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THE

INTERNATIONAL

MONTHLY

MAGAZINE

Of Literature, Science, and Art.


VOLUME II.

DECEMBER TO MARCH, 1850-51.


  NEW-YORK:
  STRINGER & TOWNSEND, 222 BROADWAY.
  FOR SALE BY ALL BOOKSELLERS.
  BY THE NUMBER, 25 CTS.; THE VOLUME, $1; THE YEAR, $3.




PREFACE.


On completing the second volume of the International Magazine, the
publishers appeal to its pages with confidence for confirmation of all
the promises that have been made with regard to its character. They
believe the verdict of the American journals has been unanimous upon the
point that the _International_ has been the best journal of literary
intelligence in the world, keeping its readers constantly advised of the
intellectual activity of Great Britain, Germany, France, the other
European nations, and our own country. As a journal of the fine arts, it
has been the aim of the editor to render it in all respects just, and as
particular as the space allotted to this department would allow. And its
reproductions of the best contemporary foreign literature bear the names
of Walter Savage Landor, Mazzini, Bulwer, Dickens, Thackeray, Barry
Cornwall, Alfred Tennyson, R.M. Milnes, Charles Mackay, Mrs. Browning,
Miss Mitford, Miss Martineau, Mrs. Hall, and others; its original
translations the names of several of the leading authors of the
Continent, and its anonymous selections the titles of the great Reviews,
Magazines, and Journals, as well as of many of the most important new
books in all departments of literature. But the _International_ is not
merely a compilation; it has embraced in the two volumes already issued,
original papers, by Bishop Spencer of Jamaica, Henry Austen Layard,
LL.D., the most illustrious of living travellers and antiquaries, G.P.R.
James, Alfred B. Street, Bayard Taylor, A.O. Hall, R.H. Stoddard,
Richard B. Kimball, Parke Godwin, William C. Richards, John E. Warren,
Elizabeth Oakes Smith, Mary E. Hewitt, Alice Carey, and other authors of
eminence, whose compositions have entitled it to a place in the first
class of original literary periodicals. Besides the writers hitherto
engaged for the _International_, many of distinguished reputations are
pledged to contribute to its pages hereafter; and the publishers have
taken measures for securing at the earliest possible day the chief
productions of the European press, so that to American readers the
entire Magazine will be as new and fresh as if it were all composed
expressly for their pleasure.

The style of illustration which has thus far been so much approved by
the readers of the _International_, will be continued, and among the
attractions of future numbers will be admirable portraits of Irving,
Cooper, Bryant, Halleck, Prescott, Ticknor, Francis, Hawthorne, Willis,
Kennedy, Mitchell, Mayo, Melville, Whipple, Taylor, Dewey, Stoddard, and
other authors, accompanied as frequently as may be with views of their
residences, and sketches of their literary and personal character.

Indeed, every means possible will be used to render the _International
Magazine_ to every description of persons the most valuable as well as
the most entertaining miscellany in the English language.


  CONTENTS:

  VOLUME II. DECEMBER TO MARCH, 1850-51.

  Adams, John, upon Riches,                                          426

  Ambitious Brooklet, The.--_By A.O. Hall_,                          477

  Accidents will Happen.--_By C. Astor Bristed_,                      81

  Anima Mundi.--_By R.M. Milnes_,                                    393

  Astor Library, The. (Illustrated,)                                 436

  Attempts to Discover the Northwest Passage, On the,                166

  Audubon, John James.--_By Rufus W. Griswold_,                      469

  Age, Old.--_By Alfred B. Street_,                                  474

  _Arts, The Fine._--Munich and Schwanthaler's "Bavaria," 26.--Art in
  Florence, 27.--W.W. Story's Return from Italy, 27.--Les Beautes de la
  France, 27.--History of Art Exhibitions, 28.--Enamel Painting at
  Berlin, 28.--Portrait of Sir Francis Drake, 28.--The Vernets,
  28.--Leutze, Powers, &c., 28.--Kaulbach, 28.--Illustrations of Homer,
  28.--Old Pictures, 29.--Michael Angelo, 29.--Conversations by the
  Academy of Design, 29.--David's Napoleon Crossing the Alps, 29.--Gift
  from the Bavarian Artists to the King, 190.--Charles Eastlake,
  190.--New Picture by Kaulbach, 190.--Russian Porcelain, 190.--Mr.
  Healey, 191.--Von Kestner on Art, 191.--Russian Music in Paris,
  191.--The Goethe Inheritance, 191.--Art Unions; their True Character
  Considered, 191.--Waagner's "Art in the Future," 313.--Thorwaldsen,
  313.--Heidel's "Illustrations of Goethe," 313.--A New Art,
  313.--Albert Durer's Illustrations of the Prayer Book, 313.--Moritz
  Rugendus, and his Sketches of American Scenery, 314.--An Art Union in
  Vienna, 314.--New Picture by Kaulbach, 314.--Powers's "America,"
  314.--Dr. Baun's Essay on the two Chief Groups of the Friese of the
  Parthenon, 314.--Victor Orsel's Paintings in the Church of Notre Dame
  de Lorelle, 314.--Ehninger's Illustrations of Irving, 314.--Wolff's
  Paris, 314.--M. Leutze's "Washington Crossing the Delaware,"
  460.--Discovery of a Picture by Michael Angelo, 460.--The Munich Art
  Union, 460.

  _Authors and Books._--A Visit to Henry Heine, 15.--Dr. Zirckel's
  "Sketches from and concerning the United States," 16.--Aerostation,
  17.--New Works by M. Guizot, 17.--Works on the German Revolution,
  18.--Dr. Zimmer's Universal History, 18.--Schlosser, 18.--MS. of Le
  Bel Discovered, 19.--M. Bastiat alive, and plagiarizing,
  19.--Cæsarism, 19.--Songs of Carinthia, 20.--Mr. Bryant, 20.--Dr.
  Laing, 20.--French Reviewal of Mr. Elliot's History of Liberty,
  20.--Dr. Bowring, 21.--Henry Rogers and Reviews, 21.--Rabbi Schwartz
  on the Holy Land, 21.--Mr. John R. Thompson, 21.--German Reviewal of
  "Fashion," 22.--Ruskin's New Work, 21.--Oehlenschlager's Memoirs,
  22.--Planche on Lamartine, 22.--Prosper Mérimée, his Book on America,
  &c., 22.--Hawthorne, 22.--Matthews, the American Traveller,
  23.--Professor Adler's Translation of the Iphigenia in Taurus,
  23.--The Pekin Gazette, 23.--New Book by the author of "Shakespeare
  and his Friends," 23.--Vaulabelle's French History, 23.--Sir Edward
  Belcher, 23.--Guizot an Editor again, 23.--Life of Southey,
  23.--Bulwer's _Ears_, 23.--The Count de Castelnau on South America,
  23.--Diplomatic and Literary Studies of Alexis de Saint Priest,
  24.--Mrs. Putnam's Review of Bowen, 24.--Herr Thaer, 24.--New Work
  announced in England, 24.--"Sir Roger de Coverley; by the Spectator,"
  25.--Memoir of Judge Story, 25.--Garland's Life of John Randolph,
  25.--Sir Edgerton Brydges's edition of Milton's Poems, 25.--The
  Keepsake, 25.--Gray's Poems, 25.--Rev. Professor Weir, 25.--Douglas
  Jerrold's Complete Works, 25.--Memoirs of the Poet Wordsworth, by his
  Nephew, 25.--New German books on Hungary, 173.--"Polish Population in
  Galicia," 173.--Travels and Ethnological works of Professor Reguly,
  174.--Works on Ethnology, published by the Austrian Government,
  174.--Karl Gutzlow, 174.--Neandar's Library, 174.--Karl Simrock's
  Popular Songs, 175.--Belgian Literature, 175.--Prof. Johnston's Work
  on America, 175.--Literary and Scientific Works at Giessen,
  175.--Beranger, 175.--The House of the "Wandering Jew," 176.--The
  Count de Tocqueville upon Dr. Franklin, &c., 176.--Audubon's Last
  Work, 176.--Book Fair at Leipsic, 176.--Baroness von Beck,
  177.--Berghaus's Magazine, Albert Gallatin, &c., 177.--Auerback's
  Tales, 177.--Baron Sternberg, 177.--"The New Faith Taught in Art,"
  177.--Freiligrath, 177.--New Adventure and Discovery in Africa,
  178.--French Almanacs, 178.--The _Algemeine Zeitung_ on Literary
  Women, 178.--Cormenin on War, 178.--Writers of "Young France,"
  179.--George Sand's Last Works, 179.--New Books on the French
  Revolution, Mirabeau, Massena, &c., 179.--Cousin, 179.--Tomb of
  Godfrey of Bouillon, 179.--Maxims of Frederic the Great, 179.--New
  Poems by Elizabeth Barrett Browning, 180.--Rectorship of Glasgow
  University, 180.--Tennyson, 180.--Mayhew, D'Israeli, Leigh Hunt, The
  Earl of Carlisle, &c., 180.--New Work by Joseph Balmes, 180.--The late
  Mrs. Bell Martin, 181.--The _Athenæum_ on Mrs. Mowatt's Novels,
  181.--New work by Mrs. Southworth, 181.--Charles Mackay, sent to
  India, 182.--Pensions to Literary Men, 182.--German Translation of
  Ticknor's History of Spanish Literature, 182.--David Copperfield,
  183.--D.D. Field and the English Lawyers, 183.--Louisiana Historical
  Collections, 183.--Elihu Burritt's Absurdities, 184.--John Mills,
  184.--Dr. Latham's "Races of Men," 184.--Homoeopathic Review,
  184.--Bohn's Publications, 184.--Professor Reed's Rhetoric, 185.--Mr.
  Bancroft's forthcoming History, 185.--Dr. Schoolcraft, 185.--MS. of
  Dr. Johnson's Memoirs, 185.--Literary "Discoveries," 185.--M.
  Girardin, 185.--Vulgar Lying of the last English Traveller in America,
  186.--The Real Peace Congress, 186.--Milton, Burke, Mazzini, Webster,
  187.--Sir Francis Head, 187.--Dr. Bloomfield, 187.--New Book by Mr.
  Cooper, 187.--Mr. Judd's "Richard Edney," 187.--E.G. Squier,
  Hawthorne, &c., 187.--The Author of "Olive," on the Sphere of Woman,
  188.--Flemish Poems, 188.--"Lives of the Queens of Scotland,"
  188.--John S. Dwight, 188.--History of the Greek Revolution, 188.--New
  Edition of the Works of Goethe, 188.--W.G. Simms, Dr. Holmes, &c.,
  188.--The Songs of Pierre Dupont, 189.--Arago and Prudhon,
  189.--Charles Sumner, 189.--"The Manhattaner in New Orleans,"
  189.--"Reveries of a Bachelor," "Vala," &c., 189.--Of Personalities,
  297.--Last Work of Oersted, 298.--New Dramas, 299.--German Novels,
  300.--Hungarian Literature, 301.--New German Book on America,
  301.--Ruckert's "Annals of German History," 301.--Zschokke's Private
  Letters, 301.--Works by Bender and Burmeister, 301.--The Countess
  Hahn-Hahn, 302.--"Value of Goethe as a Poet," 302.--Hagen's History of
  Recent Times, 302.--Cotta's Illustrated Bible, 302.--Wallon's History
  of Slavery, 302.--Translation of the Journal of the U.S. Exploring
  Expedition into German, 302.--Richter's Translation of Mrs. Barbauld,
  302.--Bodenstet's New Book on the East, 302.--Third Part of Humboldt's
  "Cosmos," &c., 303.--Dr. Espe, 303.--The Works of Neander, 303.--Works
  of Luther, 303.--_L'Universe Pittoresque_, 303.--M. Nisard,
  303.--French Documentary Publications, 303.--M. Ginoux, 303.--M.
  Veron, 304.--Eugene Sue's New Books, 304.--George Sand in the Theatre,
  304.--Alphonse Karr, 304.--Various new Publications in Paris,
  304.--The Catholic Church and Pius IX., 305.--Notices of Hayti,
  305.--Work on Architecture, by Gailhabaud, 305.--Italian Monthly
  Review, 305.--Discovery of Letters by Pope, 305.--Lord Brougham,
  305.--Alice Carey, 305.--Mrs. Robinson ("Talvi"), 306.--New Life of
  Hannah More, 306.--Professor Hackett on the Alps, 306.--Mrs. Anita
  George, 307.--Life and Works of Henry Wheaton, 308.--R.R. Madden,
  308.--Rev. E.H. Chapin on "Woman," 308.--Discovery of Historical
  Documents of Quebec, 308.--Professor Andrews's Latin Lexicon,
  309.--"Salander," by Mr. Shelton, 309.--Prof. Bush on Pneumatology,
  309.--Satire on the Rappers, by J.R. Lowell, 309.--Henry C. Phillips
  on the Scenery of the Central Regions of America, 310.--Sam. Adams no
  Defaulter, 310.--Mr. Willis, 310.--Life of Calvin, 310.--Notes of a
  Howadje, 310.--Mr. Putnam's "World's Progress," 310.--Mr. Whittier,
  310.--New Volume of Hildreth's History of the United States, 311.--The
  Memorial of Mrs. Osgood, 311.--Fortune Telling in Paris,
  311.--Writings of Hartley Coleridge, 311.--New Books forthcoming in
  London, 312.--Mr. Cheever's "Island World of the Pacific," 312.--Works
  of Bishop Onderdonk, 312.--Moreau's _Imitatio Christi_, 312.--New
  German Poems, 312.--Schröder on the Jews, 312.--Arago on Ballooning,
  312.--Books prohibited at Naples, 312.--Notices of Mazzini,
  313.--Charles Augustus Murray, 313.--New History of Woman,
  313.--Letters on Humboldt's Cosmos, 446.--German Version of the
  "Vestiges of Creation," 447.--Hegel's _Aesthetik_, 447.--New Work in
  France on the Origin of the Human Race, 448.--Lelewel on the Geography
  of the Middle Ages, 448.--More German Novels, 448.--"Man in the Mirror
  of Nature," 449.--Herr Kielhau, on Geology, 449.--Proposed Prize for a
  Defence of Absolutism, 449.--Werner's Christian Ethics, 449.--William
  Meinhold, 449.--Prize History of the Jews, 449.--English Version of
  Mrs. Robinson's Work on America, 449.--Poems by Jeanne Marie,
  449.--General Gordon's Memoirs, 449.--George Sand's New Drama,
  449.--Other New French Plays, 451.--M. Cobet's History of France,
  451.--Rev. G.R. Gleig, 451.--Ranke's Discovery of MSS. by Richelieu,
  451.--George Sand on Bad Spelling, 451.--Lola Montes,
  451.--Montalembert, 451.--Glossary of the Middle Ages, 451.--A Coptic
  Grammar, 451.--The Italian Revolution, 452.--Italian Archæological
  Society, 452.--Abaddie, the French Traveller, 452.--The Vatican
  Library, 452.--New Ode by Piron, 452.--Posthumous Works of Rossi,
  452.--Bailey, the Author of "Festus," 453.--Clinton's _Fasti_,
  453.--Captain Cunningham, 453.--Dixon's Life of Penn, 453.--Literary
  Women in England, 453.--Miss Martineau's History of the Last Half
  Century, 453.--The Lexington Papers, 453.--Captain Medwin, 453.--John
  Clare, 454.--De Quincy's Writings, 454.--Bulwer's Poems,
  454.--Episodes of Insect Life, 454.--Dr. Achilli, 454.--Samuel Bailey,
  454.--Major Poussin, and his Work on the United States, 454.--French
  Collections in Political Economy, 455.--Joseph Gales, 456.--Rev. Henry
  T. Cheever, 456.--Job R. Tyson on Colonial History, 456.--Henry James,
  456.--Torrey and Neander, 457.--Works of John C. Calhoun,
  457.--Historic Certainties respecting Early America, 457.--Mr.
  Schoolcraft, 457.--Dr. Robert Knox, 458.--Mr. Boker's Plays, 458.--The
  _Literary World_ upon a supposed Letter of Washington, 458.--Dr.
  Ducachet's Dictionary of the Church, 458.--Edith May's Poems,
  458.--The American Philosophical Society, 458.--Professor Hows,
  458.--Mr. Redfield's Publications, 458.--Rev. William W. Lord's New
  Poem, 450.

  Battle of the Churches in England,                                 327

  Ballad of Jessie Carol.--_By Alice Carey_,                         230

  Barry Cornwall's Last Song,                                        392

  Bereaved Mother, To a.--_By Hermann_,                              476

  Biographies, Memoirs, &c.,                                         425

  Black Pocket-Book, The,                                             89

  Bombay, A View of.--_By Peter Leicester_,                          130

  Boswell, The Killing of Sir Alexander,                             329

  Brontë and her Sisters, Sketches of Miss,                          315

  Burke, Edmund, His Residences and Grave.--_By Mrs. S.C. Hall._
    (Illustrated.)                                                   145

  Bunjaras, The,                                                     377

  Burlesques and Parodies,                                           426

  Byron, Scott, and Carlyle, Goethe's Opinions of,                   461

  Camille Desmoulins,                                                326

  Carey, Henry C.--_By Rufus W. Griswold_,                           402

  Castle in the Air, The.--_By R.H. Stoddard_,                       474

  Chatterton, Thomas. (Illustrated.)                                 289

  Classical Novels,                                                  161

  Count Monte-Leone. Book Second,                                     45
    "        "         "  Third,                                     216
    "        "         "  Third, concluded,                          349
    "        "         "  Fourth,                                    495

  Cow-Tree of South America, The,                                    128

  Correspondence, Original: A Letter from Paris,                     170

  Cyprus and the Life Led There,                                     216

  Davis on the Half Century: Etherization,                           317

  Dacier, Madame,                                                    332

  Dante.--_By Walter Savage Landor_,                                 421

  Death, Phenomena of,                                               425

  _Deaths, Recent._--Hon. Samuel Young, 141.--Robinson, the
  Caricaturist, 141.--The Duke of Palmella, 142.--Carl Rottmann,
  142.--The Marquis de Trans, 142.--Ch. Schorn, 142.--Hon. Richard M.
  Johnson, 142.--Wm. Blacker, 142.--Mrs. Martin Bell, 142.--Signor
  Baptistide, 142.--Gen. Chastel, 142.--Dr. Medicus, and others,
  142.--Rev. Dr. Dwight, 195.--Count Brandenburgh, 196.--Lord Nugent,
  196.--M. Fragonard, 196.--M. Droz, 197.--Professor Schorn,
  197.--Gustave Schwab, 197.--Francis Xavier Michael Tomie,
  427.--Governors Bell and Plumer, 427.--Birch, the Painter,
  427.--Professor Sverdrup, W. Seguin, Mrs. Ogilvy, 427.--W. Howison,
  428.--H. Royer-Collard, 428.--Col. Williams, 428.--William Sturgeon,
  428.--J.B. Anthony, 428.--Mr. Osbaldiston, 428.--Professor Mau,
  428.--Madame Junot, Mrs. Wallack, &c., 428.--Herman Kriege,
  429.--Madame Schmalz, 429.--George Spence, 429.--General Lumley,
  429.--Robert Roscoe, 429.--Richie, the Sculptor, 429.--Martin d'Auch,
  429.--Rev. Walter Colton, 568.--Major d'Avezac, 569.--M. Asser,
  569.--M. Lapie, 569.--Professor Link, 569.--General St. Martin,
  570.--Frederick Bastiat, 570.--Benjamin W. Crowninshield,
  571.--Professor Anstey, 571.--Donald McKenzie, 572.--Horace Everett,
  LL.D., 572.--James Harfield, 572.--Wm. Wilson, 572.--Professor James
  Wallace, 572.--Joshua Milne, 572.--General Bem, 573.--T.S. Davies,
  F.R.S., 573.--H.C. Schumacher, 573.--W.H. Maxwell, 573.--Alexander
  McDonald, 573.

  Dickens, To Charles.--_By Walter Savage Landor_,                    75

  Drive Round our Neighborhood, in 1850, A.--_By Miss Milford_,      270

  Duty.--_By Alfred B. Street_,                                      332

  Duchess, A Peasant,                                                169

  Edward Layton's Reward.--_By Mrs. S.C. Hall_,                      201

  Editorial Visit, An,                                               421

  Egypt under the Pharaohs.--_By John Kinrick_,                      322

  Encouragement of Literature by Governments,                        160

  Exclusion of Love from the Greek Drama,                            123

  Fountain in the Wood, The,                                         129

  French Generals of To-Day,                                         334

  Gateway of the Oceans,                                             124

  Ghetto of Rome,                                                    393

  Gleanings from the Journals,                                       285

  Grief of the Weeping Willow,                                        31

  Haddock, Charles B., Charge d'Affaires to Portugal. (With a
    Portrait on steel.)                                                1

  Hecker, Herr, described by Madame Blaze de Bury,                    30

  _Historical Review._--The United States, 560.--Europe, 564.--Mexico,
  565.--British America, 566.--The West Indies, 566.--Central America,
  the Isthmus, 566.--South America, 567.--Africa, 567.

  Hunt, Leigh, upon G.P.R. James,                                     30

  Ireland in the Last Age: Curran,                                   519

  Journals of Louis Philippe,                                        377

  Kellogg's, Mr., Exploration of Mt. Sinai,                          462

  Kimball, Richard B., the Author of "St. Leger." (Illustrated.)     156

  Layard's Recent Gifts from Nimroud. (Illustrated.)                   4

  Layard, Austen Henry, LL.D. (With a Portrait,)                     433

  Lafayette, Talleyrand, Metternich, and Napoleon.--_Sketched
    by Lord Holland_,                                                465

  Last Case of the Supernatural,                                     481

  Lectures, Popular,                                                 319

  Life at a Watering Place.--_By C. Astor Bristed_,                  240

  Lionne at a Watering Place, The,                                   533

  Lost Letter, The,                                                  522

  Mazzini on Italy,                                                  265

  Mackay, Charles, Last Poems by,                                    348

  Marvel, Andrew. (Illustrated.)                                     438

  Mother's Last Song, The.--_By Barry Cornwall_,                     270

  _Music and the Drama.--The Astor Place Opera, Parodi, 29.--Mrs. Oake
  Smith's New Tragedy, 30.

  Mystic Vial, The, Part i.                                           61
     "     "        Part ii.                                         249
     "     "        Part iii.                                        378

  My Novel, Or Varieties in English Life.--_By Sir Edward
    Bulwer Lytton_, Book II. Chapters i. to vi.                      109
                    Book II. Chapters vii. to xii.                   273
                    Book III. Chapters i. to xii.                    407
                    Book III. Chapters xiii. to xxvii.               542

  Murder Market, The,                                                126

  New Tales by Miss Martineau--The Old Governess,                    163

  Novelist's Appeal for the Canadas, A,                              443

  Old Times in New-York,                                             320

  Osgood, The late Mrs.--_By Rufus W. Griswold_,                     131

  Paris Fashions for December. (Illustrated.)                        144
    "      "         January. (Illustrated.)                         286
    "      "         February. (Illustrated.)                        431
    "      "         March. (Illustrated.)                           567

  Peace Society, The First,                                          321

  Penn, (William,) and Macaulay,                                     336

  Pleasant Story of a Swallow,                                       123

  Poet's Lot, The.--_By the author of "Festus,"_                      45

  Power's, Hiram, Greek Slave.--_By Elizabeth Barret Browning_,       88

  Poems by S.G. Goodrich, A Biographical Review. (Illustrated.)      153

  Public Libraries, Ancient and Modern,                              359

  Recent Deaths in the Family of Orleans,                            122

  Reminiscences of Paganini,                                         167

  Responsibility of Statesmen,                                       127

  Rossini in the Kitchen,                                            321

  Scandalous French Dances in American Parlors,                      333

  _Scientific Miscellany._--Hydraulic Experiments in Paris,
  430.--French Populations, 430.--African Exploring Expedition,
  430.--The Hungarian Academy, 430.--Gas from Water, &c., 430.--The
  French "Annuaire," 573.--Sittings of the Academy of Sciences,
  573.--New Scientific Publications, 574.--Sir David Brewster, 574.

  Sir Nicholas at Marston Moor.--_By Winthrop M. Praed_,              80

  Sliding Scale of Inconsolables. From the French,                   162

  Smiths, The Two Miss.--_By Mrs. Crowe_,                             76

  Song of the Season.--_By Charles Mackay_,                          128

  Sounds from Home.--_By Alice G. Neal_,                             332

  Spencer, Aubrey George, LL.D., Bishop of Jamaica,                  157

  Spirit of the English Annuals for 1851,                            197

  Stanzas.--_By Alfred Tennyson_,                                    273

  Statues.--_By Walter Savage Landor_,                               126

  Story Without a Name, A.--_By G.P.R. James_,                        32
        "          "  Chapters vi. to ix.                            205
        "          "  Chapters x. to xiii.                           337
        "          "  Chapters xiv. to xvii.                         482

  Story of Calais, A.--_By Richard B. Kimball_,                      231

  Story of a Poet,                                                    88

  Swift, Dean, and his Amours. (Illustrated.)                         7

  Temper of Women,                                                   437

  Theatrical Criticism in the Last Age,                              334

  To a Celebrated Singer.--_By R.H. Stoddard_,                        86

  To one in Affliction.--_By G.R. Thompson_,                         541

  Troost, of Tennessee, The Late Dr.                                 332

  Twickenham Ghost, The,                                              60

  Valetudinarian, The Confirmed.--_By Sir Edward Bulwer Lytton_,     203

  Vampire, The Last.--_By Mrs. Crowe_,                               107

  Voltigeur.--_By W.H. Thackeray_,                                   197

  Voisenen, The Abbé de, and his Times,                              511

  Wane of the Year, The,                                             129

  Webster, LL.D., Horace, and the Free Academy. (Portrait.)          444

  Wearing the Beard.--_Dr. Marcy_,                                   130

  Wiseman, Dr., Cardinal Archbishop of Westminster (Illustrated.)    143

  Wild Sports in Algeria.--_By Jules Gerard_,                        121

  Wolf Chase, The.--_By C. Whitehead_,                                86


[Illustration: _C.B. Haddock_]


THE INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE

of Literature, Art, and Science.


Vol. II. NEW YORK, DECEMBER 1, 1850. No. I.




OUR DIPLOMATIC SERVANTS.

CHARLES B. HADDOCK,

CHARGE D'AFFAIRES FOR PORTUGAL.

[With a Portrait, Engraved by J. Andrews.]


Old notions of diplomacy are obsolete. The plain, straightforward, and
masterly manner in which Daniel Webster and Lord Ashburton managed the
difficult affairs which a few years ago threatened war between this
country and England have taught mankind a useful lesson on this subject.
We perceive that the London _Times_ has been engaged in a controversy
whether there should be diplomatists or no diplomatists, whether, in
fact, the profession should survive; arguing from this case conducted by
our illustrious Secretary and Lord Ashburton, that negotiation in
foreign countries is plain sailing for great men, and that common agents
would do the necessary business on ordinary occasions. We are not
prepared to accept the doctrine of the _Times_, though ready enough to
admit that it is to be preferred to the employment of such persons as
many whom we have sent abroad in the last twenty years--many who now in
various capacities represent the United States in foreign countries.
Upon this question however we do not propose now to enter. It is one
which may be deferred still a long time--until the means of
intercommunication shall be greater than steam and electricity have yet
made them, or until the evils of unworthy representation shall have
driven people to the possible dangers of an abandonment of the system
without such a reason. We design in this and future numbers of the
_International_ simply to give a few brief personal sketches of the most
honorably distinguished of the diplomatic servants of the United States
now abroad, and we commence with the newly-appointed _Charge d'Affaires_
to Lisbon.

Charles Brickett Haddock was born at Salisbury (now Franklin), New
Hampshire, on the 20th of June, 1796. His father, William Haddock, was a
native of Haverhill, Massachusetts. His paternal grandfather removed
from Boston to Haverhill, and married a sister of Dr. Charles Brickett,
an eminent physician of that town. The family, according to a tradition
among them, are descended from Admiral Sir Richard Haddocke, one of ten
sons and eleven daughters of Mr. Haddocke, of Lee, in England. Richard
Haddocke was an eminent officer in the Royal Navy. He was knighted
before 1678, and returned a member of Parliament the same year, and
again in 1685. He died in 1713, and was buried in the family vault at
Lee, where there is a gravestone, with brass plates on which are
engraved portraits of his father, his father's three wives, and thirteen
sons and eleven daughters.

The mother of Dr. Haddock was Abigail Webster, a favorite sister of
Ezekiel and Daniel Webster, who, with Sarah, were the only children of
the Hon. Ebenezer Webster by his second wife, Abigail Eastman, who
survived her husband and all her daughters. Mrs. Haddock was a woman of
strong character, and greatly beloved in society. She died in December,
1805, at the age of twenty-seven, leaving two sons, Charles and William,
one about nine and the other seven years of age. Her last words to her
husband were, "I leave you two beautiful boys: my wish is that you
should educate them both." The injunction was not forgotten; both were
in due time placed at a preparatory school in Salisbury, both entered
Dartmouth College, and without an academic censure or reproof graduated
with distinction.

The younger, having studied the profession of the law, married a
daughter of Mills Olcott, of Hanover, and after a few years, rich in
promise of professional eminence, died of consumption at Hanover, in
1835.

The elder, Charles B. Haddock, was born in the house in which his
grandfather first lived, after he removed to the river, in Franklin;
though his childhood was chiefly spent at Elms Farms, in the mansion
built by his father, and now the favorite residence of his uncle, Daniel
Webster,--a spot hardly equaled for picturesque and tranquil beauty in
that part of New England. How much of his rural tastes and gentle
feelings the professor owes to the place of his nativity it is not for
us to determine. It is certain that a fitter scene to inspire the
sentiments for which he is distinguished, and which he delights to
refresh by frequent visits to these scenes, could not well be imagined.
Every hill and valley, every rock and eddy, seem to be familiar to him,
and to have a legend for his heart. His earliest distinct recollections,
he has often been heard to say, are the burial of a sister younger than
himself, his own baptism at the bedside of his dying mother, and the
death of his grandfather; and the first things that awakened a romantic
emotion were the flight of the night-hawk and the note of the
whippoorwill, both uncommonly numerous and noticeable there in summer
evenings.

From 1807 he was in the academy during the summer months, and attended
the common school in winter, until 1811, when, in his sixteenth year, he
taught his own first winter school. It had been his fortune to have as
instructors persons destined to unusual eminence: Mr. Richard Fletcher,
now one of the justices of the Superior Court of Massachusetts; Justice
Willard, of Springfield; the Rev. Edward L. Parker, of Londonderry; and
Nathaniel H. Carter, the well-known poet and general writer. It was
under Mr. Carter that he first felt a genuine love of learning; and he
has always ascribed more of his literary tastes, to his insensible
influence, as he read to him Virgil and Cicero, than to any other living
teacher. His earliest Latin book was the Æneid, over the first half of
which he had, summer after summer, fatigued and vexed himself, before
the idea occurred to him that it was an epic poem; and that idea came to
him at length not from his teachers, but from a question of his uncle,
Daniel Webster, about the descent of the hero into the infernal regions.
When a proper impression of its design was once formed, and some
familiarity with the language was acquired, Virgil was run through with
great rapidity: half a book in a day. So also with Cicero: an oration at
a lesson. There was no verbal accuracy acquired or attempted; but a
ready mastery of the current of discourse--a familiarity with the point
and spirit of the work. In August, 1812, he was admitted a freshman in
Dartmouth College. It was a small class, but remarkable from having
produced a large number of eminent men, among whom we may mention George
A. Simmons, a distinguished lawyer in northern New York, and one of the
profoundest philosophers in this country; Dr. Absalom Peters; President
Wheeler, of the University of Vermont; Governor Hubbard, of Maine; and
Professor Joseph Torrey, of the University of Vermont, since so
honorably known as the learned translator of Neander, and as being
without a superior among American scholars in a knowledge of the
profounder German literature. The late illustrious and venerated Dr.
James Marsh, the editor of Coleridge, and the only pupil of that great
metaphysician who was the peer of his master, was of the class below
his, and was an intimate companion in study.

From the beginning of his college life it was his ambition to
distinguish himself. By the general consent of his classmates, and by
the appointment of the faculty, he held the first place at each public
exhibition through the four years in which he was a student, and at the
last commencement was complimented with having the order of the parts,
according to which the Latin salutatory had hitherto been first, so
changed that he might still have precedence and yet have the English
valedictory. During his junior year, his mind was first decidedly turned
toward religion, and with Wheeler, Torrey, Marsh, and some forty others,
he made a public profession. The two years after he left college were
spent at Andover, in the study of divinity. While here, with Torrey,
Wheeler, Marsh, and one or two more, he joined in a critical reading of
Virgil--an exercise of great value in enlarging a command of his own
language, as well as his knowledge of Latin. At the close of the second
year he was attacked with hemorrhage of the lungs, and advised to try a
southern climate for the winter. He sailed in October, 1818, for
Charleston, and spent the winter in that city and in Savannah, with
occasional visits into the surrounding country. The following summer he
traveled, chiefly on horseback, and in company with the Rev. Pliny Fisk,
from Charleston home. To this tour he ascribes his recovery. He soon
after took his master's degree, and was appointed the first Professor of
Rhetoric and Belles-Lettres in Dartmouth College. From that time a
change was obvious in the literary spirit of the instruction given at
the institution. The department to which he was called became very soon
the most attractive in the college, and some of the most distinguished
orators of our country are pleased to admit that they obtained their
first impressions of true eloquence and a correct style from the
youthful professor. He introduced readings in the Scriptures, and in
Shakspeare, Milton, and Young, with original criticisms by his pupils on
particular features of the principal works of genius, as the hell of
Virgil, Dante, and Milton; and the prominent characters of the best
tragedies, as the Jew of Cumberland and of Shakspeare; and
extemporaneous discussions of æsthetical and political questions, as
upon the authenticity of Ossian, the authorship of Homer, the sincerity
of Cromwell, or the expediency of the execution of Charles. He also
exerted his influence in founding an association for familiar written
and oral discussions in literature, in which Dr. Edward Oliver, Dr.
James Marsh, Professor Fiske, Mr. Rufus Choate, Professor Chamberlain,
and others, acted a prominent part.

He retained this chair until August, 1838, when he was appointed to that
of Intellectual Philosophy and Political Economy, which he now holds,
but, which, of course, will be occupied by another during his absence in
the public service--the faculty having declined on any account to accept
his resignation or to appoint a successor.

Dr. Haddock has been invited to the professorship of rhetoric in
Hamilton College, and to the presidency of that institution, the
presidency and a professorship in the Auburn Theological Seminary, the
presidency of Bowdoin College, and, less formally, to that of several
other colleges in New England.

In public affairs, he has for four successive years been a
representative in the New Hampshire Legislature, and in this period was
active in introducing the present common school system of the State, and
was the first commissioner of common schools, originating the course of
action in that important office which has since been pursued. He was one
of the fathers of the railroad system in New Hampshire, and his various
speeches had the effect to change the policy of the State on this
subject. He addressed the first convention called at Lebanon to consider
the practicability of a road across the State, and afterward a similar
convention at Montpelier. For two years he lectured every Sabbath
evening to the students and to the people of the village, on the
historical portions of the New Testament. For several years he held
weekly meetings for the interpretation of Scripture, in which the ladies
of the village met at his house. And for twenty years he has constantly
preached to vacant parishes in the vicinity. He has delivered
anniversary orations before the Phi Beta Kappa Societies of Dartmouth
and Yale, the Rhetorical Societies of Andover and Bangor, the Religious
Society of the University of Vermont, the New Hampshire Historical
Society, and the New England Society of New York; numerous lyceum
lectures, in Boston, Lowell, Salem, Portsmouth, Manchester, New Bedford,
and other places; and of the New Hampshire Education Society he was
twelve or fifteen years secretary, publishing annual reports. The
principal periodicals to which he has contributed are the _Biblical
Repository_ and the _Bibliotheca Sacra_. A volume of his _Addresses and
Miscellaneous Writings_ was published in 1846, and he has now a work on
rhetoric in preparation.

He has been twice married--the last time to a sister of Mr. Kimball, the
author of "St. Leger," &c. He has three children living, and has buried
seven.

In agriculture, gardening, and public improvements of all kinds, he has
taken a lively interest. The rural ornaments of the town in which he
lives owe much to him. He may be said to have introduced the fruit and
horticulture which are now becoming so abundant as luxuries, and so
remarkable as ornaments of the village.

In 1843 he received the degree of D.D. from Bowdoin College. Of
Dartmouth College nearly half the graduates are his pupils. While
commissioner of common schools, he published a series of letters to
teachers and students which were more generally republished in the
various papers of the country than anything else of the kind ever before
written. Perhaps no one in this country has discussed so great a variety
of subjects. His essays upon the proper standard of education for the
pulpit, addresses on the utility of certain proposed lines of railway,
orations on the duties of the citizen to the state, lectures before
various medical societies, speeches in the New Hampshire House of
Representatives, letters written while commissioner of common schools,
contributions to periodicals, addresses before a great variety of
literary associations, writings on agriculture and gardening, yearly
reports on education, lectures on classical learning, rhetoric and
belles-lettres, and sermons, delivered weekly for more than twenty
years, illustrate a life of remarkable activity, and dedicated to the
best interests of mankind. Unmoved by the calls of ambition, which might
have tempted him to some one great and engrossing effort, his aim has
been the general good of the people.

The following extract from the dedication, to his pupils, of his
_Addresses and Miscellaneous Writings_, evinces something of his
purpose:

"It is now five-and-twenty years since I adopted the resolution never to
refuse to attempt anything consistent with my professional duties, in
the cause of learning, or religion, which I might be invited to do. This
resolution I have not at any time regretted, and perhaps I may say, I
have not essentially violated it. However this may be, I have never
suffered from want of something to do."

Professor Haddock's style is remarkable for purity and correctness. His
sentences are all finished sentences, never subject to an injurious
verbal criticism, without a mistake of any kind, or a grammatical error.

We have not written of Dr. Haddock as a politician; but he is a
thoroughly informed statesman, profoundly versed in public law, and
familiar with all the policy and aims of the American government. He is
of course a Whig. He has been educated, politically, in the school of
his illustrious uncle, and probably no man living is more thoroughly
acquainted with Mr. Webster's views, or more capable of their
application in affairs. It is therefore eminently suitable that he
should be on the list of our representatives abroad, while the foreign
department is under Mr. Webster's administration. The Whig party in New
Hampshire have not been insensible of Dr. Haddock's surpassing
abilities, of his sagacity, or his merits. Could they have done so, they
would have made him Governor, or a senator in Congress, on any of the
occasions in many years in which such officers have been chosen.
Considered without reference to party, we can think of no gentleman in
the country who would be likely to represent the United States more
worthily at foreign courts, or who by his capacities, suavity of manner,
or honorable nature, would make a more pleasing and desirable impression
upon the most highly cultivated society. Those who know him well will
assent to the justness of a classification which places him in the same
list of intellectual diplomats which embraces Bunsen, Guizot, and our
own Everett, Irving, Bancroft and Marsh.


[Illustration: No. I.--WINGED HUMAN-HEADED BULL.]

DR. LAYARD'S RECENT GIFTS FROM NIMROUD.

The researches of no antiquary or traveler in modern times have excited
so profound an interest as those of Austen Henry Layard, who has
summoned the kings and people of Nineveh through three thousand years to
give their testimony against the skeptics of our age in support of the
divine revelation. In a former number of _The International_ we
presented an original and very interesting letter from Dr. Layard
himself, upon the nature and bearing of his discoveries. Since then he
has sent to London, where they have arrived in safety, several of the
most important sculptures described in his work republished here last
year by Mr. Putnam. Among them are the massive and imposing statues of a
human-headed bull and a human-headed lion, of which we have engravings
in some of the London journals. The _Illustrated London News_ describes
these specimens of ancient art as follows:

"No. I. is the Human-Headed and Eagle-Winged Bull. This animal would
seem to bear some analogy to the Egyptian sphynx, which represents the
head of the King upon the body of the lion, and is held by some to be
typical of the union of intellectual power with physical strength. The
sphynx of the Egyptians, however, is invariably sitting, whereas the
Nimroud figure is always represented standing. The apparent resemblance
being so great, it is at least worthy of consideration whether the head
on the winged animals of the Ninevites may not be that of the King, and
the intention identical with that of the sphynx; though we think it more
probable that there is no such connection, and that the intention of the
Ninevites was to typify their god under the common emblems of
intelligence, strength and swiftness, as signified by the additional
attributes of the bird. The specimen immediately before us is of gypsum,
and of colossal dimensions, the slab being ten feet square by two feet
in thickness. It was situated at the entrance of a chamber, being built
into the side of the door, so that one side and a front view only could
be seen by the spectator. Accordingly, the Ninevite sculptor, in order
to make both views perfect, has given the animal five legs. The four
seen in the side view show the animal in the act of walking; while, to
render the representation complete in the front view, he has repeated
the right fore leg again, but in the act of standing motionless. The
countenance is noble and benevolent in expression; the features are of
true Persian type; he wears an egg-shaped cap, with three horns and a
cord round the base of it. The hair at the back of the head has seven
ranges of curls; and the beard, as in the portraits of the King, is
divided into three ranges of curls, with intervals of wavy hair. In the
ears, which are those of a bull, are pendent ear-rings. The whole of the
dewlap is covered with tiers of curls, and four rows are continued
beneath the ribs along the whole flank; on the back are six rows of
curls, and upon the haunch a square bunch, ranged successively, and down
the back of the thigh four rows. The hair at the end of the tail is
curled like the beard, with intervals of wavy hair. The hair at the knee
joints is likewise curled, terminating in the profile views of the limbs
in a single curl of the kind (if we may use the term) called _croche
coeur_. The elaborately sculptured wings extend over the back of the
animal to the very verge of the slab. All the flat surface of the slab
is covered with cuneiform inscription; there being twenty-two lines
between the fore legs, twenty-one lines in the middle, nineteen lines
between the hind legs, and forty-seven lines between the tail and the
edge of the slab. The whole of this slab is unbroken, with the exception
of the fore-feet, which arrived in a former importation, but which are
now restored to their proper place.

[Illustration: No. II.--WINGED HUMAN-HEADED LION.]

"No. II. represents the Human-Headed and Winged Lion--nine feet long,
and the same in height; and in purpose and position the same as the
preceding, which, however, it does not quite equal in execution. In this
relievo we have the same head, with the egg-shaped three-horned
head-dress, exactly like that of the bull; but the ear is human, and not
that of a lion. The beard and hair of the head are even yet more
elaborately curled than the last; but the hair on the legs and sides of
the animal represents that shaggy appendage of the animal. Round the
loins is a succession of numerous cords, which are drawn into four
separate knots; at the extremities are fringes, forming as many distinct
tassels. At the end of the tail, the claw--on which we commented in a
former article--is distinctly visible. The strength of both animals is
admirably and characteristically conveyed. Upon the flat surface of this
slab, as in the last, is a cuneiform inscription; twenty lines being
between the fore legs, twenty-six in the middle, eighteen between the
hind legs, and seventy-one at the back."

On the subject of Eastern languages, an understanding of which is
necessary to the just apprehension of these inscriptions, that most
acute antiquary, Major Rawlinson, remarks:

"My own impression is that hundreds of the languages at one time current
through Asia are now utterly lost; and it is not, therefore, to be
expected that philologists or ethnologists will ever succeed in making
out a genealogical table of language, and in affiliating all the various
dialects. Coming to the Assyrian and Babylonian languages, we were first
made acquainted with them as translations of the Persian and Parthian
documents in the trilingual inscriptions of Persia; but lately we have
had an enormous amount of historical matter brought to light in tablets
of stone written in these languages alone. The languages in question I
certainly consider to be Semitic. I doubt whether we could trace at
present in any of the buildings or inscriptions of Assyria and Babylonia
the original primitive civilization of man--that civilization which took
place in the very earliest ages. I am of opinion that civilization first
showed itself in Egypt after the immigration of the early tribes from
Asia. I think that the human intellect first germinated on the Nile, and
that then there was, in a later age, a reflux of civilization from the
Nile back to Asia. I am quite satisfied that the system of writing in
use on the Tigris and Euphrates was taken from the Nile; but I admit
that it was carried to a much higher state of perfection in Assyria than
it had ever reached in Egypt. The earliest Assyrian inscriptions were
those lately discovered by Mr. Layard in the north-west Palace at
Nimroud, being much earlier than anything found at Babylon. Now, the
great question is the date of these inscriptions. Mr. Layard himself,
when he published his book on Nineveh, believed them to be 2500 years
before the Christian era; but others, and Dr. Hincks among the number,
brought them down to a much later date, supposing the historical tablets
to refer to the Assyrian kings mentioned in Scripture--(Shalmaneser,
Sennacherib, &c.). I do not agree with either one of these calculations
or the other. I am inclined to place the earliest inscriptions from
Nimroud between 1350 and 1200 before the Christian era; because, in the
first place, they had a limit to antiquity; for in the earliest
inscriptions there was a notice of the seaports of Phoenicia, of Tyre
and Sidon, of Byblus, Arcidus, &c.; and it was well known that these
cities were not founded more than 1500 years before the Christian era.
We have every prospect of a most important accession to our materials,
for every letter I get from the countries now being explored announces
fresh discoveries of the utmost importance. In Lower Chaldea, Mr.
Loftus, the geologist to the commission appointed to fix the boundaries
between Turkey and Persia, has visited many cities which no European had
ever reached before, and has everywhere found the most extraordinary
remains. At one place (Senkereh) he had come on a pavement, extending
from half an acre to an acre, entirely covered with writing, which was
engraved upon baked tiles, &c. At Wurka (or Ur of the Chaldees), whence
Abraham came out, he had found innumerable inscriptions; they were of no
great extent, but they were exceedingly interesting, giving many royal
names previously unknown. Wurka (Ur or Orchoe) seemed to be a holy city,
for the whole country, for miles upon miles, was nothing but a huge
necropolis. In none of the excavations of Assyria had coffins ever been
found, but in this city of Chaldea there were thousands upon thousands.
The story of Abraham's birth at Wurka did not originate with the Arabs,
as had sometimes been conjectured, but with the Jews; and the Orientals
had numberless fables about Abraham and Nimroud. Mr. Layard in
excavating beneath the great pyramid at Nimroud, had penetrated a mass
of masonry, within which he _had discovered the tomb and statue of_
Sardanapalus, accompanied by full annals of the monarch's reign engraved
on the walls! He had also found tablets of all sorts, all of them being
historical; but the crowning discovery he had yet to describe. The
palace at Nineveh, or Koynupih, had evidently been destroyed by fire,
but one portion of the building seemed to have escaped its influence;
and Mr. Layard, in excavating in this part of the palace, had found a
large room filled with what appeared to be the archives of the empire,
ranged in successive tablets of terra cotta, the writings being as
perfect as when the tablets were first stamped. They were piled in huge
heaps from the floor to the ceiling. From the progress already made in
reading the inscriptions, I believe we shall be able pretty well to
understand the contents of these tablets; at all events, we shall
ascertain their general purport, and thus gain much valuable
information. A passage might be remembered in the book of Ezra where the
Jews, having been disturbed in building the Temple, prayed that search
might be made in the house of records for the edict of Cyrus permitting
them to return to Jerusalem. The chamber recently found there might be
presumed to be the house of records of the Assyrian kings, where copies
of the royal edicts were duly deposited. When these tablets have been
examined and deciphered, I believe that we shall have a better
acquaintance with the history, the religion, the philosophy, and the
jurisprudence of Assyria, 1500 years before the Christian era, than we
have of Greece or Rome during any period of their respective histories."

Besides the gigantic figures of which we have copied engravings in the
preceding pages, Dr. Layard has sent to the British Museum a large
number of other sculptures, some of which are still more interesting for
the light they reflect upon ancient Assyrian history. For these, as for
the Grecian marbles and Egyptian antiquities, a special gallery is being
fitted up.


[Illustration: JONATHAN SWIFT.]

DEAN SWIFT'S CHARACTER AND HIS AMOURS.

The name of Swift is one of the most familiar in English history. Of the
twenty octavo volumes in which his works are printed, only a part of one
volume is read; but this part of a volume is read by everybody, and
admired by everybody, though singularly enough not one in a thousand
ever thinks of its real import, or appreciates it for what are and what
were meant to be its highest excellences. As the author of "Gulliver's
Travels," Swift is a subject of general interest; and this interest is
deepened, but scarcely diffused, by the chain of enigmas which has
puzzled so many of his biographers.

The most popular life of Dean Swift is Mr. Roscoe's, but since that was
written several works have appeared, either upon his whole history or in
elucidation of particular portions of it: one of which was a careful
investigation and discussion of his madness, published about two years
ago. In the last number of _The International_ we mentioned the curious
novel of "Stella and Vanessa," in which a Frenchman has this year
essayed his defense against the common judgment in the matter of his
amours, and we copy in the following pages an article from the London
_Times_, which was suggested by this performance.

M. De Wailly's "Stella and Vanessa" is unquestionably a very ingenious
and brilliant fiction--in every sense only a fiction--for its hypotheses
are all entirely erroneous. Even Mr. Roscoe, whose Memoir has been
called an elaborate apology, and who, as might have been expected from a
man of so amiable and charitable a character, labors to put the best
construction upon all Swift's actions,--even he shrinks from the
vindication of the Dean's conduct toward Miss Vanhomrigh and Mrs.
Johnson. In treating of the charges which are brought against Swift
while he was alive, or that have since been urged against his
reputation, the elegant historian calls to his aid every palliating
circumstance; and where no palliating circumstances are to be found,
seeks to enlist our benevolent feelings in behalf of a man deeply
unfortunate, persecuted by his enemies, neglected by his friends, and
haunted all his life by the presentiment of a fearful calamity, by which
at length in his extreme old age he was assaulted and overwhelmed. On
some points Mr. Roscoe must be said to have succeeded in this advocacy,
so honorable alike to him and to its subject; but the more serious
charges against Swift remain untouched, and probably will forever remain
so, by whatever ability, or eloquence, or generous partiality, combated.
To speak plainly, Swift was an irredeemably bad man, devoured by vanity
and selfishness, and so completely dead to every elevated and manly
feeling, that he was always ready to sacrifice those most devotedly
attached to him for the gratification of his unworthy passion for power
and notoriety.

Swift's life, though dark and turbulent, was nevertheless romantic. He
concealed the repulsive odiousness of an unfeeling heart under manners
peculiarly fascinating, which conciliated not only the admiration and
attachment of more than one woman, but likewise the friendship of
several eminent men, who were too much dazzled by the splendor of his
conversation to detect the base qualities which existed in the
background. But these circumstances only enhance the interest of his
life. At every page there is some discussion which strongly interests
our feelings: some difficulty to be removed, some mystery to keep alive
curiosity. We neither know, strictly speaking, who Swift was, what were
the influences which raised him to the position he occupied, by what
intricate ties he was connected with Stella, or what was the nature of
that singular grief, which, in addition to the sources of sorrow to
which we have alluded, preyed on him continually, and at last
contributed largely to the overthrow of his reason. On this account it
is not possible to proceed with indifference through the circumstances
of his life, though very few careful examiners will be able to interpret
them in a lenient and charitable spirit.

Mr. Roscoe appears to believe that everybody who regards unfavorably
Swift's genius and morals, must be actuated by envy or party spirit, but
very few of the later or earlier critics are of his opinion. In the
first place, most honorable men would rather remain unknown through
eternity than accept the Dean's reputation. As Savage Landor says, he
was "irreverential to the great and to God: an ill-tempered, sour,
supercilious man, who flattered some of the worst and maligned some of
the best men that ever lived." Whatever services he performed for the
party from which he apostatized, there is nothing in his more permanent
writings which can be of the slightest advantage to English toryism.
Indeed, in politics and in morals, he appears never to have had any
fixed principles. He served the party which he thought most likely to
make him a bishop, and deserted it when he discovered that it was losing
ground. He studied government not as a statesman but as a partisan, as a
hardy, active, and unscrupulous Swiss, who could and would do much dirty
work for a minister, if he saw reason to anticipate a liberal
compensation. He however always extravagantly exaggerated his own
powers, and so have his biographers, and so has the writer of the
following article from _The Times_, who seems to have accepted with too
little scrutiny the estimate he made of himself. The complacency with
which he frequently refers to his supposed influence over the ministers
is simply ludicrous. He entirely loses sight of both his own position
and theirs. Shrewd as he shows himself under other circumstances, he is
here as verdant as the greenest peasant from the forest. "I use the
ministers like dogs," he says in a letter to Stella, but in reality the
ministers made a dog of him, employing him to fetch and carry, and bark,
and growl, and show his sharp teeth to their enemies; and when the noise
he had made had served their purpose,--when he had frightened away many
of their assailants, and by the dirt and stench he had raised had
compelled even their friends to stand aloof, they cashiered him, as they
would a mastiff grown toothless and incapable of barking. With no more
dirty work for him to do, they sent him over to Dublin, to be rid of his
presence.

When fairly settled down in a country which he had always hitherto
affected at least to detest, he began to feel perhaps some genuine
attachment for its people, and on many occasions he exerted himself
vigorously for their advantage; though it is possible that the real
impulse was a desire to vex and embarrass the administration, which had
so galled his self-conceit. Whatever the motive, however, he undoubtedly
worked industriously and with great effect, for the benefit of Ireland.
His style was calculated to be popular: it was simple, transparent, and
though copious, pointed and energetic. His pamphlets, in the midst of
their reasoning, sarcasm, and solemn banter, displayed an extent, a
variety and profundity of knowledge altogether unequaled in the case of
any other writer of that time. But the action of his extraordinary
powers was never guided by a spark of honorable principle. The giant was
as unscrupulous as the puniest and basest demagogue who coined and
scattered lies for our own last election. He would seem to be the model
whom half a dozen of our city editors were striving with weaker wing to
imitate. He never acknowledged any merit in his antagonists, he
scattered his libels right and left without mercy, threw out of sight
all the charities and even decencies of private life, and affirmed the
most monstrous propositions with so cool, calm and solemn an air, that
in nine cases out of ten they were sure to be believed.

Without further observation we proceed with the interesting article of
_The Times_, occasioned by M. Leon de Wailly's curious and very clever
romance of "Stella and Vanessa."


[Illustration: "VANESSA." (MISS VANHOMRIGH.)]

[From the London Times.]

THE AMOURS OF DEAN SWIFT.

Greater men than Dean Swift may have lived. A more remarkable man never
left his impress upon the age immortalized by his genius. To say that
English history supplies no narrative more singular and original than
the career of Jonathan Swift is to assert little. We doubt whether the
histories of the world can furnish, for example and instruction, for
wonder and pity, for admiration and scorn, for approval and
condemnation, a specimen of humanity at once so illustrious and so
small. Before the eyes of his contemporaries Swift stood a living
enigma. To posterity he must continue forever a distressing puzzle. One
hypothesis--and one alone--gathered from a close and candid perusal of
all that has been transmitted to us upon this interesting subject, helps
us to account for a whole life of anomaly, but not to clear up the
mystery in which it is shrouded. From the beginning to the end of his
days Jonathan Swift was more or less MAD.

Intellectually and morally, physically and religiously, Dean Swift was a
mass of contradictions. His career yields ample materials both for the
biographer who would pronounce a panegyric over his tomb and for the
censor whose business it is to improve one generation at the expense of
another. Look at Swift with the light of intelligence shining on his
brow, and you note qualities that might become an angel. Survey him
under the dark cloud, and every feature is distorted into that of a
fiend. If we tell the reader what he was, in the same breath we shall
communicate all that he was not. His virtues were exaggerated into
vices, and his vices were not without the savour of virtue. The
originality of his writings is of a piece with the singularity of his
character. He copied no man who preceded him. He has not been
successfully imitated by any who have followed him. The compositions of
Swift reveal the brilliancy of sharpened wit, yet it is recorded of the
man that he was never known to laugh. His friendships were strong and
his antipathies vehement and unrelenting, yet he illustrated friendship
by roundly abusing his familiars and expressed hatred by bantering his
foes. He was economical and saving to a fault, yet he made sacrifices to
the indigent and poor sternly denied to himself. He could begrudge the
food and wine consumed by a guest, yet throughout his life refuse to
derive the smallest pecuniary advantage from his published works, and at
his death bequeath the whole of his fortune to a charitable institution.
From his youth Swift was a sufferer in body, yet his frame was vigorous,
capable of great endurance, and maintained its power and vitality from
the time of Charles II. until far on in the reign of the second George.
No man hated Ireland more than Swift, yet he was Ireland's first and
greatest patriot, bravely standing up for the rights of that kingdom
when his chivalry might have cost him his head. He was eager for reward,
yet he refused payment with disdain. Impatient of advancement, he
preferred to the highest honors the State could confer the obscurity and
ignominy of the political associates with whom he had affectionately
labored until they fell disgraced. None knew better than he the stinging
force of a successful lampoon, yet such missiles were hurled by hundreds
at his head without in any way disturbing his bodily tranquillity.
Sincerely religious, scrupulously attentive to the duties of his holy
office, vigorously defending the position and privileges of his order,
he positively played into the hands of infidelity by the steps he took,
both in his conduct and writings, to expose the cant and hypocrisy which
he detested as heartily as he admired and practiced unaffected piety. To
say that Swift lacked tenderness would be to forget many passages of his
unaccountable history that overflow with gentleness of spirit and mild
humanity; but to deny that he exhibited inexcusable brutality where the
softness of his nature ought to have been chiefly evoked--where the want
of tenderness, indeed, left him a naked and irreclaimable savage--is
equally impossible. If we decline to pursue the contradictory series
further, it is in pity to the reader, not for want of materials at
command. There is, in truth, no end to such materials.

Swift was born in the year 1667. His father, who was steward to the
Society of the King's Inn, Dublin, died before his birth and left his
widow penniless. The child, named Jonathan after his father, was brought
up on charity. The obligation due to an uncle was one that Swift would
never forget, or remember without inexcusable indignation. Because he
had not been left to starve by his relatives, or because his uncle would
not do more than he could, Swift conceived an eternal dislike to all who
bore his name and a haughty contempt for all who partook of his nature.
He struggled into active life and presented himself to his fellow-men in
the temper of a foe. At the age of fourteen he was admitted into Trinity
College, Dublin, and four years afterward as _a special grace_--for his
acquisitions apparently failed to earn the distinction--the degree of
Bachelor of Arts was conferred upon him. In 1688, the year in which the
war broke out in Ireland, Swift, in his twenty-first year, and without a
sixpence in his pocket, left college. Fortunately for him, the wife of
Sir William Temple was related to his mother, and upon her application
to that statesman the friendless youth was provided with a home. He took
up his abode with Sir William in England, and for the space of two years
labored hard at his own improvement and for the amusement of his patron.
How far Swift succeeded in winning the good opinion of Sir William may
be learnt from the fact that when King William honored Moor Park with
his presence he was permitted to take part in the interviews, and that
when Sir William was unable to visit the King his _protégé_ was
commissioned to wait upon His Majesty, and to speak on the patron's
authority and behalf. The lad's future promised better things than his
beginning. He resolved to go into the church, since preferment stared
him in the face. In 1692 he proceeded to Oxford, where he obtained his
Master's degree, and in 1694, quarreling with Sir William Temple, who
coldly offered him a situation worth £100 a year, he quitted his patron
in disgust and went at once to Ireland to take holy orders. He was
ordained, and almost immediately afterward received the living of
Kilroot in the diocese of Connor, the value of the living being about
equal to that of the appointment offered by Sir William Temple.

Swift, miserable in his exile, sighed for the advantages he had
abandoned. Sir William Temple, lonely without his clever and keen-witted
companion, pined for his return. The prebend of Kilroot was speedily
resigned in favor of a poor curate for whom Swift had taken great pains
to procure the presentation; and with £80 in his purse the independent
clergyman proceeded once more to Moor Park. Sir William welcomed him
with open arms. They resided together until 1699, when the great
statesman died, leaving to Swift, in testimony of his regard, the sum of
£100 and his literary remains. The remains were duly published and
humbly dedicated to the King. They might have been inscribed to His
Majesty's cook for any advantage that accrued to the editor. Swift was a
Whig, but his politics suffered severely by the neglect of His Majesty,
who derived no particular advantage from Sir William Temple's "remains."

Weary with long and vain attendance upon Court, Swift finally accepted
at the hands of Lord Berkeley, one of the Lords Justices of Ireland, the
rectory of Agher and the vicarages of Laracor and Rathbeggan. In the
year 1700 he took possession of the living at Laracor, and his mode of
entering upon his duty was thoroughly characteristic of the man. He
walked down to Laracor, entered the curate's house, and announced
himself "as his master." In his usual style he affected brutality, and
having sufficiently alarmed his victims, gradually soothed and consoled
them by evidences of undoubted friendliness and good will. "This," says
Sir Walter Scott, "was the ruling trait of Swift's character to others;
his praise assumed the appearance and language of complaint; his
benefits were often prefaced by a prologue of a threatening nature."
"The ruling trait" of Swift's character was morbid eccentricity. Much
less eccentricity has saved many a murderer in our days from the
gallows. We approach a period of Swift's history when we must accept
this conclusion or revolt from the cold-blooded doings of a monster.

During Swift's second residence with Sir William Temple he had become
acquainted with an inmate of Moor Park very different to the
accomplished man to whose intellectual pleasures he so largely
ministered. A young and lovely girl--half ward, half dependent in the
establishment--engaged the attention and commanded the untiring services
of the newly-made minister. Esther Johnson had need of education, and
Swift became her tutor. He entered upon his task with avidity,
condescended to the humblest instruction, and inspired his pupil with
unbounded gratitude and regard. Swift was not more insensible to the
simplicity and beauty of the lady than she to the kind offices of her
master; but Swift would not have been Swift had he, like other men,
returned everyday love with ordinary affection. Swift had felt tender
impressions in his own fashion before. Once in Leicestershire he was
accused by a friend of having formed an imprudent attachment, on which
occasion he returned for answer, that his "cold temper and unconfined
humor" would prevent all serious consequences, even if it were not true
that the conduct which his friend had mistaken for gallantry had been
merely the evidence "of an active and restless temper, incapable of
enduring idleness, and catching at such opportunities of amusement as
most readily occurred." Upon another occasion, and within four years of
the Leicestershire pastime, Swift made an absolute offer of his hand to
one Miss Waryng, vowing in his declaratory epistle that he would forego
every prospect of interest for the sake of his "Varina," and that "the
lady's love was far more fatal than her cruelty." After much and long
consideration Varina consented to the suit. That was enough for Swift.
He met the capitulation by charging his Varina with want of affection,
by stipulating for unheard-of sacrifices, and concluding with an
expression of his willingness to wed, "_though she had neither fortune_
_nor beauty_," provided every article of his letter was ungrudgingly
agreed to. We may well tremble for Esther Johnson, with her young heart
given into such wild keeping.

[Illustration: "STELLA." (ESTHER JOHNSON.)]

As soon as Swift was established at Laracor it was arranged that Esther,
who possessed a small property in Ireland, should take up her abode near
to her old preceptor. She came, and scandal was silenced by a
stipulation insisted upon by Swift, that his lovely charge should have a
matron for a constant companion, and never see him except in the
presence of a third party. Esther was in her seventeenth year. The vicar
of Laracor was on his road to forty. What wonder that even in Laracor
the former should receive an offer of marriage, and that the latter,
wayward and inconsistent from first to last, should deny another the
happiness he had resolved never to enjoy himself? Esther found a lover
whom Swift repulsed, to the infinite joy of the devoted girl, whose fate
was already linked for good or evil to that of her teacher and friend.

Obscurity and idleness were not for Swift. Love, that gradually consumed
the unoccupied girl, was not even this man's recreation. Impatient of
banishment, he went to London and mixed with the wits of the age.
Addison, Steele, and Arbuthnot became his friends, and he quickly proved
himself worthy of their intimacy by the publication in 1704 of his _Tale
of a Tub_. The success of the work, given to the world anonymously, was
decisive. Its singular merit obtained for its author everlasting renown,
and effectually prevented his rising to the highest dignity in the very
church which his book labored to exalt. None but an inspired madman
would have attempted to do honor to religion in a spirit which none but
the infidel could heartily approve.

Politicians are not squeamish. The Whigs could see no fault in raillery
and wit that might serve temporal interests with greater advantage than
they had advanced interests ecclesiastical; and the friends of the
Revolution welcomed so rare an adherent to their principles. With an
affected ardor that subsequent events proved to be as premature as it
was hollow, Swift's pen was put in harness for his allies, and worked
vigorously enough until 1709, when, having assisted Steele in the
establishment of the _Tatler_, the vicar of Laracor returned to Ireland
and to the duties of a rural pastor. Not to remain, however! A change
suddenly came over the spirit of the nation. Sacheverell was about to
pull down by a single sermon all the popularity that Marlborough and his
friends had built up by their glorious campaigns. Swift had waited in
vain for promotion from the Whigs, and his suspicions were roused when
the Lord-Lieutenant unexpectedly began to caress him. Escaping the
damage which the marked attentions of the old Government might do him
with the new, Swift started for England in 1710, in order to survey the
turning of the political wheel with his own eyes, and to try his fortune
in the game. The progress of events was rapid. Swift reached London on
the 9th of September; on the 1st of October he had already written a
lampoon upon an ancient associate; and on the 4th he was presented to
Harley, the new Minister.

The career of Swift from this moment, and so long as the government of
Harley lasted, was magnificent and mighty. Had he not been crotchety
from his very boyhood, his head would have been turned now. Swift
reigned; Swift was the Government; Swift was Queen, Lords, and Commons.
There was tremendous work to do, and Swift did it all. The Tories had
thrown out the Whigs and had brought in a Government in their place
quite as Whiggish to do Tory work. To moderate the wishes of the people,
if not to blind their eyes, was the preliminary and essential work of
the Ministry. They could not perform it themselves. Swift undertook the
task and accomplished it. He had intellect and courage enough for that,
and more. Moreover, he had vehement passions to gratify, and they might
all partake of the glory of his success; he was proud, and his pride
reveled in authority; he was ambitious, and his ambition could attain no
higher pitch than it found at the right hand of the Prime Minister; he
was revengeful, and revenge could wish no sweeter gratification than the
contortions of the great who had neglected genius and desert, when they
looked to them for advancement and obtained nothing but cold neglect.
Swift, single-handed, fought the Whigs. For seven months he conducted a
periodical paper, in which he mercilessly assailed, as none but himself
could attack, all who were odious to the Government and distasteful to
himself. Not an individual was spared whose sufferings could add to the
tranquillity and permanence of the Government. Resistance was in vain;
it was attempted, but invariably with one effect--the first wound
grazed, the second killed.

The public were in ecstasies. The laughers were all on the side of the
satirist, and how vast a portion of the community these are, needs not
be said. But it was not in the _Examiner_ alone that Swift offered up
his victims at the shrine of universal mirth. He could write verses for
the rough heart of a nation to chuckle over and delight in.
Personalities to-day fly wide of the mark; then they went right home.
The habits, the foibles, the moral and physical imperfections of
humanity, were all fair game, provided the shaft were tipped with gall
as well as venom. Short poems, longer pamphlets--whatever could help the
Government and cover their foes with ridicule and scorn, Swift poured
upon the town with an industry and skill that set eulogy at defiance.
And because they did defy praise, Jonathan Swift never asked, and was
ever too grand to accept it.

But he claimed much more. His disordered yet exquisite intellect
acknowledged no superiority. He asked no thanks for his labor, he
disdained pecuniary reward for his matchless and incalculable
services--he did not care for fame, but he imperiously demanded to be
treated by the greatest as an equal. Mr. Harley offered him money, and
he quarreled with the Minister for his boldness. "If we let these great
Ministers," he said, "pretend too much, _there will be no governing
them_." The same Minister desired to make Swift his chaplain. One
mistake was as great as the other. "My Lord Oxford, by a second hand,
proposed my being his chaplain, which I, by a second hand, refused. I
will be no man's chaplain alive." The assumption of the man was more
than regal. At a later period of his life he drew up a list of his
friends, ranking them respectively under the heads "Ungrateful,"
"Grateful," "Indifferent," and "Doubtful." Pope appears among the
grateful. Queen Caroline among the ungrateful. The audacity of these
distinctions is very edifying. What autocrat is here for whose mere
countenance the whole world is to bow down and be "grateful!"

It is due to Swift's imperiousness, however, to state that, once
acknowledged as an equal, he was prepared to make every sacrifice that
could be looked for in a friend. Concede his position, and for fortune
or disgrace he was equally prepared. Harley and Bolingbroke, quick to
discern the weakness, called their invulnerable ally by his Christian
name, but stopped short of conferring upon him any benefit whatever. The
neglect made no difference to the haughty scribe, who contented himself
with pulling down the barriers that had been impertinently set up to
separate him from rank and worldly greatness. But, if Swift shrank from
the treatment of a client, he performed no part so willingly as that of
a patron. He took literature under his wing and compelled the Government
to do it homage. He quarreled with Steele when he deserted the Whigs,
and pursued his former friend with unflinching sarcasm and banter, but
at his request Steele was maintained by the Government in an office of
which he was about to be deprived. Congreve was a Whig, but Swift
insisted that he should find honor at the hands of the Tories, and
Harley honored him accordingly. Swift introduced Gay to Lord
Bolingbroke, and secured that nobleman's weighty patronage for the poet.
Rowe was recommended for office, Pope for aid. The well-to-do, by
Swift's personal interest, found respect, the indigent, money for the
mitigation of their pains. At Court, at Swift's instigation, the Lord
Treasurer made the first advances to men of letters, and by the act made
tacit confession of the power which Swift so liberally exercised, for
the advantage of everybody but himself. But what worldly distinction, in
truth, could add to the importance of a personage who made it a point
for a Duke to pay him the first visit, and who, on one occasion,
publicly sent the Prime Minister into the House of Commons to call out
the First Secretary of State, whom Swift wished to inform that he would
not dine with him if he meant to dine late?

A lampoon directed against the Queen's favorite, upon whose red hair
Swift had been facetious, prevented the satirist's advancement in
England. The see of Hereford fell vacant in 1712. Bolingbroke would now
have paid the debt due from his Government to Swift, but the Duchess of
Somerset, upon her knees, implored the Queen to withhold her consent
from the appointment, and Swift was pronounced by Her Majesty as "too
violent in party" for promotion. The most important man in the kingdom
found himself in a moment the most feeble. The fountain of so much honor
could not retain a drop of the precious waters for itself. Swift, it is
said, laid the foundations of fortune for upward of forty families who
rose to distinction by a word from his lips. What a satire upon power
was the satirist's own fate! He could not advance himself in England one
inch. Promotion in Ireland began and ended with his appointment to the
Deanery of St. Patrick, of which he took possession, much to his disgust
and vexation, in the summer of 1713.

The summer, however, was not over before Swift was in England again. The
wheels of government had come to a dead lock, and of course none but he
could right them. The Ministry was at sixes and sevens. Its very
existence depended upon the good understanding of the chiefs,
Bolingbroke and Harley, and the wily ambition of the latter, jarring
against the vehement desires of the former, had produced jealousy,
suspicion, and now threatened immediate disorganization. A thousand
voices called the Dean to the scene of action, and he came full of the
importance of his mission. He plunged at once into the vexed sea of
political controversy, and whilst straining every effort to court his
friends, let no opportunity slip of galling their foes. His pen was as
damaging and industrious as ever. It set the town in a fever. It caused
Richard Steele to be expelled from the House of Commons, and it sent the
whole body of Scotch peers, headed by the Duke of Argyle, to the Queen,
with the prayer that a proclamation might be issued for the discovery of
their libeller. Swift was more successful in his assaults than in its
mediation. The Ministers were irreconcilable. Vexed at heart with
disappointment, the Dean, after his manner, suddenly quitted London, and
shut himself up in Berkshire. One attempt he made in his strict
seclusion to uphold the Government and save the country, and the
composition is a curiosity in its way. He published a proposition for
the exclusion of all Dissenters from power of every kind, for
disqualifying Whigs and Low Churchmen for every possible office, and for
compelling the presumptive heir to the throne to declare his abomination
of Whigs, and his perfect satisfaction with Her Majesty's present
advisers. Matters must have been near a crisis when this modest pamphlet
was put forth; and so they were. By his intrigues Bolingbroke had
triumphed over his colleagues, and Oxford was disgraced. The latter,
about to retire into obscurity, addressed a letter to Swift, entreating
him, if he were not tired of his former prosperous friend, "to throw
away so much time on one who loved him as to attend him upon his
melancholy journey." The same post brought him word that his own victory
was won. Bolingbroke triumphant besought his Jonathan, as he loved his
Queen, to stand by her Minister, and to aid him in his perilous
adventure. Nothing should be wanting to do justice to his loyalty. The
Duchess of Somerset would be reconciled, the Queen would be gracious,
the path of honor should lie broad, open, and unimpeded before him.
Bolingbroke and Harley were equally the friends of Swift. What could he
do in his extremity? What would a million men, taken at random from the
multitude, have done, had they been so situated, so tempted? Not that
upon which Swift in his chivalrous magnanimity, at once decided. He
abandoned the prosperous to follow and console the unfortunate. "I
meddle not with Lord Oxford's faults," is his noble language, "as he was
a Minister of State, but his personal kindness to me was excessive. He
distinguished and chose me above all men when he was great." Within a
few days of Swift's self-denying decision Queen Anne was a corpse,
Bolingbroke and Oxford both flying for their lives, and Swift himself
hiding his unprotected head in Ireland amidst a people who at once
feared and hated him.

During Swift's visit to London in 1710 he had regularly transmitted to
Stella, by which name Esther Johnson is made known to posterity, an
account of his daily doings with the new Government. The journal
exhibits the view of the writer that his conduct invariably presents. It
is full of tenderness and confidence, and not without coarseness that
startles and shocks. It contains a detailed and minute account, not only
of all that passed between Swift and the Government, but of his
changeful feelings as they arose from day to day, and of his physical
infirmities, that are commonly whispered into the ear of a physician. If
Swift loved Stella in the ordinary acceptation of the term, he took
small pains in his diary to elevate the sentiments with which she
regarded her hero. The journal is not in harmony throughout. Toward the
close it lacks the tenderness and warmth, the minuteness and
confidential utterance, that are so visible at the beginning. We are
enabled to account for the difference. Swift had enlarged the circle of
his female acquaintance whilst fighting for his friends in London. He
had become a constant visitor, especially, at the house of a Mrs.
Vanhomrigh, who had two daughters, the eldest of whom was about twenty
years of age, and had the same Christian name as Stella. Esther
Vanhomrigh had great taste for reading, and Swift, who seems to have
delighted in such occupation, condescended, for the second time in his
life, to become a young lady's instructor. The great man's tuition had
always one effect upon his pupils. Before Miss Vanhomrigh had made much
progress in her studies she was over head and ears in love, and, to the
astonishment of her master, she one day declared the passionate and
undying character of her attachment. Swift met the confession with a
weapon far more potent when opposed to a political foe than when
directed against the weak heart of a doting woman. He had recourse to
raillery, but, finding his banter of no avail, endeavored to appease the
unhappy girl by "an offer of devoted and everlasting friendship, founded
on the basis of virtuous esteem." He might with equal success have
attempted to put out a conflagration with a bucket of cold water. There
was no help for the miserable man. He returned to his deanery at the
death of Queen Anne with two love affairs upon his hands, but with the
stern resolution of encouraging neither, and overcoming both.

Before quitting England he wrote to Esther Vanhomrigh, or Vanessa, as he
styles her in his correspondence, intimating his intention to forget
everything in England and to write to her as seldom as possible. So far
the claims of Vanessa were disposed of. As soon as he reached his
deanery he secured lodgings for Stella and her companion, and reiterated
his determination to pursue his intercourse with the young lady upon the
prudent terms originally established. So far his mind was set at rest in
respect of Stella. But Swift had scarcely time to congratulate himself
upon his plans before Vanessa presented herself in Dublin, and made
known to the Dean her resolution to take up her abode permanently in
Ireland. Her mother was dead, so were her two brothers; she and her
sister were alone in the world, and they had a small property near
Dublin, to which it suited them to retire. Swift, alarmed by the
proceeding, remonstrated, threatened, denounced--all in vain. Vanessa
met his reproaches with complaints of cruelty and neglect, and warned
him of the consequences of leaving her without the solace of his
friendship and presence. Perplexed and distressed, the Dean had no other
resource than to leave events to their own development. He trusted that
time would mitigate and show the hopelessness of Vanessa's passion, and
in the meanwhile he sought, by occasional communication with her, to
prevent any catastrophe that might result from actual despair. But his
thoughts for Vanessa's safety were inimical to Stella's repose. She
pined and gradually sunk under the alteration that had taken place in
Swift's deportment toward her since his acquaintance with Vanessa.
Swift, really anxious for the safety of his ward, requested a friend to
ascertain the cause of her malady. It was not difficult to ascertain it.
His indifference and public scandal, which spoke freely of their
unaccountable connection, were alone to blame for her sufferings. It was
enough for Swift. He had passed the age at which he had resolved to
marry, but he was ready to wed Stella provided the marriage were kept
secret and she was content to live apart. Poor Stella was more than
content, but she overestimated her strength. The marriage took place,
and immediately afterward the husband withdrew himself in a fit of
madness, which threw him into gloom and misery for days. What the
motives may have been for the inexplicable stipulations of this wayward
man it is impossible to ascertain. That they were the motives of a
diseased, and at times utterly irresponsible, judgment, we think cannot
be questioned. Of love, as a tender passion, Swift had no conception.
His writings prove it. The coarseness that pervades his compositions has
nothing in common with the susceptibility that shrinks from disgusting
and loathsome images in which Swift reveled. In all his prose and
poetical addresses to his mistresses there is not one expression to
prove the weakness of his heart. He writes as a guardian--he writes as a
friend--he writes as a father, but not a syllable escapes him that can
be attributed to the pangs and delights of the lover.

Married to Stella, Swift proved himself more eager than ever to give to
his intercourse with Vanessa the character of mere friendship. He went
so far as to endeavor to engage her affections for another man, but his
attempts were rejected with indignation and scorn. In the August of the
year 1717 Vanessa retired from Dublin to her house and property near
Cellbridge. Swift exhorted her to leave Ireland altogether, but she was
not to be persuaded. In 1720 it would appear that the Dean frequently
visited the recluse in her retirement, and upon such occasions Vanessa
would plant a laurel or two in honor of her guest, who passed his time
with the lady reading and writing verses in a rural bower built in a
sequestered part of her garden. Some of the verses composed by Vanessa
have been preserved. They breathe the fond ardor of the suffering maid,
and testify to the imperturbable coldness of the man. Of the innocence
of their intercourse there cannot be a doubt. In 1720 Vanessa lost her
last remaining relative--her sister died in her arms. Thrown back upon
herself by this bereavement, the intensity of her love for the Dean
became insupportable. Jealous and suspicious, and eager to put an end to
a terror that possessed her, she resolved to address herself to Stella,
and to ascertain from her own lips the exact nature of her relations
with her so-called guardian. The momentous question was asked in a
letter, to which Stella calmly replied by informing her interrogator
that she was the Dean's wife. Vanessa's letter was forwarded by Stella
to Swift himself, and it roused him to fury. He rode off at once to
Cellbridge, he entered the apartment in which Vanessa was seated, and
glared upon her like a tiger. The trembling creature asked her visitor
to sit down. He answered the invitation by flinging a packet on the
table, and riding instantly away. The packet was opened; it contained
nothing but Vanessa's letter to Stella. Her doom was pronounced. The
fond heart snapped. In a few weeks the hopeless, desolate Vanessa was in
her grave.

Swift, agonized, rushed from the world. For two months subsequently to
the death of Vanessa his place of abode was unknown. But at the end of
that period he returned to Dublin calmer for the conflict he had
undergone. He devoted himself industriously again to affairs of State.
His pen had now a nobler office than to sustain unworthy men in
unmerited power. We can but indicate the course of his labors. Ireland,
the country not of his love, but of his birth and adoption, treated as a
conquered province, owed her rescue from absolute thraldom to Swift's
great and unconquerable exertions on her behalf. He resisted the English
Government with his single hand, and overcame them in the fight. His
popularity in Ireland was unparalleled even in that excited and
generous-hearted land. Rewards were offered to betray him, but a million
lives would have been sacrificed in his place before one would have
profited by the patriot's downfall. He was worshiped, and every hair of
his head was precious and sacred to the people who adored him.

In 1726 Swift revisited England, for the first time since the death of
Queen Anne, and published, anonymously as usual, the famous satire of
_Gulliver's Travels_. Its immediate success heralded the universal fame
that masterly and singular work has since achieved. Swift mingled once
more with his literary friends, and lived almost entirely with Pope.
Yet courted on all sides he was doomed again to bitter sorrow. News
reached him that Stella was ill. Alarmed and full of self-reproaches, he
hastened home to be received by the people of Ireland in triumph, and to
meet--and he was grateful for the sight--the improved and welcoming
looks of the woman for whose dissolution he had been prepared. In March,
1727, Stella being sufficiently recovered, the Dean ventured once more
to England, but soon to be resummoned to the hapless couch of his
exhausted and most miserable wife. Afflicted in body and soul, Swift
suddenly quitted Pope, with whom he was residing at Twickenham, and
reaching his home, was doomed to find his Stella upon the verge of the
grave. Till the last moment he continued at her bedside, evincing the
tenderest consideration, and performing what consolatory tasks he might
in the sick chamber. Shortly before her death part of a conversation
between the melancholy pair was overheard. "Well, my dear," said the
Dean, "if you wish it, it shall be owned." Stella's reply was given in
fewer words. "_It is too late._" "On the 28th of January," writes one of
the biographers of Swift, "Mrs. Johnson closed her weary pilgrimage, and
passed to that land where they neither marry nor are given in marriage,"
the second victim of one and the same hopeless and consuming passion.

Swift stood alone in the world, and for his punishment was doomed to
endure the crushing solitude for the space of seventeen years. The
interval was gloomy indeed. From his youth the Dean had been subject to
painful fits of giddiness and deafness. From 1736 these fits became more
frequent and severe. In 1740 he went raving mad, and frenzy ceased only
to leave him a more pitiable idiot. During the space of three years the
poor creature was unconscious of all that passed around him, and spoke
but twice. Upon the 19th of October, 1745, God mercifully removed the
terrible spectacle from the sight of man, and released the sufferer from
his misery, degradation, and shame.

The volumes, whose title is found below,[1] and which have given
occasion to these remarks, are a singular comment upon a singular
history. It is the work of a Frenchman who has ventured to deduce a
theory from the _data_ we have submitted to the reader's notice. With
that theory we cannot agree: it may be reconcilable to the romance which
M. de Wailly has invented, but it is altogether opposed to veritable
records that cannot be impugned. M. de Wailly would have it that Swift's
marriage with Stella was a deliberate and rational sacrifice of love to
principle, and that Swift compensated his sacrificed love by granting
his principle no human indulgences; that his love for Vanessa, in fact,
was sincere and ardent, and that his duty to Stella alone prevented a
union with Vanessa. To prove his case M. de Wailly widely departs from
history, and makes his hypothesis of no value whatever, except to the
novel reader. As a romance, written by a Frenchman, _Stella and Vanessa_
is worthy of great commendation. It indicates a familiar knowledge of
English manners and character, and never betrays, except here and there
in the construction of the plot, the hand of a foreigner. It is quite
free from exaggeration, and inasmuch as it exhibits no glaring
anachronism or absurd caricature, is a literary curiosity. We accept it
as such, though bound to reject its higher claims. The mystery of
Swift's amours has yet to be cleared up. We explain his otherwise
unaccountable behavior by attributing his cruelty to prevailing
insanity. The career of Swift was brilliant, but not less wild than
dazzling. The sickly hue of a distempered brain gave a color to his acts
in all the relations of life. The storm was brewing from his childhood;
it burst forth terribly in his age, and only a moment before all was
wreck and devastation, the half-distracted man sat down and made a will,
by which he left the whole of his worldly possessions for the foundation
of a lunatic asylum.

     [1: _Stella and Vanessa: A Romance from the French. By Lady Duff
     Gordon. In two vols. Bentley. 1850.]




AUTHORS AND BOOKS.


We find in the _Deutsche Zeitung aus Böhmen_, an account of a visit to
the great German satirist and poet Henry Heine, who lives at Paris,
where, as is known, he has long been confined to his bed with a
lingering illness. We translate the following for the _International_:--

"It is indeed a painful or rather a terrible condition in which Heine
now is and has been for the past year; though the paralysis has made no
progress, it has at least experienced no alleviation. He has now lain
near two years in bed, and during that time has not seen a tree nor a
speck of the blue sky. He cannot raise himself, and scarcely moves. His
left eye is blind, his right can just perceive objects, but cannot bear
the light of day. His nights are disturbed by fearful torments, and only
morphine can produce him the least repose. Hope of recovery has long
been given up, and he himself entertains no illusions on that subject.
He knows that his sufferings can end only with death. He speaks of this
with the utmost composure."

The writer goes on to contradict, as calumnious, the report that Heine
had become religious, saying, that he bears his tortures without "the
assistance of saints of any color, and by the inward power of the free
man." He does not regard himself as a sinner, and has nothing to repent
of, since he has but rejoiced like a child, in everything
beautiful--chasing butterflies, finding flowers by the way-side, and
making a holiday of his whole life. He has, however, often called
himself religious, by way of contradiction, and from antipathy to a
certain clique who openly proclaim themselves atheists, and under that
sonorous title seek to exercise a certain terror on others.

It seems that Heine has lost a great deal of property through various
speculators who have persuaded him to join in their schemes. The writer
says: "Heine's friends are enraged at many of these individuals, and
urge him to attack them publicly, and show them up in their true light.
He owes this satisfaction to himself and to us; at the same time it
would conciliate many who have not pardoned him the cavalier air with
which he has turned off the most respectable notabilities of literature
and patriotism, in order to amuse himself in the company of some
adventurer." By this love for out-of-the-way characters, the writer
thinks that Heine must have collected the materials for a humorous
novel, which could equal the best productions of Mendoza, Smollett, or
Dickens; his experiences in this line have cost him a great deal of
money. We translate the conclusion of the article:--

"We shall be asked if Heine really continues to write? Yes; he writes,
he works, he dictates poems without cessation; perhaps he was never in
his whole life as active as now. Several hours a day he devotes to the
composition of his memoirs which are rapidly advancing under the hand of
his secretary. His mind still resembles, in its wonderful fullness and
vigor, those fantastic ball-nights of Paris, which, under the open sky,
unfold an endless life and variety. There rings the music, there rushes
the dance, and the loveliest and grotesquest forms flit hither and
thither. There are silent arbors for tears of happiness and sorrow, and
places for dancing, with light, full of loud bold laughter. Rockets
after rockets mount skyward, scattering millions of stars, and endless
extravagance of art, fire, poesy, passion, flames up, showing the world
now in green, now in purple light, till at last the clear silver stars
come out, and fill us with infinite delight, and the still consciousness
of life's beauty. Yes, Heine lives and writes incessantly. His body is
broken, but not his mind, which, on the sick bed rises to Promethean
power and courage. His arm is impotent; not so his satire, which still
in its velvet covering bears the fearful knife that has flayed alive so
many a Maryas. Yes, his frame is worn away, but not the grace in every
movement of his youthful spirit. Along with his memoirs, a complete
volume of poems has been written in these two years. They will not
appear till after the death of the poet; but I can say of them that they
unite in full perfection all the admirable gifts which have rendered his
former poems so brilliant. So struggles this extraordinary man against a
terrible destiny, with all the weapons of the soul, never despairing in
this vehement suffering, never descending to tears--bidding defiance to
the worst. As I stood before that sick bed, it seemed as if I saw the
sufferer of the Caucasus bound in iron chains, tortured by the vulture,
but still confronting fate unappalled, and there alone on the sea-shore
caressed by sea-nymphs. Yes, this is the sick-bed and the death-bed of a
great and free man; and to have come near him is not only a great
happiness but a great instruction."

Heine has never been well known in this country. The only work
by him we have seen in English is his _Beitrage zur Deutschen
Literatur-Geschichte_, translated by Mr. G.W. Haven, and published in
Boston, in 1846. It is remarkably clever, and audacious, as the
productions of this German-Frenchman generally are. He is now
fifty-three years of age, having been born at Dusseldorff, in 1797. As
several wealthy bankers, and other persons of substance, in Paris, are
related to him, and he has a pension from the French Government, he is
not likely to suffer very much from the losses of property referred to
in the _Zeitung aus Böhmen_.

       *       *       *       *       *

Dr. Otto Zirckel has just published at Berlin a volume called "Sketches
from and concerning the United States," which has some curious
peculiarities to the eyes of an American. It is intended as a guide for
Germans who wish either to emigrate to this country or to send their
money here for investment. It begins with a description of the voyage to
America and of the East, West and South of the Union; next it describes
the position of the farmer, physician, clergyman, teacher, jurist,
merchant, and editor, and the chance of the emigrant in each of these
professions. It is written with spirit and humor, and a good deal of
practical judgment and wisdom are concisely and clearly expressed. The
curious part is the advice given to speculators who wish to invest their
money here at a high rate of interest. The author seems to think America
a perfect Eldorado for money lenders, and his book cannot fail to
produce a considerable increase in the amount of German capital employed
in this country. The various state and national loans are described
correctly, showing that Dr. Zirckel might venture safely into the mazes
of Wall Street. The history of repudiation he has studied with care, and
the necessity of final resumption of payments even in Mississippi he
estimates with justice. He suggests as the safest means of managing
matters, that a number of wealthy families should combine their funds
and send over a special agent in whom they can confide, to manage the
same in shaving notes, speculating in land, lending on bond and
mortgage, and making money generally. Thus they can get a high return
and live comfortably in Europe on the toil of Americans, all of which
will be much more grateful to the capitalists than useful to this
country. Better for us to have no foreign capital at all than to have
the interest thereon carried away and consumed in Europe.

       *       *       *       *       *

Emile Silvestre has sent forth a new volume, _Un Philosophe sous les
Toits_.

       *       *       *       *       *

The work on Aerostation, by Mr. Green, recently published in
Philadelphia, has been much noticed in Europe, where--particularly in
France--the subject has attracted large attention, in consequence of the
death of Gale, (formerly a player at our Bowery Theater,) near Bordeaux,
and the recent wicked and ridiculous ascents with horses, ostriches, &c.
from the Hippodrome in Paris, and some experiments in ballooning at
Madrid. In an interesting paper in the _Revue des Deux Mondes_, for the
fifteenth of October, we have an account of numerous theories,
experiments, and accidents, constituting an entertaining _resumé_ of the
whole matter. Few instances of intrepidity, danger, and escape, excite
livelier emotion than the crossing from England to France by Blanchard,
and Dr. Jeffries, an American, on the seventh of January, 1785. When, by
the loss of gas, the balloon descended rapidly over the channel, and
approached near the surface of the sea, after everything had been thrown
out, even to their clothes, Jeffries offered to leap into the sea, and
by thus lightening the balloon further, afford Blanchard a chance of
safety. "We must both be lost as the case is," said he; "if you think
your preservation is possible, I am ready to sacrifice my life." The
French military ascents are particularly described. Companies of
aeronauts were formed and trained, and Bonaparte took one of them with
him to Egypt, but the British captured all the apparatus for the
generation of gas. The First Consul caused ascents in picturesque
balloons to be made on occasions of public rejoicing for victories, in
order to strike the imaginations of the Egyptians, and an aerostatic
academy was established near Paris. The writer mentions that Lieutenant
Gale, like poor Sam Patch, so famous for a similar absurdity, and for a
similar and not less miserable end, had drank too much brandy for
self-possession in a dangerous predicament. He thinks that the problem
of the direction or government of balloons cannot possibly be solved
with the mechanical means which science now commands; and that, as they
may be usefully employed for the study of the great physical laws of the
globe, all experiments should be restricted to the object of advancing
science. He dwells on what might be accomplished toward ascertaining the
true laws of the decrease of temperature in the elevated regions of the
air, of the decrease of density of the atmosphere, of the decrease of
humidity according to atmospheric heights, and of the celerity of sound.
After all the experiments, and all that has been written upon the
subject, we are confident that the direction of a balloon is quite
impossible, except by a process which we have never yet seen suggested;
that is, by the rapid decomposition of the air in its way, so that a
tube extended in the direction in which it is desired to move, shall
open continually a vacuum into which the pressure of the common
atmosphere shall impel the carriage.

       *       *       *       *       *

The _Journal des Debats_ announces for publication two works from the
pen of Guizot. The hero of the first is General Monk. Its title is _The
Downfall of the Republic in England in 1660, and the Reestablishment of
the Monarchy: A Historic Study_. It may be regarded as new, though part
has been published before in the form of articles in the _Revue
Française_. These articles appeared in 1837. M. Guizot has carefully
revised them, and added a great deal of new matter. The work is also to
be enriched with a number of curious documents never before published,
such as a letter from Richard Cromwell to General Monk, and seventy
dispatches from M. de Bordeaux, then French Ambassador at London, to
Cardinal Mazarin. These dispatches have been found in the archives of
the Foreign Office at Paris. The work has a new preface, which the
_Debats_ says will prove to be no less important in a political than a
historical point of view. The second book is that so well known in this
country upon Washington. We do not understand that anything new is added
to it. It was in the first place issued as the introduction of the
translation into French of Sparks's _Life of Washington_, which the
French journalist says is the most exact and complete work yet published
on the war of independence and the foundation of the United States.
"Monk and Washington," adds the _Debats_: "on the one side a republic
falling and a monarchy rising again into existence, on the other a
monarchy giving birth to a republic; and M. Guizot, formerly the prime
minister of our monarchy, now amid the perplexities of our own republic
the historian of these two great men and these two great events! Were
contrasts ever seen more striking, and more likely to excite a powerful
interest?"

This is very well for the _Debats_. But the omissions by Mr.
Sparks--sometimes from carelessness, sometimes from ignorance, and
sometimes from an indisposition to revive memories of old feuds, or to
cover with disgrace names which should be dishonored; and his occasional
verbal alterations of Washington's letters prevent that general
satisfaction with which his edition of Washington would otherwise be
regarded. We are soon to have histories of the Revolution, from both
Sparks and Bancroft, in proper form. The best documentary history is
not, as the _Debats_ fancies, this collection of Washington's letters,
but Mr. Force's "Archives,"--of which, with its usual want of sagacity
or regard for duty, Congress is publishing but one tenth of the edition
necessary, since every statesman in our own country, and every writer on
American history at home or abroad, needs a copy of it, and from its
extent and costliness it will never be reprinted.

       *       *       *       *       *

The Rabbi Cahen has published at Paris the Book of Job, which concludes
his learned version of the Hebrew Bible.

       *       *       *       *       *

Works on the German Revolution and German Politics.--An excellent book
on the Prussian revolution is now being published at Oldenburg. It is
from the pen of Adolf Stahr, a writer of remarkable force and clearness.
He belongs to the party most bitterly disappointed by the turn affairs
have taken in Germany. We mean the democratic monarchists, who labored
under the illusion that they might see Prussia converted into a sort of
republic with a hereditary chief, like Belgium. They desired a monarchy,
with a parliament elected by universal suffrage, and democratic
institutions of every kind. Stahr's book breathes all the bitterness of
their rage at the success of absolutism in snatching from them every
slightest vestige of hope. His book is published serially, four parts
having already been issued. As a record of facts it deserves the praise
of great industry and lucidity in collection and arrangement, while on
every page there glows in suppressed eloquence the indignation of a
generous and manly heart. Of course Stahr cannot be called a historian
in the usual sense of the term. He is rather a political pamphleteer,
maintaining at length the ideas and chastising the foes of his party.

Another and a more permanently valuable work on this subject is the
_Revolutions-Chronik_ (Revolutionary Chronicle) of Dr. Adolf Wolff,
published by Hempel of Berlin. This is a collection of authentic
documents, such as proclamations, placards, letters, legislative acts,
&c., connected with the revolution. They are not only arranged in due
order, but are combined with a clear and succinct narrative of the
events and circumstances to which they relate. We know of no man more
competent than Dr. Wolff to the successful execution of so important an
undertaking. Without being a partisan, his sympathies are decidedly on
the popular side, and the clearness of his judgment cannot be blinded by
any of the feints and stratagems in which the period abounded. He is now
engaged upon the revolution in Prussia, but intends to treat all the
manifestations of the time throughout Germany in the same thorough and
reliable manner. His work will be invaluable to future historians of
this eventful period; at the same time it reads like a romance, not only
from the nature of the events, but from the spirit and keenness of the
style.

Two other striking contributions to the history of this stormy epoch
have been made by Bruno Bauer, the well known rationalist. Bauer treats
the political and religious parties of modern Germany with the same
scornful satire and destructive analysis which appear in his theological
writings. He delights in pitting one side against the other and making
them consume each other. His first book is called the _Bürgerliche
Revolution in Deutschland_, (the Burghers' Revolution in Germany); it
was published above a year ago, and attracted a great deal of attention
from the fact that it took neither side, but with a sort of
Mephistophelian superiority, showed that every party had been alike
weak, timid, hesitating, short-sighted, and useless. The New-Catholics
of Ronge's school were especially treated with unsparing severity. Bauer
has now just brought out his second book, which is particularly devoted
to the Frankfort Parliament. In this also the Hegelian Logic is applied
with the same result. The author proves that all that was done in that
body was worth nothing and produced nothing. There is not a particle of
sympathetic feeling in the whole book; but only cold and contemptuous
analysis. It has not made very much of an impression in Germany. Both
these works, and, indeed, the whole school of ultra-Hegelian skeptics
generally, are a singular reaction upon the usual warmth and
sentimentality of German character and literature. They are the very
opposite extreme, and so a very natural product of the times. For our
part we like them quite as well as the other side of the contrast.

       *       *       *       *       *

Germany is the richest of all countries in historical literature.
Nowhere have all the events of human experience been so variously,
profoundly, or industriously investigated. Ancient history especially
has been most exhaustively treated by the Germans. One of the best and
most comprehensive works in this category is that of Dr. Zimmer, the
seventh edition of which, revised and enlarged, has just been published
at Leipzic. Dr. Zimmer does not proceed upon the hypotheses of Niebuhr
and others, but conceives that the writing of history and romance ought
to be essentially different. The whole work is in one volume of some 450
pages, and of course greatly condensed. It discusses the history of
India, China, and Japan; the western Asiatic States, Assyria, Babylonia,
Syria, Phoenicia, India, down to the fall of Jerusalem; the other
parts of Asia; Egypt to the battle of Actium, with a dissertation on
Egyptian culture; Carthage; Greece to the fall of Corinth; Rome under
the emperors down to the year 476; and concludes with an account of the
literature of classical antiquity.

As we have no manual of this sort in English, that is written up to the
latest results of scholarship, we hope to see some American undertaking
a version of Dr. Zimmer's book. There is considerable learning and
talent in the two octavos on the same subject by Dr. Hebbe, and
published last year by Dewitt & Davenport; but we strongly dislike some
of the doctrines of the work, which are _not_ derived from a thorough
study.

       *       *       *       *       *

The seventh volume of Professor Schlosser's History of the Eighteenth
Century, and of the Nineteenth till the overthrow of the French Empire,
appeared, in translation, in London, on the first of November. Volume
eighth, completing the work, with a copious index, is preparing for
early publication.

       *       *       *       *       *

The Discovery of a lost MS. of Jean Le Bel is mentioned in the Paris
papers, as having been made by M. Polain, keeper of the Archives at
Liège, among the MSS. in the _Bibliothèque de Bourgogne_, at Brussels.
It is on the eve of publication, and will be comprised in an octavo
volume, in black letter. This work was supposed to be irretrievably
lost. It was found by M. Polain, transcribed and incorporated into a
prose _Chronicle de Liège_, by Jean des Pres, dit _d'Ontremeuse_. It
comprises a period between 1325 and 1340, which are embraced in one
hundred and forty-six chapters of the first book of _Froissart_. It
therefore contains only the first part of Le Bel's Chronicle:
nevertheless it is a fragment of much importance. Froissart cannot be
considered as a contemporary historian of the events recorded in his
first book, but Le Bel was connected with the greater portion of them,
and was acquainted with them either from personal knowledge or through
those who had authentic sources of information.

       *       *       *       *       *

Monsieur Bastiat, the political economist, (who has shown more economy
in the matter of credit for the best ideas in his books, than in
anything else we know of,) is not dead, as in the last _International_
was stated. The _Courier and Enquirer_ correspondent says:

     "I am glad to say that the report which reached Paris from Italy,
     of the death of F. Bastiat, a noted writer on political economy, is
     unfounded. That gentleman is recovering his health, and it is now
     believed will be able, at the opening of the session, to resume his
     seat in the Assembly."

Since his return from Italy he has published at Paris a new edition of
his latest production, the _Harmonies Economiques_, in which he has
availed himself in so large a degree and in so discreditable a manner of
the ideas of Mr. Henry C. Carey, of New Jersey, who, since he first gave
to the public the essentials of M. Bastiat's performance, has himself,
in a volume, entitled _The Harmony of Interests_, published some three
or four months ago in Philadelphia, largely and forcibly illustrated his
just and admirable doctrines. In the _Harmonies Economiques_ M. Bastiat
seeks to prove that the interests of classes and individuals in society,
as now constituted, are harmonious, and not antagonistic as certain
schools of thinkers maintain. Commercial freedom he avers, instead of
urging society toward a state of general misery, tends constantly to the
progressive increase of the general abundance and well being. In
sustaining this proposition M. Bastiat teaches the optimism of the
socialists, and holds that injustice is not a necessary thing in human
relations, that monopoly and pauperism are only temporary, and that
things must come right at last. The powers of nature, the soil,
vegetation, gravitation, heat, electricity, chemical forces, waters,
seas, in short the globe and all the endowments with which God has
enriched it, are the common property of the entire race of man, and in
proportion as society advances this common property is more equally
distributed and enjoyed. Capital assists men in their efforts to improve
this magnificent inheritance; competition is a powerful lever with which
they set in movement and render useful the gratuitous gifts of God; the
social instinct leads them to make a continual exchange of services; and
even now, though the powers of nature enter into these services, those
who receive them pay only for the labor of their fellows, not for
natural products; and the accumulation of capital constantly diminishes
the rate of interest and enables the laborer to derive a greater return
from his toil. M. Bastiat also gives a new definition of value, which he
says is _the relation of two services exchanged_. This is all, we
believe, that he _claims_ to offer as perfectly new,--the main part of
his book appearing as a clearer exposition of the doctrine of Adam
Smith. It will be seen that the theory of the book is infinitely
superior to that of Ricardo or Malthus; it has borrowed truths from the
advanced thinkers of the age; but he would be a bold critic who should
affirm that it had not mingled far-reaching errors with them.

       *       *       *       *       *

M. Romieu's book in defense of despotism, (lately published in France,)
sounds as if it had been written for the _North American Review_, but it
never could have been sent to its editor, or it would have been adopted
and published by him. It is entitled "The Era of the Cæsars," and its
argument is, that history, ancient and modern, and the situation of the
contemporary world, prove that force, the sword, or _Cæsarism_, has
ultimately decided, and will prevail, in the affairs of the nations.
Representative assemblies, Monsieur Romieu considers ridiculous, and
mischievous, and in the end fatal: such, at least, he contends, is the
experience of France; and as for the liberty of the press, it means a
form of tyranny which destroys all other liberty. At the beginning of
the century, M. de Fontanes said what (he thinks) multitudes of the
soundest minds would reecho, "I shall never deem myself free in a
country where freedom of the press exists." He would convert all
journals into mere chronicles, and have them strictly watched. Force, he
says, is the only principle, even in governments styled free. He
includes Switzerland and the United States. The condition and destinies
of France he handles with special hardihood. Cæsarism is here already
desired and inaugurated--not monarchy, which requires faith in it, nor
constitutional government, which is an expedient and an illusion, but a
supreme authority capable of maintaining itself, and _commanding_
respect and submission. Mr. Walsh reviews the work in one of his letters
to the _Journal of Commerce_; and judging from Mr. Walsh's
correspondence on the recent attempts to establish free institutions in
Europe, we might suspect him of a hearty sympathy with M. Romieu, whom
he describes as an erudite, conscientious personage, formerly a prefect
of a department, and a member of the Assembly.

       *       *       *       *       *

The German poet, Anastasius Grün, has just published, at Leipzic a
collection of the _popular songs of Carinthia_, translated from the
original. Carinthia, as, perhaps, all our readers are not aware, is one
of the southerly provinces of the Austrian empire, on the borders of
Turkey; and, during all the wars of Austria with the Moslems, had to
bear the brunt of the fighting. And even after peace was concluded the
Carinthians kept up a sort of minor war on their own account, being
constantly exposed to incursions from the other side of the frontier.
Thus for centuries their country was one extended fortification, and the
whole population in constant readiness to rush to arms when the signal
fires blazed upon the hills. Then every house was a fortress, and even
the churches were surrounded with palisades and ditches, behind which
the women and children sought refuge with their movables when the alarm
came too near. From this period of constant and savage warfare the
popular songs of the country date their origin. Curious to say, many of
their heroes are borrowed from the traditions and history of neighboring
lands. Thus the Servian champion Marko figures a good deal in this
poetry, while the figure which has more importance than all the others
is a foreign and almost fabulous being, called King Mathias; wherever
this mystic personage can be laid hold of and historically identified,
he appears to be Mathias Corvin, king of Hungary. The Carinthians
attribute to him not only all the exploits of a variety of notable
characters, but also the vices of some celebrated illustrations of
immorality. Nor is his career accomplished; according to the tradition
of the southern Slavonians, King Mathias is not yet dead, but sleeps in
a grotto in the interior of Hungary, waiting for the hour of waking,
like Frederick the Redbeard in the Kyffhäuser, Charlemagne in the
Untersberg at Salzburg, Holger the Dane near Kronburg, and King Arthur
in a mountain of his native country. There sits King Mathias with his
warriors, by a table under a linden tree. Another song makes him, like
Orpheus with Eurydice, go down to hell with his fiddle in his hand to
bring thence his departed bride. But he has no better luck than Orpheus;
on the way out she breaks the commanded silence by saying a word to her
companion, and so is lost forever. These songs are still sung by the
Carinthian soldiers at night, around their watch-fires. There are others
of more modern origin, but they are weak and colorless compared with
these relics of the old heroic time.

       *       *       *       *       *

Mr. Bryant's delightful "Letters of a Traveler," of which we have
heretofore spoken, has been issued by Mr. Putnam in a new and very
beautiful edition, enriched with many exquisite engravings, under the
title of "The Picturesque Souvenir." It is a work of permanent value,
and in the style of its publication is hardly surpassed by any of the
splendid volumes of the season.

       *       *       *       *       *

Dr. Laing, one of those restless English travelers who have printed
books about the United States, is now a prominent personage in
Australia, where he has been elected a member of the newly instituted
Legislature, for the city of Sidney. Upon the conclusion of the canvass
he made a speech, after which he was dragged home in his carriage by
some of the more energetic of his partisans, the horses having been
removed by them for that purpose. He is opposed to the Government.

       *       *       *       *       *

The History of Liberty, by Mr. Samuel Elliot, of Boston, is examined at
considerable length and in a very genial spirit, in the last number of
the _Revue des Deux Mondes_--a review, by the way, in which much more
attention appears to be paid to our literature than it receives in the
_North American_. The writer observes, in the beginning, that the two
initial volumes of Mr. Elliot's great work, now published, in which the
_Liberty of Rome_ is treated, would be a superhuman performance, if
Niebuhr, Muller, Heeren, Grote, and Thirlwall, had not written, and
compares the work of our countryman with the poem on the same subject by
Thomson, the author of "The Seasons." He says:

     "Mr. Elliot's work breathes a lofty morality; a grave and masculine
     reserve; a deep and constant fear of not having done the best. He
     may be subject,--like other Americans more or less _ideologists_
     and system-mongers,--to illusions; but he has the true remedy: his
     _ideal_ is well placed; he can sympathize fervently with all the
     pursuits and employments of human activity; he cherishes a profound
     respect for prudence, and moderation; for an enlarging survey and
     indulgence of human necessities; for that generosity and virtue
     which is tender above all of what has life, and seeks to conciliate
     a complete transformation in the ideas of men. Until now, it would
     have been difficult to find a thinker who, in judging the Romans,
     would not have celebrated their inordinate patriotism, as their
     chief glory. Their heroes were admired precisely for the ardor with
     which they sacrificed everything--even their children or their
     conscience--to the interests of country or party. Mr. Elliot, on
     the contrary, discovers in this heroism only a lamentable
     deficiency of true virtue and honor; of a sound moral sense and
     equitable liberality. To our apprehension, a great reform--an
     historical event--is to be recognized in this new moral
     repugnance--this new tendency to deem the spirit of _party_ an evil
     and a danger. Formerly, nothing was conceived to be nobler than to
     serve your party, without stint or reservation;--nothing more
     disgraceful than to abandon it even when you could not entertain
     the same opinions. The condemnation and reversal of this doctrine
     would be a moral advancement more important for human futurity,
     than many of the occurrences or the revolutions of the last sixty
     years, that have made the most noise."

We believe Mr. Elliot's leisure is not to be seriously interrupted by
public employments, and trust, therefore, that he will proceed, with as
much rapidity as possible, with his grand survey of the advance of
Liberty, down even to our own day--which it is not unlikely will
conclude a very important era of his subject.

       *       *       *       *       *

Dr. Bowring, who is now, we believe, British Consul at Canton, was the
editor of the last and only complete edition of Jeremy Bentham's works;
he has been one of the most voluminous contributors to the Westminster
Review, and he is eminent as a linguist, though if we may judge by some
of his performances, not very justly so. He translated and edited
specimens of the poetry of several northern nations, and it has often
been charged as an illustration of his dishonesty, that he omitted a
stanza of the sublime hymn of Derzhaven, a Russian, to the Deity,
because it recognized the divinity of Christ, as it is held by
Trinitarians--the Doctor being a Unitarian. He is sharply satirized, and
treated frequently with extreme and probably quite undeserved contempt,
in the Diaries and Correspondence of the late Hugh Swinton Legaré.

       *       *       *       *       *

Mr. Henry Rogers, of Birmingham, has published in London two stout
volumes of his contributions to the _Edinburgh Review_. They are not the
best things that ever appeared under the old "buff and blue," though
they are neat and very readable. Hitherto Professor Rogers has not been
known in literature, except by an edition of the works of Burke. The
reviewals or essays in this collection are divided into biographical,
critical, theological, and political. The first volume consists
principally of a series of sketches of great minds,--in the style,
half-biographical, half-critical, of which so many admirable specimens
have adorned the literature of this age. Indeed, such _demonstrations_
in mental anatomy have been a favorite study in all ages. Among Mr.
Rogers's subjects, are Pascal, Luther, Leibnitz, and Plato, and he
promises sketches of Descartes, Malabranche, Hobbes, Berkeley, and
Locke. The first article, on Thomas Fuller, may look rather dry at
first; but the interest increases, we admire the quaintness of old
Fuller, and not less the fine, accurate, and complete picture given of
his life, character, and works. In this, as in the other biographical
articles, Mr. Rogers tells his story fluently. If he has not the wit of
Sydney Smith, nor the brilliance of Macaulay, he has not the prosiness
of Alison, nor the bitterness of Gifford. He is witty with Fuller,
sarcastic with Marvell, energetic with Luther, philosophical and precise
with Leibnitz, quietly satirical with Pascal, and reflective and
intellectual with Plato. "Dead as a last year's reviewal" is no longer
among the proverbs. Books are too numerous to be read, and people make
libraries of the quarterlies,--thanks to the facilities afforded by Mr.
Leonard Scott! And reviews, properly written,--evincing some knowledge
of the books which furnish their titles, are very delightful and useful
reading, frequently more so than the productions which suggest them, of
which they ought always to give an intelligible description. And this
condition is fulfilled almost always by the reviews published in London
and Edinburgh. Our _North American_ sometimes gives us tolerably
faithful abstracts, and its readers would be glad if its writers would
confine themselves to such labors. But we read an article in it not long
ago, under the title of Mr. Carey's "Past and Present," which contained
no further allusion to this book, nor the slightest evidence that the
"reviewer" had ever seen it. On the other hand, the last number contains
a paper on the Homeric question, purporting to have been occasioned by
Mr. Grote's History of Greece, but deriving its learning, we understand,
altogether from Mr. Mure's History of Greek Literature, a work so
extensive that it is not likely to be reprinted, or largely imported.

This custom which now obtains, of reprinting reviewals, we believe was
begun in this country, where Mr. Emerson brought out a collection of
Carlyle's Essays, Andrews Norton one of Macaulay's, Dr. Furness one of
Professor Wilson's, Mr. Edward Carey one of Lord Jeffrey's, &c. several
years before any such collections appeared in England.

       *       *       *       *       *

Respecting the Holy Land, no work of so much absolute value has appeared
since Dr. Robinson's, as the Historical and Geographical Sketch by Rabbi
Joseph Schwartz, in a large and thick octavo, with numerous
illustrations, lately published in Philadelphia by Mr. Hart. Rabbi
Schwartz resided in Palestine sixteen years, and he is the only Jew of
eminence who has written of the country from actual observation, since
the time of Benjamin of Tudela. The learned author wrote his work in
Hebrew, and it has been translated by Rabbi Isaac Leeser, one of the
ablest divines in Philadelphia. It is addressed particularly to Jewish
readers, to whom the translator remarks in his preface, "It is hoped
that it may contribute to extend the knowledge of Palestine, and rouse
many to study the rich treasures which our ancient literature affords,
and also to enkindle sympathy and kind acts for those of our brothers
who still cling to the soil of our ancestors and love the dust in which
many of our saints sleep in death, awaiting a glorious resurrection and
immortality."

       *       *       *       *       *

Mr. John R. Thompson, the accomplished and much esteemed editor of the
_Southern Literary Messenger_, whose genuine and intelligent love of
literature is illustrated in every number of his excellent magazine, has
just published a wise and eloquent address on the present state of
education in Virginia, which was delivered before the literary societies
of Washington College, at Lexington. It discloses the causes of the
ignorance of reading and writing by seventy thousand adults in Virginia,
and forcibly and impressively urges the necessity of a thorough literary
culture to the common prosperity.

       *       *       *       *       *

A New Play by Mr. Marston, founded on the story of Philip Augustus of
France and Marie de Méranie, has been put into rehearsal at the Olympic
Theater in London.

       *       *       *       *       *

The Leipzic _Grenzboten_ notices Mrs. Maberly's new romance of "Fashion"
(which we believe has not yet been republished in America) with great
praise, as a work of striking power and artistic management.
Nevertheless, says the critic, this romance has excited in England as
much anger as attention, and this he attributes to the truth with which
the authoress has depicted the aristocratic world. He then makes the
following remarks, which are curious enough to be translated: "The
meaning of the word 'fashion' cannot be rendered in a foreign language.
_La mode_ and its tyranny approach somewhat to the sense, but still it
remains unintelligible to us Germans, because we have no idea of the
capricious, silly, and despotic laws of fashion in England. They do not
relate, as with us, to mere outward things, as clothes and furniture,
but especially to position and estimation in high society. In order to
play a part on that stage it is necessary to understand the mysterious
conditions and requirements which the goddess Fashion prescribes. High
birth and riches, wit and beauty, find no mercy with her if her
whimsical laws are not obeyed. In what these laws consist no living soul
can say: they are double, yes three-fold, the _je ne sais quoi_ of the
French. The exclusiveness of English society is well known, a
peculiarity in which it is only excelled by its copyist the American
society of New York and Boston. But it is not enough to have obtained
admission into the magic circle: there, too, fashion implacably demands
its victims, and to her as to Moloch earthly and heavenly goods, wealth,
and peace of soul, are offered up."

       *       *       *       *       *

John Ruskin, who has written of painting, sculpture and architecture, in
a manner more attractive to mere amateurs than any other author, will
soon publish his elaborate work, "The Authors of Venice."
Notwithstanding his almost blind idolatry of Turner, and his other
heresies, Ruskin is one of the few writers on art who open new vistas to
the mind; vehement, paradoxical, and one-sided he may be, but no other
writer _clears_ the subject in the same masterly manner--no other writer
suggests more even to those of opposite opinions.

       *       *       *       *       *

The first two volumes of Oehlenschlager's _Lebens Erinnerungen_ have
appeared at Vienna, and attract more observation than anything else in
the late movements in the German literature. The poet's early struggles
give one kind of interest to this work, and his friendship with
illustrious litterateurs another. Madame de Stael, Goethe, Schiller, the
Schlegels, Steffens, Hegel, and other representatives of German thought,
pass in succession through these pages, mingled with pictures of Danish
life, and criticisms on the Danish drama. Like most German biographies,
this deals as much with German literature as with German life.

       *       *       *       *       *

Gustave Planche, a clever Parisian critic, has in the last number of _La
Revue des Deux Mondes_, an article on Lamartine's novels and
Confessions, issued within the year. He spares neither the prose nor
poetry of the romantic statesman. He classes the _History of the
Girondists_ with the novels. On the whole he thinks there is less of
fact, or more of transmutation of fact, than in Sir Walter Scott's
Waverley series: as in Scott's Life of Napoleon there was less of
veracity than in any even of his professed fictions founded upon
history. These romancists are never to be trusted, except in their own
domains.

       *       *       *       *       *

Prosper Mérimée, known among the poets by his _Theatre de Clara Gazul_,
and who by his _Chronique du Temps de Charles IX._ and _Colomba_, was
entitled to honorable mention in literature, has written a very clever
book about the United States--the fruit of a visit to this country last
year--which an accomplished New-Yorker is engaged in translating. His
last previous performance was a Life of Pedro the Cruel, which has been
translated and published in London, and is thus spoken of in the
_Literary Gazette_:--

     "The subject hardly yields in romantic variety, strange turns of
     fortune, characters of strong expression, and tragedies of the
     deepest pathos, to anything created by the imagination. Within the
     period and in the land which was marked by the fortunes of Pedro of
     Castile, the scene is crowded with figures over which both history
     and song have thrown a lasting interest. The names of Planche of
     France, Inez de Castro of Portugal, Du Guesclin,--the Black Prince,
     the White Company--belong alike to romance and to reality. The very
     'Don Juan' of Mozart and Byron plays his part for an hour as no
     fabulous gallant at the court of Seville; Moors and Christians join
     in the council or in the field here, as well as in the strains of
     the Romancero; and the desperate game played for a crown by the
     rival brothers whose more than Theban strife was surrounded by such
     various objects of pity, admiration or terror, wants no incident,
     from its commencement to its climax, to fill the just measure of a
     tragic theme. One more striking could scarcely have been desired by
     a poet; yet M. Mérimée, who claims that character, has handled it
     with the judgment and diligence of an historian."

       *       *       *       *       *

Nathaniel Hawthorne, the greatest living American writer born in the
present century, has just published, through Ticknor, Reed and Fields, a
volume for juvenile readers, in the preface to which he says:

     "It has not been composed without a deep sense of responsibility.
     The author regards children as sacred, and would not for the world
     cast anything into the fountain of a young heart that might
     embitter and pollute its waters. And even in point of the literary
     reputation to be aimed at, juvenile literature is as well worth
     cultivating as any other. The writer, if he succeed in pleasing his
     little readers, may hope to be remembered by them till their own
     old age--a far longer period of literary existence than is
     generally attained by those who seek immortality from the judgments
     of full grown men."

       *       *       *       *       *

An attentive correspondent of the _International_, at Vienna, mentions
that letters have been received there from the eccentric but daring and
intelligent American, Dr. Mathews, formerly of Baltimore, who, some
years since, assumed the style of the Arabs, with a view to discovery in
Northern and Central Africa. We hope to obtain further information of
Dr. Mathews, respecting whose adventures there has not hitherto been
anything in the journals for several years.

       *       *       *       *       *

Professor G.J. Adler, of the New York University, the learned author of
the German and English Dictionary, is now printing a translation which
he has just completed, of the _Iphigenia in Taurus_, by Goethe. Of the
eighteen that remain of the sixty to ninety plays of Euripides, the
_Iphigenia at Tauri_ is one of the most remarkable. When Goethe returned
from Italy, his spirit was infused with the love of ancient art, and his
ambition tempting him to a rivalry of its masters, he selected this
subject, to which he brought, if not his finest powers, his severest
labor; and the drama of Iphigenia--which is in many respects very
different from that of Euripides,--is, next to Faust, perhaps the
noblest of his works. We are not aware that it has hitherto appeared in
English. The forthcoming translation, (which is in the press of the
Appletons,) strikes us very favorably. It is exact, and is generally
flowing and elegant.

       *       *       *       *       *

The Official Paper of China has a name which means the _Pekin Gazette_.
It is impossible to ascertain when its publication was first commenced,
but it seems to be the oldest newspaper in the world. There is a
tradition that it began under the Sung dynasty in the latter part of the
tenth century. It is originally a sort of handbill, containing official
notices, posted up on the walls of the Capital and sent in manuscript to
provincial officers. At Canton it is printed for the public at large and
sold. It appears every other day in the form of a pamphlet of ten or
twelve pages. It consists of three parts; the first is devoted to Court
news, such as the health and other doings of the Imperial family; the
second gives the decrees of the Sovereign; the third contains the
reports and memorials of public functionaries made to the imperial
government on all subjects concerning the interests of the country. The
decrees are concise in style; the reports and memorials are the
perfection of verbiage. The former have the force of laws, the Emperor
being both legislative and executive. As a record of materials for
history the _Gazette_ is of little value, for a little study shows that
lies are abundant in it, and that its statements are designed as much to
conceal as to make known the facts. Since the English war the number of
documents published relating to affairs with foreign nations is very
small. Something is given respecting the finances, but that too, is of
very little value.

       *       *       *       *       *

Mr. Williams, who wrote "Shakspeare and his Friends," &c., has just
published a novel entitled "The Luttrells." It was very high praise of
his earlier works that they were by many sagacious critics attributed to
Savage Landor. His novels on the literature of the Elizabethan age
evince taste and feeling, and his sketches of the Chesterfield and
Walpole period in "Maids of Honor," are happily and gracefully done.
"The Luttrells" has passages occasionally more powerful but hardly so
pleasing as some in the books we have named. In mere style it is an
improvement on his former efforts. In the early passages of the story
there is nice handling of character, and frequent touches of genuine
feeling.

       *       *       *       *       *

The fifth volume of Vaulabelle's _Histoire de la Restauration_, a
conscientious and carefully written history of France and the Bourbon
family, from the restoration in 1815 down to the overthrow of Charles
X., has just been published at Paris. It receives the same praise as the
preceding volumes. M. Vaulabelle it may be remembered was for a brief
period, in 1848, General Cavaignac's Minister of Education and Public
Worship.

       *       *       *       *       *

Captain Sir Edward Belcher, C.B., R.N., &c., whose presence in New York
we noted recently, is now in Texas, superintending the settlement of a
large party of first class English emigrants. A volume supplemental to
his "Voyage of H.M.S. Samarang," illustrative of the zoology of the
expedition, has been published in London by Arthur Adams, F.L.S.

       *       *       *       *       *

M. Guizot, it is said, is going back to his old profession of editor. He
is to participate in the conduct of the _Journal des Debats_, in which,
of course, he will sign his articles. We do not always agree with M.
Guizot, but we cannot help thinking him, upon the whole, the most
respectable man who for a long time has been conspicuous in affairs in
France.

       *       *       *       *       *

The sixth and concluding volume of the life and correspondence of Robert
Southey, edited by C.C. Southey--illustrated with a view of Southey's
Monument in Crosthwaite Church, and a view of Crosthwaite, from Greta
Hill--was published in London, early in November, and will soon be
reissued by Harpers.

       *       *       *       *       *

Somebody having said that Bulwer had lost his hearing, and was in a very
desponding way in consequence, he has written to the _Morning Post_ to
say he is by no means deaf, but that if he were he should not much
despond on that account, "for the quality and material of the talk
that's going is not calculated to cause any great regret for the
deprivation of one's ears."

       *       *       *       *       *

The second volume of the Count de Castelnau's Expedition into the
Central Regions of South America, under the auspices of the French
government, has just been published in Paris.

       *       *       *       *       *

An eminent diplomatist of France has just published two volumes of most
interesting revelations drawn from his own note-books and personal
knowledge. We allude to the _Etudes Diplomatiques et Litteraires_ of
Count Alexis de Saint Priest. On the partition of Poland especially, it
casts an entirely new and conclusive light. M. Saint Priest shows that
apart from the internal anarchy and weakness of Poland, the catastrophe
was the work not of Russia as has been commonly supposed, but of
Frederic the Great of Prussia. Russia had no interest in dividing
Poland; in fact she was already supreme in that country; and besides,
her policy has never been that of an active initiative,--she waits for
the fruit to fall, and does not take the trouble of shaking the tree
herself. The great criminal then in this Polish affair was Prussia, and
the cause was the historic antagonism between Germany and Poland. M.
Saint Priest sketches the character of Frederic with the hand of a
master. "We shall see him," he says in approaching that part of his
subject, "we shall see him as he was, both adventurous and patient,
ardent and calm, full of passion yet perfectly self-possessed, capable
of embracing the vastest horizon and of shutting himself up for the
moment in the most limited detail, his eyes reaching to the farthest
distance, his hand active in the nearest vicinity, approaching his aim
step by step through by-paths, but always gaining it at last by a single
bound. We shall see him employing the most indefatigable, the most
tenacious, the most persevering will in the service of his idea,
preparing it, maturing it by long and skillful reparation, and imposing
it on Europe not by sudden violence, but by the successive and cunning
employment of flattery and intimidation. And finally, when all is
consummated, we shall see him succeed in avoiding the responsibility and
throwing it altogether upon his coadjutors, with an art all the more
profound for the simplicity under which its hardihood was concealed, and
the indifference which masked its avidity. To crown so audacious a
maneuver, he will not hesitate to declare, that "since he has never
deceived any one, he will still less deceive posterity! And in fact he
has treated them with a perfect equality: he made a mock of posterity as
well as of his contemporaries." With regard to the part of France in the
division of Poland, M. Saint Priest attempts to prove that the French
monarchy could not prevent the catastrophe; but that it was in the
revolutionary elements then fermenting in France and opposed to the
monarchy, that Frederic found his most powerful allies. Of course he
defends the monarchy from blame in the matter, and we shall not
undertake to say that he is wrong in so doing. Certainly the downfall of
Poland cannot be regarded as an isolated event, but as a part of the
great series of movements belonging to the age, in which causes the most
antagonistic in their nature often cooperated in producing the same
effect. M. Saint Priest further reasons that the providential mission of
Poland was to oppose Turkey and Islamism, and when the latter ceased to
rise the former necessarily declined. But our space will not permit us
to follow this interesting work any farther. The careful students of
history will not fail to consult it for themselves.

       *       *       *       *       *

Mary Lowell Putnam, a daughter of the Rev. Dr. Lowell of Boston, and
sister of James Russell Lowell, the poet, is the author of an
annihilating reviewal, in the last _Christian Examiner_, of Mr. Bowen on
the Hungarian Struggle for Independence. The _Tribune_ contains a
_resumé_ of the controversy, in which it had itself been honorably
distinguished, and furnishes the following sketch of Professor Bowen's
antagonist:

     "Without any ambition for literary distinction, leading a life of
     domestic duties and retirement, and pursuing the most profound and
     various studies from an insatiate thirst for knowledge, this
     admirable person has shown herself qualified to cope with the
     difficulties of a complicated historical question, and to vanquish
     a notorious Professor on his own ground. The manner in which she
     has executed her task (and her victim) is as remarkable for its
     unpretending modesty as for its singular acuteness and logical
     ability. She writes with the graceful facility of one who is
     entirely at home on the subject, conversant from long familiarity
     with its leading points, and possessing a large surplus of
     information in regard to it for which she has no present use. If
     she exhibits a generous sympathy with the cause of the oppressed,
     she does not permit the warmth of her feelings to cloud the
     serenity of her judgment. She conducts the argument with an almost
     legal precision, and compels her opponent to submit to the force of
     her intellect."

Harvard would certainly be a large gainer if Mrs. Putnam could succeed
Mr. Bowen as professor of _History_, or,--as the libeller of Kossuth
_fills_ so small a portion of the chair,--if she could be made associate
professor; but to this she would have objections.

       *       *       *       *       *

In Leipsic a monument has been erected by the German agriculturists to
Herr Thaer, who has done so much amongst them for agricultural science.
It consists of a marble column nine feet high, on which stands the
statue of Thaer, life size. It is surrounded by granite steps and an
iron balustrade. The column bears the inscription, "To their respected
teacher, Albert Thaer, the German Agriculturists--1850."

       *       *       *       *       *

A New Novel by Bulwer Lytton is announced by Bentley, to appear in three
volumes. Dickens, having completed his "David Copperfield," will
immediately commence a new serial story. Thackeray, it is rumored, has a
new work in preparation altogether different from anything he has yet
published. The Lives of Shakspeare's Heroines are announced to appear in
a series of volumes.

       *       *       *       *       *

"Sir Roger de Coverly: By the Spectator," is one of the newest and most
beautiful books from the English press. It is illustrated by Thompson,
from designs by Frederick Tayler, and edited with much judgment by Mr.
Henry Wills. The idea of the book is an extremely happy one. It is not
always easy to pick out of the eight volumes of the _Spectator_ the
papers which relate to _Sir Roger de Coverley_, when we happen to want
them. Here we have them all, following close upon each other, forming so
many chapters of the Coverley Chronicle, telling a succinct and charming
story, with just so much pleasing extract from other papers as to throw
light upon the doings of Sir Roger, and enough graceful talk about the
London of Queen Anne's time (by way of annotation) to adapt one's mind
completely to the de Coverley tone of sentiment. The _Spectator_--we
mean the modern gazette of that name--says of it:--

     "The character of Sir Roger de Coverley is a creation which, in its
     way, has never been surpassed; never perhaps equaled except by the
     _Vicar of Wakefield_. The de Coverley establishment and the Vicar's
     family have a strong general likeness. They are the same
     simple-minded, kind-hearted English souls, in different spheres of
     society. The thirty papers of the _Spectator_ devoted to Sir Roger
     and his associates, now that we have them together, form a perfect
     little novel in themselves, from the reading of which we rise as we
     rise from that of Goldsmith, healthier and happier. There never was
     so beautiful an illustration of how far mere genuine heartiness of
     disposition and rectitude of purpose can impart true dignity to a
     character, as Sir Roger de Coverley. He is rather beloved than
     esteemed. He talks all the way up stairs on a visit. He is a
     walking epitome of as many vulgar errors as Sir Thomas Browne
     collected in his book. He has grave doubts as to the propriety of
     not having an old woman indicted for a witch. He is brimful of the
     prejudices of his caste. He has grown old with the simplicity of a
     child. Captain Sentry must keep him in talk lest he expose himself
     at the play. And yet about all he does there is an unassuming
     dignity that commands respect; and for strength and consistency in
     the tender passion Petrarch himself does not excel him. Sir Roger's
     unvarying devotion to his widow, his incessant recurrence to the
     memory of his affection to her, the remarks relating to her which
     the character of Andromache elicits from him at the play, and the
     little incident of her message to him on his death-bed, form as
     choice a record of passionate fidelity as the sonnets of the
     Italian. How beautiful, too, is that death-scene--how quietly
     sublime! Let us add that the good Sir Roger is surrounded by people
     worthy of him. Will. Wimble, with his good-natured, useless
     services; Captain Sentry, brave and stainless as his own sword, and
     nearly as taciturn; the servant who saved him from drowning; the
     good clergyman who is contented to read the sermons of others; the
     innkeeper who must needs have his landlord's head for a sign; the
     _Spectator_ and his cronies: and then, and still, the Widow!"

       *       *       *       *       *

Mr. William W. Story, to whose sculptures we have referred elsewhere, is
engaged in the preparation of a memoir of his father, the great jurist.

       *       *       *       *       *

The Life of John Randolph, by Hugh A. Garland, has been published by the
Appletons in two octavos. It is interesting--as much so perhaps as any
political biography ever written in this country--but the subject was so
remarkable, and the materiel so rich and various, that it might have
been made very much more attractive than it is. Mr. Garland's style is
decidedly bad--ambitious, meretricious and vulgar--but it was impossible
to make a dull work upon John Randolph's history and character.

       *       *       *       *       *

The Best Edition of Milton's Poems ever published in America--a reprint
of the best ever published in England--that of Sir Edgerton Brydges, has
just been printed by George S. Appleton of Philadelphia, and the
Appletons of New York. It is everything that can be desired in an
edition of the great poet, and must take the place, we think, of all
others that have been in the market. We are also indebted to the same
publishers for an admirable edition of Burns, which if not as
judiciously edited as the Milton of Sir Edgerton Brydges, is certainly
very much better than any we have hitherto possessed.

       *       *       *       *       *

The Keepsake: a Gift for the Holidays, is one of the most
splendid--indeed is the _most_ richly executed annual of the season. We
have not had leisure to examine its literary contents, but they are for
the most part by eminent writers. In unique and variously beautiful
bindings, "The Keepsake" is desirable to all the lovers of fine art.

       *       *       *       *       *

Gray's Poems, with a Life of the author by Professor Henry Reed, has
been published by Mr. Henry C. Baird, of Philadelphia, in a volume the
most elegant that has been issued this year from the press of that city.
The engravings are specimens of genuine art, and the typography is as
perfect as we have ever seen from the printers of Paris or London.

       *       *       *       *       *

The Rev. Duncan Harkness Weir, a distinguished _alumnus_ of the
university and author of an essay "On the tenses of the Hebrew verb,"
which appeared in "Kitto's Journal of Sacred Literature" for October
last, has been elected Professor of Oriental Languages, in the College
and University of Glasgow, in room of the late Dr. Gray.

       *       *       *       *       *

Douglass Jerrold announces a republication of all his writings for the
last fifteen years, in weekly numbers, commencing on the first of
January next--"a most becoming contribution to the Industry of Nations
Congress of 1851."

       *       *       *       *       *

The Rev. Christopher Wordsworth, a nephew of William Wordsworth, has
nearly completed the memoirs of the poet, which will be reprinted, with
a preface by Professor Henry Reed, by Ticknor, Reed and Fields, of
Boston.




The Fine Arts.


Schwanthaler's Bavaria, and the Theresienwiese at Munich.--On the
western side of Munich several streets converge in a plain which is the
arena of the great popular festival that takes place every October.
Around this plain, which is called the Theresienwiese, as well as around
the whole district in which the city is placed, the land rises some
thirty or forty feet. Near the spot where the green waters of the Iser
break through this ridge, King Louis founded the Hall of Fame, which is
to transmit to posterity the busts of renowned natives of the country.
This edifice is in Doric style, and with its two wings forms a
court-yard, opening toward the city. In the center of this court is
placed upon a granite pedestal, thirty feet high, a colossal statue of
bronze, fifty-four feet high, representing Bavaria, to which we have
several times referred in _The International_--our European
correspondence enabling us to anticipate in regard to subjects of
literature and art generally even the best-informed foreign journals.

The Hall of Fame will not be completed for some years, but the statue is
finished, and was first exposed to view on the 9th of October. The
execution of this statue was committed by King Louis to Schwanthaler,
who began by making a model of thirteen feet in height. In order to
carry out the work a wooden house was erected at the royal foundry, and
a skeleton was built by masons, carpenters, and smiths, to sustain the
earth used in the mould for the full-sized model. This was begun in
1838, and ere long the figure stood erect. The subsequent work on the
model occupied two years. The result was greatly praised by the critics,
who wondered at the skill which had been able to give beauty as well as
dignity to a statue of so large dimensions. It holds up a crown of
oak-leaves in the left hand, while the right, resting upon the hip,
grasps an unsheathed sword twined with laurel, beneath which rests a
lion. The breast is covered with a lion's skin which falls as low as the
hips; under it is a simple but admirably managed robe extending to the
feet. The hair is wreathed with oak-leaves, and is disposed in rich
masses about the forehead and temples, giving spirit to the face and
dignity to the form. Such was the model, and such is the now finished
statue. But the subsequent steps in its completion are worthy of a
particular description.

The model was in gypsum, and the first thing done was to take a mould
from it in earth peculiarly prepared for the reception of the melted
metal. The first piece, the head, was cast September 11th, 1844. It
weighs one hundred and twenty hundred-weight, and is five or six feet in
diameter: the remainder was cast at five separate times. When the head
was brought successful out of the mould, King Louis and many of the
magnates of Germany were present. The occasion was in fact a festival,
which Müller, the inspector of the royal bronze foundry and probably the
first living master of the art of casting in bronze, rendered still more
brilliant by illuminations and garlands of flowers. Vocal music also was
not wanting, as the artists of Munich were present in force, and their
singing is noted throughout Germany. Since last July workmen have been
constantly engaged in transporting the pieces of bronze weighing from
200 to 300 cwt. to the place where the statue was to be erected. For
this purpose a wagon of peculiar construction was used, with from
sixteen to twenty horses to draw it. On the 7th of August the last
piece, the head, was conveyed; it was attended by a festal procession.
The space within the head is so great that some twenty-eight men can
stand together in it. The body, the main portions of which were made in
five castings, weighs from 1300 to 1500 cwt., and has a diameter of
twelve feet; the left arm, which is extended to hold the wreaths, from
125 to 130 cwt.; its diameter is five feet, and the diameter of its
index finger six inches. The nail of the great toe can hardly be covered
with both a man's hands. A door in the pedestal leads to a cast-iron
winding stairway which ascends to the head, within which benches have
been arranged for the comfort of visitors, several of whom can sit there
together with ease. The light enters through openings arranged in the
hair, whence also the eye can enjoy the view of the city and the
surrounding country with the magical Alps in the background. The entire
mass of bronze, weighing about 2600 cwt., was obtained from Turkish
cannon lost in the sea at Navarino and recovered by Greek divers. The
value of the bronze is about sixty thousand dollars. The sitting lion
has a height of near thirty feet. It was cast in three pieces, and
completes the composition in the most felicitous manner.

The statue having been completed, the final removing of the scaffolding
around it and its full exposure to the public took place on the 9th of
October. This was a day of great festivity at Munich and its vicinity. A
platform had been erected directly in front of the statue for the
accommodation of King Maximilian and his suite. The festivities began
with an enormous procession of carriages, led by bands of music and
bearing the representatives of the different industrial and agricultural
trades, with symbols of their respective occupations. As they passed
before the King's platform each carriage stopped, saluted his majesty,
and received a few kindly words in reply. The procession was closed by
the artists of Munich. The carriages took their station in a half circle
around the platform. Soon after, accompanied by the thunder of cannon,
the board walls surrounding the scaffold were gradually lowered to the
ground. The admiration of the statue (which by the way is exactly
fifty-four feet high), was universal and enthusiastic. All beholders
were delighted with the harmony of its parts and the loveliness of its
expression notwithstanding its colossal size. The ceremonies of the day
were closed with speeches and music; the painter Tischlein made a speech
lauding King Louis as the creator of a new era for German art. A very
numerous chorus sung several festive hymns composed for the occasion,
after which the multitude dispersed.

       *       *       *       *       *

The Dominican Monastery of San Marco at Florence has for centuries been
regarded with special interest by the lovers of art for the share it has
had in the history of their favorite pursuit. Nor has its part been of
less importance in the sphere of politics. The wanderer through its
halls is reminded not only of Fra Angelico da Fièsole and Fra
Bartolommeo, to whose artistic genius the monastery is indebted for the
treasures which adorn its halls, refectory, corridors, and cells, but of
Cosimo de Medici, Lorenzo his great descendant, of Savonarola, and the
long series of contests here waged against temporal and spiritual
tyranny. The works of Giotto and Domenico Ghirlandajo are likewise to be
found in the monastery, and there also miniature pictures of the most
flourishing period of art may be seen ornamenting the books of the
choir. Every historian who has written upon Florence has taken care not
to omit San Marco and its inhabitants.

We are glad to announce that a society of artists at Florence has
undertaken to give as wide a publicity as possible to the noblest
productions of art in this monastery. A former work by the same men is a
good indication of what may now be expected from them. Some years since
they published copies of the most important pictures from the collection
of the Florentine Academy of Art. They gave sixty prints with
explanations. Among engravings from galleries this was one of the best,
containing in moderate compass a history of Tuscan art from Cimabue to
Andrea del Sarto. The new work, which has long been in preparation but
has been delayed by unfavorable circumstances, will now be carried
through the press without delay. Its title is, _San Marco Convento dei
Padri Predicatori in Firenze illustrato e inciso principalmente nei
dipinti del B. Giovanni Angelico_. Antonio Parfetti, the successor of
Morghen and Garavaglia as professor of the art of engraving on copper at
the Florentine Academy, has the artistic supervision of the enterprise.
Father Vincenzo Marchese, to whom the public are indebted for the work
well known to all students, on the artists of the Dominican order, is to
furnish a history of the monastery, a biography of Fra Angelico,
together with explanations of the engravings. Everything is thus in the
most capable hands. The execution of the copperplates leaves nothing to
be desired. The draughtsmen and engravers having had the best
preparatory practice in the above-mentioned series from the Academy,
have fully entered into the spirit of the originals; both outlines and
shading are said by the best critics to combine the greatest delicacy
with exactness, and to reproduce the expression of feeling which is the
difficulty in these Florentine works, with tact and truth. As yet they
have finished only the smaller frescoes which adorn almost every cell;
but they will soon have ready the larger ones, which will show how this
painter, whose sphere was mainly the pious emotions of the soul, was
also master of the most thrilling effects. The same is proved by the
powerful picture of the Crucifixion in the chapter hall, with its heads
so full of expression, a selection from which has just been published by
G.B. Nocchi, who some years since issued the well-known collection of
drawings from the Life of Jesus in the Academy. The impression of the
frescoes on Chinese paper has been done with the greatest care. Forty
plates and forty printed folio sheets will complete the work, which is
to be put at a moderate price. These illustrations of San Marco will be
universally welcomed with delight by the admirers of the beautiful, for
there the painter who most purely represented Christian art passed the
greater part of his life, leaving behind him an incomparable mass of the
most characteristic and charming creations.

       *       *       *       *       *

Mr. William W. Story, who some time since abandoned a lucrative
profession to devote himself to art, has recently returned from Rome,
where he had been practicing sculpture during the past three years. Mr.
Story, we understand, has brought home with him to Boston several models
of classical subjects, the fruits of his labors abroad, which are spoken
of in the highest terms by those who have had the privilege of
inspecting them. Mr. Story is the only son of the late Justice Story of
Massachusetts. Before going abroad he had distinguished himself by some
of his attempts at sculpture, one of which was a bust of his father,
which he executed in marble. A copy of this work has been purchased or
ordered by some of his father's admirers in London, to be placed in one
of the Inns of Court. Mr. Story also made himself known by a volume of
miscellaneous poems, published in 1845. It is his intention, we learn,
to return to Italy in the spring.

       *       *       *       *       *

Les Beautes de la France is the title of a splendid new work now
publishing at Paris. It consists of a collection of engravings on steel,
representing the principal cities, cathedrals, public monuments,
chateaux, and picturesque landscapes of France. Each engraving is
accompanied by four pages of text, giving the complete history of the
edifice or locality represented. What is curious about it is that the
engravings are made in London, for what reason we are not informed.

       *       *       *       *       *

The first exhibition of paintings, such as is now given annually by our
academies, was at Paris in the year 1699. In September of that year, at
the suggestion of Mansart, the first was held in the Louvre. It
consisted of two hundred and fifty-three paintings, twenty-four pieces
of sculpture, and twenty-nine engravings. The second and last during the
reign of Louis XIV. was opened in 1704. That was composed of five
hundred and twenty specimens. During the reign of Louis XV., from 1737,
there were held twenty-four expositions. That of 1767 was remarkable for
the presence of several of the marine pieces of Claude Joseph Vernet.
During the reign of Louis XVI., from 1775 to 1791 there were nine
expositions. The _Horatii_, one of the master pieces of David, figured
in that of 1785. His first pieces had appeared in that of 1782. The
former Republic, too, upon stated occasions "exposed the works of the
artists forming the general commune of the arts." It was in these that
David acquired his celebrity as a painter which alone saved his head
from the revolutionary axe. The Paris exhibition will this year commence
on the fifteenth of December.

       *       *       *       *       *

The largest specimen of Enamel Painting probably in the world, has
recently been completed by Klöber and Martens at Berlin. It is four and
a half feet high, and eight feet broad, and it is intended for the
castle church at Wittenberg. The subject is Christ on the Cross, and at
his feet, on the right, stands Luther holding an open bible and looking
up to the Savior; and, on the left, Melancthon, the faithful cooperator
of the great reformer. The tombs of both are in this church, and it is
known that to those who, after the capture of the town, desired to
destroy these tombs, the emperor, Charles V., answered, "I war against
the living, not against the dead!" It was to the portal of this church
that Luther affixed the famous protest against indulgences which
occasioned the first movement of the Reformation. The king has caused
two doors to be cast in bronze, with this protest inscribed on them, so
that it will now be seen there in imperishable characters.

       *       *       *       *       *

The original portrait of Sir Francis Drake wearing the jewel around his
neck which Queen Elizabeth gave him, is now in London for the purpose of
being copied for the United Service Club. Sir T.T.F.E. Drake, to whom it
belongs, carried to London at the same time, for the inspection of the
curious in such matters, the original jewel, which, beyond the interest
of its associations with Elizabeth and Drake, is valuable as a work of
art. On the outer case is a carving by Valerio Belli, called Valerio
Vincentino, of a black man kneeling to a white. This is not mentioned by
Walpole in his account of Vincentino. Within is a capital and
well-preserved miniature of Queen Elizabeth, by Isaac Oliver, set round
with diamonds and pearls.

       *       *       *       *       *

The Family of Vernet--the "astonishing family of Vernet"--is thus
referred to by a Paris correspondent of the _Courier and Enquirer_:

     "History, probably, does not show another instance of so remarkable
     a descent from father to son, through four generations, of the
     possession, in an eminent degree, of a special and rare talent.
     Claude Joseph was born in 1714, and was the son of a distinguished
     painter of his day, Antoine Vernet. He excelled all his
     contemporaries in sea pieces. His son, Antoine Charles Horace
     Vernet, was, after David, one of the first painters of the empire,
     excelling especially in battle scenes. His Rivoli, Marengo,
     Austerlitz, Wagram, and his twenty-eight plates illustrative of the
     campaign of Bonaparte in Italy, have secured a very high reputation
     for A.C.H. Vernet. The greatest living French painter--perhaps it
     may be truly said, the greatest painter of the day--is Horace
     Vernet, son of the last named. He was born in 1789 _in the Louvre_.
     He, like his father, excels in battle scenes and is remarkable for
     the vivacity and boldness of his conceptions. He is now covering
     the walls of the historic gallery at Versailles with canvas, which
     will cause him to descend to posterity as the greatest of his
     family. None of your readers who have visited Versailles, but have
     stood before and admired till the picture seemed almost reality,
     his living representations of recent military events in Africa. His
     last admirable picture of Louis Napoleon on _horseback_ will, it is
     stated, be one of the greatest attractions of the approaching
     exposition."

       *       *       *       *       *

M. Leutze is expected home from Germany in the spring. He left
Philadelphia, the last time, nearly ten years ago. He will accompany his
great picture of "Washington crossing the Delaware." Powers's statue of
Calhoun, with the left arm broken off by the incompetent persons who at
various times were engaged in attempting to recover it, upon being
removed from the sea under which it had lain nearly three months was
found as fresh in tone as when it came from the chisel of the sculptor.
It has been placed in the temple prepared for it in Charleston. Mr.
Ranney has completed a large picture representing Marion and his Men
crossing the Pedee.

       *       *       *       *       *

Kaulbach, according to a letter from Berlin in the November _Art
Journal_, was to leave that city about the middle of October, in order
to resume for the winter his duties as Director of the Academy of
Munich. The sum which he will receive for his six great frescoes and the
ornamental frieze, will be 80,000 thalers (12,000_l._ sterling) and this
is secured to him, as the contract was made before the existence of a
constitutional budget.

       *       *       *       *       *

Homer's Odyssey furnishes the subjects for a series of frescoes now
being executed in one of the royal palaces at Munich. Six halls are
devoted to the work; four of them are already finished, sixteen cantos
of the poem being illustrated on their walls. The designs are by
Schwanthaler, and executed by Hiltensperger. Between the different
frescoes are small landscapes representing natural scenes from the same
poem.

       *       *       *       *       *

If we credit all the accounts of pictures by the old masters, we must
believe that they produced as many works as with ordinary energy they
could have printed had they lived till 1850. The _Journal de Lot et
Garonne_ states that in the church of the Mas-d'Agenais, Count Eugène de
Lonley has discovered, in the sacristy, concealed beneath dust and
spiders' webs, the 'Dying Christ,' painted by Rubens in 1631. The head
of Christ is said to be remarkable for the large style in which it is
painted, for drawing, color, and vigorous expression.

       *       *       *       *       *

A picture painted on wood, and purchased in 1848 at a public sale in
London, where it was sold as the portrait of an Abbess by Le Brozino,
has been examined by the Academy of St. Luke at Rome, to whose judgment
it was submitted by the purchaser, and unanimously recognized as the
work of Michael Angelo, and as representing the illustrious Marchesa de
Pescara, Victoria Colonna.

       *       *       *       *       *

The National Academy of Design has resolved, that the entire body of
artists in this city should be invited to assemble for social
intercourse, in the saloons of the Academy, on the first Wednesday
evening of every month, commencing in December, and continuing until the
season of the annual exhibition.

       *       *       *       *       *

The French President has presented to the Museum of the Louvre David's
celebrated painting of Napoleon Bonaparte crossing the Alps. This work
was for many years at Bordentown, New Jersey, in possession of Joseph
Bonaparte.

       *       *       *       *       *

The _Art Journal_ for November contains an engraving on steel of the
marble bust by Mr. Dunham of Jenny Lind. This bust, we believe, was
recently sold in New York, by Mr. Putnam, for four hundred dollars.

       *       *       *       *       *

Herman's series of pictures called Illustrations of German History,
which gained great praise in Southern Germany some two years since, are
now being engraved on steel at Munich, and will soon be published.




Music and the Drama.


THE ASTOR PLACE OPERA

We have watched with interest the attempts which have been made for
several years to establish permanently the Italian opera in New York.
Although we disapprove of some of the means which have been used to
accomplish this object, yet, upon the whole, those who have been
efficient in the matter, both amateurs and artists, are entitled to the
hearty commendation of our musical world. To the enterprising Maretzek
belongs the palm, for his energy, liberality, and discrimination, in
bringing forward, in succession, so many great works, and so many
artists of superior excellence. No man could have accomplished what has
been accomplished by Maretzek, without a combination of very rare
endowments. Let the public then see to it that one who has done so much
for the cultivation and gratification of a taste for the most refining
and delightful of the arts, does not remain unappreciated and
unrewarded. Of the last star which has been brought forward by M.
Maretzek, the musical critic of _The International_ (who has been many
years familiar with the performances of the most celebrated artists in
London, Paris, St. Petersburgh and Vienna, and who, it is pertinent to
mention, never saw M. Maretzek or Mlle. Parodi except in the orchestra
or upon the stage) gives these opinions.

As an artist, Parodi ranks among the very best of Europe.
Notwithstanding so few years have elapsed since her first appearance
upon the stage, she has attained a reputation second only to that of
Grisi and Persiani. We have often had the pleasure of listening to both
of these last-named celebrities, in their principal rôles, and have
dwelt with rapture upon their soul-stirring representations. We have
also listened to the Norma and the Lucrezia Borgia of Parodi, and have
been equally delighted and astonished. Her excellences may be briefly
summed up as follows: With an organ of very great compass and of perfect
register, she combines immense power and endurance, and a variety and
perfection of intonation unsurpassed by any living artist. When she
portrays the softer emotions--affection, love, or benevolence--nothing
can be more sweet, pure, and melodious, than her tones; when rage,
despair, hate, or jealousy, seize upon her, still is she true to nature,
and her notes thrill us to the very soul, by their perfect truthfulness,
power, and intensity of expression. If gayety is the theme, no bird
carols more blithely than the Italian warbler. What singer can sustain a
high or a low tone, or execute a prolonged and varied shake, with more
power and accuracy than Parodi? What prima donna can run through the
chromatic scale, or dally with difficult cadenzas, full of unique
intervals, with more ease and precision than our charming Italian? Who
can execute a musical tour de force with more effect than she has so
recently done in Norma and Lucrezia?

Persiani has acquired her great reputation by husbanding her powers for
the purpose of making frequent points, and on this account she is not
uniform, but by turn electrifies and tires her audience. She passes
through the minor passages, undistinguished from those around her, but
in the concerted pieces, and wherever she can introduce a cadenza or a
_tour de force_, she carries all before her. Parodi is good
_everywhere_--in the dull recitative, and in the secondary and
unimportant passages. Her magnificent acting, combined with her superb
vocalization, enchain through the entire opera.

Grisi, like Parodi, is always uniform and accurate in her
representations, and upon the whole should be regarded as the queen of
song; but with these exceptions we know of no person who deserves a
higher rank as a true artist than Parodi. As yet she is not sufficiently
understood. She electrifies her hearers, and secures their entire
sympathies, but they have still to learn that silvery and melodious
tones, and cool mechanical execution, do not alone constitute a genuine
artist or a faultless prima donna. When the public understand how
perfectly Parodi identifies herself with the emotions and passions she
has to portray,--when they appreciate the immense variety of intonations
with which she illustrates her characters, and the earnestness and
intensity with which she throws her whole nature into all she does--then
she will be hailed as the greatest artist ever on this continent, and
one of the greatest in the world.

       *       *       *       *       *

Mrs. E. Oakes Smith's new tragedy called "The Roman Tribute," has been
produced in Philadelphia for several nights in succession, with very
decided success. The leading character in this play, a noble old Roman,
is quite an original creation. He is represented as a mixture of antique
patriotism, heroic valor, sublime fidelity, and stern resolution, tinged
with a beautiful coloring of romance which softens and relieves his more
commanding virtues. Several feminine characters of singular loveliness
are introduced. The play abounds in scenes of deep passion and thrilling
pathos, while its chaste elegance of language equally adapts it for the
closet or the stage. It was brought out with great splendor of costume,
scenery, proscenium, and the other usual accessories of stage effect,
and presented one of the most gorgeous spectacles of the season. We are
gratified to learn that the dramatic talent of this richly-gifted lady,
concerning which we have before expressed ourselves in terms of high
encomium, has received such a brilliant illustration from the test of
stage experiment. Mrs. Oakes Smith's admirable play of "Jacob Leisler"
will probably be acted in New York during the season.

       *       *       *       *       *

LEIGH HUNT UPON G.P.R. JAMES.

I hail every fresh publication of James, though I half know what he is
going to do with his lady, and his gentleman, and his landscape, and his
mystery, and his orthodoxy, and his criminal trial. But I am charmed
with the new amusement which he brings out of old materials. I look on
him as I look on a musician famous for "variations." I am grateful for
his vein of cheerfulness, for his singularly varied and vivid
landscapes, for his power of painting women at once lady-like and loving
(a rare talent,) for making lovers to match, at once beautiful and
well-bred, and for the solace which all this has afforded me, sometimes
over and over again, in illness and in convalescence, when I required
interest without violence, and entertainment at once animated and mild.

       *       *       *       *       *

HERR HECKER DESCRIBED BY MADAME BLAZE DE BURY.

We have heretofore given in the _International_ some account of Madame
Blaze de Bury, and have made some extracts from her piquant and
otherwise remarkable book, "Germania."[2] Looking it over we find
considerable information respecting Herr Hecker, who, since his
unfortunate attempt to revolutionize Germany, has lived in the United
States, being now, we believe, a farmer somewhere in the West. According
to the adventurous Baroness, Hecker was the first man in Germany to
declare for revolution. He was born, near Mannheim, in 1811; he took a
doctor's degree in the University of Heidelberg, followed the profession
of the law, and was elected a member of the Lower House in his 31st
year. Thenceforth he was active in opposition. He possessed all the
chief attributes of a popular leader, and his person was graceful and
commanding, his temperament ardent, his eloquence impassioned. Although
the Grand Duke Leopold was the "gentlest and most paternal of
sovereigns," according to Madame de Bury, still there were many radical
defects in the constitution of Baden. Against these defects Hecker waged
war, and with some success, which instigated him to further efforts
against the government. At length he was beaten on a motion to stop the
supplies, and he retired into France disgusted with his countrymen.
After some time he returned impregnated with the reddest republicanism.
He found sympathy in Baden, and when the revolution broke out in Paris,
he resolved to raise the standard of Republicism in Germany. In April,
1848, he set out for Constance, with four drummers and eight hundred
Badeners. He and they, extravagantly dressed and armed, proceeded
unopposed, singing "Hecker-songs," and comparing their progress to the
march of the French over the Simplon! They arrived at Constance, and
called the people to arms, but the people would not come. The slouched
hats and huge sabers of the patriots did not produce the desired
impression, and then _it rained_. In short, the movement failed.
Finally, having beaten up all the most disaffected parts of the country
for recruits, Hecker arrived at Kandern with twelve hundred men. Here
Gagern met him with a few hundred regular troops. Hecker attempted to
gain them over with the cry of "German brotherhood," but Gagern kept
them steady until he fell, mortally wounded, on the bridge. Then there
was a slight skirmish; both parties retreated, and act the first of the
drama closed. Meanwhile the _Vor Parlament_ had been summoned, and the
National Assembly of Frankfort had met in the Paulskircke, to the number
of four hundred deputies; their self-constituted task was simply to
reform all Germany. Frankfort was stirring and joyous upon this
occasion, as it had used to be in former days, when within its walls
was elected the Head of the Holy Roman Empire. Bells were rung, cannon
fired, triumphal arches raised, green boughs and rainbow-colored banners
waved, flowers strewn in the streets, tapestries hung from windows and
balconies, hands stretched forth in greeting, voices strained to call
down blessings; all that popular enthusiasm could invent was there, and
one immense cry of rejoicing saluted what was fondly termed the
"Regeneration of Germany." The tumults, the misery, the bloodshed, and
the disappointment that followed, until the Rump of this "magniloquent
Parliament" sought shelter at Stuttgardt, are fresh in our memory.

     [2: Germania: its Courts, Camps, and People. By the Baroness Blaze
     de Bury. London: Colburn.]

Hecker, having done his utmost to "agitate" his country, and having
failed "to inspire a dastard populace with the spirit of the ancient
Roman people," as Madame expresses it, he fled to America. But his name
was still a tower of strength to his Red brethren and the _Freicorps_ of
the Schwartzwald and the Rhine. In Western Germany a year ago last
summer his return was enthusiastically expected by the revolutionary
army. "When Hecker comes," said they, "we shall be invincible." He came:
his followers crowded round him and implored him at once to lead them on
to victory! "Victory be d--d," was the reply of the returned exile; "go
home to your plows and your vines and your wives and children, and leave
me to attend to mine." Hecker had only come to Europe for his family,
and he returned almost immediately to America. Meanwhile the war blazed
up for a little while and then expired, leaving behind it the _Deutsche
Verwirrung_[3] as it now presents itself in Germania.[4]

     [3: Literally, the _German entanglement_.]

     [4: Hecker seems to have been a sincere enthusiast; and it is
     always observed by his friends that he renounced ease and comfort
     for the cause that he espoused. We append a single verse from one
     of the "Hecker songs" that were in 1849 in the mouth of every
     Badish republican:--

     "Look at Hecker wealth-renouncing,
     O'er his head the red plume waves,
     Th' awakening people's will announcing,
     For the tyrant's blood he craves!
     Mud boots thick and solid wears he,
     All round Hecker's banner come,
     And march at sound of Hecker's drum."]




Original Poetry.


THE GRIEF OF THE WEEPING WILLOW.

    Round my cottage porch are wreathing
    Creeping vines, their perfume breathing
      To the balmy breeze of Spring.
    Near it is a streamlet flowing,
    Where old shady trees are growing;
      But of _one alone_ I sing.

    O'er the water sadly bending,
    With the wave its leaflets blending,
      Stands a lonely willow tree.
    And the shadow seems e'erlasting,
    That its boughs are always casting
      O'er the tiny wavelets' glee.

    Oft I've wondered what the sorrow,
    That ne'er know a gladsome morrow,
      In the mourner's heart was sealed;
    But no bitter wail of sadness,
    Nor low tone of chastened gladness,
      Had the willow tree revealed.

    When the breeze its leaves was lifting;
    When the snows were round it drifting,
      Seemed it still to grieve the same.
    Round its trunk a vine is twining,
    But its tendrils too seem pining
      For a hand to tend and claim.

    Type of love that bears life's testing,
    They earth's rudest storms are breasting;
      Harmed not--so together borne;
    And like girl to lover clinging,
    Passing time is only bringing
      Strength for every coming morn.

    Of one summer eve I ponder,
    When I musing chanced to wander
      By the streamlet's margin bright.
    Moonbeams thro' the leaves were streaming,
    And each leaping wave was gleaming
      With a paly, astral light.

    O'er me hung the weeping willow;
    Mossy bank was balmy pillow,
      And in slumber sweet I dreamed:
    Dreamed of music round me gushing,
    That as winds o'er harp-strings rushing,
      E'er like angel's whisper seemed.

    Oh, those low-breathed tones of sorrow;
    Would that mortal tongue could borrow
      Power to sing their sweetness o'er;
    Here and there a sentence gleaming,
    Soon my spirit caught the meaning
      That the mournful numbers bore.

    Sleeper, who beneath my shade,
    Hath thy couch of dreaming made;
    Listen as I breathe to thee
    All my mournful history.
    Childhood, youth, and womanhood,
    Have beneath my branches stood;
    And of each as pass thy slumbers,
    Speak my melancholy numbers.

    Of a fair-haired child I tell,
    Who, one evening shadows fell,
    Many a bright and gladsome hour
    Passed mid haunt of bird and flower;
    O'er the grassy meadow straying,
    By the streamlet's margin playing,
    Free from thoughts of care and sadness,
    Full of life, and joy, and gladness.
    Where my branches lowly hung
    Oft her fairy form hath swung,
    And methinks her laugh I hear,
    Gaily ringing sweet and clear,
    As with fading light of day,
    Tripped her dancing feet away,
    With many smiles and fewer tears,
    Thus flew childhood's sunny years.
      Soon she in my shadow stood,
    On the verge of womanhood:
    O'er her pale and thoughtful brow
    Sunny tress was braided now;
    Softer tones her lips were breathing,
    Calmer smiles around them wreathing,
    Than in childhood's gayer day,
    Sported from those lips away.
    Often with her came another;
    But more tender than a brother
    Seemed he in the care of her
    Who was his perfect worshiper.
    His the hand that trained the vine
    Round my mossy trunk to twine;
    'Twas the parting gift of one,
    Whom no more I looked upon.
    Memories of bygone hours
    Seemed to her its fragile flowers.
    And each bursting, fragrant blossom
    Wore she on her gentle bosom,
    'Till like them in sad decay,
    Passed her maiden life away.
      Once, and only once again,
    To the trysting place she came:
    Sad and tearful was her eye,
    And I heard a mournful sigh,
    Breathed from out the parted lips,
    Whose smile seemed quenched by grief's eclipse.
    Leaf and flower were fading fast,
    'Neath the autumn's chilling blast.
    And all nature seemed to be
    Kindred with her misery.
    Winter passed--but spring's warm sun
    Brought not back the long-missed one.
    And though vainly, still I yearn
    For that stricken one's return.

    HERMANN

_Riverside, Nov. 10, 1850._




A STORY WITHOUT A NAME.[5]

WRITTEN FOR THE INTERNATIONAL MONTHLY MAGAZINE BY

G.P.R. JAMES, ESQ.

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


CHAPTER I.

Let me take you into an old-fashioned country house, built by architects
of the early reign of James the First. It had all the peculiarities--I
might almost say the oddities--of that particular epoch in the building
art. Chimneys innumerable had it. Heaven only knows what rooms they
ventilated; but their name must have been legion. The windows were not
fewer in number, and much more irregular: for the chimneys were gathered
together in some sort of symmetrical arrangement, while the windows were
scattered all over the various faces of the building, with no apparent
arrangement at all. Heaven knows, also, what rooms they lighted, or were
intended to light, for they very little served the purpose, being
narrow, and obstructed by the stone mullions of the Elizabethan age.
Each too had its label of stone superincumbent, and projecting from the
brick-work, which might leave the period of construction somewhat
doubtful--but the gables decided the fact.

They, too, were manifold; for although the house had been built all at
once, it seemed, nevertheless, to have been erected in detached masses,
and joined together as best the builder could; so that there were no
less than six gables, turning north, south, east, and west, with four
right angles, and flat walls between them. These gables were
surmounted--topped, as it were, by a triangular wall, somewhat higher
than the acute roof, and this wall was constructed with a row of steps,
coped with freestone, on either side of the ascent, as if the architect
had fancied that some man or statue would, one day or another, have to
climb up to the top of the pyramid, and take his place upon the crowning
stone.

It was a gloomy old edifice: the bricks had become discolored; the
livery of age, yellow and gray lichen, was upon it; daws hovered round
the chimney tops; rooks passed cawing over it, on the way to their
conventicle hard by; no swallow built under the eaves; and the trees, as
if repelled by its stern, cold aspect, retreated from it on three sides,
leaving it alone on its own flat ground, like a moody man amidst a gay
society.

On the fourth side, indeed, an avenue--that is to say, two rows of old
elms--crept cautiously up to it in a winding and sinuous course, as if
afraid of approaching too rapidly; and at the distance of some five or
six hundred yards, clumps of old trees, beeches and evergreen oaks, and
things of somber foliage, dotted the park, only enlivened by here and
there a herd of deer.

Now and then, a milk-maid, a country woman going to church or market, a
peasant, or a game-keeper, might be seen traversing the dry brown
expanse of grass, and but rarely deviating from a beaten path, which led
from one stile over the path wall to another. It was all somber and
monotonous: the very spirit of dullness seemed to hang over it; and the
clouds themselves--the rapid sportive clouds, free denizens of the sky,
and playmates of the wind and sunbeam--appeared to grow dull and tardy,
as they passed across the wide space open to the view, and to proceed
with awe and gravity, like timid youth in the presence of stern old age.

Enough of the outside of the house. Let me take you into the interior,
reader, and into one particular room--not the largest and the finest;
but one of the highest. It was a little oblong chamber, with one window,
which was ornamented--the only ornament the chamber had--with a decent
curtain of red and white checked linen. On the side next the door, and
between it and the western wall, was a small bed. A walnut-tree table
and two or three chairs were near the window. In one corner stood a
washing-stand, not very tidily arranged, in another a chest of drawers;
and opposite the fire-place, hung from nails driven into the wall, two
or three shelves of the same material as the table, each supporting a
row of books, which by the dark black covers, brown edges, and thumbed
corners, seemed to have a right to boast of some antiquity and much use.

At the table, as you perceive, there is seated a boy of some fifteen
years of age, with pen and ink and paper, and an open book. If you look
over his shoulder, you will perceive that the words are Latin. Yet he
reads it with ease and facility, and seeks no aid from the dictionary.
It is the "Cato Major" of Cicero. Heaven! what a book for a child like
that to read! Boyhood studying old age!

But let us turn from the book, and examine the lad himself more closely.
See that pale face, with a manlike unnatural gravity upon it. Look at
that high broad brow, towering as a monument above the eyes. Remark
those eyes themselves, with their deep eager thought; and then the gleam
in them--something more than earnestness, and less than wildness--a
thirsty sort of expression, as if they drank in that they rested on, and
yet were unsated.

The brow rests upon the pale fair hand, as if requiring something to
support the heavy weight of thought with which the brain is burdened. He
marks nothing but the lines of that old book. His whole soul is in the
eloquent words. He hears not the door open; he sees not that tall,
venerable, but somewhat stiff and gaunt figure, enter and approach him.
He reads on, till the old man's Geneva cloak brushes his arm, and his
hand is upon his shoulder. Then he starts up--looks around--but says
nothing. A faint smile, pleasant yet grave, crosses his finely cut lip;
but that is the only welcome, as he raises his eyes to the face that
bends over him. Can that boy in years be already aged in heart?

It is clear that the old man--the old clergyman, for so he evidently
is--has no very tender nature. Every line of his face forbids the
supposition. The expression itself is grave, not to say stern. There is
powerful thought about it, but small gentleness. He seems one of those
who have been tried and hardened in some one of the many fiery furnaces
which the world provides for the test of men of strong minds and strong
hearts. There has been much persecution in the land; there have been
changes, from the rigid and severe to the light and frivolous--from the
light and frivolous to the bitter and cruel. There have been tyrants of
all shapes and all characters within the last forty years, and fools,
and knaves, and madmen, to cry them on in every course of evil. In all
these chances and changes, what fixed and rigid mind could escape the
fangs of persecution and wrong? He had known both; but they had changed
him little. His was originally an unbending spirit: it grew more tough
and stubborn by the habit of resistance; but its original bent was still
the same.

Fortune--heaven's will--or his own inclination, had denied him wife or
child; and near relation he had none. A friend he had: that boy's
father, who had sheltered him in evil times, protected him as far as
possible against the rage of enemies, and bestowed upon him the small
living which afforded him support. He did his duty therein
conscientiously, but with a firm unyielding spirit, adhering to the
Calvinistic tenets which he had early received, in spite of the
universal falling off of companions and neighbors. He would not have
yielded an iota to have saved his head.

With all his hardness, he had one object of affection, to which all that
was gentle in his nature was bent. That object was the boy by whom he
now stood, and for whom he had a great--an almost parental regard.
Perhaps it was that he thought the lad not very well treated; and, as
such had been his own case, there was sympathy in the matter. But
besides, he had been intrusted with his education from a very early
period, had taken a pleasure in the task, had found his scholar apt,
willing, and affectionate, with a sufficient touch of his own character
in the boy to make the sympathy strong, and yet sufficient diversity to
interest and to excite.

The old man was tenderer toward him than toward any other being upon
earth; and he sometimes feared that his early injunctions to study and
perseverance were somewhat too strictly followed--even to the detriment
of health. He often looked with some anxiety at the increasing paleness
of the cheek, at the too vivid gleam of the eye, at the eager nervous
quivering of the lip, and said within himself, "This is overdone."

He did not like to check, after he had encouraged--to draw the rein
where he had been using the spur. There is something of vanity in us
all, and the sternest is not without that share which makes man shrink
from the imputation of error, even when made by his own heart. He did
not choose to think that the lad had needed no urging forward; and yet
he would fain have had him relax a little more, and strove at times to
make him do so. But the impulse had been given: it had carried the youth
over the difficulties and obstacles in the way to knowledge, and now he
went on to acquire it, with an eagerness, a thirst, that had something
fearful in it. A bent, too, had been given to his mind--nay, to his
character, partly by the stern uncompromising character of him to whom
his education had been solely intrusted, partly by his own peculiar
situation, and partly by the subjects on which his reading had chiefly
turned.

The stern old Roman of the early republic; the deeds of heroic
virtue--as virtue was understood by the Romans; the sacrifice of all
tender affections, all the sensibilities of our nature to the rigid
thought of what is right; the remorseless disregard of feelings
implanted by God, when opposed to the notion of duties of man's
creation, excited his wonder and his admiration, and would have hardened
and perverted his heart, had not that heart been naturally full of
kindlier affections. As it was, there often existed a struggle--a sort
of hypothetical struggle--in his bosom, between the mind and the heart.
He asked himself sometimes, if he could sacrifice any of those he knew
and loved--his father, his mother, his brother, to the good of his
country, to some grave duty; and he felt pained and roused to resistance
of his own affections when he perceived what a pang it would cost him.

Yet his home was not a very happy one; the kindlier things of domestic
life had not gathered green around him. His father was varying and
uneven in temper, especially toward his second son; sometimes stern and
gloomy, sometimes irascible almost to a degree of insanity. Generous,
brave, and upright, he was; but every one said, that a wound he had
received on the head in the wars, had marvelously increased the
infirmities of his temper.

The mother, indeed, was full of tenderness and gentleness; and doubtless
it was through her veins that the milk of human kindness had found its
way into that strange boy's heart. But yet she loved her eldest son
best, and unfortunately showed it.

The brother was a wild, rash, reckless young man, some three years
older; fond of the other, yet often pleased to irritate--or at least to
try, for he seldom succeeded. He was the favorite, however, somewhat
spoiled, much indulged; and whatever was done, was done for him. He was
the person most considered in the house; his were the parties of
pleasure; his the advantages. Even now the family was absent, in order
to let him see the capital of his native land, to open his mind to the
general world, to show him life on a more extended scale than could be
done in the country; and his younger brother was left at home, to pursue
his studies in dull solitude.

Yet he did not complain; there was not even a murmur at his heart. He
thought it all quite right. His destiny was before him. He was to form
his fortune for himself, by his own abilities, his own learning, his own
exertions. It was needful he should study, and his greatest ambition for
the time was to enter with distinction at the University; his brightest
thoughts of pleasure, the comparative freedom and independence of a
collegiate life.

Not that he did not find it dull; that gloomy old house, inhabited by
none but himself and a few servants. Sometimes it seemed to oppress him
with a sense of terrible loneliness; sometimes it drove him to think of
the strange difference of human destinies, and why it should be
that--because it had pleased Heaven one man should be born a little
sooner or a little later than another, or in some other place--such a
wide interval should be placed between the different degrees of
happiness and fortune.

He felt, however, that such speculations were not good; they led him
beyond his depth; he involved himself in subtilties more common in those
days than in ours; he lost his way; and with passionate eagerness flew
to his books, to drive the mists and shadows from his mind. Such had
been the case even now; and there he sat, unconscious that a complete
and total change was coming over his destiny.

Oh, the dark workshop of Fate! what strange things go on therein,
affecting human misery and joy, repairing or breaking shackles for the
mind, the means of carrying us forward in a glorious cause, the
relentless weights which hurry us down to destruction! While you sit
there and read--while I sit here and write, who can say what strange
alterations, what combinations in the most discrepant things may be
going on around--without our will, without our knowledge--to alter the
whole course of our future existence? Doubtless, could man make his own
fate, he would mar it; and the impossibility of doing so is good. The
freedom of his own actions is sufficient, nay, somewhat too much; and it
is well for the world, aye, and for himself--that there is an overruling
Providence which so shapes circumstances around him, that he cannot go
beyond his limit, flutter as he will.

There is something in that old man's face more than is common with
him--a deeper gravity even than ordinary, yet mingled with a tenderness
that is rare. There is something like hesitation, too--ay, hesitation
even in him who during a stormy life has seldom known what it is to
doubt or to deliberate: a man of strict and ready preparation, whose
fixed, clear, definite mind was always prompt and competent to act.

"Come, Philip, my son," he said, laying his hand, as I have stated, on
the lad's shoulder, "enough of study for to-day. You read too hard. You
run before my precepts. The body must have thought as well as the mind;
and if you let the whole summer day pass without exercise, you will soon
find that under the weight of corporeal sickness the intellect will flag
and the spirit droop. I am going for a walk. Come with me; and we will
converse of high things by the way."

"Study is my task and my duty, sir," replied the boy; "my father tells
me so, you have told me so often, and as for health I fear not. I seem
refreshed when I get up from reading, especially such books as this. It
is only when I have been out long, riding or walking, that I feel
tired."

"A proof that you should ride and walk the more," replied the old man.
"Come, put on your hat and cloak. You shall read no more to-day. There
are other thoughts before you; you know, Philip," he continued, "that by
reading we get but materials, which we must use to build up an edifice
in our own minds. If all our thoughts are derived from others gone
before us, we are but robbers of the dead, and live upon labors not our
own."

"Elder sons," replied the boy, with a laugh, "who take an inheritance
for which they toiled not."

"Something worse than that," replied the clergyman, "for we gather what
we do not employ rightly--what we have every right to possess, but upon
the sole condition of using well. Each man possessed of intellect is
bound to make his own mind, not to have it made for him; to adapt it to
the times and circumstances in which he lives, squaring it by just
rules, and employing the best materials he can find."

"Well, sir, I am ready," replied the youth, after a moment of deep
thought; and he and his old preceptor issued forth together down the
long staircase, with the slant sunshine pouring through the windows upon
the unequal steps, and illuminating the motes in the thick atmosphere we
breathe, like fancy brightening the idle floating things which surround
us in this world of vanity.

They walked across the park toward the stile. The youth was silent, for
the old man's last words seemed to have awakened a train of thought
altogether new.

His companion was silent also; for there was something working within
him which embarrassed and distressed him. He had something to tell that
young man, and he knew not how to tell it. For the first time in his
life he perceived, from the difficulty he experienced in deciding upon
his course, how little he really knew of his pupil's character. He had
dealt much with his mind, and that he comprehended well--its depth, its
clearness, its powers; but his heart and disposition he had not scanned
so accurately. He had a surmise, indeed, that there were feelings strong
and intense within; but he thought that the mind ruled them with
habitual sway that nothing could shake. Yet he paused and pondered; and
once he stopped, as if about to speak, but went on again and said
nothing.

At length, as they approached the park wall, he laid his finger on his
temple, muttering to himself, "Yes, the quicker the better. 'Tis well to
mingle two passions. Surprise will share with grief--if much grief there
be." Then turning to the young man, he said, "Philip, I think you loved
your brother Arthur?"

He spoke loudly, and in plain distinct tones; but the lad did not seem
to remark the past tense he used. "Certainly, sir," he said, "I love him
dearly. What of that?"

"Then you will be very happy to hear," replied the old man, "that he has
been singularly fortunate--I mean that he has been removed from earth
and all its allurements--the vanities, the sins, the follies of the
world in which he seemed destined to move, before he could be corrupted
by its evils, or his spirit receive a taint from its vices."

The young man turned and gazed on him with inquiring eyes, as if still
he did not comprehend what he meant.

"He was drowned," said the clergyman, "on Saturday last, while sailing
with a party of pleasure on the Thames;" and Philip fell at his feet as
senseless as if he had shot him.


CHAPTER II.

I must not dwell long upon the youthful scenes of the lad I have just
introduced to the reader; but as it is absolutely needful that his
peculiar character should be clearly understood, I must suffer it to
display itself a little farther before I step from his boyhood to his
maturity.

We left Philip Hastings senseless upon the ground, at the feet of his
old preceptor, struck down by the sudden intelligence he had received,
without warning or preparation.

The old man was immeasurably shocked at what he had done, and he
reproached himself bitterly; but he had been a man of action all his
life, who never suffered thought, whether pleasant or painful, to impede
him. He could think while he acted, and as he was a strong man too, he
had no great difficulty in taking the slight, pale youth up in his arms,
and carrying him over the park stile, which was close at hand, as the
reader may remember. He had made up his mind at once to bear his young
charge to a small cottage belonging to a laborer on the other side of
the road which ran under the park wall; but on reaching it, he found
that the whole family were out walking in the fields, and both doors and
windows were closed.

This was a great disappointment to him, although there was a very
handsome house, in modern taste, not two hundred yards off. But there
were circumstances which made him unwilling to bear the son of Sir John
Hastings to the dwelling of his next neighbor. Next neighbors are not
always friends; and even the clergyman of the parish may have his
likings and dislikings.

Colonel Marshal and Sir John Hastings were political opponents. The
latter was of the Calvinistic branch of the Church of England--not
absolutely a non-juror, but suspected even of having a tendency that
way. He was sturdy and stiff in his political opinions, too, and had but
small consideration for the conscientious views and sincere opinions of
others. To say the truth, he was but little inclined to believe that any
one who differed from him had conscientious views or sincere opinions at
all; and certainly the demeanor, if not the conduct, of the worthy
Colonel did not betoken any fixed notion or strong principles. He was a
man of the Court--gay, lively, even witty, making a jest of most things,
however grave and worthy of reverence. He played high, generally won,
was shrewd, complaisant, and particular in his deference to kings and
prime ministers. Moreover, he was of the very highest of the High Church
party--so high, indeed, that those who belonged to the Low Church party,
fancied he must soon topple over into Catholicism.

In truth, I believe, had the heart of the Colonel been very strictly
examined, it would have been found very empty of anything like real
religion. But then the king was a Roman Catholic, and it was pleasant to
be as near him as possible.

It may be asked, why then did not the Colonel go the same length as his
Majesty? The answer is very simple. Colonel Marshal was a shrewd
observer of the signs of the times. At the card table, after the three
first cards were played, he could tell where every other card in the
pack was placed. Now in politics he was nearly as discerning; and he
perceived that, although King James had a great number of honors in his
hand, he did not hold the trumps, and would eventually lose the game.
Had it been otherwise, there is no saying what sort of religion he might
have adopted. There is no reason to think that Transubstantiation would
have stood in the way at all; and as for the Council of Trent, he would
have swallowed it like a roll for his breakfast.

For this man, then, Sir John Hastings had both a thorough hatred and a
profound contempt, and he extended the same sensations to every member
of the family. In the estimation of the worthy old clergyman the Colonel
did not stand much higher; but he was more liberal toward the Colonel's
family. Lady Annabella Marshal, his wife, was, when in the country, a
very regular attendant at his church. She had been exceedingly
beautiful, was still handsome, and she had, moreover, a sweet,
saint-like, placid expression, not untouched by melancholy, which was
very winning, even in an old man's eyes. She was known, too, to have
made a very good wife to a not very good husband; and, to say the truth,
Dr. Paulding both pitied and esteemed her. He went but little to the
house, indeed, for Colonel Marshal was odious to him; and the Colonel
returned the compliment by never going to the church.

Such were the reasons which rendered the thought of carrying young
Philip Hastings up to The Court--as Colonel Marshal's house was
called--anything but agreeable to the good clergyman. But then, what
could he do? He looked in the boy's face. It was like that of a corpse.
Not a sign of returning animation showed itself. He had heard of
persons dying under such sudden affections of the mind; and so still, so
death-like, was the form and countenance before him, as he laid the lad
down for a moment on the bench at the cottage door, that his heart
misgave him, and a trembling feeling of dread came over his old frame.
He hesitated no longer, but after a moment's pause to gain breath,
caught young Hastings up in his arms again, and hurried away with him
toward Colonel Marshal's house.

I have said that it was a modern mansion; that is to imply, that it was
modern in that day. Heaven only knows what has become of it now; but
Louis Quatorze, though he had no hand in the building of it, had many of
its sins to answer for--and the rest belonged to Mansard. It was the
strangest possible contrast to the old-fashioned country seat of Sir
John Hastings, who had his joke at it, and at the owner too--for he,
too, could jest in a bitter way--and he used to say that he wondered his
neighbor had not added his own name to the building, to distinguish it
from all other courts; and then it would have been Court Marshal. Many
were the windows of the house; many the ornaments; pilasters running up
between the casements, with sunken panels, covered over with quaint
wreaths of flowers, as if each had an embroidered waistcoat on; and a
large flight of steps running down from the great doorway, decorated
with Cupids and cornucopias running over with this most indigestible
kind of stone-fruit.

The path from the gates up to the house was well graveled, and ran in
and out amongst sundry parterres, and basins of water, with the Tritons,
&c., of the age, all spouting away as hard as a large reservoir on the
top of the neighboring slope could make them. But for serviceable
purposes these basins were vain, as the water was never suffered to rise
nearly to the brim; and good Dr. Paulding gazed on them without hope, as
he passed on toward the broad flight of steps.

There, however, he found something of a more comfortable aspect. The
path he had been obliged to take had one convenience to the dwellers in
the mansion. Every window in that side of the house commanded a view of
it, and the Doctor and his burden were seen by one pair of eyes at
least.

Running down the steps without any of the frightful appendages of the
day upon her head, but her own bright beautiful hair curling wild like
the tendrils of a vine, came a lovely girl of fourteen or fifteen, just
past the ugly age, and blushing in the spring of womanhood. There was
eagerness and some alarm in her face: for the air and haste of the
worthy clergyman, as well as the form he carried in his arms, spoke as
plainly as words could have done that some accident had happened; and
she called to him, at some distance, to ask what was the matter.

"Matter, child! matter!" cried the clergyman, "I believe I have half
killed this poor boy."

"Killed him!" exclaimed the girl, with a look of doubt as well as
surprise.

"Ay, Mistress Rachael," replied the old man, "killed him by unkindly and
rashly telling him of his brother's death, without preparation."

"You intended it for kind, I am sure," murmured the girl in a sweet low
tone, coming down the steps, and gazing on his pale face, while the
clergyman carried the lad up the steps.

"There, Miss Marshal, do not stay staring," said Dr. Paulding; "but pray
call some of the lackeys, and bid them bring water or hartshorn, or
something. Your lady-mother must have some essences to bring folks out
of swoons. There is nothing but swooning at Court, I am told--except
gaming, and drinking, and profanity."

The girl was already on her way, but she looked back, saying, "My father
and mother are both out; but I will soon find help."

When the lad opened his eyes, there was something very near, which
seemed to him exceedingly beautiful--rich, warm coloring, like that of a
sunny landscape; a pair of liquid, tender eyes, deeply fringed and full
of sympathy; and the while some sunny curls of bright brown hair played
about his cheek, moved by the hay-field breath of the sweet lips that
bent close over him.

"Where am I?" he said. "What is the matter? What has happened? Ah! now I
recollect. My brother--my poor brother! Was it a dream?"

"Hush, hush!" said a musical voice. "Talk to him, sir. Talk to him, and
make him still."

"It is but too true, my dear Philip," said the old clergyman; "your
brother is lost to us. But recollect yourself, my son. It is weak to
give way in this manner. I announced your misfortune somewhat suddenly,
it is true, trusting that your philosophy was stronger than it is--your
Christian fortitude. Remember, all these dispensations are from the hand
of the most merciful God. He who gives the sunshine, shall he not bring
the clouds? Doubt not that all is merciful; and suffer not the
manifestations of His will to find you unprepared or unsubmissive."

"I have been very weak," said the young man, "but it was so sudden!
Heaven! how full of health and strength he looked when he went away! He
was the picture of life--almost of immortality. I was but as a reed
beside him--a weak, feeble reed, beside a sapling oak."

"'One shall be taken, and the other left,'" said the sweet voice of the
young girl; and the eyes both of the youth and the old clergyman turned
suddenly upon her.

Philip Hastings raised himself upon his arm, and seemed to meditate for
a moment or two. His thoughts were confused and indistinct. He knew not
well where he was. The impression of what had happened was vague and
indefinite. As eyes which have been seared by the lightning, his mind,
which had lost the too vivid impression, now perceived everything in
mist and confusion.

"I have been very weak," he said, "too weak. It is strange. I thought
myself firmer. What is the use of thought and example, if the mind
remains thus feeble? But I am better now. I will never yield thus
again;" and flinging himself off the sofa on which they had laid him, he
stood for a moment on his feet, gazing round upon the old clergyman and
that beautiful young girl, and two or three servants who had been called
to minister to him.

We all know--at least, all who have dealt with the fiery things of
life--all who have felt and suffered, and struggled and conquered, and
yielded and grieved, and triumphed in the end--we all know how
short-lived are the first conquests of mind over body, and how much
strength and experience it requires to make the victory complete. To
render the soul the despot, the tyranny must be habitual.

Philip Hastings rose, as I have said, and gazed around him. He struggled
against the shock which his mere animal nature had received, shattered
as it had been by long and intense study, and neglect of all that
contributes to corporeal power. But everything grew hazy to his eyes
again. He felt his limbs weak and powerless; even his mind feeble, and
his thoughts confused. Before he knew what was coming, he sunk fainting
on the sofa again, and when he woke from the dull sort of trance into
which he had fallen, there were other faces around him; he was stretched
quietly in bed in a strange room, a physician and a beautiful lady of
mature years were standing by his bedside, and he felt the oppressive
lassitude of fever in every nerve and in every limb.

But we must turn to good Doctor Paulding. He went back to his rectory
discontented with himself, leaving the lad in the care of Lady Annabella
Marshal and her family. The ordinary--as the man who carried the letters
was frequently called in those days--was to depart in an hour, and he
knew that Sir John Hastings expected his only remaining son in London to
attend the body of his brother down to the family burying place. It was
impossible that the lad could go, and the old clergyman had to sit down
and write an account of what had occurred.

There was nothing upon earth, or beyond the earth, which would have
induced him to tell a lie. True, his mind might be subject to such
self-deceptions as the mind of all other men. He might be induced to
find excuses to his own conscience for anything he did that was
wrong--for any mistake or error in judgment; for, willfully, he never
did what was wrong; and it was only by the results that he knew it. But
yet he was eagerly, painfully upon his guard against himself. He knew
the weakness of human nature--he had dealt with it often, and observed
it shrewdly, and applied the lesson with bitter severity to his own
heart, detecting its shrinking from candor, its hankering after
self-defense, its misty prejudices, its turnings and windings to escape
conviction; and he dealt with it as hardly as he would have done with a
spoiled child.

Calmly and deliberately he sat down to write to Sir John Hastings a full
account of what had occurred, taking more blame to himself than was
really his due. I have called it a full account, though it occupied but
one page of paper, for the good doctor was anything but profuse of
words; and there are some men who can say much in small space. He blamed
himself greatly, anticipating reproach; but the thing which he feared
the most to communicate was the fact that the lad was left ill at the
house of Colonel Marshal, and at the house of a man so very much
disliked by Sir John Hastings.

There are some men--men of strong mind and great abilities--who go
through life learning some of its lessons, and totally neglecting
others--pre-occupied by one branch of the great study, and seeing
nothing in the course of scholarship but that. Dr. Paulding had no
conception of the change which the loss of their eldest son had wrought
in the heart of Sir John and Lady Hastings. The second--the neglected
one--had now become not only the eldest, but the only one. His illness,
painfully as it affected them, was a blessing to them. It withdrew their
thoughts from their late bereavement. It occupied their mind with a new
anxiety. It withdrew it from grief and from disappointment. They thought
little or nothing of whose house he was at, or whose care he was under;
but leaving the body of their dead child to be brought down by slow and
solemn procession to the country, they hurried on before, to watch over
the one that was left.

Sir John Hastings utterly forgot his ancient feelings toward Colonel
Marshal. He was at the house every day, and almost all day long, and
Lady Hastings was there day and night.

Wonderful how--when barriers are broken down--we see the objects brought
into proximity under a totally different point of view from that in
which we beheld them at a distance. There might be some stiffness in the
first meeting of Colonel Marshal and Sir John Hastings, but it wore off
with exceeding rapidity. The Colonel's kindness and attention to the
sick youth were marked. Lady Annabella devoted herself to him as to one
of her own children. Rachael Marshal made herself a mere nurse. Hard
hearts could only withstand such things. Philip was now an only child,
and the parents were filled with gratitude and affection.


CHAPTER III.

The stone which covered the vault of the Hastings family had been
raised, and light and air let into the cold, damp interior. A ray of
sunshine, streaming through the church window, found its way across the
mouldy velvet of the old coffins as they stood ranged along in solemn
order, containing the dust of many ancestors of the present possessors
of the manor. There, too, apart from the rest were the coffins of those
who had died childless; the small narrow resting-place of childhood,
where the guileless infant, the father's and mother's joy and hope,
slept its last sleep, leaving tearful eyes and sorrowing hearts behind,
with naught to comfort but the blessed thought that by calling such from
earth, God peoples heaven with angels; the coffins, too, of those cut
off in the early spring of manhood, whom the fell mower had struck down
in the flower before the fruit was ripe. Oh, how his scythe levels the
blossoming fields of hope! There, too, lay the stern old soldier, whose
life had been given up to his country's service, and who would not spare
one thought or moment to soften domestic joys; and many another who had
lived, perhaps and loved, and passed away without receiving love's
reward.

Amongst these, close at the end of the line, stood two tressels, ready
for a fresh occupant of the tomb, and the church bell tolled heavily
above, while the old sexton looked forth from the door of the church
toward the gates of the park, and the heavy clouded sky seemed to menace
rain.

"Happy the bride the sun shines upon; happy the corpse the heaven rains
upon!" said the old man to himself. But the rain did not come down; and
presently, from the spot where he stood, which overlooked the park-wall,
he saw come on in slow and solemn procession along the great road to the
gates, the funeral train of him who had been lately heir to all the fine
property around. The body had been brought from London after the career
of youth had been cut short in a moment of giddy pleasure, and father
and mother, as was then customary, with a long line of friends,
relations, and dependents, now conveyed the remains of him once so
dearly loved, to the cold grave.

Only one of all the numerous connections of the family was wanting on
this occasion, and that was the brother of the dead; but he lay slowly
recovering from the shock he had received, and every one had been told
that it was impossible for him to attend. All the rest of the family had
hastened to the hall in answer to the summons they had received, for
though Sir John Hastings was not much loved, he was much respected and
somewhat feared--at least, the deference which was paid to him, no one
well knew why, savored somewhat of dread.

It is a strange propensity in many old persons to hang about the grave
to which they are rapidly tending, when it is opened for another, and to
comment--sometimes even with a bitter pleasantry--upon an event which
must soon overtake themselves. As soon as it was known that the funeral
procession had set out from the hall door, a number of aged people,
principally women, but comprising one or two shriveled men, tottered
forth from the cottages, which lay scattered about the church, and made
their way into the churchyard, there to hold conference upon the dead
and upon the living.

"Ay, ay!" said one old woman, "he has been taken at an early time; but
he was a fine lad, and better than most of those hard people."

"Ay, Peggy would praise the devil himself if he were dead," said an old
man, leaning on a stick, "though she has never a good word for the
living. The boy is taken away from mischief, that is the truth of it. If
he had lived to come down here again, he would have broken the heart of
my niece's daughter Jane, or made a public shame of her. What business
had a gentleman's son like that to be always hanging about a poor
cottage girl, following her into the corn-fields, and luring her out in
the evenings?"

"Faith! she might have been proud enough of his notice," said an old
crone; "and I dare say she was, too, in spite of all your conceit,
Matthew. She is not so dainty as you pretend to be; and we may see
something come of it yet."

"At all events," said another, "he was better than this white-faced,
spiritless boy that is left, who is likely enough to be taken earlier
than his brother, for he looks as if breath would blow him away."

"He will live to do something yet, that will make people talk of him;"
said a woman older than any of the rest, but taller and straighter;
"there is a spirit in him, be it angel or devil, that is not for death
so soon."

"Ay! they're making a pomp of it I warrant," said another old woman,
fixing her eyes on the high road under the park wall, upon which the
procession now entered. "Marry, there are escutcheons enough, and coats
of arms! One would think he was a lord's son, with all this to do! But
there is a curse upon the race anyhow; this man was the last of eleven
brothers, and I have heard say, his father died a bad death. Now his
eldest son must die by drowning--saved the hangman something,
perchance--we shall see what comes of the one that is left. 'Tis a curse
upon them ever since Worcester fight, when the old man, who is dead and
gone, advised to send the poor fellows who were taken, to work as slaves
in the colonies."

As she spoke, the funeral procession advanced up the road, and
approached that curious sort of gate with a penthouse over it, erected
probably to shelter the clergyman of the church while receiving the
corpse at the gate of the burial-ground, which was then universally to
be found at the entrance to all cemeteries. She broke off abruptly, as
if there was something still on her mind which she had not spoken, and
ranging themselves on each side of the church-yard path, the old men and
women formed a lane down which good Dr. Paulding speedily moved with
book in hand. The people assembled, whose numbers had been increased by
the arrival of some thirty or forty young and middle-aged, said not a
word as the clergymen marched on, but when the body had passed up
between them, and the bereaved father followed as chief-mourner, with a
fixed, stern, but tearless eye, betokening more intense affliction
perhaps, in a man of his character, than if his cheeks had been covered
with drops of womanly sorrow, several voices were heard saying aloud,
"God bless and comfort you, Sir John."

Strange, marvelously strange it was, that these words should come from
tongues, and from those alone, which had been so busily engaged in
carping censure and unfeeling sneers but the moment before. It was the
old men and women alone who had just been commenting bitterly upon the
fate, history, and character of the family, who now uttered the unfelt
expressions of sympathy in a beggar-like, whining tone. It was those who
really felt compassion who said nothing.

The coffin had been carried into the church, and the solemn rites, the
beautiful service of the Church of England, had proceeded some way, when
another person was added to the congregation who had not at first been
there. All eyes but those of the father of the dead and the lady who sat
weeping by his side, turned upon the new-comer, as with a face as pale
as death, and a faltering step, he took his place on one of the benches
somewhat remote from the rest. There was an expression of feeble
lassitude in the young man's countenance, but of strong resolution,
which overcame the weakness of the frame. He looked as if each moment he
would have fainted, but yet he sat out the whole service of the Church,
mingled with the crowd when the body was lowered into the vault, and saw
the handful of earth hurled out upon the velvet coffin, as if in mockery
of the empty pride of all the pomp and circumstance which attended the
burial of the rich and high.

No tear came into his eyes--no sob escaped from his bosom; a slight
quivering of the lip alone betrayed that there was strong agitation
within. When all was over, and the father still gazing down into the
vault, the young lad crept quietly back into a pew, covered his face
with his hand, and wept.

The last rite was over. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust were committed. Sir
John Hastings drew his wife's arm through his own, and walked with a
heavy, steadfast, and unwavering step down the aisle. Everybody drew
back respectfully as he passed; for generally, even in the hardest
hearts, true sorrow finds reverence. He had descended the steps from the
church into the burying ground, and had passed half way along the path
toward his carriage, when suddenly the tall upright old woman whom I
have mentioned thrust herself into his way, and addressed him with a
cold look and somewhat menacing tone--

"Now, Sir John Hastings," she said, "will you do me justice about that
bit of land? By your son's grave I ask it. The hand of heaven has
smitten you. It may, perhaps, have touched your heart. You know the land
is mine. It was taken from my husband by the usurper because he fought
for the king to whom he had pledged his faith. It was given to your
father because he broke his faith to his king and brought evil days upon
his country. Will you give me back the land, I say? Out man! It is but a
garden of herbs, but it is mine, and in God's sight I claim it."

"Away out of my path," replied Sir John Hastings angrily. "Is this a
time to talk of such things? Get you gone, I say, and choose some better
hour. Do you suppose I can listen to you now?"

"You have never listened, and you never will," replied the old woman,
and suffering him to pass without further opposition, she remained upon
the path behind him muttering to herself what seemed curses bitter and
deep, but the words of which were audible only to herself.

The little crowd gathered round her, and listened eagerly to catch the
sense of what she said, but the moment after the old sexton laid his
hand upon her shoulder and pushed her from the path, saying, "Get along
with you, get along with you, Popish Beldam. What business have you here
scandalizing the congregation, and brawling at the church door? You
should be put in the stocks!"

"I pity you, old worm," replied the old woman, "you will be soon among
those you feed upon," and with a hanging head and dejected air she
quitted the church-yard.

In the meanwhile Dr. Paulding had remained gazing down into the vault,
while the stout young men who had come to assist the sexton withdrew the
broad hempen bands by which the coffin had been lowered, from beneath
it, arranged it properly upon the tressels in its orderly place among
the dead, and then mounted by a ladder into the body of the church,
again preparing to replace the stone over the mouth of the vault. He
then turned to the church door and looked out, and then quietly
approached a pew in the side aisle.

"Philip, this is very wrong," he said; "your father never wished or
intended you should be here."

"He did not forbid me," replied the young man. "Why should I only be
absent from my brother's funeral?"

"Because you are sick. Because, by coming, you may have risked your
life," replied the old clergyman.

"What is life to a duty?" replied the lad. "Have you not taught me, sir,
that there is no earthly thing--no interest of this life, no pleasure,
no happiness, no hope, that ought not to be sacrificed at once to that
which the heart says is right?"

"True--true," replied the old clergyman, almost impatiently; "but in
following precept so severely, boy, you should use some discrimination.
You have a duty to a living father, which is of more weight than a mere
imaginary one to a dead brother. You could do no good to the latter; as
the Psalmist wisely said, 'You must go to him, but he can never come
back to you.' To your father, on the contrary, you have high duties to
perform; to console and cheer him in his present affliction; to comfort
and support his declining years. When a real duty presents itself,
Philip, to yourself, to your fellow men, to your country, or to your
God--I say again, as I have often said, do it in spite of every possible
affection. Let it cut through everything, break through every tie,
thrust aside every consideration. There, indeed, I would fain see you
act the old Roman, whom you are so fond of studying, and be a Cato or a
Brutus, if you will. But you must make very sure that you do not make
your fancy create unreal duties, and make them of greater importance in
your eyes than the true ones. But now I must get you back as speedily as
possible, for your mother, ere long, will be up to see you, and your
father, and they must not find you absent on this errand."

The lad made no reply, but readily walked back toward the court with Dr.
Paulding, though his steps were slow and feeble. He took the old man's
arm, too, and leaned heavily upon it; for, to say the truth, he felt
already the consequences of the foolish act he had committed; and the
first excitement past, lassitude and fever took possession once more of
every limb, and his feet would hardly bear him to the gates.

The beautiful girl who had been the first to receive him at that house,
met the eyes both of the young man and the old one, the moment they
entered the gardens. She looked wild and anxious, and was wandering
about with her head uncovered; but as soon as she beheld the youth, she
ran toward him, exclaiming, "Oh, Philip, Philip, this is very wrong and
cruel of you. I have been looking for you everywhere. You should not
have done this. How could you let him, Dr. Paulding?"

"I did not let him, my dear child," replied the old man, "he came of his
own will, and would not be let. But take him in with you; send him to
bed as speedily as may be; give him a large glass of the fever-water he
was taking, and say as little as possible of this rash act to any one."

The girl made the sick boy lean upon her rounded arm, led him away into
the house, and tended him like a sister. She kept the secret of his
rashness, too, from every one; and there were feelings sprang up in his
bosom toward her during the next few hours which were never to be
obliterated. She was so beautiful, so tender, so gentle, so full of all
womanly graces, that he fancied, with his strong imagination, that no
one perfection of body or mind could be wanting; and he continued to
think so for many a long year after.


CHAPTER IV.

Enough of boyhood and its faults and follies. I sought but to show the
reader, as in a glass, the back of a pageant that has past. Oh, how I
sometimes laugh at the fools--the critics. God save the mark! who see no
more in the slight sketch I choose to give, than a mere daub of paint
across the canvas, when that one touch gives effect to the whole
picture. Let them stand back, and view it as a whole; and if they can
find aught in it to make them say "Well done," let them look at the
frame. That is enough for them; their wits are only fitted to deal with
"leather and prunella."

I have given you, reader--kind and judicious reader--a sketch of the
boy, that you may be enabled to judge rightly of the man. Now, take the
lad as I have moulded him--bake him well in the fiery furnace of strong
passion, remembering still that the form is of hard iron--quench and
harden him in the cold waters of opposition, and disappointment, and
anxiety--and bring him forth tempered, but too highly tempered for the
world he has to live in--not pliable--not elastic; no watchspring, but
like a graver's tool, which must cut into everything opposed to it, or
break under the pressure.

Let us start upon our new course some fifteen years after the period at
which our tale began, and view Philip Hastings as that which he had now
become.

Dr. Paulding had passed from this working day world to another and a
better--where we hope the virtues of the heart may be weighed against
vices of the head--a mode of dealing rare here below. Sir John Hastings
and his wife had gone whither their eldest son had gone before them; and
Philip Hastings was no longer the boy. Manhood had set its seal upon his
brow only too early; but what a change had come with manhood!--a change
not in the substance, but in its mode.

Oh, Time! thy province is not only to destroy! Thou worker-out of human
destinies--thou new-fashioner of all things earthly--thou blender of
races--thou changer of institutions--thou discoverer--thou
concealer--thou builder up--thou dark destroyer; thy waters as they flow
have sometimes a petrifying, sometimes a solvent power, hardening the
soft, melting the strong, accumulating the sand, undermining the rock!
What had been thine effect upon Philip Hastings?

All the thoughts had grown manly as well as the body. The slight youth
had been developed into the hardy and powerful man; somewhat
inactive--at least so it seemed to common eyes--more thoughtful than
brilliant, steady in resolution, though calm in expression, giving way
no more to bursts of boyish feeling, somewhat stern, men said somewhat
hard, but yet extremely just, and resolute for justice. The poetry of
life--I should have said the poetry of young life--the brilliancy of
fancy and hope, seemed somewhat dimmed in him--mark, I say seemed, for
that which seems too often is not; and he might perhaps have learnt to
rule and conceal feelings which he could not altogether conquer or
resist.

Still there were many traces of his old self visible: the same love of
study, the same choice of books and subjects of thought, the same
subdued yet strong enthusiasms. The very fact of mingling with the
world, which had taught him to repress those enthusiasms, seemed to have
concentrated and rendered them more intense.

The course of his studies; the habits of his mind; his fondness for the
school of the stoics, it might have been supposed, would rather have
disgusted him with the society in which he now habitually mingled, and
made him look upon mankind--for it was a very corrupt age--with
contempt, if not with horror.

Such, however, was not the case. He had less of the cynic in him than
his father--indeed he had nothing of the cynic in him at all. He loved
mankind in his own peculiar way. He was a philanthropist of a certain
sort; and would willingly have put a considerable portion of his
fellow-creatures to death, in order to serve, and elevate, and improve
the rest.

His was a remarkable character--not altogether fitted for the times in
which he lived; but one which in its wild and rugged strength, commanded
much respect and admiration even then. Weak things clung to it, as ivy
to an oak or a strong wall: and its power over them was increased by a
certain sort of tenderness--a protecting pity, which mingled strangely
with his harder and ruder qualities. He seemed to be sorry for
everything that was weak, and to seek to console and comfort it, under
the curse of feebleness. It seldom offended him--he rather loved it, it
rarely came in his way; and his feeling toward it might approach
contempt but never rose to anger.

He was capable too of intense and strong affections, though he could not
extend them to many objects. All that was vigorous and powerful in him
concentrated itself in separate points here and there; and general
things were viewed with much indifference.

See him as he walks up and down there before the old house, which I have
elsewhere described. He has grown tall and powerful in frame; and yet
his gait is somewhat slovenly and negligent, although his step is firm
and strong. He is not much more than thirty-one years of age; but he
looks forty at the least; and his hair is even thickly sprinkled with
gray. His face is pale, with some strong marked lines and indentations
in it; yet, on the whole, it is handsome, and the slight habitual frown,
thoughtful rather than stern, together with the massive jaw, and the
slight drawing down of the corners of the mouth, give it an expression
of resolute firmness, that is only contradicted by the frequent
variation of the eye, which is sometimes full of deep thought, sometimes
of tenderness; and sometimes is flashing with a wild and almost
unearthly fire.

But there is a lady hanging on his arm which supports her somewhat
feeble steps. She seems recovering from illness; the rose in her cheek
is faint and delicate; and an air of languor is in her whole face and
form. Yet she is very beautiful, and seems fully ten years younger than
her husband, although, in truth, she is of the same age--or perhaps a
little older. It is Rachael Marshal, now become Lady Hastings.

Their union did not take place without opposition; all Sir John
Hastings' prejudices against the Marshal family revived as soon as his
son's attachment to the daughter of the house became apparent. Like most
fathers, he saw too late; and then sought to prevent that which had
become inevitable. He sent his son to travel in foreign lands; he even
laid out a scheme for marrying him to another, younger, and as he
thought fairer. He contrived that the young man should fall into the
society of the lady he had selected, and he fancied that would be quite
sufficient; for he saw in her character, young as she was, traits, much
more harmonious, as he fancied, with those of his son, than could be
found in the softer, gentler, weaker Rachael Marshal. There was energy,
perseverance, resolution, keen and quick perceptions--perhaps a little
too much keenness. More, he did not stay to inquire; but, as is usual in
matters of the heart, Philip Hastings loved best the converse of
himself. The progress of the scheme was interrupted by the illness of
Sir John Hastings, which recalled his son from Rome. Philip returned,
found his father dead, and married Rachael Marshal.

They had had several children; but only one remained; that gay, light,
gossamer girl, like a gleam darting along the path from sunny rays
piercing through wind-borne clouds. On she ran with a step of light and
careless air, yet every now and then she paused suddenly, gazed
earnestly at a flower, plucked it, pored into its very heart with her
deep eyes, and, after seeming to labor under thought for a moment,
sprang forward again as light as ever.

The eyes of the father followed her with a look of grave, thoughtful,
intense affection. The mother's eyes looked up to him, and then glanced
onward to the child.

She was between nine and ten years old--not very handsome, for it is not
a handsome age. Yet there were indications of future beauty--fine and
sparkling eyes, rich, waving, silky hair, long eyelashes, a fine
complexion, a light and graceful figure, though deformed by the stiff
fashions of the day.

There was a sparkle too in her look--that bright outpouring of the heart
upon the face which is one of the most powerful charms of youth and
innocence. Ah! how soon gone by! How soon checked by the thousand loads
which this heavy laboring world casts upon the buoyancy of youthful
spirits--the chilling conventionality--the knowledge, and the fear of
wrong--the first taste of sorrow--the anxieties, cares, fears--even the
hopes of mature life, are all weights to bear down the pinions of young,
lark-like joy. After twenty, does the heart ever rise up from her green
sod and sing at Heaven's gate as in childhood? Never--ah, never! The
dust of earth is upon the wing of the sky songster, and will never let
her mount to her ancient pitch.

That child was a strange combination of her father and her mother. She
was destined to be their only one; and it seemed as if nature had taken
a pleasure in blending the characters of both in one. Not that they were
intimately mingled, but that they seemed like the twins of Laconia, to
rise and set by turns.

In her morning walk; in her hours of sportive play; when no subject of
deep thought, no matter that affected the heart or the imagination was
presented to her, she was light and gay as a butterfly; the child--the
happy child was in every look, and word, and movement. But call her for
a moment from this bright land of pleasantness--present something to her
mind or to her fancy which rouses sympathies, or sets the energetic
thoughts at work, and she was grave, meditative, studious, deep beyond
her years.

She was a subject of much contemplation, some anxiety, some wonder to
her father. The brightness of her perceptions, her eagerness in the
pursuit of knowledge, her vigorous resolution even as a child, when
convinced that she was right, showed him his own mind reflected in hers.
Even her tenderness, her strong affections, he could comprehend; for the
same were in his own heart, and though he believed them to be
weaknesses, he could well understand their existence in a child and in a
woman.

But that which he did not understand--that which made him marvel--was
her lightness, her gayety, her wild vivacity--I might almost say, her
trifling, when not moved by deep feeling or chained down by thought.

This was beyond him. Yet strange! the same characteristics did not
surprise nor shock him in her mother--never had surprised or shocked
him; indeed he had rather loved her for those qualities, so unlike his
own. Perhaps it was that he thought it strange, his child should, in any
mood, be so unlike himself; or perhaps it was the contrast between the
two sides of the same character that moved his wonder when he saw it in
his child. He might forget that her mother was her parent as well as
himself; and that she had an inheritance from each.

In his thoughtful, considering, theoretical way, he determined
studiously to seek a remedy for what he considered the defect in his
child--to cultivate with all the zeal and perseverance of paternal
affection, supported by his own force of character, those qualities
which were most like his own--those, in short, which were the least
womanly. But nature would not be baffled. You may divert her to a
certain degree; but you cannot turn her aside from her course
altogether.

He found that he could not--by any means which his heart would let him
employ--conquer what he called the frivolity of the child. Frivolity!
Heaven save us! There were times when she showed no frivolity, but, on
the contrary, a depth and intensity far, far beyond her years. Indeed,
the ordinary current of her mind was calm and thoughtful. It was but
when a breeze rippled it that it sparkled on the surface. Her father,
too, saw that this was so; that the wild gayety was but occasional. But
still it surprised and pained him--perhaps the more because it was
occasional. It seemed to his eyes an anomaly in her nature. He would
have had her altogether like himself. He could not conceive any one
possessing so much of his own character, having room in heart and brain
for aught else. It was a subject of constant wonder to him; of
speculation, of anxious thought.

He often asked himself if this was the only anomaly in his child--if
there were not other traits, yet undiscovered, as discrepant as this
light volatility with her general character: and he puzzled himself
sorely.

Still he pursued her education upon his own principles; taught her many
things which women rarely learned in those days; imbued her mind with
thoughts and feelings of his own; and often thought, when a season of
peculiar gravity fell upon her, that he made progress in rendering her
character all that he could wish it. This impression never lasted long,
however; for sooner or later the bird-like spirit within her found the
cage door open, and fluttered forth upon some gay excursion, leaving all
his dreams vanished and his wishes disappointed.

Nevertheless he loved her with all the strong affection of which his
nature was capable; and still he persevered in the course which he
thought for her benefit. At times, indeed, he would make efforts to
unravel the mystery of her double nature, not perceiving that the only
cause of mystery was in himself: that what seemed strange in his
daughter depended more upon his own want of power to comprehend her
variety than upon anything extraordinary in her. He would endeavor to go
along with her in her sportive moods--to let his mind run free beside
hers in its gay ramble; to find some motive for them which he could
understand; to reduce them to a system; to discover the rule by which
the problem was to be solved. But he made nothing of it, and wearied
conjecture in vain.

Lady Hastings sometimes interposed a little; for in unimportant things
she had great influence with her husband. He let her have her own way
wherever he thought it not worth while to oppose her; and that was very
often. She perfectly comprehended the side of her daughter's character
which was all darkness to the father; and strange to say, with greater
penetration than his own, she comprehended the other side likewise. She
recognized easily the traits in her child which she knew and admired in
her husband, but wished them heartily away in her daughter's case,
thinking such strength of mind, joined with whatever grace and
sweetness, somewhat unfeminine.

Though she was full of prejudices, and where her quickness of perception
failed her, altogether unteachable by reason, yet she was naturally too
virtuous and good to attempt even to thwart the objects of the father's
efforts in the education of his child. I have said that she interfered
at times, but it was only to remonstrate against too close study, to
obtain frequent and healthful relaxation, and to add all those womanly
accomplishments on which she set great value. In this she was not
opposed. Music, singing, dancing, and a knowledge of modern languages,
were added to other branches of education, and Lady Hastings was so far
satisfied.


CHAPTER V.

The Italian singing-master was a peculiar man, and well worthy of a few
words in description. He was tall and thin, but well built; and his face
had probably once been very handsome, in that Italian style, which, by
the exaggeration of age, grows so soon into ugliness. The nose was now
large and conspicuous, the eyes bright, black, and twinkling, the mouth
good in shape, but with an animal expression about it, the ear very
voluminous.

He was somewhat more than fifty years of age, and his hair was speckled
with gray; but age was not apparent in wrinkles and furrows, and in gait
he was firm and upright.

At first Sir Philip Hastings did not like him at all. He did not like to
have him there. It was against the grain he admitted him into the house.
He did it, partly because he thought it right to yield in some degree to
the wishes of his wife; partly from a grudging deference to the customs
of society.

But the Signor was a shrewd and world-taught man, accustomed to overcome
prejudices, and to make his way against disadvantages; and he soon
established himself well in the opinion of both father and mother. It
was done by a peculiar process, which is well worth the consideration of
all those who seek _les moyens de parvenir_.

In his general and ordinary intercourse with his fellow-men, he had a
happy middle tone,--a grave, reticent manner, which never compromised
him to anything. A shrewd smile, without an elucidatory remark, served
to harmonize him with the gay and vivacious; a serious tranquillity,
unaccompanied by any public professions, was enough to make the sober
and the decent rank him amongst themselves. Perhaps that class of
men--whether pure at heart or not--have always overestimated decency of
exterior.

All this was in public however. In private, in a _tête-à-tête_, Signor
Guardini was a very different man. Nay more, in each and every
_tête-à-tête_ he was a different man from what he appeared in the other.
Yet, with a marvelous art, he contrived to make both sides of his
apparent character harmonize with his public and open appearance. Or
rather perhaps I should say that his public demeanor was a middle tint
which served to harmonize the opposite extremes of coloring displayed by
his character. Nothing could exemplify this more strongly than the
different impressions he produced on Sir Philip and Lady Hastings. The
lady was soon won to his side. She was predisposed to favor him; and a
few light gay sallies, a great deal of conventional talk about the
fashionable life of London, and a cheerful bantering tone of persiflage,
completely charmed her. Sir Philip was more difficult to win.
Nevertheless, in a few short sentences, hardly longer than those which
Sterne's mendicant whispered in the ear of the passengers, he succeeded
in disarming many prejudices. With him, the Signor was a stoic; he had
some tincture of letters, though a singer, and had read sufficient of
the history of his own land, to have caught all the salient points of
the glorious past.

Perhaps he might even feel a certain interest in the antecedents of his
decrepit land--not to influence his conduct, or to plant ambitious or
nourish pure and high hopes for its regeneration--but to waken a sort of
touch-wood enthusiasm, which glowed brightly when fanned by the stronger
powers of others. Yet before Sir Philip had had time to communicate to
him one spark of his own ardor, he had as I have said made great
progress in his esteem. In five minutes' conversation he had established
for himself the character of one of a higher and nobler character whose
lot had fallen in evil days.

"In other years," thought the English gentleman, "this might have been a
great man--the defender unto death of his country's rights--the advocate
of all that is ennobling, stern, and grand."

What was the secret of all this? Simply that he, a man almost without
character, had keen and well-nigh intuitive perceptions of the
characters of others; and that without difficulty his pliable nature and
easy principles would accommodate themselves to all.

He made great progress then in the regard of Sir Philip, although their
conversations seldom lasted above five minutes. He made greater progress
still with the mother. But with the daughter he made none--worse than
none.

What was the cause, it may be asked. What did he do or say--how did he
demean himself so as to produce in her bosom a feeling of horror and
disgust toward him that nothing could remove?

I cannot tell. He was a man of strong passions and no principles: that
his after--perhaps his previous--life would evince. There is a
touchstone for pure gold in the heart of an innocent and highminded
woman that detects all baser metals: they are discovered in a moment:
they cannot stand the test.

Now, whether his heart-cankering corruption, his want of faith, honesty,
and truth, made themselves felt, and were pointed out by the index of
that fine barometer, without any overt act at all--or whether he gave
actual cause of offense, I do not know--none has ever known.

Suddenly, however, the gay, the apparently somewhat wayward girl, now
between fifteen and sixteen, assumed a new character in her father's and
mother's eyes. With a strange frank abruptness she told them she would
take no more singing lessons of the Italian; but she added no
explanation.

Lady Hastings was angry, and expostulated warmly; but the girl was firm
and resolute. She heard her mother's argument, and answered in soft and
humble tones that she would not,--could not learn to sing any
longer--that she was very sorry to grieve or to offend her mother; but
she had learned long enough, and would learn no more.

More angry than before, with the air of indignant pride in which
weakness so often takes refuge, the mother quitted the room; and the
father then, in a calmer spirit, inquired the cause of her resolution.

She blushed like the early morning sky; but there was a sort of
bewildered look upon her face as she replied, "I know no cause--I can
give no reason, my dear father; but the man is hateful to me. I will
never see him again."

Her father sought for farther explanation, but he could obtain none.
Guardini had not said anything nor done anything, she admitted, to give
her offense; but yet she firmly refused to be his pupil any longer.

There are instincts in fine and delicate minds, which, by signs and
indications intangible to coarser natures, discover in others thoughts
and feelings, wishes and designs, discordant--repugnant to themselves.
They are instincts, I say, not amenable to reason, escaping analysis,
incapable of explanation--the warning voice of God in the heart, bidding
them beware of evil.

Sir Philip Hastings was not a man to allow aught for such impulses--to
conceive or understand them in the least. He had been accustomed to
delude himself with reasons, some just, others very much the reverse,
but he had never done a deed or entertained a thought for which he could
not give some reason of convincing power to his own mind.

He did not understand his daughter's conduct at all; but he would not
press her any farther. She was in some degree a mysterious being to him.
Indeed, as I have before shown, she had always been a mystery; for he
had no key to her character in his own. It was written in the unknown
language.

Yet, did he love or cherish her the less? Oh no! Perhaps a deeper
interest gathered round his heart for her, the chief object of his
affections. More strongly than ever he determined to cultivate and form
her mind on his own model, in consequence of what he called a strange
caprice, although he could not but sometimes hope and fancy that her
resolute rejection of any farther lessons from Signor Guardini arose
from her distaste to what he himself considered one of the frivolous
pursuits of fashion.

Yet she showed no distaste for singing; for somehow every day she would
practice eagerly, till her sweet voice, under a delicate taste, acquired
a flexibility and power which charmed and captivated her father,
notwithstanding his would-be cynicism. He was naturally fond of music;
his nature was a vehement one, though curbed by such strong restraints;
and all vehement natures are much moved by music. He would sit calmly,
with his eyes fixed upon a book, but listening all the time to that
sweet voice, with feelings working in him--emotions, thrilling, deep,
intense, which he would have felt ashamed to expose to any human eye.

All this however made her conduct toward Guardini the more mysterious;
and her father often gazed upon her beautiful face with a look of
doubting inquiry, as one may look on the surface of a bright lake, and
ask, What is below?

That face was now indeed becoming very beautiful. Every feature had been
refined and softened by time. There was soul in the eyes, and a gleam of
heaven upon the smile, besides the mere beauties of line and coloring.
The form too had nearly reached perfection. It was full of symmetry and
grace, and budding charms; and while the mother marked all these
attractions, and thought how powerful they would prove in the world, the
father felt their influence in a different manner: with a sort of
abstract admiration of her loveliness, which went no further than a
proud acknowledgment to his own heart that she was beautiful indeed. To
him her beauty was as a gem, a picture, a beautiful possession, which he
had no thought of ever parting with--something on which his eyes would
rest well pleased until they closed forever. How blessed he might have
been in the possession of such a child could he have comprehended
her--could he have divested his mind of the idea that there was
something strange and inharmonious in her character! Could he have made
his heart a woman's heart for but one hour, all mystery would have been
dispelled; but it was impossible, and it remained.

No tangible effect did it produce at the time; but preconceptions of
another's character are very dangerous things. Everything is seen
through their medium, everything is colored and often distorted. That
which produced no fruit at the time, had very important results at an
after period.

But I must turn now to other scenes and more stirring events, having I
trust made the reader well enough acquainted with father, mother, and
daughter, at least sufficiently for all the purposes of this tale. It is
upon the characters of two of them that all the interest if there be any
depends. Let them be marked then and remembered, if the reader would
derive pleasure from what follows.

TO BE CONTINUED.


[From "The Album." Manchester, November, 1850.]

THE POET'S LOT.

BY PHILIP JAMES BAILEY, AUTHOR OF "FESTUS," ETC.

    Nature in the poet's heart is limned
    In little, as in landscape stones we see
    The swell of land, and groves, and running streams,
    Fresh from the wolds of Chaos; or perchance
    The imaged hint of antemundane life,--
    A photograph of preexistent light,--
    Or Paradisal sun. So, in his mind
    The broad conditions of the world are graven,
    Thoroughly and grandly; in accord wherewith
    His life is ruled to be, and eke to bear.
    Wisdom he wills not only for himself,
    But undergoes the sacred rites whereby
    The privilege he hath earned he may promulge,
    And all men make the partners of his light.
      Between the priestly and the laic powers
    The poet stands, a bright and living link;
    Now chanting odes divine and sacred spells--
    Now with fine magic, holy and austere,
    Inviting angels or evoking fiends;
    And now, in festive guise arrayed, his brow
    With golden fillet bounden round--alone,
    Earnest to charm the throng that celebrates
    The games now--now the mysteries of life,
    With truths ornate and Pleasure's choicest plea.
      Thus he becomes the darling of mankind,
    Armed with the instinct both of rule and right,
    And the world's minion, privileged to speak
    When all beside, the medley mass, are mute:
    Distills his soul into a song--and dies.




THE COUNT MONTE-LEONE: OR, THE SPY IN SOCIETY.[6]

TRANSLATED FOR THE INTERNATIONAL MONTHLY MAGAZINE FROM THE FRENCH OF
H. DE ST. GEORGES.

_Continued from Page 512._

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


BOOK SECOND.--THE VIPER'S NEST.

Rightly enough had the young girl been called "The White Rose of
Sorrento." Monte-Leone had based on her his most ardent hopes and
tenderest expectations. Nothing in fact could be more angelic than the
expression of her face. She seemed the _virgo immaculata_ of Rubens, the
_virgo_ of divine love. What would first attract attention at Aminta's
appearance was a marble pallor, the paleness of that beautiful marble of
Carara, in which when Canova had touched it the blood seemed to rush to
the surface and circulate beneath the transparent flesh of the great
master.

We must however say that beneath the long lids of the young Neapolitan,
the observer would have discovered an expression of firmness and
decision rarely found in so young a girl. Any one who examined her
quickly saw that in her frail and delicate frame there was a soul full
of energy and courage, and that if it should ever be aroused, what she
wished must be, _God willing_. Nothing in nature is more persevering and
irresistible than woman's will, especially if the woman be an Italian.

Antonia Rovero, the mother of Aminta and Taddeo, was the widow of a rich
banker of Naples, devoted to the cause of Murat, and had been created by
the late king one of his senators and then minister of finances. In this
last office M. Rovero died, and his widow, after having received every
kindness from Murat, retired to Sorrento. Taddeo then felt an interest
in everything which had a tendency to overturn the government of
Fernando IV. The restoration of the latter had crushed his ambition and
broken his fortunes. On that account he had become one of the Pulcinelli
whom we have described in the last book.

While this well-beloved son of an affectionate mother, this brother so
idolized by an affectionate sister, languished perhaps like Monte-Leone,
Madame Rovero and her daughter in their quiet retreat fancied that
Taddeo was enjoying at Naples all the pleasures of the Carnival and
abandoning himself to all the follies of that day of pleasure.
Sometimes, however, as the sun set on the hills of Sorrento, Aminta said
to her mother, "Taddeo forgets us. It is not pleasant to enjoy this
beautiful day without him. Were we three together, how delicious it
would be!" Then Aminta would take a volume of Alfieri, her favorite
author, and wander alone amid the fields.

The day on which the scene we are about to describe happened was one of
those burning ones, which make us even in winter fancy that an eternal
spring exists in that heaven-protected land. We may add that the winter
of 1816 was peculiar even in Italy, and that the sun was so warm and the
heat so genial that nature under their influence put on the most
luxuriant vegetation. The favorite haunt of Aminta was a green hill,
behind which was a pretty and simple house, the cradle of one of the
most wonderful geniuses of the world. This genius was Tasso. A bust of
the poet in _terra cotta_ yet adorned the façade of the house, which
though then in ruins has since been rebuilt. At that time the room of
the divine yet unfortunate lover of Leonora did not exist--the sea had
swept over it. Admirers of the poet yet however visited the remnants of
his habitation. The tender heart of Aminta yet paid a pious worship to
them, and "The White Rose of Sorrento" went toward "The House of Tasso."
Aminta's mother was always offended when she indulged in such distant
excursions.

She did not however go alone. A singular being accompanied her. This
being was at once a man and a reptile. His features would have denoted
the age of sixteen. They were the most frightful imaginable. A forehead
over which spread a few reddish hairs; a mouth almost without teeth;
small eyes, sad and green, which were however insupportably bright when
they were lit up by anger; long and bony arms; legs horribly thin; a
short and square bust,--all united to make a being so utterly
ungraceful, so inhuman, that the children of the village had nicknamed
him _Scorpione_--so like that reptile's was his air. The _morale_ of
Scorpione was worthy of his _physique_. The true name of this child was
Tonio. Being the son of Aminta's nurse, he had never in his life been
separated from her, and seemed to grow daily more ugly as she became
more beautiful. He became so devoted to Aminta that he never left her.
This whimsical intimacy was not that of children, the attachment of
brother and sister, but that of the intellectual and brute being, of the
master and dog. He was the dog of Aminta. He accompanied and watched
over her in all her long walks. Did a dangerous pass occur, he took her
up and carried her across the pool or torrent, so that not a drop of
water touched her. If any one chanced to meet her and sought to speak to
her, he first growled, and then having looked at Aminta, made the bold
man understand that like a mastiff he would protect her against all
assailants.

During the winter evenings when Aminta read to her mother, Tonio lying
at the fair reader's feet, warmed them in his bosom, where she suffered
them to remain with as much carelessness as she would have let them rest
on the back of a dog. She became so used to his horrid features, that
she no longer thought them repulsive. No contrast was stronger than that
these two presented. It was like the association of an angel and a
devil.

The young girl had in vain attempted to impart some knowledge to
Scorpione: his nature did not admit of it. Had he been able to
comprehend anything, if the simple idea of right and wrong could have
reached his heart, Aminta would have accomplished much. This Cretin,[7]
however, knew but three things in the world, to love, to serve, and to
defend Aminta. Nothing more.

     [7: The Cretins are a miserable, feeble and almost idiotic race,
     found not infrequently in the south of France. They have sometimes
     been horribly persecuted.]

Accompanied by her faithful dog one day, the fair creature had walked to
the house of Tasso. She had perhaps twenty times gone through those
magnificent ruins, and read over again and again the inscription every
tourist fancies himself obliged to engrave with his dagger's point on
the tesselated walls of the poet's home. One which seemed new attracted
her attention. Thus it read:

"One must have suffered as much as the lover of Leonora, to be unhappy
in the paradise of Sorrento."

These three lines were signed by the Marquis de Maulear.

Aminta read the inscription two or three times, without fancying that it
related to her. The simple style touched her heart, and with no slight
emotion, she left the wall.

At that moment the sun was at the height of its power, and shed its
burning rays over nature. Aminta's straw hat sheltered her from the
torrents of lava which seemed to fall from heaven and a few drops of
perspiration stood on her marble forehead. While she was seeking in the
ruined house for some shadowed nook, Scorpione amused himself behind a
wall in torturing a gray lizard he had found, and which had taken refuge
in a hole, from which it could not get out. The cruel child made
numerous blows at the timid animal whenever it attempted to escape. He
was perfectly delighted when he had beaten out the eyes of the animal,
and the poor creature, rushing out, surrendered himself. One thrust
completed the work, and it died in convulsions. Aminta found Scorpione
thus engaged.

"Fie, fie," said she, "you deserve to suffer as much pain as you have
inflicted on this poor animal."

"I am no lizard, but a scorpion, as the children of Sorrento say. I have
a sting always ready for those who seek to injure me." He showed his
dagger.

Aminta left, and Tonio, glancing at his mistress like a dog which has
been punished, placed his back against the wall and pretended to sleep.
Before long he really did sleep.

Not far from Tasso's house there was a grotto, beneath which ran a
little stream, overgrown with aquatic herbs, and which beyond doubt in
other days fed the fish-ponds of the house. It however had insensibly
dried up, and only a feeble thread could henceforth be traced. This was
the grotto which gave Aminta the refuge she sought. A mossy bench was
placed by the side of a stream. She sat on it, took her book, and
recited aloud the harmonious verses of her favorite bard. She gradually
felt the influence of the heat. For a while she contended against the
approach of sleep, which, however, ere long surrounded her with its
leaden wings. The sight of Aminta became clouded, and shadowy mists
passed before her eyes. Her brow bowed down, her head fell upon the
rustic pillow. She was in oblivion. It was noon. All at this hour in
Italy, and especially in Naples, slumber, "except," says the proverb,
certainly not complimentary to my countrymen, "_Frenchmen and dogs_."
The fact is, that Frenchmen, when they travel, pay no attention to the
customs of the country. A Frenchman who travels unfortunately insists
that everything should be done _a la Française_, in countries and
climates where such a life as ours is impossible.

A profound silence covered all nature. The indistinct humming of insects
in the air for a while troubled him; then all was silent. The wind even
was voiceless, and the wave which beat on the rock seemed to repress
every sound to avoid interrupting the repose of earth and heaven.

All at once, distant steps were heard. At first they were light, then
more positive and distinct as they resounded on the calcined rock which
led to Tasso's house. A young man of twenty-five approached. He was
almost overcome by the sultriness. A whip and spurs showed that he had
just dismounted. He had left his horse in an orange grove. Overcome, he
had sought a shelter, and remembering the ruins he had seen a few days
before, hoped to find freshness and repose there. The poet's mansion,
the roof of which had fallen in, did not answer his expectations. He
hurried toward the very place where Aminta slept. His eyes, dazzled by
the brilliant light, did not at first distinguish the young girl in the
darkness of the grotto. After a few moments, however, his sight became
stronger, and he was amazed at the white form which lay on the mossy
seat. Gradually the form became more distinct, and finally the young
stranger was able to distinguish a beautiful girl. Just then a brilliant
sunlight passed over the top of the crumbling wall and fell on her,
enwrapping her in golden light, and, as it were, framing her angelic
head like a glory round one of Raphael's pictures.

Henri de Maulear, such was the young man's name, fancied that an angelic
vision stood before him. Had the princess Leonora's ghost visited the
scenes Tasso loved so well? Had a great sculptor, Canova, in one of his
charming deliriums reproduced the features of Tasso's mistress and
placed his work in the grotto where the great poet sighed? Marble alone
could compete with Aminta's whiteness. Her round and waxen arms seemed
to have been formed of the purest Carara marble.

Aminta uttered a sigh and dissipated the illusion of the stranger. It
was not an admirable statue exhibited to him, but a work of nature. It
was such a woman as a poetic and tender heart dreams of--a woman not to
be loved, but adored. Love is earthly; adoration belongs to heaven.

Henri de Maulear, fascinated by increasing admiration, did not dare to
advance. He held his breath and was afraid, so great was his excitement,
that this wonderful beauty would faint away. Another sentiment, however,
soon took possession of him. A mortal terror filled his soul--death and
sleep were united. A fearful danger menaced the maiden, whence it seemed
no human power could rescue her. In the folds of Aminta's dress, in her
very bosom, Henri saw a strange object, whose whimsical colors
contrasted strangely with the whiteness of her dress. It was one of
those strange things known in Italy as _pointed-headed_ vipers. Their
bite takes effect so rapidly, their poison becomes so soon infused in
the blood, that victims die within a few minutes. Aminta had lain down
near a nest of these dangerous reptiles. The warmth of her body had
gradually attracted them to her, and while she slept they had nestled in
her very bosom. She had been motionless. They had not as yet moved. Any
change of posture however would bring on a terrible catastrophe, a
compulsory witness of which Henri de Maulear would from necessity be.
What assistance could he render her? How could he arouse her without
awaking the reptiles also? With a pale face and icy sweat on his brow,
he thought in vain to contrive a means to save her. What however was his
terror as he saw her make a slight movement! She reached out one of her
arms, held it in the air, and then let it fall on her breast which was
covered with reptiles. Her motion aroused the vipers. For a moment they
became agitated, then uncoiled themselves, and hid their heads in the
folds of her dress. One of them again coiled himself up, passed his thin
tongue through his lips like a _gourmand_ after a feast: the head was
drawn back and the creature assumed the form of a spiral urn, exhibited
all its rings of ruby and _malachete_, and then drawing back in a line
full of grace, disappeared among its fellows, and sank to sleep as if it
were exhausted with its own efforts.

During this terrible scene, Maulear could not breathe. The very
pulsation of his heart was stopped, his soul having left his body to
protect Aminta. For the nonce she was safe. But a terrible death yet
hung over her. Maulear did not lose sight of her. Ere long he saw her
bosom heave; he saw her gasp, and her face gradually become flushed. She
was dreaming. Should she make any motion, she would disturb the vipers.
This idea excited him so much that for a while he thought they were
awakened. Their hisses sounded in his ears, and he eagerly looked aside
to avoid the terrible spectacle. His glance however fell on an object
which as yet he had not perceived. So great was his joy that he could
with difficulty refrain from crying aloud. He saw an earthen vase full
of milk, in a dark portion of the cave, left there by some shepherd
anxious to preserve his evening meal from the heat of the summer sun. He
remembered what naturalists say of the passion entertained by reptiles
for milk. The well-known stories of cows, the dugs of whom had been
sucked dry by snakes, were recalled to his mind. Rushing toward the
vase, he seized it and bore it to the mossy rock. Just then Aminta
awoke.


II.--SCORPIONE.

Having looked around her, Aminta saw Maulear, pale and with an excited
face. He could not restrain his terror and surprise. By a motion more
rapid than thought, he pointed out to her the terrible beings that
nestled in her bosom, and said earnestly and eagerly: "Do not move or
you will die!" He could make no choice as to the means of saving her. It
became necessary for him to rescue her at once, to confront her with
danger, and rely on her strength of mind to brave it, by remaining
motionless. He thought possibly she might succumb beneath its aspect.
This was the result. She looked toward the terrible reptiles Maulear
pointed out to her. Horror took possession of her. Her heart ceased to
beat, and her blood curdled. She fainted. Luckily, however, this
happened without any motion, without even a nervous vibration sufficient
to awake the serpents. Henri uttered a sigh of happiness and delight,
for beyond doubt Heaven protected Aminta and himself. Approaching the
vase of milk, he placed it near her. Dipping his fingers in it, he
scattered a few drops over the reptiles.

They moved. The milk directly attracted their attention, and as soon as
they had tasted it they became aware of its presence. Lifting up their
pointed heads to receive what was offered them, they directed their eyes
toward the vase. When they had once seen it, they began to untwine their
coils and to crawl toward it, like young girls hurrying to the bath. The
mossy bench was near the rock. To remove her from the grotto Henri had
to displace the vase. He had courage enough to wait until the last viper
had gone into it. Seizing it then, he placed it gently on the ground.
Passing his arms under the inanimate body of the girl, he sought to
carry her away. Just then she recovered from her fainting. Aware that
she was in the arms of a strange man, she made a violent effort to get
away, and cast herself from her bed on the ground to escape from this
embrace. In her disorder and agitation, and contest with Maulear, who
sought to restrain her, in the half obscurity of the grotto her foot
touched the coil of vipers.

She fell shrieking on his bosom. He left the grotto with his precious
burden. Her cry had revealed to him the new misfortune, to which at
first he paid no attention, but which now terrified him. The cry awoke
Scorpione. His ear being familiarized with all the tones of his
mistress, he would have recognized this amid a thousand. Quicker than
the thunderbolt he rushed from the house, and stood at the door just
when Maulear seized her.

Scorpione fancied the stranger bore away his foster-sister, and rushed
on him as furiously as he would have done on a midnight robber. He
seized Maulear in the breast with his right hand, the nails of which
were trenchant as a needle, while with the left he sought to thrust the
dagger in his heart. Aminta herself was however a shield to his bosom,
and he clasped her closely. In the appearance of the horrid monster,
Maulear almost forgot the perilous situation from which he had just
extricated himself. For a time he fancied he was under the spell of some
terrible vision, being unable to believe one person could unite so many
deformities. With terror then he saw Scorpione seize on him and seek to
snatch the body of Aminta from him. A second cry of Aminta, less
distinct however than the first, changed the scene and recalled two of
the actors to their true interest.

"Wretch!" said Maulear to Tonio, "if you wish gold I will give it you.
Wait however till I resuscitate this girl."

"Aminta needs the care of none, when I am by!" said Scorpione. "She is
my mistress, my sister: I watch over her."

"At all events you watch over her very badly," said Henri, placing
Aminta on a broken stone. "I found her asleep here, with the vipers
nestling in her bosom."

A groan escaped from the throat of Scorpione as he heard these words. He
fell at Aminta's feet, with such an expression of grief, such cruel
despair, that Maulear despite of himself was moved. "Vipers!
pointed-headed! Have they stung her? tell me," said Tonio to Maulear. "I
will die if she does!"

He sunk on the ground, mad with rage and terror. The eyes of Maulear
glittered with somber horror. A nervous terror seized him, and,
paralyzed by fright, he pointed out to Tonio the white leg of Aminta,
around which a viper had coiled itself. Scorpione sprang forward and
tore the reptile away, throwing it far from him. This took place in less
than a second. Maulear would have done precisely what Scorpione had
done, but thought was not more rapid than the movement of Aminta's
foster-brother. Above the buskin of the girl a spot of blood appeared on
her silk stocking. This came from the bite of the serpent. It was death.
Maulear, kneeling before Aminta, reached forth his hand to touch the
wound. Tonio rudely pushed him aside. "No one," said he in a sharp harsh
voice, mingled with which was an accent of indignation, "may touch
Aminta!" Tonio alone has that right, and Madame Rovero would drive him
away if he permitted it!"

"But she will die unless I aid her!"

"And how can you?" said Scorpione, looking impudently at him. "What do
you know about pointed-heads? You do not even know the only remedy. But
I do, and will cure her."

There was such conviction in the words, that Maulear almost began to
entertain hope. What probability however was there that this kind of
brute would find means energetic and sure enough to restore the warmth
of life to one over whom the coldness of death had already begun to
settle, to stop the flow of poison which already permeated her frame?
Maulear doubted, trembled, and entertained again the most miserable
ideas. "If you would save her," said he to Scorpione, "there is but one
thing to do. Hurry to the nearest physician and bring him hither to
cauterize the wound and burn out the poison."

"Physicians are fools!" said Scorpione. "When my mother was thirty years
of age, beautiful and full of life, they let her die. Though she was
only my mother, I would have strangled them. If they were not to save
Aminta, however, I would kill them as I would dogs!" Nothing can give an
idea of his expression as he pronounced the words, "_though she was only
my mother_." It betokened atrocious coldness and indifference. The
glance however he threw on the maiden at the very idea of her death was
full of intense affection.

"Save her then!" said Maulear, seizing the idea that this half-savage
creature was perhaps aware of some secret means furnished by nature to
work a true miracle in favor of the victim. The features of Aminta began
to be disturbed; a livid pallor took possession of her; light
contractions agitated her features; her lids became convulsive, opening
and shutting rapidly. Scorpione observed all these symptoms. "Well,"
said he, placing his hand on her heart, "it beats yet. The poison moves
on: let us stop it."

Kneeling before her, he grasped the wounded limb, and took off the light
silk stocking. Then taking his dagger from his bosom, he made a slight
incision with the sharp point where the reptile had bitten her. She
uttered a cry of pain. "What are you about?" said Maulear, offended.

"Do you not see," replied Scorpione, "that I am opening the door for the
escape of the poison?"

Without speaking a word, he leaned over the wound, applied his lips, and
sucked the blood which ran from it. Twice or thrice he spat out the
blood and resumed the occupation of sublime courage. The ugliness of
Scorpione entirely disappeared from Maulear's eyes, and the monster
seemed to him a saving angel descended from heaven to rescue another
angel from death. A few seconds passed by in terrible and solemn
silence. Scorpione supported Aminta's head, and attempted to read in her
face the effect of his heroism. Henri de Maulear also knelt, and glanced
from heaven to the girl, invoking aid from one, and feeling profound
anxiety for the other.

Aminta sighed, but not with pain. An internal relief was already
experienced by her. Scorpione seized her hand in his, and feeling her
pulse, laughed aloud. He said, "_The Scorpion has overcome the viper_:
Aminta will live!"

"But you? you?" said Maulear, as he saw Scorpione's strength give way.

"Me? oh, I perhaps will die--that however is a different matter." Though
he did not know it, Scorpione might have been right. Felix Fontana, the
great Italian, one of the most distinguished physicians of the
eighteenth century, in his celebrated _Riserche Chemiche Sopra il Veleno
della Vipera_, affirms that to suck out the poison of the viper, even
when it does not touch the vital organs, suffices to cause such an
inflammation of the organs of the mouth that death always results from
it.

Boundless admiration and profound pity appeared in the heart of Maulear
when he heard the answer of Tonio. He even forgot Aminta, and hurried to
her generous liberator. He took him in his arms, and sustained his head,
which in nervous spasms he beat violently against the rock. This
deformed creature became really a friend and brother to Maulear; he had
saved one whom even Heaven abandoned. He had accomplished the most
admirable sacrifice, that equal almost to Christ, who gave his life to
ransom that of his fellows.

Just then steps were heard in the distance, and many persons approached
the solitude where such terrible scenes were occurring. A woman of about
fifty years of age, with dignified and beautiful features and
distinguished tournure, advanced with an expression of intense terror.
Looking all around, she seemed much terrified. She soon saw the three
characters of our somber drama. Passing hurriedly and rapidly as if she
had been a girl toward Aminta, who lay extended on the ground, she
seized and convulsively clasped her to her heart, without however being
able to utter a word. Her tearful eyes declared however that she was
aware some great misfortune had befallen her child. This woman was
Madame Rovero. Those who accompanied her were old servants of the
family, and surrounded Aminta. They were ignorant as Madame Rovero was
of the danger the young girl had undergone. Aminta however had begun to
recover, and pointed to Tonio, who lay in convulsions in Maulear's arms.
"What, monsieur, has happened?" said Madame de Rovero to Maulear.
"Having become uneasy at my daughter's prolonged absence, I have come to
her usual resort and find her dying and this lad writhing in your arms."

"Madame, excuse me," said Maulear, "if I do not now make explanation in
relation to the cruel events which have taken place. Time at present is
too precious. Your daughter I trust will live. But this poor fellow
demands all our care. He has sacrificed himself to rescue your child,
and to him you owe now all your happiness. Near this place I have two
horses. Suffer me to place your daughter on one, and do you return with
her to your house. I will on the other hurry with Tonio as fast as
possible to Sorrento."

Henri took a silver whistle from his pocket and sounded it. A groom soon
appeared with two horses. What he had proposed was soon executed, not
however without difficulty, for Aminta was much enfeebled, and Scorpione
contended violently with those who sought to place him in front of
Maulear, who had already mounted. Madame Rovero went sadly toward
Sorrento, bearing pale and bloody the young girl who had gone on that
very morning from her mother's villa so joyous, happy, and beautiful.
Maulear hurried to the house of the physician which had been pointed out
to him. While they were bringing in Aminta's foster-brother, Henri told
the doctor what had taken place. He examined the lad, and his brow
became overcast. Scorpione was speechless, and but for the faint
pulsations of his heart one might have thought him lifeless. No external
symptom betrayed the effect of the poison except the head of the
patient, which was terribly swollen. His mouth and especially the lower
jaw appeared the seat of suffering, and with a sensation of horror
Maulear saw between the violet lips of the patient a green and tense
tongue, at the appearance of which the physician exhibited much emotion.

"What do you think of his condition?" said Maulear.

"The great Felix Fontana says, in such cases there is no safety. Lazarus
Spallanzini, however, another savant of the eighteenth century,
published at Venice, in 1767, in the Giornole D'Italia, an admirable
dissertation on wounds caused by the bite of reptiles, especially on
those of the vipers. Treating of suction and its consequences, he points
out a means of cure for it. It is however so terrible and dangerous that
I know not if I should use it."

"Use it, sir. There is," said Maulear, "only the alternative of it and
death."

"The man will live, but in all probability will never speak again." He
waited for Maulear's answer.

"May I consult the family?" said the young man. "I will have returned in
an hour."

"In ten minutes," said the doctor, "he will be dead."

"Act quickly, then, monsieur: all his friends would act as I do."

The physician left: in a few minutes he returned with one of his
assistants, bearing a red hot iron. Maulear shuddered. The physician
placed the patient in a great arm-chair, to which he fastened him with
strong straps of leather. Then, when he was satisfied that no spasm or
motion of the unfortunate man would interrupt the operation, he placed a
speculum in his mouth. The speculum in its expansion tore apart the jaws
of Tonio, and kept them distended, so that the interior orifice of the
throat could be seen. Seizing the hot iron, he plunged it into the
throat of the unhappy man, turned back the palate from the tongue, and
moved it several times about, while the agonizing guttural cries of the
patient were mingled with the sharp hissing of the iron. Torrents of
tears filled his eyes. At this terrible spectacle Maulear fainted.


III.--THE CONCERT.

Henri Marquis de Maulear was scarcely twenty-six, and was what all would
have called a handsome man. A fine tall person, delicate features, and a
profusion of rich blond hair, curling naturally, justified the
appellation which the world, and especially the female portion of it,
conferred on him. To these external advantages, was united a brilliant
education, rather superficial than serious, and more graceful than
solid. He had dipped without examination in everything. He, however,
knew it to be essential to seem to understand all the subjects of French
conversation, in the saloons of Paris: nothing more.

The Prince Maulear, the only son of whom Henri was, had accompanied the
Bourbons in their exile, and been one of the faithful at Mettau and
Hartwell. After having undergone banishment with the Princes, his
illustrious friends, he returned to France with Louis XVIII. and shared
with Messieurs de Blacas, Vitrolles, d'Escars and others, the favor and
confidence of the king. A widower, and the recipient of a large fortune
from the restoration of the unsold portion of his estates, cold and
harsh in behavior, the Prince returned from exile in 1815, with the same
ideas he had borne away in 1788. The Prince de Maulear was the true type
of those unchangeable prejudices which can neither learn nor forget. He
was educated in France by a sister of his mother, the Countess of
Grandnesnil, an ancient canoness, a noble lady, who was a second mother
to the young Marquis after death had borne away his own. The Countess
had not emigrated like her brother-in-law. The care demanded by the
delicate health of the heir of the family could not admit of the fatigue
of endless travel, made necessary by emigration. Therefore, the heir of
the Maulears remained under the charge of the Countess. When he grew up,
beneath the ægis of the Countess, he completed his education, and at a
later day entered society. She exercised over his mind and heart that
influence which affection and the usage of familiar intercourse confer.
Watching over him with maternal care, seeking to ascertain his wishes
that she might be able to gratify them, making him happy in every way in
her power, she was beloved by the Marquis with all his heart. He could
not have loved a mother more.

The consequence of this education by a woman was that the moral had
somewhat stifled the intellectual. Besides, this kind of fanaticism of
the Countess for her nephew, her constant attention to gratify every
caprice, her readiness to excuse his faults, even when she should have
blamed them severely, made his education vicious as possible, and
brought out two faults with peculiar prominence. His character was very
weak; and he had great self-confidence. The Prince de Maulear found the
son he had left a child in the cradle, a man of twenty-six, and was
literally forced to make his acquaintance.

The noble bearing and distinguished manners of the young man pleased him
especially. He was also graceful, gallant and brave, and the Prince saw
himself restored to youth in the person of his son. He did not make
himself uneasy about his sentiments, being satisfied that his son was
learned in stable lore, a good rider, skillful in the use of weapons,
heroic and enterprising. He rejoiced at his fortune, as it would make
Henri happy, and anticipated a brilliant and fortunate career for his
son. Henri had no profession, and the Prince procured for him the
appointment of secretary of legation to Naples. He had held this post
six months when he appears in our history.

Henri had never loved. Much ephemeral gallantry, and many easy
conquests, which soon passed away, had occupied his time without
touching his heart, and this was his situation when for the first time
he saw the White Rose of Sorrento. As we have said, he became sick at
the terrible surgical operation. He did not revive until all was over.
The unfortunate Tonio had been placed in one of the rooms of the
doctor's house, and the latter declared, that in consideration of the
importance of the case, he would himself attend to the patient, and
would not leave him until he should have been completely restored,
unless, added he, death should remove the responsibility. The Marquis
being satisfied that the savior of Aminta would not be neglected,
hurried with the doctor to Madame Rovero's villa. Nothing could be more
simple and charming, and nothing in Italy had struck him so forcibly.
The very look of the house told how happy were its inhabitants. At the
extremity of Sorrento, it was surrounded by large trees, and winter
seemed never to inflict any severity upon it.

An old servant admitted the strangers. He recognized Maulear, for he had
been with Madame when she recovered her daughter.

"Madame expects you, gentlemen," said he, when he saw the young Marquis
and the Doctor. "I will accompany you to the room." He went before them
to a pretty room on the ground floor, where he left them a short time.

Maulear carefully examined it. All betokened elegant tastes in its
occupants. In the middle was an elegant grand piano of Vienna; on the
desk the Don Giovanna of Mozart; and on a pedestal near the window an
exquisite model of Tasso's house. A round table of Florentine
workmanship, of immense value, stood near one side of the apartment. The
valuable Mosaics were, however, hidden by a collection of albums,
keepsakes, and engravings. There were also on it vases of alabaster,
filled with perfumed flowers, and the whole room was lit up by the rays
of the setting sun, the brilliancy of which were softened as they passed
across the park. Madame Rovero entered with a servant. "Take the
Doctor," said she, "to my daughter's room, whither I will come
immediately. You, sir," said she, pointing Maulear to a chair, "will
please to tell me for what I am your debtor. I am sure your claims are
large." He gave Madame Rovero a detailed account of what had happened
since he met Aminta in the grotto, until the cruel devotion of Tonio.

"Tonio has told you the truth, Monsieur," said Madame Rovero; "the
terrible remedy he had the courage to employ is known in the country to
be infallible, though, as yet, few examples of such heroism have
occurred. The doctor alone can satisfy us of the safety of my daughter."
Madame Rovero moved toward the door to satisfy herself in relation to
this engrossing subject, when the doctor entered. She trembled before
him like a criminal before a judge, when he seeks to divine the nature
of a terrible sentence. "The young lady is in no danger. I have examined
the wound carefully; no trace of poison remains. The poor lad has
entirely exhausted it." The mother lifted her eyes to heaven in
inexpressible gratitude.

"What hopes have you, doctor, of the poor lad?"

"He will live, but that is all science can do."

"Do not neglect one who has so absolute a right to my gratitude."

Turning then to Maulear, she said, "In a few days, Monsieur, my daughter
and myself will expect you. She will soon be restored, and we will thank
you for your services."

Maulear bade adieu to Mme. Rovero, not as a stranger or acquaintance of
a few minutes, but as a friend who leaves a family with whom he is
intimate. He left them with regret, as persons to whom he was devoted,
and with whom he was willing to pass his life. Within a few hours, a
strange change had been wrought in him. Struck with admiration at
Aminta, the danger with which he found her surrounded, the successive
agitations of the scene, the sweet influence exerted by her on his
heart, the alternations of hope and fear, everything combined to disturb
the placidity of his withered and somewhat _blazé_ soul which scarcely
seemed plastic enough to receive a profound and tender expression. He
then experienced for Aminta what he had not amid all that terrible....
The features of the young girl he had borne in his memory, contracted as
they were by pain, did not seem to him less charming, and excited a
warmer interest than ever. Never before had the most beautiful in all
the eclât of dress and manners appeared so attractive as the pale Aminta
in her mortal agony. To sum up all, he was in love, and in love for the
first time.

Henri left Sorrento with a painful sensation, and returned to Naples,
where pleasure and warm receptions awaited him, from the many beauties
on whom he expended the "small change" of his heart. As he said himself,
he never was ruined by sensitiveness, keeping all the wealth of his
heart for a good opportunity. That opportunity was come. He returned to
the palace of the embassy, far different in his condition from what he
was when he left. With the most perfect _sang-froid_ therefore he read
the following note which his valet had given him when he came in--

"The Duke de Palma, minister of police, requests the Marquis de Maulear
to pass the evening with him."

Lower down in another hand was written--

_"Do not fail. La Felina will sing, and at two o'clock we will have a
supper of our intimate friends. You know whether or not you are one of
the number."_

The Duke of Palma, minister of police of the kingdom of Naples, was one
of the friends of Fernando IV. He was not a great minister, but was
young and intellectual. His principal merit was that he amused his
master, by recounting secret intrigues, whimsical adventures, and
delicate affairs, a knowledge of which he acquired by means of his
position. Thus he found favor with Fernando, who was not served, but
amused and satisfied. Sovereigns who are amused are indulgent. Maulear
hesitated a long time before he accepted the invitation. His soul was
occupied by new and delicious emotions. It seemed to him to be
profanity to transport them to such a different and dissipated scene. He
however shrunk from solitude, and the idea of living apart from Aminta
for whole days, made him desire the amusement and excitement promised by
the invitation. The entertainment was superb. All the noble, elegant and
rich of Naples were bidden. The concert began. The first pieces were
scarcely listened to, in consequence of the studiously late entries of
many distinguished personages, and of many pretty women, who would not
on any account enter _incognito_ either a drawing-room or a theater, and
were careful never to come thither until the moment when their presence
would attract attention or produce interruption. Silence however
pervaded in a short time all the assemblage. The crowd which a moment
before had been so agitated became at once calm and mute. A fairy spell
seemed to have transfixed them. A fairy was really come--that of
music.... The Queen of the theater of Italy, _La Bella Felina_--that
strange sibyl of the ball at San Carlo. The excitement to hear her was
great, and the prima donna had immense success. The young woman, by
coming to his soirée, did the minister of police a great favor: The
singer had during the whole year refused the most brilliant invitations
and the largest sums to sing any where but at San Carlo. Thrice she had
appeared on the concert gallery, and thrice descended amid immense
applause.

Great is the triumph of song. Yet its success is fleeting and ephemeral,
and may be annihilated by the merest accident. The glory is frail, the
fortune uncertain, of all that emanates from the human throat.

The concert was over and all left. Henri and the intimate friends alone,
of whom the Duke spoke, passed into an elegant and retired room into
which the minister led La Felina. "Messieurs," said he, "the Signora
honors me by partaking of our collation. Let us bow before the Queen of
Song and thank her for the honor she confers on us." The cantatrice
exhibited no embarrassment at being alone amid so many of another sex,
so notorious for the volatility of their manners. Her habitual calm and
dignity did not hide a kind of restraint from the observation of
Maulear. She replied by a few graceful words to the gallantries of which
she was the object. They then all sat down. Many witty remarks were made
by the guests. Champagne increased Neapolitan volubility, and heads were
beginning to grow light, when the minister seeing that La Felina was ill
at ease at the conversation, said, "The supper, Signora, of a minister
of police should be unique as that of a banker or senator. Where else
would one learn of piquant adventures, scandal, hidden crimes, but at my
house, for I am the keeper of all records and the compulsory confessor
of all. I wish then to give you another fruit and to tell you of a
strange adventure, the hero of which is a person all of you know. That
man is Count Monte-Leone."

The name of Monte-Leone, so well known in Naples, created the greatest
sensation. All were silent and listened to the Duke of Palma. La Felina
became strangely pale.


IV.--THE DUKE OF PALMA.

"You know," said the Duke to his friends, "that the Count Monte-Leone
has for a long time professed opinions entirely opposed to the
government of our sovereign king Fernando. The heir of the political
errors of his unfortunate father, he seems to travel fatally toward the
same sad fate. The king long ago bade us close our eyes to the guilty
conduct of the young Count. His Majesty was unwilling to continue on the
son the rigors to which his father had been subjected. A revelation of
great importance forced us to act, and we caused the offender to be
arrested for an offence of which he must make a defence before the
appointed tribunal. During many months the Count contrived to avoid all
efforts made to arrest him. At last, however, in consequence of a
youthful escapade in which he should by no means have indulged, his
retreat was revealed to us. The house which concealed him and his
accomplices was found out on the night of the last ball of San Carlo.
The countersign of his associates had been revealed to us by a traitor,
and our precautions were so skillfully taken, that the three friends of
Monte-Leone were arrested one after the other, at the very door of his
house, without in the least rendering the arrest of the Count doubtful.
Two hours after, Monte-Leone, arrested by our agents, was borne to the
_Castle del Uovo_, a safe and sure prison, whence as yet no prisoner
ever escaped. The report of the chief of the expedition," continued the
Duke, "states, that he saw a woman fainting on the floor. He adds, that
he thought he had nothing to do with it, his orders relating entirely to
the four of whom he obtained possession."

During this preamble La Felina more than once inhaled the perfume of her
_bouquet_. When, however, she looked up, her face expressed no trouble
or change.

"The three friends of Count Monte-Leone," said the Duke, "are a
Frenchman, a German, and an Italian. The first is the Count of Harcourt,
son of the Duke, one of the noblest and most powerful men of France. We
cannot fancy how the heir of so noble a family has become involved in
such a plot, where persons of his rank have all to lose and nothing to
gain. He is a brilliant young madcap, amiable and adventurous, like
almost all of his countrymen, and became a conspirator merely for
recreation and to while away the time he cannot occupy with love and
pleasure. The second is a graver character: the son of a Bohemian
pastor, imbued with the philosophic and political opinions of his
countrymen, Sand, Koerner, and the ideologists of his country, he dreams
of leveling ideas which would set all Europe in a blaze. He has become a
conspirator from conviction, is a madman full of genius, but one of
those who must be shut up, before they become furious. The fanatical
friendship of this young man to Monte-Leone involved him in the party of
which he is the shadow and the reflection. He is a conspirator, _ex
necessitate_, who will never act from his own motive, and who,
consequently, is a subject of no apprehension to us, as long as he has
no head, no chief to nerve his arm, and urge him onward. We have without
any difficulty exonerated Italy from the reproach of containing these
three men, without any scandal or violence.... The German on the very
night of his arrest was sent to the city of Elbogen, his native city,
with recommendations to the paternal care and surveillance of the
friendly governments through which he was to pass. The Count of Harcourt
has already seen the shores of France. When this brilliant gentleman
placed his foot on the deck of the vessel, he was informed that
henceforth he was forbidden ever to return to Naples, under penalty of
perpetual imprisonment. Young Rovero was confined in this identical
palace, until such time as the trial of Count Monte-Leone shall be
terminated. I am informed that he does nothing but sigh after a
mysterious beauty, the charms and voice of whom are incomparable."

La Felina again put her bouquet to her face.

"I am now come, Messieurs, to the true hero of this romance."

Just then he was interrupted by the sudden entrance of one of his
secretaries, who whispered briefly to him, and placed before him a box
mysteriously sealed, with this superscription--_"To His Excellency
Monsignore the Duke of Palma, minister of police, and to him alone."_

The countenance of the minister expressed surprise, as his secretary
said, "Read, Monsignore, and verify the contents of the box."

The Duke requested his guests' pardon, and unsealed the letter, which he
rapidly read. He then opened the box, examined it with curiosity, and
without taking out the objects it contained, said, "It is unheard of: it
is almost miraculous."

The minister's exclamations put an end to all private conversations, and
every eye was turned upon him, "Messieurs," said he with emotion, "I
thought I was about to tell you a strange thing, but all that I know has
become complicated by so strange an accident, that I am myself
amazed--used as I am to mysterious and criminal events."

At a signal, the secretary left, and the Duke continued: "The trial of
Count Monte-Leone was prepared. Vaguely accused of being the chief of
the secret society, the object of which was the overturning of the
monarchy, he might have been acquitted from want of proof of his
participation in this dark and guilty work, when three witnesses came
forward to charge him with having presided in their own sight over one
of the assemblages which in secret discuss of the death of kings by the
enemies of law and order.

"On this formal declaration made by three well-known inhabitants of the
town of _Torre del Greco_, devoted to king Fernando, the Count was
sought for by the police, arrested as I have told you, and imprisoned in
the _Castle del Uovo_. Every means was taken to make sure of the person
of the prisoner. The garrison of the castle was increased, lest there
should be some daring _coup de main_ to deliver him. The charge of him
was intrusted to the most stern and incorruptible of the jailers, who
was however carefully watched by the agents of the government. This
excess of precaution had nearly cost the life of the prisoner, from the
fact that he was placed in a dungeon into which the sea broke. Judge of
my surprise when yesterday, two of the accusers of the Count, the
Salvatori, came to my hotel insisting that two days before, just as the
population of _Torre del Greco_ was leaving church, their eldest brother
Stenio Salvatori had been poignarded at his door by Count Monte-Leone.

"'This evidence,' continued they, 'will be confirmed by all the
inhabitants of the town, in the presence of whom the affair happened.' I
refused to believe anything so improbable. I told them the Count had
been a prisoner several days, and assured them I would have been
informed of his escape. Overcome by their persuasions, shaken in my
conviction by their oaths, I determined to satisfy myself that the Count
was at the prison, and went thither."

The Duke had not deceived the auditors by his promises, for the interest
had rapidly increased, and every one listened to his words with intense
curiosity. A single person only seemed listless and uninterested. This
was La Felina, whose eye never lost sight of the box which the secretary
had given the Duke, and which he had shut, so that no one knew the
nature of the contents. The Duke resumed his story:

"The new governor of the Castle, whom I had appointed after the
inundation, was not informed of my visit. No one expected me, yet all
was calm and in good order.

"'Signore,' said I to the governor, 'I am informed that the prisoner I
have confided to your charge, the Count Monte-Leone, has escaped from
the fortress. If this be so, you know the severity of military law, and
must expect its utmost rigor.' As he heard this menace, the governor
grew pale. I fancied his change of color came because he was aware of
some error, and I awaited his answer with anxiety. 'If the Count has
escaped, Monsignore,' he replied, 'it must have been within an hour, for
it is not more than twice that time since I saw him.'

"I was amazed. Unwilling as I was to be face to face with the Count, the
violence and exasperation of whom I was aware of, I ordered myself to be
led to his cell. The jailer threw back the door on its hinges, and far
from finding the room unoccupied, I saw him stretched on a bed, and
reading a book, which seemed very much to interest him. He appeared
pale and thin. A year had passed since I had seen him, brilliantly and
carefully dressed, giving tone to the saloons, the cynosure of which he
was. Dignified and haughty, and always polite, even in the coarse dress
he wore, the Count rose, recognized, and bowed to me. 'I did not,' said
he, 'expect the honor of a visit from his excellency the minister of
police, and would have wished to receive him in my palace. As the state
of affairs is, however, he must be satisfied with the rude hospitality
of the humble room I occupy.' He offered me his only stool. I said, 'Not
I, Count, but yourself, have been the cause that you are thus situated.
If you had chosen, you might have lived happy, free, and esteemed, as
your rank and birth entitled you. Remember that all must be attributed
to yourself, if you exchange all these advantages for the solitude of a
prison and the dangers which your opinions have brought on you.' 'Shall
I dare to ask, Monsignore, is the visit I receive an act of benevolence,
or of official duty?' 'I am come hither, Count, from duty. The rumor of
your escape is spread everywhere. A crime committed on the day before
yesterday in the vicinity of Naples is attributed to you, and I am come
to ascertain here if there be any foundation for the accusation.' The
Count laughed. 'Monsignore,' said he, 'one never leaves this place
except under the charge of keepers. As for the new crime of which I am
accused, and of which I know nothing, I trust that the good sense of the
judges will think me innocent as of the imaginary offenses which brought
me hither.'

"The calmness and sang-froid of Monte-Leone, the improbability of the
story told me, excited a trouble and confusion which did not escape the
observation of the prisoner. 'Monsignore,' said he, 'we have met under
happier circumstances. I expect and ask a favor from no one. I can
however ask an indulgence from so old an acquaintance as yourself. Hurry
on my trial! The preliminary captivity I undergo is one of the greatest
outrages of the law. While a man is uncondemned he should not be
punished. God does not send any one to hell untried and uncondemned. My
life is sad here. This book, the only one allowed me,' said he,
presenting me with it open at the page where he had been reading when I
entered, 'this great book, _De Consolatione Philosophiæ_ of Anicius
Severinus Boethius, does not console but afflicts me; for in spite of
myself I remember that the author, imprisoned by a tyrant at Pavia,
terminated in torture a life of glory. If such be my fate, signore,--if
I am guilty, the punishment is great enough: if I am not guilty, it is
too great.'

"I was touched by this logical reasoning. Far more influence however was
exerted on me by his noble tranquillity and the natural dignity
misfortune often kindles up in the noblest souls. 'Count,' said I, 'be
assured that within a few days you will be placed on trial,' and I
retired satisfied with the mistake or falsehood of Monte-Leone's
accusers.

"I found the Salvatori at my palace. I told them that they played a
terrible game. I said, 'If you had brought a false charge against a
young man at liberty, and on the head of whom there lay no accusation,
your crime would be capital, and you would be vulgar calumniators, such
as are too often made infamous by our criminal records. This matter is
however so complicated by revenge that it will excite general horror,
and draw on you all the severity of the law. Count Monte-Leone, whom you
accused of having poignarded your brother, is now in the _Castle del
Uovo_, which I left a few minutes ago, and where I saw him.'

"Nothing can describe the singular expression of the faces of the two
men as they listened. But they still persisted that they had spoken the
truth, and were sternly dismissed by me, affirming that they would prove
all they had said. They have kept their word, and here is the evidence,"
said the Duke, opening the box and exhibiting a glittering ring, on
which was engraved the escutcheon of Monte-Leone.

"This ring," said he, "is acknowledged to be one of the _chef
d'oeuvres_ of Benvenuto Cellini. It has an historical fame, and is
considered one of the most admirable works of that great artist. Twenty
times the government has sought to buy it, but the Monte-Leoni have
uniformly refused to part with it. This letter accompanied the precious
jewel:

"_Monsignore_: Heaven has come to our aid. Since our evidence,
corroborated by that of all _Torre del Greco_, could not convince you of
the truth of our accusation--since you refuse to believe that Count
Monte-Leone, to avenge himself, wounded our brother, we send you this
ring, engraved with his arms, which he lost in his contest with Stenio
Salvatori, and which God has placed in our hands to confound and to
punish him.

"Raphael and Paolo Salvatori."

"All is lost!" said La Felina.

"What now shall we believe?" said the Duke to his guests.


V.--THE VISIT.

The story of the Duke of Palma was concluded by the last question. All
seemed wrapped in doubt in relation to this singular incident. The night
was far advanced, and the company separated.

The Duke escorted La Felina to her carriage. Just however as the door
was about to close on him, he said: "Would you not like, beautiful
Felina, to know the name of the woman at Count Monte-Leone's on the
night of the ball?"

"Why ask that question?" said she.

"Because," he said, "I know no one more beautiful or more attractive."

"Her name?" said the singer, with emotion.

"Is La Felina!" said the Duke. "What surprises you?" he added; "a
minister of police, from his very office, knows everything." La Felina
said to herself, "But he does not!"

The spirited horses bore the carriage rapidly away.

In the story of Monte-Leone the name of Taddeo Rovero had especially
arrested the attention of Maulear. Was Taddeo a relation or connection
of Aminta? During the few minutes he had passed at Sorrento he had
learned nothing of the Roveri, and had asked no questions of Aminta.
Allied however by the heart to this family already, he naturally enough
took interest in the dangers its members incurred. He therefore
determined to return at once and ascertain this fact from the minister,
when a note handed to him drove the matter completely from his mind.
Thus ran the note:

"_Monsieur_: My daughter now knows how much she is indebted to you, and
the efforts you made to rescue her from the fearful danger which menaced
her. The heroic remedy employed by Tonio has luckily succeeded. Aminta
is entirely recovered and is unwilling to delay any longer the tribute
of gratitude. Let me also, Monsieur, again offer you mine. If you will
deign to receive them in our poor villa, we will be delighted to see you
there to-day.

Your grateful,

Antonia Rovero."

The heart of Maulear quivered with joy at these words. He would in the
course of a few hours see Aminta, the impression of whose beauty had so
deeply impressed his heart, and from whom he had fancied he would yet be
separated for days. He mounted his best horse and rapidly crossed the
distance which separated him from Sorrento. Two hours after the receipt
of the letter he knocked at the door of Signora Rovero. The old servant
again admitted him.

"The Signorina is in no danger," said he to Maulear, as soon as he saw
him. Nothing is more graceful than this familiarity of old servants, who
as it were are become from devotion a portion of the family of their
masters. "We know," added the good man taking and kissing Maulear's hand
respectfully, "that we owe all to your Excellency, who drove away the
vipers which otherwise had stung her on the heart, and allowed Tonio no
time to rescue her."

There was such an expression of gratitude in the features of the old
man, that Maulear was deeply moved.

"The Signora and the Signorina expect you, Count, to thank you." The old
man let tears drop on the hand of the Marquis.

"What noble hearts must the mistresses of such servants have," thought
Maulear as he stood in waiting.

Signora Rovero hurried to meet him, but not with a cold ceremony. The
stranger who had contributed to the salvation of her daughter henceforth
was a friend to her. "Come, come," said Signora Rovero, "she expects
you."

The door was opened, and they were in the presence of Aminta. The White
Rose of _Sorrento_ never vindicated more distinctly her right to the
name.

Half reclining on a sofa of pearl velvet, Aminta was wrapped in a large
dressing-gown, the vaporous folds of which hung around her. Her face,
become yet more pale from suffering, was, as it were, enframed in light
clouds of gauze. One might have fancied her a beautiful alabaster
statue, but for the two beautiful bandeaus of black and lustrous hair
which were drawn around her charming face.

"My child," said Signora Rovero, as she led Henri forward, "the Marquis
of Maulear proves that he is not insensible of the value of our thanks,
since he has come so promptly to receive them."

"Alas! Signora," said Henri to the mother of Aminta, "the true savior of
your daughter is not myself, but the generous lad who risked his own
life for hers. God, however, is my witness, that had I been aware I
could have thus saved her, I would not have hesitated to employ the
means."

The chivalric and impassioned tone with which these words were
pronounced, made both mother and daughter look at Henri. The latter,
however, immediately cast down her eyes, confused by the passionate
expression of his.

"Monsieur," said Aminta, with emotion, "I might doubt such devotion from
you, to a person who was a stranger, were I not aware of the nobility
and generosity of the French character."

For the first time Maulear heard Aminta speak. She had one of those
fresh and sweet voices, so full of melody and persuasion, that every
word she spoke had the air of a caress--one of those delicious voices
with which a few chosen natures alone are endowed, which are never heard
without emotion, and are always remembered with pleasure. If the head
and imagination of the Marquis were excited by her charms, his heart
submitted to the influence of her angelic voice, for it emanated from
her soul; and Maulear, as he heard her delicious notes, thought there
was in this young girl something to love besides beauty.

The physician had ordered the patient to repose. He feared the wound
made by Tonio's dagger would re-open if she walked. By the side of her
sofa, therefore, the hours of Maulear rolled by like seconds.

The father, an educated and dignified man, had superintended, in person,
the education of his two children. Wishing neither to separate nor to
leave them, for he loved them both alike, his cares were equally divided
between them, so that Aminta, profiting by the lessons given to her
brother, shared in his masculine and profound education, and acquired
information far surpassing that ordinarily received by her sex. The
seeds of science had fallen on fertile ground. A studious mind had
developed them in meditation and solitude, and this beautiful child
concealed serious merit under a frail and delicate form. These
treasures, vailed by modesty, revealed themselves by rare flashes, which
soon disappeared, leaving those lucky enough to witness them, dazzled
and amazed.

A few brilliant remarks escaped the young girl during Maulear's visit.
He could not restrain the expression of his admiration, and Signora
Rovero, when she saw her daughter confused, told Maulear, who had been
her teacher. In spite of this attractive conversation, one thought was
ever present to the mind of Maulear, who was the Taddeo Rovero of whom
the minister had spoken? The tranquillity the ladies seemed to enjoy,
might be little consonant with the situation of the accomplice of
Monte-Leone. Perhaps they did not know his fate. He resolved to satisfy
himself.

"Signora," said he to the mother, "there is in Naples a young man named
Taddeo Rovero."

"My son--the brother of my daughter; one of the pleasantest men of
Naples, whom I regret that I cannot introduce to you. Though he loves us
tenderly, our seclusion has little to attract him. City festivities and
pleasures often take him from us. Naples is now very brilliant."

The heart of Maulear beat when he heard the poor mother speak of her
son's pleasures.

"My brother is the soul of honor and courage," said Aminta, "but his
head is easily turned. I fear he is too much under the influence of his
best friends."

"My daughter means his best friends," said Signora Rovero, gaily, "the
brilliant Count Monte-Leone, one of the proudest nobles of Naples.
Taddeo loves him as a brother. But my Aminta has no sympathy with him."

The Marquis was glad to hear Signora Rovero speak thus--and he admired
the quick perception of the young girl, who thus, almost by intuition,
foresaw the danger into which Monte-Leone had tempted Taddeo.

The dislike of Aminta to Monte-Leone, thus referred to by the Signora
Rovero, brought the blood to her cheeks. She blushed to see one of her
sentiments thus displayed before a stranger. In the impenetrable
sanctuary of her soul, she wished to reserve for herself alone her
impressions of pain and sorrow, her antipathies and affections. Besides,
by means of one of those inspirations, the effect, but not the reason,
of which is perceived by us, Aminta was aware that Maulear was the last
man in the world before whom her internal thoughts should be referred
to. Maulear comprehended the cause of her embarrassment. He again spoke
of Taddeo. Once launched on this theme, Signora Rovero spoke of nothing
else but her adored son, of his youth, prospects, and of the hopes she
had formed of him. While she thus dreamed of glory and success for
Taddeo, the latter was a captive in a secret prison.

"I am astonished," said the Signora, "that my son is so long absent
without suffering his sister and myself to hear from him. For fifteen
days we have not heard, and I beg you, Marquis, on your return to
Naples, to see him, and inform him of the accident which has befallen
Aminta. Tell him to come hither as soon as possible."

"I will see him, Signora, and if possible will return him to you."

As he made this reply, Henri promised to use every effort and all his
credit to restore the son and brother of these ladies. Just then a sigh
was heard in the saloon, and Maulear looked around, surprised, and
almost terrified at the agony expressed. Aminta arose, hurried toward
the portico, and lifting up the curtain in front of it, cried out, "It
is he--it is he! Mother, he calls me! I must go!"

As soon, however, as her foot touched the floor, she uttered a cry of
agony. "It is nothing," said she, immediately. "I thought myself strong
enough, yet I suffer much; do not mind me, but attend to poor Tonio."
Signora Rovero passed into the next room.

"It is he," said Aminta to Maulear, with the greatest emotion. "It is my
savior, my foster-brother, whom we have sent for hither, contrary even
to the advice of the Doctor. We were, however, unwilling to confide the
duty of attending on him to any one. Besides, he would die of despair
did he think we forgot him."

Signora Rovero returned. "The sufferings of the poor lad are terrible,"
said she; "his fever, however, is lessened, his delirium has passed
away, and the physician assures me that he will live. Thanks for it are
due to God, for if he died Aminta and I would die."

The day was advancing, and Maulear would not leave without seeing Tonio.
His eyes were bloodshot, his lips livid and pendent, his cheeks swollen
by the cauterization he had undergone. All horror at his appearance,
however, disappeared when Maulear remembered what he had done. He looked
at him as the early Christians did at martyrs. His eyes were yet humid
when he returned to Aminta. The latter perceived his trouble, and gave
him her pretty hand with an expression of deep gratitude.

"Thank you, Monsieur," said she, "for your compassion for Tonio. A heart
like yours exhibits itself in tears, and I shall not forget those you
have shed." These words, at once simple and affecting, touched the heart
of Maulear. A great effort was necessary to keep him from falling at the
feet of Aminta. Placing his lips respectfully on the hand offered to
him, he bade adieu to Signora Rovero, and set out for Naples, bearing
with him a precious treasury of memories, hope, anticipation, and
wishes--of everything, in fine, which composes the first and most
adorable pages of the history of our loves: the charming preface to the
yet unread book.

On the next day Maulear visited the Duke of Palma. "Monsignore," said
he to the minister, "I am about to ask you a favor to which I attach
immense value. The pardon of young Rovero, who has been, your Excellency
tells me, rather imprudent than guilty." The Duke laughed. "His liberty!
On my word, Marquis, I would be much obliged if he would accept it."

"What does this mean, Monsignore?" said Maulear.

"That Rovero refuses liberty. The king, fancying that mildness would
cure his folly, ordered me to dismiss the _novice_ to his family. I told
Rovero. He replied, 'I refuse a pardon--I ask for justice: I am innocent
or guilty; if guilty, I deserve punishment; if innocent, let them acquit
me. I will not leave this prison except by force, as I entered it.' Thus
I have a prisoner in spite of my wish to release him."

"I will see him," said the Marquis, "and will speak to him of his
mother."


VI.--THE PRISONER.

The Hotel of the Minister of Police at Naples had been constructed on
the site and on the foundation of the old palace of the Dukes of Palma,
ancestors of the present Duke. Amid the vestiges of the old palace,
which still existed, was an ancient chapel, connected with the new
edifice. This chapel, abandoned long before, had been changed into a
prison, for the reception of persons arrested secretly by the Minister
of Police, into the offences of whom he wished to inquire personally,
before he turned them over to justice. Of this kind was young Rovero.
King Fernando wearied of foolish and ephemeral conspiracies which
disturbed, without endangering his monarchy, combated with all his power
the disposition of his ministers to be rigorous, and the Duke of Palma
to please his master suppressed the various plots which arose
everywhere. This indulgent and pacific system did not all comport with
the revolutionary ideas of Count Monte-Leone, and the deposition of the
brothers Salvatori, united to public rumor, made the arrest of the Count
unavoidably necessary beyond all doubt, much to the annoyance of
Fernando IV. and his minister. An example was needed. One criminal must
be severely punished to terrify all the apostles of dark sedition. The
more exalted the rank of the culprit, the greater the effect of the
example would be. Young Rovero, by refusing his pardon, subjected the
Duke of Palma to a new annoyance. His refusal made a trial necessary, or
he would be forced to release him, contrary to his own protestations,
and therefore subject the government to the odium of arbitrary injustice
and a criminal attack on the liberties of the people. This would be a
new theme of declamation for malcontents. The motives assigned by Taddeo
for insisting on a trial were specious and dignified. We will however,
soon see that they had no reality, and only masked the plans of the
prisoner. A strange event had taken place in the old chapel we have
mentioned, and in which Rovero was shut up.

Before we relate what follows, we must acquaint the reader with the
secret sentiments of young Rovero. All had done justice to the seductive
grace, which attracted so many adorers to the feet of the singer.
Rovero, the youngest of the band of four, felt far more than admiration
for the prima donna. His soul, hitherto untouched by passion, became
aware of an emotion of which it had not been cognisant, at the sight of
the great artist, the fire and energetic bursts of whom gave so powerful
expression to her glances. Rovero had hitherto thought of women only
under ordinary conditions, adorned with that timid modesty and grace
which seem to call on the ruder sex for protection,--as charming
creatures whom God has formed to command in obeying, to triumph by
weakness. The young and chaste girl, the seraphic reverie of lovers of
twenty, was effaced by the radiant beauty presented him by chance. The
native nobility of Felina, her elegant habits, the ardent imagination
which had expanded the love of her art, the very practice of her
profession which ceaselessly familiarized her with the works of the
great masters, with the royal sovereigns she represented, had enhanced
her natural dignity, with an almost theatrical majesty, which so
perfectly harmonized with her person, so entirely consorted with her
habits, form and queenly bearing, that she might have been fancied a
Juno or a Semiramis disguised as a noble Neapolitan lady, rather than
the reverse, which really was the case. Glittering with these
attractions to which Taddeo had hitherto been insensible, she appeared
to him: like an enchantress and the modern Circe, dragging an
enthusiastic people in her train, and ruling in the morning in her
boudoir, which glittered with velvet and gold, and in the evening making
three thousand people fanatical with her voice and magic talent, it was
not unnatural that she subdued him. The impression produced on Taddeo by
La Felina on the evening they were at the Etruscan house, was so keen,
so new, so full of surprise and passion, that the young man left the
room, less to ascertain what had become of the two friends who had
preceded him, than to avoid the fascination exerted on him by the eyes
of La Felina. He had not seen her since.

Like Von Apsberg and d'Harcourt, taken in the snare which had been set
for him by the police of Naples, Taddeo was captured after a brief but
violent contest. It seemed to him that his soul was torn from his body
when he was separated from La Felina. He had however previously heard
her at San Carlo. Though charmed by her talent and wonderful beauty, the
illusion was so perfect that he fancied he saw the Juliet of Zingarelli
or the Donna Anna of Mozart, but not a woman to be herself adored,--in
one word, the magnificent Felina. The fancy of the Neapolitan was
enkindled by the eyes of the Neapolitan. He did not love, but was
consumed. In the cold and solitary cell he had occupied for some days,
he forgot danger, his friends, and almost his mother and sister. Rovero
thought only of his love. Concentrating all power in his devotion, he
evoked La Felina, and in his mind contemplated her. Wild words wrested
from him by delirium declared to the phantom all his hopes and fears. In
his fancy he ran over all the perfections of this beautiful being. It
seemed to him that his idol hovered around the prison, shedding its rays
on him, and filling his heart and senses with an ardor the impotence of
which he cursed. Religious exaltation, like the enthusiasm of love,
assumes in solitude gigantic proportions unknown to the most pious man
and most devoted lover living in the world. Long days and endless nights
occupied with one idea, fixed and immutable, rising before us like the
ghost of Banquo in our dreams, and when we wake, are a sufficient
explanation of the martyrs of love, of the cloister, or of the Thebais.

Many days had passed since the Duke of Palma had imprisoned young
Rovero. We have already spoken of the ideas which occupied his mind.
Ever under the influence of one thought, the life of the young prisoner
was but one dream of love, which so excited his imagination that he
could scarcely distinguish fiction from reality, and after a troubled
sleep he asked if he had addressed his burning declarations to the
phantom of the singer or to La Felina herself.

Taddeo in his cell was not subjected to the malicious barbarities with
which Monte-Leone had been annoyed. The Duke of Palma wished the inmates
of his palace, though they might be prisoners, not to complain of their
fare. Taddeo had a bed and not a pallet. He could read and write, it is
true only by means of a doubtful light which reached him through the
stained windows of the antique chapel. This light however was mottled by
the blue cloak of St. Joseph and the purple robe of St. John. Sometimes
it fell on the pavement in golden checkers, after having passed through
the _glory_ of the Virgin. Still it was the light of day, which is half
the sustenance of a prisoner.

On the fourth night after Rovero's arrest, he reposed rather than rested
on the only chair in his cell, soothed by the wind which beat on the
windows. The rays of the moon passed through the high windows of the old
chapel, and the long tresses of moss which overhung them assumed
fantastic forms as they swung to and fro at the caprice of the wind. A
faint murmur was heard. A white shadow which seemed to rush from the
wall passed over the marble pavement toward the prisoner, looked at him
carefully, and said, with an accent of joy, "It is either he, or I am
mistaken."

The shadow moved on.

After the lapse of a few seconds it was about to disappear, when it was
seized by a nervous arm which restrained it. A cry was heard. Rovero,
who had at first seen it but vaguely as it approached him, and who had
convulsively grasped it, was now thoroughly awakened, and seeing the
visitant about to disappear, seized it forcibly. A dense cloud just at
that moment vailed the moon, and the cell became as dark as night.

"It is a woman!" said Taddeo, and his heart beat violently. A soft and
delicate hand was placed on his lips.

"If you are heard, I am lost!" said his visitor, in a trembling voice.

"Who are you? and what do you want?" said Taddeo, suffering his voice to
escape through the delicate fingers which sought to close his lips.

"I am looking for you: what I wish you will know in four days: who I am
is a secret, and I rely on your honor not to seek to penetrate it." Then
by a rapid movement, the visitor pulled the vail again over her face.

Just then the clouds passed away, and the moon shone brilliantly,
lighting up the old chapel, and exhibiting to Taddeo the tall and lithe
form of her who held him captive.

One need not like Taddeo have retained the minutest peculiarities of La
Felina to render it possible to distinguish her lithe stature and
magnificent contour. But his reason could not be convinced, and had not
the singer's hand been pressed on his lips he would have fancied that a
new dream had evoked the phantom of one of whom he had never ceased to
think. "Lift up your vail, Felina," said he. But at the evidence of
terror which she exhibited, he resumed. "Do not attempt to deceive me.
In your presence my heart could not be mistaken, for it meditates by day
and dreams by night of you alone. I know not what good angel has guided
you hither, in pity of the torment I have endured since I left you. An
hour, Felina, in your presence, has sufficed to enslave my soul forever.
Through you have I learned that I have a soul, and by you has the void
in my heart been completely filled."

"He loves me!" murmured Felina, with an accent of surprise and deep
pity. This however was uttered in so low a tone that the prisoner did
not hear her.

"Hear me," said Rovero. "You told us at Monte-Leone's that you loved one
of the four."

"True," said the singer, in a feeble voice.

"You said that for him you would sacrifice your life."

"True."

"That like an invisible providence you would watch over his life and
fate: that this would be the sacred object of your life."

"I also said," Felina answered, "that my love would ever be unknown, and
that the secret would die with me."

"Well," said Rovero, "I know him. This man, the ardent passion of whom
you divined, to whom you are come as a minister of hope, is before you,
is at your feet."

"How know you that I would not have done as much for each of your
friends?"

Taddeo felt a hot iron pass through his soul.

"Hear me," said she; "time is precious. Watched, and the object
everywhere of espionage, from motives of which you must ever be ignorant
I have penetrated hither, by means of a bold will and efforts which were
seconded by chance. I wished to satisfy myself that you were really the
person I sought for, and, hidden beneath this vail, and by a yet greater
concealment, that of your honor, to remain unknown, and accomplish my
purpose, with your cooperation, which otherwise must fail. I was
ignorant then of what I know now. I knew not your sentiments, or I would
have kept my secret."

"Why fear my love?" said Rovero; "think you I sell my devotion? A love
which hesitates is not love. Mine will obey for the pleasure of obeying
you. But let your requests be great and difficult to be fulfilled, that
you may estimate me by my deeds."

"You have a noble heart, Rovero, and in it I have confidence. God grant
your capacity fall not below your courage. In four days you will know
what I expect from you."

"And will you," said he, in a voice stifled with emotion, "tell me which
of the four you love?"

"You will then know. To you alone will I reveal the secret."

"How can I live until then!" said Rovero, with a sigh.

The sound of footsteps was heard. The sentinels were being relieved. It
was growing late, and while Rovero, at a motion from La Felina, went to
the door to listen to what was passing, she disappeared like a shadow
behind a column. Rovero looked around, and was alone. He examined the
walls, attempting to discover the secret issue. No fissure was visible,
there was no sign of the smallest opening, and a dumb sound only replied
to the blows of Rovero on the wall. He sunk on his chair, and covered
his face with his hands, that his thoughts might be distracted by no
external object. A few hours afterward the Duke of Palma caused him to
be informed of his pardon.

The presence of La Felina had changed everything. The dark walls of the
chapel appeared more splendid than those of the palaces of the Doria,
Cavalcante, Carafa, or of the Pignatelli. He would not have exchanged
the humid walls of his cell for the rich mosaics of the _Museo
Borbonico_, the rival of that of the Vatican. The pavement had been
pressed by the feet of La Felina, and Rovero yet fancied that he saw the
prints of her footsteps.

Two days after the nocturnal scene we have described, a stranger
appeared in the cell of the son of Signora Rovero. "Excuse me, sir,"
said he to the prisoner, "that I have thus intruded without an
introduction. The motive, however, which conducts me hither will admit
of no delay, and I am sure you will excuse me when you shall have
learned it."

Rovero bowed coldly, fancying that he had to do with some new police
agent.

"I am come to appeal to you in behalf of two ladies who worship you, and
are inconsolable in your absence."

"Two ladies!" said Rovero, with surprise. Yet, under the empire of
passion, he added--"Signor, I love but one." He paused and was much
confused by the avowal he had made.

"At least," said the stranger, "you love three; for in a heart like
yours family affections and a deeper passion exist together. The ladies
of whom I speak, Signor, are your mother and sister."

The prisoner blushed. His adored mother, his beautiful sister, were
exiled from his memory! In the presence of a stranger, too, this filial
crime was revealed; a despotic passion had made him thus guilty.
"Signor," said he, "you have thought correctly. Notwithstanding the
forgetfulness of my mind, with which though I protest my heart has
nothing to do, their names are dear to me, and I pray you tell me what
they expect from me."

"They expect you to return," said the stranger. "A service I rendered
them has made me almost a friend, and my interest in them has induced me
to come without their consent to speak to you in their behalf."

"Signor," said Rovero, "tell me to whom I have the honor to speak; not
that a knowledge of your name will enhance my gratitude, but that I may
know to whom I must utter it."

"Signor, I am the Marquis de Maulear. Chance has revealed to me your
strange rejection of the liberty which other prisoners would so eagerly
grasp at. The minister has informed me of your motives, and, though
honorable, permit me to suggest that you do not forget your duty. Did
your mother know your condition, her life would be the sacrifice."

Taddeo forgot all when he heard these words, admitting neither of
discussion nor of reply.

"Signor," continued Maulear, "what principle, what opinions can combat
your desire to see your mother, and to rescue her from despair? Bid the
logic of passion and political hatred be still, and hearken only to
duty. Follow me, and by the side of your noble mother you will forget
every scruple which now retains you."

Rovero for some moments was silent. He then fixed his large black eyes
on those of Maulear, and seemed to seek to read his thoughts.

"Marquis," said he, "I scarcely know you, but there is such sincerity in
your expression that I have confidence in you, and am about to prove it.
Swear on your honor not to betray me, and I will tell you all."

"I swear."

"Well," said Taddeo, hurrying him as far as possible from the door that
he might be sure he was not overheard; "I accept the liberty offered
me; but for a reason which I can reveal to no one, I must remain a few
days in this cell. Suffer the minister and all to think that I persist
in this refusal. In two days I will have changed my plans, and before
sunset on the third, _I will have returned with you to Sorrento_."

Henri, surprised, could not help looking at Rovero.

"Do not question me, Signor, for I cannot reply. I have told you all I
can, and not one other word shall leave my mouth."

"I may then tell Signora Rovero, that you will return."

"Announce to her that in me you have found another friend, and that in
three days, _you will place me in her arms_."

Taking Maulear's hand he clasped it firmly.

"Thanks, Signor," said Maulear, "I accept your friendship. With people
like you, this fruit ripens quickly. Perhaps, however, you will discover
that it has not on that account less flavor and value."

Maulear tapped thrice at the door of the cell; the turnkey appeared, and
Henri left, as he went out casting one last look of affection on Taddeo.

Never did time appear so long to Aminta's brother as that which
intervened between Maulear's departure and the night he was so anxious
for. That night came at last. The keeper brought his evening meal. He
did not wish to be asleep as he was on the first occasion, when La
Felina visited him. He was unwilling to lose a single moment of her
precious visit. Remembering that his preceding nights had been agitated
and almost sleepless, apprehensive that he would be overcome by
weariness, he resolved to stimulate himself. Like most of the
Neapolitans, he was very temperate, and rarely drank wine; he preferred
that icy water, flavored with the juice of the orange or lime, of which
the people of that country are so fond. He now, however, needed
something to keep him awake, and asked for wine.

He approached the table on which his evening meal was placed, he took a
flask of Massa wine, one of the best of Naples; he poured out a goblet
and drank it, and felt immediately new strength course through his
veins.

He sat on his bed and listened anxiously for the slightest sound, to the
low accents of the night, to those indescribable sounds which are
drowned by the tumults of the day, and of whose existence, silence and
night alone make us aware. The hours rolled on, and at every stroke of
the clock his heart kept time with every blow of the iron hammer on the
bell of bronze. At last the clock struck twelve. Midnight, the time for
specters and crimes, was come. A few minutes before the clock sounded,
he perceived that the sleep of which he had been so much afraid
gradually made his eyelids grow heavy--and that though he sought to
overcome the feeling, his drowsiness increased to such a degree that he
was forced to sit down.

I spoke in one of my preceding chapters of the tyrannical power
exercised by sleep over all organizations, and especially in those
situations when man is least disposed to yield to it. Never had this
absolute master exercised a more despotic power; this pitiless god
seemed to place his iron thumb on the eyes of the prisoner, and to close
them by force. A strange oppression of his limbs, an increasing
disturbance of his memory and thought, a kind of invincible torpor,
rapidly took possession of the young man. Then commenced a painful
contest between mind and body,--the latter succumbed. He felt his body
powerless, his reason grow dim, and his strength pass away. In vain he
sought to see, to hear, to watch, to live, to contend with an enemy
which sought to make him senseless, inert and powerless. His head fell
upon his bosom and he sank to sleep.

Just then, he heard a light noise, the rustling of a silk dress, and a
timid step. With a convulsive effort he opened his eyes, and saw La
Felina within a few feet of his bed. Tears rolled down his cheeks, and
fell upon the white hand of the singer. She touched Rovero's face to
assure herself that he was in reality asleep.

END OF PART II.


[From the Gem.]

"THE TWICKENHAM GHOST."

    Come to the casement to-night,
      And look out at the bright lady-moon;
    Come to the casement to-night,
      And I'll sing you your favorite tune!
    Where the stream glides beside the old tower,
      My boat shall be under the wall,--
    Oh, dear one! be there in your bower,
      With Byron, a lamp, and your shawl.

    Oh! come where no troublesome eye
      Can look on the vigil love keeps;
    When there is not a cloud in the sky,
      What maid, _but an old maiden_, sleeps?
    And you know not how sweet is the tone
      Of a song from a lip we have press'd,
    When it breathes it "by moonlight alone,"
      To the ear of _the one_ it loves best.

    Oh! daylight love's music but mars,
      (As it breaks up the dance of the elves!)
    The moon and the stream and the stars,
      Should hear it alone with ourselves:
    And who'd be content with "_I may_,"
      If they only would think of "_I might_?"
    Or _who'd_ listen to music by day,
      That had listened to music by night?

    The Opera's over by one,
      Lady Jersey's grows stupid at two;
    I'll dance just one waltz, and have done,
      Then be off, on the pony, for Kew!
    My boat holds a cloak--a guitar,
      And it waits by that dark bridge for me:
    And I'll row, by the light of one star,
      Love's own, to the old tower, by three!

    I'll bring you that sweet canzonette,
      That we practiced together last year;
    And my own little miniature set
      Round with emeralds--tis _such_ a dear!
    You promised you'd love me as long
      As your heart felt me close to it, there;
    And, dear one! for that and the song,
      _Won't_ you give me the locket of hair?

    Farewell, sweet! be not in a fright,
      Should your grandmamma bid you beware
    Of a youth, who was murdered one night,
      And whose ghost haunts the dark waters there:
    For _you_ know, ever since his decease,
      Of a harmless young ghost that's allow'd
    To go, by the River Police,
      Serenading about in his shroud!




[From the Dublin University Magazine.]

THE MYSTIC VIAL: OR, THE LAST DEMOISELLE DE CHARREBOURG.


I.--THE GAME OF BOWLS.

More than a century ago--we know not whether the revolution has left a
vestige of it--there stood an old chateau, backed by an ancient and
funereal forest, and approached through an interminable straight avenue
of frowning timber, somewhere about fifteen leagues from Paris, and
visible from the great high road to Rouen.

The appliances of comfort had once been collected around it upon a
princely scale; extensive vineyards, a perfect wood of fruit-trees,
fish-ponds, mills, still remained, and a vast park, abounding with cover
for all manner of game, stretched away almost as far as the eye could
reach.

But the whole of this palatial residence was now in a state of decay and
melancholy neglect. A dilapidated and half-tenanted village, the feudal
dependency of the seignorial domain, seemed to have sunk with the
fortunes of its haughty protector. The steep roofs of the Chateau de
Charrebourg and its flanking towers, with their tall conical caps, were
mournfully visible in the sun among the rich foliage that filled the
blue hazy distance, and seemed to overlook with a sullen melancholy the
village of Charrebourg that was decaying beneath it.

The Visconte de Charrebourg, the last of a long line of ancient
seigneurs, was still living, and though not under the ancestral roof of
his chateau, within sight of its progressive ruin, and what was harder
still to bear, of its profanation; for his creditors used it as a
storehouse for the produce of the estate, which he thus saw collected
and eventually carted away by strangers, without the power of so much as
tasting a glass of its wine or arresting a single grain of its wheat
himself. And to say the truth, he often wanted a pint of the one and a
measure or two of the other badly enough.

Let us now see for ourselves something of his circumstances a little
more exactly. The Visconte was now about seventy, in the enjoyment of
tolerable health, and of a pension of nine hundred francs (£36) per
annum, paid by the Crown. His creditors permitted him to occupy,
besides, a queer little domicile, little better than a cottage, which
stood just under a wooded hillock in the vast wild park. To this were
attached two or three Lilliputian paddocks, scarcely exceeding an
English acre altogether. Part of it, before the door, a scanty bit we
allow, was laid a little parterre of flowers, and behind the dwelling
was a small bowling-green surrounded by cherry-trees. The rest was
cultivated chiefly for the necessities of the family. In addition to
these concessions his creditors permitted him to shoot rabbits and catch
perch for the use of his household, and that household consisted of
three individuals--the Visconte himself, his daughter Lucille (scarcely
seventeen years of age), and Dame Marguerite, in better times her
nurse--now cook, housemaid, and all the rest.

Contrast with all this what he had once been, the wealthy Lord of
Charrebourg, the husband of a rich and noble wife, one of the most
splendid among the satellites of a splendid court. He had married rather
late, and as his reverses had followed that event in point of time, it
was his wont to attribute his misfortunes to the extravagance of his
dear and sainted helpmate, "who never could resist play and jewelry."
The worthy Visconte chose to forget how much of his fortune he had
himself poured into the laps of mistresses, and squandered among the
harpies of the gaming-table. The result however was indisputable, by
whatever means it had been arrived at, the Visconte was absolutely
beggared.

Neither had he been very fortunate in his family. Two sons, who,
together with Lucille, had been the fruit of his marriage, had both
fallen, one in a duel, the other in a madcap adventure in Naples.

And thus of course ended any hope of seeing his fortunes even moderately
reconstructed.

We must come now to the lonely dwelling which serves all that is left of
the family of Charrebourg for a palace. It is about the hour of five
o'clock in the afternoon of a summer's day. Dame Marguerite has already
her preparations for supper in the kitchen. The Visconte has gone to the
warren to shoot rabbits for to-morrow's dinner. Two village lads, who
take a pleasure in obliging poor old Marguerite--of course neither ever
thinks of Lucille--have just arrived at the kitchen door. Gabriel has
brought fresh spring water, which, from love of the old cook, he carries
to the cottage regularly every morning and evening. Jacque has brought
mulberries for "the family," from a like motive. The old woman has
pronounced Jacque's mulberries admirable; and with a smile tapped
Gabriel on the smooth brown cheek, and called him her pretty little
water carrier. They loiter there as long as they can; neither much likes
the other; each understands what his rival is about perfectly well;
neither chooses to go while the other remains.

Jacque, sooth to say, is not very well favored, sallow, flat-faced, with
lank black hair, small, black, cunning eyes, and a wide mouth; he has a
broad square figure, and a saucy swagger. Gabriel is a slender lad, with
brown curls about his shoulders, ruddy brown face, and altogether
good-looking. These two rivals, you would say, were very unequally
matched.

Poor Gabriel! he has made knots to his knees of salmon-color and blue,
the hues of the Charrebourg livery. It is by the mute eloquence of such
traits of devotion that his passion humbly pleads. He wishes to belong
to her. When first he appears before her in these tell-tale ribbons,
the guilty knees that wear them tremble beneath him. He thinks that now
she must indeed understand him--that the murder will out at last. But,
alas! she, and all the stupid world beside, see nothing in them but some
draggled ribbons. He might as well have worn buckles--nay, _better_; for
he suspects that cursed Jacque understands them. But in this, indeed, he
wrongs him; the mystery of the ribbons is comprehended by himself alone.

He and Jacque passed round the corner of the quaint little cottage; they
were crossing the bowling-green.

"And so," sighed poor Gabriel, "I shall not see her to-day."

"Hey! Gabriel! Jacque! has good Marguerite done with you?--then play a
game of bowls together to amuse me."

The silvery voice that spoke these words came from the coral lips of
Lucille. Through the open casement, clustered round with wreaths of vine
in the transparent shade, she was looking out like a portrait of Flora
in a bowering frame of foliage. Could anything be prettier?

Gabriel's heart beat so fast that he could hardly stammer forth a
dutiful answer; he could scarcely see the bowls. The beautiful face
among the vine-leaves seemed everywhere.

It would have been worth one's while to look at that game of bowls.
There was something in the scene at once comical and melancholy. Jacque
was cool, but very clumsy. Gabriel, a better player, but all bewildered,
agitated, trembling. While the little daughter of nobility, in drugget
petticoat, her arms resting on the window-sill, looked out upon the
combatants with such an air of unaffected and immense superiority as the
queen of beauty in the gallery of a tilting-yard might wear while she
watched the feats of humble yeomen and villein archers. Sometimes
leaning forward with a grave and haughty interest; sometimes again
showing her teeth, like little coronels of pearl, in ringing laughter,
in its very unrestrainedness as haughty as her gravity. The spirit of
the noblesse, along with its blood, was undoubtedly under that slender
drugget bodice. Small suspicion had that commanding little damsel that
the bipeds who were amusing her with their blunders were playing for
love of her. Audacity like that was not indeed to be contemplated.

"Well, Gabriel has won, and I am glad of it, for I think he is the
better lad of the two," she said, with the prettiest dogmatism
conceivable. "What shall we give you, Gabriel, now that you have won the
game? let me see."

"Nothing, Mademoiselle--nothing, I entreat," faltered poor Gabriel,
trembling in a delightful panic.

"Well, but you are hot and tired, and have won the game beside.
Marguerite shall give you some pears and a piece of bread."

"I wish nothing, Mademoiselle," said poor Gabriel, with a melancholy
gush of courage, "but to die in your service."

"Say you so?" she replied, with one of those provokingly unembarrassed
smiles of good-nature which your true lovers find far more killing than
the cruelest frown; "it is the speech of a good villager of Charrebourg.
Well, then, you shall have them another time."

"But, as your excellence is so good as to observe, I have won the game,"
said Gabriel, reassured by the sound of his own voice, "and to say I
should have something as--as a token of victory, I would ask, if
Mademoiselle will permit, for my poor old aunt at home, who is so very
fond of those flowers, just one of the white roses which Mademoiselle
has in her hand; it will give her so much pleasure."

"The poor old woman! Surely you may pluck some fresh from the bush; but
tell Marguerite, or she will be vexed."

"But, Mademoiselle, pardon me, I have not time: one is enough, and I
think there are none so fine upon the tree as that; besides, I know she
would like it better for having been in Mademoiselle's hand."

"Then let her have it by all means," said Lucille; and so saying, she
placed the flower in Gabriel's trembling fingers. Had he yielded to his
impulse, he would have received it kneeling. He was intoxicated with
adoration and pride; he felt as if at that moment he was the sultan of
the universe, but her slave.

The unconscious author of all this tumult meanwhile had left the window.
The rivals were _tête-à-tête_ upon the stage of their recent contest.
Jacque stood with his hand in his breast, eyeing Gabriel with a sullen
sneer. _He_ held the precious rose in his hand, and still gazed at the
vacant window.

"And so your aunt loves a white rose better than a slice of bread?"
ejaculated Jacque. "Heaven! what a lie--ha, ha, ha!"

"Well, I won the game and I won the rose," said Gabriel, tranquilly. "I
can't wonder you are a little vexed."

"Vexed?--bah! I thought she would have offered you a piece of money,"
retorted Jacque; "and if she _had_, I venture to say we should have
heard very little about that nice old aunt with the _penchant_ for white
roses."

"I'm not sordid, Jacque," retorted his rival; "and I did not want to put
Mademoiselle to any trouble."

"How she laughed at you, Gabriel, your clumsiness and your ridiculous
grimaces; but then you do make--ha, ha, ha!--such very comical faces
while the bowls are rolling, I could not blame her."

"She laughed more at you than at me," retorted Gabriel, evidently
nettled. "_You_ talk of clumsiness and grimaces--upon my faith, a pretty
notion."

"Tut, man, you must have been deaf. You amused her so with your
writhing, and ogling, and grinning, and sticking your tongue first in
this cheek and then in that, according as the bowl rolled to one side or
the other, that she laughed till the very tears came; and after all
that, forsooth, she wanted to feed you like a pig on rotten pears; and
then--ha, ha, ha!--the airs, the command, the magnificence. Ah, la! it
was enough to make a cow laugh."

"You are spited and jealous; but don't dare to speak disrespectfully of
Mademoiselle in my presence, sirrah," said Gabriel, fiercely.

"Sirrah me no sirrahs," cried Jacque giving way at last to an
irrepressible explosion of rage and jealousy. "I'll say what I think,
and call things by their names. You're an ass, I tell you--an ass; and
as for her, she's a saucy, impertinent little minx, and you and she, and
your precious white rose, may go in a bunch to the devil together."

And so saying, he dealt a blow with his hat at the precious relic. A
quick movement of Gabriel's, however, arrested the unspeakable
sacrilege. In an instant Jacque was half frightened at his own audacity;
for he knew of old that in some matters Gabriel was not to be trifled
with, and more than made up in spirit for his disparity in strength.
Snatching up a piece of fire-wood in one hand, and with the other
holding the sacred flower behind him, Gabriel rushed at the miscreant
Jacque, who, making a hideous grimace and a gesture of ridicule, did not
choose to await the assault, but jumped over the low fence, and ran like
a Paynim coward before a crusader of old. The stick flew whizzing by his
ear. Gabriel, it was plain, was in earnest; so down the woody slope
toward the stream the chase swept headlong; Jacque exerting his utmost
speed, and Gabriel hurling stones, clods, and curses after him. When,
however, he had reached the brook, it was plain the fugitive had
distanced him. Pursuing his retreat with shouts of defiance, he here
halted, hot, dusty, and breathless, inflamed with holy rage and
chivalric love, like a Paladin after a victory.

Jacque meanwhile pursued his retreat at a slackened pace, and now and
then throwing a glance behind him.

"The fiend catch him!" he prayed. "I'll break his bird-traps and smash
his nets, and I'll get my big cousin, the blacksmith, to drub him to a
jelly."

But Gabriel was happy: he was sitting under a bush, lulled by the
trickling of the stream, and alone with his visions and his rose.

The noble demoiselle in the mean time took her little basket, intending
to go into the wood and gather some wild strawberries, which the old
Visconte liked; and as she never took a walk without first saluting her
dear old Marguerite--

"Adieu, ma bonne petite maman," she said, running up to that lean and
mahogany-complexioned dame, and kissing her heartily on both cheeks; "I
am going to pick strawberries."

"Ah, ma chere mignonne, I wish I could again see the time when the
lackeys in the Charrebourg blue and salmon, and covered all over with
silver lace, would have marched behind Mademoiselle whenever she walked
into the park. Parbleu, that was magnificence!"

"Eh bien, nurse," said the little lady, decisively and gravely, "we
shall have all that again."

"I hope so, my little pet--why not?" she replied, with a dreary shrug,
as she prepared to skewer one of the eternal rabbits.

"Ay, why not?" repeated the demoiselle, serenely. "You tell me, nurse,
that I am beautiful, and I think I am."

"Beautiful--indeed you are, my little princess," she replied, turning
from the rabbit, and smiling upon the pretty questioner until her five
thin fangs were all revealed. "They said your mother was the greatest
beauty at court; but, _ma foi_! she was never like you."

"Well, then, if that be true, some great man will surely fall in love
with me, you know, and I will marry none that is not richer than ever my
father, the Visconte, was--rely upon that, good Marguerite."

"Well, my little pet, bear that in mind, and don't allow any one to
steal your heart away, unless you know him to be worthy."

At these words Lucille blushed--and what a brilliant vermilion--averted
her eyes for a moment, and then looked full in her old nurse's face.

"Why do you say that, Marguerite?"

"Because I feel it, my pretty little child," she replied.

"No, no, no, no," cried Lucille, still with a heightened color, and
looking with her fine eyes full into the dim optics of the old woman;
"you had some reason for saying that--you know you had!"

"By my word of honor, no," retorted the old woman, in her turn
surprised--"no, my dear; but what is the matter--why do you blush so?"

"Well, I shall return in about an hour," said Lucille, abstractedly, and
not heeding the question; and then with a gay air she tripped singing
from the door, and so went gaily down the bosky slope to the edge of the
wood.


II.--THE GENTLEMAN IN BLUE AND SILVER.

Lucille had no sooner got among the mossy roots of the trees, than her
sylvan task commenced, and the fragrant crimson berries began to fill
her basket. Her little head was very busy with all manner of marvelous
projects; but this phantasmagoria was not gloomy; on the contrary, it
was gorgeous and pleasant; for the transparent green shadow of the
branches and the mellow singing of the birds toned her daydreams with
their influence.

In the midst of those airy pageants she was interrupted by a substantial
and by no means unprepossessing reality. A gentleman of graceful form
and mien, dressed in a suit of sky-blue and silver, with a fowling-piece
in his hand, and followed closely by a bare-legged rustic, carrying a
rude staff and a well-stored game-bag, suddenly emerged from behind a
mass of underwood close by. It was plain that he and Lucille were
acquainted, for he instantly stopped, signing to his attendant to pursue
his way, and raising his three-cornered hat, bowed as the last century
only could bow, with an inclination that was at once the expression of
chivalry and ease. His features were singularly handsome, but almost too
delicate for his sex, pale, and with a certain dash of melancholy in
their noble intelligence.

"You here, Monsieur Dubois!" exclaimed Lucille, in a tone that a little
faltered, and with a blush that made her doubly beautiful. "What strange
chance has conducted you to this spot?"

"My kind star--my genius--my good angel, who thus procures me the honor
of beholding Mademoiselle de Charrebourg--an honor than which fortune
has none dearer to me--no--none _half_ so prized."

"These are phrases, sir."

"Yes; phrases that expound my heart. I beseech you bring them to the
test."

"Well, then," she said, gravely, "let us see. Kneel down and pick the
strawberries that grow upon this bank; they are for the Visconte de
Charrebourg."

"I am too grateful to be employed."

"You are much older, Monsieur, than I."

"No doubt."

"And have seen more of the world, too."

"True, Mademoiselle," and he could not forbear smiling.

"Well, then, you ought not to have tried to meet me in the park so often
as you did--or indeed at all--you know very well you ought not."

"But, Mademoiselle, what harm can the most ill-natured of human critics
discover----"

"Oh, but listen to me. I begin to fear I have been wrong in talking to
you as I have done; and if so, you ought not to have presented yourself
to me as you did. I have reflected on it since. In fact, I don't know
who you are, Monsieur Dubois. The Charrebourgs do not use to make
companions of everybody; and you may be a roturier, for anything I can
tell."

Monsieur Dubois smiled again.

"I see you laugh because we are poor," she said, with a heightened color
and a flashing glance.

"Mademoiselle misunderstands me. I am incapable of that. There is no
point at which ridicule can approach the family of Charrebourg."

"That is true, sir," she said, haughtily; and she added, "and on that
account I need not inquire wherefore people smile. But this seems plain
to me--that I have done very wrong in conversing alone with a gentleman
of whom I know nothing beyond his name. You must think so yourself,
though you will not say it; and as you profess your willingness to
oblige me, I have only to ask that all these foolish conversations may
be quite forgotten between us. And now the _petit pannier_ is filled,
and it is time that I should return. Good evening, Monsieur
Dubois--farewell."

"This is scarcely a kind farewell, considering that we have been good
friends, Mademoiselle de Charrebourg, for so long."

"Good friends--yes--for a long time; but you know," she continued, with
a sad, wise shake of her pretty head, "I ought not to allow gentlemen
whom I chance to meet here to be my friends--is it not so? This has only
struck me recently, Monsieur Dubois; and I am sure you used to think me
very strange. But I have no one to advise me; I have no mother--she is
dead; and the Visconte seldom speaks to me; and so I fear I often do
strange things without intending; and--and I have told you all this,
because I should be sorry you thought ill of me, Monsieur Dubois."

She dropped her eyes for a moment to the ground, with an expression at
once very serious and regretful.

"Then am I condemned to be henceforward a stranger to _dear_
Mademoiselle de Charrebourg?"

"I have told you all my thoughts, Monsieur Dubois," she answered, in a
tone whose melancholy made it nearly as tender as his own. But, perhaps,
some idea crossed her mind that piqued her pride; for suddenly
recollecting herself, she added, in a tone it may be a little more
abrupt and haughty than her usual manner--

"And so, Monsieur Dubois, once for all, good evening. You will need to
make haste to overtake your peasant attendant; and as for me, I must run
home now--adieu."

Dubois followed her hesitatingly a step or two, but stopped short. A
slight flush of excitement--it might be of mortification--hovered on his
usually pale cheek. It subsided, however, and a sudden and more tender
character inspired his gaze, as he watched her receding figure, and
followed its disappearance with a deep sigh.

But Monsieur Dubois had not done with surprises.

"Holloa! sir--a word with you," shouted an imperious voice, rendered
more harsh by the peculiar huskiness of age.

Dubois turned, and beheld a figure, which penetrated him with no small
astonishment, advancing toward him with furious strides. We shall
endeavor to describe it.

It was that of a very tall, old man, lank and upright, with snow-white
mustaches, beard, and eyebrows, all in a shaggy and neglected state. He
wore an old coat of dark-gray serge, gathered at the waist by a belt of
undressed leather, and a pair of gaiters, of the same material, reached
fully to his knees. From his left hand dangled three rabbits, tied
together by the feet, and in his right he grasped the butt of his
antiquated fowling-piece, which rested upon his shoulder. This latter
equipment, along with a tall cap of rabbit skins, which crowned his
head, gave him a singular resemblance to the old prints of Robinson
Crusoe; and as if the _tout ensemble_ was not grotesque enough without
such an appendage, a singularly tall hound, apparently as old and
feeble, as lank and as gray as his master, very much incommoded by the
rapidity of his pace, hobbled behind him. A string scarce two yards
long, knotted to his master's belt, was tied to the old collar, once
plated with silver, that encircled his neck, and upon which a close
scrutiny might have still deciphered the armorial bearings of the
Charrebourgs.

There was a certain ludicrous sympathy between the superannuated hound
and his master. While the old man confronted the stranger, erect as Don
Quixote, and glaring upon him in silent fury, as though his eyeballs
would leap from their sockets, the decrepit dog raised his bloodshot,
cowering eyes upon the self-same object, and showing the stumps of his
few remaining fangs, approached him with a long, low growl, like distant
thunder. The man and his dog understood one another perfectly.
Conscious, however, that there might possibly be some vein of ridicule
in this manifest harmony of sentiment, he bestowed a curse and a kick
upon the brute, which sent it screeching behind him.

"It seems, sir, that you have made the acquaintance of Mademoiselle de
Charrebourg?" he demanded, in a tone scarcely less discordant than those
of his canine attendant.

"Sir, I don't mean to consult you upon the subject."

Robinson Crusoe hitched his gun, as though he was about to "let fly" at
the invader of his solitudes.

"I demand your name, sir."

"And _I_ don't mean to give it."

"But give it you shall, sir, by ----."

"It is plain you understand catching rabbits and dressing their skins
better than conversing with gentlemen," said the stranger, as with a
supercilious smile he turned away.

"Stay, sir," cried the old gentleman, peremptorily, "or I shall slip my
dog upon you."

"If you do, I'll shoot him."

"You have insulted me, sir. You wear a _couteau de chasse_--so do I.
Destiny condemns the Visconte de Charrebourg to calamity, but not to
insult. Draw your sword."

"The Visconte de Charrebourg!" echoed Dubois, in amazement.

"Yes, sir--the Visconte de Charrebourg, who will not pocket an affront
because he happens to have lost his revenues."

Who would have thought that any process could possibly have
metamorphosed the gay and magnificent courtier, of whose splendid
extravagance Dubois had heard so many traditions, into this grotesque
old savage.

"There are some houses, and foremost among the number that of
Charrebourg," said the young man, with marked deference, raising his
hat, "which no loss of revenue can possibly degrade, and which,
associated with the early glories of France, gain but a profounder title
to our respect, when their annals and descent are consecrated by the
nobility of suffering."

Nebuchadnezzar smiled.

"I entreat that Monsieur le Visconte will pardon what has passed under a
total ignorance of his presence."

The Visconte bowed, and resumed, gravely but more placidly--

"I must then return to my question, and ask your name."

"I am called Dubois, sir."

"Dubois! hum! I don't recollect, Monsieur Dubois, that I ever had the
honor of being acquainted with your family."

"Possibly not, sir."

"However, Monsieur Dubois, you appear to be a gentleman, and I ask you,
as the father of the noble young lady who has just left you, whether you
have established with her any understanding such as I ought not to
approve--in short, any understanding whatsoever?"

"None whatever, on the honor of a gentleman. I introduced myself to
Mademoiselle de Charrebourg, but she has desired that our acquaintance
shall cease, and _her_ resolution upon the subject is, of course,
decisive. On the faith of a gentleman, you have there the entire truth
frankly stated."

"Well, Monsieur Dubois, I believe you," said the Visconte, after a
steady gaze of a few seconds; "and I have to add a request, which is
this--that, unless through me, the acquaintance may never be sought to
be renewed. Farewell, sir. Come along, Jonquil!" he added, with an
admonition of his foot, addressed to the ugly old brute who had laid
himself down. And so, with a mutual obeisance, stiff and profound,
Monsieur Dubois and the Visconte de Charrebourg departed upon their
several ways.

When the old Visconte entered his castle, he threw the three rabbits on
the table before Marguerite, hung his fusil uncleaned upon the wall,
released his limping dog, and stalked past Lucille, who was in the
passage, with a stony aspect, and in total silence. This, however, was
his habit, and he pursued his awful way into his little room of state,
where seated upon his high-backed, clumsy throne of deal, with his
rabbit-skin tiara on his head, he espied a letter, with a huge seal,
addressed to him, lying on his homely table.

"Ha! hum. From M. Le Prun. The ostentation of the Fermier-General! the
vulgarity of the bourgeois, even in a letter!"

Alone as he was, the Visconte affected a sneer of tranquil superiority;
but his hand trembled as he took the packet and broke the seal. Its
contents were evidently satisfactory: the old man elevated his eyebrows
as he read, sniffed twice or thrice, and then yielded to a smile of
irrepressible self-complacency.

"So it will give him inexpressible pleasure, will it, to consult my
wishes. Should he become the purchaser of the Charrebourg estate, he
entreats--ay, that is the word--that I will not do him the injustice to
suppose him capable of disturbing me in the possession of my present
residence." The Visconte measured the distance between the tiled floor
and the ceiling, with a bitter glance, and said, "So our
bourgeois-gentilhomme will permit the Visconte de Charrebourg--ha,
ha--to live in this stinking hovel for the few years that remain to him;
but, _par bleu_, that is fortune's doing, not his. I ought not to blame
this poor bourgeois--he is only doing what I asked him. He will also
allow me whatever '_privileges_' I have hitherto enjoyed--that of
killing roach in the old moat and rabbits in the warren; scarce worth
the powder and shot I spend on them. _Eh, bien!_ after all what more
have I asked for? He is also most desirous to mark, in every way in his
power, the profound respect he entertains for the Visconte de
Charrebourg. How these fellows grimace and caricature when they attempt
to make a compliment! but he can't help that, and he is trying to be
civil. And, see, here is a postscript I omitted to read."

He readjusted his spectacles. It was thus conceived:--

"P.S.--I trust the Visconte de Charrebourg will permit me the honor of
waiting upon him, to express in person my esteem and respect; and that
he will also allow me to present my little niece to Mademoiselle de
Charrebourg, as they are pretty nearly of the same age, and likely,
moreover, to become neighbors."

"Yes," he said, pursuing a train of self-gratulation, suggested by this
postscript; "it was a _coup_ of diplomacy worthy of Richelieu himself,
the sending Lucille in person with my letter. The girl has beauty; its
magic has drawn all these flowers and figures from the pen of that dry
old schemer. Ay, who knows, she may have fortune before her; were the
king to see her----"

But here he paused, and, with a slight shake of the head, muttered,
"Apage sathanas!"


III.--THE FERMIER-GENERAL.

The Visconte ate his supper in solemn silence, which Lucille dared not
interrupt, so that the meal was far from cheerful. Shortly after its
conclusion, however, the old man announced in a few brief sentences, as
much of the letter he had just received as in any wise concerned her to
know.

"See _you_ and Marguerite to the preparations; let everything, at least,
be neat. He knows, as all the world does, that I am miserably poor; and
we can't make this place look less beggarly than it is; but we must make
the best of it. What can one do with a pension of eight hundred
francs--bah!"

The latter part of this speech was muttered in bitter abstraction.

"The pension is too small, sir."

He looked at her with something like a sneer.

"It is too small, sir, and ought to be increased."

"Who says so?"

"Marguerite has often said so, sir, and I believe it. If you will
petition the king, he will give you something worthy of your rank."

"You are a pair of wiseheads, truly. It cost the exertions of powerful
friends, while I still had some, to get that pittance; were I to move in
the matter now, it is more like to lead to its curtailment than
extension."

"Yes, but the king admires beauty, and I am beautiful," she said, with a
blush that was at once the prettiest, the boldest, and yet the purest
thing imaginable; "and I will present your petition myself."

Her father looked at her for a moment with a gaze of inquiring wonder,
which changed into a faint, abstracted smile; but he rose abruptly from
his seat with a sort of shrug, as if it were chill, and, muttering his
favorite exorcism, "Apage sathanas!" walked with a flurried step up and
down the room. His face was flushed, and there was something in its
expression which forbade her hazarding another word.

It was not until nearly half an hour had elapsed that the Visconte
suddenly exclaimed, as if not a second had interposed--

"Well, Lucille, it is not _quite_ impossible; but you need not mention
it to Marguerite."

He then signed to her to leave him, intending, according to his wont, to
find occupation for his solitary hours in the resources of his library.
This library was contained in an old chest; consisted of some score of
shabby volumes of all sizes, and was, in truth, a queer mixture. It
comprised, among other tomes, a Latin Bible and a missal, in intimate
proximity with two or three other volumes of that gay kind which even
the Visconte de Charrebourg would have blushed and trembled to have seen
in the hands of his child. It resembled thus the heterogeneous furniture
of his own mind, with an incongruous ingredient of superinduced
religion; but, on the whole, unpresentable and unclean. He took up the
well-thumbed Vulgate, in which, of late years, he had read a good deal,
but somehow, it did not interest him at that moment. He threw it back
again, and suffered his fancy to run riot among schemes more exciting
and, alas! less guiltless. His daughter's words had touched an evil
chord in his heart--she had unwittingly uncaged the devil that lurked
within him; and this guardian angel from the pit was playing, in truth,
very ugly pranks with his ambitious imagination.

Lucille called old Marguerite to her bedroom, and there made the
astonishing disclosure of the promised visit; but the old woman, though
herself very fussy in consequence, perceived no corresponding excitement
in her young mistress; on the contrary, she was sad and abstracted.

"Do you remember," said Lucille, after a long pause, "the story of the
fair demoiselle of Alsace you used to tell me long ago? How true her
lover was, and how bravely he fought through all the dangers of
witchcraft and war to find her out again and wed her, although he was a
noble knight, and she, as he believed, but a peasant's daughter.
Marguerite, it is a pretty story. I wonder if gentlemen are as true of
heart now?"

"Ay, my dear, why not? love is love always; just the same as it was of
old is it now, and will be while the world wags."

And with this comforting assurance their conference ended.

The very next day came the visit of Monsieur Le Prun and his niece. The
Fermier-General was old and ugly, there is no denying it; he had a
shrewd, penetrating eye, moreover, and in the lines of his mouth were
certain unmistakable indications of habitual command. When his face was
in repose, indeed, its character was on the whole forbidding. But in
repose it seldom was, for he smiled and grimaced with an industry that
was amazing.

His niece was a pretty little fair-haired girl of sixteen, with
something sad and even _funeste_ in her countenance. The fragile
timidity of the little blonde contrasted well with the fire and energy
that animated the handsome features of her new acquaintance. Julie St.
Pierre, for that was her name, seemed just as unconscious of Lucille's
deficient toilet as she was herself, and the two girls became, in the
space of an hour's ramble among the brakes and bushes of the park, as
intimate as if they had spent all their days together. Monsieur Le Prun,
meanwhile, conversed affably with the Visconte, whom he seemed to take a
pleasure in treating with a deference which secretly flattered alike his
pride and his vanity. He told him, moreover, that the contract for the
purchase of the Charrebourg estate was already completed, and pleased
himself with projecting certain alterations in the Visconte's humble
residence, which would certainly have made it a far more imposing piece
of architecture than it ever had been. All his plans, however, were
accompanied with so many submissions to the Visconte's superior taste,
and so many solicitations of "permission," and so many delicate
admissions of an ownership, which both parties knew to be imaginary,
that the visitor appeared in the attitude rather of one suing for than
conferring a favor. Add to all this that the Fermier-General had the
good taste to leave his equipage at the park gate, and trudged on foot
beside his little niece, who, in rustic fashion, was mounted on a
donkey, to make his visit. No wonder, then, that when the Croesus and
his little niece took their departure, they left upon the mind of the
old Visconte an impression which (although, for the sake of consistency,
he was still obliged to affect his airs of hauteur) was in the highest
degree favorable.

The acquaintance thus commenced was not suffered to languish. Scarce a
day passed without either a visit or a _billet_, and thus some five or
six weeks passed.

Lucille and her new companion became more and more intimate; but there
was one secret recorded in the innermost tablet of her heart which she
was too proud to disclose even to her gentle friend. For a day--days--a
week--a fortnight after her interview with Dubois, she lived in hope
that every hour might present his handsome form at the cottage door to
declare himself, and, with the Visconte's sanction, press his suit.
Every morning broke with hope, every night brought disappointment with
its chill and darkness, till hope expired, and feelings of bitterness,
wounded pride, and passionate resentment succeeded. What galled her
proud heart most was the fear that she had betrayed her fondness to him.
To be forsaken was hard enough to bear, but to the desolation of such a
loss the sting of humiliation superadded was terrible.

One day the rumble of coach-wheels was heard upon the narrow, broken
road which wound by the Visconte's cottage. A magnificent equipage,
glittering with gold and gorgeous colors, drawn by four noble horses
worthy of Cinderella's state-coach, came rolling and rocking along the
track. The heart of Lucille beat fast under her little bodice as she
beheld its approach. The powdered servants were of course to open the
carriage-door, and Dubois himself, attired in the robes of a prince, was
to spring from within and throw himself passionately at her feet. In
short, she felt that the denouement of the fairy tale was at hand.

The coach stopped--the door opened, and Monsieur Le Prun descended, and
handed his little niece to the ground; Lucille wished him and Dubois
both in the galleys.

He was more richly dressed than usual, more ceremonious, and if possible
more gracious. He saluted Lucille, and after a word or two of
commonplace courtesy, joined the old Visconte, and they shortly entered
the old gentleman's chamber of audience together, and there remained for
more than an hour. At the end of that time they emerged together, both a
little excited as it seemed. The Fermier-General was flushed like a
scarlet withered apple, and his black eyes glowed and flashed with an
unusual agitation. The Visconte too was also flushed, and he carried his
head a little back, with an unwonted air of reserve and importance.

The adieux were made with some little flurry, and the equipage swept
away, leaving the spot where its magnificence had just been displayed as
bleak and blank as the space on which the pageant of a phantasmagoria
has been for a moment reflected.

The old servant of all work was charmed with this souvenir of better
days. Monsieur Le Prun had risen immensely in her regard in consequence
of the display she had just gloated upon. In the estimation of the
devoted Marguerite he was more than a Midas. His very eye seemed to gild
everything it fell upon as naturally as the sun radiates his yellow
splendor. The blue velvet liveries, the gold-studded harness, the
embossed and emblazoned coach, the stately beasts with their tails tied
up in great bows of broad blue ribbons, with silver fringe, like an
Arcadian beauty's chevelure, the reverential solemnity of the gorgeous
lacqueys, the _tout ensemble_ in short, was overpowering and delightful.

"Well, child," said the Visconte, after he and Lucille had stood for a
while in silence watching the retiring equipage, taking her hand in his
at the same time, and leading her with a stately gravity along the
narrow walk which environed the cottage, "Monsieur Le Prun, it must be
admitted, has excellent taste; _par bleu_, his team would do honor to
the royal stables. What a superb equipage! Happy the woman whom fortune
will elect to share the splendor of which all that we have just seen is
but as a sparkle from the furnace--fortunate she whom Monsieur Le Prun
will make his wife."

He spoke with so much emotion, directed a look of such triumphant
significance upon his daughter, and pressed her hand so hard, that on a
sudden a stupendous conviction, at once horrible and dazzling, burst
upon her.

"Monsieur!--for the love of God do you mean--do you mean----?" she said,
and broke off abruptly.

"Yes, my dear Lucille," he returned with elation, "I _do_ mean to tell
you that you--_you_ are that fortunate person. It is true that you can
bring him no wealth, but he already possesses more of that than he knows
how to apply. You can, however, bring him what few other women possess,
an ancient lineage, an exquisite beauty, and the simplicity of an
education in which the seeds of finesse and dissipation have not been
sown, in short, the very attributes and qualifications which he most
esteems--which he has long sought, and which in conversation he has
found irresistible in you. Monsieur Le Prun has entreated me to lay his
proposals at your feet, and you of course convey through me the
gratitude with which you accept them."

Lucille was silent and pale; within her a war and chaos of emotions were
struggling, like the tumult of the ocean.

"I felicitate you, my child," said the Visconte, kissing her throbbing
forehead; "in you the fortunes of your family will be restored--come
with me."

She accompanied him into the cottage; she was walking, as it were, in a
wonderful dream; but amidst the confusion of her senses, her perplexity
and irresolution, there was a dull sense of pain at her heart, there was
a shadowy figure constantly before her; its presence agitated and
reproached her, but she had little leisure to listen to the pleadings of
a returning tenderness, even had they been likely to prevail with her
ambitious heart. Her father rapidly sketched such a letter of
complimentary acceptance as he conceived suitable to the occasion and
the parties.

"Read that," he said, placing it before Lucille. "Well, that I think
will answer. What say you, child?"

"Yes, sir," she replied with an effort; "it is true; he does me indeed
great honor; and--and I accept him; and now, sir, I would wish to go and
be for a while alone."

"Do so," said her father, again kissing her, for he felt a sort of
gratitude toward her as the prime cause of all those comforts and
luxuries, whose long despaired-of return he now beheld in immediate and
certain prospect. Not heeding this unwonted exuberance of tenderness,
she hurried to her little bed-room, and sat down upon the side of her
bed.

At first she wept passionately, but her girlish volatility soon dried
these tears. The magnificent equipage of Monsieur Le Prun swept before
her imagination. Her curious and dazzled fancy then took flight in
speculations as to the details of all the, as yet, undescribed splendors
in reserve. Then she thought of herself married, and mistress of all
this great fortune, and her heart beat thick, and she laughed aloud, and
clapped her hands in an ecstasy of almost childish exultation.

Next day she received a long visit from Monsieur Le Prun, as her
accepted lover. Spite of all his splendor, he had never looked in her
eyes half so old, and ugly and sinister, as now. The marriage, which was
sometimes so delightfully full of promise to her vanity and ambition, in
his presence most perversely lost all its enchantment, and terrified
her, like some great but unascertained danger. It was however too late
now to recede; and even were she free to do so, it is more than probable
that she could not have endured the sacrifice involved in retracting her
consent.

The Visconte's little household kept early hours. He himself went to bed
almost with the sun; and on the night after this decisive visit--for
such Monsieur Le Prun's first appearance and acceptation in the
character of an affianced bridegroom undoubtedly was--Lucille was lying
awake, the prey of a thousand agitating thoughts, when, on a sudden,
rising on the still night air came a little melody--alas! too well
known--a gay and tender song, chanted sweetly. Had the voice of Fate
called her, she could not have started more suddenly upright in her bed,
with eyes straining, and parted lips--one hand pushing back the rich
clusters of hair, and collecting the sound at her ear, and the other
extended toward the distant songster, and softly marking the time of
the air. She listened till the song died away, and covering her face
with her hands, she threw herself down upon the pillow, and sobbing
desolately, murmured--"too late!--too late!"


IV.--THE STRANGE LADY IN WHITE.

The visits of the happy Fermier-General occurred, of course, daily, and
increased in duration. Meanwhile preparations went forward. The
Visconte, supplied from some mysterious source, appeared to have an
untold amount of cash. He made repeated excursions to the capital, which
for twenty years he had not so much as seen; and handsome dresses,
ornaments, &c., for Lucille, were accompanied by no less important
improvements upon his own wardrobe, as well as various accessions to the
comforts of their little dwelling--so numerous, indeed, as speedily to
effect an almost complete transformation in its character and
pretensions.

Thus the time wore on, in a state of excitement, which, though checkered
with many fears, was on the whole pleasurable.

About ten days had passed since the peculiar and delicate relation we
have described was established between Lucille and Monsieur Le Prun.
Urgent business had called him away to the city, and kept him closely
confined there, so that, for the first time since his declaration, his
daily visit was omitted upon this occasion. Had the good Fermier-General
but known all, he need not have offered so many apologies, nor labored
so hard to console his lady-love for his involuntary absence. The truth,
then, is, as the reader no doubt suspects, Lucille was charmed at
finding herself, even for a day, once more her own absolute mistress.

A gay party from Paris, with orders of admission from the creditors,
that day visited the park. In a remote and bosky hollow they had seated
themselves upon the turf, and, amid songs and laughter, were enjoying a
cold repast. Far away these sounds of mirth were borne on the clear air
to Lucille. Alas! when should she laugh as gaily as those ladies, who,
with their young companions, were making merry?--when again should music
speak as of old with her heart, and bear in its chords no tone of
reproach and despair? This gay party broke up into groups, and began
merrily to ramble toward the great gate, where, of course, their
carriages were awaiting them.

Attracted mournfully by their mirth, Lucille rambled onward as they
retreated. It was evening, and the sunbeams slanted pleasantly among the
trees and bushes, throwing long, soft shadows over the sward, and
converting into gold every little turf, and weed, and knob, that broke
the irregular sweep of the ground.

She had reached a part of the park with which she was not so familiar.
Here several gentle hollows were converging toward the stream, and trees
and wild brushwood in fresh abundance clothed their sides, and spread
upward along the plain in rich and shaggy exuberance.

From among them, with a stick in his hand, and running lightly in the
direction of her father's cottage, Gabriel suddenly emerged.

On seeing her at the end of the irregular vista, which he had just
entered, however, he slackened his pace, and doffing his hat he
approached her.

"A message, Gabriel?" she inquired.

"Yes, if Mademoiselle pleases," said he, blushing all over, like the
setting sun. "I was running to the Visconte's house to tell
Mademoiselle."

"Well, Gabriel, and what is it?"

"Why, Mademoiselle, a strange lady in the glen desires me to tell
Mademoiselle de Charrebourg that she wishes to see her."

"But did she say why she desired it, and what she wished to speak to me
about?"

"No, Mademoiselle."

"Then tell her that Mademoiselle de Charrebourg, knowing neither her
name nor her business, declines obeying her summons," said she,
haughtily. Gabriel bowed low, and was about to retire on his errand,
when she added--

"It was very dull of you, Gabriel, not to ask her what she wanted of
me."

"Madame, without your permission, I dare not," he replied, with a deeper
blush, and a tone at once so ardent and so humble, that Lucille could
not forbear a smile of the prettiest good nature.

"In truth, Gabriel, you are a dutiful boy. But how did you happen to
meet her?"

"I was returning, Mademoiselle, from the other side of the stream, and
just when I got into the glen, on turning round the corner of the gray
stone, I saw her standing close to me behind the bushes."

"And I suppose you were frightened?" she said, archly.

"No, Mademoiselle, indeed; though she was strangely dressed and very
pale, but she spoke to me kindly. She asked me my name, and then she
looked in my face very hard, as a fortune-teller does, and she told me
many strange things, Mademoiselle, about myself; some of them I knew,
and some of them I never heard before."

"I suppose she _is_ a fortune-teller; and how did she come to ask for
me?"

"She inquired if the Visconte de Charrebourg still lived on the estate,
and then she said, 'Has he not a beautiful daughter called Lucille?' and
I, Mademoiselle, made bold to answer, 'O yes, madame, yes, in truth.'"

Poor Gabriel blushed and faltered more than ever at this passage.

"'Tell Mademoiselle,' she said, 'I have something that concerns her
nearly to tell her. Let her know that I am waiting here; but I cannot
stay long.' And so she beckoned me away impatiently, and I, expecting to
find you near the house was running, when Mademoiselle saw me."

"It is very strange; stay, Gabriel, I _will_ go and speak to her, it is
only a step."

The fact was that Lucille's curiosity (as might have been the case with
a great many of her sex in a similar situation) was too strong for her,
and her pride was forced to bend to its importunity.

"Go you before," she said to Gabriel, who long remembered that evening
walk in attendance upon Lucille, as a scene so enchanting and delightful
as to be rather a mythic episode than an incident in his life; "and
Gabriel," she added, as they entered the cold shadow of the thick
evergreens, and felt she knew not why, a superstitious dread creep over
her, "do you wait within call, but so as not to overhear our
conversation; you understand me."

They had now emerged from the dark cover into the glen, and looking
downward toward the little stream, at a short distance from them, the
figure of the mysterious lady was plainly discernible. She was sitting
with her back toward them upon a fragment of rock, under the bough of an
old gnarled oak. Her dress was a sort of loose white robe, it might be
of flannel, such as invalids in hospitals wear, and a red cloak had
slipped from her shoulders, and covered the ground at her feet. Thus,
solitary and mysterious, she suggested the image of a priestess cowering
over the blood of a victim in search of omens.

Lucille approached her with some trepidation, and to avoid coming upon
her wholly by surprise she made a little detour, and thus had an
opportunity of seeing the features of the stranger, as well as of
permitting her to become aware of her approach.

Her appearance, upon a nearer approach, was not such as to reassure
Lucille. She was tall, deadly pale, and marked with the smallpox. She
had particularly black eyebrows, and awaited the young lady's approach
with that ominous smile which ascends no higher than the lips, and
leaves the eyes and forehead dark, threatening, and uncertain.
Altogether, there was a character, it might be of insanity, it might be
of guilt, in the face, which was formidable.

Lucille wished herself at home, but there was that in the blood of the
Charrebourgs which never turned away from danger, real or imaginary,
when once confronted.

"So you are Lucille de Charrebourg?" said the figure, looking at her
with that expression of malice, which is all the more fearful that it
appears causeless.

"Yea, Madame, that is my name; will you be so good as to tell me,
beside, the name of the lady who has been kind enough to desire an
interview with me?"

"For a name; my dear, suit yourself; call me Sycorax, Jezebel, or what
you please, and I will answer to it."

"But what are you?"

"There again I give you a _carte blanche_; say I am a benevolent fairy;
you don't seem to like that? or your guardian-angel? nor that neither!
Well, a witch if you please, or a ghost, or a fortune-teller--ay, that
will do, a fortune-teller--so that is settled."

"Well, Madame, if I may not know either your name or occupation, will
you be good enough at least to let me hear your business."

"Surely, my charming demoiselle; you should have heard it immediately
had you not pestered me with so many childish questions. Well, then,
about this Monsieur Le Prun?"

"Well, Madame?" said Lucille, not a little surprised.

"Well, my dear, I'm not going to tell you whether this Monsieur Le Prun
is an angel, for angels they say _have_ married women; or whether he is
a Bluebeard--you have heard the story of Bluebeard, my little dear--but
this I say, be he which he may, _you_ must not marry him."

"And pray, who constrains my will?" exclaimed the girl, scornfully, but
at the same time inwardly frightened.

"_I_ do, my pretty pigeon; if you marry him, you do so forewarned, and
if he don't punish you _I_ will."

"How dare you speak in that tone to me?" said Lucille, to whose cheek
the insolent threat of the stranger called a momentary flush of red;
"_you_ punish me, indeed, if _he_ does not! I'll not permit you to
address me so; besides I have help close by, if I please to call for
it."

All this time the woman was laughing inwardly, and fumbling under her
white robe, as if in search of something.

"I say he may be an angel, or he may be a bluebeard, I don't pretend to
say which," she continued, with a perfectly genuine contempt of
Lucille's vaunting, "but I have here an amulet that never fails in cases
like this; it will detect and expel the devil better than blessed water,
_vera crux_, or body of our Lord, for these things have sometimes
failed, but this can never. With the aid of this you cannot be deceived.
If he be a good man its influence will be ineffectual against him; but
if, on the other hand, he be possessed of evil spirits, then test him
with it, and you will behold him for a moment as he is."

"Let me see it, then."

"Here it is."

She drew from under the white folds of her dress a small spiral bottle,
enameled with some Chinese characters, and set in a base and capital of
chased gold, with four little spiral pillars at the corners connecting
the top and bottom, and leaving the porcelain visible between. It had,
moreover, a stopper that closed with a spring, and altogether did not
exceed two inches in length, and in thickness was about the size of a
swan's quill. It looked like nothing earthly, but what she had described
it. For a scent-bottle, indeed, it might possibly have been used; but
there was something odd and knowing about this little curiosity,
something mysterious, and which seemed as though it had a tale to tell.
In short, Lucille looked on it with all the interest, and if the truth
must be spoken, a good deal of the awe, which its pretensions demanded.

"And what am I to do with this little bauble?" she asked, after she had
examined it for some moments curiously.

"When you want to make trial of its efficacy, take it forth, look
steadily in his face, and say, 'I expect to receive the counterpart of
this,' that is all. If he be a good man, as who can say, the talisman
will leave him as it finds him. But if he be, as some men are, the slave
of Satan, you will see, were it but for a second, the sufferings and
passions of hell in his face. Fear not to make trial of it, for no harm
can ensue; you will but know the character you have to deal with."

"But this is a valuable bauble, its price must be considerable, and I
have no money."

"Well, suppose I make it a present to you."

"I should like to have it--but--but----."

"But I am too poor to part with it on such terms, and you too proud to
take it--is that your meaning? Never mind, I can afford to give it, and,
proud as you are, you can afford to take it. Hide it until the time to
try him comes, and then speak as I told you."

"Well, I will accept it," said Lucille, coldly, but her voice trembled
and her face was pale; "and this I know, if there be any virtue of any
sort in the toy, it can only prove Monsieur Le Prun's goodness. Yes, he
is a very kind man, and all the world, I am told, speaks of his
excellence."

"Very probably," said the stranger, "but mark my words, don't marry him;
if you do, you shall see me again."

"Halloa, devil! are you deaf?" thundered a sneering voice from a crag at
the opposite side. "Come, come, it's time we were moving."

The summons came from a broad, short, swarthy fellow, with black
mustaches and beard, arrayed in a suit of dusky red. He had one hand
raised high above his head beckoning to her, and with the other he
furiously shook the spreading branch of a tree beside him; the prominent
whites of his eyes, and his grinning teeth, were, even at that distance,
seen conspicuous; and so shaggy, furious, and unearthly did he seem,
that he might well have represented some wild huntsman or demon of the
wood. It seemed, indeed, as though a sort of witches' dance were to be
held that night in the old park of Charrebourg, and that some of the
preternatural company had reached the trysting-place before their time.

The ill-omened woman in white hastily gathered up her mantle, without
any gesture or word of farewell. With hurried strides her tall figure
glided off toward the apparition in red, and both speedily disappeared
among the hazy cover at the other side.

The little hollow was now deserted, except for Lucille. It was not till
they had quite vanished, and that she was left there alone, that she
felt something akin to terror steal over her, and hurried from the scene
of her strange interview as from a haunted spot. A little way up the
rising bank Gabriel was awaiting her return, sorely disappointed that
fortune had in no wise made her debtor to his valor.

Long before she reached home the sun had gone down, and the long dusky
shadows had given place to the thin, cold haze of approaching night.
Often as she glided onward among rocks and bushes she felt an
instinctive impulse, something between terror and aversion, prompting
her to hurl the little spiral vial far from her among the wild weeds and
misty brakes, where, till doomsday, it might never be found again. But
other feelings, stranger in their kind, determined her at least to defer
the sacrifice, and so she reached her chamber with the mysterious gift
fast in her tiny grasp.

Here she again examined it, more minutely than before; it contained
neither fluid nor powder of any sort, and was free from any perfume or
odor whatsoever; and excepting that the more closely she inspected it,
the more she discovered in its workmanship to excite her admiration, her
careful and curious investigation was without result. As she carefully
folded up the curious souvenir, and secreted it in the safest corner of
the safest drawer, she thought over the interview again and again, and
always with the same result as respected the female who had bestowed it,
namely, that if not actually a lady, she had at least the education and
the manners of a person above the working classes.

That night Lucille was haunted with ugly dreams. Voices were speaking to
her in threats and blasphemies from the little vial. The mysterious lady
in white would sit huddled up at the foot of her bed, and the more she
smiled the more terrible became her scowl, until at last her countenance
began to dilate, and she slowly advanced her face closer and closer,
until, just as her smiling lips reached Lucille, she uttered a yell,
whether of imprecation or terror she could not hear, but which scared
her from her sleep like a peal of thunder. Then a great coffin was
standing against the wall with Monsieur Le Prun in it dead and shrouded,
and a troop of choristers began singing a requiem, when on a sudden the
furious voice she had heard that evening screamed aloud, "To what
purpose all this hymning, seeing the corpse is possessed by evil
spirits;" and then such looks of rage and hatred flitted over the livid
face in the coffin, as nothing but hell could have inspired. Then again
she would see Monsieur Le Prun struggling, his face all bloody and
distorted, with the man in red and the strange lady of the talisman, who
screamed, laughing with a detestable glee, "Come bride, come, the
bridegroom waits." Such horrid dreams as these haunted her all night, so
much so that one might almost have fancied that an evil influence had
entered her chamber with the little vial. But the songs of gay birds
pruning their wings, and the rustle of the green leaves glittering in
the early sun round her window, quickly dispelled the horrors which had
possessed her little room in the hours of silence and darkness. It was,
notwithstanding, with a sense of fear and dislike that she opened the
drawer where the little vial lay, and unrolling all the paper envelopes
in which it was carefully folded, beheld it once more in the clear light
of day.

"Nothing, nothing, but a grotesque little scent-bottle--why should I be
afraid of it?--a poor little pretty toy."

So she said, as she folded it up again, and deposited it once more where
it had lain all night. But for all that she felt a mysterious sense of
relief when she ran lightly from her chamber into the open air,
conscious that the harmless little toy was no longer present.


V.--THE CHATEAU DES ANGES.

The next day Monsieur Le Prun returned. His vanity ascribed the manifest
agitation of Lucille's manner to feelings very unlike the distrust,
alarm, and aversion which, since her last night's adventure, had filled
her mind. He came, however, armed with votive evidences of his passion,
alike more substantial and more welcome than the gallant speeches in
which he dealt. He brought her, among other jewels, a suit of brilliants
which must have cost alone some fifteen or twenty thousand francs. He
seemed to take a delight in overpowering her with the costly exuberance
of his presents. Was there in this a latent distrust of his own personal
resources, and an anxiety to astound and enslave by means of his
magnificence--to overwhelm his proud but dowerless bride with the almost
fabulous profusion and splendor of his wealth? Perhaps there was, and
the very magnificence which dazzled her was prompted more by meanness
than generosity.

This time he came accompanied by a gentleman, the Sieur de Blassemare,
who appeared pretty much what he actually was--a sort of general agent,
adviser, companion, and hanger-on of the rich Fermier-General.

The Sieur de Blassemare had his _titres de noblesse_, and started in
life with a fair fortune. This, however, he had seriously damaged by
play, and was now obliged to have recourse to that species of dexterity,
to support his luxuries, which, employed by others, had been the main
agent in his own ruin. The millionaire and the parvenu found him
invaluable. He was always gay, always in good humor; a man of birth and
breeding, well accepted, in spite of his suspected rogueries, in the
world of fashion--an adept in all its ways, as well as in the mysteries
of human nature; active, inquisitive, profligate; the very man to pick
up intelligence when it was needed--to execute a delicate commission, or
to advise and assist in any project of taste. In addition to all these
gifts and perfections, his fund of good spirits and scandalous anecdote
was inexhaustible, and so Monsieur Le Prun conceived him very cheaply
retained at the expense of allowing him to cheat him quietly of a few
score of crowns at an occasional game of picquet.

This fashionable sharper and voluptuary was now somewhere about
five-and-forty; but with the assistance of his dress, which was
exquisite, and the mysteries of his toilet, which was artistic in a high
degree, and above all, his gayety, which never failed him, he might
easily have passed for at least six years younger.

It was the wish of the benevolent Monsieur Le Prun to set the Viscount
quite straight in money matters; and as there still remained, like the
electric residuum in a Leyden vial after the main shock has been
discharged, some few little affairs not quite dissipated in the
explosion of his fortunes, and which, before his reappearance even in
the background of society, must be arranged, he employed his agile
aid-de-camp, the Sieur de Blassemare, to fish out these claims and
settle them.

It was not to be imagined that a young girl, perfectly conscious of her
beauty, with a great deal of vanity and an immensity of ambition, could
fail to be delighted at the magnificent presents with which her rich old
lover had that day loaded her.

She spread them upon the counterpane of her bed, and when she was tired
of admiring them, she covered herself with her treasures, hung the
flashing necklace about her neck, and clasped her little wrists in the
massive bracelets, stuck a pin here and a brooch there, and covered her
fingers with sparkling jewels; and though she had no looking-glass
larger than a playing-card in which to reflect her splendor, she yet
could judge in her own mind very satisfactorily of the effect. Then,
after she had floated about her room, and courtesied, and waved her
hands to her heart's content, she again strewed the bed with these
delightful, intoxicating jewels, which flashed actual fascination upon
her gaze.

At that moment her gratitude effervesced, and she almost felt that,
provided she were never to behold his face again, she could--_not love_,
but _like_ Monsieur Le Prun very well; she half relented, she almost
forgave him; she would have received with good-will, with thanks, and
praises, anything and everything he pleased to give her, except his
company.

Meanwhile the old Visconte, somewhat civilized and modernized by recent
restorations, was walking slowly to and fro in the little bowling-green,
side by side with Blassemare.

"Yes," he said, "with confidence I give my child into his hands. It is a
great trust, Blassemare; but he is gifted with those qualities, which,
more than wealth, conduce to married happiness. I confide in him a great
trust, but I feel I risk no sacrifice."

A comic smile, which he could not suppress, illuminated the dark
features of Blassemare, and he looked away as if studying the landscape
until it subsided.

"He is the most disinterested and generous of men," resumed the old
gentleman.

"_Ma foi_, so he is," rejoined his companion; "but Mademoiselle de
Charrebourg happened to be precisely the person he needed; birth,
beauty, simplicity--a rare alliance. You underrate the merits of
Mademoiselle de Charrebourg. He makes no such presents to the Sisters of
Charity."

"Pardon me, sir, I know her merits well; she is indeed a dutiful and
dear child."

And the Visconte's eyes filled with moisture, for his heart was softened
by her prosperity, involving, as it did, his own.

"And will make one of the handsomest as she will, no doubt, one of the
most loving wives in France," said Blassemare, gravely.

"And he will make, or I am no prophet, an admirable husband," resumed
the Visconte; "he has so much good feeling and so much----"

"So much money," suggested Blassemare, who was charmed at the Visconte's
little hypocrisy; "ay, by my faith, that he has; and as to that little
bit of scandal, those mysterious reports, you know," he added, with a
malicious simplicity.

"Yes, I know," said the Visconte, shortly.

"All sheer fiction, my dear Visconte," continued Blassemare, with a
shrug and a smile of disclaimer.

"Of course, of course," said the Visconte, peremptorily.

"It was talked about, you know," persisted his malicious companion,
"about twenty years ago, but it is quite discredited now--scouted. You
can't think how excellently our good friend the Fermier-General is
established in society. But I need not tell you, for of course you
satisfied yourself; the alliance on which I felicitate Le Prun proves
it."

The Visconte made a sort of wincing smile and a bow. He saw that
Blassemare was making a little scene out of his insincerities for his
own private entertainment. But there is a sort of conventional hypocrisy
which had become habitual to them both. It was like a pair of blacklegs
cheating one another for practice with their eyes open. So Blassemare
presented his snuff-box, and the Visconte, with equal _bonhomie_, took
a pinch, and the game was kept up pleasantly between them.

Meanwhile Lucille, in her chamber, the window of which opened upon the
bowling-green, caught a word or two of the conversation we have just
sketched. What she heard was just sufficient to awaken the undefined but
anxious train of ideas which had become connected with the image of
Monsieur Le Prun. Something seemed all at once to sadden and quench the
fire that blazed in her diamonds; they were disenchanted; her heart no
longer danced in their light. With a heavy sigh she turned to the drawer
where the charmed vial lay; she took it out; she weighed it in her hand.

"After all," she said, "it _is_ but a toy. Why should it trouble me?
What harm _can_ be in it?"

She placed it among the golden store that lay spread upon her coverlet.
But it would not assimilate with those ornaments; on the contrary, it
looked only more quaint and queer, like a suspicious stranger among
them. She hurriedly took it away, more dissatisfied, somehow, than ever.
She inwardly felt that there was danger in it, but what could it be?
what its purpose, significance, or power? Conjecture failed her. There
it lay, harmless and pretty for the present, but pregnant with unknown
mischief, like a painted egg, stolen from a serpent's nest, which time
and temperature are sure to hatch at last.

The strangest circumstance about it was, that she could not make up her
mind to part with or destroy it. It exercised over her the fascination
of a guilty companionship. She hated but could not give it up. And yet,
after all, what a trifle to fret the spirits even of a girl!

It is wonderful how rapidly impressions of pain or fear, if they be not
renewed, lose their influence upon the conduct and even upon the
spirits. The scene in the glen, the image of the unprepossessing and
mysterious pythoness, and the substance and manner of the sinister
warning she communicated, were indeed fixed in her memory ineffaceably.
But every day that saw her marriage approach in security and peace, and
her preparations proceed without molestation, served to dissipate her
fears and to obliterate the force of that hated scene.

It was, therefore, only now and then that the odd and menacing
occurrence recurred to her memory with a depressing and startling
effect. At such moments, it might be of weakness, the boding words,
"Don't marry him; if you do you shall see me again," smote upon her
heart like the voice of a specter, and she felt that chill, succeeded by
vague and gloomy anxiety, which superstition ascribes to the passing
presence of a spirit from the grave.

"I don't think you are happy, dear Lucille, or may be you are offended
with me," said Julie St. Pierre, turning her soft blue eyes full upon
her handsome companion, and taking her hand timidly between her own.

They were sitting together on a wild bank, shaded by a screen of
brushwood, in the park. Lucille had been silent, abstracted, and, as it
seemed, almost sullen during their walk, and poor little timid Julie,
who cherished for her girlish friend that sort of devotion with which
gentler and perhaps better natures are so often inspired by firmer
wills, and more fiery tempers, was grieved and perplexed.

"Tell me, Lucille, are you angry with me?"

"_I_ angry! no, indeed; and angry with you, my dear, _dear_ little
friend! I could not be, dear Julie, even were I to try."

And so they kissed heartily again and again.

"Then," said Julie, sitting down by her, and taking her hand more firmly
in hers, and looking with such a loving interest as nothing could resist
in her face, "you are unhappy. Why don't you tell me what it is that
grieves you? I dare say I could give you very wise counsel, and, at all
events, console you. At the convent the pensioners used all to come to
me when they were in trouble, and, I assure you, I always gave them good
advice."

"But I am not unhappy."

"Really?"

"No, indeed."

"Well, shall I tell you? I thought you were unhappy because you are
going to be married to my uncle."

"Folly, folly, my dear little prude. Your uncle is a very good man, and
a very grand match. I ought to be delighted at a prospect so brilliant."

Even while Lucille spoke, she felt a powerful impulse to tell her little
companion _all_--her fondness for Dubois, her aversion for Monsieur Le
Prun, the scene with the strange woman, and her own forebodings; but
such a confession would have been difficult to reconcile with her fixed
resolution to let the affair take its course, and at all hazards marry
the man whom, it was vain to disguise it from herself, she disliked,
distrusted, and feared.

"I was going to give you comfort by my own story. I never told you
before that _I_, too, am affianced."

"Affianced! and to whom?"

"To the Marquis de Secqville."

"Hey! Why that is the very gentleman of whom Monsieur de Blassemare told
us such wicked stories the other day."

"Did he?" she said, with a sigh. "Well, I often feared he was a
prodigal; but heaven, I trust, will reclaim him."

"But you do not love him?"

"No. I never saw him but once."

"And are you happy?"

"Yes, quite happy now; but, dear Lucille, I was very miserable once. You
must know that shortly after we were betrothed, when I was placed in the
convent at Rouen, there was a nice girl there, of whom I soon grew very
fond. Her brother, Henri, used to come almost every day to see her. He
was about three years older than I, and so brave and beautiful. I did
not know that I loved him until his sister went away, and his visits, of
course, ceased; and when I could not see him any more, I thought my
heart would break."

"Poor little Julie!"

"I was afraid of being observed when I wept, but I used to cry to myself
all night long, and wish to die, as my mother used to fear long ago I
would do before I came to be as old as I am now; and I could not even
hear of him, for my friend, his sister, had married, and was living near
Caen, and so we were quite separated."

"You were, _indeed_, very miserable, my poor little friend."

"Yes; but at last, after a whole year, she was passing through Rouen,
and so she came to the convent to see me. Oh, when I saw her my heart
fluttered so that I thought I should have choked. I don't know why it
was, but I was afraid to ask for him; but at last, finding she would not
speak of him at all, which I thought was ill-natured, though indeed it
was not, I _did_ succeed, and asked her how he was; then all at once she
began to cry, for he was dead; and knowing _that_, I forgot
everything--I lost sight of everything--they said I fainted. And when I
awoke again there was a good many of the sisters and some of the
pensioners round me, and my friend still weeping; and the superioress
was there, too, but I did not heed them, but only said I would not
believe he was dead. Then I was very ill for more than a month, and my
uncle came to see me; but I don't think he knew what had made me so; and
as soon as I grew better the superioress was very angry with me, and
told me it was very wicked, which it may have been, but indeed I could
not help it; and she gave me in charge to sister Eugenie to bring me to
a sense of my sinfulness, seeing that I ought not to have loved any one
but him to whom I was betrothed."

"Alas! poor Julie, I suppose she was a harsh preceptress also."

"No, indeed; on the contrary, she was very kind and gentle. She was so
young--only twenty-three--dear sister Eugenie!--and so pretty, though
she was very pale, and oh, so thin; and when we were both alone in her
room she used to let me tell her all my story, and she used to draw her
hand over her pretty face, and cry so bitterly in return, and kiss me,
and shake me by the hands, that I often thought she must once have loved
some one also herself, and was weeping because she could never see him
again; so I grew to love her very much; but I did not know all that time
that sister Eugenie was dying. The day I took leave of her she seemed as
if she was going to tell me something about herself, and I think now if
I had pressed her she would. I am very sorry I did not, for it would
have been pleasant to me as long as I live to have given the dear sister
any comfort, and shown how truly I loved her. But it was not so, and
only four months after we parted she died; but I hope we may meet, where
I am sure she is gone, in heaven, and then she will know how much I
loved her, and how good, and gentle, and kind, I always thought her."

Poor little Julie shed tears at these words.

"Now I do not love the Marquis," she continued, "nor I am sure does he
love me. It will be but a match of convenience. I suppose he will
continue to follow his amusements and I will live quietly at home; so
after all it will make but little change to me, and I will still be as I
am now, the widow of poor Henri."

"You are so tranquil, dear Julie, because he is dead. Happy is it for
you that he is in his grave. Come, let us return."

They began to walk toward the cottage.

"And how would you spend your days, Julie, had you the choice of your
own way of life?"

"I would take the vail. I would like to be a nun, and to die early, like
sister Eugenie."

Lucille looked at her with undisguised astonishment.

"Take the vail!" she exclaimed, "so young, so pretty. _Parbleu_, I would
rather work in the fields or beg my bread on the high-roads. Take the
vail--no, no, no. Marguerite told me I had a great-aunt who took the
vail, and three years after died mad in a convent in Paris. Ah, it is a
sad life, Julie, it is a sad life!"

It was the wish of the Fermier-General that his nuptials should be
celebrated with as much privacy as possible. The reader, therefore, will
lose nothing by our dismissing the ceremony as rapidly as may be. Let it
suffice to say, that it _did_ take place, and to describe the
arrangements with which it was immediately succeeded.

Though Monsieur Le Prun had become the purchaser of the Charrebourg
estate, he did not choose to live upon it. About eight leagues from
Paris he possessed a residence better suited to his tastes and plans. It
was said to have once belonged to a scion of royalty, who had contrived
it with a view to realizing upon earth a sort of Mahomedan paradise.
Nothing indeed could have been better devised for luxury as well as
seclusion. From some Romish legend attaching to its site, it had
acquired the name of the Chateau des Anges, a title which unhappily did
not harmonize with the traditions more directly connected with the
building itself.

It was a very spacious structure, some of its apartments were even
magnificent, and the entire fabric bore overpowering evidences, alike in
its costly materials and finish, and in the details of its design, of
the prodigal and voluptuous magnificence to which it owed its existence.

It was environed by lordly forests, circle within circle, which were
pierced by long straight walks diverging from common centers, and almost
losing themselves in the shadowy distance. Studded, too, with a series
of interminable fishponds, encompassed by hedges of beech, yew, and
evergreens of enormous height and impenetrable density, under whose
emerald shadows water-fowl of all sorts, from the princely swan down to
the humble water-hen, were sailing and gliding this way and that, like
rival argosies upon the seas.

The view of the chateau itself, when at last, through those dense and
extensive cinctures of sylvan scenery, you had penetrated to its site,
was, from almost every point, picturesque and even beautiful.

Successive terraces of almost regal extent, from above whose marble
balustrades and rows of urns the tufted green of rare and rich plants,
in a long, gorgeous wreath of foliage, was peeping, ran, tier above
tier, conducting the eye, among statues and graceful shrubs, to the
gables and chimneys of the quaint but vast chateau itself. The forecourt
upon which the great avenue debouched was large enough for the stately
muster of a royal levee; and at intervals, upon the balustrade which
surrounded it, were planted a long file of stone statues, each
originally holding a lamp, which, however, the altered habits of the
place had long since dismounted.

If the place had been specially contrived, as it was said to have been,
for privacy, it could not have been better planned. It was literally
buried in an umbrageous labyrinth of tufted forest. Even the great
avenue commanded no view of the chateau, but abutted upon a fountain,
backed by a towering screen of foliage, where the approach divided, and
led by a double road to the court we have described. In fact, except
from the domain itself, the very chimneys of the chateau were invisible
for a circuit of miles around, the nearest point from which a glance of
its roof could be caught being the heights situated a full league away.

If the truth must be told, then, Monsieur Le Prun was conscious of some
disparity in point of years between himself and his beautiful wife; and
although he affected the most joyous confidence upon the subject, he was
nevertheless as ill at ease as most old fellows under similar
circumstances. It soon became, therefore, perfectly plain, that the
palace to which the wealthy bridegroom had transported his beautiful
wife was, in truth, but one of those enchanted castles in which enamored
genii in fairy legends are described as guarding their captive
princesses--a gorgeous and luxurious prison, to which there was no
access, from which no escape, and where amidst all the treasures and
delights of a sensuous paradise, the captive beauty languished and
saddened.

END OF PART I.


[From the Examiner.]

TO CHARLES DICKENS.

BY WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR.

      Call we for harp or song?
    Accordant numbers, measured out, belong
      Alone, we hear, to bard.
    Let him this badge, for ages worn, discard;
      Richer and nobler now
    Than when the close-trimm'd laurel mark'd his brow,
      And from one fount his thirst
    Was slaked, and from none other proudly burst
      Neighing, the winged steed.
    Gloriously fresh were those young days indeed!
      Clear, if confined, the view:
    The feet of giants swept that early dew;
      More graceful came behind,
    And golden tresses waved upon the wind.

      Pity and Love were seen
    In earnest converse on the humble green;
      Grief too was there, but Grief
    Sat down with them, nor struggled from relief.
      Strong Pity was, strong he,
    But little love was bravest of the three.
      At what the sad one said
    Often he smiled, though Pity shook her head.
      Descending from their clouds,
    The Muses mingled with admiring crowds:
      Each had her ear inclined,
    Each caught and spoke the language of mankind
      From choral thraldom free...
    Dickens! didst thou teach _them_, or they teach _thee_?

_September, 1850._


[From "Light and Darkness," by Catharine Crowe, Author of "The Night
Side of Nature," &c. &c.]

THE TWO MISS SMITHS.

In a certain town in the West of England, which shall be nameless, there
dwelt two maiden ladies of the name of Smith; each possessing a small
independence, each residing, with a single maid-servant, in a small
house, the drawing-room floor of which was let, whenever lodgers could
be found; each hovering somewhere about the age of fifty, and each
hating the other with a restless and implacable enmity. The origin of
this aversion was the similarity of their names; each was Miss C. Smith,
the one being called Cecilia, the other Charlotte--a circumstance which
gave rise to such innumerable mistakes and misunderstandings, as were
sufficient to maintain these ladies in a constant state of irritability
and warfare. Letters, messages, invitations, parcels, bills, were daily
missent, and opened by the wrong person; thus exposing the private
affairs of one to the other; and as their aversion had long ago
extinguished everything like delicacy on either side, any information so
acquired was used without scruple to their mutual annoyance. Presents,
too, of fruit, vegetables, or other delicacies from the neighboring
gentry, not unfrequently found their way to the wrong house; and if
unaccompanied by a letter, which took away all excuse for mistake, they
were appropriated without remorse, even when the appropriating party
felt confident in her heart that the article was not intended for her;
and this not from greediness or rapacity, but from the absolute delight
they took in vexing each other.

It must be admitted, also, that this well-known enmity was occasionally
played upon by the frolic-loving part of the community, both high and
low; so that over and above the genuine mistakes, which were of
themselves quite enough to keep the poor ladies in hot water, every now
and then some little hoax was got up and practiced upon them, such as
fictitious love-letters, anonymous communications, and so forth. It
might have been imagined, as they were not answerable for their names,
and as they were mutual sufferers by the similarity--one having as much
right to complain of this freak of fortune as the other, that they might
have entered into a compact of forbearance, which would have been
equally advantageous to either party; but their naturally acrimonious
dispositions prevented this, and each continued as angry with the other
as she could have been if she had a sole and indefeasible right to the
appellation of _C. Smith_, and her rival had usurped it in a pure spirit
of annoyance and opposition. To be quite just, however, we must observe
that Miss Cecilia was much the worse of the two; by judicious management
Miss Charlotte might have been tamed, but the malice of Miss Cecilia was
altogether inexorable.

By the passing of the Reform Bill, the little town wherein dwelt these
belligerent powers received a very considerable accession of importance;
it was elevated into a borough, and had a whole live member to itself,
which, with infinite pride and gratification, it sent to parliament,
after having extracted from him all manner of pledges, and loaded him
with all manner of instructions as to how he should conduct himself
under every conceivable circumstance; not to mention a variety of bills
for the improvement of the roads and markets, the erection of a
town-hall, and the reform of the systems of watching, paving, lighting,
&c., the important and consequential little town of B----.

A short time previous to the first election--an event which was
anticipated by the inhabitants with the most vivid interest--one of the
candidates, a country gentleman who resided some twenty miles off, took
a lodging in the town, and came there with his wife and family, in
order, by a little courtesy and a few entertainments, to win the hearts
of the electors and their friends; and his first move was to send out
invitations for a tea and card party, which, in due time, when the
preparations were completed, was to be followed by a ball. There was but
one milliner and dressmaker of any consideration in the town of B----,
and it may be imagined that on so splendid an occasion her services were
in great request--so much so, that in the matter of head-dresses, she
not only found that it would be impossible, in so short a period, to
fulfill the commands of her customers, but also that she had neither the
material nor the skill to give them satisfaction. It was, therefore,
settled that she should send off an order to a house in Exeter, which
was the county town, for a cargo of caps, toquets, turbans, &c., fit for
all ages and faces--"such as were not disposed of to be returned;" and
the ladies consented to wait, with the best patience they could, for
this interesting consignment, which was to arrive, without fail, on the
Wednesday, Thursday being the day fixed for the party. But the last
coach arrived on Wednesday night without the expected boxes; however,
the coachman brought a message for Miss Gibbs, the milliner, assuring
her that they would be there the next morning without fail.

Accordingly, when the first Exeter coach rattled through the little
street of B----, which was about half-past eleven, every head that was
interested in the freight was to be seen looking anxiously out for the
deal boxes; and, sure enough, there they were--three of them--large
enough to contain caps for the whole town. Then there was a rush up
stairs for their bonnets and shawls; and in a few minutes troops of
ladies, young and old, were seen hurrying toward the market-place, where
dwelt Miss Gibbs--the young in pursuit of artificial flowers, gold
bands, and such like adornments--the elderly in search of a more mature
order of decoration.

Amongst the candidates for finery, nobody was more eager than the two
Miss Smiths; and they had reason to be so, not only because they had
neither of them anything at all fit to be worn at Mrs. Hanaway's party,
which was in a style much above the entertainments they were usually
invited to, but also because they both invariably wore turbans, and each
was afraid that the other might carry off the identical turban that
might be most desirable for herself. Urged by this feeling, so alert
were they, that they were each standing at their several windows when
the coach passed, with their bonnets and cloaks actually on--ready to
start for the plate!--determined to reach Miss Gibbs's in time to
witness the opening of the boxes. But "who shall control his fate?" Just
as Miss Cecilia was stepping off her threshold, she was accosted by a
very gentlemanly looking person, who, taking off his hat, with an air
really irresistible, begged to know if he had "the honor of seeing Miss
Smith"--a question which was of course answered in the affirmative.

"I was not quite sure," said he, "whether I was right, for I had
forgotten the number; but I thought it was sixty," and he looked at the
figures on the door.

"This _is_ sixty, sir," said Miss Cecilia; adding to herself, "I wonder
if it was sixteen he was sent to?" for at number sixteen lived Miss
Charlotte.

"I was informed, madam," pursued the gentleman, "that I could be
accommodated with apartments here--that you had a first floor to let."

"That is quite true, sir," replied Miss Cecilia, delighted to let her
rooms, which had been some time vacant, and doubly gratified when the
stranger added, "I come from Bath, and was recommended by a friend of
yours, indeed probably a relation, as she bears the same name--Miss
Joanna Smith."

"I know Miss Joanna very well, sir," replied Miss Cecilia; "pray, walk
up stairs, and I'll show you the apartments directly. (For," thought
she, "I must not let him go out of the house till he has taken them, for
fear he should find out his mistake.) Very nice rooms, sir, you
see--everything clean and comfortable--a pretty view of the canal in
front--just between the baker's and the shoemaker's; you'll get a peep,
sir, if you step to this window. Then it's uncommonly lively; the Exeter
and Plymouth coaches, up and down, rattling through all day long, and
indeed all night too, for the matter of that. A beautiful little
bedroom, back, too, sir--Yes, as you observe, it certainly does look
over a brick-kiln; but there's no dust--not the least in the world--for
I never allow the windows to be opened: altogether, there can't be a
pleasanter situation than it is."

The stranger, it must be owned, seemed less sensible of all these
advantages than he ought to have been; however he engaged the
apartments: it was but for a short time, as he had come there about some
business connected with the election; and as Miss Joanna had so
particularly recommended him to the lodging, he did not like to
disoblige her. So the bargain was struck: the maid received orders to
provision the garrison with bread, butter, tea, sugar, &c., whilst the
gentleman returned to the inn to dispatch Boots with his portmanteau and
carpet-bag.

"You were only just in time, sir," observed Miss Cecilia, as they
descended the stairs, "for I expected a gentleman to call at twelve
o'clock to-day, who, I am sure, would have taken the lodgings."

"I should be sorry to stand in the way," responded the stranger, who
would not have been at all sorry for an opportunity of backing out of
the bargain. "Perhaps you had better let him have them--I can easily get
accommodated elsewhere."

"Oh dear, no, sir; dear me! I wouldn't do such a thing for the world!"
exclaimed Miss Cecilia, who had only thrown out this little inuendo by
way of binding her lodger to his bargain, lest, on discovering his
mistake, he should think himself at liberty to annul the agreement. For
well she knew that it _was_ a mistake: Miss Joanna of Bath was Miss
Charlotte's first cousin, and, hating Miss Cecilia, as she was in duty
bound to do, would rather have sent her a dose of arsenic than a lodger,
any day. She had used every precaution to avoid the accident that had
happened, by writing on a card, "Miss Charlotte Smith, No. 16, High
street, B----, _opposite the linendrapers shop_," but the thoughtless
traveler, never dreaming of the danger in which he stood, lost the card,
and, trusting to his memory, fell into the snare.

Miss Cecilia had been so engrossed by her anxiety to hook this fish
before her rival could have a chance of throwing out a bait for him,
that, for a time, she actually forgot Miss Gibbs and the turban; but now
that point was gained, and she felt sure of her man, her former care
revived with all its force, and she hurried along the street toward the
market-place, in a fever of apprehension lest she should be too late.
The matter certainly looked ill; for, as she arrived breathless at the
door, she saw groups of self-satisfied faces issuing from it, and,
amongst the rest, the obnoxious Miss Charlotte's physiognomy appeared,
looking more pleased than anybody.

"Odious creature!" thought Miss Cecilia; "as if she supposed that any
turban in the world could make her look tolerable!" But Miss Charlotte
did suppose it; and moreover she had just secured the very identical
turban that of all the turbans that ever were made was most likely to
accomplish this desideratum--at least so she opined.

Poor Miss Cecilia! Up stairs she rushed, bouncing into Miss Gibbs's
little room, now strewed with finery. "Well, Miss Gibbs, I hope you have
something that will suit me?"

"Dear me, mem," responded Miss Gibbs, "what a pity you did not come a
little sooner. The only two turbans we had are just gone--Mrs. Gosling
took one, and Miss Charlotte Smith the other--two of the
beautifulest--here they are, indeed--you shall see them;" and she opened
the boxes in which they were deposited, and presented them to the
grieved eye of Miss Cecilia.

She stood aghast! The turbans were very respectable turbans indeed; but
to her disappointed and eager desires they appeared worthy of Mahomet
the Prophet, or the grand Sultana, or any other body, mortal or
immortal, that has ever been reputed to wear turbans. And this
consummation of perfection she had lost! lost just by a neck! missed it
by an accident, that, however gratifying she had thought it at the time,
she now felt was but an inadequate compensation for her present
disappointment. But there was no remedy. Miss Gibbs had nothing fit to
make a turban of; besides, Miss Cecilia would have scorned to appear in
any turban that Miss Gibbs could have compiled, when her rival was to be
adorned with a construction of such superhuman excellence. No! the only
consolation she had was to scold Miss Gibbs for not having kept the
turbans till she had seen them, and for not having sent for a greater
number of turbans. To which objurgations Miss Gibbs could only answer:
"That she had been extremely sorry indeed, when she saw the ladies were
bent upon having the turbans, as she had ordered two entirely with a
view to Miss Cecilia's accommodation; and moreover that she was never
more surprised in her life than when Mrs. Gosling desired one of them
might be sent to her, because Mrs. Gosling never wore turbans; and if
Miss Gibbs had only foreseen that she would have pounced upon it in that
way, she, Miss Gibbs, would have taken care she should never have seen
it at all," &c., &c., &c.,--all of which the reader may believe, if he
or she choose.

As for Miss Cecilia, she was implacable, and she flounced out of the
house, and through the streets, to her own door, in a temper of mind
that rendered it fortunate, as far as the peace of the town of B---- was
concerned, that no accident brought her in contact with Miss Charlotte
on the way.

As soon as she got into her parlor she threw off her bonnet and shawl,
and plunging into her arm-chair, she tried to compose her mind
sufficiently to take a calm view of the dilemma, and determine on what
line of conduct to pursue--whether to send an excuse to Mrs. Hanaway, or
whether to go to the party in one of her old head-dresses. Either
alternative was insupportable. To lose the party, the game at loo, the
distinction of being seen in such good society--it was too provoking;
besides, very likely people would suppose she had not been invited; Miss
Charlotte, she had no doubt, would try to make them believe so. But
then, on the other hand, to wear one of her old turbans was so
mortifying--they were so very shabby, so unfashionable--on an occasion,
too, when everybody would be so well-dressed! Oh, it was
aggravating--vexatious in the extreme! She passed the day in
reflection--chewing the cud of sweet and bitter fancies; recalling to
herself how well she looked in the turban--for she had tried it on;
figuring what would have been Miss Charlotte's mortification if she had
been the disappointed person--how triumphantly she, Miss Cecilia, would
have marched into the room with the turban on her head--how crestfallen
the other would have looked; and then she varied her occupation by
resuscitating all her old turbans, buried in antique band-boxes deep in
dust, and trying whether it were possible, out of their united
materials, to concoct one of the present fashionable shape and
dimensions. But the thing was impracticable: the new turban was composed
of crimson satin and gold lace, hers of pieces of muslin and gauze.

When the mind is very much engrossed, whether the subject of
contemplation be pleasant or unpleasant, time flies with inconceivable
rapidity; and Miss Cecilia was roused from her meditations by hearing
the clock in the passage strike four, warning her that it was necessary
to come to some decision, as the hour fixed for the party, according to
the primitive customs of B----, was half-past seven, when the knell of
the clock was followed by a single knock at the door, and the next
moment her maid walked into the room with--what do you think?--the
identical crimson and gold turban in her hand!

"What a beauty!" cried Susan, turning it round, that she might get a
complete view of it in all its phases.

"Was there any message, Sue?" inquired Miss Cecilia, gasping with
agitation, for her heart was in her throat.

"No, ma'am," replied Sue; "Miss Gibbs's girl just left it; she said it
should have come earlier, but she had so many places to go to."

"And she's gone, is she, Susan?"

"Yes, ma'am, she went directly--she said she hadn't got half through
yet."

"Very well, Susan, you may go; and remember, I'm not at home if anybody
calls; and if any message comes here from Miss Gibbs, you'll say I'm
gone out, and you don't expect me home till very late."

"Very well, ma'am."

"And I say, Susan, if they send here to make any inquiries about that
turban, you'll say you know nothing about it, and send them away."

"Very well, ma'am," said Susan, and down she dived to the regions below.

Instead of four o'clock, how ardently did Miss Cecilia wish it was
seven; for the danger of the next three hours was imminent. Well she
understood how the turban had got there--it was a mistake of the
girl--but the chance was great that, before seven o'clock arrived, Miss
Charlotte would take fright at not receiving her head-dress, and would
send to Miss Gibbs to demand it, when the whole thing would be found
out. However no message came: at five o'clock, when the milk-boy rang,
Miss Cecilia thought she should have fainted: but that was the only
alarm. At six she began to dress, and at seven she stood before her
glass in full array, with the turban on her head. She thought she had
never looked so well; indeed, she was sure she had not. The magnitude of
the thing gave her an air, and indeed a feeling of dignity and
importance that she had never been sensible of before. The gold lace
looked brilliant even by the light of her single tallow candle; what
would it do in a well-illumined drawing-room! Then the color was
strikingly becoming, and suited her hair exactly--Miss Cecilia, we must
here observe, was quite gray; but she wore a frontlet of dark curls, and
a little black silk skull-cap, fitted close to her head, which kept all
neat and tight under the turban.

She had not far to go; nevertheless, she thought it would be as well to
set off at once, for fear of accidents, even though she lingered on the
way to fill up the time, for every moment the danger augmented; so she
called to Susan to bring her cloak, and her calash, and her overalls,
and being well packed up by the admiring Sue, who declared the turban
was "without exception the beautifulest thing she ever saw," she
started; determined, however, not to take the direct way, but to make a
little circuit by a back street, lest, by ill luck, she should fall foul
of the enemy.

"Susan," said she, pausing as she was stepping off the threshold, "if
anybody calls you'll say I have been gone to Mrs. Hanaway's some time;
and, Susan, just put a pin in this calash to keep it back, it falls over
my eyes so that I can't see." And Susan pinned a fold in the calash, and
away went the triumphant Miss Cecilia. She did not wish to be guilty of
the vulgarity of arriving first at the party; so she lingered about till
it wanted a quarter to eight, and then she knocked at Mrs. Hanaway's
door, which a smart footman immediately opened, and, with the alertness
for which many of his order are remarkable, proceeded to disengage the
lady from her external coverings--the cloak, the overalls, the calash;
and then, without giving her time to breathe, he rushed up the stairs,
calling out "Miss Cecilia Smith;" whilst the butler, who stood at the
drawing-room door, threw it open, reiterating, "Miss Cecilia Smith;" and
in she went. But, O reader, little do you think, and little did she
think, where the turban was that she imagined to be upon her head, and
under the supposed shadow of which she walked into the room with so much
dignity and complacence. It was below in the hall, lying on the floor,
fast in the calash, to which Susan, ill-starred wench! had pinned it;
and the footman, in his cruel haste, had dragged them both off together.

With only some under-trappings on her cranium, and altogether
unconscious of her calamity, smiling and bowing, Miss Cecilia advanced
toward her host and hostess, who received her in the most gracious
manner, thinking, certainly, that her taste in a head-dress was
peculiar, and that she was about the most extraordinary figure they had
ever beheld, but supposing that such was the fashion she chose to
adopt--the less astonished or inclined to suspect the truth, from having
heard a good deal of the eccentricities of the two spinsters of B----.
But to the rest of the company, the appearance she made was
inexplicable; they had been accustomed to see her ill dressed, and oddly
dressed, but such a flight as this they were not prepared for. Some
whispered that she had gone mad; others suspected that it must be
accident--that somehow or other she had forgotten to put on her
head-dress; but even if it were so, the joke was an excellent one, and
nobody cared enough for her to sacrifice their amusement by setting her
right. So Miss Cecilia, blessed in her delusion, triumphant and happy,
took her place at the whist table, anxiously selecting a position which
gave her a full view of the door, in order that she might have the
indescribable satisfaction of seeing the expression of Miss Charlotte's
countenance when she entered the room--that is, if she came; the
probability was, that mortification would keep her away.

But no such thing--Miss Charlotte had too much spirit to be beaten out
of the field in that manner. She had waited with patience for her
turban, because Miss Gibbs had told her, that, having many things to
send out, it might be late before she got it; but when half-past six
arrived, she became impatient, and dispatched her maid to fetch it. The
maid returned, with "Miss Gibbs's respects, and the girl was still out
with the things; she would be sure to call at Miss Charlotte's before
she came back." At half-past seven there was another message, to say
that the turban had not arrived; by this time the girl had done her
errands, and Miss Gibbs, on questioning her, discovered the truth. But
it was too late--the mischief was irreparable--Susan averring, with
truth, that her mistress had gone to Mrs. Hanaway's party some time,
with the turban on her head.

We will not attempt to paint Miss Charlotte's feelings--that would be a
vain endeavor. Rage took possession of her soul; her attire was already
complete, all but the head-dress, for which she was waiting. She
selected the best turban she had, threw on her cloak and calash, and in
a condition of mind bordering upon frenzy, she rushed forth, determined,
be the consequences what they might, to claim her turban, and expose
Miss Cecilia's dishonorable conduct before the whole company.

By the time she arrived at Mrs. Hanaway's door, owing to the delays that
had intervened, it was nearly half-past eight; the company had all
arrived; and whilst the butler and footmen were carrying up the
refreshments, one of the female servants of the establishment had come
into the hall, and was endeavoring to introduce some sort of order and
classification amongst the mass of external coverings that had been
hastily thrown off by the ladies; so, when Miss Charlotte knocked, she
opened the door and let her in, and proceeded to relieve her of her
wraps.

"I suppose I'm very late," said Miss Charlotte, dropping into a chair to
seize a moment's rest, whilst the woman drew off her boots; for she was
out of breath with haste, and heated with fury.

"I believe everybody's come, ma'am," said the woman.

"I should have been here some time since," proceeded Miss Charlotte,
"but the most shameful trick has been played me about my--my--Why--I
declare--I really believe--" and she bent forward and picked up the
turban--the identical turban, which, disturbed by the maid-servant's
maneuvers, was lying upon the floor, still attached to the calash by
Sukey's unlucky pin.

Was there ever such a triumph? Quick as lightning, the old turban was
off and the new one on, the maid with bursting sides assisting in the
operation; and then, with a light step and a proud heart, up walked Miss
Charlotte, and was ushered into the drawing-room.

As the door opened, the eyes of the rivals met. Miss Cecilia's feelings
were those of disappointment and surprise. "Then she has got a turban
too! How could she have got it?"--and she was vexed that her triumph was
not so complete as she had expected. But Miss Charlotte was in
ecstasies. It may be supposed she was not slow to tell the story; it
soon flew round the room, and the whole party were thrown into
convulsions of laughter. Miss Cecilia alone was not in the secret; and
as she was successful at cards, and therefore in good humor, she added
to their mirth, by saying that she was glad to see everybody so merry,
and by assuring Mrs. Hanaway, when she took her leave, that she had
spent a delightful evening, and that her party was the gayest she had
ever seen in B----.

"I am really ashamed," said Mrs. Hanaway, "at allowing the poor woman to
be the jest of my company; but I was afraid to tell her the cause of our
laughter, from the apprehension of what might have followed her
discovery of the truth."

"And it must be admitted," said her husband, "that she well deserves the
mortification that awaits her when she discovers the truth."

Poor Miss Cecilia _did_ discover the truth, and never was herself again.
She parted with her house, and went to live with a relation at Bristol;
but her spirit was broken; and, after going through all the stages of a
discontented old age, ill-temper, peevishness, and fatuity--she closed
her existence, as usual with persons of her class, unloved and
unlamented.


SIR NICHOLAS AT MARSTON MOOR.

BY THE AUTHOR OF LILLIAN.

    I.

    To horse, to horse, Sir Nicholas; the clarion's note is high;
    To horse, to horse, Sir Nicholas; the huge drum makes reply:
    Ere this hath Lucas marchéd with his gallant cavaliers,
    And the bray of Rupert's trumpets grows fainter on our ears;
    To horse, to horse, Sir Nicholas; white Guy is at the door;
    And the vulture whets his beak o'er the field of Marston Moor.
    Up rose the lady Alice from her brief and broken prayer;
    And she brought a silken standard down the narrow turret-stair:
    Oh, many were the tears those radiant eyes had shed,
    As she worked the bright word "Glory" in the gay and glancing
      thread;
    And mournful was the smile that o'er those beauteous features ran,
    As she said: "It is your lady's gift, unfurl it in the van."
    "It shall flutter, noble wench, where the best and boldest ride;
    Through the steel-clad files of Skippon, and the black dragoons of
      Pride;
    The recreant soul of Fairfax will feel a sicklier qualm,
    And the rebel lips of Oliver give out a louder psalm,
    When they see my lady's gew-gaw flaunt bravely on their wing,
    And hear her loyal soldier's shout, For God and for the king!"


    II.

    Tis noon; the ranks are broken along the royal line;
    They fly, the braggarts of the court, the bullies of the Rhine:
    Stout Langley's cheer is heard no more, and Astley's helm is down;
    And Rupert sheathes his rapier with a curse and with a frown:
    And cold Newcastle mutters, as he follows in the flight,
    "The German boar had better far have supped in York to-night."
    The knight is all alone, his steel cap cleft in twain,
    His good buff jerkin crimsoned o'er with many a gory stain;
    But still he waves the standard, and cries amid the rout,
    "For church and king, fair gentlemen, spur on, and fight it out!"--
    And now he wards a roundhead's pike, and now he hums a stave,
    And here he quotes a stage-play, and there he fells a knave.
    Good speed to thee, Sir Nicholas! thou hast no thought of fear,
    Good speed to thee, Sir Nicholas! but fearful odds are here.
    The traitors ring thee round, and with every blow and thrust,
    "Down, down," they cry, "with Belial, down with him to the dust!"
    "I would," quoth grim old Oliver, "that Belial's trusty sword
    This day were doing battle for the saints and for the Lord!"


    III.

    The lady Alice sits with her maidens in her bower;
    The gray-haired warden watches on the castle's highest tower.--
    "What news, what news, old Anthony?"--"The field is lost and won;
    The ranks of war are melting as the mists beneath the sun;
    And a wounded man speeds hither,--I am old and cannot see,
    Or sure I am that sturdy step my master's step should be."
    "I bring thee back the standard from as rude and red a fray
    As e'er was proof of soldier's thews, or theme for minstrel's lay:
    Bid Hubert fetch the silver bowl, and liquor quantum suff.;
    I'll make a shift to drain it, ere I part with boot and buff;
    Though Guy through many a gaping wound is breathing out his life,
    And I come to thee a landless man, my fond and faithful wife.
    Sweet, we will fill our money-bags, and freight a ship for France,
    And mourn in merry Paris for this poor realm's mischance:
    Or, if the worst betide me, why better ax or rope,
    Than life with Lenthal for a King, and Peters for a Pope!
    Alas, alas, my gallant Guy!--out on the crop-eared boor,
    That sent me with my standard on foot from Marston Moor."


[From Fraser's Magazine.]

LIFE AT A WATERING PLACE.

ACCIDENTS WILL HAPPEN.

"Hurrah, old fellow!" shouted Ashburner's host, on the seventh morning
of his visit; "here's a letter from Carl. I have been expecting it, and
he has been expecting us, some time. So prepare yourself to start
to-morrow."

"He can't have been expecting _me_, you know," suggested the guest, who,
though remarkably domesticated for so short a time, hardly felt himself
yet entitled to be considered one of the family.

"Oh, _us_ means Clara, and myself, and baby, and any friends we choose
to bring,--or, I should say, who will do us the honor to accompany us.
We are hospitable people and the more the merrier. I know how much
house-room Carl has; there is always a prophet's chamber, as the parsons
call it, for such occasions. You _must_ come; there's no two ways about
that. You will see two very fine women there,--_nice persons_, as you
would say: my sisters-in-law, Miss Vanderlyn, and Mrs. Carl Benson."

"But at any rate, would it not be better to write first, and apprise him
of the additional visitor?"

"We should be there a week before our letter. _Ecoutez!_ There is no
post-office near us here, and my note would have to go to the city by a
special messenger. Then the offices along the Hudson are perfectly
antediluvian and barbarous, and mere mockery and delusion. Observe, I
speak of the small local posts; on the main routes letters travel fast
enough. You may send to Albany in nine hours; to Carl's place, which is
about two-thirds of the distance to Albany, it would take more than half
as many days,--if, indeed, it arrived at all. I remember once
propounding this problem in the _Blunder and Bluster:--'If a letter sent
from New York to Hastings, distance 22 miles, never gets there, how long
will it take one to go from New York to Red Hook, distance 110 miles?'_
We are shockingly behind you in our postal arrangements; _there_ I give
up the country. 'No, you musn't write, but come yourself,' as Penelope
said to Ulysses."

Ashburner made no further opposition, and they were off the next morning
accordingly. Before four a cart had started with the baggage, and
directions to take up Ashburner's trunks and man-servant on the way.
Soon after the coachman and groom departed with the saddle-horses,
trotters, and wagon; for Benson, meditating some months' absence, took
with him the whole of his stud, except the black colt, who was strongly
principled against going on the water, and had nearly succeeded in
breaking his master's neck on one occasion, when Harry insisted on his
embarking. The long-tailed bays were left harnessed to the
_Rockaway_,--a sort of light omnibus open at the sides, very like a
_char-à-banc_, except that the seats run crosswise, and capable of
accommodating from six to nine persons: that morning it held six,
including the maid and nurse. Benson took the reins at a quarter-past
five, and as the steamboat dock was situated at the very southern
extremity of the city, and they had three miles of terrible pavement to
traverse, besides nearly twelve of road, he arrived there just seven
minutes before seven; at which hour, to the second, the good boat
Swallow was to take wing. In a twinkling the horses were unharnessed and
embarked; the carriage instantly followed them; and Harry, after
assuring himself that all his property, animate and inanimate, was
safely shipped, had still time to purchase, for his own and his friend's
edification, the _Jacobin_, the _Blunder and Bluster_, the
_Inexpressible_, and other popular papers, which an infinity of dirty
boys were crying at the top of their not very harmonious voices.

"Our people do business pretty fast," said he, in a somewhat triumphant
tone. "How this would astonish them on the Continent! See there!" as a
family, still later than his own, arrived with a small mountain of
trunks, all of which made their way on board as if they had wings. "When
I traveled in Germany two years ago with Mrs. B. and her sister, we had
eleven packages, and it used to take half-an-hour at every place to
weigh and ticket them beforehand, not withstanding which one or two
would get lost every now and then. In my own country I have traveled in
all directions with large parties, never have been detained five minutes
for baggage, and never lost anything except once--an umbrella. Now we
are going."

The mate cried, "All ashore!" the newsboys and apple-venders
disappeared; the planks were drawn in; the long, spidery walking-beam
began to play; and the Swallow had started with her five hundred
passengers.

"Let us stroll around the boat: I want to show you how we get up these
things here."

The ladies' cabin on deck and the two general cabins below were
magnificently furnished with the most expensive material, and in the
last Parisian style, and this display and luxury were the more
remarkable as the fare was but twelve shillings for a hundred and sixty
miles. Ashburner admitted that the furniture was very elegant, but
thought it out of place, and altogether too fine for the purpose.

"So you would say, probably, that the profuse and varied dinner we shall
have is thrown away on the majority of the passengers, who bolt it in
half-an-hour. But there are some who habitually appreciate the dinner
and the furniture: it does them good, and it does the others no
harm,--nay, it does _them_ good, too. The wild man from the West, who
has but recently learned to walk on his hind legs, is dazzled with these
sofas and mirrors, and respects them more than he would more ordinary
furniture. At any rate, it's a fault on right side. The furniture of an
English hotel is enough to give a traveler a fit of the blues, such an
extreme state of fustiness it is sure to be in. Did it ever strike you,
by the way, how behindhand your countrymen are in the matter of hotels?
When a traveller passes from England into Belgium (putting France out of
the question), it is like going from Purgatory into Paradise."

"I don't think I ever stayed at a London hotel."

"Of course not; when your governor was out of town, and you not with
him, you had your club. This is exactly what all travelers in England
complain of. Everything for the exclusive use of the natives is
good--except the water, and of that you don't use much in the way of a
beverage; everything particularly tending to the comfort of strangers
and sojourners--as the hotels, for instance, is bad, dear, and
uncomfortable. I don't think you like to have foreigners among you, for
your arrangements are calculated to drive them out of the country as
fast as possible!"

"Perhaps we don't, as a general principle," said Ashburner, smiling.

"Well, I won't say that it is not the wisest policy. We have suffered
much by being too liberal to foreigners. But then you must not be
surprised at what they say about you. However, it is not worth while to
lose the view for our discussion. Come up-stairs and take a good look at
the river of rivers."

Ashburner felt no disposition to deny the beauty and grandeur of the
Hudson. At first, the shore was lined with beetling ramparts of
trap-rock. After many miles of this, the clear water spread out into a
great lake, with apparently no egress. But on turning a promontory, the
river stretched away nearly as wide as before, under wooded cliffs not
dissimilar to those of the Rhine. Then came the picturesque Catskill
mountains; and near these Harry was to stop, but Ashburner did not stop
with him. At West Point the boat had taken up, among other passengers,
two young officers of his acquaintance, then quartered in Canada. They
were going to take the tour of the lakes, including, of course, Niagara,
and offered Ashburner, if he would accompany them on this excursion
first, to show him the lions of Canada afterward. On consulting with
Benson, he found that the trip would not occupy more than a month or
five weeks, and that after that time the watering-place season would be
at its height.

"And it will be an excuse for my staying with Carl till August," Harry
continued. "The women are half crazy to be at Oldport already. I would
rather stay at Ravenswood. We shall expect you there at the end of July.
But," and here, for the first time since their acquaintance, Ashburner
perceived a slight embarrassment in his manner, "don't bring your
friends."

"Oh, dear, no!" said Ashburner, not comprehending what could have put
such a thing into the other's head, or what was coming next.

"I don't mean to Ravenswood, but to Oldport; that is, if you can help
their coming. To tell you the truth, your university men, and literary
men generally, are popular enough here, but your army is in very bad
odor. The young fellows who come down among us from Canada behave
shockingly. They don't act like gentlemen or Christians."

Ashburner hastened to assure him that Captain Blank and Lieutenant Dash
were both gentlemen and Christians, in the ordinary acceptation of the
terms, and had never been known to misconduct themselves in any way.

"Doubtless, inasmuch as they are your friends, but the general principle
remains the same. So many of your young officers have misconducted
themselves that the _primâ facie_ evidence is always against one of
them, and he stands a chance of being coolly treated."

Ashburner wanted to know what the young officers had done.

"Everything they could do to go counter to the habits and prejudices of
the people among whom they were, and to show their contempt of American
society; to act, in short, as if they were among uncivilized people. For
instance, it is a custom at these watering-place hotels to dress for the
_table-d'hôte_. Now, I do not think it altogether reasonable that a man
should be expected to make his evening toilet by three in the afternoon,
and, indeed, I do not strictly conform to the rule myself. But these men
came in with flannel shirts and dirty shoes, and altogether in a state
unfit for ladies' company. Perhaps, however, we were too fastidious in
this. But what do you say to a youngster's seating himself upon a piano
in the public parlor, while a lady is playing on it?"

Ashburner allowed that it was rather unceremonious.

"By various similar acts, trivial, perhaps, individually, but forming a
very disagreeable aggregate, these young men made themselves so
unpopular that one season the ladies, by common consent, refused to
dance with any of them. But there is worse behind. These gentlemen, so
stupid in a drawing-room, are sharp enough in borrowing money, and
altogether oblivious of repaying it."

Ashburner remembered the affair of Ensign Lawless, and made up his mind
to undergo another repetition of it.

"I don't speak of my individual case, the thing has happened fifty
times. I could tell of a dozen friends who have been victimized in this
way during the last three years. In fact, I believe that your _jeunes
militaires_ have formed a league to avenge the Mississippi bondholders,
and recover their lost money under the form of these nominal loans. You
may think it poetic justice, but we New Yorkers have no fancy to pay the
Mississippians' debts in this way."

It would be foreign to our present purpose to accompany Ashburner in his
Northwestern and Canadian tour. Suffice it to say, that he returned by
the first of August, very much pleased, having seen many things well
worth seeing, and experienced no particular annoyance, except the one
predicted by Benson, that he sometimes _had to take care of his
servant_. Neither shall we say much of his visit to Ravenswood, where,
indeed, he only spent a few hours, arriving there in the morning and
leaving it in the afternoon of the same day, and had merely time to
partake of a capital lunch, and to remark that his entertainer had a
beautiful place and a handsome wife, and was something like his younger
brother, but more resembling an Englishman than any American he had yet
seen.

The party to Oldport was increased by the addition of Miss Vanderlyn, a
tall, stylish girl, more striking than her sister, but less delicately
beautiful. Though past twenty, she had been out only one season, having
been kept back three years by various accidents. But though new to
society, she had nothing of the book-muslin timidity about her; nor was
she at all abashed by the presence of the titled foreigner. On the
contrary, she addressed him with perfect ease of manner, in French,
professing, as an apology for conversing in that language, a fear that
he might not be able to understand her English,--_"Parceque chez vous,
on dit que nous autres Americaines, ne parlons pas l'Anglais comme il
faut."_

As we are not writing a handbook or geographical account of the Northern
States, it will not be necessary to mention where the fashionable
watering-place of Oldport Springs is situated--not even what State it is
in--suffice it to say, that from Carl Benson's place thither was a day's
journey, performed partly by steamboat, partly by rail, and the last
forty miles by stage-coach, or, as the Americans say, "for shortness,"
by stage. The water portion of their journey was soon over, nor did
Ashburner much regret it, for he had been over this part of the route
before on his way to Canada, and the river is not remarkably beautiful
above the Catskill range.

On taking the cars, Benson seized the opportunity to enlighten his
friend with a quantity of railroad statistics and gossip, such as, that
the American trains averaged eighteen miles an hour, including
stoppages,--about two miles short of the steamboat average; that they
cost about one-fifth of an English road, or a dollar for a pound, which
accounted for their deficiency in some respects; that there were more
than three thousand miles of rail in the country; that there was no
division of first, second, and third class, but that some lines had
ladies cars--that is to say, cars for the gentlemen with ladies and the
ladies without gentlemen--and some had separate cars for the ladies and
gentlemen of color; that there had been some attempts to get up
smoking-cars after the German fashion, but the public mind was not yet
fully prepared for it; that one of the southern lines had tried the
experiment of introducing a _restaurant_ and other conveniences, with
tolerable success; and other facts of more or less interest. Ashburner
for his part, on examining his ticket, found upon the back of it a list
of all the stations on the route, with their times and distances--a very
convenient arrangement; and he was also much amused at the odd names of
some of the stations--Nineveh, Pompey, Africa, Cologne, and others
equally incongruous.

"Don't be afraid of laughing," said Benson, who guessed what he was
smiling at. "Whenever I am detained at a country tavern, if there duly
happens to be a good-sized map of the United States there, I have enough
to amuse me in studying the different styles of names in the different
sections of the Union--different in style, but alike in impropriety. In
our State, as you know, the fashion is for classical and oriental names.
In New England there is a goodly amount of old English appellations, but
often sadly misapplied; for instance, an inland town will be called
Falmouth, or Oldport, like the place we are going to. The aboriginal
names, often very harmonious, had been generally displaced, except in
Maine, where they are particularly long, and jaw-breaking, such as
_Winnipiscoggir_ and _Chargogagog_. Still we have some very pretty
Indian names left in New York; _Ontario_, for instance, and _Oneida_,
and _Niagara_, which you who have been there know is

     Pronounced Niágara,
     To rhyme with _staggerer_,
     And not Niagára,
     To rhyme with _starer_."

"What does _Niagara_ mean?"

"_Broken water_, I believe; but one gets so many different meanings for
these names, from those who profess to know more or less about the
native dialects, that you can never be certain. For instance, a great
many will tell you, on Chateaubriand's authority, that _Mississippi_
means _Father of the waters_. Some years ago one of our Indian scholars
stated that this was an error; that the literal meaning of Mississippi
was _old-big-strong_--not quite so poetic an appellation. I asked Albert
Gallatin about it at the time--he was considered our best man on such
subjects--and he told me that the word, or words, for the name is made
up of two, signified _the entire river_. This is a fair specimen of the
answers you get. I never had the same explanation of an Indian name
given me by two men who pretended to understand the Indian languages."

"What rule does a gentleman adopt in naming his country-seat when he
acquires a new one, or is there any rule?"

"There are two natural and proper expedients, one to take the nearest
aboriginal name that is pretty and practicable, the other to adopt the
name from some natural feature. Of this latter we have two very neat
examples in the residences of our two greatest statesmen, Clay and
Webster, which are called _Ashland_ and _Marshfield_--appellations
exactly descriptive of the places. But very often mere fancy names are
adopted, and frequently in the worst possible taste, by people too who
have great taste in other respects. I wanted my brother to call his
place Carlsruhe--that would have been literally appropriate, though
sounding oddly at first. But as it belonged originally to his
father-in-law, it seemed but fair that his wife should have the naming
of it, and she was _so_ fond of the Bride of Lammermoor! Well, I hope
Carl will set up a few crows some day, just to give a little color to
the name. But, after all, what's in a name? We are to stop at
Constantinople; if they give us a good supper and bed there (and they
will unless the hotel is much altered for the worse within two years),
they may call the town Beelzebub for me."

But Benson reckoned without his host. They were fated to pass the night,
not at Constantinople, but at the rising village of Hardscrabble,
consisting of a large hotel and a small blacksmith's shop.

The _contretemps_ happened in this wise. The weather was very hot--it
always is from the middle of June to the middle of September--but this
day had been particularly sultry, and toward evening oppressed nature
found relief in a thunder-storm, and such a storm! Ashburner, though
anything but a nervous man, was not without some anxiety, and the ladies
were in a sad fright; particularly Mrs. Benson, who threatened
hysterics, and required a large expenditure of Cologne and caresses to
bring her round. At last the train came to a full stop at Hardscrabble,
about thirty-six miles on the wrong side of Constantinople. Even before
the usual three minutes' halt was over our travelers suspected some
accident; their suspicions were confirmed when the three minutes
extended to ten, and ultimately the conductor announced that just beyond
this station half a mile of the road had been literally washed away, so
that further progress was impossible. Fortunately by this time the rain
had so far abated that the passengers were able to pass from the shelter
of the cars (there was no covered way at the station) to that of the
spacious hotel _stoop_ without being very much wetted. Benson
recollected that there was a canal at no great distance, which, though
comparatively disused since the establishment of the railroad, still had
some boats on it, and he thought it probable that they might finish
their journey in this way--not a very comfortable or expeditious one,
but better than standing still. It appeared however on inquiry that the
canal was also put _hors de combat_ by the weather, and nothing was to
be done that way. Only two courses remained, either to go back to
Clinton, or to remain for the night where they were.

"This hotel ought to be able to accommodate us all," remarked a
fellow-passenger near them.

He might well say so. The portico under which they stood (built of the
purest white pine, and modeled after that of a Grecian temple with eight
columns) fronted at least eighty feet. The house was several stories
high, and if the front were anything more than a mere shell, must
contain rooms for two hundred persons. How the building came into its
present situation was a mystery to Ashburner; it looked as if it had
been transported bodily from some large town, and set down alone in the
wilderness. The probability is, that some speculators, judging from
certain signs that a town was likely to arise there soon, had built the
hotel so as to be all ready for it.

There was no need to question the landlord: he had already been
diligently assuring every one that he could accommodate all the
passengers, who indeed did not exceed a hundred in number.

Logicians tell us, that a great deal of the trouble and misunderstanding
which exists in this naughty world, arises from men not defining their
terms in the outset. The landlord of Hardscrabble had evidently some
peculiar ideas of his own as to the meaning of the term _accommodate_.
The real state of the case was, that he had any quantity of rooms, and a
tolerably liberal supply of bedsteads, but his stock of bedding was by
no means in proportion; and he was, therefore, compelled to multiply it
by process of division, giving the hair mattress to one, the feather bed
to another, the straw bed to a third; and so with the pillows and
bolsters as far as they would go. This was rather a long process, even
with American activity, especially as some of the hands employed were
temporarily called off to attend to the supper table.

The meal, which was prepared and eaten with great promptitude, was a
mixture of tea and supper. Very good milk, pretty good tea, and pretty
bad coffee, represented the drinkables; and for solids, there was a
plentiful provision of excellent bread and butter, new cheese, dried
beef in very thin slices, or rather _chips_, gingerbread, dough-nuts,
and other varieties of home-made cake, sundry preserves, and some
pickles. The waiters were young women--some of them very pretty and
lady-like. The Bensons kept up a conversation with each other and
Ashburner in French, which he suspected to be a customary practice of
"our set" when in public, as indeed it was, and one which tended not a
little to make them unpopular. A well-dressed man opposite looked so
fiercely at them that the Englishman thought he might have partially
comprehended their discourse and taken offense at it, till he was in a
measure reassured by seeing him eat poundcake and cheese together,--a
singularity of taste about which he could not help making a remark to
Benson.

"Oh, that's nothing," said Harry. "Did you never, when you were on the
lakes, see them eat ham and molasses? It is said to be a western
practice: I never was there; but I'll tell you what I _have_ seen. A man
with cake, cheese, smoked-beef, and preserves, all on his plate
together, and paying attention to them all indiscriminately. He was not
an American either, but a Creole Frenchman of New Orleans, who had
traveled enough to know better."

Soon after supper most of the company seemed inclined bedward; but there
were no signs of beds for some time. Benson's party, who were more
amused than fatigued by their evening's experience, spread the carpet of
resignation, and lit the cigar of philosophy. All the passengers did not
take it so quietly. One tall, melancholy-faced man, who looked as if he
required twice the ordinary amount of sleep, was especially anxious to
know "where they were going to put him."

"Don't be afraid, sir," said the landlord, as he shot across the room on
some errand; "we'll tell you before you go to bed." With which safe
prediction the discontented one was fain to content himself.

At length, about ten or half-past, the rooms began to be in readiness,
and their occupants to be marched off to them in squads of six or eight
at a time,--the long corridors and tall staircases of the hotel
requiring considerable pioneering and guidance. Benson's party came
among the last. Having examined the room assigned to the ladies, Harry
reported it to contain one bed and half a washstand; from which he and
Ashburner had some misgivings as to their own accommodation, but were
not exactly prepared for what followed, when a small boy with a tallow
candle and face escorted them up three flights of stairs into a room
containing two small beds and a large spittoon, and not another single
article of furniture.

"I say, boy!" quoth Benson, in much dudgeon, turning to their
chamberlain, "suppose we should want to wash in the morning, what are we
to do?"

"I don't know, sir," answered the boy; and depositing the candle on the
floor, disappeared in the darkness.

"By Jove!" ejaculated the fastidious youth, "there isn't as much as a
hook in the wall to hang one's coat on. It's lucky we brought up our
carpet-bags with us, else we should have to look out a clean spot on the
floor for our clothes."

Ashburner was not very much disconcerted. He had traveled in so many
countries, notwithstanding his youth, that he could pass his nights
anyhow. In fact, he had never been at a loss for sleep in his life,
except on one occasion, when, in Galway, a sofa was assigned to him at
one side of a small parlor, on the other side of which three Irish
gentlemen were making a night of it.

So they said their prayers, and went to bed, like good boys. But their
slumbers were not unbroken. Ashburner dreamed that he was again in
Venice, and that the musquitoes of that delightful city, of whose
venomousness and assiduity he retained shuddering recollections, were
making an onslaught upon him in great numbers; while Benson awoke toward
morning with a great outcry; in apology for which he solemnly assured
his friend, that two seconds before he was in South Africa, where a lion
of remarkable size and ferocity had caught him by the leg. And on rising
they discovered some spots of blood on the bed-clothes, showing that
their visions had not been altogether without foundation in reality.

The Hardscrabble hotel, grand in its general outlines, had overlooked
the trifling details of wash-stands and chamber crockery. Such of these
articles as it _did_ possess, were very properly devoted to the use of
the ladies; and accordingly Ashburner and Benson, and forty-five more,
performed their matutinal ablutions over a tin basin in the bar-room,
where Harry astonished the natives by the production of his own
particular towel and pocket comb. The weather had cleared up
beautifully, the railroad was repaired, and the train ready to start as
soon as breakfast was over. After this meal, as miscellaneous as their
last night's supper, while the passengers were discharging their
reckoning, Ashburner noticed that his friend was unusually fussy and
consequential, asked several questions, and made several remarks in a
loud tone, and altogether seemed desirous of attracting attention. When
it came to his turn to pay, he told out the amount, not in the ordinary
dirty bills, but in hard, ringing half-dollars, which had the effect of
drawing still further notice upon him.

"Five dollars and a quarter," said Benson, in a measured and audible
tone; "and, Landlord, here's a quarter extra."

The landlord looked up in surprise; so did the two or three men standing
nearest Harry.

"It's to buy beef with, to feed 'em. Feed 'em well now, don't forget!"

"Feed 'em! feed who?" and the host looked as if he thought his customer
crazy.

"Feed _who_? Why look here!" and bending over the counter, Harry uttered
a portentous monosyllable, in a pretended whisper, but really as audible
to the bystanders as a stage aside. Three or four of those nearest
exploded.

"Yes, feed 'em _well_ before you put anybody into your beds again, or
you'll have to answer for the death of a fellow-Christian some day,
that's all. Good morning!" And taking his wife under his arm, Benson
stalked off to the cars with a patronizing farewell nod, amid a
sympathetic roar, leaving the host irresolute whether to throw a
decanter after him, or to join in the general laugh.

       *       *       *       *       *

Hook and one of his friends happened to come to a bridge. "Do you know
who built this bridge?" said he to Hook. "No, but if you go over you'll
be tolled."


[From the December number of Graham's Magazine.]

TO A CELEBRATED SINGER.

BY R.H. STODDARD.

      Oft have I dreamed of music rare and fine,
        The wedded melody of lute and voice,
        Divinest strains that made my soul rejoice,
      And woke its inner harmonies divine.
      And where Sicilia smooths the ruffled seas,
        And Tempe hallows all its purple vales,
        Thrice have I heard the noble nightingales,
      All night entranced beneath the gloomy trees;
      But music, nightingales, and all that Thought
            Conceives of song is naught
      To thy rich voice, which echoes in my brain,
    And fills my longing heart with a melodious pain!

      A thousand lamps were lit--I saw them not--
        Nor all the thousands round me like a sea,
      Life, Death and Time, and all things were forgot;
            I only thought of thee!
      Meanwhile the music rose sublime and strong,
        But sunk beneath thy voice which rose alone,
        Above its crumbled fragments to thy throne,
            Above the clouds of Song.
      Henceforth let Music seal her lips, and be
      The silent Ministrant of Poesy;
      For not the delicate reed that Pan did play
        To partial Midas at the match of old,
        Nor yet Apollo's lyre, with chords of gold,
      That more than won the crown he lost that day;
      Nor even the Orphean lute, that half set free--
      Oh why not all?--the lost Eurydice--
            Were fit to join with thee;
      Much less our instruments of meaner sound,
      That track thee slowly o'er enchanted ground,
      Unfit to lift the train thy music leaves,
            Or glean around its sheaves!

      I strive to disentangle in my mind
        Thy many-knotted threads of softest song,
      Whose memory haunts me like a voiceless wind,
            Whose silence does it wrong.
      No single tone thereof, no perfect sound
        Lingers, but dim remembrance of the whole;
            A sound which was a Soul.
      The Soul of sound diffused an atmosphere around
        So soft, so sweet, so mellow, rich and deep!
        So like a heavenly soul's ambrosial breath,
        It would not wake but only deepen Sleep
            Into diviner Death!
      Softer and sweeter than the jealous flute,
        Whose soft, sweet voice grew harsh before its own,
        It stole in mockery its every tone,
            And left it lone and mute;
      It flowed like liquid pearl through golden cells,
      It jangled like a string of golden bells,
      It trembled like a wind in golden strings,
      It dropped and rolled away in golden rings;
        Then it divided and became a shout,
            That Echo chased about,
            However wild and fleet,
      Until it trod upon its heels with flying feet!
        At last it sunk and sunk from deep to deep,
            Below the thinnest word,
            And sunk till naught was heard,
      But charméd Silence sighing in its sleep!

      Powerless and mute beneath thy mighty spell,
        My heart was lost within itself and thee,
      As when a pearl is melted in its shell,
            And sunken in the sea!
      I sunk, and sunk beneath thy song, but still
        I thirsted after more, the more I sank;
        A flower that drooped with all the dew it drank,
      But still upheld its cup for Heaven to fill;
      My inmost soul was drunk with melody,
            Which thou didst pour around,
            To crown the feast of sound,
        And lift to every lip, but chief to me,
            Whose spirit uncontrolled,
      Drained all the fiery wine and clutched its cup of gold!

      Would I could only hear thee once again,
        But once again, and pine into the air,
      And fade away with all this hopeless pain,
        This hope divine, and this divine despair!
      If we were only Voices, if our minds
        Were only voices, what a life were ours!
      My soul would woo thee in the vernal winds,
        And thine would answer me in summer showers,
      At morn and even, when the east and west
        Were bathed in floods of purple poured from Heaven,
      We would delay the Morn upon its nest,
            And fold the wings of Even!
      All day we'd fly with azure wings unfurled,
      And gird a belt of Song about the world;
    All night we'd teach the winds of night a tune,
    While charméd oceans slept beneath a yellow moon!
      And when aweary grown of earthly sport,
        We'd wind our devious flight from star to star,
        Till we beheld the palaces afar,
            Where Music holds her court.
      Entered and beckoned up the aisles of sound,
      Where starry melodies are marshaled round,
      We'd kneel before her throne with eager dread,
        And when she kissed us melt in trances deep,
      While angels bore us to her bridal bed,
            And sung our souls asleep!

      O Queen of Song! as peerless as thou art,
        As worthy as thou art to wear thy crown,
        Thou hast a deeper claim to thy renown,
      And a diviner music in thy heart;
      Simplicity and goodness walk with thee,
        Beneath the wings of watchful Seraphim:
      And Love is wed to whitest Chastity,
            And Pity sings its hymn.
      Nor is thy goodness passive in its end,
        But ever active as the sun and rain--
        Unselfish, lavish of its golden gain--
      Not want alone, but a whole nation's--Friend!
      This is thy glory, this thy noblest fame;
        And when thy glory fades, and fame departs,
      This will perpetuate a deathless name,
        Where names are deathless--deep in loving hearts!


[From Miss McIntosh's "Christmas Gift."]

THE WOLF-CHASE.

BY C. WHITEHEAD.

During the winter of 1844, being engaged in the northern part of Maine,
I had much leisure to devote to the wild sports of a new country. To
none of these was I more passionately addicted than to skating. The deep
and sequestered lakes of this State, frozen by the intense cold of a
northern winter, present a wide field to the lovers of this pastime.
Often would I bind on my skates, and glide away up the glittering river,
and wind each mazy streamlet that flowed beneath its fetters on toward
the parent ocean, forgetting all the while time and distance in the
luxurious sense of the gliding motion--thinking of nothing in the easy
flight, but rather dreaming, as I looked through the transparent ice at
the long weeds and cresses that nodded in the current beneath, and
seemed wrestling with the waves to let them go; or I would follow on the
track of some fox or otter, and run my skate along the mark he had left
with his dragging tail until the trail would enter the woods. Sometimes
these excursions were made by moonlight, and it was on one of these
occasions that I had a rencounter, which even now, with kind faces
around me, I cannot recall without a nervous looking-over-my-shoulder
feeling.

I had left my friend's house one evening just before dusk, with the
intention of skating a short distance up the noble Kennebec, which
glided directly before the door. The night was beautifully clear. A
peerless moon rode through an occasional fleecy cloud, and stars
twinkled from the sky and from every frost-covered tree in millions.
Your mind would wonder at the light that came glinting from ice, and
snow-wreath, and incrusted branches, as the eye followed for miles the
broad gleam of the Kennebec, that like a jeweled zone swept between the
mighty forests on its banks. And yet all was still. The cold seemed to
have frozen tree, and air, and water, and every living thing that
moved. Even the ringing of my skates on the ice echoed back from the
Moccasin Hill with a startling clearness, and the crackle of the ice as
I passed over it in my course seemed to follow the tide of the river
with lightning speed.

I had gone up the river nearly two miles when, coming to a little stream
which empties into the larger, I turned in to explore its course. Fir
and hemlock of a century's growth met overhead, and formed an archway
radiant with frost-work. All was dark within, but I was young and
fearless, and as I peered into an unbroken forest that reared itself on
the borders of the stream, I laughed with very joyousness: my wild hurra
rang through the silent woods, and I stood listening to the echo that
reverberated again and again, until all was hushed. I thought how often
the Indian hunter had concealed himself behind these very trees--how
often his arrow had pierced the deer by this very stream, and his wild
halloo had here rung for his victory. And then, turning from fancy to
reality, I watched a couple of white owls, that sat in their hooded
state, with ruffled pantalets and long ear-tabs, debating in silent
conclave the affairs of their frozen realm, and wondering if they, "for
all their feathers, were a-cold," when suddenly a sound arose--it seemed
to me to come from beneath the ice; it sounded low and tremulous at
first, until it ended in one wild yell. I was appalled. Never before had
such a noise met my ears. I thought it more than mortal--so fierce, and
amid such an unbroken solitude, it seemed as if a fiend had blown a
blast from an infernal trumpet. Presently I heard the twigs on shore
snap, as if from the tread of some animal, and the blood rushed back to
my forehead with a bound that made my skin burn, and I felt relieved
that I had to contend with things earthly, and not of spiritual
nature--my energies returned, and I looked around me for some means of
escape. The moon shone through the opening at the mouth of the creek by
which I had entered the forest, and considering this the best means of
escape, I darted toward it like an arrow. 'Twas hardly a hundred yards
distant, and the swallow could scarcely excel my desperate flight; yet,
as I turned my head to the shore, I could see two dark objects dashing
through the underbrush at a pace nearly double in speed to my own. By
this great speed, and the short yells which they occasionally gave, I
knew at once that these were the much dreaded gray wolf.

I had never met with these animals, but from the description given of
them I had but little pleasure in making their acquaintance. Their
untamable fierceness, and the untiring strength which seems part of
their nature, render them objects of dread to every benighted traveler.

     "With their long gallop, which can tire
     The deer-hound's hate, the hunter's fire,"

they pursue their prey--never straying from the track of their
victim--and as the wearied hunter thinks he has at last outstripped
them, he finds that they but waited for the evening to seize their prey,
and falls a prize to the tireless animals.

The bushes that skirted the shore flew past with the velocity of
lightning as I dashed on in my flight to pass the narrow opening. The
outlet was nearly gained; one second more and I would be comparatively
safe, when my pursuers appeared on the bank directly above me, which
here rose to the height of ten feet. There was no time for thought, so I
bent my head and dashed madly forward. The wolves sprang, but
miscalculating my speed, sprang behind, while their intended prey glided
out upon the river.

Nature turned me toward home. The light flakes of snow spun from the
iron of my skates, and I was some distance from my pursuers, when their
fierce howl told me I was still their fugitive. I did not look back, I
did not feel afraid, or sorry, or glad; one thought of home, of the
bright faces awaiting my return, of their tears if they never should see
me, and then every energy of body and mind was exerted for escape. I was
perfectly at home on the ice. Many were the days that I spent on my good
skates, never thinking that at one time they would be my only means of
safety. Every half minute an alternate yelp from my fierce attendants
made me but too certain that they were in close pursuit. Nearer and
nearer they came; I heard their feet pattering on the ice nearer still,
until I could feel their breath and hear their snuffing scent. Every
nerve and muscle in my frame was stretched to the utmost tension.

The trees along the shore seemed to dance in the uncertain light, and my
brain turned with my own breathless speed, yet still they seemed to hiss
forth their breath with a sound truly horrible, when an involuntary
motion on my part turned me out of my course. The wolves close behind,
unable to stop, and as unable to turn on the smooth ice, slipped and
fell, still going on far ahead; their tongues were lolling out, their
white tusks glaring from their bloody mouths, their dark, shaggy breasts
were fleeced with foam, and as they passed me their eyes glared, and
they howled with fury. The thought flashed on my mind, that by this
means I could avoid them, viz., by turning aside whenever they came too
near; for they, by the formation of their feet, are unable to run on ice
except on a straight line.

I immediately acted upon this plan. The wolves, having regained their
feet, sprang directly toward me. The race was renewed for twenty yards
up the stream; they were already close on my back, when I glided round
and dashed directly past my pursuers. A fierce yell greeted my
evolution, and the wolves, slipping upon their haunches, sailed onward,
presenting a perfect picture of helplessness and baffled rage. Thus I
gained nearly a hundred yards at each turning. This was repeated two or
three times, every moment the animals getting more excited and baffled.

At one time, by delaying my turning too long, my fierce antagonists came
so near, that they threw the white foam over my dress as they sprang to
seize me, and their teeth clashed together like the spring of a
fox-trap. Had my skates failed for one instant, had I tripped on a
stick, or caught my foot in a fissure in the ice, the story I am now
telling would never have been told. I thought all the chances over; I
knew where they would first take hold of me if I fell; I thought how
long it would be before I died, and when there would be a search for the
body that would already have its tomb; for oh! how fast man's mind
traces out all the dead colors of death's picture, only those who have
been near the grim original can tell.

But soon I came opposite the house, and my hounds--I knew their deep
voices--roused by the noise, bayed furiously from the kennels. I heard
their chains rattle; how I wished they would break them, and then I
would have protectors that would be peers to the fiercest denizens of
the forest. The wolves, taking the hint conveyed by the dogs, stopped in
their mad career, and after a moment's consideration, turned and fled. I
watched them until their dusky forms disappeared over a neighboring
hill. Then, taking off my skates, I wended my way to the house, with
feelings which may be better imagined than described.

But even yet, I never see a broad sheet of ice in the moonshine, without
thinking of that snuffling breath and those fearful things that followed
me so closely down the frozen Kennebec.


[From Recollections and Anecdotes of the Bard of Glamorgan.]

STORY OF A POET.

During one of his perambulations in Cardiganshire, the Bard found
himself, on a dreary winter evening, at too great a distance from the
abode of any friend, for him to reach it at a reasonable hour: he was
also more than commonly weary, and therefore turned into a roadside
public house to take up his night's lodgings. He had been there only a
short time, standing before the cheerful fire, when a poor peddler
entered with a pack on his back, and evidently suffering from cold and
fatigue. He addressed the landlord in humble tone, begging he might
lodge there, but frankly avowing he had no money. Trade, he said, had of
late been unfavorable to him--no one bought his goods, and he was making
the best of his way to a more populous district. There were, however,
articles of value in his pack, much more than sufficient to pay for his
entertainment, and he tendered any part of them, in payment, or in
pledge for the boon of shelter and refreshment. The landlord, however,
was one of those sordid beings who regard money as the standard of worth
in their fellow-men, and the want of it as a warrant for insult; he,
therefore, sternly told the poor wayfarer there was no harbor for him
under that roof, unless he had coin to pay for it. Again and again, the
weary man, with pallid looks and feeble voice, entreated the heartless
wretch, and was as often repulsed in a style of bulldog surliness, till
at length he was roughly ordered to leave the house. The bard was not an
unmoved witness of this revolting scene; and his heart had been sending
forth its current, in rapid and yet more rapid pulsations to his now
glowing extremities, as he listened and looked on. He had only one
solitary shilling in his pocket, which he had destined to purchase his
own accommodations for that wintry night; but its destination was now
changed. Here was a needy man requiring it more than himself; and
according to his generous views of the social compact, it became his
duty to sacrifice his minor necessities to the greater ones of his
fellow-creature. Snatching the shilling from its lurking place, he
placed it in the hand of the peddler, telling him _that_ would pay for
his lodging, and lodging he should have, in spite of the savage who had
refused it. Then darting a withering look at the publican, he exclaimed,
"Villain! do you call yourself a man? You, who would turn out a poor
exhausted traveler from your house on a night like this, under any
circumstances! But he has offered you ample payment for his quarters and
you refused him. Did you mean to follow him and rob him--perhaps murder
him? You have the heart of a murderer; you are a disgrace to humanity,
and I will not stay under your roof another minute; but turn out this
poor traveler at your peril--you dare not refuse the money he can now
offer you." Having thus vented his indignant feeling with his usual
heartiness, Iolo seized his staff and walked out into the inclement
night, penniless indeed, and supperless too, but with a rich perception
of the truth uttered by Him who "had not where to lay his head," though
omnipotent as well as universal in his beneficence--"It is more blessed
to give than to receive." A walk of many miles lay between him and his
friend's house, to which he now directed his steps, and by the time he
entered early on the following morning his powers had nearly sunk under
cold and exhaustion. A fever was the sequel, keeping him stationary for
several weeks.


[From Dickens's Household Words.]

HIRAM POWERS'S GREEK SLAVE.

    They say Ideal Beauty cannot enter
    The house of anguish. On the threshold stands
    This alien Image with the shackled hands,
    Called the Greek Slave: as if the artist meant her,
    (The passionless perfection which he lent her,
    Shadowed, not darkened, where the sill expands,)
    To, so, confront man's crimes in different lands,
    With man's ideal sense. Pierce to the centre,
    Art's fiery finger! and break up ere long
    The serfdom of this world. Appeal, fair stone,
    From God's pure heights of beauty, against man's wrong!
    Catch up, in thy divine face, not alone
    East griefs, but west, and strike and shame the strong,
    By thunders of white silence, overthrown.


[From Papers for the People.]

THE BLACK POCKET-BOOK.

"What do you pay for peeping?" said a baker's boy with a tray on his
shoulder to a young man in a drab-colored greatcoat, and with a cockade
in his hat, who, on a cold December's night was standing with his face
close to the parlor window of a mean house, in a suburb of one of our
largest seaport towns in the south of England.

Tracy Walkingham, which was the name of the peeper, might have answered
that he paid _dear enough_; for in proportion as he indulged himself
with these surreptitious glances, he found his heart stealing away from
him, till he literally had not a corner of it left that he could fairly
call his own.

Tracy was a soldier; but being in the service of one of his officers,
named D'Arcy, was relieved from wearing his uniform. At sixteen years of
age he had run away from a harsh schoolmaster, and enlisted in an
infantry regiment; and about three weeks previous to the period at which
our story opens, being sent on an early errand to his master's
laundress, his attention had been arrested by a young girl, who, coming
hastily out of an apothecary's shop with a phial in her hand, was
rushing across the street, unmindful of the London coach and its four
horses, which were close upon her, and by which she would assuredly have
been knocked down, had not Tracy seized her by the arm and snatched her
from the danger.

"You'll be killed if you don't look sharper," said he carelessly; but as
he spoke, she turned her face toward him. "I hope my roughness has not
hurt you?" he continued in a very different tone: "I'm afraid I gripped
your arm too hard?"

"I'm very much obliged to you," she said; "you did not hurt me at all.
Thank you," she added, looking back to him as she opened the door of the
opposite house with a key which she held in her hand.

The door closed, and she was gone ere Tracy could find words to detain
her; but if ever there was a case of love at first sight, this was one.
Short as had been the interview, she carried his heart with her. For
some minutes he stood staring at the house, too much surprised and
absorbed in his own feelings to be aware that, as is always the case if
a man stops to look at anything in the street, he was beginning to
collect a little knot of people about him, who all stared in the same
direction too, and were asking each other what was the matter. Warned by
this discovery, the young soldier proceeded on his way; but so engrossed
and absent was he, that he had strode nearly a quarter of a mile beyond
the laundress' cottage before he discovered his error. On his return, he
contrived to walk twice past the house; but he saw nothing of the girl.
He had a mind to go into the apothecary's and make some inquiry about
her; but that consciousness which so often arrests such inquiries
arrested his, and he went home, knowing no more than his eyes and ears
had told him--namely, that this young damsel had the loveliest face and
the sweetest voice that fortune had yet made him acquainted with, and,
moreover, that the possessor of these charms was apparently a person in
a condition of life not superior to his own. Her dress and the house in
which she lived both denoted humble circumstances, if not absolute
poverty, although he felt that her countenance and speech indicated a
degree of refinement somewhat inconsistent with this last conjecture.
She might be a reduced gentlewoman. Tracy hoped not, for if so, poor as
she was, she would look down upon him; she might, on the contrary, be
one of those natural aristocrats, born Graces, that nature sometimes
pleases herself with sending into the world; as in her humorous moments
she not unfrequently does the reverse, bestowing on a princess the
figure and port of a market-woman. Whichever it was, the desire
uppermost in his mind was to see her again; and accordingly, after his
master was dressed, and gone to dinner, he directed his steps to the
same quarter. It was now evening, and he had an opportunity of more
conveniently surveying the house and its neighborhood without exciting
observation himself. For this purpose he crossed over to the
apothecary's door, and looked around him. It was a mean street,
evidently inhabited by poor people, chiefly small retail dealers; almost
every house in it being used as a shop, as appeared from the lights and
the merchandise in the windows, except the one inhabited by the unknown
beauty. They were all low buildings of only two stories; and that
particular house was dark from top to bottom, with the exception of a
faint stripe of light which gleamed from one of the lower windows, of
which there were only two, apparently from a rent or seam in the
shutter, which was closed within. On crossing over to take a nearer
survey, Tracy perceived that just above a green curtain which guarded
the lower half of the window from the intrusions of curiosity, the
shutters were divided into upper and lower, and that there was a
sufficient separation between them to enable a person who was tall
enough to place his eye on a level with the opening, to see into the
room. Few people, however, were tall enough to do this, had they thought
it worth their while to try; but Tracy, who was not far from six feet
high, found he could accomplish the feat quite easily. So, after looking
round to make sure nobody was watching him, he ventured on a peep; and
there indeed he saw the object of all this interest sitting on one side
of a table, whilst a man, apparently old enough to be her father, sat on
the other. He was reading, and she was working, with the rich curls of
her dark-brown hair tucked carelessly behind her small ears, disclosing
the whole of her young and lovely face, which was turned toward the
window. The features of the man he could not see, but his head was
bald, and his figure lank; and Tracy fancied there was something in his
attitude that indicated ill health. Sometimes she looked up and spoke to
her companion, but when she did so, it was always with a serious,
anxious expression of countenance, which seemed to imply that her
communications were on no very cheerful subject. The room was lighted by
a single tallow candle, and its whole aspect denoted poverty and
privation, while the young girl's quick and eager fingers led the
spectator to conclude she was working for her bread.

It must not be supposed that all these discoveries were the result of
one enterprise. Tracy could only venture on a peep now and then when
nobody was nigh; and many a time he had his walk for nothing. Sometimes,
too, his sense of propriety revolted, and he forebore from a
consciousness that it was not a delicate proceeding thus to spy into the
interior of this poor family at moments when they thought no human eye
was upon them: but his impulse was too powerful to be always thus
resisted, and fortifying himself with the consideration that his purpose
was not evil, he generally rewarded one instance of self-denial by two
or three of self-indulgence. And yet the scene that met his view was so
little varied, that it might have been supposed to afford but a poor
compensation for so much perseverance. The actors and their occupation
continued always the same; and the only novelty offered was, that Tracy
sometimes caught a glimpse of the man's features, which, though they
betrayed evidence of sickness and suffering, bore a strong resemblance
to those of the girl.

All this, however, to make the most of it, was but scanty fare for a
lover; nor was Tracy at all disposed to content himself with such cold
comfort. He tried what walking through the street by day would do, but
the door was always closed, and the tall green curtain presented an
effectual obstacle to those casual glances on which alone he could
venture by sunlight. Once only he had the good fortune again to meet
this "bright particular star" out of doors, and that was one morning
about eight o'clock, when he had been again sent on an early embassy to
the laundress. She appeared to have been out executing her small
marketings, for she was hastening home with a basket on her arm. Tracy
had formed a hundred different plans for addressing her--one, in short,
suited to every possible contingency--whenever the fortunate opportunity
should present itself; but, as is usual in similar cases, now that it
did come, she flashed upon him so suddenly, that in his surprise and
agitation he missed the occasion altogether. The fact was that she
stepped out of a shop just as he was passing it; and her attention being
directed to some small change which she held in her hand, and which she
appeared to be anxiously counting, she never even saw him, and had
reentered her own door before he could make up his mind what to do. He
learned, however, by this circumstance, that the best hope of success
lay in his going to Thomas Street at eight o'clock; but alas! this was
the very hour that his services could not be dispensed with at home; and
although he made several desperate efforts, he did not succeed in
hitting the lucky moment again.

Of course he did not neglect inquiry; but the result of his
perquisitions afforded little encouragement to his hopes of obtaining
the young girl's acquaintance. All that was known of the family was,
that they had lately taken the house, that their name was Lane, that
they lived quite alone, and were supposed to be very poor. Where they
came from, and what their condition in life might be, nobody knew or
seemed desirous to know, since they lived so quietly, that they had
hitherto awakened no curiosity in the neighborhood. The Scotsman at the
provision shop out of which she had been seen to come, pronounced her a
_wise-like girl_; and the apothecary's lad said that she was uncommon
_comely and genteel-like_, adding that her father was in very bad
health. This was the whole amount of information he could obtain, but to
the correctness of it, as regarded the bad health and the poverty, his
own eyes bore witness.

Nearly three weeks had elapsed since Tracy's first meeting with the
girl, when one evening he thought he perceived symptoms of more than
ordinary trouble in this humble ménage. Just as he placed his eye to the
window, he saw the daughter entering the room with an old blanket, which
she wrapped round her father, whilst she threw her arms about his neck,
and tenderly caressed him; at the same time he remarked that there was
no fire in the grate, and that she frequently applied her apron to her
eyes. As these symptoms denoted an unusual extremity of distress, Tracy
felt the strongest desire to administer some relief to the sufferers;
but by what stratagem to accomplish his purpose it was not easy to
discover. He thought of making the apothecary or the grocer his agent,
requesting them not to name who had employed them; but he shrank from
the attention and curiosity such a proceeding would awaken, and the evil
interpretations that might be put upon it. Then he thought of the ribald
jests and jeers to which he might subject the object of his admiration,
and he resolved to employ no intervention, but to find some means or
other of conveying his bounty himself; and having with this view
inclosed a sovereign in half a sheet of paper, he set out upon his
nightly expedition.

He was rather later than usual, and the neighboring church clock struck
nine just as he turned into Thomas Street; he was almost afraid that the
light would be extinguished, and the father and daughter retired to
their chambers, as had been the case on some previous evenings; but it
was not so: the faint gleam showed that they were still there, and
after waiting some minutes for a clear coast, Tracy approached the
window--but the scene within was strangely changed.

The father was alone--at least except himself there was no living being
in the room--but there lay a corpse on the floor; at the table stood the
man with a large black notebook in his hand, out of which he was taking
what appeared to the spectator, so far as he could discern, to be bank
notes. To see this was the work of an instant; to conclude that a crime
had been committed was as sudden! and under the impulse of fear and
horror that seized him, Tracy turned to fly, but in his haste and
confusion, less cautious than usual, he struck the window with his
elbow. The sound must have been heard within; and he could not resist
the temptation of flinging an instantaneous glance into the room to
observe what effect it had produced. It was exactly such as might have
been expected; like one interrupted in a crime, the man stood
transfixed, his pale face glaring at the window, and his hands, from
which the notes had dropped suspended in the attitude in which they had
been surprised; with an involuntary exclamation of grief and terror,
Tracy turned again and fled. But he had scarcely gone two hundred yards
when he met the girl walking calmly along the street with her basket on
her arm. She did not observe him, but he recognized her; and urged by
love and curiosity, he could not forbear turning back, and following her
to the door. On reaching it, she, as usual, put her key into the lock;
but it did not open as usual; it was evidently fastened on the inside.
She lifted the knocker, and let it fall once, just loud enough to be
heard within; there was a little delay, and then the door was opened--no
more, however, than was sufficient to allow her to pass in--and
immediately closed. Tracy felt an eager desire to pursue this strange
drama further, and was standing still, hesitating whether to venture a
glance into the room, when the door was again opened, and the girl
rushed out, leaving it unclosed, and ran across the street into the
apothecary's shop.

"She is fetching a doctor to the murdered man," thought Tracy. And so it
appeared, for a minute had scarcely elapsed, when she returned,
accompanied by the apothecary and his assistant; they all three entered
the house; and upon the impulse of the moment, without pausing to
reflect on the impropriety of the intrusion, the young soldier entered
with them.

The girl, who walked first with a hasty step, preceded them into that
room on the right of the door which, but a few minutes before, Tracy had
been surveying through the window. The sensations with which he now
entered it formed a singular contrast to his anticipations, and
furnished a striking instance of what we have all occasion to remark as
we pass through life--namely, that the thing we have most earnestly
desired, frequently when it does come, arrives in a guise so different
to our hopes, and so distasteful to the sentiments or affections which
have given birth to the wish, that what we looked forward to as the
summit of bliss, proves, when we reach it, no more than a barren peak
strewn with dust and ashes. Fortunate, indeed, may we esteem ourselves
if we find nothing worse to greet us. How often had Tracy fancied that
if he could only obtain entrance into that room he should be happy! As
long as he was excluded from it, it was _his_ summit, for he could see
no further, and looked no further, sought no further: it seemed to him
that, once there, all that he desired must inevitably follow. Now he
_was_ there, but under what different circumstances to those he had
counted on! with what different feelings to those his imagination had
painted!

"What's the matter?" inquired Mr. Adams the apothecary, as he approached
the body, which still lay on the floor.

"I hope it's only a fit!" exclaimed the girl, taking the candle off the
table, and holding it in such a manner as to enable the apothecary to
examine the features.

"He's dead, I fancy," said the latter, applying his fingers to the
wrist. "Unloose his neckcloth, Robert, and raise the head."

This was said to the assistant, who, having done as he was told, and no
sign of life appearing, Mr. Adams felt for his lancet, and prepared to
bleed the patient. The lancet, however, had been left in the pocket of
another coat, and Robert being sent over to fetch it, Tracy stepped
forward and took his place at the head of the corpse; the consequence of
which was, that, when the boy returned, Mr. Adams bade him go back and
mind the shop, as they could do very well without him; and thus Tracy's
intrusion was, as it were, legitimized, and all awkwardness removed from
it. Not, however, that he had been sensible of any: he was too much
absorbed with the interest of the scene to be disturbed by such minor
considerations. Neither did anybody else appear discomposed or surprised
at his presence: the apothecary did not know but he had a right to be
there; the boy, who remembered the inquiries Tracy had made with regard
to the girl, concluded they had since formed an acquaintance; the girl
herself was apparently too much absorbed in the distressing event that
had occurred to have any thoughts to spare on minor interests; and as
for the man, he appeared to be scarcely conscious of what was going on
around him. Pale as death, and with all the symptoms of extreme sickness
and debility, he sat bending somewhat forward in an old arm-chair, with
his eyes fixed on the spot where the body lay; but there was "no
speculation" in those eyes, and it was evident that what he seemed to be
looking at he did not see. To every thoughtful mind the corporeal
investiture from which an immortal spirit has lately fled must present a
strange and painful interest; but Tracy felt now a more absorbing
interest in the mystery of the living than the dead; and as strange
questionings arose in his mind with regard to the pale occupant of the
old arm-chair as concerning the corpse that was stretched upon the
ground. Who was this stranger, and how came he there lying dead on the
floor of that poor house? And where was the pocket-book and the notes?
Not on the table, not in the room, so far as he could discern. They must
have been placed out of sight; and the question occurred to him, was
_she_ a party to the concealment? But both his heart and his judgment
answered _no_. Not only her pure and innocent countenance, but her whole
demeanor acquitted her of crime. It was evident that her attention was
entirely engrossed by the surgeon's efforts to recall life to the
inanimate body; there was no _arrière pensée_, no painful consciousness
plucking at her sleeve; her mind was anxious, but not more so than the
ostensible cause justified, and there was no expression of mystery or
fear about her. How different to the father, who seemed terror-struck!
No anxiety for the recovery of the stranger, no grief for his death,
appeared in him; and it occurred to Tracy that he looked more like one
condemned and waiting for execution than the interested spectator of
another's misfortune.

No blood flowed, and the apothecary having pronounced the stranger dead,
proposed, with the aid of Tracy, to remove him to a bed; and as there
was none below, they had to carry him up stairs, the girl preceding them
with a light, and leading the way into a room where a small tent
bedstead without curtains, two straw-bottomed chairs, with a rickety
table, and cracked looking-glass, formed nearly all the furniture; but
some articles of female attire lying about, betrayed to whom the
apartment belonged, and lent it an interest for Tracy.

Whilst making these arrangements for the dead but few words were spoken.
The girl looked pale and serious, but said little; the young man would
have liked to ask a hundred questions, but did not feel himself entitled
to ask one; and the apothecary, who seemed a quiet, taciturn person,
only observed that the stranger appeared to have died of disease of the
heart, and inquired whether he was a relation of the family.

"No," replied the girl; "he's no relation of ours--his name is
Aldridge."

"Not Ephraim Aldridge?" said the apothecary.

"Yes; Mr. Ephraim Aldridge," returned she: "my father was one of his
clerks formerly."

"You had better send to his house immediately," said Mr. Adams. "I
forget whether he has any family?"

"None but his nephew, Mr. Jonas," returned the girl. "I'll go there
directly, and tell him."

"Your father seems in bad health?" observed Mr. Adams, as he quitted the
room, and proceeded to descend the stairs.

"Yes; he has been ill a long time," she replied, with a sad countenance;
"and nobody seems to know what's the matter with him."

"Have you had any advice for him," inquired the apothecary.

"Oh, yes, a great deal, when first he was ill; but nobody did him any
good."

By this time they had reached the bottom of the stairs; and Mr. Adams,
who now led the van, instead of going out of the street door, turned
into the parlor again.

"Well, sir," said he, addressing Lane, "this poor gentleman is dead. I
should have called in somebody else had I earlier known who he was; but
it would have been useless, life must have been extinct half an hour
before I was summoned. Why did you not send for me sooner?"

"I was out," replied the girl, answering the question that had been
addressed to her father. "Mr. Aldridge had sent me away for something,
and when I returned I found him on the floor, and my father almost
fainting. It was a dreadful shock for him, being so ill."

"How did it happen?" inquired Mr. Adams, again addressing Lane.

A convulsion passed over the sick man's face, and his lip quivered as he
answered in a low sepulchral tone. "He was sitting on that chair,
talking about--about his nephews, when he suddenly stopped speaking, and
fell forward. I started up, and placed my hands against his breast to
save him, and then he fell backward upon the floor."

"Heart, no doubt. Probably a disease of long standing," said Mr. Adams.
"But it has given you a shock: you had better take something, and go to
bed."

"What should he take?" inquired the daughter.

"I'll send over a draught," replied the apothecary, moving toward the
door; "and you won't neglect to give notice of what has happened--it
must be done to-night."

"It is late for you to go out," observed Tracy, speaking almost for the
first time since he entered the house. "Couldn't I carry the message for
you?"

"Yes: if you will, I shall be much obliged," said she; "for I do not
like to leave my father again to-night. The house is No. 4, West
Street."

Death is a great leveler, and strong emotions banish formalities. The
offer was as frankly accepted as made; and his inquiry whether he could
be further useful being answered by "No, thank you--not to-night," the
young man took his leave and proceeded on his mission to West Street in
a state of mind difficult to describe--pleased and alarmed, happy and
distressed. He had not only accomplished his object by making the
acquaintance of Mary Lane, but the near view he had had of her, both as
regarded her person and behavior, confirmed his admiration and
gratified his affection; but, as he might have told the boy who
interrupted him, he had paid dear for peeping. He had seen what he would
have given the world not to have seen; and whilst he eagerly desired to
prosecute his suit to this young woman, and make her his wife, he shrank
with horror from the idea of having a thief and assassin for his
father-in-law.

Engrossed with these reflections he reached West Street before he was
aware of being half-way there, and rang the bell of No. 4. It was now
past eleven o'clock, but he had scarcely touched the wire, before he
heard a foot in the passage, and the door opened. The person who
presented himself had no light, neither was there any in the hall, and
Tracy could not distinguish to whom he spoke when he said, "is this the
house of Mr. Ephraim Aldridge?"

"It is: what do you want?" answered a man's voice, at the same time that
he drew back, and made a movement toward closing the door.

"I have been requested to call here to say that Mr. Aldridge is"--And
here the recollection that the intelligence he bore would probably be
deeply afflicting to the nephew he had heard mentioned as the deceased
man's only relation, and to whom he was now possibly speaking, arrested
the words in his throat, and after a slight hesitation he added--"is
taken ill."

"Ill!" said the person who held the door in his hand, which he now
opened wider. "Where? What's the matter with him? Is he very ill? Is it
any thing serious?"

The tone in which these questions were put relieved Tracy from any
apprehension of inflicting pain, and he rejoined at once, "I'm afraid he
is dead."

"Dead!" reiterated the other, throwing the door wide. "Step in if you
please. Dead! how should that be? He was very well this afternoon. Where
is he?" And so saying, he closed the street door, and led the young
soldier into a small parlor, where a lamp with a shade over it, and
several old ledgers, were lying on the table.

"He's at Mr. Lane's in Thomas Street," replied Tracy.

"But are you sure he's dead?" inquired the gentleman, who was indeed no
other than Mr. Jonas Aldridge himself. "How did he die? Who says he's
dead?"

"I don't know how he died. The apothecary seemed to think it was disease
of the heart," replied Tracy; "but he is certainly dead."

At this crisis of the conversation a new thought seemed to strike the
mind of Jonas, who, exhibiting no symptoms of affliction, had hitherto
appeared only curious and surprised. "My uncle Ephraim dead!" said he.
"No, no, I can't believe it. It is impossible--it cannot be! My dear
uncle! My only friend! Dead! Impossible!--you must be mistaken."

"You had better go and see yourself," replied Tracy, who did not feel at
all disposed to sympathize with this sudden effusion of sentiment. "I
happened to be by, by mere chance, and know nothing more than I heard
the apothecary say." And with these words he turned toward the door.

"You are an officer's servant, I see?" rejoined Jonas.

"I live with Captain D'Arcy of the 32d," answered Tracy; and wishing Mr.
Jonas a good-evening, he walked away with a very unfavorable impression
of that gentleman's character.

The door was no sooner closed on Tracy than Mr. Jonas Aldridge returned
into the parlor, and lighted a candle which stood on a side-table, by
the aid of which he ascended to the second floor, and entered a
back-room wherein stood a heavy four-post bed, the curtains of which
were closely drawn together. The apartment, which also contained an
old-fashioned mahogany set of drawers, and a large arm-chair, was well
carpeted, and wore an aspect of considerable comfort. The shutters were
closed, and a moreen curtain was let down to keep out the draught from
the window.

Mr. Jonas had mounted the stairs three at a time; but no sooner did he
enter the room, and his eye fall upon the bed, then he suddenly paused,
and stepping on the points of his toes toward it, he gently drew back
one of the side curtains, and looked in. It was turned down, and ready
for the expected master, but it was tenantless: he who should have lain
there lay elsewhere that night. Mr. Jonas folded in his lips, and nodded
his head with an expression that seemed to say _all's right_. And then
having drawn the bolt across the door, he took two keys out of his
waistcoat pocket; with one he opened a cupboard in the wainscot, and
with the other a large tin-box which stood therein, into which he thrust
his hand, and brought out a packet of papers, which not proving to be
the thing he sought, he made another dive; but this second attempt
turned out equally unsuccessful with the first; whereupon he fetched the
candle from the table, and held it over the box, in hopes of espying
what he wished. But his countenance clouded, and an oath escaped him, on
discovering it was not there.

"He has taken it with him!" said he. And having replaced the papers he
had disturbed, and closed the box, he hastily descended the stairs. In
the hall hung his greatcoat and hat. These he put on, tying a comforter
round his throat to defend him from the chill night-air; and then
leaving the candle burning in the passage, he put the key of the
house-door in his pocket, and went out.

Dead men wait patiently; but the haste with which Mr. Jonas Aldrich
strode over the ground seemed rather like one in chase of a fugitive;
and yet, fast as he went, the time seemed long to him till he reached
Thomas Street.

"Is my uncle here!" said he to Mary, who immediately answered to his
knock.

"Yes, sir," replied she.

"And what's the matter? I hope it is nothing serious?" added he.

"He's dead, sir, the doctor says," returned she.

"Then you had a doctor?"

"Oh yes, sir; I fetched Mr. Adams over the way immediately; but he said
he was dead the moment he saw him. Will you please to walk up stairs,
and see him yourself?"

"Impossible! It cannot be that my uncle is dead!" exclaimed Mr. Jonas,
who yet suspected some _ruse_. "You should have had the best advice--you
should have called in Dr. Sykes. Let him be sent for immediately!" he
added, speaking at the top of his voice, as he entered the little room
above: "no means must be neglected to recover him. Depend on it, it is
only a fit."

But the first glance satisfied him that all these ingenious precautions
were quite unnecessary. There lay Mr. Ephraim Aldridge dead
unmistakably; and while Mary was inquiring where the celebrated Dr.
Sykes lived, in order that she might immediately go in search of him,
Mr. Jonas was thinking on what pretense he might get her out of the room
without sending for anybody at all.

Designing people often give themselves an enormous deal of useless
trouble; and after searching his brain in vain for an expedient to get
rid of the girl, Mr. Jonas suddenly recollected that the simplest was
the best. There was no necessity, in short, for saying anything more
than that he wished to be alone; and this he did say, at the same time
drawing his handkerchief from his pocket, and applying it to his eyes, a
little pantomime that was intended to aid the gentle Mary in putting a
kind construction on the wish. She accordingly quitted the room, and
descended to the parlor; whereupon Mr. Jonas, finding himself alone,
lost no time in addressing himself to his purpose, which was to search
the pockets of the deceased, wherein he found a purse containing gold
and silver, various keys, and several other articles, but not the
article he sought; and as he gradually convinced himself that his search
was vain, his brow became overcast, angry ejaculations escaped his lips,
and after taking a cursory survey of the room, he snatched up the
candle, and hastily descended the stairs.

"When did my uncle come here? What did he come about?" he inquired
abruptly as he entered the parlor where Mary, weary and sad, was resting
her head upon the table.

"He came this evening, sir; but I don't know what he came about. He said
he wanted to have some conversation with my father, and I went into the
kitchen to leave them alone."

"Then you were not in the room when the accident happened?"

"What accident, sir?"

"I mean, when he died."

"No, sir; I had gone out to buy something for supper."

"What made you go out so late for that purpose?"

"My father called me in, sir, and Mr. Aldridge gave me some money."

"Then nobody was present but your father?"

"No, sir."

"And where is he now?"

"My father is very ill, sir; and it gave him such a shock, that he was
obliged to go to bed."

"Had my uncle nothing with him but what I have found in his pockets?"

"Nothing that I know of, sir."

"No papers?"

"No, sir."

"Go and ask your father if he saw any papers."

"I'm sure he didn't, sir, or else they would be here."

"Well, I'll thank you to go and ask him, however."

Whereupon Mary quitted the room; and stepping up stairs, she opened, and
then presently shut again, the door of her own bedroom. "It is no use
disturbing my poor father," said she to herself; "I'm sure he knows
nothing about any papers; and if I wake him, he will not get to sleep
again all night. If he saw them, he'll say so in the morning."

"My father knows nothing of the papers, sir," said she, reentering the
room; "and if they're not in the pocket, I'm sure Mr. Aldridge never
brought them here."

"Perhaps he did not, after all," thought Jonas; "he has maybe removed it
out of the tin-box, and put it into the bureau." A suggestion which made
him desire to get home again as fast as he had left it. So, promising to
send the undertakers in the morning to remove the body, Mr. Jonas took
his leave, and hastened back to West Street, where he immediately set
about ransacking every drawer, cupboard, and press, some of which he
could only open with the keys he had just extracted from the dead man's
pocket. But the morning's dawn found him unsuccessful: it appeared
almost certain that the important paper was not in the house; and weary,
haggard, and angry, he stretched himself on his bed till the hour
admitted of further proceedings. And we will avail ourselves of this
interval to explain more particularly the relative position of the
parties concerned in our story.

Ephraim Aldridge, a younger member of a large and poor family, had been
early in life apprenticed to a hosier; and being one of the most steady,
cautious, saving boys that ever found his bread amongst gloves and
stockings, had early grown into great favor with his master, who, as
soon as he was out of his apprenticeship, elevated him to the post of
book-keeper; and in this situation, as he had a liberal salary, and was
too prudent to marry, he contrived to save such a sum of money as,
together with his good character, enabled him to obtain the reversion of
the business when his master retired from it. The prudence which had
raised him adhered to him still; his business flourished, and he grew
rich; but the more money he got, the fonder he became of it; and the
more he had, the less he spent; while the cautious steadiness of the boy
shrank into a dry reserve as he grew older, till he became an austere,
silent, inaccessible man, for whom the world in general entertained a
certain degree of respect, but whom nobody liked, with the exception
perhaps of one person, and that was Maurice Lane, who had formerly been
his fellow-apprentice, and was now his shopman. And yet a more marked
contrast of character could scarcely exist than between these two young
men; but, somehow or other, everybody liked Lane; even the frigid heart
of Ephraim could not defend itself from the charm of the boy's beautiful
countenance and open disposition; and when he placed his former comrade
in a situation of responsibility, it was not because he thought him the
best or the steadiest servant he could possibly find, but because he
wished to have one person about him that he liked, and that liked him.
But no sooner did Lane find himself with a salary which would have
maintained himself comfortably, than he fell in love with a beautiful
girl whom he saw trimming caps and bonnets in an opposite shop-window,
and straightway married her. Then came a family, and with it a train of
calamities which kept them always steeped in distress, till the wife,
worn out with hard work and anxiety, died; the children that survived
were then dispersed about the world to earn their bread, and Lane found
himself alone with his youngest daughter Mary. Had he retained his
health, he might now have done better; but a severe rheumatic fever,
after reducing him to the brink of the grave, had left him in such
infirm health, that he was no longer able to maintain his situation; so
he resigned it, and retired to an obscure lodging, with a few pounds in
his pocket, and the affection and industry of his daughter for his only
dependence.

During all this succession of calamities, Mr. Aldrich had looked on with
a severe eye. Had it been anybody but Lane, he would have dismissed him
as soon as he married; as it was, he allowed him to retain his place,
and to take the consequences of his folly. He had carved his own
destiny, and must accept it; it was not for want of knowing better, for
Ephraim had warned him over and over again of the folly of poor men
falling in love and marrying. Entertaining this view of the case, he
justified his natural parsimony with the reflection, that by encouraging
such imprudence he should be doing an injury to other young men. He made
use of Lane as a beacon, and left him in his distress, lest assistance
should destroy his usefulness. The old house in Thomas Street, however,
which belonged to him, happening to fall vacant, he so far relented as
to send word to his old clerk that he might inhabit it if he pleased.

Some few years, however, before these latter circumstances, Mr.
Aldridge, who had determined against matrimony, had nevertheless been
seized with that desire so prevalent in the old especially, to have an
heir of his own name and blood for his property. He had but two
relations that he remembered, a brother and a sister. The latter, when
Ephraim was a boy, had married a handsome sergeant of a marching
regiment, and gone away with it; and her family never saw her afterward,
though for some years she had kept up an occasional correspondence with
her parents, by which they learned that she was happy and prosperous;
that her husband had been promoted to an ensigncy for his good conduct;
that she had one child; and finally, that they were about to embark for
the West Indies.

His brother, with whom he had always maintained some degree of
intercourse, had early settled in London as a harness-maker, and was
tolerably well off; on which account Ephraim respected him, and now that
he wanted an heir, it was in this quarter he resolved to look for one.
So he went to London, inspected the family, and finally selected young
Jonas, who everybody said was a facsimile of himself in person and
character. He was certainly a cautious, careful, steady boy who was
guilty of no indiscretions, and looked very sharp after his halfpence.
Ephraim, who thought he had hit upon the exact desideratum, carried him
to the country, put him to school, and became exceedingly proud and fond
of him. His character, indeed, as regarded his relations with the boy,
seemed to have undergone a complete change, and the tenderness he had
all through life denied to everybody else, he now in his decline
lavished to an injudicious excess on this child of his adoption. When he
retired from business he took Jonas home; and as the lad had some talent
for portrait-painting, he believed him destined to be a great artist,
and forbore to give him a profession. Thus they lived together
harmoniously enough for some time, till the factitious virtues of the
boy ripened into the real vices of the man; and Ephraim discovered that
the cautious, economical, discreet child was, at five-and-twenty, an
odious specimen of avarice, selfishness, and cunning; and what made the
matter worse was, that the uncle and nephew somehow appeared to have
insensibly changed places--the latter being the governor, and the former
the governed; and that while Mr. Jonas professed the warmest affection
for the old man, and exhibited the tenderest anxiety for his health, he
contrived to make him a prisoner in his own house, and destroy all the
comfort of his existence--and everybody knows how hard it is to break
free from a domestic despotism of this description, which, like the
arms of a gigantic cuttle-fish, has wound itself inextricably around its
victim.

To leave Jonas, or to make Jonas leave him, was equally difficult; but
at length the declining state of his health, together with his
ever-augmenting hatred of his chosen heir, rendering the case more
urgent, he determined to make a vigorous effort for freedom; and now it
first occurred to him that his old friend Maurice Lane might help him to
attain his object. In the mean time, while waiting for an opportunity to
get possession of the will by which he had appointed Jonas heir to all
his fortune, he privately drew up another, in favor of his sister's
eldest son or his descendants, on condition of their taking the name of
Aldridge; and this he secured in a tin-box, of which he kept the key
always about him, the box itself being deposited in a cupboard in his
own chamber. In spite of all these precautions, however, Jonas
penetrated the secret, and by means of false keys, obtained a sight of
the document which was to cut him out of all he had been accustomed to
consider his own; but it was at least some comfort to observe that the
will was neither signed nor witnessed, and therefore at present
perfectly invalid. This being the case, he thought it advisable to
replace the papers, and content himself with narrowly watching his
uncle's future proceedings, since stronger measures at so critical a
juncture might possibly provoke the old man to more decisive ones of his
own.

In a remote quarter of the town resided two young men, commonly called
Jock and Joe Wantage, who had formerly served Mr. Aldridge as errand
boys, but who had since managed to set up in a humble way of business
for themselves; and having at length contrived one evening to elude the
vigilance of his nephew, he stepped into a coach, and without entering
into any explanation of his reasons, he, in the presence of those
persons, produced and signed his will, which they witnessed, desiring
them at the same time never to mention the circumstance to anybody,
unless called upon to do so. After making them a little present of
money, for adversity had now somewhat softened his heart, he proceeded
to the house of his old clerk.

It was by this time getting late, and the father and daughter were
sitting in their almost fireless room, anxious and sad, for, as Tracy
had conjectured, they were reduced to the last extremity of distress,
when they were startled at a double knock at the door. It was long since
those old walls had reverberated to such a sound.

"Who can that be?" exclaimed Lane, looking suddenly up from his book,
which was a tattered volume of Shakspeare, the only one he possessed. "I
heard a coach stop."

"It can be nobody here," returned Mary: "it must be a mistake."

However, she rose and opened the door, at which by this time stood Mr.
Aldridge, whose features it was too dark to distinguish.

"Bring a light here!" said he. "No; stay; I'll send you out the money,"
he added to the coachman, and with that he stepped forward to the little
parlor. But the scene that there presented itself struck heavily upon
his heart, and perhaps upon his conscience, for instead of advancing, he
stood still in the doorway. Here was poverty indeed! He and Lane had
begun life together, but what a contrast in their ultimate fortunes! The
one with much more money than he knew what to do with; the other without
a shilling to purchase a bushel of coals to warm his shivering limbs;
and yet the rich man was probably the more miserable of the two!

"Mr. Aldridge!" exclaimed Lane, rising from his seat in amazement.

"Take this, and pay the man his fare," said the visitor to Mary, handing
her some silver. "And have you no coals?"

"No, sir."

"Then buy some directly, and make up the fire. Get plenty; here's the
money to pay for them;" and as the coals were to be had next door, there
was soon a cheerful fire in the grate. Lane drew his chair close to the
fender, and spread his thin fingers to the welcome blaze.

"I did not know you were so badly off as this," Mr. Aldridge remarked.

"We have nothing but what Mary earns, and needlework is poorly paid,"
returned Lane; "and often not to be had. I hope Mr. Jonas is well?"

Mr. Aldridge did not answer, but sat silently looking into the fire. The
corners of his mouth were drawn down, his lip quivered, and the tears
rose to his eyes as he thought of all he had lavished on that ungrateful
nephew, that serpent he had nourished in his bosom, while the only
friend he ever had was starving.

"Mary's an excellent girl," pursued the father, "and has more sense than
years. She nursed me through all my illness night and day; and though
she has had a hard life of it, she's as patient as a lamb, poor thing! I
sometimes wish I was dead, and out of her way, for then she might do
better for herself."

Mr. Aldridge retained his attitude and his silence, but a tear or two
escaped from their channels, and flowed down the wan and hollow cheek:
he did not dare to speak, lest the convulsion within his breast should
burst forth into sobs and outward demonstrations, from which his close
and reserved nature shrunk. Lane made two or three attempts at
conversation, and then, finding them ineffectual, sank into silence
himself.

If the poor clerk could have penetrated the thoughts of his visitor
during that interval, he would have read there pity for the sufferings
of his old friend, remorse for having treated him with harshness under
the name of justice, and the best resolutions to make him amends for the
future.

"Justice!" thought he; "how can man, who sees only the surface of
things, ever hope to be just?"

"You have no food either, I suppose?" said he abruptly breaking the
silence.

"There's part of a loaf in the house, I believe," returned Lane.

"Call the girl, and bid her fetch some food! Plenty and the best! Do you
hear, Mary?" he added as she appeared at the door. "Here's money."

"I have enough left from what you gave me for the coals," said Mary,
withholding her hand.

"Take it!--take it!" said Mr. Aldridge, who was now for the first time
in his life beginning to comprehend that the real value of money depends
wholly on the way in which it is used, and that that which purchases
happiness neither for its possessor nor anybody else is not wealth, but
dross. "Take it, and buy whatever you want. When did _he_ ever withhold
his hand when I offered him money?" thought he as his mind recurred to
his adopted nephew.

Mary accordingly departed, and having supplied the table with
provisions, was sent out again to purchase a warm shawl and some other
articles for herself, which it was too evident she was much in need of.
It was not till after she had departed that Mr. Aldridge entered into
the subject that sat heavy on his soul. He now first communicated to
Lane that which the reserve of his nature had hitherto induced him to
conceal from everybody--namely, the disappointment he had experienced in
the character of his adopted son, the ill-treatment he had received from
him, and the mixture of fear, hatred, and disgust with which the conduct
of Jonas had inspired him.

"He has contrived, under the pretense of taking care of my health, to
make me a prisoner in my own house. I haven't a friend nor an
acquaintance; he has bought over the servants to his interest, and his
confidential associate is Holland, _my_ solicitor, who drew up the will
I made in that rascal's favor, and has it in his possession. Jonas is to
marry his daughter too; but I have something in my pocket that will
break off that match. I should never sleep in my grave if he inherited
my money! The fact is," continued he, after a pause, "I never mean to go
back to the fellow. I won't trust myself in his keeping; for I see he
has scarcely patience to wait till nature removes me out of the way.
I'll tell you what, Lane," continued he, his hollow cheek flushing with
excited feelings, "I'll come and live with you, and Mary shall be my
nurse."

Lane, who sat listening to all this in a state of bewilderment,
half-doubting whether his old master had not been seized with a sudden
fit of insanity, here cast a glance round the miserable whitewashed
walls begrimed with smoke and dirt. "Not here--not here!" added Mr.
Aldridge, interpreting the look aright; we'll take a house in the
country, and Mary shall manage everything for us, whilst we sit
together, with our knees to the fire, and talk over old times. Thank
God, my money is my own still! and with country air and good nursing I
should not wonder if I recover my health; for I can safely say I have
never known what it is to enjoy a happy hour these five years--never
since I found out that fellow's real character--and that is enough to
kill any man! Look here," said he, drawing from his pocket a large black
leathern note-case. "Here is a good round sum in Bank of England notes,
which I have kept concealed until I could get clear of Mr. Jonas; for
though he cannot touch the principal, thank God! he got a power of
attorney from me some time ago, entitling him to receive my dividends;
but now I'm out of his clutches, I'll put a drag on his wheel, he may
rely on it. With this we can remove into the country and take lodgings,
while we look out for a place to suit us permanently. We'll have a cow
in a paddock close to the house; the new milk and the smell of the hay
will make us young again. Many an hour, as I have lain in my wearisome
bed lately, I have thought of you and our Sunday afternoons in the
country when we were boys. In the eagerness of money-getting, these
things had passed away from my memory; but they return to me now as the
only pleasant recollection of my life."

"And yet I never thought you enjoyed them much at the time," observed
Lane, who was gradually getting more at ease with the rich man that had
once been his equal, but between whom and himself all equality had
ceased as the one grew richer and the other poorer.

"Perhaps I did not," returned Ephraim. "I was too eager to get on in the
world to take much pleasure in anything that did not help to fill my
pockets. Money--money, was all I thought of! and when I got it, what did
it bring me? Jonas--and a precious bargain he has turned out! But I'll
be even with him yet." Here there was a sob and a convulsion of the
breast, as the wounded heart swelled with its bitter sense of injury. "I
have not told you half yet," continued he; "but I'll be even with him,
little as he thinks it."

As a pause now ensued, Lane felt it was his turn to say something, and
he began with, "I am surprised at Mr. Jonas;" for so cleverly had the
nephew managed, that the alienation of the uncle was unsuspected by
everybody, and Lane could hardly bring himself to comment freely on this
once-cherished nephew. "I could not have believed, after all you've done
for him, that he would turn out ungrateful. Perhaps," continued he; but
here the words were arrested on his lips by a sudden movement on the
part of Mr. Aldridge, which caused Lane, who had been staring vacantly
into the fire, to turn his eyes toward his visitor, whom, to his
surprise, he saw falling gradually forward. He stretched out his hand to
arrest the fall; but his feeble arm only gave another direction to the
body, which sank on its face to the ground. Lane, who naturally thought
Mr. Aldridge had fainted from excess of emotion, fetched water, and
endeavored to raise him from the floor; but he slipped heavily from his
grasp; and the recollection that years ago, he had heard from the
apothecary who attended Ephraim that the latter had disease of the
heart, and would some day die suddenly, filled him with terror and
dismay. He saw that the prophecy was fulfilled; his own weak nerves and
enfeebled frame gave way under the shock, and dropping into the nearest
chair, he was for some moments almost as insensible as his friend.

When he revived, and was able to recall his scattered senses, the first
thing that met his eye was the open pocket-book and the notes that lay
on the table. But a moment before, how full of promise was that book to
him! Now, where were his hopes? Alas, like his fortunes, in the dust!
Never was a man less greedy of money than Lane; but he knew what it was
to want bread, to want clothes, to want fire. He felt sure Jonas would
never give him a sixpence to keep him from starving; and there was his
poor Mary, so overworked, fading her fair young cheeks with toil. That
money was to have made three persons comfortable: he to whom it belonged
was gone, and could never need it; and he had paid quite enough before
he departed to satisfy Lane, that could he lift up his voice from the
grave to say who would have the contents of that book, it would not be
Jonas. Where, then, could be the harm of helping himself to that which
had been partly intended for him? Where too, could be the danger?
Assuredly Jonas, the only person who had a right to inquire into Mr.
Aldridge's affairs, knew nothing of this sum; and then the pocket-book
might be burned, and so annihilate all trace. There blazed the fire so
invitingly. Besides, Jonas would be so rich, and could so well afford to
spare it. As these arguments hastily suggested themselves, Lane,
trembling with emotion, arose from his seat, seized the book, and
grasped a handful of the notes, when to his horror, at that moment he
heard a tap at the window. Shaking like a leaf, his wan cheeks whiter
than before, and his very breath suspended, he stood waiting for what
was to follow; but nothing ensued--all was silent again. It was probably
an accident: some one passing had touched the glass; but still an
undefined fear made him totter to the street door, and draw the bolt.
Then he returned into the room: there were the notes yet tempting him.
But this interruption had answered him. He longed for them as much as
before, but did not dare to satisfy his desire, lest he should hear that
warning tap again. Yet if left there till Mary returned, they were lost
to him forever; and he and she would be starving again, all the more
wretched for this transitory gleam of hope that had relieved for a
moment the darkness of their despair. But time pressed: every moment he
expected to hear her at the door; and as unwilling to relinquish the
prize as afraid to seize it, he took refuge in an expedient that avoided
either extreme--he closed the book, and flung it beneath the table, over
which there was spread an old green cloth, casting a sufficiently dark
shadow around to render the object invisible, unless to a person
stooping to search for it. Thus, if inquired for and sought, it would be
found, and the natural conclusion be drawn that it had fallen there; if
not, he would have time for deliberation, and circumstances should
decide him what to do.

There were but two beds in this poor house: in one slept Lane, on the
other was stretched the dead guest. Mary, therefore, on this eventful
night had none to go to. So she made up the fire, threw her new shawl
over her head, and arranged herself to pass the hours till morning in
the rickety old chair in which her father usually sat. The scenes in
which she had been assisting formed a sad episode in her sad life; and
although she knew too little of Mr. Aldridge to feel any particular
interest in him, she had gathered enough from her father, and from the
snatches of conversation she had heard, to be aware that this visit was
to have been the dawn of better fortunes, and that the old man's sudden
decease was probably a much heavier misfortune to themselves than to
him. A girl more tenderly nurtured and accustomed to prosperity would
have most likely given vent to her disappointment in tears; but tears
are an idle luxury, in which the poor rarely indulge: they have no time
for them. They must use their eyes for their work; and when night comes,
their weary bodies constrain the mind to rest. Mary had had a fatiguing
evening--it was late before she found herself alone; and tired and
exhausted, unhappy as she felt, it was not long ere she was in a sound
sleep.

It appeared to her that she must have slept several hours, when she
awoke with the consciousness that there was somebody stirring in the
room. She felt sure that a person had passed close to where she was
sitting; she heard the low breathing and the cautious foot, which
sounded as if the intruder was without shoes. The small grate not
holding much coal, the fire was already out, and the room perfectly
dark, so that Mary had only her ear to guide her: she could see nothing.
A strange feeling crept over her when she remembered their guest: but
no--he was forever motionless; there could be no doubt of that. It could
not surely be her father. His getting out of bed and coming down stairs
in the middle of the night was to the last degree improbable. What could
he come for? Besides, if he had done so, he would naturally have spoken
to her. Then came the sudden recollection that she had not fastened the
back-door, which opened upon a yard as accessible to their neighbors as
to themselves--neighbors not always of the best character either; and
the cold shiver of fear crept over her. Now she felt how fortunate it
was that the room _was_ dark. How fortunate, too, that she had not
spoken or stirred; for the intruder withdrew as silently as he came.
Mary strained her ears to listen which way he went; but the shoeless
feet gave no echo. It was some time before the poor girl's beating heart
was stilled; and then suddenly recollecting that this mysterious
visitor, whoever he was, might have gone to fetch a light and return,
she started up, and turned the key in the door. During that night Mary
had no more sleep. When the morning broke, she arose and looked around
to see if any traces of her midnight visitor remained, but there were
none. A sudden alarm now arose in her breast for her father's safety,
and she hastily ascended the stairs to his chamber; but he appeared to
be asleep, and she did not disturb him. Then she opened the door of her
own room, and peeped in--all was still there, and just as it had been
left on the preceding evening; and now, as is usual on such occasions,
when the terrors of the night had passed away, and the broad daylight
looked out upon the world, she began to doubt whether the whole affair
had not been a dream betwixt sleeping and waking, the result of the
agitating events of the preceding evening.

After lighting the fire, and filling the kettle, Mary next set about
arranging the room; and in so doing, she discovered a bit of folded
paper under the table, which, on examination, proved to be a five-pound
note. Of course this belonged to Mr. Aldridge, and must have fallen
there by accident; so she put it aside for Jonas, and then ascended to
her father's room again. He was now awake, but said he felt very unwell,
and begged for some tea, a luxury they now possessed, through the
liberality of their deceased guest.

"Did anything disturb you in the night, father?" inquired Mary.

"No," replied Lane, "I slept all night." He did not look as if he had,
though; and Mary, seeing he was irritable and nervous, and did not wish
to be questioned, made no allusion to what had disturbed herself.

"If Mr. Jonas Aldridge comes here, say I am too ill to see him," added
he, as she quitted the room.

About eleven o'clock the undertakers came to remove the body; and
presently afterward Tracy arrived.

"I came to say that I delivered your message last night to Mr. Jonas
Aldridge," said he, when she opened the door; "and he promised to come
here directly."

"He did come," returned Mary. "Will you please to walk in? I'm sorry my
father is not down stairs. He's very poorly to-day."

"I do not wonder at that," answered Tracy, as his thoughts recurred to
the black pocket-book.

"Mr. Jonas seemed very anxious about some papers he thought his uncle
had about him; but I have found nothing but this five-pound note, which
perhaps you would leave at Mr. Aldridge's for me?"

"I will, with pleasure," answered Tracy, remembering that this
commission would afford him an excuse for another visit; and he took his
leave a great deal more in love than ever.

"Humph!" said Mr. Jonas, taking the note that Tracy brought him; "and
she has found no papers?"

"No, sir, none. Miss Lane says that unless they were in his pocket, Mr.
Aldridge could not have had any papers with him."

"It's very extraordinary," said Mr. Jonas, answering his own
reflections.

"Will you give me a receipt for the note, sir?" asked Tracy. My name
is"----

"It's all right. I'm going there directly myself, and I'll say you
delivered it," answered Jonas, hastily interrupting him, and taking his
hat off a peg in the passage. "I'm in a hurry just now;" whereupon Tracy
departed without insisting farther.

While poor Ephraim slept peaceably in his coffin above, Mr. Jonas,
perplexed by all manner of doubts in regard to the missing will, sat
below in the parlor, in a fever of restless anxiety. Every heel that
resounded on the pavement made his heart sink till it had passed the
door, while a ring or a knock shook his whole frame to the center; and
though he longed to see Mr. Holland, his uncle's solicitor, whom he knew
to be quite in his interest, he had not courage either to go to him or
to send for him, for fear of hastening the catastrophe he dreaded.

Time crept on; the day of the funeral came and passed; the will was
read; and Mr. Jonas took possession as sole heir and executor, and no
interruption occurred. Smoothly and favorably, however, as the stream of
events appeared to flow, the long-expectant heir was not the less
miserable.

But when three months had elapsed he began to breathe more freely, and
to hope that the alarm had been a false one. The property was indeed his
own--he was a rich man, and now for the first time he felt in sufficient
spirits to look into his affairs and review his possessions. A
considerable share of these consisted in houses, which his uncle had
seized opportunities of purchasing on advantageous terms; and as the
value of some had increased, whilst that of others was diminishing for
want of repair, he employed a surveyor to examine and pronounce on their
condition.

"Among the rest," said he, "there is a small house in Thomas Street, No.
7. My uncle allowed an old clerk of his to inhabit it, rent free; but he
must turn out. I gave them notice three months ago; but they've not
taken it. Root them up, will you? and get the house cleaned down and
whitewashed for some other tenant."

Having put these matters in train, Mr. Jonas resolved, while his own
residence was set in order, to make a journey to London, and enjoy the
gratification of presenting himself to his family in the character of a
rich man; and so fascinating did he find the pleasures of wealth and
independence, that nearly four months had elapsed since his departure
before he summoned Mr. Reynolds to give an account of his proceedings.

"So," said he, after they had run through the most important items--"so
you have found a tenant for the house in Thomas Street? Had you much
trouble in getting rid of the Lanes?"

"They're in it still," answered Mr. Reynolds. "The man that has taken it
has married Lane's daughter."

"What is he?" inquired Jonas.

"An officer's servant--a soldier in the regiment that is quartered in
the citadel."

"Oh, I've seen the man--a good-looking young fellow. But how is he to
pay the rent?"

"He says he has saved money, and he has set her up in a shop. However, I
have taken care to secure the first quarter; there's the receipt for
it."

"That is all right," said Mr. Jonas, who was in a very complacent humor,
for fortune seemed quite on his side at present. "How," said he,
suddenly changing color as he glanced his eye over the slip of paper;
"how! Tracy Walkingham!"

"Yes; an odd name enough for a private soldier, isn't it?"

"Tracy Walkingham!" he repeated. "Why how came he to know the Lanes?
Where does he come from?"

"I know nothing of him, except that he is in the barracks. But I can
inquire, and find out his history and genealogy if you wish it," replied
Mr. Reynolds.

"Oh, no, no," said Jonas; "leave him alone. If I want to find out
anything about him, I'll do it myself. Indeed it is nothing connected
with himself, but the name struck me as being that of a person who owed
my uncle some money; however, it cannot be him of course. And to return
to matters of more consequence, I want to know what you've done with the
tenements in Water Lane?" And having thus adroitly turned the
conversation, the subject of the tenant with the odd name was referred
to no more; but although it is true, that "out of the fullness of the
heart the mouth speaketh," it is also frequently true, that that which
most occupies the mind is the farthest from the lips, and this was
eminently the case on the present occasion; for during the ensuing half
hour that Mr. Jonas appeared to be listening with composure to the
surveyor's reports and suggestions, the name of Tracy Walkingham was
burning itself into his brain in characters of fire.

"Tracy Walkingham!" exclaimed he, as soon as Mr. Reynolds was gone, and
he had turned the key in the lock to exclude interruptions; "here, and
married to Lane's daughter! There's something in this more than meets
the eye! The Lanes have got that will as sure as my name's Jonas
Aldridge, and have been waiting to produce it till they had him fast
noosed. But why do they withhold it now? Waiting till they hear of my
return, I suppose." And as this conviction gained strength, he paced the
room in a paroxysm of anguish. And there he was, so helpless, too! What
could he do but wait till the blow came? He would have liked to turn
them out of his house, but they had taken it for a year; and besides,
what good would that do but to give them a greater triumph, and perhaps
expedite the catastrophe? Sometimes he thought of consulting his friend
Holland; but his pride shrank from the avowal that his uncle had
disinherited him, and that the property he and everybody else had long
considered so securely his, now in all probability justly belonged to
another. Then he formed all sorts of impracticable schemes for getting
the paper into his possession, or Tracy out of the way. Never was there
a more miserable man; the sight of those two words, _Tracy Walkingham_,
had blasted his sight, and changed the hue of everything he looked upon.
Our readers will have little difficulty in guessing the reason: the
young soldier, Mary's handsome husband, was the heir named in the
missing will--the son of that sister of Ephraim who had married a
sergeant, and had subsequently gone to the West Indies.

Tracy Walkingham, the father, was not exactly in his right position as a
private in the 9th regiment, for he was the offspring of a very
respectable family; but some early extravagance and dissipation,
together with a passion for a military life, which was denied
gratification, had induced him to enlist. Good conduct and a tolerable
education soon procured him the favorable notice of his superiors, took
him out of the ranks, and finally procured him a commission. When both
he and his wife died in Jamaica, their only son was sent home to the
father's friends; but the boy met with but a cold reception; and after
some years passed, far from happily, he, as we have said, ran away from
school; and his early associations being all military, seized the first
opportunity of enlisting, as his father had done before him. But of the
history of his parents he knew nothing whatever, except that his father
had risen from the ranks; and he had as little suspicion of his
connection with Ephraim Aldridge as Mary had. Neither did the name of
Tracy Walkingham suggest any reminiscences to Lane, who had either
forgotten, or more probably had never heard it, Mr. Aldridge's sister
having married prior to the acquaintance of the two lads. But Jonas had
been enlightened by the will; and although the regiment now quartered at
P---- was not the one therein mentioned, the name was too remarkable not
to imply a probability, which his own terror naturally converted into a
certainty.

In the mean time, while the rich and conscious usurper was nightly lying
on a bed of thorns, and daily eating the broad of bitterness, the poor
and unconscious heir was in the enjoyment of a larger share of happiness
than usually falls to the lot of mortals. The more intimately he became
acquainted with Mary's character, the more reason he found to
congratulate himself on his choice; and even Lane he had learned to
love; while all the painful suspicions connected with Mr. Aldridge's
death and the pocket-book had been entirely dissipated by the evident
poverty of the family; since, after the expenditure of the little ready
money Mr. Aldridge had given them, they had relapsed into their previous
state of distress, having clearly no secret resources wherewith to avert
it. Mary's shop was now beginning to get custom too, and she was by slow
degrees augmenting her small stock, when the first interruption to their
felicity occurred. This was the impending removal of the regiment,
which, under present circumstances, was an almost inevitable sentence of
separation; for even could they have resolved to make the sacrifice, and
quit the home on which they had expended all their little funds, it was
impossible for Mary to abandon her father, ever feeble, and declining in
health. The money Tracy had saved toward purchasing his discharge was
not only all gone, but, though doing very well, they were not yet quite
clear of the debt incurred for their furniture. There was therefore no
alternative but to submit to the separation, hard as it was; and all the
harder, that they could not tell how long it might take to amass the
needful sum to purchase Tracy's liberty. Lane, too, was very much
affected, and very unwilling to part with his son-in-law.

"What," said he, "only twenty pounds?" And when he saw his daughter's
tears, he would exclaim, "Oh, Mary! and to think that twenty pounds
would do it!" And more than once he said, "Tracy should not go; he was
determined he should not leave them;" and bade Mary dry her tears, for
he would prevent it. But nevertheless the route came; and early one
morning the regiment marched through Thomas Street, the band playing the
tune of "The girl I left behind me;" while poor Mary, choking with sobs,
peeped through the half-open shutter, to which the young husband's eyes
were directed as long as the house was in sight. That was a sad day, and
very sad were many that followed. Neither was there any blessed Penny
Post then, to ease the sick hearts and deferred hopes of the poor; and
few and rare were the tidings that reached the loving wife--soon to
become a mother. The only pleasure Mary had now was in the amassing
money. How eager she was for it! How she counted over and over her daily
gains! How she economized! What self-denial she practiced! Oh for twenty
pounds to set her husband free, and bring him to her arms again! So
passed two years, circumstances always improving, but still this object
so near her heart was far from being attained, when there arrived a
letter from Tracy, informing her that the regiment was ordered abroad,
and that, as he could not procure a furlough, there was no possibility
of their meeting unless she could go to him. What was to be done? If she
went, all her little savings would be absorbed in the journey, and the
hope of purchasing her husband's discharge indefinitely postponed.
Besides, who was to take care of her father, and the lodger, and the
shop? The former would perhaps die from neglect, she should lose her
lodger, and the shop would go to destruction for want of the needful
attention. But could she forbear? Her husband might never return--they
might never meet again--then how she should reproach herself! Moreover,
Tracy had not seen the child: that was decisive. At all risks she must
go; and this being resolved, she determined to shut up her shop, and
engage a girl to attend to her father and her lodger. These arrangements
made, she started on her long journey with her baby in her arms.

At the period of which we are treating, a humble traveler was not only
subject to great inconveniences, but besides the actual sum disbursed,
he paid a heavy per-centage from delay on every mile of his journey.
Howbeit, "Time and the hour run through the roughest day," and poor Mary
reached her destination at last; and in the joy of meeting with her
husband, forgot all her difficulties and anxieties, till the necessity
for parting recalled her to the sad reality that awaited them. If she
stayed too long away from her shop, she feared her customers would
forsake her altogether; and then how was the next rent-day to be
provided for? So, with many a sigh and many a tear, the young couple
bade each other farewell, and Mary recommenced her tedious journey. If
tedious before, when such a bright star of hope lighted her on her way,
how much more so now! While poor Tracy felt so wretched and depressed,
that many a time vague thoughts of deserting glanced through his mind,
and he was only withheld from it by the certainty that if they shot
him--and deserters, when taken, were shot in those days--it would break
his poor little wife's heart. Soon after Mary's departure, however, it
happened that his master, Major D'Arcy, met with a severe accident while
hunting; and as Tracy was his favorite servant, and very much attached
to him, his time and thoughts were so much occupied with attendance on
the invalid, that he was necessarily in some degree diverted from his
own troubles.

In the mean time Mary arrived at home, where she found her affairs in no
worse condition than might be expected. Her father was in health much as
she had left him, and her lodger still in the house, though both weary
of her substitute; and the latter--that is, the lodger--threatening to
quit if the mistress did not make haste back. All was right now
again--except Mary's heart--and things resumed their former train; the
only event she expected being a letter to inform her of her husband's
departure, which he had promised to post on the day of his embarkation.

Three months elapsed, however, before the postman stopped at her door
with the dreaded letter. How her heart sank when she saw him enter the
shop!

"A letter for you, Mrs. Walkingham--one-and-two-pence, if you please."
Mary opened her till, and handed him the money.

"Poor thing!" thought the man, observing how her hand shook, and how
pale she turned; "expects bad news, I suppose!"

Mary dropped the letter into the money-drawer, for there was a customer
in the shop waiting to be served--and then came in another. When the
second was gone, she took it out and looked at it, turned it about, and
examined it, and kissed it, and then put it away again. She felt that
she dared not open it till night, when all her business was over, and
her shop closed, and she might pour out her tears without interruption.
She could scarcely tell whether she most longed or feared to open it;
and when at length the quiet hour came, and her father was in bed, and
her baby asleep in its cradle beside her, and she sat down to read it,
she looked at it, and pressed it to her bosom, and kissed it again and
again, before she broke the seal; and then when she had done so, the
paper shook in her hand, and her eyes were obscured with tears, and the
light seemed so dim that she could not at first decipher anything but
"My darling Mary!" It was easy to read that, for he always called her
_his darling Mary_--but what came next? "Joy! joy! dry your dear tears,
for I know how fast they are falling, and be happy! I am not going
abroad with the regiment, and I shall soon be a free man. Major D'Arcy
has met with a sad accident, and cannot go to a foreign station; and as
he wishes me not to leave him, he is going to purchase my discharge,"
&c. &c.

Many a night had Mary lain awake from grief, but this night she could
not sleep for joy. It was such a surprise, such an unlooked-for piece of
good fortune. It might indeed be some time before she could see her
husband, but he was free, and sooner or later they should be together.
Everybody who came to the shop the next day wondered what had come over
Mrs. Walkingham. She was not like the same woman.

It was about eight months after the arrival of the above welcome
intelligence, on a bright winter's morning, Mary as usual up betimes,
her shop all in order, her child washed and dressed, and herself as neat
and clean "as a new pin," as her neighbor, Mrs. Crump the laundress,
used to say of her--her heart as usual full of Tracy, and more than
commonly full of anxiety about him, for the usual period for his writing
was some time passed. She was beginning to be uneasy at his prolonged
silence, and to fear that he was ill.

"No letter for me, Mr. Ewart?" she said, as she stood on the step with
her child in her arms, watching for the postman.

"None to-day, Mrs. Walkingham; better luck next time!" answered the
functionary, as he trotted past. Mary, disappointed was turning in,
resolving that night to write and upbraid her husband for causing her so
much uneasiness, when she heard the horn that announced the approach of
the London coach, and she stopped to see it pass; for there were
pleasant memories connected with that coach: it was the occasion of her
first acquaintance with Tracy--so had the driver sounded his horn, which
she, absorbed in her troubles, had not heard; so had he cracked his
whip; so had the wheels rattled over the stones; and so had the idle
children in the street run hooting and hallooing after it; but not so
had it dashed up to her door and stopped. It cannot be!--yes, it
is--Tracy himself, in a drab great-coat and crape round his hat, jumping
down from behind! The guard throws him a large portmanteau, and a paper
parcel containing a new gown for Mary and a frock for the boy; and in a
moment more they are in the little back parlor in each other's arms.
Major D'Arcy was dead, and Tracy had returned to his wife to part no
more--so we will shut the door, and leave them to their happiness, while
we take a peep at Mr. Jonas Aldridge.

We left him writhing under the painful discovery that the rightful heir
of the property he was enjoying, at least so far as his uncle's
intentions were concerned, was not only in existence, but was actually
the husband of Lane's daughter; and although he sometimes hoped the
fatal paper had been destroyed, since he could in no other way account
for its non-production, still the galling apprehension that it might
some day find its way to light was ever a thorn in his pillow; and the
natural consequence of this irritating annoyance was, that while he
hated both Tracy and his wife, he kept a vigilant eye on their
proceedings, and had a restless curiosity about all that concerned them.
He would have been not only glad to eject them from the house they
occupied, and even to drive them out of the town altogether, but he had
a vague fear of openly meddling with them; so that the departure of the
regiment, and its being subsequently ordered abroad, afforded him the
highest satisfaction; in proportion to which was his vexation at Tracy's
release, and ultimate return as a free man, all which particulars he
extracted from Mr. Reynolds as regularly as the payment of the quarter's
rent.

"And what does he mean to do now?" inquired Jonas.

"To settle here, I fancy," returned Mr. Reynolds. "They seem to be doing
very well in the little shop; and I believe they have some thoughts of
extending their business."

This was extremely unpleasant intelligence, and the more so, that it was
not easy to discover any means of defeating these arrangements; for as
Mr. Jonas justly observed, as he soliloquized on the subject, "In this
cursed country there is no getting rid of such a fellow!"

In the town of which we speak there are along the shore several houses
of public resort of a very low description, chiefly frequented by
soldiers and sailors; and in war-times it was not at all an uncommon
thing for the hosts of these dens to be secretly connected with the
pressgangs and recruiting companies, both of whom, at a period when men
were so much needed for the public service, pursued their object after a
somewhat unscrupulous fashion. Among the most notorious of these houses
was one called the Britannia, kept by a man of the name of Gurney, who
was reported to have furnished, by fair means or foul, a good many
recruits to his Majesty's army and navy. Now it occurred to Mr. Jonas
Aldridge that Gurney might be useful to him in his present strait; nor
did he find any unwillingness on the part of that worthy person to serve
his purposes.

"A troublesome sort of fellow this Walkingham is," said Mr. Jonas; "and
I wouldn't mind giving twenty pounds if you could get him to enlist
again."

The twenty pounds was quite argument enough to satisfy Gurney of the
propriety of so doing; but success in the undertaking proved much less
easy than desirable. Tracy, who spent his evenings quietly at home with
his wife, never drank, and never frequented the houses on the quay,
disappointed all the schemes laid for entrapping him; and Mr. Jonas had
nearly given up the expectation of accomplishing his purpose, when a
circumstance occurred that awakened new hopes. The house next to that
inhabited by the young couple took fire in the night when everybody was
asleep; the party-walls being thin, the flames soon extended to the
adjoining ones; and the following morning saw poor Tracy and his wife
and child homeless, and almost destitute, their best exertions having
enabled them to save little more than their own lives and that of Mary's
father, who was now bedridden. But for his infirm condition they might
have saved more of their property; but not only was there much time
necessarily consumed in removing him, but when Tracy rushed into his
room, intending to carry him away in his arms, Lane would not allow him
to lift him from his bed till he had first unlocked a large trunk with a
key which was attached to a string hung round the sick man's neck.

"Never mind--never mind trying to save anything but your life! You'll be
burnt, sir; indeed you will; there's not a moment to lose," cried Tracy
eagerly.

But Lane would listen to nothing: the box must be opened, and one
precious object secured. "Thrust your hand down to the bottom--the
corner next the window--and you'll find a parcel in brown paper."

"I have it, sir--I have it!" cried Tracy; and lifting the invalid from
his bed with the strong arm of vigorous youth, he threw him on his back,
and bore him safely into the street.

"The parcel!" said Lane; "where is it?"

Tracy flung it to him, and rushed back into the house. But too late: the
flames drove him forth immediately; and finding he could do nothing
there, he proceeded to seek a shelter for his houseless family.

It was with no little satisfaction that Mr. Jonas Aldridge heard of this
accident. These obnoxious individuals were dislodged now without any
intervention of his, and the link was broken that so unpleasantly seemed
to connect them with himself. Moreover, they were to all appearance
ruined, and consequently helpless and defenseless. Now was the time to
root them out of the town if possible, and prevent them making another
settlement in it; and now was the time that Gurney might be useful; for
Tracy, being no longer a householder, was liable to be pressed, if he
could not be induced to reenlist.

In the mean while, all unconscious of the irritation and anxiety they
were innocently inflicting on the wealthy Mr. Jonas Aldridge, Tracy and
his wife were struggling hard to keep their heads above water in this
sudden wreck of all their hopes and comforts. It is so hard to rise
again after such a plunge; for the destruction of the poor is their
poverty; and _having_ nothing, they could undertake nothing, begin
nothing. The only thing open seemed for Tracy to seek service, and for
Mary to resume her needlework; but situations and custom are not found
in a day, and they were all huddled together in a room, and wanting
bread. The shock of the fire and the removal had seriously affected Lane
too, and it was evident that his sorrows and sufferings were fast
drawing to a close. He was aware of it himself, and one day when Mary
was out he called Tracy to his bedside, and asked him if Mr. Adams did
not think he was dying.

"You have been very ill before, and recovered," said Tracy, unwilling to
shock him with the sentence that the apothecary had pronounced against
him.

"I see," said Lane; "my time is come; and I am not unwilling to go, for
I am a sore burthen to you and Mary, now you're in trouble. I know
you're very kind," he added, seeing Tracy about to protest; "but it's
high time I was under ground. God knows--God knows I have had a sore
struggle, and it's not over yet! To see you so poor, in want of
everything, and to know that I could help you. I sometimes think there
could be no great harm in it either. The Lord have mercy upon me! What
am I saying?"

"You had better not talk any more, but try to sleep till Mary comes in,"
said Tracy, concluding his mind was beginning to wander.

"No, no," said Lane; "that won't do: I must say it now. You remember
that parcel we saved from the fire?"

"Yes I do," answered Tracy, looking about. "Where is it? I've never seen
it since."

"It's here!" said Lane, drawing it from under his pillow. "Look there,"
he added: "_not to be opened till after my death_. You observe?"

"Certainly, sir."

"_Not to be opened till after my death._ But as soon as I am gone, take
it to Mr. Jonas Aldridge: it belongs to him. There is a letter inside
explaining everything; and I have asked him to be good to you and Mary
for the sake of--for the sake of the hard, hard struggle I have had in
poverty and sickness, when I saw her young cheek fading with want and
work; and now again, when you are all suffering, and little Tracy too,
with his thin pale face that used to be so round and rosy: but it will
soon be over, thank God! You will be sure to deliver it into his own
hands?"

"I give you my word I will, sir."

"Take it away then, and let me see it no more; but hide it from Mary,
and tell her nothing about it."

"I will not, sir. And now you must try to rest."

"I feel more at peace now," said Lane; "and perhaps I may. Thank God the
worst struggle is over--dying is easy."

Mr. Adams was right in his prediction. In less than a week from the
period of that solemn behest poor Lane was in his grave; and his last
word, with a significant glance at Tracy, was--_remember_!

Mary had loved her father tenderly--indeed there was a great deal in him
to love; and he was doubly endeared to her by the trials they had gone
through together, and the cares and anxieties she had lavished on him.
But there was no bitterness in the tears she shed: she had never failed
him in their hours of trial; she had been a dutiful and affectionate
daughter, and he had expired peacefully in the arms of herself and her
kind and beloved husband. It was on the evening of the day which had
seen the remains of poor Maurice Lane deposited in the churchyard of St.
Jude that Tracy, having placed the parcel in his bosom, and buttoned his
coat over it, said to his wife--"Mary, I have occasion to go out on a
little business; keep up your spirits till I return; I will not be away
more than an hour;" and leaning over her chair he kissed her cheek, and
left the room. As he stepped from his own door into the street, he
observed two men leaning against the rails of the adjoining house, and
he heard one say to the other, "Yes, by jingo!" "At last!" returned the
other; whereupon they moved on, pursuing the same way he went himself,
but keeping at some distance behind.

Tracy could not quite say that he owed no man anything, for the fire had
incapacitated them from paying some small accounts which they would
otherwise have been able to discharge, and he even owed a month's rent;
but this, considering the circumstances of the case, he did not expect
would be claimed. Indeed Mr. Reynolds, who was quite ignorant of Mr.
Jonas' enmity, had hinted as much. He had therefore no apprehension of
being pursued for debt, nor, till he recollected that there was a very
active pressgang in the town, did it occur to him that the movements of
these men could be connected with himself. It is true that, as a
discharged soldier, he was not strictly liable, but he was aware that
immunities of this sort were not always available at the moment of need;
and that, as these persons did not adhere very strictly to the terms of
their warrant, once in their clutches, it was no easy matter to get out
of them: so he quickened his pace, and kept his eyes and ears on the
alert.

His way lay along the shore, and shortly before he reached the
Britannia, the two men suddenly advanced, and placed themselves one on
each side of him. But for the suspicion we have named, Tracy would have
either not observed their movements, or, if he had, would have stopped
and inquired what they wanted. As it was, he thought it much wiser to
escape the seizure at first, should such be their intention, than trust
to the justice of his cause afterward; so, without giving them time to
lay hands upon him, he took to his heels and ran, whereupon they sounded
a whistle, and as he reached Joe Gurney's door, he found his flight
impeded by that worthy himself, who came out of it, and tried to trip
him up. But Tracy was active, and making a leap, he eluded the
stratagem. The man, however, seized him, which gave time to the two
others to come up; and there commenced a desperate struggle of three to
one, in which, in spite of his strength and ability, Tracy would
certainly have been worsted but for a very unexpected reinforcement
which joined him from some of the neighboring houses, to whose
inhabitants Gurney's proceedings had become to the last degree odious;
more especially in the women, among whom there was scarcely one who had
not the cause of a brother, a son, or a lover to avenge. Armed with
pokers, brooms, or whatever they could lay their hands on, these Amazons
issued from their doors, and fell foul of Gurney, whom they singled from
the rest as their own peculiar prey. In the confusion Tracy contrived to
make his escape; and without his hat, and his clothes almost torn off
his back, he rushed in upon the astonished Mary in less than half an
hour after he had left her.

His story was soon told, and there was nothing sufficiently uncommon in
such an incident in those days to excite much surprise, except as
regarded the circumstance of the men lying in wait for him. Tracy was
not ignorant that malice and jealousy had occasionally furnished victims
to the press system; but they had no enemy they knew of, nor was there
any one, as far as they were aware, that had an interest in getting him
out of the way. It was, however, an unpleasant and alarming occurrence,
and he resolved on consulting a lawyer, in order to ascertain how he
might protect himself from any repetition of the annoyance.

With this determination, the discussion between the husband and wife
concluded for that night; but the former had a private source of
uneasiness, which on the whole distressed him much more than the seizure
itself, and which he could not have the relief of communicating to
Mary--this was the loss of the parcel so sacredly committed to his care
by his deceased father-in-law, and which he was on his way to deliver
into the hands of Mr. Jonas Aldridge when he met with the interruption.
It had either fallen or been torn from his bosom in the struggle, and
considering the neighborhood and the sort of people that surrounded him,
he could scarcely indulge the most remote hope of ever seeing it again.
To what the papers contained Lane had furnished him no clew; but whether
it was anything of intrinsic worth, or merely some article to which
circumstances or association lent an arbitrary value, the impossibility
of complying with the last and earnest request of Mary's father formed
far the most painful feature in the accident of the evening; and while
the wife lay awake, conjuring up images of she knew not what dangers and
perils that threatened her husband, Tracy passed an equally sleepless
night in vague conjectures as to what had become of the parcel, and in
forming visionary schemes for its recovery.

In the morning he even determined to face Gurney in his den; for it was
only at night that he felt himself in any danger from the nefarious
proceedings of himself and his associates. But his inquiries brought him
no satisfaction. The people who resided in the neighborhood of Gurney's
house, many of whom had engaged in the broil, declared they knew nothing
of the parcel; "but," said they, "if any of Gurney's people have it, you
need never hope to see it again." Tracy thought so too; however, he paid
a visit to their den of iniquity, and declared his determination to have
them summoned before the magistrates, to answer for his illegal seizure;
but as all who were present denied any knowledge of the affair, and as
he could not have sworn to the two ruffians who tracked him, he
satisfied himself with this threat without proceeding further in the
business.

Having been equally unsuccessful at the police-office, he determined
after waiting a few days in the hope of discovering some clew by which
he might recover the parcel, to communicate the circumstance to Mr.
Jonas Aldridge. He therefore took an early opportunity of presenting
himself in West Street.

"Here's a man wishes to see you, sir," said the servant.

"Who is it? What does he want?" inquired Mr. Jonas, who, recumbent in
his arm-chair, and his glass of port beside him, was leisurely perusing
his newspaper after dinner. "Where is he?"

"He's in the passage, sir."

"Take care he's not a thief come to look after the greatcoats and hats."

"He looks very respectable, sir."

"Wants me to subscribe to something, I suppose. Go and ask him what's
his business."

"He says he can't tell his business except to you, sir, because it's
something very partickler," said the maid, returning into the room. "He
says he's been one of your tenants; his name's Walkingham."

"Walkingham!" reiterated Mr. Jonas, dropping the newspaper, and starting
erect out of his recumbent attitude. "Wants me! Business! What business
can he possibly have with me? Say I'm engaged, and can't see him. No,
stay! Yes; say I'm engaged and can't see him."

"He wishes to know what time it will be convenient for you to see him,
sir, as it's about something very partickler indeed," said the girl,
again making her appearance.

Mr. Jonas reflected a minute or two; he feared this visit portended him
no good. He had often wondered that Tracy had not claimed relationship
with him, for he felt no doubt of his being his cousin; probably he was
now come to do it; or had he somehow got hold of that fatal will? One or
the other surely was the subject of his errand; and if I refuse to see
him, he will go and tell his story to somebody else. "Let him come in.
Stay! Take the lamp off the table, and put it at the other end of the
room."

This done, Mr. Jonas having reseated himself in his arm-chair in such a
position that he could conceal his features from his unwelcome visitor,
bade the woman send him in.

"I beg your pardon for intruding, sir," said Tracy, "but I thought it my
duty to come to you," speaking in such a modest tone of voice, that Mr.
Jonas began to feel somewhat reassured, and ventured to ask with a
careless air, "What was his business?"

"You have perhaps heard, sir, that Mr. Lane is dead?"

"I believe I did," said Mr. Jonas.

"Well, sir, shortly before his death he called me to his bedside and
gave me a parcel, which he desired me to deliver to you as soon as he
was laid in his grave."

"To me?" said Mr. Jonas, by way of filling up the pause, and concealing
his agitation, for he immediately jumped to the conclusion that the will
was really forthcoming now.

"Yes, sir, into your own hand; and accordingly the day he was buried I
set out in the evening to bring it to you; but the pressgang got hold of
me, and in the scuffle I lost it out of my bosom, where I had put it
for safety, and though I have made every inquiry, I can hear nothing of
it."

"What was it? What did the parcel contain?" inquired Mr. Jonas, eagerly.

"I don't know, I am sure, sir," answered Tracy. "It was sealed up in
thick brown paper; but, from the anxiety Mr. Lane expressed about its
delivery, I am afraid it was something of value. He said he should never
rest in his grave if you did not get it."

Mr. Jonas now seeing there was no immediate danger, found courage to ask
a variety of questions with a view to further discoveries; but as Tracy
had no clew to guide him with regard to the contents of the parcel
except his own suspicions, which he did not feel himself called upon to
communicate, he declared himself unable to give any information. All he
could say was, that "he thought the parcel felt as if there was a book
in it."

"A book!" said Mr. Jonas. "What sized book?"

"Not a large book, sir, but rather thick; it might be a pocket-book."

"Very odd!" said Mr. Jonas, who was really puzzled; for if the book
contained the will, surely it was not to him that Lane would have
committed it. However, as nothing more could be elicited on the subject,
he dismissed Tracy, bidding him neglect nothing to recover the parcel,
and inexpressibly vexed that his own stratagem to get rid of this
"discomfortable cousin," had prevented his receiving the important
bequest.

Whilst Tracy returned home, satisfied that he had fulfilled his duty as
far as he was able, Mr. Jonas having well considered the matter,
resolved on obtaining an interview with Joe Gurney himself; "for,"
thought he, "if the parcel contained neither money, nor anything that
could be turned into money, he may possibly be able to get it for me."

"Well, sir, I remembers the night very well," said Joe. "They'd ha' been
watching for that 'ere young chap, off and on, for near a fortnight,
when they got him, as luck would have it, close to my door; but he
raised such a noise that the neighbors came out, and he got away."

"But did you hear anything of the parcel?" inquired Mr. Jonas.

"Well, sir, I'm not sure whether I did or no," answered Gurney; "but I
think it was Tom Purcell as picked it up."

"Then you saw it?" said Mr. Jonas. "What did it contain? Where is it?"

"Well, I'm sure, sir, that is more than I can say," returned Gurney, who
always spared himself the pain of telling more truth than he could
avoid; "but Tom went away the next day to Lunnun."

"And did he take the parcel with him? Was there no address on it?"

"No, sir, not on the outside at least--there was something wrote, but it
wasn't addressed to nobody."

Although Mr. Jonas was perfectly aware that Gurney knew more than he
chose to tell, not wishing to quarrel with him, he was obliged to
relinquish the interrogative system, and content himself with a promise
that he would endeavor to discover the whereabout of Tom Purcell, and do
all he could to recover the lost article; and to a certain extent Gurney
intended to fulfill the engagement. The fact of the matter was, that the
parcel had been found by Tom Purcell, but not so exclusively as that he
could secure the benefit of its contents to himself. They had been
divided amongst those who put in their claim, the treasure consisting of
a black pocket-book, containing £95 in bank-notes, and Lane's letter,
sealed, and addressed to Mr. Jonas Aldridge. The profits being
distributed, the pocket-book and letter were added to the share of the
finder, and these, it was possible, might be recovered; and with that
view Gurney dispatched a missive to their possessor. But persons who
follow the profession of Tom Purcell have rarely any fixed address, and
a considerable time elapsed ere an answer was received; and when it did
come, it led to no result. The paper he had burnt, and the pocket-book
he had thrown into a ditch. He described the spot, and it was searched,
but nothing of the sort was found. Here, therefore, ended the matter to
all appearance, especially as Mr. Jonas succeeded in extracting from
Gurney that there was nothing in the book but that letter and some
money.

In the mean while, however, the pocket-book had strangely enough found
its way back to Thomas Street. A poor woman that carried fish about the
town for sale, and with whom Mary not unfrequently dealt, brought it to
her one day, damp, tattered, and discolored, and inquired if it did not
belong to her husband.

"Not that I know of," said Mary.

"Because," said the woman, "he came to our house one morning last winter
asking for a parcel. Now, I know this pocket-book--at least I think it's
the same--had been picked up by some of Gurney's folks the night afore,
though it wasn't for me that lives next door to him to interfere in his
matters. Hows'ever, my son's a hedger and ditcher, and when he came home
last night he brought it: he says he found it in a field near by the
Potteries."

"I do not think it is Tracy's," said Mary; "but if you will leave it,
I'll ask him." And the article being in too dilapidated a condition to
have any value, the woman told her she was welcome to it, and went away.

The consequence of this little event was, that when Tracy returned, Mary
became a participator in the secret which had hitherto been withheld
from her.

"I see it all," said she. "No doubt Mr. Aldridge gave it to my father to
take care of the night he came here; and when he died, my poor father,
knowing we were to have shared with him had he lived, felt tempted to
keep it; but he was too honest to do so; and in all our distresses he
never touched what was not his own; but this explains many things I
could not understand." And as the tears rose to her eyes at the
recollection of the struggle she had witnessed, without comprehending
it, betwixt want and integrity, she fell into a reverie, which prevented
her observing that her child, a boy of four years old, had taken
possession of the pocket-book, and, seated on the floor, was pulling it
to pieces.

"I tell you what, Mary," said Tracy, returning into the shop, which he
had left for a few minutes, "I'll take the book as it is to Mr. Jonas
Aldridge. I'm sorry the money's lost; but we are not to blame for that,
and I suppose he has plenty. Put it into a bit of clean paper, will you,
and I'll set off at once."

"Oh, Tracy, Tracy," cried Mary, addressing her little boy, "what _are_
you doing with that book? Give it me, you naughty child! See, he has
almost torn it in half!" Not a very difficult feat, for the leather was
so rotten with damp that it scarcely held together.

"Look here, Tracy: here's a paper in it," said Mary, as she took it from
the child, and from the end of a secret pocket, which was unript, she
drew a folded sheet of long writing-paper.

"Dear me! look here!" said she, as she unfolded and cast her eye over
it. "'In the name of God, amen! I, Ephraim Aldridge, residing at No. 4,
West Street, being of sound mind, memory, and understanding'----Why,
Tracy, it's a will, I declare! Only think, How odd! isn't it? 'Of sound
mind, memory, and understanding, do make and publish this my last will
and testament'"----

"I'll tell you what, Mary," said Tracy, attempting to take the paper
from her, "I don't think we've any right to read it: give it me."

"Stay," said Mary; "stay. Oh, Tracy, do but listen to this: 'I
give, devise, and bequeath all property, of what nature or kind
soever, real, freehold, or personal, of which I shall die seized or
possessed'----Think what a deal Mr. Jonas must have!"

"Mary, I'm surprised at you."

"'Of which I shall die seized or possessed, to my nephew'"----

"It's merely the draft of a will. Give it me, and let me go."

"'To my nephew, Tracy Walkingham, son of the late Tracy Walkingham,
formerly a private, and subsequently a commissioned officer in his
majesty's 96th Regiment of foot, and of my sister, Eleanor Aldridge, his
wife.' Tracy, what can it mean? Can you be Mr. Ephraim Aldridge's
nephew?"

"It's very strange," said Tracy. "I never heard my mother's maiden name;
for both she and my father died in the West Indies when I was a child;
but certainly, as I have often told you, my father was a private in the
96th Regiment, and afterward got a commission."

It would be useless to dwell on the surprise of the young couple, or to
detail the measures that were taken to ascertain and prove, beyond a
cavil, that Tracy was the right heir. There were relations yet alive
who, when they heard that he was likely to turn out a rich man, were
willing enough to identify him, and it was not till the solicitor he had
employed was perfectly satisfied on this head that Mr. Jonas was waited
on, with the astounding intelligence that a will had been discovered,
made subsequent to the one by which he inherited. At the same time a
letter was handed to him, which, sealed and addressed in Ephraim's hand,
had been found in the same secret receptacle of the book as the larger
paper.

The contents of that letter none ever knew but Jonas himself. It seemed
to have been a voice of reproach from the grave for the ill return he
had made to the perhaps injudicious but well-meant generosity and
indulgence of the old man. The lawyer related that when he opened it he
turned deadly pale, and placing his hands before his face, sank into a
chair quite overcome: let us hope his heart was touched.

However that may be, he had no reason to complain of the treatment he
received from the hands of his successors, who temperate in prosperity,
as they had been patient in adversity, in consideration of the
relationship and of the expectations in which he had been nurtured, made
Jonas a present of a thousand pounds for the purpose of establishing him
in any way of life he might select; while, carefully preserved in a
leathern case, the old black pocket-book, to which they owed so much, is
still extant in the family of Tracy Walkingham.


[Abridged from "Light and Darkness," just published.]

THE LAST VAMPIRE.

BY MRS. CROWE.

In the fifteenth century lycanthropy prevailed extensively amongst the
Vaudois, and many persons suffered death for it; but as no similar case
seems to have been heard of for a long while, lycanthropy and ghoulism
were set down amongst the superstitions of the East, and the follies and
fables of the dark ages. A circumstance however has just come to light
in France that throws a strange and unexpected light upon this curious
subject. The account we are going to give is drawn from a report of the
investigation before a council of war, held on the 10th of the present
month (July, 1849), Colonel Manselon, president. It is remarked that the
court was extremely crowded, and that many ladies were present.

The facts of this mysterious affair, as they came to light in the
examinations, are as follows: For some months past the cemeteries in and
around Paris have been the scenes of a frightful profanation, the
authors of which had succeeded in eluding all the vigilance that was
exerted to detect them. At one time the guardians or keepers of these
places of burial were themselves suspected; at others the odium was
thrown on the surviving relations of the dead.

The cemetery of Père la Chaise was the first field of these horrible
operations. It appears that for a considerable time the guardians had
observed a mysterious figure flitting about by night amongst the tombs,
on whom they never could lay their hands. As they approached, he
disappeared like a phantom; and even the dogs that were let loose, and
urged to seize him, stopped short, and ceased to bark, as if they were
transfixed by a charm. When morning broke, the ravages of this strange
visitant were but too visible--graves had been opened, coffins forced,
and the remains of the dead, frightfully torn and mutilated, lay
scattered upon the earth. Could the surgeons be the guilty parties? No.
A member of the profession being brought to the spot declared that no
scientific knife had been there; but certain parts of the human body
might be required for anatomical studies, and the gravediggers might
have violated the tombs to obtain money by the sale of them. The watch
was doubled, but to no purpose. A young soldier was one night seized in
a tomb, but he declared he had gone there to meet his sweetheart, and
had fallen asleep; and as he evinced no trepidation they let him go.

At length these profanations ceased in Père la Chaise, but it was not
long before they were renewed in another quarter. A suburban cemetery
was the new theater of operations. A little girl aged seven years, and
much loved by her parents, died. With their own hands they laid her in
her coffin, attired in the frock she delighted to wear on _fête_ days,
and with her favorite playthings beside her; and accompanied by numerous
relatives and friends they saw her laid in the earth. On the following
morning it was discovered that the grave had been violated, the body
torn from the coffin, frightfully mutilated, and the heart extracted.
There was no robbery. The sensation in the neighborhood was tremendous;
and in the general terror and perplexity suspicion fell on the
broken-hearted father, whose innocence however was easily proved. Every
means was taken to discover the criminal; but the only result of the
increased surveillance was that the scene of profanation was removed to
the cemetery of Mont Parnasse, where the exhumations were carried to
such an extent that the authorities were at their wits' end.

Considering, by the way, that all these cemeteries are surrounded by
walls, and have iron gates, which are kept closed, it certainly seems
very strange that any ghoul or vampire of solid flesh and blood should
have been able to pursue his vocation so long undiscovered. However, so
it was; and it was not till they bethought themselves of laying a snare
for this mysterious visitor that he was detected. Having remarked a spot
where the wall, though nine feet high, appeared to have been frequently
scaled, an old officer contrived a sort of infernal machine, with a wire
attached to it, which he so arranged that it should explode if any one
attempted to enter the cemetery at that point. This done, and a watch
being set, they thought themselves now secure of their purpose.
Accordingly, at midnight an explosion roused the guardians, who
perceived a man already in the cemetery; but before they could seize him
he had leaped the wall with an agility that confounded them; and
although they fired their pieces after him, he succeeded in making his
escape. But his footsteps were marked with blood that had flowed from
his wounds, and several scraps of military attire were picked up on the
spot. Nevertheless, they seem to have been still uncertain where to seek
the offender, till one of the gravediggers of Mont Parnasse, whilst
preparing the last resting-place of two criminals about to be executed,
chanced to overhear some sappers of the 74th regiment remarking that one
of their sergeants had returned on the preceding night cruelly wounded,
nobody knew how, and had been conveyed to Val de Grace, which is a
military hospital. A little inquiry now soon cleared up the mystery; and
it was ascertained that Sergeant Bertrand was the author of all these
profanations, and of many others of the same description previous to his
arrival in Paris.

Supported on crutches, wrapped in a gray cloak, pale and feeble,
Bertrand was now brought forward for examination; nor was there anything
in the countenance or appearance of this young man indicative of the
fearful monomania of which he is the victim; for the whole tenor of his
confession proves that in no other light is his horrible propensity to
be considered. In the first place, he freely acknowledged himself the
author of these violations of the dead both in Paris and elsewhere.

"What object did you propose to yourself in committing these acts?"

"I cannot tell," replied Bertrand: "it was a horrible impulse. I was
driven to it against my own will; nothing could stop or deter me. I
cannot describe or understand myself what my sensations were in tearing
and rending these bodies."

President.--"And what did you do after one of these visits to a
cemetery?"

Bertrand.--"I withdrew, trembling convulsively, feeling a great desire
for repose. I fell asleep, no matter where, and slept for several hours;
but during this sleep I heard everything that passed around me! I have
sometimes exhumed from ten to fifteen bodies in a night. I dug them up
with my hands, which were often torn and bleeding with the labor I
underwent; but I minded nothing, so that I could get at them. The
guardians fired at me one night and wounded me, but that did not prevent
my returning the next. This desire seized me generally about once a
fortnight."

Strange to say, the perpetrator of all these terrors was "gentle and
kind to the living, and especially beloved in his regiment for his
frankness and gayety."




[From Blackwood's Magazine.]

MY NOVEL: OR, VARIETIES IN ENGLISH LIFE.

BY PISISTRATUS CAXTON.

_Continued from Page 582._


BOOK II.--INITIAL CHAPTER:--INFORMING THE READER HOW THIS WORK CAME TO
HAVE INITIAL CHAPTERS.

"There can't be a doubt," said my father, "that to each of the main
divisions of your work--whether you call them Books or Parts--you should
prefix an Initial or Introductory Chapter."

_Pisistratus._--"Can't be a doubt, sir! Why so?"

_Mr. Caxton._--"Fielding lays it down as an indispensable rule, which he
supports by his example; and Fielding was an artistical writer, and knew
what he was about."

_Pisistratus._--"Do you remember any of his reasons, sir?"

_Mr. Caxton._--"Why, indeed, Fielding says very justly that he is not
bound to assign any reason; but he does assign a good many, here and
there--to find which, I refer you to _Tom Jones_. I will only observe,
that one of his reasons, which is unanswerable, runs to the effect that
thus, in every Part or Book, the reader has the advantage of beginning
at the fourth or fifth page instead of the first--'a matter by no means
of trivial consequence,' saith Fielding, 'to persons who read books with
no other view than to say they have read them--a more general motive to
reading than is commonly imagined; and from which not only law books and
good books, but the pages of Homer and Virgil, of Swift and Cervantes,
have been often turned over.' There," cried my father triumphantly, "I
will lay a shilling to twopence that I have quoted the very words."

_Mrs. Caxton._--"Dear me, that only means skipping: I don't see any
great advantage in writing a chapter, merely for people to skip it."

_Pisistratus._--"Neither do I!"

_Mr. Caxton_, dogmatically.--"It is the repose in the picture--Fielding
calls it 'contrast'--(still more dogmatically) I say there can't be a
doubt about it. Besides, (added my father after a pause,) besides, this
usage gives you opportunities to explain what has gone before, or to
prepare for what's coming; or, since Fielding contends with great truth,
that some learning is necessary for this kind of historical composition,
it allows you, naturally and easily, the introduction of light and
pleasant ornaments of that nature. At each flight in the terrace, you
may give the eye the relief of an urn or a statue. Moreover, when so
inclined, you create proper pausing places for reflection; and complete,
by a separate yet harmonious ethical department, the design of a work,
which is but a mere Mother Goose's tale if it does not embrace a general
view of the thoughts and actions of mankind."

_Pisistratus._--"But then, in these initial chapters, the author thrusts
himself forward; and just when you want to get on with the _dramatis
personæ_, you find yourself face to face with the poet himself."

_Mr. Caxton._--"Pooh! you can contrive to prevent that! Imitate the
chorus of the Greek stage, who fill up the intervals between the action
by saying what the author would otherwise say in his own person."

_Pisistratus_, slily.--"That's a good idea, sir--and I have a chorus,
and a chorægus too, already in my eye."

_Mr. Caxton_, unsuspectingly.--"Aha! you are not so dull a fellow as you
would make yourself out to be; and, even if an author did thrust himself
forward, what objection is there to that?--I don't say a good poem, but
a poem. It is a mere affectation to suppose that a book can come into
the world without an author. Every child has a father, one father at
least, as the great Condé says very well in his poem."

_Pisistratus._--"The great Condé a poet!--I never heard that before."

_Mr. Caxton._--"I don't say he was a poet, but he sent a poem to Madame
de Montansier. Envious critics think that he must have paid somebody
else to write it; but there is no reason why a great Captain should not
write a poem. I wonder, Roland, if the Duke ever tried his hand at
'Stanzas to Mary,' or 'Lines to a sleeping babe.'"

_Captain Roland._--"Austin, I'm ashamed of you. Of course the Duke could
write poetry if he pleased--something, I dare say, in the way of the
great Condé--that is something warlike and heroic, I'll be bound. Let's
hear!"

_Mr. Caxton_, reciting--

     "Telle est du Ciel la loi sévère
     Qu'il faut qu'un enfant ait un père;
     On dit même quelque fois
     Tel enfant en a jusqu'à trois."

_Captain Roland_, greatly disgusted.--"Condé write such stuff!--I don't
believe it."

_Pisistratus._--"I do, and accept the quotation--you and Roland shall be
joint fathers to my child as well as myself."

     "Tel enfant en a jusqu'à trois."

_Mr. Caxton_, solemnly.--"I refuse the proffered paternity; but so far
as administering a little wholesome castigation, now and then, have no
objection to join in the discharge of a father's duty."

_Pisistratus._--"Agreed; have you anything to say against the infant
hitherto?"

_Mr. Caxton._--"He is in long clothes at present; let us wait till he
can walk."

_Blanche._--"But pray whom do you mean for a hero?--and is Miss Jemima
your heroine?"

_Captain Roland._--"There is some mystery about the--"

_Pisistratus_, hastily.--"Hush, Uncle; no letting the cat out of the bag
yet. Listen, all of you! I left Frank Hazeldean on his way to the
Casino."


CHAPTER II.

"It is a sweet pretty place," thought Frank, as he opened the gate which
led across the fields to the Casino, that smiled down upon him with its
plaster pilasters. "I wonder, though, that my father, who is so
particular in general, suffers the carriage road to be so full of holes
and weeds. Mounseer does not receive many visits, I take it."

But when Frank got into the ground immediately before the house, he saw
no cause of complaint as to want of order and repair. Nothing could be
kept more neatly. Frank was ashamed of the dint made by the pony's hoofs
in the smooth gravel; he dismounted, tied the animal to the wicket, and
went on foot toward the glass door in front.

He rang the bell once, twice, but nobody came, for the old
woman-servant, who was hard of hearing, was far away in the yard,
searching for any eggs which the hen might have scandalously hidden from
culinary purposes; and Jackeymo was fishing for the sticklebacks and
minnows, which were, when caught, to assist the eggs, when found, in
keeping together the bodies and souls of himself and his master. The old
woman was on board wages,--lucky old woman! Frank rang a third time, and
with the impetuosity of his age. A face peeped from the Belvidere on the
terrace. "Diavolo!" said Dr. Riccabocca to himself. "Young cocks crow
hard on their own dunghill; it must be a cock of a high race to crow so
loud at another's."

Therewith he shambled out of the summer-house, and appeared suddenly
before Frank, in a very wizard-like dressing-robe of black serge, a red
cap on his head, and a cloud of smoke coming rapidly from his lips, as a
final consolatory whiff, before he removed the pipe from them. Frank had
indeed seen the Doctor before, but never in so scholastic a costume, and
he was a little startled by the apparition at his elbow, as he turned
round.

"Signorino--young gentleman," said the Italian, taking off his cap with
his usual urbanity, "pardon the negligence of my people--I am too happy
to receive your commands in person."

"Dr. Rickeybockey?" stammered Frank, much confused by this polite
address, and the low yet stately bow with which it was accompanied,
"I--I have a note from the Hall. Mamma--that is, my mother,--and aunt
Jemima beg their best compliments, and hope you will come, sir."

The Doctor took the note with another bow, and, opening the glass door,
invited Frank in.

The young gentleman, with a school-boy's usual bluntness, was about to
say that he was in a hurry, and had rather not; but Dr. Riccabocca's
grand manner awed him, while a glimpse of the hall excited his
curiosity--so he silently obeyed the invitation.

The hall, which was of an octagon shape, had been originally paneled off
into compartments, and in these the Italian had painted landscapes, rich
with the warm sunny light of his native climate. Frank was no judge of
the art displayed; but he was greatly struck with the scenes depicted:
they were all views of some lake, real or imaginary--in all, dark-blue
shining waters reflected dark-blue placid skies. In one, a flight of
steps descended to the lake, and a gay group was seen feasting on the
margin; in another, sunset threw its rose-hues over a vast villa or
palace, backed by Alpine hills, and flanked by long arcades of vines,
while pleasure-boats skimmed over the waves below. In short, throughout
all the eight compartments, the scene, though it differed in details,
preserved the same general character, as if illustrating some favorite
locality. The Italian did not, however, evince any desire to do the
honors to his own art, but, preceding Frank across the hall, opened the
door of his usual sitting-room, and requested him to enter. Frank did
so, rather reluctantly, and seated himself with unwonted bashfulness on
the edge of a chair. But here new specimens of the Doctor's handicraft
soon riveted attention. The room had been originally papered; but
Riccabocca had stretched canvas over the walls, and painted thereon
sundry satirical devices, each separated from the other by scroll-works
of fantastic arabesques. Here a Cupid was trundling a wheel-barrow full
of hearts which he appeared to be selling to an ugly old fellow, with a
money-bag in his hand--probably Plutus. There Diogenes might be seen
walking through a market-place, with his lantern in his hand, in search
of an honest man, whilst the children jeered at him, and the curs
snapped at his heels. In another place, a lion was seen half dressed in
a fox's hide, while a wolf in a sheep's mask was conversing very
amicably with a young lamb. Here again might be seen the geese
stretching out their necks from the Roman Capitol in full cackle, while
the stout invaders were beheld in the distance, running off as hard as
they could. In short, in all these quaint entablatures some pithy
sarcasm was symbolically conveyed; only over the mantlepiece was the
design graver and more touching. It was the figure of a man in a
pilgrim's garb, chained to the earth by small but innumerable ligaments,
while a phantom likeness of himself, his shadow, was seen hastening down
what seemed an interminable vista; and underneath were written the
pathetic words of Horace--

     "Patriæ quis exul
           Se quoque fugit?"

--"What exile from his country can fly himself as well?" The furniture
of the room was extremely simple, and somewhat scanty; yet it was
arranged so as to impart an air of taste and elegance to the room. Even
a few plaster busts and statues, though bought but of some humble
itinerant, had their classical effect, glistening from out stands of
flowers that were grouped around them, or backed by graceful
screen-works formed from twisted osiers, which, by the simple
contrivance of trays at the bottom, filled with earth, served for living
parasitical plants, with gay flowers contrasting thick ivy leaves, and
gave to the whole room the aspect of a bower.

"May I ask your permission?" said the Italian, with his finger on the
seal of the letter.

"Oh yes," said Frank with _naïveté_.

Riccabocca broke the seal, and a slight smile stole over his
countenance. Then he turned a little aside from Frank, shaded his face
with his hand, and seemed to muse. "Mrs. Hazeldean," said he at last,
"does me very great honor. I hardly recognize her handwriting, or I
should have been more impatient to open the letter." The dark eyes were
lifted over the spectacles, and went right into Frank's unprotected and
undiplomatic heart. The Doctor raised the note, and pointed to the
characters with his forefinger.

"Cousin Jemima's hand," said Frank, as directly as if the question had
been put to him.

The Italian smiled. "Mr. Hazeldean has company staying with him?"

"No; that is, only Barney--the Captain. There's seldom much company
before the shooting season," added Frank with a slight sigh; "and then
you know the holidays are over. For my part, I think we ought to break
up a month later."

The Doctor seemed reassured by the first sentence in Frank's reply, and
seating himself at the table, wrote his answer--not hastily, as we
English write, but with care and precision, like one accustomed to weigh
the nature of words--in that stiff Italian hand, which allows the writer
so much time to think while he forms his letters. He did not therefore
reply at once to Frank's remark about the holidays, but was silent till
he had concluded his note, read it three times over, sealed it by the
taper he slowly lighted, and then, giving it to Frank, he said--

"For your sake, young gentleman, I regret that your holidays are so
early; for mine, I must rejoice, since I accept the kind invitation you
have rendered doubly gratifying by bringing it yourself."

"Deuce take the fellow and his fine speeches! One don't know which way
to look," thought English Frank.

The Italian smiled again, as if this time he had read the boy's heart,
without need of those piercing black eyes, and said, less ceremoniously
than before, "You don't care much for compliments, young gentleman?"

"No, I don't indeed," said Frank heartily.

"So much the better for you, since your way in the world is made: it
would be so much the worse if you had to make it!"

Frank looked puzzled: the thought was too deep for him--so he turned to
the pictures.

"Those are very funny," said he: "they seem capitally done--who did
'em?"

"Signorino Hazeldean, you are giving me what you refused yourself."

"Eh?" said Frank inquiringly.

"Compliments!"

"Oh--I--no; but they are well done, aren't they, sir?"

"Not particularly: you speak to the artist."

"What! you painted them?"

"Yes."

"And the pictures in the hall?"

"Those too."

"Taken from nature--eh?"

"Nature," said the Italian sententiously, perhaps evasively, "let
nothing be taken from her."

"Oh!" said Frank, puzzled again.

"Well, I must wish you good morning, sir; I am very glad you are
coming."

"Without compliment?"

"Without compliment."

"_A rivedersi_--good-by for the present, my young signorino. This way,"
observing Frank make a bolt toward the wrong door.

"Can I offer you a glass of wine--it is pure, of our own making?"

"No, thank you, indeed, sir," cried Frank, suddenly recollecting his
father's admonition. "Good-by--don't trouble yourself, sir; I know my
way now."

But the bland Italian followed his guest to the wicket, where Frank had
left the pony. The young gentleman, afraid lest so courteous a host
should hold the stirrup for him, twitched off the bridle, and mounted in
haste, not even staying to ask if the Italian could put him in the way
to Rood Hall, of which way he was profoundly ignorant. The Italian's eye
followed the boy as he rode up the ascent in the lane, and the Doctor
sighed heavily. "The wiser we grow," said he to himself, "the more we
regret the age of our follies: it is better to gallop with a light heart
up the stony hill than sit in the summer-house and cry 'How true!' to
the stony truths of Machiavelli!"

With that he turned back into the Belvidere; but he could not resume his
studies. He remained some minutes gazing on the prospect, till the
prospect reminded him of the fields which Jackeymo was bent on his
hiring, and the fields reminded him of Lenny Fairfield. He walked back
to the house, and in a few moments reemerged in his out-of-door trim,
with cloak and umbrella, relighted his pipe, and strolled toward
Hazeldean village.

Meanwhile Frank, after cantering on for some distance, stopped at a
cottage, and there learned that there was a short cut across the fields
to Rood Hall, by which he could save nearly three miles. Frank however
missed the short cut, and came out into the highroad. A turnpike-keeper,
after first taking his toll, put him back again into the short cut, and
finally he got into some green lanes, where a dilapidated finger-post
directed him to Rood. Late at noon, having ridden fifteen miles in the
desire to reduce ten to seven, he came suddenly upon a wild and
primitive piece of ground, that seemed half chase, half common, with
slovenly tumble-down cottages of villainous aspect scattered about in
odd nooks and corners; idle dirty children were making mud-pies on the
road; slovenly-looking children were plaiting straw at the thresholds; a
large but forlorn and decayed church, that seemed to say that the
generation which saw it built was more pious than the generation which
now resorted to it, stood boldly and nakedly out by the road-side.

"Is this the village of Rood?" asked Frank of a stout young man
breaking stones on the road--sad sign that no better labor could be
found for him!

The man sullenly nodded, and continued his work.

"And where's the Hall--Mr. Leslie's?"

The man looked up in stolid surprise, and this time touched his hat.

"Be you going there?"

"Yes, if I can find out where it is."

"I'll show your honor," said the boor alertly.

Frank reined in the pony, and the man walked by his side.

Frank was much of his father's son, despite the difference of age, and
that more fastidious change of manner which characterizes each
succeeding race in the progress of civilization. Despite all his Eton
finery, he was familiar with peasants, and had the quick eye of one
country-born as to country matters.

"You don't seem very well off in this village, my man," said he
knowingly.

"Noa; there be a deal of distress here in the winter time, and summer
too, for that matter; and the parish ben't much help to a single man."

"But the farmers want work here as well as elsewhere, I suppose?"

"Deed, and there ben't much farming work here--most o' the parish be all
wild ground loike."

"The poor have a right of common, I suppose," said Frank, surveying a
large assortment of vagabond birds and quadrupeds.

"Yes; neighbor Timmins keeps his geese on the common, and some has a
cow--and them be neighbor Jowlas's pigs. I don't know if there's a
right, loike; but the folks at the Hall does all they can to help us,
and that ben't much: they ben't as rich as some folks; but," added the
peasant proudly, "they be as good blood as any in the shire."

"I'm glad to see you like them, at all events."

"Oh yes, I likes them well eno'; mayhap you are at school with the young
gentleman?"

"Yes," said Frank.

"Ah! I heard the clergyman say as how Master Randal was a mighty clever
lad, and would get rich some day. I'se sure I wish he would, for a poor
squire makes a poor parish. There's the Hall, sir."


CHAPTER III.

Frank looked right ahead, and saw a square house, that in spite of
modern sash-windows was evidently of remote antiquity--a high conical
roof; a stack of tall quaint chimney-pots of red baked clay (like those
at Sutton Place in Surrey) dominating over isolated vulgar
smoke-conductors of the ignoble fashion of present times; a dilapidated
groin-work, incasing within a Tudor arch a door of the comfortable date
of George III., and the peculiarly dingy and weather-stained appearance
of the small finely-finished bricks, of which the habitation was
built,--all showed the abode of former generations adapted with
tasteless irreverence to the habits of descendants unenlightened by
Pugin, or indifferent to the poetry of the past. The house had emerged
suddenly upon Frank out of the gloomy waste land, for it was placed in a
hollow, and sheltered from sight by a disorderly group of ragged,
dismal, valetudinarian fir-trees, until an abrupt turn of the road
cleared that screen, and left the desolate abode bare to the
discontented eye. Frank dismounted, the man held his pony, and after
smoothing his cravat, the smart Etonian sauntered up to the door, and
startled the solitude of the place with a loud peal from the modern
brass knocker--a knock which instantly brought forth an astonished
starling who had built under the eaves of the gable roof, and called up
a cloud of sparrows, tomtits, and yellow-hammers, who had been regaling
themselves amongst the litter of a slovenly farmyard that lay in full
sight to the right of the house, fenced off by a primitive, paintless
wooden rail. In process of time a sow, accompanied by a thriving and
inquisitive family, strolled up to the gate of the fence, and leaning
her nose on the lower bar of the gate, contemplated the visitor with
much curiosity and some suspicion.

While Frank is still without, impatiently swingeing his white trowsers
with his whip, we will steal a hurried glance toward the respective
members of the family within. Mr. Leslie, the _pater familias_, is in a
little room called his "study," to which he regularly retires every
morning after breakfast, rarely reappearing till one o'clock, which is
his unfashionable hour for dinner. In what mysterious occupations Mr.
Leslie passes those hours no one ever formed a conjecture. At the
present moment he is seated before a little rickety bureau, one leg of
which (being shorter than the other) is propped up by sundry old letters
and scraps of newspapers; and the bureau is open, and reveals a great
number of pigeon-holes and divisions, filled with various odds and ends,
the collection of many years. In some of these compartments are bundles
of letters, very yellow, and tied in packets with faded tape; in
another, all by itself, is a fragment of plum-pudding stone, which Mr.
Leslie has picked up in his walks and considered a rare mineral. It is
neatly labeled, "Found in Hollow Lane, May 21st, 1824, by Maunder Slugge
Leslie, Esq." The next division holds several bits of iron in the shape
of nails, fragments of horse-shoes, &c., which Mr. Leslie had also met
with in his rambles, and according to a harmless popular superstition,
deemed it highly unlucky not to pick up, and once picked up, no less
unlucky to throw away. _Item_, in the adjoining pigeon-hole a goodly
collection of pebbles with holes in them, preserved for the same reason,
in company with a crooked sixpence; _item_, neatly arranged in fanciful
mosaics, several periwinkles, blackamoor's teeth, (I mean the shell so
called,) and other specimens of the conchiferous ingenuity of nature,
partly inherited from some ancestral spinster, partly amassed by Mr.
Leslie himself in a youthful excursion to the sea-side. There were the
farm-bailiff's accounts, several files of bills, an old stirrup, three
sets of knee and shoe-buckles which had belonged to Mr. Leslie's father,
a few seals tied together by a shoe-string, a shagreen toothpick case, a
tortoiseshell magnifying glass to read with, his eldest son's first
copy-books, his second son's ditto, his daughter's ditto, and a lock of
his wife's hair arranged in a true lover's knot, framed and glazed.
There were also a small mousetrap, a patent corkscrew, too good to be
used in common; fragments of a silver teaspoon, that had by natural
decay arrived at a dissolution of its parts; a small brown Holland bag,
containing half-pence of various dates, as far back as Queen Anne,
accompanied by two French _sous_ and a German _silber gros_; the which
miscellany Mr. Leslie magniloquently called "his coins," and had left in
his will as a family heirloom. There were many other curiosities of
congenial nature and equal value--"_quæ nunc describere longum est_."
Mr. Leslie was engaged at this time in what is termed "putting things to
rights"--an occupation he performed with exemplary care once a week.
This was his day; and he had just counted his coins, and was slowly
tying them up again, when Frank's knock reached his ears.

Mr. Maunder Slugge Leslie paused, shook his head as if incredulously,
and was about to resume his occupation, when he was seized with a fit of
yawning which prevented the bag being tied for full two minutes.

While such the employment of the study--let us turn to the recreations
in the drawing-room, or rather parlor. A drawing-room there was on the
first floor, with a charming look-out, not on the dreary fir-trees, but
on the romantic undulating forest-land; but the drawing-room had not
been used since the death of the last Mrs. Leslie. It was deemed too
good to sit in, except when there was company; there never being
company, it was never sat in. Indeed, now the paper was falling off the
walls with the damp, and the rats, mice, and moths--those "_edaces
rerum_"--had eaten, between them, most of the chair-bottoms and a
considerable part of the floor. Therefore the parlor was the sole
general sitting-room; and being breakfasted in, dined and supped in,
and, after supper, smoked in by Mr. Leslie to the accompaniment of rum
and water, it is impossible to deny that it had what is called "a
smell"--a comfortable wholesome family smell--speaking of numbers,
meals, and miscellaneous social habitation. There were two windows; one
looked full on the fir-trees; the other on the farmyard with the pigsty
closing the view. Near the fir-tree window sat Mrs. Leslie; before her
on a high stool, was a basket of the children's clothes that wanted
mending. A work-table of rosewood inlaid with brass, which had been a
wedding present, and was a costly thing originally but in that peculiar
taste which is vulgarly called "Brumagem," stood at hand: the brass had
started in several places, and occasionally made great havoc on the
childrens' fingers and Mrs. Leslie's gown; in fact, it was the liveliest
piece of furniture in the house, thanks to that petulant brass-work, and
could not have been more mischievous if it had been a monkey. Upon the
work-table lay a housewife and thimble, and scissors and skeins of
worsted and thread, and little scraps of linen and cloth for patches.
But Mrs. Leslie was not actually working--she was preparing to work; she
had been preparing to work for the last hour and a half. Upon her lap
she supported a novel, by a lady who wrote much for a former generation,
under the name of "Mrs. Bridget Blue Mantle." She had a small needle in
her left hand, and a very thick piece of thread in her right;
occasionally she applied the end of the said thread to her lips, and
then--her eyes fixed on the novel--made a blind vacillating attack at
the eye of the needle. But a camel would have gone through it with quite
as much ease. Nor did the novel alone engage Mrs. Leslie's attention,
for ever and anon she interrupted herself to scold the children; to
inquire "what o'clock it was;" to observe that "Sarah would never suit,"
and to wonder why Mr. Leslie would not see that the work-table was
mended. Mrs. Leslie had been rather a pretty woman. In spite of a dress
at once slatternly and economical, she has still the air of a
lady--rather too much so, the hard duties of her situation considered.
She is proud of the antiquity of her family on both sides; her mother
was of the venerable stock of the Daudlers of Daudle Place, a race that
existed before the Conquest. Indeed, one has only to read our earliest
chronicles, and to glance over some of those long-winded moralizing
poems which delighted the thanes and ealdermen of old, in order to see
that the Daudles must have been a very influential family before William
the First turned the country topsy-turvy. While the mother's race was
thus indubitably Saxon, the father's had not only the name but the
peculiar idiosyncracy of the Normans, and went far to establish that
crotchet of the brilliant author of _Sybil, or the Two Nations_, as to
the continued distinction between the conquering and the conquered
populations. Mrs. Leslie's father boasted the name of Montfydget;
doubtless of the same kith and kin as those great barons Montfichet, who
once owned such broad lands and such turbulent castles. A high-nosed,
thin, nervous, excitable progeny, these same Montfydgets, as the most
troublesome Norman could pretend to be. This fusion of race was notable
to the most ordinary physiognomist in the _physique_ and in the _morale_
of Mrs. Leslie. She had the speculative blue eye of the Saxon, and the
passionate high nose of the Norman; she had the musing donothingness of
the Daudlers, and the reckless have-at-everythingness of the
Montfydgets. At Mrs. Leslie's feet, a little girl with her hair about
her ears, (and beautiful hair it was too) was amusing herself with a
broken-nosed doll. At the far end of the room, before a high desk, sat
Frank's Eton schoolfellow, the eldest son. A minute or two before
Frank's alarum had disturbed the tranquillity of the household, he had
raised his eyes from the books on the desk, to glance at a very tattered
copy of the Greek Testament, in which his brother Oliver had found a
difficulty that he came to Randal to solve. As the young Etonian's face
was turned to the light, your first impression, on seeing it, would have
been melancholy but respectful interest--for the face had already lost
the joyous character of youth--there was a wrinkle between the brows;
and the lines that speak of fatigue were already visible under the eyes
and about the mouth; the complexion was sallow, the lips were pale.
Years of study had already sown, in the delicate organization, the seeds
of many an infirmity and many a pain; but if your look had rested longer
on that countenance, gradually your compassion might have given place to
some feeling uneasy and sinister, a feeling akin to fear. There was in
the whole expression so much of cold calm force, that it belied the
debility of the frame. You saw there the evidence of a mind that was
cultivated, and you felt that in that cultivation there was something
formidable. A notable contrast to this countenance, prematurely worn and
eminently intelligent, was the round healthy face of Oliver, with slow
blue eyes, fixed hard on the penetrating orbs of his brother, as if
trying with might and main to catch from them a gleam of that knowledge
with which they shone clear and frigid as a star.

At Frank's knock, Oliver's slow blue eyes sparkled into animation, and
he sprang from his brother's side. The little girl flung back the hair
from her face, and stared at her mother with a look of wonder and
fright.

The young student knit his brows, and then turned wearily back to his
books.

"Dear me," cried Mrs. Leslie, "who can that possibly be? Oliver, come
from the window, sir, this instant, you will be seen! Juliet, run--ring
the bell--no, go to the stairs, and say, 'not at home.' Not at home on
any account," repeated Mrs. Leslie nervously, for the Montfydget blood
was now in full flow.

In another minute or so, Frank's loud boyish voice was distinctly heard
at the outer door.

Randal slightly started.

"Frank Hazeldean's voice," said he; "I should like to see him, mother."

"See him," repeated Mrs. Leslie in amaze, "see him!--and the room in
this state!"

Randal might have replied that the room was in no worse state than
usual; but he said nothing. A slight flush came and went over his pale
face; and then he leaned his cheek on his hand, and compressed his lips
firmly.

The outer door closed with a sullen inhospitable jar, and a slipshod
female servant entered with a card between her finger and thumb.

"Who is that for?--give it to me, Jenny," cried Mrs. Leslie.

But Jenny shook her head, laid the card on the desk beside Randal, and
vanished without saying a word.

"Oh look, Randal, look up," cried Oliver, who had again rushed to the
window; "such a pretty gray pony!"

Randal did look up; nay, he went deliberately to the window, and gazed a
moment on the high-mettled pony, and the well-dressed, high-spirited
rider. In that moment changes passed over Randal's countenance more
rapidly than clouds over the sky in a gusty day. Now envy and
discontent, with the curled lip and the gloomy scowl; now hope and proud
self-esteem, with the clearing brow, and the lofty smile; and then all
again became cold, firm, and close, as he walked back to his books,
seated himself resolutely, and said half aloud,--"Well, KNOWLEDGE IS
POWER!"


CHAPTER IV.

Mrs. Leslie came up in fidget and in fuss; she leant over Randal's
shoulder and read the card. Written in pen and ink, with an attempt at
imitation of printed Roman character, there appeared first, '_Mr. Frank
Hazeldean_;' but just over these letters, and scribbled hastily and less
legibly in pencil, was--

'Dear Leslie,--sorry you are out--come and see us--_Do!_'

"You will go, Randal?" said Mrs. Leslie after a pause.

"I am not sure."

"Yes, _you_ can go; _you_ have clothes like a gentleman; _you_ can go
anywhere, not like those children;" and Mrs. Leslie glanced almost
spitefully on poor Oliver's coarse threadbare jacket, and little
Juliet's torn frock.

"What I have I owe at present to Mr. Egerton, and I should consult his
wishes; he is not on good terms with these Hazeldeans." Then glancing
toward his brother, who looked mortified, he added with a strange sort
of haughty kindness, "What I may have hereafter, Oliver, I shall owe to
myself; and then, if I rise, I will raise my family."

"Dear Randal," said Mrs. Leslie, fondly kissing him on the forehead,
"what a good heart you have!"

"No, mother; my books don't tell me that it is a good heart that gets on
in the world: it is a hard head," replied Randal with a rude and
scornful candor. "But I can read no more just now; come out, Oliver."

So saying, he slid from his mother's hand and left the room.

When Oliver joined him, Randal was already on the common; and, without
seeming to notice his brother, he continued to walk quickly and with
long strides in profound silence. At length he paused under the shade
of an old oak, that, too old to be of value save for firewood, had
escaped the axe. The tree stood on a knoll, and the spot commanded a
view of the decayed house--the old dilapidated church--the dismal,
dreary village.

"Oliver," said Randal between his teeth, so that his voice had the sound
of a hiss, "it was under this tree that I first resolved to--"

He paused.

"What, Randal?"

"Read hard; knowledge is power!"

"But you are so fond of reading."

"I!" cried Randal. "Do you think, when Woolsey and Thomas-à-Becket
became priests, they were fond of telling their beads and pattering
Aves?--I fond of reading!"

Oliver stared; the historical allusions were beyond his comprehension.

"You know," continued Randal, "that we Leslies were not always the
beggarly poor gentlemen we are now. You know that there is a man who
lives in Grosvenor Square, and is very rich--very. His riches came to
him from a Leslie; that man is my patron, Oliver, and he is very good to
me."

Randal's smile was withering as he spoke. "Come on," he said, after a
pause--"come on." Again the walk was quicker, and the brothers were
silent.

They came at length to a little shallow brook, across which some large
stones had been placed at short intervals, so that the boys walked over
the ford dryshod. "Will you pull me down that bough, Oliver?" said
Randal abruptly, pointing to a tree. Oliver obeyed mechanically; and
Randal, stripping the leaves, and snapping off the twigs, left a fork at
the end; with this he began to remove the stepping stones. "What are you
about, Randal?" asked Oliver, wonderingly.

"We are on the other side of the brook now; and we shall not come back
this way. We don't want the stepping-stones anymore!--away with them!"


CHAPTER V.

The morning after this visit of Frank Hazeldean's to Rood Hall, the
Right Honorable Audley Egerton, member of parliament, privy councillor,
and minister of a high department in the state--just below the rank of
the cabinet--was seated in his library, awaiting the delivery of the
post, before he walked down to his office. In the meanwhile, he sipped
his tea, and glanced over the newspapers with that quick and half
disdainful eye with which your practical man in public life is wont to
regard the abuse or the eulogium of the Fourth Estate.

There is very little likeness between Mr. Egerton and his half-brother;
none indeed, except that they are both of tall stature, and strong,
sinewy, English build. But even in this last they do not resemble each
other; for the Squire's athletic shape is already beginning to expand
into that portly embonpoint which seems the natural development of
contented men as they approach middle life. Audley, on the contrary, is
inclined to be spare; and his figure, though the muscles are as firm as
iron, has enough of the slender to satisfy metropolitan ideas of
elegance. His dress--his look--his _tout ensemble_, are those of the
London man. In the first, there is more attention to fashion than is
usual amongst the busy members of the House of Commons; but then Audley
Egerton had always been something more than a mere busy member of the
House of Commons. He had always been a person of mark in the best
society, and one secret of his success in life has been his high
reputation as 'a gentleman.'

As he now bends over the journals, there is an air of distinction in the
turn of the well-shaped head, with the dark-brown hair--dark in spite of
a reddish tinge--cut close behind, and worn away a little toward the
crown, so as to give additional height to a commanding forehead. His
profile is very handsome, and of that kind of beauty which imposes on
men if it pleases women; and is therefore, unlike that of your mere
pretty fellows, a positive advantage in public life. It is a profile
with large features clearly cut, masculine, and somewhat severe. The
expression of his face is not open, like the Squire's; nor has it the
cold closeness which accompanies the intellectual character of young
Leslie's; but it is reserved and dignified, and significant of
self-control, as should be the physiognomy of a man accustomed to think
before he speaks. When you look at him, you are not surprised to learn
that he is not a florid orator nor a smart debater--he is a "weighty
speaker." He is fairly read, but without any great range either of
ornamental scholarship or constitutional lore. He has not much humor;
but he has that kind of wit which is essential to grave and serious
irony. He has not much imagination, nor remarkable subtilty in
reasoning; but if he does not dazzle, he does not _bore_: he is too much
the man of the world for that. He is considered to have sound sense and
accurate judgment. Withal, as he now lays aside the journals, and his
face relaxes its austerer lines, you will not be astonished to hear that
he is a man who is said to have been greatly beloved by women, and still
to exercise much influence in drawing-rooms and boudoirs. At least no
one was surprised when the great heiress Clementina Leslie, kinswoman
and ward to Lord Lansmere--a young lady who had refused three earls and
the heir-apparent to a dukedom--was declared by her dearest friends to
be dying of love for Audley Egerton.

It had been the natural wish of the Lansmeres that this lady should
marry their son, Lord L'Estrange. But that young gentleman, whose
opinions on matrimony partook of the eccentricity of his general
character, could never be induced to propose, and had, according to the
_on-dits_ of town, been the principal party to make up the match between
Clementina and his friend Audley; for the match required making-up,
despite the predilections of the young heiress. Mr. Egerton had had
scruples of delicacy. He avowed, for the first time, that his fortune
was much less than had been generally supposed, and he did not like the
idea of owing all to a wife, however much he might esteem and admire
her. L'Estrange was with his regiment abroad during the existence of
these scruples; but by letters to his father, and to his cousin
Clementina, he contrived to open and conclude negotiations, while he
argued away Mr. Egerton's objections; and before the year in which
Audley was returned for Lansmere had expired, he received the hand of
the great heiress. The settlement of her fortune, which was chiefly in
the funds, had been unusually advantageous to the husband; for though
the capital was tied up so long as both survived--for the benefit of any
children they might have--yet, in the event of one of the parties dying
without issue by the marriage, the whole passed without limitation to
the survivor. In not only assenting to, but proposing this clause, Miss
Leslie, if she showed a generous trust in Mr. Egerton, inflicted no
positive wrong on her relations; for she had none sufficiently near to
her to warrant their claim to the succession. Her nearest kinsman, and
therefore her natural heir, was Harley L'Estrange; and if he was
contented, no one had a right to complain. The tie of blood between
herself and the Leslies of Rood Hall was, as we shall see presently,
extremely distant.

It was not till after his marriage that Mr. Egerton took an active part
in the business of the House of Commons. He was then at the most
advantageous starting-point for the career of ambition. His words on the
state of the country took importance from his stake in it. His talents
found accessories in the opulence of Grosvenor Square, the dignity of a
princely establishment, the respectability of one firmly settled in
life, the reputation of a fortune in reality very large, and which was
magnified by popular report into the revenues of Croesus. Audley
Egerton succeeded in Parliament beyond the early expectations formed of
him. He took at first that station in the House which it requires tact
to establish, and great knowledge of the world to free from the charge
of impracticability and crotchet, but which, once established, is
peculiarly imposing from the rarity of its independence; that is to say,
the station of the moderate man, who belongs sufficiently to a party to
obtain its support, but is yet sufficiently disengaged from a party to
make his vote and word, on certain questions, matter of anxiety and
speculation.

Professing Toryism, (the word Conservative, which would have suited him
better, was not then known,) he separated himself from the country
party, and always avowed great respect for the opinions of the large
towns. The epithet given to the views of Audley Egerton was
"enlightened." Never too much in advance of the passion of the day, yet
never behind its movement, he had that shrewd calculation of odds which
a consummate mastery of the world sometimes bestows upon
politicians--perceived the chances for and against a certain question
being carried within a certain time, and nicked the question between
wind and water. He was so good a barometer of that changeful weather
called Public Opinion that he might have had a hand in the _Times_
newspaper. He soon quarreled, and purposely, with his Lansmere
constituents--nor had he ever revisited that borough, perhaps because it
was associated with unpleasant reminiscences in the shape of the
Squire's epistolary trimmer, and in that of his own effigies which his
agricultural constituents had burned in the corn-market. But the
speeches which produced such indignation at Lansmere, had delighted one
of the greatest of our commercial towns, which at the next general
election honored him with its representation. In those days, before the
Reform Bill, great commercial towns chose men of high mark for their
members; and a proud station it was for him who was delegated to speak
the voice of the princely merchants of England.

Mrs. Egerton survived her marriage but a few years; she left no
children; two had been born, but died in their first infancy. The
property of the wife, therefore, passed without control or limit to the
husband.

Whatever might have been the grief of the widower, he disdained to
betray it to the world. Indeed, Audley Egerton was a man who had early
taught himself to conceal emotion. He buried himself in the country,
none knew where, for some months: when he returned, there was a deep
wrinkle on his brow; but no change in his habits and avocation, except
that soon afterward he accepted office, and thus became busier than
ever.

Mr. Egerton had always been lavish and magnificent in money matters. A
rich man in public life has many claims on his fortune, and no one
yielded to those claims with an air so regal as Audley Egerton. But
amongst his many liberal actions, there was none which seemed more
worthy of panegyric than the generous favor he extended to the son of
his wife's poor and distant kinsfolks, the Leslies of Rood Hall.

Some four generations back, there had lived a certain Squire Leslie, a
man of large acres and active mind. He had cause to be displeased with
his elder son, and though he did not disinherit him, he left half his
property to a younger.

The younger had capacity and spirit, which justified the paternal
provision. He increased his fortune; lifted himself into notice and
consideration by public services and a noble alliance. His descendants
followed his example, and took rank among the first commoners in
England, till the last male, dying, left his sole heiress and
representative in one daughter, Clementina, afterward married to Mr.
Egerton.

Meanwhile the elder son of the forementioned Squire had muddled and
sotted away much of his share in the Leslie property; and, by low
habits and mean society, lowered in repute his representation of the
name.

His successors imitated him, till nothing was left to Randal's father,
Mr. Maunder Slugge Leslie, but the decayed house which was what the
Germans call the _stamm schloss_, or "stem hall" of the race, and the
wretched lands immediately around it.

Still, though all intercourse between the two branches of the family had
ceased, the younger had always felt a respect for the elder, as the head
of the house. And it was supposed that, on her deathbed, Mrs. Egerton
had recommended her impoverished namesakes and kindred to the care of
her husband. For, when he returned to town after Mrs. Egerton's death,
Audley had sent to Mr. Maunder Slugge Leslie the sum of £5000, which he
said his wife, leaving no written will, had orally bequeathed as a
legacy to that gentleman; and he requested permission to charge himself
with the education of the eldest son.

Mr. Maunder Slugge Leslie might have done great things for his little
property with those five thousand pounds, or even (kept in the three per
cents) the interest would have afforded a material addition to his
comforts. But a neighboring solicitor having caught scent of the legacy,
hunted it down into his own hands, on pretense of having found a capital
investment in a canal. And when the solicitor had got possession of the
five thousand pounds, he went off with them to America.

Meanwhile Randal, placed by Mr. Egerton at an excellent preparatory
school, at first gave no signs of industry or talent; but just before he
left it, there came to the school, as classical tutor, an ambitious
young Oxford man; and his zeal, for he was a capital teacher, produced a
great effect generally on the pupils, and especially on Randal Leslie.
He talked to them much in private on the advantages of learning, and
shortly afterward he exhibited those advantages in his own person; for,
having edited a Greek play with much subtil scholarship, his college,
which some slight irregularities of his had displeased, recalled him to
its venerable bosom by the presentation of a fellowship. After this he
took orders, became a college tutor, distinguished himself yet more by a
treatise on the Greek accent, got a capital living, and was considered
on the highroad to a bishopric. This young man, then, communicated to
Randal the thirst for knowledge; and when the boy went afterward to
Eton, he applied with such earnestness and resolve that his fame soon
reached the ears of Audley; and that person, who had the sympathy for
talent, and yet more for purpose, which often characterizes ambitious
men, went to Eton to see him. From that time Audley evinced great and
almost fatherly interest in the brilliant Etonian; and Randal always
spent with him some days in each vacation.

I have said that Egerton's conduct, with respect to this boy, was more
praiseworthy than most of those generous actions for which he was
renowned, since to this the world gave no applause. What a man does
within the range of his family connections, does not carry with it that
_éclat_ which invests a munificence exhibited on public occasions.
Either people care nothing about it, or tacitly suppose it to be but his
duty. It was true, too, as the Squire had observed, that Randal Leslie
was even less distantly related to the Hazeldeans than to Mrs. Egerton,
since Randal's grandfather had actually married a Miss Hazeldean, (the
highest worldly connection that branch of the family had formed since
the great split I have commemorated.) But Audley Egerton never appeared
aware of that fact. As he was not himself descended from the Hazeldeans,
he never troubled himself about their genealogy; and he took care to
impress it upon the Leslies that his generosity on their behalf was
solely to be ascribed to his respect for his wife's memory and kindred.
Still the Squire had felt as if his "distant brother" implied a rebuke
on his own neglect of these poor Leslies, by the liberality Audley
evinced toward them; and this had made him doubly sore when the name of
Randal Leslie was mentioned. But the fact really was, that the Leslies
of Rood had so shrunk out of all notice that the Squire had actually
forgotten their existence, until Randal became thus indebted to his
brother; and then he felt a pang of remorse that any one save himself,
the head of the Hazeldeans, should lend a helping hand to the grandson
of a Hazeldean.

But having thus, somewhat too tediously, explained the position of
Audley Egerton, whether in the world or in the relation to his young
_protégé_, I may now permit him to receive and to read his letters.


CHAPTER VI.

Mr. Egerton glanced over the pile of letters placed beside him, and
first he tore up some, scarcely read, and threw them into the
waste-basket. Public men have such odd out-of-the-way letters that their
waste-baskets are never empty: letters from amateur financiers proposing
new ways to pay off the National Debt; letters from America, (never
free!) asking for autographs; letters from fond mothers in country
villages, recommending some miracle of a son for a place in the king's
service; letters from freethinkers in reproof of bigotry; letters from
bigots in reproof of freethinking; letters signed Brutus Redivivus,
containing the agreeable information that the writer has a dagger for
tyrants, if the Danish claims are not forthwith adjusted; letters signed
Matilda or Caroline, stating that Caroline or Matilda has seen the
public man's portrait at the Exhibition, and that a heart sensible to
its attractions may be found at No. ---- Piccadilly; letters from
beggars, impostors, monomaniacs, speculators, jobbers--all food for the
waste-basket.

From the correspondence thus winnowed, Mr. Egerton first selected those
on business, which he put methodically together in one division of his
pocket-book; and secondly, those of a private nature, which he as
carefully put into another. Of these last there were but three--one from
his steward, one from Harley L'Estrange, one from Randal Leslie. It was
his custom to answer his correspondence at his office; and to his
office, a few minutes afterward, he slowly took his way. Many a
passenger turned back to look again at the firm figure, which, despite
the hot summer day, was buttoned up to the throat; and the black
frock-coat thus worn, well became the erect air, and the deep full chest
of the handsome senator. When he entered Parliament Street, Audley
Egerton was joined by one of his colleagues, also on his way to the
cares of office.

After a few observations on the last debate, this gentleman said--

"By the way, can you dine with me next Saturday, to meet Lansmere? He
comes up to town to vote for us on Monday."

"I had asked some people to dine with me," answered Egerton, "but I will
put them off. I see Lord Lansmere too seldom, to miss any occasion to
meet a man whom I respect so much."

"So seldom! True, he is very little in town; but why don't you go and
see him in the country? Good shooting--pleasant old-fashioned house."

"My dear Westbourne, his house is '_nimium vicina Cremonæ_,' close to a
borough in which I have been burned in effigy."

"Ha--ha--yes--I remember you first came into Parliament for that snug
little place; but Lansmere himself never found fault with your votes,
did he?"

"He behaved very handsomely, and said he had not presumed to consider me
his mouthpiece; and then, too, I am so intimate with L'Estrange."

"Is that queer fellow ever coming back to England?"

"He comes, generally every year, for a few days, just to see his father
and mother, and then goes back to the Continent."

"I never meet him."

"He comes in September or October, when you, of course, are not in town,
and it is in town that the Lansmeres meet him."

"Why does he not go to them?"

"A man in England but once a year, and for a few days, has so much to do
in London, I suppose."

"Is he as amusing as ever?"

Egerton nodded.

"So distinguished as he might be!" continued Lord Westbourne.

"So distinguished as he is!" said Egerton formally; "an officer selected
for praise, even in such fields as Quatre Bras and Waterloo; a scholar,
too, of the finest taste; and as an accomplished gentleman, matchless!"

"I like to hear one man praise another so warmly in these ill-natured
days," answered Lord Westbourne. "But still, though L'Estrange is
doubtless all you say, don't you think he rather wastes his life--living
abroad?"

"And trying to be happy, Westbourne? Are you sure it is not we who waste
our lives? But I can't stay to hear your answer. Here we are at the door
of my prison."

"On Saturday, then?"

"On Saturday. Good day."

For the next hour, or more, Mr. Egerton was engaged on the affairs of
the state. He then snatched an interval of leisure, (while awaiting a
report, which he had instructed a clerk to make him,) in order to reply
to his letters. Those on public business were soon dispatched; and
throwing his replies aside, to be sealed by a subordinate hand, he drew
out the letters which he had put apart as private.

He attended first to that of his steward: the steward's letter was long,
the reply was contained in three lines. Pitt himself was scarcely more
negligent of his private interests and concerns than Audley
Egerton--yet, withal, Audley Egerton was said by his enemies to be an
egotist.

The next letter he wrote was to Randal, and that, though longer, was far
from prolix: it ran thus--

"Dear Mr. Leslie,--I appreciate your delicacy in consulting me, whether
you should accept Frank Hazeldean's invitation to call at the Hall.
Since you are asked, I can see no objection to it. I should be sorry if
you appeared to force yourself there; and for the rest, as a general
rule, I think a young man who has his own way to make in life had better
avoid all intimacy with those of his own age who have no kindred objects
nor congenial pursuits.

"As soon as this visit is paid, I wish you to come to London. The report
I receive of your progress at Eton renders it unnecessary, in my
judgment, that you should return there. If your father has no objection,
I propose that you should go to Oxford at the ensuing term. Meanwhile, I
have engaged a gentleman who is a fellow of Baliol, to read with you; he
is of opinion, judging only by your high repute at Eton, that you may at
once obtain a scholarship in that college. If you do so, I shall look
upon your career in life as assured.

     Your affectionate friend, and sincere
     well-wisher, A.E."

The reader will remark that, in this letter, there is a certain tone of
formality. Mr. Egerton does not call his _protegé_ "Dear Randal," as
would seem natural, but coldly and stiffly, "Dear Mr. Leslie." He hints,
also, that the boy has his own way to make in life. Is this meant to
guard against too sanguine notions of inheritance, which his generosity
may have excited?

The letter to Lord L'Estrange was of a very different kind from the
others. It was long, and full of such little scraps of news and gossip
as may interest friends in a foreign land; it was written gaily, and as
with a wish to cheer his friend; you could see that it was a reply to a
melancholy letter; and in the whole tone and spirit there was an
affection, even to tenderness, of which those who most liked Audley
Egerton would have scarcely supposed him capable. Yet, notwithstanding,
there was a kind of constraint in the letter, which perhaps only the
fine tact of a woman would detect. It had not that _abandon_, that
hearty self-outpouring, which you might expect would characterize the
letters of two such friends, who had been boys at school together, and
which did breathe indeed in all the abrupt rambling sentences of his
correspondent. But where was the evidence of the constraint? Egerton is
off-hand enough where his pen runs glibly through paragraphs that relate
to others; it is simply that he says nothing about himself--that he
avoids all reference to the inner world of sentiment and feeling. But
perhaps, after all, the man has no sentiment and feeling! How can you
expect that a steady personage in practical life, whose mornings are
spent in Downing Street, and whose nights are consumed in watching
government bills through committee, can write in the same style as an
idle dreamer amidst the pines of Ravenna or on the banks of Como.

Audley had just finished this epistle, such as it was, when the
attendant in waiting announced the arrival of a deputation from a
provincial trading town, the members of which deputation he had
appointed to meet at two o'clock. There was no office in London at which
deputations were kept waiting less than at that over which Mr. Egerton
presided.

The deputation entered--some score or so of middle-aged,
comfortable-looking persons, who nevertheless had their grievance--and
considered their own interests, and those of the country, menaced by a
certain clause in a bill brought in by Mr. Egerton.

The Mayor of the town was the chief spokesman, and he spoke well--but in
a style to which the dignified official was not accustomed. It was a
slap-dash style--unceremonious, free, and easy--an American style. And,
indeed, there was something altogether in the appearance and bearing of
the Mayor which savored of residence in the Great Republic. He was a
very handsome man, but with a look sharp and domineering--the look of a
man who did not care a straw for president or monarch, and who enjoyed
the liberty to speak his mind, and "wallop his own nigger!"

His fellow-burghers evidently regarded him with great respect; and Mr.
Egerton had penetration enough to perceive that Mr. Mayor must be a rich
man, as well as an eloquent one, to have overcome those impressions of
soreness or jealousy which his tone was calculated to create in the
self-love of his equals.

Mr. Egerton was far too wise to be easily offended by mere manner; and,
though he stared somewhat haughtily when he found his observations
actually pooh-poohed, he was not above being convinced. There was much
sense and much justice in Mr. Mayor's arguments, and the statesman
civilly promised to take them into full consideration.

He then bowed out the deputation; but scarcely had the door closed
before it opened again, and Mr. Mayor presented himself alone, saying
aloud to his companions in the passage, "I forgot something I had to say
to Mr. Egerton; wait below for me."

"Well, Mr. Mayor," said Audley, pointing to a seat, "what else would you
suggest?"

The Mayor looked round to see that the door was closed; and then,
drawing his chair close to Mr. Egerton's, laid his forefinger on that
gentleman's arm, and said, "I think I speak to a man of the world, sir."

Mr. Egerton bowed, and made no reply by word, but he gently removed his
arm from the touch of the forefinger.

_Mr. Mayor._--"You observe, sir, that I did not ask the members whom we
return to Parliament to accompany us. Do better without 'em. You know
they are both in Opposition--out-and-outers."

_Mr. Egerton._--"It is a misfortune which the Government cannot
remember, when the question is whether the trade of the town itself is
to be served or injured."

_Mr. Mayor._--"Well, I guess you speak handsome, sir. But you'd be glad
to have two members to support Ministers after the next election."

_Mr. Egerton_, smilingly.--"Unquestionably, Mr. Mayor."

_Mr. Mayor._--"And I can do it, Mr. Egerton. I may say I have the town
in my pocket; so I ought, I spend a great deal of money in it. Now, you
see, Mr. Egerton, I have passed a part of my life in a land of
liberty--the United States--and I come to the point when I speak to a
man of the world. I am a man of the world myself, sir. And if so be the
Government will do something for me, why, I'll do something for the
Government. Two votes for a free and independent town like ours--that's
something, isn't it?"

_Mr. Egerton_, taken by surprise--"Really I--"

_Mr. Mayor_, advancing his chair still nearer, and interrupting the
official.--"No nonsense, you see, on one side or the other. The fact is
that I have taken it into my head that I should like to be knighted. You
may well look surprised, Mr. Egerton--trumpery thing enough, I dare say;
still every man has his weakness and I should like to be Sir Richard.
Well, if you can get me made Sir Richard, you may just name your two
members for the next election--that is, if they belong to your own set,
enlightened men, up to the times. That's speaking fair and manful, isn't
it?"

_Mr. Egerton_, drawing himself up.--"I am at a loss to guess why you
should select me, sir, for this very extraordinary proposition."

_Mr. Mayor_, nodding good-humoredly.--"Why, you see, I don't go all
along with the Government; you're the best of the bunch. And maybe
you'd like to strengthen your own party. This is quite between you and
me, you understand; honor's a jewel!"

_Mr. Egerton_, with great gravity.--"Sir, I am obliged by your good
opinion; but I agree with my colleagues in all the great questions
affecting the government of the country, and--"

_Mr. Mayor_, interrupting him.--"Ah, of course you must say so; very
right. But I guess things would go differently if you were Prime
Minister. However, I have another reason for speaking to you about my
little job. You see you were member for Lansmere once, and I think you
came in but by two majority, eh?"

_Mr. Egerton._--"I know nothing of the particulars of that election; I
was not present."

_Mr. Mayor._--"No; but, luckily for you, two relatives of mine were, and
they voted for you. Two votes, and you came in by two! Since then, you
have got into very snug quarters here, and I think we have a claim on
you--"

_Mr. Egerton._--"Sir, I acknowledge no such claim; I was and am a
stranger in Lansmere; and, if the electors did me the honor to return me
to Parliament, it was in compliment rather to--"

_Mr. Mayor_, again interrupting the official.--"Rather to Lord Lansmere,
you were going to say; unconstitutional doctrine that, I fancy. Peer of
the realm. But, never mind, I know the world; and I'd ask Lord Lansmere
to do my affair for me, only I hear he is as proud as Lucifer."

_Mr. Egerton_, in great disgust, and settling his papers before
him.--"Sir, it is not in my department to recommend to his Majesty
candidates for the honor of knighthood, and it is still less in my
department to make bargains for seats in Parliament."

_Mr. Mayor._--"Oh, if that's the case, you'll excuse me; I don't know
much of the etiquette in these matters. But I thought that, if I put two
seats in your hands, for your own friends, you might contrive to take
the affair into your department, whatever it was. But since you say you
agree with your colleagues, perhaps it comes to the same thing. Now you
must not suppose I want to sell the town, and that I can change and chop
my politics for my own purpose. No such thing! I don't like the sitting
members; I'm all for progressing, but they go _too_ much ahead for me;
and, since the Government is disposed to move a little, why I'd as lief
support them as not. But, in common gratitude, you see, (added the
Mayor, coaxingly,) I ought to be knighted! I can keep up the dignity,
and do credit to his Majesty."

_Mr. Egerton_, without looking up from his papers.--"I can only refer
you, sir, to the proper quarter."

_Mr. Mayor_, impatiently.--"Proper quarter! Well, since there is so much
humbug in this old country of ours, that one must go through all the
forms and get at the job regularly, just tell me whom I ought to go to."

_Mr. Egerton_, beginning to be amused as well as indignant.--"If you
want a knighthood, Mr. Mayor, you must ask the Prime Minister; if you
want to give the Government information relative to seats in Parliament,
you must introduce yourself to Mr. ----, the Secretary of the Treasury."

_Mr. Mayor._--"And if I go to the last chap, what do you think he'll
say?"

_Mr. Egerton_, the amusement preponderating over the indignation.--"He
will say, I suppose, that you must not put the thing in the light in
which you have put it to me; that the Government will be very proud to
have the confidence of yourself and your brother electors; and that a
gentleman like you, in the proud position of Mayor, may well hope to be
knighted on some fitting occasion. But that you must not talk about the
knighthood just at present, and must confine yourself to converting the
unfortunate political opinions of the town."

_Mr. Mayor._--"Well, I guess that chap there would want to do me! Not
quite so green, Mr. Egerton. Perhaps I'd better go at once to the
fountain-head. How d'ye think the Premier would take it?"

_Mr. Egerton_, the indignation preponderating over the
amusement.--"Probably just as I am about to do."

Mr. Egerton rang the bell; the attendant appeared.

"Show Mr. Mayor the way out," said the Minister.

The Mayor turned round sharply, and his face was purple. He walked
straight to the door; but, suffering the attendant to precede him along
the corridor, he came back with rapid stride, and clinching his hands,
and with a voice thick with passion, cried, "Some day or other I will
make you smart for this, as sure as my name's Dick Avenel!"

"Avenel!" repeated Egerton, recoiling, "Avenel!"

But the Mayor was gone.

Audley fell into a deep and musing reverie which seemed gloomy, and
lasted till the attendant announced that the horses were at the door.

He then looked up, still abstractedly, and saw his letter to Harley
L'Estrange open on the table. He drew it toward him, and wrote, "A man
has just left me, who calls himself Aven--" in the middle of the name
his pen stopped. "No, no," muttered the writer, "what folly to reopen
the old wounds there," and he carefully erased the words.

Audley Egerton did not ride in the park that day, as was his wont, but
dismissed his groom; and, turning his horse's head toward Westminster
Bridge, took his solitary way into the country. He rode at first slowly,
as if in thought; then fast, as if trying to escape from thought. He was
later than usual at the House that evening, and he looked pale and
fatigued. But he had to speak, and he spoke well.

TO BE CONTINUED.


[From the Journal des Chasseurs.]

WILD SPORTS IN ALGERIA.

BY M. JULES GERARD.

I knew of a large old lion in the Smauls country and betook myself in
that direction. On arriving I heard that he was in the Bonarif, near
Batnah. My tent was not yet pitched at the foot of the mountain, when I
learned that he was at the Fed Jong, where, on my arrival, I found he
had gained the Aures. After traveling one hundred leagues in ten days in
the trace of my brute without catching a glimpse of anything but his
footprints, I was gratified on the night of the 22d of August with the
sound of my lord's voice. I had established my tent in the valley of
Ousten. As there is only one path across this thickly covered valley, I
found it an easy task to discover his track and follow it to his lair.
At six o'clock in the evening I alighted upon a hillock commanding a
prospect of the country around. I was accompanied by a native of the
country and my spahi, one carrying my carbine, the other my old gun. As
I had anticipated, the lion roared under cover at dawn of day; but
instead of advancing toward me, he started off in a westerly direction
at such a pace that it was impossible for me to come up with him. I
retraced my steps at midnight and took up my quarters at the foot of a
tree upon the path which the lion had taken. The country about this spot
was cleared and cultivated. The moon being favorable, the approach of
anything could be descried in every direction. I installed myself and
waited. Weary after a ride of several hours over a very irregular
country, and not expecting any chance that night, I enjoined my spahi to
keep a good watch, and lay down. I was just about to fall asleep when I
felt a gentle pull at my burnous. On getting up I was able to make out
two lions, sitting one beside the other, about one hundred paces off,
and exactly on the path in which I had taken up my position. At first I
thought we had been perceived, and prepared to make the best of this
discovery. The moon shed a light upon the entire ground which the lions
would have to cross in order to reach the tree, close to which all
within a circumference of ten paces was completely dark, both on account
of the thickness of the tree and the shadow cast by the foliage. My
spahi, like me, was in range of the shadow, while the Arab lay snoring
ten paces off in the full light of the moon. There was no doubting the
fact--it was this man who attracted the attention of the lions. I
expressly forbade the spahi to wake up the Arab, as I was persuaded that
when the action was over he would be proud of having served as a bait
even without knowing it. I then prepared my arms and placed them against
the tree and got up, in order the better to observe the movements of the
enemy. They were not less than half an hour traversing a distance of one
hundred metres. Although the ground was open, I could only see them when
they raised their heads to make sure that the Arab was still there. They
took advantage of every stone and every tuft of grass to render
themselves almost invisible; at last the boldest of them came up
crouching on his belly to within ten paces of me and fifteen of the
Arab. His eye was fixed on the latter, and with such an expression that
I was afraid I had waited too long. The second, who had stayed a few
paces behind, came and placed himself on a level with and about four or
five paces from the first. I then saw for the first time that they were
full-grown lionesses. I took aim at the first, and she came rolling and
roaring down to the foot of the tree. The Arab was scarcely awakened
when a second ball stretched the animal dead upon the spot. The first
bullet went in at the muzzle and came out at the tail; the second had
gone through the heart. After making sure that my men were all right, I
looked out for the second lioness. She was standing up within fifteen
paces, looking at what was going on around her. I took my gun and
leveled it at her. She squatted down. When I fired she fell down
roaring, and disappeared in a field of maize on the edge of the road. On
approaching I found by her moaning that she was still alive, and did not
venture at night into the thick plantation which sheltered her. As soon
as it was day I went to the spot where she had fallen, and all I found
were bloodmarks showing her track in the direction of the wood. After
sending the dead lioness to the neighboring garrison, who celebrated its
arrival by a banquet, I returned to my post of the previous night. A
little after sunset the lion roared for the first time, but instead of
quitting his lair he remained there all night, roaring like a madman.
Convinced that the wounded lioness was there, I sent on the morning of
the 24th two Arabs to explore the cover. They returned without daring to
approach it. On the night of the 24th there was the same roaring and
complaining of the lion on the mountain and under cover. On the 25th, at
five in the evening, I had a young goat muzzled, and proceeded with it
to the mountain. The lair was exceedingly difficult of access.
Nevertheless I succeeded at last by crawling now on my hands and now on
my belly in reaching it. Having discovered certain indications of the
presence of the inhabitants of this locality, I had the goat unmuzzled
and tied to a tree. Then followed the most comical panic on the part of
the Arabs, who were carrying my arms. Seeing themselves in the middle of
the lion's lair, whom they could distinctly smell, and hearing the
horrified goat calling them with all its might, was a position perfectly
intolerable to them. After consulting together as to whether it were
better to climb up a tree or clamber on a rock, they asked my permission
to remain near the goat. This confidence pleased me and obtained them
the privilege of a place by my side. I had not been there a quarter of
an hour when the lioness appeared; she found herself suddenly beside the
goat, and looked about her with an air of astonishment. I fired, and she
fell without a struggle. The Arabs were already kissing my hands, and I
myself believed her dead, when she got up again as though nothing was
the matter and showed us all her teeth. One of the Arabs who had run
toward her was within six paces of her. On seeing her get up he clung to
the lower branches of the tree to which the goat was tied, and
disappeared like a squirrel. The lioness fell dead at the foot of the
tree, a second bullet piercing her heart. The first had passed out of
the nape of the neck without breaking the skull bone.


[From the Spectator.]

RECENT DEATHS IN THE FAMILY OF ORLEANS.

"One touch of nature makes the whole world kin:" there is not one among
the millions who read of the mortal sufferings endured by Queen Louise
of Belgium that will not sympathize with the sorrowing relatives around
her deathbed; especially with that aged lady who has seen so many
changes, survived so many friends, mourned so many dear ones. To the
world Queen Amélie is like a relative to whom we are endeared by report
without having seen her; and as we read of her journey to pay the last
sad offices to her daughter, we forget the "royal personage," in regard
for that excellent lady who has been made known to us by so many
sorrows.

The Orleans family, in its triumphs and in its adversities, may be taken
as a living and most striking illustration of "principle,"--of principle
working to ends that are certain. Louis Philippe's character shone best
in his personal and family relation. He was a shifty expedientist in
politics: a great national crisis came to him as a fine opportunity to
the commercial man for pushing some particular kind of traffic. He
adopted the cant of the day, as mere traders adopt produce, ready made;
taking the correctness of the earlier stages for granted. He adopted
"the Monarchy surrounded by Republican institutions," as a Member of
Parliament takes the oaths, for form's sake: it was the form of
accepting the crown, its power and dignity; and he did what was
suggested as the proper thing to be done: but did he ever trouble
himself about the "Republican institutions?" He adopted the National
Guard, as a useful instrument to act by way of breastwork, under cover
of which his throne could repose secure, while the royal power could
shoot as it pleased _over_ that respectable body at the people: but did
he ever trouble himself with the purpose of a national guard?--No more
than a beadle troubles his head with the church theology or parochial
constitution. He never meddled with the stuff and vital working of
politics; and when the time came that required him to maintain his post
by having a hold on the nation of France, by acting with the forces then
at work, wholly incompetent to the unsought task, he let go, and was
drifted away by the flood of events. But still, though the most signal
instance of opportunity wasted and success converted to failure before
the eyes of Europe, he retained a considerable degree of respectability.
First, the vitality of the man was strong, and had been tested by many
vicissitudes; and the world sympathizes with that sort of leasehold
immortality. Further, his family clung around him: the respectable,
amiable paterfamilias, whose personal qualities had been somewhat
obscured by the splendors of the throne, now again appeared unvailed,
and that which was sterling in the man was once more known--again tried,
again sound. Louis Philippe failed as a king, he succeeded as a father.

Queen Amélie placed her faith less on mundane prosperity than on
spiritual welfare; and she was so far imbued by faith as a living
principle that it actuated her in her conduct as a daily practice. With
the obedience of the true Catholic, she combined the spirit of active
Christianity. While some part of her family has been inspired mainly by
the paternal spirit, some took their spirit from the mother; and none,
it would appear, more decidedly than Queen Louise. The accounts from
Belgium liken her to our own Queen Adelaide, in whom was exhibited the
same spirit of piety and practical Christianity; and we see the result
in the kind of personal affection that she earned. Agree with these
estimable women in their doctrine or not, you cannot but respect the
firmness of their own faith or the spirit of self-sacrifice which
remained uncorrupted through all the trials of temptations, so rife, so
_devitalizing_ in the life of royalty.

Death visits the palace and the cottage, and we expect his approach: we
understand his aspect, and know how he affects the heart of mortality.
Be they crowned or not, we understand what it is that mortal creatures
are enduring under the affliction; and we well know what it means when
parent and children, brothers and sisters, collect around the deathbed.

King Leopold we have twice seen under the same trial, and again remember
how much he has rested of his life on the personal relation. We note
these things; we call to mind all that the family, illustrious not less
by its vicissitudes and its adversities than by its exaltation, has
endured; and while we sympathize with its sorrows, we feel how much it
must be sustained by those reliances which endure more firmly than
worldly fortune. But our regard does not stop with admiration; we notice
with satisfaction this example to the family and personal relation--this
proof that amid the splendors of royalty the firmest reliances and the
sweetest consolations are those which are equally open to the humblest.


[From "Leaves from the Journal of a Naturalist," in Fraser's Magazine.]

PLEASANT STORY OF A SWALLOW.

In September, 1800, the Rev. Walter Trevelyan wrote from Long-Wilton,
Northumberland, in a letter to the editor of Bewick's "British Birds,"
the following narrative, which is so simply and beautifully written, and
gives so clear an account of the process of taming, that it would be
unjust to recite it in any words but his own for the edification of
those who may wish to make the experiment:--"About nine weeks ago
(writes the good clergyman), a swallow fell down one of our chimneys,
nearly fledged, and was able to fly in two or three days. The children
desired they might try to rear him, to which I agreed, fearing the old
ones would desert him; and as he was not the least shy they succeeded
without any difficulty, for he opened his mouth for flies as fast as
they could supply them, and was regularly fed to a whistle. In a few
days, perhaps a week, they used to take him into the fields with them,
and as each child found a fly and whistled, the little bird flew for his
prey from one to another; at other times he would fly round about them
in the air, but always descended at the first call, in spite of the
constant endeavors of the wild swallows to seduce him away; for which
purpose several of them at once would fly about him in all directions,
striving to drive him away when they saw him about to settle on one of
the children's hands, extended with the food. He would very often alight
on the children, uncalled, when they were walking several fields distant
from home." What a charming sketch of innocence and benevolence,
heightened by the anxiety of the pet's relations to win him away from
beings whom they must have looked upon as so many young ogres! The poor
flies, it is true, darken the picture a little; but to proceed with the
narrative:--"Our little inmate was never made a prisoner by being put
into a cage, but always ranged about the room at large wherever the
children were, and they never went out of doors without taking him with
them. Sometimes he would sit on their hands or heads and catch flies for
himself, which he soon did with great dexterity. At length, finding it
take up too much of their time to supply him with food enough to satisfy
his appetite (for I have no doubt he ate from seven hundred to a
thousand flies a day), they used to turn him out of the house, shutting
the window to prevent his returning for two or three hours together, in
hopes he would learn to cater for himself, which he soon did; but still
was no less tame, always answering their call, and coming in at the
window to them (of his own accord) frequently every day, and always
roosting in their room, which he has regularly done from the first till
within a week or ten days past. He constantly roosted on one of the
children's heads till their bed-time; nor was he disturbed by the child
moving about, or even walking, but would remain perfectly quiet with his
head under his wing, till he was put away for the night in some warm
corner, for he liked much warmth." The kind and considerate attempt to
alienate the attached bird from its little friends had its effect. "It
is now four days (writes worthy Mr. Trevelyan, in conclusion) since he
came in to roost in the house, and though he then did not show any
symptoms of shyness, yet he is evidently becoming less tame, as the
whistle will not now bring him to the hand; nor does he visit us as
formerly, but he always acknowledges it when within hearing by a chirp,
and by flying near. Nothing could exceed his tameness for about six
weeks; and I have no doubt it would have continued the same had we not
left him to himself as much as we could, fearing he would be so
perfectly domesticated that he would be left behind at the time of
migration, and of course be starved in the winter from cold and hunger."
And so ends this agreeable story: not, however, that it was "of course"
that the confiding bird would be starved if it remained, for the Rev.
W.F. Cornish, of Totness, kept two tame swallows, one for a year and a
half, and the other for two years, as he informed Mr. Yarrell.


[From Mure's Literature of Ancient Greece.]

EXCLUSION OF LOVE FROM GREEK POETRY.

One of the most prominent forms in which the native simplicity and
purity of the Hellenic bard displays itself is the entire exclusion of
sentimental or romantic love from his stock of poetical materials. This
is a characteristic which, while inherited in a greater or less degree
by the whole more flourishing age of Greek poetical literature,
possesses also the additional source of interest to the modern scholar,
of forming one of the most striking points of distinction between
ancient and modern literary taste. So great an apparent contempt, on the
part of so sensitive a race as the Hellenes, for an element of poetical
pathos which has obtained so boundless an influence on the comparatively
phlegmatic races of Western Europe, is a phenomenon which, although it
has not escaped the notice of modern critics, has scarcely met with the
attention which its importance demands. By some it has been explained as
a consequence of the low estimation in which the female sex was held in
Homer's age, as contrasted with the high honors conferred on it by the
courtesy of medieval chivalry; by others as a natural effect of the
restrictions placed on the free intercourse of the sexes among the
Greeks. Neither explanation is satisfactory. The latter of the two is
set aside by Homer's own descriptions, which abundantly prove that in
his time, at least, women could have been subjected to no such jealous
control as to interfere with the free course of amorous intrigue. Nor
even, had such been the case, would the cause have been adequate to the
effect. Experience seems rather to evince that the greater the
difficulties to be surmounted the higher the poetical capabilities of
such adventures. Erotic romance appears, in fact, to have been nowhere
more popular than in the East, where the jealous separation of the sexes
has, in all ages, been extreme. As little can it be said that Homer's
poems exhibit a state of society in which females were lightly esteemed.
The Trojan war itself originates in the susceptibility of an injured
husband: and all Greece takes up arms to avenge his wrong. The plot of
the Odyssey hinges mainly on the constant attachment of the hero to the
spouse of his youth; and the whole action tends to illustrate the high
degree of social and political influence consequent on the exemplary
performance of the duties of wife and mother. Nor surely do the
relations subsisting between Hector and Andromache, or Priam and Hecuba,
convey a mean impression of the respect paid to the female sex in the
heroic age. As little can the case be explained by a want of fit or
popular subjects of amorous adventure. Many of the favorite Greek
traditions are as well adapted to the plot of an epic poem or tragedy of
the sentimental order, as any that modern history can supply. Still less
can the exclusion be attributed to a want of sensibility, on the part of
the Greek nation, to the power of the tender passions. The influence of
those passions is at least as powerfully and brilliantly asserted in
their own proper sphere of poetical treatment, in the lyric odes, for
example, of Sappho or Mimnermus, as in any department of modern poetry.
Nor must it be supposed that even the nobler Epic or Tragic Muse was
insensible to the poetical value of the passion of love. But it was in
the connection of that passion with others of a sterner nature to which
it gives rise, jealousy, hatred, revenge, rather than in its own tender
sensibilities, that the Greek poets sought to concentrate the higher
interest of their public. Any excess of the amorous affections which
tended to enslave the judgment or reason was considered as a weakness,
not an honorable emotion; and hence was confined almost invariably to
women. The nobler sex are represented as comparatively indifferent,
often cruelly callous, to such influence; and, when subjected to it, are
usually held up as objects of contempt rather than admiration. As
examples may be cited the amours of Medea and Jason, of Phædra and
Hippolytus, of Theseus and Ariadne, of Hercules and Omphale. The satire
on the amorous weakness of the most illustrious of Greek heroes embodied
in the last mentioned fable, with the glory acquired by Ulysses from his
resistance to the fascinations of Circe and Calypso, may be jointly
contrasted with the subjection by Tasso of Rinaldo and his comrades to
the thraldom of Armida, and with the pride and pleasure which the
Italian poet of chivalry appears to take in the sensual degradation of
his heroes. The distinction here drawn by the ancients is the more
obvious, that their warriors are least of all men described as
indifferent to the pleasures of female intercourse. They are merely
exempt from subjection to its unmanly seductions. Ulysses, as he sails
from coast to coast, or island to island, willingly partakes of the
favors which fair goddesses or enchantresses press on his acceptance.
But their influence is never permitted permanently to blunt the more
honorable affections of his bosom, or divert his attention from higher
objects of ambition.


[From the Spectator.]

THE GATEWAY OF THE OCEANS.

The forcing of the barrier which for three hundred years has defied and
imperiled the commerce of the world seems now an event at hand. One half
of the contract for the junction of the Atlantic and Pacific, obtained
from the State of Nicaragua last year by the promptitude of the
Americans, is to be held at the option of English capitalists; and an
understanding is at length announced, that if the contemplated
ship-canal can be constructed on conditions that shall leave no
uncertainty as to the profitableness of the enterprise, it is to be
carried forward with the influence of our highest mercantile firms. The
necessary surveys have been actually commenced; and as a temporary route
is at the same time being opened, an amount of information is likely
soon to be collected which will familiarize us with each point regarding
the capabilities of the entire region. It is understood, moreover, that
when the canal-surveys shall be completed, they are to be submitted to
the rigid scrutiny of Government engineers both in England and the
United States; so that before the public can be called upon to consider
the expediency of embarking in the undertaking, every doubt in
connection with it, as far as practical minds are concerned, will have
been removed.

The immediate steps now in course of adoption may be explained in a few
words. At present the transit across the Isthmus of Panama occupies four
days, and its inconveniences and dangers are notorious. At Nicaragua, it
is represented, the transit may possibly be effected in one day, and
this by a continuous steam-route with the exception of fifteen miles by
mule or omnibus. The passage would be up the San Juan, across Lake
Nicaragua to the town of that name, and thence to the port of San Juan
del Sur on the Pacific. On arriving at this terminus, (which is
considerably south of the one contemplated for the permanent canal,
namely Realejo,) the passenger would find himself some six or seven
hundred miles nearer to California than if he had crossed at the Isthmus
of Panama; and as the rate of speed of the American steamers on this
service is upward of three hundred miles a day, his saving of three days
in crossing, coupled with the saving in sea distance, would be
equivalent to a total of fifteen hundred miles, measured in relation to
what is accomplished by these vessels. A lower charge for the transit,
and a comparatively healthy climate, are also additional inducements;
and under these circumstances, anticipations are entertained that the
great tide of traffic will be turned in the new direction. This tide,
according to the last accounts from Panama, was kept up at the rate of
70,000 persons a year; and it was expected to increase.

The navigability of the San Juan, however, in its present state, remains
yet to be tested. The American company who have obtained the privilege
of the route have sent down two vessels of light draught, the Nicaragua
and the Director, for the purpose of forthwith placing the matter beyond
doubt. At the last date, the Director had safely crossed the bar at its
mouth, and was preparing to ascend; the Nicaragua had previously gone up
the Colorado, a branch river, where, it is said, through the
carelessness of her engineer, she had run aground upon a sand-bank,
though without sustaining any damage. The next accounts will possess
great interest. Whatever may be the real capabilities of the river,
accidents and delays must be anticipated in the first trial of a new
method of navigating it: even in our own river, the Thames, the first
steamer could scarcely have been expected to make a trip from London
Bridge to Richmond without some mishap. Should, therefore, the present
experiment show any clear indications of success, there will be
reasonable ground for congratulation; and it forms so important a
chapter in the history of enterprise, that all must regard it with good
wishes.

If the results of this temporary transit should realize the expectations
it seems to warrant, there can be little doubt the completion of the
canal will soon be commenced with ardor. Supposing the surveys should
show a cost not exceeding the sum estimated in 1837 by Lieutenant Baily,
the prospect of the returns would, there is reason to believe, be much
larger than the public have at any time been accustomed to suppose.
There is also the fact that the increase of these returns can know no
limit so long as the commerce of the world shall increase; and indeed,
already the idea of the gains to accrue appears to have struck some
minds with such force as to lead them to question if the privileges
which have been granted are not of a kind so extraordinarily favorable
that they will sooner or later be repudiated by the State of Nicaragua.
No such danger however exists; as the company are guaranteed in the safe
possession of all their rights by the treaty of protection which has
been ratified between Great Britain and the United States.

One most important sign in favor of the quick completion of the
ship-canal is now furnished in the circumstance that there are no rival
routes. At Panama, a cheap wooden railway is to be constructed, which
will prove serviceable for much of the passenger-traffic to Peru and
Chili; but the project for a canal at that point has been entirely given
up. The same is the case at Tehuantepec, where the difficulties are far
greater than at Panama.

It is true, the question naturally arises, whether if an exploration
were made of other parts of Central America or New Grenada, some route
might not be discovered which might admit of the construction of a canal
even at a less cost than will be necessary at Nicaragua. But in a matter
which concerns the commerce of the whole world for ages, there are other
points to be considered besides mere cheapness; and those who have
studied the advantages of Nicaragua maintain that enough is known of the
whole country both north and south of that State, to establish the fact
that she possesses intrinsic capabilities essential to the perfectness
of the entire work, which are not to be found in any other quarter, and
for the absence of which no saving of any immediate sum would
compensate. In the first place, it is nearer to California by several
hundred miles than any other route that could be pointed out except
Tehuantepec, while at the same time it is so central as duly to combine
the interests both of the northern and southern countries of the
Pacific; in the next place, it contains two magnificent natural docks,
where all the vessels in the world might refresh and refit; thirdly, it
abounds in natural products of all kinds, and is besides comparatively
well-peopled; fourthly, it possesses a temperature which is relatively
mild, while it is also in most parts undoubtedly healthy; and finally,
it has a harbor on the Pacific, which, to use the words of Dunlop in his
book on Central America, is as good as any port in the known world, and
decidedly superior even to Portsmouth, Rio Janeiro, Port Jackson,
Talcujana, Callao, and Guayaquil. The proximity to California moreover
settles the question as to American cooperation; which, it may be
believed, would certainly not be afforded to any route farther south,
and without which it would be idle to contemplate the undertaking.

At the same time, however, it must be admitted, that if any body of
persons would adopt the example now set by the American company, and
commence a survey of any new route at their own expense, they would be
entitled to every consideration, and to rank as benefactors of the
community, whatever might be the result of their endeavors. There are
none who can help forward the enterprise, either directly or indirectly,
upon whom it will not shed honor. That honor, too, will not be distant.
The progress of the work will unite for the first time in a direct
manner the two great nations upon whose mutual friendship the welfare of
the world depends; and its completion will cause a revolution in
commerce more extensive and beneficent than any that has yet occurred,
and which may still be so rapid as to be witnessed by many who even now
are old.


[From the Spectator.]

THE MURDER MARKET.

"The Doddinghurst murder," "the Frimley murder," "the Regent's Park
burglary," "the Birmingham burglary," "the Liverpool plate
robberies,"--the plots thicken to such a degree that society turns still
paler; and having last week asked for ideas on the subject of better
security for life and property, asks this week, still more urgently, for
_more_ security. We must then penetrate deeper into the causes.

Yes, civilization is observable in nothing more than in the development
of criminality. Whether it is that _pennyalining_ discloses it more, or
that the instances really are more numerous, may be doubtful; but why,
in spite of modern improvements to illumine, order, and guard society,
does crime stalk abroad so signally unchecked?--_that_ is the question.

We believe that the causes are various; and that to effect a thorough
amendment, we must deal with _all_ the causes, radically. Let us reckon
up some of them. One is, that the New Police, which at first acted as a
scarecrow, has grown familiar to the ruffianly or roguish: it has been
discovered that a Policeman is not ubiquitous, and if you know that he
is walking toward Berkhamstead you are certain that he is not going
toward Hemel Hempstead. In some counties the Policeman is the very
reverse of ubiquitous, being altogether non-inventus, by reason of
parsimony in the rate-payers. The disuse of arms and the general
unfamiliarity with them help to embolden the audacious. The increase of
wealth is a direct attraction: the more silver spoons and épergnes, the
more gold-handled knives and dish-covers electro-gilt, are to be found
in pantry, the more baits are there set for the wild animals of society;
and if there be no trap with the bait, then the human vermin merely run
off with it. But he will bite if you offer any let. With the general
luxury grows the burglarious love of luxury: as peers and cits grow more
curious in their appetites, so burglars and swell-mobsmen. The tasteful
cruet which tempts Lady Juliana, and is gallantly purchased by her
obliging husband Mr. Stubbs, has its claims also for Dick Stiles; and
the champagne which is so relished by the guests round Mr. Stubbs's
mahogany is pleasant tipple under a hedge. Another cause, most pregnant
with inconvenience to the public, is the practice in which we persist in
letting our known criminals go about at large, on constitutional
scruples against shutting the door till the steed be gone. We are bound
to treat a man as innocent until he be found guilty,--which means, that
we must not hang him or pillory him without proof before a jury: but an
innocent man may be suspected, and _ought_ to be suspected, if
appearances are against him. So much for the suspected criminal, whom we
will not take into custody until he has galloped off in our own saddle.
But even the convicted ruffian is to be set at large, under the system
of time sentences. Yes, "the liberty of the subject" demands the license
of the burglar.

A sixth cause is the mere increase of the population hereditarily given
to crime,--a caste upon which we have made so little impression, either
by prison discipline, ragged schools, or any other process. In education
we rely upon book learning or theological scrap teaching, neither of
which influences will reach certain minds; for there are many, and not
the worst dispositions, that never can be brought under a very active
influence of a studious or spiritual kind. But we omit the right kind of
training, the physical and material, for that order of mind.

Other causes are--the wide social separation in this country, by virtue
of which our servants are strangers in the house, alien if not hostile
to the family; the want of our present customs to give scope for such
temperaments as need excitement; the state of the Poor-law, which makes
the honest man desperate and relaxes the proper control over the
vagrant.

The remedies for these causes must go deeper than bells for shutters or
snappish housedogs for the night: meanwhile, we must be content to read
of murders, and to use the best palliatives we can--even shutter-bells
and vigilant little dogs.


[From the Examiner.]

STATUES.

Statues are now rising in every quarter of our metropolis, and mallet
and chisel are the chief instruments in use. Whatever is conducive to
the promotion of the arts ought undoubtedly to be encouraged; but love
in this instance, quite as much as in any, ought neither to be
precipitate nor blind. A true lover of his country should be exempted
from the pain of blushes, when a foreigner inquires of him, "_Whom does
this statue represent? and for what merits was it raised?_" The
defenders of their country, not the dismemberers of it, should be first
in honor; the maintainers of the laws, not the subverters of them,
should follow next. I may be asked by the studious, the contemplative,
the pacific, whether I would assign a higher station to any public man
than to a Milton and a Newton. My answer is plainly and loudly, _Yes_.
But the higher station should be in the streets, in squares, in houses
of parliament: such are their places; our vestibules and our libraries
are best adorned by poets, philosophers, and philanthropists. There is a
feeling which street-walking and public-meeting men improperly call
_loyalty_; a feeling intemperate and intolerant, smelling of dinner and
wine and toasts, which raises their stomachs and their voices at the
sound of certain names reverberated by the newspaper press. As little do
they know about the proprietary of these names as pot-wallopers know
about the candidates at a borough election, and are just as vociferous
and violent. A few days ago, I received a most courteous invitation to
be named on a Committee for erecting a statue to Jenner. It was
impossible for me to decline it; and equally was it impossible to
abstain from the observations which I am now about to state. I
recommended that the statue should be placed before a public hospital,
expressing my sense of impropriety in confounding so great a benefactor
of mankind, in any street or square or avenue, with the Dismemberer of
America and his worthless sons. Nor would I willingly see him among the
worn-out steam-engines of parliamentary debates. The noblest
parliamentary men who had nothing to distribute, not being ministers,
are without statues. The illustrious Burke, the wisest, excepting Bacon,
who at any time sat within the people's House; Romilly, the sincerest
patriot; Huskisson, the most intelligent in commercial affairs, has
none. Peel is become popular, not by his incomparable merits, but by his
untimely death. Shall we never see the day when Oliver and William mount
the chargers of Charles and George; and when a royal swindler is
superseded by the purest and most exalted of our heroes, Blake?

Walter Savage Landor.


[From the last Edinburgh Review.]

RESPONSIBILITY OF STATESMEN.

It is of the last moment that all who are, or are likely to be, called
to administer the affairs of a free state, should be deeply imbued with
the statesmanlike virtues of modesty and caution, and should act under a
profound sense of their personal responsibility. It is an awful thing to
undertake the government of a great country; and no man can be any way
worthy of that high calling who does not from his inmost soul feel it to
be so. When we reflect upon the fearful consequences, both to the lives,
the material interests, and the moral well-being of thousands, which may
ensue from a hasty word, an erroneous judgment, a temporary
carelessness, or a lapse of diligence; when we remember that every
action of a statesman is pregnant with results which may last for
generations after he is gathered to his fathers; that his decisions may,
and probably must, affect for good or ill the destinies of future times;
that peace or war, crime or virtue, prosperity or adversity, the honor
or dishonor of his country, the right or wrong, wise or unwise solution
of some of the mightiest problems in the progress of humanity, depend
upon the course he may pursue at those critical moments which to
ordinary men occur but rarely, but which crowd the daily life of a
statesman; the marvel is that men should be forthcoming bold enough to
venture on such a task. Now, among public men in England this sense of
responsibility is in general adequately felt. It affords an honorable
(and in most cases we believe a true) explanation of that singular
discrepancy between public men when in and when out of office--that
inconsistency between the promise and the performance,--between what the
leader of the opposition urges the minister to do, and what the same
leader, when minister himself, actually does,--which is so commonly
attributed to less reputable motives. The independent member may
speculate and criticise at his ease; may see, as he thinks, clearly, and
with an undoubting and imperious conviction, what course on this or that
question ought to be pursued; may feel so unboundedly confident in the
soundness of his views, that he cannot comprehend or pardon the
inability of ministers to see as he sees, and to act as he would wish;
but as soon as the overwhelming responsibilities of office are his own,
as soon as he finds no obstacle to the carrying out of his plans, except
such as may arise from the sense that he does so at the risk of his
country's welfare and his own reputation--he is seized with a strange
diffidence, a new-born modesty, a mistrust of his own judgment which he
never felt before; he re-examines, he hesitates, he delays; he brings to
bear upon the investigation all the new light which official knowledge
has revealed to him; and finds at last that he scruples to do himself
what he had not scrupled to insist upon before. So deep-rooted is this
sense of responsibility with our countrymen, that whatever parties a
crisis of popular feeling might carry into power, we should have
comparatively little dread of rash, and no dread of corrupt, conduct on
their part; we scarcely know the public man who, when his country's
destinies were committed to his charge, could for a moment dream of
acting otherwise than with scrupulous integrity, and to the best of his
utmost diligence and most cautious judgment,--at all events till the
dullness of daily custom had laid his self-vigilance asleep. We are
convinced that were Lord Stanhope and Mr. Disraeli to be borne into
office by some grotesque freak of fortune, even they would become
sobered as by magic, and would astonish all beholders, not by their
vagaries, but by their steadiness and discretion. Now, of this wholesome
sense of awful responsibility, we see no indications among public men in
France. Dumont says, in his "Recollections of Mirabeau," "I have
sometimes thought that if you were to stop a hundred men
indiscriminately in the streets of Paris and London, and propose to each
to undertake the government, ninety-nine of the Londoners would refuse,
and ninety-nine of the Parisians would accept." In fact, we find it is
only one or two of the more experienced _habitués_ of office who in
France ever seem to feel any hesitation. Ordinary deputies, military
men, journalists, men of science, accept, with a _naive_ and simple
courage, posts for which, except that courage, they possess no single
qualification. But this is not the worst; they never hesitate, at their
country's risk and cost, to carry out their own favorite schemes to an
experiment; in fact, they often seem to value office mainly for that
purpose, and to regard their country chiefly as the _corpus vile_ on
which the experiment is to be made. To make way for their theories, they
relentlessly sweep out of sight the whole past, and never appear to
contemplate either the possibility or the parricidal guilt of failure.


[From the New Monthly Magazine.]

THE COW TREE OF SOUTH AMERICA.

Mr. Higson met with two species of cow tree, which he states to be
abundant in the deep and humid woods of the provinces of Chocó and
Popayán. In an extract from his diary, dated Ysconde, May 7, 1822, he
gives an account of an excursion he made, about twelve miles up the
river, in company with the alcaide and two other gentlemen, in quest of
some of these milk trees, one species of which, known to the inhabitants
by the name of Popa, yields, during the ascent of the sap, a redundance
of a nutritive milky juice, obtained by incisions made into the thick
bark which clothes the trunk, and which he describes as of an ash color
externally, while the interior is of a clay red. Instinct, or some
natural power closely approaching to the reasoning principle, has taught
the jaguars, and other wild beasts of the forest, the value of this
milk, which they obtain by lacerating the bark with their claws and
catching the milk as it flows from the incisions. A similar instinct
prevails amongst the hogs that have become wild in the forests of
Jamaica, where a species of Rhus, the _Rhus Metopium_ of botanists,
grows, the bark of which, on being wounded, yields a resinous juice,
possessing many valuable medicinal properties, and among them that of
rapidly cicatrizing wounds. How this valuable property was first
discovered by the hogs, or by what peculiar interchange of ideas the
knowledge of it was communicated by the happy individual who made it to
his fellow hogs, is a problem which, in the absence of some porcine
historiographer, we have little prospect of solving. But, however this
may be, the fact is sufficiently notorious in Jamaica, where the wild
hogs, when wounded, seek out one of these trees, which, from the first
discoverers of its sanative properties, have been named "Hog Gum Trees,"
and, abrading the bark with their teeth, rub the wounded part of their
bodies against it, so as to coat the wound with a covering of the gummy,
or rather gum-resinous fluid, that exudes from the bark. In like manner,
as Mr. Higson informs us, the jaguars, instructed in the nutritious
properties of the potable juice of the Popa, jump up against the stem,
and lacerating the bark with their claws greedily catch the liquid
nectar as it issues from the wound. By a strange perverseness of his
nature, man, in the pride of his heart and the intoxication of his
vanity, spurns this delicious beverage, which speedily fattens all who
feed on it, and contents himself with using it, when inspissated by the
sun, as a bird-lime to catch parrots; or converting it into a glue,
which withstands humidity, by boiling it with the gum of the mangle-tree
(_Sapium aucuparium?_), tempered with wood ashes. Mr. Higson states that
they caught plenty of the milk, which was of the consistence of cream,
of a bland and sweetish taste, and a somewhat aromatic flavor, and so
white as to communicate a tolerably permanent stain wherever it fell; it
mixed with spirit, as readily as cow's milk, and made, with the addition
of water, a very agreeable and refreshing beverage, of which they drank
several tutumos full. They cut down a tree, one of the tallest of the
forest, in order to procure specimens, and found the timber white, of a
fine grain, and well adapted for boards or shingles. They were about a
month too late to obtain the blossoms, which were said to be very showy,
but found abundance of fruit, disposed on short foot-stalks in the alæ
of the leaves; these were scabrous, and about the size of a nutmeg. The
leaves he describes as having very short petioles, hearted at the base,
and of a coriaceous consistence, and covered with large semi-globular
glands.

Besides the Popa, he speaks of another lactescent tree, called Sandé,
the milk of which, though more abundant, is thinner, bluish, like
skimmed milk, and not so palatable.

This, inspissated in the sun, acquires the appearance of a black gum,
and is so highly valued for its medicinal properties, especially as a
topical application in inflammatory affections of the spleen, pleura,
and liver, that it fetches a dollar the ounce in the Valle del Cauca.
The leaves are described as resembling those of the _Chrysophyllum
cainito_, or broad-leaved star apple, springing from short petioles, ten
or twelve inches long, oblong, ovate, pointed, with alternate veins, and
ferruginous on the under surface. The locality of the Sandé he does not
point out, but says that a third kind of milk tree, the juice of which
is potable, grows in the same forests, where it is known by the name of
Lyria. This he regards as identical with the cow tree of Caracas, of
which Humboldt has given so graphic a description.


[From the Illustrated London News.]

SONG OF THE SEASONS.

BY CHARLES MACKAY.

    I heard the language of the trees,
      In the noons of the early summer;
    As the leaves were moved like rippling seas
      By the wind--a constant comer.
    It came and it went at its wanton will;
      And evermore loved to dally,
    With branch and flower, from the cope of the hill
      To the warm depths of the valley.
    The sunlight glow'd; the waters flow'd;
      The birds their music chanted,
    And the words of the trees on my senses fell--
      By a spirit of Beauty haunted:--
    Said each to each, in mystic speech:--
      "The skies our branches nourish;--
    The world is good,--the world is fair,--
      Let us _enjoy_ and flourish!"

    Again I heard the steadfast trees;
      The wintry winds were blowing;
    There seem'd a roar as of stormy seas,
      And of ships to the depths down-going
    And ever a moan through the woods were blown,
      As the branches snapp'd asunder,
    And the long boughs swung like the frantic arms
      Of a crowd in affright and wonder.
    Heavily rattled the driving hail!
      And storm and flood combining,
    Laid bare the roots of mighty oaks
      Under the shingle twining.
    Said tree to tree, "These tempests free
      Our sap and strength shall nourish;
    Though the world be hard, though the world be cold,
      We can endure and flourish!"


[From Eliza Cook's Journal.]

THE WANE OF THE YEAR.

But autumn wanes, and with it fade the golden tints, and burning hues,
and the warm breezes; for winter, with chilling clasp and frosty breath,
hurries like a destroyer over the fields to bury their beauties in his
snow, and to blanch and wither up with his frozen breath, the remnants
of the blooming year. The harvests are gathered, the seeds are sown, the
meadow becomes once more green and velvet-like as in the days of spring:
the weeds and flowers run to seed, and stand laden with cups, and urns,
and bells, each containing the unborn germs of another summer's beauty,
and only waiting for the winter winds to scatter them, and the spring
sunshine to fall upon them, where they fall to break into bud and leaf
and flower, and to whisper to the passing wind that the soul of beauty
dies not. It is now upon the waning of the sunshine and the falling of
the leaf that the bleak winds rise angrily, and the gloom of the dying
year deepens in the woods and fields. We hear the plying of the constant
flail mingling with the clatter of the farm-yard; we are visited by fogs
and moving mists, and heavy rains that last for days together; upon the
hill the horn of the hunter is heard, and in the mountain solitudes the
eagle's scream; up among craggy rifts the red deer bound, and the
waterfall keeps up its peals of thunder; and although the autumn, having
ripened the fruits of summer, and gathered into the garnery the yellow
fruitage of the field, must hie away to sunbright shores and islands in
the glittering seas of fairy lands, she leaves the spirits of the
flowers to hover hither and thither amid the leafless bowers to bewail
in midnight dirges the loss of leaves and blossoms and the joyful tide
of song. It is one of these of whom the poet speaks; for he, having been
caught up by the divine ether into the regions of eternal beauty, has
seen, as mortals seldom see, the shadows of created things, and has
spoken with the angel spirits of the world:--

    A spirit haunts the year's last hours,
    Dwelling amid these yellowing bowers;
        To himself he talks:
    For at eventide, listening earnestly,
    At his work you may hear him sob and sigh.
        In the walks
        Earthward he boweth the heavy stalks
    Of the mouldering flowers,
        Heavily hangs the broad sunflower
          Over its grave i' the earth so chilly,
        Heavily hangs the hollyhock,
          Heavily hangs the tiger-lily.

    The air is damp, and hush'd and close,
    As a sick man's room when he taketh repose
        An hour before death;
    My very heart faints, and my whole soul grieves,
    At the rich moist smell of the rotting leaves,
        And the breath
        Of the fading edges of box beneath,
    And the year's last rose.
        Heavily hangs the broad sunflower
          Over its grave i' the earth so chilly,
        Heavily hangs the hollyhock,
          Heavily hangs the tiger-lily.--_Tennyson._

The black clouds are even now gathering upon the fringes of the sky, and
the mellow season of the fruitage ends. Thus all the changes of the
earth pass round, each imprinting its semblance on the brow of man, and
writing its lessons on his soul; that like the green earth beneath his
feet, he may, through cold and heat, through storm and sun, be ever
blossoming with fragrant flowers, and yielding refreshing fruit from the
inexhaustible soil of a regenerated heart.


[From Slack's Ministry of the Beautiful, just published by A. Hart,
Philadelphia.]

THE FOUNTAIN IN THE WOOD.

A little way apart from a great city was a fountain in a wood. The water
gushed from a rock and ran in a little crystal stream to a mossy basin
below; the wildflowers nodded their heads to catch its tiny spray; tall
trees overarched it; and through the interspaces of their moving leaves
the sunlight came and danced with rainbow feet upon its sparkling
surface.

There was a young girl who managed every day to escape a little while
from the turmoil of the city, and went like a pilgrim to the fountain in
the wood. The water was sparkling, the moss and fern looked very lovely
in the gentle moisture which the fountain cast upon them, and the trees
waved their branches and rustled their green leaves in happy concert
with the summer breeze. The girl loved the beauty of the scene and it
grew upon her. Every day the fountain had a fresh tale to tell, and the
whispering murmur of the leaves was ever new. By-and-by she came to know
something of the language in which the fountain, the ferns, the mosses,
and the trees held converse. She listened very patiently, full of wonder
and of love. She heard them often regret that man would not learn their
language, that they might tell him the beautiful things they had to say.
At last the maiden ventured to tell them that she knew their tongue, and
with what exquisite delight she heard them talk. The fountain flowed
faster, more sunbeams danced on its waters, the leaves sang a new song,
and the ferns and mosses grew greener before her eyes. They all told her
what joy thrilled through them at her words. Human beings had passed
them in abundance, they said, and as there was a tradition among the
flowers that men once spoke, they hoped one day to hear them do so
again. The maiden told them that all men spoke, at which they were
astonished, but said that making articulate noises was not speaking,
many such they had heard, but never till now real human speech; for
that, they said, could come alone from the mind and heart. It was the
voice of the body which men usually talked with, and that they did not
understand, but only the voice of the soul, which was rare to hear. Then
there was great joy through all the wood, and there went forth a report
that at length a maiden was found whose soul could speak, and who knew
the language of the flowers and the fountain. And the trees and the
stream said one to another, "Even so did our old prophets teach, and
now hath it been fulfilled." Then the maiden tried to tell her friends
in the city what she had heard at the fountain, but could explain very
little, for although they knew her words, they felt not her meaning. And
certain young men came and begged her to take them to the wood that they
might hear the voices. So she took one after another, but nothing came
of it, for to them the fountain and the trees were mute. Many thought
the maiden mad, and laughed at her belief, but they could not take the
sweet voices away from her. Now the maidens wished her to take them
also, and she did, but with little better success. A few thought they
heard something, but knew not what, and on their return to the city its
bustle obliterated the small remembrance they had carried away. At
length a young man begged the maiden to give him a trial, and she did
so. They went hand in hand to the fountain, and he heard the language,
although not so well as the maiden; but she helped him, and found that
when both heard the words together they were more beautiful than ever.
She let go his hand, and much of the beauty was gone; the fountain told
them to join hands and lips also, and they did it. Then arose sweeter
sounds than they had ever heard, and soft voices encompassed them
saying, "Henceforth be united; for the spirit of truth and beauty hath
made you one."


[From Dr. Marcy's Homeopathic Theory and Practice of Medicine.]

WEARING THE BEARD.

One great cause of the frequent occurrence of chronic bronchitis may be
found in the reprehensible fashion of shaving the beard. That this
ornament was given by the Creator for some useful purpose, there can be
no doubt, for in fashioning the human body, he gave nothing unbecoming a
perfect man, nothing useless, nothing superfluous. Hair being an
imperfect conductor of caloric, is admirably calculated to retain the
animal warmth of that part of the body which is so constantly and
necessarily exposed to the weather, and thus to protect this important
portion of the respiratory passage from the injurious effects of sudden
checks of perspiration.

When one exercises for hours his vocal organs, with the unremitted
activity of a public declamation, the pores of the skin in the vicinity
of the throat and chest become relaxed, so that when he enters the open
air, the whole force of the atmosphere bears upon these parts, and he
sooner or later contracts a bronchitis; while, had he the flowing beard
with which his Maker has endowed him, uncut, to protect these important
parts, he would escape any degree of exposure unharmed.

The fact that Jews and other people who wear the beard long, are but
rarely afflicted with bronchitis and analogous disorders, suggests a
powerful argument in support of these views.


[From "Ada Greville," by Peter Leicester.]

A VIEW OF BOMBAY.

They had soon reached the Apollo Bunder, where they were to land, and
where Ada's attention was promptly engaged by the bustle awaiting her
there; and where, from among numbers of carriages, and palanquins, and
carts in waiting--many of them of such extraordinary shapes--some moved
by horses, some by bullocks, and some by men, and all looking strange;
from their odd commixture, Mr. McGregor's phaeton promptly drew up, and
he placed the ladies in it, himself driving, and the two maids following
in a palanquin carriage. This latter amused Ada exceedingly; a
_vis-à-vis_, in fact, very long, and very low, drawn by bullocks, whose
ungainly and uneven paces were very unlike any other motion to which, so
far, her experience had been subjected; but they went well enough, and
quickly too, and Ada soon forgot their eccentricities in her surprise at
the many strange things she saw by the way. The airy appearance of the
houses, full of windows and doors, and all cased round by verandahs; the
native mud bazaars, so rude and uncouth in their shapes, and daubed over
with all kinds of glaring colours; with the women sitting in the open
verandahs, their broad brooms in hand, whisking off from their
food-wares the flies, myriads of which seem to contend with them for
ownership; the native women in the streets carrying water, in their
graceful dress, their scanty little jackets and short garments
exhibiting to advantage their beautiful limbs and elegant motion, the
very poorest of them covered with jewels--the wonted mode, indeed, in
which they keep what little property they have--the women, too, working
with the men, and undertaking all kinds of labor; the black, naked
coolies running here and there to snatch at any little employment that
would bring them but an _anna_. Contrasting with these, and mixed up
pell mell with them, the smart young officers cantering about, the
carriages of every shape and grade, from the pompous hackery, with its
gaudy, umbrella-like top, and no less pompous occupant, in his turban
and jewels, his bullocks covered with bells making more noise than the
jumbling vehicle itself, down to the meager bullock cart, at hire, for
the merest trifle. Here and there, too, some other great native, on his
sumptuously caparisoned horse, with arched neck and long flowing tail
sweeping the ground, and feeling as important as his rider; and the
popish priests, in their long, black gowns, and long beards; and the
civilians, of almost every rank, in their light, white jackets; and the
umbrellas; and the universal tomtoms, incessantly going; and above all,
the numbers of palanquins, each with its eight bearers, running here,
there, and everywhere; everything, indeed, so unlike dear old England;
everything, even did not the burning sun of itself tell the fact, too
sensibly to be mistaken, reminding the stranger that she was in the
Indian land.


From "The Memorial:"

[The most brilliant and altogether attractive gift-book of the season,
edited by Mrs. Hewitt, and published by Putnam.]

FRANCES SARGENT OSGOOD.

BY RUFUS WILMOT GRISWOLD.

From the beginning of our intellectual history women have done far more
than their share in both creation and construction. The worshipful Mrs.
Bradstreet, who two hundred years ago held her court of wit among the
classic groves of Harvard, was in her day--the day in which Spenser,
Shakspeare, and Milton sung--the finest poet of her sex whose verse was
in the English language; and there was little extravagance in the title
bestowed by her London admirers, when they printed her works as those
"of the Tenth Muse, recently sprung up in America." In the beginning of
the present century we had no bard to dispute the crown with Elizabeth
Townsend, whose "Ode to Liberty" commanded the applause of Southey and
Wordsworth in their best days; whose "Omnipresence of the Deity" is
declared by Dr. Cheever to be worthy of those great poets or of
Coleridge; and who still lives, beloved and reverenced, in venerable
years, the last of one of the most distinguished families of New
England.

More recently, Maria Brooks, called in "The Doctor" _Maria del
Occidente_, burst upon the world with "Zophiel," that splendid piece of
imagination and passion which stands, the vindication of the subtlety,
power and comprehension of the genius of woman, justifying by
comparison, the skepticism of Lamb when he suggested, to the author of
"The Excursion," whether the sex had "ever produced any thing so great."
Of our living and more strictly contemporary female poets, we mention
with unhesitating pride Mrs. Sigourney, Mrs. Oakes Smith, Mrs. Hewett,
Mrs. Whitman, Mrs. Welby, Alice Carey, "Edith May," Miss Lynch, and Miss
Clarke, as poets of a genuine inspiration, displaying native powers and
capacities in art such as in all periods have been held sufficient to
insure to their possessors lasting fame, and to the nations which they
adorned, the most desirable glory.

It is Longfellow who says,

     ----"What we admire in a woman,
     Is her affection, not her intellect."

The sentiment is unworthy a poet, the mind as well as the heart claims
sympathy, and there is no sympathy but in equality; we need in woman the
completion of our own natures; that her finer, clearer, and purer vision
should pierce for us the mysteries that are hidden from our own senses,
strengthened, but dulled, in the rude shocks of the out-door world, from
which she is screened, by her pursuits, to be the minister of God to us:
to win us by the beautiful to whatever in the present life or the
immortal is deserving a great ambition. We care little for any of the
mathematicians, metaphysicians, or politicians, who, as shamelessly as
Helen, quit their sphere. Intellect in woman, so directed, we do not
admire, and of affection such women are incapable. There is something
divine in woman, and she whose true vocation it is to write, has some
sort of inspiration, which relieves her from the processes and accidents
of knowledge, to display only wisdom in all the range of gentleness, and
all the forms of grace. The equality of the sexes is one of the absurd
questions which have arisen from a denial of the _distinctions_ of their
faculties and duties--of the masculine energy from the feminine
refinement. The ruder sort of women cannot comprehend that there is a
distinction, not of dignity, but of kind; and so, casting aside their
own eminence, for which they are too base, and seeking after ours, for
which they are too weak, they are hermaphroditish disturbers of the
peace of both. In the main our American women are free from this
reproach; they have known their mission, and have carried on the threads
of civility through the years, so strained that they have been
melodiously vocal with every breath of passion from the common heart. We
turn from the jar of senates, from politics, theologies, philosophies,
and all forms of intellectual trial and conflict, to that portion of our
literature which they have given us, coming like dews and flowers after
glaciers and rocks, the hush of music after the tragedy, silence and
rest after turmoil of action. The home where love is refined and
elevated by intellect, and woman, by her separate and never-superfluous
or clashing mental activity, sustains her part in the life-harmony, is
the vestibule of heaven to us; and there we hear the poetesses repeat
the songs to which they have listened, when wandering nearer than we may
go to the world in which humanity shall be perfect again, by the union
in all of all power and goodness and beauty.

The finest intelligence that woman has in our time brought to the
ministry of the beautiful, is no longer with us. Frances Sargent Osgood
died in New-York, at fifteen minutes before three o'clock, in the
afternoon of Sunday, the twelfth of May, 1850. These words swept like a
surge of sadness wherever there was grace and gentleness, and sweet
affections. All that was in her life was womanly, "pure womanly," and so
is all in the undying words she left us. This is her distinction.

Mrs. Osgood was of a family of poets. Mrs. Anna Maria Wells, whose
abilities are illustrated in a volume of "Poems and Juvenile Sketches"
published in 1830, is a daughter of her mother; Mrs. E.D. Harrington,
the author of various graceful compositions in verse and prose, is her
youngest sister; and Mr. A.A. Locke, a brilliant and elegant writer, for
many years connected with the public journals, was her brother. She was
a native of Boston, where her father, Mr. Joseph Locke, was a highly
accomplished merchant. Her earlier life, however, was passed principally
in Hingham, a village of peculiar beauty, well calculated to arouse the
dormant poetry of the soul; and here, even in childhood, she became
noted for her poetical powers. In their exercise she was rather aided
than discouraged by her parents, who were proud of her genius and
sympathized with all her aspirations. The unusual merit of some of her
first productions attracted the notice of Mrs. Child, who was then
editing a Juvenile Miscellany, and who foresaw the reputation which her
young contributor afterwards acquired. Employing the _nomme de plume_ of
"Florence," she made it widely familiar by her numerous contributions in
the Miscellany, as well as, subsequently, for other periodicals.

In 1834, she became acquainted with Mr. S.S. Osgood, the painter--a man
of genius in his profession--whose life of various adventure is full of
romantic interest; and while, soon after, she was sitting for a
portrait, the artist told her his strange vicissitudes by sea and land;
how as a sailor-boy he had climbed the dizzy maintop in the storm; how,
in Europe he followed with his palette in the track of the flute-playing
Goldsmith: and among the

            Antres vast and deserts idle,
    Rough quarries, rocks, and hills whose heads touch heaven,

of South America, had found in pictures of the crucifixion, and of the
Liberator Bolivar--the rude productions of his untaught
pencil--passports to the hearts of the peasant, the partizan, and the
robber. She listened, like the fair Venetian; they were married, and
soon after went to London, where Mr. Osgood had sometime before been a
pupil of the Royal Academy.

During this residence in the Great Metropolis, which lasted four years,
Mr. Osgood was successful in his art--painting portraits of Lord
Lyndhurst, Thomas Campbell, Mrs. Norton, and many other distinguished
characters, which secured for him an enviable reputation--and Mrs.
Osgood made herself known by her contributions to the magazines, by a
miniature volume, entitled "The Casket of Fate," and by the collection
of her poems published by Edward Churton, in 1839, under the title of "A
Wreath of Wild Flowers from New England." She was now about twenty-seven
years of age, and this volume contained all her early compositions which
then met the approval of her judgment. Among them are many pieces of
grace and beauty, such as belong to joyous and hopeful girlhood, and
one, of a more ambitious character, under the name of "Elfrida"--a
dramatic poem, founded upon incidents in early English history--in which
there are signs of more strength and tenderness, and promise of greater
achievement, though it is without the unity and proportion necessary to
eminent success in this kind of writing.

Among her attached friends here--a circle that included the Hon. Mrs.
Norton, Mrs. Hofland, the Rev. Hobart Caunter, Archdeacon Wrangham, the
late W. Cooke Taylor, LL.D., and many others known in the various
departments of literature--was the most successful dramatist of the age,
James Sheridan Knowles, who was so much pleased with "Elfrida," and so
confident that her abilities in this line, if duly cultivated, would
enable her to win distinction, that he urged upon her the composition of
a comedy, promising himself to superintend its production on the stage.
She accordingly wrote "The Happy Release, or The Triumphs of Love," a
play in three acts, which was accepted, and was to have been brought out
as soon as she could change slightly one of the scenes, to suit the
views of the manager as to effect, when intelligence of the death of her
father suddenly recalled her to the United States, and thoughts of
writing for the stage were abandoned for new interests and new pursuits.

Mr. and Mrs. Osgood arrived in Boston early in 1840, and they soon after
came to New-York, where they afterward resided; though occasionally
absent, as the pursuit of his profession, or ill health, called Mr.
Osgood to other parts of the country. Mrs. Osgood was engaged in various
literary occupations. She edited, among other books, "The Poetry of
Flowers, and Flowers of Poetry," (New-York, 1841,) and "The Floral
Offering," (Philadelphia, 1847,) two richly embellished souvenirs; and
she was an industrious and very popular writer for the literary
magazines and other miscellanies.

She was always of a fragile constitution, easily acted upon by whatever
affects health, and in her latter years, except in the more genial
seasons of the spring and autumn, was frequently an invalid. In the
winter of 1847-8, she suffered more than ever previously, but the next
winter she was better, and her husband, who was advised by his
physicians to discontinue, for a while, the practice of his profession,
availed himself of the opportunity to go in pursuit of health and riches
to the mines of the Pacific. He left New-York on the fifth of February,
1849, and was absent one year. Mrs. Osgood's health was variable during
the summer, which she passed chiefly at Saratoga Springs, in the company
of a family of intimate friends; and as the colder months came on, her
strength decayed, so that before the close of November, she was confined
to her apartments. She bore her sufferings with resignation, and her
natural hopefulness cheered her all the while, with remembrances that
she had before come out with the flowers and the embracing airs, and
dreams that she would again be in the world with nature. Two or three
weeks before her death, her husband carried her in his arms, like a
child, to a new home, and she was happier than she had been for months,
in the excitement of selecting its furniture, brought in specimens or
patterns to her bedside. "_We shall be so happy!_" was her salutation to
the few friends who were admitted to see her; but they saw, and her
physicians saw, that her life was ebbing fast, and that she would never
never again see the brooks and greens fields for which she pined, nor
even any of the apartments but the one she occupied of her own house. I
wrote the terrible truth to her, in studiously gentle words, reminding
her that in heaven there is richer and more delicious beauty, that there
is no discord in the sweet sounds there, no poison in the perfume of the
flowers there, and that they know not any sorrow who are with Our
Father. She read the brief note almost to the end silently, and then
turned upon her pillow like a child, and wept the last tears that were
in a fountain which had flowed for every grief but hers she ever knew.
"I cannot leave my beautiful home," she said, looking about upon the
souvenirs of many an affectionate recollection; "and my noble husband,
and Lily and May!" These last are her children. But the sentence was
confirmed by other friends, and she resigned herself to the will of God.
The next evening but one, a young girl went to amuse her, by making
paper flowers for her, and teaching her to make them: and she wrote to
her these verses--her dying song:

    You've woven roses round my way,
      And gladdened all my being;
    How much I thank you none can say
      Save only the All-seeing....

    _I'm going through the Eternal gates
      Ere June's sweet roses blow;
    Death's lovely angel leads me there--
      And it is sweet to go._

May 7th, 1850.

At the end of five days, in the afternoon of Sunday, the twelfth of May,
as gently as one goes to sleep, she withdrew into a better world.

On Tuesday, her remains were removed to Boston, to be interred in the
cemetery of Mount Auburn. It was a beautiful day, in the fulness of the
spring, mild and calm, and clouded to a solemn shadow. In the morning,
as the company of the dead and living started, the birds were singing
what seemed to her friends a sadder song than they were wont to sing;
and, as the cars flew fast on the long way, the trees bowed their
luxuriant foliage, and the flowers in the verdant fields were swung
slowly on their stems, filling the air with the gentlest fragrance; and
the streams, it was fancied, checked their turbulent speed to move in
sympathy, as from the heart of Nature tears might flow for a dead
worshipper. God was thanked that all the elements were ordered so, that
sweetest incense, and such natural music, and reverent aspect of the
silent world, should wait upon her, as so many hearts did, in this last
journey. She slept all the while, nor waked when, in the evening, in her
native city, a few familiar faces bent above her, with difficult looks
through tears, and scarcely audible words, to bid farewell to her. On
Wednesday she was buried, with some dear ones who had gone before
her--beside her mother and her daughter--in that City of Rest, more
sacred now than all before had made it, to those whose spirits are
attuned to Beauty or to Sorrow--those twin sisters, so rarely parted,
until the last has led the first to Heaven.

The character of Mrs. Osgood, to those who were admitted to its more
minute observance, illustrated the finest and highest qualities of
intelligence and virtue. In her manners, there was an almost infantile
gaiety and vivacity, with the utmost simplicity and gentleness, and an
unfailing and indefectable grace, that seemed an especial gift of
nature, unattainable, and possessed only by her and the creatures of our
imaginations whom we call the angels. The delicacy of her organization
was such that she had always the quick sensibility of childhood. The
magnetism of life was round about her, and her astonishingly impressible
faculties were vital in every part, with a polarity toward beauty, all
the various and changing rays of which entered into her consciousness,
and were refracted in her conversation and action. Though, from the
generosity of her nature, exquisitely sensible to applause, she had none
of those immoralities of the intellect, which impair the nobleness of
impulse--no unworthy pride, or vanity, or selfishness--nor was her will
ever swayed from the line of truth, except as the action of the judgment
may sometimes have been irregular from the feverish play of feeling. Her
friendships were quickly formed, but limited by the number of genial
hearts brought within the sphere of her knowledge and sympathy. Probably
there was never a woman of whom it might be said more truly that to her
own sex she was an object almost of worship. She was looked upon for her
simplicity, purity, and childlike want of worldly tact or feeling, with
involuntary affection; listened to, for her freshness, grace, and
brilliancy, with admiration; and remembered, for her unselfishness,
quick sympathy, devotedness, capacity of suffering, and high
aspirations, with a sentiment approaching reverence. This regard which
she inspired in women was not only shown by the most constant and
delicate attentions in society, where she was always the most loved and
honored guest, but it is recorded in the letters and other writings of
many of her most eminent contemporaries, who saw in her an angel, haply
in exile, the sweetness and natural wisdom of whose life elevated her
far above all jealousies, and made her the pride and boast and glory of
womanhood. Many pages might be filled with their tributes, which seem
surely the most heartfelt that mortal ever gave to mortal, but the
limits of this sketch of her will suffer only a few and very brief
quotations from her correspondence. Unquestionably one of the most
brilliant literary women of our time is Miss Clarke, so well known as
"Grace Greenwood." She wrote of Mrs. Osgood with no more earnestness
than others wrote of her, yet in a letter to the "Home Journal," in
1846, she says:

     "And how are the critical Cæsars, one after another, 'giving in' to
     the graces, and fascinations, and soft enchantments of this
     Cleopatra of song. She charms _lions_ to sleep, with her silver
     lute, and then throws around them the delicate net-work of her
     exquisite fancy, and lo! when they wake, they are well content in
     their silken prison.

         'From the tips of her pen a melody flows,
          Sweet as the nightingale sings to the rose.'

     "With her beautiful Italian soul--with her impulse, and wild
     energy, and exuberant fancy, and glowing passionateness--and with
     the wonderful facility with which, like an almond-tree casting off
     its blossoms, she flings abroad her heart-tinted and love-perfumed
     lays, she has, I must believe, more of the improvisatrice than has
     yet been revealed by any of our gifted countrywomen now before the
     people. Heaven bless her, and grant her ever, as now, to have
     laurels on her brows, and to browse on her laurels! Were I the
     President of these United States, I would immortalize my brief term
     of office by the crowning of our Corinna, at the Capitol."

And about the same period, having been introduced to her, she referred
to the event:

     "It seems like a 'pleasant vision of the night' that I have indeed
     seen 'the idol of my early dreams,' that I have been within the
     charmed circle of her real presence, sat by her very side, and
     lovingly watched the shadow of each feeling that moved her soul,
     glance o'er that radiant face!'"

And writing to her:

     "Dear Mrs. Osgood, let me lay this sweet weight off my heart--look
     down into my eyes--believe me--long, long before we met, I loved
     you, with a strange, almost passionate love. You were my literary
     idol: I repeated some of your poems so often, that their echo never
     had time to die away; your earlier, bird-like warblings so chimed
     in with the joyous beatings of my heart, that it seemed it could
     not throb without them; and when you raised 'your lightning glance
     to heaven,' and sang your loftiest song, the liquid notes fell upon
     my soul like baptismal waters. With an 'intense and burning,'
     almost unwomanly ambition, I have still joyed in _your_ success,
     and gloried in your glory; and all because Love laid its reproving
     finger on the lip of Envy. I cannot tell you how much this romantic
     interest has deepened,

         Now I have looked upon thy face,
         Have felt thy twining arms' embrace,
             Thy very bosom's swell;--
         One moment leaned this brow of mine
         On song's sweet source, and love's pure shrine,
             And music's 'magic cell!"

Another friend of hers, Miss Hunter, whose pleasing contributions to our
literature are well known, probably on account of some misapprehension,
had not visited her for several months, but hearing of her illness she
wrote:

     "Learning this, by chance, I have summoned courage once more to
     address you--overcoming my fear of being intrusive, and offering as
     my apology the simple assertion that it is my _heart_ prompts me.
     Till to-day pride has checked me: but you are 'very ill,' and I can
     no longer resist the impulse. With the assurance that I will never
     again trouble you, that now I neither ask nor expect the slightest
     response, suffer me thus to steal to your presence, to sit beside
     your bed, and for the last time to speak of a love that has
     followed you through months of separation, rejoicing when you have
     rejoiced, and mourning when you have mourned. You know how, from
     childhood, I have worshipped you, that since our first meeting you
     have been my idol, the realization of my dreams; and do not suppose
     that because I have failed to inspire you with a lasting interest,
     I shall ever feel for you a less deep or less fervent devotion. The
     blame or misfortune of our estrangement I have always regarded as
     only mine. I know I have seemed indifferent when I panted for
     expression. You have thought me unsympathizing when my every nerve
     thrilled to your words. I have lived in comparative seclusion; I
     have an unconquerable reserve, induced by such an experience; and
     when I have been with you my soul has had no voice.

     "The time has been when I could not bear the thought of never
     regaining your friendship in this world--when I would say 'The
     years! oh, the years of this earth-life, that must pass so slowly!'
     And when I saw any new poem of yours, I experienced the most sad
     emotions,--every word I read was so like you, it seemed as if you
     had passed through the room, speaking to others near me kindly, but
     regarding me coldly, or not seeing me. But one day I read in a book
     by Miss Bremer, 'It is a sad experience, who can describe its
     bitterness! when we see the friend, on whom we have built for
     eternity, grow cold, and become lost to us. But believe it not,
     thou loving, sorrowing soul--believe it not! continue thyself only,
     and the moment will come when thy friend will return to thee. Yes,
     _there_, where all delusions cease, thy friend will find thee gain,
     in a higher light,--will acknowledge thee and unite herself to thee
     forever.' And I took this assurance to my heart.... We may meet in
     heaven, if not here. I shall not go see you, though my heart is
     wrung by this intelligence of your illness. So good-bye, darling!
     May good angels who have power to bless you, linger around your
     pillow with as much love as I shall feel for you forever.

     "March 6, 1850."

I have been permitted to transcribe this letter, and among Mrs. Osgood's
papers that have been confided to me are very many such, evincing a
devotion from women that could have been won only by the most angelic
qualities of intellect and feeling.

It was the custom in the last century, when there was among authors more
of the _esprit du corps_ than now, for poets to greet each other's
appearance in print with complimental verses, celebrating the qualities
for which the seeker after bays was most distinguished. Thus in 1729, we
find the _Omnium Opera_ of John Duke of Buckingham prefaced by
"testimonials of authors concerning His Grace and his writings;" and the
names of Garth, Roscommon, Dryden, and Prior, are among his endorsers.
There have been a few instances of the kind in this country, of which
the most noticeable is that of Cotton Mather, in whose _Magnalia_ there
is a curious display of erudition and poetical ingenuity, in gratulatory
odes. The literary journals of the last few years furnish many such
tributes to Mrs. Osgood, which are interesting to her friends for their
illustration of the personal regard in which she was held. I cannot
quote them here; they alone would fill a volume, as others might be
filled with the copies of verses privately addressed to her, all through
her life, from the period when, like a lovely vision, she first beamed
upon society, till that last season, in which the salutations in
assemblies she had frequented were followed by saddest inquiries for the
absent and dying poetess. They but repeat, with more or less felicity,
the graceful praise of Mrs. Hewitt, in a poem upon her portrait:

    She dwells amid the world's dark ways
      Pure as in childhood's hours;
    And all her thoughts are poetry,
      And all her words are flowers.

Or that of another, addressed to her:

    Thou wouldst be loved? then let thy heart
      From its present pathway part not!
    Being everything, which now thou art,
      Be nothing which thou art not.
    So with the world thy gentle ways,
      Thy grace, thy more than beauty,
    Shall be an endless theme of praise,
      And love--a simple duty.

Among men, generally, such gentleness and sweetness of temper, joined to
such grace and wit, could not fail of making her equally beloved and
admired. She was the keeper of secrets, the counsellor in difficulties,
the ever wise missionary and industrious toiler, for all her friends.
She would brave any privation to alleviate another's sufferings; she
never spoke ill of any one; and when others assailed, she was the most
prompt of all in generous argument. An eminent statesman having casually
met her in Philadelphia, afterward described her to a niece of his who
was visiting that city:

     "If you have opportunity do not fail to become acquainted with Mrs.
     Osgood. I have never known such a woman. She continually surprised
     me by the strength and subtlety of her understanding, in which I
     looked for only sportiveness and delicacy. She is entirely a child
     of nature and Mrs. ----, who introduced me to her, and who has
     known her many years I believe, very intimately, declares that she
     is an angel. Persuade her to Washington, and promise her everything
     you and all of us can do for her pleasure here."

For her natural gaiety, her want of a certain worldly tact, and other
reasons, the determinations she sometimes formed that she would be a
housekeeper, were regarded as fit occasions of jesting, and among the
letters sent to her when once she ventured upon the ambitious office, is
one by her early and always devoted friend, Governor ----, in which we
have glimpses of her domestic qualities:

     "It is not often that I waste fine paper in writing to people who
     do not think me worth answering. I generally reserve my 'ornamental
     hand' for those who return two letters for my one. But you are an
     exception to all rules,--and when I heard that you were about to
     commence _housekeeping_, I could not forbear sending a word of
     congratulation and encouragement. I have long thought that your
     eminently _practical_ turn of mind, my dear friend, would find
     congenial employment in superintending an 'establishment.' What a
     house you will keep! nothing out of place, from garret to
     cellar--dinner always on the table at the regular hour--everything
     like clock-work--and wo to the servant who attempts to steal
     anything from your store-room! wo to the butcher who attempts to
     impose upon you a bad joint, or the grocer who attempts to cheat
     you in the weight of sugar! Such things never will do with you!
     When I first heard of your project, I thought it must be Ellen or
     May going to play housekeeping with their baby-things, but on a
     moment's reflection I was convinced that you knew more about
     managing for a family than either of them--certainly more than May,
     and I think, upon the whole, more than even Ellen! Let Mr. Osgood
     paint you with a bunch of keys in your belt, and do send me a
     daguerreotype of yourself the day after you are installed."

She was not indeed fitted for such cares, or for any routine, and ill
health and the desire of freedom prevented her again making such an
attempt until she finally entered "her own home" to die.

There was a very intimate relation between Mrs. Osgood's personal and
her literary characteristics. She has frequently failed of justice, from
critics but superficially acquainted with her works, because they have
not been able to understand how a mind capable of the sparkling and
graceful trifles, illustrating an exhaustless fancy and a natural melody
of language, with which she amused society in moments of half capricious
gaiety or tenderness, could produce a class of compositions which demand
imagination and passion. In considering this subject, it should not be
forgotten that these attributes are here to be regarded as in their
feminine development.

Mrs. Osgood was, perhaps, as deserving as any one of whom we read in
literary history, of the title of improvisatrice. Her beautiful songs,
displaying so truly the most delicate lights and shadows of woman's
heart, and surprising by their unity, completeness, and rhythmical
perfection, were written with almost the fluency of conversation. The
secret of this was in the wonderful sympathy between her emotions and
faculties, both of exquisite sensibility, and subject to the influences
of whatever has power upon the subtler and diviner qualities of human
nature. Her facility in invention, in the use of poetical language, and
in giving form to every airy dream or breath of passion, was
astonishing. It is most true of men, that no one has ever attained to
the highest reach of his capacities in any art--and least of all in
poetry--without labor--without the application of the "second thought,"
after the frenzy of the divine afflatus is passed--in giving polish and
shapely grace. The imagination is the servant of the reason; the
creative faculties present their triumphs to the constructive--and the
seal to the attainable is set, by every one, in repose and meditation.
But this is scarcely a law of the feminine intelligence, which, when
really endowed with genius, is apt to move spontaneously, and at once,
with its greatest perfection. Certainly, Mrs. Osgood disclaimed the
wrestling of thought with expression. For the most part her poems cost
her as little effort or reflection, as the epigram or touching sentiment
that summoned laughter or tears to the group about her in the
drawing-room.

She was indifferent to fame; she sung simply in conformity to a law of
her existence; and perhaps this want of interest was the cause not only
of the most striking faults in her compositions, but likewise of the
common ignorance of their variety and extent. Accustomed from childhood
to the use of the pen--resorting to it through a life continually
exposed to the excitements of gaiety and change, or the depressions of
affliction and care, she strewed along her way with a prodigality almost
unexampled the choicest flowers of feeling: left them unconsidered and
unclaimed in the repositories of friendship, or under fanciful names,
which she herself had forgotten, in newspapers and magazines,--in which
they were sure to be recognised by some one, and so the purpose of their
creation fulfilled. It was therefore very difficult to make any such
collection of her works as justly to display her powers and their
activity; and the more so, that those effusions of hers which were
likely to be most characteristic, and of the rarest excellence, were
least liable to exposure in printed forms, by the friends, widely
scattered in Europe and America, for whom they were written. But
notwithstanding these disadvantages, the works of Mrs. Osgood with which
we are acquainted, are more voluminous than those of Mrs. Hemans or Mrs.
Norton.[8] Besides the "Wreath of Wild Flowers from New England," which
appeared during her residence in London, a collection of her poems in
one volume was published in New York in 1846; and in 1849, Mr. Hart, of
Philadelphia, gave to the public, in a large octavo illustrated by our
best artists and equalling or surpassing in its tasteful and costly
style any work before issued from the press of this country, the most
complete and judiciously edited collection of them that has appeared.
This edition, however, contains less than half of her printed pieces
which she acknowledged; and among those which are omitted are a tragedy,
a comedy, a great number of piquant and ingenious _vers de societe_, and
several sacred pieces, which strike us as among the best writings of
their kind in our literature, which in this department, we may admit, is
more distinguishable for the profusion than for the quality of its
fruits.

     [8: Besides the books by her which have been referred to, she
     published _The Language of Gems_, (London); _The Snow Drop_,
     (Providence); _Puss in Boots_, (New York); _Cries of New York_,
     (New York); _The Flower Alphabet_, (Boston); _The Rose: Sketches in
     Verse_, (Providence); _A Letter About the Lions, addressed to Mabel
     in the Country_, (New York). The following list of her prose tales,
     sketches, and essays, is probably very incomplete: A Day in New
     England; A Crumpled Rose Leaf; Florence Howard; Ida Gray; Florence
     Errington; A Match for the Matchmaker; Mary Evelyn; Once More;
     Athenais; The Wife; The Little Lost Shoe; The Magic Lute; Feeling
     _vs._ Beauty; The Doom; The Flower and Gem; The Coquette; The Soul
     Awakened; Glimpses of a Soul, (in three parts); Lizzie Lincoln;
     Dora's Reward; Waste Paper; Newport Tableaux; Daguerreotype
     Pictures; Carry Carlisle; Valentine's Day; The Lady's Shadow;
     Truth; Virginia; The Waltz and the Wager; The Poet's Metamorphosis;
     Pride and Penitence; Mabel; Pictures from a Painter's Life;
     Georgiana Hazleton; A Sketch; Kate Melbourne; Life in New York;
     Leonora L'Estrange; The Magic Mirror; The Blue Belle; and Letters
     of Kate Carol, (a series of sketches of men, women and books;)
     contributed for the most part to Mr. Labree's _Illustrated
     Magazine_.]

Mrs. Osgood's definition of poetry, that it is the rhythmical creation
of beauty, is as old as Sydney; and though on some grounds
objectionable, it is, perhaps, on the whole, as just as any that the
critics have given us. An intelligent examination, in the light of this
principle, of what she accomplished, will, it is believed, show that she
was, in the general, of the first rank of female poets; while in her
special domain, of the Poetry of the Affections, she had scarcely a
rival among women or men. As Pinckney said,

     Affections were as thoughts to her, the measure of her hours--
     Her feelings had the fragrancy and freshness of young flowers.

Of love, she sung with tenderness and delicacy, a wonderful richness of
fancy, and rhythms that echo all the cadences of feeling. From the arch
mockery of the triumphant and careless conqueror, to the most passionate
prayer of the despairing, every variety and height and depth of hope and
fear and bliss and pain is sounded, in words that move us to a solitary
lute or a full orchestra of a thousand voices; and with an _abandon_, as
suggestive of genuineness as that which sometimes made the elder Kean
seem "every inch a king." It is not to be supposed that all these
caprices are illustrations of the experiences of the artist, in the case
of the poet any more than in that of the actor: by an effort of the
will, they pass with the liberties of genius into their selected realms,
assume their guises, and discourse their language. If ever there were

     --Depths of tenderness which showed when woke,
     That _woman_ there as well as angel spoke,

they are not to be looked for in the printed specimens of woman's
genius. Mrs. Osgood guarded herself against such criticism, by a
statement in her preface, that many of her songs and other verses were
written to appear in prose sketches and stories, and were expressions of
feeling suitable to the persons and incidents with which they were at
first connected.

In this last edition, to which only reference will be made in these
paragraphs, her works are arranged under the divisions of _Miscellaneous
Poems_--embracing, with such as do not readily admit another
classification, her most ambitious and sustained compositions; _Sacred
Poems_--among which, "The Daughter of Herodias," the longest, is
remarkable for melodious versification and distinct painting: _Tales and
Ballads_--all distinguished for a happy play of fancy, and two or three
for the fruits of such creative energy as belongs to the first order of
poetical intelligences; _Floral Fancies_--which display a gaiety and
grace, an ingenuity of allegory, and elegant refinement of language,
that illustrate her fairy-like delicacy of mind and purity of feeling;
and _Songs_--of which we shall offer some particular observations in
their appropriate order. Scattered through the book we have a few poems
for children, so perfect in their way as to induce regret that she gave
so little attention to a kind of writing in which few are really
successful, and in which she is scarcely equalled.

The volume opens with a brief voluntary, which is followed by a
beautiful and touching address to The Spirit of Poetry, displaying the
perfection of her powers, and her consciousness that they had been too
much neglected while ministering more than all things else to her
happiness. If ever from her heart she poured a passionate song, it was
this, and these concluding lines of it admit us to the sacredest
experiences of her life:

    Leave me not yet! Leave me not cold and lonely,
      Thou star of promise o'er my clouded path!
    Leave not the life that borrows from thee only
      All of delight and beauty that it hath!
    Thou that, when others knew not how to love me,
      Nor cared to fathom half my yearning soul,
    Didst wreathe thy flowers of light around, above me,
      To woo and win me from my grief's control:
    By all my dreams, the passionate and holy,
      When thou hast sung love's lullaby to me,
    By all the childlike worship, fond and lowly,
      Which I have lavish'd upon thine and thee:
    By all the lays my simple lute was learning
      To echo from thy voice, stay with me still!
    Once flown--alas! for thee there's no returning!
      The charm will die o'er valley, wood and hill.
    Tell me not Time, whose wing my brow has shaded,
      Has wither'd Spring's sweet bloom within my heart;
    Ah, no! the rose of love is yet unfaded,
      Though hope and joy, its sister flowers, depart.

    Well do I know that I have wrong'd thine altar,
      With the light offerings of an idler's mind,
    And thus, with shame, my pleading prayer I falter,
      Leave me not, spirit! deaf, and dumb, and blind!
    Deaf to the mystic harmony of nature,
      Blind to the beauty of her stars and flowers;
    Leave me not, heavenly yet human teacher,
      Lonely and lost in this cold world of ours;
    Heaven knows I need thy music and thy beauty
      Still to beguile me on my dreary way,
    To lighten to my soul the cares of duty,
      And bless with radiant dreams the darken'd day;
    To charm my wild heart in the worldly revel,
      Lest I, too, join the aimless, false and vain.
    Let me not lower to the soulless level
      Of those whom now I pity and disdain!
    Leave me not yet!--Leave me not cold and pining,
      Thou bird of Paradise, whose plumes of light,
    Where'er they rested, left a glory shining--
      Fly not to heaven, or let me share thy flight!

After this comes one of her most poetical compositions, "Ermengarde's
Awakening," in which, with even more than her usual felicity of diction,
she has invested with mortal passion a group from the Pantheon. It is
too long to be quoted here, but as an example of her manner upon a
similar subject, and in the same rhythm, we copy the poem of "Eurydice:"

      With heart that thrill'd to every earnest line,
        I had been reading o'er that antique story,
      Wherein the youth, half human, half divine,
        Of all love-lore the Eidolon and glory,
      Child of the Sun, with music's pleading spell,
    In Pluto's palace swept, for love, his golden shell!

      And in the wild, sweet legend, dimly traced,
        My own heart's history unfolded seem'd;
      Ah! lost one! by thy lover-minstrel graced
        With homage pure as ever woman dreamed,
      Too fondly worshipp'd, since such fate befell,
    Was it not sweet to die--because beloved too well!

      The scene is round me! Throned amid the gloom,
        As a flower smiles on Etna's fatal breast,
      Young Proserpine beside her lord doth bloom;
        And near--of Orpheus' soul, oh, idol blest!--
      While low for thee he tunes his lyre of light,
    I see _thy_ meek, fair form dawn through that lurid night!

      I see the glorious boy--his dark locks wreathing
        Wildly the wan and spiritual brow;
      His sweet, curved lip the soul of music breathing;
        His blue Greek eyes, that speak Love's loyal vow;
      I see him bend on _thee_ that eloquent glance,
    The while those wondrous notes the realm of terror trance.

      I see his face with more than mortal beauty
        Kindling, as, armed with that sweet lyre alone,
      Pledged to a holy and heroic duty,
        He stands serene before the awful throne,
      And looks on Hades' horrors with clear eye,
    Since thou, his own adored Eurydice, art nigh.

      Now soft and low a prelude sweet uprings,
        As if a prison'd angel--pleading there
      For life and love--were fetter'd 'neath the strings,
        And poured his passionate soul upon the air!
      Anon it clangs with wild, exulting swell,
    Till the full pæan peals triumphantly through Hell.

      And thou, thy pale hands meekly lock'd before thee,
        Thy sad eyes drinking _life_ from _his_ dear gaze,
      Thy lips apart, thy hair a halo o'er thee
        Trailing around thy throat its golden maze;
      Thus, with all words in passionate silence dying,
    Within thy _soul_ I hear Love's eager voice replying:

      "Play on, mine Orpheus! Lo! while these are gazing,
        Charm'd into statues by the god-taught strain,
      I, I alone--to thy dear face upraising
        My tearful glance--the life of life regain!
      For every tone that steals into my heart
    Doth to its worn weak pulse a mighty power impart.

      "Play on, mine Orpheus! while thy music floats
        Through the dread realm, divine with truth and grace,
      See, dear one! how the chain of linked notes
        Has fetter'd every spirit in its place!
      Even Death, beside me, still and helpless lies,
    And strives in vain to chill my frame with his cold eyes.

      "Still, my own Orpheus, sweep the golden lyre!
        Ah! dost thou mark how gentle Proserpine,
      With clasped hands and eyes whose azure fire
        Gleams thro' quick tears, thrilled by thy lay, doth lean
      Her graceful head upon her stern lord's breast,
    Like an o'erwearied child, whom music lulls to rest!

      "Play, my proud minstrel! strike the chords again!
        Lo, Victory crowns at last thy heavenly skill!
      For Pluto turns relenting to the strain--
        He waves his hand--he speaks his awful will!
      My glorious Greek, lead on! but ah, _still_ lend
    Thy soul to thy sweet lyre, lest yet thou lose thy friend!

      "Think not of me! Think rather of the time,
        When, moved by thy resistless melody
      To the strange magic of a song sublime,
        Thy argo grandly glided to the sea;
      And in the majesty Minerva gave,
    The graceful galley swept, with joy, the sounding wave.

      "Or see, in Fancy's dream, thy Thracian trees,
        Their proud heads bent submissive to the sound,
      Sway'd by a tuneful and enchanted breeze,
        March to slow music o'er the astonished ground;
      Grove after grove descending from the hills,
    While round thee weave their dance, the glad harmonious rills.

      "Think not of me! Ha! by thy mighty sire,
        My lord, my king, recall the dread behest!
      Turn not, ah! turn not back those eyes of fire!
        Oh! lost, forever lost! undone! unblest!
      I faint, I die!--the serpent's fang once more
    Is here!--nay, grieve not thus! Life, but _not Love_, is o'er!"

This is a noble poem, with too many interjections, and occasional
redundancies of imagery and epithet, betraying the author's customary
haste: but with unquestionable signs of that genuineness which is the
best attraction of the literature of sentiment. The longest and more
sustained of Mrs. Osgood's compositions is one entitled "Fragments of an
Unfinished Story" in which she has exhibited such a skill in blank
verse--frequently regarded as the easiest, but really the most difficult
of any--as induces regret that she so seldom made use of it. We have
here a masterly contrast of character in the equally natural expressions
of feeling by the two principal persons, both of whom are women: the
haughty Ida, and the impulsive child of passion, Imogen. It displays in
eminent perfection, that dramatic faculty which Sheridan Knowles and the
late William Cooke Taylor recognised as the most striking in the
composition of her genius. She had long meditated, and in her mind had
perfectly arranged, a more extended poem than she has left to us, upon
Music. It was to be in this measure, except some lyrical interludes, and
she was so confident of succeeding in it, that she deemed all she had
written of comparatively little worth. "These," she said to me one day,
pointing to the proof-leaves of the new edition of her poems, "these are
my 'Miscellaneous Verses:' let us get them out of the way, and never
think of them again, as the public never will when they have MY POEM!"
And her friends who heard the splendid scheme of her imagination, did
not doubt that when it should be clothed with the rich tissues of her
fancy, it would be all she dreamed of, and vindicate all that they
themselves were fond of saying of her powers. It was while her life was
fading; and no one else can grasp the shining threads, or weave them
into song, such as she heard lips, touched with divinest fire, far along
in the ages, repeating with her name. This was not vanity, or a low
ambition. She lingered, with subdued and tearful joy, when all the
living and the present seemed to fail her, upon the pages of the elect
of genius, and was happiest when she thought some words of hers might
lift a sad soul from a sea of sorrow.

It was perhaps the key-note of that unwritten poem, which she sounded in
these verses upon its subject, composed while the design most occupied
her attention:

    The Father spake! In grand reverberations
      Through space roll'd on the mighty music-tide,
    While to its low, majestic modulations,
      The clouds of chaos slowly swept aside.

    The Father spake: a dream that had been lying
      Hush'd, from eternity, in silence there,
    Heard the pure melody, and low replying,
      Grew to that music in the wondering air--

    Grew to that music--slowly, grandly waking--
      Till, bathed in beauty, it became a world!
    Led by his voice, its spheric pathway taking,
      While glorious clouds their wings around it furl'd.

    Nor yet has ceased that sound, his love revealing,
      Though, in response, a universe moves by;
    Throughout eternity its echo pealing,
      World after world awakes in glad reply.

    And wheresoever, in his grand creation,
      Sweet music breathes--in wave, or bird, or soul--
    'Tis but the faint and far reverberation
      Of that great tune to which the planets roll.

Mrs. Osgood produced something in almost every form of poetical
composition, but the necessary limits of this article permit but few
illustrations of the variety or perfectness of her capacities. The
examples given here, even if familiar, will possess a new interest now;
and no one will read them without a feeling of sadness that she who
wrote them died so young, just as the fairest flowers of her genius were
unfolding. One of the most exquisite pieces she had written in the last
few years, is entitled "Calumny," and we know not where to turn for
anything more delicately beautiful than the manner in which the subject
is treated.

    A whisper woke the air,
      A soft, light tone, and low,
      Yet barbed with shame and wo.
    Ah! might it only perish there,
            Nor farther go!

    But no! a quick and eager ear
      Caught up the little, meaning sound;
    Another voice has breathed it clear;
      And so it wandered round
    From ear to lip, and lip to ear,
    Until it reached a gentle heart
    That throbbed from all the world apart,
             And that--it broke!

    It was the only _heart_ it found,
    The only heart 't was meant to find,
      When first its accents woke.
    It reached that gentle heart at last,
             And that--it broke!

    Low as it seemed to other ears,
    It came a thunder-crash to _hers_--
      That fragile girl, so fair and gay.
    'Tis said a lovely humming bird,
      That dreaming in a lily lay,
    Was killed but by the gun's _report_
    Some idle boy had fired in sport--
    So exquisitely frail its frame,
    The very _sound_ a death-blow came--
    And thus her heart, unused to shame,
      Shrined in _its_ lily too,
      (For who the maid that knew,
    But owned the delicate, flower-like grace
    Of her young form and face!)--
    Her light and happy heart, that beat
    With love and hope so fast and sweet,
    When first that cruel word it heard,
    It fluttered like a frightened bird--
    Then shut its wings and sighed,
    And, with a silent shudder, died!

In some countries this would, perhaps, be the most frequently quoted of
the author's effusions; but here, the terse and forcible piece under the
title of "Laborare est Orare," will be admitted to all collections of
poetical specimens; and it deserves such popularity, for a combination
as rare as it is successful of common sense with the form and spirit of
poetry:

    Pause not to dream of the future before us;
    Pause not to weep the wild cares that come o'er us;
    Hark, how Creation's deep musical chorus,
      Unintermitting, goes up into heaven!
    Never the ocean-wave falters in flowing;
    Never the little seed stops in its growing;
    More and more richly the rose-heart keeps glowing,
      Till from its nourishing stem it is riven.

    "Labor is worship!"--the robin is singing;
    "Labor is worship!"--the wild bee is ringing;
    Listen! that eloquent whisper upspringing
      Speaks to thy soul from out nature's great heart.
    From the dark cloud flows the life-giving shower;
    From the rough sod blows the soft-breathing flower;
    From the small insect, the rich coral bower;
      Only man, in the plan, shrinks from his part.

    Labor is life! 'Tis the still water faileth;
    Idleness ever despaireth, bewaileth;
    Keep the watch wound, for the dark rust assaileth;
      Flowers droop and die in the stillness of noon.
    Labor is glory!--the flying cloud lightens;
    Only the waving wing changes and brightens;
    Idle hearts only the dark future frightens;
      Play the sweet keys, wouldst thou keep them in tune!

    Labor is rest--from the sorrows that greet us;
    Rest from all petty vexations that meet us,
    Rest from sin-promptings that ever entreat us,
      Rest from world-syrens that lure us to ill.
    Work--and pure slumbers shall wait on thy pillow;
    Work--thou shalt ride over Care's coming billow;
    Lie not down wearied 'neath Woe's weeping willow;
      Work with a stout heart and resolute will!

    Labor is health! Lo! the husbandman reaping,
    How through his veins goes the life current leaping!
    How his strong arm, in its stalwart pride sweeping,
      True as a sunbeam the swift sickle guides.
    Labor is wealth--in the sea the pearl groweth;
    Rich the queen's robe from the frail cocoon floweth;
    From the fine acorn the strong forest bloweth;
      Temple and statue the marble block hides.

    Droop not, tho' shame, sin, and anguish are round thee!
    Bravely fling off the cold chain that hath bound thee;
    Look to yon pure heaven smiling beyond thee;
      Rest not content in they darkness--a clod!
    Work--for some good, be it ever so slowly;
    Cherish some flower, be it ever so lowly;
    Labor!--all labor is noble and holy;
      Let thy great deeds be thy prayer to thy God.

In fine contrast with this is the description of a "Dancing Girl,"
written in a longer poem, addressed to her sister soon after her arrival
in London, in the autumn of 1834. It is as graceful as the vision it
brings so magically before us:

    She comes--the spirit of the dance!
      And but for those large, eloquent eyes,
    Where passion speaks in every glance,
      She'd seem a wanderer from the skies.

    So light that, gazing breathless there,
      Lest the celestial dream should go,
    You'd think the music in the air
      Waved the fair vision to and fro!

    Or that the melody's sweet flow
      Within the radiant creature play'd
    And those soft wreathing arms of snow
      And white sylph feet the music made.

    Now gliding slow with dreamy grace,
      Her eyes beneath their lashes lost;
    Now motionless, with lifted face,
      And small hands on her bosom cross'd.

    And now with flashing eyes she springs,
      Her whole bright figure raised in air,
    As if her soul had spread its wings
      And poised her one wild instant there!

    She spoke not; but, so richly fraught
      With language are her glance and smile,
    That, when the curtain fell, I thought
      She had been talking all the while.

In illustration of what we have said of Mrs. Osgood's delineations of
refined sentiment, we refer to the poems from pages one hundred and
eleven to one hundred and thirty-one, willing to rest upon them our
praises of her genius. It may be accidental, but they seem to have an
epic relation, and to constitute one continuous history, finished with
uncommon elegance and glowing with a beauty which has its inspiration in
a deeper profound than was ever penetrated by messengers of the brain.
The third of these glimpses of heart-life--all having the same air of
sad reality--exhibits, with a fidelity and a peculiar power which is
never attained in such descriptions by men, the struggle of a pure and
passionate nature with a hopeless affection:

    Had we but met in life's delicious spring,
      When young romance made Eden of the world;
    When bird-like Hope was ever on the wing,
      (In _thy_ dear breast how soon had it been furled!)

    Had we but met when both our hearts were beating
      With the wild joy, the guileless love of youth--
    Thou a proud boy, with frank and ardent greeting,
      And I a timid girl, all trust and truth!--

    Ere yet my pulse's light, elastic play
      Had learn'd the weary weight of grief to know,
    Ere from these eyes had passed the morning ray,
      And from my cheek the early rose's glow;--

    Had we but met in life's delicious spring,
      Ere wrong and falsehood taught me doubt and fear,
    Ere Hope came back with worn and wounded wing,
      To die upon the heart it could not cheer;

    Ere I love's precious pearl had vainly lavish'd,
      Pledging an idol deaf to my despair;
    Ere one by one the buds and blooms were ravish'd
      From life's rich garland by the clasp of Care.

    Ah! had we _then_ but met!--I dare not listen
      To the wild whispers of my fancy now!
    My full heart beats--my sad, droop'd lashes glisten--
      I hear the music of thy _boyhood's_ vow!

    I see thy dark eyes lustrous with love's meaning,
      I feel thy dear hand softly clasp mine own--
    Thy noble form is fondly o'er me leaning--
      It is too much--but ah! the dream has flown.

    How had I pour'd this passionate heart's devotion
      In voiceless rapture on thy manly breast!
    How had I hush'd each sorrowful emotion,
      Lull'd by thy love to sweet, untroubled rest.

    How had I knelt hour after hour beside thee,
      When from thy lips the rare scholastic lore
    Fell on the soul that all but deified thee,
      While at each pause I, childlike, pray'd for more.

    How had I watch'd the shadow of each feeling,
      That mov'd thy soul-glance o'er that radiant face,
    "Taming my wild heart" to that dear revealing,
      And glorifying in thy genius and thy grace!

    Then hadst thou loved me with a love abiding,
      And I had now been less unworthy thee,
    For I was generous, guileless, and confiding,
      A frank enthusiast, buoyant, fresh, and free!

    But _now_--my loftiest aspirations perish'd,
      My holiest hopes a jest for lips profane,
    The tenderest yearnings of my soul uncherish'd,
      A soul-worn slave in Custom's iron chain:

    Check'd by these ties that make my lightest sigh,
      My faintest blush, at thought of thee, a crime--
    How must I still my heart, and school my eye,
      And count in vain the slow dull steps of Time!

    Wilt thou come back? Ah! what avails to ask thee
      Since honor, faith, forbid thee to return!
    Yet to forgetfulness I dare not task thee,
      Lest thou too soon that _easy lesson_ learn!

    Ah! come not back, love! even through Memory's ear
      Thy tone's melodious murmur thrills my heart--
    Come not with that fond smile, so frank, so dear;
      While yet we may, let us for ever part!

The passages commencing, "Thank God, I glory in thy love;" "Ah, let our
love be still a folded flower;" "Believe me, 'tis no pang of jealous
pride;" "We part forever: silent be our parting;" are in the same
measure, and in perfect keeping, but evince a still deeper emotion and
greater pathos and power. We copy the closing cantatas, "To Sleep," and
"A Weed"--a prayer and a prophecy--in which the profoundest sorrow is
displayed with touching simplicity and unaffected earnestness. First, to
Death's gentle sister:

    Come to me, angel of the weary hearted;
      Since they, my loved ones, breathed upon by thee,
    Unto thy realms unreal have departed,
      I, too, may rest--even I; ah! haste to me.

    I dare not bid thy darker, colder brother
      With his more welcome offering, appear,
    For these sweet lips, at morn, will murmur, "Mother,"
      And who shall soothe them if I be not near?

    Bring me no dream, dear Sleep, though visions glowing
      With hues of heaven thy wand enchanted shows;
    I ask no glorious boon of thy bestowing,
      Save that most true, most beautiful--repose.

    I have no heart to rove in realms of Faery--
      To follow Fancy at her elfin call;
    I am too wretched--too soul-worn and weary;
      Give me but rest, for rest to me is all.

    Paint not the future to my fainting spirit,
      Though it were starr'd with glory like the skies;
    There is no gift that mortals may inherit
      That could rekindle hope in these cold eyes.

    And for the Past--the fearful Past--ah! never
      Be Memory's downcast gaze unveil'd by thee;
    Would thou couldst bring oblivion forever
      Of all that is, that has been, and will be!

And more mournful still, the dream of the after days:

    When from our northern woods pale summer flying,
      Breathes her last fragrant sigh--her low farewell--
    While her sad wild flowers' dewy eyes, in dying,
      Plead for her stay, in every nook and dell.

    A heart that loved too tenderly and truly,
      Will break at last; and in some dim, sweet shade,
    They'll smooth the sod o'er her you prized unduly,
      And leave her to the rest for which she pray'd.

    Ah! trustfully, not mournfully, they'll leave her,
      Assured that deep repose is welcomed well;
    The pure, glad breeze can whisper naught to grieve her;
      The brook's low voice no wrongful tale can tell.

    They'll hide her where no false one's footsteps, stealing,
      Can mar the chasten'd meekness of her sleep;
    Only to Love and Grief her grave revealing,
      And they will hush their chiding _then_--to weep!

    And some, (for though too oft she err'd, too blindly,
      She was beloved--how fondly and how well!)--
    Some few, with faltering feet, will linger kindly,
      And plant dear flowers within that silent dell.

    I know whose fragile hand will bring the bloom
      Best loved by both--the violet's--to that bower;
    And one will bid white lilies bless the gloom;
      And one, perchance, will plant the passion flower;

    Then do _thou_ come, when all the rest have parted--
      Thou, who alone dost know her soul's deep gloom!
    And wreathe above the lost, the broken-hearted,
      Some idle _weed_, that _knew not how to bloom_.

We pass from these painful but exquisitely beautiful displays of
sensitive feeling and romantic fancy, to pieces exhibiting Mrs. Osgood's
more habitual spirit of arch playfulness and graceful invention,
scattered through the volume, and constituting a class of compositions
in which she is scarcely approachable. The "Lover's List," is one of her
shorter ballads:

    "Come sit on this bank so shady,
      Sweet Evelyn, sit with me!
    And count me your loves, fair lady--
      How many may they be?"

    The maiden smiled on her lover,
      And traced with her dimpled hand,
    Of names a dozen and over
      Down in the shining sand.

    "And now," said Evelyn, rising,
      "Sir Knight! your own, if you please;
    And if there be no disguising,
      The list will outnumber these;

    "Then count me them truly, rover!"
      And the noble knight obeyed;
    And of names a dozen and over
      He traced within the shade.

    Fair Evelyn pouted proudly;
      She sighed "Will he never have done?"
    And at last she murmur'd loudly,
      "I thought he would write but _one_!"

    "Now read," said the gay youth, rising;
      "The scroll--it is fair and free;
    In truth, there is no disguising
      That list is the world to me!"

    She read it with joy and wonder,
      For the first was her own sweet name;
    And again and again written under,
      It was still--it was still the same!

    It began with--"My Evelyn fairest!"
      It ended with--"Evelyn best!"
    And epithets fondest and dearest
      Were lavished between on the rest.

    There were tears in the eyes of the lady
      As she swept with her delicate hand,
    On the river-bank cool and shady,
      The list she had traced in the sand.

    There were smiles on the lip of the maiden
      As she turned to her knight once more,
    And the heart was with joy o'erladen
      That was heavy with doubt before!

And for its lively movement and buoyant feeling--equally characteristic
of her genius--the following song, upon "Lady Jane," a favorite horse:

    Oh! saw ye e'er creature so queenly, so fine,
    As this dainty, aerial darling of mine!
    With a toss of her mane, that is glossy as jet,
    With a dance and a prance, and a frolic curvet,
    She is off! she is stepping superbly away!
    Her dark, speaking eye full of pride and of play.
    Oh! she spurns the dull earth with a graceful disdain,
    My fearless, my peerless, my loved Lady Jane!

    Her silken ears lifted when danger is nigh,
    How kindles the night in her resolute eye!
    Now stately she paces, as if to the sound
    Of a proud, martial melody playing around,
    Now pauses at once, 'mid a light caracole,
    To turn her mild glance on me beaming with soul;
    Now fleet as a fairy, she speeds o'er the plain,
    My darling, my treasure, my own Lady Jane!

    Give her rein! let her go! Like a shaft from a bow,
    Like a bird on the wing, she is speeding, I trow--
    Light of heart, lithe of limb, with a spirit all fire,
    Yet sway'd and subdued by my idlest desire--
    Though daring, yet docile, and sportive but true,
    Her nature's the noblest that ever I knew.
    How she flings back her head, in her dainty disdain!
    My beauty, my graceful, my gay Lady Jane!

It is among the one hundred and thirteen songs, of which this is one,
and which form the last division of her poems, that we have the greatest
varieties of rhythm, cadence, and expression; and it is here too that we
have, perhaps, the most clear and natural exhibitions of that class of
emotions which she conceives with such wonderful truth. The prevailing
characteristic of these pieces is a native and delicate raillery,
piquant by wit, and poetical by the freshest and gracefullest fancies;
but they are frequently marked by much tenderness of sentiment, and by
boldness and beauty of imagination. They are in some instances without
that singleness of purpose, that unity and completeness, which ought
invariably to distinguish this sort of compositions, but upon the whole
it must be considered that Mrs. Osgood was remarkably successful in the
song. The fulness of our extracts from other parts of the volume will
prevent that liberal illustration of her excellence in this which would
be as gratifying to the reader as to us; and we shall transcribe but a
few specimens, which, by various felicities of language, and a pleasing
delicacy of sentiment, will detain the admiration:

    Oh! would I were only a spirit of song,
      I'd float forever around, above you:
    If I were a spirit, it wouldn't be wrong,
      It couldn't be wrong, to love you!

    I'd hide in the light of a moonbeam bright,
      I'd sing Love's lullaby softly o'er you,
    I'd bring rare visions of pure delight
      From the land of dreams before you.

    Oh! if I were only a spirit of song,
      I'd float forever around, above you,
    For a musical spirit could never do wrong,
      And it wouldn't be wrong to love you!

The next, an exquisitely beautiful song, suggests its own music:

          She loves him yet!
    I know by the blush that rises
          Beneath the curls
    That shadow her soul-lit cheek;
          She loves him yet!
    Through all Love's sweet disguises
          In timid girls,
    A blush will be sure to speak.

          But deeper signs
    Than the radiant blush of beauty,
          The maiden finds,
    Whenever his name is heard;
          Her young heart thrills,
    Forgetting herself--her duty--
          Her dark eye fills,
    And her pulse with hope is stirr'd.

          She loves him yet!--
    The flower the false one gave her,
          When last he came,
    Is still with her wild tears wet.
          She'll ne'er forget,
    Howe'er his faith may waver,
          Through grief and shame,
    Believe it--she loves him yet.

          His favorite songs
    She will sing--she heeds no other;
          With all her wrongs
    Her life on his love is set.
          Oh! doubt no more!
    She never can wed another;
          Till life be o'er,
    She loves--she will love him yet!

And this is not less remarkable for a happy adaptation of sentiment to
the sound:

    Low, my lute--breathe low!--She sleeps!--
                  Eulalie!
    While his watch her lover keeps,
    Soft and dewy slumber steeps
    Golden tress and fringed lid
    With the blue heaven 'neath it hid--
                  Eulalie!
    Low my lute--breathe low!--She sleeps!--
                  Eulalie!
    Let thy music, light and low,
    Through her pure dream come and go.
    Lute on Love! with silver flow,
    All my passion, all my wo,
                  Speak for me!
    Ask her in her balmy rest
    Whom her holy heart loves best!
    Ask her if she thinks of me!--
                  Eulalie!
    Low, my lute!--breathe low!--She sleeps!--
                  Eulalie!
    Slumber while thy lover keeps
    Fondest watch and ward for thee,
                  Eulalie!

The following evinces a deeper feeling, and has a corresponding force
and dignity in its elegance:--

      Yes, "lower to the level"
        Of those who laud thee now!
      Go, join the joyous revel,
        And pledge the heartless vow!
      Go, dim the soul-born beauty
        That lights that lofty brow!
    Fill, fill the bowl! let burning wine
    Drown in thy soul Love's dream divine!

      Yet when the laugh is lightest,
        When wildest goes the jest,
      When gleams the goblet brightest,
        And proudest heaves thy breast,
      And thou art madly pledging
        Each gay and jovial guest--
    A ghost shall glide amid the flowers--
    The shade of Love's departed hours!

      And thou shalt shrink in sadness
        From all the splendor there,
      And curse the revel's gladness,
        And hate the banquet's glare;
      And pine, 'mid Passion's madness
        For true love's purer air,
    And feel thou'dst give their wildest glee
    For one unsullied sigh from me!

      Yet deem not this my prayer, love,
        Ah! no, if I could keep
      Thy alter'd heart from care, love,
        And charm its griefs to sleep,
      Mine only should despair, love,
        I--I alone would weep!
    I--I alone would mourn the flowers
    That fade in Love's deserted bowers!

Among her poems are many which admit us to the sacredest recesses of the
mother's heart: "To a Child Playing with a Watch," "To Little May
Vincent," "To Ellen, Learning to Walk," and many others, show the almost
wild tenderness with which she loved her two surviving daughters--one
thirteen, and the other eleven years of age now;--and a "Prayer in
Illness," in which she besought God to "take them first," and suffer her
to lie at their feet in death, lest, deprived of her love, they should
be subjected to all the sorrow she herself had known in the world, is
exquisitely beautiful and touching. Her parents, her brothers, her
sisters, her husband, her children, were the deities of her tranquil and
spiritual worship, and she turned to them in every vicissitude of
feeling, for hope and strength and repose. "Lilly" and "May," were
objects of a devotion too sacred for any idols beyond the threshold, and
we witness it not as something obtruded upon the outer world, but as a
display of beautified and dignified humanity which is among the
ministries appointed to be received for the elevation of our natures.
With these holy and beautiful songs is intertwined one, which under the
title of "Ashes of Roses," breathes the solemnest requiem that ever was
sung for a child, and in reading it we feel that in the subject was
removed into the Unknown a portion of the mother's heart and life. The
poems of Mrs. Osgood are not a laborious balancing of syllables, but a
spontaneous gushing of thoughts, fancies and feelings, which fall
naturally into harmonious measures; and so perfectly is the sense echoed
in the sound, that it seems as if many of her compositions might be
intelligibly written in the characters of music. It is a pervading
excellence of her works, whether in prose or verse, that they are
graceful beyond those of any other author who has written in this
country; and the delicacy of her taste was such that it would probably
be impossible to find in all of them a fancy, a thought, or a word
offensive to that fine instinct in its highest cultivation or subtlest
sensibility. It is one of her great merits that she attempted nothing
foreign to her own affluent but not various genius.

There is a stilted ambition, common lately to literary women, which is
among the fatalest diseases to reputation. She was never betrayed into
it; she was always simple and natural, singing in no falsetto key, even
when she entered the temples of old mythologies. With an extraordinary
susceptibility of impressions, she had not only the finest and quickest
discernment of those peculiarities of character which give variety to
the surface of society, but of certain kinds and conditions of life she
perceived the slightest undulations and the deepest movements. She had
no need to travel beyond the legitimate sphere of woman's observation,
to seize upon the upturnings and overthrows which serve best for
rounding periods in the senate or in courts of criminal justice--trying
everything to see if poetry could be made of it. Nor did she ever demand
audience for rude or ignoble passion, or admit the moral shade beyond
the degree in which it must appear in all pictures of life. She lingered
with her keen insight and quick sensibilities among the associations,
influences, the fine sense, brave perseverance, earnest
affectionateness, and unfailing truth, which, when seen from the
romantic point of view, are suggestive of all the poetry which it is
within the province of woman to write.

I have not chosen to dwell upon the faults in her works; such labor is
more fit for other hands, and other days; and so many who attempt
criticism seem to think the whole art lies in the detection of
blemishes, that one may sometimes be pardoned for lingering as fondly as
I have done, upon an author's finer qualities. It must be confessed,
that in her poems there is evinced a too unrestrained partiality for
particular forms of expression, and that--it could scarcely be otherwise
in a collection so composed--thoughts and fancies are occasionally
repeated. In some instances too, her verse is diffuse, but generally,
where this objection is made, it will be found that what seems most
careless and redundant is only delicate shading: she but turns her
diamonds to the various rays; she rings no changes till they are not
music; she addresses an eye more sensitive to beauty and a finer ear
than belong to her critics. The collection of her works is one of the
most charming volumes that woman has contributed to literature; of all
that we are acquainted with the most womanly; and destined, for that it
addresses with truest sympathy and most natural eloquence the commonest
and noblest affections, to be always among the most fondly cherished
Books of the Heart.

Reluctantly I bring to a close these paragraphs--a hasty and imperfect
tribute, from my feelings and my judgment, to one whom many will
remember long as an impersonation of the rarest intellectual and moral
endowments, as one of the loveliest characters in literary or social
history. Hereafter, unless the office fall to some one worthier, I may
attempt from the records of our friendship, and my own and others'
recollections, to do such justice to her life and nature, that a larger
audience and other times shall feel how much of beauty with her spirit
left us.

This requiem she wrote for another, little thinking that her friends
would so soon sing it with hearts saddened for her own departure.

    The hand that swept the sounding lyre
      With more than mortal skill,
    The lightning eye, the heart of fire,
      The fervent lip are still:
    No more in rapture or in wo,
      With melody to thrill,
          Ah! nevermore!

    Oh! bring the flowers she cherish'd so,
      With eager child-like care:
    For o'er her grave they'll love to grow,
      And sigh their sorrow there;
    Ah me! no more their balmy glow
      May soothe her heart's despair,
          No! nevermore!

    But angel hands shall bring her balm
      For every grief she knew,
    And Heaven's soft harps her soul shall calm
      With music sweet and true;
    And teach to her the holy charm
      Of Israfel anew.
          For evermore!

    Love's silver lyre she played so well,
      Lies shattered on her tomb;
    But still in air its music-spell
      Floats on through light and gloom,
    And in the hearts where soft they fell,
      Her words of beauty bloom
          For evermore!




Recent Deaths.


SAMUEL YOUNG.

The Hon. Samuel Young, long one of the most eminent politicians of the
democratic party in the State of New-York, died of apoplexy, at his home
at Ballston Spa, on the night of the third of November. Col. Young was
born in Berkshire county, Massachusetts, in 1778. Soon after he
completed his legal studies he emigrated to Ballston Spa, in this State.
The following facts respecting his subsequent career are condensed from
the _Tribune_.

"He was first chosen to the Legislature in 1814, and was reëlected next
year on a split ticket, which for a time clouded his prospects. In 1824,
he was again in the Assembly, was Speaker of the House in that memorable
year, and helped remove De Witt Clinton from the office of Canal
Commissioner. The Fall Election found him a candidate for Governor on
the 'Caucus' interest opposed to the 'People's' demand that the choice
of Presidential Electors be relinquished by the Legislature to the
Voters of the State. Col. Young professed to be personally a 'Peoples'
man, and in favor of Henry Clay for President; the 'Caucus' candidate
being Wm. H. Crawford. De Witt Clinton was the opposing candidate for
Governor, and was elected by 16,000 majority. Col. Young's political
fortunes never recovered from the blow thus inflicted. He had already
been chosen a Canal Commissioner by the Legislature, and he continued to
hold the office till the Political revolution of 1838-9, when he was
superseded by a Whig. He was afterwards twice a State Senator for four
years, and for three years Secretary of State. He carried into all the
stations he has filled signal ability and unquestioned rectitude. He was
a man of strong prejudices, violent temper and implacable resentments,
but a Patriot and a determined foe of time-serving, corruption,
prodigality, and debt. He was a warm friend of Educational Improvement,
and did the cause good service while Secretary of State. For the last
three years he has held no office, but lived in that peaceful retirement
to which his years and his services fairly entitled him. He leaves
behind him many who have attained more exalted positions on a smaller
capital of talent and aptitude for public service. We have passed
lightly over his vehement denunciations of the Internal Improvement
policy during the latter years of his public life. We attribute the
earnestness of his hostility to a temper soured by disappointment, and
especially to his great defeat in '24, at the hands of the illustrious
champion of the Canals. But, though his vision was jaundiced, his
purpose was honest. He thought he was struggling to save the State from
imminent bankruptcy and ruin."

       *       *       *       *       *

Henry T. Robinson, for many years an active maker of political and other
caricatures, by which he made a fortune, here and in Washington, and of
nude and other indecent prints, by the seizure of a large quantity of
which, with other causes, he was impoverished, died at Newark,
New-Jersey, on the third of November. He was born on Bethnal Common in
England, in 1785, and about 1810 emigrated to this country, where he was
one of the first to practise lithography.

       *       *       *       *       *

Joseph Hardy died a few weeks ago at Rathmines, aged ninety-three years.
When twenty years old he invented a machine for doubling and twisting
cotton yarn, for which the Dublin Society awarded him a premium of
twenty guineas. Four years after he invented a scribbling machine for
carding wool, to be worked by horse or water power, for which the same
society awarded him one hundred guineas. He next invented a machine for
measuring and sealing linen, and was in consequence appointed by the
linen board seals-master for all the linen markets in the county of
Derry, but the slightest benefit from this he never derived, as the
rebellion of '98 broke out about the time he had all his machines
completed, and political opponents having represented by memorials to
the board that by giving so much to one man, hundreds who then were
employed would be thrown out of work, the board changed the seal from
the spinning wheel to the harp and crown, thereby rendering his seals
useless, merely giving him 100_l._ by way of remuneration for his loss.
About the year 1810 he demonstrated by an apparatus attached to one of
the boats of the Grand Canal Company at Portobello the practicability of
propelling vessels on the water by paddle wheels; but having placed the
paddles on the bow of the boat, the action of the backwater on the boat
was so great as to prevent its movement at a higher speed than three
miles per hour. This appearing not to answer, without further experiment
he broke up the machinery, and allowed others to profit by the ideas he
gave on the subject, and to complete on the open sea what he had
attempted within the narrow limits of a canal. He also invented a
machine for sawing timber; but the result of all his inventions during a
long life was very considerable loss of time and property without the
slightest recompense from Government, or the country benefited by his
talents.

       *       *       *       *       *

Major-General Slessor died at Sidmouth, Devonshire, on the 11th October,
aged seventy-three. He entered the army in 1794, and served in Ireland
during the rebellion, and subsequently against the French force
commanded by General Humbert, on which last occasion he was wounded. In
1806 he accompanied his regiment (the 35th) to Sicily, and the next year
he served in the second expedition to Egypt, and was wounded in the
retreat from Rosetta to Alexandria. He then served with Sir J. Oswald
against the Greek Islands, and was employed in the Mediterranean. He
also served in the Austrian army, under Count Nugent, and in the
Waterloo campaign.

       *       *       *       *       *

Joseph Signay, Roman Catholic Archbishop of the Ecclesiastical Province
of Quebec, died on the 3d of October. He was born at Quebec November 8,
1778, appointed Coadjutor of Quebec and Bishop of Fussala the 15th of
December, 1826, and was consecrated under that title the 20th of May,
1827. He succeeded to the See of Quebec the 19th of February, 1833, and
was elevated to the dignity of Archbishop by His Holiness Pope Gregory
XVI., on the 12th of July, 1844, and received the "Pallium" during the
ensuing month.

       *       *       *       *       *

Dr. Fouquier, one of the most celebrated physicians of Paris, who was
_le medecin_ of the ex-king Louis Philippe, and Professor of _clinique
interne_ at the Academy, died on the 1st of October. His loss is much
felt among the _savants_.

       *       *       *       *       *

Lieut.-Colonel Cross, K.H., a distinguished Peninsular officer, died
near London on the 27th of October. He served in the Peninsular war from
1808 until its close in 1814, and was at the battle of Waterloo, where
he received a severe contusion.

       *       *       *       *       *

Thomas Amyot, F.R.S., &c.--whose life, extended to the age of
seventy-six, was passed in close intercourse with the literary and
antiquarian circles of London, participating in their pursuits and
aiding their exertions--died on the 28th of September. He was an active
and respected member of almost every metropolitan association which had
for its object the advancement of literature. He was a constant and
valuable contributor to the _Archæologia_, the private secretary of Mr.
Windham, the editor of Windham's speeches, and for many years treasurer
to the Society of Antiquaries of London, and a director of the Camden
Society. He was a native of Norwich, and obtained the friendship and
patronage of Windham while actively engaged in canvassing in favor of an
opponent of that gentleman for the representation of Norwich in the
House of Commons. A Life of Windham was one of his long-promised and
long-looked-for contributions to the biographies of English statesmen;
but no such work has been published, and there is reason to believe that
very little, if indeed any portion of it, was ever completed for
publication. The journals of Mr. Windham were in the possession of Mr.
Amyot; and if we may judge of the whole by the account of Johnson's
conversation and last illness, printed by Croker in his edition of
Boswell, we may assert that whenever they may be published they will
constitute a work of real value in illustration of political events and
private character,--a model in respect of fullness and yet succinctness,
which future journalists may copy with advantage. Whatever Windham
preserved of Johnson's conversation well merited preservation. Mr.
Amyot's most valuable literary production is, his refutation of Mr.
Tytler's supposition that Richard the Second was alive and in Scotland
in the reign of Henry the Fourth.

       *       *       *       *       *

Madame Branchu, so famous in the opera in the last century, is dead. The
first distinct idea which many have entertained respecting the _Grande
Opera_ of Paris may have been derived from a note in Moore's _Fudge
Family_ in which the "shrill screams of Madame Branchu" were mentioned.
She retired from the theater in 1826, after twenty-five years of _prima
donna_ship--having succeeded to the scepter and crown of Mdlle. Maillard
and Madame St. Huberty. She died at Passy, having almost entirely passed
out of the memory of the present opera-going generation. She must have
been a forcible and impassioned rather than an elegant or irreproachable
vocalist--and will be best remembered perhaps as the original _Julia_ in
"La Vestale" of Spontini.

       *       *       *       *       *

Major-General Wingrove, of the Royal Marines, died on the 7th October,
aged seventy years. He entered the Royal Marines in 1793, served at the
surrender of the Cape of Good Hope in 1795, the battle of Trafalgar, the
taking of Genoa in 1814, was on board the Boyne when that ship singly
engaged three French ships of the line and three frigates, off Toulon,
in 1814, and on board the Hercules in a single action, off Cape Nichola
Mole. In 1841 he was promoted to the rank of a major-general.

       *       *       *       *       *

The Duke of Palmella, long eminent in the affairs of Portugal, died at
Lisbon on the 12th of October. He was born on the 8th of May, 1781, and
had, consequently, completed his sixty ninth year. A very considerable
part of his life was dedicated to the diplomatic service of Portugal,
which he represented at the Congress of Vienna, in 1814; and he was one
of the General Committee of the eight powers who signed the Peace of
Paris. When the debate respecting the slave-trade took place in the
Congress, he warmly opposed the immediate abolition by Portugal, which
had been demanded by Lord Castlereagh. He was also one of the foreign
ministers who signed the declaration of the 13th of March, 1815, against
Napoleon; immediately after which he was nominated representative of
Portugal at the British Court. In 1816, however, he was recalled to fill
the office of Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs in Brazil. In
February, 1818, he visited Paris, for the purpose of making some
arrangements relative to Monte Video, with the Spanish Ambassador, Count
Fernan Nunez. After the Portuguese Revolution, he retired for a time
from active life. He was next selected to attend at the coronation of
Queen Victoria; and his great wealth enabled him to vie, on that
occasion, with the representatives of the other courts of Europe. He was
several times called to preside over the councils of his Sovereign, but
only held office for a limited period. Though a member of the ancient
nobility, all his titles were honorably acquired by his own exertions,
and were the rewards of distinguished abilities and meritorious
services. No Portuguese statesman acquired greater celebrity abroad, and
no man acted a more consistent part in all the political vicissitudes of
the last thirty years, throughout which he was a most prominent
character. It is related of the Duke, when Count de Palmella, that
during the contest in Spain and Portugal, Napoleon one day hastily
addressed him with--"Well, are you Portuguese willing to become
Spanish?" "No," replied the Count, in a firm tone. Far from being
displeased with this frank and laconic reply, Napoleon said next day to
one of his officers, "The Count de Palmella gave me yesterday a noble
'No.'"

       *       *       *       *       *

Carl Rottmann, the distinguished Bavarian artist and painter to the
King, died near the end of October. He had been sent by King Ludwig to
Italy and to Greece to depict the scenery and monuments of those
countries. His pictures of the Temple of Juno Lucina, Girgenti, the
theater of Taormina, &c., have never been excelled, and the king had
characterized them by illustrative poems. The Grecian monuments which
Rottmann sketched in 1835 and 1836 are destined for the new Pinakothek;
and the Battle-Field of Marathon is spoken of as a wonderful
composition. The frescoes of Herr Rottmann adorn the ceiling of the
upper story of the palace at Munich.

       *       *       *       *       *

François de Villeneuve-Bargemont, Marquis de Trans, a member of the
French Academy of Inscriptions of Belles-Lettres, and author, amongst
other works, of the Histories of King Réné of Anjou, of St. Louis, and
of the Knights of St. John of Jerusalem, is named in the late Paris
obituaries.

       *       *       *       *       *

The _Augsburg Gazette_ announces the death of the celebrated Bavarian
painter Ch. Schorn, Professor at the Academy of Fine Arts at Munich, on
the 7th October, aged forty-seven.

       *       *       *       *       *

Richard M. Johnson, Ex-Vice-President of the United States, died at
Frankfort, Ky., on the morning of November 19, having for some time been
deprived of his reason. He was about seventy years of age. In 1807 he
was chosen a member of the House of Representatives, which post he held
twelve years. In 1813 he raised 1,000 men, to fight the British and
Indians in the North-west. In the campaign which followed he served
gallantly under Gen. Harrison as Colonel of his regiment. At the battle
of the Thames he distinguished himself by breaking the line of the
British infantry. The fame of killing Tecumseh, in this battle, has been
given to Colonel J., but the act has other claimants. In 1819 he was
transferred from the House of Representatives to the Senate, to serve
out an unexpired term. When that expired he was re-chosen, and thus
remained in the Senate till 1829. Then, another re-election being
impossible, he went back into the House, where he remained till 1839,
when he became Vice-President under Mr. Van Buren. In 1829 the Sunday
Mail agitation being brought before the House, he, as Chairman of the
Committee on Post-Offices and Post-Roads, presented a report against the
suspension of mails on Sunday. It was able, though its ability was much
exaggerated; it disposed of the subject, and Col. J. received what never
belonged to him, the credit of having written it. From 1837 to 1841 he
presided over the Senate. From that time he did not hold any office.

       *       *       *       *       *

William Blacker, Esq., the distinguished agricultural writer and
economist, died on the 20th of October, at his residence in Armagh, in
the seventy-fifth year of his age. Engaged extensively, in early life,
in mercantile pursuits, he devoted himself at a maturer period to the
development of the agricultural and economic resources of Ireland. By
his popularly-written "Hints to Small Farmers," annual reports of
experimental results, essays, &c. he managed to spread, not only a
spirit of inquiry into matters of such vital importance to his country,
but to point out and urge into the best and most advantageous course of
action, the well-inclined and the energetic.

       *       *       *       *       *

Mrs. Bell Martin, the author of a very clever novel, lately reprinted by
the Harpers, entitled "Julia Howard" and originally published under the
name of Mrs. Martin Bell, died in this city on the 7th of November. Mrs.
Martin was the daughter of one of the wealthiest commoners of England.
She came to this country it is said entirely for purposes connected with
literature. She was the author of several other works, most of which
were written in French.

       *       *       *       *       *

The _Patria_, of Corfu mentions the death by cholera of Signor Niccolo
Delviniotti Baptistide, a distinguished literary character, and author
of several very interesting works.

       *       *       *       *       *

General du Chastel, one of the remains of the French Imperial Army, died
at Saumur, in October, in the seventy-eighth year of his age.

       *       *       *       *       *

Among the other recent deaths in Europe, we notice that of Mr. Watkyns,
the son-in-law and biographer of Ebenezer Elliot; Dr. Medicus, Professor
of Botany at Munich, and a member of the Academy of Sciences in that
capital; M. Ferdinand Laloue, a dramatic author of some reputation in
Paris; and Dr. C.F. Becker, eminent for his philosophical works on
grammar and the structure of language.

[Illustration]


NICHOLAS WISEMAN, D.D., LL.D., CARDINAL ARCHBISHOP OF WESTMINSTER.

The topic of the month in Europe has been the public and formal
resumption of jurisdiction by the Pope in England, and the appointment
of the ablest and most illustrious person in the Catholic Church to be
Archbishop of Westminster. Dr. Wiseman is known and respected by all
Christian scholars for his abilities, and their devotion to the
vindication of our common faith. His admirable work on _The Connection
between Science and Revealed Religion_ is a text-book in Protestant as
well as in Roman Catholic seminaries. Cardinal Wiseman is now in his
forty-ninth year, having been born at Seville, on the second of August,
1802. He is descended from an Irish family, long settled in Spain. At an
early age he was carried to England, and sent for his education to St.
Cuthbert's Catholic College, near Durham. Thence he was removed to the
English College at Rome, where he distinguished himself by an
extraordinary attachment to learning. At eighteen he published in Latin
a work on the Oriental languages; and he bore off the gold medal at
every competition of the colleges of Rome. His merit recommended him to
his superiors; he obtained several honors, was ordained a priest, and
made a Doctor of Divinity. He was several years a Professor in the Roman
University, and then Rector of the English College, where he achieved
his earliest success. He went to England in 1835, and immediately became
a conspicuous teacher and writer on the side of the Catholics. In 1836
he vindicated in a course of lectures the doctrines of the Catholic
Church, and gave so much satisfaction to his party that they presented
him with a gold medal, to express their esteem and gratitude. He
returned to Rome, and seems to have been instrumental in inducing Pope
Gregory XVI. to increase the vicars apostolic in England. The number was
doubled, and Dr. Wiseman went back as coadjutor to Bishop Walsh, of the
Midland district. He was appointed President of St. Mary's College,
Oscott, and contributed, by his teaching, his preaching, and his
writings, very much to promote the spread of Catholicism in England. He
was a contributor to the _Dublin Review_, and the author of some
controversial pamphlets. In 1847 he again repaired to Rome on the
affairs of the Catholics, and no doubt prepared the way for the present
change. His second visit to Rome led to further preferment. He was made
Pro-Vicar Apostolic of the London district; subsequently appointed
coadjutor to Dr. Walsh, and in 1849, on the death of Dr. Walsh, Vicar
Apostolic of the London district. Last August he went again to Rome,
"not expecting," as he says, "to return;" but "delighted to be
commissioned to come back" clothed in his new dignity. In a Consistory
held September 30, Nicholas Wiseman was elected to the dignity of
Cardinal, by the title of Saint Prudentiani, and appointed Archbishop of
Westminster. Under the Pope, he is the head of the Roman Catholic Church
in England, and a Prince of the Church of Rome.

[Illustration]




Ladies' Fashions for December.


Fig. I. _Promenade Costume._--Robe of striped silk: the ground a richly
shaded brown, and the stripes of the same color, but of darker hue. The
skirt of the dress is quite plain, the corsage high, and the sleeves not
very wide at the ends, showing white under-sleeves of very moderate
size. Mantle of dark green satin. The upper part or body is shaped like
a pardessus, with a small basque at the back. Attached to this body is a
double skirt, both the upper and lower parts of which are set on in
slight fullness, and nearly meeting in front. The body of the mantle, as
well as the two skirts, is edged with quilling of satin ribbon of the
color of the cloak. Loose Chinese sleeves, edged with the same trimming.
Drawn bonnet of brown velvet; under trimming small red flowers; strings
of brown therry velvet ribbon.

Fig. II.--Back view of dress of claret-colored broché silk; the pattern
large detached sprigs. Cloak of rich black satin. The upper part is a
deep cape, cut so as to fit closely to the figure, and pointed at the
back. By being fastened down at each side of the arms, this cape
presents the effect of sleeves. Round the back, and on that part which
falls over the arms, the cape is edged with a very broad and rich
fringe, composed of twisted silk chenille, and headed by passementerie.
The skirt of the cloak is cut bias way and nearly circular, so that it
hangs round the figure in easy fullness. The fronts are trimmed with
ornaments of passementerie in the form of large flowers. The bonnet is
of green therry velvet, trimmed with black lace, two rows of which are
laid across the front. Under trimming of pale pink roses.




[Transcriber's Notes:

Page vi: Transcribed "Bronte" as "Brontë". As originally printed:
"Bronte and her Sisters".

Transcribed "in" as "on". As originally printed: "Herr Kielhau, in
Geology".

Pages vi & 142: Transcribed "Charles Rottman" as "Carl Rottmann".

Page vii: Transcribed "this" as "his". As originally printed: "Swift,
Dean, and this Amours."

Page 13: Supplied "from" in the following phrase (shown here in
brackets): "It caused Richard Steele to be expelled [from] the House of
Commons".

Page 13: Transcribed "colleague's" as "colleagues". As originally
printed: "triumphed over his colleague's".

Page 16: Transcribed "Smollet" as "Smollett". As originally printed:
"the best productions of Mendoza, Smollet, or Dickens" (presumably,
Tobias Smollett).

Page 20: Transcribed "Uniersberg" as "Untersberg". As originally
printed: "Charlemagne in the Uniersberg at Salzburg".

Pages 18-22: Alternate spellings of Leipzig/Leipzic have been left as
printed in the original publication.

Page 24: A closing quotation is missing in the original publication for
material commencing: "we shall see him as he was, both adventurous and
patient....

Page 27: Transcribed "Cosmo" as "Cosimo". As originally printed: "but of
Cosmo de Medici, Lorenzo his great descendant".

Page 28: Transcribed "Eoratii" as "Horatii". As originally printed: "The
Eoratii, one of the master pieces of David".

Page 73: Transcribed "bonhommie" as "bonhomie". As originally printed:
"the Visconte, with equal _bonhommie_".

Page 113: Transcribed "vacilliating" as "vacillating". As originally
printed: "made a blind vacilliating attack".

Page 127: A closing quotation is missing in the original publication for
material commencing: "I have sometimes thought that if you were to stop
a hundred men....

Transcribed "habituès" as "habitués". As originally printed: "the more
experienced _habituès_ of office".

Page 128: Transcribed "Chocò and Popayan" as "Chocó and Popayán". As
originally printed: "deep and humid woods of the provinces of Chocò and
Popayan".

Transcribed "Caraccas" as "Caracas". As originally printed: "as
identical with the cow tree of Caraccas".

Page 129: "garnery" in "gathered into the garnery" has been left as
printed in the original publication. Likely misspelling of "granary".

Page 136: Transcribed "paen" as "pæan". As originally printed: "Till the
full paen".

Page 139: Transcribed "singleness that of purpose" as "that singleness
of purpose". As originally printed: "They are in some instances without
singleness that of purpose".

Transcribed "waiver" as "waver". As originally printed: "Howe'er his
faith may waiver".

Page 142: Transcribed "Pinakotheka" as "Pinakothek". As originally
printed: "destined for the new Pinakotheka".

Transcribed "François de Villenueve-Bargemont" as "François de
Villeneuve-Bargemont".]