the most austere in virtue, dancing in brutal orgies around
the dissevered heads of the most illustrious and lovely ladies of the
realm, and dragging their dismembered limbs in derision through the
streets. Priests crowded the churches, praying to God to save them from
the horrors of democracy. Matrons and maidens trembled in their chambers
as they wrought with their own hands the banners of royalty, and with
moistened eyes and palpitating hearts they presented them to their
defenders.

On the other hand, how could republican France tamely succumb to her
proud and aristocratic enemies. "Kings," said a princess of the house of
Austria, "should no more regard the murmurs of the people than does the
moon the barking of dogs." How could the triumphant millions of France,
who had just overthrown this intolerable despotism, and whose hearts
were glowing with aspirations for liberty and equal rights, yield
without a struggle all they had attained at such an enormous expense of
blood and misery. They turned their eyes hopefully to the United States,
where our own Washington and their own La Fayette had fought, side by
side, and had established liberty gloriously; and they could not again
voluntarily place their necks beneath the yoke of kingly domination.
Despotism engenders ignorance and cruelty; and despotism did but reap
the awful harvest of blood and woe, of which, during countless ages of
oppression, it had been scattering broadcast the seed.

The enfranchised people could not allow the allied monarchs of Europe to
rear again, upon the soil of republican France, and in the midst of
thirty millions of freemen, an execrated and banished dynasty. This was
not a warfare of republican angels against aristocratic fiends, or of
refined, benevolent, intellectual loyalists against rancorous, reckless,
vulgar Jacobins. It was a warfare of frail and erring man against his
fellow--many, both monarchists and republicans, perhaps animated by
motives as corrupt as can influence the human heart. But it can not be
doubted that there were others on each side, who were influenced by
considerations as pure as can glow in the bosom of humanity. Napoleon
recognized and respected these verities. While he had no scruples
respecting his own duty to defend his country from the assaults of the
allied kings, he candidly respected his opponents. Candidly he said,
"Had I been surrounded by the influences which have surrounded these
gentlemen, I should doubtless have been fighting beneath their banners."
There is probably not a reader of these pages, who, had he been an
English or an Austrian noble, would not have fought those battles of the
monarchy, upon which his fortune, his power, and his rank were
suspended. And there probably is not a noble upon the banks of the
Danube or the Thames, who, had he been a young lawyer, merchant, or
artisan, with all his prospects in life depending upon his own merit and
exertions, would not have strained every nerve to hew down these
bulwarks of exclusive privilege, which the pride and oppression of ages
had reared. Such is man; and such his melancholy lot. We would not
detract from the wickedness of these wars, deluging Europe with blood
and woe. But God alone can award the guilt. We would not conceal that
all our sympathies are with the republicans struggling for their
unquestionable rights. But we may also refrain from casting unmerited
obloquy upon those, who were likewise struggling for every thing dear to
them in life.

The Directory, trembling in view of the vast renown Napoleon was
acquiring, and not at all relishing the idea of having the direction of
affairs thus unceremoniously taken from their hands, sent Gen. Clarke,
as an envoy, to Napoleon's head-quarters, to conduct negotiations with
the Austrians. Napoleon received him with great external courtesy, but
that there might be no embarrassing misunderstanding between them,
informed him in so many words, "If you come here to obey me, I shall
always see you with pleasure; if not, the sooner you return to those who
sent you the better." The proud envoy yielded at once to the
master-mind, and so completely was he brought under the influence of
its strange fascination, that he became a most enthusiastic admirer of
Napoleon, and wrote to the Directory, "It is indispensable that the
General-in-chief should conduct all the diplomatic operations in Italy."

While Alvinzi had been preparing his overwhelming host to crush
Napoleon, the Pope also, in secret alliance, had been collecting his
resources to attack the common foe. It was an act of treachery. Napoleon
called Mattei from his fastings and penance in the convent, and
commissioned him to go and say to the Pope: "Rome desires war. It shall
have war. But first I owe it to humanity to make a final effort to
recall the Pope to reason. My army is strong. I have but to will it and
the temporal power of the Pope is destroyed. Still France permits me to
listen to words of peace. War, so cruel for all, has terrible results
for the vanquished. I am anxious to close this struggle by peace. War
has for me now neither danger nor glory." The Pope, however, believing
that Austria would still crush Napoleon, met these menaces with
defiance. Napoleon, conscious that he could not then march upon Rome,
devoted all his energies to prepare for the onset of the Austrians,
while he kept a vigilant eye upon his enemies in the south. Some he
overawed. Others, by a change of government, he transformed into fast
friends. Four weeks passed rapidly away, and another vast Austrian army
was crowding down from the north with gigantic steps to relieve Mantua,
now in the last stage of starvation. Wurmser had succeeded in sending a
spy through the French lines, conveying the message to Alvinzi, that
unless relieved he could not possibly hold out many days longer.

Josephine had now come, at Napoleon's request, to reside at the
head-quarters of the army, that she might be near her husband. Napoleon
had received her with the most tender affection, and his exhausted frame
was re-invigorated by her soothing cares. He had no tendencies to
gallantry, which provoked Madame de Staël once to remark to him, "It is
reported that you are not very partial to the ladies." "I am very fond
of my wife, Madame," was his laconic reply. Napoleon had not a high
appreciation of the female character in general, and yet he highly
valued the humanizing and refining influence of polished female society.
"The English," said he, "appear to prefer the bottle to the society of
their ladies; as is exemplified by dismissing the ladies from the table,
and remaining for hours to drink and intoxicate themselves. Were I in
England I should certainly leave the table with the ladies. You do not
treat them with sufficient regard. If your object is to converse instead
of to drink, why not allow them to be present. Surely conversation is
never so lively or so witty as when ladies take a part in it. Were I an
Englishwoman I should feel very discontented at being turned out by the
men, to wait for two or three hours while they were guzzling their wine.
In France society is nothing unless ladies are present. They are the
life of conversation." At one time Josephine was defending her sex from
some remarks which he had made respecting their frivolity and
insincerity. "Ah! my dear Josephine," he replied, "they are all nothing
compared with you."

Notwithstanding the boundless wealth at Napoleon's disposal, when
Josephine arrived at the head-quarters of the army, he lived in a very
simple and frugal manner. Though many of his generals were rolling in
voluptuousness, he indulged himself in no ostentation in dress or
equipage. The only relaxation he sought was to spend an occasional hour
in the society of Josephine. In the midst of the movements of these
formidable armies, and just before a decisive battle, it was necessary
that she should take her departure to a place of greater safety. As she
was bidding her husband adieu, a cart passed by, loaded with the
mutilated forms of the wounded. The awful spectacle, and the
consciousness of the terrible peril of her husband moved her tender
feelings. She threw herself upon his neck and wept most bitterly.
Napoleon fondly encircled her in his arms, and said, "Wurmser shall pay
dearly for those tears which he causes thee to shed." Napoleon's
appearance at this time was deplorable in the extreme. His cheeks were
pallid and wan. He was as thin as a skeleton. His bright and burning eye
alone indicated that the fire of his soul was unextinguished. The
glowing energies of his mind sustained his emaciated and exhausted body.
The soldiers took pleasure in contrasting his mighty genius and his
world-wide renown, with his effeminate stature and his wasted and
enfeebled frame.

In allusion to the wonderful tranquillity of mind which Napoleon
retained in the midst of all harassments, disasters, and perils, he
remarked. "Nature seems to have calculated that I should endure great
reverses. She has given me a mind of marble. Thunder can not ruffle it.
The shaft merely glides along."

Early in January Alvinzi descended toward Mantua, from the mountains of
Austria. It was the fifth army which the Imperial Court had sent for the
destruction of the Republicans. The Tyrol was in the hands of the
French. Napoleon, to prevent the peasants from rising in guerrilla
bands, issued a decree that every Tyrolese taken in arms should be shot
as a brigand. Alvinzi replied, that for every peasant shot he would hang
a French prisoner of war. Napoleon rejoined, that for every French
prisoner thus slain he would gibbet an Austrian officer, commencing with
Alvinzi's own nephew, who was in his hands. A little reflection taught
both generals that it was not best to add to the inevitable horrors of
war by the execution of these sanguinary threats. With the utmost
vigilance Napoleon, with his army gathered around him in the vicinity of
Mantua, was watching the movements of his formidable enemy, uncertain
respecting his line of march, or upon what points the terrible onset was
to fall.

The 12th of January, 1797, was a dark, stormy winter's day. The sleet,
swept by the gale over the bleak mountains, covered the earth with an
icy mantle. The swollen streams, clogged with ice, roared through the
ravines. As the sun went down a clear belt of cloudless sky appeared
brilliant in the west. The storm passed away. The cold north wind blew
furiously, and the stars with unwonted lustre, adorned the wintry night.
As the twilight was fading a courier galloped into the camp with the
intelligence that the Austrians had made their appearance in vast
numbers upon the plains of Rivoli, and that they were attacking with
great fury the advanced post of the French stationed there. At the same
time another courier arrived informing him that a powerful division of
the Austrian army was moving in another direction to carry relief to
Mantua. It was a fearful dilemma. Should Napoleon wait for the junction
of these two armies to assail him in front, while the garrison in
Mantua, emerging from the walls should attack him in the rear, his
situation would be hopeless. Should he march to attack one army, he must
leave the road open for the other to enter Mantua with reinforcements
and relief. But Napoleon lost not one moment in deliberation.
Instinctively he decided upon the only course to be pursued. "The
French," said the Austrians, "do not march; they fly." With a rapidity
of movement which seems almost miraculous, before two o'clock in the
morning, Napoleon, with thirty thousand men, stood upon the snow-clad
heights overlooking the encampment of his sleeping foes. It was a
sublime and an appalling spectacle which burst upon his view. For miles
and miles the watch-fires of the mighty host filled the extended plain.
The night was clear, cold, and beautiful. Gloomy firs and pines frowned
along the sides of the mountains, silvered by the rays of an unclouded
moon. The keen eye of Napoleon instantly detected that there were fifty
thousand men, in five divisions of ten thousand each, whom he, with
thirty thousand was to encounter upon that plain. He also correctly
judged, from the position of the divisions, that the artillery had not
arrived, and resolved upon an immediate attack. At four o'clock in the
morning, the Austrians were roused from their slumbers by the rush of
Napoleon's battalions and by the thunders of his artillery. The day of
Rivoli! It was a long, long day of blood and woe. The tide of victory
ebbed and flowed. Again and again Napoleon seemed ruined. Night came,
and the genius of Napoleon had again triumphed. The whole plain was
covered with the dead and the dying. The Austrians, in wild terror, were
flying before the impetuous charges of the French cavalry; while from
every eminence cannon-balls were plunged into the dense ranks of the
fugitives. The genius of this stern warrior never appeared more terrible
than in the unsparing energy with which he rained down his blows upon a
defeated army. Napoleon had three horses shot under him during the day.
"The Austrians," said he, "manoeuvred admirably, and failed only because
they are incapable of calculating the value of minutes."

An event occurred in the very hottest of the battle which singularly
illustrates Napoleon's wonderful presence of mind. The Austrians had
completely enveloped him, cutting off his retreat, and attacking him in
front, flanks, and rear; the destruction of the army seemed inevitable.
Napoleon, to gain time, instantly sent a flag of truce to Alvinzi,
proposing a suspension of arms for half an hour, to attend to some
propositions to be made in consequence of dispatches just received from
Paris. The Austrian general fell into the snare. The roar of battle
ceased, and the blood-stained combatants rested upon their guns. Junot
repaired to the Austrian head-quarters, and kept Alvinzi busy for half
an hour in discussing the terms of accommodation. In the mean time
Napoleon had re-arranged his army to repel these numerous attacks. As
was to be expected, no terms could be agreed upon, and immediately the
murderous onset was renewed.

The scene displayed at the close of this battle was awful in the
extreme. The fugitive army, horse, foot, cannon, baggage-wagons, and
ammunition-carts struggled along in inextricable confusion through the
narrow passes, while a plunging fire from the French batteries produced
frightful havoc in the crowd. The occasional explosion of an
ammunition-wagon under this terrific fire, opened in the dense mass a
gap like the crater of a volcano, scattering far and wide over the field
the mangled limbs of the dead. The battle of Rivoli Napoleon ever
regarded as one of the most dreadful battles he ever fought, and one of
the most signal victories he ever won.

Leaving a few troops to pursue and harass the fugitives, Napoleon, that
very night, with the mass of his army, turned to arrest the Austrian
division of twenty thousand men under Provera, hastening to the
reinforcement of Mantua. He had already marched all of one night, and
fought all of the ensuing day. He allowed his utterly exhausted troops a
few hours for sleep, but closed not his own eyes. He still considered
the peril of his army so great as to demand the utmost vigilance. So
intense was his solicitude, that he passed the hours of the night, while
the rest were sleeping, in walking about the outposts. At one of them he
found a sentinel, utterly worn down by fatigue, asleep at the root of a
tree. Without awaking him, Napoleon took his gun and performed a
sentinel's duty in his place for half an hour. At last the poor man,
starting from his slumbers, overwhelmed with consternation, perceived
the countenance and the occupation of his general. He knew that death
was the penalty for such a crime, and he fell speechless upon his knees.
"My brave friend," said Napoleon kindly, "here is your musket. You have
marched long and fought hard, and your sleep is excusable. But a
moment's inattention at the present time might ruin the army. I happened
to be awake, and have held your post for you. You will be more careful
another time." It is not surprising that such deeds as these,
continually repeated at the campfires of the soldiers, should have
inspired them with the most enthusiastic admiration of their
commander-in-chief.

[Illustration: THE EXHAUSTED SENTINEL.]

The hour of midnight had hardly passed before the whole army was again
in motion. The dawn of the morning found them pressing on with all
possible speed, hoping to arrive at Mantua before the Austrian force
should have effected an entrance into the beleaguered city. All the day
long they hurried on their way, and just as the sun was setting, they
heard the roar of the conflict around the ramparts of Mantua. Provera
was attacking the French in their intrenchments upon one side. The brave
old Wurmser was marching from the city to attack them upon the other. An
hour might have settled the unequal conflict. Suddenly Napoleon, like a
thunderbolt, plunged into the midst of the foe. Provera's band was
scattered like chaff before the whirlwind. Wurmser and his half-starved
men were driven back to their fortress and their prison. Thus terminated
this signal campaign of _three days_, during which the Austrians lost
twenty-five thousand prisoners, twenty-five standards, sixty pieces of
cannon, and six thousand men in killed and wounded. The Austrian army
was again destroyed, and the French remained in undisputed possession of
Italy. Such achievements filled the world with astonishment. Military
men of all lands have regarded these brilliant operations of Napoleon as
the most extraordinary which history has recorded.

Wurmser's situation was now hopeless, and no resource was left him but
to capitulate. One half of his once numerous garrison were in the
hospital. The horses which had been killed and salted down were all
consumed. Famine was now staring the garrison in the face. Wurmser sent
an aid-de-camp to the tent of Serrurier to propose terms of
capitulation. Napoleon was sitting in a corner of the tent unobserved,
wrapped in his cloak. The aid, with the artifice usual on such
occasions, expatiated on the powerful means of resistance Wurmser still
enjoyed, and the large stores of provisions still in the magazines.
Napoleon, without making himself known, listened to the conversation,
taking no part in it. At last he approached the table, silently took the
paper containing Wurmser's propositions, and, to the astonishment of the
aid, wrote upon the margin his answer to all the terms suggested.
"There," said he, "are the conditions which I grant to your marshal. If
he had provisions but for a fortnight and could talk of surrender, he
would not deserve an honorable capitulation. As he sends you, he must be
reduced to extremity. I respect his age, his valor, his misfortunes.
Carry to him the terms which I grant. Whether he leaves the place
to-morrow, in a month, or in six months he shall have neither better nor
worse conditions. He may stay as long as his sense of honor demands."

The aid now perceived that he was in the presence of Napoleon. Glancing
his eye over the terms of capitulation, he was surprised at the
liberality of the victor, and seeing that dissimulation was of no
further avail, he confessed that Wurmser had provisions but for three
days. The brave old marshal was deeply moved with gratitude in
acknowledging the generosity with which he was treated by his young
adversary. Wurmser was entirely in his power, and must have surrendered
at discretion. Yet Napoleon, to spare the feelings of his foe, allowed
him to march out of the place with all his staff, and to retire
unmolested to Austria. He even granted him two hundred horse and five
hundred men, to be chosen by himself, and six pieces of cannon, to
render his departure less humiliating. Wurmser most gratefully accepted
this magnanimous offer, and to prove his gratitude informed Napoleon of
a plan laid in the Papal States for poisoning him, and this undoubtedly
saved his life. The remainder of the garrison, twenty thousand strong,
surrendered their arms, and were retained as prisoners of war. Fifteen
standards, a bridge equipage, and above five hundred pieces of artillery
fell into the hands of the victor.

On the following morning the Austrian army, emaciate, humiliated, and
dejected, defiled from the gates of Mantua to throw down their arms at
the feet of the triumphant Republicans. But on this occasion also,
Napoleon displayed that magnanimity and delicacy of mind, which accorded
so well with the heroism of his character and the grandeur of his
achievements. Few young men, twenty-six years of age, at the termination
of so terrific a campaign, would have deprived themselves of the
pleasure of seeing the veteran Austrian marshal and his proud array pass
vanquished before him. But on the morning of that day Napoleon mounted
his horse, and heading a division of his army, disappeared from the
ground, and marched for the Papal States. He left Serrurier to receive
the sword of Wurmser. He would not add to the mortification of the
vanquished general, by being present in the hour of his humiliation.
Delicacy so rare and so noble attracted the attention of all Europe.
This magnanimous and dignified conduct extorted reluctant admiration
even from the bitterest enemies of the young Republican general.

The Directory, unable to appreciate such nobility of spirit, were
dissatisfied with the liberal terms which had been granted Wurmser.
Napoleon treated their remonstrances with scorn, and simply replied, "I
have granted the Austrian general such terms as, in my judgment, were
due to a brave and honorable enemy, and to the dignity of the French
Republic."

The Austrians were now driven out of Italy. Napoleon commenced the
campaign with thirty thousand men. He received, during the progress of
these destructive battles, twenty thousand recruits. Thus, in ten
months, Napoleon, with fifty-five thousand men, had conquered five
armies, under veteran generals, and composed of more than two hundred
thousand highly disciplined Austrian troops. He had taken one hundred
thousand prisoners, and killed and wounded thirty-five thousand men.
These were great victories, and "a great victory," said the Duke of
Wellington, "is the most awful thing in the world excepting a great
defeat."

Napoleon now prepared to march boldly upon Vienna itself, and to compel
the emperor, in his own palace, to make peace with insulted France. Such
an idea he had not conceived at the commencement of the campaign;
circumstances, however, or as Napoleon would say, _his destiny_ led him
on. But first it was necessary to turn aside to humble the Pope, who had
been threatening Napoleon's rear with an army of 40,000 men, but who was
now in utter consternation in view of the hopeless defeat of the
Austrians. Napoleon issued the following proclamation: "The French army
is about to enter the Pope's territories. It will protect religion and
the people. The French soldier carries in one hand the bayonet, as the
guarantee of victory; in the other the olive branch, a symbol of peace,
and a pledge of protection. Woe to those who shall provoke the vengeance
of this army. To the inhabitants of every town and village peace,
protection, and security are offered." All the spiritual machinery of
the Papal Church had been put into requisition to rouse the people to
frenzy. The tocsin had been tolled in every village, forty hours'
prayers offered, indulgences promised, and even miracles employed to
inspire the populace with delirious energy. Napoleon took with him but
four thousand five hundred French soldiers, aided by four thousand
Italian recruits. He first encountered the enemy, seven thousand strong,
under Cardinal Busca, intrenched upon the banks of the Senio. It was in
the evening twilight of a pleasant spring day, when the French
approached the river. The ecclesiastic, but little accustomed to the
weapons of secular warfare, sent a flag of truce, who very pompously
presented himself before Napoleon, and declared, in the name of the
cardinal-in-chief, that if the French continued to advance he should
certainly fire upon them. The terrible menace was reported through the
French lines, and was received with perfect peals of merriment. Napoleon
replied that he should be extremely sorry to expose himself to the
cardinal's fire, and that therefore, as the army was very much fatigued,
with the cardinal's leave it would take up its quarters for the night.
In the darkness a division of the French army was sent across the
stream, by a ford, to cut off the retreat of the Papal troops, and in
the morning the bloody conflict of an hour left nearly every man dead
upon the field, or a prisoner in the hands of Napoleon. Pressing rapidly
on, the French arrived the same day at Faenza. The gates were shut, the
ramparts manned with cannon, and the multitude, in fanatical enthusiasm,
exasperated the French soldiers with every species of insulting
defiance. The gates were instantly battered down, and the French rushed
into the city. They loudly clamored for permission to pillage. "The
case," said they, "is the same as that of Pavia." "No!" replied
Napoleon, "at Pavia the people, after having taken an oath of obedience,
revolted, and attempted to murder our soldiers who were their guests.
These people are deceived, and must be subdued by kindness." All the
prisoners taken here, and in the battle of the Senio, were assembled in
a large garden of one of the convents of Faenza. Napoleon had been
represented to them as a monster of atheism, cruelty, and crime. They
were in a perfect paroxysm of terror, not doubting that they were
gathered there to be shot. Upon the approach of Napoleon they fell upon
their knees, with loud cries for mercy. He addressed them in Italian,
and in those tones of kindness which seemed to have a magic power over
the human heart. "I am the friend," said he, "of all the people of
Italy. I come among you for your good. You are all free. Return to the
bosom of your families, and tell them that the French are the friends of
religion and of order, and of all the poor and the oppressed." From the
garden he went to the refectory of the convent, where the captured
officers were assembled. Familiarly he conversed with them a long time,
as with friends and equals. He explained to them his motives and his
wishes; spoke of the liberty of Italy, of the abuses of the pontifical
government, of its gross violation of the spirit of the gospel, and of
the blood which must be vainly expended in the attempt to resist such a
victorious and well-disciplined army as he had at his disposal. He gave
them all permission to return to their homes, and simply requested them,
as the price of his clemency, to make known to the community the
sentiments with which he was animated. These men now became as
enthusiastic in their admiration of Napoleon as they had previously been
exasperated against him. They dispersed through the cities and villages
of Italy, never weary in eulogizing the magnanimity of their conqueror.
He soon met another army of the Romans at Ancona. He cautiously
surrounded them, and took them all prisoners without hurting a man, and
then, by a few of his convincing words, sent them through the country as
missionaries proclaiming his clemency, and the benevolence of the
commander-in-chief of the Republican army. Ancona was so situated as to
be one of the most important ports of the Adriatic. Its harbor, however,
was in such a neglected condition, that not even a frigate could enter.
He immediately decided what ought to be done to fortify the place and to
improve the port. The great works which he consequently afterward
executed at Ancona, will remain a perpetual memorial of his foresight
and genius. The largest three-decker can now ride in its harbor with
perfect safety.

At Loretto there was an image of the Virgin, which the Church
represented as of celestial origin, and which, to the great edification
of the populace, seemed miraculously to shed tears in view of the perils
of the Papacy. Napoleon sent for the sacred image, exposed the deception
by which, through the instrumentality of a string of glass beads, tears
appeared to flow, and imprisoned the priests for deluding the people
with trickery which tended to bring all religion into contempt.

The Papal States were full of the exiled French priests. The Directory
enjoined it upon Napoleon to drive them out of the country. These
unhappy men were in a state of despair. Long inured to Jacobin fury they
supposed that death was now their inevitable doom. One of the
fraternity, weary of years of exile and frantic in view of his supposed
impending fate, presented himself to Napoleon, announced himself as an
emigrant priest, and implored that his doom of death might be
immediately executed. The bewildered man thought it the delirium of a
dream when Napoleon, addressing him in terms of courtesy and of
heartfelt sympathy, assured him that he and all his friends should be
protected from harm. He issued a proclamation enjoining it upon the
army to regard these unfortunate men as countrymen and as brothers, and
to treat them with all possible kindness. The versatile troops instantly
imbibed the humane spirit of their beloved chief. This led to a number
of very affecting scenes. Many of the soldiers recognized their former
pastors, and these unhappy exiles, long accustomed to scorn and insult,
wept with gratitude in being again addressed in terms of respect and
affection. Napoleon was censured for this clemency. "How is it
possible," he wrote to the Directory, "not to pity these unhappy men?
They weep on seeing us." The French emigrant priests were quite a burden
upon the convents in Italy, where they had taken refuge, and the Italian
priests were quite ready, upon the arrival of the French army, to drive
them away, on the pretext that by harboring the emigrants they should
draw down upon themselves the vengeance of the Republican army. Napoleon
issued a decree commanding the convents to receive them, and to furnish
them with every thing necessary for their support and comfort. In that
most singular vein of latent humor which pervaded his nature, he
enjoined that the French priests should make remuneration for this
hospitality in prayers and masses, at the regular market price. He found
the Jews in Ancona suffering under the most intolerable oppression, and
immediately relieved them from all their disabilities.

The court of Naples, hoping to intimidate Napoleon from advancing upon
the holy city, and not venturing openly to draw the sword against him,
sent a minister to his camp, to act in the capacity of a spy. This
envoy, Prince Pignatelli, assuming an air of great mystery and
confidential kindness, showed Napoleon a letter from the Queen of
Naples, proposing to send an army of thirty thousand men to protect the
Pontiff. "I thank you," said Napoleon, "for this proof of your
confidence, and will repay you in the same way." Opening the portfolio
of papers relating to Naples, he exhibited to him a copy of a dispatch,
in which the contemplated movement was not only anticipated, but
provision made, in case it should be attempted, for marching an army of
twenty-five thousand men to take possession of the capital, and compel
the royal family to seek refuge in Sicily. An extraordinary courier was
dispatched in the night to inform the Queen of the manner in which the
insinuation had been received. Nothing more was heard of the Neapolitan
interference.

Napoleon was now within three days' march of Rome. Consternation reigned
in the Vatican. Embassadors were hastily sent to Napoleon's
head-quarters at Tolentino, to implore the clemency of the conqueror.
The horses were already harnessed to the state carriages, and Pope Pius
the Sixth was just descending the stairs for flight, when a messenger
arrived from Napoleon informing the Pope that he need apprehend no
personal violence, that Napoleon was contending only for peace. The
Directory, exasperated by the unrelenting hostility and the treachery
of the Pope, enjoined it upon Napoleon to enter into no negotiations
with him, but immediately to deprive him of all temporal power.
Napoleon, however, understood fanatical human nature too well to attempt
such a revolution. Disregarding the wishes of the government at home, he
treated the Pope with that gentlemanly deference and respect which was
due to his exalted rank, as a temporal and a spiritual prince. The
treaty of Tolentino was soon concluded. Its simple terms were peace with
France, the acknowledgment of the Cispadane Republic, and a renewed
promise that the stipulations of the preceding armistice should be
faithfully performed. Even the Pope could not refrain from expressions
of gratitude in view of the moderation of his victor. Napoleon insisted
for a long time upon the suppression of the inquisition. But out of
complaisance to the Pope, who most earnestly entreated that it might not
be suppressed, assuring Napoleon that it no longer was what it had been,
but that it was now rather a tribunal of police than of religious
opinion, Napoleon desisted from pressing the article. All this was
achieved in nine days. Napoleon now returned to Mantua, and prepared for
his bold march upon Vienna.

Notwithstanding the singular moderation displayed by Napoleon in these
victories, the most atrocious libels respecting his conduct were
circulated by his foes throughout Europe. To exasperate the Catholics he
was reported to have seized the venerable Pope by his gray hairs, and
thus to have dragged him about the room. One day Napoleon was reading
one of these virulent libels, describing him as a perfect monster of
licentiousness, blood-thirstiness, and crime. At times he shrugged his
shoulders, and again laughed heartily, but did not betray the least sign
of anger. To one who expressed surprise at this, he said, "It is the
truth only which gives offense. Every body knows that I was not by
nature inclined to debauchery, and moreover the multiplicity of my
affairs allowed me no time for such vices. Still persons will be found
who will believe these things. But how can that be helped? If it should
enter any one's head to put in print that I had grown hairy and walked
on four paws, there are people who would believe it, and who would say
that God had punished me as he did Nebuchadnezzar. And what could I do?
There is no remedy in such cases."

[Footnote 1: Joachim Murat, subsequently married Caroline, the youngest
sister of Napoleon, and became Marshal of France, and finally King of
Sicily. After the fall of Napoleon he lost his throne, and was shot, by
command of the King of Naples. "Murat," said Napoleon, "was one of the
most brilliant men I ever saw upon a field of battle. It was really a
magnificent spectacle to see him heading the cavalry in a charge."]




THE STORY OF REYNARD THE FOX.

[The Story of Reynard the Fox, in prose and in rhyme, has for centuries
been the favorite popular tale in Europe. We can not go back to the time
when it was not told in every dialect spoken by the Teutonic race.
"Among the people," says Carlyle, "it was long a house-book, and
universal best-companion; it has been lectured on in universities,
quoted in imperial council-halls; it lay on the toilets of princesses,
and was thumbed to pieces on the work-bench of the artisan; we hear of
grave men ranking it next to the Bible.... It comes before us with a
character such as can belong only to a very few; that of being a true
world's book, which through centuries was every where at home, and the
spirit of which diffused itself through all languages and all minds."
The translation which we present is from the old Low-German version,
which, by superseding all previous ones, has come to be considered the
recognized form of the tale. Goethe has expanded it into a long poem,
for which Kaulbach designed some forty illustrations, forming the finest
series of pictures ever produced for the illustration of a single book.
Hermann Plouquet of Stuttgart, has contributed to the Great Exhibition
in London a display of animals stuffed in the most comic attitudes. A
portion of these are in illustration of Reynard the Fox, the designs of
Kaulbach serving as models. The illustrations which we furnish are taken
from daguerreotype pictures of these animals, and afford a striking
example of the expression which the animal face and figure are capable
of conveying.]

About the feast of Whitsuntide, when the woods were in their lustyhood
and gallantry, when every tree was clothed in the green and white livery
of glorious leaves and sweet-smelling blossoms, when the earth was
covered with her fairest mantle of flowers, and the sweet birds
entertained the groves with the delight of their harmonious songs, the
LION, the Royal King of Beasts, made solemn proclamation that all
quadrupeds whatsoever should attend his court, and celebrate this great
festival.

Now when the King had assembled all his subjects together, there was no
one absent save Reynard the Fox, against whom many grievous accusations
were laid. First came Isegrim the Wolf, with all his family and kindred,
who, standing before the King, complained loudly how that Reynard had
ill-treated his wife and children. Then there came a little hound named
Curtsie, who accused the fox of having stolen his pudding in the extreme
cold winter-time, when he was nigh dying of starvation. But scarcely had
the hound finished his tale, when, with a fiery countenance, in sprang
Tibert the Cat, and accused Curtsie of having stolen this pudding from
himself, and declared that Reynard had righteously taken it away.

Then rose the Panther: "Do you imagine, Tibert," quoth he, "that Reynard
ought not to be complained of? The whole world knows that he is a
murderer, a vagabond, and a thief."

Then quoth Grimbard the Badger, Reynard's nephew: "It is a common
proverb, _Malice never spake well_: what can you say against my kinsman
the fox? All these complaints seem to me to be either absurd or false.
Mine uncle is a gentleman, and can not endure falsehood. I affirm that
he liveth as a recluse; he chastiseth his body, and weareth a shirt of
hair-cloth. It is above a year since he hath eaten any flesh; he hath
forsaken his castle Malepardus, and abandoned all his wealth; he lives
only upon alms and good men's charities, doing infinite penance for his
sins; so that he has become pale and lean with praying and fasting."

While Grimbard was still speaking, there came down the hill Chanticleer
the Cock, and with him two hens, who brought with them on a bier their
dead sister Copple, who had just been murdered by Reynard. Chanticleer
smote piteously his feathers, and, kneeling before the King, spake in
this manner:

[Illustration: REYNARD AT HOME (Page 742.)]

"Most merciful and my great Lord the King, vouchsafe, I beseech you, to
hear our complaint, and redress the injuries which Reynard the Fox has
done to me and my children. Not longer ago than last April, when the
weather was fair, and I was in the height of my pride and glory, because
of my eight valiant sons and seven fair daughters, who were strong and
fat, and who walked in safety in a yard well-fenced round, wherein also
were several large dogs for their protection, Reynard, that false and
dissembling traitor, came to me in the likeness of a hermit, and brought
me a letter to read, sealed with your Majesty's seal, in which I found
written, that your Highness had made peace throughout all your realm,
and that no manner of beast or fowl should do injury one to another;
affirming unto me, that, for his own part, he was become a monk, vowing
to perform a daily penance for his sins; showing unto me his beads, his
books, and the hair shirt next to his skin; saying, in humble wise, unto
me, 'Sir Chanticleer, never henceforth be afraid of me, for I have vowed
never more to eat flesh. I am now waxed old, and would only remember my
soul; therefore I take my leave, for I have yet my noon and my evensong
to say.' Which spake, he departed, saying his _Credo_ as he went, and
laid him down under a hawthorn. At this I was exceeding glad, that I
took no heed, but went and clucked my children together, and walked
without the wall, which I shall ever rue; for false Reynard, lying under
a bush, came creeping betwixt us and the gate, and suddenly surprised
one of my children, which he trussed up and bore away, to my great
sorrow; for, having tasted the sweetness of our flesh, neither hunter
nor hound can protect or keep him from us. Night and day he waits upon
us, with that greediness, that of fifteen of my children, he hath left
me but four unslaughtered; and yesterday, Copple, my daughter, which
here lieth dead on this bier, was, after her murder, rescued from him.
This is my complaint, and this I leave to your Highness's mercy to take
pity on me, and the loss of my fair children."

Then spake the King; "Sir Grimbard, hear you this of your uncle the
recluse? he hath fasted and prayed well: believe me, if I live a year,
he shall dearly abide it. As for you, Chanticleer, your complaint is
heard, and shall be cured; to your daughter that is dead we will give
the rites of burial, and with solemn dirges bring her to the earth, with
worship."

After this the King sent for his lords and wisest counselors, to consult
how this foul murder of Reynard's might be punished. And in the end, it
was concluded that Reynard should be sent for, and without all excuse,
he should be commanded to appear before the King, to answer whatever
trespasses should be objected against him; and that this message should
be delivered by Bruin the Bear.

To all this the King gave consent, and calling the bear before him, he
said, "Sir Bruin, it is our pleasure that you deliver this message, yet
in the delivery thereof have great regard to yourself; for Reynard is
full of policy, and knoweth how to dissemble, flatter, and betray; he
hath a world of snares to entangle you withal, and without great
exercise of judgment, will make a scorn and mock of the best wisdom
breathing."

[Illustration]

"My Lord," answered Sir Bruin, "let me alone with Reynard; I am not such
a truant in discretion to become a mock to his knavery;" and thus, full
of jollity, the bear departed.

[Illustration: SIR TIBERT DELIVERING THE KING'S MESSAGE. (PAGE 746.)]

The next morning Bruin set out in quest of the fox; and after passing
through a dark forest and over a high mountain, he came to Malepartus,
Reynard's chiefest and most ancient castle. Reynard was at home, and
pretended to be ill with eating too much honey. When the bear heard
this, he was extremely desirous of knowing where such excellent food
could be obtained; and Reynard promised to take him to a garden where he
should find more honey-combs than ten bears could eat at a meal. But the
treacherous rascal took him to a carpenter's yard, where lay the trunk
of a huge oak-tree, half-riven asunder, with two great wedges in it, so
that the cleft stood a great way open. "Behold now, dear uncle," said
the fox, "within this tree is so much honey that it is unmeasurable."
The bear, in great haste, thrust his nose and fore-paws into the tree;
and immediately Reynard pulled out the two great wedges, and caught
Bruin in so sharp a trap, that the poor beast howled with pain. This
noise quickly brought out the carpenter, who, perceiving how matters
stood, alarmed the whole village, who came and belabored the bear's
sides with sticks and hoes and pitchforks, until, mad with rage, he tore
his bleeding face and paws from the tree, and rushed blindly into a
river that ran close by, knocking into the water with him many of the
villagers, and among them, Dame Julock, the parson's wife, for whose
sake every one bestirred himself; and so poor Bruin got safe away. After
some delay, the bear returned to the court, where, in dismal accents, he
recounted the sad trick that Reynard had played him.

Then said the King, "Now, by my crown, I will take such revenge as
shall make that traitor tremble;" and sending for his counselors, they
decided that Reynard should be again summoned to court, and that Tibert
the Cat should be the bearer of the message. "It is your wisdom, Sir
Tibert, I employ," said the great King, "and not your strength: many
prevail with art, when violence returns with lost labor."

So Tibert made ready, and set out with the King's letter to Malepardus,
where he found the fox standing before his castle-gates; to whom Tibert
said, "Health to my fair cousin Reynard; the King, by me, summons you to
the court, in which if you fail, there is nothing more assured unto you
than a cruel and a sudden death."

The fox answered, "Welcome, dear cousin Tibert; I obey your command, and
wish my Lord the King infinite days of happiness; only let me entreat
you to rest with me to-night, and take such cheer as my simple house
affordeth, and to-morrow, as early as you will, we will go toward the
court, for I have no kinsman I trust so dearly as yourself."

Tibert replied, "You speak like a noble gentleman; and methinks it is
best now to go forward, for the moon shines as bright as day."

"Nay, dear cousin," said the fox, "let us take the day before us, so may
we encounter with our friends; the night is full of danger."

"Well," said the cat, "if it be your pleasure, I am content; what shall
we eat?"

Reynard said, "Truly my store is small; the best I have is a honey-comb,
pleasant and sweet; what think you of it?"

To which Tibert replieth, "It is meat I little respect, and seldom eat;
I had rather have one mouse than all the honey in Europe."

[Illustration: REYNARD BRINGS FORWARD THE HARE AS HIS WITNESS. (PAGE
750.)]

[Illustration: REYNARD ON HIS PILGRIMAGE TO ROME. (PAGE 751.)]

"A mouse!" said Reynard; "why, my dear cousin, here dwelleth a priest
hard by, who hath a barn by his house so full of mice, that I think half
the wagons in the parish are not able to bear them."

"Oh, dear Reynard," quoth the cat, "do but lead me thither, and make me
your servant forever."

"Why," said the fox, "love you mice so exceedingly?"

"Beyond expression," quoth the cat.

Then away they went with all speed to the priest's barn, which was well
walled about with a mud wall, where, but the night before, the fox had
broken in and stolen an exceeding fat hen, at which the priest was so
angry, that he had set a snare before the hole to catch him at his next
coming, which the false fox knew of; and therefore said to the cat, "Sir
Tibert, creep in at this hole, and believe it, you shall not tarry a
minute's space but you shall have more mice than you are able to devour;
hark, you may hear how they peep. When you have eaten your fill, come
again, and I will stay and await for you here at this hole, that
to-morrow we may go together to the court; but, good cousin, stay not
too long, for I know my wife will hourly expect us."

Then Tibert sprang quickly in at the hole, but was presently caught fast
by the neck in the snare, which as soon as the cat felt, he quickly
leaped back again; and the snare running close together, he was
half-strangled, so that he began to struggle and cry out and exclaim
most piteously.

Then the priest, hearing the outcry, alarmed all his servants, crying
out, "The Fox is taken!" and away they all ran to where poor Tibert was
caught in the snare, and, without finding out their mistake, they beat
him most unmercifully, and cruelly wounded one of his eyes. The cat, mad
with pain, suddenly gnawed the cord, and seizing the priest by the legs,
bit him and tore him in such a way that he fell down in a swoon, and
then, as every one ran to help his master, Tibert leaped out of the
hole, and limped as fast as his wounded legs would carry him to the
court where the King was infinitely angry at the treatment he had
received.

Then Grimbard the Badger, Reynard's nephew fearing it was likely to go
hard with his uncle, offered to go to Malepardus and take the King's
message to his most subtle kinsman; to which his Majesty graciously
consented. So Grimbard set forth; and when he came to Malepardus, he
found Reynard with Dame Ermelin his wife, sporting with their children.
When Grimbard had delivered the King's letter, Reynard found that it
would be better for him to show himself at court at once; so bidding an
affectionate farewell to his dear wife and children, he immediately set
out with the badger to go with him before the King. On his way, Reynard,
remembering the heavy crimes he had committed, and fearing that his end
was at hand, desired of the holy Grimbard, who had always led a hermit's
life, that he would hear him confess, and set him a penance for his
sins. Grimbard bade him proceed. And the fox confessed how shamefully he
had ill-used the bear, and the cat, and the wolf, and Chanticleer's
children, and many other ill-doings during his life; and when he had
finished, he knelt before Grimbard, and said, "Thus have I told you my
wickedness; now order my penance, as shall seem fit in your discretion."

Grimbard was both learned and wise; and therefore brake a rod from a
tree, and said, "Uncle, you shall three times strike your body with this
rod, and then lay it down upon the ground, and spring three times over
it without bowing your legs or stumbling; then shall you take it up and
kiss it gently, in sign of meekness and obedience to your penance; which
done, you are absolved of your sins committed up to this day, for I
pronounce unto you clear remission."

[Illustration: REYNARD ATTACKETH LAPRELL THE RABBIT. (PAGE 752.)]

At this the fox was exceeding glad; and immediately he performed the
penance to Grimbard's satisfaction. But as they went journeying on, it
happened that they passed by the poultry-yard of a convent; and as one
young cock strayed far from the rest, Reynard leaped at him, and caught
him by the feathers, but the cock escaped.

"Villain that you are," said Grimbard, "will you, for a silly pullet,
fall again into your sins?"

To which Reynard answered, "Pardon me, dear nephew, I had forgotten
myself; but I will ask forgiveness, and mine eye shall no more wander."

However, Grimbard noted that he turned many times to look at the
poultry. But soon afterward they arrived at the court.

As soon as it was bruited in the court that Reynard the Fox and Grimbard
his kinsman were arrived there, every one, from the highest to the
lowest, prepared himself to complain of the fox; at which Reynard's
heart quaked, but his countenance kept the old look, and he went as
proudly as ever he was wont with his nephew through the high street, and
came as gallantly into the court as if he had been the King's son, and
as clear from trespass as the most innocent whosoever; and when he came
before the chair of state in which the King sat, he said, "Heaven give
your Majesty glory and renown above all the princes of the earth."

But the King cut him short at these words, and said, "Peace, traitorous
Reynard; think you I can be caught with the music of your words? no, it
hath too oft deceived me; the peace which I commanded and swore unto,
that have you broken."

Then Bellin the Ram, and Oleway his wife, and Bruin the Bear, and Tibert
the Cat, and Isegrim the Wolf, and Kyward the Hare, and Bruel the Goose,
and Baldwin the Ass, and Bortle the Bull, and Hamel the Ox, and
Chanticleer the Cock, and Partlett the Hen, and many others, came
forward; and all these with one entire noise cried out against the fox,
and so moved the King with their complaints, that the fox was taken and
arrested.

Upon this arrest a parliament was called; and notwithstanding that he
answered every objection severally, and with great art, Reynard was
condemned, and judgment was given that he should be hanged till his body
was dead; at which sentence the fox cast down his head, for all his
jollity was lost, and no flattery nor no words now prevailed.

Then Isegrim on the one side and Bruin on the other led the poor fox to
the gallows, Tibert running before with the halter. And when they were
come to the place of execution, the King and the Queen, and all the rest
of the nobility, took their places to see the fox die.

When all things were prepared, the fox said, "Now my heart is heavy, for
death stands in all his horror before me, and I can not escape. My dread
Lord the King, and you my sovereign Lady the Queen, and you my lords
that stand to behold me die, I beseech you grant me this charitable
boon, that I may unlock my heart before you, and clear my soul of her
burdens, so that hereafter no man may be blamed for me; which done, my
death will be easy."

Every creature now took compassion on the fox, and said his request was
small, beseeching the King to grant it, which was done; and then the fox
thus spake, "Help me, Heaven, for I see no man here whom I have not
offended; yet was this evil no natural inclination in me, for in my
youth I was accounted as virtuous as any breathing. This know, I have
played with the lambs all the day long, and taken delight in their
pretty bleating; yet at last in my play I bit one, and the taste of its
blood was so sweet unto me, that I approved the flesh, and both were so
good, that since I could never forbear it. This liquorish humor drew me
into the woods among the goats, where hearing the bleating of the little
kids, I slew one of them, and afterward two more, which slaughter made
me so hardy, that then I fell to murder hens, geese, and other poultry.
And thus my crimes increased by custom, and fury so possessed me, that
all was fish which came to my net. After this, in the winter season, I
met with Isegrim, where, as he lay hid under a hollow tree, he unfolded
unto me how he was my uncle, and laid the pedigree down so plain, that
from that day forth we became fellows and companions; which knot of
friendship I may ever curse, for then began the flood of our thefts and
slaughters. He stole the great things, I the small; he murdered nobles,
I the mean subjects; and in all our actions his share was still ever the
greatest: when he got a ram or a calf, his fury would hardly afford me
the horns to pick on; nay, when he had an ox or a cow, after himself,
his wife, and his seven children were served, nothing remained to me but
the bare bones to pick. This I speak not in that I wanted (for it is
well known I have more plate, jewels, and coin than twenty carts are
able to carry), but only to show his ingratitude."

When the King heard him speak of this infinite treasure and riches, his
heart grew inflamed with a desire thereof; and he said, "Reynard, where
is that treasure you speak of?"

The fox answered: "My Lord, I shall willingly tell you, for it is true
the wealth was stolen; and had it not been stolen in that manner which
it was, it had cost your Highness your life (which Heaven, I beseech,
keep ever in protection)."

When the Queen heard that dangerous speech, she started, and said: "What
dangers are these you speak of, Reynard? I do command you, upon your
soul's health, to unfold these doubtful speeches, and to keep nothing
concealed which concerns the life of my dread Lord."

Then the fox in these words unfolded to the King and Queen this most
foul treason: "Know, then, my dread sovereign Lord the King, that my
father, by a strange accident, digging in the ground, found out King
Ermerick's great treasure--a mass of jewels infinite and innumerable; of
which being possessed, he grew so proud and haughty, that he held in
scorn all the beasts of the wilderness, which before had been his
kinsmen and companions. At last he caused Tibert the Cat to go into the
vast forest of Arden to Bruin the Bear, and to tender to him his homage
and fealty; and to say that if it would please him to be king, he should
come into Flanders, where he would show him means how to set the crown
upon his head. Bruin was glad of this embassage (for he was exceeding
ambitious, and had long thirsted for sovereignty), and thereupon came
into Flanders, where my father received him nobly. Then presently he
sent for the wise Grimbard, my nephew, and for Isegrim the Wolf, and for
Tibert the Cat; then these five coming between Gaunt and the village
called Elfe, they held a solemn council for the space of a whole night,
in which, by the assistance of the evil one, and the strong confidence
of my father's riches, it was there concluded that your Majesty should
be forthwith murdered; which to effect, they took a solemn oath in this
manner: the bear, my father, the badger, and the cat, laying their hands
on Isegrim's crown, swore, first to make Bruin their king, and to place
him in the chair of estate at Aeon, and to set the imperial diadem on
his head; and if by any of your Majesty's blood and alliance they should
be gainsaid, that then my father with his treasure should hire those
which should utterly chase and root them out of the forest. Now after
this determination held and finished, it happened that my nephew
Grimbard being on a time high flown with wine, he discovered this dread
plot to Dame Slopecade, his wife, commanding her upon her life to keep
secret the same; but she, forgetful of her charge, disclosed it in
confession to my wife, as they went a pilgrimage over an heath, with
like conjuration of secrecy. But she, woman-like, contained it no longer
than till she met with me, and gave me a full knowledge of all that had
passed, yet so as by all means that I must keep it secret too, for she
had sworn by the Three Kings of Cologne never to disclose it: and withal
she gave me such assurance by certain tokens, that I right well found
all was true which she had spoken; insomuch that the very affright
thereof made my hair stand upright, and my heart become like lead, cold
and heavy in my bosom.

"But to proceed from this sorrow, I began to meditate how I might undo
my father's false and wicked conspiracies, who sought to bring a base
traitor and a slave into the throne imperial; for I well perceived as
long as he held the treasure, there was a possibility of deposing your
Majesty. And this troubled my thought exceedingly, so that I labored how
I might find out where my father's treasure was hid; and to that end I
watched and attended night and day in the woods, in the bushes, and in
the open fields; nay in all places wheresoever my father laid his eyes,
there was I ever watching and attending. Now it happened on a time, as I
was laid down flat on the ground, I saw my father come running out of a
hole, and as soon as he was come out, he gazed round about him, to see
if any discovered him; then seeing the coast clear, he stopped the hole
with sand, and made it so even, smooth, and plain, that no curious eye
could discern a difference betwixt it and the other earth; and where
the print of his foot remained, that with his tail he stroked over, and
with his mouth so smoothed, that no man might perceive it: and indeed
that and many other subtleties I learned of him there at that instant.
When he had thus finished, away he went toward the village about his
private affairs. Then I went presently toward the hole, and
notwithstanding all his subtlety, I quickly found it; then I entered the
cave, where I found that innumerable quantity of treasure, which can not
be expressed; which found, I took Ermelin my wife to help me; and we
ceased not, day nor night, with infinite great toil and labor, to carry
and convey away this treasure to another place, much more convenient for
us, where we laid it safe from the search of any creature.

"Thus by my art only was the treason of Bruin defeated, for which I now
suffer. From hence sprang all my misfortune, as thus: these foul
traitors, Bruin and Isegrim, being of the King's privatest council, and
sitting in high and great authority, tread upon me, poor Reynard, and
work my disgrace; notwithstanding, for your Majesty's sake, I have lost
my natural father. O my dread Lord, what is he, or who can tender you a
better affection, thus to lose himself to save you?"

Then the King and Queen, having great hope to get this inestimable
treasure from Reynard, took him from the gibbet; and the King, taking a
straw from the ground, pardoned the fox of all his trespasses which
either he or his father had ever committed. If the fox now began to
smile, it was no wonder; the sweetness of life required it: yet he fell
down before the King and Queen, and humbly thanked them for mercy,
protesting that for that favor he would make them the richest princes in
the world.

Then the King began to inquire where all these treasures were hid, and
Reynard told that he had hid them in a wood called Hustreloe, near a
river named Crekinpit. But when the King said that he had never heard of
such a place, Reynard called forth Kyward the Hare from among the rest
of the beasts, and commanded him to come before the King, charging him,
upon his faith and allegiance which he bore to the King and Queen, to
answer truly to such questions as he should ask him.

The hare answered, "I will speak truth in all things, though I were sure
to die for the same."

Then the fox said, "Know you not where Crekinpit floweth?"

"Yes," said the hare, "I have known it any time these dozen years; it
runneth in a wood called Hustreloe, upon a vast and wide wilderness."

"Well," said the fox, "you have spoken sufficiently; go to your place
again;" so away went the hare.

Then said the fox, "My sovereign Lord the King, what say you now to my
relation; am I worthy your belief or no?"

The King said, "Yes, Reynard, and I beseech thee excuse my jealousies;
it was my ignorance which did the evil; therefore forthwith make
preparation that we may go to this pit where the treasure lieth."

But the fox answered that he could not go with his Majesty without
dishonor; for that at present he was under excommunication, and that it
was necessary that he should go to Rome to be absolved, and that from
thence he intended to travel in the Holy Land. "The course you propose
is good," said the King; "go on and prosper in your intent."

Then the King mounted on a rock, and addressing his subjects, told them
how that, for divers reasons best known to himself, he had freely given
pardon to Reynard, who had cast his wickedness behind him, and would no
more be guilty of wrong-doing; and furthermore, he commanded them all to
reverence and honor not only Reynard, but also his wife and children. At
this, Isegrim the Wolf and Bruin the Bear inveighed against the fox in
such an unseemly way, that his Majesty caused them both to be arrested
for high treason. Now when the fox saw this, he begged of the Queen that
he might have so much of the bear's skin as would make him a large scrip
for his journey; and also the skin of the wolf's feet for a pair of
shoes, because of the stony ways he would have to pass over. To this the
Queen consented, and Reynard saw his orders executed.

The next morning Reynard caused his new shoes to be well oiled, and made
them fit his feet as tightly as they had fitted the wolf's. And the King
commanded Bellin the Ram to say mass before the fox; and when he had
sung mass and used many ceremonies over the fox, he hung about Reynard's
neck his rosary of beads, and gave him into his hands a palmer's staff.

Then the King took leave of him, and commanded all that were about him,
except the bear and the wolf, to attend Reynard some part of his
journey. Oh! he that had seen how gallant and personable Reynard was,
and how well his staff and his mail became him, as also how fit his
shoes were for his feet, it could not have chosen but have stirred in
him very much laughter. But when they had got onward on their way, the
fox entreated all the beasts to return and pray for him, and only begged
of Bellin the Ram and Kyward the Hare that they would accompany him as
far as Malepardus.

Thus marched these three together; and when Reynard was come to the
gates of his own house, he said to Bellin, "Cousin, I will entreat you
to stay here without a little, while I and Kyward go in." Bellin was
well content; and so the fox and the hare went into Malepardus, where
they found Dame Ermelin lying on the ground with her younglings about
her, who had sorrowed exceedingly for the loss and danger of her
husband; but when she saw his return, her joy was ten times doubled. But
beholding his mail, his staff, and his shoes, she grew into great
admiration, and said, "Dear husband, how have you fared?" so he told all
that had passed with him at the King's court, as well his danger as his
release, and that now he was to go a pilgrimage. As for Kyward, he said
the King had bestowed him upon them, to do with him what they pleased,
affirming that Kyward was the first that had complained of him, for
which, questionless, he vowed to be sharply revenged.

When Kyward heard these words, he was much appalled, and would fain have
fled away, but he could not, for the fox had got between him and the
gate; who presently seized the hare by the neck, at which the hare cried
unto Bellin for help, but could not be heard, for the fox in a trice had
torn out his throat; which done, he, his wife, and young ones feasted
therewith merrily, eating the flesh, and drinking to the King's health.

All this while stood Bellin the Ram at the gate, and grew exceedingly
angry both against the fox and the hare, that they made him wait so
long; and therefore called out aloud for Reynard to come away, which
when Reynard heard, he went forth, and said softly to the ram, "Good
Bellin, be not offended, for Kyward is in earnest conference with his
dearest aunt, and entreated me to say unto you, that if you would please
to walk before he would speedily overtake you, for he is light of foot
and speedier than you: nor will his aunt part with him thus suddenly,
for she and her children are much perplexed at my departure."

"Ay, but," quoth Bellin, "methought I heard Kyward cry for help."

"How! cry for help! can you imagine he shall receive hurt in my house?
far be such a thought from you; but I will tell you the reason. As soon
as we were come into my house, and that Ermelin my wife understood of my
pilgrimage, presently she fell down in a swoon, which, when Kyward saw,
he cried aloud, 'O Bellin, come, help my aunt, she dies, she dies!'"

Then said the ram: "In sadness, I mistook the cry, and thought the hare
had been in danger."

"It was your too much care of him," said the fox. "But, letting this
discourse pass, you remember, Bellin, that yesterday the King and his
council commanded me that, before I departed from the land, I should
send unto him two letters, which I have made ready, and will entreat
you, my dearest cousin, to bear them to his Majesty."

The ram answered: "I would willingly do you the service if there be
nothing but honorable matter contained in your letters; but I am
unprovided of any thing to carry them in."

The fox said: "That is provided for you already, for you shall have my
mail, which you may conveniently hang about your neck; I know they will
be thankfully received of his Majesty, for they contain matter of great
importance."

Then Bellin promised to carry them. So the fox returned into his house,
and took the mail, and put therein the head of Kyward, and brought it to
the ram, and gave him a great charge not to look therein till it was
presented to the King, as he did expect the King's favor; and that he
might further endear himself with his Majesty, he bade the ram take upon
him the inditing of the letters, "which will be so pleasing to the King,
that questionless he will pour upon you many favors."

This said, Bellin took leave of the fox and went toward the court, in
which journey he made such speed, that he came thither before noon,
where he found the King in his palace sitting among the nobility.

The king wondered when he saw the ram come in with the mail, which was
made of the bear's skin, and said: "Whence comest thou, Bellin, and
where is the fox, that you have that mail about you?"

Bellin answered: "My dread Lord, I attended the noble fox to his house,
where, after some repose, he desired me to bear certain letters to your
Majesty of infinite great importance, to which I easily consented.
Wherefore he delivered me the letters inclosed in this mail, which
letters I myself indited, and I doubt not but they are such as will give
your highness both contentment and satisfaction." Presently the King
commanded the letters to be delivered to Bocart, his secretary, who was
an excellent linguist and understood all languages, that he might read
them publicly; so that he and Tibert the Cat took the mail from Bellin's
neck, and opening the same instead of letters they drew out the head of
Kyward the Hare, at which being amazed, they said: "Wo and alas, what
letters call you these? Believe it, my dread Lord, here is nothing but
the head of poor murdered Kyward."

Which the King seeing, he said, "Alas, how unfortunate was I to believe
the traitorous fox!" And with that, being oppressed with anger, grief,
and shame, he held down his head for a good space, and so did the Queen
also. But in the end, shaking his curled locks, he groaned out such a
dreadful noise, that all the beasts of the forest did tremble to hear
it.

Then the King, full of wrath, commanded the bear and the wolf to be
released from prison, and gave to them and to their heirs forever Bellin
and all his generation.

Thus was peace made between the King and these nobles, and Bellin the
Ram was forthwith slain by them; and all these privileges doth the wolf
hold to this hour, nor could ever any reconcilement be made between the
wolf's and the ram's kindred. When this peace was thus finished, the
King, for joy thereof, proclaimed a feast to be held for twelve days
after, which was done with all solemnity.

To this feast came all manner of wild beasts, for it was known through
the whole kingdom, nor was there wanting any pleasure that could be
imagined. Also to this feast resorted abundance of feathered fowl, and
all other creatures that held peace with his Majesty, and no one missing
but the fox only.

Now after this feast had thus continued in all pomp the space of eight
days, about high noon came Laprell the Rabbit before the King and Queen,
as they sat at dinner, and with a heavy and lamentable voice said, "My
gracious and great Lord, have pity upon my misery and attend to my
complaint, which is of great violence which Reynard the Fox would
yesterday have committed against me. As I passed by the castle of
Malepardus, supposing to go peaceably toward my nest, I saw the fox,
standing without his gates, attired like a pilgrim and telling his beads
so devoutly, that I saluted him; but he, returning no answer, stretched
forth his right foot, and with his pilgrim's staff gave me such a blow
on the neck between the head and shoulders, that I imagined my head had
been stricken from my body; but yet so much memory was left me that I
leaped from his claws, though most grievously hurt and wounded. At this
he was wrathful extremely, because I escaped; only of one of my ears he
utterly deprived me, which I beseech your Majesty in your royal nature
to pity, and that this bloody murderer may not live thus to afflict your
poor subjects."

The royal King was much moved with anger when he heard this complaint,
so that his eyes darted out fire among the beams of majesty; his
countenance was dreadful and cruel to look on, and the whole court
trembled to behold him. In the end he said, "By my crown, I will so
revenge these outrages committed against my dignity, that goodness shall
adore me, and the wicked shall die with the remembrance; his falsehood
and flattery shall no more get belief in me. Is this his journey to Rome
and to the Holy Land? are these the fruits of his mail, his staff, and
other ornaments becoming a devout pilgrim? Well, he shall find the
reward of his treason. I will besiege Malepardus instantly, and destroy
Reynard and his generation from the earth forever."

When Grimbard heard this, he grew exceedingly sorry, and stealing from
the rest, he made all haste to Malepardus, and told to his uncle all
that had happened. Reynard received him with great courtesy, and the
next morning accompanied him back to court, confessing on his way many
heinous sins, and obtaining absolution from the badger. The King
received him with a severe and stately countenance, and immediately
asked him touching the complaint of Laprell the Rabbit.

To which Reynard made answer, "Indeed, sire, what Laprell received he
most richly deserved. I gave him a cake when he was hungry; and when my
little son Rossel wanted to share a bit, the rabbit struck him on the
mouth and made his teeth bleed; whereupon my eldest son Reynardine
forthwith leaped upon him, and would have slain him had I not gone to
the rescue." Then the rabbit, fearing Reynard, stole away out of court.

"But," quoth the King, "I must charge you with another foul treason.
When I had pardoned all your great transgressions, and you had promised
me to go a pilgrimage to the Holy Land; when I had furnished you with
mail, scrip, and all things fitting that holy order; then, in the
greatest despite, you sent me back in the mail, by Bellin the Ram, the
head of Kyward the Hare; a thing so notoriously to my disgrace and
dishonor, that no treason can be fouler."

Then spake Reynard to the King, and said, "Alas, my sovereign Lord, what
is that you have said? Is good Kyward the Hare dead? Oh, where is then
Bellin the Ram, or what did he bring to your Majesty at his return? For
it is certain I delivered him three rich and inestimable jewels, I would
not for the wealth of India they should be detained from you; the chief
of them I determined for you my Lord the King, and the other two for my
sovereign Lady the Queen."

"But," said the King, "I received nothing but the head of poor murdered
Kyward, for which I executed the ram, he having confessed the deed to be
done by his advice and counsel."

"Is this true?" said the fox; "then woe is me that ever I was born, for
there are lost the goodliest jewels that ever were in the possession of
any prince living; would I had died when you were thus defrauded, for I
know it will be the death of my wife, nor will she ever henceforth
esteem me."

Then Reynard told the King and Queen of the great value of these
inestimable jewels. One was a gold ring, another a comb polished like
unto fine silver, and the third was a glass mirror; and so great were
the virtues of this rare glass that Reynard shed tears to think of the
loss of it. When the fox had told all this, he thus concluded, "If any
one can charge me with crime and prove it by witness, here I stand to
endure the uttermost the law can inflict upon me; but if malice only
slander me without witness, I crave the combat, according to the law and
instance of the court."

Then said the King, "Reynard, you say well, nor know I any thing more of
Kyward's death than the bringing of his head unto me by Bellin the Ram;
therefore of it I here acquit you."

"My dear Lord," said the fox, "I humbly thank you; yet is his death
grievous unto me."

But Isegrim the Wolf was not content with this conclusion, and defied
the fox to mortal combat. This challenge the fox accepted; and the next
day was appointed for the meeting.

When all the ceremonies were done, and none but the combatants were in
the lists, the wolf went toward the fox with infinite rage and fury,
thinking to take him in his fore-feet; but the fox leaped nimbly from
him, and the wolf pursued him, so that there began a tedious chase
between them, on which their friends gazed. The wolf taking larger
strides than the fox, often overtook him, and lifted up his feet to
strike him; but the fox avoided the blow, and smote him on the face with
his tail, so that the wolf was stricken almost blind, and was forced to
rest while he cleared his eyes; which advantage when Reynard saw, he
scratched up the dust with his feet, and threw it in the eyes of the
wolf. This grieved him worse than the former, so that he durst follow
him no longer, for the dust and sand sticking in his eyes smarted so
sore, that of force he must rub and wash it away; which Reynard seeing,
with all the fury he had he ran upon him, and with his teeth gave him
three sore wounds on his head.

Then the wolf being enraged, said, "I will make an end of this combat,
for I know my very weight is able to crush him to pieces; and I lose
much of my reputation to suffer him thus long to contend against me."
And this said, he struck the fox again so sore a blow on the head with
his foot, that he fell down to the ground; and ere he could recover
himself and arise, the wolf caught him in his feet and threw him under
him, lying upon him in such wise, as if he would have pressed him to
death.

Then the fox bethought himself how he might best get free: and thrusting
his hand down, he caught the wolf fast by the belly, and he wrung him so
extremely hard thereby, that he made him shriek and howl out with the
anguish, and in the end the wolf fell over and over in a swoon; then
presently Reynard leaped upon him, and drew him about the lists and
dragged him by the legs, and struck, wounded, and bit him in many
places, so that the whole field might take notice thereof.

Then a great shout was raised, the trumpets were sounded, and every one
cried, "Honor to the fox for this glorious conquest." Reynard thanked
them all kindly, and received their congratulations with great joy and
gladness. And, the marshals going before, they went all to the King,
guarding the fox on every side, all the trumpets, pipes, and minstrelsy
sounding before him.

When Reynard came before the King he fell on his knees, but the King
bade him stand up, and said to him, "Reynard, you may well rejoice, for
you have won much honor this day; therefore here I discharge you, and
set you free to go whither your own will leads you." So the court broke
up, and every beast returned to his own home.

With Reynard, all his friends and kinsfolk, to the number of forty, took
their leave also of the King, and went away with the fox, who was no
little glad that he had sped so well, and stood so far in the King's
favor; for now he had power enough to advance whom he pleased, and pull
down any that envied his fortune.

After some travel the fox and his friends came to his borough or castle
of Malepardus, where they all, in noble and courteous manner, took leave
of each other, and Reynard did to every one of them great reverence, and
thanked them for the love and honor he had received from them,
protesting evermore to remain their faithful servant, and to send them
in all things wherein his life or goods might be available unto them;
and so they shook hands and departed.

Then the fox went to Dame Ermelin his wife, who welcomed him with great
tenderness; and to her and her children he related at large all the
wonders which had befallen him at court, and missed no tittle or
circumstance therein. Then grew they proud that his fortune was so
excellent; and the fox spent his days from thenceforth, with his wife
and children, in great joy and content.




A STORY OF AN ORGAN.

"It is haunted with an evil thing, believe me, sir. Never till the
plowshare has passed over the place will men dwell there in peace."

The gray-headed speaker turned away, and left me alone to gaze on the
mansion he had thus banned. I had heard the same when I was a child; the
nurse had been chidden for talking of it in my presence, and my own
questions on the subject had always been evaded. Strange that now, after
thirty years' sojourning in a far-off land, I should come back to hear
the same mystery alluded to, the same destiny foretold! The impressions
were more than half effaced; but now, like the colors of a picture
brought to light after long obscurity, they returned vividly to my mind.
I gazed on the mansion; it was the only thing in the village of my birth
that I found greatly changed; but in looking at this once stately Tudor
hall I was reminded painfully how long I had been absent. When I last
saw it, the sunshine had glowed upon the gables and mullions of a goodly
mansion; the clear starlight now only showed a moss-grown ruin. The
balustrades and urns were cracked and thrown down; there were no peacocks
on the sloping lawn, and its once trim grass was overgrown with nettles
and coltsfoot. The quaint-patterned beds of the garden, too, had lost the
shapes of diamonds and stars, and, no longer glittering with flowers,
were scarcely to be distinguished from the walks save by more luxuriant
crops of weeds. The roof of the private chapel had recently fallen in,
and little remained of the building but an exquisitely-sculptured window,
amidst the tracery of which the wall-flower and the ivy had long taken
the place of the herald's blazon. The shadow of all this ruined beauty
was on my spirit; so being just in the humor for a ghostly legend, I
determined, on my return, to ask my friend L., with whom I was spending
a few days, for an explanation of the mystery. Thus much was readily
told. Briarhurst had been suffered to fall into decay ever since old
Sir Lambert's death; another branch of the family had become the
possessors; and as no tenant staid there, the present owner intended
very shortly to have it pulled down.

"Well, but what is the difficulty of living there?" said I. "It is quite
possible, with the aid of a yearly run up to town in the season, and
plenty of books, to exist even in that 'lonesome lodge' without hanging
one's self. Do any lords spiritual interfere with one's repose?"

"Ring for Edward and Hetty, my dear," said L. to his wife. Then, turning
to me, "Please don't allude to that subject before the children, or we
shall have them both afraid to stir after dark."

My curiosity was balked again; so, after a more constrained evening than
we had yet passed, I wished the family good night. My friend followed me
out of the room.

"Look at that picture for five minutes, while I fetch something," said
he, pointing to a portrait, evidently just rescued from damp and
destruction, that leant against the wall.

I obeyed. It represented a lady in a white morning dress of the fashion
of a century ago. She was young and beautiful, with bright hair, and
blue eyes of infinite depth and lustre. In her bosom she wore a
curiously-shaped ruby brooch; a bracelet, set with the same stones, was
clasped round the white arm that supported her head; and on her knee was
an open book. Inscribed on its page was the name "Cicely Clayton," and
the initials "L.E." She was apparently seated in some church or chapel,
for over her head was a grotesque Gothic corbel, and the polished oak of
a sombre-looking organ was visible in the back-ground. My eyes had
wandered from the mild face, and I was pondering on the significance of
the Cain and Abel on the carving, when L. returned.

"I see you are bent on hearing the legend. Professionally connected as I
am with the Evrards and their affairs, it is not my place to encourage
such tales; but you are nobody; and," he added, smiling, "I rather want
to know your opinion of my style: I may turn author one of these days."
So saying, he handed me a few sheets of exceedingly legal-looking paper,
and, wishing me pleasant dreams, left me to the perusal of the following
story.

From the time of the fourth Henry to the beginning of the present
century, Briarhurst was in the possession of the Evrard family. The last
baronet was a Sir Lambert Evrard; at the time I speak of, a gallant,
hearty gentleman, who, after a youth spent amidst the brilliance and
gayety of the court, the acquaintance of Walpole, and the worshiper of
Lady Montague had, in the evening of his days, settled down at his
country seat, a quiet country gentleman. He was not rich, for his
father's extravagance had mortgaged and wasted every thing available.
Worldly wisdom, undoubtedly, would have had Sir Lambert marry an
heiress, but, most perversely, he chose the Daphne of his early love
sonnets--a lady whose sweet voice and sparkling eyes had captivated him
on his Italian travels. His wife had no fortune, so he could not afford
to keep up a town house, and, soon after the birth of his first son,
came to reside permanently at Briarhurst. They had two sons, whom the
father, before they were three years old, had respectively destined for
the bar and the army, and his time was principally occupied in their
education. It was natural, in the then state of his affairs, that he
should look forward to his sons distinguishing themselves, as the only
means of restoring the family to its former position. Circumstances,
however, pointed out another way by which the desired wealth might be
more easily secured. On the death of a distant relative, Sir Lambert
became the guardian of an orphan heiress; he earnestly hoped his eldest
son would marry her, and thus fulfill the wish of his life. Contrary to
the custom of the heroes and heroines of romance, who always wantonly
thwart the desires of their parents and guardians in affairs of
matrimony, young Lambert Evrard and his beautiful cousin, Cicely
Clayton, glided imperceptibly from childhood's pretty playing at man
and wife to the more serious kind of love-making, and by the time they
had reached respectively the ages of twenty and seventeen, their union
was fixed on.

The young man was of a strangely meditative turn of mind; he was very
studious, too, and had imbued his ladye love with a taste for the sombre
musings and sage books he loved himself. There is one spot in the old
garden--a knot of lindens shading a broken figure of Niobe--where I have
often fancied those two lovers might have sat. It seems just the place
for such an earnest, thoughtful love as theirs was, to hold communion
in. Lambert inherited from his mother a rare skill in music; and he and
Cicely would spend hours at the organ in the chapel, his fingers seeming
unconsciously to wander over the keys, and his spirit apparently
floating heavenward in the tide of glorious anthem and solemn symphony
his art awakened. He was a painter, too; and many an hour would she sit
before him as he sketched her lovely face, sometimes in the simple dress
she wore at her books or work, at other times as the garlanded
Pastorella, or the green-robed Laura of their favorite poets. His
brother Maurice was seldom their companion in these pursuits. In
disposition, and even in person, he was the very opposite of Lambert.
When a child, his temper had been morose and reserved; and, as he grew
up, all the unamiable points of his character became more conspicuous.
In fact, he was galled perpetually by the manifest superiority of his
brother, by his success in all he undertook, by his popularity with the
tenantry, by Cicely's preference for him. He had great command of
temper, however, and contrived to prevent any outbreaks of passion
before his father or Cicely; but when alone with Lambert he would vent
his ill-humor in sarcasms and taunts that would have bred innumerable
quarrels, had the temper of the elder brother been a whit less equable
than it was. But no human being is less prone to seek offense or
contention than a gentle scholar whose poet-mind is just awakened by the
spirit of love; and such was Lambert Evrard.

It was settled that the wedding should take place on Cicely's eighteenth
birthday; and preparations had long been making for the ceremony and its
attendant festival, when the destined bridegroom was suddenly taken ill.
His physician never assigned a name to his complaint, and its origin
appeared unaccountable. He was in danger for weeks; and on his being
sufficiently recovered was immediately ordered abroad for change of air.
The marriage was, of course, deferred till his health was
re-established. Maurice, whose attention to his sick brother had been as
exemplary as it was unexpected, accompanied him to the Continent. They
had not been abroad three months before letters brought tidings of his
brother's rapid convalescence. The soft Italian air was doing wonders
for his enfeebled constitution; he was comparatively well, and they
purposed to prolong their absence, and convert the quest of health into
a tour of pleasure. We may be sure that with the announcement of their
intention came many a line of kind regret and wistful longing (lines
destined to be read alone and often), many a leaf plucked from the
haunts of song, and many a plaintive verse inscribed to Cicely. There
were tears, perhaps, when the news of lengthened separation came; but
the lady consoled herself with the reflection that it would prevent
Lambert leaving her after their marriage, and give them both many happy
hours of converse in the sunny days to come. All the hopes and promises
of future happiness, however, were fated to be disappointed. The next
letter that arrived brought news of a fearful calamity. Lambert Evrard
was dead! The particulars of the accident were thus given in a letter
written by a friend of Maurice's, for he himself was too much afflicted
by the event to give any detailed account. It appeared that the brothers
had set out with the intention of ascending one of the loftiest peaks in
the Tyrol, and had started overnight, that they might reach the summit
in time to see the glories of an Alpine sunrise. The guide left them for
a moment to see whether a stream was fordable, when Lambert, attempting,
against his brother's advice, to pass a ledge of rock unassisted by the
mountaineer's pole, fell into a chasm between the glaciers.

The body was never found. It was said that for days Maurice remained in
the neighborhood, offering immense rewards to any peasant who would even
commence a search for the remains; but the men knew too well the
hopelessness and peril of the task to attempt it. Finding this
unavailing, he left the place. His return was delayed by severe illness;
but at length, in one gray autumn twilight, a traveling-carriage dashed
up the shadowy avenue of Briarhurst, and Maurice was received in his
father's hall--a mourner amid mourners. He was much altered. The demure
severity of his old manner was changed to at least an appearance of
candor and trustfulness. Grief for his brother _seemed_ to have bettered
his whole nature, to have opened his heart to the influences of kindness
and gentleness--to have made him, in short, more lovable. Such appeared
the best interpretation of the change that was wrought in him, and which
showed itself conspicuously in his conduct to the afflicted ones around
him. Kindly and thoughtfully did he console the anguish of his parents,
and with innumerable offices of delicate care and thoughtful
consideration did he show his respect and sympathy for Cicely's
affliction. By no intrusive efforts at comforting, but silently and
gently did he seek to wean his cousin from the remembrance of her
bereavement. By sparing her feelings in every possible way, by avoiding
the mention of Lambert's name, save in a manner calculated to awaken
those tender memories which are the softeners of grief, he strove to
divert Cicely's mind from dwelling too constantly on her dead betrothed;
and thus, without appearing to drive away the impression, he gradually
supplied her with other objects and pursuits; and though at first her
walks were always to the scenes he had loved, and her mornings spent
over the books he had read, their beauties were soon explored with other
interests than those which arose merely from the pleasures of
remembrance. The chapel which had been wont to recall Lambert most
painfully to her mind was now unentered.

The dell of lindens, through the bright leaves of which the sunbeams had
so often poured upon his open book, was now unfrequented. With none of
the ardor of first love, but with a regard originating in their mutual
sharing of the same grief, and nurtured by gratitude for his constant
sympathy, Cicely accepted Maurice for her lover; then, in obedience to
the earnest wish of those whom she had always reverenced as parents,
consented to be his wife. It had ever been the fervent hope of Sir
Lambert that he might live to see the wealth of his family restored
before he died. The plan for the accomplishment of this wish of a life
had been once fatally disappointed. It was natural, then, that he should
rejoice in this new prospect of its realization. Lady Evrard also was
desirous that the stain the baronet had brought on the family escutcheon
by his marriage with her should be blotted out. Sir Lambert was a kind
husband in the main, but his wife's penetration could not help
perceiving that he often inwardly sighed for the society of his
aristocratic neighbors, when his inability to return their hospitality
made him refuse their invitations. She had another inducement. Her
mother's eye had observed with pleasure what seemed to her the
beneficial influence of adversity upon her wayward son's character, and
she hoped the gentleness of his cousin would complete his reformation.
All seemed to favor the alliance. The day was fixed; and Cicely Clayton,
in a strange mood of alternating doubt and hope, arrayed herself for her
bridal. The hour had come. The wedding party were assembled in the
chapel. Few had been invited, for it had been the express wish of the
bride that the rite should be celebrated as privately as possible. Two
bridemaids, daughters of a neighboring gentleman, Lord R., a friend of
the late Lambert, and the family lawyer were the only bidden guests.
They approached the communion rails. The ruby-tinged sunbeams streamed
through the graceful trefoil on the white-robed Cicely and on the
trembling Maurice. There was need of something to lend a glow to his
haggard face, for he was ghastly pale. No artist's tint was half so
radiant as the rising blush upon her cheek. The minister had commenced
the service; the address had been read; the irrevocable "I will" had
been uttered in a stifled whisper by the bridegroom, had been murmured
in accents of gentlest music by the bride, when, as Maurice received the
ring from the priest, a strange unearthly sound rang through the
chapel--a strange interruption stayed every hand, hushed every voice.
From the organ (untouched since Lambert in his happy youth awoke its
melody) burst forth a wailing, plaintive sound, more like a restless
spirit's cry, than any mortal note--so loud, so long, so wild, that it
seemed to rack the senses that it held in horrible uncertainty till it
was done. Such a strain that nameless minstrel might have used to kindle
prophet-fire in Elisha. Then it stopped. But only for an instant; and a
dirge, sad as the contrite's weeping, clear as the accents of
forgiveness, came from that wondrous organ. Such a strain the
shepherd-harper might have woke who calmed the demon rage in Saul.

But the second solemn threne was more terrible than the first crashing
peal, for it called up an awful memory and a dark suspicion. It was the
very same air that Lambert had composed and played the night before he
left. With a cry as of recognition the mother stood expectant. With
clasped hands and broken voice the father prayed. Cicely and Maurice
thought only of that strain as they had heard it first. The bride
remembered how on that sad night Lambert had sought to smile away her
tears, and called them dearest tributes to his music.

It seemed like listening to his voice to hear again that unforgotten
melody; she listened then unfearing, in very delight of spirit; but when
the dirge was done, the influence that had upheld her in such ecstasy
gave way too, and she fell fainting on the steps. The bridegroom
remembered the purpose that was in his heart that night, and which had
made the music jarring discord. In his ears the sound was but the voice
of retribution, and, in an agony of passion, he hurried down the aisle
to see who woke a strain so dreadful to him. But no human hand had
touched the keys.

Maurice was taken to bed in a state of delirium, and expired the next
morning. Those who watched beside him remembered long, that through the
live-long night he raved of nothing but a deep abyss that he was falling
down, and that he prayed them to stretch a hand and help him, for that
down there rotted a ghastly corpse, whose stare was death to him.

The vault in Briarhurst church was next opened to receive the remains of
Lady Evrard.

Cicely survived for some years, the good genius of the village poor, a
ministering angel to the sorrowing and the helpless; then, full of that
glorious confidence which faith engenders, entered into her rest.

Sir Lambert lived to a great age; but happily he had sunk into perfect
childishness before Cicely was taken from him. It was a sad sight to
watch that desolate old man as he would sometimes wander about the
neglected shrubbery, or sometimes stand pondering before the pictures of
his sons and of their betrothed bride, apparently quite forgetful of the
features of Lambert and Maurice, but often asking anxiously why the
beautiful lady that was once so kind to him sat always silent now.




THE HOUSEHOLD OF SIR THOs. MORE.

[Concluded from the October Number.]

LIBELLUS A MARGARETA MORE, QUINDECIM ANNOS NATA, CHELSEIÆ INCEPTVS.

   "Nulla dies sine linea."


  September.

Seeing ye woodman fell a noble tree, which, as it went to the ground,
did uptear several small plants by ye roots, methoughte such woulde be
the fall of dear father, herein more sad than that of the abbot of Sion
and the Charterhouse monks, inasmuch as, being celibate, they involve
noe others in theire ruin. Brave, holie martyrs! how cheerfully they
went to theire death. I'm glad to have seene how pious men may turn e'en
an ignominious sentence into a kind of euthanasy. Dear father bade me
note how they bore themselves as bridegrooms going to theire marriage,
and converted what mighte have beene a shock to my surcharged spiritts,
into a lesson of deep and high comfort.

One thing hath grieved me sorelie. He mistooke somewhat I sayd at
parting for an implication of my wish that he shoulde yield up his
conscience. Oh, no, dearest father, that be far from me! It seems to
have cut him to the heart, for he hath writ that "none of the terrible
things that may befall him touch him soe nearlie as that his dearly
beloved child, whose opinion he soe much values, shoulde desire him to
overrule his conscience." That be far from me, father! I have writ to
explayn the matter, but his reproach, undeserved though it be, hath
troubled my heart.


  November.

Parliament will meet to-morrow. 'Tis expected father and ye good bishop
of Rochester will be attainted for misprison of treason by ye slavish
members thereof, and though not given hithertoe unto much heede of omens
and bodements while our hearts were light and our courage high, yet now
ye coming evil seemeth foreshadowed unto alle by I know not how many
melancholick presages, sent, for aught we know, in mercy. Now that the
days are dark and short, and the nights stormy, we shun to linger much
after dusk in lone chambers and passages, and what was sayd of the
enemies of Israel may be nigh sayd of us, "that a falling leaf shall
chase them." I'm sure "a going in the tops of the mulberry-trees" on a
blusterous evening, is enow to draw us alle, men, mothers, and maids,
together in an heap.... We goe about ye house in twos and threes, and
care not much to leave the fireside. Last Sunday we had closed about ye
the hearth, and little Bill was a reading by the fire-light how
Herodias' daughter danced off the head of St. John the Baptist, when
down comes an emptie swallow's nest tumbling adown the chimnie, bringing
with it enow of soot, smoke, and rubbish to half smother us alle; but
the dust was nothing to the dismay thereby occasioned, and I noted one
or two of our bravest turn as pale as death. Then, the rats have
skirmished and galloped behind the wainscoat more like a troop of horse
than a herd of such smaller deer, to ye infinite annoyance of mother,
who coulde not be more firmly persuaded they were about to leave a
falling house, if, like the sacred priests in the temple of Jerusalem,
she had heard a voyce utter, "Let us depart hence." The round upper half
of the cob-loaf rolled off the table this morning, and Rupert, as he
picked it up, gave a kind of shudder, and muttered somewhat about a head
rolling from the scaffold. Worse than this was o' Tuesday night....
'Twas bedtime, and yet none were liking to goe, when, o' suddain, we
hearde a screech that made every body's heart thrill, followed by one or
two hollow groans. Will snatches up the lamp and runs forth, I close
following, and alle the others at our heels, and after looking into
sundrie deserted cupboards and corners, we descend the broad stone steps
of the cellars, halfway down which Will, stumbling over something he
sees not, takes a flying leap to clear himself down to the bottom,
luckily without extinguishing the lamp. We find Gillian on the steps in
a swoon; on bringing her to, she exclayms about a ghost without a head,
wrapped in a winding-sheet, that confronted her and then sank to the
ground as she entered the vaults. We cast a fearfulle look about, and
descry a tall white sack of flour, recently overturned by the rats,
which clears up the mystery, and procures Gillian a little jeering, but
we alle return to the hall with fluttered spiritts. Another time I,
going up to the nurserie in the dark, on hearing baby cry, am passed on
the stairs by I know not what breathing heavilie. I reach forthe my arm,
but pass cleare through the spirituall nature, whatever it is, yet
distinctlie feel my cheek and neck fanned by its breath. I turn very
faint, and get nurse to goe with me when I return, bearing a light, yet
think it as well to say naught to distress the rest.

But worst of alle was last night ... After I had been in bed awhile, I
minded me that deare Will had not returned me father's letter. I awoke
him and asked if he had broughte it upstairs; he sleepily replied he had
not, soe I hastily arose, threw on a cloke, took a light, and entered
the gallery, when, halfway along it, between me and the pale moonshine,
I was scared to behold a slender figure alle in white, with naked feet
and arms extended. I stoode agaze, speechlesse, and to my terror made
out the features of Bess ... her eyes open, but vacant; then saw John
Dancey softly stealing after her, and signing to me with his finger on
his lips. She passed without noting me, on to father's door, there knelt
as if in prayer, making a low sort of wail, while Dancey, with tears
running down his cheeks, whispered, "'Tis the third time of her thus
sleep-walking ... the token of how troubled a mind!"

We disturbed her not, dreading that a suddain waking might bring on
madness; soe, after making moan awhile, she kisses the senseless door,
rises up, moves toward her own chamber, followed by Dancey and me,
wrings her hands a little, then lies down, and graduallie falls into
what seems a dreamless sleep, we watching her in silence till she's
quiet, and then squeezing each other's hands ere we part.

... Will was wide awake when I got back; he sayd, "Why, Meg, how long
you have beene! coulde you not lighte on the letter?" ... When I tolde
him what had hindered me by the way, he turned his face to the wall and
wept.


  Midnight.

The wild wind is abroad, and, methinketh, _nothing else_. Sure, how it
rages through our empty courts! In such a season, men, beasts, and fowls
cower beneath ye shelter of their rocking walls, yet almost fear to
trust them. Lord, I know that thou canst give the tempest double force,
but do not, I beseech thee! Oh! have mercy on the frail dwelling and the
ship at sea.

Dear little Bill hath ta'en a feverish attack. I watch beside him while
his nurse sleeps. Earlie in the night his mind wandered, and he told me
of a pretty ring-streaked poney noe bigger than a bee, that had golden
housings and barley-sugar eyes; then dozed, but ever and anon kept
starting up, crying "Mammy, dear!" and softlie murmured "Oh" when he saw
I was by. At length I gave him my forefinger to hold, which kept him
ware of my presence without speaking, but presentlie he stares hard
toward ye foot of the bed, and says fearfullie, "Mother, why hangs yon
hatchet in the air, with its sharp edge turned toward us?" I rise, move
the lamp, and say, "Do you see it now?" He sayth, "No, not now," and
closes his eyes. After a good space, during the which I hoped he slept,
he says in quite an altered tone, most like unto soft, sweet music,
"There's a pretty little cherub there now, alle head and noe body, with
two little wings aneath his chin; but, for alle he's soe pretty, he is
just like dear Gaffer, and seems to know me ... and he'll have a body
agayn, too, I believe, by and by ... Mother, mother, tell Hobbinol
there's such a gentle lamb in heaven!" And soe, slept.

       *       *       *       *       *

He's gone, my pretty ...! slipt through my fingers like a bird! upfled
to his own native skies, and yet whenas I think on him, I can not choose
but weepe.... Such a guileless little lamb!... My Billy-bird! his
mother's owne heart. They are alle wondrous kind to' me....

       *       *       *       *       *

How strange that a little child shoulde be permitted to suffer soe much
payn, when of such is the kingdom of heaven! But 'tis onlie transient,
whereas a mother makes it permanent, by thinking it over and over agayn.
One lesson it taughte us betimes, that a naturall death is not,
necessarilie, the most easie. We must alle die.... As poor Patteson was
used to say, "The greatest king that ever was made, must bed at last
with shovel and spade," ... and I'd sooner have my Billy's baby deathbed
than King Harry's, or Nan Boleyn's either, however manie years they may
yet carry matters with a high hand. Oh, you ministers of evill, whoever
you be, visible or invisible, you shall not build a wall between my God
and me.... I've something within me, grows stronger and stronger, as
times grow more and more evill; some woulde call it resolution, but
methinketh 'tis faith.

Meantime, father's foes ... alack that anie can shew 'emselves such! are
aiming by fayr seemings of friendlie conference, to draw from him
admissions they can come at after noe other fashion. The new Solicitor
General hath gone to ye Tower to deprive him of ye few books I have
taken him from time to time.... Ah, Master Rich, you must deprive him of
his brains afore you can rob him of their contents!... and, while having
'em packt up, he falls into easie dialogue with him, as thus ... "Why
now, sure, Mr. More, were there an act of parliament made that all ye
realm shoulde take me for king, you woulde take me for such with the
rest."

"Aye, that would I, sir," returns father.

"Forsooth, then," pursues Rich, "we'll suppose another act that should
make me the Pope. Would you not take me for Pope?"

"Or suppose another case, Mr. Rich," returns father, "that another act
shoulde pass, that God shoulde not be God, would you say well and good?"

"No, truly," returns the other hastily, "for no parliament coulde make
such act lawful."

"True, as you say," repeats father, "they coulde not" ... soe eluded the
net of the fowler; but how miserable and unhandsome a device to lay wait
for him thus, to catch him in his talk.

... I stole forthe, ere 'twas lighte, this damp, chill morning, to pray
beside the little grave, but found dear Daisy there before me. How
Christians love one another!

Will's loss is as heavie as mine, yet he bears with me tenderlie.
Yesternighte, he sayth to me half reproachfullie, "Am not I better unto
thee than ten sons?"


  March, 1534.

Spring comes, that brings rejuvenescence to ye land, and joy to the
heart, but it brings none to us, for where hope dieth, joy dieth. But
patience, soul; God's yet in the aumry!

       *       *       *       *       *

May 7. Father arraigned.

       *       *       *       *       *

July 1. By reason of Will's minding to be present at ye triall, which,
for the concourse of spectators, demanded his earlie attendance, he
committed the care of me, with Bess, to Dancey, who got us places to see
father on his way from the Tower to Westminster Hall. We coulde not come
at him for the press, but clambered on a bench to gaze our very hearts
away after him as he went by, sallow, thin, gray-haired, yet in mien not
a whit cast down. Wrapt in a coarse woollen gown, and leaning on a
staff, which unwonted support when Bess markt, she hid her eyes on my
shoulder and wept sore, but soon lookt up agayn, though her eyes were
soe blinded, I think she coulde not see him. His face was calm, but
grave, as he came up, but just as he passed he caughte the eye of some
one in the crowd, and smiled in his old, frank way; then glanced up
toward the windows with the bright look he hath soe oft cast to me at my
casement, but saw us not. I coulde not help crying "Father," but he
heard me not; perchance 'twas soe best.... I woulde not have had his
face cloud at ye sighte of poor Bessy's tears.

... Will tells me the indictment was ye longest ever hearde; on four
counts. First, his opinion on the king's marriage. Second, his writing
sundrie letters to the Bishop of Rochester, counselling him to hold out.
Third, refusing to acknowledge his grace's supremacy. Fourth, his
positive deniall of it, and thereby willing to deprive the king of his
dignity and title.

When the reading of this was over, the Lord Chancellor sayth, "You see
how grievouslie you have offended the king his grace, but and yet he is
soe mercifulle, as that if ye will lay aside your obstinacie, and change
your opinion, we hope ye may yet obtayn pardon."

Father makes answer ... and at sounde of his deare voyce alle men hold
their breaths.... "Most noble Lords, I have great cause to thank your
honors for this your courtesie ... but I pray Almighty God I may
continue in the mind I'm in, through his grace, until death."

They coulde not make good their accusation agaynst him. 'Twas onlie on
the last count he could be made out a traitor, and proof of 't had they
none; how coulde they have? He shoulde have beene acquitted out of hand,
'steade of which, his bitter enemy, my Lord Chancellor, called on him
for his defense. Will sayth there was a general murmur or sigh ran
through ye court. Father, however, answered the bidding by beginning to
express his hope that the effect of long imprisonment mighte not have
beene such upon his mind and body, as to impair his power of rightlie
meeting alle ye charges agaynst him ... when, turning faint with long
standing, he staggered and loosed hold of his staff, whereon he was
accorded a seat. 'Twas but a moment's weakness of the body, and he then
proceeded frankly to avow his having always opposed the king's marriage
to his grace himself, which he was soe far from thinking high treason,
that he shoulde rather have deemed it treachery to have withholden his
opinion from his sovereign king when solicited by him for his counsell.
His letters to ye good Bishop he proved to have beene harmlesse.
Touching his declining to give his opinion, when askt, concerning the
supremacy, he alleged there coulde be noe transgression in holding his
peace thereon, God only being cognizant of our thoughts.

"Nay," interposeth the Attorney Generall, "your silence was the token of
a malicious mind."

"I had always understoode," answers father, "that silence stoode for
consent. Qui tacet, consentire videtur;" which made sundrie smile. On
the last charge, he protested he had never spoken word against ye law
unto anie man.

The jury are about to acquit him, when up starts the Solicitor Generall,
offers himself as witness for the crown, is sworn, and gives evidence of
his dialogue with father in the Tower, falselie adding, like a liar as
he is, that on his saying "No parliament coulde make a law that God
shoulde not be God," father had rejoined, "No more coulde they make the
king supreme head of the Church."

I marvell the ground opened not at his feet. Father brisklie made
answer, "If I were a man, my lords, who regarded not an oath, ye know
well I needed not stand now at this bar. And if the oath which you, Mr.
Rich, have just taken, be true, then I pray I may never see God in the
face. In good truth, Mr. Rich, I am more sorry for your perjurie than my
perill. You and I once dwelt long together in one parish; your manner of
life and conversation from your youth up were familiar to me, and it
paineth me to tell ye were ever held very light of your tongue, a great
dicer and gamester, and not of anie commendable fame either there or in
the Temple, the inn to which ye have belonged. Is it credible,
therefore, to your lordships, that the secrets of my conscience touching
the oath, which I never woulde reveal, after the statute once made,
either to the king's grace himself, nor to anie of you, my honorable
lords, I should have thus lightly blurted out in private parley with Mr.
Rich?"

In short, the villain made not goode his poynt; ne'erthelesse, the issue
of this black day was aforehand fixed; my Lord Audley was primed with a
virulent and venomous speech; the jury retired, and presentlie returned
with a verdict of Guilty; for they knew what the king's grace would have
'em doe in that case.

Up starts my Lord Audley--commences pronouncing judgment, when--

"My lord," says father, "in my time, the custom in these cases was ever
to ask the prisoner before sentence, whether he could give anie reason
why judgment shoulde not proceed agaynst him."

My lord, in some confusion, puts the question.

And then came ye frightfulle sentence.

Yes, yes, my soul, I know; there were saints of old sawn asunder. Men of
whom the world was not worthy.

... Then he spake unto 'em his mind, how that after lifelong studdy, he
could never find that a layman mighte be head of the church. And bade
his judges and accusers farewell; hoping that like as St. Paul was
present and consenting unto St. Stephen's death, and yet both were now
holy saints in heaven, soe he and they might speedilie meet there, joint
heirs of e'erlasting salvation.

Meantime, poor Bess and Cecilie, spent with grief and long waiting, were
forct to be carried home by Heron, or ever father returned to his
prison. Was't less feeling, or more strength of body, enabled me to bide
at the Tower wharf with Dancey? God knoweth. They brought him back by
water; my poor sisters must have passed him.... The first thing I saw
was the ax, _turned with its edge toward him_--my first note of his
sentence. I forct my way through the crowd ... some one laid a cold hand
on mine arm; 'twas poor Patteson, soe changed I scarce knew him, with a
rosary of gooseberries he kept running through his fingers. He sayth,
Bide your time, mistress Meg; when he comes past, I'll make a passage
for ye.... Oh, brother, brother! what ailed thee to refuse the oath?
_I've_ taken it! In another moment, "Now, mistress, now!" and flinging
his arms right and left, made a breach through which I darted, fearlesse
of bills and halberds, and did fling mine arms about father's neck. He
cries, "My Meg!" and hugs me to him as though our very souls shoulde
grow together. He sayth, "Bless thee, bless thee! Enough, enough, my
child; what mean ye, to weep and break mine heart? Remember, though I
die innocent, 'tis not without the will of God, who coulde send 's
angels to rescue me if 'twere best; therefore possess your soul in
patience. Kiss them alle for me, thus and thus" ... soe gave me back
into Dancey's arms, the guards about him alle weeping; but I coulde not
thus lose sight of him forever; soe, after a minute's pause, did make a
second rush, brake away from Dancey, clave to father agayn, and agayn
they had pitie on me, and made pause while I hung upon his neck. This
time there were large drops standing on his dear brow; and the big tears
were swelling into his eyes. He whispered, "Meg, for Christ's sake don't
unman me; thou'lt not deny my last request?" I sayd, "Oh! no;" and at
once loosened mine arms. "God's blessing be with you," he sayth with a
last kiss. I could not help crying, "My father! my father!" "The chariot
of Israel, and the horsemen thereof!" he vehementlie whispers, pointing
upward with soe passionate a regard, that I look up, almost expecting a
beatific vision; and when I turn about agayn, he's gone, and I have noe
more sense nor life till I find myself agayn in mine own chamber, my
sisters chafing my hands.

       *       *       *       *       *

Alle's over now ... they've done theire worst, and yet I live. There
were women coulde stand aneath ye cross. The Maccabees' mother-- ...
yes, my soul, yes; I know--Naught but unpardoned sin.... The chariot of
Israel.

       *       *       *       *       *

Dr. Clement hath beene with us. Sayth he went up as blythe as a
bridegroom to be clothed upon with immortality.

Rupert stoode it alle out. Perfect love casteth out feare. Soe did his.

       *       *       *       *       *

... My most precious treasure is this deare billet, writ with a coal;
the last thing he sett his hand to, wherein he sayth, "I never liked
your manner toward me better than when you kissed me last."

They have let us bury his poor mangled trunk; but, as sure as there's a
sun in heaven, I'll have his head!--before another sun hath risen, too.
If wise men won't speed me, I'll e'en content me with a fool.

I doe think men, for ye most part, be cowards in theire hearts ...
moral cowards. Here and there, we find one like father, and like
Socrates, and like ... this and that one, I mind not theire names just
now; but in ye main, methinketh they lack the moral courage of women.
Maybe, I'm unjust to 'em just now, being crost.

       *       *       *       *       *

... I lay down, but my heart was waking. Soon after the first cock crew,
I hearde a pebble cast agaynst my lattice, knew ye signall, rose,
dressed, stole softlie down and let myself out. I knew the touch of ye
poor fool's fingers; his teeth were chattering, 'twixt cold and fear,
yet he laught aneath his breath as he caught my arm and dragged me after
him, whispering, "Fool and fayr lady will cheat 'em yet." At the stairs
lay a wherry with a couple of boatmen, and one of 'em stepping up to me,
cries, "Alas for ruth, mistress Meg, what is 't ye do? Art mad to go on
this errand?" I sayd, "I shall be mad if I go not, and succeed too--put
me in, and push off."

We went down the river quietlie enow--at length reach London Bridge
stairs. Patteson, starting up, says, "Bide ye all as ye are," and
springs aland and runneth up to the bridge. Anon, returns, and sayth,
"Now, mistress, alle's readie ... readier than ye wist ... come up
quickly, for the coast's clear." Hobson (for 'twas he) helps me forth,
saying, "God speed ye, mistress.... Gin I dared, I woulde goe with ye."
... Thought I, there be others in that case.

Nor lookt I up, till aneath the bridge-gate, when casting upward a
fearsome look, I beheld ye dark outline of the ghastly yet precious
relic; and, falling into a tremour, did wring my hands and exclaym,
"Alas, alas, that head hath lain full manie a time in my lap, woulde
God, woulde God it lay there now!" When, o' suddain, I saw the pole
tremble and sway toward me; and stretching forth my apron, I did in an
extasy of gladness, pity, and horror, catch its burthen as it fell.
Patteson, shuddering, yet grinning, cries under his breath, "Managed I
not well, mistress? Let's speed away with our theft, for fools and their
treasures are soon parted; but I think not they'll follow hard after us,
neither, for there are well-wishers to us on the bridge. I'll put ye
into the boat, and then say, God speed ye, lady, with your burthen."

       *       *       *       *       *

Rizpah, daughter of Aiah, did watch her dead from the beginning of
harvest until the latter rain, and suffered neither the birds of the air
to light on them by day, nor the wild beasts of the the field by night.
And it was told the king, but he intermeddled not with her.

Argia stole Polynices' body by night and buried it, for the which, she
with her life did willingly pay forfeit. Antigone, for aiding in the
pious theft, was adjudged to be buried alive. Artemisia did make
herself her loved one's shrine, by drinking his ashes. Such is the love
of woman; many waters can not quench it, neither can the floods drown
it. I've hearde Bonvisi tell of a poor Italian girl, whose brothers did
slay her lover; and in spite of them, she got his heart, and buried it
in a pot of basil, which she watered day and night with her tears, just
as I do my coffer. Will has promised it shall be buried with me; layd
upon my heart; and since then, I've beene easier.

He thinks he shall write father's life, when he gets more composed, and
we are settled in a new home. We are to be cleared out o' this in alle
haste; the king grutches at our lingering over father's footsteps, and
gazing on the dear familiar scenes associate with his image; and yet,
when the news of the bloody deed was taken to him, as he sate playing at
tables with Queen Anne, he started up and scowled at her, saying, "Thou
art the cause of this man's death!" Father might well say, during our
last precious meeting in the Tower, "'Tis I, Meg, not the king, that
love women. They bely him; he onlie loves himself." Adding, with his own
sweet smile, "Your Gaffer used to say that women were a bag of snakes,
and that the man who put his hand therein woulde be lucky if he founde
one eel among them alle; but 'twas onlie in sport, Meg, and he owned
that I had enough eels to my share to make a goodly pie, and called my
house the eel-pie house to the day of his death. 'Twas our Lord Jesus
raised up women and shewed kindnesse unto 'em, and they've kept theire
level, in the main, ever since."

I wish Will may sett down everie thing of father's saying he can
remember; how precious will his book then be to us! But I fear me, these
matters adhere not to a man's memory ... he'll be telling of his doings
as Speaker and Chancellor, and his saying this and that in Parliament.
Those are the matters men like to write and to read; he won't write it
after my fashion.

I had a misgiving of Will's wrath, that night, 'speciallie if I failed;
but he called me his brave Judith. Indeed I was a woman bearing a head,
but one that had oft lain on my shoulder.

My thoughts beginne to have connexion now; but till last night, I slept
not. 'Twas scarce sunsett. Mercy had been praying beside me, and I lay
outside my bed, inclining rather to stupor than sleep. O' suddain, I
have an impression that some one is leaning over me, though I hear 'em
not nor feel theire breath. I start up, cry "Mercy!" but she's not there
nor anie one else. I turn on my side and become heavie to sleep; but or
ere I drop quite off, agayn I'm sensible or apprehensive of some living
consciousness between my closed eyelids and the setting sunlight; agayn
start up and stare about, but there's nothing. Then I feel like ... like
Eli, maybe, when the child Samuel came to him twice; and tears well into
mine eyes, and I close 'em agayn, and say in mine heart, "If he's at
hand, oh, let me see him next time ... the third time's lucky." But
'steade of this, I fall into quiet, balmy, dreamlesse sleep. Since then,
I've had an abiding, assuring sense of help, of a hand upholding me, and
smoothing and glibbing the way before me.

We must yield to ye powers that be. At this present, we are weak, but
they are strong; they are honourable, but we are despised. They have
made us a spectacle unto the world, and, I think, Europe will ring with
it; but at this present hour, they will have us forth of our home,
though we have as yet no certayn dwelling-place, and must flee as scared
pigeons from their dove-cot. No matter, our men are willing to labour,
and our women to endure; being reviled, we bless; being persecuted, we
suffer it. Onlie I marvell how anie honest man, coming after us, will be
able to eat a mouthful of bread with a relish within these walls. And,
methinketh, a dishonest man will have sundrie frights from the Lares and
Lemures. There 'ill be dearth o' black beans in ye market.

Flow on, bright shining Thames. A good brave man hath walked aforetime
on your margent, himself as bright, and usefull, and delightsome as be
you, sweet river. And like you, he never murmured; like you, he upbore
the weary, and gave drink to the thirsty, and reflected heaven in his
face. I'll not swell your full current with any more fruitless tears.
There's a river whose streams make glad the city of our God. He now
rests beside it. Good Christian folks, as they hereafter pass this spot,
upborne on thy gentle tide, will, maybe, point this way, and say--"There
dwelt Sir Thomas More;" but whether they doe or not, _vox populi_ is a
very inconsiderable matter, for the majority are evil, and "_the people_
sayd, Let him be crucified!" Who would live on theire breath? They
hailed St. Paul as Jupiter, and then stoned him and cast him out of the
city, supposing him to be dead. Theire favourite of to-day may, for what
they care, goe hang himself to-morrow in his surcingle. Thus it must be
while the world lasts; and the very racks and scrues wherewith they aim
to overcome the nobler spiritt, onlie test and reveal its power of
exaltation above the heaviest gloom of circumstance.

_Interfecistis, interfecistis hominem omnium Anglorum optimum._




THE FLYING ARTIST.


Karl Herwitz is a German. He is about fifty years of age, and one of the
most original of characters. Since I have known him, I have passed whole
nights in listening to his adventures, which are in general as
instructive as they are amusing. Married at a very early age, he left
the military career for that of inventions. He had a most marvelous
talent for conceiving novel machines, often of practical utility; but
his soul was set upon perfecting a flying machine. To this he had
devoted nearly his whole life. He made models, he tried experiments, he
brought to bear all his prodigious knowledge of mathematics on the
subject of traveling in air, with an enthusiasm, a childish earnestness,
which is not uncharacteristic of genius. He studied every natural law
which was likely to advance him toward the consummation of all his hopes
and desires, namely, the ability to fly. At one time his little garden
was turned into an aviary. He filled it with birds of various kinds, to
study the mechanism of their powers of flight. There was the eagle and
the dove, the vulture and the sparrow, all of which were made
subservient to his darling object. He has often explained all this to
me. "The Golden Eagle," he once said, "can cleave the air at the rate of
forty miles an hour. Now, if I can succeed in imitating the mechanism by
which he travels in space, exactly and efficiently, of course, my
machine will move in the air at the same pace." What could I say? No
argument, no warning availed. Still he went on, hoping and working, and
buying expensive tools and materials. He completed aerial ships one
after another; and although none of them answered, he was never
discouraged.

At one time, however, he thought he had succeeded. His contrivance was a
curious affair, shot out of a bomb; but it was about as buoyant as a
shot, fell, and failed, disheartening every body but the persevering
projector. Still he did not wholly neglect useful productions, and
several times made improvements in mechanism, and sold them for very
good prices. But the money went as fast as it came. His winged Pegasus
was a merciless Ogre, which swallowed up all the money the old German
earned.

Last Christmas-eve, in Paris, five of us were collected, after dinner,
round a roaring fire, half wood, half charcoal. For some time the
conversation was general enough. We spoke of England and of an English
Christmas. The magic spell of the fireside was felt, and the word "home"
hung on the trembling lip of all; for we were in a foreign land; we were
all English, save one. There was a lawyer, the most unlawyer-like man I
ever knew, a noble-hearted fellow, whom to know is to like; there was a
poet, of an eccentric order of merit, whose love of invective, bitter
satire, and intense propensity to hate--whose fantastic and Germanic
cast of philosophy will ever prevent his succeeding among rational
beings; then there was an artist, a young man well known in the world,
not half so much as he deserves, if kindness of soul could ever make a
man famous; there was Citizen Karl Herwitz, as he loved to be called;
lastly myself. I had been speaking of some far-off land, relating some
personal adventure; and, with commendable modesty, feeling that I had
held possession of the chair quite long enough, paused for a reply.

"Tell us your adventures at the court of Konningen," said the poet,
standing up to see that his hair hung tastefully around his shoulders,
addressing at the same time Karl, and mentioning the name of one of the
smaller German states. "I have heard it before, but it will be new to
the rest, and I promise them a rich treat."

"Ah!" sighed the German, with a huge puff at his long pipe; "that _was_
an adventure--or, rather, a whole string of adventures. I have told it
several times; but, if you like, I will tell it again."

All warmly called on the German to keep his promise. After freshly
loading his pipe, and taking a drain at his glass, he drew his armchair
closer to the fire, settled his feet on the _chenets_, and began his
narrative in a quaint and strange English, which I shall not seek to
copy:

I had spent all my money. I had sold all my property. There remained
nothing but a little furniture in my house, which was in a quiet retired
quarter of the town; but then I had completed a machine, and sent it for
the approval of the Minister of the Interior, who promised to purchase
it for the government. I now looked forward with delight to a long
career of success, and saw the completion of my flying machine in
prospect. On this I depended, and still depend, for fame, reputation,
and fortune.

I had then a good wife and four children; she is dead now.--The German
paused, puffed away vigorously at his pipe, and tried to hide his
emotion from our view by enveloping himself in smoke.--

I was naturally impatient for some result,--he continued, when his face
became once more visible.--I used to go every day to the Minister, and
wait in the ante-chamber, with other suitors, for my turn. Weeks passed,
and then months, and yet it never came. But we must all eat, and six
mouths are not fed for nothing. We had no resources, save our clothes
and our furniture. My clothes were needed to go out with, so the
furniture went first. One article was sold, and the produce applied by
my careful wife to the wants of the family. We had come to that point
when food is the only thing which must be looked on as a necessity. We
lived hardly, indeed. Bread, and a little soup, was all we ever
attempted to indulge in.

Six months passed without any change for the better. I went to the
Minister's every day; sometimes I saw him, and sometimes I did not. He
was always very polite, bowed to me affably, said my machine was under
consideration, should be reported on immediately, and passed on his way.
It was the dead of winter. Every article of furniture was now gone, my
wife and children having not gone out for two months for want of
clothes. We huddled together, for warmth, on two straw mattresses, in
the corner of an empty room, without table, without chairs, without
fire. Catherine had nothing to wear but an old cotton gown and one
under-garment. We had not eaten food for a day and a night, when I rose
in the morning to go to the Minister's. I felt savage, irate, furious. I
thought of my starving and perishing family, of the long delay which had
taken place in the consideration of my machine. I compared the luxurious
ease of the Minister with my own position, and was inclined to do some
desperate act. I think I could have turned conspirator, and have
overthrown the government. I was already half a misanthrope.

When I entered the Minister's ante-chamber, I placed myself, as usual,
near the stove. I kept away from the well-dressed mob as much as
possible. They were solicitors, it is true, and humble enough, some of
them; but then they had good coats on, smart uniforms, polite boots, and
came, perhaps, in carriages. I came on foot, clad in a long frock
reaching almost to my heels, patched in several places; with trowsers so
darned about the calves as to be almost falling to pieces; with boots
which were absolutely only worn for look, for they had no soles to them.
My hat, too, was a dreadful-looking thing. This day, being faint with
hunger, and pinched by the cold, the heat of the room overcame me, and I
grew dizzy. I am sure I knew nothing of what passed around. I saw my
wife and children, through a misty haze, starving with hunger and cold.
A basket full of logs of wood lay beside my knee. Reckless, wild, not
caring who saw me, I took a thick log, huddled it under my frock, and
went away. I passed the porter's lodge unseen; I was in the open air; I
was proud, I was happy. _I had stolen a log of wood_; but my children
would have fire for one day.

When I got home I went to bed. I was feverish and ill; wild shapes
floated round me; I saw the officers of justice after me; I beheld a
furious mob chasing me along interminable fields; and on every hedge,
and every tree, and every house, and every post, I read, in large
letters, the word 'thief.' It was evening when I awoke. I looked around
for some minutes without moving or speaking; a delicious fragrance
seemed to fill the air, a fire blazed on the hearth, and round it
huddled my wife and children, sitting on logs of wood. I rubbed my eyes:
The presence of these logs of wood seemed to convince me that I still
dreamed. But there was an odor of mutton-broth which was too real to be
mistaken.

"Catherine," said I, "why, you seem to have some food."

All came rushing to my bedside, mother and children. They scarcely
spoke; but one brought a basin of broth, another a hunch of bread,
another a plate of meat and potatoes, which had been kept hot before the
fire. I was too faint and sick to talk. I took my broth slowly. Never
did food prove a greater blessing. Life, reason, courage, hope, all
seemed to return, as mouthful by mouthful I swallowed the nourishing
liquid. It spread warmth and comfort through every fibre of my frame.
When I had taken this, I ate the meat, and vegetables, and bread without
fear. While I did so, my wife, sending the children back to the
fire-place, told me, in a whisper, how she had procured such unexpected
subsistence. It seems that scarcely had I got home, and, after flinging
my log on the ground, rushed to bed, when a knock came to the door.
Catherine went to answer it. A man of middle age entered. He gave a
hurried glance around, seemed to shudder at its emptiness, looked at the
next room through the open door, saw that it was as bare as the other,
turned his eyes away from the crouching form of my half-dressed wife,
and spoke:

"Have you any children?"

"Four," said Catherine, tremblingly; but, still, answering at once, so
peremptory was the tone of the stranger.

"How long have you been in this state?"

"Six months."

"Your husband is Karl Herwitz, the mechanist?"

"He is, sir."

"Well, madam, please to tell him that I recognized him as he came out of
the Minister's of the Interior, and, noticing what he clutched with such
wild energy, followed him here. Tell him, I am not rich, but I can pay
my debts; I owe him the sum contained in this purse. I am happy to pay
it."

"And did he owe it you?" said I, anxiously.

No, replied Karl; he had never seen me or heard of me before. Generous
Englishman, I shall never forget him. I found out afterward that he was
a commercial traveler, with a large family and a moderate income. On
what he left we lived a month, by exercising strict economy. I did not
go to the minister's for several days. I feared some one might have seen
me, and I was bowed by shame. But, at last, I mustered courage, and
presented myself at the audience. I was, as usual, totally unnoticed,
and I resumed my wretched dangling in the ante-chamber, as usual. The
result was always the same. Generally I caught a glimpse of the
minister; but, when I did, it was eternally the same words. Meanwhile
time swept rapidly by, and soon my misery was as great as ever. My
children, who, during the past month, had recovered a little their
health and looks, looked pale and wan again. I was more shabby, more
dirty, more haggard and starved-looking than ever. Once again I went
out, after our all being without food for some twenty-four hours. I knew
not what to do. I walked along the street, turning over every possible
expedient in my mind.

Suddenly I saw, on the opposite side of the way, a lieutenant belonging
to the regiment I had quitted. He had been my intimate friend, but so
shabby was I, that I sought to avoid him. He saw me, however, and, to my
surprise, hurried across and shook me heartily by the hand. I could
scarce restrain tears; so sure was I, in my present state, to be cut by
even old friends. But, in my worst troubles, something has always turned
up to make me love and cherish the human heart.

"My poor Karl," said he, "the world uses you badly."

"Very," said I: and in a few words I told my story.

"My dear Karl!" he exclaimed, when I had concluded, "I was going to ask
you to dine with me on what I have left. I am come up to claim a year's
arrears of pay, and I have been sent back with a free passage and
promises. But I have a little silver; and, as I said, meant to ask you
to devour it. But after what you have told me, will you share my purse
with me for your wife and children's sake?" And he pulled out a purse
containing about the value of five shillings English, forced me to take
half, shook me heartily by the hand, and hurried away to escape my
thanks.

Home I rushed with mad eagerness, a loaf in one hand, the rest of the
money in the other. My poor wife once more could give food to her little
ones. On the morning of the third day after I had obtained this little
help, I lay in bed, ruminating. I was turning over in my mind every
possible expedient by which to raise enough money to go on with, a brief
time, until my machine was really decided on by the government. Suddenly
I sat up in my bed and addressed my wife.

"How much money have you got left, Catherine?"

She had threepence of your money.

"Can you manage with the loaf of bread then, and three-halfpence for
to-day?"

"I have often managed on less," said she.

"Then give me three-halfpence to take out with me."

"But what are you going to do? We may have nothing to-morrow, and then
the three-halfpence will be missed."

"Give!" said I, rather sternly, reflecting as I was on my scheme; "be
assured, it is for our good."

My poor wife gave me the money with a very ill-grace, but without
another word; and, rising, I went out. When in the street, I directed my
footsteps toward the outskirts. They were soon reached. I halted before
a tavern frequented wholly by workmen, and going into the public room,
called for a _choppe_ of beer. I had purposely chosen my position.
Before me was a handsome, neatly-dressed young workman, who, like all
his companions, was smoking and drinking beer. Quietly, without saying a
word, I drew out a small note-book and a drawing-pencil. I was then
considered a very good artist; but had only used my pencil to sketch
models. But I now sketched the human face with care and anxiety.
Presently, as my pencil was laid down, a man sitting next to me peeped
over my shoulder.

"Why!" he cried, "that's Alexis to the life."

"How so?" said the man I had been sketching, holding out his hand, into
which I put my note-book.

"Good!" cried he, while a smile of satisfaction covered his face. "Will
you sell this? I should like to keep it."

"I will sell it if you like," replied I, as quietly as I could, though
my heart was nigh bursting with excitement.

"How much?"

I knew my man, and asked but six sous, threepence, which the workman
gladly paid, while five others followed his example at the same price. I
went home a proud and happy man with my thirty-six pence of copper.
Would you believe it? that was the commencement of a long and prosperous
career, which lasted until the Revolution of 1848 threw me back again.
Six months after, I received a thousand florins for a portrait in oil
of the Grand Duchess of B----; and about the end of the same year I
drove up to the hotel of the Minister of the Interior in a splendid
carriage, a gentleman by my side; it was the English commercial
traveler.

We had a letter of audience, and were admitted at once. The Minister
rose, and after a very warm greeting, requested us to be seated. We took
chairs.

"My dear Herwitz," said the Minister, a little, bowing, smirking man,
"what can I do for you? Glad to see you doing so well. The Grand Duchess
says wonders of you. I will have the committee on your machine."

"I beg your pardon," said I, "but I have come to request your written
order for its removal. I have sold it to the English house represented
by this gentleman."

"Its removal!" cried the astonished Minister; "but it is impossible. So
excellent an invention should not pass into the hands of foreigners."

"So I thought," replied I, coldly, "when for nine months I waited daily
in your ante-chamber, with my family starving at home. But it is now
sold. My word is my bond."

The Minister bit his lip, but made no reply. He took up a sheet of
paper, and wrote the order for removal. I took it, bowed stiffly, and
came away.--

We all heartily thanked the old German for his narrative. Since the
Revolution, and the consequent impossibility of selling his machines in
Germany, he has come to Paris, and taken to portrait-painting once more.
His perseverance and endurance are untiring. His wife died long since,
and he is like a mother to his four girls--all of whom are most
industrious and devoted. He still believes in his flying machine; but,
for the sake of his parental love, his hard-working head and
fingers--for the sake of his goodness of soul, his eccentricities, he
must be forgiven for this invincible credulity.

None can fail to admire the original dreamer, when he is also a
practical worker; while few will be willing to patronize the mere
visionary, who is always thinking and never doing.




SEALS AND WHALES.


Except, perhaps, to naturalists, the Seal will be known to many readers
only through the medium of Sir Walter Scott's "_Antiquary_." "'What is
that yonder!' says Hector M'Intyre to his uncle, Jonathan Oldbuck. 'One
of the herd of Proteus,' replied the Antiquary--'a _Phoca_, or Seal,
lying asleep on the beach.' Upon which M'Intyre, with the eagerness of a
young sportsman, exclaiming, 'I shall have him! I shall have him!'
snatched the walking-stick out of the hand of the astonished Antiquary,
at some risk of throwing him down, and set off at full speed to get
between the animal and the sea, to which element, having caught the
alarm, she was rapidly retreating.... The Seal finding her retreat
intercepted by the light-footed soldier, confronted him manfully, and
having sustained a heavy blow without injury, she knitted her brows, as
is the fashion of the animal, and making use at once of her fore-paws
and her unwieldy strength, wrenched the weapon out of the assailant's
hand, overturned him on the sands, and scuttled away into the sea
without doing him any further injury." We shall not dwell on the
mortification of the gallant captain, or the gibes of his uncle, as
these will readily occur to the readers of Scott's magic pages. Turning,
then, from the romancer, we shall trace the records of the _Phoca_
through the denser chapters of the scientific compiler, and the Arctic
voyagers.

The literature of the Seal, which is very limited, would lead us to
suppose that, like the owl of _terra firma_, it maintains--to quote from
one authority--an "ancient, solitary reign, threading an unfurrowed
track along the dark waters of the Atlantic, and skimming in peace and
security along the margins of ice-bound shores, where all is dumb." But
how stands the actual fact? In the year 1850, no fewer than one hundred
thousand Seals were captured by British vessels, and in the present year
a greater number will probably be slain. What will be the commercial
value of those animals? Reckoning the whole to be even young seals, and
estimating one ton of oil to be produce of one hundred seals, the oil
will yield, in round numbers, thirty-five thousand pounds, and the
skins, calculated at three shillings each, would bring fifteen thousand
pounds--in all, fifty thousand pounds. So that we have an interesting
branch of commerce represented in our literature as all but extinct,
while in reality it is flourishing in a high degree, adding extensively
to national wealth, and giving employment to a large portion of the
seafaring community.

Whale-fishery in the Arctics has been in a declining state for a number
of years; a result which, so far as mere purposes of illumination are
concerned, might have been of minor consequence, seeing that the
substitution of gas for oil-lamps has rendered us comparatively
independent of oil as a lighting agent; but, concurrently with the
introduction of gas, there has been an increased demand for oil for
lubricating machinery, and for other manufacturing purposes; hence
fish-oil has maintained its price remarkably well, notwithstanding an
opposition that at first seemed fatal to it. Greenland was, at the
beginning of the whale-fishing, the resort of the whale, and thither its
pursuers went, and captured it in large numbers; but in process of time,
the animal finding the peace of its ancient home ruthlessly invaded;
retreated to the more northern latitude of Davis Straits. The distance,
although greater, being still practicable, the chase was still
continued, and the slaughter went on as before. Again, the leviathan, as
if conscious that its track was followed, beat another retreat, which
has turned out more successful than the first. Each spring witnessed the
departure of Arctic fleets from every port of note in Britain, and the
regions of the North were instinct with life, in search of the monster
of the deep. Captains would stand, telescope in hand, in the "crow's
nest," perched on the summit of the main-mast, and peer through the
instrument till eye became dim and hand was frozen--boats' crews would
be dispatched, and pull for weary miles in the sea, or drag their skiffs
for still more weary miles on the surface of the ice--men on deck would
gaze wistfully across the main, and mutter charms, or invoke omens; but
all in vain. The ice would close in like iron mountains around them, and
the time would come that they must bend their sails homeward. Then stray
fish would be seen far off, or very shy fish would dart off in their
immediate vicinity, and the disappointed mariners would return for the
season, either with _clean_ vessels, or at best with small cargoes of
oil. Some accounted for the change by asserting that the whale had been
hunted from Davis Straits just as it had been pursued from Greenland,
and that it had betaken itself to still higher and now inaccessible
latitudes;--some held that the animal had diminished in numbers, and as
gestation takes place only once in two years, there was some ground for
this conjecture;--while a third section, who were principally composed
of superannuated Blowhards, and who harpooned only by the fireside, held
pertinaciously to the notion that the failure arose from the
inefficiency of modern fishermen. But, arise from what cause it might,
whales were either not brought home at all, or else they were brought
home in woefully diminished numbers. Owners became discouraged, and
captains sank in despair; harpoons and flinching gear were flung aside,
and whalers were dispatched to the Baltic for timber, or wherever else a
freight could be procured, and others departed to strange ports, and
returned no more; for they were sold. The whaling fleet became,
therefore, small by degrees. Yet two ports struggled on against the
receding tide; Hull in England, and Peterhead in Scotland, always hoped
against hope, and persevered amid every disadvantage. They still sent
vessels out; if not to catch whales, to be contented with seals.
Peterhead reaped the reward of perseverance. We observe from a recent
return, that out of the hundred thousand Seals captured in 1850,
sixty-three thousand four hundred and twenty-six fell to the share of
ten Peterhead vessels.

There was something romantic about whale-fishing. When the captain, with
his assisted eye, descried the far-off parabolic _spout_ of his victim,
the cry of "_Fall! fall!_" would resound from stem to stern, and from
hold to cross-trees. Down went the boats, sharp and graceful as regatta
skiffs, and yet as strong and compact as herring yawls; the steerer took
his oar, for rudders are too slow for this kind of navigation; the
line-coiler, stood by his ropes; while last, and most important of all,
the harpooner descended with his glittering instruments. Muffled oars
dip in the waters, and the skiff nears the sleeping leviathan. A single
awkward splash would rouse him; but all is silent as death, and the
harpooner, poising himself, takes his deadly aim, and buries his
javelin in the huge carcase. Smarting with pain, the enormous black mass
lurches, and then with lightning speed darts underneath the wave; the
boiling surge raised by its descent lifts the boat like a feather; the
line attached to the harpoon disappears fathom after fathom, hissing
around the rolling-pin, with a force and velocity that, but for copious
libations, would cause ignition; a long and still extending streak of
gore marks the route of the wounded animal; the rope at last goes less
rapidly off, and as its rapidity decreases, they pull up to the victim,
and insert more instruments, and then after a few deadly slaps with his
tail, the monarch of the ocean yields up the contest.

What has the Russian, the Dutch or the Hanseatic man, or the Esquimaux,
been doing all this time? They have been following the pastime of
Captain Hector M'Intyre, and endeavoring to slay the _Phoca_. Most of
the Britons pursuing whales, and the foreigners and natives peddling
with seals; just as if Captain Gordon Cumming had been hunting a lion,
while some other sportsmen would stand by shooting sparrows or mice. No
glory in capturing a seal, and as little pay. Thirty large seals are
needed to make up one ton of oil, while an average whale would produce
twenty tons of the oleaginous fluid. The whale-fishers despised such
small game, and regarded mere seal-fishers with contempt;--we say mere
seal-fishers, because if seals did come in the way, they were shot or
knocked down by the whale-fisher; but his main vocation consisted in
waging war with the colossal member of the finny tribe. And apart from
the larger quantity of oil yielded by the one animal, the bone of the
whale was singularly valuable. Twenty tons of oil would indicate one ton
of bone, and that was worth some two hundred and fifty pounds sterling.
The seal, too, had its extrinsic value, for its skin was worth
_seven-pence_--dust in the balance compared with the bone of its huge
contemporary. Whales, then, undoubtedly were the superior subjects for
capture; but as whales could not be had, and seals became plentiful, the
whalers lowered their plumes, and raised their arms against their
amphibious prey.

Old seals had wont to be pursued, but although their capture was more
profitable than young ones, still the old seals are so excessively shy
that they can only be shot in detail, and hence a preference is given to
the destruction of the young. The seal propagates twice a year--the
first pups of the season lie upon the ice early in the spring, and being
unable to run to the water and swim off, they fall ready prey to the
spoiler. A smart blow with a club stuns them, and a wound does the rest.
Their numbers are very large. During the present season of 1851, a flock
of them extending to about fifteen miles was discovered, not far from
the Scottish coast; a dozen animals at least occupying every hundred
square yards. Of course, with such opportunities, a ship is readily
filled, and bearing homeward with her valuable cargo, there is still
time to undertake a second and more northern voyage, in search of whales
or larger seals.

The Dutch have been in the habit of prosecuting the trade with small
vessels, but the British although occasionally using tiny craft, prefer
employing large and stout vessels, as with such they can penetrate into
fissures of the ice, instead of timidly sailing by the margin; and their
success in this respect is gradually inducing their foreign competitors
to follow their example.

The size of ships generally preferred for seal or whale fishing, is
three hundred and fifty tons burden, or upward, although this year some
vessels have gone out so small as eighty tons. A ship of the larger size
carries sixty-five men, of the latter dimensions, twenty. The average
outfit of a large vessel costs about one thousand four hundred pounds,
and the original cost of such varies from two thousand to ten thousand
pounds, according to age and quality of vessel, and also whether a used
ship has been purchased, or one expressly built for the trade. The loss
when a vessel is unsuccessful, is greater than in any other maritime
speculation, there being no return whatever to stand against outlay;
but, on the other hand, if fortunate, no other kind of shipping
adventure yields so large profits. One vessel this year brought home a
cargo of the gross value of six thousand pounds, leaving (it being her
first fishing voyage) a net profit to her owners of three thousand
pounds. The vessels sailing from the small northern port of Peterhead
have, as before stated, been remarkably successful. The following is a
statement of the produce of the ten vessels which sailed from thence in
1850:

  1,144 tons of oil.
  63,426 seal-skins.
  14 tons of whalebone.

The aggregate commercial value of the whole would amount to about fifty
thousand pounds. Seal-skins have lately risen in value--the former rate
of seven-pence having been augmented to three shillings; and they are
used principally for the purpose of being manufactured into
patent-leather. Each skin is split into two or three layers, and each
layer is turned to separate account. No other leather possesses the same
closeness of texture, smoothness of surface, and elasticity. From being
employed as rough waist-coats for seamen, and hairy coverings for
trunks, it is now in its _stratified_ state applied to the most delicate
artistic purposes.

The Seal belongs to the four-limbed mammiliferous animals. It is half
quadruped, half fish. The head and general physiognomy, especially when
seen in the water, resemble those of a dog. The limbs, which in the sea
act as excellent paddles, are indifferent instruments of locomotion on
land--the fore-paws are almost the only motive powers, the posterior
portion of the body having to be dragged over the ground. The young are
very obedient to the parent seals, and are obedient to, and recognize
the voices of their dams amid the loudest tumult. They are decidedly
gregarious in their habits, and hunt and herd together in common; and,
in those cases, when surprised by an enemy, they have great facilities
in expressing, both by tone and gesture, the approach of a dreaded
enemy. There are four different species of the animal; the one to which
we have been referring is called the _Phoca Greenlandica_, and is about
six feet in length, and has the peculiar property of often changing the
color of its skin as it approaches maturity. The seal visiting the
British shores (_Phoca Vitulina_) is seldom more than four or five feet
in length.

We have now given our contribution to the literature of the Seal, and
submit, that it has the merit of being up to what Mr. Carlyle calls the
"present hour."




MAURICE TIERNAY, THE SOLDIER OF FORTUNE.

[Continued from the October Number.]


CHAPTER XLIII.

A FOREST RIDE.

While I was dressing, a note was handed to me from the curé, apologizing
for his departure without seeing me, and begging, as a great favor, that
I would not leave the Chateau till his return. He said that the count's
spirits had benefited greatly by our agreeable converse, and that he
requested me to be his guest for some time to come. The postscript added
a suggestion, that I should write down some of the particulars of my
visit to Ettenheim, but particularly of my conversation alluding to the
meditated assassination of Bonaparte.

There were many points in the arrangement which I did not like. To
begin, I had no fancy whatever for the condition of a dependent, and
such my poverty would at once stamp me. Secondly, I was averse to this
frequent intercourse with men of the Royalist party, whose restless
character and unceasing schemes were opposed to all the principles of
those I had served under; and finally, I was growing impatient under the
listless vacuity of a life that gave no occupation, nor opened any view
for the future. I sat down to breakfast in a mood very little in unison
with the material enjoyments around me. The meal was all that could
tempt appetite; and the view from the open window displayed a beautiful
flower-garden, imperceptibly fading away into a maze of ornamental
planting, which was backed again by a deep forest, the well-known wood
of Belleville. Still I ate on sullenly, scarce noticing any of the
objects around me. I will see the count, and take leave of him, thought
I, suddenly; I can not be his guest without sacrificing feeling in a
dozen ways.

"At what hour does monsieur rise?" asked I, of the obsequious valet who
waited behind my chair.

"Usually at three or four in the afternoon, sir; but to-day he has
desired me to make his excuses to you. There will be a consultation of
doctors here; and the likelihood is, that he may not leave his
chamber."

"Will you convey my respectful compliments, then, to him, and my regrets
that I had not seen him before leaving the Chateau?"

"The count charged me, sir, to entreat your remaining here till he had
seen you. He said you had done him infinite service already, and indeed
it is long since he has passed a night in such tranquillity."

There are few slight circumstances which impress a stranger more
favorably, than any semblance of devotion on the part of a servant to
his master. The friendship of those above one in life is easier to
acquire than the attachment of those beneath. Love is a plant whose
tendrils strive ever upward. I could not help feeling struck at the
man's manner, as he spoke these few words; and insensibly my mind
reverted to the master who had inspired such sentiments.

"My master gave orders, sir," continued he, "that we should do every
thing possible to contribute to your wishes; that the carriage, or, if
you prefer them, saddle-horses, should be ready at any hour you ordered.
The wood has a variety of beautiful excursions; there is a lake, too,
about two leagues away; and the ruins of Monterraye are also worth
seeing."

"If I had not engagements in Paris," muttered I, while I affected to
mumble over the conclusion of the sentence to myself.

"Monsieur has seldom done a greater kindness than this will be," added
he, respectfully; "but if monsieur's business could be deferred for a
day or two without inconvenience--"

"Perhaps that might be managed," said I, starting up, and walking to the
window, when, for the first time, the glorious prospect revealed itself
before me. How delicious, after all, would be a few hours of such a
retreat!--a morning loitered away in that beautiful garden; and then, a
long ramble through the dark wood till sunset. Oh, if Laura were but
here; if she could be my companion along those leafy alleys! If not
_with_, I can at least think _of_ her, thought I; seek out spots she
would love to linger in, and points of view she would enjoy with all a
painter's zest. And this poor count, with all his riches, could not
derive in a whole lifetime the enjoyment that a few brief hours would
yield to us! So is it almost ever in this world; to one man the
appliances, to another the faculties for enjoyment.

"I am so glad monsieur has consented," said the valet, joyously.

"Did I say so? I don't know that I said any thing."

"The count will be so gratified," added he; and hurried away to convey
the tidings.

Well, be it so. Heaven knows my business in Paris will scarcely suffer
by my absence; my chief occupation there being to cheat away the hours
till meal-time. It is an occupation I can easily resume a few days
hence. I took a book, and strolled out into the garden; but I could not
read. There is a gush of pleasure felt at times from the most familiar
objects, which the most complicated machinery of enjoyment often fails
to equal; and now the odor of moss-roses and geraniums, the rich perfume
of orange flowers, the plash of fountains and the hum of the summer
insects, steeped my mind in delight; and I lay there in a dream of bliss
that was like enchantment. I suppose I must have fallen asleep; for my
thoughts took every form of wildness and incoherency. Ireland; the
campaign; the Bay of Genoa; the rugged height of Kuffstein, all passed
before my mind, peopled with images foreign to all their incidents. It
was late in the afternoon that I aroused myself, and remembered where I
was, the shadows of the dark forest were stretching over the plain; and
I determined on a ride beneath their mellow shade. As if in anticipation
of my wishes, the horses were already saddled, and a groom stood
awaiting my orders. Oh, what a glorious thing it is to be rich! thought
I, as I mounted; from what an eminence does the wealthy man view life.
No petty cares nor calculations mar the conceptions of his fancy. His
will, like his imagination, wanders free and unfettered. And so
thinking, I dashed spurs into my horse, and plunged into the dense wood.
Perhaps I was better mounted than the groom, or perhaps the man was
scarcely accustomed to such impetuosity. Whatever the reason, I was soon
out of sight of him. The trackless grass of the alley, and its noiseless
turf, made pursuit difficult in a spot where the paths crossed and
recrossed in a hundred different directions; and so I rode on for miles
and miles without seeing more of my follower.

Forest riding is particularly seductive; you are insensibly led on to
see where this alley will open, or how that path will terminate. Some of
the spirit of discovery seems to seal its attractions to the wild and
devious track, untrodden as it looks; and you feel all the charm of
adventure as you advance. The silence, too, is most striking; the
noiseless footfalls of the horse, and the unbroken stillness, add
indescribable charm to the scene, and the least imaginative can not fail
to weave fancies and fictions as he goes.

Near as it was to a great city, not a single rider crossed my path; not
even a peasant did I meet. A stray bundle of fagots, bound and ready to
be carried away, showed that the ax of the woodman had been heard within
the solitude; but not another trace told that human footstep had ever
pressed the sward.

Although still a couple of hours from sunset, the shade of the wood was
dense enough to make the path appear uncertain, and I was obliged to
ride more cautiously than before. I had thought that by steadily
pursuing one straight track, I should at last gain the open country, and
easily find some road that would reconduct me to the Chateau; but now I
saw no signs of this. "The alley" was, to all appearance, exactly as I
found it--miles before. A long aisle of beech-trees stretched away in
front and behind me; a short, grassy turf was beneath my feet; and not
an object to tell me how far I had come, or whither I was tending. If
now and then another road crossed the path, it was in all respects like
this one. This was puzzling; and to add to my difficulty, I suddenly
remembered that I had never thought of learning the name of the Chateau,
and well knew that to ask for it as the residence of the Count de
Maurepas would be a perfect absurdity. There was something so ludicrous
in the situation, that I could not refrain from laughing at first; but a
moment's re-consideration made me regard the incident more gravely. In
what a position should I stand, if unable to discover the Chateau. The
curé might have left Paris before I could reach it; all clew to the
count might thus be lost; and although these were but improbable
circumstances, they came now very forcibly before me, and gave me
serious uneasiness.

I have been so often in false positions in life, so frequently
implicated where no real blame could attach to me, that I shall not be
in the least surprised if I be arrested as a horse-stealer! The night
now began to fall rapidly, so that I was obliged to proceed at a slow
pace; and at length, as the wood seemed to thicken, I was forced to get
off, and walk beside my horse. I have often found myself in situations
of real peril, with far less anxiety than I now felt; my position seemed
at the time inexplicable and absurd. I suppose, thought I, that no man
was ever lost in the wood of Belleville; he must find his way out of it
sooner or later; and then, there can be no great difficulty in returning
to Paris. This was about the extent of the comfort I could afford
myself; for, once back in the capital, I could not speculate on a single
step further.

I was at last so weary with the slow and cautious progression I was
condemned to, that I half determined to picket my horse to a tree, and
lie down to sleep till daylight. While I sought out a convenient spot
for my bivouac, a bright twinkling light, like a small star, caught my
eye. Twice it appeared, and vanished again so that I was well assured of
its being real, and no phantom of my now over-excited brain. It appeared
to proceed from the very densest part of the wood, and whither, so far
as I could see, no path conducted. As I listened to catch any sounds, I
again caught sight of the faint star, which now seemed at a short
distance from the road where I stood. Fastening my horse to a branch, I
advanced directly through the brushwood for about a hundred yards, when
I came to a small open space, in which stood one of those modest
cottages, of rough timber, wherein, at certain seasons, the game-keepers
take refuge. A low, square, log hut, with a single door, and an unglazed
window, comprised the whole edifice, being one of the humblest, even of
its humble kind, I had ever seen. Stealing cautiously to the window, I
peeped in. On a stone, in the middle of the earthen floor, a small iron
lamp stood, which threw a faint and fickle light around. There was no
furniture of any kind; nothing that bespoke the place as inhabited; and
it was only as I continued to gaze that I detected the figure of a man,
who seemed to be sleeping on a heap of dried leaves, in one corner of
the hovel. I own that, with all my anxiety to find a guide, I began to
feel some scruples about obtruding on the sleeper's privacy. He was
evidently no "Garde de chasse," who are a well-to-do sort of folk, being
usually retired sous-officiers of the army. He might be a poacher, a
robber, or perhaps a dash of both together--a trade I had often heard of
as being resorted to by the most reckless and abandoned of the
population of Paris, when their crimes and their haunts became too well
known in the capital.

I peered eagerly through the chamber, to see if he were armed; but not a
weapon of any kind was to be seen. I next sought to discover if he were
quite alone; and although one side of the hovel was hidden from my view,
I was well assured that he had no comrade. Come, said I to myself, man
to man, if it should come to a struggle, is fair enough; and the chances
are I shall be able to defend myself.

His sleep was sound and heavy, like that after fatigue; so that I
thought it would be easy for me to enter the hovel, and secure his arms,
if he had such, before he should awake. I may seem to my reader, all
this time, to have been inspired with an undue amount of caution and
prudence, considering how evenly we were matched; but I would remind
him, that it was a period when the most dreadful crimes were of daily
occurrence. Not a night went over without some terrible assassination;
and a number of escaped galley slaves were known to be at large in the
suburbs and outskirts of the capital. These men, under the slightest
provocation, never hesitated at murder; for their lives were already
forfeited, and they scrupled at nothing which offered a chance of
escape. To add to the terror their atrocities excited, there was a rumor
current at the time, that the Government itself made use of these
wretches for its own secret acts of vengeance; and many implicitly
believed that the dark assassinations of the "Temple" had no other
agency. I do not mean to say that these fears were well founded, or that
I myself partook of them; but such were the reports commonly circulated,
and the impunity of crime certainly favored the impression. I know not
if this will serve as an apology for the circumspection of my
proceeding, as, cautiously, pushing the door, inch by inch, I at length
threw it wide open. Not the slightest sound escaped as I did so; and
yet, certainly before my hand quitted the latch, the sleeper had sprung
to his knees; and with his dark eyes glaring wildly at me, crouched like
a beast about to rush upon an enemy.

His attitude and his whole appearance at that moment are yet before me.
Long black hair fell in heavy masses at either side of his head; his
face was pale, haggard, and hunger-stricken; a deep, drooping mustache
descended from below his chin, and almost touched his collar-bones
which were starting from beneath the skin; a ragged cloak, that covered
him as he lay, had fallen off, and showed that a worn shirt and a pair
of coarse linen trowsers were all his clothing. Such a picture of
privation and misery I never looked upon before nor since!

"Qui va là?" cried he, sternly, and with the voice of one not unused to
command; and although the summons showed his soldier training, his
condition of wretchedness suggested deep misgivings.

"Qui va là?" shouted he again, louder and more determinedly.

"A friend--perhaps a comrade," said I, boldly.

"Advance, comrade, and give the counter-sign," replied he, rapidly, and
like one repeating a phrase of routine; and then, as if suddenly
remembering himself, he added with a low sigh, "There is none!" His arms
dropped heavily as he spoke, and he fell back against the wall with his
head drooping on his chest.

There was something so unutterably forlorn in his looks, as he sat thus,
that all apprehension of personal danger from him left me at the moment,
and advancing frankly, I told him how I had lost my way in the wood, and
by mere accident chanced to descry his light as I wandered along in the
gloom.

I do not know if he understood me at first, for he gazed half vacantly
at my face while I was speaking, and often stealthily peered round to
see if others were coming; so that I had to repeat more than once that I
was perfectly alone. That the poor fellow was insane seemed but too
probable; the restless activity of his wild eye, the suspicious
watchfulness of his glances, all looked like madness, and I thought that
he had probably made his escape from some military hospital, and
concealed himself within the recesses of the forest. But even these
signs of over-wrought excitement began to subside soon; and as though
the momentary effort at vigilance had been too much for his strength, he
now drew his cloak about him, and lay down once more.

I handed him my brandy flask, which still contained a little, and he
touched it to his lips with a slight nod of recognition. Invigorated by
the stimulant, he supped again and again, but always cautiously, and
with prudent reserve.

"You have been a soldier," said I, taking my seat at his side.

"I _am_ a soldier," said he, with a strong emphasis on the verb.

"I, too, have served," said I; "although, probably, neither as long nor
as creditably as you have."

He looked at me fixedly for a second or two and then dropped his eyes
without a reply.

"You were probably with the Army of the Meuse?" said I, hazarding the
guess, from remembering how many of that army had been invalided by the
terrible attacks of ague contracted in North Holland.

"I served on the Rhine," said he, briefly, "but I made the campaign of
Jemappes, too. I served the king also--King Louis," cried he, sternly.
"Is that avowal candid enough; or do you want more!"

Another Royalist, thought I, with a sigh. Whichever way I turn they meet
me--the very ground seems to give them up.

"And could _you_ find no better trade than that of a Mouchard?" asked
he, sneeringly.

"I am not a Mouchard--I never was one. I am a soldier like yourself;
and, mayhap, if all were to be told, scarcely a more fortunate one."

"Dismissed the service--and for what?" asked he, bluntly.

"If not broke, at least not employed;" said I, bitterly.

"A Royalist?"

"Not the least of one, but suspected."

"Just so. Your letters--your private papers ransacked, and brought in
evidence against you. Your conversations with your intimates noted down
and attested--every word you dropped in a moment of disappointment or
anger; every chance phrase you uttered when provoked, all quoted; wasn't
that it?"

As he spoke this, with a rapid and almost impetuous utterance, I for the
first time, noticed that both the expressions and the accent implied
breeding and education. Not all his vehemence could hide the evidences
of former cultivation.

"How comes it," asked I, eagerly, "that such a man as you are, is to be
found thus? You certainly did not always serve in the ranks?"

"I had my grade," was his short, dry reply.

"You were a quarter-master; perhaps a sous-lieutenant?" said I, hoping
by the flattery of the surmise to lead him to talk further.

"I was the colonel of a dragoon regiment," said he; sternly; "and that
neither the least brave nor the least distinguished in the French army."

Ah! thought I, my good fellow, you have shot your bolt too high this
time; and in a careless, easy way, I asked, "What might have been the
number of the corps?"

"How can it concern you?" said he, with a savage vehemence. "You say
that you are not a spy. To what end these questions? As it is, you have
made this hovel, which has been my shelter for some weeks back, no
longer of any service to me. I will not be tracked. I will not suffer
espionage, by heaven!" cried he, as he dashed his clenched fist against
the ground beside him. His eyes, as he spoke, glared with all the
wildness of insanity, and great drops of sweat hung upon his damp
forehead.

"Is it too much," continued he, with all the vehemence of passion, "is
it too much that I was master here? Are these walls too luxurious? Is
there the sign of foreign gold in this tasteful furniture and the
splendor of these hangings? Or is this"--and he stretched out his lean
and naked arms as he spoke--"is this the garb?--is this the garb of a
man who can draw at will on the coffers of Royalty? Ay!" cried he, with
a wild laugh, "if this is the price of my treachery, the treason might
well be pardoned."

I did all I could to assuage the violence of his manner. I talked to him
calmly and soberly of myself and of him, repeating over and over the
assurance that I had neither the will nor the way to injure him. "You
may be poor," said I, "and yet scarcely poorer than I am--friendless,
and have as many to care for you as I have. Believe me, comrade, save in
the matter of a few years the less on one side, and some services the
more on the other, there is little to choose between us."

These few words, wrung from me in sorrowful sincerity, seemed to do more
than all I had said previously, and he moved the lamp a little to one
side that he might have a better view of me as I sat; and thus we
remained for several minutes staring steadfastly at each other without a
word spoken on either side. It was in vain that I sought in that face,
livid and shrunk by famine--in that straggling matted hair, and that
figure enveloped in rags, for any traces of former condition. Whatever
might once have been his place in society, now he seemed the very lowest
of that miserable tribe whose lives are at once the miracle and shame of
our century.

"Except that my senses are always playing me false," said he, as he
passed his hand across his eyes, "I could say that I have seen your face
before. What was your corps?"

"The Ninth Hussars, 'the Tapageurs,' as they called them."

"When did you join--and where?" said he, with an eagerness that
surprised me.

"At Nancy," said I, calmly.

"You were there with the advanced guard of Moreau's corps," said he,
hastily; "you followed the regiment to the Moselle."

"How do you know all this?" asked I, in amazement.

"Now for your name; tell me your name," cried he, grasping my hand in
both of his--"and I charge you by all you care for here or hereafter, no
deception with me. It is not a head that has been tried like mine can
bear a cheat."

"I have no object in deceiving you; nor am I ashamed to say who I am,"
replied I. "My name is Tiernay--Maurice Tiernay."

The word was but out, when the poor fellow threw himself forward, and
grasping my hands, fell upon and kissed them.

"So, then," cried he, passionately, "I am not friendless--I am not
utterly deserted in life--_you_ are yet left to me, my dear boy."

This burst of feeling convinced me that he was deranged; and I was
speculating in my mind how best to make my escape from him, when he
pushed back the long and tangled hair from his face, and staring wildly
at me, said, "You know me now--don't you? Oh, look again, Maurice, and
do not let me think that I am forgotten by all the world."

"Good heavens!" cried I; "it is Colonel Mahon!"

"Ay, 'Le Beau Mahon,'" said he, with a burst of wild laughter; "Le Beau
Mahon, as they used to call me long ago. Is this a reverse of fortune, I
ask you?" and he held out the ragged remnants of his miserable clothes.
"I have not worn shoes for nigh a month. I have tasted food but once in
the last thirty hours! I, that have led French soldiers to the charge
full fifty times, up to the very batteries of the enemy, am reduced to
hide and skulk from place to place like a felon, trembling at the clank
of a gendarme's boot, as never the thunder of an enemy's squadron made
me. Think of the persecution that has brought me to this, and made me a
beggar and a coward together!"

A gush of tears burst from him at these words, and he sobbed for several
minutes like a child.

Whatever might have been the original source of his misfortunes, I had
very little doubt that now his mind had been shaken by their influence,
and that calamity had deranged him. The flighty uncertainty of his
manner, the incoherent rapidity with which he passed from one topic to
another, increased with his excitement, and he passed alternately from
the wildest expressions of delight at our meeting, to the most
heart-rending descriptions of his own sufferings. By great patience and
some ingenuity, I learned that he had taken refuge in the wood of
Belleville, where the kindness of an old soldier of his own brigade--now
a Garde de Chasse--had saved him from starvation. Jacques Caillon was
continually alluded to in his narrative. It was Jacques sheltered him
when he came first to Belleville. Jacques had afforded him a refuge in
the different huts of the forest, supplying him with food--acts not
alone of benevolence, but of daring courage, as Mahon continually
asserted. If it were but known, "they'd give him a peleton and eight
paces." The theme of Jacques's heroism was so engrossing, that he could
not turn from it; every little incident of his kindness, every stratagem
of his inventive good-nature, he dwelt upon with eager delight, and
seemed half to forget his own sorrows in recounting the services of his
benefactor. I saw that it would be fruitless to ask for any account of
his past calamity, or by what series of mischances he had fallen so low.
I saw--I will own with some chagrin--that, with the mere selfishness of
misfortune, he could not speak of any thing save what bore upon his own
daily life, and totally forgot _me_ and all about me.

The most relentless persecution seemed to follow him from place to
place. Wherever he went, fresh spies started on his track, and the
history of his escapes was unending. The very fagot-cutters of the
forest were in league against him, and the high price offered for his
capture had drawn many into the pursuit. It was curious to mark the
degree of self-importance all these recitals imparted, and how the poor
fellow, starving and almost naked as he was, rose into all the imagined
dignity of martyrdom, as he told of his sorrows. If he ever asked a
question about Paris, it was to know what people said of _himself_ and
of _his_ fortunes. He was thoroughly convinced that Bonaparte's thoughts
were far more occupied about him than on that empire now so nearly in
his grasp, and he continued to repeat with a proud delight, "He has
caught them all but _me_! _I_ am the only one who has escaped him!"
These few words suggested to me the impression that Mahon had been
engaged in some plot or conspiracy; but of what nature, how composed, or
how discovered, it was impossible to arrive at.

"There!" said he, at last, "there is the dawn breaking! I must be off. I
must now make for the thickest part of the wood till nightfall. There
are hiding-places there known to none save _myself_. The blood-hounds
can not track me where _I_ go."

His impatience became now extreme. Every instant seemed full of peril to
him now; every rustling leaf and every waving branch a warning. I was
unable to satisfy myself how far this might be well-founded terror, or a
vague and causeless fear. At one moment I inclined to this--at another,
to the opposite impression. Assuredly nothing could be more complete
than the precautions he took against discovery. His lamp was concealed
in the hollow of a tree; the leaves that formed his bed he scattered and
strewed carelessly on every side; he erased even the foot-tracks on the
clay; and then gathering up his tattered cloak, prepared to set out.

"When are we to meet again, and where?" said I, grasping his hand.

He stopped suddenly, and passed his hand over his brow, as if
reflecting. "You must see Caillon; Jacques will tell you all," said he,
solemnly. "Good-by. Do not follow me. I will not be tracked;" and with a
proud gesture of his hand he motioned me back.

Poor fellow! I saw that any attempt to reason with him would be in vain
at such a moment; and determining to seek out the Garde de Chasse, I
turned away slowly and sorrowfully.

"What have been _my_ vicissitudes of fortune compared to _his_?" thought
I. "The proud colonel of a cavalry regiment, a beggar and an outcast!"
The great puzzle to me was, whether insanity had been the cause or the
consequence of his misfortunes. Caillon will, perhaps, be able to tell
me his story, said I to myself; and thus ruminating, I returned to where
I had picketed my horse three hours before. My old dragoon experiences
had taught me how to "hobble" a horse, as it is called, by passing the
bridle beneath the counter before tying it, and so I found him just as I
left him.

The sun was now up, and I could see that a wide track led off through
the forest straight before me. I accordingly mounted, and struck into a
sharp canter. About an hour's riding brought me to a small clearing, in
the midst of which stood a neat and picturesque cottage, over the door
of which was painted the words "Station de Chasse--No. 4." In a little
garden in front, a man was working in his shirt sleeves, but his
military trowsers at once proclaimed him the "Garde." He stopped as I
came up, and eyed me sharply.

"Is this the road to Belleville?" said I.

"You can go this way, but it takes you two miles of a round," replied
he, coming closer, and scanning me keenly.

"You can tell me, perhaps, where Jacques Caillon, Garde de Chasse, is to
be found?"

"I am Jacques Caillon, sir," was the answer, as he saluted in soldier
fashion, while a look of anxiety stole over his face.

"I have something to speak to you about," said I, dismounting, and
giving him the bridle of my horse. "Throw him some corn, if you have got
it, and then let us talk together;" and with this I walked into the
garden, and seated myself on a bench.

If Jacques be an old soldier, thought I, the only way is to come the
officer over him; discipline and obedience are never forgotten, and
whatever chances I may have of his confidence will depend on how much I
seem his superior. It appeared as if this conjecture was well founded,
for as Jacques came back, his manner betrayed every sign of respect and
deference. There was an expression of almost fear in his face, as, with
his hand to his cap, he asked, "What were my orders?"

The very deference of his air was disconcerting, and so, assuming a look
of easy cordiality, I said,

"First, I will ask you to give me something to eat; and, secondly, to
give me your company for half an hour."

Jacques promised both, and learning that I preferred my breakfast in the
open air, proceeded to arrange the table under a blossoming
chestnut-tree.

"Are you quite alone here?" asked I, as he passed back and forward.

"Quite alone, sir; and except a stray fagot-cutter or a chance traveler
who may have lost his way, I never see a human face from year's end to
year's end. It's a lonely thing for an old soldier, too," said he, with
a sigh.

"I know more than one who would envy you, Jacques," said I, and the
words made him almost start as I spoke them. The coffee was now ready,
and I proceeded to make my breakfast with all the appetite of a long
fast.

There was indeed but little to inspire awe, or even deference in my
personal appearance--a threadbare undress frock and a worn-out old
foraging cap were all the marks of my soldier-like estate; and yet, from
Jacques's manner, one might have guessed me to be a general at the
least. He attended me with the stiff propriety of the parade, and when,
at last, induced to take a seat, he did so full two yards off from the
table, and arose almost every time he was spoken to. Now it was quite
clear that the honest soldier did not know me either as the hero of
Kehl, of Ireland, or of Genoa. Great achievements as they were, they
were wonderfully little noised about the world, and a man might frequent
mixed companies every day of the week, and never hear of one of them. So
far, then, was certain it could not be my fame had imposed on him, and,
as I have already hinted, it could scarcely be my general appearance.
Who knows, thought I, but I owe all this obsequious deference to my
horse. If Jacques be an old cavalry-man, he will have remarked that the
beast is of great value, and doubtless argue to the worth of the rider
from the merits of his "mount." If this explanation was not the most
flattering, it was, at all events, the best I could hit on; and with a
natural reference to what was passing in my own mind, I asked him if he
had looked to my horse?

"Oh, yes, sir," said he, reddening suddenly, "I have taken off the
saddle, and thrown him his corn."

What the deuce does his confusion mean, thought I; the fellow looks as
if he had half a mind to run away, merely because I asked him a simple
question.

"I've had a sharp ride," said I, rather by way of saying something, "and
I shouldn't wonder if he was a little fatigued."

"Scarcely so, sir," said he, with a faint smile; "he's old now, but it's
not a little will tire him."

"You know him, then," said I, quickly.

"Ay, sir, and have known him for eighteen years. He was in the second
squadron of our regiment; the major rode him two entire campaigns!"

The reader may guess that his history was interesting to me, from
perceiving the impression the reminiscence made on the relator, and I
inquired what became of him after that.

"He was wounded by a shot at Neuwied, and sold into the train, where
they couldn't manage him; and after three years, when horses grew
scarce, he came back into the cavalry. A sergeant-major of lancers was
killed on him at 'Zwei Brucken.' That was the fourth rider he brought
mishap to, not to say a farrier whom he dashed to pieces in his stable."

Ah, Jack, thought I, I have it; it is a piece of old-soldier
superstition about this mischievous horse has inspired all the man's
respect and reverence; and, if a little disappointed in the mystery, I
was so far pleased at having discovered the clew.

"But I have found him quiet enough," said I; "I never backed him till
yesterday, and he has carried me well and peaceably."

"Ah, that he will now, I warrant him; since the day a shell burst under
him at Waitzen, he never showed any vice. The wound nearly left the ribs
bare, and he was for months and months invalided; after that he was sold
out of the cavalry, I don't know where or to whom. The next time I saw
him was in his present service."

"Then you are acquainted with the present owner?" asked I, eagerly.

"As every Frenchman is?" was the curt rejoinder.

"Parbleu! it will seem a droll confession, then, when I tell you, that I
myself do not even know his name."

The look of contempt these words brought to my companion's face could
not, it seemed, be either repressed or concealed; and although my
conscience acquitted me of deserving such a glance, I own that I felt
insulted by it.

"You are pleased to disbelieve me, Master Caillon," said I, sternly,
"which makes me suppose that you are neither so old nor so good a
soldier as I fancied; at least, in the corps I had the honor to serve
with, the word of an officer was respected like an 'order of the day.'"

He stood erect as if on parade, under this rebuke, but made no answer.

"Had you simply expressed surprise at what I said, I would have given
you the explanation frankly and freely; as it is, I shall content myself
with repeating what I said--I do not even know his name."

The same imperturbable look and the same silence met me as before.

"Now, sir, I ask you how this gentleman is called, whom I alone, of all
France, am ignorant of?"

"Monsieur Fouché," said he, calmly.

"What! Fouché, the Minister of Police?"

This time, at least, my agitated looks seemed to move him, for he
replied, quietly:

"The same, sir. The horse has the brand of the 'Ministere' on his
haunch."

"And where is the Ministere?" cried I, eagerly.

"In the Rue des Victoires, monsieur."

"But he lives in the country, in a chateau near this very forest."

"Where does he not live, monsieur? At Versailles, at St. Germain, in the
Luxembourg, in the Marais, at Neuilly, the Battignolles. I have carried
dispatches to him in every quarter of Paris. Ah, monsieur, what secret
are you in possession of, that it was worth while to lay so subtle a
trap to catch you?"

This question, put in all the frank abruptness of a sudden thought,
immediately revealed every thing before me.

"Is it not as I have said?" resumed he, still looking at my agitated
face; "is it not as I have said--monsieur is in the web of the
Mouchards?"

"Good heavens! is such baseness possible?" was all that I could utter.

"I'll wager a piece of five francs I can read the mystery," said
Jacques. "You served on Moreau's staff, or with Pichegru in Holland; you
either have some of the general's letters, or you can be supposed to
have them, at all events; you remember many private conversations held
with him on politics; you can charge your memory with a number of strong
facts; and you can, if needed, draw up a memoir of all your intercourse.
I know the system well, for I was a Mouchard myself."

"You a police spy, Jacques?"

"Ay, sir; I was appointed without knowing what services were expected
from me, or the duties of my station. Two months' trial, however, showed
that I was 'incapable,' and proved that a smart sous-officier is not
necessarily a scoundrel. They dismissed me as impracticable, and made me
Garde de Chasse; and they were right, too. Whether I was dressed up in a
snuff-brown suit, like a Bourgeois of the Rue St. Denis; whether they
attired me as a farmer from the provinces, a retired maitre-de-poste,
an old officer, or the conducteur of a diligence, I was always Jacques
Caillon. Through every thing, wigs and beards, lace or rags, jack-boots
or sabots, it was all alike; and while others could pass weeks in the
Pays Latin as students, country doctors, or 'notaires de village,' I was
certain to be detected by every brat that walked the streets."

"What a system! And so these fellows assume every disguise?" asked I, my
mind full of my late rencontre.

"That they do, monsieur. There is one fellow, a Provençal by birth, has
played more characters than ever did Brunet himself. I have known him as
a laquais de place, a cook to an English nobleman, a letter-carrier, a
flower-girl, a cornet-à-piston in the opera, and a curé from the
Ardëche."

"A curé from the Ardëche!" exclaimed I. "Then I am a ruined man."

"What! has monsieur fallen in with Paul?" cried he, laughing. "Was he
begging for a small contribution to repair the roof of his little
chapel, or was it a fire that had devastated his poor village? Did the
altar want a new covering, or the curé a vestment? Was it a canopy for
the Fête of the Virgin, or a few sous toward the 'Orphelines de St.
Jude'?"

"None of these," said I, half angrily, for the theme was no jesting one
to me. "It was a poor girl that had been carried away."

"Lisette, the miller's daughter, or the schoolmaster's niece?" broke he
in, laughing. "He must have known you were new to Paris, monsieur, that
he took so little trouble about a deception. And you met him at the
'Charette rouge' in the Marais?"

"No; at a little ordinary in the Quai Voltaire!"

"Better again. Why half the company there are Mouchards. It is one of
their rallying-points, where they exchange tokens and information. The
laborers, the beggars, the fishermen of the Seine, the hawkers of old
books, the venders of gilt ornaments, are all spies; the most miserable
creature that implored charity behind your chair as you sat at dinner,
has, perhaps, his ten francs a day on the roll of the Prefecture! Ah,
monsieur! if I had not been a poor pupil of that school, I'd have at
once seen that you were a victim and not a follower; but I soon detected
my error--my education taught me at least so much!"

I had no relish for the self-gratulation of honest Jacques, uttered, as
it was, at my own expense. Indeed I had no thought for any thing but the
entanglement into which I had so stupidly involved myself; and I could
not endure the recollection of my foolish credulity, now that all the
paltry machinery of the deceit was brought before me. All my regard,
dashed as it was with pity for the poor curé; all my compassionate
interest for the dear Lisette; all my benevolent solicitude for the sick
count, who was neither more nor less than Mons. Fouché himself, were
any thing but pleasant reminiscences now, and I cursed my own stupidity
with an honest sincerity that greatly amused my companion.

"And is France come to this?" cried I, passionately, and trying to
console myself by inveighing against the Government.

"Even so, sir," said Jacques. "I heard Monsieur de Talleyrand say as
much the other day, as I waited behind his chair. It is only 'dans les
bonnes maisons,' said he, 'that servants ever listen at the doors;
depend upon it, then, that a secret police is a strong symptom that we
are returning to a monarchy.'"

It was plain that even in his short career in the police service,
Caillon had acquired certain shrewd habits of thought, and some power of
judgment, and so I freely communicated to him the whole of my late
adventure from the moment of my leaving the Temple to the time of my
setting out for the Chateau.

"You have told me every thing but one, monsieur," said he, as I
finished. "How came you ever to have heard the name of so humble a
person as Jacques Caillon, for you remember you asked for me as you rode
up?"

"I was just coming to that point, Jacques; and, as you will see, it was
not an omission in my narrative, only that I had not reached so far."

I then proceeded to recount my night in the forest, and my singular
meeting with poor Mahon, which he listened to with great attention and
some anxiety.

"The poor colonel!" said he, breaking in, "I suppose he is a hopeless
case; his mind can never come right again."

"But if the persecution were to cease; if he were at liberty to appear
once more in the world--"

"What if there was no persecution, sir?" broke in Jacques. "What if the
whole were a mere dream, or fancy? He is neither tracked nor followed.
It is not such harmless game the blood-hounds of the Rue des Victoires
scent out."

"Was it, then, some mere delusion drove him from the service?" said I,
surprised.

"I never said so much as that," replied Jacques; "Colonel Mahon has foul
injury to complain of, but his present sufferings are the inflictions of
his own terror; he fancies that the whole power of France is at war with
him; that every engine of the Government is directed against him; with a
restless fear he flies from village to village, fancying pursuit every
where; even kindness now he is distrustful of, and the chances are, that
he will quit the forest this very day, merely because he met you there."

From being of all men the most open-hearted and frank, he had become the
most suspicious; he trusted nothing nor any one; and if for a moment a
burst of his old generous nature would return, it was sure to be
followed by some excess of distrust that made him miserable almost to
despair. Jacques was obliged to fall in with this humor, and only assist
him by stealth and by stratagem; he was even compelled to chime in with
all his notions about pursuit and danger, to suggest frequent change of
place, and endless precautions against discovery.

"Were I for once to treat him frankly, and ask him to share my home with
me," said Jacques, "I should never see him more."

"What could have poisoned so noble a nature?" cried I; "when I saw him
last he was the very type of generous confidence."

"Where was that, and when?" asked Jacques.

"It was at Nancy, on the march for the Rhine."

"His calamities had not fallen on him then. He was a proud man in those
days, but it was a pride that well became him; he was the colonel of a
great regiment, and for bravery had a reputation second to none."

"He was married, I think?"

"No, sir; he was never married!"

As Jacques said this, he arose, and moved slowly away as though he would
not be questioned further. His mind, too, seemed full of its own
crowding memories, for he looked completely absorbed in thought, and
never noticed my presence for a considerable time. At last he appeared
to have decided some doubtful issue within himself, and said,

"Come, sir, let us stroll into the shade of the wood, and I'll tell you
in a few words the cause of the poor colonel's ruin--for ruin it is!
Even were all the injustice to be revoked to-morrow, the wreck of _his_
heart could never be repaired."

We walked along, side by side, for some time, before Jacques spoke
again, when he gave me, in brief and simple words, the following
sorrowful story. It was such a type of the age, so pregnant with the
terrible lessons of the time, that, although not without some
misgivings, I repeat it here as it was told to myself, premising that
however scant may be the reader's faith in many of the incidents of my
own narrative--and I neither beg for his trust in me, nor seek to entrap
it--I implore him to believe that what I am now about to tell was a
plain matter of fact, and, save in the change of one name, not a single
circumstance is owing to imagination.


CHAPTER XLIV.

AN EPISODE OF '94.

When the French army fell back across the Sambre, after the battle of
Mons, a considerable portion of the rear, who covered the retreat, were
cut off by the enemy, for it became their onerous duty to keep the
allied forces in check, while the Republicans took measures to secure
and hold fast the three bridges over the river. In this service many
distinguished French officers fell, and many more were left badly
wounded on the field; among the latter was a young captain of dragoons,
who, with his hand nearly severed by a sabre cut, yet found strength
enough to crawl under cover of a hedge, and there lie down in the fierce
resolve to die where he was, rather than surrender himself as a
prisoner.

Although the allied forces had gained the battle, they quickly foresaw
that the ground they had won was untenable; and scarcely had night
closed in when they began their preparations to fall back. With strong
pickets of observation to watch the bridges, they slowly withdrew their
columns toward Mons, posting the artillery on the heights around
Grandrengs. From these movements the ground of the late struggle became
comparatively deserted, and before day began to dawn, not a sound was
heard over its wide expanse, save the faint moan of a dying soldier, or
the low rumble of a cart, as some spoiler of the dead stole stealthily
along. Among the demoralizing effects of war, none was more striking
than the number of the peasantry who betook themselves to this infamous
trade; and who, neglecting all thoughts of honest industry, devoted
themselves to robbery and plunder. The lust of gain did not stop with
the spoil of the dead, but the wounded were often found stripped of
every thing, and in some cases the traces of fierce struggle, and the
wounds of knives and hatchets, showed that murder had consummated the
iniquity of these wretches.

In part, from motives of pure humanity, in part, from feelings of a more
interested nature--for terror to what this demoralization would tend,
was now great and wide spread--the nobles and gentry of the land
instituted a species of society to reward those who might succor the
wounded, and who displayed any remarkable zeal in their care for the
sufferers after a battle. This generous philanthropy was irrespective of
country, and extended its benevolence to the soldiers of either army: of
course, personal feeling enjoyed all its liberty of preference, but it
is fair to say, that the cases were few where the wounded man could
detect the political leanings of his benefactor.

The immense granaries, so universal in the Low Countries, were usually
fitted up as hospitals, and many rooms of the chateau itself were often
devoted to the same purpose, the various individuals of the household,
from the "seigneur" to the lowest menial, assuming some office in the
great work of charity; and it was a curious thing to see how the
luxurious indolence of chateau life become converted into the zealous
activity of useful benevolence; and not less curious to the moralist to
observe how the emergent pressure of great crime so instinctively, as it
were, suggested this display of virtuous humanity.

It was a little before daybreak that a small cart, drawn by a mule, drew
up by the spot where the wounded dragoon sat, with his shattered arm
bound up in his sash, calmly waiting for the death that his sinking
strength told could not be far distant. As the peasant approached him,
he grasped his sabre in the left hand, resolved on making a last and
bold resistance; but the courteous salutation, and the kindly look of
the honest countryman, soon showed that he was come on no errand of
plunder, while, in the few words of bad French he could muster, he
explained his purpose.

"No, no, my kind friend," said the officer, "your labor would only be
lost on me. It is nearly all over already! A little further on in the
field, yonder, where that copse stands, you'll find some poor fellow or
other better worth your care, and more like to benefit by it. Adieu!"

But neither the farewell, nor the abrupt gesture that accompanied it,
could turn the honest peasant from his purpose. There was something that
interested him in this very disregard of life, as well as in the
personal appearance of the sufferer, and, without further colloquy, he
lifted the half-fainting form into the cart, and, disposing the straw
comfortably on either side of him, set out homeward. The wounded man was
almost indifferent to what happened, and never spoke a word nor raised
his head as they went along. About three hours' journey brought them to
a large old-fashioned chateau beside the Sambre, an immense straggling
edifice which, with a façade of nearly a hundred windows, looked out
upon the river. Although now in disrepair and neglect, with ill-trimmed
alleys and grass-grown terraces, it had been once a place of great
pretensions, and associated with some of the palmiest days of Flemish
hospitality. The Chateau d'Overbecque was the property of a certain rich
merchant of Antwerp, named D'Aerschot, one of the oldest families of the
land, and was, at the time we speak of, the temporary abode of his only
son, who had gone there to pass the honeymoon. Except that they were
both young, neither of them yet twenty, two people could not easily be
found so discrepant in every circumstance and every quality. He the true
descendant of a Flemish house, plodding, commonplace, and methodical,
hating show and detesting expense. She a lively, volatile girl, bursting
with desire to see and be seen, fresh from the restraint of a convent at
Bruges, and anxious to mix in all the pleasures and dissipations of the
world. Like all marriages in their condition, it had been arranged
without their knowledge or consent; circumstances of fortune made the
alliance suitable; so many hundred thousands florins on one side were
wedded to an equivalent on the other, and the young people were married
to facilitate the "transaction."

That he was not a little shocked at the gay frivolity of his beautiful
bride, and she as much disappointed at the staid demureness of her
stolid-looking husband, is not to be wondered at; but their friends knew
well that time would smooth down greater discrepancies than even these;
and if ever there was a country, the monotony of whose life could subdue
all to its own leaden tone, it was Holland in old days. Whether engaged
in the active pursuit of gain in the great cities, or enjoying the
luxurious repose of chateau life, a dull, dreary uniformity pervaded
every thing--the same topics, the same people, the same landscape,
recurred day after day; and save what the season induced, there was
nothing of change in the whole round of their existence. And what a dull
honeymoon was it for that young bride at the old Chateau of Overbecque!
To toil along the deep sandy roads in a lumbering old coach, with two
long-tailed black horses--to halt at some little eminence, and strain
the eyes over a long unbroken flat, where a wind-ill, miles off, was an
object of interest--to loiter beside the bank of a sluggish canal, and
gaze on some tasteless excrescence of a summerhouse, whose owner could
not be distinguished from the wooden effigy that sat, pipe in mouth,
beside him--to dine in the unbroken silence of a funeral feast, and doze
away the afternoon over the "Handelsblatt," while her husband smoked
himself into the seventh heaven of a Dutch Elysium--Poor Caroline! this
was a sorry realization of all her bright dreamings! It ought to be
borne in mind, that many descendants of high French families, who were
either too proud or too poor to emigrate to England or America, had
sought refuge from the Revolution in the convents of the Low Countries;
where, without entering an order, they lived in all the discipline of a
religious community. These ladies, many of whom had themselves mixed in
all the elegant dissipations of the court, carried with them the most
fascinating reminiscences of a life of pleasure, and could not readily
forget the voluptuous enjoyments of Versailles, and the graceful
caprices of "La Petit Trianon." From such sources as these the young
pupils drew all their ideas of the world, and assuredly it could have
scarcely worn colors more likely to fascinate such imaginations.

What a shortcoming was the wearisome routine of Overbecque to a mind
full of the refined follies of Marie Antoinette's court! Even war and
its chances offered a pleasurable contrast to such dull monotony, and
the young bride hailed with eagerness the excitement and bustle of the
moving armies--the long columns which poured along the high road, and
the clanking artillery, heard for miles off! Monsieur D'Aerschot, like
all his countrymen who held property near the frontier, was too prudent
to have any political bias. Madame was, however, violently French. The
people who had such admirable taste in "toilet," could scarcely be wrong
in the theories of government; and a nation so invariably correct in
dress, could hardly be astray in morals. Besides this, all their notions
of morality were as pliant and as easy to wear as their own well-fitting
garments. Nothing was wrong but what _looked_ ungracefully; every thing
was right that sat becomingly on her who did it. A short code, and
wonderfully easy to learn. If I have dwelt somewhat tediously on these
tendencies of the time, it is that I may pass the more glibly over the
consequences, and not pause upon the details by which the young French
captain's residence at Overbecque gradually grew, from the intercourse
of kindness and good offices, to be a close friendship with his host,
and as much of regard and respectful devotion as consisted with the
position of his young and charming hostess.

He thought her, as she certainly was, very beautiful; she rode to
perfection, she sung delightfully; she had all the volatile gayety of a
happy child with the graceful ease of coming womanhood. Her very passion
for excitement gave a kind of life and energy to the dull old chateau,
and made her momentary absence felt as a dreary blank.

It is not my wish to speak of the feelings suggested by the contrast
between her husband and the gay and chivalrous young soldier, nor how
little such comparisons tended to allay the repinings at her lot. Their
first effect, was, however, to estrange her more and more from
D'Aerschot, a change which he accepted with most Dutch indifference.
Possibly, piqued by this, or desirous of awakening his jealousy, she
made more advances toward the other, selecting him as the companion of
her walks, and passing the greater part of each day in his society.
Nothing could be more honorable than the young soldier's conduct in this
trying position. The qualities of agreeability which he had previously
displayed to requite, in some sort, the hospitality of his hosts, he now
gradually restrained, avoiding as far as he could, without remark, the
society of the young countess, and even feigning indisposition, to
escape from the peril of her intimacy.

He did more--he exerted himself to draw D'Aerschot more out, to make him
exhibit the shrewd intelligence which lay buried beneath his native
apathy, and display powers of thought and reflection of no mean order.
Alas! these very efforts on his part only increased the mischief, by
adding generosity to his other virtues! He now saw all the danger in
which he was standing, and, although still weak and suffering, resolved
to take his departure. There was none of the concealed vanity of a
coxcomb in this knowledge. He heartily deplored the injury he had
unwittingly done, and the sorry return he had made for all their
generous hospitality.

There was not a moment to be lost; but the very evening before, as they
walked together in the garden, she had confessed to him the misery in
which she lived by recounting the story of her ill-sorted marriage. What
it cost him to listen to that sad tale with seeming coldness--to hear
her afflictions without offering one word of kindness; nay, to proffer
merely some dry, harsh counsels of patience and submission, while he
added something very like rebuke for her want of that assiduous
affection which should have been given to her husband!

Unaccustomed to even the slightest censure, she could scarcely trust her
ears as she heard him. Had she humiliated herself, by such a confession,
to be met by advice like this! And was it _he_ that should reproach her
for the very faults his own intimacy had engendered! She could not
endure the thought, and she felt that she could hate, just at the very
moment when she knew she loved him!

They parted in anger--reproaches, the most cutting and bitter, on her
part; coldness, far more wounding, on his! Sarcastic compliments upon
his generosity, replied to by as sincere expressions of respectful
friendship. What hypocrisy and self-deceit together! And yet deep
beneath all lay the firm resolve for future victory. Her wounded
self-love was irritated, and she was not one to turn from an unfinished
purpose. As for him, he waited till all was still and silent in the
house, and then seeking out D'Aerschot's chamber, thanked him most
sincerely for all his kindness, and, affecting a hurried order to join
his service, departed. While in her morning dreams she was fancying
conquest, he was already miles away on the road to France.

       *       *       *       *       *

It was about three years after this, that a number of French officers
were seated one evening in front of a little café in Freyburg. The town
was then crammed with troops moving down to occupy the passes of the
Rhine, near the Lake of Constance, and every hour saw fresh arrivals
pouring in, dusty and wayworn from the march. The necessity for a sudden
massing of the troops in a particular spot compelled the generals to
employ every possible means of conveyance to forward the men to their
destination, and from the lumbering old diligence with ten horses, to
the light charette with one, all were engaged in this pressing service.

When men were weary, and unable to march forward, they were taken up for
twelve or fourteen miles, after which they proceeded on their way,
making room for others, and thus forty, and even fifty miles were
frequently accomplished in the same day.

The group before the café were amusing themselves criticising the
strange appearance of the new arrivals, many of whom certainly made
their entry in the least military fashion possible. Here came a great
country wagon, with forty infantry soldiers all sleeping on the straw.
Here followed a staff-officer trying to look quite at his ease in a
donkey-cart. Unwieldy old bullock-carts were filled with men, and a
half-starved mule tottered along with a drummer-boy in one pannier, and
camp-kettles in the other.

He who was fortunate enough to secure a horse for himself, was obliged
to carry the swords and weapons of his companions, which were all hung
around and about him on every side, together with helmets and shakos of
all shapes and sizes, whose owners were fain to cover their heads with
the less soldier-like appendages of a nightcap or a handkerchief. Nearly
all who marched carried their caps on their muskets, for in such times
as these all discipline is relaxed, save such as is indispensable to the
maintenance of order; and so far was freedom conceded, that some were to
be seen walking barefoot in the ranks, while their shoes were suspended
by a string on their backs. The rule seemed to be "Get forward--it
matters not how--only get forward!"

And with French troops, such relaxation of strict discipline is always
practicable; the instincts of obedience return at the first call of the
bugle or the first roll of the drum; and at the word to "fall in!" every
symptom of disorder vanishes, and the mass of seeming confusion becomes
the steady and silent phalanx.

Many were the strange sights that passed before the eyes of the party at
the café, who, having arrived early in the day, gave themselves all the
airs of ease and indolence before their wayworn comrades. Now laughing
heartily at the absurdity of this one, now exchanging some good-humored
jest with that, they were in the very full current of their criticism,
when the sharp, shrill crack of a postillion's whip informed them that a
traveler of some note was approaching. A mounted courier, all slashed
with gold lace, came riding up the street at the same moment, and a
short distance behind followed a handsome equipage, drawn by six horses,
after which came a heavy "fourgon" with four.

One glance showed that the whole equipage betokened a wealthy owner.
There was all that cumbrous machinery of comfort about it that tells of
people who will not trust to the chances of the road for their daily
wants. Every appliance of ease was there; and even in the self-satisfied
air of the servants who lounged in the "rumble" might be read habits of
affluent prosperity. A few short years back, and none would have dared
to use such an equipage. The sight of so much indulgence would have
awakened the fiercest rage of popular fury; but already the high fever
of democracy was gradually subsiding, and bit by bit men were found
reverting to old habits and old usages. Still each new indication of
these tastes met a certain amount of reprobation. Some blamed openly,
some condemned in secret; but all felt that there was at least impolicy
in a display which would serve as a pretext for the terrible excesses
that were committed under the banner of "Equality."

"If we lived in the days of princes," said one of the officers, "I
should say there goes one now. Just look at all the dust they are
kicking up yonder; while, as if to point a moral upon greatness, they
are actually stuck fast in the narrow street, and unable from their own
unwieldiness to get further."

"Just so," cried another; "they want to turn down toward the 'Swan,' and
there isn't space enough to wheel the leaders."

"Who or what are they?" asked a third.

"Some commissary-general, I'll be sworn," said the first. "They are the
most shameless thieves going; for they are never satisfied with robbery,
if they do not exhibit the spoils in public."

"I see a bonnet and a lace vail," said another, rising suddenly and
pushing through the crowd. "I'll wager it's a 'danseuse' of the Grand
Opera."

"Look at Merode!" remarked the former, as he pointed to the last
speaker. "See how he thrusts himself forward there. Watch, and you'll
see him bow and smile to her, as if they had been old acquaintances."

The guess was so far unlucky, that Merode had no sooner come within
sight of the carriage-window, than he was seen to bring his hand to the
salute, and remain in an attitude of respectful attention till the
equipage moved on.

"Well, Merode, who is it?--who are they?" cried several together, as he
fell back among his comrades.

"It's our new adjutant-general, parbleu!" said he, "and he caught me
staring at his pretty wife."

"Colonel Mahon!" said another, laughing; "I wish you joy of your
gallantry, Merode." "And worse, still," broke in a third, "she is not
his wife. She never could obtain the divorce to allow her to marry
again. Some said it was the husband--a Dutchman, I believe--refused it;
but the simple truth is, she never wished it herself."

"How, not wish it?" remarked three or four in a breath.

"Why should she? Has she not every advantage the position could give
her, and her liberty into the bargain? If we were back again in the old
days of the Monarchy, I agree with you, she could not go to court; she
would receive no invitations to the 'petits soupers' of the Trianon, nor
be asked to join the discreet hunting-parties at Fontainebleu; but we
live in less polished days; and if we have little virtue, we have less
hypocrisy."

"Voila!" cried another, "only I, for one, would never believe that we
are a jot more wicked or more dissolute than those powdered and perfumed
scoundrels that played courtier in the King's bed-chamber."

"There, they are getting out, at the 'Tour d'Argent!'" cried another.
"She _is_ a splendid figure, and what magnificence in her dress!"

"Mahon waits on her like a laquais," muttered a grim old lieutenant of
infantry.

"Rather like a well-born cavalier, I should say," interposed a young
hussar. "His manner is all that it ought to be--full of devotion and
respect."

"Bah!" said the former; "a soldier's wife, or a soldier's mistress--for
it's all one--should know how to climb up to her place on the
baggage-wagon, without three lazy rascals to catch her sleeve or her
petticoats for her."

"Mahon is as gallant a soldier as any in this army," said the hussar;
"and I'd not be in the man's coat who disparaged him in any thing."

"By St. Denis!" broke in another, "he's not more brave than he is
fortunate. Let me tell you, it's no slight luck to chance upon so lovely
a woman as that, with such an immense fortune, too."

"Is she rich?"

"Enormously rich. _He_ has nothing. An emigré of good family, I believe,
but without a sous; and see how he travels yonder."

While this conversation was going forward, the new arrivals had alighted
at the chief inn of the town, and were being installed in the principal
suite of rooms, which opened on a balcony over the "Place." The active
preparations of the host to receive such distinguished guests--the
hurrying of servants here and there--the blaze of wax-lights that shone
half way across the street beneath--and, lastly, the appearance of a
regimental band to play under the windows--were all circumstances well
calculated to sustain and stimulate that spirit of sharp criticism which
the group around the café were engaged in.

The discussion was, however, suddenly interrupted by the entrance of an
officer, at whose appearance every one arose and stood in attitudes of
respectful attention. Scarcely above the middle size, and more
remarkable for the calm and intellectual cast of his features, than for
that air of military pride then so much in vogue among the French
troops--he took his place at a small table near the door, and called for
his coffee. It was only when he was seated, and that by a slight gesture
he intimated his wishes to that effect, that the others resumed their
places, and continued the conversation, but in a lower, more subdued
tone.

"What distinguished company have we got yonder?" said he, after about
half an hour's quiet contemplation of the crowd before the inn, and the
glaring illumination from the windows.

"Colonel Mahon, of the Fifth Cuirassiers, general," replied an officer.

"Our republican simplicity is not so self-denying a system, after all,
gentlemen," said the general, smiling half sarcastically. "Is he very
rich?"

"His mistress is, general," was the prompt reply.

"Bah!" said the general, as he threw his cigar away, and, with a
contemptuous expression of looks, arose and walked away.

"Parbleu! he's going to the inn," cried an officer, who peered out after
him; "I'll be sworn Mahon will get a heavy reprimand for all this
display and ostentation."

"And why not?" said another. "Is it when men are arriving half dead with
fatigue, without rations, without billets, glad to snatch a few hours'
rest on the stones of the Place, that the colonel of a regiment should
travel with all the state of an eastern despot."

"We might as well have the Monarchy back again," said an old
weather-beaten captain; "I say far better, for their vices sat
gracefully and becomingly on those essenced scoundrels, whereas they but
disfigure the plainness of our daily habits."

"All this is sheer envy, comrades," broke in a young major of hussars,
"sheer envy; or, what is worse, downright hypocrisy. Not one of us is a
whit better or more moral than if he wore the livery of a king, and
carried a crown on his shako instead of that naked damsel that
represents French Liberty. Mahon is the luckiest fellow going, and, I
heartily believe, the most deserving of his fortune! And see if General
Moreau be not of my opinion. There he is on the balcony, and she is
leaning on his arm."

"Parbleu! the major is right!" said another; "but, for certain, it was
not in that humor he left us just now; his lips were closely puckered
up, and his fingers were twisted into his sword-knot, two signs of anger
and displeasure, there's no mistaking."

"If he's in a better temper, then," said another, "it was never the
smiles of a pretty woman worked the change. There's not a man in France
so thoroughly indifferent to such blandishments."

"Tant pis pour lui," said the major; "but they're closing the
window-shutters, and we may as well go home."


CHAPTER XLV.

THE CABINET OF A CHEF-DE-POLICE.

Whatever opinion may be formed of the character of the celebrated
conspiracy of Georges and Pichegru, the mode of its discovery, and the
secret rules by which its plans were detected, are among the great
triumphs of police skill. From the hour when the conspirators first met
together in London, to that last fatal moment when they expired in the
Temple, the agents of Fouché never ceased to track them.

Their individual tastes and ambitions were studied; their habits
carefully investigated; every thing that could give a clew to their turn
of thought or mind well weighed; so that the Consular Government was not
only in possession of all their names and rank, but knew thoroughly the
exact amount of complicity attaching to each, and could distinguish
between the reckless violence of Georges and the more tempered, but
higher ambition of Moreau. It was a long while doubtful whether the
great general would be implicated in the scheme. His habitual reserve--a
habit less of caution than of constitutional delicacy--had led him to
few intimacies, and nothing like even one close friendship; he moved
little in society; he corresponded with none, save on the duties of the
service. Fouché's well-known boast of, "Give me two words of a man's
writing and I'll hang him," were then scarcely applicable here.

To attack such a man unsuccessfully, to arraign him on a weak
indictment, would have been ruin; and yet Bonaparte's jealousy of his
great rival pushed him even to this peril, rather than risk the growing
popularity of his name with the army.

Fouché, and, it is said also, Talleyrand, did all they could to dissuade
the First Consul from this attempt, but he was fixed and immutable in
his resolve, and the Police Minister at once addressed himself to his
task with all his accustomed cleverness.

High play was one of the great vices of the day. It was a time of wild
and varied excitement, and men sought, even in their dissipations, the
whirlwind passions that stirred them in active life. Moreau, however,
was no gambler; it was said that he never could succeed in learning a
game. He, whose mind could comprehend the most complicated question of
strategy, was obliged to confess himself conquered by écarte! So much
for the vaunted intellectuality of the play-table! Neither was he
addicted to wine. All his habits were temperate, even to the extent of
unsociality.

A man who spoke little, and wrote less, who indulged in no
dissipations, nor seemed to have taste for any, was a difficult subject
to treat; and so Fouché found, as, day after day, his spies reported to
him the utter failure of all their schemes to entrap him. Lajolais, the
friend of Pichegru, and the man who betrayed him, was the chief
instrument the Police Minister used to obtain secret information. Being
well born, and possessed of singularly pleasing manners, he had the
_entrée_ of the best society of Paris, where his gay, easy humor made
him a great favorite. Lajolais, however, could never penetrate into the
quiet domesticity of Moreau's life, nor make any greater inroad on his
intimacy than a courteous salutation as they passed each other in the
garden of the Luxembourg. At the humble restaurant where he dined each
day for two francs, the "General," as he was distinctively called, never
spoke to any one. Unobtrusive and quiet, he occupied a little table in a
recess of the window, and arose the moment he finished his humble meal.
After this he was to be seen in the garden of the Luxembourg, with a
cigar and a book, or sometimes, without either, seated pensively under a
tree for hours together.

If he had been conscious of the "espionage" established all over his
actions, he could scarcely have adopted a more guarded or more
tantalizing policy. To the verbal communications of Pichegru and Armand
Polignac, he returned vague replies; their letters he never answered at
all, and Lajolais had to confess that, after two months of close
pursuit, the game was as far from him as ever!

"You have come to repeat the old song to me, Monsieur Lajolais," said
Fouché, one evening, as his wily subordinate entered the room; "you have
nothing to tell me, eh?"

"Very little, Monsieur le Ministre, but still something. I have at last
found out where Moreau spends all his evenings. I told you that about
half-past nine o'clock every night all lights were extinguished in his
quarters, and, from the unbroken stillness, it was conjectured that he
had retired to bed. Now, it seems that, about an hour later, he is
accustomed to leave his house, and crossing the Place de l'Odeon, to
enter the little street called the 'Allée de Caire,' where, in a small
house next but one to the corner, resides a certain officer, 'en
retraite'--a Colonel Mahon, of the Cuirassiers."

"A Royalist?"

"This is suspected, but not known. His politics, however, are not in
question here; the attraction is of a different order."

"Ha! I perceive; he has a wife or a daughter."

"Better still, a mistress. You may have heard of the famous Caroline de
Stassart, that married a Dutchman named D'Aerschot."

"Madame Laure, as they called her," said Fouché, laughing.

"The same. She has lived as Mahon's wife for some years, and was as such
introduced into society; in fact, there is no reason, seeing what
society is in these days, that she should not participate in all its
pleasures."

"No matter for that," broke in Fouché; "Bonaparte will not have it so.
He wishes that matters should go back to the old footing, and wisely
remarks, that it is only in savage life that people or vices go without
clothing."

"Be it so, monsieur. In the present case no such step is necessary. I
know her maid, and from her I have heard that her mistress is heartily
tired of her protector. It was originally a sudden fancy, taken when she
knew nothing of life--had neither seen any thing, nor been herself seen.
By the most wasteful habits she has dissipated all, or nearly all, her
own large fortune, and involved Mahon heavily in debt; and they are thus
reduced to a life of obscurity and poverty--the very things the least
endurable to her notions."

"Well, does she care for Moreau?" asked Fouché, quickly; for all stories
to his ear only resolved themselves into some question of utility or
gain.

"No, but he does for her. About a year back she did take a liking to
him. He was returning from his great German campaign, covered with
honors and rich in fame; but as her imagination is captivated by
splendor, while her heart remains perfectly cold and intact, Moreau's
simple, unpretending habits quickly effaced the memory of his hard-won
glory, and now she is quite indifferent to him."

"And who is her idol now, for, of course, she has one?" asked Fouché.

"You would scarcely guess," said Lajolais.

"Parbleu! I hope it is not myself," said Fouché, laughing.

"No, Monsieur le Ministre, her admiration is not so well placed. The man
who has captivated her present fancy is neither good-looking nor
well-mannered; he is short and abrupt of speech, careless in dress,
utterly indifferent to women's society, and almost rude to them."

"You have drawn the very picture of a man to be adored by them," said
Fouché, with a dry laugh.

"I suppose so," said the other with a sigh; "or General Ney would not
have made this conquest."

"Ah! it is Ney, then. And he, what of him?"

"It is hard to say. As long as she lived in a grand house of the Rue St.
Georges, where he could dine four days a week, and, in his dirty boots
and unbrushed frock, mix with all the fashion and elegance of the
capital; while he could stretch full length on a Persian ottoman, and
brush the cinders from his cigar against a statuette by Canova, or a
gold embroidered hanging; while in the midst of the most voluptuous
decorations he alone could be dirty and uncared for, I really believe
that he did care for her, at least, so far as ministering to his own
enjoyments; but in a miserable lodging of the 'Allée de Caire,' without
equipage, lackeys, liveried footmen--"

"To be sure," interrupted Fouché, "one might as well pretend to be
fascinated by the beauty of a landscape the day after it has been
desolated by an earthquake. Ney is right! Well, now, Monsieur Lajolais,
where does all this bring us to?"

"Very near to the end of our journey, Monsieur le Ministre. Madame, or
mademoiselle, is most anxious to regain her former position; she longs
for all the luxurious splendor she used to live in. Let us but show her
this rich reward, and she will be our own!"

"In _my_ trade, Monsieur Lajolais, generalities are worth nothing. Give
me details; let me know how you would proceed."

"Easily enough, sir; Mahon must first of all be disposed of, and perhaps
the best way will be to have him arrested for debt. This will not be
difficult, for his bills are every where. Once in the Temple, she will
never think more of him. It must then be her task to obtain the most
complete influence over Moreau. She must affect the deepest interest in
the Royalist cause: I'll furnish her with all the watch-words of the
party, and Moreau, who never trusts a man, will open all his confidence
to a woman."

"Very good, go on!" cried Fouché, gathering fresh interest as the plot
began to reveal itself before him.

"He hates writing; she will be his secretary, embodying all his thoughts
and suggestions; and now and then, for _her own guidance_, obtaining
little scraps in _his_ hand. If he be too cautious here, I will advise
her to remove to Geneva, for change of air; he likes Switzerland, and
will follow her immediately."

"This will do; at least it looks practicable," said Fouché,
thoughtfully; "is she equal to the part you would assign her?"

"Ay, sir, and to a higher one, too! She has considerable ability, and
great ambition; her present narrow fortune has irritated and disgusted
her; the moment is most favorable for us."

"If she should play us false," said Fouché, half aloud.

"From all I can learn, there is no risk of this; there is a headlong
determination in her, when once she has conceived a plan, from which
nothing turns her; overlooking all but her object, she will brave any
thing, do any thing to attain it."

"Bonaparte was right in what he said of Necker's daughter," said Fouché,
musingly, "and there is no doubt it adds wonderfully to a woman's
_head_, that she has no _heart_. And now, the price, Master Lajolais;
remember that our treasury received some deadly wounds lately--what is
to be the price?"

"It may be a smart one; she is not likely to be a cheap purchase."

"In the event of success--I mean of such proof as may enable us to
arrest Moreau, and commit him to prison--" He stopped as he got thus
far, and paused for some seconds--"Bethink you, then, Lajolais," said
he, "what a grand step this would be, and how terrible the consequences
if undertaken on rash or insufficient grounds. Moreau's popularity with
the army is only second to one man's! His unambitious character has
made him many friends; he has few, very few enemies."

"But you need not push matters to the last--an implied, but not a proven
guilt would be enough; and you can pardon him!"

"Ay, Lajolais, but who would pardon _us_?" cried Fouché, carried beyond
all the bounds of his prudence, by the thought of a danger so imminent.
"Well, well, let us come back; the price--will that do?" And taking up a
pen he scratched some figures on a piece of paper.

Lajolais smiled dubiously, and added a unit to the left of the sum.

"What! a hundred and fifty thousand francs!" cried Fouché.

"And a cheap bargain, too," said the other; "for, after all, it is only
the price of a ticket in the Lottery, of which the great prize is
General Ney!"

"You say truly," said the Minister; "be it so."

"Write your name there, then," said Lajolais, "beneath those figures;
that will be warranty sufficient for my negotiation, and leave the rest
to me."

"Nature evidently meant you for a _Chef-de-Police_, Master Lajolais."

"Or a cardinal! Monsieur le Ministre," said the other, as he folded up
the paper, a little insignificant slip, scrawled over with a few
figures, and an almost illegible word; and yet pregnant with infamy to
one, banishment to another, ruin and insanity to a third.

This sad record need not be carried further. It is far from a pleasant
task to tell of baseness unredeemed by one trait of virtue--of
treachery, unrepented even by regret. History records Moreau's unhappy
destiny--the pages of private memoir tell of Ney's disastrous
connection; our own humble reminiscences speak of poor Mahon's fate, the
least known of all, but the most sorrowful victim of a woman's
treachery!

(TO BE CONTINUED.)




THE FLOATING ISLAND.

A LEGEND OF LOCH DOCHART.


One night in midsummer, a long, long time ago--so long ago that I may
not venture to assign the date--the moon shone down, as it might have
done last night, over the wild, lone shore of Loch Dochart. Upon a
little promontory on its southern margin stood a girl, meanly clad,
wasted, and wayworn. In her arms she bore a little babe, wrapped up in
the folds of a plaid; and as she bent her thin, pallid face over that of
the child, her rich, long, yellow hair fell in a shower around her,
unconfined either by _snood_ or _curch_. One might have taken her for
Magdalene, in her withered beauty, her penitence, and her grief; but
other than Magdalene, in her passionate despair. She looked around her,
and a shudder shook her feeble frame. Was it the chill of the night
mist?--it might be; for as her eye wandered away toward the hills
beyond, northward, the mists were creeping along their sides, and she
saw the moonlight gleaming on a lowly cot, amid a fir grove. 'Twas the
home of her parents, the home of her happy childhood, her innocent
youth. She looked again at the little one in her bosom; it slept, but a
spasm of pain wrung its pale, pinched, sharp features. It appeared to be
feeble and pining, for sleepless nights and days of grief and tears had
turned the milk of the mother to gall and poison, and the little
innocent drank in death--death, the fruit of sin in all climes and ages.
Gently she laid the little one by the margent of the water, amid the
green rushes; and the breeze of night sweeping by murmured plaintively
to them, and caused them to sigh, and rock to and fro around the infant.
Then the poor mother withdrew a space from the babe, and sat her down
upon a white stone, and covered her face with her long, thin, bloodless
hands. She said in her heart, as Hagar said, "Let me not see the death
of the child." And she wept sore, for the poor girl loved the babe, as a
mother, like her, only can love her babe, with a wild, passionate,
absorbing love, for it is her all, her pearl of great price, which she
has bought with name and fame, with home and friends, with health and
happiness, with earth, and, it may be, with heaven. And she thought
bitterly over that happy home, where, a few months since, in the
gloaming of the autumn's eve, she sat on the heathery braes, and tripped
along the brink of the warbling burn, or milked the kine in the byre, or
sang to her spinning-wheel beside her mother, near the ingle. Next came
the recollection of one who sat beside her in the braes, and strayed
with her down the burn; who won her heart with his false words, and drew
her from the holy shelter of her father's roof, to leave her in her
desolation among the southern strangers. And now, with the
faithfulness--though not with the purity or trustfulness--of the dove,
she was returning over the waste of the world's dark waters to that ark
which had sheltered her early years--from which no father had sent her
forth. The ark is in sight; but the poor bird is weary from her flight,
and she would even now willingly fold her wings and sink down amid the
waters, for she is full of shame, and fear, and sorrow. Ah! will her
father "put forth his hand and take her in, and pull her in unto him
into the ark," with the glory of her whiteness defiled, her plumage
ruffled and drooping? Ah! will her mother draw her again to nestle
within her bosom, when she sees the dark stain upon her breast, once so
pure and spotless? The poor girl wept as she thought these things--at
first wild and bitterly, but at length her sorrow became gentler, and
her soul more calm, for her heavy heart was relieved by the tears that
seemed to have gushed straight up from it, as the dark clouds are lightened
when the rain pours from them. And so she sobbed and mused in the cold,
dreary night, till her thoughts wandered and her vision grew dim, and
she sank down in slumber--a slumber like that of childhood, sweet and
deep. And she dreamed that angels, pure and white, stood around: and,
oh! strange and charming, they looked not on her as the unfallen ones
of the world--the pure and the sinless in their own sight--looked upon
her through the weary days of her humiliation--scornfully, loathingly,
pitilessly; but their sweet eyes were bent upon her full of ruth, and
gentleness, and love; and tears like dew-pearls fell from those mild
and lustrous orbs upon her brow and bosom, as those beautiful beings
hung over her, and those tears calmed her poor wild brain, and each,
where it fell upon her bosom, washed away a stain. Then the angels
took the little one from her breast, and spread their wings as if for
flight; but she put forth her arms to regain her child, and one of the
bright beings repressed her gently, and said,

"It may not be--the babe goes with us."

Then said she to the angel, "Suffer me also to go with my child, that I
may be with it and tend it ever."

But the angel said, in a voice of sweet and solemn earnestness, "Not
yet--not yet. Thou mayest not come with us now, but in a little while
shalt thou rejoin us, and this our little sister."

And the dreamer thought that they rose slowly on the moonlit air, as the
light clouds float before a gentle breeze at evening; then the child
stretched forth its arms toward her with a plaintive cry, and she awoke
and sprang forward to where her child lay. The waters of the lake
rippled over the feet of the mother, but the babe lay beyond in the
rushes at the point of the promontory where she had laid it. The
bewildered mother essayed to spring across the stream that now flowed
between her and the island, but in vain; her strength failed her, and as
she sank to the earth she beheld the island floating slowly away upon
the waveless bosom of the lake, while eldritch laughter rang from out
the rushes, mingled with sweet tiny voices soothing with a fairy lullaby
the cries of the babe that came fainter and fainter on the ears of the
bereaved mother, as the little hands of the elfin crew impelled the
floating island over the surface of Loch Dochart.

Some herdsmen going forth in the early morning found a girl apparently
lifeless lying on the edge of the lake. She was recognized and brought
to her early home. When she opened her eyes her parents stood before
her. No word of anger passed from the lips of her father, though his eye
was clouded and his head was bowed down with sorrow and humiliation. Her
mother took the girl's head and laid it on her bosom--as she had done
when she was a little guileless child--and wept, and kissed her, and
prayed over her. Then after a time she came to know those around her and
where she was, and she started up and looked restlessly around, and
cried out with a loud and wild cry, "My child! Where is my child!"

Near the spot where she had been discovered was found a portion of a
baby's garment. The people feared the child had been drowned, and
searched the loch along its shores. Nothing, however, was found which
could justify their suspicions; but, to the astonishment of the
searchers, they discovered in the midst of the lake a small island,
about fifty feet in length, and more than half that in width, covered
with rushes and water-plants. No one had ever seen it before, and when
they returned with others to show the wonder, they found that it had
sensibly changed its position. The home-returned wanderer whispered into
her mother's ear all her sin and all her sorrow. Then she pined away day
by day. And when the moon was again full in the heavens, she stole forth
in the gloaming. She was missed in the morning, and searched for during
many days, but no trace could be found of her. At length some fishermen
passing by the floating island, scared a large kite from the rushes, and
discovered the decaying body of the hapless girl. How she had reached
the island none could say--whether it drifted sufficiently near the land
to enable her to wade to it in her search for her babe, and then floated
out again from the shore; or whether beings of whom peasants fear to
speak had brought her there. The latter conjecture was, of course, the
one more generally adopted by the people, and there are those who say
that at midnight, when the moon shines down at the full upon Loch
Dochart, he who has sharp ears may hear the cry of a baby mingling with
elfish laughter and sweet low songs from amidst the plants and rushes of
the floating island.




SIBERIA, AS A LAND OF POLITICAL EXILE.


From the reign of Peter the Great to the present moment, exile to
Siberia as a punishment for political offenses, has been of constant
recurrence, and most of the romance of Russian history is connected with
the frozen steppes of that country. To enumerate all the illustrious
names that have swelled the list of exiles up to the reign of Alexander,
would be to write the history of the innumerable conspiracies which at
various periods have shaken the throne of Russia, of the cruel caprices
of a race of absolute and unscrupulous despots, and of the various
individual passions which, under governments such as that of Russia, can
always find means of making the public authorities the avengers of
private hatreds. From the reign of Alexander up to the present time,
sentence of exile to Siberia for political offenses has perhaps been
more frequently pronounced than before; and as within this period the
victims have mostly suffered for opinions, not for criminal deeds, and
in many instances for opinions which, judged from the point of view of
absolute right, must be pronounced to be noble and generous, though, in
opposition to the reigning system in the country, the fate of these
exiles has elicited the sympathy of Europe in a far higher degree than
was ever called forth by the fall of court favorites, whose change of
fortune was generally caused by an inordinate and selfish ambition. That
to the latter, life in Siberia was but a succession of hardships,
privations, and humiliations, history affirms; but what may be the fate
of the exiles in the present day, there are no more authentic means of
ascertaining than the narratives of the few west Europeans who have
visited Siberia, and the inferences which may be drawn from the general
system of convict colonization followed in the country, and from the
spirit which pervades society there.

A regular system of convict colonization was commenced in 1754, during
the reign of the Empress Elizabeth, who was too tender-hearted to sign
the death-warrant even of the most atrocious criminal, though she
tolerated and countenanced the most barbarous cruelties; but it was
carried on without any attention to the necessities of the various
localities, and was found not to work as favorably as might be desired.
The existing irregularities having been brought to light, by the census
taken in Siberia in 1819, new regulations were issued in 1822; and these
were further improved upon in 1840, and brought into harmony with the
improved penal code of the country. Notwithstanding the energetic
endeavors of Peter the Great to force European civilization upon his
people, he took little pains with regard to the necessary preliminary
process of humanizing the penal laws of the country, and the most
barbarous and degrading punishments continued, during his and several
subsequent reigns, to be inflicted on persons of all ranks and both
sexes. Torture in its most cruel forms was frequently applied, and the
bodies of the criminals mutilated in the most inhuman manner, their
noses and ears being cut off, and their tongues torn out by the root.
Under the reign of Catharine II., mitigations were, however, introduced:
torture was abolished, and the nobles, as also the burghers of the two
first guilds, were exempted from corporeal punishment. The cruel and
capricious Paul I., however, again gave to the world the sad and
degrading spectacle of individuals of high social position and refined
education wincing under the lash of the executioner; and to this day the
knout and the cat-o'-nine-tails are reckoned among the instruments of
correction in Russia. The punishments, as regulated by law at present,
consist, according to the nature of the offense committed, in money
fines, restitution, church penitence, loss of office, forfeiture of
privileges and of honor, and in corporeal punishments of various kinds
and degrees--regarding which it is, however, expressly stipulated that
the sentence must not contain a recommendation "to flog without mercy,"
as was formerly the case--and in banishment to Siberia, which, in case
of heinous offenses, is further sharpened by forced labor in the mines
and manufactories. Capital punishment is reintroduced, but for crimes of
high treason only, and is even in such cases but very rarely applied.
From the execution of the Cossack rebel Pugatscher, which took place in
Moscow, in 1775, fifty years elapsed before sentence of death was again
pronounced in Russia, when five of the leaders of the insurrection of
1826, which had nearly deprived the Emperor Nicholas of the throne to
which he had just succeeded, were sentenced to lose their lives at the
hands of the hangman. The knout, in addition to hard labor for life in
the mines of Siberia, is the general substitute for capital punishment;
and up to 1822, all criminals under this last sentence were branded on
the forehead, though the practice of slitting up the ears and nostrils,
which continued in force until the reign of Alexander, was discontinued.
In cases when the criminals are condemned to banishment for life, the
sentence may be rendered still more rigorous by condemnation to _civil
death_, in which cases alone the families of the convicts are not
allowed to follow them into exile, and they are neither allowed to
receive nor to write letters.

Kasan, in which city there is a bureau of dispatch for exiles, is the
starting point of the detachments of convicts and exiles which
periodically leave Russia for Siberia--their halting-places being
indicated along the line of route by large four-winged wooden buildings,
with yellow walls and red roofs, and surrounded by a stout palisade,
erected at every post-station opposite the crown post-house. According
to the improved regulations of 1840, the convicts condemned to forced
labor are not allowed to travel in company with the criminals of lesser
degree destined for immediate colonization, as was previously the case,
but are sent in separate detachments, care being also taken that several
days shall elapse between the departures of the successive detachments,
so as to preclude all possibility of contact on the road. As far as can
be judged from the very imperfect records which are available, the
number of convicts transported to Siberia up to the year 1818 averaged
2500 yearly; but among these it may be presumed were not numbered the
political exiles. In the year 1819, 3141 persons were transported; in
1820, the number swelled to 4051; and from that period until 1823, the
annual number was from 4000 to 5000. In 1823 a ukase was issued,
ordering that all vagrants who had until then been subjected to forced
labor in the fortresses should in future be sent to Siberia as
colonists. This of course greatly augmented the number transported; and
during the period of six years which elapsed from the date of this ukase
to 1829, 64,035 persons, or 10,067 individuals annually, were sent to
people these uncultivated wilds. Among these, persons convicted of
vagrancy only were, however, in a great majority, the number of criminal
offenders condemned to hard labor, amounting only to one-seventh of the
whole number. The number of women in proportion to that of the men was
one to ten. The convicts travel on foot, all being, on starting,
supplied with clothing at the public expense. The men walk in pairs;
but, except in cases of extreme criminality, are rarely burdened with
fetters during the journey. When passing through towns, however, irons
are generally attached to their ankles, and every attempt at escape is
punished with corporeal chastisement, without any reference to the cause
of exile or the former social position of the individual. To each
detachment are generally attached some wagons or sledges for the women,
the aged, and the infirm; and these usually lead the van, the younger
men following, and the whole party, commonly numbering from fifty to
sixty individuals, being escorted from station to station by a
detachment of the Cossacks stationed in the villages. That a journey of
several thousand wersts on foot, and through such a country as Siberia,
must cause much suffering, can not be doubted; but the stations are not
at very great distances from each other, and travelers agree in
asserting that the ostrogs--that is, fortified places--in which the
convicts rest from their fatigues, afford as comfortable accommodation
as any post-house throughout Siberia; besides which the inhabitants of
the towns and villages through which they pass, either from that
perverse sympathy which so frequently leads the unthinking masses to
look upon a doomed felon as upon a victim of oppression, or from a
knowledge of how many sufferers for mere opinion may be mixed up with
the really guilty individuals in the troop, contribute in every way in
their power to mitigate the hardships of their position. The officer
commanding the escort is intrusted with the sum stipulated by law for
the daily subsistence of each convict, and this must never, under any
pretense, pass into the hands of the latter. Many tales are told of the
barbarous treatment to which the exiles are subjected during their
passage to their various places of destination; but this, it would seem,
must be attributed to the general brutality of the men forming the
escort, and not to any desire in the government to render in an indirect
way the punishment of the condemned more severe than expressed in the
terms of the sentence; though in these cases, as in all others, it is of
course the despotic character of the government in Russia which prevents
the complaints of the oppressed from being heard, and thus perpetuates
all abuses.

The convicts who have committed heinous offenses, such as murder,
burglary, highway robbery, or who have been judged guilty of high
treason, and are banished for life and condemned to forced labor, are
chiefly under the superintendence of the governor of Irkutsk, who
determines whether they are to be employed in the mines and salt-works,
or in the distilleries, or other manufactories of the crown. For each of
these convicts government allows thirty-six paper rubles yearly; but the
price of the necessaries of life being in Siberia so very low that the
half of this suffices for the support of the convict, the other half
goes to form a fund which, in case, after the lapse of four or six
years, he gives proofs of reform, is given to him to begin life with in
some part of the wide-spread steppes which admits of cultivation, and
where a certain portion of land and materials for building a house are
assigned to him. The house must, however, be erected by his own labor,
and the money laid by for him be applied to the purchasing of the
necessary utensils and implements for commencing house-keeping and
agricultural pursuits. From this moment the convicts become _glebæ
adscripti_ in the strictest sense of the term, as they are, under no
pretense whatsoever, allowed to quit the lands assigned to them, or to
change their condition; thenceforward also they pay the capitation tax
and other imposts in like manner as the other crown peasants of Siberia,
and enjoy in return the same rights, such as they are. The children of
these convicts, born during the parents' period of punishment, are bound
to the soil; but their names are not enrolled among those of the exiles,
and the law orders that they shall be treated in the same manner as the
overseers of the works.

The second class of convicts is subdivided into five classes, namely, 1.
Exiles sentenced to labor in the manufactories; 2. Those sentenced to
form part of the labor companies engaged on the public works; 3. Those
allowed to work at their respective trades; 4. Those hired out as
domestic servants; and 5. Those destined to become colonists. The
last-mentioned of these are at once established on the waste lands
allotted to them, each person obtaining an area of not less than thirty
acres, and being besides furnished with materials for building a house,
with a cow, some sheep, agricultural implements, and seed corn. During
the first three years these settlers are exempted from all imposts;
during the next seven years they pay half the usual amount of taxes, and
in addition to this, fifteen silver copeks annually toward an economical
fund erected for their benefit. After the lapse of these ten years they
take their rank among the other crown peasants, and are subjected to the
same burdens. Except when especially pardoned, these colonists are not
either allowed to change their condition, or arbitrarily to quit the
lands allotted to them. Colonization, according to this system, being
found excessively expensive, and at the same time very precarious, on
account of the frequent desertion of the colonists, who, living without
families, were bound by no ties, was given up in 1822, but has since
been resumed. In order to promote the speedy amalgamation of the convict
population with the free population, the government bestows on every
free woman who marries one of these colonists a donation of fifty silver
rubles; while the free man who takes to wife a female convict receives a
donation of fifteen rubles. Persons enjoying the privilege of collecting
gold from the sands of the government of Tomsk, and who employ convicts
for the washings, are bound to pay, in addition to the daily wages, one
ruble and fifteen copeks in silver toward the economical fund. The
convicts employed as domestic servants are fed by their employers, and
receive in wages one silver ruble and a half per month. After eight
years of such compulsory service, these exiles may also become
colonists, and be enrolled among the peasants of the crown. Convict
colonists may, should the authorities deem it expedient, be allowed to
work at trades in the towns, but they must not become members of
corporations or guilds, and must never be considered as being withdrawn
from their condition of colonists.

The convicts condemned to forced labor, and employed in the
manufactories, are the most leniently dealt with of this class, their
position being, indeed, such as to render the sentence a reward rather
than a punishment. In the manufactories of Telma more than eight hundred
convicts are employed, who receive in wages, according to the work
executed by them, from six to fifty rubles per month, besides bread
flour; and their wives, who dwell in the village, earn from two and a
half to five rubles per month by spinning and weaving hemp. The convicts
employed in manufactories, and receiving wages, are, however, generally
such as have previously been under stricter discipline, and are in a
state of transition toward the position of liberated colonists. In
several towns of Siberia there are establishments for them during the
first stage of their punishment. In these establishments, called
_Remeslenui Dom_, or the House of Trades, the convicts are employed as
joiners, turners, saddlers, wheelwrights, smiths, &c., and are housed,
clothed, and fed at the public expense, but do not receive wages, their
wives and children finding employment in other ways. All orders must be
addressed to the officers intrusted with the superintendence of the
establishments; but persons having work executed there are at liberty to
enter the workshops, and to communicate directly with the different
craftsmen, who are not chained, but are guarded by military. In winter,
the hours of labor are eight, in summer, twelve. The proceeds of the
labor of the convicts go to pay the expenses of the establishment, and
the surplus is applied to charitable purposes, such as the building and
maintenance of hospitals. The convict laborers in the mines of the Ural,
as well as those of Nertchynsk, dwell together in large barrack-like
buildings, the worst criminals among them being alone chained; but owing
to the unhealthy nature of the mines, particularly those of Nertchynsk,
their existence is a very miserable one. The usual term of compulsory
labor in the mines is twenty years, at the expiration of which the
convicts are generally established as colonists in the vicinity of the
mines, and continue to labor in them, but as free laborers, receiving
wages. In case there be at any time a scarcity of mining laborers, the
authorities are at liberty to apply to this purpose exiles who have not
been especially sentenced to this punishment; but in such cases the
exiles are paid for their labor, and are not confined to the mines for
more than one year, which counts, besides, for two years of exile. Upon
the whole, great latitude is allowed the central and local authorities
in Siberia with regard to the employment and allocation of the convicts
and exiles, it being merely laid down as a general rule that
agricultural settlements shall always be made in the least populous
districts of the localities capable of cultivation. It seems also to be
the plan, as far as possible, to put each man to the work which he is
most competent to execute; and the exiles belonging to the laboring
classes are therefore, in preference, established as agricultural
colonists, while those belonging to the higher classes, who are
unaccustomed to manual labor, are generally located in the towns, where
it is easier for them to find some means of subsistence, which may
relieve the government from the burden of their support. Even
independently of the political exiles, the number of the latter is
great, for exile is the punishment which usually follows the detection
of those peculations and abuses of power of which the Russian officials
are so frequently guilty. On their first arrival, it seems, the exiles
of this class are made to do penance in the churches, under the
guardianship of the police, but after a time they are allowed to go
about unguarded; and it is said that, when exiled for life, the Russians
even of high birth bear the change of fortune with extraordinary
equanimity, assimilating in a very short time, and without any apparent
struggle, to the Cossacks and peasants among whom they are thrown. When,
as is frequently the case, they marry Siberian women, their children in
no way differ from the people among whom they live. In the city of
Tobolsk, in particular, there are a great many exiles belonging to the
class of unfaithful _employés_, the sentence being considered less
rigorous the nearer the place of exile to the frontiers of Russia
Proper. Political exiles are, on the contrary, sent further north and
east, where the nature of the surrounding country is such as to make an
attempt at flight impossible, or at least very difficult. The hardships
to which these exiles are subjected seem, in by far the greater number
of cases, to be exclusively such as are necessarily connected with their
being torn away from all they hold dear, and transplanted from the
luxurious life of European society (for these exiles mostly belong to
the higher classes) to the uncultivated wilds and rigorous climate of a
country but very partially redeemed from a state of nature; but the
tenderest sympathies of the natives of all races seem, by all accounts,
to be readily bestowed upon the exiles, who, whatever be the nature of
the offense of which they have been guilty, are never named by a harsher
term than that of "unfortunates." In many cases the lot of the political
exiles is also mitigated by the kindness of the local authorities, who
allow them the use of books and other indulgences, and even receive them
as friends in their houses, when this can be done without risk of giving
offense at St. Petersburg.

As in Russia nothing with which the government is concerned can be
commented on by the press without especial permission, it is difficult
to ascertain correctly how far the system followed in Siberia works
beneficially as regards the moral reformation of the criminals, and
their relations to society in general. The accounts of travelers are
very conflicting--some extolling the extreme leniency with which even
the worst offenders are treated, as the _ne plus ultra_ of social
policy, and dwelling with delight on its happy results; while others
consider it disastrous in its consequences, and relate instances of the
most atrocious crimes committed by the convicts, and of whole tracts of
country in which life and property have been rendered insecure by their
presence. The statistics of Siberia, however, prove the country to be
improving; and all travelers agree as to the freedom from molestation
which they have experienced while traversing its immeasurable steppes;
and it is therefore but fair to conclude, that though the attempt at
moral reformation may be unsuccessful in many instances, in general
convict colonization has here borne good fruits. That great severity in
the chastisement of new transgressions has been found necessary, is on
the other side proved by the penal laws bearing exclusively on Siberia.
According to these laws, drunkenness, fighting, idleness, theft of
articles of small value, unallowed absence from the place of detention,
are considered venial offenses, and are punished with from ten to forty
lashes with the cat-o'-nine-tails; while desertion among the colonists
is punished, the first time with simple flogging, the second and third
time with the cat-o'-nine-tails. If the offense be persisted in after
this, sentence is to be pronounced by the local tribunals, and often
consists in temporary removement to some distant and thinly-populated
district, or incorporation in one of the penal labor companies. Convicts
condemned to hard labor who attempt to escape are punished with the
knout, and are branded on the forehead, in case this mark of ignominy
have not previously been inflicted on them. Repeated thefts, robberies,
and other like offenses are punished in the same way as desertion; but
in these cases the value of the object stolen is not so much taken into
consideration as the motives by which the criminals are actuated, and
the number of times the offense has been repeated. A fourth repetition
by an exile of a crime previously punished renders him liable to forty
lashes with the knout, and to being placed in the category of the
convicts condemned to forced labor. Murder, highway robbery, and
incendiarism are, if the offender be a simple exile, punished with from
thirty-five to fifty lashes with the knout, in addition to branding on
the forehead, and forced labor in irons for a period of not less than
three years--the term beyond this being left to the judgment of the
local tribunals. The convict condemned to forced labor who renders
himself guilty of similar crimes receives fifty-five lashes of the
knout, is branded on the forehead, and is chained to the wall of a
prison for five years, after which period he is allowed to move about,
but must continue to wear fetters during his life. Criminals of this
class are never to be employed beyond the prison walls, and are not even
in illness to be taken into the open air beyond the prison-yard, or to
be relieved from their chains, except by especial permission of the
superior authorities, which can only be granted in consequence of a
medical certificate.

The river Irtysh is the Styx of the Siberian Hades: from the moment they
cross the ferry in the neighborhood of the city of Tobolsk, the Russian
_employés_ appointed to offices in Siberia are placed in the enjoyment
of the higher grade of rank which they so much covet; and from the
moment they cross this same ferry commences the extinction of the
political life of the exiles. Here they exchange the name by which,
until then, they have been known in the world, for one bestowed upon
them by the authorities, and any change of the latter is punished with
five years' compulsory labor over and above the original sentence. At
Tobolsk sits the board which decides the final destination of each
culprit or each martyr. It consists of a president and assessors, having
under them a chancellerie divided into two sections, and has offices of
dispatch in several of the towns of Siberia. Before their arrival at
Tobolsk the convicts are, however, liable to be detained by the
authorities of Kasan or Perm, for the public works, in their respective
governments.

It is as the land of political exile that Siberia is generally known,
and that it has gained so unenviable a reputation among the
liberty-loving nations of Europe, whose imagination pictures it to them
as a vast unredeemable desert, whose icy atmosphere chills the breath of
life, and petrifies the soul. Yet the truly benevolent should rejoice in
circumstances which have led a government that punishes a dissentient
word as severely as the direst crime, to select exile as the extreme
penalty of the law. Siberia is, it is true, the great prison-house of
Russia; but it is a prison-house through which the blessed light of the
sun shines, through which the free air of plain and mountain plays, and
in which the prisoner, though he may not labor in a self-elected field,
may still devote his faculties to the benefit of his fellow-creatures,
and continue the great task of moral and intellectual progress. How
different his lot from that of the Austrian prisoner of state, doomed to
drag on long years of a miserable existence in the dungeons of
Spielberg, or some other fortress, severed from all intercourse with the
world beyond his prison-walls, deprived even of the light of day, and
left in solitude and forced idleness to brood over his dark and
despairing thoughts.




APPLICATION OF ELECTRO-MAGNETIC POWER TO RAILWAY TRANSIT.


One of the most wonderful characteristics of scientific discovery is the
singular way in which every advance connects itself with past phases of
progress. Each new victory over the stubborn properties of matter not
only gives man increase of power on its own account, but also reacts on
older conquests, and makes them more productive. Thirty years ago, Davy
and Arago observed that iron-filings became magnetic when lying near a
wire that was carrying a current of galvanic electricity. Since then
powerful temporary magnets have been made for various purposes by
surrounding bars of soft iron by coils of copper-wire, and transmitting
electric currents through these. In fact, it has been ascertained that
iron always becomes a magnet when electricity is passed round it. The
alarm-bells of the electric telegraphs are set ringing by a simple
application of this principle. A conducting wire is made to run for
hundreds of miles, and then coils itself round an iron bar. Electric
currents are sent at will through the hundreds of miles of wire, and the
inert iron becomes an active magnet. Observe the clerk in the Telegraph
Office at London. When he jerks the handle that is before him, he turns
on a stream of electricity that runs to Liverpool or Edinburgh, as the
case may be. In either of those places a piece of iron that is twisted
round with the extremity of the wire becomes a magnet for an instant,
and attracts to itself a steel armature that is connected with a train
of wheel-work. The motion of the armature, as it is drawn up to the
magnet, sets free a spring that was before kept quiet; and this gives
token of its freedom by making an alarm-bell to ring. The clerk in
London awakens the attention of the clerk in Edinburgh by turning a
piece of soft iron placed near to the latter into a magnet for a few
seconds. He is able to do this because currents of electricity induce
magnetism in iron. This, and this alone, is the secret principle to
which he is indebted for the wonderful power that enables him to
annihilate space when he instantaneously attracts the attention of an
ear hundreds of miles away.

It has recently been announced that this electro-magnetic induction has
been made a means for the instantaneous registration of astronomical
observations. We have already to draw attention to another practical
application of the principle. M. Niklès has just invented an arrangement
of apparatus that enables him to make the wheels of locomotives bite the
rails with any degree of force without increasing the weight that has to
be carried to the extent of a single grain. Our readers are aware that
in wet weather the driving-wheels of locomotives often slip round upon
the rail without acquiring the power of moving the weight that is
attached behind them. Whenever they are asked to ascend inclined planes
with a weight that is beyond the adhesive powers of their wheels this
result invariably follows; and the only practical escape from the
difficulty hitherto has been the adoption of one of two
expedients--either to increase their own intrinsic weight, so that the
earth's attraction might bind the wheels down more firmly, or to let the
railway be level and the load to be dragged proportionally light. In
either of these cases a waste of power is experienced. Power is either
expended in moving a superfluous load, or the same amount of power drags
less weight even upon a level rail than it otherwise could upon an
ascending one, that would have required less outlay in its construction.
It therefore becomes a great desideratum to find some means of making
the locomotive wheels bite more tenaciously without increasing the load
they have to carry. The important problem of how to do this it is that
M. Niklès has solved.

If our readers will take a common horse-shoe magnet, and slide the
connecting slip of steel that rests upon its ends backward and forward,
they will feel that the slip sticks to the magnet with a certain degree
of force. M. Niklès' plan is to convert the wheel of the locomotive into
a magnet, and make it stick to the iron rail by a like adhesion. This he
does by placing a galvanic battery under the body of the engine. A wire
coming from the poles of this battery is then coiled horizontally round
the lower part of the wheel, close to the rail, but in such a way that
the wheel turns round freely within it, fresh portions of its
circumference coming continually into relation with the coil. The part
of the wheel in immediate contact with the rail is thus made magnetic,
and therefore has a strong adhesion for the surface along which it
moves--and the amount of the adhesion may be increased or diminished at
any time, by merely augmenting or reducing the intensity of the galvanic
current that circulates through the surrounding coil. By means of a
handle the electricity may be turned on or off, and an effectual break
be thus brought into activity that can make the iron rail smooth or
adhesive according to the requirements of the instant, and this without
in any way interfering with the free rotation of the wheels as the
friction-breaks of necessity do. Increased adhesion is effected by
augmented pressure, but the pressure results from an attraction that is
altogether independent of weight. The lower portion of the wheel for the
time being is in exactly the same condition as a bar of soft iron placed
within a coil of wire circulating electricity. But as it rises up out of
the coil during the rotation of the wheel, it grows less and less
magnetic, the descending portions of the opposite side of the
circumference acquiring increased magnetic power in the like degree.

M. Niklès' experiments have been made with large locomotives in full
operation; and he states as the result, that the velocity of the wheel's
motion does not in any way affect the development of the magnetic force.
He finds the condition of the rail, as regards wetness or dryness, to be
quite unimportant to the success of his apparatus, and he has already
managed by its aid to achieve an ascent as rapid as one in five.




THE STOLEN ROSE.


Geraldine Delisle was the year previous to the late Revolution, which in
one day shattered one of the great monarchies of the earth, the reigning
belle in her circle. Lovely in form and face, she wanted but to correct
some trifling defects of character to be perfect. But if she had large
black eyes and massive brow, and beautiful hair and white teeth--if she
had a lily-white hand and tiny feet, she knew it too well, and knew the
power of her charms over man. She loved admiration, and never was so
happy as when in a ball-room all the men were almost disputing for the
honor of her hand. But Geraldine had no declared suitor; she never gave
the slightest encouragement to any one. Many offered themselves, but
they were invariably rejected, until at twenty her parents began to be
alarmed at the prospect of her never marrying. M. and Mme Delisle had
found so much genuine happiness in marriage--the only natural state for
adult human beings--that they had promoted the early marriage of two
sons and an elder daughter; and now that Geraldine alone remained, they
earnestly desired to see her well and happily married before they died.
They received numerous offers: but the young girl had such winning ways
with her parents, that when she declared that she did not like the
proposer, they never had courage to insist.

During the season of 1847 Geraldine never missed a party or ball. She
never tired as long as there was music to listen to, and it was
generally very nearly morning before she gained her home. About the
middle of the season she was sitting by her mother's side in the
splendid _salons_ of the Princess Menzikoff. She had been dancing, and
her late partner was saying a few words, to which she scarcely made any
reply. Her eyes were fixed upon a gentleman, who, after observing her
for some time, had turned away in search of some one. He was the
handsomest man she had ever seen in her life, and she was curious to
know who he was. A little above the middle height, slight, pale, with
great eyes, soft in repose like those of a woman, he had at once
interested Geraldine, who, like most women, could excuse every bad
feature in a man save insipid or unmeaning eyes; and she asked her
mother who he was.

"He's a very bad man," said Mme Delisle. "Of noble family, rich,
titled, young, and handsome, he is celebrated only for his follies. He
throws away thousands on very questionable pleasures, and has the
unpardonable fault, in my eyes of always ridiculing marriage."

"I can not forgive him for ridiculing marriage, mamma, but I can excuse
him for not wishing to marry."

"My dear, a man who dislikes marriage is never a good man. A woman may
from caprice or from many motives object to marrying, but a man, except
when under the influence of hopeless affection--and men have rarely
feeling enough for this--always must be a husband to be a good citizen."

"Ah, mamma, you have been so happy that you think all must be so; but
you see many who are not."

"Mme Delisle," said the Princess Menzikoff, who unperceived had come
round to her, "allow me to introduce you to my friend Alfred de
Rougement. I must not call him count, he being what we call a democrat
with a clean face and white kid-gloves."

"The princess is always satirical," replied M. de Rougement smiling;
"and my harmless opposition to the government now in power, and which
she honors with her patronage; is all her ground for so terrible an
announcement."

Mme Delisle and Geraldine both started and colored, and when Alfred de
Rougement proposed for the next dance, was accepted, though next minute
the mother would gladly have found any excuse to have prevented her
daughter from dancing. Alfred de Rougement was the very "bad man" whom
she had the instant before been denouncing. But it was now too late.
From that evening Geraldine never went to a ball without meeting Alfred.
She received many invitations from most unexpected quarters, but as
surely as she went she found her new admirer, who invited her to dance
as often as he could without breaking the rules of etiquette. And yet he
rarely spoke; the dance once over, he brought her back to her mother's
side, and left her without saying a word, coming back when his turn came
again with clockwork regularity. In their drives Mme Delisle and
Geraldine were always sure to meet him. Scarcely was the carriage
rolling up the Champs Elysées before he was on horseback within sight.
He merely bowed as he passed, however, keeping constantly in sight
without endeavoring to join them.

One evening, though invited to an early soirée and to a late ball,
during dinner they changed their mind, and decided on going to the Opera
at the very opening, to hear some favorite music which Geraldine very
much admired. They had not yet risen from dessert when a note came from
Alfred de Rougement, offering them his box, one of the best in the
house!

"Why he is a regular Monte Christo," cried Mme Delisle impatiently.
"How can he know our movements so well?"

"He must have bribed some one of the servants," replied Geraldine; "we
talked just now of where we were going before they left the room."

"But what does he mean?" said Mme Delisle. "Is he going to give up his
enmity to marriage, and propose for you!"

"I don't know, mamma," exclaimed the daughter, coloring very much; "but
he may spare himself the trouble."

"Geraldine--Geraldine! you will always then make me unhappy!" said her
mother, shaking her head.

"But you can not want me to marry Alfred? You told me every thing
against him yourself."

"But if he is going to marry and be steady, I owe him an apology. But go
and dress; you want to hear the overture."

They went to Alfred's box--father, mother, and daughter. But though in
the house, he scarcely came near them. He came in to inquire after their
health, claimed Geraldine's hand for the opening quadrille at the soirée
to which they were going after the opera, and went away. The young girl
rather haughtily accepted his offer, and then turned round to attend to
the music and singing.

Next day, to the astonishment of both M. and Mme Delisle, Alfred de
Rougement proposed for the hand of their daughter, expressing the
warmest admiration for her, and declaring with earnestness that the
happiness of his whole life depended on her decision. Geraldine was
referred to. She at once refused him, giving no reason, but expressing
regret that she could not share his sentiments. The young man cast one
look of reproach at her, rose, and went away without a word. When he was
gone she explained to her parents, that though in time she thought she
should have liked him, she did not admire his mode of paying his
addresses; she thought he ought to have spoken to her first. Mme
Delisle replied, that she now very much admired him, and liked his
straightforward manner; but Geraldine stopped the conversation by
reminding her that he was rejected, and that all discussion was now
useless.

That evening Geraldine danced several times with her cousin Edouard
Delisle, a young man who for a whole year had paid his addresses to her.
They were at a house in the Faubourg St. Germain, where the ball-room
opened into a splendid conservatory. Geraldine was dressed in white,
with one beautiful rose in her hair, its only ornament. Edouard had been
dancing with her, and now sat down by her side. They had never been so
completely alone. They occupied a corner near the end, with a dense mass
of trees behind them and a tapestry door. Edouard once again spoke of
his love and passion, vowed that if she would not consent to be his he
should never be happy; all this in a tone which showed how fully he
expected to be again refused.

"If you can get mamma's consent, Edouard," she replied quickly, "I am
not unwilling to be your wife."

Edouard rose from his seat and stood before her the picture of
astonishment. Geraldine rose at the same time.

"But where is your rose?" said the young man, still scarcely able to
speak with surprise.

"It is gone--cut away with a knife!" replied she thoughtfully; "but
never mind; let us look for mamma."

Edouard took her arm, and in a few minutes the whole family were united.
The young man drew his uncle away from a card-table, saying that
Geraldine wished to go home. After handing his aunt and cousin to their
carriage, he got in after them, quite an unusual thing for him.

"Why, Edouard, you are going out of your way," said the father.

"I know it. But I can not wait until to-morrow. M. Delisle, will you
give me your daughter's hand? Geraldine has given her consent."

"My dear girl," exclaimed her mother, "why did you not tell us this
before? You would have saved us so much pain, and your other suitors the
humiliation of being rejected."

"I did not make up my mind until this evening," replied Geraldine. "I do
not think I should have accepted him to-morrow. But he was cunning
enough to come and propose before I had time for reflection."

"You will then authorize me to accept him?" said M. Delisle.

"I have accepted him, papa," replied Geraldine.

That evening Edouard entered the house with them, and sat talking for
some time. When he went away, he had succeeded in having the wedding
fixed for that day-month. Geraldine looked pale the next day; and when
her mamma noticed it, said that she should go to no more parties, as she
wished to look well the day she was married, and expressed a wish to go
on excursions into the country instead. Mme Delisle freely acquiesced,
Edouard came to dinner, looking much pleased, but still under the
influence of the astonishment which had not yet been effaced from his
plump and rosy face.

"Why, what do you think?" he said toward the end of the dinner, "Alfred
de Rougement has left Paris. All his servants were dismissed this
morning, and his steward received orders to meet him at Constantinople."

"Indeed?" replied Mme Delisle, gravely, while Geraldine turned deadly
pale. "But this room is too close for you, my child."

"No, mamma," said she, quietly; "but we are forgetting all about our
excursions. I should like to go to Versailles to-morrow, and take all
the pretty places round Paris in turn."

"_Bon!_" cried Edouard; "that suits me. I shall be with you early, for I
suppose you will go in the morning?"

"I want to breakfast at Versailles," replied Geraldine; "so we must go
to bed early."

"That I vote to be an admirable proposition. At eleven I will go. But
you are going to practice the new variations on _Pastoris_, are you
not?"

"Yes; and you are going to sing, monsieur," said Geraldine, rising from
table. "So come along, and ma and papa can play trictrac all the time."

That evening the cousins played and sang together until about ten, when
they took tea, which Edouard, good-natured fellow, pretended to like
prodigiously, drinking three cups of milk and water under the serious
impression that it was the genuine infusion--a practice very common in
France, where tea is looked on as dangerous to the nerves. Next day they
went to Versailles, breakfasted at the Hôtel de France, visited the
interminable galleries of pictures, and dined in Paris at a late hour.
The day after they went to Montmorency.

Swiftly passed the hours, and days, and weeks, and soon Geraldine saw
the last day which was to be her own. In twenty-four hours she was to
leave her mother's home forever, to share that of a man to whom it must
be supposed she was very much attached, but who was not exactly the
companion suited to her. Geraldine was very grave that morning. It had
been arranged that they were to go to St. Germain; and though the sky
was a little dark, the young girl insisted on the excursion not being
put off.

"This is the last day I shall have any will of my own," said she; "so
let me exercise it."

"My dear Geraldine," replied her cousin, kindly, "you will always find
me ready to yield to you in every thing. I shall be a model husband, for
I am too lazy to oppose any one."

"My dear Edouard," put in Mme Delisle, "a man who consults his wife's
happiness will always be happy himself. We are very easily pleased when
we see you try to please us. The will is every thing to us."

"Then let us start," said Edouard, laughing, "it will pass the time, and
I am eager to try."

They entered the open carriage which they usually used for their
excursions, and started, the sun now shining very brightly. Edouard was
full of spirits: he seemed bursting with happiness, and was forced to
speak incessantly to give it vent. Geraldine was very grave, though she
smiled at her cousin's sallies, and every now and then answered in her
own playful, witty way. The parents, though happy, were serious too.
They were about to lose their last child, and though they knew she would
be always near them, a feeling of involuntary loneliness came over them.
A marriage-day is always for affectionate parents a day of sorrowful
pleasure--a link in the chain of sacrifices which makes a parent's love
so beautiful and holy, so like what we can faintly trace in thought as
the love of the Creator for man.

They took the road by Bongiral, and they were about a mile distant from
that place when suddenly they found themselves caught in a heavy shower.
The coachman drove hastily for shelter into the midst of a grove of
trees, which led up to a villa that appeared totally uninhabited. But it
was not so; for the _porte cochère_ flew wide open as they drew up, and
two servants advancing, requested them to take shelter in the house.

"But we are intruding?" said Mme Delisle.

"No, madame. Our master is out, but had he been at home he would insist
as we do."

Edouard leaped out, and set the example of compliance. The whole party
followed the servants, who led the way into a splendidly-furnished suite
of rooms. The style was that of the _renaissance_, of the richest
materials, while the walls were covered with genuine paintings by the
first masters. The servants then left them, and they were heard next
minute assisting to take the horses from the carriage. The rain fell
heavily all the time.

"Upon my word we are very fortunate," said Mme Delisle: "in ten minutes
we should have been soaked through. The master of the house must be some
very noble-minded man; no ordinary person would have such polite and
attentive servants."

"Some eccentric foreigner," said Edouard: "all his servants are men; I
don't see the sign of a petticoat any where."

"Some woman-hater, perhaps," said Geraldine, laughing, as she took from
the table before her a celebrated satire against the sex.

"All the more polite of him," said Mme Delisle, while looking with
absolute horror at a book which she knew spoke irreverently of marriage.

"If you will pass this way," said a servant entering, "we shall have the
honor to offer you breakfast. The rain has set in for some hours, and
your servants spoke of your wishing to breakfast at St. Germain. But you
will not be able to wait so long."

The whole party looked unfeignedly surprised; but there was no resisting
a servant who spoke so politely, and who threw open a door whence they
discovered a table magnificently laid out. Several servants were ready
to wait.

"_Ma foi!_" cried Edouard, "there is no resisting such temptation. You
seem to know your master's character, and we take your word for it that
he would make us welcome."

With these words he gave Geraldine his arm, and led the way, setting the
example also of attacking the delicate viands offered to them so
unexpectedly. All breakfasted with appetite after their ride, and then
returned to the room they had first occupied. The shower was over, and
the warm sun was quickly clearing away all sign of the rain.

"What a beautiful house and grounds your master has here!" exclaimed
Edouard: "the garden appears to me even better than the house."

"It is very beautiful," said the servant addressed.

"Can we go over it?" continued the young man.

"Certainly, monsieur: I was about to offer to show it you."

"I shall remain here," said Geraldine; "my shoes are very thin; besides
I wish to have another look at the pictures."

Edouard demurred, but the young girl bade him go at once; and, like an
obedient lover, he took the mamma's arm, and went into the garden.

The instant all were gone Geraldine rose from her chair and tottered
across the room. She was pale, and looked cautiously round, as if about
to do some guilty act. Presently she stood before a curtain which had
been hastily drawn before a kind of niche in the wall, or rather before
a portion of the room. But it had been done very quickly, and through
two apartures you could see stained glass, and on a small table
something under a glass-case. Geraldine could not restrain herself. She
pulled away the curtain, and there, under a large glass on a velvet
cushion, lay the rose which had been cut from her head-dress on the
night she had accepted the hand of her cousin. Near it was a
pencil-sketch of herself.

"My God!" she cried, passionately, "he did love me then: what a fool I
have been! Wicked pride, to what will you lead me?"

"My Geraldine," exclaimed Alfred, who rose from a chair where he had
been seated in a dark corner, "pardon me! But I could not resist the
temptation. To see, to hear you once more, for the last time, was my
only wish. Do you forgive me?"

"Do you forgive _me_?" said Geraldine, hanging down her head, and
speaking in a low, soft, sweet voice, that had never been hers before.

"My God!--what?" exclaimed Alfred, who, pale and trembling, stood by her
side.

"You will not force me to say, Alfred," she continued in a beseeching
tone.

"Do I understand aright? O forgive me, Geraldine, if I say too much; but
is it possible that you do not hate me?"

"Hate you, Alfred! How can I hate one so generous and good? If you think
me not bold to say it, I will say I love you. After behaving as I did,
that confession will be my punishment."

"My Geraldine! then why did you refuse me?" cried Alfred, in a tone of
passionate delight.

"Because you did not seem to love me; because you only in my eyes sought
to marry me because others did."

"Geraldine, I seemed cold because I loved you with all my heart and
soul. But I was a known satirist on marriage, and I was ashamed to let
the world see my deep affection. I wanted them to think that I married
merely because it was a triumph to carry off the reigning belle."

"You deceived me and all the world together," replied Geraldine; "but to
own the truth, after you were gone and took my rose with you, I guessed
the truth."

"The rose! but did you know--"

"I guessed--"

"My God!" cried Edouard, returning alone to fetch Geraldine, to whom he
wanted to show the garden, "what is the meaning of this?"

"My good cousin," said Geraldine, advancing toward him, and taking both
his hands, "come here; you will forgive Geraldine, won't you? I have
been very wicked. Do excuse your cousin, will you not? but I was only
going to marry you because I thought Alfred did not love me."

"_Hein!_" cried Edouard, quite bewildered.

"Don't be angry with me," continued Geraldine, gravely: "I should have
been a very good wife, and have loved you very much had I married you."

"Oh, then, you do not mean to marry me now?" said Edouard, in a tone of
deep sadness.

"What am I to do?" cried Geraldine. "See, my dear cousin, how he loved
me! How can I marry you when my heart is given to another?"

"You were going to do so, but for a shower of rain," said Edouard, with
a vain attempt at gravity. "But take her, M. Alfred: I think after all
I'm lucky to have escaped her! I don't forgive you a bit, because it's
hard to find out that when at last one thinks one's self loved, the lady
was only pretending."

"You do forgive me!" exclaimed Geraldine, shaking her head, and putting
his hand into that of Alfred, who shook it warmly.

"Yes, yes!--of course you're pleased! But I must marry now. I shall ask
Hélène at Bordeaux to have me, as nobody there will know any thing about
my present mishap."

At this moment M. and Mme Delisle returned; their astonishment was of
course very great. Edouard gravely introduced the young couple.

"You see, madame," he said, "that while you were walking round the
garden, I have managed to lose my wife, and you to find a son-in-law."

"But, my Geraldine," exclaimed her mother, "are you not behaving very
badly to Edouard?"

"Not at all!" said the young man: "I could not think of marrying her.
Look at her! Five minutes with Alfred has done her more good than all
her excursions in search of roses!"

"Mischievous man to betray me!" said Geraldine in her turn, warmly
shaking his hand.

"But what will the world say?" exclaimed M. Delisle.

"I will tell the truth," said Alfred; and in a few words he explained
the cause of the refusal of Geraldine to have him.

It was now settled that the day should be spent at the villa; that in
the evening they should return to Paris, without the count, who was to
present himself only next day. He agreed to own frankly to all his
friends the depth and sincerity of his affection, while Edouard
good-naturedly volunteered to tell every one that he had been turned
off--a promise which he gravely kept, relating his discomfiture in a way
that drew tears of laughter from all his hearers.

And Geraldine and Alfred were married, to the surprise of the world.
They were both cured of their former errors, and I know no instance of a
happier marriage than that of M. and Mme de Rougement. He is now a
member of the Legislative Assembly, and is remarked for the liberality
of his opinions--being one of the many ex-legitimists who have gone over
to the moderate republican party. Edouard married his country cousin.
Both young couples have children, and both are happy: the only revenge
the young man having taken is to persevere on all occasions, even before
his own wife, in calling Geraldine "The Stolen Rose."




THOMAS MOORE.


Thomas Moore, a man of brilliant gifts and large acquirements, if not an
inspired poet, was born on the 28th of May, 1780, in Augier-street,
Dublin, where his father carried on a respectable business as a grocer
and spirit-dealer. Both his parents were strict Roman Catholics, and he,
of course, was educated in the same faith; at that time under the ban
not only of penal statutes, but of influential opinion both in Great
Britain and Ireland. Thus humble and unpromising were the birth and
early prospects of an author who--thanks to the possession of great
popular talent, very industriously cultivated and exercised, together
with considerable tact and prudence, and pleasing social
accomplishments--won for himself not only the general fame which
ordinarily attends the successful display of genius, but the especial
sympathy and admiration of his countrymen and fellow-religionists, and
the smiles and patronage of a large and powerful section of the English
aristocracy, at whose tables and in whose drawing-rooms his sparkling
wit and melodious patriotism rendered him an ever-welcome guest. Few
men, indeed, have passed more pleasantly through the world than Thomas
Moore. His day of life was one continual sunshine, just sufficiently
tempered and shaded by passing clouds--"mere crumpling of the
rose-leaves"--as to soften and enhance its general gayety and
brightness. With its evening thick shadows came--the crushing loss of
children--and the gray-haired poet, pressed by his heavy grief, has
turned in his latter years from the gay vanities of brilliant society,
and sought peace and consolation in seclusion, and the zealous
observance of the precepts and discipline of the church to which he is,
not only from early training and association, but by temperament and
turn of mind, devotedly attached.

As a child, Moore was, we are told, remarkable for personal beauty, and
might have sat, says a writer not over-friendly to him, "as Cupid for a
picture." This early promise was not fulfilled. Sir Walter Scott,
speaking of him in 1825, says: "He is a little, very little man--less, I
think, than Lewis, whom he resembles: his countenance is plain, but very
animated when speaking or singing." The lowness of his stature was a
sore subject with Moore--almost as much, and as absurdly so, as the
malformation of his foot was with Lord Byron. Leigh Hunt, in a work
published between twenty and thirty years ago, gives the following
detailed portrait of the Irish poet: "His forehead is bony and full of
character, with bumps of wit large and radiant enough to transport a
phrenologist; his eyes are as dark and fine as you would wish to see
under a set of vine-leaves; his mouth, generous and good-humored, with
dimples; 'his nose, sensual and prominent, and at the same time the
reverse of aquiline: there is a very peculiar characteristic in it--as
if it were looking forward to and scenting a feast or an orchard.' The
face, upon the whole, is Irish, not unruffled by care and passion, but
festivity is the predominant expression." In Mr. Hunt's autobiography,
not long since published, this portrait is repeated, with the exception
of the words we have inclosed within single inverted commas--struck out
possibly from a lately-awakened sense of their injustice; and it is
added that "his (Moore's) manner was as bright as his talk was full of
the wish to please and be pleased." To these testimonials as to the
personal appearance and manners of Thomas Moore, we can only add that of
Mr. Joseph Atkinson, one of the poet's most intimate and attached
friends. This gentleman, when speaking to an acquaintance of the author
of the "Melodies," said that to him "Moore always seemed an infant
sporting on the bosom of Venus." This somewhat perplexing idea of the
mature author of the songs under discussion was no doubt suggested by
the speaker's recollections of his friend's childhood.

Whatever the personal graces or defects of Mr. Moore, it is quite
certain, at all events, that he early exhibited considerable mental
power and imitative faculty. He was placed when very young with Mr.
Samuel Whyte, who kept a respectable school in Grafton-street, Dublin.
This was the Mr. Whyte who attempted to educate Richard Brinsley
Sheridan, and pronounced him to be "an incorrigible dunce;" a verdict in
which at the time the mother of the future author of the "School for
Scandal" fully concurred. Mr. Whyte, it seems, delighted in private
theatricals, and his labors in this mode of diffusing entertaining
knowledge were, it appears, a good deal patronized by the Dublin
aristocracy. Master Moore was his "show-actor," and played frequently at
Lady Borrowes's private theatre. On one occasion the printed bills
announced "An Epilogue--_A Squeeze at St. Paul's_, by Master Moore," in
which he is said to have been very successful. These theatricals were
attended by several members of the ducal family of Leinster, the
Latouches of Dublin, with many other Irish notabilities; and it was
probably here that Moore contracted the taste for aristocratic society
which afterward became a passion with him.

The obstinate exclusion of the Catholics from the common rights of
citizenship naturally excited violent and growing discontent among that
body of religionists; and Thomas Moore's parents, albeit prudent, wary
folk, were, like thousands of others naturally sensible and pacific
people, carried away for a moment by the tremendous outburst of the
French Revolution. The meteor-blaze which suddenly leaped forth and
dazzled the astonished world, seemed a light from Heaven to the
oppressed nations of Europe; and in Ireland, especially, it was hailed
as the dawn of a great deliverance by millions whom an unwise
legislation had alienated and almost maddened. Young Moore, when little
more than twelve years of age, sat upon his father's knee at a great
banquet in Dublin, where the toast--"May the breezes from France fan our
Irish oak into verdure!" was received with a frantic vehemence which,
child as he was, left an impression upon him that did not pass away with
many years. The Day-star of Liberty, as it was termed, which arose in
France, set in blood and tempest; but the government, alarmed at the
ominous aspect of the times, relaxed (1793) the penal laws, and
Catholics, for the first time, were eligible for admission to the Dublin
University: eligible--that is, to partake of the instruction conferred
at the national seat of learning, but not for its honors or rewards.
These were still jealously reserved for the dominant caste. Young Moore
was immediately entered of Trinity College; and although he succeeded by
his assiduity and ability in extorting an acknowledgment from the
authorities that he had earned a classical degree, he was, for
religion's sake, as a matter of course, denied it. Some English verses,
however, which he presented at one of the quarterly examinations in lieu
of the usual Latin metre, were extolled; and he received a well-bound
copy of the "Travels of Anarchasis" as a reward. The young student's
proficiency in the Greek and Latin languages was also acknowledged,
though not officially.

For several previous years the thunder-cloud which burst so fatally in
1798, had been slowly gathering in Ireland. Moore sympathized with the
object, if not with the mode of operation contemplated by the opponents
of English rule in that country; and he appears to have been only saved
from serious if not fatal implication in the rebellion by the wise
admonitions of his excellent mother, aided by his own instinctive
aversion to the committal of any act which might compromise his present
and future position, by placing him among extreme men in the front and
forlorn hope of the battle, instead of amid the wiser respectabilities
of liberalism, from whose ranks a man of wit and genius may, he knew,
shoot his diamond-tipt arrows at the enemy not only without danger, but
with almost certain fame and profit to himself. Moore was intimate with
the two Emmets, and an active member of a debating-club, in which the
eldest, the unfortunate Robert, endeavored to mature his oratorical
powers against the time when his dream of political regeneration should
be realized. Toward the close of the year 1797, the, at the time,
celebrated newspaper called "The Press," was started by Arthur O'Connor,
the Emmets, and other chiefs of the United Irishmen. It was published
twice a week, and although, Mr. Moore says, not distinguished at all for
talent, had a large circulation among the excited masses. Moore first
contributed a poetical effusion--anonymously of course--and soon growing
bolder with impunity, contributed a fiery letter, which had the
questionable honor of being afterward quoted in the House of Commons by
the minister as one of his proofs that severe repressive measures were
required to put down the dangerous spirit manifested in Ireland. On the
evening this letter appeared, young Moore read it after supper to the
assembled family--his heart beating violently all the while lest the
sentiments it contained, and the style in which they were expressed,
should reveal the eloquent author. His fears were groundless; no one
suspected him; and the only remark elicited by the violent letter was a
quiet one from his sister--"that it was rather strong!" Next day his
mother, through the indiscretion of a person connected with the
newspaper, discovered his secret, and commanded him, as he valued her
blessing, to disconnect himself at once from so dangerous a pursuit and
companionship. The young man obeyed, and the storm of 1798 passed over
harmlessly for him. Moore was once slightly questioned upon the subject
of the apprehended conspiracy by Lord Chancellor Clare, who insisted
upon compelling a disclosure, upon oath, of any knowledge the students
of the university might possess of the persons and plans of the
plotters. Moore at first declined being sworn, alleging in excuse that
he had never taken an oath, and although perfectly unconscious himself
of offense against the government, that he might unwittingly compromise
others. This odd excuse Lord Clare, after consulting with Duigenan,
famous for his anti-papist polemics, declined to receive, and Moore was
sworn. Three or four questions were asked as to his knowledge of any
conspiracy to overthrow the government, by violence; and these briefly
answered, the matter ended. This is Mr. Moore's own version of a scene
which has been rendered in various amusing and exaggerated forms.

The precocity of Moore's rhyming genius had been also exemplified by a
sonnet, written when he was only fourteen years of age, and inserted in
a Dublin magazine called "The Anthologia." Two or three years later he
composed a Masque, which was performed by himself, his elder sister, and
some young friends, in the little drawing-room over the shop in
Augier-street, a friend, afterward a celebrated musician, enacting
orchestra on the piano-forte. One of the songs of the masque was
written to the air of Haydn's Spirit Song, and obtained great applause.
Master Moore belonged, moreover, to a band of gay spirits who
occasionally amused themselves by a visit to Dalkey, a small island in
the Bay of Dublin, electing one Stephen Armitage, a respectable
pawnbroker, and "very agreeable singer," King of that Ilk. On one of
these coronation days King Stephen conferred the honor of knighthood
upon Incledon, with the title of Sir Charles Melody; and he created Miss
Battier, a rhyming lady, Henrietta, Countess of Laurel, and His
Majesty's Poetess-Laureate. The working laureate was, however, Master
Moore, and in that capacity he first tried his hand at political
squibbing, by launching some not very brilliant sarcasms against
governments in general. Lord Clare, we are told, was half alarmed at
this Dalkey court and its poets, and insisted upon an explanation from
one of the mock officials. This is, however, we believe, a fable, though
at the time a current one.

In 1799, being then only in his twentieth year, Thomas Moore arrived in
London, for the purpose of entering himself of the Middle Temple, and
publishing his translation of the Odes of Anacreon. He had already
obtained the friendship of Earl Moira, and that nobleman procured him
permission to dedicate the work to the Prince of Wales. His poetical
career may now be said to have fairly commenced. It was a long and
brilliant one, most of his works having rapidly passed through numerous
editions, and been, perhaps, more extensively read than those of any
contemporary author, always excepting the romances of Scott. There can
be no reasonable doubt that Moore owed much of this popularity and
success to the accident of his position, and the favoring circumstances
of the times in which he wrote. The _enfant gaté_ of high and
influential circles; as well as the melodious expositor and
poet-champion of the wrongs of a nation to whose glorious music he has,
happily for himself, married much of his sweetest verse, he dwelt in a
peculiar and irradiating atmosphere, which greatly enhanced his real
magnitude and brightness. Even now, when the deceptive medium has lost
its influence, it is somewhat difficult, and may seem ungracious, to
assign his true place in the splendid galaxy of British poets to a
writer who has contributed so largely to the delight of the reading and
musical population of these kingdoms.

The Odes of Anacreon obtained much present popularity at a time when the
moralities of respectable literature were not so strictly enforced by
public opinion as in the present day. Many of them are paraphrases
rather than translations, containing, as Dr. Laurence, Burke's friend,
remarked at the time, "pretty turns not to be found in Anacreon."

"Thomas Little's Poems, Songs," &c., given to the world by Mr. Moore in
1801, are a collection of puerile rhapsodies still more objectionable
than the Anacreontic Odes: and the only excuse for them was the extreme
youth of the writer. Byron thus alluded to the book in his once famous
satire:

  "'Tis Little, young Catullus of his day,
  As sweet but as immoral in his lay."

Many years afterward his lordship, in a letter to Moore (1820),
reverted, half in jest, half in earnest, to the work in these words, "I
believe all the mischief I have ever done or sung has been owing to that
confounded book of yours." The most objectionable of these songs have
been omitted from the recent editions of Moore's works, and we believe
no one has more deplored their original publication than the author
himself.

In 1803, thanks to his verses and Lord Moira's patronage, Moore obtained
a place under the government--that of Registrar to the Court of
Admiralty at Bermuda. Moore sailed in the _Phoenix_ frigate, and took
formal possession of his post; but he soon wearied of the social
monotony of the "still vexed Bermoothes," hastily appointed a deputy to
perform all the duties of his office for a share of the income, and
betook himself to America. He was as much out of his proper element
there as in Bermuda. The rugged republicanism of the States disgusted
him, and after a brief glance at Canada he returned to England, having
been absent about fifteen months.

Soon after his return he favored the world with his impressions of
Bermuda, the United States, and Canada. His sketches of Bermudan scenery
have been pronounced by Captain Basil Hall and others to be extremely
accurate and vivid. On the truthfulness of his American social and
political pictures and prophecies, Time--a much higher authority--has
unmistakably delivered judgment. While in Canada, Mr. Moore composed the
popular "Boat-song," the words and air of which were, he says, inspired
by the scenery and circumstances which the verses portray, and by the
measured chant of the Canadian rowers. Captain Hall also testifies to
the fidelity of this descriptive song.

The republication in 1806 of Juvenile Songs, Odes, &c., elicited a
fierce and contemptuous denunciation of them from the Edinburgh Review,
and this led to a hostile meeting between the editor of that
publication, the late Lord Jeffrey, and Mr. Moore. They met at Chalk
Farm, near Hampstead; but the progress of the duel was interrupted by
police officers, who, on examining the pistols of the baffled
combatants, found that they had been charged with powder only. This was
probably a sensible device--it was not at all an uncommon one--on the
part of the seconds to prevent mischief; or, it might have been, as is
usually believed, that the bullets dropped out of one or both of the
pistols by the jolting of the carriages in which the combatants reached
the field of expected battle; but of course the discovery created a
great laugh at the time. Moore indignantly denied through the newspapers
that he was cognizant of the innocent state of Mr. Jeffrey's pistol--an
assertion there can not be the slightest reason for doubting. This droll
incident led to his subsequent acquaintance with Lord Byron, who,
unmindful or regardless of Mr. Moore's denial of the "calumny," repeated
it with variations in his "English Bards and Scotch Reviewers," chiefly
with a view to annoy Mr. Jeffrey. Moore was again indignant, and
demanded an apology or satisfaction. His letter did not, however, reach
the noble lord till many months afterward, when _explanations_ ensued,
and the affair terminated by a dinner at the house of Mr. Rogers, where
the four poets, Byron, Campbell, Moore, and Rogers, met each other for
the first time.

The intimacy thus commenced, if we may judge from the biography of
Byron, ripened into a lasting friendship on the part of Moore. This
feeling was but faintly reciprocated by Byron. Indeed, if we are to
believe his own statement, made in one of his latest letters, the noble
poet was almost incapable of friendship, "never having," he says,
"except toward Lord Clare, whom he had known from infancy, and perhaps
little Moore," experienced any such emotion. "Little Tommy dearly loves
a lord," was Byron's sneering expression more than once; and perhaps he
believed Moore's loudly-expressed regard for himself to be chiefly based
on that predilection.

Moore had before this married a Miss Dyke, who is described as a lady of
great beauty and amiability, and moreover distinguished for considerable
decision of character and strong common sense--qualities which more than
once proved of essential service to her husband. They had several
children, the loss of whom, as we have before stated, has darkened and
embittered the close of the poet's days.

In 1811, Moore made a first and last appearance before the world as a
dramatist, by the production at the Lyceum theatre of an operatic piece
called "An M.P.; or, The Blue Stocking." It was emphatically damned,
notwithstanding two or three pleasing songs, which somewhat redeemed its
dull and vapid impertinence. The very pretty song of "Young Love lived
once in an humble shed," occurs in this piece. Moore's acquaintance with
Leigh Hunt dates from the acting of the "Blue Stocking." Mr. Hunt was at
the time editor of the "Examiner" newspaper, in which he had just before
paid some compliments to Moore's poetry; and the nervous dramatist,
naturally anxious to propitiate a critic whose opinion was esteemed
oracular in certain circles, wrote him a rather fulsome letter, in which
he set forth, as an _ad misericordiam_ plea for lenient judgment, that
he had rashly been induced to promise Arnold a piece for his theatre, in
consequence of the state of attenuation to which the purses of poets are
proverbially liable. The "M.P." was, as we have said, condemned, and
Esop's disappointed fox received another illustration. "Writing bad
jokes," quoth Mr. Moore, "for the Lyceum to make the galleries laugh is
in itself sufficiently degrading; but to try to make them laugh, and
fail to do so, is indeed deplorable." In sooth, to make "galleries"
either laugh or weep was never Mr. Moore's aim or vocation. His eye was
ever fixed upon the gay company of the "boxes," occasionally only
glancing apprehensively aside from its flattering homage to scan the
faces of the sour critics of the pit. And yet to make the galleries of
the theatre and the world laugh has tasked and evidenced wit and humor,
in comparison with which the gayest sallies, the most sparkling of Mr.
Moore's fancies, are vapidity itself. The mortified dramatist gave up
play-writing forever, or, as he contemptuously expressed it, "made a
hearty abjuration of the stage and all its heresies of pun, equivoque,
and clap-trap." He was wise in doing so. The discretion evinced by the
hasty retreat was only exceeded by the rashness of the venture.

The intimacy of Thomas Moore and Leigh Hunt continued for some years.
Moore, in company with Lord Byron, dined once or twice with Hunt in
prison during his confinement for a pretended libel upon the regent. A
pertinent anecdote, throwing some light on Byron's sneer respecting
Moore's love of lords, is told of one of these visits. The three
friends, Byron, Moore, and Hunt, were walking before dinner in the
prison garden, when a shower of rain came on, and Moore ran into the
house, and upstairs, leaving his companions to follow as they best
might. Consciousness of the discourtesy of such behavior toward his
noble companion quickly flashed upon him, and he was overwhelmed with
confusion. Mr. Hunt tried to console him. "I quite forgot at the
moment," said Moore, "whom I was walking with; but I was forced to
remember it by his not coming up. I could not in decency go on, and to
return was awkward." This anxiety--on account of Byron's lameness--Mr.
Hunt remarks, appeared to him very amiable.

This friendship came to an abrupt and unpleasant close. Lord Byron
agreed with Hunt and Shelley to start a new periodical, to be called
"The Liberal," the profits of which were to go to Leigh Hunt. Byron's
parody on Southey's "Vision of Judgment" appeared in it, and ultimately
William Hazlitt became a contributor. Moore immediately became alarmed
for his noble friend's character, which he thought would be compromised
by his connection with Hunt and Hazlitt, and wrote to entreat him to
withdraw himself from a work which had "a taint in it," and from
association with men upon whom society "had set a mark." His prayer was
complied with, and the two last-named gentlemen were very angry, as well
they might be. There has been a good deal of crimination and
recrimination between the parties on the subject, not at all worth
reproducing. The truth is that both Hunt and Hazlitt, but especially the
latter, were at the time under the ban of influential society and a then
powerful Tory press; and Moore, with his usual prudence, declining to be
mad-dog'd in their company and for their sakes, deliberately _cut_ two
such extreme Radicals, and induced his noble friend to do likewise. How
could a prudent man who had given hostages to fortune, which Moore by
this time had, in a wife and children, act otherwise?

Moore had long cherished a hope of allying his poetry with the
expressive music of Ireland; of giving appropriate vocal utterance to
the strains which had broken fitfully from out the tumults and
tramplings of centuries of unblest rule. A noble task! in which even
partial success demands great powers and deserves high praise. The
execution of the long-meditated design now commenced; and the
"Melodies," as they appeared, obtained immense and well-deserved
popularity. It is upon these his fame, as a poet, will mainly rest; and
no one can deny that, as a whole, they exhibit great felicity of
expression, and much graceful tenderness of thought and feeling,
frequently relieved by flashes of gay and genial wit and humor. No one
could be more keenly aware, or could more gracefully acknowledge than
Moore the great help to a poet's present reputation of connecting his
verse with national or local associations.

In 1812 Moore determined on writing an Eastern tale in verse; and his
friend Mr. Perry of the "Chronicle" accompanied him to Messrs. Longman,
the publishers, to arrange for the sale of a work of which the proposed
author had not yet written a line nor even settled the subject. Mr.
Perry appears to have been an invaluable intermediary. He proposed at
once, as the basis of the negotiation, that Moore should have the
largest sum ever given for such a work. "That," observed the Messrs.
Longman, "was three thousand guineas." And three thousand guineas it was
ultimately covenanted the price should be, thanks to Moore's reputation,
and the business abilities of his friend Perry. It was further agreed
that the manuscript should be furnished at whatever time might best suit
the author's convenience, and that Messrs. Longman should accept it for
better for worse, and have no power or right to suggest alterations or
changes of any kind. The bargain was altogether a safe one on Moore's
side, and luckily it turned out equally profitable for the publishers.

In order to obtain the necessary leisure and quiet for the composition
of such a work, Moore resolved to retire from the gayeties of Holland
and Lansdowne Houses, and other mansions of his distinguished patrons
and friends, to the seclusion and tranquillity of the country. He made
choice of Mayfield Cottage, near Ashbourne in Derbyshire, and not far
distant from Donnington Park, Lord Moira's country-seat, where an
excellent library was at his service. It may be as well to mention that
when this early and influential friend of Moore went out to India as
governor-general, he apologized for not being able to present his
poetical protégé with any thing worth his acceptance in that country.
"But," said Lord Moira (Marquis of Hastings), "I can perhaps barter a
piece of India patronage against something at home that might suit you."
This offer, which would have gravely compromised Moore with his Whig
friends, he with some asperity declined. The governor-general went to
India, and Moore retired to Derbyshire, remaining, with the exception of
his Bermudan registrarship, placeless. This offer and refusal Moore
communicated by letter to Leigh Hunt.

Mayfield Cottage, when the poet and his wife arrived to view it, wore
any thing but an inviting aspect. "It was a poor place," Moore wrote,
"little better than a barn; but we at once took it, and set about making
it habitable and comfortable." He now commenced the formidable task of
working himself up into a proper Oriental state of mind for the
accomplishment of his work. The first part of this process consisted in
reading every work of authority that treated of the topography, climate,
zoology, ornithology, entomology, floriculture, horticulture,
agriculture, manners, customs, religion, ceremonies, and languages of
the East. Asiatic registers, D'Herbelot, Jones, Tavernier, Flemming, and
a host of other writers were industriously consulted; and so perfect did
Mr. Moore become in these various branches of knowledge, that a great
Eastern traveler, after reading "Lalla Rookh," and being assured that
the poet had never visited the scenes in which he placed his stories,
remarked that if it were so, a man might learn as much of those
countries by reading books as by riding on the back of a camel! This,
however, was but a part of the requisite preparation. "I am," says Mr.
Moore, "a slow, painstaking workman, and at once very imaginative and
very matter-of-fact;" and he goes on to say that the slightest exterior
interruption or contradiction to the imaginary state of things he was
endeavoring to conjure up in his brain threw all his ideas into
confusion and disarray. It was necessary, therefore, to surround himself
in some way or other with an Eastern atmosphere. How this could be
managed in the face of the snows of the Derbyshire winters, during which
the four stories which compose "Lalla Rookh" were written, it is
difficult to conceive, and perhaps to the fact that it could _not_ be
effectually done, must be ascribed the ill success which beset the poet
during an entire twelvemonth. Vainly did he string together peris and
bulbuls, and sunny apples of Totkahar: the inspiration would _not_ come.
It was all "Double, double, toil and trouble," to no purpose. Each
story, however trippingly it began, soon flagged, drooped, and, less
fortunate than that of

      ----"The bear and fiddle,
  Begun and broke off in the middle,"

expired of collapse after a brief career of a few score lines only,
frequently nothing like so many. Some of these fragments have since been
published. One of them, "The Peri's Daughter," ran to some length, and
is rather pretty and sparkling.

This uninspiring state of things seemed interminable--the three thousand
guineas were as far off as ever; and apprehension of the necessity of a
bodily journey to the East, in order to get at the genuine "atmosphere,"
must have suggested itself, when a gleam of light, in the idea of the
"Fire-Worshipers," broke in upon the poet; the multifarious collection
of Eastern materials deposited in the chambers of his brain arranged
themselves in flowing numbers, without encountering any further
accident; and at the end of three years "Lalla Rookh" was ushered
before an admiring world. Its success was immense, and the work ran
rapidly through many editions. "Paradise and the Peri," the second
story, although not so much praised as the first and third, is, we
fancy, much the most read of the four; and from its light, ringing tone,
its delicate and tender sentiment, its graceful and musical flow, will
always be a principal favorite with the admirers of Thomas Moore's
poetry.

The bow so long bent required relaxation, and in the first flush of his
great success, while his ears were still ringing with the applauses, and
his nostrils still titillating with the incense which the press showered
upon "Lalla Rookh," pronounced by general consent--"when they _do_
agree, their unanimity is wonderful"--to be unrivaled as a work of
melody, beauty, and power, Moore set out on a continental tour with his
friend and brother-poet Rogers. On his return to England he published
the "Fudge Family"--not a very brilliant performance, and which, with
the exception of its political hits, is but an imitation of "Les
Anglaises Pour Rire." He also worked at the "Melodies," and wrote
articles for the "Edinburgh Review." In 1818 one of the most pleasing
incidents in his life occurred. A public dinner was given in his honor
at Dublin, the Earl of Charlemont in the chair--the poet's venerable
father, Garret Moore, being present on the chairman's right hand, the
honored and delighted witness of the enthusiastic welcome bestowed upon
his son by his warm-hearted fellow-countrymen. Moore made a graceful,
cleverly-turned speech; but he was no orator: few literary men are. He
could not think upon his legs; and you could see by the abstraction of
his look that he was not speaking, in the popular sense, but reciting
what had previously been carefully composed and committed to memory.
Such speeches frequently read well, but if long, they are terrible
things to sit and hear.

The following year Moore accompanied Lord John Russell on a continental
tour, taking the road of the Simplon to Italy. Lord John went on to
Genoa, and Moore directed his steps toward Venice, for the purpose of
seeing Byron. It was during this visit the noble lord made Moore a
present of his personal memoirs, for publication after the writer's
death. Moore gives the following account of the transaction: "We were
conversing together when Byron rose and went out. In a minute or two he
returned carrying a white leathern bag. 'Look here!' he said, holding it
up, 'this would be worth something to Murray, though you, I daresay,
would not give sixpence for it.' 'What is it?' I asked, 'My life and
adventures,' he answered. On hearing this I raised my hands in a
gesture. 'It is not a thing that can be published during my life, but
you may have it if you like: then do whatever you please with it.' In
taking the bag, and thanking him most warmly, I added: 'This will make a
nice legacy for my little Tom, who shall astonish the latter end of the
nineteenth century with it.' He then added: 'You may show it to any of
your friends you think worthy of it.' This is as nearly as I can
recollect all that passed." These memoirs Moore sold to Murray for two
thousand guineas, but at Lord Byron's death, his executors and family
induced Moore to repay Mr. Murray and destroy the manuscript. The
precise reasons which decided Moore to yield to the solicitations of the
deceased lord's friends and family are not known, but there can be
little doubt that they were urgent, and in a moral sense irresistible. A
man does not usually throw away two thousand guineas for a caprice, even
of his own, much less for that of others. It is not likely that the
world has lost much by the destruction of these memoirs. Lord Byron's
life is sufficiently written in his published works for all purposes
save that of the gratification of a morbid curiosity and vulgar appetite
for scandal.

During the journey to and from Italy, Moore sketched the "Rhymes on the
Road," which were soon afterward published. There is nothing remarkable
about them except his abuse of Rousseau and Madame Warens, _à propos_ of
a visit to Les Charmettes. Moore was violently assailed for this by
writers, who held that as he had himself translated Anacreon, and
written juvenile songs of an immoral tendency, he was thereby
incapacitated from fy, fying naughty people in his maturer and better
years. This seems hardly a reasonable maxim, and would, if strictly
interpreted and enforced, silence much grave and learned eloquence, oral
as well as written. His denunciations of the eccentric and fanciful
author of the "Confessions," which twenty years before he would probably
have called the enunciations of "Virtue with her zone loosened;" were
certainly violent and unmeasured, and not, perhaps, in the very best
taste.

Pecuniary difficulties, arising from the misconduct of his deputy in
Bermuda, now threatened Mr. Moore, and flight to France--for process
against him had issued from the Court of Admiralty--became immediately
necessary. The deputy-registrar, from whom Mr. Moore had exacted no
securities, had made free with the cargoes of several American vessels,
and immediately decamped with the proceeds, leaving his principal
liable, it was feared, to the serious amount of six thousand pounds.
Active and successful efforts were, however, made by Moore's friends to
compromise the claims, and ultimately they were all adjusted by the
payment of one thousand guineas. Three hundred pounds toward this sum
were contributed by the delinquent's uncle, a London merchant; so that
Moore's ultimate loss was seven hundred and fifty pounds only. During
the progress, and at the close of these negotiations, numerous offers of
pecuniary assistance were addressed to Mr. Moore, all of which he
gratefully but firmly declined.

While the matter was pending, Moore resided near Paris at La Butte
Coaslin, on the road to Belle Vue. This was also the residence of some
agreeable Spanish friends of the poet. Kenny the dramatic writer lived
also in the neighborhood. Here Moore composed his "Loves of the
Angels," passing his days, when they were fine, in walking up and down
the park of Saint Cloud, "polishing verses and making them run easy,"
and the evenings in singing Italian duets with his Spanish friends.
Previous to leaving Paris, at the close of 1822, he attended a banquet
got up in his honor by many of the most distinguished and wealthy of the
English residents in that gay city. His speech on this occasion was a
high-flown panegyric upon England and every thing English, and
grievously astonished Byron, Shelley, Hunt, and others, when they read
it in Italy. Either they thought the tone of some of the Irish melodies
was wrong, or the speech was. They did not reflect that a judicious
speaker always adapts his speech to his audience. Apt words in apt
places are the essentials of true eloquence.

Moore's publishers' account, delivered in the following June, exhibited
a very pleasing aspect. He was credited with one thousand pounds for the
"Loves of the Angels," and five hundred pounds for "Fables for the Holy
Alliance." These were the halcyon days of poetry. There was truth as
well as mirthful jest in Sir Walter Scott's remark a few years
afterward, in reply to Moore's observation, "that hardly a magazine is
now published but contains verses which would once have made a
reputation." "Ecod!" exclaimed the baronet, "we were very lucky to come
before these fellows!"

In 1825 Moore paid a visit to Sir Walter Scott at Abbottsford. The
meeting was a cordial one, and the baronet, Mr. Lockhart informs us,
pronounced Mr. Moore "to be the prettiest warbler" he ever knew. What
somewhat diminishes the value of this praise is, that, according to the
warbler himself, Sir Walter--but the thing seems incredible--had no
genuine love or taste for music, except indeed for the Jacobite chorus
of "Hey tuttie, tattie," now indissolubly united to "Scots wha hae wi'
Wallace bled!" which, when sung after supper by the company, with hands
clasped across each other, and waving up and down, he hugely delighted
in. Scott accompanied Moore to Edinburgh, and both of them, with Mr.
Lockhart and his lady, went to the theatre on the same evening that it
was honored by the presence of the celebrated Mrs. Coutts, afterward
Duchess of St. Albans. Soon after their at first unmarked entrance, the
attention of the audience which had till then been engrossed by the lady
millionaire, was directed toward the new-comers, and according to a
newspaper report, copied and published by Mr. Moore, in one of his last
prefaces, considerable excitement immediately prevailed. "Eh!" exclaimed
a man in the pit--"eh! yon's Sir Walter, wi' Lockhart and his wife: and
wha's the wee body wi' the pawkie een? Wow, but it's Tam Moore just!"
"Scott--Scott! Moore--Moore!" immediately resounded through the house.
Scott would not rise: Moore did, and bowed several times with his hand
on his heart. Scott afterward acknowledged the plaudits of his
countrymen, and the orchestra, during the rest of the evening, played
alternately Scotch and Irish airs.

At the request of the Marquis of Lansdowne, who was desirous that he
should reside near him, Moore at this period took a journey into
Wiltshire, to look at a house in the village of Bromham, near Bowood,
the seat of the noble marquis, which it was thought might suit him. He,
however, pronounced it to be too large, and declined taking it. On his
return he told his wife there was a cottage in a thickly-wooded lane in
the neighborhood to let, which he thought might be made to do. Mrs.
Moore immediately left town, secured it, and there they shortly
afterward took up their permanent abode. They have greatly improved and
enlarged Sloperton Cottage; and covered almost as its front and two
porches are with roses and clematis, with the trim miniature lawn and
garden in front, along which runs a raised walk inclosed with
evergreens, from which a fine view is obtained, it presents an entirely
satisfactory aspect of well-ordered neatness, prettiness, and comfort.
It is situated within about two miles of Devizes, and is within easy
reach of the country residence of Lord Lansdowne. It was here he wrote
the biographies of Lord Edward Fitzgerald, Lord Byron, and Richard
Brinsley Sheridan, of which we need only remark that they are
industriously compiled and pleasantly written.

In 1824, five years before the passing of the Catholic Relief Act, Moore
published "The Memoirs of Captain Rock, written by Himself." It is a
bitter, rhapsodical, and of course one-sided commentary upon the
government of Ireland by England, not only since the Reformation, but
from the time of Pope Adrian's famous bull, which is twisted into an
exclusively English grievance and insult.

The next considerable work of Moore's--for his light Parthian warfare in
the politics of the hour continued as usual, and with about the same
success, as in his younger days--was "The Travels of an Irish Gentleman
in search of a Religion"--a perfectly serious and earnest book in
defense of the Roman Catholic faith. There is a vast amount of erudition
displayed in its pages; and remembering how slow and painstaking a
workman Moore declared himself to be, it must, one would suppose, have
been the work of years. The author's object is to prove, from the
writings of the early fathers and other evidence, that the peculiar
dogmas, and discipline, and practice of the Church of Rome, date from
the apostolic age, or at least from the first centuries of the Christian
era, and are consequently true. This the writer does entirely, at least,
to his own satisfaction, which is the case, we believe, with
controversial writers generally. The book concludes with the following
words, addressed to the Catholic Church, which his after-life proves to
have been earnest and sincere: "In the shadow of thy sacred mysteries
let my soul henceforth repose, remote alike from the infidel who scoffs
at their darkness, and the rash believer who would pry into its
recesses."

These imaginary travels were published anonymously, but the book was
always known to be Moore's. Apart from any other evidence, the poetic
translations of portions of the writings of ancient bishops would have
amply sufficed to determine the authorship.

The last, and, according to Moore's own authority, one of the most
successful of his works, as far as a great sale constitutes success, was
the prose romance of "The Epicurean." There is much learning displayed
in this book, and it contains some striking descriptions. We also meet
occasionally with passages of simple and natural beauty and eloquence,
the more striking and effective from the contrast they afford to the
cumbrous and ambitious rhetoric through which they are sparsely
scattered. It was commenced in verse, and gradually reached to a
considerable length in that form, but ultimately, like the "Peri's
Daughter," broke down irretrievably. No one who respects Mr. Moore's
poetical fame will regret this after reading the fragment which has been
published. "The Epicurean" is a moral and religious story; and it has
this great merit, that it has very little of the merely sensuous imagery
in which Mr. Moore generally indulged. The plot is of the most
commonplace kind, and the conduct of the story so entirely languid and
lulling, that it may be freely indulged in without the slightest fear of
ill-consequences by the most nervous and impressionable lady-reader in
the three kingdoms.

On the 30th of June, 1827, the day after the publication of "The
Epicurean," Moore was one of the gay and distinguished assemblage at a
magnificent fête at Boyle Farm, in the environs of London, the cost of
which had been clubbed by five or six rich young lords. It appears by
Mr. Moore's description to have been a very brilliant affair. There were
crowds of the _élite_ of society present of both sexes; well-dressed men
and groups of fair women, "all looking their best;" together with
dancing, music, the Tyrolese minstrels, and Madame Vestris and Fanny
Ayton, rowing up and down the river, singing Moore's "Oh, come to Me
when Daylight sets!" and so on. The author of "The Epicurean" relates
all this for the purpose of introducing an anecdote concerning his book,
and we notice it for the same reason. During one of the pauses of the
music, the Marquis of Palmella--Moore _disguises_ the name of the
Portuguese embassador in this impenetrable mode, the Marquis of
P-lm---a, approaching the poet, remarked upon the magnificence of the
fête. Moore agreed. "The tents," he remarked, "had a fine effect."
"Nay," said the marquis, "I was thinking of your fête at Athens. I read
it this morning in the newspaper." "Confound the newspaper!" Moore had a
great aversion to having his best _morceaux_ served up without context
in that manner; but worse remained behind. A Mr. D---- accosted him a
few minutes afterward, and mentioning the book, added these flattering
words, "I never read any thing so touching as the death of your
heroine." "What!" exclaimed the delighted author, "have you got so far
as that already?" "Oh, dear, no, I have not seen the book--I read what I
mentioned in the Literary Gazette." "Shameful!" says Mr. Moore, "to
anticipate my catastrophe in that manner!" Perhaps so; but that which we
should like especially to know is whether Mr. B----m, who is mentioned
as being present at the enunciation of these courtesies, was Mr.
Brougham. If so, the flash of the keen gray eyes that followed the
compliment on the touching death of Alethe, must, to an observant
looker-on, have been one of the most entertaining incidents of the fête.

The smart political squibs, scattered like fire-flies through the dreary
waste of journalism during the last active years of Moore's life, are
not obnoxious to criticism. Squire Corn, Famished Cotton, Weeping
Chancellors, Salmagundian Kings, and knavish Benthamites, as penciled by
Moore, have passed from the domain of wit and verse into that of the
historian and the antiquary, into the hands of the collector of
forgotten trifles; and there we very willingly leave them, pleasant,
piquant, and welcome, as we fully admit them in their day to have been.
Moore has also written several pieces of religious verse, which,
although not of very high merit as poetry, finely at times bring out and
illustrate the Christian spirit in its most engaging aspect--unalloyed,
unclouded by the mists of fanatic sectarianism.

That Moore was not an inspired creative poet like Shakspeare, Milton,
Burns, and a few others, is true; but beneath those heaven-reaching
heights there are many still lofty eminences upon which gifted spirits
sit enthroned, their brows encircled with coronets bright with gems of
purest ray, serene, though pale, indeed, and dim in presence of the
radiant crowns of the kings of poetry and song, between whom also there
are degrees of glory; for immeasurably above all, far beyond even the
constellated splendor of

   "The blind old man of Scio's rocky isle,"

soars Shakspeare, palm-wreathed and diademed with stars. One of these
lesser heights and circlets must unquestionably be awarded to Thomas
Moore. His wing, it must be admitted, is feeble, requiring artificial
stimulants and help to lift him above the ground a sufficient time for
warbling a brief melody. He did not sing as a flower exhales--from the
law and necessity of its nature; still there is at times a grace, and
tenderness, and music, about his carefully-polished snatches of song,
which the world is not sufficiently rich in to willingly let die.

Turning from Moore the poet to Moore the politician, there is not much
to remark upon; neither certainly is there place for two opinions. Moore
wrote politics at times--pointed, bitter, rankling politics--but he was
really at heart no politician. There was no earnestness in what he did
in this way, and it was early and abundantly evident from his alternate
eulogies and vituperation of democratic institutions, that he had no
firmly-based convictions. His love for Ireland was a sentiment only: it
never rose to the dignity of a passion. Not one of his patriotic songs
breathes the fiery energy, the martyr zeal, the heroic hate and love,
which pulsate in the veins of men who ardently sympathize with a people
really oppressed, or presumed to be so. But let us hasten to say, that
if there was little of the hero or martyr, there was nothing of the
renegade or traitor about Thomas Moore. The pension of three hundred a
year obtained for him of the crown by his influential friends was not
the reward of baseness or of political tergiversation. It was the prize
and reward of his eminence as a writer, and his varied social
accomplishments. If he did not feel strongly, he at all events felt
honestly; and although he had no mission to evoke the lightning of the
national spirit, and hurl its consuming fire at the men who, had they
possessed the power, would have riveted the bondage of his people, he
could and did soothe their angry paroxysms with lulling words of praise
and hope, and, transforming their terribly real, physical, and moral
griefs and ills into picturesque and sentimental sorrows, awakened a
languid admiration, and a passing sympathy for a nation which could
boast such beautiful music, and whose woes were so agreeably, so
charmingly sung. Liberal opinions Moore supported by tongue and pen, but
then they were fashionable within a sufficiently extensive circle of
notabilities, and had nothing of the coarseness and downrightness of
vulgar Radicalism about them. The political idiosyncrasy of Moore is
developed in the same essential aspect in his memoir of Lord Edward
Fitzgerald as in his national songs. There is nothing impassioned,
nothing which hurries the pulse or kindles the eye--but a graceful
regret, a carefully guarded appreciation of the acts and motives of that
unfortunate and misguided nobleman, run throughout. Moore was what men
call a fair weather politician--which means, not that storms do not
frequently surround them, but that by a prudent forethought, a happy
avoidance of prematurely committing themselves, they contrive to make
fair weather for themselves, however dark and tempestuous may be the
time to other and less sagacious men, and who, when their sun does at
last shine, come out with extreme effulgence and brilliancy. Moore,
therefore, as a politician, was quite unexceptionable, though not
eminent. He was at once a pensioned and unpurchased, and, we verily
believe, unpurchasable partisan; an honest, sincere, and very mild
patriot; a faithful, and at the same time prudent and circumspect lover
of his country, its people, and its faith. There are very high-sounding
names in the list of political celebrities, of whom it would be well if
such real though not highly-flattering praise could be truly spoken.

Moore's prose works require but little notice at our hands beyond that
incidentally bestowed upon them in our passage through his works. None
of them that we are acquainted with add at all to the reputation for
genius acquired by his poetry. The flow and rhyme of verse are
indispensable to carry the reader through stories without probability or
interest, and to render men and women, not only without
originality--that frequently happens--but destitute of individualism,
decently tolerable. We are ignorant of the contributions to the
"Edinburgh Review;" but they could scarcely have much enhanced the power
and attractiveness of a periodical which in his time numbered among its
contributors such names as Jeffrey, Brougham, Sidney Smith, Hallam,
Macaulay, and others of that mint and standard. Moore is assigned by his
friends a high rank among the defenders or apologists of the Church of
Rome; and we believe his "Travels," like Cobbett's "Reformation," have
been translated by papal authority and command into most of the
languages of Europe. Of his merits in this department of literature,
which is quite out of our way, we do not presume to offer an opinion.
His book unquestionably displays a vast deal of research and learning;
but whether it is so entirely perverse as its adversaries contend, or so
pre-eminently irrefragable and convincing as its admirers assert, we
really can not say.

It is, after all, in the home-life of individuals that their true
character must be read and studied. The poet and the politician--the
latter more especially--dwell, as regards their vocations, apart from
the household tests which really measure the worth, the truth, the
kindliness of individual men and women. Moore, we are pleased to be able
to repeat, as a son, a husband, a father, a friend, and neighbor, bore,
and deservedly, the highest character. His domestic affections were
ardent, tender, and sincere; and the brilliant accomplishments which
caused his society to be courted by the great ones of the world, shed
their genial charm over the quiet fireside at which sat his wife, and in
whose light and warmth the children whose loss has bowed him to the
grave, grew up only to bloom and perish. There have been much greater
poets, more self-sacrificing, though perhaps no more sincere lovers of
their country; but in the intimate relations of domestic life, and the
discharge of its common, every-day, but sacred obligations, there are
few men who have borne a more unspotted and deservedly-high reputation
than Thomas Moore.




THE FAIRY'S CHOICE.


Many, many years ago, before fairies were exploded, and when every noble
family had a guardian spirit attached to it, the fairy Aquarella, my
heroine, existed. The date is so far back, that it belongs to those good
old days known as "once upon a time." Now, Aquarella was the spirit of a
pretty, sparkling streamlet, which strayed through the grounds of a
mighty lord, in whose welfare she had always been interested. She was
but a tiny little thing--one of the progeny of Isis and Thames; but
people said she inherited the beauties of both her parents. Her little
stream was of the purest water, and in her way she carefully avoided all
ugly spots, while her banks were always studded with the choicest
flowers. Here, the Narcissus found a fitting mirror for his waxen
leaves; here, the water-lilies spread their broad petals, and formed
cups fit for a fairy's board; and here, the humble forget-me-not crept
under the foliage, nestling close to its birth-place, and looking so
innocent, you could scarcely believe it had once lured a gay knight to a
melancholy death. Aquarella, however, could never become an accessary to
so sad a crime--her waters could never injure any one, save in one
place, where the young Lord Albert loved to come and bathe.

The lord's bath, as it was called, was in a sweet, shady spot--the
weeping willow and gentle aspen shielded it from the sun's rays, and the
bright smooth pebbles that lined it seemed quite to form a pavement.
This was Aquarella's favorite retreat, and hither she would calmly
repose after her capricious wanderings. Sometimes she would almost hide
herself under a sedgy canopy, when you could only trace her course by
the deeper verdure on either side of her; and this was the chosen
lurking-place of the speckled trout, the rosy dace, and other dandy
fish, for she would only allow her waters to be inhabited by the
choicest of their kind; slimy eels, vulgar tittlebats, or the voracious
pike, were forbidden to approach her court. Sometimes she would tire of
this quiet life, and suddenly making a prodigious fuss in the world,
would splash around a few great stones that lay in her path, spreading
herself out as wide as she could, sparkling and dancing in the sunlight,
till each tiny ripple seemed to wear a crown of diamonds, and you could
hardly fancy the noisy, smiling waters, belonged to the tranquil stream
that had been creeping along so gently.

Few mortals were acquainted with Aquarella; but she was well-known to
the gallant kingfisher, to the lordly heron, who would pursue their
sport by her banks.

It was when the Lord Albert was a baby, that Aquarella first saw and
loved him; his nurses had brought him to bask in her waters. The fairy
was resting in her chosen retreat, and never before having noticed a
mortal infant, was greatly struck with his beauty. She tempered her
natural delicious coolness to receive him, and the child crowed, and
clapped his pretty pink fingers, as the clear stream closed around him;
he laughed as he emerged from his bath, and struggled for another dip;
his women could scarcely tear him away. From that day the bath was his
favorite amusement; invisibly supported by Aquarella, he sported in her
waters, and each day imbibed new virtues from them. Health, strength,
good temper, and good looks--these were the fairy's gifts to her
protégé, and wherever her wanderings led her, she heard him cited as the
kindest, the bravest, the wisest, and the best of young noblemen.

Albert knew not of the beneficent being who protected him, and when he
occasionally saw a vapory wreath arising from the brook, he little
suspected whom it concealed; and yet if he could have seen Aquarella,
her loveliness would have charmed him. She was fair--as all English
maidens are--and was attired in the highest fashion of her father's
court. Her dress was of that changing blue-green--known to aquatic
beauties as mackerel-back--spangled with scales from the gold and silver
fish. Some of her father's marine friends had brought her pearls and
coral, from the great ocean itself, and with them she looped up her
drapery, and braided her long tresses, while over all she threw a rich
vail of mist which concealed her from the common gaze; and thus she
would float along, hearing the praises of her beloved mortal, or busily
occupied in increasing his wealth, ornamenting his ground, and shielding
him from evil.

So passed Aquarella's days. She was now seldom seen in her father's
court; her whole happiness was centred in Albert. She cared not to join
in her sisters' gambols, as each brought their tribute to their august
parents--she was pining away for love, and only lived when in Albert's
domain; elsewhere she dwindled away till her fond mother feared she
would lose all her beauty and animation, and become a mere rillet. It
was proposed to unite her waters with those of a neighboring river, who
wished to marry, but she would not hear of such a thing, and threatened
if it were mentioned again to hide herself underground for the rest of
her life.

"But, good gracious! what is to be done?" asked Isis; "we can not let
the poor child, our youngest and prettiest, incur the unhappy fate of
the unfortunate little Fleet River."

"No, no," replied father Thames, "that must not be; I will take her
to-morrow to London Bridge; he is older, and has seen more of the world
than any one we know. I dare say he can give us some good advice."

"Very well," said Isis, "you may speak to the Bridge, as you go to meet
those nauseous salt rivers; I hate them, they are so rough and roar so
when they are angry. I will see what I can learn nearer home, at the
Universities; there are plenty of doctors there."

"You had better call at Sion House, too, and Richmond."

"To be sure, that I will; there--where fair queens have fretted and have
mourned, where noble ladies have dwelt and wept--they must know
something of this strange disease, called Love, for I really fear that
is Aquarella's disorder."

"Nonsense! where could she get that complaint?"

"On earth, to be sure. It is very prevalent there, and I am told it is
infectious; we can but ask, you know."

The two anxious parents now separated, Isis remaining impatiently till
old Thames's return from his sea visit allowed her to proceed on her
inland course. They gained but little information at any of the places
they had mentioned, as, though such things had occasionally happened in
Greece, the case was quite new to all the sages here. Aquarella was the
first English fairy who had been known to die of love for a mortal. This
low attachment of hers made her friends very unhappy, and at last they
summoned her godfather Aquarius. As he was the god of all the rivers,
and a very high personage, there was a great deal of ceremony in his
reception, and he came to the bed of Thames in a special train of
thunder, lightning, and rain, accompanied by his friend Boreas. This
high honor made the old couple so proud, that they spread out their
waters to make room for him, till they even covered their banks, and
frightened all who lived near them.

Aquarius, from his long experience and intimate acquaintance with
lady-rivers of all nations, was quite the most proper person to treat
with the poor fairy. He did not scold, rough as he was, for he knew
scolding was of no good in her complaint; he reasoned with her, but that
was scarce more efficient.

"Do you know, child, that to marry this mortal, you must take his
religion?"

"And is not that better than ours, your Mightiness?"

"Give up your immortality?"

"And gain his. Ours must cease with this world; his can never end."

"But it may be an immortality of grief?"

"Not unless we deserve it, and we will not. I learned much, your
Mightiness, while washing the walls of a little chapel, by whose side I
flow."

"You must relinquish your high privileges."

"What are they, without love?"

"Aquarella, you are mad! Do you know what the life of a mortal woman
is?"

"Oh, yes. Have I not watched Albert's mother? I know how she spends her
days; in providing comforts for son and husband, in instructing the
ignorant, in relieving the poor, in doing good to all. Hers is indeed a
happy and useful life."

"And suppose Albert should not love you?"

"I could still watch over him."

"Suppose he should become poor--should fall from his high estate?"

"I would work for, and comfort him."

"If he live, he will lose his youthful beauty."

"But he will preserve his virtues."

"He will become old and decrepit."

"I will nurse him."

"She has an answer for every thing; there must be a woman's soul in her.
After all--listen to me seriously, daughter--you may indeed do all you
say, and become the blessing of Albert's life; but to do this, you must
leave your parents, your sisters--leave them, and forever."

"Must I, indeed?"

"You must. Albert is of another class; he may be as good as you, still
he is not your equal, nor can you enjoy his love and that of your
family. Now choose between them."

"My sisters--my father--Albert."

"Choose--weigh them well in the balance; or one, or the other--both you
can not have."

"Does my father disapprove?"

"You can not expect he wishes you to leave him for one of another sort.
Your separation must be eternal."

"Will Albert be happy?"

"Why not? Even if he knew you, he could not think much of a wife who
could sever herself from her earliest ties."

"My mother, too! No, no, you are right; I should never be happy. What!
To feel I had offended those who have the best claim to my love and
affection! I must not think of it. Still, are they not a little
prejudiced?"

"Perhaps they are; but if you do your duty, their prejudices may
eventually give way."

"I am afraid all you say is true; I can not leave them. Oh! I am very
miserable. What shall I do?"

"Do good to every one, make yourself useful--that is the only cure for a
broken heart."

"Can I help Albert?"

"To be sure you can. And now you have shown yourself to be a dutiful
daughter, and a fairy of proper sense, I will teach you how to assist
him, and all his fellow-men."

I can not tell all the advice the old god gave to the disconsolate
Aquarella, but its consequences were of great benefit to the young lord,
and ultimately to all the world, for she consented to restrain her
vagaries, and become a useful member of society, a working river. The
same lively energy that helped her to quarrel with the stones, now
enabled her to turn a mill; there is no saying what amount of water
power is within her. Like all really benevolent, sensible persons, she
considers no good work a degradation; and her activity is boundless. She
has turned from her course to assist a paper manufacturer, her waters
are invaluable to a calico printer also, and she may be seen in a
bleaching ground.

She is not so wildly beautiful as in her early days, but her banks are
still charming, and, like a kind old maiden aunt, she is ever indulgent
to youth. She has famous bays, where rosy boys can launch their tiny
vessels; deep recesses, where sober anglers enjoy their silent sport;
and sweet nooks, where Albert's posterity have often mused on pleasant
thoughts, have pledged the faith, and vowed the love denied to the poor
fairy, and here her course flows placidly and serenely along, as if she
still took an interest in human happiness, and the trifles that compose
it.

It is even said that for the greater benefit of mankind, and of the
loved one's descendents in particular, she has consented to be united
with a sluggish, but wealthy canal, who wishes to get some pure water.
This report at present wants good authority; however, we shall see.

At all events the fairy's fate may teach us that all--even those who
have known great troubles--may be happy if they do their duty; that no
lot is without its trials and its reward, and that there is no cure to
sorrow so potent as a good conscience.




A GALLOP FOR LIFE.


About twenty years ago, after a fatiguing London season, I was stopping
at the decayed port and bathing village of Parkgate, on the Dee,
opposite the equally decayed town and castle of Flint. It was a curious
place to choose for amusement, for it had, and has, no recommendation
except brackish water, pleasant scenery at high water, and excessive
dullness. But, to own the truth, I was in love, desperately in love,
with one of the most charming, provoking little sylphs in the world,
who, after driving me half crazy in London, was staying on a visit with
an uncle, a Welsh parson, at dreary Parkgate. Not that it was dreary to
me when Laura was amiable; on the contrary, I wrote to my friends and
described it as one of the most delightful watering-places in England,
and, by so doing, lost forever the good graces and legacy of my Aunt
Grumph, who traveled all the way from Brighton on my description, and
only staid long enough to change horses. One sight of the one street of
tumble-down houses, in face of a couple of miles of sand and shingle at
low water, was enough. She never spoke to me again, except to express
her extreme contempt for my opinion.

Our chief amusement was riding on the sand, and sometimes crossing to
Flint at low water. You know, of course, that formerly the Dee was a
great commercial river, with important ports at Chester, Parkgate, and
Flint; but, in the course of time, the banks have fallen in, increasing
the breadth at the expense of the depth; so that at Parkgate, whence
formerly the Irish packets sailed, the fisher-girls can walk over at low
water, merely tucking up their petticoats in crossing the channel, down
which the main stream of fresh water flows.

But although this broad expanse of sand affords a firm footing, at low
water, for the whole way across, except just round Flint, where there
are several quicksands, when the tide turns, in certain states of the
wind, the whole estuary is covered with wonderful rapidity; for the tide
seems to creep up subterranean channels, and you may find yourself
surrounded by salt-water when you least expect it.

This was of no consequence to us, as we were never tied for time. I was
teaching Laura to ride on a little Welsh pony, and the sands made a
famous riding-school. I laugh now when I think of the little rat of a
pony she used to gallop about, for she now struggles into a Brougham of
ordinary dimensions with great difficulty, and weighs nearly as much as
her late husband, Mr. Alderman Mallard. In a short time, Laura made so
much progress in horsemanship that she insisted on mounting my hackney,
a full-sized well-bred animal, and putting me on the rat-pony. When I
indulged her in this fancy--for of course she had her own way--I had the
satisfaction of being rewarded by her roars of laughter at the
ridiculous figure I cut, ambling beside her respectable uncle, on his
cart-horse cob, with my legs close to the ground, and my nose peering
over the little Welshman's shaggy ears, while my fairy galloped round
us, drawing all sorts of ridiculous comparisons. This was bad enough,
but when Captain Egret, the nephew of my charmer's aunt's husband, a
handsome fellow, with "a lovely gray horse, with such a tail," as Laura
described it, came up from Chester to stay a few days, I could stand my
rat-pony no longer, and felt much too ill to ride out; so stood at the
window of my lodgings with my shirt-collar turned down, and Byron in my
hand open at one of the most murderous passages, watching Laura on my
chestnut, and Captain Egret on his gray, cantering over the deserted bed
of the Dee. They were an aggravatingly handsome couple, and the existing
state of the law on manslaughter enabled me to derive no satisfaction
from the hints contained in the "Giaour" or the "Corsair." These were
our favorite books of reference for Young England in those days. Indeed,
we were all amateur pirates, and felons in theory; but when I had been
cast down in disgust at the debased state of civilization, which
prevented me from challenging Captain Egert to single combat, with Laura
for the prize of the victor, instead of a cell in Chester Castle, my
eyes fell on an advertisement in a local paper, which turned my thoughts
into a new channel, of "_Sale of Blood Stock, Hunters, and Hackneys_, at
Plas * * *, near Holywell."

I determined to give up murder, and buy another horse, for I could ride
as well as the captain; and then what glorious _tête-à-têtes_ I could
have, with my hand on the pommel of Laura's side-saddle. The idea put me
in good-humor. Regimental duties having suddenly recalled Captain Egret,
I spent a delightful evening with Laura; she quite approved of my
project, and begged that I would choose a horse "with a long tail, of a
pretty color," which is every young lady's idea of what a horse should
be.

Accordingly I mounted my chestnut on a bright morning of July, and rode
across to Flint, accompanied by a man to bring back my intended
purchase. It was dead low water; when, full of happy thoughts, in the
still warm silence of the summer morning, holding my eager horse hard
in, I rode at a foot-pace across the smooth, hard, wave-marked bed of
the river. There was not a cloud in the sky. The sun, rising slowly,
cast a golden glow over the sparkling sand. Pat-pat-pit-pat, went my
horse's feet, not loud enough to disturb the busy crows and gulls
seeking their breakfast; they were not afraid of me; they knew I had no
gun. I remember it; I see it all before me, as if it were yesterday, for
it was one of the most delicious moments of my life. But the screaming
gulls and whistling curlews were put to flight, before I had half
crossed the river's bed, by the cheerful chatter, laughter, and
fragments of Welsh airs sung in chorus by a hearty crowd of cockle and
mussel gatherers, fishermen, and farmers' wives, on their way to the
market on the Cheshire side--men, women (they were the majority), and
children, on foot, on ponies, and donkeys, and in little carts.
Exchanging good-humored jokes, I passed on until I came to the ford of
the channel, where the river runs between banks of deep soft sand. At
low water, at certain points, in summer, it is but a few inches deep;
but after heavy rains, and soon after the turning of the tide, the depth
increases rapidly.

At the ford I met a second detachment of Welsh peasantry preparing to
cross, by making bundles of shoes and stockings, and tucking up
petticoats very deftly. Great was the fun and the splashing, and plenty
of jokes on the _Saxon_ and his red horse going the wrong way. The Welsh
girls in this part of the country are very pretty, with beautiful
complexions, a gleam of gold in their dark hair, and an easy, graceful
walk, from the habit of carrying the water-pitchers from the wells on
their heads. The scene made me feel any thing but melancholy or
ill-natured. I could not help turning back to help a couple of little
damsels across, pillion-wise, who seemed terribly afraid of wetting
their finery at the foot ford.

Having passed the channels, the wheels and footmarks formed a plain
direction for a safe route, which, leaving Flint Castle on my right,
brought me into the centre of Flint, without any need of a guide. The
rest of my road was straightforward and commonplace. I reached the farm
where the sale was to take place, in time for breakfast, and was soon
lost in a crowd of country squires, Welsh parsons, farmers,
horse-dealers, and grooms.

Late in the day I purchased a brown stallion, with a strain of Arab
blood, rather undersized, but compact, and one of the handsomest horses
I ever saw before or since, very powerful, nearly thorough-bred. When
the auctioneer had knocked him down to me, I said to one of the grooms
of the establishment who was helping my man--handing him a crown-piece
at the same time:

"As the little brown horse is mine, with all faults, just have the
goodness to tell me what is his fault?"

"Why, sir," he answered, "he can walk, trot, gallop, and jump, first
rate, surely; but he's very awkward to mount; and when you are on, he'll
try uncommon hard to get you off, for two minutes; if you stick fast, he
will be quiet enough all day."

"Thank you, my man," I replied; "I'll try him directly."

Just before starting I found the chestnut had a shoe loose, and had to
send him to the nearest village, two miles off. I had promised Laura to
return by eight o'clock, to finish a delightful book we were reading
aloud together, until the tiff about Captain Egret had interrupted us.
You may judge if I was not impatient; and yet, with fifteen miles to
ride to Flint, I had no time to spare.

My friend, the groom, saddled the brown horse, and brought him down to
the open road to me. He trotted along, with shining coat and arched
neck, snorting and waving his great tail like a lion. As he piaffed and
paraded sideways along, casting back his full eye most wickedly, every
motion spoke mischief; but there was no time for consideration; I had
barely an hour to do fifteen miles of rough roads before crossing the
river, and must get to the river-side, cool. I had intended to have
ridden the chestnut, who was experienced in water, but the loose shoe
upset that arrangement.

Without giving him any time to see what I was about, I caught him by the
mane and the reins, threw myself from a sloping bank into the saddle,
and, although he dragged the groom across the road, I had both feet in
the stirrups before he burst from his hold. Snorting fiercely, he bucked
and plunged until I thought the girths would surely crack; but other
horsemen galloping past, enabled me to bustle him into full speed, and
in five minutes he settled down into a long, luxurious stride, with his
legs under his haunches, that felt like a common canter, but really
devoured the way, and swept me past every thing on the road. Up hill and
down, it was all the same, he bounded, like a machine full of power on
the softest of steel-springs.

Ten miles were soon past, and we reached Holywell; up the steep hill and
through the town, and down the steep narrow lanes, we went, and reached
the level road along the shore leading to Flint, without halt, until
within two miles of that town; then I drew bridle, to walk in cool.

By this time the weather, which had been bright all day, had changed; a
few heat drops of rain fell, thunder was heard rolling in the distance,
and a wind seemed rising and murmuring from the sea.

I looked at my watch as we entered the town; it was an hour past the
time when I intended to have crossed--but Laura must not be
disappointed; so I only halted at the inn long enough to let the brown
wash his mouth out, and, without dismounting, rode on to the guide's
house. As I passed the Castle, I heard a band playing; it was a party of
officers, with their friends, who had come up on a pic-nic from Chester.

When I reached the cottage of old David, the guide, he was sitting on
the bench at the door, putting on his shoes and stockings; and part of
the party I had met in the morning, as they passed, cried, "You're late,
master; you must hurry on to cross to-night." David was beginning to
dissuade me; but when I threw him a shilling, and trotted on, he
followed me, pattering down the beach.

"You must make haste, master, for the wind's getting up, and will bring
the tide like a roaring lion--it will. But I suppose the pretty lady
with the rosy face expects you. But where's the red horse? I wish you
had him. I do not like strange horses on such a time as this--indeed,
and I do not," he added. But I had no time for explanations, although
David was a great ally of ours. I knew I was expected; it was getting
dusk, and Laura would be anxious, _I hoped_.

Pushing briskly along, we soon reached the ford of the channel, so calm
and shallow in the morning, but now filling fast with the tide; dark
clouds were covering the sky, and the wind brought up a hollow murmuring
sound.

"Now get across, young gentleman, as fast as you can, and keep your eye
on the wind-mill, and don't spare your spurs, and you will have plenty
of time; so, good-evening, God bless you! young gentleman, and the
pretty lady, too," cried David, honestest of Welsh guides.

I tried to walk the brown horse through the ford where it was not more
than three or four feet deep; but he first refused; then, when pressed,
plunged fiercely in, and was out of his depth in a moment. He swam
boldly enough, but obstinately kept his head down the stream, so that,
instead of landing on an easy, shelving shore, he came out where all but
a perpendicular bank of soft sand had to be leaped and climbed over.
After several unsuccessful efforts, I was obliged to slip off, and climb
up on foot, side by side with my horse, holding on by the flap of the
saddle. If I had not dismounted, we should probably have rolled back
together.

When I reached the top of the bank, rather out of breath, I looked back,
and saw David making piteous signs, as he moved off rapidly, for me to
push along. But this was easier said than done; the brown horse would
not let me come near him. Round and round he went, rearing and plunging,
until I was quite exhausted. Coaxing and threatening were alike useless;
every moment it was getting darker. Once I thought of letting the brute
go, and swimming back to David. But when I looked at the stream, and
thought of Laura, that idea was dismissed. Another tussle, in which we
plowed up the sand in a circle, was equally fruitless, and I began to
think he would keep me there to be drowned, for to cross the Parkgate on
foot before the tide came up strong, seemed hopeless. At length, finding
I could not get to touch his shoulder, I seized the opportunity, when he
was close to the bank of the stream, and catching the curb sharply in
both hands, backed him half way down almost into the water. Before he
had quite struggled up to the top, I threw myself into the saddle, and
was carried off at the rate of thirty miles an hour toward the sea.

But I soon gathered up the reins, and, firm in my seat, turned my
Tartar's head toward the point where I could see the white wind-mill
gleaming through the twilight on the Cheshire shore.

I felt that I had not a moment to spare. The sand, so firm in the
morning, sounded damp under my horse's stride; the little stagnant pools
filled visibly, and joining formed shallow lakes, through which we
dashed in a shower of spray; and every now and then we leaped over, or
plunged into deep holes. At first I tried to choose a path, but as it
rapidly grew darker, I sat back in my saddle, and with my eyes fixed on
the tower of the wind-mill, held my horse firmly into a hand gallop, and
kept a straight line. He was a famous deep-chested, long-striding,
little fellow, and bounded along as fresh as when I started. By degrees
my spirits began to rise; I thought the danger past; I felt confidence
in myself and horse, and shouted to him in encouraging triumph. Already
I was, in imagination, landed and relating my day's adventures to Laura,
when with a heavy plunge down on his head, right over went the brown
stallion, and away I flew as far as the reins, fortunately fast grasped,
would let me. Blinded with wet sand, startled, shaken, confused, by a
sort of instinct, I scrambled to my feet almost as soon as my horse, who
had fallen over a set of salmon-net stakes. Even in the instant of my
fall, all the honor of my situation was mentally visible to me. In a
moment I lived years. I felt that I was a dead man; I wondered if my
body would be found; I thought of what my friends would say; I thought
of letters in my desk I wished burned. I thought of relatives to whom my
journey to Parkgate was unknown, of debts I wished paid, of parties with
whom I had quarreled, and wished I had been reconciled. I wondered
whether Laura would mourn for me, whether she really loved me. In fact,
the most serious and ridiculous thoughts were jumbled altogether, while
I muttered, once or twice, a hasty prayer; and yet I did not lose a
moment in remounting. This time my horse made no resistance, but stood
over his hocks in a pool of salt water, and trembled and snorted--not
fiercely, but in fear. There was no time to lose. I looked round for the
dark line of the shore; it had sunk in the twilight. I looked again for
the white tower; it had disappeared. The fall and the rolling, and
turning of the horse in rising, had confused all my notions of the
points of the compass. I could not tell whether it was the dark clouds
from the sea, or the dizzy whirling of my brain; but it seemed to have
become black night in a moment.

The water seemed to flow in all directions round and round. I tried, but
could not tell which was the sea, and which the river side. The wind,
too, seemed to shift and blow from all points of the compass.

Then, "Softly," I said to myself, "be calm; you are confused by terror;
be a man;" and pride came to my rescue. I closed my eyes for a moment,
and whispered, "Oh Lord, save me." Then with an effort, calmer, as
though I had gulped down something, I opened my eyes, stood up in my
stirrups, and peered into the darkness. As far as I could see, were
patches of water eating up the dry bits of sand; as far as I could hear,
a rushing tide was on all sides. Four times, in different directions, I
pushed on, and stopped when I found the water rising over the shoulders
of my horse.

I drew up on a sort of island of sand, which was every minute growing
less, and gathering all the strength of my lungs, shouted again and
again, and then listened; but there came no answering shout. Suddenly, a
sound of music came floating past me. I could distinguish the air; it
was the military band playing "Home, sweet Home." I tried to gather from
what quarter the sound came; but each time the wind instruments brayed
out loudly, the sounds seemed to come to me from every direction at
once. "Ah!" I thought, "I shall see home no more." I could have wept,
but I had no time; my eyes were staring through the darkness, and my
horse plunging and rearing, gave me no rest for weeping. I gave him his
head once, having heard that horses, from ships sunk at sea, have
reached land distant ten miles, by instinct; but the alternation of
land, and shallow and deep water confused his senses, and destroyed the
calm power which might have been developed in the mere act of swimming.

At length, after a series of vain efforts, I grew calm and resigned. I
made up my mind to die. I took my handkerchief from my neck, and tied my
pocket-book to the D's of the saddle. I pulled my rings off my fingers,
and put them in my pocket--I had heard of wreckers cutting off the
fingers of drowned men--and then was on the point of dashing forward at
random, when some inner feeling made me cast another steady glance all
round. At that moment, just behind me, something sparkled twice, and
disappeared, and then reappearing, shone faintly, but so steadily, that
there could be no doubt it was a light on the Cheshire shore. In an
instant my horse's head was turned round. I had gathered him together,
dug in the spurs, and crying from the bottom of my heart, "Thank God!"
in the same moment, not profanely, but with a horseman's instinct,
shouting encouragingly, and dashed away toward the light. It was a hard
fight; the ground seemed melting from under us--now struggling through
soft sand, now splashing over hard, now swimming (that was easy), and
now and again leaping and half falling, but never losing hold of my
horse or sight of the beacon; we forced through every obstacle, until at
length the water grew shallower and shallower; we reached the sand, and,
passing the sand, rattled over the shingle at high-water mark--and I was
saved! But I did not, could not stop; up the loose shingles I pressed on
to the light that had saved me. I could not rest one instant, even for
thanksgiving, until I knew to what providential circumstance I owed my
safety. I drew up at a fisherman's hut of the humblest kind, built on
the highest part of the shore, full two miles from Parkgate; a light,
which seemed faint when close to it, twinkled from a small latticed
window. I threw myself from my horse, and knocked loudly at the door,
and as I knocked, fumbled with one hand in my soaked pocket for my
purse. Twice I knocked again, and the door, which was unhasped, flew
open. A woman, weeping bitterly, rose at this rude summons; and at the
same moment I saw on the table the small coffin of a young child, with a
rushlight burning at either end. I owed my life to death!




SKETCHES OF ORIENTAL LIFE.

BY F.A. NEALE, ESQ.

LIFE OF A TURKISH GENTLEMAN.


The life of the Turkish Effendi, or gentleman, at Antioch, is rather of
a monotonous character. He lives in his own, or rather in two
houses--for the harem, though part of the same house, is entirely
partitioned off, and no one but himself and his slaves know where it is,
or how to get in or out of it. He always keeps the door-key in his
pocket, and when the ladies want any thing, they rap, like so many
woodpeckers, at a kind of revolving cupboard, which is securely fastened
into the wall. Through this cupboard at which neither party can see the
other, the lady speaks to the servant, and tells him what to fetch or
buy for her at the bazaars; and the article is brought and placed in the
cupboard, which is wheeled round by the lady inside, so that she may
take it out. When they are desirous of walking in the garden, or going
to the bath, the key is delivered into the charge of some old duenna,
and the Effendi sees nothing more of it till the party has returned, and
the ladies are safely locked up again.

The Effendi is, generally speaking, an early riser, and seldom sits up
till a late hour at night. On issuing from his harem, he is waited upon
by half a dozen slaves, who assist in his ablutions: one holds the ewer,
another the soap, a third the towel, and a fourth and fifth assist him
with his clean apparel. Having washed and dressed, he goes through his
morning devotions at the nearest mosque. Returning home, his servants
serve him with his cup of bitter coffee and pipe of real gibili, by
which time it is about seven A.M., the fashionable hour for a Turkish
gentleman to call and receive visits. Acquaintances and friends saunter
in, and salute the host, who salutes them. Beyond this, there is little
conversation; for Turks hate talking; and still less joking, for they
detest laughing. They inquire like a parcel of anxious doctors, very
kindly after each other's health, and after the general salubrity of
their respective houses, for no one ever dreams of asking how his
friend's wife is; that would be considered the grossest breach of
decorum. Draft-boards, and pipes, and coffee are introduced. Some play,
others look on; and, save the rattling of the dice, very little is heard
to interrupt the silence of the room. The Effendi's clerk comes in
occasionally, with a batch of unanswered letters in his hands, and
whispers mysteriously to the Effendi, who either goes off into a violent
fit of rage, or nods his consent in approval of what has been done, just
as the contents of the letter are pleasing or the reverse. Most of these
letters are from the overseers, or the laborers in the Effendi's
silk-gardens, or olive-plantations; some few from people craving his
assistance; others demanding repayment of loans of money; for there are
but few of the Effendis of Antioch, though all rolling in riches, that
are not indebted to some person or other for cash loans, as, such is
their strange avarice, that though they possess (to use an Oriental
expression) rooms full of money, they are loth to extract one farthing
from their treasures for their daily expenditure.

About ten A.M., the Effendi orders his horse, and followed by his
pipe-bearer, who is equally well-mounted, takes a sedate ride in the
environs of the town. On Saturdays, in lieu of riding, he goes to the
bath, but in either case he is pretty punctual as to the hour of his
return. On reaching home, more pipes and coffee are produced, and he
affixes his seal (for a Turk never signs his name) to the various
business letters that his secretary has prepared, ready for dispatching.
The cry from the minaret now warns him that it is the hour for mid-day
prayer. Washing his hands, face, and feet, he proceeds to the sami
(mosque), where he remains till it is time to breakfast; and when the
breakfast is served, he goes through the forms of ablution again. After
his meals, he is required to wash once more.

I may here remark, for the guidance of strangers, that there is nothing
a Turk considers more degrading than the want of this scrupulous
cleanliness in Europeans; and considering the climate, and the wisdom of
doing in Rome as Rome does (apart from all other arguments), travelers,
although seldom obliged to use their fingers as Turks do at their meals,
ought strictly to adhere to this custom while among Orientals.

The Effendi, after his breakfast, which is generally a very good one,
and is prepared by the careful hands of the fair ladies of the harem,
retires into his seraglio for a couple of hours' siesta, during the heat
of the day. In this interval, if a Pasha, or a bosom-friend, or the
devil himself were to appear, and ask of the servants to see their
master immediately, they would reply that he was asleep in the harem,
and that it was as much as their heads were worth to disturb him.

At about two, P.M., the Effendi is again visible. He then occupies his
time in playing drafts, or reading a Turkish newspaper. At four, he goes
once more to the mosque, and thence proceeds to the secluded garden, on
the banks of the Orontes. Here several other Effendis are sure to meet
him, for it is their usual evening rendezvous. Carpets are spread;
baskets of cucumbers and bottles of spirit produced; and they drink
brandy, and nibble cucumbers, till nigh upon sundown. Sometimes
cachouks, or dancing boys, dressed up in gaudy tinsel-work, and
musicians, are introduced, for the entertainment of the party. By
nightfall, every individual has finished his two--some more--bottles of
strong _aqua vitæ_, and they return homeward, and dine--and dine
heartily. Coffee is then introduced, but nothing stronger--as they never
drink spirit or wine after their evening meals. The nine o'clock summons
to prayer, resounds from the minaret, and nine minutes after that, the
Effendi is fast asleep, and nothing under an earthquake would bring him
forth from the harem again, till he rises simultanously with the sun
next day.


LIVING IN ANTIOCH.

Antioch is, beyond dispute, the cheapest place in the world, as well as
one of the healthiest; and if it were not for the ragged little boys,
who hoot at every stranger, and throw stones at his door, annoying you
in every possible way, I should prefer it, as a place of residence, to
any spot I have visited in Europe, Asia, Africa, or America.

My house was of perfectly new construction, well planted, and well
situated, and proof against water, as well as wind. I had four rooms--a
sitting-room, a dining-room, a bed-room, and a dressing-room. I had a
walled inclosure of about eighty feet square, where roses and geraniums
vied in beauty with jessamines and lilies. There was also a
poultry-yard, a pigeon-house, stables for three horses, a store-house,
a kitchen, and a servants' room. I had in the garden a grape-vine
(muscatel), a pomegranate-tree, a peach-tree, a plum-tree, an apricot,
and a China quince; and, in addition to all these, a fountain
perpetually jetting up water, and a well, and a bathing-room. For all
this accommodation, I paid three hundred and fifty piastres--about three
pounds sterling--and this was a higher rent than would be paid by any
native. Of course, the house was unfurnished, but furniture in the East
is seldom on a grand scale: a divan, half a dozen chairs, a bedstead, a
mattress, a looking-glass, a table or two, and half a dozen pipes, and
narghilies are all one requires. Servants cost about three pounds a head
per annum. Seven and a half pounds of good mutton may be had for a
shilling. Fowls--and fat ones, too--twopence each. Fish is sold by the
weight--thirteen rotolos for a beshlik, or about seventy pounds weight
for a shilling. Eels--the very best flavored in the world--three
halfpence each. As for vegetables, whether cabbages, lettuces, _des
asperges_, celery, watercresses, parsley, beans, peas, radishes,
turnips, carrots, cauliflowers, and onions, a pennyworth would last a
man a week. Fruit is sold at the same rates; and grapes cost about five
shillings the horse-load. Game is also abundant. Dried fruits and nuts
can be obtained in winter. In fact, living as well as one could wish, I
found it impossible--house-rent, servants, horses, board, washing, and
wine included--to exceed the expenditure of forty pounds per annum.

Under these circumstances, it may appear marvelous that many Europeans,
possessed of limited means, have not made Antioch their temporary home;
but every question has two sides, and every thing its _pros_ and _cons_.
The cons, in this instance, are the barbarous character of the people
among whom you live; the perpetual liability of becoming, at one
instant's warning, the victim of some fanatical _émeute_; the small
hopes you have of redress for the grossest insults offered; the
continual intrigues entered into by the Ayans to disturb your peace and
comfort; the absence of many of the luxuries enjoyed in Europe; the want
of society and books, and the total absence of all places of worship,
which gradually creates in the mind a morbid indifference to religion,
and which feeling frequently degenerates into absolute infidelity. It is
better to choose with David in such a case, and say, "I would rather be
a door-keeper in the house of the Lord than dwell in the tents of
iniquity."


AN ENGLISH PHILANTHROPIST IN THE EAST.

Two hours and a half ride from Antioch, through a country that is a
perfect paradise upon earth, but over the most execrable and detestable:
road, brought me to the ancient Seleucia. Famed in the olden history as
the emporium of Eastern commerce and as a port unequaled for safe
harborage, Suedia is celebrated in our own days as having been the
residence and favorite retreat of the late John Barker, Esq., formerly
her Majesty's Consul-general in Egypt, equally eminent as a
philanthropist and a Christian gentleman.

Suedia, or, as it is termed by the Syrians, Zectoonli, embraces a wide
range of mulberry gardens, extending over a space of ten miles by three,
and containing a scattered and mixed population, equal, if not exceeding
in number, to that of Antioch. The village is spread chiefly upon the
banks of the Orontes, and running parallel with the beach, which forms a
boundary to the waves of the Seleucian gulf where the Orontes ends her
course, and nature has scattered around her choicest gifts.

It would require the pen of an inspired writer to describe in adequate
colors this garden of Eden. Mulberry, lemon, and orange-trees form an
uninterrupted succession of gardens, surrounding picturesque little
cottages, each one eclipsing the other in neatness and beauty of
situation. The peasants themselves are hale, robust, and sturdy-looking
men; the children are rosy and healthy; and the women beautiful,
innocent, and happy. Each stops, as a stranger passes, to make a bashful
salute, and bid him welcome to their country. This is what I never met
elsewhere; and it was very pleasing to find uncivilized and untaught
Arabs so polite and courteous. There is, in fact, nothing that a native
of Suedia will not do to render a sojourn among them agreeable and
pleasant. They are a simple people, and as simple in their habits as in
their character. The sun teaches them when to rise, and darkness when to
seek their beds. They labor for subsistence; they sleep for refreshment;
they laugh with the merry, and weep with the afflicted. Their simple old
pastor, in their venerable rustic church, has pointed out to them from
childhood how heinous is sin--how amiable virtue; and they are taught
ever to remember that an all-seeing Eye will detect and punish sins
hidden to men, as surely as public offenses will entail flagellation
from the pasha and governors of the district. Thus they live happy in
their innocence, and in each other, and almost void of offense toward
God and man; a meet people to inhabit a country like that they dwell in.

To this quiet retreat, Mr. Barker, after zealously serving his king and
country for a long period of years, retired, on quitting Egypt, to enjoy
in seclusion the pension awarded him by the government, and devote the
remainder of his days to the peaceful pursuit of agriculture. Few men
could better appreciate the rich gifts Nature had lavished on this spot.
A perfect botanist, and skilled in agriculture, his time and income
during a period of nearly twenty years, were spent in promoting every
improvement in the cultivation of the soil; and many have grown rich,
directly or indirectly, from the methods of tillage introduced into the
country by Mr. Barker.

On taking possession of his wife's landed inheritance, Mr. Barker's
first steps were to erect an edifice becoming his means and station, and
one that would render his sojourn in the country agreeable to himself
and his family, and the many friends and strangers, who delighted in
visiting him, remaining his guests for days, weeks, and, in some
instances, months. There was no mistake as to the genuine hospitality
of the worthy host. His word of welcome was truth itself; and the warm
cordiality of his excellent heart was felt in the firm grasp of his
hand. "Sir," he has said to me on more than one occasion, "it is the
traveler who confers a favor upon me by remaining, and giving me the
benefit of his society, provided he be a man that is at all sufferable.
Some few, I must own, have staid longer than myself or my family could
have wished, but they have been very few." A perfect gentleman, an
accomplished scholar, a sagacious thinker, a philosopher, and
philanthropist, people wondered how so great a heart could content
itself to remain in a place like Suedia. I had the honor to be on
intimate terms with him during my two years' residence in Suedia, and I
learned to love and respect him so much, that when he died, full of
years and honor, I felt a void in my heart, to which I still recur with
the deepest regret.

Mr. Barker's main object in life was to confer benefits upon his
suffering neighbors. He knew how much misery and wretchedness was to be
every day met with in England, and how incompetent were his means,
all-sufficient though they were for his own wants, to relieve such
distress; but in Syria a more available field for benevolence presented
itself. How far and how well his charitable disposition exerted itself
may be imagined, when I say that out of more than six thousand
inhabitants, there is not one who does not to this day bless the memory
of the good man, who through so many years was the friend of all. I
ought to add that through fifty years of uninterrupted intercourse with
as many thousand people, he never made one enemy, but was universally
respected and beloved.

The gardens of Mr. Barker have been long celebrated for the quantity,
variety, and excellent quality of their fruit. In the piece of ground
attached to his own private residence, I have plucked from the tree the
guava, the sweet-kerneled apricot, the Stanwick nectarine (for which the
Duke of Northumberland obtained for him a silver medal), the
sweet-kerneled peach, the shucapara, the celebrated apricot of Damascus,
the plaqueminia kaki, the loquot or nepolis japonica, the mandarin, and
the Malta blood-orange; in short, the fruit of every country in the
world. At Mr. Barker's request, I wrote to Penang and China for seeds of
some rare fruits and spices, which Colonel Butterworth and Sir George
Bonham had the kindness to send me; and though previously produced
solely in those climes, they have since sprung up in these charming
gardens. But, alas! they did not thus display themselves till the
excellent old man had passed away. On the demise of Mr. Barker, the
whole of his landed property reverted to his amiable and kind-hearted
widow.

Besides introducing the finest fruit-trees in the world, and many rare
ornamental trees, from the cuttings and graftings of which the whole of
the gardens of Suedia have been supplied, Mr. Barker greatly ameliorated
the conditions of the natives by obtaining from Italy regular supplies
of the best silk worm seed, which was then divided among them.
Originally, the silk produced was of a very inferior quality; it has now
become the finest in any part of the East. As for flowers, it was a
perfect sight to see the garden attached to Mr. Barker's house at any
season of the year, even in the depth of winter, when the surrounding
mountains were covered with snow, and every where else vegetation had
disappeared, thousands of Bengal roses and other rare and beautiful
flowers here presented the appearance of perpetual summer.


A ROMANCE OF CYPRUS.

Every traveler who has ever visited Cyprus has heard of Signor Baldo
Matteo, the Ebenezer Scrooge of the East. While I was at Larnaca, a sad
adventure, furnishing ample materials for a melodrama, nearly terminated
old Baldo's life, and all his speculations. His only daughter, and
heiress, lost her heart to a needy Austrian, who had come to Cyprus
expressly to make his fortune by marriage. Hearing of the wealth of old
Baldo, and of his daughter, he fixed upon him at once; but Baldo was not
to be easily caught, and totally repulsed every advance. The Austrian
grew desperate, and, as a final resource, became fanatically religious,
attending the Catholic chapel morning, noon, and night. Nothing could
exceed his devotion to a certain old priest troubled with the cramp, on
whose leg he sat, whenever it was attacked, till the pain passed off.
When, after this, he whispered to him the sin that preyed most heavily
upon his mind, which was a wish to possess riches, that he might bestow
them on Mother Church, and hinted at a passion for Miss Baldo, he
received immediate absolution, and was next day dining at old Baldo's
table, in company with the Padre Presidenti, and seated next to the
object in whom all his hopes were concentrated. Miss Baldo was luckily
placed on his right, and heard with unspeakable rapture all his
protestations of love and devotion. Had she been on his left, these
would all have been lost, as she had been perfectly deaf on that side
from her birth.

To be brief, the Austrian proposed, and was accepted, and all that he
had now to obtain was old Baldo's consent. Baldo, however, as a man of
the world, saw clearly through his designs, and knew him to be a knave,
though he had too much reverence for the priestly clique, who had
introduced the Austrian, to give a decided negative. All he asked was
time--a year--to consider so important a measure. This was accorded, and
Baldo devoutly prayed that the true character of his daughter's suitor
might before that time be unmasked. His prayer was granted, but in a way
the least expected, and certainly the least agreeable to himself.

The lover of the Signorina Baldo, finding his exchequer rather low, and
being sorrowfully conscious of his inability to increase his wealth, so
as to enable him to keep up necessary appearances, came to the desperate
resolution of grasping, without further delay, his intended wife's
fortune, by sending poor old Baldo out of the world. Accordingly, armed
with a loaded double-barreled pistol, which he concealed about his
person, he proceeded to Matteo's house at an hour when he knew he would
find him alone, the daughter and servants being in the habit of
attending high mass on Sunday mornings; and he knocked at the door,
which, after a little hesitation, was opened to him. Old Baldo, though
believed to be an honorable man, and fair and just in his transactions
with others, was a confirmed miser. He had accumulated great sums in
hard cash, which, unseen by human eye, he had buried in his garden, and
hidden in various parts of his house. The house was going to ruin, and
wanted whitewashing and repairing in many parts. The garden was a
perfect wilderness of weeds and thistles; but these he set fire to
regularly once a year, and by this means, to a certain extent, kept them
under. As for gardeners armed with a spade, which might dig up and bring
to light all kinds of secret hoards, if there was one trade Baldo
detested, it was this. He kept the key of his walled-in garden, and on
Sundays, when all his family were absent, he strolled about in it till
their return.

He was thus occupied when he admitted his would-be son-in-law; and the
first thing this promising youth did, was to draw forth his pistol and
take deliberate aim, discharging it at the breast of the feeble old man,
who, tottering backward a few paces, fell to the earth apparently a
corpse. For such the murderer took him; and depositing the pistol close
by his side, to make it appear he had died by his own hand, he rushed
into the street, closing the door after him.

Running with the haste of a man charged with some important news, he
came suddenly on a gentleman attached to the Austrian consulate, whom he
breathlessly informed that passing near Baldo's house, he had heard the
report of a pistol, followed by a sound like that of some heavy body
falling to the earth, that he had in vain knocked at the door for
admission, and that he had no doubt in his own mind that some sad
catastrophe had occurred.

In a few seconds a perfect mob was collected at Baldo's door, which they
broke open, and rushing in, beheld old Baldo stretched upon the ground,
his clothes literally saturated with blood, and a pistol lying close by
his side. The assassin, who never dreamt that the old man was still
alive, witnessed this spectacle with fiendish triumph, though loudly
lamenting the loss of him, whom he called the best friend on earth. But
it happened that the ball, though it struck against a part where a wound
would have been mortal, had come in contact with the sharp edge of a
bone, which turned it in another direction, and it was now safely lodged
between the skin and the spine. Baldo, who had fainted from fright and
loss of blood, now, to the amazement of all, recovered his senses, and
hearing the voice of his late assailant, slowly raised himself up, and
denounced him on the spot. Having done this, he fell back, and again
became unconscious. The wretch was immediately seized and handcuffed,
and safely borne away to the Austrian consulate, where he was placed in
confinement.

Doctors were now assembled from all parts of Cyprus, and all examined
the wound, and declared it fatal, expressing the greatest surprise that
the patient should have lingered so long. The blood being stanched, and
Baldo suffering from no real injury, but laboring under a sense of
approaching dissolution, begged that a confessor might be sent for. To
this confessor, he acknowledged, among other offenses, the commission of
one sin which weighed heavier than all the rest upon his guilty
conscience. It appeared that his niece, who was then married to a French
merchant at Larnaca, had been left at a very early age an orphan, and
had become his ward. She had, however, been well provided for by her
parents, and a large sum of money had been deposited in his hands,
which, after covering the expenses of her education and board, &c.,
would still leave a considerable surplus as a marriage portion. Now old
Baldo, never forgetting his thrift, had more than twice turned this
capital over before the date of the niece's marriage, but he had
retained the proceeds of his own, handing over the principal to the
bridegroom on the nuptial day. But on the approach of death, as it
seemed, he felt considerable qualms of conscience, and confessed his
unworthy stewardship, and indicated the spots where these savings were
concealed. The husband of the niece quickly dug them up, and came into
possession. Scarcely was this done, when Baldo recovered, and would
almost have forgiven the attempt upon his life, had it not involved such
serious results.

The Austrian was by the Turkish authorities handed over to his own
consulate, and was eventually removed to Trieste, but I believe, for
lack of sufficient testimony, escaped punishment. This affair, as it may
be imagined, created a great sensation in Cyprus, which was once the
scene of the memorable tragedy which terminated the life of Desdemona.


ANECDOTES OF A PRIEST.

It was in Nicosia, about the year 1840, that Dame Fortune once more
played off one of her eccentric frolics on the person of a poor Greek
priest, who had little to depend upon in this world, save such meagre
offerings as the more charitable of his parishioners bestowed upon him.
As the story goes, he was a devout and holy man, but beyond being able
to go through the regular routine of his priestly office, possessed but
scant learning, and was equally ignorant of the world's ways and
manners. At the commencement of a fast, fearing he should, from his
defective memory, forget its exact duration, he carefully filled his
pockets with so many dried peas as there were fast days, and each day
extracting one from his pockets, as the peas diminished, he was warned
of the proximity of a feast, and prepared accordingly. On one occasion,
his wife happening to find a few peas in her husband's pockets, and
imagining the devout man was fond of this Eastern luxury, very
affectionately replenished his pockets from her own store of cadamies,
or roasted peas. Great was the consternation of his congregation, when
on the eve of the feast day, instead of proclaiming its advent from the
pulpit, as is usual, he informed them that eight or ten days yet
remained for the approaching festival. A discussion on this point
immediately ensued, when the priest, in confirmation of what he
asserted, produced from his pocket the remaining peas, making known at
the same time his method of calculating. Upon this, his wife stepped
forward, and acknowledged what she had done, and great merriment ensued,
in which the priest joined.

To this poor man, fortune now brought one of those rare windfalls which
are more frequently heard of than experienced. One summer's evening he
was seated in the courtyard of his humble house, watching with
satisfaction and delight the gambols of his little children, who were
amusing themselves with throwing stones at a hole in the wall. At length
he remarked, that whenever a stone chanced to go near the crevice, he
heard a ringing sound, and to convince himself that he was not deceived,
he stepped nearer, and hit it repeatedly with a stone, each time hearing
the sound distinctly. It now occurred to him that there was some
concealed treasure within, and the thought made him tremble with
expectation. He went to bed early, but not to sleep, having formed the
determination that he would that night make a rigorous search. When all
was still, he rose from his sleepless couch, and going out stealthily
and noiselessly, commenced, by aid of a small pickax, breaking into the
wall, removing stone by stone. He had hardly worked an hour, when out
fell a bag of doubloons, followed by a second and a third. This was
indeed a treasure, sufficient to satisfy a more covetous man; but he
felt there would be no safety with it in Cyprus. That very night, he
carefully stowed his riches in two saddle-bags, and before daybreak,
awoke his wife and acquainted her with their good fortune, when horses
were hired at a neighboring khan, and priest, wife, and children turned
their backs upon Nicosia, and arriving early at Larnaca, embarked that
very day on board a vessel sailing for Italy. The priest became the head
of one of the wealthiest mercantile firms now established at Leghorn,
and is, I believe, still living.




THE SHADOW OF BEN JONSON'S MOTHER.


In Hartshorn Lane, near Charing Cross, about the year 1580, dwells Mr.
Thomas Fowler, a master bricklayer. He had married, in 1575, Mrs.
Margaret Jonson, a widow; and had become the protector of her little
boy, Benjamin, then about a year and a half old.

Benjamin is now in his sixth year. He duly attends the parish school in
St. Martin's Church; for his father was "a grave minister of the
gospel," and his mother is anxious that her only child, poor although he
must be, shall lack no advantages of education. We see the sturdy boy
daily pacing to school, through the rough and miry way of that
half-rural district. In his play-hours he is soon in the fields, picking
blackberries in Hedge-lane, or flying his kite by the Windmill in Saint
Giles's. His father-in-law is a plain, industrious, trusty man--not rich
enough to undertake any of the large works which the luxurious wants of
the town present; and oft-times interfered with, in the due course of
his labor, by royal proclamations against the increase of houses, which
are rigidly enforced when a humble man desires to build a cottage. But
young Ben has found friends. To the parish school sometimes comes Master
Camden; and he observes the bold boy, always at the head of his class,
and not unfrequently having his "clear and fair skin" disfigured by
combats with his dirty companions, who litter about the alleys of Saint
Martin's-lane. The boy has won good Master Camden's heart; and so, in
due time, he proposes to remove him to Westminster School.

Let us look at the Shadow of his Mother, as she debates this question
with her husband, at their frugal supper. "The boy must earn his
living," says the bricklayer. "He is strong enough to be of help to me.
He can mix the mortar; he will soon be able to carry the hod. Learning!
stuff! he has learning enow, for all the good it will do him."--"Thomas
Fowler," responds the mother, "if I wear my fingers to the bone, my boy
shall never carry the hod. Master Camden, a good man, and a learned,
will pay for his schooling. Shall we not give him his poor meals and his
pallet-bed? Master Camden says he will make his way. I owe it to the
memory of him who is gone, that Benjamin shall be a scholar, and perhaps
a minister."--"Yes; and be persecuted for his opinions, as his father
was. These are ticklish times, Margaret--the lowest are the safest. Ben
is passionate, and obstinate, and will quarrel for a straw. Make him a
scholar, and he becomes Papist or Puritan--the quiet way is not for the
like of him. He shall be apprenticed to me, wife, and earn his daily
bread safely and honestly." Night after night is the debate renewed. But
the mother triumphs. Ben does go to Westminster School. He has hard fare
at home; he has to endure many a taunt as he sits apart in the Abbey
cloisters, intent upon his task. But Camden is his instructor and his
friend. The bricklayer's boy fights his way to distinction.

Look again at the Shadow of that proud Mother as, after three or four
anxious years, she hears of his advancement. He has an exhibition. He is
to remove to Cambridge. Her Benjamin must be a bishop. Thomas Fowler is
incredulous--and he is not generous: "When Benjamin leaves this roof he
must shift for himself, wife." The mother drops one tear when her boy
departs; the leathern purse which holds her painful savings is in
Benjamin's pocket.

It is a summer night of 1590, when Benjamin Jonson walks into the poor
house of Hartshorn-lane. He is travel-stained and weary. His jerkin is
half hidden beneath a dirty cloak. That jerkin, which looked so smart in
a mother's eyes when last they parted, is strangely shrunk--or, rather,
has not the spare boy grown into a burly youth, although the boy's
jerkin must still do service? The bricklayer demands his business; the
wife falls upon his neck. And well may the bricklayer know him not. His
face is "pimpled;" hard work and irregular living have left their marks
upon him. The exhibition has been insufficient for his maintenance. His
spirit has been sorely wounded. The scholar of sixteen thinks he should
prefer the daily bread which is to be won by the labor of his hands, to
the hunger for which pride has no present solace. Benjamin Jonson
becomes a bricklayer.

And now, for two years, has the mother--her hopes wholly gone, her love
only the same--to bear up under the burden of conflicting duties. The
young man duly works at the most menial tasks of his business. He has
won his way to handle a trowel; but he is not conformable in all things.
"Wife," says Thomas Fowler, "that son of yours will never prosper. Can
not he work--and can not he eat his meals--without a Greek book in his
vest? This very noon must he seat himself, at dinner-hour, in the shade
of the wall in Chancery-lane, on which he had been laboring; and then
comes a reverend Bencher and begins discourse with him; and Ben shows
him his book--and they talk as if they were equal. Margaret, he is too
grand for me; he is above his trade."--"Shame on ye, husband! Does he
not work, honestly and deftly? and will you grudge him his books?"--"He
haunts the play-houses; he sits in the pit--and cracks nuts--and hisses
or claps hands, in a way quite unbeseeming a bricklayer's apprentice.
Margaret, I fear he will come to no good." One night there is a fearful
quarrel. It is late when Benjamin returns home. In silence and darkness,
the son and mother meet. She is resolved. "Benjamin, my son, my dear
son, we will endure this life no longer. There is a sword; it was your
grandfather's. A gentleman wore it; a gentleman shall still wear it. Go
to the Low-Countries. Volunteers are called for. There is an expedition
to Ostend. Take with you these few crowns, and God prosper you."

Another year, and Benjamin's campaign is ended. At the hearth in
Hartshorn-lane sits Margaret Fowler--in solitude. There will be no more
strife about her son. Death has settled the controversy. Margaret is
very poor. Her trade is unprosperous; for the widow is defrauded by her
servants. "Mother, there is my grandfather's sword--it has done service;
and now, I will work for you."--"How, my son?"--"I will be a bricklayer
again." We see the Shadow of the Mother, as she strives to make her son
content. He has no longer the "lime and mortar" hands with which it was
his after-fate to be reproached; but he bestows the master's eye upon
his mother's workmen. Yet he has hours of leisure. There is a chamber in
the old house now filled with learned books. He reads, and he writes, as
his own pleasure dictates. "Mother," he one day says, "I wish to
marry."--"Do so, my son; bring your wife home; we will dwell together."
So a few years roll on. He and his wife weep

  "Mary, the daughter of their youth."

But there is an event approaching which sets aside sorrow. "Daughter,"
says the ancient lady, "we must to the Rose Playhouse to-night. There is
a new play to be acted, and that play is Benjamin's."--"Yes, mother, he
has had divers moneys already. Not much, I wot, seeing the labor he has
given to this 'Comedy of Humors'--five shillings, and ten shillings,
and, once, a pound."--"No matter, daughter, he will be famous; I always
knew he would be famous." A calamity clouds that fame. The play-writer
has quarrels on every side. In the autumn of 1598, Philip Henslowe, the
manager of "the Lord Admiral's men," writes thus to his son-in-law,
Alleyn; "Since you were with me, I have lost one of my company, which
hurteth me greatly--that is, Gabriel; for he is slain in Hogsden Fields,
by the hands of Benjamin Jonson, bricklayer." Twenty years after, the
great dramatist, the laureat, thus relates the story to Drummond: "Being
appealed to the fields, he had killed his adversary, which had hurt him
in the arm, and whose sword was ten inches longer than his; for the
which he was imprisoned and almost at the gallows." There is the proud
Shadow of a Roman Matron hovering about his cell, in those hours when
the gallows loomed darkly in the future.

The scholar and the poet has won his fame. Bricklayer no longer, Ben is
the companion of the illustrious. Shakspeare hath "wit-combats" with
him; Camden and Selden try his metal, in learned controversies; Raleigh,
and Beaumont, and Donne, and Fletcher, exchange with him "words of
subtle flame" at "The Mermaid." But a new trouble arises--James is come
to the throne. Hear Jonson's account of a remarkable transaction: "He
was delated by Sir James Murray to the King, for writing something
against the Scots, in a play, 'Eastward Ho,' and voluntarily imprisoned
himself, with Chapman and Marston, who had written it among them. The
report was, that they should then have had their ears cut, and noses."
They are at length released. We see the shadow of a banquet, which the
poet gave to his friends in commemoration of his deliverance. There is a
joyous company of immortals at that feast. There, too, is that loving
and faithful mother. The wine-cups are flowing; there are song and jest,
eloquence, and the passionate earnestness with which such friends speak
when the heart is opened. But there is one, whose Shadow we now see,
more passionate and more earnest than any of that company. She rises,
with a full goblet in her hand: "Son, I drink to thee. Benjamin, my
beloved son, thrice I drink to thee. See ye this paper; one grain of the
subtle drug which it holds is death. Even as we now pledge each other in
rich canary, would I have pledged thee in lusty strong poison, had thy
sentence taken execution. Thy shame would have been my shame, and
neither of us should have lived after it."

"She was no churl," says Benjamin.




LIGHT AND AIR.


Light and Air are two good things: two necessaries of existence to us
animals, possessing eyes and lungs: two of the things prayed for by
sanitary philosophers in the back streets of London; where, we fear,
they might as well be crying for the moon.

Light and Air, then, being two good things, what happens when they come
together? Spirit and water combined, says the toper, are two good things
spoiled; and how do light and air mix? Pick out of Cheapside the busiest
of men, and he will tell you that he loves the sky-blue in its proper
place, making a sickly joke about his milk-jug. There is not a Scrub in
the whole world who would not think it necessary to show pleasure--yes,
and feel some indication of it--over sunset colors, when, by chance, he
treads the fields upon a summer evening. We all look up at the stars,
and feel that they would seem much less the confidential friends they
really are, if they were shining down upon us with a rigid light. There
is a beating human pulse which answers to our hearts in their incessant
twinkling. And then the rainbow! Light that might pass down to us, and
give us sight, but nothing more, gives sight and blesses it at once. Its
touch converts the air into a region of delightful visions, ever
changing, ever new. To reach us it must penetrate our atmosphere, and it
is a fact that He who made the Universe, so made it that, in the whole
range of Nature there is not one barren combination. Light must pass
through the air; and, from a knowledge of the other laws of Nature, it
might confidently be proclaimed, that, in addition to the useful
purposes of each, and their most necessary action on each other, beauty
and pleasure would be generated also by their union, to delight the
creatures of this world.

It is not our design just now to talk about the nature of the
atmosphere; to attempt any analysis of light, or even to mention its
recondite mysteries. But in a plain way we propose to look into the
reason of those changes made by light in the appearance of the sky,
those every-day sights with which we are the most familiar.

Blue sky itself, for example. Why is the sky blue? To explain that, we
must state a few preliminary facts concerning light, and beg pardon of
any one whose wisdom may be outraged by the elementary character of our
information. There are some among our readers, no doubt, who may find it
useful. In the first place, then, we will begin with the erection of a
pole upon a play-ground, and, like boys and girls, we will go out to
play about it with an india-rubber ball. The pole being planted upright,
is said to be planted at right angles to the surface of the ground. Now,
if we climb the pole, and throw our ball down in the same line with it,
it will run down the pole and strike the ground, and then jump back
again by the same road into our fingers. The bouncing back is called in
scientific phrase, Reflection; and so we may declare about our ball,
that if it strike a plane surface at right angles, it is reflected
immediately back upon the line it went by, or, as scientific people
say, "the line of incidence." Now, let us walk off, and mount a wall at
a short distance from the pole. We throw our ball so that it strikes the
ground quite close to the spot at which the pole is planted in the
earth, and we observe that the said ball no longer returns into our
hand, but flies up without deviating to the right or left (in the same
plane, says Science) beyond the pole, with exactly the same inclination
toward the pole on one side, and the surface of the ground on the other,
as we gave it when we sent it down. So if there were a wall on the other
side of our pole, exactly as distant and as high as our own, and
somebody should sit thereon directly opposite to us, the ball would
shoot down from our fingers to the root of the pole, and then up from
the pole into his hand. Spread a string on each side along the course
the ball has taken, from wall to pole, and from pole to wall. The string
on each side will make with the pole an equal angle: the angle to the
pole, by which the ball went, is called, we said, the angle of
incidence; the angle from the pole, by which it bounced off, is called
the angle of reflection. Now, it is true not only of balls, but of all
things that are reflected; of light, for example, reflected from a
looking-glass, or a sheet of water, that "the angle of reflection is
equal to the angle of incidence."

The light that shines back to us from a sheet of water, has not
penetrated through its substance, certainly. But now, let us be Tritons,
or sea-nymphs, and let us live in a cool crystal grot under the waves.
We don't live in the dark, unless we be unmitigated deep-sea Tritons.
The deeper we go, the darker we find it. Why? Now, let us be absurd, and
suppose that it is possible for light to be measured by the bushel. Ten
bushels of light are poured down from the sun upon a certain bit of
water; six of these, we will say, reflected from its surface, cause the
glittering appearance, which is nothing to us Tritons down below. But
light can pass through water; that is to say, water is a transparent
substance; so the other four bushels soak down to illuminate the fishes.
But this light, so soaking down, is by the water (and would be by any
other transparent substance) absorbed, altered, partly converted into
heat--when we understand exactly what Mr. Grove calls the Correlation of
Physical Forces, we shall understand the why and how--we only know just
now the fact, that all transparent bodies do absorb and use up light; so
that the quantity of light which entered at the surface of our water
suffers robbery, becoming less and less as if sinks lower down toward
our coral caves.

Furthermore, beside reflection and absorption, there is one more thing
that light suffers; and that we must understand before we can know
properly why skies are blue, and stars are twinkling. That one thing
more is called Refraction. A horse trots fairly over the stones, but
slips the moment stones end, and he comes upon wood pavement. A ray of
light travels straight as a dancing-master's back, so long as it is in
air, or water, or glass, or any other "medium," as the books say, of a
certain unvarying thinness or thickness, fineness or coarseness, or
according to the school-word "density." But if a ray that has been
traveling through warm and light air, suddenly plunges into air cold and
heavy, it is put out of the way by such a circumstance, and in the
moment of making such a change, it alters its direction. Still more, a
ray of light that has been traveling in a straight line through air, is
put out of its course on entering the denser medium of water; it is
dislocated, refracted very much, alters its course, and then continues
in a straight line on the new course, so long as the new medium
continues. In the same way, a ray of light which travels through a
medium that becomes denser and denser very gradually would be
perpetually swerving from its straight path, and would travel on a
curve. Our atmosphere is heaviest upon the surface of the earth, and
becomes lighter and thinner as we rise; the ray, therefore, from a star
comes to us after traveling in such a curve. But we see all objects in
the direction of a perfectly straight line continued in the direction
which the rays sent from them took at the moment of falling upon our
sense of sight. Therefore we see all stars in a part of the heavens
where they really are not; we see the sun before it really rises. Light
entering a denser medium is refracted from, entering a lighter medium is
refracted toward, a line drawn at right angles to its surface. Light
entering a new medium at right angles--that is to say, not
aslant--continues its own course unaltered.

There is but one more fact necessary to fill up the small measure of
preliminary knowledge necessary for a general understanding of the
phenomena produced by the mixing of light with air. Light in its perfect
state is white, but the white light is a compound of other rays in due
proportion, each ray being different in color and different in quality.
So it takes place, because their qualities are different, that grass
reflects the green ray and absorbs the rest, and therefore grass is
green; while orange-peel reflects another ray, and swallows up the green
and all the rest. These colors being in the light, not in the substance
colored; in a dark room it is not merely a fact that we can not see red
curtains and pictures; but the curtains really are not red, the
paintings have no color in them, till the morning come, and artfully
constructed surfaces once more in a fixed manner decompose the light.
Beside the color of these rays, from which light is compounded, there
are combined with them other subtle principles which act mysteriously
upon matter. Upon the hard surface of a pebble there are changes that
take place whenever a cloud floats before the sun. Never mind that now.
The colored rays of which pure white light is compounded are usually
said to be seven--Violet, Indigo, Blue, Green, Yellow, Orange, Red; and
they may be technically remembered in their proper order by combining
their initials into the barbarous word Vibgyor. These are called
prismatic colors, because they were first separated by the passing of a
ray of pure light through a prism. In that passage light is much
refracted, and it happens that the contained rays all disagree with one
another as to the extent to which they suffer themselves to be put out
by a change of medium. Violet refracts most, and red least; the others
stand between in the order in which they have just been named, the order
in which you see them in the rainbow. So the rays after refraction come
out in a state of dissension; all the rays--made refractory--having
agreed to separate, because they are not of one mind, but of seven
minds, about the degree to which they should be put out by the trouble
they have gone through.

Now we have settled our preliminaries, we have got our principles; the
next thing is to put them into practice. Let us first note what has been
said of the absorption of light by transparent bodies. The air is one of
the most transparent bodies known. On a clear day--when vapor (that is
not air) does not mingle with our atmosphere--mechanical obstacles and
the earth's figure form the only limits to our vision. You may see
Cologne Cathedral from a mountain distant nearly sixty miles.
Nevertheless, if the atmosphere had no absorbing power, only direct rays
of the sun, or rays reflected from the substances about us, would be
visible; the sky would be black, not blue; and sunset would abruptly
pitch us into perfect night. The air, however, absorbs light, which
becomes intermixed with its whole substance. Hold up your head, open
your eyes widely, and stare at the noonday sun. You will soon shut your
eyes and turn your head away; look at him in the evening or in the
morning, and he will not blind you. Why? Remembering the earth to be a
globe surrounded by an atmosphere, you will perceive that the sun's rays
at noonday have to penetrate the simple thickness of the atmosphere,
measured in a straight line upward from the earth; but in the evening or
morning its beams fall aslant, and have to slip through a great deal of
air before they reach us; suffering, therefore, a great deal of robbery;
that is to say, having much light absorbed.

Now, why is the sky blue? Not only does the air absorb light; it
reflects it also. The particles of air reflect, however, most especially
the blue ray, while they let the red and his companions slip by. This
constant reflection of the blue ray causes the whole air to appear blue;
but what else does it cause? Let us consider. If air reflects or turns
aside, or hustles out of its place the blue ray, suffering the rest to
pass, it follows as a consequence that the more air a ray of light
encounters, the more blue will it lose. The sun's rays in the morning
and the evening falling aslant, as we have said, across a great breadth
of our atmosphere, must lose their blue light to a terrible extent, and
very likely reach us with the blue all gone, and red lord paramount. But
so, in truth, the case is; and the same fact which explains the blueness
of the atmosphere, explains the redness of the sunrise and the sunset.
It will now easily be understood, also, why the blue color of the sky is
deepest in the zenith, faintest when we look over the horizon; why the
blue is at noon deeper than after mid-day; why it grows more intense as
we ascend to higher elevations. From what we have already said, the
reason of these things will come out with a very little thought. Again,
in the example of our London fogs, &c., when in the upper portion of the
dense mass the blue rays have been all refracted, there can penetrate
only those other rays which make the lurid sky, with which we are
familiar, or the genuine old yellow fog. Fog in moderation, the thin
vapor on the open sea, and so forth, simply gives a lightness to the
blue tint, or more plentiful, an absolute whiteness to the atmosphere.

Now let us see whether we are yet able to make out the philosophy of a
fine autumn sunset. As the sun comes near the horizon, he and the air
about him become red, because the light from that direction has been
robbed of the blue rays in traversing horizontally so large a portion of
the atmosphere. The sky in the zenith pales, for it has little but the
absorbed or diffused light to exist upon. Presently, we see a redness in
the east, quite opposite to the sun, and this redness increases till the
sun sinks from our sight. In this case, the last rays of the sun that
traverse the whole breadth of the atmosphere, reflected from the east,
from vapors there, and more especially from clouds, come red to our
eyes; no blue can be remaining in them. From the west, where the sun is
setting, the rays come from the surrounding air, and from the clouds,
variously colored; they lose their blue, but there remain the red,
green, orange, yellow, and the purple rays; and some or all of these may
make the tints that come to us, according to the state and nature of the
clouds, the atmosphere, and other circumstances that may modify the
process of refraction. The sun has set; it is immediately below the
horizon, and its rays still dart through all our atmosphere, except that
portion which is shielded from them by the intervening shadow of the
earth. That shadow appears in the east, soon after sunset, in the shape
of a calm blue arch, which rises gradually in the sky, immediately
opposite to the part glorified by sunset colors. Over this arch the sky
is red, with the rays not shut out by the round shadow of our ball. As
the sun sinks, our shadow of course rises; and within it there can be
only the diffused twilight, always blue. When this arch--this shadow of
the earth--has risen almost to the zenith, and the sun is at some
distance below the horizon, then the red color in the west becomes much
more distinct and vivid; for the sun then shoots up thither its rays
through a still larger quantity of intervening atmosphere; so that the
redness grows as the sun sinks, until the shadow of the earth has
covered all, and the stars--of which the brightest soon were
visible--grow numerous upon the vault of heaven. When stars of the sixth
magnitude are visible, then, astronomically speaking, twilight ends. The
length of twilight will depend upon the number of rays of light that are
reflected and dispersed, and that, again, will depend entirely on the
atmosphere. Where there is much vapor, and the days are dull by reason
of the quantity of kidnapped light, there compensation is made by the
consequent increase of twilight. In the interior of Africa night follows
immediately upon sunset. In summer the vapor rises to a great height,
and pervades the atmosphere; the twilight then is longer than in winter,
when the colder air contains less vapor, and the vapor it contains lies
low.

Now, since the appearances at twilight depend on the condition of the
sky, it follows that our weather-wisdom, drawn from such appearances, is
based upon a philosophical foundation. When there is a blue sky, and
after sunset a slight purple in the west, we have reason for expecting
fine weather. After rain, detached clouds, colored red and tolerably
bright, may rejoice those who anticipate a pic-nic party. If the
twilight show a partiality for whitish yellow in its dress, we say that
very likely there will be some rain next day; the more that whitish
yellow spreads over the sky, the more the chance of water out of it.
When the sun is brilliantly white, and sets in a white light, we think
of storms; especially so when light high clouds that dull the whole sky
become deeper near the horizon. When the color of the twilight is a
grayish red, with portions of deep red passing into gray that hide the
sun, then be prepared, we say, for wind and rain. The morning signs are
different. When it is very red, we expect rain; a gray dawn means fine
weather. The difference between a gray dawn and a gray twilight is
this--in the morning, grayness depends usually upon low clouds, which
melt before the rising sun; but in the evening grayness is caused by
high clouds, which continue to grow denser through the night. But if in
the morning there be so much vapor as to make a red dawn, it is most
probable that thick clouds will be formed out of it in the course of the
operations of the coming day.

Refraction of light has a good deal to do also with the twinkling of the
stars; though there may go to the explanation of the phenomenon other
principles which do not concern our present purpose. The air contains
layers of different density, shifting over each other in currents. The
fixed stars are, to our eyes, brilliant points of light; their rays
broken in passing through these currents, exhibit an agitation which is
not shown by the planets. The planets are not points to our sight, nor
points to our telescopes; being much nearer, although really smaller,
they are to our eyes of a decided, measurable size; so being in greater
body, we at most could only see their edges scintillate; and this we can
do sometimes through a telescope, but scarcely with the naked eye.

In rainbows, light is both refracted and reflected. You can only see a
rainbow when the sun is low, your own position being between the rainbow
and the sun. The rays of light refracted by the shower into their
prismatic colors, are then reflected by the shower back into your eye,
and so, from the principles we started with, it will be clear that while
a thousand people may see under the same circumstances a rainbow of the
same intensity, no two people see precisely the same object, but each
man enjoys a rainbow to himself.

Of halos, and of lunar rainbows, of double suns, of the mirage, or any
other extraordinary things developed by the play of light and air
together, we did not intend to speak. Our discussion was confined to
such an explanation of some every-day sights as may lend aid to
contemplation sometimes of an autumnal evening, when

            ----"the soft hour
  Of walking comes: for him who lonely loves
  To seek the distant hills, and there converse
  With Nature."

Do you not think the man impenetrably deaf who, professing to converse
with Nature, can not hear the tale which Nature is forever telling?




THE WIDOW OF COLOGNE.


In the year 1641, there lived in a narrow, obscure street of Cologne a
poor woman named Marie Marianni. With an old female servant for her sole
companion, she inhabited a small, tumble-down, two-storied house, which
had but two windows in front. Nothing could well be more miserable than
the furniture of this dark dwelling. Two worm-eaten four-post bedsteads,
a large deal-press, two rickety tables, three or four old wooden chairs,
and a few rusty kitchen utensils, formed the whole of its domestic
inventory.

Marie Marianni, despite of the wrinkles which nearly seventy years had
left on her face, still preserved the trace of former beauty. There was
a grace in her appearance, and a dignity in her manner, which
prepossessed strangers in her favor whenever they happened to meet her;
but this was rarely. Living in the strictest retirement, and avoiding as
much as possible all intercourse with her neighbors, she seldom went out
except for the purpose of buying provisions. Her income consisted of a
small pension, which she received every six months. In the street where
she lived she was known by the name of "The Old Nun," and was regarded
with considerable respect.

Marie Marianni usually lived in the room on the ground-floor, where she
spent her time in needlework; and her old servant Bridget occupied the
upper room, which served as a kitchen, and employed herself in spinning.

Thus lived these two old women in a state of complete isolation. In
winter, however, in order to avoid the expense of keeping up two fires,
Marie Marianni used to call down her domestic, and cause her to place
her wheel in the chimney-corner, while she herself occupied a large old
easy-chair at the opposite side. They would sometimes sit thus evening
after evening without exchanging a single word.

One night, however, the mistress happened to be in a more communicative
temper than usual, and addressing her servant, she said: "Well, Bridget,
have you heard from your son?"

"No, madame, although the Frankfort post has come in."

"You see, Bridget, it is folly to reckon on the affection of one's
children; you are not the only mother who has to complain of their
ingratitude."

"But, madame, my Joseph is not ungrateful: he loves me, and if he has
not written now, I am certain it is only because he has nothing to say.
One must not be too hard upon young people."

"Not too hard, certainly; but we have a right to their submission and
respect."

"For my part, dear lady, I am satisfied with possessing, as I do, my
son's affection."

"I congratulate you, Bridget," said her mistress, with a deep sigh.
"Alas! I am also a mother, and I ought to be a happy one. Three sons,
possessing rank, fortune, glory; yet here I am, forgotten by them, in
poverty, and considered importunate if I appeal to them for help. You
are happy, Bridget, in having an obedient son--mine are hard and
thankless!"

"Poor, dear lady, my Joseph loves me so fondly!"

"You cut me to the heart, Bridget: you little know what I have suffered.
An unhappy mother, I have also been a wretched wife. After having lived
unhappily together during several years, my husband died, the victim of
an assassin. And whom, think you, did they accuse of instigating his
murder? Me! In the presence of my children--ay, at the instance of my
eldest son--I was prosecuted for this crime!"

"But doubtless, madame, you were acquitted?"

"Yes; and had I been a poor woman, without power, rank, or influence, my
innocence would have been publicly declared. But having all these
advantages, it suited my enemies' purpose to deprive me of them, so they
banished me, and left me in the state in which I am!"

"Dear mistress!" said the old woman.

Marie Marianni hid her face in her handkerchief, and spoke no more
during the remainder of the evening.

As the servant continued silently to turn her wheel, she revolved in her
mind several circumstances connected with the "Old Nun." She had often
surprised her reading parchments covered with seals of red wax, which,
on Bridget's entrance, her mistress always hurriedly replaced in a small
iron box.

One night Marie Marianni, while suffering from an attack of fever, cried
out in a tone of unutterable horror: "No: I will not see him! Take away
yon red robe--that man of blood and murder!"

These things troubled the simple mind of poor Bridget, yet she dared not
speak of them to her usually haughty and reserved mistress.

On the next evening, as they were sitting silently at work, a knock was
heard at the door.

"Who can it be at this hour?" said Marie Marianni.

"I can not think," replied her servant; "'tis now nine o'clock."

"Another knock! Go, Bridget, and see who it is, but open the door with
precaution."

The servant took their solitary lamp in her hand, went to the door. She
presently returned, ushering into the room Father Francis, a priest who
lived in the city. He was a man of about fifty years old, whose hollow
cheeks, sharp features, and piercing eyes wore a sinister and far from
hallowed expression.

"To what, father, am I indebted for this late visit?" asked the old
lady.

"To important tidings," replied the priest, "which I am come to
communicate."

"Leave us, Bridget," said her mistress. The servant took an old iron
lamp, and went upstairs to her fireless chamber.

"What have you to tell me?" asked Marie Marianni of her visitor.

"I have had news from France."

"Good news?"

"Some which may eventually prove so."

"The stars, then, have not deceived me!"

"What, madam!" said the priest, in a reproving tone; "do you attach any
credit to this lying astrology? Believe me, it is a temptation of Satan
which you ought to resist. Have you not enough of real misfortune
without subjecting yourself to imaginary terrors?"

"If it be a weakness, father, it is one which I share in common with
many great minds. Who can doubt the influence which the celestial bodies
have on things terrestrial?"

"All vanity and error, daughter. How can an enlightened mind like yours
persuade itself that events happen by aught save the will of God?"

"I will not now argue the point, father; tell me rather what are the
news from France?"

"The nobles' discontent at the prime minister has reached its height.
Henri d'Effiat, grand-equerry of France, and the king's favorite, has
joined them, and drawn into the plot the Duke de Bouillon, and Monsieur,
his majesty's brother. A treaty, which is upon the point of being
secretly concluded with the king of Spain, has for its object peace, on
condition of the cardinal's removal."

"Thank God!"

"However, madame, let us not be too confident; continue to act with
prudence, and assume the appearance of perfect resignation. Frequent the
church in which I minister, place yourself near the lower corner of the
right-hand aisle, and I will forewarn you of my next visit."

"I will do so, father."

Resuming his large cloak, the priest departed, Bridget being summoned by
her mistress to open the door.

From that time, during several months, the old lady repaired regularly
each day to the church; she often saw Father Francis, but he never
spoke, or gave her the desired signal. The unaccustomed daily exercise
of walking to and from church, together with the "sickness of hope
deferred," began to tell unfavorably on her health; she became subject
to attacks of intermitting fever, and her large, bright eyes seemed each
day to grow larger and brighter. One morning, in passing down the aisle,
Father Francis for a moment bent his head toward her, and whispered,
"All is lost!"

With a powerful effort Marie Marianni subdued all outward signs of the
terrible emotion which these words caused her, and returned to her
cheerless dwelling. In the evening Father Francis came to her. When they
were alone, she asked, "Father, what has happened?"

"Monsieur de Cinq-Mars is arrested."

"And the Duke de Bouillon?"

"Fled."

"The treaty with the king of Spain?"

"At the moment it was signed at Madrid, the cunning cardinal received a
copy of it."

"By whom was the plot discovered?"

"By a secret agent, who had wormed himself into it."

"My enemies, then, still triumph?"

"Richelieu is more powerful, and the king more subject to him than
ever."

That same night the poor old woman was seized with a burning fever. In
her delirium the phantom-man in red still pursued her, and her ravings
were terrible to hear. Bridget, seated at her bedside, prayed for her;
and at the end of a month she began slowly to recover. Borne down,
however, by years, poverty, and misfortune, Marie Marianni felt that her
end was approaching. Despite Father Francis's dissuasion, she again had
recourse to the astrological tablets, on which were drawn, in black and
red figures, the various houses of the sun, and of the star which
presided over her nativity. On this occasion their omens were
unfavorable; and rejecting all spiritual consolation--miserable in the
present, and hopeless for the future--Marie Marianni expired in the
beginning of July, 1642.

As soon as her death was known a magistrate of Cologne came to her
house, in order to make an official entry of the names of the defunct
and her heirs. Bridget could not tell either, she merely knew that her
late mistress was a stranger.

Father Francis arrived. "I can tell you the names of her heirs," he
said. "Write--the King of France; Monsieur the Duke of Orleans;
Henrietta of France, queen of England."

"And what," asked the astounded magistrate, "was the name of the
deceased?"

"The High and Mighty Princess Marie de Medicis, widow of Henri IV., and
mother of the reigning king!"




MY NOVEL; OR, VARIETIES IN ENGLISH LIFE.

[Continued from the October Number.]


CHAPTER XVI.

Before a table in the apartments appropriated to him in his father's
house at Knightsbridge, sate Lord L'Estrange, sorting or destroying
letters and papers--an ordinary symptom of change of residence. There
are certain trifles by which a shrewd observer may judge of a man's
disposition. Thus, ranged on the table, with some elegance, but with
soldier-like precision, were sundry little relics of former days,
hallowed by some sentiment of memory, or perhaps endeared solely by
custom; which, whether he was in Egypt, Italy, or England, always made
part of the furniture of Harley's room. Even the small, old-fashioned,
and somewhat inconvenient inkstand in which he dipped the pen as he
labeled the letters he put aside, belonged to the writing-desk which had
been his pride as a schoolboy. Even the books that lay scattered round
were not new works, not those to which we turn to satisfy the curiosity
of an hour, or to distract our graver thoughts: they were chiefly either
Latin or Italian poets, with many a pencil-mark on the margin; or books
which, making severe demand on thought, require slow and frequent
perusal, and become companions. Somehow or other, in remarking that even
in dumb inanimate things the man was averse to change, and had the habit
of attaching himself to whatever was connected with old associations,
you might guess that he clung with pertinacity to affections more
important, and you could better comprehend the freshness of his
friendship for one so dissimilar in pursuits and character as Audley
Egerton. An affection once admitted into the heart of Harley L'Estrange,
seemed never to be questioned or reasoned with: it became tacitly fixed,
as it were, into his own nature; and little less than a revolution of
his whole system could dislodge or disturb it.

Lord L'Estrange's hand rested now upon a letter in a stiff legible
Italian character; and instead of disposing of it at once, as he had
done with the rest, he spread it before him, and reread the contents. It
was a letter from Riccabocca, received a few weeks since, and ran thus:

   _Letter from Signor Riccabocca to Lord L'Estrange_.

"I thank you, my noble friend, for judging of me with faith in my honor,
and respect for my reverses.

"No, and thrice no, to all concessions, all overtures, all treaty with
Giulio Franzini. I write the name, and my emotions choke me. I must
pause and cool back into disdain. It is over. Pass from that subject.
But you have alarmed me. This sister! I have not seen her since her
childhood; and she was brought under his influence--she can but work as
his agent. She wish to learn my residence! It can be but for some
hostile and malignant purpose. I may trust in you. I know that. You say
I may trust equally in the discretion of your friend. Pardon me--my
confidence is not so elastic. A word may give the clew to my retreat.
But, if discovered, what harm can ensue? An English roof protects me
from Austrian despotism, true; but not the brazen tower of Danaë could
protect me from Italian craft. And were there nothing worse, it would be
intolerable to me to live under the eyes of a relentless spy. Truly
saith our proverb, 'He sleeps ill for whom the enemy wakes.' Look you,
my friend, I have done with my old life--I wish to cast it from me as a
snake its skin. I have denied myself all that exiles deem consolation.
No pity for misfortune, no messages from sympathizing friendship, no
news from a lost and bereaved country follow me to my hearth under the
skies of the stranger. From all these I have voluntarily cut myself off.
I am as dead to the life I once lived as if the Styx rolled between _it_
and me. With that sternness which is admissible only to the afflicted, I
have denied myself even the consolation of your visits. I have told you
fairly and simply that your presence would unsettle all my enforced and
infirm philosophy, and remind me only of the past, which I seek to blot
from remembrance. You have complied, on the one condition, that whenever
I really want your aid I will ask it; and, meanwhile, you have
generously sought to obtain me justice from the cabinets of ministers
and in the courts of kings. I did not refuse your heart this luxury; for
I have a child--(Ah! I have taught that child already to revere your
name, and in her prayers it is not forgotten). But now that you are
convinced that even your zeal is unavailing, I ask you to discontinue
attempts that may but bring the spy upon my track, and involve me in new
misfortunes. Believe me, O brilliant Englishman, that I am satisfied and
contented with my lot. I am sure it would not be for my happiness to
change it. 'Chi non ha provato il male non conosce il bene.' ('One does
not know when one is well off till one has known misfortune.') You ask
me how I live--I answer, _alla giornata_--to the day--not for the
morrow, as I did once. I have accustomed myself to the calm existence of
a village. I take interest in its details. There is my wife, good
creature, sitting opposite to me, never asking what I write, or to whom,
but ready to throw aside her work and talk the moment the pen is out of
my hand. Talk--and what about? Heaven knows! But I would rather hear
that talk, though on the affairs of a hamlet, than babble again with
recreant nobles and blundering professors about commonwealths and
constitutions. When I want to see how little those last influence the
happiness of wise men, have I not Machiavel and Thucydides? Then,
by-and-by, the Parson will drop in, and we argue. He never knows when he
is beaten, so the argument is everlasting. On fine days I ramble out by
a winding rill with my Violante, or stroll to my friend the Squire's,
and see how healthful a thing is true pleasure; and on wet days I shut
myself up, and mope, perhaps, till, hark! a gentle tap at the door, and
in comes Violante, with her dark eyes that shine out through reproachful
tears--reproachful that I should mourn alone, while she is under my
roof--so she puts her arms round me, and in five minutes all is sunshine
within. What care we for your English gray clouds without?

"Leave me, my dear Lord--leave me to this quiet happy passage toward old
age, serener than the youth that I wasted so wildly; and guard well the
secret on which my happiness depends.

"Now to yourself, before I close. Of that same _yourself_ you speak too
little, as of me too much. But I so well comprehend the profound
melancholy that lies underneath the wild and fanciful humor with which
you but suggest, as in sport, what you feel so in earnest. The laborious
solitude of cities weighs on you. You are flying back to the _dolce far
niente_--to friends few, but intimate; to life monotonous, but
unrestrained; and even there the sense of loneliness will again seize
upon you; and you do not seek, as I do, the annihilation of memory; your
dead passions are turned to ghosts that haunt you, and unfit you for the
living world. I see it all--I see it still, in your hurried fantastic
lines, as I saw it when we two sat amidst the pines and beheld the blue
lake stretched below. I troubled by the shadow of the Future, you
disturbed by that of the Past.

"Well, but you say, half-seriously, half in jest, 'I _will_ escape from
this prison-house of memory; I will form new ties, like other men, and
before it be too late; I _will_ marry--ay, but I must love--there is the
difficulty'--difficulty--yes, and Heaven be thanked for it! Recall all
the unhappy marriages that have come to your knowledge--pray, have not
eighteen out of twenty been marriages for love? It always has been so,
and it always will. Because, whenever we love deeply, we exact so much
and forgive so little. Be content to find some one with whom your hearth
and your honor are safe. You will grow to love what never wounds your
heart--you will soon grow out of love with what must always disappoint
your imagination. _Cospetto!_ I wish my Jemima had a younger sister for
you. Yet it was with a deep groan that I settled myself to a--Jemima.

"Now, I have written you a long letter, to prove how little I need of
your compassion or your zeal. Once more let there be long silence
between us. It is not easy for me to correspond with a man of your rank,
and not incur the curious gossip of my still little pool of a world
which the splash of a pebble can break into circles. I must take this
over to a post-town some ten miles off, and drop it into the box by
stealth.

"Adieu, dear and noble friend, gentlest heart and subtlest fancy that I
have met in my walk through life. Adieu--write me word when you have
abandoned a day-dream and found a Jemima.

  ALPHONSO.

"_P.S._--For heaven's sake, caution and recaution your friend the
minister, not to drop a word to this woman that may betray my
hiding-place."

"Is he really happy?" murmured Harley, as he closed the letter; and he
sunk for a few moments into a reverie.

"This life in a village--this wife in a lady who puts down her work to
talk about villagers--what a contrast to Audley's full existence. And I
can never envy nor comprehend either--yet my own--what is it?"

He rose, and moved toward the window, from which a rustic stair
descended to a green lawn--studded with larger trees than are often
found in the grounds of a suburban residence. There were calm and
coolness in the sight, and one could scarcely have supposed that London
lay so near.

The door opened softly, and a lady, past middle age, entered; and,
approaching Harley, as he still stood musing by the window, laid her
hand on his shoulder. What character there is in a hand! Hers was a hand
that Titian would have painted with elaborate care! Thin, white, and
delicate--with the blue veins raised from the surface. Yet there was
something more than mere patrician elegance in the form and texture. A
true physiologist would have said at once, "there are intellect and
pride in that hand, which seems to fix a hold where it rests; and, lying
so lightly, yet will not be as lightly shaken off."

"Harley," said the lady--and Harley turned--"you do not deceive me by
that smile," she continued, sadly; "you were not smiling when I
entered."

"It is rarely that we smile to ourselves, my dear mother; and I have
done nothing lately so foolish as to cause me to smile _at_ myself."

"My son," said Lady Lansmere, somewhat abruptly, but with great
earnestness, "you come from a line of illustrious ancestors; and
methinks they ask from their tombs why the last of their race has no aim
and no object--no interest--no home in the land which they served, and
which rewarded them with its honors."

"Mother," said the soldier, simply, "when the land was in danger I
served it as my fore-fathers served--and my answer would be the scars on
my breast."

"Is it only in danger that a country is served--only in war that duty is
fulfilled? Do you think that your father, in his plain, manly life of
country gentleman, does not fulfill, though obscurely, the objects for
which aristocracy is created and wealth is bestowed?"

"Doubtless he does, ma'am--and better than his vagrant son ever can."

"Yet his vagrant son has received such gifts from nature--his youth was
so rich in promise--his boyhood so glowed at the dream of glory?"

"Ay," said Harley, very softly, "it is possible--and all to be buried in
a single grave!"

The Countess started, and withdrew her hand from Harley's shoulder.

Lady Lansmere's countenance was not one that much varied in expression.
She had in this, as in her cast of feature, little resemblance to her
son.

Her features were slightly aquiline--the eyebrows of that arch which
gives a certain majesty to the aspect: the lines round the mouth were
habitually rigid and compressed. Her face was that of one who had gone
through great emotion, and subdued it. There was something formal, and
even ascetic, in the character of her beauty, which was still
considerable;--in her air and in her dress. She might have suggested to
you the idea of some Gothic baroness of old, half chatelaine, half
abbess; you would see at a glance that she did not live in the light
world round her, and disdained its fashions and its mode of thought; yet
with all this rigidity it was still the face of the woman who has known
human ties and human affections. And now, as she gazed long on Harley's
quiet, saddened brow, it was the face of a mother.

"A single grave," she said, after a long pause. "And you were then but a
boy, Harley! Can such a memory influence you even to this day? It is
scarcely possible; it does not seem to me within the realities of man's
life--though it might be of woman's."

"I believe," said Harley, half soliloquizing, "that I have a great deal
of the woman in me. Perhaps men who live much alone; and care not for
men's objects, do grow tenacious of impressions, as your sex does. But
oh," he cried aloud, and with a sudden change of countenance, "oh, the
hardest and the coldest man would have felt as I do, had he known
_her_--had he loved _her_. She was like no other woman I have ever met.
Bright and glorious creature of another sphere! She descended on this
earth, and darkened it when she passed away. It was no use striving.
Mother, I have as much courage as our steel-clad fathers ever had. I
have dared in battle and in deserts--against man and the wild
beast--against the storm and the ocean--against the rude powers of
Nature--dangers as dread as ever pilgrim or Crusader rejoiced to brave.
But courage against that one memory! no, I have none!"

"Harley, Harley, you break my heart," cried the Countess, clasping her
hands.

"It is astonishing," continued her son, so wrapped in his own thoughts
that he did not, perhaps, hear her outcry--"yea, verily, it is
astonishing, that considering the thousands of women I have seen and
spoken with, I never see a face like hers--never hear a voice so sweet.
And all this universe of life can not afford me one look and one tone
that can restore me to man's privilege--love. Well, well, well, life has
other things yet--Poetry and Art live still--still smiles the heaven,
and still wave the trees. Leave me to happiness in my own way."

The Countess was about to reply, when the door was thrown hastily open,
and Lord Lansmere walked in.

The Earl was some years older than the Countess, but his placid face
showed less wear and tear; a benevolent, kindly face--without any
evidence of commanding intellect, but with no lack of sense in its
pleasant lines. His form not tall, but upright, and with an air of
consequence--a little pompous, but good-humoredly so. The pomposity of
the _Grand Seigneur_, who has lived much in provinces--whose will has
been rarely disputed, and whose importance has been so felt and
acknowledged as to react insensibly on himself; an excellent man; but
when you glanced toward the high brow and dark eye of the Countess, you
marveled a little how the two had come together, and, according to
common report, lived so happily in the union.

"Ho, ho! my dear Harley," cried Lord Lansmere, rubbing his hands with an
appearance of much satisfaction. "I have just been paying a visit to the
Duchess."

"What Duchess, my dear father?"

"Why, your mother's first cousin, to be sure--the Duchess of
Knaresborough, whom, to oblige me, you condescended to call upon; and
delighted I am to hear that you admire Lady Mary--"

"She is very high-bred, and rather--high-nosed," answered Harley. Then
observing that his mother looked pained, and his father disconcerted, he
added seriously, "But handsome, certainly."

"Well, Harley," said the Earl, recovering himself, "the Duchess, taking
advantage of our connection to speak freely, has intimated to me that
Lady Mary has been no less struck with yourself; and to come to the
point, since you allow that it is time you should think of marrying, I
do not know a more desirable alliance. What do you say, Catherine?"

"The Duke is of a family that ranks in history before the Wars of the
Roses," said Lady Lansmere, with an air of deference to her husband;
"and there has never been one scandal in its annals, or one blot in its
scutcheon. But I am sure my dear Lord must think that the Duchess should
not have made the first overture--even to a friend and a kinsman?"

"Why, we are old-fashioned people," said the Earl, rather embarrassed,
"and the Duchess is a woman of the world."

"Let us hope," said the Countess mildly, "that her daughter is not."

"I would not marry Lady Mary, if all the rest of the female sex were
turned into apes," said Lord L'Estrange, with deliberate fervor.

"Good Heavens!" cried the Earl, "what extraordinary language is this!
And pray why, sir?"

HARLEY.--"I can't say--there is no why in these cases. But, my dear
father, you are not keeping faith with me."

LORD LANSMERE.--"How?"

HARLEY.--"You, and my Lady here, entreat me to marry--I promise to do my
best to obey you; but on one condition--that I choose for myself, and
take my time about it. Agreed on both sides. Whereon, off goes your
Lordship--actually before noon, at an hour when no lady without a
shudder could think of cold blonde and damp orange flowers--off goes
your Lordship, I say, and commits poor Lady Mary and your unworthy son
to a mutual admiration--which neither of us ever felt. Pardon me, my
father--but this is grave. Again let me claim your promise--full choice
for myself, and no reference to the Wars of the Roses. What war of the
roses like that between Modesty and Love upon the cheek of the virgin!"

LADY LANSMERE.--"Full choice for yourself, Harley--so be it. But we,
too, named a condition--Did we not, Lansmere?"

The EARL (puzzled).--"Eh--did we? Certainly we did."

HARLEY.--"What was it?"

LADY LANSMERE.--"The son of Lord Lansmere can only marry the daughter of
a gentleman."

The EARL.--"Of course--of course."

The blood rushed over Harley's fair face, and then as suddenly left it
pale.

He walked away to the window--his mother followed him, and again laid
her hand on his shoulder.

"You were cruel," said he, gently, and in a whisper, as he winced under
the touch of the hand. Then turning to the Earl, who was gazing at him
in blank surprise--(it never occurred to Lord Lansmere that there could
be a doubt of his son's marrying beneath the rank modestly stated by the
Countess)--Harley stretched forth his hand, and said, in his soft,
winning tone, "You have ever been most gracious to me, and most
forbearing; it is but just that I should sacrifice the habits of an
egotist, to gratify a wish which you so warmly entertain. I agree with
you, too, that our race should not close in me--_Noblesse oblige_. But
you know I was ever romantic; and I must love where I marry--or, if not
love, I must feel that my wife is worthy of all the love I could once
have bestowed. Now, as to the vague word 'gentleman' that my mother
employs--word that means so differently on different lips--I confess
that I have a prejudice against young ladies brought up in the
'excellent foppery of the world,' as the daughters of gentlemen of our
rank mostly are. I crave, therefore, the most liberal interpretation of
this word 'gentleman.' And so long as there be nothing mean or sordid in
the birth, habits, and education of the father of this bride to be, I
trust you will both agree to demand nothing more--neither titles nor
pedigree."

"Titles, no--assuredly," said Lady Lansmere; "they do not make
gentlemen."

"Certainly not," said the Earl. "Many of our best families are
untitled."

"Titles--no," repeated Lady Lansmere; "but ancestors--yes."

"Ah, my mother," said Harley, with his most sad and quiet smile, "it is
fated that we shall never agree. The first of our race is ever the one
we are most proud of; and pray what ancestors had he? Beauty, virtue,
modesty, intellect--if these are not nobility enough for a man, he is a
slave to the dead."

With these words Harley took up his hat and made toward the door.

"You said yourself, '_Noblesse oblige_,'" said the Countess, following
him to the threshold; "we have nothing more to add."

Harley slightly shrugged his shoulders, kissed his mother's hand,
whistled to Nero, who started up from a doze by the window, and went his
way.

"Does he really go abroad next week?" said the Earl.

"So he says."

"I am afraid there is no chance for Lady Mary," resumed Lord Lansmere,
with a slight but melancholy smile.

"She has not intellect enough to charm him. She is not worthy of
Harley," said the proud mother.

"Between you and me," rejoined the Earl, rather timidly, "I don't see
what good his intellect does him. He could not be more unsettled and
useless if he were the merest dunce in the three kingdoms. And so
ambitious as he was when a boy! Catherine, I sometimes fancy that you
know what changed him."

"I! Nay, my dear Lord, it is a common change enough with the young, when
of such fortunes; who find, when they enter life, that there is really
little left for them to strive for. Had Harley been a poor man's son, it
might have been different."

"I was born to the same fortunes as Harley," said the Earl, shrewdly,
"and yet I flatter myself I am of some use to old England."

The Countess seized upon the occasion, complimented her Lord, and turned
the subject.


CHAPTER XVII.

Harley spent his day in his usual desultory, lounging manner--dined in
his quiet corner at his favorite club--Nero, not admitted into the club,
patiently waited for him outside the door. The dinner over, dog and man,
equally indifferent to the crowd, sauntered down that thoroughfare
which, to the few who can comprehend the Poetry of London, has
associations of glory and of woe sublime as any that the ruins of the
dead elder world can furnish--thoroughfare that traverses what was once
the courtyard of Whitehall, having to its left the site of the palace
that lodged the royalty of Scotland--gains, through a narrow strait,
that old isle of Thorney, in which Edward the Confessor received the
ominous visit of the Conqueror--and, widening once more by the Abbey and
the Hall of Westminster, then loses itself, like all memories of earthly
grandeur amidst humble passages and mean defiles.

Thus thought Harley L'Estrange--ever less amidst the actual world around
him, than the images invoked by his own solitary soul--as he gained the
Bridge, and saw the dull lifeless craft sleeping on the "Silent Way,"
once loud and glittering with the gilded barks of the antique Seignorie
of England.

It was on that bridge that Audley Egerton had appointed to meet
L'Estrange, at an hour when he calculated he could best steal a respite
from debate. For Harley, with his fastidious dislike to all the resorts
of his equals, had declined to seek his friend in the crowded regions of
Bellamy's.

Harley's eye, as he passed along the bridge, was attracted by a still
form, seated on the stones in one of the nooks, with its face covered
by its hands. "If I were a sculptor," said he to himself, "I should
remember that image whenever I wished to convey the idea of
_Despondency_!" He lifted his looks and saw, a little before him in the
midst of the causeway, the firm erect figure of Audley Egerton. The
moonlight was full on the bronzed countenance of the strong public
man--with its lines of thought and care, and its vigorous but cold
expression of intense self-control.

"And looking yonder," continued Harley's soliloquy, "I should remember
that form when I wished to hew out from the granite the idea of
_Endurance_."

"So you are come, and punctually," said Egerton, linking his arm in
Harley's.

HARLEY.--"Punctually, of course, for I respect your time, and I will not
detain you long. I presume you will speak to-night."

EGERTON.--"I have spoken."

HARLEY (with interest).--"And well, I hope."

EGERTON.--"With effect, I suppose, for I have been loudly cheered, which
does not always happen to me."

HARLEY.--"And that gave you pleasure?"

EGERTON (after a moment's thought).--"No, not the least."

HARLEY.--"What, then, attaches you so much to this life--constant
drudgery, constant warfare--the more pleasurable faculties dormant, all
the harsher ones aroused, if even its rewards (and I take the best of
those to be applause) do not please you?"

EGERTON.--"What?--custom."

HARLEY.--"Martyr!"

EGERTON.--"You say it. But turn to yourself; you have decided, then, to
leave England next week."

HARLEY (moodily).--"Yes. This life in a capital, where all are so
active, myself so objectless, preys on me like a low fever. Nothing here
amuses me, nothing interests, nothing comforts and consoles. But I am
resolved, before it be too late, to make one great struggle out of the
Past, and into the natural world of men. In a word, I have resolved to
marry."

EGERTON.--"Whom?"

HARLEY (seriously).--"Upon my life, my dear fellow, you are a great
philosopher. You have hit the exact question. You see I can not marry a
dream; and where, out of dreams, shall I find this 'whom?'"

EGERTON.--"You do not search for her."

HARLEY.--"Do we ever search for love? Does it not flash upon us when we
least expect it? Is it not like the inspiration to the muse? What poet
sits down and says, 'I will write a poem?' What man looks out and says,
'I will fall in love?' No! Happiness, as the great German tells us,
'falls suddenly from the bosom of the gods;' so does love."

EGERTON.--"You remember the old line in Horace: 'Life's tide flows away,
while the boor sits on the margin and waits for the ford.'"

HARLEY.--"An idea which incidentally dropped from you some weeks ago,
and which I had before half meditated, has since haunted me. If I could
but find some child with sweet dispositions and fair intellect not yet
formed, and train her up, according to my ideal. I am still young enough
to wait a few years, and meanwhile I shall have gained what I so sadly
want--an object in life."

EGERTON.--"You are ever the child of romance. But what--"

Here the minister was interrupted by a messenger from the House of
Commons, whom Audley had instructed to seek him on the bridge should his
presence be required--

"Sir, the opposition are taking advantage of the thinness of the House
to call for a division. Mr.---- is put up to speak for time, but they
won't hear him."

Egerton turned hastily to Lord L'Estrange, "You see you must excuse me
now. To-morrow I must go to Windsor for two days; but we shall meet on
my return."

"It does not matter," answered Harley; "I stand out of the pale of your
advice, O practical man of sense. And if," added Harley, with
affectionate and mournful sweetness--"If I worry you with complaints
which you can not understand, it is only because of old schoolboy
habits. I can have no trouble that I do not confide in you."

Egerton's hand trembled as it pressed his friend's; and, without a word,
he hurried away abruptly. Harley remained motionless for some seconds,
in deep and quiet reverie; then he called to his dog, and turned back
toward Westminster.

He passed the nook in which had sate the still figure of Despondency.
But the figure had now risen, and was leaning against the balustrade.
The dog who preceded his master paused by the solitary form, and sniffed
it suspiciously.

"Nero, sir, come here," said Harley.

"Nero," that was the name by which Helen had said that her father's
friend had called his dog. And the sound startled Leonard as he leaned,
sick at heart, against the stone. He lifted his head and looked
wistfully, eagerly into Harley's face. Those eyes, bright, clear, yet so
strangely deep and absent, which Helen had described, met his own, and
chained them. For L'Estrange halted also; the boy's countenance was not
unfamiliar to him. He returned the inquiring look fixed on his own, and
recognized the student by the book-stall.

"The dog is quite harmless, sir," said L'Estrange, with a smile.

"And you call him Nero?" said Leonard, still gazing on the stranger.

Harley mistook the drift of the question.

"Nero, sir; but he is free from the sanguinary propensities of his Roman
namesake." Harley was about to pass on, when Leonard said, falteringly,

"Pardon me, but can it be possible that you are one whom I have sought
in vain, on behalf of the child of Captain Digby?"

Harley stopped short. "Digby!" he exclaimed, "where is he? He should
have found me easily. I gave him an address."

"Ah, Heaven be thanked," cried Leonard. "Helen is saved; she will not
die;" and he burst into tears.

A very few moments, and a very few words sufficed to explain to Harley
the state of his old fellow-soldier's orphan. And Harley himself soon
stood in the young sufferer's room, supporting her burning temples on
his breast, and whispering into ears that heard him, as in a happy
dream, "Comfort, comfort; your father yet lives in me."

And then Helen, raising her eyes, said, "But Leonard is my brother--more
than brother--and he needs a father's care more than I do."

"Hush, hush, Helen. I need no one--nothing now!" cried Leonard; and his
tears gushed over the little hand that clasped his own.


CHAPTER XVIII.

Harley L'Estrange was a man whom all things that belong to the romantic
and poetic side of our human life deeply impressed. When he came to
learn the ties between these two children of nature, standing side by
side, alone amidst the storms of fate, his heart was more deeply moved
than it had been for many years. In those dreary attics, overshadowed by
the smoke and reek of the humble suburb--the workday world in its
harshest and tritest forms below and around them--he recognized that
divine poem which comes out from all union between the mind and the
heart. Here, on the rough deal table (the ink scarcely dry), lay the
writings of the young wrestler for fame and bread; there, on the other
side the partition, on that mean pallet, lay the boy's sole
comforter--the all that warmed his heart with living mortal affection.
On one side the wall, the world of imagination; on the other this world
of grief and of love. And in both, a spirit equally sublime--unselfish
Devotion--"the something afar from the sphere of our sorrow."

He looked round the room into which he had followed Leonard, on quitting
Helen's bedside. He noted the MSS. on the table, and, pointing to them,
said gently, "And these are the labors by which you supported the
soldier's orphan?--soldier yourself, in a hard battle!"

"The battle was lost--I could not support her," replied Leonard,
mournfully.

"But you did not desert her. When Pandora's box was opened, they say
Hope lingered last--"

"False, false," said Leonard; "a heathen's notion. There are deities
that linger behind Hope: Gratitude, Love, and Duty."

"Yours is no common nature," exclaimed Harley, admiringly, "but I must
sound it more deeply hereafter; at present I hasten for the physician; I
shall return with him. We must move that poor child from this low, close
air as soon as possible. Meanwhile, let me qualify your rejection of the
old fable. Wherever Gratitude, Love, and Duty remain to man, believe me
that Hope is there too, though she may be oft invisible, hidden behind
the sheltering wings of the nobler deities."

Harley said this with that wondrous smile of his, which cast a
brightness over the whole room--and went away.

Leonard stole softly toward the grimy window; and looking up toward the
stars that shone pale over the roof-tops, he murmured, "O thou, the
All-seeing and All-merciful!--how it comforts me now to think that
though my dreams of knowledge may have sometimes obscured the Heaven, I
never doubted that Thou wert there--as luminous and everlasting, though
behind the cloud!" So, for a few minutes, he prayed silently--then
passed into Helen's room, and sate beside her motionless, for she slept.
She woke just as Harley returned with a physician, and then Leonard,
returning to his own room, saw among his papers the letter he had
written to Mr. Dale; and muttering, "I need not disgrace my calling--I
need not be the mendicant now," held the letter to the flame of the
candle. And while he said this, and as the burning tinder dropped on the
floor, the sharp hunger, unfelt during his late anxious emotions, gnawed
at his entrails. Still even hunger could not reach that noble pride
which had yielded to a sentiment nobler than itself--and he smiled as he
repeated, "No mendicant! the life that I was sworn to guard is saved. I
can raise against Fate the front of the Man once more."


CHAPTER XIX.

A few days afterward, and Helen, removed to a pure air, and under the
advice of the first physician, was out of all danger.

It was a pretty, detached cottage, with its windows looking over the
wild heaths of Norwood, to which Harley rode daily to watch the
convalescence of his young charge--an object in life was already found.
As she grew better and stronger, he coaxed her easily into talking, and
listened to her with pleased surprise. The heart so infantine, and the
sense so womanly, struck him much by its rare contrast and combination.
Leonard, whom he had insisted on placing also in the cottage, had staid
there willingly till Helen's recovery was beyond question. Then he came
to Lord L'Estrange, as the latter was about one day to leave the
cottage, and said, quietly, "Now, my Lord, that Helen is safe, and now
that she will need me no more, I can no longer be a pensioner on your
bounty. I return to London."

"You are my visitor--not my pensioner, foolish boy," said Harley, who
had already noticed the pride which spoke in that farewell; "come into
the garden, and let us talk."

Harley seated himself on a bench on the little lawn; Nero crouched at
his feet; Leonard stood beside him.

"So," said Lord L'Estrange, "you would return to London! What to do?"

"Fulfill my fate."

"And that?"

"I can not guess. Fate is the Isis whose vail no mortal can ever raise."

"You should be born for great things," said Harley, abruptly. "I am sure
that you write well. I have seen that you study with passion. Better
than writing and better than study, you have a noble heart, and the
proud desire of independence. Let me see your MSS., or any copies of
what you have already printed. Do not hesitate--I ask but to be a
reader. I don't pretend to be a patron; it is a word I hate."

Leonard's eyes sparkled through their sudden moisture. He brought out
his portfolio, placed it on the bench beside Harley, and then went
softly to the farther part of the garden. Nero looked after him, and
then rose and followed him slowly. The boy seated himself on the turf,
and Nero rested his dull head on the loud heart of the poet.

Harley took up the various papers before him and read them through
leisurely. Certainly he was no critic. He was not accustomed to analyze
what pleased or displeased him; but his perceptions were quick, and his
taste exquisite. As he read, his countenance, always so genuinely
expressive, exhibited now doubt, and now admiration. He was soon struck
by the contrast in the boy's writings; between the pieces that sported
with fancy, and those that grappled with thought. In the first, the
young poet seemed so unconscious of his own individuality. His
imagination, afar and aloft from the scenes of his suffering, ran riot
amidst a paradise of happy golden creations. But in the last, the
THINKER stood out alone and mournful, questioning, in troubled sorrow,
the hard world on which he gazed. All in the thought was unsettled,
tumultuous; all in the fancy serene and peaceful. The genius seemed
divided into twain shapes; the one bathing its wings amidst the starry
dews of heaven; the other wandering "melancholy, slow," amidst desolate
and boundless sands. Harley gently laid down the paper and mused a
little while. Then he rose and walked to Leonard, gazing on his
countenance as he neared the boy, with a new and deeper interest.

"I have read your papers," he said, "and recognize in them two men,
belonging to two worlds, essentially distinct."

Leonard started, and murmured, "True, true!"

"I apprehend," resumed Harley, "that one of these men must either
destroy the other, or that the two must become fused and harmonized into
a single existence. Get your hat, mount my groom's horse, and come with
me to London; we will converse by the way. Look you, I believe you and I
agree in this, that the first object of every noble spirit is
independence. It is toward this independence that I alone presume to
assist you; and this is a service which the proudest man can receive
without a blush."

Leonard lifted his eyes toward Harley's, and those eyes swam with
grateful tears; but his heart was too full to answer.

"I am not one of those," said Harley, when they were on the road, "who
think that because a young man writes poetry he is fit for nothing else,
and that he must be a poet or a pauper. I have said that in you there
seems to me to be two men, the man of the Ideal world, the man of the
Actual. To each of these men I can offer a separate career. The first
is, perhaps, the more tempting. It is the interest of the state to draw
into its service all the talent and industry it can obtain; and under
his native state every citizen of a free country should be proud to take
service. I have a friend who is a minister, and who is known to
encourage talent--Audley Egerton. I have but to say to him, 'There is a
young man who will well repay to the government whatever the government
bestows on him;' and you will rise to-morrow independent in means, and
with fair occasions to attain to fortune and distinction. This is one
offer, what say you to it?"

Leonard thought bitterly of his interview with Audley Egerton, and the
minister's proffered crown-piece. He shook his head, and replied:

"Oh, my lord, how have I deserved such kindness? Do with me what you
will; but if I have the option, I would rather follow my own calling.
This is not the ambition that inflames me."

"Hear, then, the other offer. I have a friend with whom I am less
intimate than Egerton, and who has nothing in his gift to bestow. I
speak of a man of letters--Henry Norreys--of whom you have doubtless
heard, who, I should say, conceived an interest in you when he observed
you reading at the book-stall. I have often heard him say, that
literature, as a profession, is misunderstood, and that rightly
followed, with the same pains and the same prudence which are brought to
bear on other professions, a competence, at least, can be always
ultimately obtained. But the way may be long and tedious--and it leads
to no power but over thought; it rarely attains to wealth; and, though
_reputation_ may be certain, _Fame_, such as poets dream of, is the lot
of few. What say you to this course?"

"My lord, I decide," said Leonard, firmly; and then his young face
lighting up with enthusiasm, he exclaimed, "Yes, if, as you say, there
be two men within me, I feel, that were I condemned wholly to the
mechanical and practical world, one would indeed destroy the other. And
the conqueror would be the ruder and the coarser. Let me pursue those
ideas that, though they have but flitted across me vague and
formless--have ever soared toward the sunlight. No matter whether or not
they lead to fortune or to fame, at least they will lead me upward!
Knowledge for itself I desire--what care I, if it be not power!"

"Enough," said Harley, with a pleased smile at his young companion's
outburst. "As you decide so shall it be settled. And now permit me, if
not impertinent, to ask you a few questions. Your name is Leonard
Fairfield?"

The boy blushed deeply, and bowed his head as if in assent.

"Helen says you are self-taught; for the rest she refers me to
you--thinking, perhaps, that I should esteem you less--rather than yet
more highly--if she said you were, as I presume to conjecture, of humble
birth."

"My birth," said Leonard, slowly, "is very--very--humble."

"The name of Fairfield is not unknown to me. There was one of that name
who married into a family in Lansmere--married an Avenel--" continued
Harley--and his voice quivered. "You change countenance. Oh, could your
mother's name have been Avenel?"

"Yes," said Leonard, between his set teeth. Harley laid his hand on the
boy's shoulder. "Then, indeed, I have a claim on you--then, indeed, we
are friends. I have a right to serve any of that family."

Leonard looked at him in surprise--"For," continued Harley, recovering
himself, "they always served my family; and my recollections of
Lansmere, though boyish, are indelible." He spurred on his horse as the
words closed--and again there was a long pause; but from that time
Harley always spoke to Leonard in a soft voice, and often gazed on him
with earnest and kindly eyes.

They reached a house in a central, though not fashionable street. A
man-servant of a singularly grave and awful aspect opened the door; a
man who had lived all his life with authors. Poor devil, he was indeed
prematurely old! The care on his lip, and the pomp on his brow--no
mortal's pen can describe!

"Is Mr. Norreys at home?" asked Harley.

"He is at home--to his friends, my lord," answered the man,
majestically; and he stalked across the hall with the step of a Dangeau
ushering some Montmorenci to the presence of _Louis le Grand_.

"Stay--show this gentleman into another room. I will go first into the
library; wait for me, Leonard." The man nodded, and ushered Leonard into
the dining-room. Then pausing before the door of the library, and
listening an instant, as if fearful to disturb some mood of inspiration,
opened it very softly. To his ineffable disgust, Harley pushed before,
and entered abruptly. It was a large room, lined with books from the
floor to the ceiling. Books were on all the tables--books were on all
the chairs. Harley seated himself on a folio of Raleigh's History of the
World, and cried:

"I have brought you a treasure!"

"What is it?" said Norreys, good-humoredly, looking up from his desk.

"A mind!"

"A mind!" echoed Norreys, vaguely. "Your own?"

"Pooh--I have none--I have only a heart and a fancy. Listen: you
remember the boy we saw reading at the book-stall. I have caught him
for you, and you shall train him into a man. I have the warmest interest
in his future--- for I knew some of his family--and one of that family
was very dear to me. As for money, he has not a shilling, and not a
shilling would he accept, gratis, from you or me either. But he comes
with bold heart to work--and work you must find him." Harley then
rapidly told his friend of the two offers he had made to Leonard--and
Leonard's choice.

"This promises very well; for letters a man must have a strong vocation
as he should have for law--I will do all that you wish."

Harley rose with alertness--shook Norreys cordially by the hand--hurried
out of the room, and returned with Leonard.

Mr. Norreys eyed the young man with attention. He was naturally rather
severe than cordial in his manner to strangers--contrasting in this, as
in most things, the poor vagabond Burley. But he was a good judge of the
human countenance, and he liked Leonard's. After a pause he held out his
hand.

"Sir," said he, "Lord L'Estrange tells me that you wish to enter
literature as a calling, and no doubt to study it as an art. I may help
you in this, and you, meanwhile, can help me. I want an amanuensis--I
offer you that place. The salary will be proportioned to the services
you will render me. I have a room in my house at your disposal. When I
first came up to London, I made the same choice that I hear you have
done. I have no cause, even in a worldly point of view, to repent my
choice. It gave me an income larger than my wants. I trace my success to
these maxims, which are applicable to all professions: 1st. Never to
trust to genius--for what can be obtained by labor; 2dly. Never to
profess to teach what we have not studied to understand; 3dly. Never to
engage our word to what we do not do our best to execute. With these
rules, literature, provided a man does not mistake his vocation for it,
and will, under good advice, go through the preliminary discipline of
natural powers, which all vocations require, is as good a calling as any
other. Without them a shoeblack's is infinitely better."

"Possible enough," muttered Harley; "but there have been great writers
who observed none of your maxims."

"Great writers, probably, but very unenviable men. My Lord, my Lord,
don't corrupt the pupil you bring to me." Harley smiled and took his
departure, and left Genius at school with Common Sense and Experience.


CHAPTER XX.

While Leonard Fairfield had been obscurely wrestling against poverty,
neglect, hunger, and dread temptations, bright had been the opening day,
and smooth the upward path, of Randal Leslie. Certainly no young man,
able and ambitious, could enter life under fairer auspices; the
connection and avowed favorite of a popular and energetic statesman,
the brilliant writer of a political work, that had lifted him at once
into a station of his own--received and courted in those highest
circles, to which neither rank nor fortune alone suffices for a familiar
passport--the circles above fashion itself--the circles of power--with
every facility of augmenting information, and learning the world betimes
through the talk of its acknowledged masters--Randal had but to move
straight onward, and success was sure. But his tortuous spirit delighted
in scheme and intrigue for their own sake. In scheme and intrigue he saw
shorter paths to fortune, if not to fame. His besetting sin was also his
besetting weakness. He did not aspire--he _coveted_. Though in a far
higher social position than Frank Hazeldean, despite the worldly
prospects of his old school-fellow, he coveted the very things that kept
Frank Hazeldean below him--coveted his idle gayeties, his careless
pleasures, his very waste of youth. Thus, also, Randal less aspired to
Audley Egerton's repute than he coveted Audley Egerton's wealth and
pomp, his princely expenditure, and his Castle Rackrent in
Grosvenor-square. It was the misfortune of his birth to be so near to
both these fortunes--near to that of Leslie, as the future head of that
fallen house--near even to that of Hazeldean, since as we have seen
before, if the Squire had had no son, Randal's descent from the
Hazeldeans suggested himself as the one on whom these broad lands should
devolve. Most young men, brought into intimate contact with Audley
Egerton, would have felt for that personage a certain loyal and
admiring, if not very affectionate, respect. For there was something
grand in Egerton--something that commands and fascinates the young. His
determined courage, his energetic will, his almost regal liberality,
contrasting a simplicity in personal tastes and habits that was almost
austere--his rare and seemingly unconscious power of charming even the
women most wearied of homage, and persuading even the men most obdurate
to counsel--all served to invest the practical man with those spells
which are usually confined to the ideal one. But indeed, Audley Egerton
was an Ideal--the ideal of the Practical. Not the mere vulgar, plodding,
red-tape machine of petty business, but the man of strong sense,
inspired by inflexible energy, and guided to definite earthly objects.
In a dissolute and corrupt form of government, under a decrepit
monarchy, or a vitiated republic, Audley Egerton might have been a most
dangerous citizen; for his ambition was so resolute, and his sight to
its ends was so clear. But there is something in public life in England
which compels the really ambitious man to honor, unless his eyes are
jaundiced and oblique like Randal Leslie's. It is so necessary in
England to be a gentleman. And thus Egerton was emphatically considered
a _gentleman_. Without the least pride in other matters, with little
apparent sensitiveness, touch him on the point of gentleman, and no one
so sensitive and so proud. As Randal saw more of him, and watched his
moods with the lynx eyes of the household spy, he could perceive that
this hard mechanical man was subject to fits of melancholy, even of
gloom, and though they did not last long, there was even in his habitual
coldness an evidence of something compressed, latent, painful, lying
deep within his memory. This would have interested the kindly feelings
of a grateful heart. But Randal detected and watched it only as a clew
to some secret it might profit him to gain. For Randal Leslie hated
Egerton; and hated him the more because with all his book-knowledge and
his conceit in his own talents, he could not despise his patron--because
he had not yet succeeded in making his patron the mere tool or
stepping-stone--because he thought that Egerton's keen eye saw through
his wily heart, even while, as if in profound disdain, the minister
helped the protégé. But this last suspicion was unsound. Egerton had not
detected Leslie's corrupt and treacherous nature. He might have other
reasons for keeping him at a certain distance, but he inquired too
little into Randal's feelings toward himself to question the attachment,
or doubt the sincerity of one who owed to him so much. But that which
more than all embittered Randal's feelings toward Egerton, was the
careful and deliberate frankness with which the latter had, more than
once, repeated and enforced the odious announcement, that Randal had
nothing to expect from the minister's--WILL, nothing to expect from that
wealth which glared in the hungry eyes of the pauper heir to the Leslies
of Rood. To whom, then, could Egerton mean to devise his fortune? To
whom but Frank Hazeldean. Yet Audley took so little notice of his
nephew--seemed so indifferent to him, that that supposition, however
natural, seemed exposed to doubt. The astuteness of Randal was
perplexed. Meanwhile, however, the less he himself could rely upon
Egerton for fortune, the more he revolved the possible chances of
ousting Frank from the inheritance of Hazeldean--in part, at least, if
not wholly. To one less scheming, crafty, and remorseless than Randal
Leslie with every day became more and more, such a project would have
seemed the wildest delusion. But there was something fearful in the
manner in which this young man sought to turn knowledge into power, and
make the study of all weakness in others subservient to his own ends. He
wormed himself thoroughly into Frank's confidence. He learned through
Frank all the Squire's peculiarities of thought and temper, and
thoroughly pondered over each word in the father's letters, which the
son gradually got into the habit of showing to the perfidious eyes of
his friend. Randal saw that the Squire had two characteristics which are
very common among proprietors, and which might be invoked as antagonists
to his warm fatherly love. First, the Squire was as fond of his estate
as if it were a living thing, and part of his own flesh and blood; and
in his lectures to Frank upon the sin of extravagance, the Squire
always let out this foible:--"What was to become of the estate if it
fell into the hands of a spendthrift? No man should make ducks and
drakes of Hazeldean; let Frank beware of _that_," &c. Secondly, the
Squire was not only fond of his lands, but he was jealous of them--that
jealousy which even the tenderest fathers sometimes entertain toward
their natural heirs. He could not bear the notion that Frank should
count on his death; and he seldom closed an admonitory letter without
repeating the information that Hazeldean was not entailed; that it was
his to do with as he pleased through life and in death. Indirect menace
of this nature rather wounded and galled than intimidated Frank; for the
young man was extremely generous and high-spirited by nature, and was
always more disposed to some indiscretion after such warnings to his
self-interest, as if to show that those were the last kinds of appeal
likely to influence him. By the help of such insights into the character
of father and son, Randal thought he saw gleams of daylight illumining
his own chance of the lands of Hazeldean. Meanwhile it appeared to him
obvious that, come what might of it, his own interests could not lose,
and might most probably gain, by whatever could alienate the Squire from
his natural heir. Accordingly, though with consummate tact, he
instigated Frank toward the very excesses most calculated to irritate
the Squire, all the while appearing rather to give the counter advice,
and never sharing in any of the follies to which he conducted his
thoughtless friend. In this he worked chiefly through others,
introducing Frank to every acquaintance most dangerous to youth, either
from the wit that laughs at prudence, or the spurious magnificence that
subsists so handsomely upon bills endorsed by friends of "great
expectations."

The minister and his protégé were seated at breakfast, the first reading
the newspaper, the last glancing over his letters; for Randal had
arrived to the dignity of receiving many letters--ay, and notes too,
three-cornered, and fantastically embossed. Egerton uttered an
exclamation, and laid down the paper. Randal looked up from his
correspondence. The minister had sunk into one of his absent reveries.

After a long silence, observing that Egerton did not return to the
newspaper, Randal said, "Ehem--sir, I have a note from Frank Hazeldean,
who wants much to see me; his father has arrived in town unexpectedly."

"What brings him here?" asked Egerton, still abstractedly.

"Why, it seems that he has heard some vague reports of poor Frank's
extravagance, and Frank is rather afraid or ashamed to meet him."

"Ay--a very great fault extravagance in the young!--destroys
independence; ruins or enslaves the future. Great fault--very! And what
does youth want that it should be extravagant? Has it not every thing in
itself, merely because it _is_? Youth is youth--what needs it more?"

Egerton rose as he said this, and retired to his writing-table, and in
his turn opened his correspondence. Randal took up the newspaper, and
endeavored, but in vain, to conjecture what had excited the minister's
exclamation, and the reverie that succeeded it.

Egerton suddenly and sharply turned round in his chair--"If you have
done with the _Times_, have the goodness to place it here."

Randal had just obeyed, when a knock at the street-door was heard, and
presently Lord L'Estrange came into the room, with somewhat a quicker
step, and somewhat a gayer mien than usual.

Audley's hand, as if mechanically, fell upon the newspaper--fell upon
that part of the columns devoted to births, deaths, and marriages.
Randal stood by, and noted; then, bowing to L'Estrange, left the room.

"Audley," said L'Estrange, "I have had an adventure since I saw you--an
adventure that reopened the Past, and may influence my future."

"How?"

"In the first place, I have met with a relation of--of--the Avenels."

"Indeed! Whom--Richard Avenel?"

"Richard--Richard--who is he? Oh, I remember; the wild lad who went off
to America; but that was when I was a mere child."

"That Richard Avenel is now a rich thriving trader, and his marriage is
in this newspaper--married to an honorable Mrs. M'Catchley. Well--in
this country--who should plume himself on birth?"

"You did not say so always, Egerton," replied Harley, with a tone of
mournful reproach.

"And I say so now, pertinently to a Mrs. M'Catchley, not to the heir of
the L'Estranges But no more of these--these Avenels."

"Yes, more of them. I tell you I have met a relation of theirs--a nephew
of--of--"

"Of Richard Avenel's?" interrupted Egerton; and then added in the slow,
deliberate, argumentative tone in which he was wont to speak in public.
"Richard Avenel the trader! I saw him once--a presuming and intolerable
man!"

"The nephew has not those sins. He is full of promise, of modesty, yet
of pride. And his countenance--oh, Egerton, he has _her_ eyes."

Egerton made no answer. And Harley resumed--

"I had thought of placing him under your care. I knew you would provide
for him."

"I will. Bring him hither," cried Egerton eagerly. "All that I can do to
prove my--regard for a wish of yours."

Harley pressed his friend's hand warmly.

"I thank you from my heart; the Audley of my boyhood speaks now. But the
young man has decided otherwise; and I do not blame him. Nay, I rejoice
that he chooses a career in which if he find hardship, he may escape
dependence."

"And that career is--"

"Letters?"

"Letters--Literature!" exclaimed the statesman. "Beggary! No, no,
Harley, this is your absurd romance."

"It will not be beggary, and it is not my romance: it is the boy's.
Leave him alone, he is my care and my charge henceforth. He is of _her_
blood, and I said that he had _her_ eyes."

"But you are going abroad; let me know where he is; I will watch over
him."

"And unsettle a right ambition for a wrong one? No--you shall know
nothing of him till he can proclaim himself. I think that day will
come."

Audley mused a moment, and then said, "Well, perhaps you are right.
After all, as you say, independence is a great blessing, and my ambition
has not rendered myself the better or the happier."

"Yet, my poor Audley, you ask me to be ambitious."

"I only wish you to be consoled," cried Egerton with passion.

"I will try to be so; and by the help of a milder remedy than yours. I
said that my adventure might influence my future; it brought me
acquainted not only with the young man I speak of, but the most winning
affectionate child--a girl."

"Is this child an Avenel too?"

"No, she is of gentle blood--a soldier's daughter; the daughter of that
Captain Digby, on whose behalf I was a petitioner to your patronage. He
is dead, and in dying, my name was on his lips. He meant me, doubtless,
to be the guardian to his orphan. I shall be so. I have at last an
object in life."

"But can you seriously mean to take this child with you abroad?"

"Seriously, I do."

"And lodge her in your own house?"

"For a year or so while she is yet a child. Then, as she approaches
youth, I shall place her elsewhere."

"You may grow to love her. Is it clear that she will love you? not
mistake gratitude for love? It is a very hazardous experiment."

"So was William the Norman's--still he was William the Conqueror. Thou
biddest me move on from the past, and be consoled, yet thou wouldst make
me as inapt to progress as the mule in Slawkenbergius's tale, with thy
cursed interlocutions, 'Stumbling, by St. Nicholas, every step. Why, at
this rate, we shall be all night, getting into--' _Happiness!_ Listen,"
continued Harley, setting off, full pelt, into one of his wild,
whimsical humors. "One of the sons of the prophets in Israel, felling
wood near the River Jordan, his hatchet forsook the helve, and fell to
the bottom of the river; so he prayed to have it again (it was but a
small request, mark you); and having a strong faith, he did not throw
the hatchet after the helve, but the helve after the hatchet. Presently
two great miracles were seen. Up springs the hatchet from the bottom of
the water, and fixes itself to its old acquaintance, the helve. Now,
had he wished to coach it to Heaven in a fiery chariot like Elias, be as
rich as Job, strong as Samson, and beautiful as Absalom, would he have
obtained it, do you think? In truth, my friend, I question it very
much."

"I can not comprehend what you mean. Sad stuff you are talking."

"I can't help that; Rabelais is to be blamed for it. I am quoting him,
and it is to be found in his prologue to the chapters on the Moderation
of Wishes. And apropos of 'moderate wishes in point of hatchet,' I want
you to understand that I ask but little from Heaven. I fling but the
helve after the hatchet that has sunk into the silent stream. I want the
other half of the weapon that is buried fathom deep, and for want of
which the thick woods darken round me by the Sacred River, and I can
catch not a glimpse of the stars."

"In plain English," said Audley Egerton, "you want"--he stopped short,
puzzled.

"I want my purpose and my will, and my old character, and the nature God
gave me. I want the half of my soul which has fallen from me. I want
such love as may replace to me the vanished affections. Reason not--I
throw the helve after the hatchet."


CHAPTER XXI.

Randall Leslie, on leaving Audley, repaired to Frank's lodgings, and
after being closeted with the young guardsman an hour or so, took his
way to Limmer's hotel, and asked for Mr. Hazeldean. He was shown into
the coffee-room, while the waiter went upstairs with his card, to see if
the Squire was within, and disengaged. The _Times_ newspaper lay
sprawling on one of the tables, and Randal, leaning over it, looked with
attention into the column containing births, deaths, and marriages. But
in that long and miscellaneous list, he could not conjecture the name
which had so excited Mr. Egerton's interest.

"Vexatious!" he muttered; "there is no knowledge which has power more
useful than that of the secrets of men."

He turned as the waiter entered and said that Mr. Hazeldean would be
glad to see him.

As Randal entered the drawing-room, the Squire shaking hands with him,
looked toward the door as if expecting some one else, and his honest
face assumed a blank expression of disappointment when the door closed,
and he found that Randal was unaccompanied.

"Well," said he bluntly, "I thought your old school-fellow, Frank, might
have been with you."

"Have not you seen him yet, sir?"

"No, I came to town this morning; traveled outside the mail; sent to his
barracks, but the young gentleman does not sleep there--has an apartment
of his own; he never told me that. We are a plain family, the
Hazeldeans--young sir; and I hate being kept in the dark, by my own son
too."

Randal made no answer, but looked sorrowful. The Squire, who had never
before seen his kinsman, had a vague idea that it was not polite to
entertain a stranger, though a connection to himself, with his family
troubles, and so resumed good-naturedly.

"I am very glad to make your acquaintance at last, Mr. Leslie. You know,
I hope, that you have good Hazeldean blood in your veins?"

RANDAL (smilingly).--"I am not likely to forget that; it is the boast of
our pedigree."

SQUIRE (heartily).--"Shake hands again on it, my boy. You don't want a
friend, since my grandee of a half-brother has taken you up; but if ever
you should, Hazeldean is not very far from Rood. Can't get on with your
father at all, my lad--more's the pity, for I think I could have given
him a hint or two as to the improvement of his property. If he would
plant those ugly commons--larch and fir soon come into profit, sir; and
there are some low lands about Rood that would take mighty kindly to
draining."

RANDAL.--"My poor father lives a life so retired, and you can not wonder
at it. Fallen trees lie still, and so do fallen families."

SQUIRE.--"Fallen families can get up again, which fallen trees can't."

RANDAL.--"Ah, sir, it often takes the energy of generations to repair
the thriftlessness and extravagance of a single owner."

SQUIRE (his brow lowering).--"That's very true. Frank is d----d
extravagant; treats me very coolly, too--not coming, near three o'clock.
By-the-by, I suppose he told you where I was, otherwise how did you find
me out?"

RANDAL (reluctantly).--"Sir, he did; and, to speak frankly, I am not
surprised that he has not yet appeared."

SQUIRE.--"Eh?"

RANDAL.--"We have grown very intimate."

SQUIRE.--"So he writes me word--and I am glad of it. Our member, Sir
John, tells me you are a very clever fellow, and a very steady one. And
Frank says that he wishes he had your prudence, if he can't have your
talents. He has a good heart, Frank," added the father, relentingly.
"But, zounds, sir, you say you are not surprised he has not come to
welcome his own father!"

"My dear sir," said Randal, "you wrote word to Frank that you had heard
from Sir John and others, of his goings-on, and that you were not
satisfied with his replies to your letters."

"Well."

"And then you suddenly come up to town."

"Well."

"Well. And Frank is ashamed to meet you. For, as you say, he has been
extravagant, and he has exceeded his allowance; and, knowing my respect
for you, and my great affection for himself, he has asked me to prepare
you to receive his confession and forgive him. I know I am taking a
great liberty. I have no right to interfere between father and son; but
pray--pray think I mean for the best."

"Humph!" said the Squire, recovering himself very slowly, and showing
evident pain. "I knew already that Frank had spent more than he ought;
but I think he should not have employed a third person, to prepare me to
forgive him. (Excuse me--no offense.) And if he wanted a third person,
was not there his own mother? What the devil!--(firing up)--am I a
tyrant--a bashaw--that my own son is afraid to speak to me? Gad, I'll
give it him?"

"Pardon me, sir," said Randal, assuming at once that air of authority
which superior intellect so well carries off and excuses. "But I
strongly advise you not to express any anger at Frank's confidence in
me. At present I have influence over him. Whatever you may think of his
extravagance, I have saved him from many an indiscretion, and many a
debt--a young man will listen to one of his own age so much more readily
than even to the kindest friend of graver years. Indeed, sir, I speak
for your sake as well as for Frank's. Let me keep this influence over
him; and don't reproach him for the confidence he placed in me. Nay, let
him rather think that I have softened any displeasure you might
otherwise have felt."

There seemed so much good sense in what Randal said, and the kindness of
it seemed so disinterested, that the Squire's native shrewdness was
deceived.

"You are a fine young fellow," said he, "and I am very much obliged to
you. Well, I suppose there is no putting old heads upon young shoulders;
and I promise you I'll not say an angry word to Frank. I dare say, poor
boy, he is very much afflicted, and I long to shake hands with him. So,
set his mind at ease."

"Ah, sir," said Randal, with much apparent emotion, "your son may well
love you; and it seems to be a hard matter for so kind a heart as yours
to preserve the proper firmness with him."

"Oh, I can be firm enough," quoth the Squire--"especially when I don't
see him--handsome dog that he is--very like his mother--don't you think
so?"

"I never saw his mother, sir."

"Gad! Not seen my Harry? No more you have; you must come and pay us a
visit. We have your grandmother's picture, when she was a girl, with a
crook in one hand and a bunch of lilies in the other. I suppose my
half-brother will let you come?"

"To be sure, sir. Will you not call on him while you are in town?"

"Not I. He would think I expected to get something from the Government.
Tell him the ministers must go on a little better, if they want my vote
for their member. But go. I see you are impatient to tell Frank that
all's forgot and forgiven. Come and dine with him here at six, and let
him bring his bills in his pocket. Oh, I shan't scold him."

"Why, as to that," said Randal, smiling, "I think (forgive me still)
that you should not take it too easily; just as I think that you had
better not blame him for his very natural and praise-worthy shame in
approaching you, so I think, also, that you should do nothing that would
tend to diminish that shame--it is such a check on him. And therefore,
if you can contrive to affect to be angry with him for his extravagance,
it will do good."

"You speak like a book, and I'll try my best."

"If you threaten, for instance, to take him out of the army, and settle
him in the country, it would have a very good effect."

"What! would he think it so great a punishment to come home and live
with his parents?"

"I don't say that; but he is naturally so fond of London. At his age,
and with his large inheritance, _that_ is natural."

"Inheritance!" said the Squire, moodily--"inheritance! he is not
thinking of that, I trust? Zounds, sir, I have as good a life as his
own. Inheritance!--to be sure the Casino property is entailed on him;
but, as for the rest, sir, I am no tenant for life. I could leave the
Hazeldean lands to my plowman, if I chose it. Inheritance, indeed!"

"My dear sir, I did not mean to imply that Frank would entertain the
unnatural and monstrous idea of calculating on your death; and all we
have to do is to get him to sow his wild oats as soon as
possible--marry, and settle down into the country. For it would be a
thousand pities if his town habits and tastes grew permanent--a bad
thing for the Hazeldean property, that. And," added Randal, laughing, "I
feel an interest in the whole place, since my grandmother comes of the
stock. So, just force yourself to seem angry, and grumble a little when
you pay the bills."

"Ah, ah, trust me," said the Squire, doggedly, and with a very altered
air. "I am much obliged to you for these hints, my young kinsman." And
his stout hand trembled a little as he extended it to Randal.

Leaving Limmers, Randal hastened to Frank's rooms in St. James's-street.
"My dear fellow," said he, when he entered, "it is very fortunate that I
persuaded you to let me break matters to your father. You might well say
he was rather passionate; but I have contrived to soothe him. You need
not fear that he will not pay your debt."

"I never feared that," said Frank, changing color; "I only feared his
anger. But, indeed, I fear his kindness still more. What a reckless
hound I have been! However, it shall be a lesson to me. And my debts
once paid, I will turn as economical as yourself."

"Quite right, Frank. And, indeed, I am a little afraid that when your
father knows the total, he may execute a threat that would be very
unpleasant to you."

"What's that?"

"Make you sell out, and give up London."

"The devil!" exclaimed Frank, with fervent emphasis: "that would be
treating me like a child."

"Why, it _would_ make you seem rather ridiculous to your set, which is
not a very rural one. And you, who like London so much, and are so much
the fashion."

"Don't talk of it," cried Frank, walking to and fro the room in great
disorder.

"Perhaps, on the whole, it might be well not to say all you owe, at
once. If you named half the sum, your father would let you off with a
lecture; and really I tremble at the effect of the total."

"But how shall I pay the other half?"

"Oh, you must save from your allowance; it is a very liberal one; and
the tradesmen are not pressing."

"No--but the cursed bill-brokers--"

"Always renew to a young man of your expectations. And if I get into an
office, I can always help you, my dear Frank."

"Ah, Randal, I am not so bad as to take advantage of your friendship,"
said Frank, warmly. "But it seems to me mean, after all, and a sort of a
lie, indeed, disguising the real state of my affairs. I should not have
listened to the idea from any one else. But you are such a sensible,
kind, honorable fellow."

"After epithets so flattering, I shrink from the responsibility of
advice. But apart from your own interests, I should be glad to save your
father the pain he would feel at knowing the whole extent of the scrape
you have got into. And if it entailed on you the necessity to lay
by--and give up hazard, and not be security for other men--why, it would
be the best thing that could happen. Really, too, it seems hard on Mr.
Hazeldean, that he should be the only sufferer, and quite just that you
should bear half your own burdens."

"So it is, Randal; that did not strike me before. I will take your
counsel; and now I will go at once to Limmer's. My dear father? I hope
he is looking well?"

"Oh, very. Such a contrast to the sallow Londoners! But I think you had
better not go till dinner. He has asked me to meet you at six. I will
call for you a little before, and we can go together. This will prevent
a great deal of gêne and constraint. Good-by till then. Ha!--by the way,
I think if I were you, I would not take the matter too seriously and
penitentially. You see the best of fathers like to keep their sons under
their thumb, as the saying is. And if you want at your age to preserve
your independence, and not be hurried off and buried in the country,
like a schoolboy in disgrace, a little manliness of bearing would not be
amiss. You can think over it."

The dinner at Limmer's went off very differently from what it ought to
have done. Randal's words had sunk deep, and rankled sorely in the
Squire's mind; and that impression imparted a certain coldness to his
manner which belied the hearty, forgiving, generous impulse with which
he had come up to London, and which even Randal had not yet altogether
whispered away. On the other hand, Frank, embarrassed both by the sense
of disingenuousness, and a desire "not to take the thing too
seriously," seemed to the Squire ungracious and thankless.

After dinner, the Squire began to hum and haw, and Frank to color up and
shrink. Both felt discomposed by the presence of a third person; till,
with an art and address worthy of a better cause, Randal himself broke
the ice, and so contrived to remove the restraint he had before imposed,
that at length each was heartily glad to have matters made clear and
brief by his dexterity and tact.

Frank's debts were not, in reality, large; and when he named the half of
them--looking down in shame--the Squire, agreeably surprised, was about
to express himself with a liberal heartiness that would have opened his
son's excellent heart at once to him. But a warning look from Randal
checked the impulse; and the Squire thought it right, as he had
promised, to affect an anger he did not feel, and let fall the unlucky
threat, "that it was all very well once in a way to exceed his
allowance; but if Frank did not, in future, show more sense than to be
led away by a set of London sharks and coxcombs, he must cut the army,
come home, and take to farming."

Frank imprudently exclaimed, "Oh, sir, I have no taste for farming. And
after London, at my age, the country would be so horribly dull."

"Aha!" said the Squire, very grimly--and he thrust back into his
pocket-book some extra bank-notes which his fingers had itched to add to
those he had already counted out. "The country is terribly dull, is it?
Money goes there not upon follies and vices, but upon employing honest
laborers, and increasing the wealth of the nation. It does not please
you to spend money in that way: it is a pity you should ever be plagued
with such duties."

"My dear father--"

"Hold your tongue, you puppy. Oh, I dare say, if you were in my shoes,
you would cut down the oaks, and mortgage the property--sell it, for
what I know--all go on a cast of the dice! Aha, sir--very well, very
well--the country is horribly dull, is it? Pray, stay in town."

"My dear Mr. Hazeldean," said Randal, blandly, and as if with the wish
to turn off into a joke what threatened to be serious, "you must not
interpret a hasty expression so literally. Why, you would make Frank as
bad as Lord A----, who wrote word to his steward to cut down more
timber; and when the steward replied, 'There are only three sign-posts
left on the whole estate,' wrote back, '_They've_ done growing, at all
events--down with them.' You ought to know Lord A----, sir; so witty;
and--Frank's particular friend."

"Your particular friend, Master Frank? Pretty friends!"--and the squire
buttoned up the pocket, to which he had transferred his note book, with
a determined air.

"But I'm his friend, too," said Randal, kindly; "and I preach to him
properly, I can tell you." Then, as if delicately anxious to change the
subject, he began to ask questions upon crops, and the experiment of
bone manure. He spoke earnestly, and with _gusto_, yet with the
deference of one listening to a great practical authority. Randal had
spent the afternoon in cramming the subject from agricultural journals
and Parliamentary reports; and, like all practiced readers, had really
learned in a few hours more than many a man, unaccustomed to study,
could gain from books in a year. The Squire was surprised and pleased at
the young scholar's information and taste for such subjects.

"But, to be sure," quoth he, with an angry look at poor Frank, "you have
good Hazeldean blood in you, and know a bean from a turnip."

"Why, sir," said Randal, ingenuously, "I am training myself for public
life; and what is a public man worth if he do not study the agriculture
of his country?"

"Right--what is he worth? Put that question, with my compliments, to my
half-brother. What stuff he did talk, the other night, on the malt-tax,
to be sure!"

"Mr. Egerton has had so many other things to think of, that we must
excuse his want of information upon one topic, however important. With
his strong sense, he must acquire that information, sooner or later; for
he is fond of power; and, sir, knowledge is power!"

"Very true; very fine saying," quoth the poor Squire, unsuspiciously, as
Randal's eye rested upon Mr. Hazeldean's open face, and then glanced
toward Frank, who looked sad and bored.

"Yes," repeated Randal, "knowledge is power;" and he shook his head
wisely, as he passed the bottle to his host.

Still, when the Squire, who meant to return to the Hall next morning,
took leave of Frank, his heart warmed to his son: and still more for
Frank's dejected looks. It was not Randal's policy to push estrangement
too far at first, and in his own presence.

"Speak to poor Frank--kindly now, sir--do," whispered he, observing the
Squire's watery eyes, as he moved to the window.

The Squire rejoiced to obey--thrust out his hand to his son, "My dear
boy," said he, "there, don't fret--pshaw!--it was but a trifle, after
all. Think no more of it."

Frank took the hand, and suddenly threw his arm round his father's broad
shoulder.

"Oh, sir, you are too good--too good." His voice trembled so, that
Randal took alarm, passed by him, and touched him meaningly.

The Squire pressed his son to his heart--heart so large, that it seemed
to fill the whole width under his broadcloth.

"My dear Frank," said he, half blubbering, "it is not the money; but,
you see, it so vexes your poor mother; you must be careful in future;
and, zounds, boy, it will be all yours one day; only don't calculate on
it; I could not bear _that_--I could not indeed."

"Calculate!" cried Frank. "Oh, sir, can you think it?"

"I am so delighted that I had some slight hand in your complete
reconciliation with Mr. Hazeldean," said Randal, as the young men walked
from the hotel. "I saw that you were disheartened, and I told him to
speak to you kindly."

"Did you? Ah, I am sorry he needed telling."

"I know his character so well already," said Randal, "that I flatter
myself I can always keep things between you as they ought to be. What an
excellent man!"

"The best man in the world!" cried Frank, heartily; and then as his
accent drooped, "yet I have deceived him. I have a great mind to go
back--"

"And tell him to give you twice as much money as you had asked for. He
would think you had only seemed so affectionate in order to take him in.
No, no, Frank; save--lay by--economize; and then tell him that you have
paid half your own debts. Something high-minded in that."

"So there is. Your heart is as good as your head. Good-night."

"Are you going home so early? Have you no engagements?"

"None that I shall keep."

"Good-night, then."

They parted, and Randal walked into one of the fashionable clubs. He
neared a table, where three or four young men (younger sons who lived in
the most splendid style, heaven knew how) were still over their wine.

Leslie had little in common with these gentlemen; but he forced his
nature to be agreeable to them, in consequence of a very excellent piece
of worldly advice given to him by Audley Egerton. "Never let the dandies
call you a prig," said the statesman. "Many a clever fellow fails
through life, because the silly fellows, whom half a word well spoken
could make his _claqueurs_, turn him into ridicule. Whatever you are,
avoid the fault of most reading men: in a word, don't be a prig!"

"I have just left Hazeldean," said Randal, "what a good fellow he is!"

"Capital," said the Honorable George Borrowwell. "Where is he?"

"Why, he is gone to his rooms. He has had a little scene with his
father, a thorough, rough country squire. It would be an act of charity
if you would go and keep him company, or take him with you to some place
a little more lively than his own lodgings."

"What! the old gentleman has been teasing him?--a horrid shame! Why,
Frank is not expensive, and he will be very rich--eh?"

"An immense property," said Randal, "and not a mortgage on it; an only
son," he added, turning away.

Among these young gentlemen there was a kindly and most benevolent
whisper, and presently they all rose, and walked away toward Frank's
lodgings.

"The wedge is in the tree," said Randal to himself, "and there is a gap
already between the bark and the wood."


CHAPTER XXII.

Harley L'Estrange is seated beside Helen at the lattice-window in the
cottage at Norwood. The bloom of reviving health is on the child's face,
and she is listening with a smile, for Harley is speaking of Leonard
with praise, and of Leonard's future with hope. "And thus," he
continued, "secure from his former trials, happy in his occupation, and
pursuing the career he has chosen, we must be content, my dear child, to
leave him."

"Leave him!" exclaimed Helen, and the rose on her cheek faded.

Harley was not displeased to see her emotion. He would have been
disappointed in her heart if it had been less susceptible to affection.

"It is hard on you, Helen," said he, "to separate you from one who has
been to you as a brother. Do not hate me for doing so. But I consider
myself your guardian, and your home as yet must be mine. We are going
from this land of cloud and mist, going as into the world of summer.
Well, that does not content you. You weep, my child; you mourn your own
friend, but do not forget your father's. I am alone, and often sad,
Helen; will you not comfort me! You press my hand, but you must learn to
smile on me also. You are born to be the Comforter. Comforters are not
egotists; they are always cheerful when they console."

The voice of Harley was so sweet, and his words went so home to the
child's heart, that she looked up and smiled in his face as he kissed
her ingenuous brow. But then she thought of Leonard, and felt so
solitary--so bereft--that tears burst forth again. Before these were
dried, Leonard himself entered, and obeying an irresistible impulse, she
sprang to his arms, and, leaning her head on his shoulder, sobbed out,
"I am going from you, brother--do not grieve--do not miss me."

Harley was much moved; he folded his arms, and contemplated them both
silently--and his own eyes were moist. "This heart," thought he, "will
be worth the winning!"

He drew aside Leonard, and whispered--"Soothe, but encourage and support
her. I leave you together; come to me in the garden later."

It was nearly an hour before Leonard joined Harley.

"She was not weeping when you left her?" asked L'Estrange.

"No; she has more fortitude than we might suppose. Heaven knows how that
fortitude has supported mine. I have promised to write to her often."

Harley took two strides across the lawn, and then, coming back to
Leonard, said, "Keep your promise, and write often for the first year, I
would then ask you to let the correspondence drop gradually."

"Drop!--Ah, my Lord!"

"Look you, my young friend, I wish to lead this fair mind wholly from
the sorrows of the Past. I wish Helen to enter, not abruptly, but step
by step, into a new life. You love each other now, as do two
children--as brother and sister. But later, if encouraged, would the
love be the same? And is it not better for both of you, that youth
should open upon the world with youth's natural affections free and
unforestalled?"

"True! And she is so above me," said Leonard mournfully.

"No one is above him who succeeds in your ambition, Leonard. It is not
_that_, believe me!"

Leonard shook his head.

"Perhaps," said Harley, with a smile, "I rather feel that you are above
me. For what vantage-ground is so high as youth? Perhaps I may become
jealous of you. It is well that she should learn to like one who is to
be henceforth her guardian and protector. Yet, how can she like me as
she ought, if her heart is to be full of you?"

The boy bowed his head; and Harley hastened to change the subject, and
speak of letters and of glory. His words were eloquent, and his voice
kindling; for he had been an enthusiast for fame in his boyhood; and in
Leonard's, his own seemed to him to revive. But the poet's heart gave
back no echo--suddenly it seemed void and desolate. Yet when Leonard
walked back by the moonlight, he muttered to himself, "Strange--strange--so
mere a child, this can not be love! Still what else to love is there
left to me?"

And so he paused upon the bridge where he had so often stood with Helen,
and on which he had found the protector that had given to her a home--to
himself a career. And life seemed very long, and fame but a dreary
phantom. Courage, still, Leonard! These are the sorrows of the heart
that teach thee more than all the precepts of sage and critic.

Another day and Helen had left the shores of England, with her fanciful
and dreaming guardian. Years will pass before our tale reopens. Life in
all the forms we have seen it travels on. And the Squire farms and
hunts; and the parson preaches and chides and soothes. And Riccabocca
reads his Machiavelli, and sighs and smiles as he moralizes on Men and
States. And Violante's dark eyes grow deeper and more spiritual in their
lustre; and her beauty takes thought from solitary dreams. And Mr.
Richard Avenel has his house in London, and the honorable Mrs. Avenel
her opera box; and hard and dire is their struggle into fashion, and
hotly does the new man, scorning the aristocracy, pant to become
aristocrat. And Audley Egerton goes from the office to the Parliament,
and drudges, and debates, and helps to govern the empire on which the
sun never sets. Poor Sun, how tired he must be--but none more tired than
the Government! And Randal Leslie has an excellent place in the bureau
of a minister, and is looking to the time when he shall resign it to
come into Parliament, and on that large arena turn knowledge into power.
And meanwhile, he is much where he was with Audley Egerton; but he has
established intimacy with the Squire, and visited Hazeldean twice, and
examined the house and the map of the property--and very nearly fallen a
second time into the Ha-ha; and the Squire believes that Randal Leslie
alone can keep Frank out of mischief, and has spoken rough words to his
Harry about Frank's continued extravagance. And Frank does continue to
pursue pleasure; and is very miserable, and horribly in debt. And Madame
di Negra has gone from London to Paris, and taken a tour into
Switzerland, and come back to London again, and has grown very intimate
with Randal Leslie; and Randal has introduced Frank to her; and Frank
thinks her the loveliest woman in the world, and grossly slandered by
certain evil tongues. And the brother of Madame di Negra is expected in
England at last; and what with his repute for beauty and for wealth,
people anticipate a sensation; and Leonard, and Harley, and Helen?
Patience--they will all re-appear.

  (TO BE CONTINUED.)




A SCENE FROM IRISH LIFE.


The moorland was wide, level, and black; black as night, if you could
suppose night condensed on the surface of the earth, and that you could
tread on solid darkness in the midst of day. The day itself was fast
dropping into night, although it was dreary and gloomy at the best; for
it was a November day. The moor, for miles around, was treeless and
houseless; devoid of vegetation, except heather, which clad with its
gloomy frieze coat the shivering landscape. At a distance you could
discern, through the misty atmosphere, the outline of mountains
apparently as bare and stony as this wilderness, which they bounded.
There were no fields, no hedgerows, no marks of the hand of man, except
the nakedness itself, which was the work of man in past ages; when,
period after period, he had tramped over the scene with fire and sword,
and left all that could not fly before him, either ashes to be scattered
by the savage winds, or stems of trees, and carcases of men trodden into
the swampy earth. As the Roman historian said of other destroyers, "They
created solitude and called it peace." That all this was the work of
man, and not of Nature, any one spot of this huge and howling wilderness
could testify, if you would only turn up its sable surface. In its bosom
lay thousands of ancient oaks and pines, black as ebony; which told, by
their gigantic bulk, that forests must have once existed on this spot,
as rich as the scene was now bleak. Nobler things than trees lay buried
there; but were, for the most part, resolved into the substance of the
inky earth. The dwellings of men had left few or no traces, for they had
been consumed in flames; and the hearts that had loved, and suffered,
and perished beneath the hand of violence and insult, were no longer
human hearts, but slime. If a man were carried blindfold to that place,
and asked when his eyes were unbandaged where he was, he would
say--"Ireland!"

He would want no clew to the identity of the place, but the scene before
him. There is no heath like an Irish heath. There is no desolation like
an Irish desolation. Where Nature herself has spread the expanse of a
solitude, it is a cheerful solitude. The air flows over it lovingly; the
flowers nod and dance in gladness; the soil breathes up a spirit of wild
fragrance, which communicates a buoyant sensation to the heart. You feel
that you tread on ground where the peace of God, and not the "peace" of
man created in the merciless hurricane of war, has sojourned: where the
sun shone on creatures sporting on ground or on tree, as the Divine
Goodness of the Universe meant them to sport: where the hunter disturbed
alone the enjoyment of the lower animals by his own boisterous joy:
where the traveler sung as he went over it, because he felt a spring of
inexpressible music in his heart: where the weary wayfarer sat beneath a
bush, and blessed God, though his limbs ached with travel, and his goal
was far off. In God's deserts dwells gladness; in man's deserts, death.
A melancholy smites you as you enter them. There is a darkness from the
past that envelops your heart, and the moans and sighs of ten-times
perpetrated misery seem still to live in the very winds.

One shallow, and widely-spread stream struggled through the moor;
sometimes between masses of gray stone. Sedges and the white-headed
cotton-rush whistled on its margin, and on island-like expanses that
here and there rose above the surface of its middle course.

I have said that there was no sign of life; but on one of those gray
stones stood a heron watching for prey. He had remained straight, rigid,
and motionless for hours. Probably his appetite was appeased by his
day's success among the trout of that dark red-brown stream, which was
colored by the peat from which it oozed. When he did move, he sprung up
at once, stretched his broad wings, and silent as the scene around him,
made a circuit in the air; rising higher as he went, with slow and
solemn flight. He had been startled by a sound. There was life in the
desert now. Two horsemen came galloping along a highway not far distant,
and the heron, continuing his grave gyrations, surveyed them as he went.
Had they been travelers over a plain of India, an Australian waste, or
the Pampas of South America, they could not have been grimmer of aspect,
or more thoroughly children of the wild. They were Irish from head to
foot.

They were mounted on two spare but by no means clumsy horses. The
creatures had marks of blood and breed that had been introduced by the
English to the country. The could claim, if they knew it, lineage of
Arabia. The one was a pure bay, the other and lesser, was black; but
both were lean as death, haggard as famine. They were wet with the speed
with which they had been hurried along. The soil of the damp moorland,
or of the field in which, during the day, they had probably been drawing
the peasant's cart, still smeared their bodies, and their manes flew as
wildly and untrimmed as the sedge or the cotton-rush on the wastes
through which they careered. Their riders, wielding each a heavy stick
instead of a riding-whip which they applied ever and anon to the
shoulders or flanks of their smoking animals, were mounted on their bare
backs, and guided them by halter, instead of bridle. They were a couple
of the short frieze-coated, knee-breeches and gray-stocking fellows who
are as plentiful on Irish soil as potatoes. From beneath their
narrow-brimmed, old, weather-beaten hats, streamed hair as unkemped as
their horses' manes. The Celtic physiognomy was distinctly marked--the
small and somewhat upturned nose; the black tint of skin; the eye now
looking gray, now black; the freckled cheek, and sandy hair. Beard and
whiskers covered half the face, and the short square-shouldered bodies
were bent forward with eager impatience, as they thumped and kicked
along their horses, muttering curses as they went.

The heron, sailing on broad and seemingly slow vans, still kept them in
view. Anon, they reached a part of the moorland where traces of human
labor were visible. Black piles of peat stood on the solitary ground,
ready, after a summers cutting and drying. Presently patches of
cultivation presented themselves; plots of ground raised on beds, each a
few feet wide, with intervening trenches to carry off the boggy water,
where potatoes had grown, and small fields where grew more stalks of
ragwort than grass, inclosed by banks cast up and tipped here and there
with a briar or a stone. It was the husbandry of misery and indigence.
The ground had already been freshly manured by sea-weeds, but the
village--where was it? Blotches of burnt ground; scorched heaps of
rubbish, and fragments of blackened walls, alone were visible.
Garden-plots were trodden down, and their few bushes rent up, or hung
with tatters of rags. The two horsemen, as they hurried by with gloomy
visages, uttered no more than a single word: "Eviction!"

Further on, the ground heaved itself into a chaotic confusion. Stony
heaps swelled up here and there, naked, black, and barren: the huge
bones of the earth protruded themselves through her skin. Shattered
rocks arose, sprinkled with bushes, and smoke curled up from what looked
like mere heaps of rubbish; but which were in reality human habitations.
Long dry grass hissed and rustled in the wind on their roofs (which were
sunk by-places, as if falling in); and pits of reeking filth seemed
placed exactly to prevent access to some of the low doors; while to
others, a few stepping-stones made that access only possible. Here the
two riders stopped, and hurriedly tying their steeds to an elder-bush,
disappeared in one of the cabins.

The heron slowly sailed on to the place of its regular roost. Let us
follow it.

Far different was this scene to those the bird had left. Lofty trees
darkened the steep slopes of a fine river. Rich meadows lay at the feet
of woods and stretched down to the stream. Herds of cattle lay on them,
chewing their cuds after the plentiful grazing of the day. The white
walls of a noble house peeped, in the dusk of night, through the fertile
timber which stood in proud guardianship of the mansion; and broad
winding walks gave evidence of a place where nature and art had combined
to form a paradise. There were ample pleasure-grounds. Alas! the grounds
around the cabins over which the heron had so lately flown, might be
truly styled pain-grounds.

Within that home was assembled a happy family. There was the father, a
fine-looking man of forty. Proud you would have deemed him, as he sate
for a moment abstracted in his cushioned chair; but a moment afterward,
as a troop of children came bursting into the room, his manner was
instantly changed into one so pleasant, so playful, and so overflowing
with enjoyment, that you saw him only as an amiable, glad, domestic man.
The mother, a handsome woman, was seated already at the tea-table; and,
in another minute, sounds of merry voices and childish laughter were
mingled with the jocose tones of the father, and the playful accents of
the mother; addressed, now to one, and now to another, of the youthful
group.

In due time the merriment was hushed, and the household assembled for
evening prayer. A numerous train of servants assumed their accustomed
places. The father read. He had paused once or twice, and glanced with a
stern and surprised expression toward the group of domestics, for he
heard sounds that astonished him from one corner of the room near the
door. He went on--"Remember the children of Edom, O Lord, in the day of
judgment, how they said, Down with it, down with it, even to the ground.
O daughter of Babylon, wasted with misery, yea, happy shall he be who
rewardeth thee, as thou hast served us!"

There was a burst of smothered sobs from the same corner, and the
master's eye flashed with a strange fire as he again darted a glance
toward the offender. The lady looked equally surprised, in the same
direction; then turned a meaning look on her husband--a warm flush was
succeeded by a paleness in her countenance, and she cast down her eyes.
The children wondered, but were still. Once more the father's sonorous
voice continued--"Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our
trespasses as we forgive them that trespass against us." Again the
stifled sound was repeated. The brow of the master darkened again--the
mother looked agitated; the children's wonder increased; the master
closed the book, and the servants, with a constrained silence, retired
from the room.

"What _can_ be the matter with old Dennis?" exclaimed the lady, the
moment that the door had closed on the household.--"O! what is amiss
with poor old Dennis!" exclaimed the children.

"Some stupid folly or other," said the father, morosely. "Come! away to
bed, children. You can learn Dennis's troubles another time." The
children would have lingered, but again the words, "Away with you!" in a
tone which never needed repetition, were decisive: they kissed their
parents and withdrew. In a few seconds the father rang the bell. "Send
Dennis Croggan here."

The old man appeared. He was a little thin man, of not less than seventy
years of age, with white hair and a dark spare countenance. He was one
of those many nondescript servants in a large Irish house, whose duties
are curiously miscellaneous. He had, however, shown sufficient zeal and
fidelity through a long life, to secure a warm nook in the servants'
hall for the remainder of his days.

Dennis entered with an humble and timid air, as conscious that he had
deeply offended; and had to dread at least a severe rebuke. He bowed
profoundly to both the master and mistress.

"What is the meaning of your interruptions during the prayers, Dennis?"
demanded the master, abruptly. "Has any thing happened to you?"

"No, sir."

"Anything amiss in your son's family?"

"No, your honor."

The interrogator paused; a storm of passion seemed slowly gathering
within him. Presently he asked, in a loud tone, "What does this mean?
Was there no place to vent your nonsense in, but in this room, and at
prayers?"

Dennis was silent. He cast an imploring look at the master, then at the
mistress.

"What is the matter, good Dennis?" asked the lady, in a kind tone.
"Compose yourself, and tell us. Something strange must have happened to
you."

Dennis trembled violently; but he advanced a couple of paces, seized the
back of a chair as if to support him, and, after a vain gasp or two,
declared, as intelligibly as fear would permit, that the prayer had
overcome him.

"Nonsense, man!" exclaimed the master, with fury in the same face, which
was so lately beaming with joy on the children. "Nonsense! Speak out
without more ado, or you shall rue it."

Dennis looked to the mistress as if he would have implored her
intercession; but as she gave no sign of it, he was compelled to speak;
but in a brogue that would have been unintelligible to English ears. We
therefore translate it:

"I could not help thinking of the poor people at Rathbeg, when the
soldiers and police cried, 'Down with them! down with them, even to the
ground!' and then the poor bit cabins came down all in fire and smoke,
amid the howls and cries of the poor creatures. Oh! it was a fearful
sight, your honor--it was, indeed--to see the poor women hugging their
babies, and the houses where they were born burning in the wind. It was
dreadful to see the old bedridden man lie on the wet ground among the
few bits of furniture, and groan to his gracious God above. Oh, your
honor! you never saw such a sight, or--you--sure a--it would never have
been done!"

Dennis seemed to let the last words out, as if they were jerked from him
by a sudden shock.

The master, whose face had changed during this speech to a livid hue of
passion, his eyes blazing with rage, was in the act of rushing on old
Dennis, when he was held back by his wife, who exclaimed--"Oswald! be
calm; let us hear what Dennis has to say. Go on, Dennis--go on!"

The master stood still, breathing hard to overcome his rage. Old Dennis,
as if seeing only his own thoughts, went on--"O, bless your honor! if
you had seen that poor frantic woman when the back of the cabin fell,
and buried her infant, where she thought she had laid it safe for a
moment, while she flew to part her husband and a soldier, who had struck
the other children with the flat of his sword, and bade them to troop
off! Oh, your honor, but it was a killing sight! It was that came over
me in the prayer, and I feared that we might be praying perdition on us
all, when we prayed about our trespasses. If the poor creatures of
Rathbeg should meet us, your honor, at Heaven's gate (I was thinking)
and say--'These are the heathens that would not let us have a poor
hearthstone in poor ould Ireland.' And that was all, your honor, that
made me misbehave so; I was just thinking of that, and I could not help
it."

"Begone! you old fool!" exclaimed the master; and Dennis disappeared,
with a bow, and an alertness that would have done credit to his earlier
years.

There was a moment's silence after his exit. The lady turned to her
husband, and clasping his arm with her hands, and looking into his
darkened countenance with a look of tenderest anxiety, said:

"Dearest Oswald, let me, as I have so often done, once more entreat that
these dreadful evictions may cease. Surely there must be some way to
avert them, and to set your property right, without such violent
measures."

The stern, proud man said, "Then, why, in the name of Heaven, do you not
reveal some other remedy? Why do you not enlighten all Ireland? Why
don't you instruct Government? The unhappy wretches who have been swept
away by force are no people, no tenants of mine. They squatted
themselves down, as a swarm of locusts fix themselves while a green
blade is left. They obstruct all improvement; they will not till the
ground themselves; nor will they quit it to allow me to provide more
industrious and provident husbandmen to cultivate it. Land that teems
with fertility, and is shut out from bearing and bringing forth food for
man, is accursed. Those who have been evicted, not only rob me; but
their more industrious fellows."

"They will murder us!" said the wife, "some day for these things. They
will--"

Her words were cut short suddenly by her husband starting, and standing
in a listening attitude. "Wait a moment," he said, with a peculiar
calmness, as if he had just got a fresh thought; and his lady, who did
not comprehend what was the cause, but hoped that some better influence
was touching him, unloosed her hands from his arm. "Wait just a moment,"
he repeated, and stepped from the room, opened the front door, and
without his hat, went out.

"He is intending to cool down his anger," thought his wife: "he feels a
longing for the freshness of the air." But she had not caught the sound
which had startled his quicker, because more excited ear: she had been
too much engrossed by her own intercession with him: it was a peculiar
whine from the mastiff, which was chained near the lodge-gate, that had
arrested his attention. He stepped out. The black clouds which overhung
the moor had broken, and the moon's light struggled between them.

The tall and haughty man stood erect in the breeze and listened. Another
moment--there was a shot, and he fell headlong upon the broad steps on
which he stood. His wife sprang with a piercing shriek from the door,
and fell on his corpse. A crowd of servants gathered about them, making
wild lamentations, and breathing vows of vengeance. The murdered master
and the wife were borne into the house.

The heron soared from its lofty perch, and wheeled with terrified wings
through the night air. The servants armed themselves; and, rushing
furiously from the house, traversed the surrounding masses of trees.
Fierce dogs were let loose, and dashed frantically through the thickets.
All was, however, too late. The soaring heron saw gray figures, with
blackened faces, stealing away--often on their hands and knees--down the
hollows of the moorlands toward the village; where the two Irish
horsemen had, in the first dusk of that evening, tied their lean steeds
to the old elder bush.

Near the mansion no lurking assassin was to be found. Meanwhile, two
servants, pistol in hand, on a couple of their master's horses, scoured
hill, and dale. The heron, sailing solemnly on the wind above, saw them
halt in a little town. They thundered with the butt-ends of their
pistols on a door in the principal street. Over it there was a
coffin-shaped board, displaying a painted crown, and the big-lettered
words, "POLICE STATION." The mounted servants shouted with might and
main. A night-capped head issued from a chamber casement with--"What is
the matter?"

"Out with you, Police! out with all your strength, and lose not a
moment; Mr. FitzGibbon, of Sporeen, is shot at his own door."

The casement was hastily clapped to, and the two horsemen galloped
forward up the long, broad street; now flooded with the moon's light.
Heads full of terror were thrust from upper windows to inquire the cause
of that rapid galloping; but ever too late. The two men held their
course up a steep hill outside of the town, where stood a vast building
overlooking the whole place. It was the barracks. Here the alarm was
also given.

In less than an hour, a mounted troop of police in olive-green costume,
with pistols at holster, sword by side, and carbine on the arm, were
trotting briskly out of town, accompanied by the two messengers; whom
they plied with eager questions. These answered, and sundry imprecations
vented, the whole party increased their speed, and went on, mile after
mile, by hedgerow and open moorland, talking as they went.

Before they reached the house of Sporeen, and near the village where the
two Irish horsemen had stopped the evening before, they halted, and
formed themselves into more orderly array. A narrow gully was before
them on the road, hemmed in on each side by rocky steeps, here and there
overhung with bushes. The commandant bade them be on their guard, for
there might be danger there. He was right; for the moment they began to
trot through the pass, the flash and rattle of fire-arms from the
thickets above saluted them, followed by a wild yell. In a second,
several of their number lay dead or dying in the road. The fire was
returned promptly by the police; but it was at random, for although
another discharge, and another howl, announced that the enemy were still
there, no one could be seen. The head of the police commanded his troop
to make a dash through the pass; for there was no scaling the heights
from this side; the assailants having warily posted themselves there,
because at the foot of an eminence were stretched on either hand
impassable bogs. The troop dashed forward, firing their pistols as they
went; but were met by such deadly discharges of fire-arms as threw them
into confusion, killed and wounded several of their horses, and made
them hastily retreat.

There was nothing for it, but to await the arrival of the cavalry; and
it was not long before the clatter of horses' hoofs and the ringing of
sabres were heard on the road. On coming up, the troop of cavalry,
firing to the right and left on the hill-sides, dashed forward, and, in
the same instant, cleared the gully in safety; the police having kept
their side of the pass. In fact, not a single shot was returned; the
arrival of this strong force having warned the insurgents to decamp. The
cavalry in full charge ascended the hills, to their summits. Not a foe
was to be seen, except one or two dying men, who were discovered by
their groans.

The moon had been for a time quenched in a dense mass of clouds, which
now were blown aside by a keen and cutting wind. The heron, soaring over
the desert, could now see gray-coated men flying in different directions
to the shelter of the neighboring hills. The next day he was startled
from his dreamy reveries near the moorland stream, by the shouts and
galloping of mingled police and soldiers, as they gave chase to a couple
of haggard, bare-headed, and panting peasants.

These were soon captured, and at once recognized as belonging to the
evicted inhabitants of the recently deserted village.

Since then years have rolled on. The heron, who had been startled from
his quiet haunts by these things, was still dwelling on the lofty tree
with his kindred, by the hall of Sporeen. He had reared family after
family in that airy lodgment, as spring after spring came round; but no
family, after that fatal time, had ever tenanted the mansion. The widow
and children had fled from it so soon as Mr. FitzGibbon had been laid in
the grave. The nettle and dock flourished over the scorched ruins of the
village of Rathbeg; dank moss and wild grass tangled the proud drives
and walks of Sporeen. All the woodland rides and pleasure-grounds lay
obstructed with briars; and young trees, in time, grew luxuriantly where
once the roller in its rounds could not crush a weed; the nimble frolics
of the squirrel were now the only merry things where formerly the feet
of lovely children had sprung with elastic joy.

The curse of Ireland was on the place. Landlord and tenant, gentleman
and peasant, each with the roots and the shoots of many virtues in their
hearts, thrown into a false position by the mutual injuries of ages, had
wreaked on each other the miseries sown broadcast by their ancestors.
Beneath this foul spell men who would, in any other circumstances, have
been the happiest and the noblest of mankind, became tyrants; and
peasants, who would have glowed with grateful affection toward them,
exulted in being their assassins. As the traveler rode past the decaying
hall, the gloomy woods, and waste black moorlands of Sporeen, he read
the riddle of Ireland's fate, and asked himself when an OEdipus would
arise to solve it.




SCOTTISH REVENGE.


A long time ago, when the powerful clan of the Cumyns were lords of half
the country round, the chief of that clan slew a neighboring chieftain,
with whom he had a feud; for feuds in those days were as easily found as
blackberries, and quarrels might be had any day in the year for the
_picking_. He that was slain had, at the time of his death, an only
child, an infant, of the name of Hugh. The widow treasured deep within
her heart the hope of vengeance, which the daily sight of her son,
recalling, by his features, the memory of her slaughtered husband, kept
ever awake. With the first opening of his intellect, he was instructed
in the deed that made him fatherless, and taught to look forward to
avenging his parent as a holy obligation cast upon him; and so, with his
strength and his stature, grew his hatred of the Cumyns, and his
resolution to take the life of him who had slain his father. He spent
his days in the woods practicing archery, till at length he became a
most expert bowman. None could send a shaft with so strong an arm, or so
true an aim, as Hugh Shenigan; and the eagle or the red deer was sure to
fall beneath his arrow, when the one was soaring too high in the air, or
the other fleeing too swiftly on the hill, for ordinary woodcraft. But
it was not the eagle or the deer that kept Hugh in the forest, and upon
the mountains, from the dawn of the morning till the setting of the sun.
He was watching for other prey, and at length chance brought what he
sought within his reach. One day he climbed up the side of Benigloe, and
took his station upon a spot that commanded a view of the glen between
it and the opposite range of hills. He had ascertained that Cumyn would
return to Blair by the glen that evening; and so it happened, that an
hour or so before sun-fall he espied the chieftain, with two of his
clan, wending onwards toward the base of the hill. A few minutes more,
and they would reach a point within the range of his bow. His practiced
eye measured the distance, and his heart throbbed with a fierce, dark
emotion, as he put the shaft to the thong, and drew it, with a strong
arm, to his ear. With a whiz, the arrow sped from the bow, and cleft the
air with the speed of light, while a wild shout burst from the lips of
the young archer. His anxiety, it would seem, did not suffer him to wait
till his foe had come within range of his arrow, for it sank quivering
into the earth at the foot of him for whose heart it was aimed. The
shout and the shaft alike warned the Cumyns that danger was nigh, and
not knowing by what numbers they might be assailed, they plunged into
the heather on the hill side, and were quickly lost to the sight. But
the young man watched with the keenness of an eagle, and his sense
seemed intensified with the terrible desire of vengeance that consumed
him. At length, just where the little stream falls from the crown of the
hill, the form of a man became visible, standing out from the sky, now
bright with the last light of the setting sun. With a strong effort, the
young man mastered the emotion of his heart, as the gambler becomes
calm, ere he throws the cast upon which he has staked his all. The bow
is strained to its utmost, the eye ranges along the shaft from feather
to barb, it is shot forth as if winged by the very soul of him who
impelled it. One moment of breathless suspense, and in the next the
chief of the Cumyns falls headlong into the stream, pierced through the
bowels by the deadly weapon.




POSTAL REFORM--CHEAP POSTAGE.


It is now upward of eleven years since the writer of this commenced
advocating "postal reform and cheap postage." At first it found but
little favor either from the public or the Post-Office Department. Many
considered the schemes Utopian, and if carried into effect would break
down the post-office: but neither ridicule or threats prevented him from
prosecuting his object until Congress was compelled in 1845 to reduce
the rates of postage to five and ten cents the half-ounce.

The success attending even this partial reduction equaled the
expectations of its friends, and silenced the opposition of its enemies.
The friends of cheap postage, in New York and other places, renewed
their efforts to obtain a further reduction, and petitioned for a
uniform rate of two cents prepaid. But such was either the indifference
or hostility of a majority of the members that no definite action was
taken on the subject for six years, nor was it until the last session
that any reduction was made from the rates adopted in 1845.
Notwithstanding this shameful delay in complying with the wishes of the
people, the new law adopted _four_ rates instead of one, leaving the
prepayment of postage optional. Besides this, the new law imposes on
newspapers and printed matter a most unreasonable, burdensome, and
complicated tax, which has created universal dissatisfaction.

The obnoxious features of the present law imperiously demand the
immediate attention of Congress. Neither the rates of postage on
letters, nor the tax on newspapers and printed matter, meet the wishes
of the friends of cheap postage. They have uniformly insisted upon
simplicity, uniformity, and cheapness. But the present law possesses
none of these requisites. On letters the rates in the United States are
three and five, six and ten cents, according to distance. Ocean postage
is enormous and too burdensome to be borne any longer. The rates of
postage on newspapers are so complicated that few postmasters can tell
what they are, and those on transient newspapers and printed matter
generally, are so enormous as to amount to a prohibition. A revision of
this law is rendered indispensable. Other reforms are required, some of
which I shall here notice.

1. Letter postage should be reduced to a uniform rate of _two cents
prepaid_. This rate has been successfully adopted in Great Britain. It
has increased the letters and the income of the post-office. It is the
revenue point, sufficiently low, to encourage the people to write, and
to send all their letters through the post-office; and yet high enough
to afford ample revenue to pay the expenses of the Department. If this
rate is adopted, it will defy all competition, for none will attempt to
carry letters cheaper than the post-office.

2. _Ocean postage_ is enormous and burdensome, especially upon that
class of persons which is least able to bear it. It has been computed by
those who are competent to judge, that about three-quarters of the ship
letters are written by emigrants, and are letters of friendship and
affection. The greater portion of them are from persons in poor
circumstances, and to tax them with _twenty-four_ or _twenty-nine_ cents
for a single letter is cruel. To send a letter and receive an answer,
will cost a servant girl half a week's wages, and a poor man in the
country will have to work a day to earn the value of the postage of a
letter to and from his friends in Europe. Were the postage reduced to a
low rate, _ten_ letters would be written where one now is, and the
revenue, in a short period, would be equal if not greater than under the
present high rates. During the last twelve months, the amount received
for transatlantic postages was not less than _a million of dollars_, and
three-fourths of this sum has been paid by the laboring classes on
letters relating to their domestic relations and friendship.

3. Next to the reduction of inland and ocean postage is the _free
delivery_ of mail letters in all the large towns and cities. An
improvement has been attempted by the Postmaster-general in respect of
letters to be sent by the mails. They are now conveyed to the
post-office free of any charge; and the next step necessary is to cause
them to be delivered without any addition to the postage. A letter is
carried by the mails _three thousand miles_ for three cents, but if it
is sent three hundred yards from the post-office, it is charged _two
cents_! This is not only an unreasonable tax, but is attended with much
inconvenience both to the carrier and receiver of the letter, in the
trouble of making the change, and the delay attending the delivery of
letters. If the prepayment of the postage covered the whole expense, a
carrier could deliver ten letters where he now delivers _one_, and fewer
persons would be able to deliver them. Two cents cover the whole expense
of postage and delivery of letters in London, and there is no reason why
they can not be delivered in New York and other cities as cheaply as
they are in the capital of Great Britain. The expense to the post-office
would be comparatively small, as the income from city letters would be
nearly equal to what would be paid if an efficient city delivery was
adopted. If the free delivery should be adopted, it would be a great
relief to the people, and this like every other facility afforded by the
post-office, would tend to increase the number of letters sent by the
mails.

4. The _franking privilege_ should be wholly abolished. This has been so
much abused, that the people have loudly complained of it, and almost
every Postmaster-general for the last ten years has recommended its
abolition. Instead, however, of diminishing or repealing it, it has been
increased, so that two sets of members can now exercise it, and the
cart-loads of franked matter sent from Washington show that it is a dead
weight upon the Department. At the last session, one member had
twenty-eight large canvas bags of franked matter, weighing not less than
_five thousand pounds_! To say nothing of the vast expense of printing
and binding millions of documents and speeches which are never read, the
burden, and labor, and cost to the post-office are incalculable. When
newspapers were few in number, there might have been a necessity to send
out speeches and documents, but as newspapers are published in all parts
of the Union, every important report and speech is published and read
long before it can be printed and sent from Washington. Let the members
of Congress be furnished with a sufficient number of stamps to cover
their postage, and these be paid for as the other expenses of Congress.
The frank was wholly abolished in Great Britain, when the cheap system
was adopted, so that Queen Victoria herself can not now frank a letter!

5. But the grievance, which is now felt and most complained of by the
people, is the complicated and burdensome tax on newspapers and other
printed matter. It has heretofore been the good policy of Congress to
favor the circulation of newspapers throughout the country, and
accordingly one and a half cents was the highest rate charged to regular
subscribers for any distance, and two cents, prepaid, for transient
papers. These rates were plain and easy to be understood, and few were
disposed to complain of them, although they were much higher than they
should be. The new bill has some _sixty_ or _seventy_ different rates,
and so complicated, depending upon _weight_ and _distance_, that not one
postmaster in twenty can tell what postage should be charged upon
newspapers. Again the rates are enormous. For example, a newspaper in
California, weighing one ounce or under, is charged _five cents_
prepaid, and if not prepaid _ten cents_, and the same for every
additional ounce; hence the Courier and Enquirer or Journal of Commerce,
weighing two and one quarter ounces, is charged to San Francisco
_fifteen cents_ prepaid, and if not prepaid _thirty cents_! What is the
effect of this law? It prohibits the circulation of newspapers through
the post-office entirely, and all that are now sent go by private
expresses. If I understand the subject correctly, it was the object of
those who proposed the "substitute" to the Bill which passed the House
of Representatives, to _exclude_ from the mails _newspapers_ and
_printed_ matter. _Is this right?_

6. Another reform which should be made by Congress, is the payment of
postage entirely by _stamps_. If no money was received at the
post-office except for stamps, and the postage on every thing passing
through the office prepaid, the saving of labor would be immense, both
to the general post-office and local offices. But this is not the only
advantage. The amount lost, by the destruction of post bills, is
incalculable. Hundreds of thousands of dollars are unaccounted for and
lost every year by the Department, by the present loose, inefficient
system of accounting for the postages received on letters and
newspapers. While this system continues there is not, and can not be any
_check_ on the postmasters. Let the payment of postage be made by
stamps, and it would be an effectual check upon every post-office, and
the Department would receive the money for every stamp sold, whether it
was used by the purchaser or not. This is a subject worthy of the
serious consideration of Congress and the Post-Office Department.

7. There is one more improvement which I would recommend before closing
this already long article, and that is the establishment of a
_money-order office_. This would not only be a great convenience to the
people, especially to the poorer class, but it would also prove a source
of revenue to the post-office. During the last year, there were sent
through the money-order office in Great Britain upward of _forty
millions_ of dollars! When it is recollected that each order is limited
to _twenty-five dollars_, the number of letters carrying these orders
must be very large, adding to the receipts of the post-office. The same
results would follow a similar establishment in the United States. There
being no guarantee for the safe delivery of money, transmitted by the
mails, such letters are now sent by private expresses, for which they
receive a remunerating compensation.

I have briefly suggested some of the reforms which I deem necessary for
the improvement of the post-office. It was said last winter by some of
our Senators in Congress, in their places, that "OURS IS THE WORST
MANAGED POST-OFFICE IN THE WORLD." I can not agree with them in this
assertion. But I regret to say that it is not the _best_ managed, nor so
good as it should and _must_ be. The great drawback to its improvement,
and, I may add, the curse that rests upon it, is its being made a
_political_ machine. It was a great and fatal mistake to make the
Postmaster-general a member of the Cabinet. The great personal worth of
Mr. McLean induced President Monroe to take him into his Cabinet, and
the practice has been continued ever since. The consequence is, that the
Postmaster-general is changed under every new administration. In less
than two years we had _three_, and two assistants. How can it be
expected that men, whatever may be their talents, can make themselves
acquainted with the business of the office in the short space of three
or four years? Before they are warm in their seats they are removed.
Besides, after a new administration comes in, it takes six or twelve
months to turn out political opponents and appoint their friends. If,
instead of this, when intelligent and efficient men are in office (no
matter what their political affinities may be), they were continued, it
would be an inducement to make improvements, and an encouragement to
fidelity; but now there is no security to any man that he will be
continued one hour, nor any encouragement to excel in the faithful
discharge of his duty. These things ought not so to be.

There is another practice which greatly retards the improvement of our
post-office, and that is the manner in which the post-office committees
are appointed in Congress. At every session of Congress new committees
are appointed by the Senate and House, a majority of which is composed
of the dominant political party, without much regard to their
qualifications. For a number of years there has been scarcely a single
member selected from any of our large cities, where the principal
portion of the revenue is collected, consequently, they are persons who
have little or no knowledge of post-office business, or the wants of the
people. Their principal business is to obtain new post-routes, but any
improvement of postal concerns is little thought of. Hence the
Post-Office Department may be considered a vast political machine,
wielded for the benefit of the party in power; and there is not an
appointment made, from the Postmaster-general down to the postmaster of
the smallest office, without a special regard to the politics of the
person appointed.

The only correction of this evil, under the present system, is to give
the appointment of all the postmasters to the people. They are the best
qualified to judge of the character and qualifications of the person who
will serve them in the most acceptable manner; and the postmasters,
knowing that they are dependent upon the people for their offices, will
be more obliging and attentive in the discharge of their duties. This
will diminish the patronage of the President and the Postmaster-general,
which I have not a doubt they would gladly part with, as there is
nothing more troublesome and perplexing to a conscientious man, than the
exercise of this power.

In the old world, where monarchy exists, the press is called the "fourth
estate;" but with us, where "_vox populi_, _vox Dei_," the press and the
ballot-box may be considered the sovereign. The press utters the wish of
the people, and the ballot-box confirms that wish. Hence, if the press
speaks out clearly and strongly in favor of postal reform, the people
will sanction it by their votes in selecting men to represent their
wishes in the councils of the nation. Our post-office, instead of being
denounced the "worst," should be made the _best_ managed in the world.
We have no old prejudices or established customs to abolish, no
pensioners or sinecures to support, no jealousy on the part of the
government against the diffusion of knowledge through the mails; but we
have an intelligent, active, liberal gentleman at the head of the
Post-Office Department, who desires to meet the wants and wishes of the
people. Therefore we have reason to hope that in due time our
post-office will be established on such a footing as to secure the
patronage and support of the people, defying all competition, and
superior to any similar establishment in the world.

B.B.




SYRIAN SUPERSTITIONS.


There are some superstitious observances, which are strictly adhered to
by the peasants employed in rearing the silk-worm. Thus, when the eggs
are first hatched, the peasant's wife rises up very early in the
morning, and creeping stealthily to the master's house, flings a piece
of wet clay against the door. If the clay adheres, it is a sign that
there will be a good mousoum or silk harvest: if it do not stick, then
the contrary may be expected. During the whole time the worms are being
reared, no one but the peasants themselves are permitted to enter the
khook or hut; and, when the worms give notice that they are about to
mount and form their cocoons, then the door is locked, and the key
handed to the proprietor of the plantation. After a sufficient time has
elapsed, and the cocoons are supposed to be well and strongly formed,
the proprietor, followed by the peasants, marches in a kind of
procession up to the huts, and, first dispensing a few presents among
them, and hoping for good, to which they all reply, "Inshalla!
Inshalla!--please God! please God," the key is turned, the doors thrown
wide open, and the cocoons are detached from the battours of cane mats,
and prepared for reeling the next day.




Monthly Record of Current Events.


UNITED STATES

The past month has not been one of special interest, either at home or
abroad. None of the great legislative bodies of the country have been in
session, and political action has been confined to one or two of the
Southern States. The annual Agricultural Fair of the State of New York
was held at Rochester on the three days following the 17th of September,
and was attended by a larger number of persons, and with greater
interest than usual. Hon. STEPHEN A. DOUGLAS, United States Senator from
Illinois, delivered the address, which was a clear and interesting
sketch of the progress and condition of agriculture in the United
States. The number of persons in attendance at the Fair is estimated to
have exceeded one hundred and fifty thousand. The State Agricultural
Society of New York is gaining strength every year. A very interesting
Railroad Jubilee was held in Boston on the 17th of September, to
celebrate the completion of railroad communication between Boston and
Ogdensburg, thus connecting the New England capital with the Western
lakes by two distinct routes. President FILLMORE and several members of
his Cabinet were present, as were also Lord ELGIN and several other
distinguished gentlemen from Canada. An immense multitude of people was
in attendance to celebrate this triumph of business, energy, and
enterprise. Brief public congratulations were exchanged between the
municipal officers of Boston and their guests, and a grand aquatic
excursion down the bay took place on the 18th. The celebration lasted
three days, and was closed by a grand civic feast under a pavilion on
the Common.

No event of the past month has excited more general interest, than the
return of the two vessels sent to the Arctic Ocean a year and a half
ago, by Mr. HENRY GRINNELL of New York, to aid in the search for Sir
JOHN FRANKLIN. The _Advance_ reached New York on the 1st of October; the
_Rescue_ was a few days later. Although unsuccessful in the main object
of their search, the gallant officers and men by whom these vessels were
manned, have enjoyed their cruise, and returned without the loss of a
single life and in excellent health. They entered Wellington Sound on
the 26th of August, 1850, and were at once joined by Capt PENNY, who
commanded the vessel sent out by Lady FRANKLIN. On the 27th, three
graves were discovered, known by inscriptions upon them to be those of
three of Sir JOHN FRANKLIN'S crew. The presence of Sir JOHN at that spot
was thus established at as late a date as in April, 1846. On the 8th of
September, the vessels forced their way through the ice, and on the
10th, reached Griffith's Island, which proved to be the ultimate limit
of their western progress. On the 13th, they started to return, but were
frozen in near the mouth of Wellington Channel, and for nine months they
continued thus, unable to move, threatened with destruction by the
crushing of the ice around them, and borne along by the southeast drift
until, on the 10th of June, they emerged into open sea, and found
themselves in latitude 65° 30', and one thousand and sixty miles from
the spot at which they became fixed in the ice. The history of Arctic
navigation records no drift at all to be compared with this, either for
extent or duration. The intervening season was full of peril. The ice
crushing the sides of the vessels, forced them several feet out of
water. The thermometer fell to 40 degrees below zero. The _Rescue_ was
abandoned, for the sake of saving fuel, and on two occasions, the crews
had left their vessels, expecting to see them crushed to atoms between
the gigantic masses of ice that threatened them on either side, and with
their knapsacks on their backs had prepared to strike off across the ice
for land, which was nearly a hundred miles off. The scurvy made its
appearance, and was very severe in its ravages, especially among the
officers.

After refitting his vessels on the coast of Greenland, Captain DE HAVEN,
who had the command of the expedition, started again for the North.
After passing Baffin's Bay on the 8th of August, he became again
hopelessly entangled in the vast masses of ice that were floating
around, and was compelled to start for the United States. The expedition
is likely to contribute essentially to our knowledge of the natural
history of that remote region of the earth, as Dr. KANE, an intelligent
naturalist, who went in the vessels as surgeon, has very complete
memoranda of every thing of interest especially in this department.
Although unable to find any distinct traces of him later than 1846, the
officers of the expedition think it far from impossible that Sir JOHN
FRANKLIN may be still alive, hemmed in by ice at a point which they were
unable to reach. They agree in the opinion that a steamer of some kind
should accompany any other expedition that may be sent.

A State election took place in GEORGIA, on the 7th of October, which has
a general interest on account of the issues which it involved. The old
political distinctions were entirely superseded, both candidates for
Governor having belonged to the Democratic party--one of them, however,
Hon. HOWELL COBB, late Speaker of the U.S. House of Representatives,
being in favor of abiding by the Compromise measures of 1850, and his
opponent Mr. MCDONALD being opposed to them, and in favor of secession
from the Union. Up to the time of closing this record, full returns have
not been received; but it is quite certain that Mr. COBB, the Union
candidate, has been elected by a very large majority. Full returns of
the Congressional canvass, which was held at the same time, have not yet
reached us; but it is believed that six Union, and two State Rights
members have been elected.

The Legislature of VERMONT met at Montpelier on the 9th of October. The
House was organized by the election of Mr. Powers, speaker, and Mr. C.
T. Davey, clerk. The message of Gov. Williams treats of national topics
at considerable length. He insists that the laws must be obeyed, and
vindicates the _habeas corpus_ act passed by Vermont at the last session
of its Legislature from many of the censures that have been cast upon
it.

The month has been distinguished by an unusual number of steamboat
explosions, railroad casualties, crimes and accidents of various sorts.
The steamer _Brilliant_, on her way up the Mississippi from New Orleans,
on the 28th of September, while near Bayou Sara, burst her boiler,
killing fifteen or twenty persons, wounding as many more, and making a
complete wreck of the vessel. A brig on Lake Erie, having left Buffalo
for Chicago, sprung a leak on the 30th of September, and sunk within an
hour. About twenty persons were drowned, only one of those on board
escaping. All but he got into the longboat, which capsized; he fastened
himself to the foremast of the brig, which left him, as the vessel
touched bottom, about four feet out of water. He remained there two days
when he was rescued by a passing steamer.

A very severe storm swept over the northeast coast of British America on
the 5th of October, doing immense injury to the fishing vessels, nearly
a hundred of them being driven ashore. About three hundred persons are
supposed to have perished in the wrecks, and great numbers of dead
bodies had been drifted ashore.

The steamer _James Jackson_, while near Shawneetown, in Illinois, on the
21st of September, burst her boiler, killing and wounding thirty-five
persons, and tearing the boat to pieces. The scene on board at the time
of the explosion is described as having been heart-rending.

A duel was fought at Vienna, S.C. on the 27th of September, in which Mr.
Smyth, one of the editors of the Augusta Constitutionalist, was wounded
by a ball through the thigh from the pistol of his antagonist, Dr.
Thomas of Augusta. The meeting grew out of a newspaper controversy,
Smyth taking offense at an article in the Chronicle of which Thomas
avowed himself the author.--Another duel, with a still more serious
result took place in Brownsville, Texas, on the 8th. The parties were
Mr. W.H. Harrison and Mr. W.G. Clarke, who met in the street with
five-barreled pistols. Clarke fell at the second fire, receiving his
antagonist's ball near the heart.--Mr. W. Laughlin, an alderman in the
city of New Orleans, and a very respectable and influential citizen, was
killed by William Silk, another alderman, on the 29th of September: the
affray grew out of political differences.

The great Railroad Conspiracy trials at Detroit terminated on the 25th
of September, by a verdict of guilty against twelve of the prisoners and
acquitting the rest. Two of them were sentenced to the State Prison for
ten years, six for eight years, and four for five years.

Father MATHEW has returned from his visit to the Western States, and has
been spending a few weeks in New York. Some of the most influential
gentlemen of New York city have appealed to the public for contributions
to form a fund of twenty-five or thirty thousand dollars for his aid: it
is seconded by a very strong letter from Mr. CLAY. Father Mathew is soon
to leave the United States for Ireland.

A number of the literary gentlemen of New York have taken steps to
render some fitting tribute to the memory of the late JAMES FENIMORE
COOPER. A preliminary meeting was held at the City Hall, at which
WASHINGTON IRVING presided, and a committee was appointed to consider
what measures will be most appropriate. The delivery of a eulogium and
the erection of a statue are suggested as likely to be fixed upon. At a
meeting of the New York Historical Society, held on the 7th of October,
resolutions upon the subject were adopted.

The Episcopal Convention of the New York diocese was held on the 24th of
September, and the Rev. Dr. CREIGHTON, of Tarrytown, was elected, after
a protracted canvass, Provisional Bishop. He is a native of New York,
graduated at Columbia College in 1812, and has officiated at Grace
Church and St Mark's Church, in New York.

From CALIFORNIA our intelligence is to the 6th of September. San
Francisco and Sacramento have been the scenes of great excitement. The
self-appointed Vigilance Committee, which was organized to supervise,
and, if it should be deemed necessary, to supersede the criminal courts,
has given terrible proofs of its energy. Two men named Whittaker and
McKenzie were in prison at San Francisco awaiting their trial. Fearing
that justice might not be done them, the Vigilance Committee broke in
the prison doors, took the men out during divine service on Sunday, and
hung them both in front of the building. An immense crowd of people was
present, approving and encouraging the proceedings. The regular
authorities made very slight resistance to the mob. At Sacramento three
men had been convicted of highway robbery and sentenced to be hung. One
of them, named Robinson, was respited by the Governor, for a month. The
day for executing the sentence of the law upon the other two arrived. A
large concourse of people was present. The sheriff ordered the two men,
Gibson and Thompson, to the place of execution, and directed Robinson to
be taken to a prison-ship in which he could be secured. The crowd,
however, refused to allow this, but retained him in custody. The two men
were then executed by the sheriff, who immediately left the ground.
Robinson was then brought forward and, after proper religious exercises,
was hung. These occurrences created a good deal of excitement in
California at the time, but it soon subsided. It seems to have been
universally conceded that the men deserved their fate, and that only
justice had been attained, although by irregular means.

The news from the mines continues to be encouraging. The companies were
all doing well, and extensive operations were in progress to work the
gold-bearing quartz. The steamer _Lafayette_ was burned on the 9th, at
Chagres. Marysville, in California, was visited on the night of August
30th, by a very destructive fire. The steamer _Fawn_ burst her boiler
near Sacramento on the 28th of August; five or six persons were killed.

From NEW MEXICO we have news to the end of September. Colonel Sumner's
expedition against the Navajo Indians had reached Cyrality, in the very
heart of the Indian country, and intended to erect a fort there. The
Indians were swarming on his rear, threatening hostilities. News had
reached Santa Fé that five of Colonel Sumner's men had perished for want
of water, before reaching Laguna. The troops were scattered along the
road for forty miles, and horses were daily giving out. Colonel Sumner
will establish a post at St. Juan, one in the Navajo country, and one at
Don Ana.

Quite an excitement had been raised at Santa Fé by the demand of the
Catholic Bishop for the church edifice commonly known as the Military
Church. Under the Mexican Government it was used exclusively as the
chapel of the army. Since the conquest it had been used by the United
States army as an ordnance house. After the departure of the troops,
Chief Justice Baker obtained from Col. Brooks permission to occupy the
house as a court room. The Catholic clergy considered this as a
desecration of the house, and consequently objected to its being thus
appropriated. The commotion was quelled by the Governor's surrendering
the key to the Bishop, formally putting the possession of the building
into the hands of the Church.--Major Weightman is certain to be elected
delegate to Congress.--Much misunderstanding exists between the Judges
in construing the laws in regard to holding the courts, and some fear a
good deal of delay in administering justice in consequence, as the
lawyers are refusing to bring suits until there shall be unanimity among
the Judges.--The difficulty between Mr. Bartlett and Colonel Graham, of
the Boundary Commission, is still unsettled. The former was progressing
with the survey.

Rain had fallen to some extent throughout New Mexico, and vegetation was
consequently beginning to revive.


MEXICO.

Late advices from the City of Mexico state that the Cabinet resigned in
a body on the 2d of September, and much disaffection prevailed
throughout the country, which was in the most deplorable and abject
condition.

The Convention of the Governors of the different States, called for the
purpose of devising some means for the relief of the difficulties under
which the people are now laboring, had met, and, without taking any
decisive action on the subject, adjourned, causing great
dissatisfaction. Don Fernando Ramnez has accepted the appointment of
Minister of Foreign Affairs, and is charged with the formation of a new
Cabinet. The Tehuantepec question engages public attention to a very
great degree. The press represent that if the Americans are allowed to
construct a railroad across the isthmus, the adjoining country will be
colonized, revolutionized, and annexed to the United States, and that
another large and valuable department will thus be lost to Mexico. It is
stated that the Government has sent 3000 men to defend the isthmus
against the Americans, but this we are inclined to doubt.

A revolution has broken out in Northern Mexico which, thus far, has
proved entirely successful. It commenced at Camargo, where the Patriots
attacked the Mexicans. The Patriots came off victorious, having taken
the town by storm, with a loss on the side of the Mexicans of 60. The
Government troops were intrenched in a church, with artillery. The
people of the town had held a meeting, at which it was resolved to
accept the pronunciamiento issued by the Revolutionists. The Mexican
troops stationed there were allowed to march out of the town with the
honors of war. The Revolutionists were determined to defend the place.
The Revolutionists are commanded by Carabajal, who has also with him two
companies of Texans. At the last accounts they were marching on
Matamoras and Reynosa. Gen. Avalos, who is at Matamoras, has only 200
troops. He had made a requisition on the city for 2000, but the city
refused to raise a single man. The plan of the Revolutionists was a
pronunciamiento which was widely circulated. The pronunciamiento
pronounces "death to tyrants." The reasons given for the revolt are:
1st. The utter failure of the Mexican Government to protect the northern
Mexican States from Indian depredations. 2d. The unjust, unequal,
prohibitory system of duties, which operates most destructively on the
interests of the people of the frontier. 3d. The despotic power exerted
by the Federal Government over the rights and representation of several
States. Beside Camargo, Mier, Tampico, and several other towns were in
the hands of the insurgents. A report having reached Matamoras that the
invaders were preparing to march upon them, a large number of the
inhabitants, including all the woman and children, fled, leaving only
two hundred and fifty men in the town.


CENTRAL AMERICA.

This country continues to be in a very disturbed condition. The
revolution started by Munoz is still in progress, the leader being, at
the latest dates, about to march upon Granada with the intention of
taking that city by force if it would not yield. The government,
however, had impressed into its service all the seamen in port, and many
of those in the service of the canal company.

A military disturbance had occurred at San Juan. A company of native
soldiers was sent by the local authorities with orders to take as their
prisoner a certain American, of the name of M'Lean, suspected of being
a political spy. The soldiers surrounded the shanty where M'Lean and a
dozen other Americans on their return from California, had halted, and
fired into it, killing a negro and severely wounding a white man. The
Americans returned the fire, killing one man and dispersing the whole
company. Next day the affair was compromised by an agreement that M'Lean
should leave the country, which he did.

An insurrection has broken out in the States of San Salvador and
Guatemala. General Carrera with 1500 men had attacked the enemy in San
Salvador and defeated them, but he did not follow up his advantage.

Mr. Chatfield, the English consul in Nicaragua, has become involved in
another difficulty with the authorities. His _exequatur_ has been
revoked, on account of his refusal to recognize the Central Government.


SOUTH AMERICA.

We have news from Buenos Ayres to the 18th of August. The war raging in
that country is becoming more and more important, and a brief sketch of
its origin and character may be useful in aiding our readers to
understand the course of events. The contest is properly between Brazil
and Buenos Ayres, and the prize for which the two forces are contending
is the province of Uruguay. Until 1821 Uruguay was a province of Buenos
Ayres; but Pedro I. of Brazil, by the lavish use of bribes and other
agencies, equally potent and equally corrupt, succeeded in
revolutionizing the country and attaching it to Brazil. In 1825 Uruguay
declared itself free, and in 1828 it was recognized as a free government
by the Plata Confederation, in which recognition Brazil was obliged to
concur. Upon the abdication of Pedro, which occurred soon after, Brazil
was governed by a regency of which Louis Philippe obtained complete
control. France, Spain, and Portugal formed a design of re-annexing
Uruguay to Brazil, and they found facile allies in this purpose in the
Brazilian Court, which sought to extend the boundaries of the Empire to
the coasts of the River Plata and the Uruguay, and to occupy the vast
and fertile territory which they include. From that time to this, with
occasional intermissions, the war has been going on. Rosas, dictator of
Buenos Ayres, struggles with the strength of desperation for the
recovery of Uruguay, and he is aided by Oribe, the President of Uruguay,
who resists to the utmost the designs of Brazil, and prefers annexation
to Buenos Ayres. Against them are the Brazilian troops, aided by
Urquiza, formerly a general under Rosas, but subsequently a traitor to
him and his country.

On the 20th of July Urquiza and Garzon crossed the Uruguay with a large
force, which was constantly increased by desertions from the army of
Oribe: they were to be joined by a Brazilian army of 12,000 men, and the
war was to be carried into the heart of Buenos Ayres. On the 26th, Oribe
issued a proclamation against Urquiza, and on the 30th marched with a
large force to meet him. At our latest advices the troops on both sides
were preparing for a grand battle, which must be, to a considerable
extent, decisive of the question at issue. It is very difficult to
acquire accurate and reliable information from the papers which reach
us, as they are without exception partisan prints, and far more
solicitous to magnify the deeds and strength of their respective
parties, than to tell the truth. By the time our next Number is issued
we shall probably receive decisive intelligence.

From Valparaiso our dates are to the 1st of September. Of the loan of
three hundred thousand dollars asked for by the Chilian government, only
seventy thousand had been raised. Two or three shocks of an earthquake
had been felt at Conception, but very little injury was sustained. The
coinage at the National Mint during the first half of this year, up to
July 10th, had amounted to two million dollars and upward, in 127,101
gold doubloons. The Custom House receipts for the year ending 30th June,
1851, exceed those of the previous year $118,389.70. Reciprocity has
been established with Austria, Belgium, Brazil, Bremen, Sardinia,
Denmark, United States, France, Great Britain, Hamburg, Oldenburg,
Prussia, and the Sandwich Islands. It is reported that Peru has entered
into a close alliance with Brazil against Rosas. Reciprocity has been
established in Chilian ports for Swedish and Norwegian vessels. The
rails are laid on the Copiaco Railroad, a distance of 26 miles. On the
20th of July, the first locomotive engine ran through from Caldera to
the Valley, and has since been transporting timber and iron for the
extension of the track.


GREAT BRITAIN.

We have intelligence from England to the 30th of September, but there is
very little worthy a place in our Record. The Queen and Court were still
in Scotland, at Balmoral, and of course the public eye was turned
thither for all news of interest. Parliament was not in session, but
several of the members had met their constituents at county gatherings.
Lord PALMERSTON delivered an elaborate speech at Tiverton, on the 24th,
which gave material for a good deal of comment. It was a general review
of the condition of the kingdom, with a vindicatory sketch of the policy
pursued by the government. He dwelt eloquently on the admirable manner
in which the great Exhibition had been conducted, and the excellent
effect it would have upon the various nations whose representatives it
had brought together. The Catholic question, the corn-laws, and the
slave-trade were treated briefly and cogently. The speech was very able,
and very well received. Sir EDWARD BULWER LYTTON, after holding himself
aloof from politics for several years, has again come forward and avowed
his willingness to represent the County of Hertford in Parliament. He
professes a firm belief in protection principles, and expresses the
belief that the present free-trade system is ruining the country. Mr.
DISRAELI addressed the citizens of Buckinghamshire on the 17th, the
occasion being an agricultural dinner. He represented the effect of
free-trade upon the leading interests of England as having been
exceedingly disastrous, but avowed his conviction that the protective
system could not be restored, and urged the importance of reforms in the
financial administration of the country. He referred frequently to the
history of his own course in Parliament, and indicated a suspicion that
the new reform bill of the Ministry would prove to aim rather at
curtailing the influence of the agricultural class, than to effect any
desirable change. Mr. HUME met an assembly of his constituents on the
13th, at Montrose, and addressed them on the necessity of a more
economical administration of public affairs, if England desired to
compete with the United States. The people ought to insist, he said,
upon such a new reform bill as should give every householder a vote in
the national representation. This would increase the number of voters
from nine hundred thousand to between three and four millions.

The vessels sent out by the English government in search of Sir JOHN
FRANKLIN, have returned, without any further discoveries than those
already recorded. The officers assert their belief that Sir JOHN is
still alive and shut up by ice, at a point beyond any which the
expedition was able to reach. They have applied to the government for a
steam propeller, with which, they are confident, they can reach the
region where he is supposed to be confined. No answer to this
application has yet been made.

The Crystal Palace continued to be crowded with visitors. The
approaching close of the Exhibition had caused an increase in the number
in attendance. The close is fixed for the middle of October, and
notwithstanding the strenuous efforts made for its preservation, the
building will probably be taken down soon after.

Hon. ABBOTT LAWRENCE, the American Minister, has been making a tour
through Ireland. He was received every where with great enthusiasm.
Public receptions awaited him at Galway and Limerick, and at both these
cities he made brief addresses, expressing the interest taken by himself
and his countrymen in the affairs of Ireland. The project of a line of
steamers between Galway and the Atlantic coast was pressed upon his
attention.

Emigration from Ireland continues rapidly to increase, and many towns
have been almost depopulated. Every body who can get away seems inclined
to leave. The census returns show that the population of Ireland has
diminished very considerably within the last ten years. The potato crop
promises to be generally good, though the disease has made its
appearance in several localities. In all other crops the returns will be
above the average.

An experiment has been made in England with a steam plow, which proved
highly successful.

Another attempt has been made, with a good degree of success, to
establish telegraphic communication across the Straits of Dover. A large
cable has been prepared and sunk in the Channel from one shore to the
other, and so far as could be perceived, it promised to answer the
purpose. This will bring London into immediate connection with every
part of the Continent.


FRANCE.

The government is pushing to the extreme its measures of severity
against the press. Upon the merest rumor about two hundred foreigners
were suddenly arrested by the authorities, on charge of conspiracy,
though investigation proved the charge to be utterly groundless, and led
to the immediate discharge of most of them. The _Constitutionnel_
lavished the most extravagant eulogiums upon the government for its
action in this case. One of the sons of Victor Hugo in a newspaper
article ventured to protest against these eulogiums, for which he was
condemned to an imprisonment of nine months, and a fine of 2200 francs;
and M. Meurice, the proprietor of the _Evenement_, the paper in which
the article appeared, to imprisonment for nine months, and a fine of
3000 francs. The _Presse_ was condemned in a similar penalty for a like
offense, and several papers in the country districts have been visited
with the utmost severity for reflecting upon the government. Meantime
the official journals are allowed to indulge in the most direct and
emphatic denunciations of the Republic.

The whole tendency of the government is toward an unbridled despotism.
Arrests are made on the slightest suspicion. Police agents are quartered
in cafés. Houses are entered and papers searched, in a style befitting
the worst despotism in the world rather than a nominal Republic. There
have been various rumors of conspiracies and intended insurrection, but
they seem to have been groundless.

The President laid the foundation stone of the great central market
hall, which the city is erecting at a cost of over five million dollars,
near St. Eustache. The ceremony was witnessed by an immense concourse.
The President in his speech took occasion to express the hope that he
might be able to "lay upon the soil of France some foundations whereupon
will be erected a social edifice, sufficiently solid to afford a shelter
against the violence and mobility of human passions."


EASTERN AND SOUTHERN EUROPE.

An important commercial treaty has been concluded in Germany. Hanover
has joined the Prussian Zollverein, having heretofore been the head of a
separate association, called the Steuerverein, which has been by this
movement dissolved. The custom-duties of the Zollverein have been levied
on a protective scale; by this new arrangement, the rates will be
lowered. The conclusion of this treaty has created a marked sensation in
Vienna, as the journals there were loudly predicting the dissolution of
the Zollverein.

The Emperor of Austria has written to Prince Schwartzenberg, urging the
necessity of increased economy in public affairs. The King of Prussia is
about to abolish the Landwehr, and have none but regular troops in his
service.

The Austrian government has exercised its severity upon the humorist,
Saphir, who edited a small paper in Vienna. He has been sentenced to
three months' imprisonment and the suppression of his journal for a
similar period, for having printed a humorous article on the recent
ordinances, which the court-martial declared to be an attempt to excite
popular ill-feeling toward the government. He is over sixty years old,
and quite infirm from disease. The authorities, as if to make their acts
as ridiculous as possible, lately punished a printer and a hatter, the
former for wearing, and the latter for making a Klapka hat. The whole
system of government is oppressive and tyrannical in the extreme. A
writer from Vienna to the London _Daily News_, says that it hampers,
impedes, nay, crushes, every kind of superior talent not of a military
cast. Lawyers of all kinds are suspected of treason, even those whom the
government itself employs; they are watched; their practice is taken
away from them; they are not permitted to plead before the
courts-martial sitting every where; the universities are all placed
under martial law, that of Vienna is entirely suppressed; the professors
and teachers of all kinds are left to their own resources; literature is
closed to them; no one writes books, for a publisher will not publish
any thing but of the lightest character; newspapers can not employ men
of talent; in fine, nothing but soldiering or police spying seems left
to the majority of the educated classes.

The Austrian government have found it necessary to resort to a loan, of
some ten or twelve millions of dollars, of which, at the latest advices,
over half had been taken, mainly on the Continent.

The Neapolitan government has published an official reply to the charges
against it contained in the letters of Mr. Gladstone. These charges were
of the most serious character, implicating the government in acts of
cruelty, which would have disgraced the barbarous tribes of Africa. Mr.
Gladstone solemnly arraigned the government, before the public opinion
of the civilized world, as being an "incessant, systematic, deliberate
violation of law," with the direct object of destroying whole classes of
citizens, and those the very classes upon which the health, solidity,
and progress of the nation depend. A series of special instances was
given to sustain these charges. The reply consists in a denial of the
charges, and in specific refutation of many of the facts alleged. It is
a carefully prepared paper, and has done something to moderate the very
harsh judgment which Mr. Gladstone's letters induced almost every one to
form.

A letter from Rome, published in the Paris _Debats_ states that another
attempt to murder by means of an explosive contrivance, had occurred
there within the last few days. A tube, filled with gunpowder and bits
of iron, had been placed in a passage leading to the laboratory of a
chemist, at whose shop several persons, well-known for their attachment
to the Pontifical Government, usually meet in the early part of the
evening. Fortunately the match fell out of the tube, after having been
lighted, and the explosion did not take place. The police had not
discovered the culprit.

The same letter mentions a new difficulty that has lately arisen between
the French and Papal authorities at Civita Vecchia. The new French
packets of the Messageries having superseded the old _bateaux-postes_,
it appears that the captain of one of the former, claimed for his ship
the privileges of a vessel of war, a claim which the sanitary
authorities of Civita Vecchia would not admit; whereupon Colonel de la
Mare, commandant of the garrison of Civita Vecchia, had two or three of
the _employés_ of the Board of Health arrested. It was believed,
however, that the question will be amicably settled.

In SPAIN public attention has been almost entirely absorbed in the Cuban
question. The Spanish papers were very violent against the United
States, and clamored loudly for war, though the necessity of European
aid in such a contest is very sensibly felt. It is announced with every
appearance of truth, that England and France have entered into
engagements with Spain for the purpose of preventing future attempts
upon Cuba from the United States. To what extent this guarantee goes we
have no precise information; but it is stated in the Paris journals that
a French steamer has been dispatched to the United States for the
express purpose of making representations to our government upon the
subject. Spain has sent reinforcements to her army in Cuba and is taking
active steps to increase her naval strength for an anticipated collision
with the United States.

The usual party struggles agitate the Spanish Capital. It is said that
the Government contemplate decided reforms in the Tariff regulations of
the country, maintaining the protective duties wherever Spanish
manufactures can be aided thereby, and encouraging competition in all
those branches which have been stationary hitherto.


TURKEY.

Intelligence has been received of the departure of KOSSUTH and his
Hungarian companions from Constantinople, in the steamer Mississippi,
for the United States. They arrived at Smyrna on the 12th of September,
and are daily expected at New York as we close this Record of the month.
It is understood that Austria employed her utmost resources of diplomacy
to prevent the release of KOSSUTH, but they were ineffectual. She will
probably now seek to punish Turkey for disregarding her wishes, by
sending the chiefs of the Bosnian rebellion again into Bosnia, to
rekindle the flame. She concentrates her troops on the frontiers of
Bosnia, Servia, and Wallachia. She attempts to gain the leading men in
Servia, and she encourages and patronizes the former princes of Servia,
who are still pretenders. Thus it is tried to kindle a new revolution in
that country. Russia apparently keeps aloof on the question of the
liberation of Kossuth, ready to profit by the opportunity to present
herself either as protecting the Porte, should the revolution succeed,
or as mediator, should the difficulties with Austria lead to the brink
of a rupture.

Omer Pasha, the Sultan's great general, remains in Bosnia, as long as
the difficulties with Austria are not settled. In consequence of the
Austrian movements he had concentrated 30,000 men in this province. The
Servian Government has given orders for the armament of the militia, at
the same time an explanation has been required from Austria as to the
concentration of her troops on the frontier.

The political condition and prospects of Turkey, notwithstanding the
representations of her papers, are represented as very far from
promising. A correspondent of the London Morning Chronicle depicts her
position in gloomy colors. She is tormented, he says, on every side. On
the one hand, France imperiously demands the Holy Sepulchre; on the
other, Russia as imperiously forbids her giving it up. If she gives in
to France, the whole Christian population will rise to a man against
her. The Pasha of Egypt and the Bey of Tunis both refuse to obey her,
and of all the troops with their fine uniforms and arms which parade at
Constantinople, not one dare go against these audacious subjects. The
provinces of the empire are a prey to brigandage on a scale which makes
even all that is said of Greek brigandage appear as nothing. In the mean
time the treasury is empty, nor can all the expedients resorted to
succeed in filling it. The national feeling, always against the system
of reform, which was quite superficial, has broken out openly, and the
people, supported by the clergy, are ready to rise on all sides. Even in
the capital this state of feeling is very prevalent, and shows itself by
the usual barbarous expedient of incendiary fires. There have been
several very severe ones, even within the last few days. One time three
hundred of the largest houses in Constantinople were reduced to ashes;
next fifteen hundred houses in Scutari fell, including all the markets,
magazines, mills, and probably the whole town would have followed, had
it not been for a violent fall of rain, which quelled the fire.

It is, above all, the position of the Christians, which is deplorable
and precarious. The scenes of Aleppo last year are now acting in
Magnesia, and threaten to break out again at Aleppo, where the
Government wants to force the inhabitants to pay an indemnity to the
Christians, which they insolently refuse. The Government, in trying to
maintain her system of progress, is but showing her weakness. She is
obliged to keep an army of observation constantly on foot in Bosnia,
where the revolt is not by any means entirely quelled, and which is
covered with bands of brigands ready to unite and become an insurgent
army. Bagdad is in a state of siege by the Arabs, who fly as soon as
pursued, but quickly return, devastating the country wherever they
appear.


PERSIA.

Important news has been received from Teheran, announcing a serious
coolness between Russia and Persia, and the possibility of a rupture
between these governments. Several months ago some Turcomans are alleged
to have set fire to Russian vessels in the Caspian, near Astrabad, and
massacred the crews. Orders were consequently sent from St. Petersburg
to the Russian embassador at Teheran to demand the immediate dismissal
of the governor of Mazanderan, or to haul down his flag. The dismissal
has been finally granted, but only after difficulties which have brought
about the coolness above mentioned. The same mail from Persia brings
intelligence that the governor of Herat, Yar-Mehemed Khan, having died,
the Shah immediately sent troops to occupy that city, notwithstanding
the opposition of the English minister.


INDIA AND THE EAST.

News from Calcutta has been received to the 1st of September. We
mentioned last month the probable seizure by the English government, of
part of the provinces of the Nizam as security for a debt. We now learn
that he has rescued his territory from seizure by paying part of the
money due, and giving, security for the remainder. He had pledged part
of the Hyderabad jewels. A conspiracy to effect the escape of Moolraj
had been discovered in Calcutta. It was reported that the Arsenal had
been set on fire and the prisoners liberated in the confusion. Twenty
villages round about Goolburgah had been plundered and burned by the
Rohillas. It was mentioned, in the way of a report, that the troops of
Goolab Singh had been beaten in a conflict with the people some four
days' journey from Cashmere. A great many men and a quantity of baggage
were said to have been lost. The Calcutta railroad progresses,
notwithstanding the rainy season; the terminus had been chosen, and the
necessary ground for its erection, and that of the requisite office has
been purchased at Howrah.

In CHINA the rebellion continued to extend. The Imperial troops had not
been able to make any impression upon the rebels. A good deal of alarm
was felt at Canton in regard to the probable result.

In AUSTRALIA the discoveries of gold absorb attention. The reported
existence of the mines is not only confirmed, but it is proved that even
rumor has under-estimated the extent and value of the gold region. The
government itself, satisfied from the official report, has moved in the
matter, and has put forth a claim to the precious metal, prohibiting any
one from taking gold or metal from any property within the territory of
New South Wales, and threatening with punishment any person finding gold
in the uninhabited parts of the said territory which has not yet been
disposed of, or ceded by the Crown, or who shall search or dig for gold
in and upon such territory. The proclamation adds that "upon receipt of
further information upon this matter, such regulations shall be made as
may be considered just and decisive, and shall be published as soon as
possible, whereby the conditions will be made known on which, by the
payment of a reasonable sum, licenses shall be granted." Although this
proclamation was issued on the publication of the discovery, the
government had taken no steps to carry out the licensing system,
apparently sensible that the means at their command were insufficient to
compel parties to abandon their rich and selected spots. The accounts
received from Sydney to June 5th are full of the gold discoveries. There
were about 16,000 to 20,000 persons employed at the diggings, comprising
all classes, from the polite professions to handicraftsmen, runaway
policemen, and seamen from the shipping. Indeed, desertions from the
latter were so numerous and frequent, that vessels were quitting for
fear of similar desertions and the destruction of shipping as occurred
at California, in consequence of whole crews flitting to the mines. At
Sydney labor had advanced fifty per cent., but up to the above date
accounts of the gold-finding had not reached the sister settlements. The
gold range of the Blue Mountains extended nearly 400 miles in length,
and about forty miles wide.




Editor's Table.


Westward--EVER WESTWARD has been the marching symbol of mankind from the
earliest periods to the present. The striking fact is suggested in the
well known line of Bishop Berkeley--

  WESTWARD the course of empire takes its way.

"The progress of the race," says the German psychologist Rauch, "has
ever been against the rotation of the earth, and toward the setting
sun;" as though it were in obedience to some natural law common to all
planets that revolve upon their axes. We may reject this as fanciful;
and yet there are some reasons why the primitive roaming tendency, or
spirit of discovery, should have taken one direction rather than
another--reasons grounded, not on any direct physiological magnetism,
but upon the effect of certain outward phenomena on the course of human
thought. Especially may we believe in some such influence as existing in
that young and impressible period, when an unchanging direction may be
rationally supposed to have been derived from the first faintest
impressions, either upon the sense or the intelligence. To the early
musing, meditative mind, the setting, rather than the ascending or
meridian sun, would most naturally connect itself with the ideas of the
vast and the undiscovered--the remote, legendary land, where the light
goes down so strangely behind the mountains, or on the other side of the
seemingly boundless plain, or beyond the deserts' solitary waste, or
away on the ocean wave, as it grows dim in the misty horizon, or
presents in its vanishing outline the far-off, shadowy isle. The
darkness, too, that follows, would nourish the same feeling of
mysterious interest, and thus aid in giving rise to that impulse, which,
when once originated, maintains itself afterward by its own onward
self-determining energy.

But whatever we may think, either of the poetry or the philosophy, there
can be no denying the historical fact. _Westward_, _ever westward_, has
been the course of emigration, of civilization, of learning, and of
religion. It was so in the days of the Patriarchs, and the process is
still going on in the middle of the nineteenth century. The first
express mention of such a tendency we find in one of the earliest
notices of Holy Writ. "_And it came to pass, as they journeyed from the
east, they came to the land of Shinar, and they settled there_"--Gen.
xi. 2. The language would imply that the process had been going on for
some time before. The east there mentioned was the country beyond the
great river Euphrates, whence, as those learned in the sacred language
would inform us, came the name _Hebrews_, the _Trans-Euphratean_
colonists, or those who had come over the great bounding stream that
separated the "old countries," or the "cradle of the race," from the
then new and unexplored western world. The next migration of which we
have a particular account is that of Abraham who journeyed from Ur of
the Chaldees to the promised land. Previous to this, however, the most
extensive movements had taken place. Egypt was already settled by the
stream, which, taking a southwest deflection, was destined to fill the
vast continent of Africa. It was after the dispersion at Babel that the
main current of humanity moved rapidly and steadily onward in the
direction of the original impulse. There was indeed a tendency toward
the east, but it never had the same impetus from the start; and its
movement resembled more the flow of a sluggish backwater, than the
natural progress. It sooner came to a stand, such as we find it
represented in the civilization of India, Thibet, and China, dead and
stagnant as it has been for centuries. But the western flood was ever
onward, onward--a stream of living water, carrying with it the best life
of humanity, and the ultimate destinies of the race. A bare glance at
the map of the world will show what were the original courses of
emigration. Asia must have poured into Europe through three principal
channels--through Asia Minor and the isles of Greece, across the
Hellespont by the way of Thrace and the lower part of Central Europe, or
between the Black and Caspian seas, through the regions afterward
occupied by Gog and Magog, and Meshek, or the Scythian, the Gothic, and
the Muscovite hordes. But light and civilization ever went mainly by the
way of the sea. The intercourse from coast to coast, and from isle to
isle, was more favorable to cultivation of manners, and elevation of
thought, than the laborious passages through the dark forests of the
north, or the torrid deserts of the south; and hence the early
superiority of the sons of Javan, and Kittim, and Tarshish, or in short,
of all whose advance was ever along that great high way of civilization,
the Mediterranean Sea. "By these," to use the language of Scripture,
"were the isles of the Gentiles divided in their lands." The most
crowded march, however, must have been that taken up by the sons of
Tiras, and Gomer, and Ashkenaz, by way of Thrace, and the mid regions of
Europe. We have one proof of this in the name given to the famous
crossing-place between Europe and Asia. It was called by an oriental
word denoting the _passage of flocks and herds_, and hence, to the
thousands and tens of thousands who constantly gathered on its banks, it
was the _Bosphorus_ (bo-os, poros), the _Ox-ford_ or ox-ferry--a most
notable spot in the world's early emigration, the name of which the
Greeks afterward translated into their own tongue, and then, according
to their usual custom, invented, or accommodated, for its explanation,
the mythus of the wandering Io.

But still, through all these channels, it was _ever westward_, ever from
the rising and toward the setting sun. It may be a matter of curious
interest to note how the word itself seems to have moved onward with the
march of mankind. The far-off, unknown land, for the time being, was
ever _the West_--departing farther and farther from the terminus which
each succeeding age had placed, and continually receding from the
emigrant, like Hesperia (the _West_ of the Æneid) ever flying before the
wearied Trojans--

   Oras Hesperiæ semper fugientis.

In the very earliest notices of sacred history, Canaan was the _West_.
When Abraham arrived there from Ur of the Chaldees, he found the
pioneers had gone before him. "The Canaanites," it is said, "were
already in the land," although soon to give way to a more heaven-favored
race. Next the coast of the Philistines becomes the _West_. Then the
Great Sea, or the Mediterranean, with its stronghold of Tyre, as it is
called, Joshua xix. 29. Tyre, the ancient Gibraltar, "the entry of the
waters" (Ezek. xxvii. 1), and which was to be "the merchant of the
people for many isles." In this way the language derived its fixed name
for this quarter of the horizon. As the north is called by a word
meaning the _dark or hidden_ place, so the sea ever denotes the west.
Hence the Psalmist's method of expressing the immensity of the Divine
presence; "Should I take the wings of the morning (or the east) and
dwell in the parts beyond the sea," or the uttermost _west_, "even then
shall thy hand lead me, and thy right hand still shall hold me." In the
next period, the _west_ is removed to the land of Chittim (Gen. x. 4),
or the modern isle of Cyprus, of which there is a city yet remaining
with the radicals of the ancient name. Among other places it is
mentioned, Isaiah xxiii. 1. "News from the land of Chittim," or, "From
the land of Chittim is it revealed unto them," says the prophet in his
account of the wide-spread commerce of Tyre. It would almost seem like a
modern bulletin from San Francisco and California. Soon, however, the
ever retiring terminus is to be found in the country of Caphtor
(Jeremiah xlvii. 4), or the island of Crete, first settled by the roving
Cretites, or Cherethites, from a more ancient city of the same name on
the coast of Philistia (Deut. ii. 23), and not in a reverse direction,
as some would suppose. Again it recedes rapidly among the "Isles of the
Sea," so often mentioned in the Scriptures, and which becomes a general
name for the remote--the countries beyond the waters, and, in fact, for
all Europe. Proceeding from what was imperfectly known as Cyprus and the
Ægean Archipelago, the early Orientals would seem to have regarded all
this quarter of the world as one vast collection of islands, in
distinction from the main earth, main land, or Continent of Asia. Hence
the contrast, Ps. xcvii. 1:

  The Lord is King--Let the _earth_ rejoice
  Let the many _isles_ be glad.

Leaving behind us the Jews, and taking Homer for our guide, we next find
the _west_ in Greece as opposed to the Eoïan realm of Troy, or the land
toward the morning dawn. In the interval between the Iliad and the
Odyssey, another transition has taken place. The latter poem is separate
from the former in space as well as in time. The Odyssey is west of the
Iliad. It is the "setting sun" in a sense different from that intended
by the critic Longinus, but no less true and significant. Epirus,
Phaëcia, and the Ionian isles (as they have been called), are now the
_West_. Sicily is just heard of as the _ultima regio_ of the known
world. It is the mythical land of the cannibal Cyclops, and beyond it
dwells the King of the Winds. To the Trojan followers of Æneas, Italy is
_the West_--the land of promise to the exiles fleeing from the wars of
the older eastern world. The imagination pictured it as lying under the
far distant Hesper, or evening star, and hence it was called _Hesperia_:

  Graïo cognomine dicta.

But we must travel more rapidly onward. In the noon of the Roman empire,
Spain and Gaul were the West, the _terra occidentalis_. Soon Britain and
Ireland take the place and name. It was to the same quarters, too, on
the breaking up of this immense Roman mass, that the main element of its
strength moved onward, although the mere shadow of empire remained in
the slow decaying East. And now for centuries the march seemed impeded
by the great ocean barrier, until the same original impulse, gathering
strength by long delay, at length achieved the discovery of what, more
emphatically than all other lands, has been called _The Western World_.
Every one knows how rapid has been the same movement since. Scarcely had
the eastern shores been visited, when hardy adventurers brought news of
a _western_ coast, and of a _Western Ocean_, still beyond. This remoter
sea becomes the mythical terminus in the grants and charters of the
first English settlements, as though in anticipation of the future
greatness of the empire of which they were to form the constituent
parts. Since then how swift has been the same march across the new
discovered continent! Rapid as must be our sketch, it is hardly more so
than the reality it represents. Even within the memory of persons not
yet past the meridian of life, a portion of our own State was called the
_West_. The name was given to the land of the Mohawks and the Six
Nations; but like Hesperia of old, it was always flying in the van of
advancing cultivation. Soon Ohio becomes the _West_, along with Indiana,
Illinois, and Kentucky. Then Michigan is the _West_. In a few years
Wisconsin assumes the appellation; then Iowa; then Minnesota; while, in
another quarter, Missouri and Arkansas successively carry on the steady
march toward the setting sun. It is true, there seemed to be a pause in
sight of the obstacles presented by the barren plains of Texas and New
Mexico, but it was only to burst over them with a more powerful impetus.
And California is now the _West_--the land of gold and golden hope. It
is now, to the present age, what Canaan was to the Hebrews (we mean, of
course, geographically), or as the isles of the sea to the sons of Javan
and Tarshish, or as Italy to the Trojan exiles. But is the movement
there to find its termination? The next step mingles it with the remains
of the old Eastern civilization. China and India must yet feel its
revivifying power, and then the rotation will have been complete. Ophir
has been already reached, and soon the long journeying of restless
humanity will come round again to the plain of Shinar, or the region in
which commenced the original dispersion of the race.

Some most serious reflections crowd upon the mind in connection with
such a thought. What, during all this period, has been the real progress
of humanity? In certain aspects of the question the answer is most
prompt and easy. In the supply of physical wants, and in facilities for
physical communication, the advance gained has been immense. But are
men--the mass of men--really wiser in respect to their truest good? Or
are they yet infatuated with that old folly of building a tower, whose
top should reach unto heaven? In other words, are they still seeking to
get above the earth by earthly means, and fancying that through science,
or philosophy, or "liberal institutions," or any other magic name, they
may obtain a self-elevating power, which shall lift them above
_physical_ and moral evil. Will the long and toilsome march be followed
by that true _gnothi seauton_, that real self-knowledge, which is
cheaply obtained even at such a price, or will it be only succeeded by
another varied exhibition of the selfish principle, the more malignant
in proportion as it is more refined, another Babel of opinions, another
confusion of speech, another proof of the feebleness and everlasting
unrest of humanity while vainly seeking to be independent of Heaven?

       *       *       *       *       *

Marriage has ever been closely allied to religion. It has had its altar,
its offering, its rites, its invocation, its shrine, its mysteries, its
mystical significance. "It is _honorable_," says the Apostle.
"_Precious_," some commentators tell us, the epithet should be
rendered--of _great value_, of _highest price_. In either sense, it
would well denote what may be called, by way of eminence, the
conservative institution of human society, the channel for the
transmission of its purest life, and for this very reason, the object
ever of the first and fiercest attacks of every scheme of disorganizing
radical philosophy. In harmony with this idea there was a deep
significance in some of the Greek marriage ceremonies; and among these
none possessed a profounder import than the custom of carrying a torch,
or torches, in the bridal procession. Especially was this the mother's
delightful office. It was hers, in a peculiar manner, to bear aloft the
blazing symbol before the daughter, or the daughter-in-law, and there
was no act of her life to which the heart of a Grecian mother looked
forward with a more lively interest. It was, on the other hand, a ground
of the most passionate grief, when an early death, or some still sadder
calamity, cut off the fond anticipation. Thus Medea--

  I go an exile to a foreign land,
  Ere blest in you, or having seen you blessed.
  That rapturous office never shall be mine,
  To adorn the bride, and with a mother's hand,
  Lift high the nuptial torch.

Like many other classical expressions, it has passed into common use,
and become a mere conventional phraseology. This is the case with much
of our poetical and rhetorical dialect. Metaphors, which, in their early
usage, presented the most vivid conceptions, and were connected with the
profoundest significance, have passed away into dead formulas. They keep
the flow of the rhythm, they produce a graceful effect in rounding a
period, they have about them a faint odor of classicality, but the life
has long since departed. As far as any impressive meaning is concerned,
a blank space would have answered almost as well. The "altar of Hymen,"
the "nuptial torch," suggest either nothing at all, or a cold civil
engagement, with no higher sanctions than a justice's register, or the
business-like dispatch of what, in many cases, is a most unpoetical, as
well as a most secular transaction.

The nuptial torch was significant of marriage, as the divinely appointed
means through which the lamp of life is sent down from generation to
generation. It was the symbol of the true vitality of the race, as
preserved in the single streams of the "isolated household," instead of
being utterly lost in the universal conflagration of unregulated
passion. It was the kindling of a new fire from the ever-burning hearth
of Vesta. It was the institution of a new domestic altar. The torch was
carried by the mother in procession before the daughter, or the
daughter-in-law, and then given to the latter to perform the same
office, with the same charge, to children, and children's children, down
through all succeeding generations. Such a custom, and such a symbol,
never could have originated where polygamy prevailed, nor have been ever
preserved in sympathy with such a perversion of the primitive idea.
Neither could it maintain itself where marriage is mainly regarded as a
civil contract, having no other sanction for its commencement, and, of
course, no other for its dissolution, than the consent of the parties.
Have we not reason to suppose that some such conception is already
gaining ground among us. It would seem to come from that wretched
individualism, the source of so many social errors, which would regard
marriage as a transaction for the convenience of the parties, and
subject to their spontaneity, rather than in reference to society or the
race. The feeling which lends its aid to such a sophism, is promoted by
the prevailing philosophy in respect to what are called "woman's
rights." We allude not now to its more extravagant forms, but to that
less offensive, and more plausible influence, which, in the name of
humanity and of protection to the defenseless, is in danger of sapping
the foundation of a most vital institution. We can not be too zealous in
guarding the person or property of the wife against the intemperate or
improvident husband; but it should be done, and it can be done, without
marring that sacred oneness which is the vitality of the domestic
commonwealth. In applying the sharp knife of reform in this direction,
it should be seen to, that we do not cut into the very life of the
_idea_--to use a favorite phrase of the modern reformer. No evil against
which legislation attempts to guard, can be compared with the damage
which might come from such a wound. No hurt might be more incurable than
one that would result from families of children growing up every where
with the familiar thought of divided legal interests in the joint source
whence they derived their birth. There must be something holy in that
which the apostle selected as the most fitting comparison of the
relation between Christ and his Church; and there have been far worse
superstitions (if it be a superstition) than the belief which would
regard marriage as a sacrament. Be this, however, as it may, it is the
other error of which we have now the most reason to be afraid. There is
a process going forward on the pages of the statute book, in judicial
proceedings respecting divorce, and in the general tendency of certain
opinions, which is insensibly undermining an idea, the most soundly
conservative in the best sense of the term, the most sacred in its
religious associations, as well as the most important in its bearings
upon the highest earthly good of the human race.

The opposing philosophy sometimes comes in the most plausible and
insidious shape. It, too, has its religionism. It talks loftily of the
"holy marriage of hearts," and of the sacredness of the _affection_; but
in all this would only depreciate the sacredness of the outward
relation. It affects to be conservative, moreover. It would preserve and
exalt the essence in distinction from the form. It has much to say of
"legalized adulteries." The affection, it affirms, is holier than any
outward bond. But let it be remembered that the first is human and
changeable, the second is divine and permanent. It is the high
consideration, too, of the one that, more than any earthly means, would
tend to preserve the purity of the other. The relation is the regulator
of the affection, the mould through which it endures, the constraining
form in which alone it acquires the unity, and steadiness, and
consistency of the idea, in distinction from the capricious spontaneity
of the individual passion. Let no proud claim, then, of inward freedom,
assuming to be holier than the outward bond, pretend to sever what God
has joined together. At no time, perhaps, in the history of the world,
and of the church, has there been more need of caution against such a
sophism than in this age so boastful of its lawless subjectivity, or in
other words, its higher rule of action, transcending the outward and
positive ordinance.

       *       *       *       *       *

Charity is love--Liberality is often only another name for indifference.
The bare presentation of the terms in their true relation, is enough to
show the immense opposition between them. _Charity_ is _tenderness_. "It
suffereth long and is kind." But the same authority tells us, likewise,
that "it rejoiceth in the truth." Except as connected with a fervent
interest in principles we hold most dear, the word loses all
significance, and the idea all vitality. Even when it assumes the phase
of intolerance, it is a nobler and more precious thing than the
liberality which often usurps its name. In this aspect, however, it is
ever the sign of an unsettled and a doubting faith. He who is well
established in his own religious convictions can best afford to be
charitable. He has no fear and no hatred of the heretic lest he should
take from him his own insecure foundation. His feet upon a rock, he can
have no other than feelings of tenderness for the perishing ones whom he
regards as struggling in the wild waters below him. How can he be
uncharitable, or unkind, to those of his companions in the perilous
voyage, who, in their blindness, or their weakness, or it may be in the
perverse madness of their depravity, can not, or will not lay hold of
the plank which he offers for their escape because it is the one on
which he fondly hopes he himself has rode out the storm. They may call
his warm zeal bigotry and uncharitableness; but then, what name shall be
given to that greater madness, that fiercer intolerance, which would not
only reject the offered aid, but exercise vindictive feelings toward the
hand that would draw them out of the overwhelming billows?

One of the richest illustrations of the view here presented is to be
found in the writings of that _durus pater_, Saint Augustine. We find
nothing upon our editorial table more precious--nothing that we would
send forth on the wings of our widely circulated Magazine, with a more
fervent desire that it might, not only meet the eye, but penetrate the
heart of every reader "How can I be angry with you," says this noble
father, in his controversy with the Manichæans, "how can I be angry with
you when I remember my own experience? Let him be angry with you who
knows not with what difficulty error is shunned and truth is gained. Let
him be angry with you, who knows not with what pain the spiritual light
finds admission into the dark and diseased eye. Let him be angry with
you, who knows not with what tears and groans the true knowledge of God
and divine things is received into the bewildered human soul."




Editor's Easy Chair.


Since we last chatted with our readers, a month ago, old Autumn has
fairly taken the year upon his shoulders, and is bearing him in his
parti-colored jacket, toward the ice-pits of Winter. The soft advance of
Indian Summer, with its harvest moons round and red, and its sunsets
deep-dyed with blood and gold, is stealing smokily across the horizon,
and witching us to a last smile of warmth, and to a farewell summer
joyousness.

The town has changed, too, like the season: and the streets are all of
them in the hey-day of the Autumn flush. The country merchants are gone
home, and the Southern loiterers are creeping lazily southward--preaching
the best of Union discourses--with their geniality and their frankness.
The old Broadway hours of promenade are coming again; and you can see
blithe new-married couples, and wishful lovers, at morning and evening,
lighting up the _trottoir_ with their sunshine. The wishful single ones
too, are wearing new fronts of hope, as the town-men settle again into
their winter beat, and feel, in their bachelor chambers, the lack of
that stir of sociality, which enlivens the summer of the springs.

Old married people too--not so joyous as once--forget all the disputes
of the old winter, in the pleasant approaches of a new one; and try hard
to counterfeit a content which they esteem and desire.

But with all its gayety, theatre-running, concert-going, and shopping,
the town wears underneath a look of sad sourness. Merchants that were as
chatty as the most loquacious magpies only a five-month gone, are
suddenly grown as gruff and dumb as the Norwegian bears. The tightness
of Wall-street has an uncommon "effect upon facial muscles;" and men
that would have been set down by the "Medical Examiners" as good for a
ten years' lease of life, are now wearing a visage that augurs any thing
but healthy action of the liver.

Even our old friends that we parted from in May, as round and dimpled as
country wenches, have met us the week past with a rueful look, and have
said us as short a welcome as if we were their creditors. We pity sadly
the poor fellow, who, with a firm reliance on the steady friendship of
his old companion, goes to him in these times for a loan of a "few
thousands." Friendship has a hard chance for a livelihood nowadays in
Wall-street; and the man that would give us an easy shake of the hand
when we met him on 'Change in the spring, will avoid us now as if he
feared contagion from our very look.

The fat old gentlemen who used to loll into our office in May-time, to
read the journals, and crack stale jokes, and quietly puff out one or
two of our choice Regalias, have utterly vanished. We find no
invitations to dine upon our table--no supper cards for a "sit-down" to
fried oysters and Burgundy "punctually at nine."

Wall-street is the bugbear that frights New York men out of all their
valor; and, as is natural enough, Wall-street, and specie, and heavy
imports; and a new tariff, and the coming crop of cotton are just now at
the top of the talk of the town.

Let our good readers then, allow for this incubus, in tracing the
jottings down, this month, of our usually gossiping pen. Let them
remember in all charity that two per cent. a month, for paper good as
the bank, makes a very poor stimulant for such pastime as literary
gossip. When our men of business replace their Burgundy and Lafitte of
1841, with merely merchantable Medoc, readers surely will be content
with a plain boiled dish, trimmed off with a few carrots, in place of
the rich _ragouts_, with which, at some future time, we shall surely
tickle their appetite.

       *       *       *       *       *

The Northern Expedition under the lead of Lieutenant De Haven, has given
no little current to the chit-chat of the autumn hours; and people have
naturally been curious to see some of the brave fellows who wintered it
among the crevices of the Polar ice, and who braved a night of some
three months' darkness. It is just one of those experiences which must
be passed through to be realized; nor can we form any very adequate
conceptions (and Heaven forbid that experience should ever improve our
conceptions!) of a night which lasts over weeks of sleeping, and waking,
and watching--of a night which knows neither warmth, nor daybreak--a
night which counts by cheerless months, and has no sounds to relieve its
darkness, but the fearful crashing of ice bergs, and the low growl of
stalking bears.

What a waste of resolution and of energy has been suffered in those
northern seas! And yet it is no waste; energy is never wasted when its
action is in the sight of the world. It tells on new development, and
quickens impulse for action, wherever the story of it goes.

It is, to be sure, sad enough that the poor Lady Franklin must go on
mourning; but she has the satisfaction of knowing that sympathy with her
woes has enlisted thousands of brave beating hearts, and has led them
fearlessly into the very bosom of those icy perils, which now, and we
fear must forever, shroud the fate of her noble husband. Nor is that
grief and devotion of the Lady Franklin without its teaching of
beneficence. Its story adds to the dignity of humanity, and quickens the
ardor of a thousand hearts, who watch it as a beacon of that earnest
and undying affection, which belongs to a true heart-life, but which
rarely shows such brilliant tokens of its strength.

       *       *       *       *       *

Perhaps it is fortunate that at a time when commerce is shaking with an
ague, that makes pallid cheeks about town, there should be such a flush
as now in the histrionic life of the city. Scarce a theatre or
concert-room but has its stars; and if music and comedy have any great
work of goodness to do in this world, it may surely be in relieving
despondency and lightening the burdens of misfortune.

Miss Catharine Hays is a very good chit-chat topic for any
breakfast-room of the town; and although she has not excited that excess
of furor which was kindled by the Swedish singer, she has still gained a
reputation whose merits are spoken with enthusiasm, and will be
remembered with affection. Poor, suffering Ireland can not send to such
a sympathetic nation as this, a pretty, graceful, pure-minded
songstress--whatever might be her qualities--without enlisting a fervor
that would shower her path with gold, and testify its strength with
flowers and huzzas.

Madame THILLON is pointing much of the after-dinner talk with story of
her beauty; and connoiseurs in cheeks and color are having amiable
quarrels about her age and eyes. Mrs. WARNER is drawing somewhat of the
worn-out Shakspearean taste to a new rendering of Elizabethan comedy. In
short the town is bent on driving away the stupor of dull trade with the
cheer of art and song.

       *       *       *       *       *

Speaking of art, reminds us of the new picture which is just now gracing
the halls of the Academy of Design. It is precisely one of those
Art-wonders which, with its great stock of portraits to be discussed,
makes the easiest imaginable hinge of talk. It is Healy's great picture
of Daniel Webster in his place in the Senate Chamber, replying to
General Hayne of South Carolina. The work has been a long time under Mr.
Healy's thought and hand, and is perfected, if not with elaborateness,
at least with an artistic finish and arrangement that will make the
picture one of the great Western pictures. We could wish
indeed--although we hazard the opinion with our _easy_ diffidence--that
Mr. Healy had thrown a little more of the Demosthenic _action_ into the
figure, and bearing of the orator; yet, with all its quietude, it shows
the port of a strong man. Indeed, in contrast with the boy-like
presentment of General Hayne, it almost appears that the fire of the
speaker is wasting on trifles; yet, if we may believe contemporaneous
history, Hayne was by no means a weak man, and if the fates had not
thrust him upon such Titan conflict too early, there might well have
been renowned deeds to record of the polished Southron. The initiate
lookers-on will see good distance-views of Mrs. Webster, of Mrs. George
P. Marsh, and of sundry other ladies, who were by no means so matronly
at the date of the "Union" Speech as Mr. Healy's complimentary
anachronism would imply.

       *       *       *       *       *

The Art Union is coming in for its share of the autumn love of warm
tints and glowing colors; and if we might trust a hasty look-in on our
way to office duties, we should say there was a scalding brightness
about some of the coloring which needs an autumn haze to subdue it to a
healthy tone. For all this there are gems scattered up and down, which
will woo the eye to a repeated study, and, if we may judge from the
flocking crowds, educate the public taste to an increasing love of
whatever is lovable in Art.

Leutze's great picture of Washington, will, before this shall have
reached the eye of our readers, have won new honors to the name of the
painter of the Puritan iconoclasts; and we count it a most healthful
augury for American art, that the great painting should have created in
advance such glowing expectations.

       *       *       *       *       *

We wish to touch with our pen nib--as the observant reader has before
this seen--whatever is hanging upon the lip of the town; and with this
wish lighting us, we can not of a surety pass by that new burst of
exultation, which is just now fanning our clipper vessels, of all rig
and build, into an ocean triumph.

Nine hundred and ninety odd miles of ocean way within three days' time,
is not a speed to be passed over with mere newspaper mention; and it
promises--if our steam-men do not look to their oars--a return to the
old and wholesome service of wind and sail. We are chronicling here no
imaginary run of a "Flying Dutchman," but the actual performance of the
A Number One, clipper-built, and copper-fastened ship, FLYING
CLOUD--Cressy, commander! And if the clipper-men can give us a line,
Atlantic-wise, which will bowl us over the ocean toward the Lizard, at a
fourteen-knot pace, and not too much spray to the quarter deck--they
will give even the Collins' monsters a scramble for a triumph. There is
a quiet exultation after all, in bounding over the heaving blue
wave-backs, with no impelling power, but the swift breath of the god of
winds, which steam-driven decks can never give. It is taking nature in
the fulness of her bounty, and not cramping her gifts into boiling
water-pots; it is a trust to the god of storms, that makes the breezes
our helpers, and every gale to touch the cheek with the wanton and the
welcome of an aiding brother!

       *       *       *       *       *

Leaving now the matters of gossip around us, we propose to luxuriate in
that atmosphere of gossip, which pervades the Paris world, and which
comes wafted to us on the gauze _feuilletons_ of such as Jules Janin,
and of Eugene Guinot. They tell us that the city world of France has
withdrawn lazily and longingly from the baths of Aix-la-Chapelle and the
beaches of Dieppe and Boulogne; and that the freshened beauties of the
metropolis, are taking their first autumn-ing upon the shaded asphalte
of the Champs Elysées. A little fraction of the _beau monde_ has just
now taken its usual turn to the sporting ground of Dauphiny and
Bretagne; but it is only for carrying out in retired quarters the series
of flirtations, which the watering places have set on foot. The French
have none of that relish for covers and moor shooting, which enters so
largely into the English habit; and a French lady in a land-locked
chateau--without a lover in the case--would be the sorriest Nekayah
imaginable.

But, says Guinot, the country recluses are just now acquiring a taste
for the races and for horsemanship; and he signalizes, in his way, a
fairly-run match of ladies, well-known in the salons of Paris, which
came off not long since in the grounds of some old country chateau.
Among the other whim-whams, which this veteran wonder-teller sets down,
is the story of an old Hollander, who every year makes his appearance at
the springs of Ems, and devotes himself to _rouge et noir_ with the
greatest assiduity, until he has won from the bank the sum of
twenty-five thousand francs, when he gathers up his gold and disappears
for another season. No run of good luck will induce him to increase his
earnings, and no bad fortune in the early part of his visit will break
down his purpose, until he has won his usual quota. The managers have
even proposed to buy him off for half his usual earnings in advance, but
he accepts of no compromise; and stolidly taking his seat at the table,
with a bag of _rouleaux_ at his side, he stakes his money, and records
upon a card the run of the colors--nor quits his place, until his bag is
exhausted, or the rooms closed for the night.

As is usual with these tit-bits of French talk, no name is given to the
Hollander, and he may live, for aught we know, only in the pestilent
brain of the easy paragraphist.

       *       *       *       *       *

Again, we render grace to French fertility of invention for this _petit
histoire_, to which we ourselves venture to add a point or two, for the
humor of this-side appetite.

Borrel, a great man in the kitchen, kept the famous Rocher de Cancale.
Who has not heard of the Rocher de Cancale? Who has not dreamed of it
when--six hours after a slim breakfast of rolls and coffee--he has
tugged at his weary brain--as we do now--for the handle of a dainty
period?

Borrel had a wife, prettier than she was wise--(which can be said of
many wives--not Borrel's). Borrel was undersold by neighbor
restaurateurs, and found all the world flocking to the Palais Royal
caterers. Borrel's wife spent more than Borrel earned (which again is
true of other wives). So that, finally, the Rocher de Cancale was ended:
Borrel retired to private life with a bare subsistence; and, Borrel's
wife, playing him false in his disgrace, ran away with a vagrant
Russian.

Borrel languished in retirement: but his friends found him; and having
fairly put him on his feet, thronged for a season his new Salon of
Frascati. But directly came the upturn of February, and poor Borrel was
again broken in business, and thrice broken in spirit. He took a
miserable house without the Boulevard, in the quarter of the
Batignolles, and only crept back to the neighborhood of his old princely
quarters, like the vagrant starveling that he was, at dusk. Years hung
heavily on him, and his domestic sorrows only aggravated his losses and
his weakness.

But, in process of time, a Russian came to Paris, who had known the city
in the days of the Rocher de Cancale. He came with his appetite
sharpened for the luxurious dinners of the Rue Montorgueil. But, alas,
for him--the famous Restaurant had disappeared, and in its place, was
only a paltry show-window of _caleçons_ and of _chemisettes_.

He inquired anxiously after the famous Borrel: some shook their heads,
and had never heard the name: others, who had known the man, believed
him dead. In despair he visited all the Restaurants of Paris, but, for a
long time, in vain. At length, an old white-haired garçon of the Café de
Paris, to whom he told his wishes, informed him of the miserable fate of
the old Prince of suppers.

The Russian traced him to his humble quarters, supplied him with money
and clothes--engaged him as his cook, took him away from his ungrateful
city, and installed him, finally, as first Restaurateur of St.
Petersburg.

His patron was passably old, but still a wealthy and prosperous merchant
of the northern empire; and his influence won a reputation and a fortune
for the reviving head of the house of Borrel. The strangest part
(omitted by Lecomte), is yet to come.

Borrel had often visited his patron, but knew nothing of his history, or
family: nor was it until after a year or two of the new life, that the
poor Restaurateur discovered in the deft-handed housekeeper of his
patron, his former wife of the Rue Montorgueil!

The discovery seemed a sad one for all concerned. Borrel could not but
make a show for his wounded honor. His patron had no wish to lose an old
servant; and the lady herself, now that the hey-day of her youth was
gone, had learned a wholesome dread of notoriety. Wisely enough, each
determined to sacrifice a little: Borrel was re-married to his wife; his
patron found a new mistress of his household; and madame promised to
live discreetly, and guard carefully the profits of the Russian Rocher
de Cancale.

If this is not a good French story, we should like to know what it is?

       *       *       *       *       *

Again we shift our vision to a _belle maison_ (pretty house) in a back
quarter of London--newly furnished--a little cockneyish in taste, and
with all the new books of the day, piled helter-skelter upon the
library-table. The owner is a tall, laughing-faced, good natured, not
over-bred man, who has traveled to Constantinople and Egypt--to say
nothing of an adventurous trip to the top of Mont Blanc.

His history is written by the letter-writers in this way: Poor, and
clever, he wrote verses, and essays, and sold them for what he could
get; and some say filled and extracted teeth, to "make the ends meet."
It is certain that he once walked the Hospitals of Paris, and that he
knows the habits of the grisettes of the Quarter by the Pantheon.

A certain Lord happening upon him, and fancying his laughter-loving
look, and waggish eye, cultivated his acquaintance, and proposed to him
a trip to the East as his friend, courier, and what-not. Our hero
assented--went with him as far as Trieste--quarreled with My
Lord--parted from him--pushed his way by "hook and by crook" as far as
Cheops--and returned to London with not a penny in his pocket.

Writing brought dull pay (as it always does), and the traveler thought
of _talking_ instead. He advertised to tell his story in a lecture-room,
with songs, and mimicry thrown in to enliven it. The people went slowly
at first: finally, they talked of the talking traveler, and all the
world went; and the adventurer found his purse filling, and his fortune
made.

He bought the _belle maison_ we spoke of; and this summer past set off
for Mont Blanc, and ascended it--not for the fun of the thing, but for
the fun of telling it.

We suppose our readers will have recognized the man we have in our eye:
to wit--ALBERT SMITH.

And that--says Lecomte--is the way they do things in England!




Editor's Drawer.


It was THOMAS HOOD, if we remember rightly ("poor Tom's a-cold" now)!
whose "Bridge of Sighs," and "Song of the Shirt," both of them the very
perfection of pathos, will be remembered when his lighter productions
are forgotten, or have ceased to charm--it was TOM HOOD, we repeat, who
described, in a characteristic poetical sketch, the miseries of an
Englishman in the French capital, who was ignorant of the language of
that self-styled "metropolis of the world." He drew a very amusing
picture of the _desagrémens_ such as one would be sure to encounter; and
among others, the following

    "Never go to France,
      Unless you know the lingo,
    If you _do_, like me,
      You'll repent, by Jingo!

    "Signs I had to make,
      For every little notion;
    Arms all the while a-going,
      Like a telegraph in motion.

    "If I wanted a horse,
      How d'you think I got it?
    I got astride my cane,
      And made-believe to trot it!"

There was something very ridiculous, he went on to say, we remember,
about the half-English meaning of some of the words, and the utter
contradiction of the ordinary meaning in others. "They call," said he,

  "They call their mothers _mares_,
  And all their daughters _fillies_!"

and he cited several other words not less ludicrous. The celebrated Mrs.
RAMSBOTTOM, and her accomplished daughter LAVINIA, the cockney
continental travelers, those clever burlesques of "JOHN BULL," were the
first, some thirty years ago, to take notice of this discrepancy, and to
illustrate it in their correspondence. The old lady, writing from Paris
to friends in her peculiar circle in London, tells them that she has
been to see all the curious things about the French capital; and she
especially extols the bridges, with their architectural and other
adornments. "I went yesterday afternoon," she wrote, "to see the statute
of Lewis Quinzy, standing close to the end of one of the _ponts_, as
they call their bridges here. I was told by a man there, that Lewis
Quinzy was buried there. Quinzy wasn't his real name, but he died of a
quinzy sore-throat, and just as they do things here, they called him
after the complaint he died of! The statute is a more superior one than
the one of Henry Carter (Henri Quatre), which I also see, with my
daughter Lavinia. I wonder if he was a relation of the Carters of
Portsmouth, because if he is, his posteriors have greatly degenerated in
size and figure. He is a noble-looking man, in stone." The same old
ignoramus wrote letters from Italy, which were equally satirical upon
the class of would-be "traveled" persons, to which she was assumed to
belong.

Speaking of Rome, and certain of its wonderful and ancient structures,
she says: "I have been all through the _Vacuum_, where the Pope keeps
his bulls. Every once in a while they say he lets one out, and they
occasion the greatest excitement, being more obstinater, if any thing,
than an Irish one. I have been, too, to see the great church that was
built by Saint PETER, and is called after him. Folks was a-looking and
talking about a _knave_ that had got into it, but I didn't see no
suspicionary person. I heard a _tedium_ sung while I was there, but it
wasn't any great things, to _my_ taste. I'd rather hear Lavinia play the
'Battle of Prag.' It was very long and tiresome." Not a little unlike
"Mrs. RAMSBOTTOM," is a foreign correspondent of the late Major NOAH'S
paper, the "Times and Messenger," who writes under the _nom de plume_ of
"A Disbanded Volunteer," from Paris. He complains that the French
language is very "onhandy to articklate;" that the words wont "fit his
mouth at all" and that he has to "bite off the ends of 'em," and even
then they are cripples. "The grammer," he says, "is orful, specially the
genders, and oncommon inconsistent. A pie is a _he_, and yet they call
it PATTY, and a loaf is a _he_, too, but if you cut a slice off it,
_that's_ a _she_! The pen I'm a-driving is a _she_, but the paper I'm
a-writing on is a _he_! A thief," he goes on to say, "is masculine, but
the halter that hangs him is feminine;" but he rather likes that, he
adds, there being something consoling in being drawn up by a female
noose! _F-e-m-m-e_, he contends, "_ought_ to spell _femmy_--but I'm
blowed if they don't pronounce it _fam_!"

Like the English cockney travelers, he was pleased with the public
monuments, particularly one in the "Plaster La Concord," built by LOUIS
QUARTZ, so called, in consequence of the kind of stone used in its
erection. The "Basalisk of Looksir," and the "Jargon da Plant," also
greatly excited his admiration. No one who has ever studied French, but
will be reminded by the "Disbanded Volunteer's" experience of the
difficulty encountered in mastering the classification of French
genders.

       *       *       *       *       *

We find, on a scrap in our "Drawer," this passage from a learned lecture
by a German adventurer in London, one "Baron VONDULLBRAINZ." He is
illustrating the great glory of _Mechanics_, as a science: "De t'ing dat
is _made_ is more superior dan de _maker_. I shall show you how in some
t'ings. Suppose I make de round wheel of de coach? Ver' well; dat wheel
roll five hundred mile!--and I can not roll one, myself! Suppose I am de
cooper, what you call, and I make de big tub to hold de wine? He hold
t'ons and gallons; and _I can not hold more as fives bottel_!! So you
see dat de t'ing dat is made is more superior dan de maker!"

       *       *       *       *       *

The following domestic medicines and recipes may be relied upon. They
are handed down from a very ancient period; and, "no cure, no pay:"

"A stick of brimstone wore in the pocket is good for them as has cramps.

"A loadstone put on the place where the pain is, is beautiful in the
rheumatiz.

"A basin of water-gruel, with half a quart of old rum in it, or a quart,
if partic'lar bad, with lots o' brown sugar, going to bed, is good for a
cold in the 'ead.

"If you've got the hiccups, pinch one o' your wrists, and hold your
breath while you count sixty, or--_get somebody to scare you, and make
you jump_!

"_The Ear-Ache_: Put an inyun in your ear, after it is well roasted!"

       *       *       *       *       *

How old Dr. Johnson did hate Scotland! His severity of sarcasm upon that
country is unexampled by his comments upon any thing else, however
annoying. On his return from the Hebrides, he was asked by a Scottish
gentleman, at an evening party in London, how he liked Scotland.
"Scotland, sir?" replied Johnson, with a lowering brow, and savage
expression generally, "Scotland? Scotland, sir, is a miserable
country--a _contemptible_ country, sir!" "You can not do the ALMIGHTY
the great wrong to say _that_, Dr. Johnson," answered the other, deeply
nettled at so harsh a judgment: "GOD made Scotland, sir." "Yes, sir,"
was the cutting rejoinder: "GOD _did_ make Scotland, but He _made it for
Scotchmen_! GOD made _hell_ also, sir!" On another occasion, when asked
how he liked certain views of scenery in that country, he replied: "The
finest and most satisfactory view in Scotland, sir, is the view looking
_from_ it, on the high-road to London!" The same spirit was manifested
in his reply to a friend, who was consoling him for the loss of a
favorite cane with which he had traveled in the north of Scotland. "You
can easily replace it, Dr. JOHNSON," said his friend. "_Replace_ it,
sir! Consider, where I'm to find the _timber_ for such a purpose in this
barren country!" It strikes us that a lack of trees or shrubbery could
not be more forcibly exemplified than by this sarcastic reply.

       *       *       *       *       *

Somebody, in one of the newspapers, has been telling a story of a
schoolmistress, who had a hopeful boy-pupil, whose intelligence was
scarcely "fair to middling," if one may judge from one of his
"exercises" in spelling. "I got him," said the schoolmarm, "clean
through the alphabet, and he would point out any letter, and call it by
its right name. One bright Monday morning I put him, when he was
sufficiently advanced, into words of two syllables; but I was obliged to
tell him some fifty times what was the _nature_ of a syllable; and after
all, his brain was opaque as a rock. In order to interest him, however,
I said to him:

"Do you love pies?"

"Yes, marm, I guess I _do_!"

"Well, then, 'apple' and 'pie,' when put together, spell 'apple-pie,'
don't they?"

"Yes, marm."

"By the same rule, 'la' and 'dy,' spell 'lady?' You understand _that_,
don't you?"

"Very well. Now, what do 'mince' and 'pie' spell?"

"_I_ know!--_Mince_-Pie!"

"That's right: well, now what do 'pumpkin' and 'pie' spell? Speak up."

"I know _that_: that's _pumpkin_-pie!"

"That's correct. Now, what does 'la' and 'dy' spell?"

"CUSTARD-PIE!" exclaimed the urchin, with great exultation at his
success.

Now, this is very good, and very possibly it may have occurred,
precisely as narrated; but we have a suspicion--perhaps not a "_shrewd_
suspicion"--that the whole thing was borrowed from the following
dialogue, which is indubitably an actual occurrence:

"James," said a schoolmaster to a dull pupil, after the morning chapter
had been read in the school, "James, we have read this morning that Noah
had three sons, Shem, Ham, and Japheth; now, James, will you tell us who
was the _father_ of Shem, Ham, and Japheth?"

"_Sir?_" said James, inquiringly.

"Why, James," answered his colloquist, "you have seen that Noah had
three sons, and that their names were Shem, Ham, and Japheth. These were
Noah's _sons_, James. Now, who was the FATHER of Shem, Ham, and
Japheth?"

"SIR?" said James, dubiously pondering the full extent of the query.

"Why, James," said the preceptor, "don't you _know_ who the father of
Shem, Ham, and Japheth was, after I've told you so much?"

"No, sir--I d' know!"

"You are very dull, James--_very_! You know Mr. Smith, don't you, that
lives next to your house?"

"Sartain!--Bill and Jo Smith and I play together. Bill took my
cross-gun, and owes me--"

"Very well: Mr. Smith has three boys, William, Joseph, and Henry. Who is
the father of William, Joseph, and Henry Smith?"

"Mr. Smith!" exclaimed James, instantly; "Mr. _Smith_: guess I know
_that_!"

"Certainly, James. Very _well_, then. Now, this is exactly the same
thing. You see, as we have been reading, that _Noah_ had three sons,
like Mr. Smith; but _their_ names were Shem, Ham, and Japheth. Now, who
was the father of _Noah's_ three sons?"

James hesitated a minute, with his finger in his mouth; and then, as if
the difficult question had been suddenly solved in his mind, he
exclaimed:

"_I_ know now: MR. SMITH!"

       *       *       *       *       *

Perhaps some of our readers have heard of that rare compound of all that
was quaint, curious, and ridiculous, Lord Timothy Dexter, of
Newburyport, Massachusetts. He was an ignorant, eccentric old fellow,
who, having made himself a rich man, conceived the original idea of
setting up for a lord. Accordingly he proclaimed himself "_Lord Timothy
Dexter_," bought a magnificent mansion, and set up an equipage in
splendid style. Every thing that he did and every thing he had about him
was original. He sent a ship-load of warming-pans to the East Indies; he
filled his gardens with sprawling wooden statues; his dress was a
mixture of the Roman senator and a Yankee militia-captain; the ornaments
of his mansion were of the most unique stamp; and his literary
compositions were more original than all the rest put together. He wrote
in the most heroic disregard and defiance of the common laws of
etymology and syntax. Here is a specimen of his style, and an
illustration of his powers as a philosopher: "How great the SOUL is!
Don't you all wonder and admire to see and behold and hear? Can you all
believe half the truth, and admire to hear the wonders how great the
soul is?--that if a man is drowned in the water, a great bubble comes up
out of the top of the water--the last of the man dying in the water;
this is _mind_--the SOUL, that is the last to ascend out of the deep to
glory. Only behold!--past finding out! The bubble is the soul! When a
man dies in his bed in a house, you can't see his soul go up, but when
he is drowned, _then_ you can see his soul go up like a kite or a
rocket!"

       *       *       *       *       *

There is a very amusing story told of a curious fowl called "_The
Adjutant_," in the East Indies. They are as solemn-faced a creature as
the owl, the "Bird of Minerva." Sometimes they become great favorites
with the soldiers and officers of the army stationed there, and
numerous, and not unfrequently ridiculous, were the tricks which the
wicked wags played upon them. Sometimes the soldiers would take a couple
of half-picked beef-bones, tie them strongly together, at each end of a
stout cord, and then throw both where some two or three "Adjutants"
would be sure to try to rival each other in the first possession of the
desiderated luxury; the consequence of which competition would be, that
two of the ravenous birds would attack the treasure at one and the same
time: the one would swallow one (for they have most capacious maws) and
the other the other. Then there was trouble! Each saw before him a
divided "duty," the "line" of which, while it was sufficiently defined
(and _con_-fined) was very far from being convenient to follow, so far
as the _practice_ was concerned. But each, in the consequent struggle,
rose into the air; a pair of aërial Siamese-twins, with no power of
severing their common ligament; so that very soon down they came, an
easy prey to their ingenious tormentors. But the funniest trick was
this: A soldier would take a similar unconsumed beef-bone; carefully
scoop out a long cavity in it, establish therein a cartridge and fusee,
with a long leader, lighted, and then throw it out for the especial
benefit of the feathered victim. It was of course swallowed at once, and
then, like a snake with a big frog in its belly, the uncouth bird would
mount upon some post, or other similar eminence, and with one leg
crossed like a figure-four, over the other, it would stand, in digestive
mood, and with solemn visage, until suddenly the secret mine would
explode, and the unsuspicious "Adjutant" would be "reduced to the ranks"
of birds "lost upon earth."

       *       *       *       *       *

He was a right sensible man who wrote as follows; and his theory and
advice will apply as well in Gotham as elsewhere: "As to extensive
dinner-giving, we can be but hungry, eat, and be happy. I would have a
great deal more hospitality practiced among us than is at all common;
more _hospitality_, I mean, and less _show_. Properly considered, 'the
quality of dinner,' like that of mercy, 'is twice blessed--it blesses
him that gives, and him that takes.' A dinner with friendliness is the
best of all friendly meetings; a pompous entertainment, where 'no love
is,' is the least satisfactory.

"I own myself to being no worse nor better than my neighbors, in giving
foolish and expensive dinners. I rush off to the confectioner's for
sweets, et cetera; hire sham butlers and attendants; have a fellow going
round the table with 'still' and 'dry' champagne, just as if I _knew his
name_, and it was my custom to drink those wines every day of my life.
Now if we receive great men or ladies at our house, I will lay a wager
that they will select mutton and gooseberry-tart for their dinner;
forsaking altogether the '_entrées_' which the men in white gloves are
handing round in the plated dishes. Asking those who have great
establishments of their own to French dinners and delicacies, is like
inviting a grocer to a meal of figs, or a pastry-cook to a banquet of
raspberry tarts. They have had enough of them. Great folks, if they like
you, take no account of your feasts, and grand preparations. No; they
eat mutton, like men."

As to giving _large_ dinners, morever, Mr. BROWN reasons like a
philosopher. In the right way of giving a dinner, he contends, "every
man who now gives _one_ dinner might give two, and take in a host of
friends and relations," who are now excluded from his forced
hospitality. "Our custom," he says "is not hospitality nor pleasure, but
to be able to cut off a certain number of our really best acquaintances
from our dining-list." Again, these large, ostentatious dinners are
scarcely ever pleasant, so far as regards society: "You may chance to
get near a pleasant neighbor and neighboress, when your corner of the
table is possibly comfortable. But there can be no general conversation.
Twenty people around one board can not engage together in talk. You want
even a speaking-trumpet to communicate from your place with the lady of
the house." The sensible conclusion of the whole matter is: "I would
recommend, with all my power, that if we give dinners they should be
more simple, more frequent, and contain fewer persons. A man and woman
may look as if they were really glad to see _ten_ people; but in a
'great dinner,' an ostentatious dinner, they abdicate their position as
host and hostess, and are mere creatures in the hands of the sham
butlers, sham footmen, and tall confectioner's emissaries who crowd the
room, and are guests at their own table, where they are helped last, and
of which they occupy the top and bottom. I have marked many a lady
watching with timid glances the large artificial major-domo who
officiates 'for that night only,' and thought to myself, 'Ah, my dear
madam, how much happier might we all be, if there were but half the
splendor, half the made-dishes, and half the company assembled!'"

       *       *       *       *       *

To our conception there is something rather tickling to the fancy in the
following sage advice as to how to conduct one's self in case of fire:
"Whatever may be the heat of the moment, keep cool. Let nothing put you
out, but find something to put out the fire. Keep yourself collected,
and then collect your family. After putting on your shoes and stockings,
call out for pumps and hose to the fireman. Don't think about saving
your watch and rings, for while you stand wringing your hands, you may
be neglecting the turn-cock, who is a jewel of the first water at such
a moment. Bid him with all your might turn on the main!"

       *       *       *       *       *

Punch once drew an admirable picture of a London "Peter Funk," a sort of
character not altogether unknown in the metropolis of the western world:

"The amount that prodigal man must spend every year would drive
ROTHSCHILD into the work-house. Nothing is too good or too common, too
expensive or too cheap, for him. One moment he will buy a silver
candelabra, the next a silver thimble. In the morning he will add a
hundred-guinea dressing-case to his enormous property, and in the
afternoon amuse himself by bidding a shilling for a little trumpery
pen-knife. Why he must have somewhere about fifty thousand pen-knives
already.

"The article he has the greatest hankering for, are razors: and yet, to
look at his unshorn beard, you would fancy that he never shaved from one
month's end to another. The hairs stick out on his chin like the wires
on the drum of a musical-box. It is most amusing to watch him when the
razors are handed round. He will snatch one off the tray, draw the edge
across his nail, breathe upon it, then hold it up to the light, and
after wiping it in the gentlest manner upon the cuff of his coat, bid
for it as ravenously as if he would not lose the scarce article for all
the wealth of the Indies. What he does with all the articles he buys we
can not tell. Saint Paul's would not be large enough to contain all the
rubbish he has been accumulating these last ten years. His collection of
side-boards alone would fill Hyde-Park, and he must possess by this time
more dumb waiters than there are real waiters in England."

       *       *       *       *       *

A capital burlesque upon the prevalent affectation of popular
song-writers, in making their first line tell as a title, is given in
the following: such, for example, as "_When my Eye_," "_I dare not use
thy cherished Name_," and so forth:

  "Oh! don't I love you rather still?
  Are all my pledges set at naught?
  Dishonored is Affection's bill?
  Or passed is Love's Insolvent Court?
  Is Memory's schedule coldly filed,
  On one of Cupid's broken darts?
  Is Hymen's balance-sheet compiled,
  A bankrupt's stock of damaged hearts?

  "SECOND VERSE.

  "I dare not use thy cherished name,
  Would'st thou accept, were I to draw?
  The god of Love may take his aim,
  But with an arrow made of straw
  Each fonder feeling that I knew
  A lifeless heap of ruin lies:
  Yes, false one! ticketed by you:
  Look here!--'Alarming Sacrifice!'"

       *       *       *       *       *

We must say one thing in favor of JOHN BULL. He confesses to a _beat_
with great unanimity and frankness. It is in evidence, on the authority
of the three gentlemen interested in the race of the yacht _America_,
that the triumph of American skill in ship-architecture was most
candidly admitted on all hands, as it was in all the public journals
most handsomely. This is as it should be; and we were glad to see, that
at the recent dinner given to Mr. STEVENS at the Astor-House cordial and
ample acknowledgments, for courtesies and attentions from the QUEEN
herself, down to the most eminent members of the Royal Yacht Squadron,
were feelingly and appropriate rendered.




Literary Notices.


_A Book of Romances_, _Lyrics_, _and Songs_, by BAYARD TAYLOR. This
volume consists chiefly of pieces which have not before been given to
the public, and are evidently selected with great severity of taste from
the miscellaneous productions of the writer. This was a highly judicious
course, and will be friendly, in all respects, to the fame of Bayard
Taylor, whose principal danger as a poet is his too great facility of
execution. The pieces in this volume exhibit the marks of careful
elaboration; of conscientious artistic finish; of a lofty standard of
composition; and of the intellectual self-respect which is not content
with a performance inferior to the highest. They are profuse in bold,
poetic imagery; often expressing conceptions of exquisite delicacy and
pathos; and, pervaded by a spirit of classic refinement. Mr. Taylor's
merits as a descriptive poet of a high order have long been recognized;
the present volume will confirm his beautiful reputation in that
respect; while it shows a freer and nobler sweep of the imagination and
reflective faculties than he has hitherto exercised. (Boston: Ticknor,
Reed, and Fields.)

Phillips, Sampson, and Co., Boston, have published a revised edition of
_Margaret, a Tale of the Real and the Ideal_, in two volumes. The
edition is introduced with a characteristic preface by the author,
explaining his own conception of the drift of the work, and justifying
certain features which have been severely commented on by critics. In
spite of its numerous displays of eccentricity and waywardness, we
believe that "Margaret" possesses the elements of an enduring vitality.
Its quaint and expressive delineations of New-England life, its vivid
reproduction of natural scenery, and the freedom and boldness with which
its principal characters are sustained, will always command a certain
degree of sympathy, even from those who are the most impatient with the
reckless mannerisms of the writer. His genius is sufficient to atone for
a multitude of faults, and there is need enough for its exercise in this
respect, in the present volumes.

A new edition, greatly improved and enlarged, of ABBOTT'S _Young
Christian_, has been published by Harper and Brothers, and will speedily
be followed by the other volumes of the series, _The Corner Stone_ and
_The Way to Do Good_. It is superfluous to speak of the rare merits of
Mr. Abbott's writings on the subject of practical religion. Their
extensive circulation, not only in our own country, but in England,
Scotland, Ireland, France, Germany, Holland, India, and at various
missionary stations throughout the globe, evinces the excellence of
their plan, and the felicity with which it has been executed. Divesting
religion of its repulsive, scholastic garb, they address the common mind
in simple and impressive language. Every where breathing an elevated
tone of sentiment, they exhibit the practical aspects of religious
truth, in a manner adapted to win the heart, and to exercise a permanent
influence upon the character. In unfolding the different topics which he
takes in hand, Mr. Abbott reasons clearly, concisely, and to the point;
but the severity of argument is always relieved by a singular variety
and beauty of illustration. It is this admirable combination of
discussion with incident, that invests his writings with an almost equal
charm for readers of every diversity of age and of culture. While the
young acknowledge the fascination of his attractive pages, the most
mature minds find them full of suggestion, and often presenting an
original view of familiar truth.--The present edition is issued in a
style of uncommon neatness, and is illustrated with numerous engravings,
most of which are spirited and beautiful.

_Episodes of Insect Life_, Third Series, published by J.S. Redfield, is
brought to a close in the volume before us, which treats of the insects
of autumn and the early winter. We take leave of these beautiful studies
in nature with regret, though rejoicing in the eminent success which has
attended their publication, both in England and in our own country. They
have entered largely into the rural delights of many a family circle,
during the past season, and will long continue to perform the same
congenial ministry.

George P. Putnam has issued the first number of _A Biographical and
Critical Dictionary of Painters, Engravers, Sculptors, and Architects_,
by S. SPOONER, M.D., compiled from a variety of authentic sources, and
containing more than fifteen hundred names of eminent artists, which are
not to be found in the existing English dictionaries of Art. Free use
has been made of the best European authorities, and a mass of
information concentrated which we should look for in vain in any other
single work. The editor appears to have engaged in his task, not only
with conscientious diligence, but with an enthusiastic interest in Art,
and with such qualifications, his success in its performance is almost a
matter of course.

The third volume of _The Memoirs of Dr. Chalmers_ (published by Harper
and Brothers), embraces the period of his life during his residence at
Aberdeen, and a portion of his career as Professor at Edinburgh. The
interest of the previous volumes is well sustained in the present. It
contains many original anecdotes, illustrating the private and social
life of Dr. Chalmers, as well as a succinct narrative of the events in
which he bore a conspicuous part before the public. Every incident in
the biography of this admirable man is a new proof of his indomitable
energy of character, his comprehensive breadth of intellect, and the
mingled gentleness and fervor of his disposition. Whoever wishes to see
a strong, compact, massive specimen of human nature, softened and
harmonized by congenial religious and domestic influences, should not
fail to become acquainted with these rich and instructive volumes.

_The Bible in the Family_, by H.A. BOARDMAN (published by Lippincott,
Grambo, and Co.), is a series of discourses treating of the domestic
relations, as the chief sources of personal and social welfare, and
illustrating the importance of the principles of the Bible to the
happiness of the family. They were delivered to the congregation of the
author, in the regular course of his pastoral ministrations, and without
aiming at a high degree of exactness of thought, or literary finish, are
plain, forcible, and impressive addresses on topics of vital moment.
Their illustrations are drawn from every-day life, and are often
striking as well as pertinent. An occasional vein of satire in their
descriptions of society, is introduced with good effect, tempering the
prevailing honeyed suavity of discussion, which, without a corrective,
would be apt to cloy.

Lippincott, Grambo, and Co. have republished _The Scalp Hunters_, by
Capt. MAYNE REID, a record of wild and incredible adventures among the
trappers and savages of New Mexico. It is written in an incoherent,
slap-dash style, in which the want of real descriptive strength is
supplied by the frequent use of interjectional phrases. The scenes, for
the most part, consist of pictures of city brawls and forest fights,
with an excess of blood and thunder sufficient to satiate the most
sanguinary appetite.

_The Human Body and its Connection with Man_, by JAMES JOHN GARTH
WILKINSON, is the transcendental title of a treatise by an original and
vigorous English writer, in which the theories of Swedenborg are applied
to the illustration of human physiology. Profoundly mystical in its
general character, and thoroughly repellent to those who make the length
of their own fingers the measure of the universe, it abounds in passages
of admirable eloquence, presenting a piquant stimulus to the
imagination, even when it fails to satisfy the intellect. Its rhetoric
will be attractive to many readers who take no interest in its anatomy.

_Ladies of the Covenant_, by Rev. JAMES ANDERSON, under an odd
apposition of terms in the title, conceals a work of more than common
merit. Why could not the author use the good Saxon word "women" in
designating those heroic spirits who shed their blood for their religion
in the era of the Scottish Covenant? We shall next hear of the noble
army of "lady martyrs," of the "holy ladies of old," and other fantastic
phrases engendered by a squeamish taste. With this exception, the volume
is worthy of the highest commendation. It shows the horrors of political
persecution, and the beauty of religious faith, in a succession of
forcible and touching narratives. (Published by J.S. Redfield).

_Alban, a Tale of the New World_, is a novel combining an unctuous
melange of sensual description and religious discussion, by an
enthusiastic neophyte of the Roman Catholic Church. It has some lively
pictures of modern Puritanic character in New-England villages, which
are a grateful relief to its pervading tone of speculative
voluptuousness. (Published by George P. Putnam.)

_The Fifteen Decisive Battles of the World_, by E.S. CREASY (published
by Harper and Brothers). The key to this volume is contained in the
following passage of the author's preface: "There are some battles which
claim our attention, independently of the moral worth of the combatants,
on account of their enduring importance, and by reason of the practical
influence on our own social and political condition, which we can trace
up to the results of those engagements. They have for us an abiding and
actual interest, both while we investigate the chain of causes and
effects by which they have helped to make us what we are, and also while
we speculate on what we probably should have been, if any one of those
battles had come to a different termination." The hint of his work, was
first suggested to the author, by the remark of Mr. Hallam on the
victory gained by Charles Martel, between Tours and Poictiers, over the
invading Saracens, that "it may justly be reckoned among those few
battles of which a contrary event would have essentially varied the
drama of the world in all its subsequent scenes; with Marathon, Arbela,
the Metaurus, Chalons, and Leipsic." The idea, presented in this form,
is developed with great ingenuity by the author, in its application to
the most significant battles in history, from Marathon to Waterloo.
Abstaining from merely theoretical speculations, he exhibits a profound
insight into the operation of political causes, which he unfolds with
great sagacity, and in a manner suited to enchain the attention of the
reader. Among the decisive battles embraced in his work, those of
Marathon, of Arbela, of Hastings, of the Spanish Armada, of Blenheim, of
Saratoga, and of Waterloo, are described with picturesque felicity, and
their consequences to the fortunes of the civilized world are traced out
in the genuine spirit of a sound philosophical historian. His
observations, connected with the battle of Saratoga, in regard to the
position of America in modern history, are just and impartial. "The
fourth great power of the world is the mighty commonwealth of the
Western Continent, which now commands the admiration of mankind. That
homage is sometimes reluctantly given, and is sometimes accompanied with
suspicion and ill-will But none can refuse it. All the physical
essentials for national strength are undeniably to be found in the
geographical position and amplitude of territory which the United States
possess; in their almost inexhaustible tracts of fertile but hitherto
untouched soil, in their stately forests, in their mountain chains and
their rivers, their beds of coal, and stores of metallic wealth, in
their extensive sea-board along the waters of two oceans, and in their
already numerous and rapidly-increasing population. And when we examine
the character of this population, no one can look on the fearless
energy, the sturdy determination, the aptitude for local
self-government, the versatile alacrity, and the unresisting spirit of
enterprise which characterize the Anglo-Americans, without feeling that
here he beholds the true elements of progressive might."

The Second Volume of Miss STRICKLAND'S _Queens of Scotland_ (published
by Harper and Brothers), completes the Life of Mary of Lorraine, and
contains that of Lady Margaret Douglas. It is marked by the careful
research and animated style which have given the author such an enviable
reputation as an authentic and pleasing historical guide.

_The Lily and the Bee_, by SAMUEL WARREN (published by Harper and
Brothers), is a reprint of a rhapsodical prose-poem, suggested by the
strange and beautiful spectacle of the Crystal Palace. The author has
selected a wild and incoherent form for the embodiment of his
impressions, but it is pervaded by a vein of rich, imaginative thought,
which no one can follow without being touched with its spirit of
suggestive musing. Whoever peruses this volume, as the writer intimates,
should suspend his judgment until the completion, and then both the Lily
and the Bee may be found speaking with some significance.

MAYHEW'S _London Labor_ (published by Harper and Brothers) has reached
its Fourteenth Number, and fully sustains the interest of the earlier
portions of the work. It is a faithful sketch of one aspect of London
life, drawn from nature, and in graphic effect is hardly inferior to the
high-wrought creations of fiction.

The Eighteenth Part of LOSSING's _Pictorial Field-Book of the
Revolution_ (published by Harper and Brothers), is now completed, and
the successive parts will be issued rapidly until the work is closed.
This noble tribute to the memory of our revolutionary fathers has been
kindly and cordially received by the American people. We rejoice in its
success, for the spirit of patriotism which it breathes is as wholesome,
as the execution of its charming pictures is admirable.

_Malmiztic the Toltec_, by W.W. FOSDICK (Cincinnati, Wm. H. Moore and
Co.), is a romance of Mexico, reproducing the times of Montezuma and
Cortez. In spite of the desperate cacophony of the title, and the
high-flown magnificence of the preface, it is a work of considerable
originality and power. The style of the author would be improved by an
unrelenting application of the pruning-knife, but he shows a talent of
description and narrative, which, after abating the luxuriance of a
first effort, might be turned to excellent account. We hope to hear from
him again.

_The Mind and the Heart_, by FRANKLIN W. FISH, is the title of a little
volume in verse by a very youthful poet, written before the completion
of his eighteenth year. We utterly disapprove the publication of such
precocious efforts, as they have no interest for the reader but that of
a literary curiosity, and none but a perilous reflex influence on the
unfledged author. These effusions, however, are highly creditable
specimens of the kind, and show a facility of versification and a
command of poetic thought and imagery, which give a fair promise of
future excellence. We will not subject them to a harsh criticism, which
they certainly do not deserve, but we advise the young aspirant to cling
to the pen in private, and for the present to cherish a profound horror
of printing ink. (Adriance, Sherman, and Co.)

       *       *       *       *       *

A new translation of DANTE'S _Divina Commedia_ has recently been made in
England by C.B. Cayley. The volume published, containing the "Inferno,"
is to be followed by the "Purgatorio" and "Paradiso." The metre of the
original is preserved. A London journal says that "it is by far the most
effectual transcript of the original that has yet appeared in English
verse: in other words, the nearest approximation hitherto made to what
the poet, such as we know him, might have written had he been of our
time and country, instead of being a Tuscan in the thirteenth century.
To have done this office with tolerable success for any great poet is a
claim to praise: in a translator of Dante it is something more. Mr.
Cayley's one main ground of superiority to previous translators lies in
the true perception that nothing but plain and bold language in the copy
can represent the bold plainness of the original. He has accordingly
handled our whole vocabulary with unusual frankness; and we admire his
skill in pressing apt though uncouth forms into the service, as much as
we approve of the right feeling that taught him how Dante may be most
nearly approached."

       *       *       *       *       *

_The Hymn for All Nations_, 1851, by M.F. TUPPER, D.C.L., says _The
Athenæum_ "is at least a philological and typographical curiosity. The
hymn--'would it were worthier!'--is translated into thirty different
languages, and printed in the characters of each country."

       *       *       *       *       *

THOMAS COOPER, a well-known English Chartist, distinguished by the
inviting _prestige_, "Author of the 'Purgatory of Suicides,'" advertises
to deliver his orations on the genius of all men, from Shakspeare to
George Fox the Quaker, Milton to Mohammed, and on many subjects from
astronomy to civil war, at the low charge of (to working men) two pounds
per speech, or at thirty shillings each for a quantity.

       *       *       *       *       *

THACKERAY is writing a novel in three volumes, to be published in the
winter. The scene is in England early in the eighteenth century, and the
stage will be crossed by many of the illustrious actors of that
time--such as Bolingbroke, Swift, and Pope; and Dick Steele will play a
prominent part.

"There is more than a bit of gossip," says _The Leader_ "in the
foregoing paragraph. It intimates that THACKERAY has 'risen above the
mist;' he will no more be hampered and seduced by the obstacles and
temptations coextensive with the fragmentary composition of monthly
parts. It intimates that he has the noble ambition of producing a work
of art. It also intimates that he has bidden adieu, for the present, to
Gaunt-house, the Clubs, Pall-mall, and May-fair--to forms of life which
are so vividly, so wondrously reproduced in his pages, that detractors
have asserted he could paint nothing else--forgetting that creative
power to _that_ degree can not be restricted to one form. His _Lectures_
have prepared us for a very vivid and a very charming picture of the
Eighteenth Century."

       *       *       *       *       *

The MASTER of the ROLLS has given a favorable answer to the memorial
presented to him by Lord Mahon and various literary men, praying for the
admission of historical writers to the free use of the records. On this,
the _London Examiner_ remarks, "There is a point of view in which this
matter is most important. The concession throws a vast amount of new
responsibility upon literary men. Henceforth the guess-work, the mere
romance-writing, which we have been too long accustomed to suppose to be
history, will be without excuse. Writers who neglect to take advantage
of record-evidence on all subjects to which it is applicable, will lay
themselves open to the sharpest and justest critical censure. Our
history may now be put upon the strong foundation, not of borrowed
evidence, but of the records themselves. If literary men neglect this
opportunity, the Government will be no longer to blame. The Master of
the Rolls has cleared his conscience, and that of the State. But we have
no fear that such will be the result. Wise and liberal concession, like
that of the Master of the Rolls, must tell with honorable effect both
upon our literary men and upon our national character."

       *       *       *       *       *

The following ludicrous remarks, are from an article in the _London
Spectator_ on Parkman's _History of Pontiac_. They are a specimen of
what a certain class of English writers call criticism. The obtuseness
of John Bull can no farther go.

"It is remarked by travelers, that however individual Americans may
differ--as the observing shepherd can detect physiognomical differences
in his flock--there is a general resemblance throughout the Union in
lathy lankiness, in haste, in tobacco-chewing, in dress, in manners or
(as Scott expressed it) 'no manners.' The remark may be truly applied to
American books. Poetry and travels with hardly an exception, historical
novels and tales without any exception, and works on or about history,
have a certain family likeness. As one star differs from another in
brightness, and yet they are all stars, so one American writer on
history differs from another in point of merit, yet their kind of merit
is alike. Washington Irving's mode of composition is the type of them
all, and consists in making the most of things. The landscape is
described, not to possess the reader with the features of the country so
far as they are essential to the due apprehension of the historical
event, but as a thing important in itself, and sometimes as a thing
adapted to show off the writing or the writer. The costumes are not only
indicated, to remind the reader of the various people engaged, but dwelt
upon with the unction of a virtuoso. The march is narrated in detail;
the accessories are described in their minutiæ; and the probable or
possible feelings of the actors are laid before the reader. Sometimes
this mode of composition is used sparingly and chastely, as by Bancroft;
sometimes more fully, as by Theodore Irving in his _Conquest of
Florida_; other styles (in the sense of _expressing_ ideas) than the
model may also preponderate, so as to suggest no idea of the author of
the _Sketch Book_ and the _Conquest of Granada_; but, more or less, the
literary sketcher or tale-writer has encroached upon the province of the
historian."

The London journals announce that _Carlyle's Memoirs_ of JOHN STIRLING
will be issued immediately.

       *       *       *       *       *

The _Leader_ announces the certainty of an abridged translation of
AUGUSTE COMTE'S six volumes of _Positive Philosophy_ appearing as soon
as is compatible with the exigencies of so important an undertaking. A
very competent mind has long been engaged upon the task; and the growing
desire in the public to hear more about this BACON of the nineteenth
century, remarks the _Leader_, renders such a publication necessary.

       *       *       *       *       *

At a recent meeting of the Royal Society of Literature in London, a
communication was made from the celebrated antiquarian explorer, Mr.
LAYARD, of the progress and results of his recent investigations at
Nimroud; from which it was evident that the public is justified in
forming high expectations of the advance which it will be enabled to
make in the knowledge of Assyrian history and antiquities, in
consequence of his further indefatigable labors. The new objects of
antiquity exhumed will throw light on the state of the arts, the
chronology, the origin of the Egyptian influence, and other facts
relating to this the most ancient empire of the world.

       *       *       *       *       *

A tablet in memory of the late WILLIAM WORDSWORTH has just been fixed in
Grasmere church, executed by Mr. Thomas Woolner. The inscription is from
the pen of Professor Keble.

       *       *       *       *       *

Dr. ACHILLI has intimated at one of the meetings of the Evangelical
Alliance, that he intends to prosecute Dr. Newman for libel at the
commencement of next term.

       *       *       *       *       *

MAZZINI'S little work, _The Pope in the Nineteenth Century_, which made
considerable sensation, when it appeared in French, has been translated
into English, and is now published as a pamphlet.

       *       *       *       *       *

French literature is beginning to show some activity. THIERS issues the
eleventh volume of his _History of the Consulate and the Empire_;
instead of the ten volumes originally proposed, the work is to extend to
fourteen--an extension for which few will be grateful!

       *       *       *       *       *

ADOLPHE GRANIER DE CASSAGNAC, the lively, impertinent, paradoxical
journalist, is writing a _Histoire du Directoire_ in his own paper, and
the Brussels edition of volume I. is already published. It is full of
sarcasms and declamations against the Republican party and their great
leaders; but it is sprightly, amusing, and has something of novelty in
its tone: after so much wearisome laudation of every body in the
Revolution, a spirited, reckless, and dashing onslaught makes the old
subject piquant.

       *       *       *       *       *

This is verily the age of cheapness. GEORGE SAND has consented to allow
all her novels to be reprinted in Paris, for the small charge of four
_sous_, a shade less than twopence, per part, which will make, it
appears, about 1_l._ for the whole collection. This popular edition is
to be profusely illustrated by eminent artists, and is to be printed and
got up in good style.

       *       *       *       *       *

During the last year or two an immense deal of business has been done by
three or four publishing houses, in the production of esteemed works at
four sous the sheet, of close yet legible type, excellent paper, and
spirited illustrations. By this plan, the humblest working-man and the
poorest _grisette_ have been able to form a very respectable library.
Naturally the works so brought out have been chiefly of the class of
light literature, but not a few are of a graver character. Among the
authors whose complete works have been published, are Lesage,
Chateaubriand, Anquetil (the historian), Balzac, Sue, Paul de Kock;
among those partially published, Rousseau, Lamennais, Voltaire, Diderot,
Fénélon, Bernardin de Saint Pierre. Translations of foreign works have
also been produced; in the batch are, complete or partial, Goldsmith,
Sterne, Anne Radcliffe, Mrs. Inchbald, Walter Scott, Fenimore Cooper,
Bulwer, Dickens, Marryatt, Goethe, Schiller, Silvio Pellico; and
Boccacio.

       *       *       *       *       *

An eminent critic has just revealed a fact which very few people
knew--viz. that ST. JUST, one of the most terrible of the terrible
heroes of the first French Revolution, wrote and published, before he
gained his sanguinary celebrity, a long poem, entitled, "Orgaut." The
opinion which M. Thiers and other historians have caused the public to
form of this man was, that he was a fanatic--implacable, but sincere--a
ruthless minister of the guillotine; but deeming wholesale slaughter
indispensable for securing, what he conscientiously considered, the
welfare of the people. He was, we may imagine, something like the gloomy
inquisitors of old, who thought it was doing God service to burn
heretics at the stake. To justify this opinion, one would have expected
to have found in a poem written by him when the warm and generous
sentiments of youth were in all their freshness, burning aspirations for
what it was the fashion of his time to call _vertu_, and lavish
protestations of devotedness to his country and the people. But instead
of that, the work is, it appears, from beginning to end, full of the
grossest obscenity--it is the delirium of a brain maddened with
voluptuousness--it is coarser and more abominable than the "Pucelle" of
Voltaire, and is not relieved, as that is, by sparkling wit and graces
of style. In a moral point of view, it is atrocious--in a literary point
of view, wretched.

       *       *       *       *       *

Of a political writer, who, for the last year or two, has made some
noise in the world, the all-destructive PROUDHON, a sharp English critic
keenly enough observes: "After Comte there is no one in France to
compare with Proudhon for power, originality, daring, and coherence. His
name is a name of terror. He is of no party, no sect. Like Ishmael, his
hand is raised against every one, and his blows are crushing. In some
respects he reminds us of Carlyle there is the same relentless scorn for
his adversaries, the same vehement indignation against error, the same
domineering personality, the same preference for crude energy of
statement, the same power of sarcasm; but there is none of the abounding
_poetry_ which is in Carlyle, none of the true genius; and there is an
excess of dialectics such as Carlyle would turn aside from. If Carlyle
is the Prophet of Democracy, Proudhon is its Logician and Economist.
Proudhon loves to startle. It suits his own vehement, combative nature.
We do not think he does it from calculation so much as from instinct; he
does not fire a musket in the air that its noise may call attention to
him, but from sheer sympathy with musket shots. Whatever may be the
motive, the result is unquestionable: attention _is_ attracted and
fixed."

       *       *       *       *       *

A French writer, M. LEON DE MONTBEILLARD, has just published a work on
SPINOZA, calling in question the logical powers of that "thorny"
reasoner on inscrutable problems. The _London Leader_ disposes of it in
a summary manner: "If Spinoza has one characteristic more eminent than
another, it is commonly supposed to be the geometric precision and
exactitude of his logical demonstrations. To say that Spinoza was a
rigorous logician is like saying that Shakspeare was dramatic, and
Milton imaginative--a platitude unworthy of an original mind, a truism
beneath notice. M. Montbeillard declines to walk in such a beaten path.
He denies Spinoza's logical merit. Spinoza a logician; _fi donc_! Read
this treatise and learn better. What all the world has hitherto supposed
to be severe deductive logic, only to be escaped by a refusal to accept
the premises, is here shown to be nothing but a pedantic array of
pretended axioms and theorems, which are attacked and overturned by this
adventurous author _avec une assez grande facilité_. We have not seen
the work, but we have not a doubt of the _facility_!"

       *       *       *       *       *

In a letter to the newspapers, ALEXANDRE DUMAS complains that a
publisher, who has got possession of a manuscript history of Louis
Philippe, written by him, intends to bring it out under a title
insulting to the exiled royal family--"Mysteries of the Orleans Family,"
or something of that kind. The proceeding would certainly be
scandalously unjust to the author; but doubts are raised whether he can
obtain any legal redress. The manuscript is the publisher's, paid for
with his money, purchased by him, not from Dumas himself, but from
another _editeur_ to whom Dumas ceded it. It is, therefore, to all
intents and purposes, merchandise in the eyes of the owner; and, as in
the case of any other merchandise, it is contended that he may sell it
under any title he pleases that does not absolutely misrepresent its
character.

       *       *       *       *       *

EUGENE SUE has commenced the publication of another of his lengthy
romances in one of the daily papers, and has also begun the printing of
a comedy, in six acts, in another journal. The quantity of matter which
popular romancers in France manage to produce is really extraordinarily
great. They think nothing of writing three or four columns of newspaper
type in a day, and that day after day, for months at a time. The most
active journalists certainly, on an average, do not knock off any thing
like that quantity; and yet what _they_ produce requires (or at least
obtains) little or no thought--no previous study--is not part of a
regular plan--and is not expected to display much originality of
conception, or much grace of style.

       *       *       *       *       *

The success of BALZAC'S comedy has caused the playwrights to turn their
attention to his novels, and it is probable that in the course of the
next few months we shall see one and all dramatized. Full as Balzac's
novels are of forcibly drawn personages and striking incidents,
competent critics doubt whether they will suit the stage; for their
great charm and their great merit consists in minute analyzation, which
is impracticable in the theatre. He was an admirable miniaturist, a
laborious anatomist, and a complete master of detail--qualities with
which the acted drama has naught to do.

       *       *       *       *       *

EUGENE SUE offers us a new novel, _L' Avarice_, the last of his series
on the seven cardinal sins, in one volume.

       *       *       *       *       *

The two volumes of DE MAISTRE'S letters and inedited trifles, _Lettres
et Opuscules inédits_, with a biographical notice written by his son,
will be very acceptable, not only to Catholics, but to all who can rise
above differences of creed, and recognize the amazing power of this
great writer. These volumes present him, _en déshabille_, and he is
worthy knowing so.

       *       *       *       *       *

JULES JANIN'S Letters on the Exhibition, reprinted in a neat volume in
Paris as well as at London, have procured him the honor of a very
complimentary autograph letter from Prince Albert. The popularity which
Janin has contrived to gain, not only in his own country, but in
Europe--and not only among the middle classes, those great patrons of
literary men nowadays, but among royal and aristocratic personages
also--this popularity is envied by scores of writers of far greater
pretensions.

       *       *       *       *       *

The French have a very common and most unjust practice--that of
appropriating the authorship of works which they only translate. A
complete edition of Fielding has appeared under the title "OEuvres de
l'Abbé St. Romme," or some such name. Ducis has passed himself off as
the _author_ of _Hamlet_ and _Macbeth_, and the other great plays of
Shakspeare which he has dared to mutilate. There are half a dozen
translations of "Paradise Lost," in which the name of some obscure
varlet figures on the title-page, while that of Milton is not once
mentioned. There are editions of the "Decline and Fall," by Monsieur
So-and-so, without the slightest indication that the work is that of
Gibbon; and Bulwer and Scott, and indeed all English authors of note,
dead and living, have been pillaged in the same way. The German and
Italian authors have suffered the same treatment from these literary
wreckers.

       *       *       *       *       *

An edition of BRENTANO'S works has been published in six volumes. As one
of the most famous of the "Romantic School," Brentano is interesting to
all students of German literature, and the present publication receives
additional stimulus from the knowledge that Brentano, late in life,
looked upon his works as "dangerous," if not "devilish," and destroyed
all the copies he could lay hands on.

       *       *       *       *       *

METTERNICH is writing a book, and that book is a _History of Austria_
during his own time! Unhappily this bit of gossip can only interest our
grandchildren, as the prince inserts a clause in his will, which forbids
the publication till sixty years after his death.

       *       *       *       *       *

The inhabitants of Schaffhausen have been inaugurating a monument to the
memory of the historian JOHN VON MULLER in that, his native town. The
monument--which is the work of the Swiss sculptor Oechslein--is composed
of a colossal marble bust of the historian--on a lofty granite pedestal,
ornamented with a bas-relief, in marble, representing the Muse of
History engaging Muller to write the great events of his country's
story. Below, inscribed in characters of gold, is the following passage
from one of Muller's own letters: "I have never been on the side of
party--but always on that of truth and justice wherever I could
recognize them."

       *       *       *       *       *

John Bartlett, Cambridge, has in press the _Miscellaneous Writings_ of
ANDREWS NORTON, in one volume, 8vo, including reviews, critiques, and
essays on various subjects of literature and theology. It will be a work
of considerable interest. The same publisher announces also Stockhardt's
_Agricultural Chemistry_, to be published simultaneously with the
German edition. A seventh edition of this author's _Principles of
Chemistry_ has been published by Mr. Bartlett. In a letter to him, Dr.
Stockhardt thus writes of the American reprint: "The style in which you
have got up my 'Principles of Chemistry,' is worthy of the great land of
freedom, whose adopted son you have made my work, and places the
original quite in the shade. The translation, by Dr. Peirce, is likewise
so faithful and correct, that any author would be highly gratified to
find his thoughts and opinions rendered so perfectly in another
language."

       *       *       *       *       *

From the recent report of the Methodist Book Concern in New York, it
appears that the sales for the last twelve months were more than
$200,000, being an increase of $65,000 over the previous year, and
exceeding all former years. The profits on the new Hymn Book were
$47,561. The Christian Advocate and Journal has a circulation of from
25,000 to 29,000. The Missionary Advocate 20,000. The Sunday School
Advocate 65,000, with a yearly sale of Sunday School books amounting to
$5000. The Quarterly Review has 3000 subscribers.

       *       *       *       *       *

The name of the popular author, W. GILMORE SIMMS, having been publicly
mentioned in connection with the Presidency of the South Carolina
College, the Charleston _Literary Gazette_ remarks, "We should rejoice
greatly to see Mr. Simms in a position which, we think, would be so
congenial to his tastes, and for which his whole career has eminently
fitted him. The watchword of his life has been, 'Strive.' He has
striven, manfully, daringly, nobly, _successfully_! He has raised
himself to a position in the world of letters, scarcely a whit inferior
to the noblest of our writers. The death of Cooper leaves him without a
living American compeer in the realm of fiction, and we confidently
predict that the next generation will pronounce him to have been the
greatest American poet of this!"

       *       *       *       *       *

From America, says the London "Household Narrative," we receive a
well-written and animated history of the campaigns of the celebrated
Indian chief, _Pontiac_, during his gallant "conspiracy" to expel the
English colonists after the conquest of Canada. It is principally
interesting for the picture it gives of the chief himself; and for a
more favorable view of the plans, and of the sagacity which informed and
shaped them, than Englishmen have been prepared for in the case of any
chief of those tribes.

       *       *       *       *       *

Mr. JAMES RICHARDSON, the enterprising African traveler, died on the 4th
of March last, at a small village called Ungurutua, six days distant
from Kouka, the capital of Bornou. Early in January, he and the
companions of his mission, Drs. Barth and Overweg, arrived at the
immense plain of Damergou, when, after remaining a few days, they
separated, Dr. Barth proceeding to Kanu, Dr. Overweg to Guber, and Mr.
Richardson taking the direct route to Kouka, by Zinder. There, it would
seem, his strength began to give way, and before he had arrived twelve
days distant from Kouka he became seriously ill, suffering much from the
oppressive heat of the sun. Having reached a large town called
Kangarrua, he halted for three days, and feeling himself rather
refreshed he renewed his journey. After two days' more traveling, during
which his weakness greatly increased, they arrived at the Waddy Mellaha.
Leaving this place on the 3d of March, they reached in two hours the
village of Ungurutua, when Mr. Richardson became so weak that he was
unable to proceed. In the evening he took a little food and tried to
sleep, but became very restless, and left his tent, supported by his
servant. He then took some tea, and threw himself again on his bed, but
did not sleep. His attendants having made some coffee, he asked for a
cup, but had no strength to hold it. He repeated several times "I have
no strength," and after having pronounced the name of his wife, sighed
deeply, and expired without a struggle, about two hours after midnight.

       *       *       *       *       *

Mr. WILLIAM NICOL, F.R.S.E., died in Edinburgh on the 2d inst., in his
eighty-third year. Mr. Nicol commenced his career as assistant to the
late Dr. Moyes, the eminent blind lecturer on natural philosophy. Dr.
Moyes, at his death, bequeathed his apparatus to Mr. Nicol, who then
lectured on the same subject as his predecessor. Mr. Nicol's
contributions to the "Edinburgh Philosophical Journal" were various and
valuable; the more important being his description of his successful
repetition of Döbereiner's celebrated experiment of igniting spongy
platina by a stream of cold hydrogen gas; also his method of preparing
fossil woods for microscopic investigation, which led to his discovery
of the structural difference between the arucarian and coniferous woods,
by far the most important in fossil botany. But the most valuable
contribution to physical science, and with which his name will ever be
associated, was his invention of the single image prism of calcareous
spar, known to the scientific world as Nicol's prism.

       *       *       *       *       *

The London papers announce the death of Mr. B. P. GIBBON, the line
engraver, deservedly celebrated for his many excellent engravings after
the works of Sir Edwin Landseer. His death was occasioned by a sudden
attack of English cholera. "He was well versed in the history of his
art, and of a mild and gentlemanlike disposition of mind. One of his
first works was a small engraving after Landseer's 'Traveled Monkey;'
and the work on which he was last engaged--and which he has left
scarcely half done--was an engraving after one of Mr. Webster's
pictures. His inclinations in early life turned to the stage; but his
true path was line engraving. In this he was distinguished rather for
the delicacy of his touch and the close character of his work, than for
breadth of effect and boldness in the laying in of lines."

       *       *       *       *       *

The London papers record the death of JOHN KIDD, D.M. of Christchurch,
Regius Professor of Medicine, Tomline's Prælector of Anatomy, Aldrichian
Professor of Anatomy, and Radcliffe's Librarian. Dr. Kidd was highly
esteemed and respected both in the University and city of Oxford, In
1822 Dr. Kidd succeeded Sir Christopher Pegge, Bart., in the office of
Regius Professor of Medicine, to which is annexed Tomline's
Prælectorship of Anatomy, and the Aldrichian Professorship of Anatomy,
and in 1834 he succeeded Dr. Williams as Radcliffe's Librarian. The
_Leader_ says, "Oxford has lost an ornament in losing Dr. Kidd, the
Regius Professor of Medicine in the University, whose death we see
recorded in the papers; and the public will remember him as the author
of one of the most popular _Bridgewater Treatises_, a series of works
intended to give orthodoxy the support of science, and which, by the
very juxtaposition of religion and science, have greatly helped to bring
their discordances into relief. Dr. Kidd was not a writer of such
attainments in philosophy as to give any weight to his views; but his
knowledge of facts was extensive, and his exposition popular in style.
It may be worth remarking that the title of his book, _On the Adaptation
of External Nature to the Physical Condition of Man_, is radically
opposed to the most advanced views of physiology."




A Leaf from Punch.

[Illustration: _Brother Jonathan._--"I GUESS, MASTER JOHNNY, IF YOU
DON'T LOOK SHARP, I'LL SHOW YOU HOW TO MAKE A SEVENTY-FOUR NEXT."]


[Illustration: NOT A DIFFICULT THING TO FORETELL. "LET THE POOR GIPSY
TELL YOUR FORTUNE, MY PRETTY GENTLEMAN."]

[Illustration: CURIOSITIES OF MEDICAL EXPERIENCE.


_Medical Student._ "WELL, OLD FELLER, SO YOU'VE 'PASSED' AT LAST."
_Consulting Surgeon._ "YES; BUT I DON'T GET MUCH PRACTICE
SOMEHOW--ALTHOUGH I AM NEARLY ALWAYS AT HOME, IN CASE ANY ONE SHOULD
CALL."]


[Illustration: RETIREMENT.]




Fashions for November.

[Illustration: FIG. 1.--BALL AND DINNER COSTUMES.]


This is the commencement season for social parties and public
amusements. We present seasonable illustrations of fashionable costumes
for dinner parties, balls, and the opera. The first figure in the above
engraving represents an elegant

BALL DRESS.--Hair in short bandeaux, tied behind à la Grecque, with a
wreath of bluebells; the flowers are small and arranged on a cord along
the forehead; they increase in size and form tufts at the sides. The
cord is continued behind and a second cord of flowers passes over the
head, and blends with the flowers at the sides. The dress of white
watered silk with a body and upper skirt of white silk net, festooned
and embroidered in spots with silk. The spots are small. The opening of
the body is heart-shape. The waist is pointed behind and before. The
sleeves are silk net, puffed, and held up by a few bluebells. The body
is trimmed with a double berthe, of silk net; a bouquet of bluebells is
placed on the left, goes down from the waist _en cordon_, and forms
another bouquet to hold up the left side of the skirt. On the right side
it is held up by an isolated bouquet. This upper skirt is very full, and
much longer behind than before. In the opening of the body and that
formed by turning up the sleeves, a chemisette plaited very small, and
edged with lace, is visible.

DINNER TOILET.--The second, or right hand figure, represents a graceful
dinner toilet. _Fanchonnette_ cap made of English lace, which is
disposed in two rows. The upper one is about four inches wide sewed on
silk net, which forms the middle, the joining being covered by a narrow
band of terry velvet, No. 1. The bottom is composed of the same
elements, exactly in the shape of a _fanchon_, straight in front,
pointed behind, with small barbes at the side. Under the row that covers
the top of the head are loops of silk ribbon. The sides are trimmed with
more of the same kind, that hang down the cheeks. Plain silk dress. The
body is low and opens down to the point. The skirt, in front, is open
the whole length. The edges of the body, sleeves, and front of the skirt
are undulated, and the undulations are trimmed with a silk _ruché_, the
sides of which are the same stuff as the dress, while the middle is of a
different-colored silk. The sleeves, turned up at the bend of the arm,
show under-sleeves composed of three waves of lace; the body and
under-skirt are muslin, embroidered so as to show the embroidery at the
openings. The skirt has five graduated openings. The bottom edge of the
body is composed of a deep lace, arranged square.

[Illustration: FIG. 2.--OPERA DRESS.]

OPERA DRESS.--Costumes for the opera are diversified and quite fanciful.
Our illustration exhibits one of the most elegant and admired. Hair in
short puffed bandeaux. The knot behind is composed of two plaits, and a
third is brought round on the top of the head in front. Waistcoat of
watered silk, opening heart-shape in front, sitting well to the shape of
the breast and waist, ending in an open point at bottom, and hollowed
over the hip about an inch and a half. The back of the waistcoat is
tight. It buttons straight down in front, the left side lapping over a
little on the right, like a gentleman's waistcoat; it has one row of
small buttons. The edge of the waistcoat has a narrow silk binding
lapped over the edge, and all round run five rows of braid, one-tenth of
an inch wide, at intervals of about one-fifth of an inch. Jaconet skirt,
ornamented in front with six English bands one above the other; the
first 3 inches long, the second 5, the third 6-1/2, the fourth 8, the
fifth 9-1/2, and the sixth 12 inches. Each of these bands falls over the
gathering of the other, the last covering the top of the flounce which
runs round the skirt. The flounce is 16 inches deep, and the width of
the bands, beginning with the top one is 2, 2-3/4, 3-1/2, 4-1/4, 5, and
5-3/4 inches. The white sleeves which come below those of the
_soutanelle_ (cassock) have two rows of embroidery. The _soutanelle_ is
made of silk, and lined with a different color; it has a hood, the
inside of which is like the lining; it forms a pelerine, and ends square
in front. The _soutanelle_ is cut without arm-holes; that is, the sleeve
is taken out of the stuff and the seams of the body are taken in the cut
under the arm. Sitting close on the shoulders and the upper part of the
body, it forms round plaits from the waist. This fullness is owing to
its being cut in a style like the paletot. The back is not tight. The
edges of the hood, the _soutanelle_, and the sleeves are trimmed with
three _ruchés_, very full, and indented like a saw. The one in the
middle is the same color as the lining, the two others like the outside.

[Illustration: FIGS. 3 AND 4.--HEAD-DRESSES AND CAPS.]

HEAD TOILET.--Much attention continues to be bestowed upon caps and
other arrangements for the head. Figure 3 represents one of the newest
styles, called the _chambord head-dress_. The hair forms a point over
the forehead: a very small cap _à la Marie Stuart_, formed of several
small quillings of white silk net, set close together, with a bouquet of
flowers upon one side and a small bow of ribbon upon the other. Figure 4
represents a simple cap of black lace, with broad appendages of the
same, instead of ribbons, on each side, and covering the ears. This is a
neat head toilet for the morning costume of matrons. Head-dresses for
the young are principally composed of the same flowers as those which
decorate the dress, and are formed so as to suit the countenance of the
wearer, either as a cordon around the head, from which droop long sprays
of twining herbs, or bouquets of flowers, placed very far back, and tied
with bows of black ribbon or velvet, with long ends.

The rage for lace is undiminished. It is adapted to so many
purposes--vails, falls, flounces, shawl-berthes, collars, ruffles,
habit-shirts, &c., that every variety of costume has lace as an
important material in trimming. It forms a part of the head-dress,
accompanies the gown, surrounds the waist, falls from the shoulders;
light as feathers, rich as velvet, it is at once an article of luxury
and ornament--a garment and a jewel.

Embroidery, following the example of lace, is coming more and more into
favor; sleeves, collars, petticoats, and handkerchiefs are literally
loaded with it, abroad; even stockings are beginning to participate in
this kind of luxury.

There is no essential change in the make of dresses. Sleeves _à la
Duchesse_ are beginning to be more fashionable than the pagoda sleeves.
The waistcoat is still greatly admired, and is more seasonable now than
in midsummer.

A new style of mantelet has appeared, called the _Valdivia_. It is a
light gray cloth, lined with blue sarcenet. It is made without seams,
very full, falling very low behind, where it is rounded in the form of
the half circle. The two lappets before are also very long and wide,
rounded like the back. No sleeves; the place for the hand is indicated
by the sloped part. Another, called the _Espera_ mantelet, is of black
watered silk, trimmed with a wide velvet, and bordered by a chenille
fringe. It fits to the waist and falls as low as the calf behind. The
fronts fall straight and square, a little lower than behind.

The Bloomer costume has appeared in England and Ireland, and attracted
attention and approbation. Although comparatively few in this country
have yet adopted it to its full extent (or, rather, curtailment), the
agitation of the question has been of essential benefit in modifying the
long and untidy skirts. They are now made some inches shorter than they
were six months ago.