International Miscellany of Literature, Art and Science, Vol. 1, eBook (2024)

International Miscellany of Literature, Art and Science, Vol. 1,

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Table of Contents
Section	Page
Start of eBook	1
	1
THE INTERNATIONAL MISCELLANY	1
LORD BROUGHAM.	1
THE WHITE LADY.	8
MRS. FANNY KEMBLE’S “READINGS” IN LONDON.	9
LITERATURE IN AFRICA.	11
LAMARTINE’S APOLOGY FOR HIS CONFIDENCES.	14
BALZAC.	19
DR. GUTZLAFF, THE MISSIONARY.	22
AUTHORS AND BOOKS	24
EDGAR ALLEN POE.	36
BY JOHN KENYON	79
PART II.	98
Part III.	105
PART IV.	115
POEMS BY THE AUTHOR OF LILLIAN.	126
THE COVENANTER’S LAMENT FOR BOTHWELL BRIGG.	134
ALEXANDER AND DIOGENES	136
CHAPTER I.	137
CHAPTER II.	149
SONG.	218
BOOK 1.—­INITIAL CHAPTER; SHOWING HOW MY NOVEL CAME TO BE WRITTEN.	238
CHAPTER II.	242
CHAPTER III.	245
CHAPTER IV.	247
CHAPTER V.	250
Chapter VI.	252
CHAPTER VII.	253
CHAPTER VIII.	255
CHAPTER IX.	256
JOHN INMAN.	264
SIR MARTIN ARCHER SHEE, P.R.A.	267
GERARD TROOST, M.D.	269
PERCEVAL W. BANKS.	270
ROBERT HUNT.	270
JOHN COMLY.	270
BISHOP BASCOMB.	270
COUNT PIRE.	270
GLEANINGS FROM THE JOURNALS.	271

Title: International Miscellany of Literature, Art and Science, Vol. 1,No. 3, Oct. 1, 1850

Author: Various

Release Date: December 23, 2004 [eBook #14431]

Language: English

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THE INTERNATIONAL MISCELLANY

Of Literature, Art, and Science.

Vol. 1. New York, October 1, 1850.No. 3.

[Illustration:
Henry brougham, lord broughamand Vaux.
From A sketch by Alfred CROWQUILL,made in July, 1850.]

LORD BROUGHAM.

It is generally understood that this most illustriousEnglishman now living, will, in the course of thepresent year, visit the United States. Whatevermay be the verdict of the future upon his qualitiesor his conduct as a statesman, it is scarcely to bedoubted that for the variety and splendor of his abilities,the extent, diversity and usefulness of his labors,and that restless, impatient and feverish activitywhich has kept him so long and so eminently conspicuousin affairs, he will be regarded by the next ages asone of the most remarkable personages in the age nowclosing—­the second golden age of England.Lord Brougham is of a Cumberland family, but was bornin Edinburgh (where his father had married a nieceof the historian Robertson), on the 19th of September,1779. He was educated at the University of hisnative city, and we first hear of him as a memberof a celebrated debating society, where he trainedhimself to the use of logic. He was not yet sixteenyears of age when he communicated a paper on Lightto the Royal Society of London, which was printedin their transactions; and before he was twenty hehad written discussions of the higher geometry, which,appearing in the same repository of the best learning,attracted the general attention of European scholars.In 1802, with his friends Jeffrey, Francis Homer, and

Sidney Smith, he established the Edinburgh Review.In 1806 he published his celebrated “Inquiryinto the Colonial Policy of the European Powers,”and soon after was called to the English bar, and settledin London, where he rapidly rose to the highest eminenceas a counselor and an advocate. On the 16th ofMarch, 1808, he appeared in behalf of the merchantsof London, Liverpool, Manchester, &c., before the Houseof Commons, in the matter of the Orders in Councilrestricting trade with America, and greatly increasedhis fame by one of the most masterly arguments heever delivered. In 1810 he became a member ofParliament, and he soon distinguished himself hereby his speeches on the slave trade and against theOrders in Council, which, mainly through his means,were rescinded. Venturing, at the general electionof 1812, to contest the seat for Liverpool with Mr.Canning, he was defeated, and for four years he devotedhimself chiefly to his profession. In this periodhe made many of his most famous law arguments, andacquired the enmity of the Prince Regent by his defenseof Leigh Hunt, and his brother, in the case of theirfamous libel in “The Examiner.”In 1816 he commenced those powerful and indefatigableefforts in behalf of education, by which he is perhapsbest entitled to the gratitude of mankind. Aschairman of the educational committee of forty, hedrew up the two voluminous and masterly reports whichdisclosed the exact condition of British civilization,and induced such action on the part of government asadvanced it in ten years more than it had been previouslyadvanced in a century. In 1820 he displayed intheir perfection those amazing powers of knowledge,reason, invective, sarcasm, and elocution, on the trialof Queen Caroline, which more than anything else havemade that trial so memorable among legal and forensicconflicts. In 1822 he made his unparalleled speechin the case of the Dean and Chapter of Durham againstWilliams, and in the following year was elected LordRector of the University of Glasgow. On the downfallof the Wellington administration, in 1830, and theconsequent general election, he was returned to Parliamentas one of the members for Yorkshire, and a few weeksafterward was made Lord High. Chancellor, andelevated to the peerage under the title of Lord Broughamand Vaux. He continued in the office of LordChancellor until the dissolution of the Melbourne cabinet,in 1834. In 1823 he wrote his “PracticalObservations on the Education of the People,”and was engaged with Dr. Birkbeck in the formationof the first Mechanics’ Institution. In1827 he was one of the originators of the London University,and in the same year he founded the Society for theDiffusion of Useful Knowledge, of which he was thefirst president, and for which he wrote its firstpublication, the admirable “Treatise on theObjects, Pleasures, and Advantages of Science.”In 1830 he was elected a member of the Institute ofFrance, and about the time of his resignation of thechancellorship he published his “Discourse onNatural Theology.” In 1840 he publishedhis “Historical Sketches of the Statesmen whoflourished in the Time of George the Third;”in 1845-6, “Lives of Men of Letters and Sciencewho flourished in the Time of George the Third;”and he has since given to the world works on “TheFrench Revolution,” on “Instinct,”“Demosthenes’ Oration on the Crown,”&c., &c. Collections of his Speeches and ForensicArguments, and of his Critical Essays, as well asthe other works above referred to, have been republishedin Philadelphia, by Lea and Blanchard.

In the language of the Editor of his “Opinions”,Lord Brougham is remarkable for uniting, in a highdegree of perfection, three things which are not oftenfound to be compatible. His learning is all butuniversal: his reason is cultivated to the perfectionof the argumentative powers; and he possesses in arare and eminent degree the gift of eloquence.

Of his learning it may be said that there is scarcelya subject, on which ingenuity or intellect has beenexercised, that he has not probed to its principles,or entered into with the spirit of a philosopher.That he is a classical scholar of a high order, isshown by his criticisms on the internal peculiaritiesof the works of the ancients and their styles of composition.They evince an intimate acquaintance with the greatmaster pieces of antiquity. The book-worms ofUniversities—­those scholastic giants whoare great on small questions of quantity and etymology,—­whobuckle on the ponderous armor of the commentators inthe contest with more subtle wits, on the interestingdoubt of a wrong reading; such men, in the spiritof pedantry, have refused to Lord Brougham the meritof profundity, while they allow that he possessesa sort of superficial knowledge of the classics; theysay that he can gracefully skim the surface of thestream, but that its depths would overwhelm him.Now, while this may be true as regards the fact, wedissent from it as regards the inference. Itis a question to be decided between the learned dronesof a by-gone school and the quicker intellects of aripening age, which is the better thing,—­criticismon words—­on accidental peculiarities ofstyle—­or a just and sympathizing conceptionof the feelings of the poet or the wisdom of the philosopher.Men are beginning to disregard the former, while theyset a high value upon the latter: so much laboriously-earnedlearning is at a discount, and allowance should bemade for the petty spite, the depreciating superciliousness,of disappointment. Lord Brougham’s classicalknowledge partakes more of that intimate regard andappreciation which we accord to the great writers,than of this pedantry of the schools. Hence thecry of want of depth, that has been raised againsthim. Like many other great men of his age, hehas read the authors of Greece and Rome in a spiritthat has identified him with their thoughts and feelings,by taking into account the circ*mstances of theirtimes; and the result has been, that he has exchangedthe formalities and critical sharp-sightedness of acquaintancefor the intimacy of friendship.

In point of general political knowledge, and particularlyof that branch called political economy, Lord Broughamstands prominently among his contemporaries.In his speeches and writings will be found the firstprinciples of every new view of these subjects thathas been taken by the moderns. Of not a few hehas himself been the originator. In the partyhistory of the last century he is well versed, as manyof his speeches show; and no public man of the presentday is so well acquainted with the theory and practiceof the constitution, whether as regards the broadprinciples of liberty on which it is based, or itsgradual formation during the different periods ofour history. It may not be amiss here to observe,that notwithstanding his long connection with the movementparty, and the countenance he has from time to timegiven to measures of a decidedly liberal cast, henever was, and is still as far from being, a Democrat.Throughout his career he has been a consistent Liberal:always advocating such measures of reform as werecalculated to remove abuses, while they in no wayaffected the stability and integrity of the institutionsof the country. While, on the one hand, he hasdeclared his most unequivocal opposition to the ballotand universal suffrage, on the other he has advocatedpopular education, as the ultimate panacea for allthe evils to be feared from the extension of popularinfluence.

The legal knowledge of Lord Brougham has been questionedby the members of the profession whose abuses he desiredto reform. It was even said, that while his elevationto the Chancellorship was the unjustifiable act ofa party to serve party purposes, it was at the sametime desirable to Mr. Brougham in a pecuniary pointof view, from a falling off in his professional practice,caused by his hostility to those abuses. Now,although this is a question really of more interestto lawyers, than to the public in general, and onewhich might, therefore, be left to their decision,yet there was an animus at the time among thisclass of men, that rendered them not disinterestedjudges. Their opinion therefore must be takenwith a qualification, as well on the score of particularimmediate drawbacks, as on the score of their generalprofessional prejudices. Lord Brougham respectedtoo much the principles of justice, and he too littleregarded the technicalities of law, to be agreeableto that body. He had a faculty too, for givingspeedy judgments, and a determination to prevent unnecessaryexpenses, that were particularly disagreeable to menimbued with a conscientious desire that justice shouldnot be prejudiced by an unprecedented and informalhaste in its dispensation, or by a reduction of thenumber of its advocates. The new Lord Chancellor,too, thought that when one or two intelligent barristershad been engaged at a large expense, and had well statedthe case of their client, it was quite unnecessarythat the same ground should be again gone over by

juniors, whose arguments marred more than they helpedthe interests of their employers. When, therefore,he either put them down, or was droned into a shortnap, while the industrious advocate was earning hisunnecessary fee, it was a specimen of “the arroganceof an upstart wholly unacquainted with Chancery Law,”or “of an eccentricity bordering on insanity,and wholly unfitting its exhibitor for the high andresponsible situation he held.” Posteritywill do justice to Lord Brougham in this respect.It will be felt to have been impossible that a manof such vast acquirements, who had been so successfulin his profession, and who had, in all other branchesof knowledge, evinced such clearness of intellect,could have been the inefficient lawyer his detractorshave represented him to be.

There is another great department in which he hasproved his excellence—­that of physicalscience. With the principles of all the sciences,his works show him to be familiar. His treatise“on the Objects, Pleasures, and Advantages ofScience” is admirable, as a bird’s-eyeview of the subject, while at the same time it is anenticing stimulant to study. The work on “NaturalTheology” necessarily touches upon the physicalsciences, and their connection with the great mechanismof nature. The geometrical and optical papers,published in the Philosophical Transactions of theRoyal Society, when he was only fifteen years of age,show at least a firm groundwork of scientific knowledge.And if it be said that Lord Brougham’s attainmentsare superficial only, we say that knowledge of detaildoes not of itself make a man competent. Theprinciples of all sciences are a sine quanon.

Lord Brougham is eminently clear-headed; and he isdistinguished for his argumentative powers. Hehas peculiarly the faculty of analysis; that of keepingin his own mind a comprehensive view of the whole bearingsof a question, even while running at large into theminutest details; no man detects the fallacy of anopponent’s argument more easily; nor can anyman be more skillful in concocting a fallacy to suita temporary purpose.

Lord Brougham’s eloquence most distinguisheshim from his contemporaries. Learning may beacquired; the habit of reasoning may be induced byconstant dialectic contest; but eloquence is far morethan these the gift of nature. Lord Brougham’seloquence savors of the peculiar constitution of hismind. It is eminently adapted for educated men.He was never intended for a demagogue; for he nevercondescends to the art of pandering to the populace.His speeches are specimens of argumentative eloquence;and their only defect arises from his fertility ofillustration. The extraordinary information hepossesses has induced the habit of drawing too largelyupon it; and he is apt to be led aside from the straightroad of his argument, to elucidate some minor disputedpoint. But the argumentative style of which we

speak is almost peculiar to himself. There isa ripeness, a fruitfulness, in his mind, that placeshim above the fetters of ordinary speakers. Suchmen, from the difficulty of clearing their heads forthe contest, too often present a mere fleshless skeleton,as it were, very convincing to the judgment, but powerlessover the feelings; so that no lasting impression isproduced. But Lord Brougham, from being a masterin argument, is free to pursue his bent in illustration,and thus conjures up a whole picture that dwells onthe mind, and is remembered for its effect on the feelingsor the imagination, even by men whose levity or dullnessprecluded their being fixed by the argument.The very structure of his sentences is more adaptedfor this kind of speaking than any other. Theysometimes appear involved, to an ordinary mind, fromtheir length, and the abundance of illustration andexplanation which they embrace; but the extraordinaryvigor with which the delivery is kept up, and the livelinessof fancy or of humor that flashes at every turn ofthe thought, soon dispel the temporary cloud.

In irony and in sarcasm, Lord Brougham is unrivaledamong the public men of the day. That his exuberantpower of ridicule led him while Lord Chancellor, intosome excess of its use, cannot be denied, althougha ready excuse can be found in the circ*mstances ofhis situation. He might be held to be the representativeof liberal principles in a place where almost thename of Liberal had, till then, been proscribed; andthe animosity toward the new Chancellor, evincedby many peers, was calculated to induce reprisals.The eccentricities, too, of men of genius are of suchvalue that they may well be said to atone for themselves.

A quality of Lord Brougham’s mind, that is almostas extraordinary as his extent of information, isits singular activity. His energies never seemto flag—­even for an instant; he does notseem to know what it is to be fatigued, or jaded.Some such quality as this, indeed, the vastness anduniversality of his acquirements called for, in orderto make the weight endurable to himself, and to bearhim up during his long career of political excitement.Take the routine of a day for instance. In hisearly life he has been known to attend, in his placein court, on circuit, at an early hour in the morning.After having successfully pleaded the cause of hisclient, he drives off to the hustings; and delivers,at different places, eloquent speeches to the electors.He then sits in the retirement of his closet to penan address to the Glasgow students, perhaps, or anelaborate article in the Edinburgh Review. Theactive labors of the day are closed with preparationfor the court business of the following morning; andthen instead of retiring to rest, as ordinary menwould, after such exertions, he spends the night inabstruse study, or in social intercourse. Yethe would be seen as early as eight next morning, activelyengaged in the Court, in defense of some unfortunateobject of government persecution; astonishing the auditory,and his fellow lawyers no less, with the freshnessand power of his eloquence.

A fair contrast with this history of a day, in earlylife, would be that of one at a more advanced period;say in 1832. A watchful observer might see theLord Chancellor in the Court over which he presided,from an early hour in the morning until the afternoon,listening to the arguments of counsel, and masteringthe points of cases with a grasp that enabled himto give those speedy and unembarrassed judgments thathave so injured him with the profession. If hefollowed his course, he would see him, soon afterthe opening of the House of Lords, addressing theirLordships on some intricate question of Law, withan acuteness that drew approbation even from his opponents,or, on some all-engrossing political topic, castingfirebrands into the camp of the enemy, and awakeningthem from the complacent repose of conviction to thehot contest with more active and inquiring intellects.Then, in an hour or so, he might follow him to theMechanics’ Institution, and hear an able andstimulating discourse on education, admirably adaptedto the peculiar capacity of his auditors; and, towardten perhaps, at a Literary and Scientific Institutionin Marylebone, the same Proteus-like intellect mightbe found expounding the intricacies of physical sciencewith a never tiring and elastic power. Yet, duringall these multitudinous exertions, time would be foundfor the composition of a discourse on Natural Theology,that bears no marks of haste or excitement of mind,but presents as calm a face as though it had beenthe laborious production of a contemplative philosopher.

It would be a great mistake that would suppose theman who has thus multiplied the objects of his exertionto be of necessity superficial; superficial, thatis, in the sense of shallowness or ignorance.Ordinary minds are bound by fetters, no doubt.Custom has rendered the pursuit of more than one ideaall but impossible to them, and the vulgar adage of“Jack of all trades, master of none,” appliesto them in full force. But it must be rememberedthat a public man like Lord Brougham, who has chosenhis peculiar sphere of action, and who prefers beingof general utility to the scholar-like pursuit ofany one branch of science exclusively, is not boundto present credentials of full and perfect mastership,such as are required from a professor of a university.His pursuit of facts must of necessity be for thepurpose of illustrating general principles in politicalor moral science; and where more than a certain amountof knowledge is not laid claim to, the absence of moreis no imputation.

Lord Brougham is thoroughly individualized as regardshis talents and all that constitutes idiosyncraticdifference, even while he is identified with the politicaland moral advancement of the people. During allthe agitations of a period almost unparalleled, hehas remained untainted by the influence of party spirit.That he has entered, and hotly too, into almost everyquestion of any moment that has come before the Legislature

during many years is true; but he has never appearedin the character of a partisan; he has always beenthe consistent supporter of liberal measures perse, and not because they were the means adoptedby a party to gain political power. With hispolitical steadfastness he has preserved his intellectualintegrity from profanation. For although, hadhe early devoted his powers to the study of abstractor practical science, as a leading and not a subsidiarypursuit, the acuteness of his mind was such, thathe must have risen to eminence upon the basis of discovery,yet it is no slight proof how little the strugglesof the world affect superior intellects, that he hasall along turned aside, with a never cloying avidity,to the pursuits of mind—­to science, toliterature, and to philosophy.

* * * * *

THE WHITE LADY.

The readers of The International may have seensome account of an apparition said to have been seenrecently in the royal palace at Berlin, and knownunder the name of the “White Lady.”M. Minutoli, lately chief of the Police at Berlin,has been amusing himself by looking up the historyof this visitant from the unknown world, and has publisheda variety of curious particulars respecting her, drawnin a measure from documents preserved in the royalarchives, as well as from old-time chronicles anddissertations, Latin and German middle age doggerel,and the records of jurists, historians and theologists.Several persons are designated in the early historyof the family of Hohenzollern as that unquiet soulwho for some three hundred years has performed thefunctions of palace-ghost. Many writers agreethat she was a Countess named Orlamuende, Beatrice,or Cunigunde, and that she was desperately in lovewith Count Albert of Nuremberg, and was led by herpassion to a crime which is the cause of her subsequentghostly disquiet. Mr. Minutoli proves that thislady cannot be the same that alarms the palace withher untimely visitations. The accounts of theWhite Lady ascend to 1486, and she was first seenat Baireuth. Subsequently two ghosts were heardof, one white and one black. They were severaltimes boldly interrogated and interesting discoveriesarrived at. In 1540, Count Albert the Warriorlaid in wait for the apparition, seized it with hispowerful arm and flung it head over heels down intothe castle court-yard. The next morning the chancellor,Christopher Hass, was found there with his neck broken,and upon his person a dagger and a letter proving himto have had treasonable designs. Notwithstandingthe spirit has several times been thus compromised,it has maintained itself to the present day. Itwas first seen in Berlin January 1, 1598, eight daysbefore the death of the Prince Royal John George.When the French invasion took place, it returned toBaireuth and was patriotic enough to take up its abode

in the new chateau which had never been occupied beforethe arrival of the French officer. Even Napoleoncalled the place ce maudit chateau, on accountof its mysterious inhabitant, and had to give up hislodgings to the ghost. He stopped in the chateauon his way to Russia but when he returned next yearhe avoided passing the night there. With regardto the last appearance at the palace at Berlin justbefore the late attempt on the life of the king, andwhich has been described as “a fearful apparitionof a White Lady dressed in thin and flowing garments,moving slowly and silently around and around the fountainto the terror of a corporal standing near the entranceto the silver chamber,” M. Minutoli proves itto have been an old woman once a cook at the chateauwho has since lived there and is known, by the nicknameof Black Minna.

* * * * *

[Illustration: Mrs. Fanny Kemblereading Shakspeare at the st.James’ theater.]

MRS. FANNY KEMBLE’S “READINGS” IN LONDON.

Mrs. Kemble has been giving a series ofdramatic readings in London, and her success in thescene of her early triumphs appears to have been asdecided as it was in New York. She was never ina situation more agreeable to her temper and ambitionthan that represented in the above engraving, whichwe have copied from one in The Illustrated News.She is triumphant, and “alone in her glory.”

Mrs. Kemble is now about forty years of age.Gentleness is acquired in three generations; she isremoved but two from the most vulgar condition; andby the mother’s side but one. The Kemblesof the last age were extraordinary persons. JohnPhilip Kemble and Mrs. Siddons had both remarkablegenius, and Charles Kemble has been an actor of consummatetalent. Whatever intellect remains in the familyis in his children; one of whom is a man of learningand refinement, another a woman of some clevernessin musical art, and Frances Anne, of whom we writemore particularly.

The first appearance of Miss Kemble on the stage wason the evening of the 5th October, 1829, at CoventGarden, and was hazarded with the view of redeemingthe fortunes of the theater. The play was “Romeoand Juliet,” and the heroine was sustained bythe debutante with unexpected power. Her Siddoniancountenance and expressive eyes were the general themeof admiration; while the tenderness and ardor of heraction went to the soul of the spectator, and herwell-instructed elocution satisfied the most criticalear. It was then, also, that her father took thepart of “Mercutio,” for the first time.It is recorded that he earned by it thirteen roundsof applause. Nor was its merit overrated.It was then, and continued to be, a wonderful impersonationof the poetic-comic ideal. On the 21st of the

same month of October, the performers of Covent Gardenpresented to Miss Kemble a gold bracelet as a testimonyof the services which she had rendered to the companyby her performance of “Juliet.” Itwas not until the 9th of December that she had to changeher role. She then performed Belviderain “Venice Preserved,” and achieved anothertriumph. For some time the part was alternatedwith that of “Juliet.” The latter,during the season, was performed thirty-six times;the former, twenty-three. The “GrecianDaughter,” and Mrs. Beverley, Portia in “TheMerchant of Venice,” Isabella, and Lady Townley,followed, and in all she was eminently successful.Her season finished on the twenty-eighth of May, andin it she performed altogether, one hundred and twotimes. Her reputation, however, proved to begreater in the metropolis than in the provinces.Nevertheless, on her return to London, she was greetedwith an enthusiastic reception. The next seasonwas celebrated by the failure of the “Jew ofAragon,” and the affair with Mr. Westmacott;however, Miss Kemble added to her repertoirethe characters of Mrs. Haller, Beatrice, Lady Constance,and Bianca in “Fazio.”

In 1832 she came with her father to the United States,where she played with unprecedented success in theprincipal cities, confirming the reputation she hadacquired, of being the greatest British actress ofthe age. While here she published her dramas,“The Star of Seville” and “Francisthe First,” and at this period she was a frequentcontributor to the literary journals,—­manyof her best fugitive poems having appeared in theold “New York Mirror.”

In 1834 she retired from the stage, and was marriedto Mr. Pierce Butler of Philadelphia, a gentlemanof fortune, accomplishments, and an honorable character.The history of this union is sufficiently notorious.On both sides there was ambition: it was a distinctionto be accepted by a woman of so much genius; it wasa great happiness to change the dominion of a spendthriftand sometimes tyrannical father for that of a richand indulgent husband. But a woman accustomedto the applause of the theater never yet was contentwith the repose of domestic life, and she was of allher sex the most ill-fitted by nature for such an existence.Her second resort to the stage in 1847, her fortunesat Manchester and in London, her return to America,her public readings of Shakspeare here, her divorce,and the very curious and unexplained circ*mstance ofher translation of a profligate French play, and disposalof it as a piece of her own original composition,are all matters of too late occurrence to need recapitulation.

She is a woman of masculine abilities, tastes, andenergies; fitted better for the camp than for thedrawing-room, and often evincing a degree of discontentthat she is not a man. She always acts,and has seldom, except when on the stage, the tactor ability even to seem natural. Her equestrianexhibitions in Boston and New York, during her morerecent visits, illustrated the quality of her aspirations.Every day, at a particular hour, so that a crowd mightassemble to look upon the performance, her horse wasbrought to the front of her hotel, and when mounted,with affected difficulty, made to rear and pitch asif he never before had felt the saddle or bit, andthen to dash off as if upon a race-course or to escapean avalanche. The letters to her husband, withmuch tact but without any necessity displayed to thepublic, in her answer to his process for divorce,were admirable as compositions, and seemed to havebeen written in the very phrensy of passion; but theireffect upon the reader was changed somewhat when hereflected that she had been sufficiently self-possessedmeanwhile to make careful copies before sendingthem, to be exhibited, as specimens of her genius,to a mob of the pit, which never fails to recognizea point. Indeed, in petticoats or in pantaloons,making a show of her “heart” in the publicationof these letters to a gentleman whom she had treatedwith every species of contempt, obloquy, and insult,until she had made his home insupportable, or courtingthe wondering admiration of country bumpkins by unsexingherself for feats of horsemanship, or for other athleticdiversions, she is always anxious to produce a sensation,anxious to stir up the gentle public to a roar.

Still, with all her infirmities of taste and temper,Mrs. Kemble is a woman of unquestionable and verydecided genius; a genius frequently displayed in literature,where its growth may be traced, in prose, from herfoolish “Journal in America” to her moreartistic “Year of Consolation;” and inpoetry, where its development is seen from its buddingin “Frances the First” to its most perfectblossoming in the recent collection of her “Poems.”As an actress, her powers and qualifications are probablygreater than those of any other tragediennenow on the English stage; and her characteristics andsupremacy are likely to be far more profitably aswell as distinctly evinced in her “ShakspeareReadings” than in any appearance before the footlights.

* * * * *

LITERATURE IN AFRICA.

The Bible has been translated into the principal languageof eastern Africa, and the American Bible Societyhas lately received a copy of “EVANGELIO zaavioondika LUCAS. The Gospel according to St.Luke, translated into Kinika, by the Rev. JOHN LEWISKRAPF, Phil. Dr.; Bombay American Mission Press:T. Graham, printer; 1848.” The Kinika languageis spoken by the tribes living south of Abyssinia,toward Zanzibar. Dr. Krapf is a German missionary,in the service of the Church Missionary Society.He is now in Germany for the recovery of his health.The language resembles in some particulars the dialectsused in Western Africa. The Independentcopies, as a philological curiosity, the Lord’sPrayer in Kinika:

“Babawehu urie mbinguni, Rizuke zinaro.Uzumbeo uze. Malondogo gabondeke hahikahi yazi, za gafiohendeka mbinguni. Mukahewehu utosao,hu-ve suisui ziku kua ziku. Hu-ussire suisuimaigehu; hakika suisui kahiri huna-mu-ussira kullamutu akos saye zuluyehu. Si-hu-bumire suisuimagesoni, ela hu-lafie suisui wiini.”

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[Illustration: SIR DAVID BREWSTER, PRESIDENTOF THE BRITISH ASSOCIATION.]

THE ADVANCEMENT OF LEARNING.

The British Association for the Advancement of Scienceassembled this year at Edinburgh, and its first generalmeeting was held on Wednesday, the 31st of July, whenSir DAVID BREWSTER, upon taking the chair, delivereda very interesting address upon the history of theAssociation, and the progress of the Sciences.On Thursday, business began in all the sections, andin the evening Prof. Bennett delivered a lectureon the passage of the blood through the minute vesiclesof animals, in connection with nutrition. OnFriday, a party of about seventy started under thedirection of Mr. R. Chambers, to examine into the groovingson the western face of Corstophine Hill, and the striaeon the sandstone near Ravelstone. They afterwardvisited Arthur’s Seat and St. Margaret’s,where they examined the striated rocks and stones.In the evening there was a conversazione and promenade.Saturday was devoted to excursions. On Mondayafternoon upward of two hundred members dined together,Sir David Brewster presiding. In the evening,Dr. Mantell delivered a lecture on the extinct birdsof New Zealand. On Tuesday evening there was afull-dress promenade and soiree. On Wednesday,the general committee assembled to sanction the grantsthat had passed the Committee of Recommendations:and in the afternoon of the same day the concludinggeneral meeting of the Association, for the accustomedceremonial proceedings, was held. The next annualmeeting is to take place at Ipswich, and Mr. Airy,the Astronomer Royal, will preside. The meeting,altogether, was one of unusual interest; among thepersons present were the chief lights of science,in the empire and from the continent, and our owncountry was represented by Prof. Hitchco*ck andseveral other scholars. The papers read in thevarious sections were numerous, and some of them aredescribed as of very remarkable freshness and value.They will soon be accessible in the published Transactions,which will this year be more voluminous than ever.

The retiring President, Dr. Robinson, at the openingmeeting, congratulated himself on being able to surrenderhis dominion to his successor in a more prosperouscondition than he had received it, and spoke in glowingterms of the character and scientific achievementsof that successor, of whose labors he gave a briefbut glowing history. Sir David Brewster, whowas one of the founders of the Association, is a nativeof Jedburgh, in Roxburgshire; where he was born December

11, 1781. He was educated for the Church of Scotland,of which he became a licentiate; and in 1800 he receivedthe honorary degree of M. A. from the University ofEdinburgh. While studying here he enjoyed thefriendship of Robison, who then filled the Chair ofNatural Philosophy; Playfair, of Mathematics; andDugald Stewart that of Moral Philosophy. In 1808,he undertook the editorship of the “EdinburghEncyclopaedia,” which was only finished in 1830.In 1807 he received the honorary degree of LL.D. from the University of Aberdeen; and in 1808 waselected a Fellow of the Royal Society of Edinburgh.Between 1801 and 1812 he devoted his attention greatlyto the study of Optics; and the results were publishedin a “Treatise on New Philosophical Instruments,”in 1813. In 1815 he received the Copley Medalof the Royal Society for one of his discoveries inoptical science; and soon after was admitted a Fellowof that body. In 1816, the Institute of Franceadjudged to him half of the physical prize of 3000francs, awarded for two of the most important discoveriesmade in Europe, in any branch of science, during thetwo preceding years; and in 1819, Dr. Brewster receivedfrom the Royal Society the Rumford gold and silvermedals, for his discoveries on the Polarization ofLight. In 1816 he invented the Kaleidoscope,the patent-right of which was evaded, so that theinventor gained little beyond fame, though the largesale of the instrument must have produced considerableprofit. In 1819, in conjunction with Dr. Jameson,he established the “Edinburgh PhilosophicalJournal”; and subsequently he commenced the“Edinburgh Journal of Science,”of which sixteen volumes appeared. In 1825, theInstitute of France elected him a Corresponding Member;and he has received the same honor from the RoyalAcademies of Russia, Prussia, Sweden, and Denmark.In 1831, he received the Decoration of the HanoverianGuelphic Order; and in the following year, the honorof Knighthood from William the Fourth.

Sir David Brewster has edited and written variousworks, besides contributing largely to the EdinburghReview, the Transactions of the British Association,and other scientific societies, and the North BritishReview. Among his more popular works are “ATreatise on the Kaleidoscope;” an original Treatiseon Optics for the Cabinet Cyclopaedia; andLetters on Natural Magic and a Life of Sir Isaac Newtonfor the “Family Library.” The latterwork has been translated into German.

Sir David Brewster is likewise one of the editorsof the London and Edinburgh Philosophical Magazine.

The discoveries of Sir David Brewster range from thekaleidoscope to the law of the angle of polarization,the physical laws of metallic reflection, and theoptical properties of crystals; and the venerablephilosopher is the author of an immense number of factsand practical applications in every branch of optics.

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The AMERICAN SCIENTIFIC ASSOCIATION assembled thisyear at New Haven, and Was presided over by Alex.D. Bache, LL. D. of the Coast Survey. Itwas attended by many of the most eminent men of sciencein this country, among whom were President Woolsey,Professor Denison Olmsted, the elder and the youngerSilliman, E. C. Herrick, and E. Loomis, of Yale College;Professors Louis Agassiz, E. N. Hosford and BenjaminPierce of Harvard University; Lieutenant Charles H.Davis, U. S. N.; Professor O. M. Mitchell, Superintendentof the Cincinnati Observatory; Dr. A. L. Elwyn ofPhiladelphia; Professor Walter R. Johnson of Washington;Professor Joseph Henry, Secretary of the SmithsonianInstitution; William C. Redfield of New York; andan unusual number of amateur scholars from variousparts of the Union. There were several papersof remarkable value, among which that of Mr. Squier,our Charge d’Affaires for Central America, wasperhaps at this period of the most general interest.Others were puerile, and as unfit in subject as inability for presentation in such an assembly.It is to be regretted that the Association does notadopt the only protection against such discreditableannoyances, by insisting upon the submission of everythingoffered for its consideration to a competent privatecommittee.

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A GREAT NATIONAL SOCIETY FOR THE ADVANCEMENT OF LEARNING,is said to have been discussed recently at the meetingsof inferior societies, and we have read a circularupon the subject, which contemplates a convention ofscholars and men of letters, at Washington, some timein the coming winter. The American PhilosophicalSociety, founded by Franklin, and made respectableby the labors of many eminent men, is no longer inauthority, and its proceedings command little attention.The various societies for the cultivation of the naturalsciences, in Philadelphia, Boston, and New York, areundoubtedly accomplishing much good, but the spheresand degrees of their influence would be greatly enlargedunder a central organization. In such a design,the initiative should be taken by men of nerve aswell as men of abilities, so that the dead weightsof mediocrity so constantly obtruding into and makingridiculous the present societies, should be altogetherexcluded.

Hitherto, in this city, the most reputable and dignifiedassociation connected with the advancement of learning,has been the Ethnological Society. It is to befeared that with the death of Mr. Gallatin, its president,and the dispersion of so many of its active membersin the diplomatic service, its action hereafter willdeserve less consideration than has thus far beenawarded to it.

LAMARTINE’S APOLOGY FOR HIS CONFIDENCES.

Lamartine has just commenced the publication of asecond part of his Confidences, in the feuilletonof La Presse, and precedes it by the followingletter to the editor of that paper, which we translatefor The International from La Presseof July 30. It relates to the way in which hecame to publish the work, and gives a deeply interestingaccount of the pecuniary embarrassments under whichhe had for some time been laboring, and then eloquentlydefends the publication of what is real, and glowingin private life and experience.

To M. de Girardin:

In addressing to you, my dear Girardin, this thirdvolume of private notes, to which the public havegiven the name of Confidences, I cannot repressan emotion of pain. What I foresaw but too wellhas happened. I have opened my life, and it hasevaporated. This journal of my impressions hasfound grace, indulgence, interest even, with somereaders, if I may judge from the anonymous friendswho have written me. But the unsparing critics,men who mingle even our tears with their ink, in orderto give more bitterness to their sarcasms, have notpardoned those outbursts of a soul of twenty.They have believed, or have pretended to believe,that I was seeking a miserable celebrity in the ashesof my own heart: they have said, that by an anticipationof vanity, I desired to gather and enjoy in advance,while yet living, the sad Flowers which might oneday grow after me upon my tomb. They have criedout at the profanation of the inner feeling; at theeffrontery of a soul shown naked; at the scandal ofrecollections made public; at the venality of sacredthings; at the simony of the poet selling hisown fibers to save the roof and the tree that overshadowedhis cradle. I have read and heard in silenceall their malign interpretations of an act, the truenature of which had been revealed to you long beforeit was to the public. I have answered nothing.What could I say? The appearances were againstme. You alone knew that these notes had long existed,shut up in my casket of rosewood, along with the tenvolumes of the notes of my mother; that they wereintended never to be taken thence; that I rejectedthe first suggestion of publishing them, with all possiblewarmth of resolution; that I refused the ransom ofa king for those leaves of no real value; and thatfinally, one day—­a day for which I reproachmyself-constrained fatally to choose between the necessityof selling my poor Charmettes—­Charmettes,as dear and more holy than the Charmettes ofthe Confessions—­and the necessityof publishing these pages, I preferred myself to sufferrather than cause suffering to good old servants,by selling their roofs and their vines to strangers.With one hand I received the price of the Confidences,and with the other I gave it to others in order topurchase time.

Behold here all the crime that I am expiating.

And let the critics rejoice till their vengeance issatiated. This sacrifice was in vain. Itis in vain that I have cast upon the wind these leaves,torn from the book of my most pious memories.The time that their price procured has not provedsufficient to conduct me to the threshold of thatabode where we cease to regret anything. My Charmetteshave been sold. Let them be content. I havehad the shame of publishing these Confidences,but not the joy of having saved my garden. Stepsof strangers will efface there the steps of my fatherand mother. God is God, and sometimes he commandsthe wind to uproot the oak of a hundred years, andman to uproot his own heart. The oak and the heartare his, we must yield them to him, and yield himtherewith justice, glory, and benedictions!

And now that my acceptance of these critics is complete,and that I confess myself guilty, and still more,afflicted—­am I as guilty as they say, andis there no excuse, which, in the eyes of indulgentand impartial readers, can extenuate my crime?

In order to judge as to this, I have but one questionto ask you, and the public, which deigns with distractedfinger to turn these pages. My question is this:

Is it to myself, or to others, that the publishedpages of these Confidences can have done injuryin the view of those who have read them? Is therea single man now living, is there a single memory ofone of the dead, on whom these recollections havecast an odious or even unfavorable light, whetheron his name, his family, his life, or his grave?Have they brought sadness to the soul of our motherin the heaven where she resides? Has the manlyface of our father been lessened in the respect ofhis descendants? Has Graziella, that precociousand withered flower of my early manhood, receivedaught beyond a few tears of young girls shed on atomb at Portici? Has Julia, the worship of myyoung enthusiasm, lost in the imagination of thosewho know the name, that purity which she has preservedin my heart? And my masters, those pious Jesuits,whose name I love not, but whose virtue I venerate;my friends, dearest and first harvested, Virieu Vignet,the Abbe Dumont, could they complain, returning herebelow, that I have disfigured their beautiful natures,discolored their noble images, or soiled one placein their lives? I appeal to all who have read.Would a single shade command me to efface a singleline? Many of whom I have spoken are still living,or their sisters, or their sons, or their friends:have I humiliated them? They would have toldme.

No! I have embalmed only pure recollections.My shroud was poor, but it was spotless. Themodest name I have wrapped there for myself will neitherbe adorned nor dishonored by it. No tendernesswill reproach me; no family will accuse me of profanationin naming it. A remembrance is an inviolablething because it is voiceless, and must be approachedwith piety. I could never console myself if Ihad allowed to fall from this life into that otherlife, whence no one can answer, one word which couldwound those absent immortals whom we call the dead.I desire that not a single word, thoughtfully uttered,should remain after me against one of the men whowill one day be my survivors. Posterity is notthe sewer of our passions—­it is the urnof our memories, and should preserve nothing but perfumes.

These Confidences have then done injury orcaused pain to no one, among the living or among thedead. I mistake, they have done injury to me,but to me alone. I have depicted myself suchas I was: one of those natures, alas! so commonamong the children of women, wrought not of one clayonly, not of that purified and exceptional substancewhich forms heroes, saints, and sages, but mouldedof every earth which enters into the formation ofthe weak and passionate man; of lofty aspirations,and narrow wings; of great desires, and short handsto reach whither they are extended; sublime in ideal,vulgar in reality; with fire in the heart, illusionin the mind, and tears in the eyes; human statues,which attest by the diversity of the elements thatcompose them, the mysterious failings of our poornature; in which, as in the metal of Corinth, we findafter the fire the traces of all the melted metalswhich were mingled and confounded in it, a littlegold and much lead. But, I repeat, whom haveI injured but myself?

But they say, these unvailed exposures of sentimentsand of life offend that virginal modesty of soul,of which outward modesty is but an imperfect emblem?You show ourself unvailed, and you do not blush!Who then are you?

Alas! I am what you see, a poor writer; a writer,that is to say, a thinker, in public. I am, lesstheir genius and virtue, what were St. Augustine,Jean Jacques Rousseau, Chateaubriand, Montaigne, allthose men Who have silently interrogated their soulsand replied aloud, so that their dialogue with themselvesmight also be a useful conversation with the centuryin which they lived, or with the future. The humanheart is an instrument which has neither the samenumber nor quality of chords in every bosom, and onwhich new notes may eternally be discovered and addedto the infinite scale of sentiments and melodies inthe universe. This is our part, poets and writersin spite of ourselves, rhapsodists of the endlesspoem that nature chants to men and God! Why accuseme, if you excuse yourselves? Are we not of thesame family of the Homeridae, who from doorto door recount histories, of which they are by turns

the historians and the heroes? Is it, then, inthe nature of thought to become a crime in becomingpublic? A thought, vulgar, critical, skeptical,dogmatic, may, according to you, be unvailed innocently:a sentiment, commonplace, cold, not intimate, awakingno palpitation within you, no response in others,may be revealed without violation of modesty; buta thought that is pious, ardent, lighted at the fireof the heart or of heaven, a sentiment burning, castforth by an explosion of the volcano of the soul;a cry of the inmost nature, awaking by its accentof truth young and sympathetic voices in the presentage or the future: and above all, a tear! a tearnot painted like those which flow upon your shroudsof parade, a tear of water and salt, falling from theeyes, instead of a drop of ink, falling from the pen!This is crime! this is shame! this is immodesty, foryou! That is to say, that whatever is cold andartificial is innocent in the artist, but what is warmand natural is unpardonable in the man. Thatis to say, modesty in a writer consists in exposingwhat is false, immodesty in setting forth what istrue. If you have talent, show it, but not yoursoul, carrying mine away! Oh, shame! Whatlogic!

But after all, you are right at bottom, only you donot know how to express it. It is perfectly truethat there are mysteries, nudities, parts of the soulnot shameful but sensitive, depths, personalities,last foldings of thought and feeling, which wouldcost horribly to uncover, and which an honorable andnatural scruple would never permit us to lay bare,without the remorse of violated modesty. Thereis, I agree with you, such a thing as indiscretionof heart. I felt this cruelly myself, the firsttime when, having written certain poetic dreams ofmy soul certain too real utterances of my sentiments,I read them to my most intimate friends. My facewas covered with blushes, and I could not finish.I said to them: “No, I cannot go farther;you shall read it.” “And how is it,”answered my friends, “that you cannot read tous what you are about to give to all Europe to read?”“No,” I said, “I cannot tell why,but I feel no shame in letting the public read it,though I experience an invincible repugnance to readingit myself, face to face to only two or three of myfriends.”

They did not understand me—­I did not understandmyself. We together exclaimed at the inconsistencyof the human heart. Since then I have felt thesame instinctive repugnance at reading to a singleperson what cost me not a single effort of violatedmodesty to give to the public: and after havinglong reflected on it, I find that this apparent inconsistencyis at bottom only the perfect logic of our nature.

And why is this? The reason is, that a friendis somebody and the public nobody; a friend has aface, the public has not; a friend is a being, present,hearing, looking, a real being—­the publicis an invisible being, a being of the reason, an abstraction;a friend has a name, and the public is anonymous;a friend is a confidant, and the public is a fiction.I blush before the one, because he is a man; I do notblush before the other, because it is an idea.When I write or speak before the public, I feel myselfas free, as exempt from the susceptibilities of oneman to another, as if I were speaking or writing beforeGod and in the desert; the crowd is a solitude; yousee it, you know that it exists, but you know it onlyas a mass. As an individual it does not exist.Now this modesty of which you speak, being the respectof one’s self before some other person, whenthere is no person distinct on account of the multitude,becomes without a motive. Psyche blushed undera lamp because the hand of a single god passed overher, but when the sun gazed at her with his thousandrays from the height of Olympus, that personificationof the modest soul did not blush before the whole heaven.Here is the exact image of the modesty of a writerbefore a single auditor, and of the freedom of hisutterance before all the world. Do you accuseme of violating mysteries before you? You havenot the right: I do not know you, I have confidednothing to you personally. You are guilty ofimpropriety in reading what is not addressed to you.You are somebody, you are not the public.What do you want with me? I have not spoken toyou: you have nothing to say to me, and I nothingto reply.

So thought St. Augustine, Plato, Socrates, Cicero,Caesar, Bernardin de St. Pierre, Montaigne, Alfieri,Chateaubriand, and all other men who have confidedto the world the genuine palpitations of their ownhearts. True gladiators they are in the humanColosseum, not playing miserable comedies of sentimentand style to distract an academy, but struggling anddying in earnest on the stage of the world, and writingon the sand, with the blood of their own veins, theheroism, the failings, or the agonies of the humanheart.

Having said this, I resume these notes where I leftthem, blushing for one thing only before these critics,that is, for not having either the soul of St. Augustineor the genius of Jean Jacques Rousseau, in order tomerit, by indiscretions as sacred and touching, thepardon of tender hearts and the condemnation of narrowminds, that take every movement of the soul for anobscenity, and hide their faces whenever they are showna heart.

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BALZAC.

We have news from Paris of the death of Honore DeBalzac, one of the most eminent French writers ofthe nineteenth century. “Eighteen monthsago,” says a Paris letter, “already attackedby dropsy, he quitted France to contract a marriagewith a Russian lady, to whom he was devotedly attached.To her he had dedicated ‘Seraphitus,’ andhe had accumulated in his hotel of the Beaujoin quartersall the luxuries which could contribute to her pleasure.He returned to France three months ago, in a stateof extreme danger. Last week he underwent an operationfor abscess in his legs: mortification ensued.On the morning of the 18th he became speechless, andat midnight he expired. His sister, Madame deSurville, visited his deathbed, and the pressure ofher hand was the last sign he gave of intelligence.”We must defer for another occasion what we have tosay of the great novelist-the idol of women, even atseventy-the Voltaire of our age, as he was accustomedto style himself in private—­the historianof society—­French society—­asit is. The author of Le Peau de Chagrin, LePhysiologie du Marriage, Le Dernier Chauan, EugeneGrandet, and the Scenes de la Vie Parisienne,and Scenes de la Vie de Province, was one ofthe marks of the era, and being dead, we will speculateupon him. At present we can only translate forthe International the following funeral orationby Victor Hugo, pronounced at his grave:

“GENTLEMEN—­The man who has just descendedinto this tomb is one of those whom the public sorrowfollows to the last abode. In the times wherewe are all fictions have disappeared. Henceforthour eyes are fixed not on the heads that reign buton the heads that think, and the whole country isaffected when one of them disappears. At thisday, the people put on mourning for the man of talent,the nation for the man of genius.

“Gentlemen, the name of Balzac will be mingledin the luminous trace that our epoch will leave inthe future.

“M. de Balzac belonged to that potent generationof writers of the nineteenth century who came afterNapoleon, just as the illustrious pleiades of theseventeenth century came after Richelieu, and in thedevelopment of civilization a law caused the dominationof thought to succeed the domination of the sword.

“M. de Balzac was one of the first among thegreatest, one of the highest among the best.This is not the place to say all or that splendid andsovereign intelligence. All his books form onlyone hook, living, luminous, profound, in which wesee moving all our contemporaneous civilization, mingledwith I know not what of strange and terrible; a marvelousbook, that the poet has entitled comedy, and whichhe might have called history; which assumes all formsand all styles: which goes beyond Tacitus andreaches Suetonius, which crosses Beaumarchais andreaches Rabelais; a book which is observation itself,and imagination itself; which is prodigal of the true,the passionate, the common, the trivial, the material,and which at moments throws athwart realities, suddenlyand broadly torn open, the gleam of the most somberand tragic ideal.

“Without knowing it, whether he will or not,whether he consents or not, the author of this strangeand immense work is of the mighty race of revolutionarywriters. Balzac goes directly to his object.He assails modern society face to face. Fromall he forces something: from some illusions,from others hope, from these a cry of pain, from thosea mask. He unvails vice and dissects passion.He penetrates and sounds the heart, the soul, thesentiments, the brain, the abyss that each man haswithin him. And by a gift of his free and vigorousnature, by a privilege of the intelligences of ourtimes,—­who, having seen revolutions nearlyand with their own eyes, perceive better the end ofhumanity and comprehend better the course of Providence,—­Balzaccame forth serene and smiling from those redoubtablestudies which produced melancholy in Moliere and misanthropyin Rousseau.

“This is what he has accomplished among us.Such is the work he has left us, lofty and solid,a pile of granite, a monumental edifice, from whosesummit his renown will henceforth shine. Greatmen make their own pedestals: the future chargesitself with their statues.

“His death has struck Paris with stupor.But a few months since he returned to France.Feeling that he was about to die, he desired to seehis country, like one who on the eve of a long voyagecomes to embrace his mother.

“His life was brief, but crowded; fuller oflabors than of days.

“Alas, the powerful and indefatigable laborer,the philosopher, the thinker, the poet, the man ofgenius, lived among us the life of storms, of struggles,of quarrels, of combats, common in all times to allgreat men. Today, behold him here at peace.He leaves collisions and hostilities. The sameday he enters on glory and the tomb. Henceforthhe will shine above all the clouds over our heads,among the stars of our country.

“And you all who are here, are you not temptedto envy him?

“Gentlemen, whatever be our sorrow in the presenceof such a loss, let us resign ourselves to these catastrophes.Let us accept them in their poignancy and severity.It is good perhaps, and necessary, in an epoch likeours, that from time to time a great death should communicatea religious book to minds devoured by doubt and skepticism.Providence knows what it does when it thus puts awhole people face to face with the supreme mystery,and gives it Death to meditate upon, which is at oncethe great equality and the great liberty.

“Providence knows what it does, for here isthe highest of instructions. There can be inall hearts only austere and serious thoughts when asublime spirit majestically makes its entrance uponthe other life; when one of those beings whom thevisible wings of genius have long sustained abovethe crowd, suddenly puts forth those other wings thatwe cannot see, and disappears in the unknown!

“No, it is not the unknown! No, I havealready said it on another mournful occasion, andI shall not weary in repeating it, it is not darkness,it is light! It is not the end, it is the beginning!It is not nothing, it is eternity! Is not thistrue, I ask all that hear me? Such graves asthis are proofs of immortality. In the presenceof the illustrious dead we feel more distinctly thedivine destinies of this intelligence called man,which traverses the earth to suffer and to be purified;and we know that those who have shone with geniusduring life, must be living souls after death.”

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DR. GUTZLAFF, THE MISSIONARY.

CHARLES GUTZLAFF the famous missionary in China isdescribed in the Grenzboten by a writer wholately heard him preach at Vienna, as a short, stoutman, with a deep red face, a large mouth, sleepy eyes,pointed inward and downward like those of a China man,vehement gesticulations, and a voice more loud thanmelodious. He has acquired in his features andexpression something like the expression of the peopleamong whom he lives. His whole manners also, aswell as his face, indicate the genuine son of Jaoand Chun, so that the Chinese when they encounterhim in the street salute him as their countryman.We translate for The International the followingsketch of his life and labors:

Charles Gutzlaff was born in 1803, at Pyritz, a villageof Pomerania. His zeal as an apostle was firstmanifested some fifteen years ago. He marriedan English woman, who was animated with the same aspirationas himself and who accompanied him on his voyagesas a missionary. His extensive acquaintance withthe Chinese and kindred languages even then made deepimpression on Robert Morrison, the founder of the EvangelicalMission in China, whom he joined in 1831 at Macao,and caused his Acquaintance to be much sought by themerchants. In 1832 and 1833 he was employed asan interpreter on board ships engaged in smugglingopium, but turned this occupation, which in itselfwas not of a very saintly character, to his religiousends, by the dissemination of tracts and Bibles.A missionary journey to Japan which he undertook in1837 was without any result. After Morrison’sdeath Gutzlaff was appointed Chinese Secretary tothe British Consulate at Canton, and in 1840 foundeda Christian Union of Chinese for the propagation ofthe Gospel among their countrymen. His presentjourney through Europe has a similar purpose, thefoundation of Missionary Societies for the spread ofChristianity in China.

His literary labors have had an almost incredibleextent and variety. He Himself gives the followingenumeration of his writings: “In Dutch Ihave written: a History of our Mission and ofdistinguished Missionaries, and an appeal for supportof the Missionary Work; in German: Sketches ofthe Minor Prophets; in Latin: The Life of ourSavior; in English: Sketches of Chinese History;China Opened; Life of Kanghe, together with a greatnumber of articles on the Religion, History, Philosophy,Literature and Laws of the Chinese; in Siamese:a Translation of the New Testament, with the Psalms,and an English-Siamese Dictionary, English-CambodianDictionary and English-Laos Dictionary. Theseworks I left to my successors to finish, but withthe exception of the Siamese Dictionary they haveadded nothing to them. In Cochin-Chinese:a Complete Dictionary Cochin-Chinese-English and English-Cochin-Chinese;this work is not yet printed. In Chinese:Forty Tracts, along with three editions of the Lifeof our Savior; a Translation of the New Testament,the third edition of which I have carried throughthe press. Of the Translations of the Old Testamentthe Prophets and the two first books of Moses are completed.In this language I have also written The Chinese ScientificMonthly Review, a History of England, a History ofthe Jews, a Universal History and Geography, on Commerce,a short Account of the British Empire and its Inhabitants,as well as a number of smaller articles. In Japanese:a Translation of the New Testament, and of the firstbook of Moses, two tracts, and several scientificpamphlets. The only paper to which I now sendcommunications is the Hong Kong Gazette, the wholeChinese department of which I have undertaken.Till the year 1842 I wrote for the Chinese Archives.”

The writer in the Grenzboten goes on to saythat “so vast a surface as these writings cover,requires a surprising facility of mind and an indefatigableperseverance. When you see the man engaged inhis missionary toils you understand the whole at once.He arrives in a city and hastens to the church whichis prepared for his reception. After preachingfor an hour with the greatest energy he takes up hiscollection and is gone. He speaks with such rapiditythat it is hardly possible to follow him. Suchrapidity is not favorable to excellence in the work.Of all his writings, only one work is known to me,that published in Munich, in 1847, under the titleof ’Gutzlaffs History of the Chinese Empirefrom the earnest times to the Peace of Nankin’.In our imperfect acquaintance with Chinese historythis compendium is not without value, but it displaysno critical power, and is a mere external compilationand poorly written. From it we learn as good asnothing of the peculiar customs and state of mentalculture of the country. The whole resembles aChristian History of the World written in the eighteenthcentury, Beginning with Adam and Eve, and leaving theGreeks and Romans out altogether because they werewithout a divine revelation.”

Mr. Gutzlaff’s family were recently for severalmonths in the United States, and the proceedings ofthe great missionary—­second in eminenceonly to our own Judson—­have always beenregarded with much interest by the American churches.

AUTHORS AND BOOKS

The Asiatic Society at Paris has just held its twenty-eighthyearly session. According to the report of itsSecretary and Financial Committee, this society hassuffered little from the disastrous times which havefallen on literature generally. In 1848, beinguncertain as to the future, it stopped receiving subscriptionsto works with a view to their publication, and arrestedthe printing of those which were already commenced,with the single exception of the Asiatic Journal, whichthe members determined not to alter in any case.The series of this journal is of great value, containingalready fifty-five volumes, to which two new onesare added every year. For many years it has containedonly original articles, though formerly it admittedtranslations from other European languages. Ofcourse, in so voluminous a periodical work, the contentsvary in character, but the whole is of the greatestimportance to History, Belles Lettres, and Philology,and should not be wanting in any public library.The society has now resumed the suspended publications,beginning with the “Chronicles of Cashmir”,by the Austrian Orientalist Captain Troyer, two volumesof which were issued some time since. Troyeris a remarkable man. As an Austrian artilleryand staff officer he served in all the wars, fromthe breaking out of the French Revolution to the Peaceof Paris. While in Italy, he passed some timeat the head-quarters of Lord William Bentinck, asan Austrian Commissioner, and so gained his esteemand confidence that he was invited to go with LordWilliam to Madras as his military secretary. WhenLord William resigned the government of Madras, Troyerremained for some time as Director of the East IndiaCompany’s School for Artillery and Engineers,till finally he resigned and came to Paris. In1829, Lord William went again to India as Governor-General,and persuaded Troyer to go with him. While inIndia at this time, among other offices Troyer filledthat of Secretary of the Hindoo College. In 1834,when Bentinck again left India, Troyer once more resignedhis functions, and has since been in Paris, devotingan active and honorable old age to constant laborsupon Persian and Indian literature.

* * * * *

The FRENCH ACADEMY held its annual public sessionon the 8th of August, in the presence of a large audience,including almost all the literary celebrities of themetropolis, both masculine and feminine. The prizesof victory were given to Napoleon Hurney, who hadsaved the lives of fourteen persons, and to MargueriteBriand, for having supported and taken care for forty-fiveyears of her mistress, who had fallen from wealthinto the extremest poverty. M. de Salvandy, whobestowed these prizes, delivered the usual eulogyon virtue in general, winding up with praise of LouisPhilippe and his reign, a thing more creditable perhapsto the fidelity and consistency of the speaker, whohas never renounced his allegiance to the Orleansfamily, than proper to the occasion.

The literary prizes were distributed by M. Villemain.The grand prize of ten thousand francs for the bestwork on the history of France, was given to AugustinThierry. Emile Angier received a prize of seventhousand francs for his comedy of “Gabrielle,”and M. Antran one of three thousand for his “Daughterof AEsehylus.” Three ladies got prizes worthtwo thousand francs each for works of a popular natureon moral subjects; M. A. Garnier got one of one thousandfor his Morale Sociale; M. Martin the samefor his Philosophie Spiritualiste de la Nature,and M. Kastus the same for his Psycologie d’Aristote.The crown for the best specimen of eloquence was awardedto M. Baudrillast for his Eulogy on Madame de Stael,in which the literary history and character of thesubject were served up in the most florid style.The same writer once before won the same prize bya eulogy on Turgot. His productions are moreelaborate and showy than substantial and permanentin their character.

It must be said that this Academy is rather a respectableand slow-moving institutution. The most illustriousnames of France are not always included in the listof its members. Neither Beranger nor Lamenaisbelong to it. A writer in the Paris Nationalsays that after three hours at its meeting everybodyhe met in the street seemed to belong to the timeof Louis XI.

* * * * *

EDWARD EVERETT has been many years engaged in thecollection and arrangement of materials for a systematicTreatise on the Modern Law of Nations; more especiallyin reference to those questions which nave been discussedbetween the governments of the United States and Europesince the Peace of 1783. This will be Mr. Everett’s“life poem.” Hitherto he has writtennothing very long except the “Defense of theChristian Religion,” published when he was abouttwenty-one years of age. We have just receivedfrom Little & Brown their edition of the “Orationsand Speeches” of Mr. Everett, in two very largeand richly-printed volumes, which we shall hereafternotice more largely. These are to be followed,at the author’s leisure, by his Political Reportsand Speeches and Official Papers, in two large volumes,and his contributions to the North American Review,which, if all included, we think will make four others:so that his works, beside the new treatise above mentioned,will be completed in not less than eight volumes.We are gratified at the prospect of such a collectionof these masterpieces of rhetoric, so full of learningand wisdom, and infused by so genial a spirit.We wish some publisher would give us in the same styleall the writings of Alexander Everett.

CHARLES MACKAY has lately published in London, a workupon which he had long been engaged, under the titleof “Progress of the Intellect.” Wesuspect, from the reviewals of it which appear in thejournals, that it is of the German free thinking classof philosophical histories. It embraces dissertationson Intellectual Religion, Ancient Cosmogony, the MetaphysicalIdea of God, the Moral Notion of God, the Theory ofMediation, Hebrew Theory of Retribution and Immortality,the Messianic Theory prevailing in the days of Jesus,Christian Forms and Reforms, and Speculative Christianity.And these dissertations are written with an eloquenceand power unexampled in a work of so much learning.

* * * * *

M. AND MAD. DE LAMARTINE having returned fromthe East, are at present Staying at the Villa du Prado,a branch of the Hotel des Empereurs, a pleasant houseon the banks of the Huveaune, in the midst of the mostbeautiful landscape. It was in a country box,upon the Avenue du Prado, that Lamartine wrote, in1847, his “Histoire des Girondins.”Lamartine is pleased with his Smyrna estate; he wasreceived there by his vassals en grand seigneur,but he found that he would be obliged to expend a gooddeal of money before the estate would be profitable.

* * * * *

THEODORE PARKER’S “Massachusetts QuarterlyReview,” is dead, and—­God be Praisedthat New England refused to support it any longer.Mr. Parker says in the farewell to his readers, thatthe work “has never become what its projectordesigned that it should be;” and expresses ahope that “some new journal will presently bestarted, in a more popular form, which will promotethe great ideas of our times, by giving them an expressionin literature, and so help them to a permanent organizationin the life of mankind.”

* * * * *

CAPT. SIR EDWARD BELCHER, R.N., known in theliterary and scientific world by his extensive voyagesof survey and discovery, is now on a visit to NewYork, whence he will shortly proceed to Texas.Sir Edward Belcher is a gentleman of remarkable energyof character, and of eminent abilities.

* * * * *

A LETTER from M. Guizot, assigning the motives ofhis refusal to appear as a candidate of the Institutefor a seat in the Superior Council of Public Instruction,is published by the Esperance of Nancy.The Principles avowed by M. Guizot lead directly toa separation of Church and State.

* * * * *

JOHN G. SAXE will soon publish a new poem which hedelivered recently at the commencement of MiddleburyCollege, with the applause which crowns all his effortsin this way.

* * * * *

A RE-ISSUE of the Complete Works of Eliza Cook willbe shortly commenced in her Journal, and continuedweekly until completed.

* * * * *

THE INSTITUTE OF GOETHE has just been founded by thegovernment of Saxe Weimar. It consists simplyof a prize of twenty thousand francs offered to thecompetition of the literary and artistic world.The first year it will be given to the best amongthe poems, romances, and dramatic works submitted;the second year to the best picture; the third yearto the best piece of statuary; the fourth year tothe best piece of music, whether sacred or profane,opera or oratorio. This circle having been completed,the prize will next be given as at the first year;and so on in regular succession. The successfulcompetitor is to remain proprietor of his work, asare all the others. The prize will he allottedby two committees, one at Weimar the other at Berlin.The establishment of the fund was celebrated at Weimaron the 23d of August.

* * * * *

GIFFORD, some five-and-twenty years ago, declaredthat all the fools of the country had taken to writeplays; and it would appear that all the dull Englishmenof our day have taken to write pamphlets on the slave-trade.The London Times is very severe upon a bookjust issued by Mr. W. Gore Ouseley, who was severalyears British Charge d’Affaires at Rio, as suchconducted a voluminous correspondence on the subjectwith the government of Brazil, and might have beenexpected to have there learned something on the slave-tradeworth telling. According to his reviewer he appears,however, to be one of that class of persons describedby Sterne, who, traveling from Dan to Beersheba, foundall to be barren; and no amount of observation canin any human being supply defective reasoning faculties.So, says the Times, he has little or nothingto say about the Brazilian slave-trade that has notbeen better said a thousand times before; and whenhe does venture on a special statement of his own,it topples down the whole superstructure of his argument.

A work of rather more interest is “Seven Years’Service on the Slave Coast of Africa”, by SirHenry Huntley, who, when a lieutenant in the navyin 1831, was ordered to the scene of his observations.Shortly after his arrival, he was appointed to theindependent command of a small vessel, in which hevisited stations, looked out for slavers, chased themwhen he saw them, and captured them when he could.A few years subsequently he was nominated Governorof the settlements on the Gambia. His two volumescontain his adventures during the whole or nearly thewhole of his seven years’ service upon the station;the last closing abruptly in the middle of preparationsfor a congress of black kings. The public is alreadyfamiliar with many of the topics, from the occasionalnarratives of voyages and adventures along the coast.Visits to the commandants of the so-called castles;a description of the European and native mode of lifeat the settlements; accounts of the slave-stations,the slave-dealers, the slaves, and the slave-trade,together with sketches of more legitimate commerce,and occasional trips to the islands lying off thecoast, for change of air and fresh supplies, are frequentfeatures. Sir Henry Huntley’s duties sometimesbrought him in contact with native chiefs, and continuallywith slavers, in the search, the capture, and thepursuit. During the latter part of his career,the office of Governor gave great variety and largenessto his subjects; consisting of public business, palaverswith native potentates, and matters connected withhome policy. In point of literary character thiswork very nearly resembles the author’s “PeregrineScramble.” Indeed, the “Seven Years’Service” is a sort of continuation of that book,without the form of fiction.

* * * * *

M. JULES LECHEVALIER, known in this country chieflyas one of the foreign Correspondents of The Tribune,but in Europe as an able writer on the Social Sciences,has recently delivered in Paris and Berlin, and inLondon, (where he is residing as a political exile,)a series of lectures, which will soon be given tothe world in a volume, upon the subject of his favoritestudies. M. Lechevalier’s system, whichhe denominates “New Political Economy,”is based upon the principle of association, in oppositionto that of competition and laissez-faire, whichconstitute the groundwork of the school of the presentpolitical economists. In the course of his serieshe pointed out the gradual tendency of the competitiveprinciple to produce extremes of riches and poverty,and ultimately revolutions, and maintained, that bythe adoption of the associative principle alone, societycan be preserved from confusion and destruction.He contends that the new political economy, or Socialism,is essentially Conservative, while the present systemof unlimited competition, or buying cheap and sellingdear, is destructive, M. Lechevalier pretends to basehis system on the moral principles of Christ, andmaintains that Christianity cannot be practically carriedout in any other way. His lectures abound inexamples of the working of the two opposing systems.

* * * * *

The Doctrinal Tract and Book Society, Boston, aregoing forward in the work of re-publishing the oldstandard works of the New-England theology. Theyhave issued a fine edition of Bellamy and have procuredan edition of Edwards the younger. They are nowabout commencing the stereotyping of Catlin’sCompendium, and the whole works of Dr. Hopkins.We wish they would go back a century further, andgive us the best works of Mather and his contemporaries.

* * * * *

There is a political novel by OTTO MULLER, of Manheim,announced, under the title Georg Volker: einVreiheits Roman, which is said to give a faithfulpicture of the Baden revolution, and to open with therise of the peasantry in the Ottenwald.

* * * * *

THE DUC DE LA ROUCHEFOUCAULD’s celebrated “MoralReflections, Sentences, and Maxims,” have justappeared in a new and very much improved translation,and with notes, pointing out similarities of sentimentsin ancient and modern authors, and sometimes provingthat Rochefoucauld’s good things have been madeuse of without sufficient acknowledgment, by moderns.There is also an introduction, which dissertates wellon the purpose and quality of the reflections.Such books were once very popular; but in this countrythey have not been much read. We have indeedhad numerous editions of “Lacon,” and Dr.Bettner’s “Acton” has found a thousandpurchasers; but the Rev. Dr. Hooker’s “Maxims,”which, in our opinion, are as good as anything oftheir kind in the English language, we believe havenot attracted attention, and Mr. Simms’s “Egeria”has been printed only in the columns of a newspaper.

* * * * *

A new theory has just been propounded at Paris ina book called “Armanase,” (a Sanscritword, meaning the “Reign of Capacity").The author asserts the present forms of administrativegovernment are injurious instead of useful to society,and ought to be replaced by institutions of a newand different order. His principle is, that thesovereignty of the individual ought to be institutedfor that of governments, and that great associationsof mutual assurance may be advantageously substitutedfor the existing system of management by office-holders.The author shows also that the progress of the naturaland mechanical sciences will deliver man from thepressure of the more painful sorts of labor; and thatwealth, freed from the barriers which now hinder itscirculation, would be distributed freely throughoutsociety. Intellectual property would be seriouslyguaranteed, and would enrich the men of genius, whoseinventions and discoveries are now profitable, notto the authors, but to the capitalists who take advantageof them. By this means an important element ofrevolutions will be removed. The author proposes,that in order to prevent all suffering, a civil listshall be set apart for the people, who will be theking. This civil list is to be composed of a taxof one per cent., levied on all who have property infavor of those who have nothing. But, says he,let no one imagine that all would be dissolution andruin in this system, without law or government.Crimes and offenses will be tried by juries, thatis to say, by a living code. Property will nolonger be seizable for debt, and the courts will becomeuseless. Everybody shall have the absolute rightto buy land by paying its possessor ten per cent,on its value: this is to give a chance for carryingon all sorts of grand public enterprises without troublefrom the proprietors of little pieces of land.It may perhaps be doubted, whether the “Reignof Capacity” has exhibited any astonishing endowmentsin that respect.

* * * * *

THACKERAY, in Pendennis, has given offense,it appears, to some of the gensd’armes of thePress, by his satirical sketches of the literary profession.Those whose withers are unwrung will admit the truthof many pages and laugh at the caricature in the rest.In the last number of the North British Reviewis a clever article upon the subject, written withgood temper and good sense. Hitherto publishershave been ridiculed and declaimed against as “tyrants”and “tradesmen,”—­made to bearthe onus of “poetical” improvidence, andto sustain the weight of a crime which no author canpardon—­the rejection of manuscripts.The authors have painted the portraits of publishers;but an ancient fable suggests that if the lionhad painted a certain picture, it would not have beena lion we should see biting the dust.

* * * * *

M. DE LUYNES is now engaged at Paris in publishinga work on the antiquities of Cyprus. He has discovereda number of inscriptions in ancient Cyprian writing,and is having them engraved on copper. The writingis that which preceded the introduction of the Phoeniciancharacter upon the island, and seems to have no affinityeither with that or with the Assyrian, which is discoveredto have been once used there. The work of M.de Luynes will open a new problem for the philologists.It will be difficult to decipher the inscriptionsand language, unless there can be found somewherean ancient Cyprian inscription, with a translationin some known tongue; but in a time which has readthe riddles of the pyramids, nothing of this sortis to be despaired of. M. de Luynes is the lastof the great French nobles who makes a worthy use ofhis riches.

* * * * *

SIR ROBERT PEEL left full and specific directionsin his will for the early publication of his politicalmemoirs; and ordered that the profits arising fromthe publication shall be given to some public institutionfor the education of the working-classes. He believedhis manuscripts and correspondence to be of greatvalue, as showing the characters of the great menof his age; and directed that his correspondence withthe Queen and Prince Albert shall not be publishedduring their lives without their express consent.He confided the task of preparing these memoirs toLord Mahon and Mr. Cardwell. Their duty will,however, be comparatively light, though delicate,from the admirable and orderly state in which he lefthis papers.

* * * * *

MR. JOHN P. BROWN, author of “The Turkish NightsEntertainments,” recently published by Putnam,is now on a visit to this country as the Secretaryof the Commissioner of the Sublime Porte, Captain AmminBey.

* * * * *

EUGENE SUE’S new romance “The Mysteriesof the People,” has been prohibited in Prussia.

* * * * *

M. BURNET DE PESLE has just published the first partof his Examen Critique de la Succession des DynastiesEgyptiennes, a work to which competent criticsassign a high value. He follows the method ofChampollion, rejecting hypotheses and admitting onlythe testimony of the historians and monuments.At the same time he treats his subject with independenceand originality, though he advances nothing for thesake of novelty. The second part of the workwill be devoted to the discussion of the ancient inscriptions,dynasty by dynasty, and reign by reign.

* * * * *

WASHINGTON IRVING is claimed by the English as byboth birth and spirit a British author.In the question of copyright lately before the ViceChancellor, the case rested in part upon a plea thatMr. Irving’s father was from the Orkneys andhis mother from Falmouth, so that, though he was bornin New York, he was not an alien. Still,our “Diedrich Knickerbocker” was ColonelIrving once, and served in this capacity against theking, and it will not he safe for him to establishthe position assumed by his publisher.

* * * * *

M. ARAGO, having completed his love-labor in honorof Condorcet, is again abstracting from scientificpursuits a portion of his time, to prepare a memoirupon the acts and doings of the Provisional Governmentof 1848 of which he was a member. It is saidto be a curious work which will enlighten much thatis yet dark in the history of that period, throwingadditional obloquy upon some members, and relievingothers of a portion of that which they have hithertoborne. M. Chemiega is also engaged upon his ownaccount in similar historical labors.

* * * * *

DR. OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES, on the 9th of September,delivered a poem, described by a correspondent ofthe Commercial Advertiser as one of his finestcompositions, before a large audience, assembled todedicate a rural cemetery at Pittsfield, Mass.

* * * * *

M. DUGANNE, some of whose songs and dramatic pieceshave the ring of true metal, has just completed asatire entitled “Parnassus in Pillory,”and with the motto, “Lend me your ears.”We have seen some advance sheets of it, which arefull of wit and spirit.

* * * * *

SOUTH CAROLINA has always been prolific of epics.Those of Mr. Simmons, Dr. Marks of Barhamville, andsome others, have been tried, and-the court of criticismhas now before it from the same quarter “AmericaDiscovered, in Twelve Books.”

* * * * *

JOHN NEAL has given notice of his intention to writea history of American Literature “in two largeoctavo volumes,” and he invites authors whoare not afraid to show their books, to send them tohim at Portland without delay.

* * * * *

“GERMANIA, ITS COURTS, CAMPS AND PEOPLE,”is the title of a brace of volumes by “the BaronessBlaize de Bury.” And who, pray, is theBaroness Blaize de Bury? A writer in The Leaderanswers after this wise:

“Why, sir, she is somewhat of a myth, makingher avatars in literature with all the caprice andvariety of Vishnou or Brougham; her maiden name ofRose Stewart has not, that we can discover, been stainedwith printer’s ink, but we trace her as ‘ArthurDudley’ in the Revue des Deux Mondeswriting upon Bulwer and Dickens, we next find her as‘Maurice Flassan’ in Les Francais Aeintspar eux-memes. Rumor further whispereth thatshe had a finger in ‘Albert Lunel,’ oneof the eccentricities of an eccentric law-lord, whichwas hurriedly suppressed, one knows not why; in theEdinburgh Review she wrote a paper on Moliere,and for Charles Knight’s Weekly Volumea pleasant little book about Racine, on the title-pageof which she is styled ’Madame Blaize Bury;’since that time you observe she has blossomed intoa Baroness de Bury! Let us add that sheis the wife of Henri Blaze, known as agreeable critic

and the translator of Faust, that she is said to bea great favorite with the author of ‘AlbertLunel,’ and that she has the two novels ‘MildredVernon’ and ‘Leonie Vermont’ placedto her account: how many other shapes she mayhave assumed we know not; are these not enough?Whether, after all, a flesh-and-blood Madame de Buryexists is more than We can decide. Une supposition!what if, after all, she should turn out to be LordBrougham himself? The restless energy of thatScottish Phenomenon renders everything possible. Hedoes not agree with Pliny’s witty friend, thatit is better to be idle than to do nothing—­satiusest otiosum esse quam nihil agere.”

* * * * *

REV. CHARLES ELLIOT, D.D. of Cincinnati, haspublished, through the Methodist printing house ofthat city, an important work on Slavery, in two duodecimovolumes. Dr. Ellliot has declined the acceptanceof the Biblical Professorship in McKendree College,on the ground that he is busily engaged in preparingworks for the press, including a thorough investigationof the Biblical argument in defense of slavery.

* * * * *

A NEW edition of a Lexicon of the Dakota language(of an Indian tribe near Lake Superior,) has justbeen completed by the missionaries. It containsupward of fifteen thousand words. Near thirteenyears or more of labor have been expended upon it.

* * * * *

JUDGE SYDNEY BREESE, late U.S. Senator, at thecommencement of Knox College, delivered a discoursebefore the Literary Societies on the Early Historyof Illinois. It is said to be part of a volumehe is preparing, and had reference to the first ninetyyears of Illinois history.

* * * * *

MR. LAYARD, in excavating beneath the great pyramidat Nimroud, had penetrated a mass of masonry, withinwhich he had discovered the tomb and statue of Sardanapalus,with full annals of that monarch’s reign engravedon the walls.

* * * * *

MR. H. H. WILSON, F.R.S., has published in London,a collection of Ancient Hindu Hymns, constitutingthe First Ashtaka, or Book, of the Rig-Veda, the oldestAuthority for the religious and social institutionsof the Hindus. The translation of the Rig-Veda-Sonhitais valuable for the scholar who wishes to study themost ancient belief, opinions, and modes of the Hindus,so far as they can be gathered from hymns addressedto the deities. At the same time, their mysteryor obscurity, increased by remoteness of years, isperhaps so considerable, that it will require peculiarlearning to profit by the materials this most ancientand important of the Vedas contains.

* * * * *

DR. SHELTON MACKENZIE, author of “Mornings atMatlock,” has been appointed, through the influenceof Lord Brougham, to the office of official assigneeto the Court of Bankruptcy, in Manchester.

* * * * *

The Fine Arts.

THE FINE ARTS IN AMERICA are not in a state of remarkableperfection, if we may credit a writer in the AugsburgAllgemeine Zeitung. This critic is evidentlyhonest and impartial, but not perfectly well informed.He supposes that the majority of the artists as wellas of the scholars in the country are emigrants fromEurope; and affirms that artists of great talent,who have been esteemed and encouraged in Europe, havebeen reduced to misery in America, and compelled toresort to common labor for their living. Latterly,however, fashion has brought pictures into market;and we may now hear, in more refined circles, hereand there a misapplied artistic term, which showsthat art is somewhat thought of. It is characteristicthat an American will often bargain for pictures bythe square foot. The New York Art Union has donea good deal of good in the culture of taste for art,and from the Philadelphia Art Union much may alsobe expected. The daguerreotypes taken here maybe compared with the best of Voightlaender of Viennaand Williams of Liverpool. The talbotypes ofthis country are better than all others. Lithographingis done mostly by French and Germans; wood-cuttingand steel-engraving by Englishmen and Americans.The products of the latter two resemble perfectlythose of the same arts in England. Dramatic andmusical art are in a feeble condition. The theatersin the great cities have been visited by the writer,and nothing admirable found in them. They areall private enterprises, and no great things are tobe expected in that line without the aid of a government.The theaters are built and furnished in the most elegantand even luxurious style. The Italian Opera inNew York is supplied by European artists whose bestdays are over. The actors never rise to any commendableexcellence, and the pieces they perform are well adaptedto their talents. Hardly ever is anything classicalproduced upon the stage.

The German drama in the United States is spoken ofas being in a condition of even more desperate degradation.The writer’s remarks on that subject will notspecially interest our readers; but we trust thatwhat we have given above from his strictures will beedifying to all whom it may concern.

* * * * *

FROM ROME we hear of an extensive undertaking aboutto be commenced in the way of Catholic Art. Theplan is this: Overbeck, whose designs from Scripturehistory are familiar to all lovers of Art who havenot overlooked one of the most remarkable geniusesof the times, is now employed upon fourteen compositionsrepresenting the fourteen Stations or pauses of theLord on his way to the cross. Part of them arealready done, and to judge from them the series willsurpass all previous works of this great master.These designs are to be multiplied to the greatestextent and put within the means of churches, convents

and even the poorest classes of the people. Theywill appear of the size of the original in coloredlithography, which will probably be executed in Germany.Engravings of half size on copper are to be executedby the eminent engraver Bartoccini, who is familiarwith Overbeck’s manner, and who has worked underhim in Germany. Indeed Bartoccini is already bestknown from the engravings of Overbeck’s designsto the New Testament, the best of which were fromhis burin. In addition there are to be editionsof these compositions in middling and small sizes aswell as in wood engravings. The object is toprovide something which has real artistic merit inplace of the wretched pictures which are offered forthe devotion of the faithful in so many churches andin Catholic prayer-books. The Pope himself, towhom the first colored drawings have been shown, takesa lively interest in the enterprise, and will probablyrecommend it in a special circular to all the bishops.

* * * * *

CHARLES MULLER, a German sculptor, whose group, “TheSinger’s Curse,” Received the second prizeat the Exposition of 1849, at Paris, has arrived inthis country, where he proposes to take up his residence.The Tribune states that “The Singer’sCurse” will soon be exhibited to the publicin this city. It was suggested by one of the finestof Uhland’s works.

* * * * *

The city of Paris is about to erect along the grandavenue of the Champs Elysees three hundred statues,in marble, of Parisians distinguished in the administrationof the city, in letters, in science, the fine artsor commerce. The statues will alternate withbeautiful little fountains, and will form rows oneach side of the avenue.

* * * * *

POWER’S STATUE OF EVE is now-having been rescuedfrom the waters off the coast of Spain—­onthe way to New York, and it will soon be here.The Prince Demidoff has purchased the figure of theGreek Slave, originally commenced for Mr. Robb ofNew Orleans, for L700, being L100 more than Mr. Robbwas to have given for it. The Prince has placedit in a room by itself, in his palace at St. Donato,near Florence. He is one of the finest criticsof art now living, and his collection of masterpiecesconstitutes to the man of taste one of the chief attractionsof Italy. From a letter of Powers now beforeus, we learn that the model of his “America”was finished, and on the first of August the marblewas about to be commenced, in the same size.This the sculptor and his friends think will be hisgreatest work. We are happy in being able to mentiona fact eminently honorable to a distinguished Americangentleman, in this connection. When the statueof Eve was lost, Powers wrote to the underwritersto pay the insurance ($6000) to Mr. J.S. Prestonof South Carolina, upon whom the loss was to fall;but Mr. Preston instantly upon hearing the circ*mstancedirected that every cent of the money should be sentto the artist, expressing only a regret that the countrysuffered the loss of a performance so admirable.Mr. Powers had not at this time heard of the lossof the statue of Mr. Calhoun. This great workhas not yet been recovered, but Mr. Kellogg has stillhopes of its being rescued in perfect safety.

* * * * *

The Venice Statuto of the 13th August announcesthat Venice and Italy have experienced an irreparableloss. The celebrated Barbarigo Gallery, knownfor ages, comprised amongst other masterpieces seventeenpaintings of Titian, the Magdalen, Venus, St. Sebastian;the famous portraits of the Doge Barbarigo, of PhilipXIV., &c. After the extinction of the Barbarigofamily, Count Nicholas Giustiniani, the brothers Barbaco,and the merchants Benetti, who became proprietorsof the collection, presented it to the Government.The Viceroy Raniere offered it for sale in 1847 tothe Austrian Government, which refused to buy it.It has been lately purchased by the Court of Russiafor five hundred and sixty thousand francs.

* * * * *

PAINTING AND SCULPTURES of the early northern artistsfrom the eighth to the sixteenth century have justbeen discovered in great numbers in Gothland, by Dr.Marilignis, of the Stockholm Royal Academy of FineArts. He was sent to search for them by the Academy,and has spent eighteen months in his mission.A large proportion of the pictures were found in chapelsbuilt during the eleventh and twelfth centuries, andwere covered with thick coats of plaster, which hadto be removed with great care. The results ofDr. Marilignis’ investigations will be publishedby the Swedish Government.

* * * * *

THE INAUGURATION OF THE STATUE OF LARREY, the famoussurgeon of the Imperial army, at the Val-de-Grace,took place in Paris lately. Among the assistantsat this solemnity not the least interesting portionwas a corps of one hundred invalids upon whom Larreyhad operated. The hero of the day was Dupin,who walked in to the flourish of drums and trumpetsat the head of the commission of the monument.The statue of bronze, by David, of Angers, was unvailedamid the clang of “sonorous metal blowing martialsounds.” Old Dupin, in a fit of happy inspiration,jumped up on the chair from which he presided, anddelivered perhaps the best speech he ever made.He drew, in lively touches, the mission of the manwhose hospital is the battle-field, of his intrepidcoolness and humane devotion. Larrey was wounded,while binding the wounds of others, in Egypt and atWaterloo, in the days of glory and of disaster.The President of the Assembly spoke with much feeling,and when he came down from his chair a general rushwas made by his friends to embrace him.

* * * * *

THE STANDISH GALLERY OF PICTURES in the Louvre wasdecreed by the French courts, a few days before hisdeath, to be the private property of the late LouisPhilippe. It was left to the king by Mr. FrankHall Standish, in 1838. The library of this collectionis very valuable. It contains among other rarebooks the Bible of Cardinal Ximenes, valued alone at$5000. One of the last acts of Louis Philippewas to present it to the French people. He wasdesirous only of vindicating his rights in the courts.The gallery therefore will not be removed.

* * * * *

THE ANNUAL EXHIBITION OF PICTURES by Duesseldorf artistswas opened in that city about the middle of July.Landscapes are rather predominant. In their linethe works of Alexander Michelis, August Kossler, Webaand Fischer are the best. Ten pictures of peasantlife in Norway by Adolf Tidemond, a Norwegian artist,are said to display very remarkable merit. Theywere retained in the exhibition only a few days, beingdestined for the royal chateau of Oskarshall.Of historical pictures there is nothing worth mentioning.

* * * * *

The Brussells Herald states that the artisticvalue of the works of art contained in the churchesof Antwerp, eleven in number, is by the late financialreport of the province estimated at 49,763,000 francs-nearlyten millions of dollars.

* * * * *

LEUTZE’S PICTURE of Washington Crossing theDelaware is nearly finished at Duesseldorf, and ismuch praised by several letter-writers who have seenit.

* * * * *

MR. POWELL, at Paris, expects to finish his picturefor the Capitol about the first of February.

* * * * *

EDGAR ALLEN POE.

By R.W. GRISWOLD.

The family of EDGAR A. POE was one of the oldest andmost reputable in Baltimore. David Poe, his paternalgrandfather, was a Quartermaster-General in the Marylandline during the Revolution, and the intimate friendof Lafayette, who, during his last visit to the UnitedStates, called personally upon the General’swidow, and tendered her acknowledgments for the servicesrendered to him by her husband. His great-grandfather,John Poe, married in England, Jane, a daughter ofAdmiral James McBride, noted in British naval history,and claiming Kindred with some of the most illustriousEnglish families. His father, David Poe, jr.,the fourth son of the Quartermaster-General, was severalyears a law student in Baltimore, but becoming enamoredof an English actress, named Elizabeth Arnold, whoseprettiness and vivacity more than her genius for thestage made her a favorite, he eloped with her, andafter a short period, having married her, became himselfan actor. They continued six or seven years inthe theaters of the principal cities, and finallydied, within a few weeks of each other, in Richmond,leaving three children, Henry, Edgar, and Rosalie,in utter destitution.

Edgar Poe, who was born in Baltimore, in January,1811, was at this period of remarkable beauty, andprecocious wit. Mr. John Allan, a merchant oflarge fortune and liberal disposition, who had beenintimate with his parents, having no children of hisown, adopted him, and it was generally understoodamong his acquaintances that he intended to make himthe heir of his estate. The proud, nervous irritability

of the boy’s nature was fostered by his guardian’swell-meant but ill-judged indulgence. Nothingwas permitted which could “break his spirit.”He must be the master of his masters, or not haveany. An eminent and most estimable gentlemanof Richmond has written to me, that when Poe was onlysix or seven years of age, he went to a school keptby a widow of excellent character, to whom was committedthe instruction of the children of some of the principalfamilies in the city. A portion of the groundswas used for the cultivation of vegetables, and itsinvasion by her pupils strictly forbidden. Atrespasser, if discovered, was commonly made to wear,during school hours, a turnip or carrot, or something,of this sort, attached to his neck as a sign of disgrace.On one occasion Poe, having violated the rules, wasdecorated with the promised badge, which he wore insullenness until the dismissal of the boys, when,that the full extent of his wrong might be understoodby his patron, of whose sympathy he was confident,he eluded the notice of the schoolmistress, who wouldhave relieved him of his esculent, and made the bestof his way home, with it dangling at his neck.Mr. Allan’s anger was aroused, and he proceededinstantly to the school-room, and after lecturingthe astonished dame upon the enormity of such an insultto his son and to himself, demanded his account, determinedthat the child should not again be subject to suchtyranny. Who can estimate the effect of thispuerile triumph upon the growth of that morbid self-esteemwhich characterized the author in after life?

In 1816, he accompanied Mr. and Mrs. Allan to GreatBritain, visited the most interesting portions ofthe country, and afterward passed four or five yearsin a school kept at Stoke Newington, near London, bythe Rev. Dr. Bransby. In his tale, entitled “WilliamWilson,” he has introduced a striking descriptionof this school and of his life here. He says:

“My earliest recollections of aschool life are connected with a large, ramblingElizabethan house, in a misty-looking village of England,where were a vast number of gigantic and gnarled trees,and where all the houses were excessively ancient.In truth, it was a dream-like and spirit-soothingplace, that venerable old town. At this moment,in fancy, I feel the refreshing chilliness of itsdeeply-shadowed avenues, inhale the fragrance ofits thousand shrubberies, and thrill anew with undefinabledelight, at the deep hollow note of the church-bell,breaking, each, hour, with sullen and sudden roar,upon the stillness of the dusky atmosphere in whichthe fretted Gothic steeple lay embedded and asleep.It gives me, perhaps, as much of pleasure, as Ican now in any manner experience to dwell upon minuterecollections of the school and its concerns.Steeped in misery as I am—­misery, alas!only too real—­I shall be pardoned for seekingrelief, however slight and temporary, in the weaknessof a few rambling details. These, moreover,utterly trivial, and even ridiculous in themselves,assume, to my fancy, adventitious importance, asconnected with a period and a locality when and whereI recognize the first ambiguous monitions of thedestiny which afterward so fully overshadowed me.Let me then remember. The house. I havesaid, was old and irregular. The grounds wereextensive, and a high and solid brick wall, toppedwith a bed of mortar and broken glass, encompassedthe whole. The prison-like rampart formed thelimit of our domain; beyond it we saw but thricea week—­once every Saturday afternoon,when, attended by two ushers, we were permitted totake brief walks in a body through some of the neighboringfields—­and twice during Sunday, whenwe were paraded in the same formal manner to themorning and evening service in the one church of thevillage. Of this church the principal of ourschool was pastor. With how deep a spirit ofwonder and perplexity was I wont to regard him fromour remote pew in the gallery, as, with step solemnand slow, he ascended the pulpit! This reverendman with countenance so demurely benign, with robesso glossy, and so clerically flowing, with wig so minutelypowdered, so rigid and so vast,—­couldthis be he who, of late, with sour visage, and insnuffy habiliments, administered, ferule in hand,the Draconian Laws of the academy? Oh, giganticparadox, too utterly monstrous for solution!At an angle of the ponderous wall frowned a moreponderous gate. It was riveted and studded withiron bolts, and surmounted with jagged iron spikes.What impressions of deep awe did it inspire!It was never opened save for the three periodicalegressions and ingressions already mentioned; then,in every creak of its mighty hinges, we found aplenitude of mystery—­a world of matterfor solemn remark, or for more solemn meditation.The extensive inclosure was irregular in form, havingmany capacious recesses. Of these, three orfour of the largest constituted the play-ground.It was level, and covered with fine hard gravel.I well remember it had no trees, nor benches, noranything similar within it. Of course it wasin the rear of the house. In front lay a smallparterre, planted with box and other shrubs; butthrough this sacred division we passed only uponrare occasions indeed—­such as a first adventto school or final departure thence, or perhaps,when a parent or friend having called for us, wejoyfully took our way home for the Christmas or Midsummerholidays. But the house!—­how quaintan old building was this!—­to me how veritablya palace of enchantment! There was really noend to its windings—­to its incomprehensiblesubdivisions. It was difficult, at any giventime, to say with certainty upon which of its twostories one happened to be. From each room toevery other there were sure to be found three orfour steps either in ascent or descent. Thenthe lateral branches were innumerable—­inconceivable—­andso returning in upon themselves, that our most exactideas in regard to the whole mansion were not veryfar different from those with which we ponderedupon infinity. During the five years of my residencehere, I was never able to ascertain with precision,in what remote locality lay the little sleepingapartment assigned to myself and some eighteen ortwenty other scholars. The school-room was thelargest in the house—­I could not helpthinking, in the world. It was very long, narrow,and dismally low, with pointed Gothic windows and aceiling of oak. In a remote and terror-inspiringangle was a square inclosure of eight or ten feet,comprising the sanctum, ‘during hours,’of our principal, the Reverend Dr. Bransby.It was a solid structure, with massy door, soonerthan open which in the absence of the ‘Dominie,’we would all have willingly perished by the peineforte et dure. In other angles were twoother similar boxes, far less reverenced, indeed,but still greatly matters of awe. One of thesewas the pulpit of the ‘classical’ usher,one of the ‘English and mathematical.’Interspersed about the room, crossing and recrossingin endless irregularity, were innumerable benchesand desks, black, ancient and time-worn, piled desperatelywith much-bethumbed books, and so beseamed withinitial letters, names at full length, grotesque figures,and other multiplied efforts of the knife, as to haveentirely lost what little of original form mighthave been their portion in days long departed.A huge bucket with water stood at one extremityof the room, and a clock of stupendous dimensions atthe other.

“Encompassed by the massy wallsof this venerable academy, I passed, yet not intedium or disgust, the years of the third lustrum ofmy life. The teeming brain of childhood requiresno external world of incident to occupy or amuseit; and the apparently dismal monotony of a schoolwas replete with more intense excitement than my riperyouth has derived from luxury, or my full manhoodfrom crime. Yet I must believe that my firstmental development had in it much of the uncommon—­evenmuch of the outre. Upon mankind at largethe events of very early existence rarely leavein mature age any definite impression. Allis gray shadow—­a weak and irregular remembrance—­anindistinct regathering of feeble pleasures and phantasmagoricpains. With me this is not so. In childhoodI must have felt with the energy of a man what Inow find stamped upon memory in lines as vivid, asdeep; and as durable as the exergues of theCarthaginian medals. Yet the fact—­inthe fact of the world’s view-how little was thereto remember. The morning’s awakening,the nightly summons to bed; the connings, the recitations;the periodical half-holidays and perambulations;the playground, with its broils, its pastimes, itsintrigues; these, by a mental sorcery long forgotten,were made to involve a wilderness of sensation,a world of rich incident, an universe of variedemotion, of excitement the most passionate and spirit-stirring.‘Oh, le bon temps, que se siecle de fer!’”

In 1822, he returned to the United States, and afterpassing a few months at an academy in Richmond, heentered the University at Charlottesville, where heled a very dissipated life; the manners which thenprevailed there were extremely dissolute, and he wasknown as the wildest and most reckless student ofhis class; but his unusual opportunities, and theremarkable ease with which he mastered the most difficultstudies, kept him all the while in the first rank forscholarship, and he would have graduated with the highesthonors, had not his gambling, intemperance, and othervices, induced his expulsion from the university.

At this period he was noted for feats of hardihood,strength, and activity; and on one occasion, in ahot day of June, he swam from Richmond to Warwick,seven miles and a half, against a tide running probablyfrom two to three miles an hour.[A] He was expert atfence, had some skill in drawing, and was a readyand eloquent conversationist and declaimer.

[Footnote A: This statement was first printedduring Mr. Poe’s lifetime, and its truth beingquestioned in some of the journals, the followingcertificate was published by a distinguished gentlemanof Virginia:

“I was one of several who witnessed this swimmingfeat. We accompanied Mr. Poe in boats. Messrs.Robert Stannard, John Lyle, (since dead) Robert Saunders,John Munford, I think, and one or two others, werealso of the party. Mr. P. did not seem at allfatigued, and walked back to Richmond immediatelyafter the feat—­which was undertaken fora wager.

“ROBERT G. CABELL.”]

His allowance of money while at Charlottesville hadbeen liberal, but he quitted the place very much indebt; and when Mr. Allan refused to accept some ofthe drafts with which he had paid losses in gaming,he wrote to him an abusive letter, quitted his house,and soon after left the country with the quixoticintention of joining the Greeks, then in the midstof their struggle with the Turks. He never reachedhis destination, and we know but little of his adventuresin Europe for nearly a year. By the end of thistime he had made his way to St. Petersburg, and ourMinister in that capital, the late Mr. Henry Middleton,of South Carolina, was ummoned one morning to savehim from penalties incurred in a drunken debauch.Through Mr. Middleton’s kindness he was set atliberty and enabled to return to this country.

His meeting with Mr. Allan was not very cordial, butthat gentleman declared himself willing to serve himin any way that should seem judicious; and when Poeexpressed some anxiety to enter the Military Academy,he induced Chief Justice Marshall, Andrew Stevenson,General Scott, and other eminent persons, to signan application which secured his appointment to ascholarship in that institution.

Mrs. Allan, whom Poe appears to have regarded withmuch affection, and who had more influence over himthan any one else at this period, died on the 27thof February, 1829, which I believe was just beforePoe left Richmond for West Point. It has beenerroneously stated by all Poe’s biographers,that Mr. Allan was now sixty-five years of age, andthat Miss Paterson, to whom he was married afterward,was young enough to be his granddaughter. Mr.Allan was in his forty-eighth year, and the differencebetween his age and that of his second wife was notso great as justly to attract any observation.

For a few weeks the cadet applied himself with muchassiduity to his studies, and he became at once afavorite with his mess and with the officers and professorsof the Academy; but his habits of dissipation wererenewed; he neglected his duties and disobeyed orders;and in ten months from his matriculation he was cashiered.

He went again to Richmond, and was received into thefamily of Mr. Allan, who was disposed still to behis friend, and in the event of his good behaviorto treat him like a son; but it soon became necessaryto close his doors against him forever. Accordingto Poe’s own statement he ridiculed the marriageof his patron with Miss Paterson, and had a quarrelwith her; but a different story,[B] scarcely suitablefor repetition here, was told by the friends of theother party. Whatever the circ*mstances, theyparted in anger, and Mr. Allan from that time declinedto see or in any way to assist him. Mr. Allandied in the spring of 1834, in the fifty-fourth yearof his age, leaving three children to share his property,of which not a mill was bequeathed to Poe.

[Footnote B: The writer of an eulogium upon thelife and genius of Mr. Poe, in the Southern LiteraryMessenger, for March, 1850, thus refers to thispoint in his history:

“The story of the other side is different:and if true, throws a dark shade upon the quarrel,and a very ugly light upon Poe’s character.We shall not insert it, because it is one of thoserelations, which we think, with Sir Thomas Browne,should never be recorded,—­being ’veritieswhose truth we fear and heartily wish there were notruth therein ... whose relations honest minds dodeprecate. For of sins heterocl*tal, and suchas want name or precedent, there is ofttimes a sineven in their history. We do desire no recordof enormities: sins should he accounted new.They omit of their monstrosity as they fall from theirrarity; for men count it venial to err with their forefathers,and foolishly conceive they divide a sin in its society....In things of this nature, silence commendeth history:’tis the veniable part of things lost; whereinthere must never arise a Pancirollus, nor remain anyregister but that of hell.’”]

Soon after he left West Point Poe had printed at Baltimorea small volume of verses, ("Al Aaraaf,” of aboutfour hundred lines, “Tamerlane,” of aboutthree hundred lines, with smaller pieces,) and thefavorable manner in which it was commonly referredto confirmed his belief that he might succeed in theprofession of literature. The contents of thebook appear to have been written when he was betweensixteen and nineteen years of age; but though theyillustrated the character of his abilities and justifiedhis anticipations of success, they do not seem to meto evince, all things considered, a very remarkableprecocity. The late Madame d’Ossoli refersto some of them as the productions of a boy of eightor ten years, but I believe there is no evidence thatanything of his which has been published was writtenbefore he left the university. Certainly, itwas his habit so constantly to labor upon what he hadproduced—­he was at all times so anxiousand industrious in revision—­that his works,whenever first composed, displayed the perfection ofhis powers at the time when they were given to thepress.

His contributions to the journals attracted littleattention, and his hopes of gaining a living in thisway being disappointed, he enlisted in the army asa private soldier. How long he remained in theservice I have not been able to ascertain. Hewas recognized by officers who had known him at WestPoint and efforts were made, privately, but with prospectsof success, to obtain for him a commission, when itwas discovered by his friends that he had deserted.

He had probably found relief from the monotony ofa soldier’s life in literary composition.His mind was never in repose, and without some suchresort the dull routine of camp or barracks would havebeen insupportable. When he next appears, hehas a volume of MS. stories, which he desires to printunder the title of “Tales of the Folio Club.”An offer by the proprietor of the Baltimore SaturdayVisitor, of two prizes, one for the best taleand one for the best poem, induced him to submit thepieces entitled “MS. Found in a Bottle,”“Lionizing,” “The Visionary,”and three others, with “The Coliseum,”a poem, to the committee, which consisted of Mr. JohnP. Kennedy, the author of “Horse-Shoe Robinson;”Mr. J.H.B. Latrobe, and Dr. James H. Miller.Such matters are usually disposed of in a very off-handway: Committees to award literary prizes drinkto the payer’s health in good wines, over unexaminedMSS., which they submit to the discretion of publishers,with permission to use their names in such a way asto promote the publishers’ advantage. Soperhaps it would have been in this case, but that oneof the committee, taking up a little book remarkablybeautiful and distinct in caligraphy, was temptedto read several pages; and becoming interested, hesummoned the attention of the company to the half-dozencompositions it contained. It was unanimouslydecided that the prizes should be paid to “the

first of geniuses who had written legibly.”Not another MS. was unfolded. Immediately the“confidential envelope” was opened, andthe successful competitor was found to bear the scarcely-knownname of Poe. The committee indeed awarded to himthe premiums for both the tale and the poem, but subsequentlyaltered their decision, so as to exclude him fromthe second premium, in consideration of his havingobtained the higher one. The prize tale was the“MS. found in a Bottle.” This awardwas published on the twelfth of October, 1833.The next day the publisher called to see Mr. Kennedy,and gave him an account of the author, which excitedhis curiosity and sympathy, and caused him to requestthat he should be brought to his office. Accordinglyhe was introduced. The prize-money had not yetbeen paid, and he was in the costume in which he hadanswered the advertisem*nt of his good fortune.Thin, and pale even to ghastliness, his whole appearanceindicated sickness and the utmost destitution.A well-worn frock-coat concealed the absence of ashirt, and imperfect boots disclosed the want of hose.But the eyes of the young man were luminous with intelligenceand feeling, and his voice and conversation and manner,all won upon the lawyer’s regard. Poe toldhis history, and his ambition, and it was determinedthat he should not want means for a suitable appearancein society, nor opportunities for just display ofhis abilities in literature. Mr. Kennedy accompaniedhim to a clothing-store, and purchased for him a respectablesuit, with changes of linen, and sent him to a bath,from which he returned with the suddenly regained styleof a gentleman.

His new friends were very kind to him, and availedthemselves of every Opportunity to serve him.Near the close of the year 1834 the late Mr. T.W.White established in Richmond the Southern LiteraryMessenger. He was a man of much simplicity,purity, and energy of character, but not a writer,and he frequently solicited his acquaintances’literary assistance. On receiving from him anapplication for an article, early in 1835, Mr. Kennedy,who was busy with the duties of his profession, advisedPoe to send one, and in a few weeks he had occasionto inclose the following answer to a letter from Mr.White:

“BALTIMORE, April 13, 1835.

“Dear Sir: Poe did right in referringto me. He is very clever with his pen—­classicaland scholarlike. He wants experience and direction,but I have no doubt he can be made very useful toyou. And, poor fellow! he is very poor.I told him to write something for every number of yourmagazine, and that you might find it to your advantageto give him some permanent employ. He has a volumeof very bizarre tales in the hands of ——­,in Philadelphia, who for a year past has been promisingto publish them. This young fellow is highlyimaginative, and a little given to the terrific.He is at work upon a tragedy, but I have turned himto drudging upon whatever may make money, and I haveno doubt you and he will find your account in eachother.”

In the next number of the “Messenger”Mr. White announced that Poe was its editor, or inother words, that he had made arrangements with agentleman of approved literary taste and attainmentsto whose especial management the editorial departmentwould be confided, and it was declared that this gentlemanwould “devote his exclusive attention to thework.” Poe continued, however, to residein Baltimore, and it is probable that he was engagedonly as a general contributor and a writer of criticalnotices of books. In a letter to Mr. White, underthe date of the thirtieth of May, he says:

“In regard to my critique of Mr. Kennedy’snovel, I seriously feel ashamed of what I have written.I fully intended to give the work a thorough review,and examine it in detail. Ill health alone preventedme from so doing. At the time I made the hastysketch I sent you, I was so ill as to be hardly ableto see the paper on which I wrote, and I finishedit in a state of complete exhaustion. I have not,therefore, done anything like justice to the book,and I am vexed about the matter, for Mr. Kennedy hasproved himself a kind friend to me in every respect,and I am sincerely grateful to him for many acts ofgenerosity and attention. You ask me if I amperfectly, satisfied with your course. I replythat I am—­entirely. My poor servicesare not worth what you give me for them.”

About a month afterward he wrote:

“You ask me if I would be willing to come onto Richmond if you should have occasion, for my servicesduring the coming winter. I reply that nothingwould give me greater pleasure. I have been desirousfor some time past of paying a visit to Richmond,and would be glad of an reasonable excuse for so doing.Indeed I am anxious to settle myself in that city,and if, by any chance, you hear of a situation likelyto suit me, I would gladly accept it, were the salaryeven the merest trifle. I should, indeed, feelmyself greatly indebted to you if through your meansI could accomplish this object. What you say inthe conclusion of your letter, in relation to thesupervision of proof-sheets, gives me reason to hopethat possibly you might find something for me to doin your office. If so I should be very glad—­forat present only a very small portion of my time isemployed.”

He continued in Baltimore till September. Inthis period he wrote several long reviews, which forthe most part were rather abstracts of works thancritical discussions, and published, with others, “HansPhall,” a story in some respects very similarto Mr. Locke’s celebrated account of Herschel’sDiscoveries in the Moon. At first he appears tohave been ill satisfied with Richmond, or with hisduties, for in two or three weeks after his removalto that city we find Mr. Kennedy writing to him:

“I am sorry to see you in such plight as yourletter shows you in. It is strange that justat this time, when everybody is praising you, and whenfortune is beginning to smile upon your hitherto wretchedcirc*mstances, you should be invaded by those bluedevils. It belongs, however, to your age andtemper to be thus buffeted—­but be assured,it only wants a little resolution to master the adversaryforever. You will doubtless do well henceforthin literature, and add to your comforts as wellas to your reputation, which it gives me great pleasureto assure you is everywhere rising in popular esteem.”

But he could not bear his good fortune. On receivinga month’s salary he gave himself up to habitswhich only necessity had restrained at Baltimore.For a week he was in a condition of brutish drunkenness,and Mr. White dismissed him. When he became sober,however, he had no recourse but in reconciliation,and he wrote letters and induced acquaintances tocall upon Mr. White with professions of repentanceand promises of reformation. With his usual considerateand judicious kindness that gentleman answered him:

“My dear Edgar: I cannot addressyou in such language as this occasion and my feelingsdemand: I must be content to speak to you in myplain way. That you are sincere in all your promisesI firmly believe. But when you once again treadthese streets, I have my fears that your resolutionswill fail, and that you will again drink till yoursenses are lost. If you rely on your strengthyou are gone. Unless you look to your Maker forhelp you will not be safe. How much I regrettedparting from you is known to Him only and myself.I had become attached to you; I am still; and I wouldwillingly say return, did not a knowledge of your pastlife make me dread a speedy renewal of our separation.If you would make yourself contented with quartersin my house, or with any other private family, whereliquor is not used, I should think there was some hopefor you. But, if you go to a tavern, or to anyplace where it is used at table, you are not safe.You have fine talents, Edgar, and you ought to havethem respected, as well as yourself. Learn torespect yourself, and you will soon find that youare respected. Separate yourself from the bottle,and from bottle companions, forever. Tell me ifyou can and will do so. If you again become anassistant in my office, it must be understood thatall engagements on my part cease the moment you getdrunk. I am your true friend, T. W. W.”

A new contract was arranged, but Poe’s irregularitiesfrequently interrupted the kindness and finally exhaustedthe patience of his generous though methodical employer,and in the number of the “Messenger” forJanuary, 1837 he thus took leave of its readers:

“Mr. Poe’s attention being called in anotherdirection, he will decline, with the present number,the editorial duties of the Messenger. His CriticalNotices for this month end with Professor Anthon’sCicero-what follows is from another hand. Withthe best wishes to the magazine, and to its few foesas well as many friends, he is now desirous of biddingall parties a peaceful farewell.”

While in Richmond, with an income of but five hundreddollars a year, he had married his cousin, VirginiaClemm, a very amiable and lovely girl, who was aspoor as himself, and little fitted, except by her gentletemper, to be tho wife of such a person. He wentfrom Richmond to Baltimore; and after a short time,to Philadelphia, and to New York. A slight acquaintancewith Dr. Hawks had led that acute and powerful writerto invite his contributions to the “New YorkReview,” and he had furnished for the secondnumber of it (for October, 1837) an elaborate butnot very remarkable article upon Stephens’s thenrecently published “Incidents of Travel in Egypt,Arabia Petrea, and the Holy Land.” Hisabilities were not of the kind demanded for such work,and he never wrote another paper for this or for anyother Review of the same class. He had commencedin the “Literary Messenger,” a story ofthe sea under the title of “Arthur Gordon Pym"[A],and upon the recommendation of Mr. Paulding and others,it was printed by the Harpers. It is his longestwork, and is not without some sort of merit, but itreceived little attention. The publishers sentone hundred copies to England, and being mistaken atfirst for a narrative of real experiences it was advertisedto be reprinted, but a discovery of its character,I believe, prevented such a result. An attemptis made in it, by simplicity of style, minuteness ofnautical descriptions, and circ*mstantiality of narration,to give it that air of truth which constitutes theprincipal attraction of Sir Edward Seaward’snarrative, and Robinson Cursoe; but it has none ofthe pleasing interest of these tales; it is as fullof wonders as Munchausen, has as many atrocities asthe Book of Pirates, and as liberal an array of painingand revolting horrors as ever was invented by AnneRadcliffe or George Walker. Thus far a tendencyto extravagance had been the most striking infirmityof his genius. He had been more anxious to beintense than to be natural; and some of his bizarrerieshad been mistaken for satire, and admired for thatquality. Afterward he was more judicious, andif his outlines were incredible it was commonly forgottenin the simplicity of his details and their cohesivecumulation.

[Footnote A: THE NARRATIVE OF ARTHUR GORDON PYM,OF NANTUCKET; comprising the Details of a Mutiny andAtrocious Butchery on board the American Brig Grampus,on her way to the South Seas—­with an accountof the Re-capture of the Vessel by the Survivors;their Shipwreck, and subsequent Horrible Sufferingsfrom Famine; their Deliverance by means of the Britishschooner Jane Gray; the brief Cruise of this latterVessel in the Antarctic ocean; her Capture, and theMassacre of the Crew among a Group of Islands in the84th parallel of southern latitude; together with theincredible Adventures and Discoveries still furtherSouth, to which that distressing calamity gave rise.—­Ivol. 12mo. pp. 198 New-York, Harper & Brothers, 1838.]

Near the end of the year 1838 he settled in Philadelphia.He had no very Definite purposes, but trusted forsupport to the chances of success as a magazinistand newspaper correspondent. Mr. Burton, the comedian,had recently established the “Gentleman’sMagazine,” and of this he became a contributor,and in May, 1839, the chief editor, devoting to it,for ten dollars a week, two hours every day, whichleft him abundant time for more important labors.In the same month he agreed to furnish such reviewalsas he had written for the “Literary Messenger,”for the “Literary Examiner,” a new magazineat Pittsburgh. But his more congenial pursuitwas tale-writing, and he produced about this periodsome of his most remarkable and characteristic worksin a department of imaginative composition in whichhe was henceforth alone and unapproachable. “TheFall of the House of Usher” and “Legeia”,are the most interesting illustrations of his mentalorganization—­his masterpieces in a peculiarvein of romantic creation. They have theunquestionablestamp of genius. The analyses of the growth ofmadness in one, and the thrilling revelations of theexistence of a first wife in the person of a second,in the other, are made with consummate skill; and thestrange and solemn and fascinating beauty which informsthe style and invests the circ*mstances of both, drugsthe mind, and makes us forget the improbabilitiesof their general design.

An awakened ambition and the healthful influence ofa conviction that his works were appreciated, andthat his fame was increasing, led him for a whileto cheerful views of life, and to regular habits ofconduct. He wrote to a friend, the author of“Edge Hill,” in Richmond, that he hadquite overcome “the seductive and dangerous besetment”by which he had so often been prostrated, and to anotherfriend that, incredible as it might seem, he had becomea “model of temperance,” and of “othervirtues,” which it had sometimes been difficultfor him to practice. Before the close of thesummer, however, he relapsed into his former courses,and for weeks was regardless of everything but a morbidand insatiable appetite for the means of intoxication.

In the autumn he published all the prose stories hehad then written, in two volumes, under the titleof “Tales of the Grotesque and the Arabesque.”The work was not salable, perhaps because its contentswere too familiar from recent separate publicationin magazines; and it was not so warmly praised, generally,as I think it should have been, though in point ofstyle the pieces which it embraced are much less perfectthan they were made subsequently.

He was with Mr. Burton until June, 1840—­morethan a year. Mr. Burton Appreciated his abilitiesand would have gladly continued the connection; butPoe was so unsteady of purpose and so unreliable thatthe actor was never sure when he left the city thathis business would be cared for. On one occasion,returning after the regular day of publication, hefound the number unfinished, and Poe incapable ofduty. He prepared the necessary copy himself,published the magazine, and was proceeding with arrangementswith for another month, when he received a letter fromhis assistant, of which the tone may be inferred fromthis answer:

“I am sorry you have thought it necessary tosend me such a letter. Your troubles have givena morbid tone to your feelings which it is your dutyto discourage. I myself have been as severelyhandled by the world as you can possibly have been,but my sufferings have not tinged my mind with melancholy,nor jaundiced my views of society. You must rouseyour energies, and if care assail you, conquer it.I will gladly overlook the past. I hope you willas easily fulfill your pledges for the future.We shall agree very well, thought I cannot permitthe magazine to be made a vehicle for that sort ofseverity which you think is so ’successful withthe mob.’ I am truly much less anxious aboutmaking a monthly ‘sensation’ than I amupon the point of fairness. You must, my dearsir, get rid of your avowed ill-feelings toward yourbrother authors. You see I speak plainly; I cannotdo otherwise upon such a subject. You say thepeople love havoc. I think they love justice.I think you yourself would not have written the articleon Dawes, in a more healthy state of mind. I amnot trammeled by any vulgar consideration of expediency;I would rather lose money than by such undue severitywound the feelings of a kind-hearted and honorableman. And I am satisfied that Dawes has somethingthe true fire in him. I regretted your word-catchingspirit. But I wander from my design. I acceptyour proposition to recommence your interrupted avocationsupon the Maga. Let us meet as if we hadnot exchanged letters. Use more exercise, writewhen feelings prompt, and be assured of my friendship.You will soon regain a healthy activity of mind, andlaugh at your past vagaries.”

This letter was kind and judicious. It givesus a glimpse of Poe’s theory of criticism, anddisplays the temper and principles of the literarycomedian in an honorable light. Two or three monthsafterward Burton went out of town to fulfill a professionalengagement, leaving material and directions for completingthe next number of the magazine in four days.He was absent nearly a fortnight, and on returninghe found that his printers in the meanwhile had notreceived a line of copy; but that Poe had preparedthe prospectus of a new monthly, and obtained transcriptsof his subscription and account books, to be usedin a scheme for supplanting him. He encounteredhis associate late in the evening at one of his accustomedhaunts, and said, “Mr. Poe, I am astonished:Give me my manuscripts so that I can attend to theduties you have so shamefully neglected, and whenyou are sober we will settle.” Poe interruptedhim with “Who are you that presume to addressme in this manner? Burton, I am—­theeditor—­of the Penn.—­Magazine—­andyou are—­hiccup—­a fool.”Of course this ended his relations with the “Gentleman’s.”

In November, 1840, Burton’s miscellany was mergedin “The Casket,” owned by Mr. George R.Graham, and the new series received the name of itsproprietor, who encouraged Poe in its editorship.His connection with “Graham’s Magazine”lasted about a year and a half, and this was one ofthe most active and brilliant periods of his literarylife. He wrote in it several of his finest talesand most trenchant criticisms, and challenged attentionby his papers entitled “Autography,” andthose on cryptology and ciphers. In the first,adopting a suggestion of Lavater, he attempted theillustration of character from handwriting; and inthe second, he assumed that human ingenuity couldconstruct no secret writing which human ingenuitycould not resolve; a not very dangerous proposition,since it implied no capacity in himself to discoverevery riddle of this kind that should be invented.He however succeeded with several difficult cryptographsthat were sent to him, and the direction of his mindto the subject led to the composition of some of thetales of ratiocination which so largely increasedhis reputation. The infirmities which inducedhis separation from Mr. White and Mr. Burton at lengthcompelled Mr. Graham to seek for another editor; butPoe still remained in Philadelphia, engaged from timeto time in various literary occupations, and in thevain effort to establish a journal of his own to becalled “The Stylus.” Although it requiresconsiderable capital to carry on a monthly of thedescription he proposed, I think it would not havebeen difficult, with his well-earned fame as a magazinist,for him to have found a competent and suitable publisher,but for the unfortunate notoriety of his habits, andthe failure in succession of three persons who hadadmired him for his genius and pitied him for his misfortunes,by every means that tact or friendship could suggest,to induce the consistency and steadiness of applicationindispensable to success in such pursuits. Itwas in the spring of 1848—­more than a yearafter his dissociation from Graham—­thathe wrote the story of “The Gold Bug,” forwhich he was paid a prize of one hundred dollars.It has relation to Captain Kyd’s treasure, andis one of the most remarkable illustrations of hisingenuity of construction and apparent subtlety ofreasoning. The interest depends upon the solutionof an intricate cypher. In the autumn of 1844Poe removed to New York.

It was while he resided in Philadelphia that I becameacquainted with him. His manner, except duringhis fits of intoxication, was very quiet and gentlemanly;he was usually dressed with simplicity and elegance;and when once he sent for me to visit him, duringa period of illness caused by protracted and anxiouswatching at the side of his sick wife, I was impressedby the singular neatness and the air of refinementin his home. It was in a small house, in oneof the pleasant and silent neighborhoods far fromthe center of the town, and though slightly and cheaplyfurnished, everything in it was so tasteful and sofitly disposed that it seemed altogether suitablefor a man of genius. For this and for most ofthe comforts he enjoyed in his brightest as in hisdarkest years, he was chiefly indebted to his mother-in-law,who loved him with more than maternal devotion andconstancy.

He had now written his most acute criticisms and hismost admirable tales. Of tales, beside thoseto which I have referred, he had produced “TheDescent into the Maelstroem,” “The PrematureBurial,” “The Purloined Letter,”“The Murders of the Rue Morgue,” and itssequel, “The Mystery of Marie Roget.”The scenes of the last three are in Paris, where theauthor’s friend, the Chevalier Auguste Dupin,is supposed to reveal to him the curiosities of hisexperience and observation in matters of police.“The Mystery of Marie Roget” was firstpublished in the autumn of 1842, before an extraordinaryexcitement, occasioned by the murder of a young girlnamed Mary Rogers, in the vicinity of New York, hadquite subsided, though several months after the tragedy.Under the pretense of relating the fate of a Parisiangrisette, Mr. Poe followed in minute detailthe essential while merely paralleling the inessentialfacts of the real murder. His object appearsto have been to reinvestigate the case and to settlehis own conclusions as to the probable culprit.There is a great deal of hair-splitting in the incidentaldiscussions by Dupin, throughout all these stories,but it is made effective. Much of their popularity,as well as that of other tales of ratiocination byPoe, arose from their being in a new key. I donot mean to say that they are not ingenious; but theyhave been thought more ingenious than they are, onaccount of their method and air of method. In“The Murders of the Rue Morgue,” for instance,what ingenuity is displayed in unraveling a web whichhas been woven for the express purpose of unraveling?The reader is made to confound the ingenuity of thesupposititious Dupin with that of the writer of thestory. These works brought the name of Poe himselfsomewhat conspicuously before the law courts of Paris.The journal, La Commerce, gave a feuilletonin which “The Murders of the Rue Morgue”appeared in translation. Afterward a writer forLa Quotidienne served it for that paper underthe title of “L’Orang-Otang.”A third party accused La Quotidienne of plagiaryfrom La Commerce, and in the course of thelegal investigation which ensued, the feuilletonisteof La Commerce proved to the satisfaction ofthe tribunal that he had stolen the tale entirelyfrom Mr. Poe,[A] whose merits were soon after canvassedin the “Revue des Deux Mondes,”and whose best tales were upon this impulse translatedby Mme. Isabelle Meunier for the DemocraticPacifique and other French gazettes.

[Footnote A: The controversy is wittily describedin the following extract from a Parisian journal,L’Entr*ficte, of the 20th of October,1846:

“Un grand journal accusait l’autre jourM. Old-Nick d’avoir vole un orang-outang.Cet interessant animal flanait dans le feuilleton dela Quotidienne, lorsque M. Old-Nick le vit,le trouva a son gout et s’en empara. Notreconfrere avait sans doute besoin d’un groom.On sait que les Anglais ont depuis long-temps coloniseles orangs-outangs, et les ont instruits dans Partde porter bottes. Il paraitrait, toujours suivantle meme grand journal, que M. Old-Nick, apres avoirderobe cet orang-outang a la Quotidienne, l’auraitensuite cede au Commerce, comme propriete alui appartenant. Je sais que M. Old-Nick est ungarcon plein d’esprit et plein d’honneur,assez riche de son propre fond pour ne pas s’approprierles orangs-outangs des autres; cette accusation mesurprit. Apres tout, me dis-je, il y a eu desmonomanies plus extraodinaires que celle-la; le grandBacon ne pouvait voir un baton de cire a cacheter sansse l’approprier: dans une conference avecM. de Metternich aux Tuileries, l’Empereur s’apercutque le diplomate autrichien glissait des pains a cacheterdans sa poche. M. Old-Nick a une autre manic,il fait les orangs-outangs. Je m’attendaistoujours a ce que la Quotidienne jeat feu etflammes et demandat a grads cris son homme des bois.Il faut vous dire ques j’avais la son histoiredans le Commerce, elle etait charmante d’espritet de style, pleine de rapidite et de desinvolture;la Quotidienne l’avait egalement publiee,mais en trois feuilletons. L’orang-outangdu Commerce n’avait que neuf colonnes.Il s’agissait done d’un autre quadrumanelitteraire. Ma foi non! c’etait le meme;seulement il n’appartenait ni a la Quotidienne,ni au Commerce. M. Old-Nick l’avaitemprunte a un romancier American qu’il est entrain d’inventer dans la Revue des Deux-Mondes.Ce romancier s’appelle Poe; je ne dis pas contraire.Voila done un ecrivain qui use du droit legitime d’arrangerles nouvelles d’un romancier American qu’ila invente, et on l’accuse de plagiat, de volau feuilleton; on alarme ses amis en leu faisant croireque set ecrivain est possede de la monomaine des orangs-outangs.Par la Courchamps! voila qui me parait leger.M. Old Nick a ecrit au journal en question une reponsepour retablir sa moralite, attaquee a l’endroitdes orangs-outangs. Cet orang-outang a mis, cesjours derniers, toute la litterature en emoi; personnen’a cru un seul instant a l’accusationqu’on a essaye, de faire peser sur M. Old Nick,d’autant plus qu’il avait pris soin d’indiquerluimeme la cage ou il avait pris son orang-outang.Ceci va fournir de nouvelles armes a la secte quiereit aux romanciers Americans. Le prejuge del’existence de Cooper en prendra des nouvellesforces. En attendant que la verite se decouvre,nous sommes forces de convenir que ce Poe est un gaillardbien fin, bien spirituel, quand il est arre par M.Old-Nick.”]

In New York Poe entered upon a new sort of life.Heretofore, from the Commencement of his literarycareer, he had resided in provincial towns. Nowhe was in a metropolis, and with a reputation whichmight have served as a passport to any society hemight desire. For the first time he was receivedinto circles capable of both the appreciation and theproduction of literature. He added to his famesoon after he came to the city by the publicationof that remarkable composition “The Raven,”of which Mr. Willis has observed that in his opinion“it is the most effective single example offugitive poetry ever published in this country, andis unsurpassed in English poetry for subtle conception,masterly ingenuity of versification, and consistentsustaining of imaginative lift;” and by thatof one of the most extraordinary instances of thenaturalness of detail—–­the verisimilitudeof minute narrative—­for which lie was preeminentlydistinguished, his “Mesmeric Revelation,”purporting to be the last conversation of a somnambule,held with his magnetizer just before his death, whichwas followed by the yet more striking exhibition ofabilities in the same way, entitled “The Factsin the case of M. Vaklemar,” in which the subjectis represented as having been mesmerized in articulomortis. These pieces were reprinted throughoutthe literary and philosophical world, in nearly alllanguages, everywhere causing sharp and curious speculation,and where readers could be persuaded that they werefables, challenging a reluctant but genuine admiration.

He had not been long in New York before he was engagedby Mr. Willis and General Morris as a critic and assistanteditor of The Mirror. He remained in thissituation about six months, when he became associatedwith Mr. Briggs in the conduct of The Broadway Journal,which, in October 1845, passed entirely into his possession.He had now the long sought but never before enjoyedabsolute control of a literary gazette, and, withmuch friendly assistance, he maintained it long enoughto show, that whatever his genius, he had not thekind or degree of talent necessary to such a position.His chief critical writing in The Broadway Journal,were a paper on Miss Barrett’s Poems, and a longdiscussion of the subject of plagiarism, with especialreference to Mr. Longfellow. In March, 1845,he had given a lecture at the Society Library uponthe American poets, composed, for the most part, offragments of his previously published reviewals; andin the autumn he accepted an invitation to read apoem before the Boston Lyceum. A week after theevent, he printed in The Broadway Journal thefollowing account of it, in reply to a paragraph inone of the city papers, founded upon a statement inthe Boston Transcript.

“Our excellent friend, Major Noah, has sufferedhimself to be cajoled by that most beguiling of allbeguiling little divinities, Miss Walter, of TheTranscript. We have been looking all overher article with the aid of a taper, to see if wecould discover a single syllable of truth in it—­andreally blush to acknowledge that we cannot. Theadorable creature has been telling a parcel of fibsabout us, by way of revenge for something that wedid to Mr. Longfellow (who admires her very much) andfor calling her ‘a pretty little witch’into the bargain. The facts of the case seemto be these: We were invited ’deliver’(standand deliver) a poem before the Boston Lyceum.As a matter of course, we accepted the invitation.The audience was ‘large and distinguished.’Mr Cushing[B] preceded us with a very capital discourse.He was much applauded. On arising we were mostcordially received. We occupied some fifteen minuteswith an apology for not ‘delivering,’ asis usual in such cases, a didactic poem: a didacticpoem, in our opinion, being precisely no poem at all.After some farther words—­still of apology—­forthe ‘indefiniteness’ and ‘generalimbecility’ of what we had to offer—­allso unworthy a Bostonian audience—­wecommenced, and with many interruptions of applause,concluded. Upon the whole, the approbation wasconsiderably more (the more the pity too) than thatbestowed upon Mr. Cushing. When we had made anend the audience of course arose to depart; and aboutone-tenth of them, probably, had really departed, whenMr. Coffin, one of the managing committee, arrestedthose who remained, by the announcement that we hadbeen requested to deliver ‘The Raven.’We delivered ‘The Raven’ forthwith—­(withouttaking a receipt)—­were very cordially applaudedagain—­and this was the end of it—­withthe exception of the sad tale invented to suit herown purposes, by that amiable little enemy of ours,Miss Walter. We shall never call a woman ’apretty little witch’ again as long as we live.

[Footnote B: Hon. Caleb Cushing, then recentlyreturned from his mission to China.]

“We like Boston. We were born there—­andperhaps it is just as well not to mention that weare heartily ashamed of the fact. The Bostoniansare very well in their way. Their hotels arebad. Their pumpkin pies are delicious. Theirpoetry is not so good. Their common is no commonthing—­and the duck-pond might answer-ifits answer could be heard for the frogs. Butwith all these good qualities, the Bostonians haveno soul. They have always evinced toward us,individually, the basest ingratitude for the serviceswe rendered them in enlightening them about the originalityof Mr. Longfellow. When we accepted, therefore,an invitation to ‘deliver’ a poem in Boston,we accepted it simply and solely, because we had acuriosity to know how it felt to be publicly hissed—­andbecause we wished to see what effect we could produceby a neat little impromptu speech in reply.

Perhaps, however, we overrated our own importance,or the Bostonian want of common civility—­whichis not quite so manifest as one or two of their editorswould wish the public to believe. We assure MajorNoah that he is wrong. The Bostonians are well-bred—­asvery dull persons very generally are. Still,with their vile ingratitude staring us in the eyes,it could scarcely be supposed that we would put ourselvesto the trouble of composing for the Bostonians anythingin the shape of an original poem. We didnot. We had a poem, of about 500 lines, lyingby us—­one quite as good as new—­one,at all events, that we considered would answer sufficientlywell for an audience of Transcendentalists. Thatwe gave them—­it was the best that we had—­forthe price—­and it did answer remarkablywell. Its name was not ’The Messenger-Star’—­whobut Miss Walter would ever think of so delicious alittle bit of invention as that? We had no namefor it at all. The poem is what is occasionallycalled a ’juvenile poem,’ but the factis it is anything but juvenile now, for we wrote it,printed it, and published it, in book form, beforewe had completed our tenth year. We read it verbatim,from a copy now in our possession, and which we shallbe happy to show at any moment to any of our inquisitivefriends. We do not, ourselves, think the poema remarkably good one: it is not sufficientlytranscendental. Still it did well enough for theBoston audience—­who evinced characteristicdiscrimination in understanding, and especially applaudingall those knotty passages which we ourselves havenot yet been able to understand.

“As regards the auger of The Boston Times,and one or two other absurdities—­as regards,we say the wrath of Achilles—­we incurredit-or rather its manifestation—­by lettingsome of our cat out of the bag a few hours soonerthan we had intended. Over a bottle of champagne,that night, we confessed to Messrs. Cushing, Whipple,Hudson, Fields, and a few other natives who swearnot altogether by the frog-pond-we confessed, we say,the soft impeachment of the hoax. Et hine ille irae.We should have waited a couple of days.”

It is scarcely necessary to suggest that this musthave been written before he had quite recovered fromthe long intoxication which maddened him at the timeto which it refers—­that he was not bornin Boston-that the poem was not published in his tenthyear, and that the “hoax” was all an after-thought.Two weeks later he renewed the discussion of the subjectin The Broadway Journal, commenting as followsupon allusions to it by other parties:

“Were the question demanded of us—­’Whatis the most exquisite of sublunary pleasures?’we should reply, without hesitation, the making afuss, or in the classical words of a western friend,the ’kicking up a bobbery.’ Neverwas a ‘bobbery’ more delightful than thatwhich we have just succeeded in ‘kicking up’all around about Boston Common. We never sawthe Frogpondians so lively in our lives. Theyseem absolutely to be upon the point of waking up.In about nine days the puppies may get open theireyes. That is to say, they may get open theireyes to certain facts which have long been obviousto all the world except themselves-the facts thatthere exist other cities than Boston—­othermen of letters than Professor Longfellow—­othervehicles of literary information than the Down-EastReview.’

“We had tact enough not to be ‘takenin and done for’ by the Bostonians. TimeoDanaos et dona ferentes—­(for timeosubstitute contemno or turn-up-your-nose-o.)We knew very well that among a certain cliqueof the Frogpondians, there existed a predeterminationto abuse us under any circ*mstances. Weknew, that write what we would, they would swear itto be worthless. We knew, that were we to composefor them a ‘Paradise Lost,’ they wouldpronounce it an indifferent poem. It would havebeen very weak in us, then, to put ourselves to thetrouble of attempting to please these people.We preferred pleasing ourselves. We read beforethem a ’juvenile’—­a very‘juvenile’ poem—­and thus theFrogpondians were had—­were deliveredup to the enemy bound hand and foot. Never werea set of people more completely demolished. Theyhave blustered and flustered—­but what havethey done or said that has not made them more thoroughlyridiculous? What, in the name of Momus, is itpossible for them to do or say? We ‘delivered’them the ’juvenile poem,’ and they receivedit with applause. This is accounted for by thefact, that the clique (contemptible in numbersas in everything else) were overruled by the restof the assembly. These malignants did not dareto interrupt by their preconcerted hisses, the respectfuland profound attention of the majority. We havebeen told, indeed, that as many as three or four ofthe personal friends of the little old lady entitledMiss Walter, did actually leave the hall during therecitation—­but, upon the whole, this wasthe very best thing they could do. We have beentold this, we say—­we did not seethem take their departure:—­the fact is,they belong to a class of people that we make it apoint never to see. The poem being thuswell received, in spite of this ridiculous littlecabal—­the next thing to be done was to abuseit in the papers. Here, they imagined, they weresure of their game. But what have they accomplished?The poem, they say, is bad. We admit it.We insisted upon this fact in our prefatory remarks,

and we insist upon it now, over and over again.It is bad—­it is wretched—­andwhat then? We wrote it at ten years of age—­hadit been worth even a pumpkin-pie, undoubtedly we shouldnot have ‘delivered’ it to them.To demonstrate its utter worthlessness, The BostonStar has copied the poem in full, with two orthree columns of criticism (we suppose), by way ofexplaining that we should have been hanged for itsperpetration. There is no doubt of it whatever—­weshould. The Star, however, (a dull luminary,)has done us more honor than it intended; it has copiedour third edition of the poem, revised andimproved. We considered this too good for theoccasion by one-half, and so ‘delivered’our first edition with all its imperfectionson its head. It is the first—­the originaledition—­the delivered edition—­whichwe now republish in our collection of Poems.”

When he accepted the invitation of the Lyceum he intendedto write an original poem, upon a subject which hesaid had haunted his imagination for years; but cares,anxieties, and feebleness of will, prevented; and aweek before the appointed night he wrote to a friendimploring assistance. “You compose withsuch astonishing facility,” he urged in hisletter, “that you can easily furnish me, quitesoon enough, a poem that shall be equal to my reputation.For the love of God I beseech you to help me in thisextremity.” The lady wrote him kindly, advisinghim judiciously, but promising to attempt the fulfillmentof his wishes She was, however, an invalid, and sofailed.[C] At last, instead of pleading illness himself,as he had previously done on a similar occasion, hedetermined to read his poem of “Al Aaraaf,”the original publication of which, in 1829, has alreadybeen stated.

The last number of the Broadway Journal waspublished on the third of January,1846, and Poe soonafter commenced the series of papers entitled “TheLiterati of New-York City,” which was publishedin The Lady’s Book in six numbers, fromMay to October. Their spirit, boldness, and occasionalcausticity caused them to be much talked about, andthree editions were necessary to supply the demandfor some numbers of the magazine containing them.They however led to a disgraceful quarrel, and thisto a premature conclusion. Dr. Thomas Dunn English,who had at one time sustained the most intimate relationswith Poe, chose to evince his resentment of the critic’sunfairness by the publication of a card in which hepainted strongly the infirmities of Poe’s lifeand character, and alleged that he had on severaloccasions inflicted upon him personal chastisem*nt.This was not a wise confession, for a gentleman neverappeals to his physical abilities except for defense.But the entire publication, even if every word ofit were true, was unworthy of Dr. English, unnecessary,and not called for by Poe’s article, though that,as every one acquainted with the parties might have

seen, was entirely false in what purported to be itsfacts. The statement of Dr. English appearedin the New York Mirror of the twenty-third ofJune, and on the twenty-seventh Mr. Poe sent to Mr.Godey for publication in the Lady’s Bookhis rejoinder, which would have made about five ofthe large pages of that miscellany. Mr. Godeyvery properly declined to print it, and observed,in the communication of his decision, that the toneof the article was regarded as unsuitable for hiswork and as altogether wrong. In compliance withthe author’s wishes, however, he had caused itsappearance in a daily paper. Poe then wrote tohim:

“The man or men who told you that there wasanything wrong in the tone of my reply, wereeither my enemies, or your enemies, or asses.When you see them, tell them so, from me. I havenever written an article upon which I more confidentlydepend for literary reputation than that Reply.Its merit lay in its being precisely adapted to itspurpose. In this city I have had upon it thefavorable judgments of the best men. All theerror about it was yours. You should have doneas I requested—­published it in the Book.It is of no use to conceive a plan if you have todepend upon another for its execution.”

Nevertheless, I agree with Mr. Godey. Poe’sarticle was as bad as that of English. Yet apart of one of its paragraphs is interesting, and itis here transcribed:

—­“Let me not permit any profundityof disgust to induce, even for an instant, a violationof the dignity of truth. What is not false,amid the scurrility of this man’s statements,it is not in my nature to brand as false, althoughoozing from the filthy lips of which a lie is theonly natural language. The errors and frailtieswhich I deplore, it cannot at least be asserted thatI have been the coward to deny. Never, even,have I made attempt at extenuating a weaknesswhich is (or, by the blessing of God, was) a calamity,although those who did not know me intimately hadlittle reason to regard it otherwise than a crime.For, indeed, had my pride, or that of my family permitted,there was much—­very much—­therewas everything to be offered in extenuation.Perhaps, even, there was an epoch at which it mightnot have been wrong in me to hint—­whatby the testimony of Dr. Francis and other medicalmen I might have demonstrated, had the public, indeed,cared for the demonstration—­that the irregularitiesso profoundly lamented were the effect of aterrible evil rather than its cause.—­Andnow let me thank God that in redemption from the physicalill I have forever got rid of the moral.”

Dr. Francis never gave any such testimony. Onone occasion Poe borrowed fifty dollars from a distinguishedliterary woman of South Carolina, promising to returnit in a few days, and when he failed to do so, andwas asked for a written acknowledgment of the debtthat might be exhibited to the husband of the friendwho had thus served him, he denied all knowledge ofit, and threatened to exhibit a correspondence whichhe said would make the woman infamous, if she saidany more on the subject. Of course there hadnever been any such correspondence, but when Poe heardthat a brother of the slandered party was in questof him for the purpose of taking the satisfactionsupposed to be due in such cases, he sent for Dr.Francis and induced him to carry to the gentleman hisretraction and apology, with a statement which seemedtrue enough for the moment, that Poe was “outof his head.” It is an ungracious duty todescribe such conduct in a person of Poe’s unquestionablegenius and capacities of greatness, but those whoare familiar with the career of this extraordinarycreature can recall but too many similar anecdotes;and as to his intemperance, they perfectly well understandthat its pathology was like that of ninety-nine ofevery hundred cases of the disease.

[Footnote C: This lady was the late Mrs. Osgood,and a fragment of what she wrote under these circ*mstancesmay be found in the last edition of her works underthe title of “Lullin, or the Diamond Fay.”]

As the autumn of 1846 wore on, Poe’s habitsof frequent intoxication and his inattention to themeans of support reduced him to much more than commondestitution. He was now living at Fordham, severalmiles from the city, so that his necessities werenot generally known even among his acquaintances;but when the dangerous illness of his wife was addedto his misfortunes, and his dissipation and accumulatedcauses of anxiety had prostrated all his own energies,the subject was introduced into the journals.The Express said:

“We regret to learn that Edgar A. Poe and hiswife are both dangerously ill with the consumption,and that the hand of misfortune lies heavy upon theirtemporal affairs. We are sorry to mention thefact that they are so far reduced as to be barelyable to obtain the necessaries of life. Thisis indeed a hard lot, and we hope that the friendsand admirers of Mr. Poe will come promptly to hisassistance in his bitterest hour of need.”

Mr. Willis, in an article in the Home Journalsuggesting a hospital for disabled laborers with thebrain, said—­

“The feeling we have long entertained on thissubject, has been freshened by a recent paragraphin the Express, announcing that Mr. Edgar A.Poe and his wife were both dangerously ill, and sufferingfor want of the common necessaries of life. Hereis one of the finest scholars, one of the most originalmen of genius, and one of the most industrious of theliterary profession of our country, whose temporarysuspension of labor, from bodily illness, drops himimmediately to a level with the common objects ofpublic charity. There was no intermediate stopping-place-norespectful shelter where, with the delicacy due togenius and culture, he might secure aid, unadvertised,till, with returning health, he could resume his laborsand his unmortified sense of independence. Hemust either apply to individual friends—­(aresource to which death is sometimes almost preferable)—­orsuffer down to the level where Charity receivesclaimants, but where Rags and Humiliation are the onlyrecognized Ushers to her presence. Is this right?Should there not be, in all highly civilized communities,an Institution designed expressly for educated andrefined objects of charity—­a hospital, aretreat, a home of seclusion and comfort, the sufficientclaims to which would be such susceptibilities asare violated by the above mentioned appeal in a dailynewspaper.”

The entire article from which this paragraph is taken,was an ingenious apology for Mr. Poe’s infirmities;but it was conceived and executed in a generous spirit,and it had a quick effect in various contributions,which relieved the poet from pecuniary embarrassments.The next week he published the following letter:

“My Dear Willis:—­The paragraphwhich has been put in circulation respecting my wife’sillness, my own, my poverty, etc., is now lyingbefore me; together with the beautiful lines by Mrs.Locke and those by Mrs. ——­, to whichthe paragraph has given rise, as well as your kindand manly comments in The Home Journal.The motive of the paragraph I leave to the conscienceof him or her who wrote it or suggested it. Sincethe thing is done, however, and since the concernsof my family are thus pitilessly thrust before thepublic, I perceive no mode of escape from a publicstatement of what is true and what erroneous in thereport alluded to. That my wife is ill, then,is true; and you may imagine with what feelings Iadd that this illness, hopeless from the first, hasbeen heightened and precipitated by her receptionat two different periods, of anonymous letters,—­oneinclosing the paragraph now in question; the other,those published calumnies of Messrs. ——­,for which I yet hope to find redress in a court ofjustice.

“Of the facts, that I myself have been longand dangerously ill, and that my illness has beena well-understood thing among my brethren of the press,the best evidence is afforded by the innumerable paragraphsof personal and literary abuse with which I have beenlatterly assailed. This matter, however, willremedy itself. At the very first blush of mynew prosperity, the gentlemen who toadied me in theold, will recollect themselves and toady me again.You, who know me, will comprehend that I speak ofthese things only as having served, in a measure, tolighten the gloom of unhappiness, by a gentle andnot unpleasant sentiment of mingled pity, merrimentand contempt. That, as the inevitable consequenceof so long an illness, I have been in want of money,it would be folly in me to deny—­but thatI have ever materially suffered from privation, beyondthe extent of my capacity for suffering, is not altogethertrue. That I am ‘without friends’is a gross calumny, which I am sure you nevercould have believed, and which a thousand noble-heartedmen would have good right never to forgive me forpermitting to pass unnoticed and undenied. Evenin the city of New York I could have no difficultyin naming a hundred persons, to each of whom—­whenthe hour for speaking had arrived—­I couldand would have applied for aid with unbounded confidence,and with absolutely no sense of humiliation.I do not think, my dear Willis, that there is anyneed of my saying more. I am getting better,and may add—­if it be any comfort to my enemies—­thatI have little fear of getting worse. The truthis, I have a great deal to do; and I have made upmy mind not to die till it is done. Sincerelyyours,

“December 30th, 1846. EDGAR A. POE.”

This was written for effect. He had not beenill a great while, nor dangerously at all; there wasno literary or personal abuse of him in the journals;and his friends in town had been applied to for moneyuntil their patience was nearly exhausted. Hiswife, however, was very sick, and in a few weeks shedied. In a letter to a lady in Massachusetts,who, upon the appearance of the newspaper articlesabove quoted, had sent him money and expressions ofsympathy, he wrote, under date of March 10, 1847:

“In answering your kind letter permit me inthe first place to absolve myself from a suspicionwhich, under the circ*mstances, you could scarcelyhave failed to entertain—­a suspicion ofdiscourtesy toward yourself, in not having more promptlyreplied to you.... I could not help feeling thatshould you see my letter to Mr. Willis—­inwhich a natural pride, which I feel you could notblame, impelled me to shrink from public charity,even at the cost of truth, in denying those necessitieswhich were but too real—­I could nothelp fearing that, should you see this letter, youwould yourself feel pained at having caused me pain-athaving been the means of giving further publicity to

an unfounded report—­at all events to thereport of a wretchedness which I had thought it prudent(since the world regards wretchedness as a crime) sopublicly to disavow. In a word, venturing tojudge your noble nature by my own, I felt grievedlest my published denial might cause you to regretwhat you had done; and my first impulse was to writeyou, and assure you, even at the risk of doing sotoo warmly, of the sweet emotion, made up of respectand gratitude alone, with which my heart was filledto overflowing. While I was hesitating, however,in regard to the propriety of this step, I was overwhelmedby a sorrow so poignant as to deprive me for severalweeks of all power of thought or action. Yourletter, now lying before me, tells me that I had notbeen mistaken in your nature, and that I should nothave hesitated to address you; but believe me, my dearMrs. L——­, that I am already ceasingto regard those difficulties or misfortunes which haveled me to even this partial correspondence with yourself.”

For nearly a year Mr. Poe was not often before thepublic, but he was as industrious, perhaps, as hehad been at any time, and early in 1848 advertisem*ntwas made of his intention to deliver several lectures,with a view to obtain an amount of money sufficientto establish his so-long-contemplated monthly magazine.His first lecture—­and only one at thisperiod—­was given at the Society Library,in New York, on the ninth of February, and was uponthe cosmogony of the Universe: it was attendedby an eminently intellectual auditory, and the readingof it occupied about two hours and a half; it waswhat he afterward published under the title of “Eureka,a Prose Poem.”

To the composition of this work he brought his subtlestand highest capacities, in their most perfect development.Denying that the arcana of the universe can be exploredby induction, but informing his imagination with thevarious results of science, he entered with unhesitatingboldness, though with no guide but the divinest instinct,—­thatsense of beauty, in which our great Edwards recognizesthe flowering of all truth—­into the seaof speculation, and there built up of according lawsand their phenomena, as under the influence of a scientificinspiration, his theory of Nature. I will notattempt the difficult task of condensing his propositions;to be apprehended they must be studied in his own terseand simple language; but in this we have a summaryof that which he regards as fundamental: “Thelaw which we call Gravity,” he says,“exists on account of matter having been radiated,at its origin, atomically, into a limited sphereof space, from one, individual, unconditional irrelative,and absolute Particle Proper, by the sole processin which it was possible to satisfy, at the same time,the two conditions, radiation and equable distributionthroughout the sphere—­that is to say, bya force varying in direct proportion with thesquares of the distances between the radiated atoms,respectively, and the particular center of radiation.”

Poe was thoroughly persuaded that he had discoveredthe great secret: that the propositions of “Eureka”were true; and he was wont to talk of the subjectwith a sublime and electrical enthusiasm which theycannot have forgotten who were familiar with him atthe period of its publication. He felt that anauthor known solely by his adventures in the lighterliterature, throwing down the gauntlet to professorsof science, could not expect absolute fairness, andhe had no hope but in discussions led by wisdom andcandor. Meeting me, he said, “Have you read‘Eureka?’” I answered, “Notyet: I have just glanced at the notice of it byWillis, who thinks it contains no more fact than fantasy,and I am sorry to see—­sorry if it be true—­suggeststhat it corresponds in tone with that gathering ofsham and obsolete hypotheses addressed to fancifultyros, the ‘Vestiges of Creation;’ andour good and really wise friend Bush, whom you willadmit to be of all the professors, in temper one ofthe most habitually just, thinks that while you mayhave guessed very shrewdly, it would not be difficultto suggest many difficulties in the way of your doctrine.”“It is by no means ingenuous,” he replied,“to hint that there are such difficulties, andyet to leave them unsuggested. I challenge theinvestigation of every point in the book. I denythat there are any difficulties which I have not metand overthrown. Injustice is done me by the applicationof this word ‘guess:’ I have assumednothing and proved all.” Inhis preface he wrote: “To the few who loveme and whom I love; to those who feel rather than tothose who think; to the dreamers and those who putfaith in dreams as in the only realities—­Ioffer this book of truths, not in the character ofTruth-Teller, but for the beauty that abounds in itstruth: constituting it true. To these Ipresent the composition as an Art-Product alone:—–­letus say as a Romance; or, if it be not urging too loftya claim, as a Poem. What I here propound is true:therefore it cannot die: or it by any means itbe now trodden down so that it die, it will rise againto the life everlasting.”

When I read “Eureka” I could not helpbut think it immeasurably superior as an illustrationof genius to the “Vestiges of Creation;”and as I admired the poem, (except the miserable attemptat humor in what purports to be a letter found ina bottle floating on the Mare tenebrarum,) soI regretted its pantheism, which is not necessaryto its main design. To some of the objectionsto his work be made this answer in a letter to Mr.C.F. Hoffman, then editor of the Literary World:

“Dear Sir:—­In your paper ofJuly 29, I find some comments on ‘Eureka,’a late book of my own; and I know you too well to supposefor a moment, that you will refuse me the privilegeof a few words in reply. I feel, even, that Imight safely claim, from Mr. Hoffman, the right, whichevery author has, of replying to his critic tonefor tone—­that is to say, of answeringyour correspondent, flippancy by flippancy and sneerby sneer—­but in the first place, I do notwish to disgrace the World; and, in the second,I feel that I never should be done sneering, in thepresent instance, were I once to begin. Lamartineblames Voltaire for the use which he made of (ruse)misrepresentation, in his attacks on the priesthood;but our young students of Theology do not seem to beaware that in defense or what they fancy to be defense,of Christianity, there is anything wrong in such gentlemanlypeccadillos as the deliberate perversion of an author’stext—­to say nothing of the minor indecoraof reviewing a book without reading it and withouthaving the faintest suspicion of what it is about.

“You will understand that it is merely the misrepresentationsof the critique in question to which I claimthe privilege of reply:—­the mere opinionsof the writer can be of no consequence to me—­andI should imagine of very little to himself—­thatis to say if he knows himself, personally, as wellas I have the honor of knowing him. Thefirst misrepresentation is contained in this sentence:—­’Thisletter is a keen burlesque on the Aristotelian orBaconian methods of ascertaining Truth, both of whichthe writer ridicules and despises, and pours forthhis rhapsodical ecstasies in a glorification of thethird mode—­the noble art of guessing.’What I really say is this:—­That thereis no absolute certainty either in the Aristotelianor Baconian process—­that, for this reason,neither Philosophy is so profound as it fancies itself—­andthat neither has a right to sneer at that seeminglyimaginative process called Intuition (by which thegreat Kepler attained his laws); since ‘Intuition,’after all, ’is but the conviction arising fromthose inductions or deductions of whichthe processes are so shadowy as to escape our consciousness,elude our reason or defy our capacity of expression.’The second misrepresentation runs thus:—­’Thedevelopments of electricity and the formation of starsand suns, luminous and nonluminous, moons and planets,with their rings, &c., is deduced, very much accordingto the nebular theory of Laplace, from the principlepropounded above.’ Now the impression intendedto be made here upon the reader’s mind, by the‘Student of Theology,’ is evidently, thatmy theory may all be very well in its way, but thatit is nothing but Laplace over again, with some modificationsthat he (the Student of Theology) cannot regard asat all important. I have only to say that no gentleman

can accuse me of the disengenuousness here implied;inasmuch as, having proceeded with my theory up tothat point at which Laplace’s theory meetsit, I then give Laplace’s theory in full,with the expression of my firm conviction of its absolutetruth at all points. The groundcovered by the great French astronomer compares withthat covered by my theory, as a bubble compares withthe ocean on which it floats; nor has he the slightestallusion to the ‘principle propounded above,’the principle of Unity being the source of all things—­theprinciple of Gravity being merely the Reaction ofthe Divine Act which irradiated all things from Unity.In fact no point of my theory has beeneven so much as alluded to by Laplace. I havenot considered it necessary, here to speak of theastronomical knowledge displayed in the ’starsand suns’ of the Student of Theology,nor to hint that it would be better to say that ’developmentand formation are, than that development andformation is. The third misrepresentationlies in a foot-note, where the critic says:—­’Furtherthan this, Mr. Poe’s claim that he can accountfor the existence of all organized beings—­manincluded—­merely from those principles onwhich the origin and present appearance of suns andworlds are explained, must be set down as mere baldassertion, without a particle of evidence. Inother words we should term it arrant fudge.’The perversion at this point is involved in a willfulmisapplication of the word ‘principles.’I say ‘wilful’ because, at page 63, I amparticularly careful to distinguish betweenthe principles proper, Attraction and Repulsion, andthose merely resultant sub-principles whichcontrol the universe in detail. To these sub-principles,swayed by the immediate spiritual influence of Deity.I leave, without examination, all that whichthe Student of Theology so roundly asserts I accountfor on the principles which account for theconstitution of suns, &c.

“In the third column of his ‘review’the critic says:—­’He asserts thateach soul is its own God—­its own Creator.’What I do assert is, that ‘each soulis, in part, its own God—­its ownCreator.’ Just below, the critic says:—­’Afterall these contradictory propoundings concerning Godwe would remind him of what he lays down on page 23—­’ofthis Godhead in itself he alone is not imbecile—­healone is not impious who propounds nothing.A man who thus conclusively convicts himself of imbecilityand impiety needs no further refutation.’Now the sentence, as I wrote it, and as Ifind it printed on that very page which the criticrefers to and which must have been lying beforehim while he quoted my words, runs thus:—­’Ofthis Godhead, in itself, he alone is not imbecile,&c., who propounds nothing.’ By the italics,as the critic well knew, I design to distinguish between

the two possibilities—­that of a knowledgeof God through his works and that of a knowledge ofHim in his essential nature. The Godhead,in itself, is distinguished from the Godheadobserved in its effects. But our criticis zealous. Moreover, being a divine, he is honest—­ingenuous.It is his duty to pervert my meaning by omittingmy italics—­just as, in the sentence previouslyquoted, it was his Christian duty to falsify my argumentby leaving out the two words, ‘in part,’upon which turns the whole force—­indeedthe whole intelligibility of my proposition.

“Were these ‘misrepresentations’(is that the name for them?) made for any lessserious a purpose than that of branding my book as‘impious’ and myself as a ‘pantheist,’a ‘polytheist,’ a Pagan, or a God knowswhat (and indeed I care very little so it be not a’Student of Theology’), I would have permittedtheir dishonesty to pass unnoticed, through pure contemptof the boyishness—­for the turn-down-shirt-collar-nessof their tone:—­but, as it is, you willpardon me, Mr. Editor, that I have been compelledto expose a ‘critic’ who courageously preservinghis own anonymosity, takes advantage of myabsence from the city to misrepresent, and thus vilifyme, by name. EDGAR A. POE.

“Fordham, September 20, 1848.”

From this time Poe did not write much; he had quarreledwith the conductors of the chief magazines for whichhe had previously written, and they no longer soughthis assistance. In a letter to a friend, he lamentsthe improbabilities of an income from literary labor,saying:

“I have represented ——­ toyou as merely an ambitious simpleton, anxious to getinto society with the reputation of conducting a magazinewhich somebody behind the curtain always preventshim from quite damning with his stupidity; he is aknave and a beast. I cannot write any more forthe Milliner’s Book, where T——­nprints his feeble and very quietly made Dilutionsof other people’s reviews; and you know that——­ can afford to pay but little,though I am glad to do anything for a good fellow like——. In this emergency I sell articlesto the vulgar and trashy ——­, for$5 a piece. I inclose my last, cut out, lest youshould see by my sending the paper in what companyI am forced to appear.”

His name was now frequently associated with that ofone of the most brilliant women of New England, andit was publicly announced that they were to be married.He had first seen her on his way from Boston, whenhe visited that city to deliver a poem before theLyceum there. Restless, near the midnight, hewandered from, his hotel near where she lived, untilhe saw her walking in a garden. He related theincident afterward in one of his most exquisite poems,worthy of himself, of her, and of the most exaltedpassion.

“I saw thee—­once only—­yearsago;
I must not say how many—­butnot many.
It was a July midnight; and from out
A full-orbed moon, that, like thine ownsoul, soaring,
Sought a precipitate pathway up throughheaven,
There fell a silvery-silken vail of light,
With quietude, and sultriness and slumber,
Upon the upturn’d faces of a thousand
Roses that grew in an enchanted garden,
Where no wind dared to stir, unless ontiptoe—­
Fell on upturn’d faces of theseroses
That gave out, in return for the love-light,
Their odorous souls in an estatic death—­
Fell on upturn’d faces of theseroses
That smiled and died in this parterre,enchanted
By thee, and by the poetry of thy presence.

“Clad all in white, upon a violetbank
I saw thee half reclining; while the moon
Fell on upturn’d faces of theseroses,
And on thine own, upturn’d—­alas,in sorrow!

“Was it not Fate, that, on thisJuly midnight—­
Was it not Fate, (whose name is also Sorrow,)
That bade me pause before the garden-gate,
To breathe the incense of those Slumberingroses?
No footstep stirred; the hated world allslept,
Save only thee and me. (Oh, Heaven!—­oh,God!
How my heart beats in coupling those twowords!)
Save only thee and me. I paused—­Ilooked—­
And in an instant all things disappeared.
(Ah, bear in mind this garden was enchanted!)
The pearly luster of the moon went out:
The mossy banks and the meandering paths,
The happy flowers and the repining trees,
Were seen no more: the very roses’odors
Died in the arms of the adoring airs,
All—­all expired save thee—­saveless than thou:
Save only the divine light in thine eyes—­
Save but the soul in thine uplifted eyes.
I saw but them—­they were theworld to me.
I saw but them—­saw only themfor hours—­
Saw only them until the moon went down.
What wild heart histories seemed to lieenwritten
Upon those crystalline celestial spheres!
How dark a woe! yet how sublime a hope!
How silently serene a sea of pride!
How daring an ambition! Yet how deep—­
How fathomless a capacity for love!

“But now, at length, dear Dian sankfrom sight Into a western couch of thunder-cloud;And thou, a ghost, amid the entombing trees Didstglide away. Only thine eyes remained.They would not go—­they never yethave gone. Lighting my lonely pathway homethat night, They have not left me (as myhopes have) since. They follow me—­theylead me through the years They are my ministers—­yetI their slave. Their office is to illumineand enkindle—­ My duty, to be savedby their bright light, And purified in their electricfire, And sanctified in their elysian fire.They fill my soul with Beauty (which is Hope,) Andare far up in Heaven—­the stars I kneel toIn the sad, silent watches of my night; Whileeven in the meridian glare of day I see them still—­twosweetly scintillant Venuses, unextinguished by thesun!”

They were not married, and the breaking of the engagementaffords a striking illustration of his character.He said to an acquaintance in New York, who congratulatedwith him upon the prospect of his union with a personof so much genius and so many virtues—­“Itis a mistake: I am not going to be married.”“Why, Mr. Poe, I understand that the bans havebeen published.” “I cannot help whatyou have heard, my dear Madam: but mark me, Ishall not marry her.” He left town the sameevening, and the next day was reeling through thestreets of the city which was the lady’s home,and in the evening—­that should have beenthe evening before the bridal—­in his drunkennesshe committed at her house such outrages as made necessarya summons of the police. Here was no insanityleading to indulgence: he went from New Yorkwith a determination thus to induce an ending of theengagement; and he succeeded.

Sometime in August, 1849, Mr. Poe left New York forVirginia. In Philadelphia he encountered personswho had been his associates in dissipations whilehe lived there, and for several days he abandonedhimself entirely to the control of his worst appetites.When his money was all spent, and the disorder ofhis dress evinced the extremity of his recent intoxication,he asked in charity means for the prosecution of hisjourney to Richmond. There, after a few days,he joined a temperance society, and his conduct showedthe earnestness of his determination to reform hislife. He delivered in some of the principal townsof Virginia two lectures, which were well attended,and renewing his acquaintance with a lady whom hehad known in his youth, he was engaged to marry her,and wrote to his friends that he should pass the remainderof his days among the scenes endeared by all his pleasantestrecollections of youth.

On Thursday, the 4th of October, he set out for NewYork, to fulfill a literary engagement, and to preparefor his marriage. Arriving in Baltimore he gavehis trunk to a porter, with directions to convey itto the cars which were to leave in an hour or twofor Philadelphia, and went into a tavern to obtainsome refreshment. Here he met acquaintances whoinvited him to drink; all his resolutions and dutieswere soon forgotten; in a few hours he was in sucha state as is commonly induced only by long-continuedintoxication; after a night of insanity and exposure,he was carried to a hospital; and there, on the eveningof Sunday, the 7th of October, 1849, he died, at theage of thirty-eight years.

It is a melancholy history. No author of as muchgenius had ever in this country as much unhappiness;but Poe’s unhappiness was in an unusual degreethe result of infirmities of nature, or of voluntaryfaults in conduct. A writer who evidently knewhim well, and who comes before us in the “SouthernLiterary Messenger” as his defender, is “compelledto admit that the blemishes in his life were effectsof character rather than of circ*mstances."[A] Howthis character might have been modified by a judiciouseducation of all his faculties I leave for the decisionof others, but it will be evident to those who readthis biography that the unchecked freedom of his earlieryears was as unwise as its results were unfortunate.

[Footnote A: Southern Literary Messenger,March, 1850, p. 179.]

It is contended that the higher intelligences, inthe scrutiny to which they appeal, are not to be judgedby the common laws; but I apprehend that this doctrine,as it is likely to be understood, is entirely wrong.All men are amenable to the same principles, to theextent of the parallelism of these principles withtheir experience; and the line of duty becomes onlymore severe as it extends into the clearer atmosphereof truth and beauty which is the life of genius. Demortuis nil nisi bonum is a common and an honorablesentiment, but its proper application would lead tothe suppression of the histories of half of the mostconspicuous of mankind; in this case it is impossibleon account of the notoriety of Mr. Poe’s faults;and it would be unjust to the living against whomhis hands were always raided and who had no resortbut in his outlawry from their sympathies. Moreover,his career is full of instruction and warning, andit has always been made a portion of the penalty ofwrong that its anatomy should be displayed for thecommon study and advantage.

The character of Mr. Poe’s genius has been sorecently and so admirably discussed by Mr. Lowell,with whose opinions on the subject I for the mostpart agree, that I shall say but little of it here,having already extended this notice beyond the limitsat first designed. There is a singular harmonybetween his personal and his literary qualities.St. Pierre, who seemed to be without any nobilityin his own nature, in his writings appeared to bemoved only by the finest and highest impulses.Poe exhibits scarcely any virtue in either his lifeor his writings. Probably there is not anotherinstance in the literature of our language in whichso much has been accomplished without a recognitionor a manifestation of conscience. Seated behindthe intelligence, and directing it, according to itscapacities, Conscience is the parent of whatever isabsolutely and unquestionably beautiful in art as wellas in conduct. It touches the creations of themind and they have life; without it they have never,in the range of its just action, the truth and naturalnesswhich are approved by universal taste or in enduringreputation. In Poe’s works there is constantlydisplayed the most touching melancholy, the most extremeand terrible despair, but never reverence or remorse.

His genius was peculiar, and not, as he himself thought,various. He remarks in one of his letters:

“There is one particular in which I have hadwrong done me, and it may not be indecorous in meto call your attention to it. The last selectionof my tales was made from about seventy by one of ourgreat little cliquists and claquers, Wiley Putnam’sreader, Duyckinck. He has what he thinks a tastefor ratiocination, and has accordingly made up thebook mostly of analytic stories. But this isnot representing my mind in its various phases—­itis not giving me fair play. In writing these talesone by one, at long intervals. I have kept thebook unity always in mind—­that is, eachhas been composed with reference to its effect aspart of a whole. In this view, one of mychief aims has been the widest diversity of subject,thought, and especially tone and manner ofhandling. Were all my tales now beforeme in a large volume, and as the composition of another,the merit which would principally arrest my attentionwould be their wide diversity and variety.You will be surprised to hear me say that, (omittingone or two of my first efforts,) I do not considerany one of my stories better than another.There is a vast variety of kinds, and, in degree ofvalue, these kinds vary-but each tale is equally goodof its kind. The loftiest kind is thatof the highest imagination—­and for thisreason only ‘Ligeia’ may be called mybest tale.”

But it seems to me that this selection of his taleswas altogether judicious. Had it been submittedto me I might indeed have changed it in one or twoinstances, but I should not have replaced any taleby one of a different tone. One of the qualitiesupon which Poe prides himself was his humor, and hehas left us a large number of compositions in thisdepartment, but except a few paragraphs in his “Marginalia,”scarcely anything which it would not have been injuriousto his reputation to republish. His realm wason the shadowy confines of human experience, amongthe abodes of crime, gloom, and horror, and there hedelighted to surround himself with images of beautyand of terror, to raise his solemn palaces and towersand spires in a night upon which should rise no sun.His minuteness of detail, refinement of reasoning,and propriety and power of language—­theperfect keeping (to borrow a phrase from another domainof art) and apparent good faith with which he managedthe evocation and exhibition of his strange and spectraland revolting creations—­gave him an astonishingmastery over his readers, so that his books were closedas one would lay aside the nightmare or the spellsof opium. The analytical subtlety evinced in hisworks has frequently been overestimated, as I havebefore observed, because it has not been sufficientlyconsidered that his mysteries were composed with theexpress design of being dissolved. When Poe attemptedthe illustration of the profounder operations of themind, as displayed in written reason or in real action,he frequently failed entirely.

In poetry, as in prose, he was eminently successfulin the metaphysical treatment of the passions.Hia poems are constructed with wonderful ingenuity,and finished with consummate art. They displaya somber and weird imagination, and a taste almostfaultless in the apprehension of that sort of beautywhich was most agreeable to his temper. But theyevince little genuine feeling, and less of that spontaneousecstasy which gives its freedom, smoothness and naturalnessto immortal verse. His own account of the compositionof “The Raven,” discloses his methods—­theabsence of all impulse, and the absolute control ofcalculation and mechanism. That curious analysisof the processes by which he wrought would be incredibleif from another hand.

He was not remarkably original in invention.Indeed some of his plagiarisms are scarcely paralleledfor their audacity in all literary history: Forinstance, in his tale of “The Pit and the Pendulum,”the complicate machinery upon which the interest dependsis borrowed from a story entitled “Vivenzio,or Italian Vengeance,” by the author of “TheFirst and Last Dinner,” in “Blackwood’sMagazine.” And I remember having been shownby Mr. Longfellow, several years ago, a series of paperswhich constitute a demonstration that Mr. Poe wasindebted to him for the idea of “The HauntedPalace,” one of the most admirable of his poems,which he so pertinaciously asserted had been usedby Mr. Longfellow in the production of his “BeleagueredCity.” Mr. Longfellow’s poem was writtentwo or three years before the first publication ofthat by Poe, and it was during a portion of this timein Poe’s possession; but it was not printed,I believe, until a few weeks after the appearance of“The Haunted Palace.” “It wouldbe absurd,” as Poe himself said many times,“to believe the similarity of these pieces entirelyaccidental.” This was the first cause ofall that malignant criticism which for so many yearshe carried on against Mr. Longfellow. In his “Marginalia”he borrowed largely, especially from Coleridge, andI have omitted in the republication of these papers,numerous paragraphs which were rather compiled thanborrowed from one of the profoundest and wisest ofour own scholars.[D]

[Footnote D: I have neither space, time, norinclination for a continuation of this subject, andI add but one other instance, in the words of thePhiladelphia “Saturday Evening Post,” publishedwhile Mr. Poe was living:

“One of the most remarkable plagiarisms wasperpetrated by Mr. Poe, late of the Broadway Journal,whose harshness as a critic and assumption of peculiaroriginality make the fault in his case more glaring.This gentleman, a few years ago, in Philadelphia,published a work on Conchology as original, when inreality it was a copy, near verbatim, of ‘TheText-book of Conchology, by Captain Thomas Brown,’printed in Glasgow in 1833, a duplicate of which wehave in our library, Mr. Poe actually took out a copyright

for the American edition of Captain Brown’swork, and, omitting all mention of the English originalpretended, in the preface, to have been under greatobligations to several scientific gentlemen of thiscity. It is but justice to add, that in the secondedition of this book, published lately in Philadelphia,the name of Mr. Poe is withdrawn from the titlepage,and his initials only affixed to the preface.But the affair is one of the most curious on record.”]

In criticism, as Mr. Lowell justly remarks, Mr. Poehad “a scientific precision and coherence oflogic;” he had remarkable dexterity in the dissectionof sentences; but he rarely ascended from the particularto the general, from subjects to principles; he wasfamiliar with the microscope but never looked throughthe telescope. His criticisms are of value tothe degree in which they are demonstrative, but hisunsupported assertions and opinions were so apt tobe influenced by friendship or enmity, by the desireto please or the fear to offend, or by his constantambition to surprise, or produce a sensation, thatthey should be received in all cases with distrustof their fairness. A volume might be filled withliterary judgments by him as antagonistical and inconsistentas the sharpest antitheses. For example, whenMr. Laughton Osborn’s romance, “The Confessionsof a Poet,” came out, he reviewed it in “TheSouthern Literary Messenger,” saying:

“There is nothing of the vates aboutthe author. He is no poet-and most positivelyhe is no prophet. He avers upon his word of honorthat in commencing this work he loads a pistol andplaces it upon the table. He further states that,upon coming to a conclusion, it is his intention toblow out what he supposes to be his brains. Nowthis is excellent. But, even with so rapid awriter as the poet must undoubtedly be, there wouldbe some little difficulty in completing the book underthirty days or thereabouts. The best of powderis apt to sustain injury by lying so long ‘inthe load.’ We sincerely hope the gentlemantook the precaution to examine his priming beforeattempting the rash act. A flash in the pan—­andin such a case—­were a thing to be lamented.Indeed there would be no answering for the consequences.We might even have a second series of the ‘Confessions.’”—­SouthernLiterary Messenger, i. 459.

This review was attacked, particularly in the Richmond“Compiler,” and Mr. Poe felt himself calledupon to vindicate it to the proprietor of the magazine,to whom he wrote:

“There is no necessity of giving the ‘Compiler’a reply. The book is silly enough of itself,without the aid of any controversy concerning it.I have read it, from beginning to end, and was verymuch amused at it. My opinion of it is prettynearly the opinion of the press at large. I haveheard no person offer one serious word in its defense.”—­Letterto T.W. White.

Afterward Mr. Poe became personally acquainted withthe author, and he then wrote, in his account of “TheLiterati of New-York City,” as follows:

“The Confessions of a Poet made much noise inthe literary world, and no little curiosity was excitedin regard to its author, who was generally supposedto be John Neal.... The ‘Confessions,’however, far surpassed any production of Mr. Neal’s....He has done nothing which, as a whole, is evenrespectable, and ‘The Confessions’are quite remarkable for their artistic unity andperfection. But on higher regards they are tobe commended. I do not think, indeed, that a betterbook of its kind has been written in America....Itsscenes of passion are intensely wrought, its incidentsare striking and original, its sentiments audaciousand suggestive at least, if not at all times tenable.In a word, it is that rare thing, a fiction of powerwithout rudeness.”

I will adduce another example of the same kind.In a notice of the “Democratic Review,”for September, 1845, Mr. Poe remarks of Mr. WilliamA. Jones’s paper on American Humor:

“There is only one really bad article in thenumber, and that is insufferable: nor do we thinkit the less a nuisance because it inflicts upon ourselvesindividually a passage of maudlin compliment aboutour bring a most ‘ingenious critic’ ‘andprose poet,’ with some other things of a similarkind. We thank for his good word no man who givespalpable evidence, in other cases than our own, ofhis incapacity to distinguish the false fromthe true—­the right from the wrong.If we are an ingenious critic, or a prose poet,it is not because Mr. William Jones says so.The truth is that this essay on ‘American Humor’is Contemptible both in a moral and literary sense—­isthe composition of an imitator and a quack—­anddisgraces the magazine in which it makes its appearance.”—­BroadwayJournal, Vol. ii. No. 11.

In the following week he reconsidered this matter,opening his paper for a defense of Mr. Jones; butat the close of it said—­

“If we have done Mr. Jones injustice, we beghis pardon: but we do not think we have.”

Yet in a subsequent article in “Graham’sMagazine,” on “Critics and Criticism,”he says of Mr. Jones, referring only to writings ofhis that had been for years before the public whenhe printed the above paragraphs:

“Our most analytic, if not altogether ourbest critic, (Mr. Whipple, perhaps, excepted,)is Mr. William A. Jones, author of ‘TheAnalyst.’ How he would write elaboratecriticisms I cannot say; but his summary judgmentsof authors are, in general, discriminative and profound.In fact, his papers on Emerson and on Macaulay,published in ‘Arcturus.’ are better thanmerely ‘profound,’ if we take the wordin its now desecrated sense; for they are at oncepointed, lucid, and just:—­as summariesleaving nothing to be desired.”

I will not continue the display of these inconsistencies.As I have Already intimated, a volume might be filledwith passages to show that his criticisms were guidedby no sense of duty, and that his opinions were sovariable and so liable to be influenced by unworthyconsiderations as to be really of no value whatever.

It was among his remarkable habits that he preservedwith scrupulous care everything that was publishedrespecting himself or his works, and everything thatwas written to him in letters that could be used inany way for the establishment or extension of hisreputation. In Philadelphia, in 1843, he preparedwith his own hands a sketch of his life for a papercalled “The Museum.” Many parts ofit are untrue, but I refer to it for the purpose ofquoting a characteristic instance of perversion inthe reproduction of compliments:

“Of ‘William Wilson,’ Mr. WashingtonIrving says: ’It is managed in a highlypicturesque style, and its singular and mysteriousinterest is ably sustained throughout. In pointof mere style, it is, perhaps, even superior to ‘TheHouse of Usher.’ It is simpler. Inthe latter composition, he seems to have been distrustfulof his effects, or, rather, too solicitous of bringingthem forth fully to the eye, and thus, perhaps, haslaid on too much coloring. He has erred, however,on the safe side, that of exuberance, and the evilmight easily be remedied, by relieving the style ofsome of its epithets;’ [since done.] ’Therewould be no fear of injuring the graphic effect, whichis powerful.’ The italics are Mr. Irving’sown.”

Now Mr. Irving had said in a private letter that hethought the “House of Usher” Was clever,and that “a volume of similar stories would bewell received by the public.” Poe senthim a magazine containing “William Wilson,”asking his opinion of it, and Mr. Irving, expresslydeclining to publish a word upon the subject,remarked in the same manner, that “the singularand mysterious interest is well sustained,” andthat in point of style the tale was “much better”than the “House of Usher,” which, he says,“might be improved by relieving the style fromsome of the epithets: there is no danger of destroyingthe graphic effect, which is powerful.”There is not a word in italics in Mr. Irving’sletter, the meaning of which is quite changed by Mr.Poe’s alterations. And this letter wasnot only published in the face of an implied prohibition,but made to seem like a deliberately-expressed judgmentin a public reviewal. In the same way Mr. Poepublished the following sentence as an extract froma letter by Miss Barrett:

“Our great poet, Mr. Browning, the author of‘Paracelsus,’ etc., is enthusiasticin his admiration of the rhythm.”

But on turning to Miss Barrett’s letter, I findthat she wrote:

“Our great poet, Mr. Browning, author of ‘Paracelsus,’and ’Bells and Pomegranates,’ was struckmuch by the rhythm of that poem.”

The piece alluded to is “The Raven.”

It is not true, as has been frequently alleged sinceMr. Poe’s death, that his writings were abovethe popular taste, and therefore without a suitablemarket in this country. His poems were worth asmuch to magazines as those of Bryant or Longfellow,(though none of the publishers paid him half as largea price for them,) and his tales were as popular asthose of Willis, who has been commonly regarded asthe best magazinist of his time. He ceased towrite for The Lady’s Book in consequenceof a quarrel induced by Mr. Godey’s justifiablerefusal to print in that miscellany his “Replyto Dr. English,” and though in the poor fustianpublished under the signature of “George R. Graham,”in answer to some remarks upon Poe’s characterin The Tribune, that individual is made toassume a passionate friendship for the deceased authorthat would have become a Pythias, it is known thatthe personal ill-will on both sides was such thatfor some four or five years not a line by Poe waspurchased for Graham’s Magazine. Toquote again the “Defense of Mr. Poe” inthe Southern Literary Messenger:

“His changeable humors, his irregularities,his caprices, his total disregard of everything andbody, save the fancy in his head, prevented him fromdoing well in the world. The evils and sufferingsthat poverty brought upon him, soured his nature,and deprived him of faith in human beings. Thiswas evident to the eye—­he believed in nobody,and cared for nobody. Such a mental conditionof course drove away all those who would otherwisehave stood by him in his hours of trial. He became,and was, an Ishmaelite.”

After having, in no ungenerous spirit, presented thechief facts in Mr. Poe’s history, not designedlyexaggerating his genius, which none held in higheradmiration, not bringing into bolder relief than wasjust and necessary his infirmities. I am gladto offer a portraiture of some of his social qualities,equally beautiful, and—­so changeable andinconsistent was the man—­as far as it goes,truthful. Speaking of him one day soon afterhis death, with the late Mrs. Osgood, the beauty ofwhose character had made upon Poe’s mind thatimpression which it never failed to produce upon mindscapable of the apprehension of the finest traits inhuman nature, she said she did not doubt that my viewof Mr. Poe, which she knew indeed to be the commonview, was perfectly just, as it regarded him in hisrelations with men; but to women he was different,and she would write for me some recollections of him,to be placed beside my harsher judgments in any noticeof his life that the acceptance of the appointmentto be his literary executor might render it necessaryfor me to give to the world. She was an invalid—­dyingof that consumption by which in a few weeks she wasremoved to heaven, and calling for pillows to supporther while she wrote, she drew this sketch:

“You ask me, my friend, to write for you myreminiscences of Edgar Poe. For you, who knewand understood my affectionate interest in him, andmy frank acknowledgment of that interest to all whohad a claim upon my confidence, for you, I will willinglydo so. I think no one could know him—­noone has known him personally—­certainlyno woman-without feeling the same interest. Ican sincerely say, that although I have frequentlyheard of aberrations on his part from the ’straightand narrow path,’ I have never seen himotherwise than gentle, generous, well-bred, and fastidiouslyrefined. To a sensitive and delicately-nurturedwoman, there was a peculiar and irresistible charmin the chivalric, graceful, and almost tender reverencewith which he invariably approached all women whowon his respect. It was this which first commandedand always retained my regard for him.

“I have been told, that when his sorrows andpecuniary embarrassments had driven him to the useof stimulants, which a less delicate organizationmight have borne without injury, he was in the habitof speaking disrespectfully of the ladies of his acquaintance.It is difficult for me to believe this; for to me,to whom he came during the year of our acquaintancefor counsel and kindness in all his many anxietiesand griefs, he never spoke irreverently of any womansave one, and then only in my defense; andthough I rebuked him for his momentary forgetfulnessof the respect due to himself and to me, I could notbut forgive the offense for the sake of the generousimpulse which prompted it. Yet even were thesesad rumors true of him, the wise and well-informedknew how to regard, as they would the impetuous angerof a spoiled infant, balked of its capricious will,the equally harmless and unmeaning phrensy of thatstray child of Poetry and Passion. For the fewunwomanly and slander-loving gossips who have injuredhim and themselves only by repeatinghis ravings, when in such moods they have acceptedhis society. I have only to vouchsafe my wonderand my pity. They cannot surely harm the trueand pure, who, reverencing his genius, and pityinghis misfortunes and his errors, endeavored, by theirtimely kindness and sympathy, to soothe his sad career.

“It was in his own simple yet poetical home,that to me the character of Edgar Poe appeared inits most beautiful light. Playful, affectionate,witty, alternately docile and wayward as a petted child-forhis young, gentle, and idolized wife, and for allwho came, he had, even in the midst of his most harassingliterary duties, a kind word, a pleasant smile, agraceful and courteous attention. At his desk,beneath the romantic picture of his loved and lostLenore, he would sit, hour after hour, patient, assiduous,and uncomplaining, tracing, in an exquisitely clearchirography, and with almost superhuman swiftness,the lightning thoughts—­the ‘rareand radiant’ fancies as they flashed through

his wonderful and ever-wakeful brain. I recollect,one morning, toward the close of his residence inthis city, when he seemed unusually gay and light-hearted.Virginia, his sweet wife, had written me a pressinginvitation to come to them; and I, who never couldresist her affectionate summons, and who enjoyed hissociety far more in his own home than elsewhere, hastenedto Amity-street. I found him just completinghis series of papers entitled ‘The Literati ofNew York.’ ‘See,’ said he,displaying, in laughing triumph, several little rollsof narrow paper, (he always wrote thus for the press,)’I am going to show you, by the difference oflength in these, the different degrees of estimationin which I hold all you literary people. In eachof these, one of you is rolled up and fully discussed.Come, Virginia, help me!’ And one by one theyunfolded them. At last they came to one whichseemed interminable. Virginia laughingly ranto one corner of the room with one end, and her husbandto the opposite with the other. ’And whoselengthened sweetness long drawn out is that?’said I. ‘Hear her!’ he cried, ‘justas if her little vain heart didn’t tell her it’sherself!’

“My first meeting with the poet was at the AstorHouse. A few days previous. Mr. Willis hadhanded me, at the table d’hote, that strangeand thrilling poem entitled ‘The Raven,’saying that the author wanted my opinion of it.Its effect upon me was so singular, so like that of’weird unearthly music,’ that it was witha feeling almost of dread, I heard he desired an introduction.Yet I could not refuse without seeming ungrateful,because I had just heard of his enthusiastic and partialeulogy of my writings, in his lecture on American Literature.I shall never forget the morning when I was summonedto the drawing-room by Mr. Willis to receive him.With his proud and beautiful head erect, his darkeyes flashing with the elective light of feeling andof thought, a peculiar, an inimitable blending ofsweetness and hauteur in his expression and manner,he greeted me, calmly, gravely, almost coldly; yetwith so marked an earnestness that I could not helpbeing deeply impressed by it. From that momentuntil his death we were friends; although we met onlyduring the first year of our acquaintance. Andin his last words, ere reason had forever left herimperial throne in that overtasked brain, I have atouching memento of his undying faith and friendship.

“During that year, while traveling for my health,I maintained a correspondence with Mr. Poe, in accordancewith the earnest entreaties of his wife, who imaginedthat my influence over him had a restraining and beneficialeffect. It had, as far as this—­thathaving solemnly promised me to give up the use ofstimulants, he so firmly respected his promise andme, as never once, during our whole acquaintance, toappear in my presence when in the slightest degreeaffected by them. Of the charming love and confidence

that existed between his wife and himself, alwaysdelightfully apparent to me, in spite of the many littlepoetical episodes, in which the impassioned romanceof his temperament impelled him to indulge; of thisI cannot speak too earnestly—­too warmly.I believe she was the only woman whom he ever trulyloved; and this is evinced by the exquisite pathosof the little poem lately written, called AnnabelLee, of which she was the subject, and which is byfar the most natural, simple, tender and touchinglybeautiful of all his songs. I have heard it saidthat it was intended to illustrate a late love affairof the author; but they who believe this, have intheir dullness evidently misunderstood or missed thebeautiful meaning latent in the most lovely of allits verses—­where he says,

“’A wind blew out of a cloud,chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee,
So that her high-born kinsmen came,
And bore her away from me.’

“There seems a strange and almost profane disregardof the sacred purity and spiritual tenderness of thisdelicious ballad, in thus overlooking the allusionto the kindred angels and the heavenly Fatherof the lost and loved and unforgotten wife.

“But it was in his conversations and his letters,far more than in his published poetry and prose writings,that the genius of Poe was most gloriously revealed.His letters were divinely beautiful, and for hoursI have listened to him, entranced by strains of suchpure and almost celestial eloquence as I have neverread or heard elsewhere. Alas! in the thrillingwords of Stoddard,

“’He might have soared inthe morning light,
But he built his nest with the birds ofnight;
But he lie in dust, and the stone is rolled
Over the sepulcher dim and cold;
He has canceled the ill he has done orsaid,
And gone to the dear and holy dead.
Let us forget the path he trod,
And leave him now to his Maker, God.’”

The influence of Mr. Poe’s aims and vicissitudesupon his literature, was more conspicuous in his laterthan in his earlier writings. Nearly all thathe wrote in the last two or three years—­includingmuch of his best poetry,—­was in some sensebiographical: in draperies of his imagination,those who take the trouble to trace his steps, willperceive, but slightly concealed, the figure of himself.The lineaments here disclosed, I think, are not differentfrom those displayed in his biography, which is buta filling up of the picture. Thus far the fewcriticisms of his life or works that I have venturedhave been suggested by the immediate examination ofthe points to which they referred. I add but afew words of more general description.

In person he was below the middle height, slenderlybut compactly formed, and in his better moments hehad in an eminent degree that air of gentlemanlinesswhich men of a lower order seldom succeed in acquiring.

His conversation was at times almost supramortal inits eloquence. His voice was modulated with astonishingskill, and his large and variably expressive eyeslooked repose or shot fiery tumult into theirs wholistened, while his own face glowed, or was changelessin pallor, as his imagination quickened his bloodor drew it back frozen to his heart. His imagerywas from the worlds which no mortals can see but withthe vision of genius. Suddenly starting froma proposition, exactly and sharply defined, in termsof utmost simplicity and clearness, he rejected theforms of customary logic, and by a crystalline processof accretion, built up his ocular demonstrations informs of gloomiest and ghastliest grandeur, or inthose of the most airy and delicious beauty—­sominutely and distinctly, yet so rapidly, that theattention which was yielded to him was chained tillit stood among his wonderful creations—­tillhe himself dissolved the spell, and brought his hearersback to common and base existence, by vulgar fanciesor exhibitions of the ignoblest passion.

He was at all times a dreamer—­dwellingin ideal realms—­in heaven or hell—­peopledwith the creatures and the accidents of his brain.He walked the streets, in madness or melancholy, withlips moving in indistinct curses, or with eyes upturnedin passionate prayer, (never for himself, for he felt,or professed to feel, that he was already damned,but) for their happiness who at the moment were objectsof his idolatry;—­or, with his glances introvertedto a heart gnawed with anguish, and with a face shroudedin gloom, he would brave the wildest storms; and allnight, with drenched garments and arms beating thewinds and rains, would speak as if to spirits thatat such times only could be evoked by him from theAidenn, close by whose portals his disturbed soulsought to forget the ills to which his constitutionsubjected him—­close by the Aidenn whichwere those he loved—­the Aidenn which hemight never see, but in fitful glimpses, as its gatesopened to receive the less fiery and more happy natureswhose destiny to sin did not involve the doom of death.He seemed, except when some fitful pursuit subjugatedhis will and engrossed his faculties, always to bearthe memory of some controlling sorrow. The remarkablepoem of “The Raven” was probably muchmore nearly than has been supposed, even by those whowere very intimate with him, a reflection and an echoof his own history. He was that bird’s

“——­unhappy masterwhom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songsone burden
bore—­
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burdenbore

Of‘Never—­never more.’”

Every genuine author, in a greater or less degree,leaves in his works, whatever their design, tracesof his personal character; elements of his immortalbeing, in which the individual survives the person.While we read the pages of the “Fall of theHouse of Usher,” or of “Mesmeric Revelations,”we see in the solemn and stately gloom which investsone, and in the subtle metaphysical analysis of both,indications of the idiosyncracies—­of whatwas most remarkable and peculiar—­in theauthor’s intellectual nature. But we seehere only the better phases of his nature, only thesymbols of his juster action, for his harsh experiencehad deprived him of all faith, in man or woman.He had made up his mind upon the numberless complexitiesof the social world, and the whole system with himwas an imposture. This conviction gave a directionto his shrewd and naturally unamiable character.Still, though he regarded society as composed altogetherof villains, the sharpness of his intellect was notof that kind which enabled him to cope with villany,while it continually caused him by overshots to failof the success of honesty. He was in many respectslike Francis Vivian, in Bulwer’s novel of “TheCaxtons.” Passion, in him, comprehendedmany of the worst emotions which militate againsthuman happiness. You could not contradict him,but you raised quick choler; you could not speak ofwealth, but his cheek paled with gnawing envy.The astonishing natural advantages of this poor boy—­hisbeauty, his readiness, the daring spirit that breathedaround him like a fiery atmosphere—­had raisedhis constitutional self-confidence into an arrogancethat turned his very claims to admiration into prejudicesagainst him. Irascible, envious—­badenough, but not the worst, for these salient angleswere all varnished over with a cold repellant cynicism,his passions vented themselves in sneers. Thereseemed to him no moral susceptibility; and, what wasmore remarkable in a proud nature, little or nothingof the true point of honor. He had, to a morbidexcess, that desire to rise which is vulgarly calledambition, but no wish for the esteem or the love ofhis species; only the hard wish to succeed—­notshine, not serve—­succeed, that he mighthave the right to despise a world which galled hisself-conceit.

* * * * *

“LAUGH AND GET FAT!”

BY JOHN KENYON

Lack we motives to laugh? Are not all things,anything, everything, to be laughed at? And ifnothing were to be seen, felt, heard, or understood,we would laugh at it too! Merry Beggars.

I.
There’s nothing here on earth deserves
Half of the thought we wasteabout it,
And thinking but destroys the nerves,
When we could do so well withoutit:
If folks would let the world go round,
And pay their tithes, andeat their dinners,
Such doleful looks would not be found,
To frighten us poor laughingsinners.
Never sigh when you can sing,
But laugh, like me, at everything!

II.

One plagues himself about the sun,
And puzzles on, through everyweather,
What time he’ll rise,—­howlong he’ll run,—­
And when he’ll leaveus altogether;
Now matters it a pebble-stone,
Whether he shines at six orseven?
If they don’t leave the sun alone,
At last they’ll plaguehim out of heaven!
Never sigh when you can sing
But laugh, like me, at everything!

III.

Another spins from out his brains
Fine cobweb, to amuse hisneighbors,
And gets, for all his toils and pains,
Reviewed, and laughed at forhis labors:
Fame is his star! and fame is sweet;
And praise is pleasanter thanhoney,—­
I write at just so much a sheet,
And Messrs Longman pay themoney!
Never sigh when you can sing,
But laugh, like me, at everything!

IV.

My brother gave his heart away
To Mercandests[illegible],when he met her,
She married Mr. Ball one day—­
He’s gone to Swedento forget her
I had a charmer, too—­and sighed,
And raved all day and nightabout her;
She caught a cold, poor thing! and died,
And I—­am just asfat without her
Never sigh when you can sing,
But laugh, like me, at everything!

V.

For tears are vastly pretty things,
But make one very thin andtaper;
And sighs are music’s sweetest strings,
But sound most beautiful—­onpaper!
“Thought” is the Sage’sbrightest star,
Her gems alone are worth hisfinding;
But as I’m not particular,
Please God! I’llkeep on “never minding.”
Never sigh when you can sing,
But laugh, like me, at everything!

VI.

Oh! in this troubled world of ours,
A laughter-mine’s aglorious treasure;
And separating thorns from flowers,
Is half a pain and half apleasure:
And why be grave instead of gay?
Why feel a-thirst while folksare quaffing?—­
Oh! trust me, whatsoe’er they say,
There’s nothing halfso good as laughing!
Never sigh when you can sing,
But laugh, like me, at everything!

* * * * *

FROM THE GERMAN OF LENAU.

Over that ancient story grass has grown;
Myself, I scarce recall myown transgression;
Yet, when at twilight hour, I stray alone,
At times I feel as I couldmake confession.
But turning from the Past as all unknown.
I harbor in the Present!Such opression
Of futile sad remorse by me be flown!
Why summon bootless woes toMemory’s session?
When Death, that scythesman stern, thyframe destroyeth,
He’ll lop the grass,too, which thing actions covers.
And that forgotten deed shall cling aboutthee!
Back to the Past! Not vainly Careemployeth
Labor and pain to pierce where Darknesshovers;
Till sin is slain within, it cannot diewithout thee!

THE LEADER.

* * * * *

EBBA:
OR THE EMIGRANTS IN SWEDEN.

TRANSLATION FOR THE INTERNATIONAL, FROM THE FRENCHOF X. MARMIER.

BY FAYETTE ROBINSON.

Toward the end of November, in the year 1831, oneof those rude sleighs, met with in winter on all theroads of Sweden, passed rapidly along the shores ofthe Gulf of Bothnia. For several hours the palewinter sun had been like a lamp extinguished beneaththe horizon. The skies, however, had that transparentclearness which is one of the charms of the nightsof the north. Myriads of stars covered its surfacewith a network of gold, and glittered again on thesnow which covered the surface of the earth.The wind was calm: space was silent. Nothingwas heard but the sounds of the hoofs of two horsesattached to a light vehicle, and occasionally thevoice of the Swedish postillion, who from time to timeurged them on by a word of affectionate reproach, ora joyous eulogium. A traveler sat in the sleigh,wrapped up in heavy furs, and from time to time castaside the folds of the cloak which covered him, totake a thoughtful glance around him. A strangerin Sweden, he was traveling through it, and duringthe last month had experienced a multitude of emotions,altogether unexpected, and which seemed to increaseas he drew near the north. After having crossedthe southern provinces of that kingdom bounded bythe Baltic, and those on the vast silver basin of LakeMilar, seen Stockholm in all its pride, Upsal, thecity of the ancient gods, and Gebel, the active andindustrious, he found himself amid a region entirelysilent, inanimate, and wrapped in a snowy pall.Soon he penetrated the bosom of a long pine forest,the shafts of which seemed, as it were, giants wrappedin cloaks of white. Now he ascended steep hills,then rapidly hurried to the Gulf, the shores of whichthe waves had made to look like point-lace, and lookedup at the immense rocks on which the waters broke.

Everywhere the same silence existed. Far in thedistance a light was seen to shine, either the glitterof a woodman’s fire, or the midnight torch kindledby some invalid. This light, fixed like a pointin space, was but another evidence of the isolationof man in these regions.

In this inanimateness of nature, in this sad uniformityof plains of snow, in this desert of fields and woods,such sadness, such distress was evident, that theheart of the traveler, who however was young and brave,was filled with a kind of mysterious fear. Beforehim, among all the other stars, shone that of thepole, that faithful light which is nightly kindledlike a pharos, and in the seasons of storm, smileson the pilgrim who has gone astray, and guides thenavigator’s steps. The stranger, for afew instants, kept his eyes fixed on this benevolentlight, as if to find some relief to the impressionshe had received from the melancholy appearance of

the earth. He then tapped the postillion on theshoulder, and said to him, with the laconism compulsoryon him from his knowledge of the Swedish tongue, “Aland?”This was the name of the halting-place. “Intettu,” (not yet,) replied the postillion, ashe took his arm from the sheepskin which surroundedhis shoulders. At the same time he cracked hiswhip, as if to show how impatient he was to reach hishalting-place. The animals, thus excited, setforth at a long gallop across that portion of theGulf where the frequent passage of the fishermen hadto a degree leveled the snow, and ascended with muchdifficulty a hill covered by trees at least a hundredyears old. At the extremity of this forest, thepostillion turned toward the traveler, and with hisfinger pointed out to him a spot so distant that itcould be distinguished with difficulty. “Aland!”said he; and with his voice and gestures he encouragedhis horses, who doubled their ardor, as if they comprehendedthat this was the last effort which would be requiredof them before they reached their destination.

The sleigh soon halted at the foot of a vast woodenhouse. When the driver cracked his whip, whenthe sound of the bells was heard, the door opened,and the stranger, it was evident to see, was expected.A servant advanced to meet him, with a lantern inhis hand, and led him through a long corridor, introducinghim into a room where a man with gray hair sat inan arm-chair.

“My uncle!” said the traveler, rushingtoward him.

“Ireneus, my dear child!” said the oldman. They stood in silence, clasped in each other’sarms, until the old man, taking the young one by thehand, led him to a table on which two lights were burning,looked at him with complaisance, and said, “Itis indeed yourself—­it is the likeness ofmy poor brother: the same eyes, the same proudand resolute air. You look as he did thirty yearsago, when he was about to cast himself amid the dangersof war; when, unfortunately, he embraced me for thelast time.”

“My dear uncle,” said Ireneus, “insteadof the brother you have lost, a son comes to you.In my early youth, my mother taught me to love you.That duty I shall be glad to discharge.”

“The very sound of his voice!” continuedthe old man, who still looked at him; “the verysparkle of his eye! No painter could have madea more exact portrait. May you, however, havea far different destiny. Fatality weighs on thefamily of Vermondans. May you, the only vigorousoffshoot of that old race of soldiers, already strickenby misfortune, already an exile from your country,never learn, as your father and I did, how bitteris the bread of the stranger—­how difficultit is to go up and down the stranger’s staircase.But what do I say? You are in another father’shouse. You come to it like a long-expected child,and you meet with two sisters.” Then goingtoward the door of another room, he said, “Ebba,Alete, come to welcome your cousin.”

Two young girls entered immediately. One of themwas lively and active, with black eyes and a ruddycomplexion; the other pale, fair, and delicate.The first gave her hand gaily to Ireneus, and kissedhim on both cheeks; the other advanced timidly, andwith downcast eyes, leaning her brow forward to bekissed.

“My dear cousins,” said Ireneus, “mymother would have been delighted, as I am, to haveseen you; but being unable to make this long journeyin Sweden, has sent you at least a token of her affection.”As he spoke, he took from his pocket a little moroccobox, which the agile Alete took and opened with eagerness.

“What pretty ear-rings!” said she; “whata charming ring! See that little blue cross,and the bracelet set with emeralds. Such jewelsare made only in Paris. Come look at them, Ebba!”

During all this time, Ebba stood aside motionlessand silent. She then approached the table onwhich her sister had displayed the jewels, and lookedat them without speaking.

“Is not this pretty?” said Alete.“We must divide them; and as I have a loverwho will make it a point of honor to give me as manyornaments as my whim dictates and his fortune willpermit, I wish you to take the larger part.”

“No,” said Ebba, with a voice soft asthat of a child, “as you are about to be marriedyou should have all as a wedding present. If youwill however let me keep this little cross, I shallbe very grateful.”

Alete, who under the mask of frivolity concealed atender and delicate heart, sought in vain to overcomethe modesty of her sister; and finally, with muchreluctance, received three-quarters of the jewel-case.

“Now, young ladies,” said their father,who had been an observer of this contest of generosity,“remember that your cousin has made a long journey.See if his room is in order and if supper is ready;for when one has passed the whole day in crossingour snow-plains, some comfort is required.”

“They are good and affectionate children,”continued the father, when they had gone out.“The eldest is a gipsy who delights me with hergayety; the youngest often moves me even to tears.Her mother died in giving birth to her. The poorgirl seems constantly under the influence of the misfortunewhich presided over her birth.

“None of the things in which girls of her agedelight, please or excite her. Her silent andretiring life, seems one long act of resignation.She finds interest in story and books alone. Shehas learned three or four languages, and read allthe books either here or at the parsonage. When,however, she is in society, one would fancy her a veryignorant person, so little does she say and so anxiousdoes she appear to conceal her information. Hermodesty is disturbed by no vanity, and the placidityof her meditations is interrupted by no vulgar commotion.One might almost fancy her a stranger to this world,indifferent to its calculations, lost to its joys,and submitting without effort to its sorrows.I have never seen her smile, but I have never heardher complain. Delicate and weak, the palenessof her face, the languor of her appearance, betraya physical suffering she herself denies.

“As soon as she perceives that I remark anyindisposition in her, her countenance becomes illuminatedby a gentle light, her lips are gilded with a sweetsmile, as if she begged me to excuse the uneasinessshe had inspired me with.

“Forgive me, dear Ireneus, for this unscrupulousthrusting on you of my paternal egotism. I shouldfirst have inquired after you and your hopes whichwere crushed so soon. Ebba, however, is ever acause of anxiety to me.”

Ireneus replied to this confidence by cordially claspinghis hand. Just at that moment it was announcedthat the table was served.

“Come,” said the old man, “you willnot find here the gastronomical niceties of Paris.Like plain country people, we live on the produce ofthe soil. A good bottle of old beer, however,has some merit, and varieties of game are found inour forests, for which the gourmets of Pariswould willingly exchange their hares and partridges.”

Ireneus sat between his two cousins, and his youthfulappetite, sharpened by the journey he had made, delightedthe old man. As he ate large slices of the haunchof a reindeer, and drank cup after cup of a savorybeer, prepared with particular care by Alete, he contrivedto look at the young girls on each side of him.

The eldest, always in motion, waited on her cousinand her father, went to the kitchen, sat again atthe table, and when she laughed disclosed two rowsof pearl between her rose-colored lips. She wasindeed a charming girl, round and dimpled as a child,fresh and gay as a bird, with every gesture graceful,though she was a little espiegle and coquettish.Her coquetry, however, was naive and chaste, of a kindwhich in many women is but the amiable manifestationof a sentiment of benevolence, and an innocent desireto be agreeable.

Ireneus took pleasure in looking at her, and as sheimmediately acquired self-possession, she conferredthe same privilege on others. She already jestedwith him as if he had been an old friend, and he felthimself as unconstrained as if he had passed his wholelife with her. When, however, he looked at Ebba,it was with strange emotion. Nothing in his wholelife had ever touched him so. The countenanceof the young girl had a cold marble whiteness, makingit assume the appearance of a statue, wrought in themost artistic manner.

Two long tresses of yellow hair fell over her cheeks,and disclosed a brow of ideal serenity. Her paleface was lit up with eyes clear as crystal, and blueand deep as lakes reflecting the skies. Any onewho had once looked into her eyes could not forgetthem. Often they drooped beneath the lids, likea heart overcome with grief sheltering itself beneatha cloud. When they were lifted up no earthly desireanimated them, and in their vague radiation they seemedto look into the infinite.

There are plants which the dew and sun do not completelydevelop. There are beings like weak plants, attachedto earth by but feeble roots, and who from their verybirth seem predestined to misfortune, and who, bya kind of second-sight, made aware of the fate whichawaits them, attach themselves with fear and tremblingto a world in which they anticipate only an ephemeralexistence and cruel deception. Their sadness isreflected on those who approach them. There isas it were a fatal circle around them, in which allfeel themselves seized with indescribable fear, andwith the evidences of sympathy entertained for themis mingled a kind of commiseration.

Ireneus experienced at the appearance of Ebba thissentiment of uneasiness and melancholy sympathy.When after supper he bade adieu to his uncle and cousins,when he was alone in his room, he smiled when he rememberedthe amiable gayety of Alete, but became sad and pensivewhen he recalled the dreamy look of her young sister,the sad melancholy glance which shone over her facelike the twilight of an autumn day.

Ireneus was not however one of those sentimental beingsbelonging to the Byronic or German school. Hismind was rather energetic than tender; it was ratherardent than despairing. The son of a brave countrygentleman who had devoted fortune and life to thecause of legitimacy, and after having followed theprinces in their various emigrations, had died forthem in the wilderness of la Vendee. Ireneus hadbeen the inheritor of that obstinate will which neverdeviates from the end it proposes to itself, and ofa chivalric worship of the Royal family, which to himseemed by a law divine to be invested with the imprescriptibleright to govern France. Of the large fortunewhich formerly belonged to his family, the revolutionhad left him but a dilapidated castle, a few fieldsand forests, the revenue of which scarcely sufficedto support his mother in comfort.

The condition of his fortune did not permit him tolead an idle life. His birth made his professioncertain. He entered Saint-Cyr, and left it withthe best possible recommendations. He could alsoappeal to the traditions of his fathers services.Through the union of these two claims he was so rapidlyadvanced that at twenty-eight he was already Captainof the Lancers of the Guard, with an honorable name,a handsome person, some intelligence and that eleganceof manners inherent in the class to which he belonged,and which to us is known as the aristocracy, the youngnobleman might without presumption anticipate a brilliantfuture. His mother amid the silence of her provincialcastle followed him step by step, with pride, andher solitary dreams saw him the husband of a richheiress, Colonel and aide-de-camp of a prince, deputyand peer of France. Who can tell how vague werethe hopes entertained in relation to that child inwhom all her hopes were centered!

His mother was lost in this study and observationof castles in the air, when the revolutions of Julyburst forth like a thunderbolt, and at one blow overturnedall her aerial edifices.

Ireneus was at Paris when this terrible contest, theresult of which was the overturning of a monarchy,began with the crushing of a throne. He foughtwith the ardor inspired at once by his love of legitimacyand his innate horror of the revolutionary flag.On the first day he had the honor of resisting withhis company a numerous body of insurgents, and succeededin protecting the post which had been confided to him.On the second day, after a desperate contest, thedanger of which served only to magnify his courage,he fell from his horse with a ball through his chest.His soldiers who were devoted to him bore him to ahouse where he was kindly treated. A few hoursafter, a General who had seen him in the battle, senthim the brevet of Major. It was an empty honor,for the hand which signed this promotion soon renouncedall human grandeur and all command.

The wound of Ireneus was severe. The kind attentionshowever which surrounded, protected him from dangerof death. As soon as he was beginning to growwell, he went to his mother’s house, where hiscure was completed. There he heard of the newexile of those for whom his father had shed his bloodand of the establishment of the new monarchy.Many of his friends were soon induced to connect themselveswith the new monarchy which retained them in service,and even conferred special compliments on them, andthey wrote to induce him to follow their example.Such a thought never entered his mind. Withoutpartaking of the exaggerated hatred of many of theLegitimists against the new monarchy, he had statedthat he would never serve it. He was not a manto violate a promise. But he was subject to thedanger of inactivity, the greatest torment of activeand strong minds. As an ambitious man examineswith great uneasiness the path which leads him topower, as the speculator contemplates the capriciouswhims of fortune, as the young officer waiting orderslooks in every direction for action, did Ireneus.More than once he resolved to join his fortunes withthose of the exiled princes in the arena of publicopinion. They however had submitted to theirfate, and no longer appealed to their faithful servants.The time of Royal crusades had gone by. Sovereignsmade uneasy by the effervescence of revolutions, whichlike a contagion spread over Europe, had enough todo to secure their own thrones, and had no dispositionto ruin themselves in lifting up that of a neighbor.

Madame de Vermondans, after striving in vain to amuseher son, induced him to visit his uncle in Sweden,hoping that travel would restore quiet to his mind.It was one of those healthful remedies which oftenescape the observation of science, and are suggestedonly by the ingenuity of tenderness. Nothingin certain moral diseases is more efficacious thantravel. He who after having enjoyed all the emotionsof active life, finds himself at once condemned tothe sterility of idleness, suffers under a perpetualfever. Within him there is as it were an ever-actingspring he strives with a constant effort to repress.

His intellectual and physical faculties, his imagination,his senses seek to resume their old power. Ifthe forces with which he is endowed, if the abundantgrasp of his mind are paralyzed in their motion, theseforces weigh on him like a useless burden. Soonin consequence of the internal contest he has undergone,the constant desires he has given vent to, from thevery exuberance of life, which finding no outlet, recoilson itself, he becomes a victim of the demon of satiety.To escape from its rude grasp, air and space are required.The victim must be borne from the narrow circle withinwhich he is riveted as by a chain, which clasps hisframe. He must shake from himself every chimera,and to enable him to forget himself, the aspect ofstrange lands, of scenes and pictures which one afterthe other exhibit themselves before him, all thatforcibly attracts the attention, all that occupiesthe mind in a new land, material cares, unexpectedincidents, the surprises of travel, and yet more themagical influence of nature, are required to restoretone to the sick soul.

Ireneus had really experienced the effect of thismoral remedy. In his journey across Germany andthe North, he had not recovered his early impetus,his natural ardor, but he at least felt himself masterof himself. He reached his uncle’s housein the happiest possible disposition of mind.

When he arose on the next day, he took occasion toremark the delicate Precaution taken to render hissojourn pleasant as possible. The furniture ofmaple or birch was plain, but wonderfully neat; thebed linen was of snowy whiteness and purity; and perfumedby aromatic plants with which in the drawers it hadbeen strewed. Here and there were a few choiceengravings, and on the floor was a carpet woven byhis two cousins.

At the very dawn of day a servant came to open theearthen stove, which stood on the hearth like a vastcolumn, and placed in it an armfull of the pitch pine,which sent out jets of flame and a perfume which filledthe whole room. Double windows protected thisroom also against the severity of the weather.Between them was a bed of flocks of wool on whichthe young girls had placed artificial flowers, as ifto preserve in the nudity of winter the smiling imageof spring. Here windows looked out on a landscapewhich in the summer time must have presented a charmingaspect. The house of M. Vermondans stood on ahill, on the brow of which was a breast of pines.In front of the principal facade was a garden witha proclivity toward the lake, which was surroundedand sheltered by a belt of trees. In the distancethe peasants’ houses were seen, the tall clockspire of Aland, and far in the distance the chimneysof the furnace belonging to M. de Vermondans.At this moment, the plain, the snow-covered woods,the frozen lake presented one uniform color. Anyone, however, might see they would present beautifullandscapes, when the sun called forth the field-flowers,made the forests lifeful, and gilded the water.

Ireneus went to his uncle’s room. He foundthe old man rested in an arm chair, with his legscrossed and a long pipe in his mouth.

M. de Vermondans was not one of those persons whowillingly distress themselves about what the poetscall the miseries of human life. He took thingsas they came, and enjoyed prosperity without imaginingfuture troubles.

While young, he had fought with his brothers the battlesof legitimacy. Like his brother, he entertaineda mortal hatred for revolutionary rabble: gradually,like many others, he had begun to reason on the matter,and become so tolerant that his doctrines reached thepoint almost of carelessness. Just as her [sic]nephew came in, he was reflecting and quasiconfirmed in the wisdom of his principles. “Yes,”said he, as if he continued a conversation alreadybegun, “yes, my friend, I am as much opposedas you are to a stormy revolution. I left myfather’s house, I abandoned my patrimony to accompanyour princes into exile. I have fought for them,in their holy cause I received a sabre cut on thearm, which every now and then, by a very disagreeablesensation, recalls my youthful patriotism to me.Soon, however, the idle pretensions of my comrades,the disputes of our chiefs, repressed my ardor.I left one of the cohorts in which reason was treatedas treachery, and where boasting alone was listenedto with complacency. There firmness and complaisancewere paralyzed now by erroneous movements and nextby contradictory orders. A faithful servant contrivedto save a portion of my estate, and at the peril ofhis own life brought me twenty thousand francs ingold. With this sum I came to Sweden, knowingthat here everything was cheap, and determined tobuy a small estate on which I might live, until Icould find an opportunity of serving to some purposethat cause to which my heart was devoted, and whichI had never yet entirely abandoned.

“At Stockholm one of those strange rencontreswhich we attribute to chance, but which the piouswith more propriety think originate in Providence,made me acquainted with a land-holder in Angermania,named Guldberg, as good a man as ever lived.I am indebted to him for all my prosperity, and Ibless his memory. M. Guldberg had discovered arich mineral deposit on his estate, was anxious toestablish a furnace, and sought for some one to aidhim in his enterprise. In the course of my studiesI had acquired some ideas of hydraulics and mechanics,trifling enough it is true, but one day conversationhaving been directed to these matters, Guldberg, whoknew even less than I did, appeared delighted withmy explanations, and asked me to aid him in his projectedenterprise. Without reflecting more than he didwhen he made the offer, I consented. I came hitherwith him: I superintended the construction andthe first labor of the furnace you see glowing there.I was not unlike the ignorant teacher who studiesin the morning the lesson he teaches in the afternoon.

I made more than one unfortunate experiment. Icommitted more than one error, but at last I got ourestablishment under way. Guldberg had sufferedpatiently, and never complained of the mistakes I hadmade, and now appeared most grateful for my success.He very generously offered me a share of the profitsof an enterprise which from the very commencementpromised the most favorable results. From thistime commences a series of derogations I now lookon as so many wise resolutions, but which many wouldlook on as acts of apostasy. Here I am, a Frenchnoble, with I know not how many illustrious quarters,compromising my escatcheon in an industrial occupation.This was the first derogation. Guldberg had anonly daughter, very interesting, and who pleased me.She had the kindness to show that I was not disagreeable;she however had not a drop of noble blood, not evena single quartering. I married her, much to yourfather’s discontent. That was my secondderogation. This woman during her life was thevery impersonation of virtue, but was a protestant,and asked me as a favor that if our children werefemale, they might be educated in her faith. Mytwo daughters believe as their mother did. Thatis the third derogation.

“An honest young fellow has courted the eldestof these girls. He is the son of a priest, andwill go into orders himself if he does not becomeprofessor of a college. I saw my dear Alete hadconfidence in him. I consented that she shouldmarry a plebeian and a heretic. In this was comprisedthe fourth and fifth derogation. I suffered therevolutionary crisis of France to pass without excitingme: I have learned through the papers that ourdear country, the most intelligent in the world, hassuccessively adulated and cursed the bloody tyrannyof Robespiere, the gallantry of Barras, the Consulate,Empire and the Revolution.

“When the lilies replaced the tricolor, andthe amiable people of Paris cast themselves beforethe troops of the white-horse of Monsieur, with thesame enthusiasm they had a few years before manifestedat the appearance of the proud charger of the conquerorof Wagram and Jena, I remained here and never changedmy colors: I never cried ’down with theCorsican Ogre.’ Smoking my pipe in peace,I watched my furnace, smiled on my children and myharvests, in the sunlight of Sweden, which would beso delightful if it were a little less rare.This was another and a terrible derogation.

“Gradually, however, dear Ireneus, I built upa faith to suit myself, found, I think, in the worksof no philosopher (I read but little), but which yetseems to me a very good rule of conduct, inasmuch asit leaves the conscience at ease and makes me as happyas any one can be in this valley of tears. Itherefore think, dear Ireneus, that in our benevolencewe make monsters of certain ideas which we imbibe whenwe are children, and to which, without examination,we always submit ourselves. I think that without

violating any true principle of morality, without ceasingto be, in any respect, a moral man, we may break somelinks of that network of traditions spun for us byour teachers at so much an hour, and which throwsa hood over us as it is thrown over a falcon, to keepit from flying in the infinitude of space. Irespect every sincere belief, even hat which I lookon as a prejudice, and I insist that my own be respected.As a conclusion of my profession of faith, I am willingto admit that even a republican convinced of the justnessof his opinions appears as reasonable to me as a monarchist,and that a quaker or Calvinist is as near heaven asthe devout Catholic.

“When my mind lifts itself up toward God, Iimagine him the representative and originater of allgood, and I am convinced that the surest way to approachhim, to merit his favor and win his blessing, is,in the circle in which we are, whether large or small,to do as much good as possible. I say, that theworkingman, who toils for a short time to assist hisinvalid neighbor, acquires more merit than the richman, who with an icy hand casts his coin into thelap of the indigent. I have the audacity to thinkthat a king, who in the splendor of his court is forgetfulof the suffering of his people; that a noble, who abandonshimself to all the enjoyments of his fortune, forgetfulof misery languishing at his castle gate, are greatcriminals; and that God will punish their misdeeds,either on them, or, as the Bible says, ’on theirchildren even until the fourth and fifth generation.’”

Ireneus, who had listened in silence to this longprofession of faith, asked himself if it was worthwhile to contradict it. The words of his unclewere contradictory of one of those doctrines, whichare the more difficult to shake, as they have theirhold in the philosophy of the heart, and are fencedaround with many noble sentiments. His loyalty,however, seemed to require some reply, and he spokeas follows:

“I understand well enough, my dear uncle, thechain of circ*mstances which has led you almost tolay aside the principles which now seem prejudicesto you. I myself willingly immolate on the altarof new ideas that pride of nobility which delightsin the study of old parchments, and makes a kind offetish of scutcheons carved on the walls of an ancientcastle. I condemn as a foolish error, the airsof superiority affected by old nobles in respect tomerit sprung from the people; and if, in the opinionof my father, your marriage with the daughter of yourfriend, seemed a degradation, forgive him. Rememberthat he died at an epoch of strife and convulsionin which every noble defended, with the greatest possibleardor, the prerogatives of his rank, which he saw wereattacked by the maddest passion, and were in dangerof being lost. Since then we have made much progress.The barriers which formerly divided society into twoclasses have been destroyed, space has been openedfor every one to carve his own way, and the peopleparticipate in governments, and in the royal councils.

“The majority of the ministers of the Restorationwere chosen from among the people. In relationto this, I admit all the reasonings of the philosophersof the eighteenth century, and of the liberals of ourown times. In them I find expansion of heart,intelligence, and I care not for genealogy. Thequalities of mind, grace and beauty seem to me signsof distinction marked by the finger of God, who iswiser far than D’Hozier.[A] I cannot, however,forget that this race of nobles, so cruelly persecutedthirty years ago, so often trampled on in our owntimes, was the glory and the power of France.I was forced with pain to see with what incessantmalignity this race, though stripped of its ancientpower, was attacked. I have often said that insapping the foundations of the aristocratic edifice,that in crushing the legitimacy of the nobles, anattack was made on the legitimacy of monarchy.The revolution just over has but too well justifiedmy apprehensions. This revolution which by aspecies of criminal conversion, selects one of theold royal blood to occupy the throne of the exile,which selects the one nearest the throne, is perhapsbut the first of a series of convulsions, in whichwill be engulfed, by ambition and pride, the wisdomand experience of the past.”

[Footnote A: A genealogist of great repute inFrance, twenty years since.]

This conversation between the uncle and nephew wasinterrupted by the sound of a horse’s hoofs,dragging a sleigh rapidly toward the door of the house.

“That is beyond doubt my future son-in-law,”said M. de Vermondans, “another philosopher,who, like yourself, does not in every respect agreewith you. He is, however, a good fellow, who undera by no means aristocratic exterior conceals the noblestqualities.”

When she heard the sleigh, Alete ran to the door sill;and Ebba followed him. At the appearance of thetwo sisters, like a rose and a lily, the young manhastened to divest himself of the thick fur which enwrappedhim, sprang from the sleigh, and hastened to his betrothed.He had not, however, remembered the caprice of Alete,who, instead of giving him her hand as usual, lookedsternly at him, and said:

“Sir, you are incorrigible. How comes thatwaistcoat to be buttoned wrong? And why has thatcravat wings, like those of a crow? Why does yourshirt-collar come up to your ears? Is this thefruit of the lessons on the toilette, which I haveso often given you? Did I not also order youto attend to your hair, and not let it fall on yourshoulder, like two bundles of flax, in disorder?You do not know that we have here a cousin from Paris,who will take you for a Goth, or the Lord knows what.”

The poor young man, stupefied at this reception, lookeddown mechanically, with his hand on his waistcoatand his cravat, and did not dare to approach his rigorousmistress.

“Alete, Alete,” said Ebba, with a voiceof supplication, “how can you be so cruel!”

Alete, satisfied beyond doubt by the respectful submissionwith which her Reproaches had been received, sprangto the neck of her betrothed, and said,

“But I love my dear Eric truly. If I sometimesplay the magnificent with him, it is to make him thinkthat he has himself, in a noble epistle, called mehis sovereign. Is not this so, Eric?” addedshe, leaning toward him like a petted child.“Do you not weary of my little wickednesses?At present, you see, I use the remnant of my liberty:when we are married, however, I shall be a model ofobedience.”

The face of Eric had already become lighted up, andhe kissed with pleasure the little hand placed inhis.

Alete seemed to fear nothing so much as these sentimentalmanifestations, and took him into the room where theuncle and nephew had their political contest, andpausing before Ireneus, said,

“Cousin, permit me to introduce to you M. EricGoldberg, Doctor of the University of Upsal, and alearned Grecian, who never in his life read a singleline of the Journal des Modes, and cannot conceiveof the difference between a good and bad tailor; whowould not know how to hold a fan; or to perform acontradance, but who, in spite of all that, is oneof the best fellows in the world, and is devoted toyour cousin.”

After this singular introduction, a faint blush spreadover the face of the young doctor. A clasp ofthe hand, and an affectionate word, however, fromIreneus, put an end to all embarrassment.

“A strange girl,” said M. de Vermondans,following Alete with his eye as she hurried to thekitchen to take charge of the preparations for dinner.“Is not that an odd introduction of her husbandand lover? She never does things, however, likeother people. Be seated, dear Eric, though, andtell me why we have not seen you for three days.We had began to be uneasy about you, and Alete oftenlooked toward the window. Had you not come to-day,I should have sent to ask the reason.”

“My father has been a little unwell,”replied Eric; as he placed his hands, made red bythe cold, near the stove. “I had to remainto assist him in some of his duties, and to amusehim by reading to him. This morning, as I learnedthat Monsieur—­Monsieur—­”

“Say at once your cousin,” said Ireneus,frankly.

“That my cousin” resumed the timid Eric,with more confidence, “had arrived, I was unwillingto remain longer away, and my father was kind enoughnot to wish to retain me.”

As the Upsal student pronounced these few simple words,Ireneus observed him, and discovered in his face suchan expression of kindness, and in his clear blue eyessuch intelligence that he felt a real sympathy forhim.

“I thank you,” said he, “for thinkingof me before you knew me. I hope that when weshall be acquainted you will grant me a portion ofthe love you have conferred on my family. I amalready disposed to love you as a cousin.”

“Ah!” cried Eric, springing up, and glancingat Ireneus with an expression of radiant joy, “howhappy I am at what you say! I was afraid.I will confess, that I might find in you one of thosecareless men of the world, as we hear most of theParisians are. I see, however, you are a worthynephew of him I shall soon call uncle.”

“Gentlemen,” said Alete, who from thedoor had, with a pleasant smile on her face, heardthis amicable exchange of sentiments, “will yoube pleased to come to dinner?”

“Have they any caviar?” asked M. de Vermondans.

“Certainly, and as good as possible.”

“Then we can give this Parisian a complete specimenof the gastronomical refinements of our out-kitchen.”

“You must know, Ireneus,” said he, ashe led his nephew to a little table placed in thecorner of the dining-room, “that we do not commerceour meal as the rest of the world does. Our goodancestors certainly discovered, that the walls ofthe stomach being contracted by cold, needed to berefreshed by something spirituous, and from time totime this estimable precaution has been perpetuatedin the country. We will therefore first takea glass of this brandy, and then a cake of this caviar,a few anchovies, and a slice or two of ham, after whichwe will really sit at the festal board, where thesoup, to which you assign the first rank, appearsonly as a secondary entree, after many culinary preparations.”

This was done to the great amusem*nt of Ireneus, whor*ally would have taken for the dinner itself theprelude to it.

When they had sat down, Alete undertook to put himthrough a course of national gastronomy.

“What do you think,” asked she, “ofthe fish to which my father has just helped you?”

“They are very good,” replied Ireneus,“and resemble smelts.”

“What do you mean by smelts? They are doubtlesssome tasteless product of your warm rivers. Know,Monsieur, that these are stroemlings, the finest andmost delicate fish in the icy waters of the north.This other fish, which glows like a piece of goldin its porcelain plate, you would find it difficultto call by the correct name. It is a salmon, caughtby a skillful hand, and smoked with particular care.Near you is the tongue of a reindeer, prepared bya Laplander, unrivaled in this useful art. Thisbird, which yet looks fixedly at you with open eyes,though it died two days ago, you might fancy a barn-doorfowl, fattened up by the cook. Not so: itis the briar-co*ck, the honor of our forests. Thetwo fowls in that dish are not a pair of vulgar pullets,but succulent grouse. I will not mention thathaunch of sanglier, which, however, is worthy of aroyal table; nor of those vegetables, which strangerssay are nowhere as finely flavored as they are inour loved Sweden; nor of those berries, gathered lastfall on the sides of our hills. Pay some attention,however, to that bread which you break so careleselywith your fingers. It is not coarse and heavy,like that of other countries. It is our kneach-brad,delicate and light as a sheet of paper, and white asthe purest flour.”

“Have you done?” said M. de Vermondans;“and can you not, as an accompaniment to somany exquisite things, bring us a bottle of claret?”

“Wrong again.” said Alete; “as ifthis beer, prepared from the best barley, the mostperfumed hops, yellow as the Baltic, amber and pureas spring-water, was not more valuable than the coarsered fluid you send to such a distance for.”

“I agree with you,” said Ireneus, whoin his turn wished to laugh at the young girl.“It seems to me, that when seated in front ofthe riches of the north, it would be a profanationto pour out a libation in a foreign beverage.This beer has besides so excellent a flavor, that werethere anything like it in France, it is probable thatthe owners of the Clos de Vaugeot and Medoc wouldroot out their vines to make room for hops and barley.”

“You are laughing at me, dear cousin,”said Alete; “take care, however.”

“Peste!” said M. de Vermondans, “anyone who knows you would be rash indeed to excite yourceaseless babble. I do not think that Ireneus,who has more than once proved his courage, is boldenough for that.”

“Two royal officers contending against a poorcountry-girl,” said Alete. “We arenot fairly matched, and I will go for the claret.”

It was wrong for Alete to leave just then, for theconversation, which hitherto had been gaily sustained,immediately began to languish, and assumed a directionwhich compelled her to silence.

Ireneus complained of the inroad of democratic ideas,of the trembling and fall of aristocratic institutions,of the authority of right divine, which in his chivalricenthusiasm he looked on as the basis of society.

“Ah,” replied Eric, with a tone of voicewhich seemed aroused by a feeling of affection, “thisholy authority will lift itself up from the levelof the popular waves which threaten to overwhelm it.It will appear clear and brilliant as our polar star,above the clouds which now surround it. It wouldsubsist in all its power, if it were exercised bymen who comprehended the holy duties it imposed onthem. Everything connected with this primitivelaw, with this noble image of patriarchal government,would yet exist, if each member of the great socialfamily would contemplate from a just point of viewhis own condition, and carry out the consequencesin a Christian-like manner.

“Charity, that is to say love and compassion,the two expressions in which are summed up all thejoys and miseries of human life, are two virtues,ennobling and consoling man. Let the rich manbe charitable to the servant he has subjected to hiswill, toward the poor man who begs of him. Lethim say every day, as he awakes, every night as heprepares himself for repose, that the more powerfulhe has been made by Providence, the greater is theobligation he is under to aid and protect those aroundhim. In his turn, let the poor man be charitableto the rich; let him know that no rock of marble,no gilded platform can rescue the prince from mortalanxiety, and that human grief is found beneath theimperial purple as well as wrapped in rags, and thatoften the noble, surrounded by riches and at the festalboard, is forced to envy the humble hut and obscurerepose of the coal-burner.

“If ever,” pursued Eric, with an accentof enthusiasm, “I shall be called to expoundthe word of God, this especially shall be the textof my sermons: Charity! Charity! Bycharity I do not mean the habit of extending the hand,which by a kind of instinctive motion, lets alms fallin the blind man’s basket, nor the graceful actionof a lady who at certain hours leaves the saloon tovisit the garret. True charity consists not somuch in material aid as in the gifts of the heart;and every individual, humble as he may be, may performa precious act of charity. To pay correct esteemto a poor man who has been calumniated; to revivehope in a mind overpowered by misfortune and torturedby doubt; to console by kind words a soul mistakenand suffering from errors; each of these is a charity.To be mild and kind to all who approach you, to beindulgent to those blinded by the glitter of prosperity,to be kind and affectionate even when an effort isrequired to be so, to open a sympathizing heart toall complainings, to all diseases, to all human errors,is the way to gain daily the choicest opportunitiesof charity. To be charitable is to be good.One of your illustrious writers, Bernardin de SaintPierre, said, ’Were every one to regulate hisown house, order would be the law of nature.’We may also say, were each one to do good, universalhappiness would be certain.”

“Dear, dear Eric,” said Alete, claspinghis hand. Then as if she reproached herself forthis emotion, she suddenly withdrew it and said, “Youneed not get into the pulpit to preach a very edifyingsermon. You treat us already as your future parishioners,and honor my cousin in the same manner. Sinceyou have begun, will you not complete his education?That beautiful France, the wit and learning of whichis so much extolled, exhibits a haughty disdain ofthe science of other lands. I am sure my cousinknows very little of the history of Sweden,—­thatmagnificent chronicle which in its royal genealogiesdates from the deluge. You can teach him.My learned sister Ebba will also teach him Swedish,the most beautiful and harmonious tongue in the world,and certainly the oldest, since savans have proventhat Adam and Eve spoke it in Paradise. I alsowish to do my duty, and will guide my cousin in thestudy of natural history of grouse and briar-co*ck,and the aromatic plants which grow on our hillsides.”

“You jest,” said Ireneus, “but Iseriously adopt your proposition.”

“Bah! bah!” cried M. de Vermondans.“He would be a pretty Captain of Lancers ifhe were to subject himself to pedagogues, like a school-boy,and study themes and versions like a college lad.”

“Excuse me, my dear uncle, the most unpleasantthing in the world to me is to be idle. Sincecirc*mstances condemn me to inactivity, I would, ifpossible, employ my time usefully. I shall bevery grateful to Eric and my cousins, if they willgive me the instruction I need so much. I shallbe delighted to study the history of Sweden, a languagespoken by persons I love better than any in the world,and the products of the soil of Which Alete is theamiable Buffon.”

“So be it,” said M. de Vermondans, who,in spite of his eclecticism in politics, had, witha strange mental contradiction, preserved in relationto certain things very deeply rooted ideas, “Sobe it. In my time people took up no such fancies—­morethan one emigre passed ten years of his lifein a foreign country, and never learned to speak itslanguage. The young men of our times are notlike those of to-day. The world, which when Iknew it was so gay and careless, which from its veryrecklessness and its choleric daring was so interesting,now looks to me like a vast school. Its atmosphere,formerly impregnated with perfumes, is now saturatedwith the atmosphere of dusty tomes and damp newspapers.We meet with no one but persons anxious either toteach or learn. What will become of us if wegive way to this pedantic pride? If we surrenderto this anxiety to analyze everything? If wego on so, to suit us, God will be compelled to makea new world, to give occupation to the lofty fanciesof naturalists and physical philosophers, who seemto me to have weighed and examined this thoroughly.

“Bah! bah! Mademoiselle the philosopher,”said M. de Vermondans, as he saw Ebba smile, “Iam not ignorant that just now I talk very much likea heretic. You have delighted in reading a multitudeof books. I excuse you, however, because younever boast of your acquisitions.

“You do not belong to those blue-stockings,and I have met many such, who, as soon as you approachthem, throw at your head the name of a poet like abomb-shell, and exhibit the wealth of their arsenalby firing a philosophical cannon, or algebraic chainshot.

“May God almighty keep me from those women whoforget in this manner the natural graces of theirsex. Let him protect me from those Laureates whocan see no natural phenomenon without crying out withstupid satisfaction, ‘I know the reason.’

“Imagine how delighted I should be, if whenenjoying the delicious luxury of sunset, some bachelorof arts should say—­

“’Monsieur, will you suffer me to explainhow various clouds assume the colors which so vividlyimpress you, and with what rapidity light comes tothe eye?’

“For heaven’s sake let me enjoy in peaceall the gifts of Providence, admire its works in theinnocence of my heart, and discover by what geometricalprocess God has regulated the form of the globe, andto what pallet, to use the painter’s phrase,he has ground his colors.”

“There you express a pious and respectable sentiment,which, however, permit me to say, cannot be admittedwithout some qualification. We must not forgetthat the greatest gift with which God has endowed manis intelligence, and that one of our first dutiesis to attempt to develop that intelligence by meansof every faculty and all the means of applicationwith which he has endowed us.”

“Good. If you were sure that you wouldnot lose yourself amid temptation, or, if like Tobias,you had an angel to guide you in the stormy voyageyou undertake. Into what derangement of pridehas not man fallen, from the fabulous Prometheus,who sought to snatch fire from heaven, to the Philosophersof the eighteenth century, who extinguished fire inthe lights of their reason. Prove to me thatwhat you call human reason has in any manner purifiedor ennobled the moral sentiment, and I will bow myselfbefore your logicians and rhetoricians. To whatdirection soever I turn I see only vain puerilities,useless labor, doubtful hypotheses, presumption andfalsehood. I admit that you may count amid themultitude of books lumbering the shelves of your librariesmany innocent and instructive works. Those books,however, prove your impotence.

“Act as you please, and you will never be ableto develop equally the various mental powers.To expand one it is necessary to repress the others.By giving your reason the rude aliment of scholasticargument, you neglect your imagination. By illuminatingyour mind you overshadow your heart. You congratulateyourself at the discovery of a problem, the solutionof which you have long sought for. Scientificjournals become filled with numerous dissertationsabout it, academies decree crowns and medals to theauthor of the precious discovery. No one remembers,that each of these solutions breaks one of the wonderfulchains of charming symbols, of naive ideas which onceanimated and vivified the people. That it stripsit of poetry, of the emotions of the heart, and thedelightful and fairy-like creations of the imagination.

“The ancients were not so learned as we, yetthey were wiser. They did not explain the phenomenaof nature, but described with a graceful and imposingimagery. The rainbow, reduced in our collegesto a mere conformation of matter, was the scarf ofIris; the light-footed hours preceded the car of night,and the rosy-fingered Aurora opened the horizon topermit the car of Jove to pass. When the thunderrolled, Jupiter spoke to attentive mortals. Whenvolcanic mountains trembled, the old Titans soughtto throw off the mass of rocks which weighed on themas an eternal punishment of crime. The middleage, yet more naive and poetical, peopled the air,fields, woods, and waters with a crowd of mysteriousbeings who spoke to the senses and thought, and awakenedin the human mind a mild sentiment of faith or healthfulfear.

“Now, thanks to your haughty reason, we havebanished, like idle fancies, all these creations ofour forefathers. Now we know that the air hasno other voice than that of the wind and tempest;that the wood has no animals other than those thestructure of whom has been minutely described; thatthere are no fairies in the green fields, and no invisiblespirits watching over the hearth and fireside.Man, relying on his reason, would be ashamed to suffer

himself to be excited by tales of ghosts. Hehas cast aside all supernatural apprehensions; andI see the coming of the time when even Saint Nicholaswill not impose on children. What have we gainedby thus shaking off the network of smiling and seriousfancies, which both enlivened and restrained our fancy?Are we happier, stronger, or better? Alas! formy own part, even were I to pass for a mind behindthe times, I would confess that I regret those daysof candid credulity in which each dark forest hadits legend, every chapel its history. One ofthe reasons why I love the Swedes, amid whom I founda peaceful home, is, that they have not yet sacrificedto the teachings of modern times their old poetry;and that in the majority of their woodland homes area multitude of popular songs, of traditional faiths,of domestic customs, which recall the poetic days ofthe middle age. Is not this true, Ebba?You know something of this matter, for you participatein my predilections in relation to them; and more thanonce I have seen you listen anxiously to the storiesof the old women of Aland.”

“Yes, father,” said Ebba; who had listenedwith eager sympathy to the long dissertation of theold man, while Eric and Ireneus listened modestlyto all he had said.

“When you give me a lesson in Swedish,”said Ireneus, “will you be kind enough to addto it some of those histories, which, I assure you,interest me in no small degree?”

“If you wish it,” said Ebba, “Iwill.” Whenever she spoke she seemed withdifficulty to surmount her timidity.

“Well, my dear nephew,” said M. de Vermondans,with Eric on one side, Ebba on the other, and thepractical knowledge of Alete, “it seems to meyou can employ your time very profitably; for my ownpart I can only induct you into the mysteries of bear-hunting,and the chase of the stag and reindeer. It isso rude that I shall not be able to keep up with you.Among my people, however, I shall be able to find aguide, who finds game like a blood-hound, and followsit like a lion.”

“That will do wonderfully well, uncle; withso attractive an offer, I fear only that amid my amusem*ntsI shall forget my country and my regiment, and becomefaithless to my king.”

PART II.

Even if Ireneus had not willingly accepted the planworked out for the Employment of his leisure in study,the rigorous climate of Sweden would, in some manner,have made it compulsory for him to do so. To thecold and dry days, which, during the winter, enlightenedand animated the people of the north, succeeded stormsand hurricanes. Tempests of snow floated in theair, covered the paths, and blocked up the doors ofthe houses. A cloudy horizon and black sky seemedto close around every house, like a girdle of iron.At a little distance not even a hill could be distinguishedfrom a forest; all was, as it were, drowned and overwhelmed

in a misty ocean, in movable columns of snow, whichwere impetuous, and irresistible as the sand-whirlpoolsof the desert. About midday a light purple tint,like a dying twilight, glittered in somber space:a ray thrown by the sun across the clouds, gave anuncertain light. All, however, soon became darkagain. One might have fancied that the god ofday had retired over-wearied from regions he had invain attempted to subdue. Nowhere does the symbolicaldogma of the contests of darkness and light manifestit*elf in more characteristic traits than in the Scandinavianmythology; and nowhere does it appear physically undera more positive image than in the regions which havebeen for centuries devoted to this mythology.During the summer at the north, the sun reigns likean absolute sovereign over nature, and ceaselesslylights it with his crown of fire; he ever watchesit, like a jealous lover. If he inclines towardthe horizon, if his burning disk disappears behindthe purple mountain brows, he leaves for only a momentthose polar regions, and leaves even then a clearnessbehind like the dawn. He soon reappears in hisspotless splendor.

In the winter, however, he yields to night, which,with her dark cortege, occupies the northern world.She envelops space with her black wings, and caststhe ice and snow from her bosom. Sometimes, forweeks, the storms are so violent, that one cannot,without danger, venture into the fields; and cruelnecessity alone induces the peasant to take the road,either to offer something for sale in the nearestmarket, or to gain a few shillings as a guide to someadventurous traveler. Sometimes, even the peasantsof this country are afraid to cast their nets in theriver, and gulf, which in the greatest degree contributeto their subsistence. During the greater portionof the time, the poor people of the north, secludedin their homes by masses of snow, isolated from theirneighbors, pass whole winters by the fireside.The men occupy themselves in repairing the harnessof their horses, in mending the iron work of theircarriages—­for in that country the homesof people are so far from each other, that each familyis forced to provide for its daily wants, and everypeasant is at once saddler, wagon-maker, and carpenter.Women are busy in weaving and spinning. In manyprovinces, especially in that in which the uncle ofIreneus had established himself, there was in existencean industry, which, during the last twenty years,has been much developed. Every peasant’shouse is a perfect workshop, for the manufacture oflinen. Woofs, white and fine as those of Holland,and quite as good, are there produced. This varietyof work commences after harvest. In the autumnevenings, women, young girls, &c., assemble at differenthouses, with their distaff or bundle of flax, whichthey place before the hearth. It is pleasant,indeed, to see this collection of industrious women,busied in the performance of the task prescribed tothem, laughing, talking, without sometimes taking timeeven to listen to the young lovers who hover aroundthem.

Often a respectable grandmother, the fingers of whomwere wrinkled by age, and which neither weave norspin, would bid the wild troop be silent, as she toldone of the mad histories of old times. Then,one of the work-women would merrily ring out the peasantsongs, the chorus of which her companions would re-echo.After a few hours of toil, a young man would arise,and give a pleasant signal. All chairs and bencheswould at once be removed; the work-shop would be changedinto a ball-room. To supply the deficiency ofan orchestra, one of the spectators defined the modulationsof a dance by some old traditionary song. Youngmen and women took each other by the hand, and formedtogether one of those country groups which are theelements of the chorographic art. They then parted,making a rendezvous for the next day, for another hearth-side,but for similar amusem*nts. All the work-women,returned to their own houses, where they gaily retailedall the episodes of the evening’s events, somerecording merely a silent glance, which met their own,or a furtive clasp of the hand which had aroused ablush. More than one happy acquaintance originatesin one of those northern evenings—­and morethan one girl, who, in the autumn, has a heart freeas air, in the spring wears on her finger the ringof a promised bride.

When the weather was good, Ebba went out sometimesalone, to be present at these re-unions. Allrose to welcome her with a sentiment of respect andattention, for she was kind to the poor.

The young people silently withdrew, and the matronof the house gave her the most pleasant seat by thehearth-side. The children, however, to whom shebrought every day fruits and presents, leaped and dancedaround her. The old village story-tellers werealso glad when she came, for no one Questioned themwith more kindness, or listened with more attentionto their popular tales. Her delicate tournure,her graceful form, her pale and melancholy look, werein striking contrast with those around her. Tosee her motionless and mute amid the merry girls andthe robust young persons, would have induced a beliefthat she was one of those supernatural beings, oneof those fairy inhabitants of woods and waters—­strangelegends about whom she so much delighted in. Sheentered and retired silently, and her light feet seemedscarcely to touch the ground. She flitted awaylike an aerial being, leaving with all those whomshe visited an indefinable impression, and arousingin some the vague remembrance of a superstitious being.

One evening, when she was about to leave, a woman,who had looked Attentively at her, said, “Dearyoung lady; how feeble and ill she seems!”

“Yes,” said a timid voice, “onemight almost think she had joined in the elfin dance.”

“What is the elfin dance?” asked a youngman; “I have seen many, but never that.”

“God grant you never may,” said the oneto whom he spoke; “the elves are wonderful beings,who come we know not whence; and live, we know nothow, in the mountain gorges and woods. Probablythey are the descendants of some race accursed ofGod, and sentenced to live on earth, deprived of everyjoy and hope. They never enter towns; do not associatewith us; but when they see a solitary wanderer, theyseek to win him to them, and exercise a most unhappyinfluence over him.

“You sometimes have seen large circles of grassin the meadows trampled down. They are tracedby the elves, as they dance in the summer night whenthe moon is shining. Wo to the wanderer, wo tothe young girl, who at that time passes near them.The elves invite them to join in the dance, and sometimesdrag them by force away. Into the veins of anyone who comes within their circle, a secret poisonis infused, which makes him languish and die.I tell you, I fear that Ebba, good and charitableas she is, has been surprised by those accursed beings;for she has the pale face and languid air of thosewho suffer from philtre of the elves.”

Sitting one morning in the room of her father, Ebbawas discharging the task she had proposed to herselfin jest. She was teaching Ireneus the elementsof the beautiful Swedish language, of the Islandicfrom which it is derived, and which has its ulteriororigin in the old tongues of India, the cradle ofthe great Gothic races. “It is pleasant,”says Byron, “to learn a foreign tongue fromthe eyes and lips of a woman.” Ireneusenjoyed all the luxury of such a system of instruction.

Without having what is called a poetical nature, hewas not a little under the influence of the poetryof his situation, of the beautiful girl who taughthim, of her sweet smile, and the affectionate voicewhich stimulated his zeal or reproved his mistakes.Any accidental question, any quotation, a single wordoften would hurry the young girl’s mind to herfavorite theme, the mythology of the north.

In her early youth, she had studied the curious dogmasof the old Scandinavians, a singular assemblage ofterrible symbols and smiling images borrowed fromthe flowery regions of the east, and of dark conceptionsproduced in the cloudy north.

Not only did she know all the tales, but in some sortshe lived in the memory of the heroic and religioustraditions sung in the solemn dithyrambics of theEdda, and met with in every page of the Islandic sagas.Though her heart was always Christian, she was amazed,from time to time, at hearing herself speak, likea pagan, of the beneficent Baldus, of Loki, the spiritof evil, and of Freya, the golden tears of whom formedthe Baltic amber. To her, the world was yet peopledby the mythological beings, created by the naive faithof the north, and to them she had learned to adaptthe phenomena of nature. When she heard the thunder,she thought of Thor, and his mighty hammer, drivingacross the heavens in his iron car. If the skywas clear, she thought the luminous Alfis lightedup the horizon.

In the pantheism of Scandinavian mythology, which,though less seductive, is less comprehensive thanthat of the Greeks, all that she heard assumed a mysteriousexistence. Plants were watered by the foam thehorse of night shakes on the earth, as he tosses hismane and champs his bit.

Crows had a prophetic power. The eagle sailingthrough the air, recalled to her that deathless birdwhich sits on the boughs of Ygdrasil, the tree ofthe world. A secret spring, hidden amid the woods,seemed to her the emblem of that deep spring in whichthe Nornas spin and cut the thread of life. Tothese traditions, far older than Christianity, sheunited the popular legends of the middle age.If night, the whistling of the wind, the rattlingof the rain, the murmur of the trees, made a confusedmurmur in her ears, she fancied that she heard thebarking of dogs, the sound of horns, and the cry ofthe wild huntsman sentenced to wander forever fromvale to vale, from mountain to mountain, because hehad violated a Sabbath or saints’ day. If,on some calm day, she looked at the golden and purplesurface of the lake, she fancied that she saw, inthe depth of the water, the spires and roofs of thehouses of some city which God had punished for impiety,by burying it beneath the waves.

If she stood on the banks of a rapid stream, at thefoot of a cascade, she said that the sounds she heardcame from Stromkarl. The Stromkarl has a silverharp, on which he plays wild melodies. If hisfavor be gained, by any present, he teaches the listenerhis songs. Wo, however, to the man who hearshim for the ninth time. He cannot shake off thesupernatural charm, and becomes a victim to his imprudenttemerity.

One evening all the family was collected around theearthen stove. Eric was there. Suddenlythe sky, which in the morning had been dark and cloudy,was lit up as if by the blaze of a immense conflagration.The aurora-borealis, that wonderful phenomenon ofthe north, glittered in the horizon, and graduallyextended its evolutions from the east to the west.Sometimes all the colors of the rainbow were visible,and again it glittered like a mass of fusees, or transformeditself into a vast white cloud, sparkling like themilky-way. Again it would assume the most splendidblaze, and appear like a mantle of purple and gold.For one moment the rays would be alligned, and graduallydisappear in the distance; then they would cross eachother like network. Again they would arrangethemselves in bows, dart out with arrowing points,shoot into towers and form crowns. It might havebeen fancied the creation of a kaleidescope, intowhich the hand of a magician had cast jets of life,oscillating and floating under every form. Atthe same time, there was heard in the air a soundlike that accompanying the discharge of fireworks.

Eric, who had been asked to give an explanation ofthis phenomenon, analyzed the various theories ofphilosophers on the subject. He especially referredto those of the Society of Copenhagen. He saidthis was one of the phenomena which no philosopherhad as yet explained; that of all the hypotheses onthe matter, the most specious was that which ascribesthe aurora-borealis to the reflection of the northernices.

“My wise daughter, what do you think of it?”said M. Vermondans, speaking to Ebba, who, with herhands crossed over her chest with religious silence,sat looking at a phenomenon she had witnessed everywinter, and which on every occasion awakened a newemotion.

Ebba said, “I do not know the dissertationsof academies, like Eric. Since, however, theydo not explain the cause and motion of the auroraborealis, I had rather rely on the simple and religioustraditions of an ignorant people, to that of the Greenlanders,who say that the rays of the aurora come from theglare of souls which wander over the skies.”

“On my soul,” said M. Vermondans, “thatidea pleases me. Like the problems of the naturalphilosophers, it does not explain the problem of theaurora-borealis, but it is much more poetical.This tradition contributes to the assistance of anidea I advanced the other day, on the vanity of scientificspeculations, especially when we compare them withthe delicious conceptions of the ignorant.”

“True,” replied Eric, “in the infancyof nations, as in the childhood of the individual,there is a graceful poetry, an ideal and intellectualunderstanding of nature, which does not resist graveimpressions or the reason of mature age. Thus,amid the wild nations of North America, the poor motherwho has lost a child, fancies that she scents the perfumeof its breath in the flowers, and hears its sigh inthe voices of the birds. Thus is it that ourLapland neighbors attach a touching faith to manyphysical incidents.

“When one of them becomes ill, they say thathis soul has been called to a better world by theloving beings he has lost; and that his soul is aboutto depart to yield to their prayers, and seek its finalhome with them. Then they send for a sorcerer,who casts himself on his face on the ground, and inmysterious words beseeches the wandering soul to return.If it yields to the supplications, if it returns tothe tabernacle it has inhabited, the invalid recoversbreath and strength; if not, he dies. Such, anda variety of other examples, we find in every direction,in the wonderful tales of the east, in the populartraditions of the north, and they prove clearly enoughthat there are flowers of poetry and spring-like perfumesfull of inimitable grace in all primitive societies,even where gross ignorance and coarse usages distressus.

“Think you though that science also is withoutpoetry? If you understand by poetry, what I thinkyou do, every ennobling of thought, every exaltationof mind, do you think there is no lofty and grand poetryin that geology which searches into the bowels ofthe earth, and exhibits to you the different layersof which it is composed, and the revolutions it hasundergone; in the researches of the naturalist, whoexhibits the creations of an antediluvian world; inthe observations of the astronomer, who explains theconfiguration and harmonious movements of those luminousorbs removed millions of miles from that on which wedwell? Do you think there is no poetry in thematerial development of civilized societies, in theindustrious activity which digs canals, pierces mountains,subdues the elements, and moves all to man’swill?”

“Ah, certainly I experience a very agreeableemotion, when in an old custom I find the traces ofthe religious spirit of our fathers, and listen totheir legends and songs. This emotion, however,does not prevent me from thinking of that which shouldbe created by the imposing spectacle of the progressof civilization, more than the pleasure I would enjoyif I reposed by the side of a fresh spring, mysteriouslyconcealed amid a forest, would prevent me from lovingto look on a majestic river, down which floated thecanvas of some ship, or the boilers of a steamer.The perfection of matters would be to kindle our soulwith the lights of science, and at the same time preservethe innocent candor of our hearts. Thus willwe obey the Bible-text which says, ’You shallnot enter the Kingdom of heaven, unless you be aslittle children.’ To be a child in simple-heartedness,a man in toil and labor, is the end we should proposeto ourselves.”

“Yes,” said M. de Vermondans, “thatis a truly noble object. We cannot however expectto attain it. Pride unnoticed, is created by thevery labor of our minds, and when that poison hasinoculated our hearts, farewell to innocence.I will agree with you as to the indisputable benefitsof science. Confess, however, that all the learningof your philosophers and mathematicians can I neverconfer on any people the precious customs of the daysof old. When we look back on what has been doneby the would-be wise men of antiquity to ennoble themoral state of man, I will not speak of the mad ceremonialof the burlesque festivals invented by the revolutionistsof 1793. They were but scenes of disorder andfrenzy. Imagine, however, the purest and mostsolemn of the discoveries of science, and compareit with the Christmas festival which the Swedish peasantwill celebrate in a few days, and tell me which contributesto true emotion, to the moral good. Alete, giveme my pipe.”

The last words were the usual signal given by thegood old man when he felt the length of the conversationfatiguing, or felt his favorite ideas paradoxical,though they sometimes were pressed on by argumentsthe tenor of which he found it difficult to resist.

Alete went to get the long pipe, with its stem ofmaple-root, and filled it with tobacco with her ownpretty fingers. A sweet smile and a deferentiallook from Eric recompensed her. When he saw M.de Vermondans seated in his chair, and inhaling thearoma of tobacco through the amber mouthpiece, hesaid,

“Since you remember our Christmas festival,you will not forget that we expect you, Ebba, Alete,and Ireneus to keep it at our house.”

“Yes, Eric,” said M. de Vermondans, “Ilike your father, and shall be happy to pass a daywith him.”

“Yes, dear Eric,” said Alete, “Ilove your father. Pay however some attentionto old Marguerite’s preparations. I wishto be received like a princess, and if all the plateis not produced to do me honor, if the table be notcovered with the finest linen and loaded with delicacies,if the furniture does not glitter like glass, andthe passage-hall and corridor are not bright as iffor a wedding, I will turn all the house upside down.”

“Well well,” said Eric, “there youare a queen. My father will turn over all powerto you, and you may make as many reforms as you please.”

Part III.

A few days after the visit of Eric, the groom of M.de Vermondans took from the carriage-house two sleighs,trimmed with wolf and bear-skins, and harnessed toeach of them a spirited horse, the activity of whichseemed enhanced by the cold morning air. In thefirst sleigh sat M. de Vermondans and Alete; and Ireneusand Ebba entered the second.

“Are we ready?” said the old man, as hetook the reins in one hand, and the whip in the other.

“Yes,” said Ireneus, after he had wrappedup the delicate frame confided to him in a large Astracan-skin.

“Well, let us start.” The horses,as soon as the reins were loosed, left the house ata gallop.

“I am glad,” said Ebba to Ireneus, “thatyou are in Sweden at this season, which to us is sosolemn.”

“Do you then celebrate Christmas with so muchpomp?”

“I do not think it is celebrated in any countryof the world with so much joy and unanimity, fromthe northern extremity of the realm to the southernboundary, in town and country, in palace and peasant’shut.”

“I am sure that in this festival there are touchingusages, with which you are thoroughly acquainted.I shall be delighted if you will explain them to me.All you have told me of your popular legends and superstitions,opens to me, as it were, a new world, in which, I assureyou, I am glad to wander.”

“Were I not afraid that I would appear pedanticto you.” said Ebba, “I would tell youwhat Eric has told me about our Christmas festival.It appears to date back to a remote day before theChristian era. At this season our pagan ancestorscelebrated the winter solstice, just as on the 25thof June they did that of summer. The early nameof this festival, which we yet preserve, indicatesan astronomical idea. It was called Julfest.(the feast of the wheel,) certainly because the sun,the evolutions of which are on the 25th December markedby the shortest day, and June 25th by the longest.Whatever may have been, the primitive nature of thisfestival, Christianity gave it an august character.To us it is not a material symbol, but tho commemorationof the day on which the Savior of earth was born ina stable. That day seems to announce glad tidingsto the Swedish peasant, as it did to the shepherdsof Bethlehem, for each seem to rejoice. The courtsand schools have recess, parents and friends visiteach other, not to discharge the common duty of politeness,to leave a card with the porter, but to pass wholehours in gayety and frank intercourse.”

On all the high and cross-roads, you see sleighs filledwith travelers. One will contain a daughter marriedat a distance from home, who at this time of universalenjoyment wishes to visit the old hearth-side, Theother contains a son, who comes from the University,or from the city where he is employed, to kiss hismother. The soldier who all the year has bornein patience the severity of garrison duty, is satisfiedwith his profession, if he can at that season obtaina leave of absence for a few weeks. The sailorreturned from a distant voyage, looks anxiously atthe sea and sky, and increases his zeal and activity,to be enabled to reach Sweden by Christmas. Thehouses everywhere are open, and the table is alwaysspread. All is made scrupulously clean, for atthis season, every housewife loves to display herorder and carefulness. The rich display damaskand rich hangings. The poor strew pine brancheson the floor, and white curtains newly bleached, deckthe windows. You reach the family-hearth.One of the servants takes your horse to the stable,another hangs your valise before the fire to dry it.The mistress of the house, while dinner is being prepared,offers you a glass of brandy, or of beer preparedexpressly for Christmas, and called JULAEL. Theyoung women bring you cakes prepared by themselves.Your hands are shaken cordially, presents are made,it matters not whether trifling or rich, they areChristmas remembrances and a pledge of love.

In many of the peasants’ houses, all the shoesof the family are, as a sign of this union, placedside by side of each other. In many also beforeand after meals, a hymn is sung. Then when dinneris over, old men, women and children dance together.Servants and masters mingle together, and even themendicant is kindly received. On that day theGod of mercy descended to save indiscriminately therich and the poor, and to teach the proud and thehumble the brotherhood of the Gospel. At thisseason of universal sympathy, even the animals arenot forgotten, a larger ration of grain and hay iscarried to the stable, and barley is strewn on thesnow for the birds, who are then unable to glean inthe fields, and who, delighted by this unexpectedprovender, in their cries seem to warble forth a Christmashymn. In some villages the little tomtegubbaror invisible genii, protecting the household, are yetremembered, and vases of milk are placed on the floorfor them. Other superstitions are also joinedto this religious festival. Thus in many peasanthouses, a straw-bed is made on the floor, and on itthe children and servants sleep during the night.On the next day, this bed is taken to the court-yard,or barn, and it is thought to preserve the fowls frombirds of prey, and the cattle from disease. Thisstraw is also strewn on the fields around fruit trees,which it is thought to make healthy. At evening,two torches are lit to burn all night; if one of thembecomes extinguished or is burned out before day,

it is a sign of trouble, that during the course ofthe year there will be a death in the house. Allfancy that in Christmas a revelation of the futureis found. To read this prophecy however, it isnecessary to rise before dawn, to go fasting and insilence into the wood, without speaking or lookingaround. If too at sunrise, the church is reachedbefore the crowing of the co*ck, the coffins of thosewho will die during the year will be seen, and byturning the head around, it may be learned if the harvestwill be good or bad, or whether there will be a conflagrationin the village.

While Ebba was describing these usages and superstitionsof Sweden, the sleighs passed rapidly along the snowplains, which had been previously leveled by othervehicles. The spire of the church in which thefather of Eric for thirty years had officiated asPROST with honor and dignity was seen. Aboutfifty houses were arranged in a circle around the ascentof a hill. There was one among them of comparativelylarge dimensions, of two stories, and built of stone,a rare thing in Sweden, whose country houses usuallyhave but one story and an attic, and are built of wood.One side of this house adjoined a large and beautifulchurch, and the other on an inclosure. Two rowsof windows in the principal facade looked out on thegulf, and before the principal door was a terrace commandinga most extensive view. At this moment the sunlit up the polished windows, and the plain, coveredwith an immense sheet of snow, shone brilliantly.The sea with a fringe of ice close to the shore, rolledin the distance its free and azure waves, and theforests which appeared here and there in their somberverdure and mute majesty, the vast and silent space,the little village, the motion of the population ofwhich was already visible, presented to Ireneus apicture which differed so much from all he had seen,that it filled him with wonder and surprise.

“The house,” said Ebba, “which Isee has attracted your attention, is that of Eric’sfather, a good and venerable old man, the whole ofthe life of whom has been an example of prudence andusefulness. He does much good around him, bymeans of his religious exhortations and agriculturalindustry. In Sweden, many of the clergy act inthis double capacity. The greater portion ofthe revenue of many livings consists entirely of therevenue of the lands with which they are endowed.If the priest does not take pleasure in rural occupations,he farms out the lands, and quietly receives the rent.They render important services to the districts amidwhich they live. They are teachers of labor, andoften introduce systems of agricultural improvementrevealed to them by science or a new machine.

“The father of Eric is one of those farmer priests;for more than twenty years without neglecting anyof his sacerdotal duties, he has cultivated a largefarm attached to the presbytery. He has givenlessons in agriculture to the peasants, and enforcedthem by success, for no fields are more productivethan his own, and no yard has seen fine cattle.How great is his activity!

“How often have his people seen him brave, witha vigor they could not but admire, the summer’sheat and winter’s ice. At present the infirmitiesof age render this rude toil impossible. He, however,does not cease to correspond with many agriculturalsocieties, and encourage those who have recourse tohis counsels. He is one of those rare men giftedwith meditative faculties, and with great practicalcapacity.”

“How pleasant is it.” said Ireneus, “tosuffer my mind to repose in the asylum you have openedfor it. Since my coming hither I have met withnone but pure hearts, and have beheld only the mildpictures of a pure and peaceable existence. Howdifferent is it from the agitation of all partiesin my own land! Yet, however, even amid the calmand repose I here enjoy, how I regret it. I sawit so great and prosperous, and thought its destinyso certain!”

“Console yourself, cousin,” said Ebba,“you will see that country again, which it isboth a necessity and a duty for you to love. Youwill see it in that normal condition from which ithas by a great crisis been thrown. Moral diseases,like physical ones, sometimes attack men, and God,to punish the errors of a people, to abase its pride,strikes it with one of these mental contagions, yieldsit up to the effervescence of its bad thoughts, untilthe people humiliates and corrects itself, bendingbefore the arm of the Avenger in penitence, and returnsto the path from which it has wandered.”

Ireneus was amazed to hear her speak thus. Thetimid young girl seemed like a prophetess animatedwith a mighty inspiration. A flush was on herpale face, and in her glance was the light of enthusiasm.

“You are a noble creature,” said Ireneus,taking her by the hand. The hand of Ebba laymotionless and pale in his, her blush passed away,and the dark shadows of her habitual melancholy returned.

Just then the sleigh of M. de Vermondans arrived atit* destination. Eric was waiting for them atthe threshold, clasped the hand of his father-in-law,and helped Alete out, as Ireneus did as much for Ebba.The servants took care of the foaming horses.

The little party, as soon as they entered the house,could see that the faithful Eric had sought to avoidthe reproaches of his betrothed. The entranceof the corridor was so completely washed and driedthat one might fancy the joiner had just finishedthe floor. Through the open kitchen door a largebrazier was seen in a glow, and the ringing of platesand dishes was heard. The antechamber was coveredwith a woolen carpet, and the Christmas pine broughton the day before from the neighboring forest, deckedwith garland and moss, rose proudly from a large box,as if it knew how proud a part it played in the festival.

As she passed from the antechamber to the drawing-room,Alete paused to look at the arrangement of the table.Seeing a false plait in one of the napkins, she wasprobably about to give vent to her epigrams. Thedoor of the other room however was opened, and a handsomeold man dressed in a long frock appeared. Hishead was covered with a cap of black velvet, frombeneath which his white hair escaped. This wasEric’s father, and Alete paid much respect tohim.

“Come, my daughter,” said the pastor,as with much kind dignity he kissed her forehead.“You too, my friend, and my gentle Ebba (speakingto M. de Vermondans and his other daughter), are welcome.You too, Monsieur,” said he, turning to Ireneus,“though I have not before had the honor to seeyou, I welcome as a friend. You are all welcometo the hearthside of the poor priest, and may thefestival of to-day be to us a commemoration of thepast, and a happier tie for the future.”

The old man took his guests into his own room, inwhich there was an Inconsiderable library, a few modelsof utensils for agricultural purposes, testifyingto both his taste and his occupation. He sat ona sofa, which debility in his limbs made necessaryto him, and placed his guests beside him. Alete,who could not sit quiet long, soon arose and tookEric to the window. While, as was the custom withher, she tested the patient character of her husbandthat was to be, the old man conversed with Ireneus,who from the very first had been attracted by hisvenerable and pleasing face.

“From these instruments of labor collected aroundyou, I see,” said Ireneus, “that you havecontrived a sure method of making your solitude active.Ebba has already told me how usefully you employ yourtime.”

“Usefully,” replied M. Guldberg, withsincere modesty. “Alas! let us act usefullyas we may, how much weakness is there in our will,and forgetfulness in our best resolutions. Ifby the grace of God we accomplish any good, what isthat in comparison with what we should do. Ilove toil, but I can make no merit of it. In myyouth it was a necessity. The son of a laborer,who earned with his own hands the money which supportedme at school, I was compelled, at every risk, to repayhim for his paternal tenderness by my success.Gradually labor became a habit, and then a quasidogma of religion. I thought it my duty, as soonas possible, to release him from the necessity ofsacrifice. I feel myself attracted by a brotherlysympathy to all who toil. I look with respecton the sweaty brow and toil-stained hand. Godhimself prescribed labor to us as a law, and his infinitegoodness unites with obedience to it the enjoymentof much happiness. Certainly no person with aheart can repress sympathy at the sight of the poorlaborer, who is busy from morning to night to earnhis moderate wages, who braves every weather to sowand harvest his crop. This laborer, however,is often happier than the majority of the rich, who,as they pass, look on him with pity. He has donehis duty. When his task is done he sits contentedat his humble hearth. The sparkling wood, thebread on his table, he has earned himself. Heeducates his child by his own exertions, and as heseeks his bed, may say he has done his duty.He is ignorant of the troubles which fill the heartsof the opulent. Ceaseless toil to him is a cuirasswarding off stormy passions. The door of his soulis shut to dark chimeras, to the mad fancies whichpeople the area of the palace, and on his rude pillowhe enjoys a peaceful repose, which the lord of hisvillage often asks for in vain. When I thus praisethe efficaciousness of toil, I do not speak only ofmanual labor. The labor of thought is often mostpainful, and its fruits infinitely more valuable.”

“Take care,” said Ireneus, “youtouch a sensitive string of my uncle’s breast.”

“Yes,” said the old man, “Eric hastold me of your discussions on this subject.I however know my friend M. de Vermondans, and whateverdisdain of science he may affect, I believe he wouldbe distressed if he did not know all that he has turnedto so good a purpose in life. In attacking inyour conversations books and writers, he did not tellyou how much he had borrowed from them, and how earnestlyhe had read them.”

“What books?” asked M. de Vermondans;“a few incomplete histories, and some odd volumesof philosophy. One must examine closely the reveriesof human pride to be able to judge of them.”

“Traitor!” said M. Guldberg, shaking hisfinger affectionately at his friend, “you notonly persist in hypocrisy, but you attack the characterof my library. A few incomplete histories! a fewodd volumes! Must I then recall to you the admirationwith which you looked at my books, and studied allthat I had collected? Some incomplete histories!a few odd volumes! Must I recall to you the delightwith which you often have studied my collection?Must I defend it against you? Know, that to attackmy books is to make war against myself. I passedforty years of my life in collecting them, and toeach one is attached some pleasant remembrance.From some I date my student life, and my entry intothe priesthood. From some I fix the epoch ofmy marriage, and the various phases of my existence;some I found in a country cabin, where they were forgotten;some I brought from Stockholm, where I had been tosee my bishop and an old friend. All thereforerecall to me kind teachers, skillful guides, and arethe memorials of different events, which are the greatitems of my life. Gradually I have collected aroundme those books which interest me the most. WhenI am here in my woodland home they are company tome, and the most instructive friends man can meet with.Here I have the philosophers, who aid me in the examinationof the mysteries of the soul; the historians, whor*cord the revolutions of nations; the geologistsand natural philosophers, who expound to me the organiclaws of nature; the poets, who sing the joyous orsad emotions of the heart. Whatever may be mymoral disposition, I need only to reach my hand towardone of them to seize on some brilliant intellect, toenlighten, strengthen, and console me.”

“How that delights me!” said Ebba, ina low tone.

“Listen,” said M. de Vermondans, withemphasis, and with an intonation of grief entirelycontradicted by his face, “see, this woman hasbeen bewitched: the poison of your perniciousdoctrines has reached the very interior of my house.I fancied I would be able to educate my daughter inthe love of good principles, but I have warmed a veryserpent at my heart. Luckily, I see my faithfulAlete attending only to the positive and who now saysthat dinner is ready or Christmas-day. Christmascomes but once a year.”

The dinner was in truth solemn and splendid, the wholetable being loaded with enormous dishes.

“What a luxuriance of richness!” saidM. de Vermondans. “Thank God, a love ofbooks does not make us forget material things.”

Ireneus said, “This is in truth a banquet, withwhich, in France, a candidate for the Chamber mightwin over many electors.”

“Luckily,” said the old priest, “wehave no electors here to lead astray. When, though,we leave the table, my farmer-boys will make merryover what we have not eaten, and with them many poorpeople who on Christmas are in the habit of comingto the parsonage. You do not to-day dine withme, but with my people. On Christmas, in Sweden,we make presents to each other as in France is doneon New-Year’s day. This game, these fish,have been brought to me by the huntsmen and fishermenof my people. A peasant gave me a quarter ofveal, another gave me cream, a third the butter.Even one woman has brought me an egg or two, sayingthat they should be boiled only for myself. Beforelong the house will be filled with a crowd, and manystrange stories will be told around the firesides.Whole pitchers of beer will be emptied to the healthof the old pastor and his friends.”

“They will dance?” asked Alete.

“No, mademoiselle, you will not have that profaneamusem*nt. But Nils the schoolmaster has a veryfine voice. Olaf the fisherman, and his brotherChristian, will be there also, and your cousin willbe able to hear some of the popular songs. Henever heard anything like them in Paris.”

“So be it,” said Alete; “one ortwo rounds with those merry figures would howeverhave been amusing enough. Hark! it seems to meI hear hurras at Nils’s arrival. If thetwo others are come, may I bring him?”

“Do so, my child,” said the pastor.

“Yes, go, Alete,” said Ebba, gaily.

Alete went out, and came in shortly with three youngmen, who modestly looked down, and twirled their hatsbetween their fingers.

“Good morning, friends,” said the pastor.“Alete has told you I had a favor to ask.I have a friend here who does not know our old Swedishsongs, and I rely on you to give him a good idea.”

The three young men looked toward Ireneus and thentoward each other. Then, being encouraged bysigns from Ebba, and having drunken a glass of winewhich was offered them, they sang a song which wasdesignated.

They sang, one after the other, the romance of Agnete,who was surprised on the shore and borne beneath thewater by the amorous Neck. That of fairCarine, the victim of her virtue, the soul of whomflew to heaven in the shape of a white dove, whereit was again transformed into a joyous harp, the sweetsounds of which won the crown of queen. Much tohis regret, Ireneus could not understand the senseof these songs, which are, so to say, idyls and charmingdramas. He however listened with undefinableemotion to those simple and artless melodies, which,in their expression of grief and joy, were so purethat they seemed to spring from the very heart ofthe people. He begged Ebba to say to the singershow delighted he was, and they then went to the kitchento tell how pleased the Parisian had been.

After dinner Alete and Ebba went into the drawing-room,and having carefully shut the door, might have beenheard going and coming, and giving orders, while thepastor entertained his guests. Alete seemed verybusy. She called the servants—­had theposition of the furniture changed—­sometimestalked loudly, and then whispered. Some mysteriousscene occupying the thoughts of Ireneus was takingplace there.

Toward evening the mystery was explained. Aletecame to take the arm of the pastor in triumph, andhe, M. de Vermondans, and Ireneus, went toward theroom. Drapery of many colors covered the wall,and bouquets of moss and artificial flowers, candelabrasreflected from the mirrors, boughs of trees, all madethe light soft as that which penetrates the forest.On a large table was the Christmas tree, full of lights,and adorned with bows of ribbon. The pastor hadasked Alete to arrange everything as she chose, andto place in the best possible light the presents intendedfor his friends. With them Alete and Ebba hadplaced those they intended to make, and all had beenarranged most tastefully. Of the pine branch shehad made a tree, miraculously bearing silk dresses,portfolios, slippers, embroidered collars, gold ear-rings,&c. The branches bent beneath the weight.

M. de Vermondans gathered a meerschaum mounted withsilver: Ireneus several pieces of silk workedby his cousins, and a wooden cup, very beautifullycarved by an Angermanian peasant. Exclamationswere made as the different objects were detached fromthe mystic tree, for Alete had taken care to wrapeach article with a double and triple envelope, inorder to prolong the expectation of the spectators,and to enjoy their surprise. Afterward the servantscame in, and also the farmer’s boys, none ofwhom were forgotten, and who kissed the hands of theold priest. The Christmas tree was stripped ofits treasures, and all deserted it, as barren anduseless. Alas, for human ingratitude!

The pastor, taking advantage of a moment when nonewere looking, went to the solitary tree, and tookfrom it a letter with a red seal. Then callinghis future daughter-in-law, he said, “Since when,dear Alete, have you become so careless of the goodthings of this world, or so negligent, as to abandonthe Christmas tree, without ascertaining all thathangs from it?”

“I do not know that I can get anything fromit, except a few pieces of ribbon and half-burnt lights.”

“You think so, do you? Well, look here.”

“What?” said Alete; “a letter, withEric’s name on it. This is a surprise forhim. What is it? That puzzles me. Look,Eric—­one day I shall have a right to openyour letters, but now be quick and open this yourself.”

Eric unsealed the letter; and scarcely had he readit, then casting himself at the feet of the old priest,he said—­“Ah, father, how I thankyou! Then turning to Alete, he said—­

“It is an appointment by the Bishop of Hernosand of myself as vicar of this parish. We waitedonly for that to be able to marry. Now there isno obstacle to our happiness. We will live herewith my father, near your own family. May Godgrant that our hearts may not be disunited. MayGod grant us new pleasures without robbing us of thoseof the past. Now, when shall we be married—­tellme?”

“How you go on!” said Alete. “MustI, because it has seemed fit to our venerable prelateto make you a vicar—­(after all it is a sensibleappointment)—­put on my wedding dress andgo to the altar? Do you know I expect a letterfrom Hernosand or Stockholm! Do you know------”

The artless girl, however, sought in vain to conceal,beneath pretended laughter, her deep emotion.She was unable to finish her sentence. She threwherself in her father’s arms, then into the oldpriest’s, and gave her hand with dignity toEric. She said:

“Whenever you please, dear Eric, though I ammuch amazed. I trust you will never have occasionto repent having given me your love and honor.”

This episcopal letter the pastor had received on theprevious evening, and he had been courageous enoughto keep the secret until Christmas night, in orderto give it more solemnity. It was now the solesubject of conversation, and they talked only of preparationsfor the marriage, and of the day on which it was tobe celebrated. At the instance of Alete he consentedto prolong the delay, and the wedding was postponedfor a fortnight.

“Confess,” said Alete to Ireneus, “thatyou were fortunate in arriving here in the middleof winter, when you could witness our dark tempests,our Christmas festivals, and be present at a Swedishwedding. You will then have only to behold ourdelicious summer nights; and then, when you returnto France, you will be able to speak more learnedlyof Sweden than other travelers, who wrote long volumesabout it.”

“I owe to this country some of the pleasantesthours of my life. I owe to it a calmness whichI cannot any longer find in France. I am indebtedto it for good and healthful emotions. I oweto it, exile as I am, a tender asylum, a family; andI shall feel your wedding-day one of the happiestof my life.”

On the very next day all the house of M. de Vermondanswas occupied with preparations for the approachingmarriage. Dressmakers were busy, and cabinet-makerswere preparing furniture, platforms, &c., for thewedding-day.

Alete had enough to do to watch over the differentworks. Smiling and merry as she used to be, achange had come over her, and she seemed already dignifiedand matronly.

Ebba assisted her with great devotion, and ceasedto give Ireneus lessons in Swedish.

M. de Vermondans smoked his pipe with an air of thought,and sometimes of sorrow, for the idea of separationfrom his daughter weighed heavily on him, much ashe desired that she should marry so near him.

For the first time since he had reached his uncle’shouse, Ireneus was alone. A few days before themerry chat of Alete, the philosophical conversationof the old gentleman, the dreamy poetry of Ebba, andthe activity and motion of all the household had divertedthe young officer’s attention from himself.Now his thoughts involuntarily returned, in consequenceof news he had received from his country. Hismother, who shared all his secrets, sought to encouragehim, and to unfold a new horizon. In spite ofthis, however, every letter increased his unhappiness.Some of his friends also wrote to him; and this correspondencesurprised him painfully. He heard, in this manner,of political defections which he, in his chivalricexaggeration looked on as felony, and at which hewas most indignant.

“Villains!” said he, one day, as he readto his uncle a letter which he had just received.“Now, this man owed everything to the kindnessof Charles X., yet for the sake of office he has casthimself at the foot of a new master. Here isone who, on the 28th of July, applauded the ordinances,and swore that the hydra of liberalism should he destroyed:and said that he would pour out the last drop of hisblood in defense of legitimacy. He is now a partisanof the revolution. We live in a scandalous age.All principles of honor and religion are forgotten.Office has great value, indeed, when honor and conscienceare sacrificed to it.”

As he spoke thus, Ireneus strode up and down the room,and crushed the letter in his hands.

“My boy,” said M. de Vermondans, withhis kind philosophy, “your feeling springs froma sentiment which does you honor. Unfortunately,however, it can but injure you without benefitingthose for whom you have so much sympathy. To-dayis not the first time that man has violated his oath,and made a traffic of obligation; one need only opena history, and read on every page amid some nobleactions, countless base intrigues and unworthy cowardice.The Roman senate erected statues to monsters it haddignified with the imperial purple. The middleage, which we are pleased to look on as an epoch offaith and chivalric devotion, is everywhere sulliedby acts of felony and the consequences of mad ambition.Civilization, while it corrected the gross errors ofrude nations, also restrained their virtues.Love of prosperity, the sensations of luxury, bearto the wall the energetic principles of self-denial.Some individuals, who, by their elevated position,attract attention to themselves; here and there breaka link of the moral chain; others imitate them, andby fracture after fracture the whole series of austereideas is interrupted and dislocated. A few ofthe faithful may attempt to preserve the remnants,but others look on them with pity, and treat thisreligious faith as an anachronism. The worshipof the great is destroyed, and replaced by that ofsensual enjoyments. We do not ask God to give

us the heavenly manna. We have made another Godfrom which no prophet can win us. We prostrateourselves before the calf of gold. This, dearIreneus, must be a sad prospect for a heart like yours.That all the respect for the past, for religion andmisfortune, which exists in your heart, should riseat the prospect of what you have read to me, I canwell enough understand. Can you however, repressthe wrong which offends you? Can the evils ofwhich you complain be prevented? No, do what youwill, there must ever be men, over whom the passionfor power will exercise vast influence, and this feelingwill always induce them to turn from the sinking tothe rising star. Even if you go to the depth ofa desert, to the jungles of an Indian archipelago,to the woods at Caffraria, to the desert plains ofNorth America, or to the Cordilleras, you will notescape from the miserable spectacles of human hypocrisy.The Turks have a proverb which says, ‘Cure thehand you cannot spare.’ Now we can addto this maxim, ’Cure the hand which can serveyou, satisfy your pride, avarice and egotism.’Young and happy when you first entered on life, dearIreneus, you have seen much. A sudden revolutionhas covered your eyes with a cloud, and unexpectedtreachery has pierced your heart. Time will showyou many others, and if you do not give yourself upto useless misanthropy, the most foolish and idleof all maladies, you will learn to resign yourselfto chagrins you cannot avoid. In your time ofdistress you will draw near to those who do not deceiveyour esteem. You will, without hatred and anger,be able to look at those whom base calculation orcowardice has led astray, and if you congratulate yourselfthat you have not followed their example, you willbe glad that heaven has endowed you with more firmnessand a loftier ambition.”

The wisdom of these reasonings touched the heart ofIreneus, but could not subdue it. The ardentyoung man continued to curse those whom he had seenin the ranks of legitimacy, and who now had linkedthemselves with the revolution. Often, to avoidthe remonstrances of his uncle, or not to annoy himby recrimination, he wandered alone across the desertplains, calling all the deserters of the cause heloved by name, and sometimes he even resolved, likea true knight-errant, to set out and demand an accountof their crime. When he returned from these solitarywalks, his uncle, thinking that all argument wouldat such times be useless, said nothing. Ebbahowever looked at him with eager sympathy.

PART IV.

The marriage of Alete, for a while, however, divertedhim from his moody thoughts. The pastor and M.de Vermondans wished the marriage to be contractedaccording to the custom of the country. Invitationshad already been given to many in the neighborhood,to the friends of the pastor and of the two families.At the appointed time, a great number of carriageshad collected at the house of M. de Vermondans.Beds had been made in every room. The house wasfull of guests, the stable of horses, not to remaina few hours, for a wedding in Sweden lasts a wholeweek. M. de Vermondans, assisted by Eric andIreneus, did the honors of the house. Ebba dressedher sister, and this alone was not a trifling task,for in Sweden brides are richly decked, and the daughterof the humblest peasant borrows or hires jewels todress her like a lady.

The toilet, according to the old usage of the country,was at last finished, under the inspection of thematrons of the village. Alete entered the drawing-roomin a dress of rose-colored silk, covered with flounces,rosettes, a mass of ribbons, etc., and with agirdle, suspended to which were many ornaments ofdifferent devices, all of silver, and which, as shewalked, rang like bells. Nothing can be more ungracefulthan such a dress, which, however, Alete wore withgrace. When she appeared, a cry of admirationescaped from every mouth, and the spectators’eyes turned involuntarily to Eric to congratulate him.

Alete took her father’s arm to walk to the church,and the guests followed her. At the head of theprocession were musicians, playing the flute and violin;next came about thirty young girls, two by two, intheir richest dresses; then the guests and the womenand children of the village.

After the ceremony, the young girls stood on eachside of the altar; the bridegroom advanced to thealtar; then the bride was led thither by her father,who handed her to Eric, and withdrew a few paces, asif he thus transferred to another all his own rights.The old pastor then, with an earnest voice and withtears in his eyes, pronounced the nuptial benediction,and gave his children a touching exhortation.A religious chant terminated the ceremonies, and thecouple left the church amid the sound of horns andthe firing of guns. On their return home, M. deVermondans, after an old custom, handed each a glassof beer, which they drank at the same time, as ifto show that thenceforth all was common between them.

Dinner was soon served. The newly-married peoplesat side by side under a canopy, prepared as if toshelter their happiness. At the end of the repasta carpet was spread representing the nuptial bed.The two knelt together, and the company sang a hymn.Then the priest, speaking to the company, invokedevery blessing on the couple about to enter a new walkof life, and bespoke the kind wishes of all their friends.He asked every guest to give them some token of sympathy,

and no one sought to avoid this invitation. Eachone paid tribute: relations gave the married couplea sum of money; their friends gave them furniture,stuffs, and jewels. In similar cases, at peasantshouses, corn, wool, etc., utensils of householduse, are presented, so that often the house of thenewly-married couple is provided for a long time withprovisions in this manner. It is however true,that they are dearly purchased by the hospitalitythey have to extend for a long time to many guests.

From the house of M. de Vermondans the guests wentto that of the Pastor, where similar festivals weregone through with. Alete remained there, andM. de Vermondans returned with Ebba and Ireneus.As he placed his foot on the threshold of the doorwhere he had hitherto always been welcomed by hissmiling daughter, he was attacked by a sadness whichhe could not overcome, and went to his room to weep.

Ebba also was sad, for though her character was verydifferent from Alete’s, she loved her sisterdearly, and was most unhappy at the idea of a separation.

Ireneus sought to console her.

“I thank you,” said the young girl, “foryour kind expressions. I am not unhappy onlyon my own account at this separation. My fatherwill never be able to use himself to it. Aletewas always happy. Joy left our household withher. I wish I could replace her. Do howeverwhat I may, I never shall succeed. You and allwho know me, are aware that my nature is of altogethera different character. I am melancholy.”

“Gentle, Ebba, gentle,” said Ireneus.

“Gentle perhaps, and surely inoffensive, butI repeat melancholy. Why does this sadness continue?Alas, it is the law of God. Do not look at me,I beg you, as on one of those women whom I have seenand of whom I have read, who create imaginary misfortunesfor themselves, and deck themselves with ideal sufferingand melancholy. I have neither sorrow nor passionateregrets and I do not know the meaning of deception.

“My life has passed without storms, but withoutnoise, like the spring which bubbles from the hill.Father and mother have sought to make me happy, andno untimely event has interrupted the course of mylife. Melancholy, however, I was born, and willdie. That is all.

“Listen to me,” added she, fixing on Ireneusa look impressed with strange grief and affection.“Heaven which denied me a brother seemed tosupply its neglect in yourself. The attachmentyou evince toward me appeals to my heart, and I willmake you a confession.

“When I say nothing has troubled my thoughts,I do not say all. There is one impression whichto me has been an event, a circ*mstance, the influenceof which I cannot speak of. I wish, however, toask you, if you believe in presentiments?”

“What a question!” replied Ireneus, “noone ever addressed me thus before, and I do not knowwhat to say.”

“You do not”—­said Ebba, withas much evidence of surprise, as if she had said youdo not believe in the sun or moon. “I do,and I think this matter plain and evident as the existenceof God, to whom we are indebted for all our faculties.God endows us with that intuition of secret events,that species of devotion, sometimes as an act of mercyto prepare us for a misfortune which will overtakeus, sometimes in mercy to point out to us the consequencesof the concealed peril in which we are engaged.

“Even you, who seem not to believe in presentiments,have more than once been seized with an involuntaryapprehension. This dread, this sadness, is theantecedent of the tempest. It announces regret,accident, and unforeseen distress. Nay, I thinkwe thus are informed of dangers which menace one welove. I think there is a real link between soulswhich love each other, a mysterious tie, an invisibleunion, so powerful however, that how great soeverthe distance may be, one cannot suffer without theother being unhappy; I will even say, that I thinkthese bonds exist between the living and the dead,that the chilly grave does not crush all love, thatthe dead are touched by the tears we shed for them,and by the fidelity of our affections to them.I will not in this connection repeat to you storiesof apparitions, ghost stories, etc. If youdo not believe what I say, you will also doubt allpopular anecdotes. There are sentiments whichcannot be demonstrated, inductions and revelationswhich austere reason rejects, and casts amid the empireof dreams, which exert a great influence over theheart. I saw one night my mother standing atthe foot of my bed. She died when I was born.She leaned over me and kissed my forehead. Herlips seemed cold as ice, yet her kiss burned me.She looked at me for a moment in silence, and her largeblue eyes were filled with tears. She then slowlywithdrew, and as she did so, opened her arms to callme to her. Once again, as I opened a door I sawmyself, pale as my father used to describe my motherto me, and clad in a long, white robe, which fellabout me like a shroud. Old people will tellyou there is no more certain sign of death, and I amsure I shall not live long. For that reason Ido not attach myself to this world, nor indulge asothers do in reveries about the future.”

This conviction of Ebba was evidently deeply rootedthat Ireneus knew not how reply to it. He, however,sought to represent to Ebba that these impressionsshould not be taken too seriously to heart, and thatat her age, and with her qualities, she should notanticipate a sacrifice of existence, nor give up thejoys and hopes of life.

Ebba said nothing. She, however, looked longand moodily at him, clasped his hand and left him.

Ireneus was yet more desolate than he had been duringthe days preceding Alete’s marriage. Aletter from one of his friends greatly excited him.This friend informed him that the legitimist partywas about to attempt the reconquest of the realm.The duch*ess de Berry had left Scotland, for Massa,thence she had opened a correspondence with many provinces.La Vendee and the south opened their arms to her,and crowds of devoted servants had pledged themselvesto her.

All announced an approaching conflict, and all seemedto promise success. Will you not, said his enthusiasticcorrespondent, join in our enterprise, and share inour glory? I have always known you faithful toyour principles, and determined to defend them.You will not suffer yourself to be led astray by arepose which is unworthy of you, and slumber in peasantlife. Shall I write to you some day as the valliantBeornere did, “go hang yourself, Crellon, forthere was a battle at Arques, and you were away?”—­No,the color under which you first fought is about tobe flung to the wind, and your friends will not expectyou in vain.

When he heard this news, when he heard the trumpetcall, Ireneus felt all his military ardor revived.Often in the peaceable days he passed in his uncle’shouse, he reproached himself with a happiness to whichhe did not think himself entitled. Now he couldnot absent himself from the arena, in which his friendswere about to enter; he could not desert them.In the ardor of his monarchical sentiments he forgotthat this enterprise was civil war, in which brotherswould be arrayed against each other, and the soilof France steeped in the blood of its own children.He only thought of his oath of allegiance and hisbanner. His first idea was to go. When,however, he reflected more calmly, he thought it hisduty to inform his uncle of his plans, and, underthe pretext of hunting, wandered over the fields withhis gun on his shoulder, forming his schemes and dreamingof the glory that awaited him.

An accident delayed the execution of his plans, andat the same time gave him an additional excuse forleaving Sweden. M. de Vermondans, who saw himcome home every night with an empty game bag, saidto him:

“I must, dear Ireneus, recompense you for youruseless wanderings; and I will procure you the pleasureof a bear-hunt. There are two young men in thevillage, who will take you to a good place; and, incase of accident, will assist you with a sure aim.Shall I send for them?”

Ireneus, who was anxious to be actively engaged duringthe few days he expected to pass in Sweden, acceptedthe proposition with eagerness. The two huntsmen,having been sent for, said that they knew the lairof an old bear they had hunted during the last winter.It was arranged, that on the next morning, they shouldcome for Ireneus.

Ebba had heard this conversation with evident uneasiness;but had said nothing. When the huntsmen left,she said, with an emotion which was evident in everyglance, tone and gesture.

“Cousin, bear-hunting here is a very seriousaffair, and none but the boldest of the villagersundertake it. When one of these ferocious animalsis killed, it is borne home in triumph, and the victoryis celebrated with shouts of joy and traditional ceremonies.He who kills one of these old northern forest-kings,drives a brass nail in the stock of his gun.Our peasants have various superstitions about the bear.They will not pronounce his name aloud for fear ofoffending him, but style him the ‘old man’and the ‘grandfather.’ When they havekilled one, they ask forgiveness, and speak kindlyto him, and beg him to come with them, where he willhe gladly welcomed. All these customs, and manyothers, which it would be too long to relate, evincethe idea of danger attached to the pursuit of thebear. I do not wish to divert you from a plan,the very danger of which, perhaps, pleases you.Be prudent, however, my dear Ireneus, and take careof yourself. I beg you.”

These words were uttered with an accent, the tendernessof which the young officer had not previously remarked.He looked at Ebba and saw that she was troubled.A loud laugh, an exclamation of M. de Vermondans,dissipated the vague impression which Ireneus had received.“Pardon,” said the old man, “womenare strange things. If one yielded to their terrors,the front-door would never be passed, and a gun wouldbe useless. Because our peasants will not calla bear, should a brave young fellow hang up his gun,and never venture to pursue the animal? I trust,Ireneus, that you will refute the dreams of this girlby success, and bring me home tomorrow a fine skin,to make a new hearth-rug of.”

Ireneus said, “I have listened to my cousin,but having a sure foot and a quick eye, I shall berash enough to wait until the bear reaches the muzzleof my gun, or I shall seek him out in his lair.”

Before dawn, on the next day, the young officer, beingwell armed and equipped, took the field with his twocompanions. A servant had arisen to give himbreakfast. Every one else in the house slept.As, however, he was about to leave the house, Ireneusheard a faint noise on the first story. He lookedup and saw a window. A white figure advanced tothe glass, and then withdrew, as if afraid of beingseen. Doubtless this was Ebba. Under othercirc*mstances, Ireneus would have called to bid heradieu. Since the conversation of the eveningbefore, however, Ireneus felt annoyed, when he thoughtof her, and left without seeming to have seen her.

His guides led him across hills and ravines to a forestsome leagues from the village. When they hadreached it, there was an eager discussion betweenthem.

Thenceforth they differed about the course to be followed.One wished to go directly forward, and the other insistedthat a detour should be made. After a long discussion,they resolved to place Ireneus between them, and advancein three lines, keeping, however, near enough togetherto be able to unite against the enemy. They madeIreneus understand them by signs, and he assentedto their plan. One of them took a bottle of brandyfrom his pouch, and offered it to the young officer,who, par complaisance, placed it to his lips,and handed it to his companion; he gave it an embrace,and passed it on to the third, from whom it receivedequal attention. Ireneus, who also had broughtsome provisions, drank a glass of generous wine totheir health.

The three huntsmen then entered the forest. Theboughs of the pines were sufficiently far apart notto impede their passage. The ground, however,was covered with underwood, and trunks of trees coveredwith snow on which his foot slipped every minute.After a short time the peasants slackened their pace,and sought for the tracks of the bear. Ireneuswent on, without observing that he was in advance.He soon found that he was far ahead, and halted forthem. As he looked round for them, he saw somethingat the foot of a tree.

It was the bear, and an immense one. His pawswere bent under his body, his head was concealed inthe snow, and he seemed asleep.

Ireneus rejoiced at this discovery, and recallingwhat Ebba had said, smiled at the idea of acquiring,in the first attempt, the honor so much desired inthe country, of having a brass nail in the stock ofhis gun.

To make his shot surer, he ascended a little eminencestill nearer the animal. He co*cked his gun, andadvanced carefully. The eminence, however, wasformed only of a mass of leaves and twigs, the intersticesbeing concealed by the snow. As he put his footon it, it gave way, he fell, and his gun was discharged.

Before he could rise the animal was awake, and rushedon him. It placed its two paws on the shoulder,and having him thus in its power, with its eye sparklingwith rage, joked at its victim. Unable to move,Ireneus closed his eyes, and commended his soul tothe mercy of God.

The claws of the animal had already pierced his flesh,when he heard the report of a gun both on his rightand left. Each had reached the animal’shead, which fell dead on the meditated victim, coveringhim with blood, and lacerating Ireneus’s breastand chest in its convulsive agony.

At the same moment, with a cry of triumph, the twopeasants ran to him. They found him paralyzedby the weight of the animal, and bathed in blood.They lifted him up, rubbed his temples with brandy,and holding him by the belt, made him take a stepor two, to see if he could walk. He could doso.

It was necessary to take him out of the forest, whereno assistance could be had. With great care,and frequent pauses, they at last reached the opencountry. There the strength of Ireneus completelygave way, his wounds bleeding, and his limbs failinghim. One of his companions took off his vest,laid it on the ground, and assisted Ireneus to stretchhimself on it, with touching kindness of heart andsolicitude. The other ran toward the high-road,and seeing a car loaded with hay, induced the driverby tears, threats and promises to come to Ireneus’said. They placed him in it, and thus went tothe village.

When there, one of the hunters sent for his wife,and said:

“Go, fast as you can, to M. de Vermondans, andsay that his nephew is ll, but in no danger, and hurryback to prepare the table. We have made a famoushunt. To-morrow we will have the bear-feast.”

The old gentleman, when he heard the news, hurriedto his nephew. Then Looking into the huntsman’sface, he passed his hand over Ireneus’s body.

“Nothing serious, that is good.”

Soon after came Ebba, pale and trembling, who, whenshe saw her cousin’s blood, fell half dead inher father’s arms.

The physician said that the wounds of the young officerwere trifling. He, however, enjoined a few daysof rest and repose.

Immediately, on hearing of the accident, Eric andAlete hurried to see Ireneus, evincing the tenderestsympathy for him. M. de Vermondans, by his assiduouscare, proved how he loved his nephew. He alsogave the two preservers a munificent reward.

Ebba seemed completely crushed. Her sister foundher seated in a chair, with her eye fixed, her lipsmotionless, and her face pale. Completely wrappedin thought, the young girl did not rouse, except atthe sound of Ireneus’s name, and when she heardthe various reports of the physician. Often,during the day, she went to the invalid’s chamber,passing timidly up the steps, and placing her earto the door. She would then to her father, andsink again into her morbid sadness.

One night, when the nurse who sat with him had seenhim sink to sleep and retired, the young officer awokeunder the impression that a delicate hand was passedlightly over his forehead. He opened his eyes,and saw the shadow of a woman flit behind the curtains.It was Ebba, who, unable even to sleep at night, hadfurtively come, when she thought no one would be awareof it, to be certain that his medicine was prepared,and to look into his position.

Through the care of the physician and the affectionatefriends who surrounded him, Ireneus regained his strength.

The day he returned to the table was a very festival.M. de Vermondans had invited his daughter, son-in-law,the doctor, and the two huntsmen to dine with him.The latter brought the skin of the bear they had killed,and which they wished to present to their less fortunatecompanion.

They then told gaily all the incidents of that memorableday; and when, during the course of conversation,they heard how lightly Ireneus had considered thebear-hunt, one of them said:

“Ah, I am not surprised at what has happened.One should not trifle with a bear. He is cunningand proud, and understands everything said of him.If he is not treated with respect, he takes a cruelrevenge. I would not be surprised if, havingheard what Monsieur said, he laid at the foot of thetree expressly to teach him a lesson.”

Ireneus, to whom Ebba translated this, laughed atthe superstition. The huntsmen, seeing him laugh,shook their heads, as if to say, “There is animprudent fellow, who will not profit by experience.”

As he regained strength, Ireneus again felt the necessityof action. The last letters he received informedhim that the legitimist movement had become more serious,the duch*ess de Berry preparing to leave Massa.He also heard that she had gone successively to thesouth, and had unfurled the white flag in La Vendee.Ireneus resolved to go. When he saw the conductof Ebba, her deep distress when he was sick and thejoy which had burst forth when he recovered, he couldnot conceal from himself that she entertained sentimentstoward him which he did not reciprocate. He lovedthe young girl, and experienced much pleasure fromthe contemplation of her delicate grace and melancholybeauty. He loved the sound of her melodious voice.More than once since the discovery he had made, heasked himself if he should not look on what had happenedas a signal interposition of Heaven in his favor.A quiet life, a comfortable home, the love of friendsand of a pretty woman, certainly deserved some thanks.He however was soon hurried from this idyllic existenceby the ardor of his youth, and the prospect of anadventurous career. To some men a peaceable lifedoes not seem existence. They are like certainbirds, which show themselves only in the tempest.

Ireneus was of this character. When he carefullyscrutinized his heart, he saw that but a portion ofit could belong to Ebba: that with her he wouldconstantly be persecuted by repinings at fate, andwould long for the excitement of battle and camp.Should he then accept a pure heart from the younggirl? Should he deceive her? Honor requiredhim to leave her.

M. de Vermondans was painfully surprised when he heardof this determination. He had grown to look onIreneus as a son, and perhaps, in the fondness ofhis heart, had made a happy dream for the future careerof Ebba and himself. He attempted to persuadehim to lay aside the plan, but in vain.

“Take care, dear Ireneus, that you do not becomedazzled by the prestige of a sentiment, generous andnoble it is true, but which may result in misfortuneto yourself, without benefiting others. How manymen thus neglect their advantages, and attribute theblame to Providence, which places happiness withintheir grasp, but which they do not see, so dazzledare they by some imaginary attraction. If thisattraction fades away, they tell how they looked behind;they regret what they have lost when it is too late.Fortune has granted what they wished but neglectedto others.”

“But duty, uncle! duty!”

“God forbid that I cease to respect that word.Suffer me only to observe, that in the ardor of youthone easily mistakes that obligation. There arecirc*mstances in which duty appears so clearly anddistinctly, and speaks so loudly, that it must beobeyed at all risks. Our force must be devotedto it—­our soul, our life. Ordinarily,however, we are forced to decide between conflictingduties, and the one which seems the best is ordinarilythe least praiseworthy. The man who devotes himselfto daily toil has family affections, and diffusesgood around him. Does not he discharge his duty?Does not he occupy an honorable place in the socialsystem? Does virtue exist only in extraordinaryactions? Is there no crown to be gathered exceptin adventurous enterprises or in the battle field?And is not he a good citizen, who toils usefully, andproperly educates his children?”

Ireneus did justice to his uncle’s arguments,and was moved by the touching kindness he evinced.His mind was however made up, and nothing could diverthim.

Alete, her husband, and the old pastor, sought toretain him. When Ebba heard he was about to leave,she said nothing: her head sunk on her bosom,and tears stole into her eyelids.

Ireneus left not without effort and distress.At sunset the rays of the sun have singular beauty,and life is never so attractive as to the dying man.Just at the moment of separation a strange reactionalso takes place. In an instant we see a kindof dazzling light, unfolding to us what we love andwhat we abandon. We regret in anticipation whatwe are about to leave. The door is not yet passed,the farewell is not spoken. We pause and hesitate.We may return, and joyfully cast ourselves into armsstill open to us. This is the last contest ofthe heart, perhaps the last remonstrance of a goodgenius. Passion however conquers, and the barkis launched upon a sea without a port, beneath a skywithout a star. May God guide it!

Thus Ireneus departed, deserting domestic peace, leavinga family in distress, and crushing a young heart.He was himself unhappy, but was sustained by the ideathat he hearkened to the voice of honor, and thatthe sacrifice was noble in proportion as it was painful.

It was the beginning of summer. The earth hadbecome green, and the woods Were filled with the soundof birds. A pure sky, silvery lakes, all thevaried beauty of the north, seemed revived as if bymagic at the first breath of spring. Had anythingbeen able to retain him, nature would.

Thanks to the clearness of the nights which permittedhim to travel, he soon reached Stockholm, where heembarked on the Lubeck steamer, went to see his mother,and hurried to La Vendee, where he joined the flaghe had come so far to stand beneath.

During his voyage, he wrote more than once to hisuncle. Three weeks, however, rolled by and theyreceived no news. M. de Vermondans complainedof his silence—­Alete sought to excuse him.Ebba suffered in silence. After the departureof her cousin, the delicate young girl had sunkeninto a state of sadness which daily assumed a moredangerous character. She loved to sit alone,looking toward the south, as if there lay her lasthope. She sometimes tried to read, but from hervery look it was plain that her mind was unoccupied.If she saw her father, she sought to smile and appeargay to soothe him; as soon, however, as he left, shebecame prostrate again. Her cheeks grew thin andflushed, she was ill, and the physicians were sentfor—­one said she had a slow fever, anotherthat she was consumptive. Ebba carefully followedtheir advice, and did all that her father and sisterrecommended. When alone, she shook her head asif she thought all remedies in vain.

Two weeks passed without a word from Ireneus.What was he about? It was Known that he had passedthrough Paris, and should be in La Vendee. Couldhe not correspond with his friends? Could hisletters have been intercepted? Might he not alreadyhave fallen a victim to his chivalric ardor, and bewounded, a prisoner, perhaps dead!

The post was looked for with anxiety. The newspaperswere read anxiously. Vain hope! those of Swedengave very meager details of the legitimist movement.

At last M. de Vermondans became angry and humiliatedat suffering his impatience to become manifest, andforbade Ireneus or La Vendee to be mentioned.He could not, however, stifle thought in his own mindor in Ebba’s.

One morning the young girl arose in great distress,and with a feverish agitation which made her lookbetter. She dressed hastily, and went to herfather’s room. She said she wanted to seeher sister.

“Really,” said the old man, deceived bythis deceitful animation, and quivering with joy atthe idea of her recovery. “Do you wish togo? I will go with you.”

He hurried to the stable, had his horse harnessed,and in a few minutes, seated in his cabriolet, wascrossing the fields. On her way, Ebba, with peculiartenderness, pointed out various scenes of her childhoodand youth, the home of old servants, spots where shehad been with Alete, and made memorable by variouslittle incidents.

Suddenly she ceased to speak—­looked atthe scenery with deep interest glancing at the seaand the sky, and seemed absorbed in a melancholy reminiscence.

Her father had listened to her with pleasure, andturned to ask why she was silent. He was filledwith delight. Had he been able, however, to lookinto her mind, he would have seen a deep sentimentof sadness and resignation, united with resignationand hopelessness.

In the silent meditation of the poor invalid theremight be read a last adieu to the blue wave, the greenwood, the distant prospects which so often had occupiedher reverie. The warm summer breeze, which playedin her hair, the clear sky, the whole tapestry ofnature she was about to leave, instinct as it waswith poetic fancy. By her half open lips, byher wondering eye, she bade adieu to the scenes amidwhich she had lived, to the flowers which smiled onher as a sister, and where birds sang their matinlays as if she had been one of their kindred.

When he reached the parsonage, her father stoppedto chat with the old pastor. Ebba took Aleteby the hand, and hurried her into the chamber.

“Dear sister,” said she, “I wishedto see you again.”

“Again, Ebba—­I hope you will, andfor many a year.”

“Yes—­yes—­but not here,in another world.” She grew pale as shespoke.

“What an idea!” said Alete. “Iwas so agreeably surprised by your visit. Haveyou come to distress me?”

As she spoke, Alete covered her face, now suffusedwith tears, with her hands.

“Excuse me, Alete. I was wrong to giveway so. Let us talk of something else.”

“Yes, yes,” said Alete, smiling amid hertears. “Has anything been heard of Ireneus?”

“Ireneus is—­dead!” said Ebbasadly.

“Dead!” exclaimed Alete; “how so?”

“I know he is. I saw him last night.”

“Ah, I have sometimes dreamed of a person’sdeath, whom on the next morning I met perfectly well.”

“I tell you I saw him struck by a ball in thebreast, the blood running from the wound, lookingstaringly around, and smiling in the agonies of death.”

“Madness! my dear Ebba,” said Alete, witha burst of strange unnatural laughter, for in spiteof herself she was impressed by the words of her sister.“Come, Eric and his father expect us. Letus pass our evening happily together, and shake offall these presentiments, which I pray to God may neverbe realized.”

“Yes, come,” and attempting to look gay,she said, “Madness! we will see.”

During the next week, a letter from the mother ofIreneus informed them that the young officer had diedon the very day of Ebba’s dream, of a woundreceived at the siege of the Castle of Penissiere.

Ebba soon died, pronouncing the names of her fatherand sister, who wept at her bedside. Her lastbreath uttered one other name, that of Ireneus.

* * * * *

POEMS BY THE AUTHOR OF LILLIAN.

The following pieces by WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED,have never before, we believe, been printed in thiscountry.

THE LEGEND OF THE TEUFEL-HAUS.

The way was lone, and the hour was late,
And Sir Rudolph was far from his castlegate.
The night came down, by slow degrees,
On the river stream, and the forest-trees;
And by the heat of the heavy air,
And by the lightning’s distant glare,
And by the rustling of the woods,
And by the roaring of the floods,
In half an hour, a man might say,
The Spirit of Storm would ride that way.
But little he cared, that stripling pale,
For the sinking sun, or the rising gale;
For he, as he rode, was dreaming now,
Poor youth, of a woman’s brokenvow,
Of the cup dashed down, ere the wine wastasted,
Of eloquent speeches sadly wasted,
Of a gallant heart all burnt to ashes.
And the Baron of Katzberg’s longmustaches,
So the earth below, and the heaven above,
He saw them not;—­those dreamsof love,
As some have found, and some will find,
Make men extremely deaf and blind.
At last he opened his great blue eyes,
And looking about in vast surprise,
Found that his hunter had turned his back,
An hour ago on the beaten track,
And now was threading a forest hoar,
Where steed had never stepped before.

“By Caesar’s head,”Sir Rudolph said,
“It werea sorry joke.
If I to-night should make my bed
On the turf, beneathan oak!
Poor Roland reeks from head to hoof;—­
Now, for thy sake,good roan,
I would we were beneath a roof,
Were it the foulfiend’s own!”

Ere the tongue could rest, ere the lipscould close
The sound of a listener’s laughterrose.
It was not the scream of a merry boy
When harlequin waves his wand of joy;
Nor the shout from a serious curate, won
By a bending bishop’s annual pun;
Nor the roar of a Yorkshire clown;—­oh,no!
It was a gentle laugh, and low;
Half uttered, perhaps, perhaps, and stifledhalf,
A good old-gentlemanly laugh;
Such as my uncle Peter’s are,
When he tells you his tales of Dr. Parr.
The rider looked to the left and the right,
With something of marvel, and more offright:
But brighter gleamed his anxious eye,
When a light shone out from a hill hardby.
Thither be spurred, as gay and glad
As Mrs. Maquill’s delighted lad,
When he turns away from the Pleas of theCrown,
Or flings, with a yawn, old Saunders down,
And flies, at last, from all the mysteries
Of Plaintiffs’ and Defendants’histories,
To make himself sublimely neat,
For Mrs. Camac’s in Mansfield Street.
At a lofty gate Sir Rudolphhalted;
Down from his seat Sir Rudolph vaulted:
And he blew a blast with might and main,
On the bugle that hung by an iron chain.
The sound called up a score of sounds;—­
The screeching of owls, and the bayingof hounds,
The hollow toll of the turret bell,

The call of the watchful sentinel.
And a groan at last, like a peal of thunder,
As the huge old portals rolled asunder,
And gravely from the castle hall
Paced forth the white-robed seneschal.
He stayed not to ask of what degree
So fair and famished a knight might be;
But knowing that all untimely question
Ruffles the temper, and mars the digestion,
He laid his hand upon the crupper.
And said,—­“You’rejust in time for supper.”
They led him to thesmoking board.
And placed him next to the castle’slord.
He looked around with a hurried glance:
You may ride from the border to fair Penzance,
And nowhere, but at Epsom Races,
Find such a group of ruffian faces,
As thronged that chamber; some were talking
Of feats of hunting and of hawking,
And some were drunk, and some were dreaming,
And some found pleasure in blaspheming.
He thought, as he gazed on the fearfulcrew,
That the lamps that burned on the wallsburned blue.
They brought him a pasty of mighty size,
To cheer his heart, and to charm his eyes;
They brought the wine, so rich and old,
And filled to the brim the cup of gold;
The knight looked down, and the knightlooked up,
But he carved not the meat, and he drainednot the cup.

“Ho ho,” said his host withangry brow,
“I wot ourguest is fine;
Our fare is far too coarse, I trow,
For such nicetaste as thine:
Yet trust me I have cooked the food,
And I have filledthe can,
Since I have lived in this old wood,
For many noblerman.”—­
“The savory buck and the ancientcask
To a weary manare sweet;
But ere he taste, it is fit he ask
For a blessingon bowl and meat.
Let me but pray for a minute’s space,
And bid me pledgeye then;
I swear to ye, by our Lady’s grace,
I shall eat anddrink like ten!”

The lord of the castle in wrath arose,
He frowned likea fiery dragon;
Indignantly he blew his nose,
And overturnedthe flagon.
And, “Away,” quoth he, “withthe canting priest.
Who comes uncalled to a midnight feast,
And breathes through a helmet his holybenison,
To sour my hock, and spoil my venison!”

That moment all the lights went out;
And they dragged him forth, that rabblerout,
With oath, and threat, and foul scurrility,
And every sort of incivility.
They barred the gates: and the pealof laughter,
Sudden and shrill that followed after,
Died off into a dismal tone,
Like a parting spirit’s painfulmoan.
“I wish,” said Rudolph, ashe stood
On foot in the deep and silent wood;
“I wish, good Roland, rack and stable
May be kinder to-night than their master’stable!”

By this the storm had fleeted by;
And the moon with a quietsmile looked out
From the glowing arch of a cloudless sky,
Flinging her silvery beamsabout
On rock, tree, wave, and gladdening all
With just as miscellaneousbounty,
As Isabel’s, whose sweet smilesfall
In half an hour on half thecounty.
Less wild Sir Rudolph’s pathwayseemed,
As he fumed from that discourteoustower;
Small spots of verdure gaily gleamed
On either side; and many aflower,
Lily, and violet, and heart’s-ease,
Grew by the way, a fragrantborder;
And the tangled boughs of the hoary trees
Were twined in picturesquedisorder:
And there came from the grove, and therecame from
the hill,
The loveliest sounds he hadever heard,
The cheerful voice of the dancing rill,
And the sad, sad song of thelonely bird.
And at last he stared with wondering eyes,
As well he might, on a hugepavilion:
’Twas clothed with stuffs of a hundreddyes,
Blue, purple, orange, pink,vermilion;
And there were quaint devices traced
All round in the Saracenicmanner;
And the top, which gleamed like gold,was graced
With the drooping folds ofa silken banner;
And on the poles, in silent pride,
There sat small doves of whiteenamel;
And the vail from the entrance was drawnaside,
And flung on the humps ofa silver camel.
In short it was the sweetest thing
For a weary youth in a woodto light on:
And finer far than what a king
Built up, to prove his taste,at Brighton.
The gilded gate was all unbarred;
And, close beside it, for a guard,
There lay two dwarfs with monstrous noses,
Both fast asleep upon some roses.
Sir Rudolph entered; rich and bright
Was all that met his ravished sight;
Soft tapestries from far countries brought,
Rare cabinets with gems inwrought,
White vases of the finest mould,
And mirrors set in burnished gold.
Upon a couch a grayhound slumbered;
And a small table was encumber’d
With paintings, and an ivory lute,
And sweetmeats, and delicious fruit.
Sir Rudolph lost not time in praising;
For he, I should have said was gazing,
In attitude extremely tragic,
Upon a sight of stranger magic;
A sight, which, seen at such a season,
Might well astonish Mistress Reason,
And scare Dame Wisdom from her fences
Of rules and maxims, moods and tenses.
Beneath a crimson canopy
A lady, passing fair, waslying;
Deep sleep was on her gentle eye,
And in her slumber she wassighing
Bewitching sighs, such sighs as say
Beneath the moonlight, toa lover,
Things which the coward tongue by day
Would not, for all the world,discover:
She lay like a shape of sculptured stone,

So pale, so tranquil:—­she hadthrown,
For the warm evening’ssultriness,
The broidered coverlet aside
And nothing was there to deck or hide
The glory of her loveliness,
But a scarf of gauze, so light and thin
You might see beneath the dazzling skin,
And watch the purple streamlets go
Through the valleys of white and stainlesssnow,
Or here and there a wayward tress
Which wandered out with vast assurance
From the pearls that kept the rest indurance,
And fluttered about, as if ’twouldtry
To lure a zephyr from the sky.
“Bertha!”—­largedrops of anguish came
On Rudolph’s brow, as he breathedthat name,—­
“Oh fair and false one, wake, andfear;
I, the betrayed, the scorned, am here.”
The eye moved not from its dull eclipse,
The voice came not from the fast-shutlips;
No matter! well that gazer knew
The tone of bliss, and the eyes of blue.
Sir Rudolph hid his burningface
With both his hands for a minute’sspace,
And all his frame in awful fashion
Was shaken by some sudden passion.
What guilty fancies o’er him ran?—­
Oh, pity will be slow to guessthem;
And never, save the holy man,
Did good Sir Rudolph e’erconfess them
But soon his spirit you might deem
Came forth from the shade, of the fearfuldream;
His cheek, though pale, was calm again.
And he spoke in peace, though he spokein pain
“Not mine! not mine!now, Mary mother.
Aid me the sinful hope to smother!
Not mine, not mine!—­I haveloved thee long
Thou hast quitted me with grief and wrong.
But pure the heart of a knight shouldbe,—­
Sleep on, sleep on, thou art safe forme.
Yet shalt thou know, by a certain sign,
Whose lips have been so near to thine,
Whose eyes have looked upon thy sleep,
And turned away, and longed to weep,
Whole heart,—­mourn,—­maddenas it will,—­
Has spared thee, and adored thee, still!”
His purple mantle, rich andwide,
From his neck the trembling youth untied,
And flung it o’er those dangerouscharms,
The swelling neck, and the rounded arms.
Once more he looked, once more he sighed;
And away, away, from the perilous tent,
Swift as the rush of an eagle’swing,
Or the flight of a shaft fromTartar string,
Into the wood Sir Rudolph went:
Not with more joy the school-boys run
To the gay green fields, when their taskis done;
Not with more haste the members fly,
When Hume has caught the Speaker’seye.
At last the daylight came;and then
A score or two of serving men,
Supposing that some sad disaster
Had happened to their lord and master,
Went out into the wood, and found him,
Unhorsed, and with no mantle round him.
Ere he could tell his tale romantic,
The leech pronounced him clearly frantic,
So ordered him at once to bed,
And clapped a blister on his head.
Within the sound of the castle-clock
There stands a huge and rugged rock,
And I have heard the peasants say,
That the grieving groom at noon that day
Found gallant Roland, cold and stiff,
At the base of the black and beetlingcliff.
Beside the rock there is anoak,
Tall, blasted by the thunder-stroke,
And I have heard the peasants say,
That there Sir Rudolph’s mantlelay,
And coiled in many a deadly wreath
A venomous serpent slept beneath.

* * * * *

STANZAS,
WRITTEN UNDER A DRAWING OF KING’S COLLEGE CHAPEL,CAMBRIDGE.

EXTRACTED FROM AN ALBUM IN DEVONSHIRE.

Most beautiful!—­I gaze andgaze
In silence on the glorious pile;
And the glad thoughts of other days
Come thronging back the while.
To me dim Memory makes more dear
The perfect grandeur of the shrine;
But if i stood a stranger here,
The ground were still divine.

Some awe the good and wise have felt,
As reverently their feet have trod
On any spot where man hath knelt,
To commune with his God;
By haunted spring, or fairy well,
Beneath the ruined convent’sgloom,
Beside the feeble hermit’s cell,
Or the false prophet’s tomb.

But when was high devotion graced
With lovelier dwelling, loftierthrone,
Than thus the limner’s art hathtraced
From the time-honored stone?
The spirit here of worship seems
To hold the heart in wondrous thrall,
And heavenward hopes and holy dreams,
Came at her voiceless call;—­

At midnight, when the lonely moon
Looks from a vapor’s silveryfold;
Or morning, when the sun of June
Crests the high towers with gold;
For every change of hour and form
Makes that fair scene more deeplyfair;
And dusk and day-break, calm and storm,
Are all religion there.

* * * * *

A FRAGMENT OF A BALLAD:

TEACHING HOW POETRY IS BEST PAID FOR.

Non voglio cento scudi.—­Song.

Oh say not that the minstrel’s art,
The pleasant gift of verse,
Though his hopes decay, though his friendsdepart,
Can ever be a curse;—­
Though sorrow reign within his heart,
And Penury hold his purse.

Say not his toil is profitless;—­
Though he charm no rich relation,
The Fairies all his labors bless
With such remuneration,
As Mr. Hume would soon confess
Beyond his calculation.

Annuities, and three per cents,
Little cares he about them;
And India bonds, and tithes, and rents,
He rambles on without them:
But love, and noble sentiments,—­
Oh, never bid him doubt them!

* * * * *

Young Florice rose from his humble bed,
And prayed as a good youthshould;
And forth he sped, with a lightsome tread,
Into the neighboring wood;
He knew where the berries were ripe andred,
And where the old oak stood.

And as he lay, at the noon of day,
Beneath the ancient tree,
A grayhaired pilgrim passed that way;
A holy man was he,
And he was wending forth to pray
At a shrine in a far countrie.

Oh, his was a weary wandering,
And a song or two might cheerhim.
The pious youth began to sing,
As the ancient man drew nearhim;
The lark was mute as he touched the string,
And the thrush said, “Hearhim, hear him!”

He sand high tales of the martyred brave;
Of the good, and pure, andjust;
Who have gone into the silent grave,
In such deep faith and trust,
That the hopes and thoughts which sainand save
Spring from their buried dust.

The fair of face, and the stout of limb,
Meek maids, and grandsireshoary;
Who have sung on the cross their rapturoushymn,
As they passed to their doomof glory;—­
Their radiant fame is never dim,
Nor their names erased fromstory.

Time spares the stone where sleep thedead
With angels watching roundthem;
The mourner’s grief is comforted,
As he looks on the chainsthat bound them;
And peace is shed on the murderer’shead,
And he kisses the thorns thatcrowned them.

Such tales he told; and the pilgrim heard
In a trance of voiceless pleasure;
For the depths of his inmost soul werestirred,
By the sad and solemn measure:
“I give thee my blessing,”—­washis word;
“It is all I have oftreasure!”

* * * * *

A little child came bounding by;
And he, in a fragrant bower,
Had found a gorgeous butterfly,
Rare spoil for a nursery dower,
Which, with fierce step, and eager eye,
He chased from flower to flower.

“Come hither, come hither,”’gan Florice call;
And the urchin left his fun;
So from the hall of poor Sir Paul
Retreats the baffleddun;
So Ellen parts from the village ball,
Where she leaves a heart halfwon

Then Florice did the child caress,
And sang his sweetest songs:
Their theme was of the gentleness,
Which to the soul belongs,
Ere yet it knows the name or dress
Of human rights and wrongs.

And of the wants which make agree
All parts of this vast plan;
How life is in whate’er we see,
And only life in man:—­
What matter where the less may be,
And where the longer span?

An d how the heart grows hard without
Soft Pity’s freshingdews;
And how when any life goes out
Some little pang ensues;—­
Facts which great soldiers often doubt,
And wits who write reviews.

Oh, Song hath power o’er Nature’ssprings
Though deep the Nymph haslaid them!
The child gazed, gazed, on the gildedwings,
As the next light breeze displayedthem;
But he felt the while that the meanestthings
Are dear to him that madethem!

* * * * *

The sun went down behind the hill,
The breeze was growing colder
But there the minstrel lingered still;
And amazed the chance beholder,
Musing beside a rippling rill,
With a harp upon his shoulder.

And soon, on a graceful steed and tame,
A sleek Arabian mare,
The Lady Juliana came,
Riding to take the air,
With Lords of fame, at whose proud name
A radical would swear.

The minstrel touched his lute again.—­
It was more than a Sultan’scrown,
When the lady checked her bridle rein,
And lit from her palfrey down:—­
What would you give for such a strain,
Rees, Longman, Orme, and Brown?

He sang of Beauty’s dazzling eyes,
Of Beauty’s meltingtone;
And how her praise is a richer prize
Then the gems of Persia’sthrone:
And her love a bliss which the coldlywise
Have never, never, known.
He told how the valiant scoff at fear,
When the sob of her griefis heard;
How they couch the spear for a smile ortear
How they die for a singleword;—­
Things which, I own, to me appear
Exceedingly absurd.

The Lady soon had heard enough:
She turned to hear Sir Denys
Discourse, in language vastly gruff,
About his skill at Tennis—­
While smooth Sir Guy described the stuff
His mistress wore at Venice.

The Lady smiled one radiant smile,
And the Lady rode away.—­
There is not a lady in all our Isle,
I have heard a Poet say,
Who can listen more than a little while
To a poet’s sweetestlay.

* * * * *

His mother’s voice was fierce andshrill,
As she set the milk and fruit:
“Out on thine unrewarded skill,
And on thy vagrant lute;
Let the strings be broken an they will,
And the beggar lips be mute!”

Peace, peace!—­the Pilgrim ashe went
Forgot the minstrel’ssong;
But the blessing that his wan lips sent
Will guard the minstrel long;
And keep his spirit innocent,
And turn his hand from wrong.

Belike the child had little thought
Of the moral the minstreldrew;
But the dream of a deed of kindness wrought—­
Brings it not peace to you?
And doth not a lesson of virture taught
Teach him that reaches too?

And if the Lady sighed no sigh
For the minstrel or his hymn;—­
But when he shall lie ’neath themoonlit sky,
Or lip the goblet’sbrim,
What a star in the mist of memory
Her smile will be to him!

* * * * *

THE COVENANTER’S LAMENT FOR BOTHWELL BRIGG.

The men of sin prevail!
Once more the prince of thisworld lifts his horn:
Judah is scattered, as the chaff is borne
Before the stormy gale.

Where are our brethren? where
The good and true, the terrible and fleet?
They whom we loved, with whom we sat atmeat,
With whom we kneeled in prayer?

Mangled and marred they lie,
Upon the bloody pillow of their rest:
Stern Dalzell smiles, and Clavers witha jest
Spurs his fierce charger by.

So let our foes rejoice;—­
We to the Lord, who hears their impiousboasts.
Will call for comfort: to the Godof Hosts
We will lift up our voice.

Give ear unto our song;
For we are wandering o’er our nativeland,
As sheep that have no shepherd: andthe hand
Of wicked men is strong.

Only to thee we bow.
Our lips have drained the fury of thycup;
And the deep murmurs of our hearts goup
To heaven for vengeance now.

Avenge—­oh, notour years
Of pain and wrong; the blood of martyrsshed;
The ashes heaped upon the hoary head;
The maiden’s silenttears;

The babe’s bread tornaway’
The harvest blasted by the war-steed’shoof;
The red flame wreathing o’er thecottage roof;
Judge not for those to-day!

Is not thine own dread rod
Mocked by the proud, thy holy book disdained,
Thy name blasphemed, thy temple’scourts profaned?
Avenge thyself, O God!

Break Pharoah’s ironcrown;
Bind with new chains their nobles andtheir kings;
Wash from thy house the blood of uncleanthings;
And hurl their Dagon down!

Come in thine own good time!
We will abide: we have not turnedfrom thee;
Though in a world of grief our portionbe,
Of bitter grief, and crime.

Be thou our guard and guide!
Forth from the spoiler’s synagoguewe go.
That we may worship where the torrentsflow,
And where the whirlwinds ride.

From lonely rocks and caves
We will pour forth our sacrifice of prayer.—­
On, brethren, to the mountains! Seekwe there
Safe temples, quiet graves!

* * * * *

HOPE AND LOVE.

One day, through fancy’s telescope,
Which is my richest treasure,
I saw, dear Susan, Love and Hope
Set out in search of Pleasure:
All mirth and smiles I saw them go;
Each was the other’sbanker;
For Hope took up her brother’s bow,
And Love, his sister’sanchor.

They rambled on o’er vale and hill,
They passed by cot and tower;
Through summer’s glow and winter’schill,
Through sunshine and throughshower,
But what did those fond playmates care
For climate, or for weather?
All scenes to them were bright and fair,
On which they gazed together.

Sometimes they turned aside to bless
Some Muse and her wild numbers,
Or breathe a dream of holiness
On Beauty’s quiet slumbers;
“Fly on,” said Wisdom, withcold sneers:
“I teach my friendsto doubt you;”
“Come back,” said Age, withbitter tears,
“My heart is cold withoutyou.”

When Poverty beset their path,
And threatened to divide them,
They coaxed away the beldame’s wrath,
Ere she had breath to chidethem,
By vowing all her rags were silk,
And all her bitters, honey,
And showing taste for bread and milk,
And utter scorn of money.

They met stern Danger in their way,
Upon a ruin seated;
Before him kings had quaked that day,
And armies had retreated:
But he was robed in such a cloud,
As Love and Hope came nearhim,
That though he thundered long and loud,
They did not see or hear him.

A gray-beard joined them, Time by name;
And Love was nearly crazy,
To find that he was very lame,
And also very lazy:
Hope, as he listened to her tale,
Tied wings upon his jacket;
And then they far outran the mail,
And far outsailed the packet.

And so, when they had safely passed
O’er many a land andbillow,
Before a grave they stopped at last,
Beneath a weeping willow:
The moon upon the humble mound
Her softest light was flinging;
Sad nightingales were singing.

“I leave you here,” quothFather Time,
As hoarse as any raven;
And Love kneeled down to spell the rhyme
Upon the rude stone graven:
But Hope looked onward, calmly brave;
And whispered, “Dearestbrother,
We’re parted on this side the grave,—­
We’ll meet upon theother.”

* * * * *

PRIVATE THEATRICALS.

LADY ARABELLA FUSTIAN TO LORD CLARENCE FUSTIAN.

—­Sweet, when Actors first appear
The loud collision of applauding gloves!
MOULTRIE.

Your labors, my talented brother,
Are happily over at last;
They tell me that, some how or other,
The bill is rejected,—­orpast:
And now you’ll be coming, I’mcertain,
As fast as four posters cancrawl,
To help us draw up our curtain,
As usual, at Fustian Hall.

Arrangements, are nearly completed;
But still we’ve a loveror two,
Whom Lady Albina entreated,
We’d keep, at all hazards,for you:
Sir Arthur makes horrible faces,—­
Lord John is a trifle tootall,—­
And yours are the safest embraces
To faint in, at Fustian Hall.

Come, Clarence;—­it’sreally enchanting
To listen and look at therout;
We’re all of us puffing, and panting,
And raving, and running about;
Here Kitty and Adelaide bustle;
There Andrew and Anthony bawl;
Flutes murmur, chains rattle, robes rustle,
In chorus, at Fustian Hall.

By the bye, there are two or three matters
We want you to bring us fromtown;
The Inca’s white plumes from thehatter’s,
A nose and a hump for theClown:
We want a few harps for our banquet,
We want a few masks for ourball;
And steal from your wise friend Bosanquet
His white wig, for FustianHall.

Huncamunca must have a huge saber,
Friar Tuck has forgotten hiscowl;
And we’re quite at a stand-stillwith Weber,
For want of a lizard and owl:
And then, for our funeral procession,
Pray get us a love of a pall;
Or how shall we make an impression
On feelings, at Fustian Hall?

And, Clarence, you’ll really delightus,
If you’ll do your endeavorto bring
From the Club a young person to writeus
Our prologue, and that sort of thing;
Poor Crotchet, who did them supremely,
Is gone, for a Judge, to Bengal;
I fear we shall miss him extremely,
This season, at Fustian Hall.

Come, Clarence;—­your idol Albina
Will make a sensation, I feel;
We all think there never was seen a
Performer, so like the O’Neill.
At rehearsals, her exquisite fancy
Has deeply affected us all;
For one tear that trickles at Drury,
There’ll be twenty atFustian Hall.

Dread objects are scattered before her,
On purpose to harrow her soul;
She stares, till a deep spell comes o’erher,
At a knife, or a cross, ora bowl.
The sword never seems to alarm her,
That hangs on a peg to thewall,
And she doats on thy rusty old armor
Lord Fustian, of Fustian Hall.

She stabbed a bright mirror this morning,—­
Poor Kitty was quite out ofbreath,—­
And trampled, in anger and scorning,
A bonnet and feathers to death.
But hark,—­I’ve a partin the Stranger,—­
There’s the Prompter’sdetestable call:
Come, Clarence,—­our Romeo andRanger,
We want you at Fustian Hall.

* * * * *

ALEXANDER AND DIOGENES

Diogenes Alexandro roganti ut diccret, Si quid opuscaset, “nunc quidem paullulum,” inquit,“a sole.”—­Cicero Tusc.Disp.

Slowly the monarch turned aside;
But when his glance of youthful pride
Rested upon the warriors gray
Who bore his lance and shield that day,
And the long line of spears that came
Through the far grove like waves of flame,
His forehead burned, his pulse beat high,
More darkly flashed his shifting eye,
And visions of the battle-plain
Came bursting on his soul again.

The old man drew his gaze away
Right gladly from that long array,
As if their presence were a blight
Of pain and sickness to his sight;
And slowly folding o’er his breast
The fragments of his tattered vest,
As was his wont, unasked, unsought
Gave to the winds his muttered thought,
Naming no name of friend or foe,
And reckless if they heard or no.

“Ay, go thy way, thou painted thing,
Puppet, which mortals call a king,
Adorning thee with idle gems,
With drapery and diadems,
And scarcely guessing, that beneath
The purple robe and laurel wreath,
There’s nothing but the common slime
Of human clay and human crime:—­
My rags are not so rich,—­butthey
Will serve as well to cloak decay.

“And ever round thy jeweled brow
False slaves and falser friends will bow;
And Flattery,—­as varnish flings
A baseness on the brightest things,—­
Will make the monarch’s deeds appear
All worthless to the monarch’s ear,
Till thou wilt turn and think that Fame,
So vilely drest, is worse than shame!—­
The gods be thanked for all their mercies,
Diogenes hears naught but curses!

“And thou wilt banquet!—­airand sea
Will render up their hoards for thee;
And golden cups for thee will hold
Rich nectar, richer than the gold.
The cunning caterer still must share
The dainties which his toils prepare;
The page’s lip must taste the wine
Before he fills the cup for thine!—­
Wilt feast with me on Hecate’s cheer?
I dread no royal hemlock here!

“And night will come; and thou wiltlie
Beneath a purple canopy,
With lutes to lull thee, flowers to shed
Their feverish fragrance round thy bed,
A princess to unclasp thy crest,
A Spartan spear to guard thy rest.—­
Dream, happy one!—­thy dreamswill be
Of danger and of perfidy;—­
The Persian lance,—­the Carianclub!—­
I shall sleep sounder in my tub!

“And thou wilt pass away, and have
A marble mountain o’er thy grave,
With pillars tall, and chambers vast,
Fit palace for the worm’s repast!—­
I too shall perish!—­let themcall
The vulture to my funeral;
The Cynic’s staff, the Cynic’sden,
Are all he leaves his fellow men,—­
Heedless how this corruption fares,—­
Yea, heedless though it mix with theirs!”

* * * *

[From Household Words.]

THE LAST OF A LONG LINE.

CHAPTER I.

Sir Roger Rockville of Rockville was the last of avery long line. It Extended from the Norman Conquestto the present century. His first known ancestorcame over with William, and must have been a man ofsome mark, either of bone and sinew, or of brain,for he obtained what the Americans would call a primelocation. As his name does not occur in the Rollof Battle Abbey, he was, of course, not of a veryhigh Norman extraction; but he had done enough, itseems, in the way of knocking down Saxons, to placehimself on a considerable eminence in this kingdom.The center of his domains was conspicuous far overthe country, through a high range of rock overhangingone of the sweetest rivers in England. On onehand lay a vast tract of rich marsh land, capable,as society advanced, of being converted into meadows;and on the other, as extensive moorlands, finely undulating,and abounding with woods and deer.

Here the original Sir Roger built his castle on thesummit of the range of rock, with huts for his followers;and became known directly all over the country asSir Roger de Rockville, or Sir Roger of the hamleton the Rock. Sir Roger, no doubt, was a mightyhunter before the lord of the feudal district:it is certain that his descendants were. For generationsthey led a jolly life at Rockville, and were alwaysready to exchange the excitement of the chase fora bit of civil war. Without that the countrywould have grown dull, and ale and venison lost theirflavor. There was no gay London in those days,and a good brisk skirmish with their neighbors inhelm and hauberk was the way of spending their season.It was their parliamentary debate, and was necessaryto thin their woods. Protection and Free Tradewere as much the great topics of interest as theyare now, only they did not trouble themselves so muchabout Corn bills. Their bills were of good steel,and their protective measures were arrows a cloth-yardlong. Protection meant a good suit of mail; anda castle with its duly prescribed moats, bastions,portcullises, and donjon keep. Free Trade wasa lively inroad into the neighboring baron’slands, and the iportation thence of goodly herds andflocks. Foreign cattle for home consumption wasas sticking an article in their markets as inours, only the blows were expended on one another’sheads, instead of the heads of foreign bullocks—­thatis, bullocks from over the Welch or Scotch marches,as from beyond the next brook.

Thus lived the Rockvilles for ages. In all theiron combats of those iron times they took care tohave their quota. Whether it were Stephen againstMatilda, or Richard against his father, or John againstthe barons; whether it were York or Lancaster, orTudor or Stuart, the Rockvilles were to be found inthe melee, and winning power and lands.So long as it required only stalwart frames and stoutblows, no family cut a more conspicuous figure.The Rockvilles were at Bosworth Field. The Rockvillesfought in Ireland under Elizabeth. The Rockvilleswere staunch defenders of the cause in the war ofCharles I. with his Parliament. The Rockvilleseven fought for James II. at the Boyne, when three-fourthsof the most loyal of the English nobility and gentryhad deserted him in disgust and indignation.But from that hour they had been less conspicuous.

The opposition to the successful party, that of Williamof Orange, of course brought them into disgrace:and though they were never molested on that account,they retired to their estate, and found it convenientto be as unobtrusive as possible. Thenceforwardyou heard no more of the Rockvilles in the nationalannals. They became only of consequence in theirown district. They acted as magistrates.They served as high sheriffs. They were a substantialcounty family, and nothing more. Education andcivilization advanced; a wider and very different field

of action and ambition opened upon the aristocracyof England. Our fleets and armies abroad, ourlegislature at home, law and the church, presentedbrilliant paths to the ambition of those thirstingfor distinction, and the good things that follow it.But somehow the Rockvilles did not expand with thisexpansion. So long as it required only a figureof six feet high, broad shoulders, and a strong arm,they were a great and conspicuous race. But whenthe head became the member most in request, they ceasedto go a-head. Younger sons, it is true, servedin army and in navy, and filled the family pulpit,but they produced no generals, no admirals, no archbishops.The Rockvilles of Rockville were very conservative,very exclusive, and very stereotype. Other familiesgrew poor, and enriched themselves again by marryingplebeian heiresses. New families grew up outof plebeian blood into greatness, and intermingledthe vigor of their fresh earth with the attenuatedaristocratic soil. Men of family became greatlawyers, great statesmen, great prelates and evengreat poets and philosophers. The Rockvilles remainedhigh, proud, bigoted, and borne.

The Rockvilles married Rockvilles, or their firstcousins, the Cesgvilles, simply to prevent propertygoing out of the family. They kept the propertytogether. They did not lose an acre, and theywere a fine, tall, solemn race—­and nothingmore. What ailed them?

If you saw Sir Roger Rockville,—­for therewas an eternal Sir Roger filling his office of highsheriff,—­he had a very fine carriage, anda very fine retinue in the most approved and splendidantique costumes; if you saw him sitting on the benchat quarter sessions, he was a tall, stately, and solemnman. If you saw Lady Rockville shopping, in herhandsome carriage, with very handsomely attired servants;saw her at the county ball, or on the race-stand,she was a tall, aristocratic, and stately lady.That was in the last generation—­the presentcould boast of no Lady Rockville.

Great outward respect was shown to the Rockvilleson account of the length of their descent, and thebreadth of their acres. They were always, whenany stranger asked about them, declared, with a seriousand important air, to be a very ancient, honorable,and substantial family. “Oh! a great familyare the Rockvilles, a very great family.”

But if you came to close quarters with the membersof this great and highly distinguished family, yousoon found yourself fundamentally astonished:you had a sensation come over you, as if you were trying,like Moses, to draw water from a rock, without hisdelegated power. There was a goodly outside ofthings before you, but nothing came of it. Youtalked, hoping to get talking in return, but you gotlittle more than “noes” and “yeses,”and “oh! indeeds!” and “reallys,”and sometimes not even that, but a certain look ofaristocratic dignity or dignification, that was meantto serve for all answers. There was a sort of

resting on aristocratic oars or “sculls,”that were not to be too vulgarly handled. Therewas a feeling impressed on you, that eight-hundredyears of descent and ten thousand a-year in landedincome did not trouble themselves with the triflingthings that gave distinction to lesser people—­suchas literature, fine arts, politics, and general knowledge.These were very well for those who had nothing elseto pride themselves on, but for the Rockvilles—­oh!certainly they were by no means requisite.

In fact, you found yourself, with a little variation,in the predicament of Cowper’s people,

—­whospent their lives
In dropping buckets into empty wells,
And growing tired of drawing nothingup.

Who hasn’t often come across these “drywells” of society; solemn gulfs out of whichyou can pump nothing up? You know them; they areat your elbow every day in large and brilliant companies,and defy the best sucking-buckets ever invented toextract anything from them. But the Rockvilleswere each and all of this adust description. Itwas a family feature, and they seemed, if either,rather proud of it. They must be so; for proudthey were, amazingly proud; and they had nothing besidesto be proud of, except their acres, and their ancestors.

But the fact was, they could not help it. Itwas become organic. They had acted the justiceof peace, maintained the constitution against upstartsand manufacturers, signed warrants, supported the churchand the house of correction, committed poachers, andthen rested on the dignity of their ancestors forso many generations, that their skulls, brains, constitutions,and nervous systems, were all so completely mouldedinto that shape and baked into that mould, that aRockville would be a Rockville to the end of time,if God and Nature would have allowed it. Butsuch things wear out. The American Indians andthe Australian nations wear out; they are not progressive,and as Nature abhors a vacuum, she does not forgetthe vacuum wherever it may be, whether in a hot desert,or in a cold and stately Rockville;—­a veryancient, honorable, and substantial family that liesfallow till the thinking faculty literally dies out.

For several generations there had been symptoms ofdecay about the Rockville family. Not in itsproperty, that was as large as ever; not in theirpersonal stature and physical aspect. The Rockvillescontinued, as they always had been, a tall and notbad-looking family. But they grew gradually lessprolific. For a hundred and fifty years past therehad seldom been more than two, or at most three, children.There had generally been an heir to the estate, andanother to the family pulpit, and sometimes a daughtermarried to some neighboring squire. But Sir Roger’sfather had been an only child, and Sir Roger himselfwas an only child. The danger of extinction tothe family, apparent as it was, had never inducedSir Roger to marry. At the time that we are turningour attention upon him, he had reached the matureage of sixty. Nobody believed that Sir Rogernow would marry; he was the last, and likely to be,of his line.

It is worth while here to take a glance at Sir Rogerand his estate. They wore a strange contrast.The one bore all the signs of progress, the otherof a stereotyped feudality. The estate, whichin the days of the first Sir Roger de Rockville hadbeen half morass and half wilderness, was now cultivatedto the pitch of British agricultural science.The marshlands beyond the river were one splendidexpanse of richest meadows, yielding a rental of foursolid pounds per acre. Over hill and dale onthis side for miles, where formerly ran wild deer,and grew wild woodlands of furze-bushes, now lay excellentfarms and hamlets, and along the ridge of the ancientcliffs rose the most magnificent woods. Woods,too, clothed the steep hillsides, and swept down tothe noble river, their very boughs hanging far outover its clear and rapid waters. In the midstof these fine woods stood Rockville Hall, the familyseat of the Rockvilles. It reared its old brickwalls above the towering mass of elms, and travelersat a distance recognized it for what it was, the mansionof an ancient and wealthy family.

The progress of England in arts, science, commerce,and manufacture, had carried Sir Roger’s estatealong with it. It was full of active and moneyedfarmers, and flourished under modern influences.How lucky it would have been for the Rockville familyhad it done the same!

But amid this estate there was Sir Roger solitary,and the last of the line. He had grown well enough—­therewas nothing stunted about him, so far as you couldsee on the surface. In stature, he exceeded sixfeet. His colossal elms could not boast of aproperer relative growth. He was as large a landlord,and as tall a justice of the peace, as you could desire:but, unfortunately, he was, after all, only the shellof a man. Like many of his veteran elms, therewas a very fine stem, only it was hollow. Therewas a man, just with the rather awkward deficiencyof a soul.

And it were no difficult task to explain, either,how this had come about. The Rockvilles saw plainlyenough the necessity of manuring their lands, butthey scorned the very idea of manuring their family.What! that most ancient, honorable, and substantialfamily, suffer any of the common earth of humanityto gather about its roots! The Rockvilles wereso careful of their good blood, that they never alliedit to any but blood as pure and inane as their own.Their elms flourished in the rotten earth of plebeianaccumulations, and their acres produced large cropsof corn from the sewage of towns and fat sinks, butthe Rockvilles themselves took especial care thatno vulgar vigor from the real heap of ordinary humannature should infuse a new force of intellect intotheir race. The Rockvilles needed nothing; theyhad all that an ancient, honorable, and substantialfamily could need. The Rockvilles had no needto study at school—­why should they?They did not want to get on. The Rockvilles didnot aspire to distinction for talent in the world—­whyshould they? They had a large estate. Sothe Rockville soul, unused from generation to generation,grew—­

Fine by degrees, and spirituallyless,

till it tapered off into nothing.

Look at the last of a long fine in the midst of hisfine estate. Tall he was, with a stoop in hisshoulders, and a bowing of his head on one side, asif he had been accustomed to stand under the low boughsof his woods, and peer after intruders. And thatwas precisely the fact. His features were thinand sharp; his nose prominent and keen in its character;his eyes small, black, and peering like a mole’s,or a hungry swine’s. Sir Roger was stilloracular on the bench, and after consulting his clerk,a good lawyer,—­and looked up to by theneighboring squires in election matters, for he wasan unswerving tory. You never heard of a rationalthing that he had said in the whole course of his life;but that mattered little, he was a gentleman of solemnaspect, of stately gait, and of a very ancient family.

With ten thousand a-year, and his rental rising, hewas still, however, a man of overwhelming cares.What mattered a fine estate if all the world was againsthim? And Sir Roger firmly believed that he stoodin that predicament. He had grown up to regardthe world as full of little besides upstarts, radicals,manufacturers, and poachers. All were banded,in his belief, against the landed interest. Itdemanded all the energy of his very small facultiesto defend himself and the world against them.

Unfortunately for his peace, a large manufacturingtown had sprung up within a couple of miles of him.He could see its red-brick walls, and its red-tiledroofs, and its tall smoke-vomiting chimneys, growingand extending over the slopes beyond the river.It was to him the most irritating sight in the world;for what were all those swarming weavers and spinnersbut arrant radicals, upstarts, sworn foes of ancientinstitutions and the landed interests of England?Sir Roger had passed through many a desperate conflictwith them for the return of members to parliament.They brought forward men that were utter wormwood toall his feelings, and they paid no more respect tohim and his friends on such occasions than they didto the meanest creature living. Reverence forancient blood did not exist in that plebeian and rapidlymultiplying tribe. There were master manufacturersthere actually that looked and talked as big as himself,and entre nous, a vast deal more cleverly.The people talked of rights and franchises, and freedomof speech and of conscience, in a way that was reallyfrightful. Then they were given most inveteratelyto running out in whole and everlasting crowds on Sundaysand holidays into the fields and woods; and as therewas no part of the neighborhood half so pleasant asthe groves and river banks of Rockville, they cameswarming up there in crowds that were enough to driveany man of acres frantic.

Unluckily, there were roads all about Rockville; footroads, and high roads and bridle roads. Therewas a road up the river side, all the way to Rockvillewoods, and when it reached them, it divided like afork, and one pony or foot-path led straight up amagnificent grove of a mile long, ending close tothe hall; and another ran all along the river side,under the hills and branches of the wood.

Oh, delicious were these woods! In the riverthere were islands, which were covered in summer withthe greenest grass, and the freshest of willows, andthe clear waters rushed around them in the most invitingmanner imaginable. And there were numbers of peopleextremely ready to accept this delectable invitationof these waters. There they came in fine weather,and as these islands were only separated from the main-landby a little and very shallow stream, it was delightfulfor lovers to get across—­with laughter,and treading on stepping-stones, and slipping offthe stepping-stones up to the ankles into the coolbrook, and pretty screams, and fresh laughter, andthen landing on those sunny, and to them really enchantedislands. And then came fishermen; solitary fishermen,and fishermen in rows; fishermen lying in the flowerygrass, with fragrant meadow-sweet and honey-breathingclover all about their ears; and fishermen standingin file, as if they were determined to clear all theriver of fish in one day. And there were otherlovers, and troops of loiterers, and shouting roysterers,going along under the boughs of the wood, and followingthe turns of that most companionable of rivers.And there were boats going up and down; boats fullof young people, all holiday finery and mirth, andboats with duck-hunters, and other, to Sir Roger,detestable marauders, with guns and dogs, and greatbottles of beer. In the fine grove, on summerdays, there might be found hundreds of people.There were picnic parties, fathers and mothers withwhole families of children, and a great promenadeof the delighted artisans and their wives or sweethearts.

In the times prior to the sudden growth of the neighboringtown, Great Stockington, and to the simultaneous developmentof the love-of-nature principle in the Stockingtonians,nothing had been thought of all these roads.The roads were well enough till they led to these inroads.Then Sir Roger aroused himself. This must bechanged. The roads must be stopped. Nothingwas easier to his fancy. His fellow-justices,Sir Benjamin Bullockshed and Squire Sheepshank, hadasked his aid to stop the like nuisances, and it hadbeen done at once. So Sir Roger put up noticesall about, that the roads were to be stopped by anOrder of Sessions, and these notices were signed,as required by law, by their worships of Bullockshedand Sheepshank. But Sir Roger soon found thatit was one thing to stop a road leading from Oneman-Townto Lonely-Lodge, and another to attempt to stop thosefrom Great-Stockington to Rockville.

On the very first Sunday after the exhibition of thosenotice-boards, there was a ferment in the grove ofRockville, as if all the bees in the county were swarmingthere, with all the wasps and hornets to boot.Great crowds were collected before each of these obnoxiousplacards, and the amount of curses vomited againstthem was really shocking for any day, but more especiallyfor a Sunday. Presently there was a rush at them;they were torn down, and simultaneously pitched intothe river. There were great crowds swarming allabout Rockville all that day, and with looks so defiantthat Sir Roger more than once contemplated sendingoff for the Yeoman Cavalry to defend his house, whichhe seriously thought in danger.

But so far from being intimidated from proceeding,this demonstration only made Sir Roger the more determined.To have so desperate and irreverent a population comingabout his house and woods now presented itself ina much more formidable aspect than ever. So, nextday, not only were the placards once more hoisted,but rewards offered for the discovery of the offenders,attended with all the maledictions of the insultedmajesty of the law. No notice was taken of this,but the whole of Great Stockington was in a buzz andan agitation. There were posters plastered allover the walls of the town, four times as large asSir Roger’s notices, in this style:—­

“Englishmen! your dearest rights are menaced!The Woods of Rockville, your ancient, rightful, andenchanting resorts, are to be closed to you.Stockingtonians! The eyes of the world are uponyou. ’Awake! arise! or be forever fallen!’England expects every man to do his duty! Andyour duty is to resist and defy the grasping soil-lords,to seize on your ancient Patrimony!”

“Patrimony! Ancient and rightful resortof Rockville!” Sir Roger was astounded at theaudacity of this upstart, plebeian race. What!They actually claimed Rockville, the heritage of ahundred successive Rockvilles, as their own.Sir Roger determined to carry it to the Sessions;and at the Sessions was a magnificent muster of allhis friends. There was Sir Roger himself in thechair; and on either hand, a prodigious row of countysquirearchy. There was Sir Benjamin Bullockshed,and Sir Thomas Tenterhook, and all the squires,—­Sheepshank,Ramsbottom, Turnbull, Otterbrook, and Swagsides.The Clerk of Sessions read the notice for the closingof all the footpaths through the woods of Rockville,and declared that this notice had been duly, and forthe required period publicly, posted. The Stockingtoniansprotested by their able lawyer Daredeville, againstany order for the closing of these ancient woods—­theinestimable property of the public.

“Property of the public!” exclaimed SirRoger. “Property of the public!”echoed the multitudinous voices of indignant Bullocksheds,Tenterhooks, and Ramsbottoms. “Why, sir,do you dispute the right of Sir Roger Rockville tohis own estate?”

“By no means;” replied the undaunted Daredeville;“the estate of Rockville is unquestionably theproperty of the honorable baronet, Sir Roger Rockville;but the roads through it are the as unquestionableProperty of the public.”

The whole bench looked at itself; that is, at eachother, in wrathful astonishment. The swellingin the diaphragms of the squires Otterbrook, Turnbull,and Swagsides, and all the rest of the worshipful row,was too big to admit of utterance. Only Sir Rogerhimself burst forth with an abrupt—­

“Impudent fellows! But I’ll see them——­ first!”

“Grant the order!” said Sir Benjamin Bullockshed;and the whole bench nodded assent. The able lawyerDaredeville retired with a pleasant smile. Hesaw an agreeable prospect of plenty of grist to hismill. Sir Roger was rich, and so was Great Stockington.He rubbed his hands, not in the least like a man defeated,and thought to himself, “Let them go at it—­allright.”

The next day the placards on the Rockville estatewere changed for others Bearing “STOPPED BYORDER OF SESSIONS!” and alongside of them werehuge carefully painted boards, denouncing on all trespassersprosecutions according to law. The same eveningcame a prodigious invasion of Stockingtonians—­toreall the boards and placards down, and carried themon their shoulders to Great Stockington, singing asthey went, “See, the Conquering Heroes come!”They set them up in the center of Stockington market-place,and burnt them, along with an effigy of Sir RogerRockville.

That was grist at once to the mill of the able lawyerDaredeville. He looked on, and rubbed his hands.Warrants were speedily issued by the baronets of Bullockshedand Tenterhook, for the apprehension of the individualswho had been seen carrying off the notice-boards, forlarceny, and against a number of others for trespass.There was plenty of work for Daredeville and his brethrenof the robe; but it all ended, after the flying aboutof sundry mandamuses and assize trials, in Sir Rogerfinding that though Rockville was his, the roads throughit were the public’s.

As Sir Roger drove homeward from the assize, whichfinally settled the question of these footpaths, heheard the bells in all the steeples of Great Stockingtonburst forth with a grand peal of triumph. He closedfirst the windows of his fine old carriage, and sunkinto a corner; but he could not drown the intolerablesound. “But,” said he, “I’llstop their picnic-ing. I’ll stop theirfishing. I’ll have hold of them for trespassingand poaching!” There was war henceforth betweenRockville and Great Stockington.

On the very next Sunday there came literally thousandsof the jubilant Stockingtonians to Rockville.They had brought baskets, and were for dining, anddrinking success to all footpaths. But in thegreat grove there were keepers, and watchers, whowarned them to keep the path, that narrow well-wornline up the middle of the grove. “What!were they not to sit on the grass?”—­“No!”—­“What!were they not to picnic?”—­“No!not there!”

The Stockingtonians felt a sudden damp on their spirits.But the river bank! The cry was “To theriver bank! There they would picnic.”The crowd rushed away down the wood, but on the riverbank they found a whole regiment of watchers, whopointed again to the narrow line of footpath, andtold them not to trespass beyond it. But the islands!they went over to the islands. But there toowere Sir Roger’s forces, who warned them back!There was no road there—­all found therewould be trespassers, and be duly punished.

The Stockingtonians discovered that their triumphwas not quite so complete as they had flattered themselves.The footpaths were theirs, but that was all.Their ancient license was at an end. If they camethere, there was no more fishing; if they came incrowds, there was no more picnic-ing; if they walkedthrough the woods in numbers, they must keep to Indianfile, or they were summoned before the county magistratesfor trespass, and were soundly fined; and not eventhe able Daredeville would undertake to defend them.

The Stockingtonians were chopfallen, but they wereangry and dogged; and They thronged up to the villageand the front of the hall. They filled the littleinn in the hamlet-they went by scores, and roving allover the churchyard, read epitaphs

That teach the rustic moralists to die,

but don’t teach them to give up their old indulgencesvery good-humoredly. They went and sat in rowson the old churchyard wall, opposite to the very windowsof the irate Sir Roger. They felt themselvesbeaten, and Sir Roger felt himself beaten. True,he could coerce them to the keeping of the footpaths—­but,then, they had the footpaths! True, thought theStockingtonians, we have the footpaths, but then thepicnic-ing, and the fishing, and the islands!The Stockingtonians were full of sullen wrath, andSir Roger was—­oh, most expressive old Saxonphrase—­HAIRSORE! Yes, he was one universalround of vexation and jealousy of his rights.Every hair in his body was like a pin sticking intohim. Come within a dozen yards of him; nay, atthe most, blow on him, and he was excruciated—­yourubbed his sensitive hairs at a furlong’s distance.

The next Sunday the people found the churchyard lockedup, except during service, when beadles walked there,and desired them not to loiter and disturb the congregation,closing the gates, and showing them out like a flockof sheep the moment the service was over. Thiswas fuel to the already boiling blood of Stockington.The week following, what was their astonishment tofind a much frequented ruin gone! it was actually gone!not a trace of it; but the spot where it had stoodfor ages, turfed, planted with young spruce trees,and fenced off with post and rail! The exasperatedpeople now launched forth an immensity of fulminationsagainst the churl Sir Roger, and a certain number ofthem resolved to come and seat themselves in the streetof the hamlet and there dine; but a terrific thunderstorm,which seemed in league with Sir Roger, soon routedthem, drenched them through, and on attempting to seekshelter in the cottages, the poor people said theywere very sorry, but it was as much as their holdingswere worth, and they dare not admit them.

Sir Roger had triumphed! It was all over withthe old delightful days at Rockville. There wasan end of picnic-ing, of fishing, and of roving inthe islands. One sturdy disciple of Izaak Walton,indeed, dared to fling a line from the banks of Rockvillegrove, but Sir Roger came upon him and endeavoredto seize him. The man coolly walked into the middleof the river, and, without a word, continued his fishing.

“Get out there!” exclaimed Sir Roger,“that is still on my property.” Theman walked through the river to the other bank, wherehe knew that the land was rented by a farmer.“Give over,” shouted Sir Roger, “Itell you the water is mine.”

“Then,” said the fellow, “bottleit up, and be hanged to you! Don’t yousee it is running away to Stockington?”

There was bad blood between Rockville and Stockington-green.Stockington was incensed, and Sir Roger was hairsore.

A new nuisance sprung up. The people of Stockingtonlooked on the cottagers of Rockville as sunk in deepestdarkeness under such a man as Sir Roger and his cousinthe vicar. They could not picnic, but they thoughtthey could hold a camp-meeting; they could not fishfor roach, but they thought they might for souls.Accordingly there assembled crowds of Stockingtonianson the green of Rockville, with a chair and a table,and a preacher with his head bound in a red handkerchief;and soon there was a sound of hymns, and a zealouscall to come out of the darkness of the spiritualBabylon. But this was more than Sir Roger couldbear; he rushed forth with all his servants, keepers,and cottagers, overthrew the table, and routing theassembly, chased them to the boundary of his estate.

The discomfited Stockingtonians now fulminated awfuljudgments on the unhappy Sir Roger, as a persecutorand a malignant. They dared not enter again onhis park, but they came to the very verge of it, andheld weekly meetings on the highway, in which theysang and declaimed as loudly as possible, that thewinds might bear their voices to Sir Roger’sears.

To such a position was now reduced the last of thelong line of Rockville. The spirit of a policemanhad taken possession of him. He had keepers andwatchers out on all sides, but they did not satisfyhim. He was perpetually haunted with the ideathat poachers were after his game, that trespasserswere in his woods. His whole life was now spentin stealing to and fro in his fields and plantations,and prowling along his river side. He lookedunder hedges, and watched for long hours under theforest trees. If any one had a curiosity to seeSir Roger, they had only to enter his fields by thewood side, and wander a few yards from the path, andhe was almost sure to spring out over the hedge, andin angry tones demand their name and address.The descendant of the chivalrous and steelclad DeRockvilles was sunk into a restless spy on his ownample property. There was but one idea in hismind—­encroachment. It was destituteof all other furniture but the musty technicalitiesof warrants and commitments. There was a stealthyand skulking manner in everything that he did.He went to church on Sundays, but it was no longerby the grand iron gate opposite to his house, thatstood generally with a large spider’s web wovenover the lock, and several others in different cornersof the fine iron tracery, bearing evidence of the longperiod since it had been opened. How differentto the time when the Sir Roger and the Lady of Rockvillehad had these gates thrown wide on a Sunday morning,and with all their train of household servants aftertheir back, with true antique dignity, marched withmuch proud humility into the house of God. Now,Sir Roger—­the solitary, suspicious, undignifiedSir Roger, the keeper and policeman of his own property—­stolein at a little side gate from his paddock, and backthe same way, wondering all the time whether therewas not somebody in his pheasant preserves, or Sundaytrespassers in his grove.

If you entered his house it gave you as cheerlessa feeling as its owner. There was the conservatory,so splendid with rich plants and flowers in his motherstime—­now a dusty receptacle of hampers,broken hand-glasses, and garden tools. Thesetools could never be used, for the gardens were grownwild. Tall grass grew in the walks, and the hugeunpruned shrubs disputed the passage with you.In the wood above the gardens, reached by severalflights of fine, but now moss-grown, steps, there stooda pavilion, once clearly very beautiful. It wasnow damp and ruinous-its walls covered with greennessand crawling insects. It was a great lurking-placeof Sir Roger when on the watch for poachers.

The line of the Rockvilles was evidently running fastout. It had reached the extremity of imbecilityand contempt—­it must soon reach its close.

Sir Roger used to make his regular annual visit totown; but of late, when there, he had wandered restlesslyabout the streets, peeping into the shop-windows;and if it rained, standing under entries for hoursafter, till it was gone over. The habit of lurkingand peering about was upon him; and his feet borehim instinctively into those narrow and crowded alleyswhere swarm the poachers of the city—­thetrespassers and anglers in the game preserves andstreams of humanity. He had lost all pleasurein his club; the most exciting themes of politicallife retained no piquancy for him. His old friendsceased to find any pleasure in him. He was becomethe driest of all dry wells. Poachers, and anglers,and Methodists, haunted the wretched purlieus of hisfast fading-out mind, and he resolved to go to townno more. His whole nature was centered in hiswoods. He was forever on the watch; and when atRockville again, if he heard a door clap when in bed,he thought it a gun in his woods, and started up,and was out with his keepers.

Of what value was that magnificent estate to him?—­thosesuperb woods; those finely-hanging cliffs; that clearand riant river coming traveling on, and takinga noble sweep below his windows—­that gloriousexpanse of neat verdant meadows, stretching almostto Stockington, and enlivened by numerous herds ofthe most beautiful cattle—­those old farmsand shady lanes overhung with hazel and wild rose;the glittering brook, and the songs of woodland birds—­whatwere they to that worn-out old man, that victim ofthe delusive doctrine of blood, of the man-trap ofan hereditary name?

There the poet could come, and feel the presence ofdivinity in that noble scene, and hear sublime whispersin the trees, and create new heavens and earths fromthe glorious chaos of nature around him, and in oneshort hour live an empyrean of celestial life and love.There could come the very humblest children of theplebeian town, and feel a throb of exquisite delightpervade their bosoms at the sight of the very flowerson the sod, and see heaven in the infinite blue above

them. And poor Sir Roger, the holder, but notthe possessor of all, walked only in a region of sterility,with no sublimer ideas than poachers and trespassers-nomore rational enjoyment than the brute indulgence ofhunting like a ferret, and seizing his fellow-menlike a bulldog. He was a specimen of human naturedegenerated, retrograded from the divine to the bestial,through the long operating influences of false notionsand institutions, continued beyond their time.He had only the soul of a keeper. Had he beenonly a keeper, he had been a much happier man.

His time was at hand. The severity which he hadlong dealt out toward all sorts of offenders madehim the object of the deepest vengeance. In alonely hollow of his woods, watching at midnight withtwo of his men, there came a sturdy knot of poachers.An affray ensued. The men perceived that theirold enemy, Sir Roger, was there: and the blowof a hedge-stake stretched him on the earth.His keepers fled—­and thus ignominiouslyterminated the long line of the Rockvilles. SirRoger was the last of his line, but not of his class.There is a feudal art of sinking, which requires nostudy; and the Rockvilles are but one family amongthousands who have perished in its practice.

CHAPTER II.

In Great Stockington there lived a race of paupers.From the year of the 42d of Elizabeth, or 1601, downto the present generation, this race maintained anuninterrupted descent. They were a steady andunbroken line of paupers, as the parish books testify.From generation to generation their demands on theparish funds stand recorded. There were no lacunaein their career; there never failed an heir to thesefamilies; fed on the bread of idleness and legal provision,these people flourished, increased and multiplied.Sometimes compelled to work for the weekly dole whichthey received, they never acquired a taste for labor,or lost the taste for the bread for which they didnot labor. These paupers regarded this maintenanceby no means as a disgrace. They claimed it asa right,—­as their patrimony. Theycontended that one-third of the property of the Churchhad been given by benevolent individuals for the supportof the poor, and that what the Reformation wrongfullydeprived them of, the great enactment of Elizabethrightfully—­and only rightfully—­restored.

Those who imagine that all paupers merely claimedparish relief because the law ordained it, commita great error. There were numbers who were hereditarypaupers, and that on a tradition carefully handed down,that they were only manfully claiming their own.They traced their claims from the most ancient feudaltimes, when the lord was as much bound to maintainhis villein in gross, as the villein was to work forthe lord. These paupers were, in fact, or claimedto be, the original adscripti glebae, and tohave as much a claim to parish support as the landed

proprietor had to his land. For this reason, inthe old Catholic times, after they had escaped fromvillenage by running away and remaining absent fromtheir hundred for a year and a day, dwelling for thatperiod in a walled town, these people were amongstthe most diligent attendants at the Abbey doors, andwhen the Abbeys were dissolved, were, no doubt, amongstthe most daring of these thieves, vagabonds, and sturdyrogues, who, after the Robin Hood fashion, beset thehighways and solitary farms of England, and claimedtheir black mail in a very unceremonious style.It was out of this class that Henry VIII. hanged hisseventy-two thousand during his reign, and, as itis said, without appearing materially to diminishtheir number.

That they continued to “increase, multiply,and replenish the earth,” overflowing all bounds,overpowering by mere populousness all the severe lawsagainst them of whipping, burning in the hand, in theforehead or in the breast, and hanging, and fillingthe whole country with alarm, is evident by the veryact itself of Elizabeth.

Amongst these hereditary paupers who, as we have said,were found in Stockington, there was a family of thename of Deg. This family had never failed todemand and enjoy what it held to be its share of itsancient inheritance. It appeared from the parishrecords, that they had practiced in different periodsthe crafts of shoemaking, tailoring, and chimney-sweeping;but since the invention of the stocking-frame, theyhad, one and all of them, followed the profession ofstocking weavers, or as they were there called, stockingers.This was a trade which required no extreme exertionof the physical or intellectual powers. To sitin a frame, and throw the arms to and fro, was a thingthat might either be carried to a degree of extremediligence, or be let down into a mere apology foridleness. An “idle stockinger” wasthere no very uncommon phrase, and the Degs were alwaysclassed under that head. Nothing could be moreadmirably adapted than this trade for building a planof parish relief upon. The Degs did not pretendto be absolutely without work, or the parish authoritieswould soon have set them to some real labor,—­athing that they particularly recoiled from, havinga very old adage in the family, that “hard workwas enough to kill a man.” The Degs wereseldom, therefore out of work, but they did not getenough to meet and tie. They had but little workif the times were bad, and if they were good, theyhad large families, and sickly wives or children.Be times what they would, therefore, the Degs weredue and successful attendants at the parish pay-table.Nay, so much was this a matter of course, that theycame at length not even trouble themselves to receivetheir pay, but sent their young children for it; andit was duly paid. Did any parish officer, indeed,turn restive, and decline to pay a Deg, he soon foundhimself summoned before a magistrate, and such pleasof sickness, want of work, and poor earnings broughtup, that he most likely got a sharp rebuke from thebenevolent but uninquiring magistrate, and acquireda character for hard-heartedness that stuck to him.

So parish overseers learnt to let the Degs alone;and their children regularly brought up to receivethe parish money for their parents, were impatientas they grew up to receive it for themselves.Marriages in the Deg family were consequently veryearly, and there were plenty of instances of marriedDegs claiming parish relief under the age of twenty,on the plea of being the parent of two children.One such precocious individual being asked by a ratherverdant officer why he had married before he was ableto maintain a family, replied, in much astonishment,that he had married in order to maintain himself byparish assistance. That he never had been ableto maintain himself by his labor, nor ever expectedto do it; his only hope, therefore, lay in marrying,and becoming the father of two children, to whichpatriarchal rank he had now attained, and demandedhis “pay.”

Thus had lived and flourished the Degs on their ancientpatrimony, the parish, for upward of two hundred years.Nay, we have no doubt whatever that, if it could havebeen traced, they had enjoyed an ancestry of paupersas long as the pedigree of Sir Roger Rockville himself.In the days of the most perfect villenage, they had,doubtless, eaten the bread of idleness, and claimedit as a right. They were numerous, improvident,ragged in dress, and fond of an alehouse and of gossip.Like the blood of Sir Roger, their blood had becomepeculiar through a long persistence of the same circ*mstances.It was become pure pauper blood. The Degs married,if not entirely among Degs, yet amongst the same class.None but a pauper would dream of marrying a Deg.The Degs, therefore, were in constitution, in mind,in habit, and in inclination, paupers. But a pureand unmixed class of this kind does not die out likean aristocratic stereotype. It increases andmultiplies. The lower the grade, the more prolific,as is sometimes seen on a large and even national scale.The Degs threatened, therefore, to become a most formidableclan in the lower purlieus of Stockington, but luckilythere is so much virtue even in evils, that one, notrarely, cures another. War, the great evil, clearedthe town of Degs.

Fond of idleness, of indulgence, of money easily got,and as easily spent, the Degs were rapidly drainedoff by recruiting parties during the last war.The young men enlisted, and were marched away; theyoung women married soldiers that were quartered inthe town from time to time, and marched away withthem. There were, eventually, none of the oncenumerous Degs left except a few old people, whom deathwas sure to draft off at no distant period with hisregiment of the line which has no end. Parishoverseers, magistrates, and master manufacturers, felicitatedthemselves at this unhoped-for deliverance from theancient family of the Degs.

But one cold, clear, winter evening, the east windpiping its sharp sibilant ditty in the bare shornhedges, and poking its sharp fingers into the sidesof well broad-clothed men by the way of passing jest,Mr. Spires, a great manufacturer of Stockington, drivingin his gig some seven miles from the town, passeda poor woman with a stout child on her back.The large ruddy-looking man in the prime of life, andin the great coat and thick worsted gloves of a wealthytraveler, cast a glance at the wretched creature trudgingheavily on, expecting a pitiful appeal to his sensibilities,and thinking it a bore to have to pull off a gloveand dive into his pocket for a copper; but to his surprisethere was no demand, only a low courtesy, and theglimpse of a face of singular honesty of expression,and of excessive weariness.

Spires was a man of warm feelings; he looked earnestlyat the woman, and Thought he had never seen such apicture of fatigue in his life. He pulled upand said,

“You seem very tired, my good woman.”

“Awfully tired, sir.”

“And are you going far to-night?”

“To Great Stockington, sir, if God give me strength.”

“To Stockington!” exclaimed Mr. Spires.“Why, you seem ready to drop. You’llnever reach it. You’d better stop at thenext village.”

“Ay, sir, it’s easy stopping, for thosethat have money.”

“And you’ve none, eh?”

“As God lives, sir, I’ve a sixpence, andthat’s all.”

Mr. Spires put his hand in his pocket, and held outto her, the next instant, half-a-crown.

“There stop, poor thing—­make yourselfcomfortable—­it’s quite out of thequestion to reach Stockington. But stay—­areyour friends living in Stockington—­whatare you?”

“A poor soldier’s widow, sir. Andmay God Almighty bless you!” said the poor woman,taking the money, the tears standing in her large browneyes as she courtesied very low.

“A soldier’s widow!” said Mr. Spires.She had touched the softest place in the manufacturer’sheart, for he was a very loyal man, and vehement championof his country’s honor in the war. “Soyoung,” said he, “how did you lose yourhusband?”

“He fell, sir,” said the poor woman; butshe could get no further; she suddenly caught up thecorner of her gray cloak, covered her face with it,and burst into an excess of grief.

The manufacturer felt as if he had hit the woman ablow by his careless question; he sat watching herfor a moment in silence, and then said, “Come,get into the gig, my poor woman; come, I must see youto Stockington.”

The poor woman dried her tears, and heavily climbedinto the gig, expressing her gratitude in a very touchingand modest manner. Spires buttoned the apronover her, and taking a look at the child, said in acheerful tone to comfort her, “Bless me, butthat is a fine thumping fellow, though. I don’twonder that you are tired, carrying such a load.”

The poor woman pressed the stout child, apparentlytwo years old, to her breast, as if she felt it agreat blessing and no load: the gig drove rapidlyon.

Presently Mr. Spires resumed his conversation.

“So you are from Stockington?”

“No, sir, my husband was.”

“So: what was his name?”

“John Deg, sir.”

“Deg?” said Mr. Spires. “Deg,did you say?”

“Yes, sir.”

The manufacturer seemed to hitch himself off towardhis own side of the gig, gave another look at her,and was silent. The poor woman was somewhat astonishedat his look and movement, and was silent too.

After awhile Mr. Spires said again, “And doyou hope to find friends in Stockington? Hadyou none where you came from?”

“None, sir, none in the world!” said thepoor woman, and again her feelings seemed too strongfor her. At length she added, “I was inservice, sir, at Poole, in Dorsetshire, when I married;my mother only was living, and while I was away withmy husband, she died. When-when the news camefrom abroad—­that when I was a widow, sir,I went back to my native place, and the parish officerssaid I must go to my husband’s parish lest Iand my child should become troublesome.”

“You asked relief of them?”

“Never; Oh, God knows, no, never! My familyhave never asked a penny of a parish. They woulddie first, and so would I, sir; but they said I mightdo it, and I had better go to my husband’s parishat once—­and they offered me money to go.”

“And you took it, of course?”

“No, sir; I had a little money, which I hadearned by washing and laundering, and I sold mostof my things, as I could not carry them, and cameoff. I felt hurt, sir; my heart rose against thetreatment of the parish, and I thought I should bebetter amongst my friends—­and my childwould, if anything happened to me; I had no friendsof my own.”

Mr. Spires looked at the woman in silence. “Didyour husband tell you anything of his friends?What sort of a man was he?”

“Oh, he was a gay young fellow, rather, sir;but not bad to me. He always said his friendswere well off in Stockington.”

“He did!” said the manufacturer, witha great stare, and as if bolting the words from hisheart in a large gust of wonder.

The poor woman again looked at him with a strangelook. The manufacturer Whistled to himself, andgiving his horse a smart cut with the whip, droveon faster than ever. The night was fast settlingdown; it was numbing cold; a gray fog rose from theriver as they thundered over the old bridge; and tallengine chimneys, and black smoky houses loomed throughthe dusk before them. They were at Stockington.

As they slackened their pace up a hill at the entranceof the town, Mr. Spires again opened his mouth.

“I should be sorry to hurt your feelings, Mrs.Deg,” he said, “but I have my fears thatyou are coming to this place with false expectations.I fear your husband did not give you the truest possibleaccount of his family here.”

“Oh, sir! what—­what is it?”exclaimed the poor woman; “in God’s name,tell me!”

“Why, nothing more than this,” said themanufacturer, “that there are very few of theDegs left here. They are old, and on the parish,and can do nothing for you.”

The poor woman gave a deep sigh, and was silent.

“But don’t be cast down,” said Mr.Spires. He would not tell her what a pauper familyreally was, for he saw that she was a very feelingwoman, and he thought she would learn that soon enough.He felt that her husband had from vanity given hera false account of his connections; and he was reallysorry for her.

“Don’t be cast down,” he went on;“you can wash and iron, you say; you are youngand strong: those are your friends. Dependon them, and they’ll be better friends to youthan any other.”

The poor woman was silent, leaning her head down onher slumbering child, and crying to herself; and thusthey drove on, through many long and narrow streets,with gas flaring from the shops, but with few peoplein the streets, and these hurrying shivering alongthe pavement, so intense was the cold. Anon theystopped at a large pair of gates; the manufacturerrung a bell, which he could reach from his gig, andthe gates presently were flung open, and they droveinto a spacious yard, with a large handsome house,having a bright lamp burning before it, on one sideof the yard, and tall warehouses on the other.

“Show this poor woman and her child to Mrs.Craddock’s, James,” said Mr. Spires, “andtell Mrs. Craddock to make them very comfortable; andif you will come to my warehouse to-morrow,”added he, addressing the poor woman, “perhapsI can be of some use to you.”

The poor woman poured out her heartfelt thanks, andfollowing the old man-servant, soon disappeared, hobblingover the pebbly pavement with her living load, stiffenedalmost to stone by her fatigue and her cold ride.

We must not pursue too minutely our narrative Mrs.Deg was engaged to do the washing and getting up ofMr. Spires’ linen, and the manner in which sheexecuted her task insured her recommendations to alltheir friends. Mrs. Deg was at once in full employ.She occupied a neat house in a yard near the meadowsbelow the town, and in those meadows she might be seenspreading out her clothes to whiten on the grass, attendedby her stout little boy. In the same yard liveda shoemaker, who had two or three children of aboutthe same age as Mrs. Deg’s child. The children,as time went on, became playfellows. Little Simonmight be said to have the free run of the shoemaker’shouse, and he was the more attracted thither by theshoemaker’s birds, and by his flute, on whichhe often played after his work was done.

Mrs. Deg took a great friendship for this shoemaker;and he and his wife, a quiet, kind-hearted woman,were almost all the acquaintances that she cultivated.She had found out her husband’s parents, butthey were not of a description that at all pleasedher. They were old and infirm, but they wereof the true pauper breed, a sort of person whom Mrs.Deg had been taught to avoid and to despise.They looked on her as a sort of second parish, andinsisted that she should come and live with them, andhelp to maintain them out of her earnings. ButMrs. Deg would rather her little boy had died thanhave been familiarized with the spirit and habits ofthose old people. Despise them she struggled hardnot to do, and she agreed to allow them sufficientto maintain them on condition that they desisted fromany further application to the parish. It wouldbe a long and disgusting story to recount all thetroubles, annoyance, and querulous complaints, andeven bitter accusations that she received from theseconnections, whom she could never satisfy; but sheconsidered it one of the crosses in her life, andpatiently bore it, seeing that they suffered no realwant, so long as they lived, which was for years; butshe would never allow her little Simon to be with themalone.

The shoemaker neighbor was a stout protection to heragainst the greedy demands of these old people, andof others of the old Degs, and also against anotherclass of inconvenient visitors, namely, suitors, whosaw in Mrs. Deg a neat and comely young woman, witha flourishing business and a neat and soon well-furnishedhouse, a very desirable acquisition. But Mrs.Deg had resolved never again to marry, but to livefor her boy, and she kept her resolve in firmnessand gentleness.

The shoemaker often took walks in the extensive townmeadows, to gather groundsell and plantain for hiscanaries and gorse-linnets, and little Simon Deg delightedto accompany him with his own children. ThereWilliam Watson, the shoemaker, used to point out tothe children the beauty of the flowers, the insects,and other objects of nature; and while he sat on astyle and read in a little old book of poetry, as heoften used to do, the children sat on the summer grass,and enjoyed themselves in a variety of plays.

The effect of these walks and the shoemaker’sconversation on little Simon Deg was such as neverwore out of him through his whole life, and soon ledhim to astonish the shoemaker by his extraordinaryconduct. He manifested the utmost uneasinessat their treading on the flowers in the grass; hewould burst with tears if they persisted in it; andwhen asked why, he said they were so beautiful, thatthey must enjoy the sunshine, and be very unhappyto die. The shoemaker was amazed, but indulgedthe lad’s fancy. One day he thought togive him a great treat, and when they were out inthe meadows, he drew from under his coat a bow andarrow, and shot the arrow high up in the air.He expected to see him in an ecstasy of delight:his own children clapped their hands in transport,but Simon stood silent, and as if awe-struck.

“Shall I send up another?” asked the shoemaker.

“No, no,” exclaimed the child, imploringly.“You say God lives up there, and he mayn’tlike it.”

The shoemaker laughed, but presently he said, as ifto himself, “There is too much imagination there.There will be a poet, if we don’t take care.”

The shoemaker offered to teach Simon to read, andto solidify his mind, as he termed it, by arithmetic,and then to teach him to work at his trade. Hismother was very glad, and thought shoemaking wouldbe a good trade for the boy; and that with Mr. Watsonshe should have him always near her. He was growingnow a great lad, and was especially strong, and ofa frank and daring habit. He was especially indignantat any act of oppression of the weak by the strong,and not seldom got into trouble by his championshipof the injured in such cases among the boys of theneighborhood.

He was now about twelve years of age; when, goingone day with a basket of clothes on his head to Mr.Spires’s for his mother, he was noticed by Mr.Spires himself from his counting-house window.The great war was raging; there was much distressamong the manufacturers; and the people were sufferingand exasperated against their masters. Mr. Spires,as a staunch tory, and supporter of the war, was particularlyobnoxious to the workpeople, who uttered violent threatsagainst him. For this reason his premises werestrictly guarded, and at the entrance of his yard,just within the gates, was chained a huge and fiercemastiff, his chain allowing him to approach near enoughto intimidate any stranger, though not to reach him.The dog knew the people who came regularly about, andseemed not to notice them, but on the entrance of astranger, he rose up, barked fiercely, and came tothe length of his chain. This always drew theattention of the porter, if he were away from his box,and few persons dared to pass till he came.

Simon Deg was advancing with the basket of clean linenon his head, when the dog rushed out, and barkingloudly, came exactly opposite to him, within a fewfeet. The boy, a good deal startled at first,reared himself with his back against the wall, butat a glance perceiving that the dog was at the lengthof his tether, he seemed to enjoy his situation, andstood smiling at the furious animal, and lifting hisbasket with both hands above his head, nodded to him,as if to say, “Well, old boy, you’d liketo eat me, wouldn’t you?”

Mr. Spires, who sat near his counting-house windowat his books, was struck with the bold and handsomebearing of the boy, and said to a clerk:

“What boy is that?”

“It is Jenny Deg’s,” was the answer.

“Ha! that boy! Zounds! how boys do grow!Why that’s the child that Jenny Deg was carryingwhen she came to Stockington: and what a strong,handsome, bright-looking fellow he is now!”

As the boy was returning, Mr. Spires called him tothe counting-house door, and put some questions tohim as to what he was doing and learning, and so on.

Simon, taking off his cap with much respect, answeredin such a clear and Modest way, and with a voice thathad so much feeling and natural music in it, thatthe worthy manufacturer was greatly taken with him.

“That’s no Deg,” said he, when heagain entered the counting-house, “not a bitof it. He’s all Goodrick, or whatever hismother’s name was, every inch of him.”

The consequence of that interview was, that SimonDeg was very soon after Perched on a stool in Mr.Spires’s counting-house, where he continuedtill he was twenty-two. Mr. Spires had no son,only a single daughter; and such were Simon Deg’stalents, attention to business, and genial disposition,that at that age Mr. Spires gave him a share in theconcern. He was himself now getting less fondof exertion than he had been, and placed the mostimplicit reliance on Simon’s judgment and generalmanagement. Yet no two men could be more unlikein their opinions beyond the circle of trade.Mr. Spires was a staunch tory of the staunch old school.He was for Church and King, and for things remainingforever as they had been. Simon, on the otherhand, had liberal and reforming notions. He wasfor the improvement of the people, and their admissionto many privileges. Mr. Spires was thereforeliked by the leading men of the place, and dislikedby the people. Simon’s estimation was preciselyin the opposite direction. But this did not disturbtheir friendship; it required another disturbing cause—­andthat came.

Simon Deg and the daughter of Mr. Spires grew attachedto each other; and as the father had thought Simonworthy of becoming a partner in the business, neitherof the young people deemed that he would object toa partnership of a more domestic description.But here they made a tremendous mistake. No soonerwas such a proposal hinted at, than Mr. Spires burstforth with the fury of all the winds from the bag ofUlysses.

“What! a Deg aspire to the hand of the soleheiress of the enormously opulent Spires?”

The very thought almost cut the proud manufactureroff with an apoplexy. The hosts of a thousandpaupers rose up before him, and he was black in theface. It was only by a prompt and bold applicationof leeches and lancet that the life of the great manwas saved. But there was an end of all furtherfriendship between himself and the expectant Simon.He insisted that he should withdraw from the concern,and it was done. Simon, who felt his own dignitydeeply wounded too, for dignity he had, though thelast of a long line of paupers—­his own dignity,not his ancestors’—­took silently,yet not unrespectfully, his share—­a good,round sum, and entered another house of business.

For several years there appeared to be a feud anda bitterness between the former friends; yet it showeditself in no other manner than by a careful avoidanceof each other. The continental war came to anend; the manufacturing distress increased exceedingly.There came troublous times, and a fierce warfare ofpolitics. Great Stockington was torn asunder byrival parties. On one side stood preeminent, Mr.Spires; on the other towered conspicuously, SimonDeg. Simon was grown rich, and extremely popular.He was on all occasions the advocate of the people.He said that he had sprung from, and was one of them.He had bought a large tract of land on one side ofthe town; and intensely fond of the country and flowershimself, he had divided this into gardens, built littlesummer-houses in them, and let them to the artisans.In his factory he had introduced order, cleanliness,and ventilation. He had set up a school for thechildren in the evenings, with a reading-room andconversation-room for the work-people, and encouragedthem to bring their families there, and enjoy music,books, and lectures. Accordingly, he was theidol of the people, and the horror of the old schoolof manufacturers.

“A pretty upstart and demagogue I’ve nurtured,”said Mr. Spires often, to his wife and daughter, whoonly sighed, and were silent.

Then came a furious election. The town, for afortnight, more resembled the worst corner of Tartarusthan a Christian borough. Drunkenness, riot,pumping on one another, spencering one another, allsorts of violence and abuse ruled and raged till theblood of all Stockington was at boiling heat.In the midst of the tempest were everywhere seen, rangedon the opposite sides, Mr. Spires, now old and immenselycorpulent, and Simon Deg, active, buoyant, zealous,and popular beyond measure. But popular thoughhe was, the other and old tory side still triumphed.The people were exasperated to madness; and when thechairing of the successful candidate commenced, therewas a terrific attack made on the procession by thedefeated party. Down went the chair, and the newmember, glad to escape into an inn, saw his friendsmercilessly assailed by the populace. There wasa tremendous tempest of sticks, brickbats, paving-stones,and rotten eggs. In the midst of all this, SimonDeg and a number of his friends, standing at the upperwindow of an hotel, saw Mr. Spires knocked down andtrampled on by the crowd. In an instant, andbefore his friends had missed him from amongst them,Simon Deg was seen darting through the raging mass,cleaving his way with a surprising vigor, and gesticulating,and no doubt shouting vehemently to the rioters, thoughhis voice was lost in the din. In the next momenthis hat was knocked off, and himself appeared in imminentdanger: but, another moment, and there was apause, and a group of people were bearing somebodyfrom the frantic mob into a neighboring shop.It was Simon Deg, assisting in the rescue of his oldfriend and benefactor, Mr. Spires.

Mr. Spires was a good deal bruised, and wonderfullyconfounded and bewildered by his fall. His clotheswere one mass of mud, and his face was bleeding copiously;but when he had had a good draught of water, and hisface washed, and had time to recover himself, it wasfound that he had received no serious injury.

“They had like to have done for me, though,”said he.

“Yes, and who saved you?” asked a gentleman.

“Ay, who was it? who was it?” asked thereally warm-hearted manufacturer; “let me know?I owe him my life.”

“There he is!” said several gentlemen,at the same instant, pushing forward Simon Deg.

“What, Simon!” said Mr. Spires, startingto his feet. “Was it thee, my boy?”He did more, he stretched out his hand; the young manclasped it eagerly, and the two stood silent, andwith a heart-felt emotion, which blended all the pastinto forgetfulness, and the future into a union moresacred than esteem.

A week hence, and Simon Deg was the son-in-law ofMr. Spires. Though Mr. Spires had misunderstoodSimon, and Simon had borne the aspect of oppositionto his old friend, in defense of conscientious principle,the wife and daughter of the manufacturer had alwaysunderstood him, and secretly looked forward to someday of recognition and reunion.

Simon Deg was now the richest man in Stockington.His mother was still living to enjoy his elevation.She had been his excellent and wise housekeeper, andshe continued to occupy that post still.

Twenty-five years afterward, when the worthy old Spireswas dead, and Simon Deg had himself two sons attainedto manhood; when he had five times been mayor of Stockington,and had been knighted on the presentation of a loyaladdress; still his mother was living to see it; andWilliam Watson, the shoemaker, was acting as a sortof orderly at Sir Simon’s chief manufactory.He occupied the lodge, and walked about, and saw thatall was safe, and moving on as it should do.

It was amazing how the most plebeian name of SimonDeg had slid, under the hands of the heralds, intothe really aristocratical one of Sir Simon Degge.They had traced him up a collateral kinship, spiteof his own consciousness, to a baronet of the samename of the county of Stafford, and had given hima coat of arms that was really astonishing.

It was some years before this, that Sir Roger Rockvillehad breathed his last. His title and estate hadfallen into litigation. Owing to two generationshaving passed without any issue of the Rockville familyexcept the one son and heir, the claims, though numerous,were so mingled with obscuring circ*mstance, and soequally balanced, that the lawyers raised quibblesand difficulties enough to keep the property in Chancery,till they had not only consumed all the ready moneyand rental, but had made frightful inroads into theestate itself. To save the remnant, the contendingparties came to a compromise. A neighboring squire,whose grandfather had married a Rockville, was allowedto secure the title, on condition that the rest carriedoff the residuum of the estate. The woods andlands of Rockville were announced for sale!

It was at this juncture that old William Watson remindedSir Simon Degge of a conversation in the great groveof Rockville, which they had held at the time thatSir Roger was endeavoring to drive the people thence.

“What a divine pleasure might this man enjoy,”said Simon Deg to his humble friend, “if hehad a heart capable of letting others enjoy themselves.”

“But we talk without the estate,” saidWilliam Watson; “what might we do if we weretried with it?”

Sir Simon was silent for a moment; then observed thatthere was sound philosophy in William Watson’sremark. He said no more, but went away; and thenext day announced to the astonished old man that hehad purchased the groves and the whole ancient estateof Rockville!

Sir Simon Degge, the last of a long line of paupers,was become the possessor of the noble estate of SirRoger Rockville, of Rockville, the last of a longline of aristocrats!

The following summer, when the hay was lying in fragrantco*cks in the great meadows of Rockville, and on thelittle islands in the river, Sir Simon Degge, Baronet,of Rockville—­for such was now his title-throughthe suggestion of a great lawyer, formerly Recorderof the Borough of Stockington, to the crown—­helda grand fete on the occasion of his coming to resideat Rockville Hall, henceforth the family seat of theDegges. His house and gardens had all been restoredto the most consummate order. For years Sir Simonhad been a great purchaser of works of art and literature,paintings, statuary, books, and articles of antiquity,including rich armor and precious works in ivory andgold.

First and foremost he gave a great banquet to hiswealthy friends, and no man with a million and a halfis without them—­and in abundance. Inthe second place, he gave a substantial dinner toall his tenantry, from the wealthy farmer of fivehundred acres to the tenant of a cottage. On thisoccasion he said, “Game is a subject of greatheart-burning and of great injustice to the country.It was the bane of my predecessors: let us takecare it is not ours. Let every man kill the gameon the land that he rents—­then he willnot destroy it utterly, nor allow it to grow into anuisance. I am fond of a gun myself, but I trustto find enough for my propensity to the chase in myown fields and woods—­if I occasionallyextend my pursuit across the lands of my tenants, itshall not be to carry off the first fruits of theirfeeding, and I shall still hold the enjoyment as afavor.”

We need not say that this speech was applauded mostvociferously. Thirdly, and lastly, he gave agrand entertainment to all his work people, both ofthe town and the country. His house and gardenswere thrown open to the inspection of the whole assembledcompany. The delighted crowd admired immenselythe pictures and the pleasant gardens. On thelawn, lying between the great grove and the hall, anenormous tent was pitched, or rather a vast canvas

canopy erected, open on all sides, in which was laida charming banquet; a military band from Stockingtonbarracks playing during the time. Here Sir Simonmade a speech as rapturously received as that to thefarmers. It was to the effect, that all the oldprivileges of wandering in the grove, and angling,and boating on the river were restored. Theinn was already rebuilt in a handsome Elizabethanstyle, larger than before, and to prevent it everbecoming a fane of intemperance, he had there postedas landlord, he hoped for many years to come, hisold friend and benefactor, William Watson. WilliamWatson should protect the inn from riot, and theythemselves the groves and river banks from injury.

Long and loud were the applauses which this announcementoccasioned. The young people turned out uponthe green for a dance, and in the evening, after anexcellent tea, the whole company descended the riverto Stockington in boats and barges decorated withboughs and flowers, and singing a song made by WilliamWatson for the occasion, called “The Healthof Sir Simon, last and first of his Line!”

Years have rolled on. The groves and river banksand islands of Rockville are still greatly frequented,but are never known to be injured: poachers arenever known there, for four reasons. First, nobodywould like to annoy the good Sir Simon; secondly,game is not very numerous there; thirdly, there isno fun in killing it, where there is no resistance;and fourthly, it is vastly more abundant in otherproprietors’ demesnes, and it is fun to killit there, where it is jealously watched, and thereis a chance of a good spree with the keepers.

And with what different feelings does the good SirSimon look down from his lofty eyrie, over the princelyexpanse of meadows, and over the glittering river,and over the stately woods to where Great Stockingtonstill stretches farther and farther its red brick walls,its red-tiled roofs, and its tall smoke-vomiting chimneys.There he sees no haunts of crowded enemies to himselfor any man. No upstarts, nor envious opponents,but a past family of human beings, all toiling forthe good of their families and their country.All advancing, some faster, some slower, to a bettereducation, a better social condition, a better conceptionof the principles of art and commerce, and a clearerrecognition of their rights and duties, and a morecheering faith in the upward tendency of humanity.

Looking on this interesting scene from his distantand quiet home, Sir Simon sees what blessings flow—­andhow deeply he feels them in his own case—­froma free circulation, not only of trade, but of humanrelations. How this corrects the mischiefs, moraland physical, of false systems and rusty prejudices;—­and he ponders on schemes of no ordinary beauty and beneficenceyet to reach his beloved town through them. Hesees lecture halls and academies, means of sanitarypurification, and delicious recreation, in which baths,

wash-houses, and airy homes figure largely; whilepublic walks extend all round the great industrialhive, including wood, hills, meadow and river in theircircuit of many miles. There he lived and labored;there live and labor his sons; and there he trustshis family will continue to live and labor to allfuture generations: never retiring to the fatalindolence of wealth, but aiding onward its activeand ever-expanding beneficence.

Long may the good Sir Simon live and labor to realizethese views. But already in a green corner ofthe pleasant churchyard of Rockville may be read thisinscription on a marble headstone:—­“Sacredto the memory of Jane Deg, the mother of Sir SimonDegge, Bart., of Rockville. This stone is erectedin honor of the best of Mothers by the most gratefulof sons.”

* * * * *

[From Fraser’s Magazine.]

THE SPOTTED BOWER-BIRD.

FROM LEAVES FROM THE NOTE-BOOK OF A NATURALIST.

Elegant and ingenious as are the structures and collectionsof the satin bower-bird, the species of the alliedgenus Chlamydera display still greater architecturalabilities, and more extensive, collective, and decorativepowers.

The spotted bower-bird[A] is an inhabitant of theinterior. Its probable range, in Mr. Gould’sopinion, is widely extended over the central portionsof the Australian continent; but the only parts inwhich he observed it, or from which he procured specimens,were the districts immediately to the north of thecolony of New South Wales. During his journeyinto the interior he saw it in tolerable abundanceat Brezi, on the river Mokai, to the northward ofthe Liverpool plains; and it was also equally numerousin all the low scrubby ranges in the neighborhoodof the Namoi, as well as in the open brushes that intersectthe plains on its borders. Mr. Gould is giftedwith the eye of an observer; but from the extremeshyness of its disposition, it generally escapes theattention of ordinary travelers, and it seldom allowsitself to be approached near enough for the spectatorto discern its colors. Its ‘harsh, grating,scolding note,’ betrays its haunts to the intruder;but, when disturbed, it seeks the tops of the highesttrees, and, generally, flies off to another locality.

[Footnote A: Chlamydera maculala.—­GOULD.]

Mr. Gould obtained his specimens most readily by watchingat the water-holes where they come to drink; and onone occasion, near the termination of a long drought,he was guided by a native to a deep basin in a rockwhere water, the produce of many antecedent months,still remained. Numbers of the spotted bower-birds,honeysuckers, and parrots, sought this welcome reservoir,which had seldom, if ever before, reflected a whiteface. Mr. Gould’s presence was regardedwith suspicion by the winged frequenters of this attractivespot; but while he remained lying on the ground perfectly

motionless, though close to the water, their wantsoverpowered their misgivings, and they would dash downpast him and eagerly take their fill, although anenormous black snake was lying coiled upon a pieceof wood near the edge of the pool. At this interestingpost Mr. Gould remained for three days. The spottedbower-birds were the most numerous of the thirsty assemblagethere congregated, and the most shy, and yet he hadthe satisfaction of frequently seeing six or eightof them displaying their beautiful necks as they wereperched within a few feet of him. He states thatthe scanty supply of water remaining in the cavitymust soon have been exhausted by the thousands ofbirds that daily resorted to it, if the rains whichhad so long been suspended had not descended in torrents.

Mr. Gould discovered several of the bowers of thisspecies during his journey to the interior, the tiniestof which, now in the National Museum, he brought toEngland. He found the situations of these runsor bowers to be much varied. Sometimes he discoveredthem on the plains studded with Myalls (Acaciapendula,) and sometimes in the brushes with whichthe lower hills were clothed. He describes themas considerably longer, and more avenue-like, thanthose of the satin bower-bird, extending in many instancesto three feet in length. Outwardly they werebuilt with twigs, and beautifully lined with tall grasses,so disposed that their upper ends nearly met.The decorations were very profuse, consisting of bivalveshells, skulls of small animals, and other bones.

Evident and beautiful indications of design (continuesMr. Gould) are manifest throughout the whole of thebower and decorations formed by this species, particularlyin the manner in which the stones are placed withinthe bower, apparently to keep the grasses with whichit is lined fixed firmly in their places, these stonesdiverge from the mouth of the run on each side soas to form little paths, while the immense collectionof decorative materials, bones, shells, &c., are placedin a heap before the entrance of the avenue, thisarrangement being the same at both ends. In someof the larger bowers, which had evidently been resortedto for many years, I have seen nearly half a bushelof bones, shells, &c., at each of the entrances.In some instances, small bowers, composed almost entirelyof grasses, apparently the commencement of a new placeof rendezvous, were observable. I frequentlyfound these structures at a considerable distancefrom the rivers, from the borders of which they couldalone have procured the shells, and small, round pebblystones; their collection and transportation must,therefore, be a task of great labor and difficulty.As these birds feed almost entirely upon seeds andfruits, the shells and bones cannot have been collected for any other purpose than ornament; besides, itis only those which have been bleached perfectly whitein the sun, or such as have been roasted by the natives,and by this means whitened, that attract their attention.I fully ascertained that these runs, like those ofthe satin bower-bird, formed the rendezvous of manyindividuals; for, after secreting myself for a shortspace of time near one of them, I killed two maleswhich I had previously seen running through the avenue.

The plumage of this species is remarkable. Arich brown pervades the crown of the head, the ear-covertsand the throat, each feather being bordered by a narrowblack line; and, on the crown, the feathers are smalland tipped with silver gray. The back of the neckis crossed by a beautiful, broad, light, rosy pinkband of elongated feathers, so as to form a sort ofoccipital crest. The wings, tail, and upper surface,are deep brown, every feather of the back, rump, scapularies,and secondaries, having a large round spot of fullbuff at the tip. Primaries slightly tipped withwhite. All the tail-feathers with buffy whiteterminations. Under parts grayish white.Flank-feathers zigzagged with faint transverse lightbrown lines. Bill and feet dusky brown. Atthe corner of the mouth the bare, thick, fleshy, prominentskin, is of a pinky flesh colour, and the irides aredark brown.

The rosy frill adorns the adults of both sexes:but the young male and female of the years have itnot.

Another species, the great bower-bird,[B] was probablythe architect of the bowers found by Captain Greyduring his Australian rambles, and which interestedhim greatly in consequence of the doubts entertainedby him whether they were the works of a bird or ofa quadruped,—­the inclination of his mindbeing that their construction was due to the four-footedanimal. They were formed of dead grass and partsof bushes, sunk a slight depth into two parallel furrows,in sandy soil, and were nicely arched above; theywere always full of broken sea-shells, large heapsof which also protruded from the extremity of thebower. In one of these bowers, the most remotefrom the sea of those discovered by Captain Grey, wasa heap of the stones of some fruit that evidentlyhad been rolled therein. He never saw any animalin or near these bowers; but the abundant droppingsof a small species of kangaroo close to them, inducedhim to suppose them to be the work of some quadruped.

[Footnote B: Chlamydora nuchalis.]

Here, then, we have a race of birds whose ingenuityis not merely directed to the usual; ends of existence,self-preservation, and the continuation of the species,but to the elegancies and amusem*nts of life.Their bowers are their ball and assembly rooms; andwe are very much mistaken if they are not, like placesof meeting,

For whispering lovers made.

The male satin bower-bird, in the garden at the Regent’sPark, is indefatigable in his assiduity toward thefemale; and his winning ways to coax her into thebower conjure up the notion that the soul of someDamon in the course of his transmigration, has foundits way into his elegant form. He picks up abrilliant feather, flits about with it before her,and when he has caught her eye adds it to the decorations.

Haste, my Nanette, my lovely maid,
Haste to the bower thy swain has made.

No enchanted prince could act the deferential loverwith more delicate or graceful attention. Poorfellow, the pert, intruding sparrows plague him abominably;and really it becomes almost an affair of police thatsome measures should be adopted for their exclusion.He is subject to fits, too, and suddenly, withoutthe least apparent warning, falls senseless, likean epileptic patient; but presently recovers, and busieshimself about the bower. When he has inducedthe female to enter it, he seems greatly pleased;alters the disposition of a feather or a shell, asif hoping that the change may meet her approbation;and looks at her as she sits coyly under the overarchingtwigs, and then at the little arrangement which hehas made, and then at her again, till one could almostfancy that one hears him breathe a sigh. He isstill in his transition dress, and has not yet donnedhis full Venetian suit of black.

In their natural state, the satin bower-birds associatein autumn in small parties; and Mr. Gould states thatthey may then often be seen on the ground near thesides of rivers, particularly where the brush feathersthe descending bank down to the water’s edge.The male has a loud liquid call; and both sexes frequentlyutter a harsh, gutteral note, expressive of surpriseand displeasure.

Geffrey Chaucer, in his argument to The Assemblieof Foules, relates that, “All foules aregathered before Nature on St. Valentine’s day,to chose their makes. A formell egle beyng belovedof three tercels, requireth a yeeres respite to makeher choise: upon this triall, Qui bien aimetard oublie-’He that loveth well is slowto forget.’” The female satin-bower birdin the Regent’s Park seems to have taken a leafout of the ‘formell egle’s’ book:for I cannot discover that her humble and most obsequiousswain has been rewarded for his attentions thoughthey have been continued through so many weary months;but we shall never be able entirely to solve thesemysteries till we become possessed of the rare ringsent to the King of Sarra by the King of Arable, ’bythe vertue whereof’ his daughter understood‘the language of all foules,’ unless wecan

Call up him that left untold
The story of Cambuscan bold,
Of Camball and of Algersife,
And who had Canace to wife,
That own’d the virtuous ring andglass,
And of the wondrous horse of brass,
On which the Tartar king did ride.

Edmund Spenser, with due reverence for

Dan Chauser (well of English undefiled),

has indeed done his best to supply the defect,[C]and has told us that

Cambello’s sister was fair Canacee,
That was the learnedst lady in her days,
Well seem in every science that mote be,
And every secret work of nature’sways,
In witty riddles, and in wise soothsays,
In power of herbs and tunes of beastsand birds:

but we learn from him no more of the ring than ‘DanChaucer’ tells us:—­

The vertue of this ring, if ye woll here,
Is this, that if she list it for to were
Upon her thombe, or in her purse it bere,
There is no foule that fleeth under heven
That she no shall understand his steven,[D]
And know his meaning openly and plaine,
And answer him in his language againe:

as Canace does in her conversation with the falconin The Squires Tale. Nor is the ‘vertue’of the ring confined to bird-intelligence, for theknight who came on the ‘steed of brasse,’adds,—­

And every grasse that groweth upon root
She shall well know to whom it will doboot,
And be his wounds never so deep and wide.

But we must return from these realms of fancy to acountry hardly less wonderful; for Australia presents,in the realities of its quadrupedal forms, a scenethat might well pass for one of enchantment.

[Footnote C: Fairy Queen, book iv. cant.2, et seq.]

[Footnote D: Sound.]

* * * * *

The French Society of Geography have just given theirgrand gold medal to two brothers, Antoine and Arnaudd’Abadie, for the progress which geography hasreceived from their travels in Abyssinia, which werebegun in 1837 and finished in 1848. This periodthey spent in exploring together, not only Abyssinia,but the whole eastern part of Africa. Their enterprisewas wholly at their own expense, and was undertakenfrom the love of science and adventure.

* * * * *

The French Government are now publishing at Algiersthe History of the Berbers, by Ibn Chaldun, the greatestof Arabian historians. It is printed in quartoform, with the types of the National Printing Establishment,sent from Paris for the purpose. The French translationwill appear as soon as the second volume of the original,which is now in press, is completed.

* * * * *

[From Fraser’s Magazine.]

MADAME DE POMPADOUR.

In the gallery of the Louvre at Paris there is, orwas some few years ago, a crayon drawing by La Tour,which represents Madame de Pompadour in all the prideand luster of her early beauty. The marchionessis seated near a table covered with books and papers,among which may be distinguished Montesquieu’sSpirit of Laws and the Encyclopaedia,two of the remarkable works which appeared duringher reign of favor. An open album shows an engravingof Gay, chiseling some portrait of Louis XV., or hismistress. The marchioness is represented withher hair slightly powdered; she is clad in an open,flowered brocade robe, and wears red-heeled shoes,of a delicacy, as regards size, worthy of an Orientalfoot. In this portrait there is much to admire:the neck, which is slender and well-shaped, springsmost gracefully from the shoulders; the head, whichis also admirably proportioned, is a model of feminine

beauty; the brow is lofty and severe; the lips, slightlycompressed, express at the same time decision andirony; the eyes are of a most vivid brilliancy, andthe nose is perfection itself: in short, therereigns throughout every lineament of this most strikingcountenance an air of nobility, and even of dignity,which qualifies in some measure the accounts leftus by history of the share she bore in the petit*soupers of Versailles, the masked balls of theHotel de Ville, and the thousand other orgies gotup for the entertainment of the most dissolute monarchof (at that period) one of the most dissolute courtsof Europe.

The history of Madame de Pompadour is not generallyknown in all its particulars, though much has beenwritten of her by persons of every shade of opinion.Some have exalted her virtues, while others have multipliedher crimes. Both parties are right, and both wrong.A courtier, and a man seeking to be revenged, arenot historians when they write. With a littlepatience, and by a careful study of the writers ofthe eighteenth century, we are enabled to seize hereand there a faithful trait of this extraordinary,yet most fascinating woman, and by diligently siftingconflicting opinions arrive at something approachingthe truth. That Madame de Pompadour was a womanendowed with great talents, many virtues, and as manyvices, is not to be denied; that she employed thosetalents in general for her country’s good wethink is equally true, though many writers have unjustlycontended that all the defeats and reverses of Franceare to be traced to the influence exercised by herover the mind of Louis XV. Beyond a doubt theruling passion of her heart was ambition, and yeteven this passion, which according to many writersof her day was boundless, she kept so skillfully concealedfrom all her intimates, that not one of the many courtiers,philosophers, and men of letters, who thronged herantechambers—­with the exception, perhaps,of the Abbe de Bernis, of whom more anon—­wasever enabled to discover the secrets of that heart,which, in the words of a writer of the time, “sheever kept closely hidden beneath an eternal smile.”

Madame de Pompadour was born in Paris in the year1720. She herself always said, in 1722.We are told that Poisson, her father, at least hermother’s husband, was employed in the commissariatdepartment of the French army: some historiansaffirm that her father was a butcher of the Invalides,who was condemned to be hung; according to Voltaireshe was the daughter of a farmer of the Ferte-sous-Jouarre.But this is of slight consequence, as her true fatherwas the Fermier-general, Lenorman de Tourneheim.This individual having taken a fancy to Poisson’sdaughter when she was quite an infant, took her tohis house, and brought her up as his own child.Having from her earliest years displayed quite passionfor music and drawing, the first masters of the daywere engaged by Lenorman de Tourneheim for his adopted

child. Under a diligent course of study the littleJeanne Antoinette made rapid strides toward perfectionin the arts she loved, and her intellectual acquirementswere vaunted by all who knew her. Fontenelle,Voltaire, Duclos, and Crebillon, who, in their characterof beaux esprits, had the entree of thehouse, spread everywhere abroad throughout the fashionableworld the praises of her beauty, her grace, and hertalents.

Madame de Pompadour offered in her person the modelof a woman, at the same time beautiful in the strictacceptation of the word, and simply pretty. Thelines of her features possessed all the purity of oneof Raphael’s creations, but there it must besaid the resemblance ceased; the spirit which animatedthese features was of the world, worldly: inshort, it was the true spirit of a Parisian woman.All that gives brilliancy, charm, and play to thephysiognomy she possessed in the happiest degree.Not a single court lady could at that period boastan air at the same time so noble and yet so coquettish,features so imposing and yet so delicate and playful,or a figure at once so elegant and yet so supple andundulating: her mother used always to say thata king alone was worthy of her daughter. Jeanne,it is said, had at in early age what might be calledthe presentiment of the throne, at first on accountof this frequently-expressed opinion of her mother’s,and afterward because she fancied she loved the king.“She owned to me,” says Voltaire, in hisMemoirs, “that she had a s[illegible]presentiment that she would be loved by [illegible]king, and that she had herself a violent inclinationfor him.” There are certain [illegible]in life in which destiny permits itself for a moment,as it were, to be divined. [ illegible] thosewho have succeeded in climbing [illegible] ruggedmountain of human vanities [illegible ] that fromtheir earliest youth certain visions and presentimentshave ever warned them of their future glory.

But how was she to attain to this throne of France,the object of her ambition? This was a difficultquestion to solve. In the meanwhile she familiarizedherself with what might be considered the life of aqueen, a part which, it must be allowed, she couldplay to admiration. Beautiful, witty, intellectual,ever admired and ever listened to, she soon beheldat her feet all the courtiers of her father’sfortune; she gathered around her, consequently, abrilliant crowd of poets, artists, and philosophers,over whom she reigned with all the dignity of majesty.

The Fermier-general had a nephew named Lenorman d’Etioles,a young man of Amiable character, and with the feelingsand habits of a gentleman. This was the reputedheir of the immense wealth of the old Fermier-general,according to the established laws, though Jeanne hadon her side also some claims to a share of the property.A very simple means was however devised to preventall after litigation, namely, by arranging a marriagebetween the two young people. Jeanne, as we havealready seen, loved the king, and she married d’Etioleswithout her feelings in this respect undergoing anychange. Versailles was her horizon, the goal towhich she aspired. D’Etioles, it is said,became deeply enamored of his young bride; but thispassion, which amounted almost to fanaticism, nevertouched her heart. To use her own words, she “acceptedhim with resignation, as a misfortune which was notto last long.”

The hotel of the new-married couple was organizedupon a lordly footing; the best society in Paris wasthere to be found, for all those whose company wasworth having deserted the salons of the fashionableworld for those of Madame d’Etioles. Neveruntil then had such a lavish display of luxury beenseen. The young bride hoped by these means tomake a noise at court, and thus pique the curiosityof the king. The days passed in fetes and entertainmentsof every kind. The celebrated comedians of theday, the popular poets, artists, foreigners of distinction,all had ready access to the splendid mansion of Lenormand’Etioles, of which the mistress was the lifeand ornament; every one visited there, in short, exceptthe king.

Ever since the celebrated reunions of the Hotelde Rambouillet, there have always been in France asuccession of circles of beaux esprits, presidedover by some queen of fashion. Louis XIV. hatedthese reunions, saying that the court was spreadabroad into all [illegible] hotels of Paris.In fact, for many, the [illegible ] of the duch*essede Main or of the [illegible ]ise de Lambert, ofMadame de Tencin [illegible] Madame Geoffrin,possessed far greater [illegible ]ons than thealready superannuated [illegible ] of Versailles.The French Revolution [illegible ] its rise inthese very circles, for in them they laughed a littleat the great powers of the earth, and there philosophyand liberty were allowed elbow-room. Thus, atMadame d’Etioles’ might be seen old Fontenelle,who believed in nothing, not even in his own heart;Voltaire, still young, and armed with the keen weaponsof his ready wit, prepared to make war upon thosewhose reign was of this world, above all upon theJesuits; Montesquieu and Maupertuis, born skepticsand mockers; along with many others of a kindred spiritwho had beheld the decline of royalty and religion,when Louis XIV., in the latter years of his reign,had permitted Scarron’s widow to make religionfashionable, by cloaking France with the mask of hypocriticalpiety—­a mask soon, however, to be tornaside by Philippe of Orleans in the wild saturnaliaof the Regency. The Abbe de Bernis was also aconstant visitor at the house of Madame d’Etioles;he was, in the parlance of the time, the _Abbe de laMaison_—­it is true he had no other benefice—­butlittle thought then, either the abbe of the houseor the mistress of the house, that within ten yearsfrom that time they would reign over France as absoluteministers. There was one other individual of thisbrilliant circle worthy of a passing notice, and thiswas an amiable and simple-minded poet, of good appearanceand the best temper in the world, named Gentil Bernard.[A]Madame d’Etioles used to pet him like a spoiledchild. Some said he was her lover. Howeverthat may be, Madame de Pompadour, who, whether shehad or had not a secret penchant for the poet, neverforgot her old friends, procured for him, as soonas she came into power, the appointment of librarianto the king at the chateau de Choisy, where she builthim, at her own expense, a little cottage _ornee_,named by the poets of the time, the Parnassus of theFrench Anacreon. This appointment was a completesinecure, for we know that the king never opened abook, and we are equally assured that Bernard neverput his foot inside the library.

[Footnote A: Pierre Bernard, nicknamed GentilBernard by Voltaire[1] was born at Grenoble aboutthe same time as Louis XV. “It is strange,”said Madame de Pompadour later, “that two loversshould be born for me during the same season—­aking and a poet.” Bernard ever refused allfavors, and was singularly devoid of ambition.“What can I do for you, my dear poet?”Madame de Pompadour is reported to have said on hercoming into Power. Bernard contented himselfwith kissing the hand of the marchioness. “Goto,” returned she, “you will never geton in the world.”

[Footnote 1: This nickname was givenin a poetical invitation to
a supper-party at Madame Duchatelet’s,sent by Voltaire to the poet:

“Au nom du Pinde etde Cythere
Gentil Bernardest averti,
Que l’Artd’Aimer doit Samedi
Venir souper chez l’Artde Plaire."]]

We have already named the Abbe, afterward Cardinal,de Bernis; and as he was the only individual who eversucceeded in being admitted into the entire confidenceof the royal favorite, a brief notice of his birth,and rise and fall at court, may not be altogetherout of place, so closely linked for many years werehis fortunes with those of Madame de Pompadour.

Joachim de Pierres, abbe de Bernis, was born at Saint-Marcel,near Narbonne, in the month of May, 1715. Hisfamily, which was of the most ancient noblesse,was allied to the king through the house of Rohan;a circ*mstance, however, which did not prevent itbeing one of the poorest in the kingdom. As hisrelatives had nothing to give Joachim, they made himan abbe. Like Bernard, he came when very youngto Paris, confiding in his lucky planet, smiling onevery one, and reaping a plentiful harvest of smilesin return. He was then a handsome young man, witha bright eye and an animated mouth. In figurehe was herculean, and here we find, in contradictionof Buffon’s saying, that the style was notthe man, no more than it was with Bernard, who wasalso of large stature.

Joachim passed the winter at Saint-Sulpice, but, likeBoufflers a little later, far from singing the Canticles,he employed his time in the more mundane occupationof scribbling love-songs. At the end of the winterhe was appointed vicar in a little town of his nativedepartment. “Vicar!” said Joachim;“I’ll not disturb myself for such a trifle.”Shortly afterward he was nominated Abbe de Bernis;but not a step would he budge from the capital.In Paris then he remained, penniless it is true, butwithout a care or thought for the future, and fullof confidence in his lucky planet—­a confidencewhich, it must be said, was not misplaced. Hisacquaintance with Madame d’Etioles began throughan intrigue which he had with a certain marchandedes modes, who worked for the future favorite.Having perceived the young girl one night at the theaterin company with her lover, Madame d’Etiolessummoned her the following morning to her house, andin the course of conversation inquired if that handsomeyoung man she had with her at the theater was hercousin.

“No, madame,” replied the milliner; “heis my lover.”

“Ah, indeed! he is your lover is he? Andwhat does he do?”

“No great things, madame; he makes verses.”

“A maker of verses!” said Madame d’Etioles;“that is amusing. Do not forget my cap,and tell your young poet to come and see me.”

In consequence of this invitation Bernis called onMadame d’Etioles, who Received him with allthe graces in the world, and from that hour commenceda friendship which lasted for many years, and was theorigin of De Bernis’ future advancement in theworld.

Despite his great acquaintances, our abbe was nonethe richer; but he laughed gaily at his poverty, andwaited for better times. According to all accountsthe garret which he inhabited was in a wretchedlydilapidated condition; his furniture consisted of a“bad bed covered with some mules’ saddle-cloths,which M. de Ferriol had brought from Constantinople,a rickety table covered with books and papers and fadedbouquets, and an old worm-eaten arm-chair.”Our abbe’s purse was no better garnished thanhis lodgings; and so well-known was this fact in theworld, that Senac de Meilhan tells us, that “whenthe Abbe de Bernis supped out some one of the partyalways gave him a crown to pay his coach-hire.At first this gift had been invented as a pleasantry,on the abbe invariably refusing to stay to supper,alleging as an excuse that he had no carriage; butit was a pleasantry which continued for some time.”

In society, however, De Bernis was a general favorite,and was everywhere Welcomed with open arms. Theydoated on Bernard, and they doated also on on Bernis.Voltaire wrote in verse to both, Duclos spoke of theirwit, Helvetius gave them suppers, and the women didtheir best to spoil them.

From Cardinal de Fleury, however, our abbe receiveda rebuff. Having, in order to humor his relativethe Princess de Rohan, who had lately taken him bythe hand, applied to the minster for a convent, thelatter sternly replied,—­

“Monsieur l’Abbe, your debaucheries renderyou unworthy of the favors of the church. Aslong as I remain in power you shall obtain nothing.”

“Well, Monseigneur,” replied De Bernis,“I’ll wait.”

This repartee was an event; it was repeated and applaudedeverywhere until it reached the ears of royalty itself.

On Madame de Pompadour coming to power, the Princessde Rohan deigned to write to her in behalf of herdear abbe. “Madame la Marquis,” shewrote, “you have not forgotten M. l’Abbede Bernis; you will deign, I trust, to do somethingfor him, he is worthy of your favors.” Aproposof this letter, Madame de Pompadour wrote the followingto some minister of the day: “I forgot,my dear Nigaud, to ask you what you have done for theAbbe de Bernis; write me word, I beg of you, as I shallsee him on Sunday.” Like Voltaire, Madamede Pompadour had the mania of nicknaming her friendsand acquaintances; even the king himself figured morethan once in her grotesque vocabulary.[B]

[Footnote B: She always called De Bernis herpigeon pattu (splay-footedpigeon—­onaccount of his large feet and his love-songs).Voltaire had previously nicknamed him Babet le bouquetiere,at first because the abbe always introduced flowersinto his poetry; afterward, on account of the resemblancehe bore to a flower girl who used to sell bouquetsat the doors of the Opera.]

Madame de Pompadour presented her dear poet to theking, with a smile which so charmed Louis XV. thathe offered De Bernis, in the first instance, an apartmentin the Tuileries, and a pension of 1500 livres a year;and so cleverly did the future cardinal play his cards,by insinuating himself into the good graces of boththe king and his mistress, that, after a sojourn oftwo years at the chateau, he was appointed ambassadorfrom the court of France at Venice.

But it would appear that the Queen of the Adriaticdid not suit the inclinations of our abbe; he sighedfor Versailles, and the petit* soupers of LouisXV. After a very short sojourn in Venice he demandedhis recall from Madame de Pompadour, and on his returncomposed an epistle to his fair protectress, the openinglines of which we give as a fair specimen of his powersof versification:—­

On avait dit que l’enfant do Cythere
Pres du Lignon avait perdu le jour;
Mais je l’ai vu dans le bois solitaire
Ou va rever la jeune Pompadour.
Il etait seul; le flambeau qui l’eclair
Ne brillait plus; mais les pres d’alentour
L’onde, les bois, tout annoncaitl’amour.

For the space of ten years the Abbe de Bernis wasthe shadow of Madame de Pompadour; he followed hereverywhere, sometimes even too far. Louis XV.would meet him in all parts of the palace, in the privateas well as the state apartments, which would makehim say sometimes,—­“Where are yougoing, Monsieur l’Abbe?” Our abbe wouldbow and smile, but say nothing. True to his characterof abbe, he would listen at all the doors, sayingthat the chateau of the Tuileries was for him but onehuge confessional. He ended, however, by knowingall things, and by sitting in council with the kingand his mistress; and a precious trio it must be ownedthey made.

But evil times were coming on our abbe. In theministry he was assailed by showers of chansonsand epigrams. The Count de Tressan, above all,overwhelmed him with a violent satire. He couldno longer hold his ground. Every one began togrow tired of him, even the fair president of thecouncil; this was the coup de grace. TheDuc de Choiseul, after replacing him in the good gracesof Madame de Pompadour, succeeded also to his portfolioas minister. As some compensation, however, theygave him the cardinal’s hat; a circ*mstancewhich elicited from some wit of the day the followingcouplet:—­

On dirait que Son Eminence
N’eut le chapeau de cardinal
Que pour tirer sa reverence.

Shortly afterward he was appointed Archbishop of Alby;but, according to custom, he never appeared in hisdiocese. In 1769 he departed for Rome, beingnominated ambassador at the conclave for the nominationof Clement XIV., that priest so gay, so gentle, andso witty, who has written that sad people are likeshrubs which never flower. Pope and cardinalunderstood each other admirably well. Our cardinalnever returned to France; he had found in Rome a secondfatherland, as sweet to his old ago as France hadbeen to his youth. He inhabited a magnificentpalace, which was for a length of time the hospitablerefuge for all French travelers. All had readywelcome, from the humble priest and poor artist tothe Princes and princesses of the blood royal.To use his own words,—­“He kept anauberge of France in a square of Europe.”He died in 1794, faithful to his God and to his king,and bitterly denouncing the French Revolution, whichhad despoiled him of his half million of francs perannum, and had swept disdainfully away all the prettyartificial flowers of his most artificial poetry.He died solitary and poor,—­a strong contrastto the style in which he had lived. But to return.

Madame d’Etioles passed in the eyes of the worldas a perfect model of a virtuous wife. She sworeeternal fidelity to her husband, unless Louis XV.should fall in love with her,—­a reservationher husband was the first to laugh at. At firstthis strange condition was spoken of as an excellentjoke in the house; from thence it spread abroad, andfinally reached Versailles. But the king, wishingto joke in return, contented himself by saving,—­“Ishould like very much to see this husband.”

M. d’Etioles possessed an abandoned chateauin the forest of Senart; Madame d’Etioles havinglearned that the king frequently hunted in the forest,persuaded her husband to have the chateau newly furnished,and put into a habitable state, alleging that thephysicians had recommended a change of air for hervapors. The husband, suspecting nothing, had thechateau re-furnished an decorated in the most superbstyle. Once installed in her new abode, Madamed’Etioles gave orders for the building of threeor four carriages of a most fairy-like lightness and

elegance of form, in which she might drive away hervapors. According to her expectations, she frequentlymet the king in the forest; at first Louis XV. passedher by without bestowing the slightest attention, eitheron her or her equipage: afterward he remarkedher or her equipage; afterward he remarked her horses,—­“Whata pretty phaeton!” said he, on meeting her forthe third time. At length he remarked the ladyherself, but it was merely to bestow a passing remarkupon her beauty.

Madame d’Etioles, however, was not to be repelled;she continued to pass before the eyes of the royalsportsman: “sometimes as a goddess fromOlympus, sometimes as an earthly queen; at one timeshe would appear in an azure robe seated in a rose-coloredphaeton, at another in a robe of rose color in a phaetonof pale blue."[C]

[Footnote C: Soulavie, Memoires Historiquesde la Cour de France pendant le faveur de Madame dePompadour.]

In after days, Madame de Pompadour recalling to mindall these follies—­serious though for her—­saidto the Prince de Soubise—­“I can imaginemyself reading a strange book; my life is an impossibleromance, I cannot believe in it.”

At Etioles, private theatricals were the fashion;Madame d’Etioles was the Clairon, the Camargo,and the Dangeville of the troop, which counted amongits members some of the most illustrious personagesof the day. Marshal de Richelieu, who was tobe found wherever gallantry flourished, was an assiduousand constant spectator at these reunions.Madame d’Etioles, it is said, endeavored onmore than one occasion to entice the king behind thescenes; but Louis, kept constantly in view by Madamede Chateauroux, never once left the royal box.

Two summers thus passed away without Madame d’Etiolesobtaining aught from the king save a cold and distantglance, or a passing word or two; and this, for awoman of her ambition, was not sufficient. Shereturned to Paris at the close of the summer season,determined to change once more her plan of attack.A good opening was now before her, for Madame de Chateaurouxwas dead, the throne of the favorite vacant; not anhour was to be lost, for, with Louis XV. who couldtell how soon a successor might be appointed?

The wished-for opportunity at length presented itself.In the month of December, 1744, a series of magnificentfetes were given at the Hotel de Ville; thewomen were masqued. In the course of the eveningMadame d’Etioles succeeded in approaching theking,—­

“Sire,” she said, “you must explainto me, if you please, a strange dream. I dreamtthat I was seated on a throne for an entire day; Ido not affirm that this throne was the throne of France,yet I dare assert that it was a throne of purple,of gold, and of diamonds: this dream tormentsme—­it is at once the joy and torment ofmy life. Sire, for mercy’s sake, interpretit for me.”

“The interpretation is very simple,” repliedthe king; “but, in the first place it is absolutelynecessary that that velvet masque should fall.”

“You have seen me.”

“Where?”

“In the forest of Senart.”

“Then,” said the king, “you candivine that we should like to see you again.”

About a month or two after this interview, accordingto some biographers, Madame d’Etioles, beingdetermined by a coup de main to attain hergrand object, namely, the securing a permanent footingat Versailles, arrived one morning at the palace ina state of violent agitation, and demanded an audienceof the king. One of the gentleman ushers, a certainM. de Bridge, who had been a guest at Etioles duringthe festivities of the preceding season, conductedher into the presence of Louis XV.

“Sire,” she exclaimed, “I am lost;my husband knows my glory and my misfortune.I come to demand a refuge at your hands. If youshelter me not from his anger he will kill me.”

From that hour she took up her residence at Versaillesto quit it no more.

We know that Louis XV. passed his life in a stateof constant lassitude and ennui, from whichit was almost impossible to arouse him; indolence,indeed, may be said to have been the predominant traitin his character: he hated politics and politicalmatters, and all allusions to state affairs were mostirksome to him.

“Your people suffer, sire,” said the Dukede Choiseul to him one day, after a long politicalharangue.

“Je m’ennuie!” replied theking.

By skillfully and constantly varying the amusem*ntsof her royal lover, with hunting-parties, promenades,fetes, spectacles, and petit* soupers, Madamed’Etioles was enabled to strengthen her empireover the heart of Louis XV., by making him feel hownecessary she had become to his happiness. Onestriking advantage she had over her predecessors, andthis was, the art she possessed of being able to metamorphoseherself at all hours of the day. No one couldbetter vary the play of her physiognomy than Madamede Pompadour. At one time she would appear languishingand sentimental as a madonna; at another, lively, gay,and coquettish, as a Spanish peasant girl. Shepossessed also, in a marvelous degree, the gift oftears: none knew better than she did when to weep,or how many tears it was necessary to shed. Asa poet of the time has said, “She wept withso much art that she was enabled to give to her tearsthe value of pearls.” Those who had seenher in the morning, superb, imperious, a queen inall the splendor of power, would find her in the evening,gay, whimsical, capricious, presiding over one of thesepetit* soupers with all the exuberant and madcapgayety of an actress after the theater. The AbbeSoulavie, who saw her often, has left us a well-studiedportrait of the favorite;—­

“In addition to the charms of a beautiful andanimated countenance, Madame de Pompadour possessedalso, in an eminent degree, the art of transformingher features; and each new combination, equally beautiful,was another result of the deep study she had made ofthe affinity between her mind and her physiognomy.Without in the least altering her position, her countenancewould become a perfect Proteus.”

With intuitive tact, Madame de Pompadour very quicklyperceived, that in order to amuse a king who tookneither interest nor pleasure in arts and letters,other and more material enjoyments were necessary.She commenced, then, by transforming herself intoan actress. The king was there like a weariedspectator of life; she felt, that in order to interestand enliven him, it was necessary to diversify frequentlyher character, and the spirit of her character.Twenty times a day would she change her dress, herappearance, and even her manner of walking and speaking;passing from gayety to gravity, from songs and smilesto love and sentiment. With syren-like voice,and a heart as light as the bird of the air, she wouldinvent a thousand graceful blandishments for the amusem*ntof her royal lover. Her beauty, which was marvelous,served her well in all these metamorphoses. Shedressed, too, with exquisite art. Among the manycostumes which she has invented, we may cite one whichmade quite a furore in its day, and this wasthe neglige a la Pompadour; a robe in the formof a Turkish vest, which designed with peculiar gracethe contour of the figure. She would frequentlypass entire mornings at her toilet in company withLouis XV., who would stand by giving his opinion andadvice respecting the different costumes she adopted.The king, however, grew tired at length of having butone comedian. In vain would she disguise herselfsometimes as a farm-girl, sometimes as a shepherdess;at one time as a peasant-girl, at another as a nun,in order to surprise him, or rather, to allow herselfto be surprised by him in some one or other of themany turnings and windings of the park of Versailles.The king had at first been charmed by the noveltyof the amusem*nt, but by degrees he discovered thatit was always one and the same woman under a thousanddifferent disguises.

Perceiving that the king began to grow tired of thisspecies of comedy, she had a theater constructed inthe medal-room of the palace, she herself nominatingthe actors and actresses whom she considered worthyof performing with her on a stage which was to havebut the king and a few favorite courtiers for audience.The Duc de Valliere was appointed stage-manager anddirector; for prompter they took an abbe, most probablythe Abbe de Bernis; the company consisted of the Ducd’Orleans, the Duc d’Agen, the Duc deNivernais, the Duc de Duras, the Comte de Maillebois,the Duc de Coigny, the Marquis d’Entraigues,the duch*esse de Brancas, the Comtesse d’Estrade,and Madame d’Angevilliers. The theater openedwith a piece de circonstance, by Dufresny thepoet, entitled Le Mariage fait et rompu, inallusion to the marriage of Madame de Pompadour withM. d’Etioles. The little troupe commencedwith comedy, but soon descended to opera and ballet.In song and dance, as well as in the representationof the passions, Madame de Pompadour was the onlyactress of real talent. In the characters ofpeasant-girls she was unsurpassed; but her chefd’oeuvre was the part of Collette in Rousseau’sDevin de Village, which she played with a naiveteand tenderness that won all hearts.

Nothing was more difficult than to gain admissionto this theater of dukes and duch*esses, the ticketsof admission for which were given by the king alone;and it must be said that Louis showed himself a muchmore rigorous janitor of his theater than he was ofhis palace: consequently it was no slight favorfor Voltaire, who had for a length of time aspiredto the pleasures of Versailles, to see his EnfantProdigue played on the boards of the court theater.Voltaire had, like all men the weakness of wishingto govern the state; intoxicated with literary successes,he now aspired to political honors. He hopedto become minister or ambassador through the favorof Madame de Pompadour; and with a little more tacthe might have become ambassador, minister, or evencardinal, had he wished it, but at the very momentwhen he fancied he had attained the object of hisambition, he lost it forever by writing the famouslines, commencing,—­

Pompadour, vous embellisez
La cour, le Parnasse, et Cythere.

These verses, as we know, provoked a little remonstrancefrom the queen and her daughters: all was lostfor Voltaire, despite the goodwill of Madame de Pompadour,who, for the rest, seeing that the cause was a badone, cared not to risk her own favor by imprudent attempts.Voltaire never pardoned the marchioness her lukewarmintercession; and like a true poet, revenged himselfby a succession of madrigals, chansons, and rhymes,without number,—­all leveled, though in aplayful way, at the head of the favorite.

Duclos and Rousseau were more severe. Duclos,fully impressed with the idea that he was a greathistorian, as impartial as he was passionless, judgedher harshly. He feared passing for a courtier,and he was unjust, She bad attempted to attach Rousseauto herself; but the proud Genevese Republican wroteher a letter which cut short all further negotiations.[D]She always esteemed him, however, in a high degree.One day, when Marshal de Mirepoix, in the course ofconversation, advised her not to trouble her headabout that owl, she replied,—­

“It is an owl, certainly, but it is Minerva’sowl.”

[Footnote D: Madame,—­I had fanciedfor a moment that it was through error that your messengerhad remitted me one hundred louis for copies whichare charged but twelve francs. He has undeceivedme. Permit me to undeceive you in my turn.My savings enable me at present to enjoy a revenueof about 540 livres, all deductions made. My workbrings me in annually a sum almost equal to this amount;I have then a considerable superfluity; I employ itto the best of my power, though I scarcely give anyalms. If, contrary to all appearances, age orinfirmities should some day incapacitate me from followingmy usual occupations, I have a friend.
J.J. ROUSSEAU
PARIS, August 18, 1762.]

Madame de Pompadour, with the design of still furtherstrengthening her power at court, conceived the ideaof calling in the powers of the Church to her aid.The Prince de Soubise, who was one of her most devotedcourtiers, took upon himself the task of procuringan indulgent Jesuit, who would consent to confessand absolve her from all the sins she had committedat court. Pere de Sacy, the priest alluded to,had, though a Jesuit, preserved in some sort the habitsand feelings of a man of the world; he could, whenit suited his purpose, be of his century, and wouldoccasionally laugh a little at the severities of hisorder. To him, then, the Prince do Soubise proceeded.At first he showed himself rather restive.

“Recollect,” said the prince to him, “fromthe confessional of the marchioness to the confessionalof the king there is but a step.”

Pere de Sacy could not resist the temptation of suchan attractive position; he went to the marchioness.Madame de Pompadour, proud of having for a confessora man who had been appointed Procureur-general ofthe Missions, received him most graciously. Shehad other reasons also for seeking to conciliate theJesuit—­her principal one was this:—­Upto this time the Jesuitical party that had risen againsther at Versailles, the queen, the dauphin, Pere Griffet,Cardinal de Luynes, the Bishop of Verdun, and M. deNicolai, had hoped to drive her from court as a miscreant.Now, once declared worthy of heaven by a Jesuit ofsuch high standing as Pere de Sacy, would she not becomein some sort inviolable and sacred? With thesedesigns, then, she put in force all her arts of seductionagainst her confessor; never did she display moregrace, wit, or beauty. Pere de Sacy, who allowedhimself to be taken captive unresistingly by the batteryof charms thus brought to bear upon him, visited herseven or eight times to speak of confession, without,however, coming to any conclusion upon the subject.As the good city of Paris had not at the moment anymatter of graver importance wherewith to occupy itsattention, it began to grow witty on the subject ofthis confession; a thousand chansons were composedupon the father confessor and his fair penitent.Piron arrived one evening at the Cafe Procope, exclaimingthat he had news from Versailles.

“Well,” inquired some one, “hasthe marchioness confessed?”

“No,” replied Piron; “Madame dePompadour cannot agree with Pere de Sacy as to thestyle of confession.”

The following day there was a great uproar among theJesuits; the procureur-general of the missions wassummoned before their Council of Ten, and was obligedto confess himself. He received a severe reprimandfrom the superior of the order, and, as the price ofhis absolution, was commanded to refuse his counselsto the marchioness, and to excuse himself in the bestmanner he could for his previous delay.

Pere de Sacy accordingly presented himself for thelast time before Madame de Pompadour, and the followingconversation took place:—­

“We cannot grant you, madame,” began theholy father, “the absolution you desire; yoursojourn at court far from your husband, the publicscandal relative to the favor which it is allegedthe king accords you, does not permit of your approachingthe holy table. The priest who would sanctionsuch a proceeding, in place of absolving you, wouldpronounce a double condemnation—­yours andhis own; whilst the public, accustomed to judge harshlythe conduct of the great, would confirm the sentencebeyond appeal. You have testified to me, madame,that you are desirous of fulfilling the duties ofa good Christian; but example is the first of theseduties, and in order to obtain and merit absolution,your first proceeding must be to return to M. d’Etioles,or at least quit the court and seek, by penitenceand charity, to repair the sins you have committedagainst that society whose laws you have outraged,and which, declares itself scandalized at your separation,from your husband.”

Madame de Pompadour heard these words with the calmnessand immobility of a statue; but as soon as the priesthad terminated she burst forth,—­

“Pere de Sacy,” she exclaimed, violently,“you are a fool, an impostor, a true Jesuit.Do you understand me? You have sought to enjoya triumph over me by witnessing the state of embarrassmentin which you imagined I was placed; you would gladly,you and yours, see me far from the king: but,poor short-sighted mortals that you are! Knowthat I am here as powerful as you imagine me weakand tottering; and in spite of you, in spite of allthe Jesuits in the world, I shall remain at court,whilst you and your pack will not only be banishedfrom court, but driven ignominiously out of the kingdom.”

From that hour the fall of the Jesuits was decreed.The holy fathers imagined that the marchioness, likeMadame de Chateauroux, was but the queen of a day;but they were mistaken. To do them justice, itmust be allowed they believed that nothing was tobe feared from such an enemy; for it is very certainthat had they seen the power of this woman, who hadall the firmness and decision of character of a man,or rather of a revengeful woman, they would, beyonda doubt, have permitted her to approach the holy table,or even have canonized her had she been desirous ofthe honor.

Madame de Pompadour was born with noble instincts;her bitterest enemies have never denied that she possessedthe most refined taste in all matters connected withthe arts or letters. She sought to make of LouisXV. an artist-king; and it must be said to her praisethat she ever strove to rouse him from his habitualindolence and lassitude by leading his inclinationsinto healthy channels. But, unfortunately, LouisXV., unlike his predecessor, could never understandthat great monuments often make the glory of kings.

The petit* soupers of Versailles would occasionallyshed a ray of sunshine, or rather lamp light, overLouis the Fifteenth’s habitual ennui. Aftersupper, chansons, sallies, and repartee, would be theorder of the night. Occasionally at these supper-partiessome brilliant things would be said. One evening,when some one sang a complaint upon the misfortunesof our first father Adam, the king improvised the followingcouplet worthy of the best chansons of Colle:—­

Il n’eut qu’une femme aveclui,
Encor c’etait la sienne;
Ici je vois celles d’autrui,
Et ne vois pas la mienne.

Louis XV. had, as we see, his moments of poeticalinspiration. Anacreon could not have sung betterthan this.

Madame de Pompadour, born in the ranks of the people,and seating herself unceremoniously on the throneof Blanche of Castille—­Madame de Pompadour,protecting philosophers and suppressing Jesuits, treatingthe great powers of the earth with the same sansfacon as she did artists and men of letters,—­wasone of the thousand causes, petty and, trifling inthemselves, which eventually accelerated the greatFrench Revolution. Madame Dubarry but imitatedher predecessor when she called a noble duke a sapajou(ape). The mot is pretty well known:“Annoncez le sapajou de Madame la ComtesseDubarry,” said a great lord of the courtof Louis XV. one day. It would be a curious andmost amusing task to enrich the French peerage withall the sobriquets bestowed by the mistressesof Louis XV. as titles of nobility upon the courtiersof Versailles. More than one illustrious name,which has been cited by France with pride, has lostit* luster in the tainted atmosphere of Versailles.

“Not only,” said Madame de Pompadour;one day to the Abbe de Bernis,—­“notonly have I all the nobility at my feet, but even mylap-dog is weary of their fawnings.” Inshort, Madame de Pompadour reigned so imperiously,that once at Versailles, about the conclusion of dinner,an old man approached the king, and begged him to havethe goodness to recommend him to Madame de Pompadour.All present laughed heartily at this conceit; except,however, the marchioness.

Madame de Maintenon had not more difficulty in amusingLouis XIV. when grown old and devout, than had Madamede Pompadour in diverting his successor, who, thoughstill young, seemed like a man who had exhausted allthe pleasures and enjoyments of life. About thetime when the marchioness used to transform herselfinto milkmaids and peasant girls, she commenced buildinga very romantic hermitage in the park of Versailles,on the outskirts of the wood near the Saint Germain’sroad: viewed from without it seemed a true hermitage,worthy in all points of an anchorite’s abode;but within it was a dwelling more suited to some oldroue of the Regency. Vanloo, Boucher, andLatour had covered the walls and ceilings with allthe images of pagan art. The garden was a chefd’oeuvre; it was a grove rather than a garden;a grove peopled with statues, intersected by a multitudeof winding paths and alleys, and abounding with anumber of arbors, recesses, and “shady blestretreats.” In the middle of the gardenthere was a farm—­a true model-farm—­withits cattle, goats, and sheep, and all the paraphernaliaof husbandry. The marchioness presided dailyat the construction of this hermitage.

“Where are you going, marchioness?” LouisXV. would say on seeing her going out so frequently.

“Sire,” she would reply, “I am buildingmyself a hermitage for my old age. You know Iam rather devout: I shall end my days in solitude.”

“Yes,” replied the king, “like allthose who have loved deeply, or who have been loveddeeply.”

About the time when spring gives place to the firstadvances of summer; when the trees were in leaf, andthe plants in flower; when the bright greensward,enameled with its countless flowrets, carpeted thealleys of the park, Madame de Pompadour one morningbegged Louis XV. to come and breakfast with her atthe hermitage.

The king was conducted thither by his valet.His surprise was great. At first, before entering,at the sight of the humble thatched roof, he imaginedthat he was about to breakfast like a true anchorite,and began to fear seriously that the marchioness hadnot displayed much taste in the adornment of her retreat.He entered the court and proceeded straight to thedoor of the hermitage. At this instant a youngpeasant girl advanced to meet him; as she was wellmade, delicate, and pretty looking, the king beganto find the hermitage more to his taste. Withdeep reverence his guide begged of him to follow herto the farm.

As he approached the farm, another peasant girl, moredelicate still than the former, advanced to meet him,and, with a thousand reverences, presented him witha bowl of milk. At the sight of this pretty milkmaid,with her little straw hat coquettishly disposed onone side of her head, her white corset and blue petticoat,the king was charmed. Before taking the milkfrom her hands, he gazed at her a second time fromhead to foot. Her arms, which were uncovered,were white as lilies; she wore suspended from herneck a little gold cross, which seemed to lose itselfin a magnificent bouquet of flowers which she worein her bosom; but what above all astonished the kingwere two little stockingless feet incased in a pairof the most rustic sabots. With a motionof innocent coquetry, the pretty milkmaid drew oneof her feet out of its wooden prison and placed iton the sabot. All at once the king recognizedthe marchioness, and avowed to her that for the firsttime in his life he had felt the desire of kissinga pretty foot. Madame de Pompadour returned withher royal lover to the hermitage, where he could notsufficiently admire the refined taste which had beendisplayed by the fair architect in the planning andarrangement of the building and grounds. Thiswas the origin of what was afterward known as thenotorious Parc-aux-cerfs.

It would be a difficult matter to study the politicalsystem of Madame de Pompadour, if, indeed, she canbe said to have acted on a system. It cannotbe denied that she possessed ideas, but more frequentlyher mind was a perfect chaos of caprices. Itis well known, however, that the Duc de Choiseul,who united in his own person the portfolios of threedepartments of the ministry, and who disposed of allpower, followed to the letter the policy of Madamede Pompadour; namely, in reversing the system of LouisXIV., in allying himself to Austria, and in forminga league, or rather a family pact, between the Bourbonsof France, Italy, and Spain. The policy of Madamede Pompadour it was which annexed Corsica to France,and, consequently, Bonaparte, who was born at the deceaseof the marchioness, owed to her his title of Frenchcitizen.

Women look not to the future; their reign is fromday to day; women of genius, who have at various epochssought to govern the world, have never contemplatedthe clouds which might be gathering in the distance;they have been able to see clearly enough within anarrow circle traced around them, but have never succeededin piercing the shadows of futurity. “Apresmoi le deluge,” was Madame de Pompadour’smotto.

The eighteenth century was a century of striking contrasts.The prime minister after Cardinal de Fleury was Madamede Pompadour. With the cardinal a blind religionprotected the throne against the parliament; withthe rise of the marchioness’s power we perceivethe first dawnings of philosophy, tormenting in turnsboth the clergy and the parliament. Under Madamede Pompadour’s direction the king, had he beenonly as bold and determined as his mistress, wouldhave become a greater king than ever. The cardinalwas miserly and avaricious, the marchioness liberalto prodigality; she always said, and justly too, thatmoney ought to flow freely from the throne like agenerous stream, fertilizing and humanizing the entireState. The cardinal had been hostile to Austria,and favorable to Prussia; the marchioness made warwith Frederick to humor Marie-Therese. The battleof Rosbach certainly belied her policy, but, to useher own words, “Had she the privilege of makingheroes?”

And after all, is the historian justified in accusingthis woman of all the dishonors and defeats of thereign of Louis XV.? She attained to power justas the old legitimate royalty—­the royalty,as the French would call it, par la grace de Dieu—­wasfast giving way before the royalty of opinion.There was nothing left to be done at Versailles, simplybecause in Paris the power was already in the handsof Voltaire, Montesquieu, Rousseau, and Diderot.And so well did Madame de Pompadour comprehend thisfuture royalty, that far from seeking to arrest itsprogress, she, on the contrary, sought to meet it halfway. For we do not find her openly protectingand encouraging the philosophers of the day; those

very men who, by the mere force of ideas, were destinedto overthrow that throne on which she herself wasseated! Thus we find also the various paintersof the time, in their several portraits of the favorite,never failing to represent her surrounded with allthe more celebrated revolutionary books of the day,such as the Encyclopaedia, the PhilosophicalDictionary, the Spirit of Laws, and theSocial Contract.

Madame de Pompadour, woman-like, loved revenge; andthis, it must be said, was her worst vice. Fora word she sent Latude to the Bastille; for a coupletshe exiled the minister Maurepas. Frederick ofPrussia took it into his head one day, in a momentof gayety, to call her Cotillon II., instead of Madamela Marquise de Pompadour, and styled her reign of favorle regne de Cotillon; a witticism which so incensedher, that, according to some writers, we may traceto this petty cause the origin of the disastrous sevenyears’ war.

The position of Madame de Pompadour at court as firstfavorite was, by all accounts, far from being an enviableone; as years rolled on she found herself necessitatedto stoop to all kinds of meannesses, and to endureall sorts of humiliations, to preserve her alreadytottering empire. In order to make friends forherself in the parliament, she suppressed the Jesuits;and she afterward exiled the parliament in order toconciliate the clergy. Again, to prevent her royal,but most fickle minded lover, from choosing anothermistress out of the ranks of the court ladies, shecontrived that seraglio, the notorious Parc-aux-cerfs,“the pillow of Louis the Fifteenth’s debaucheries,”as Chateaubriand called it; at the last, hated anddespised by all France, Madame de Pompadour said toLouis XV., “For mercy’s sake, keep me nearyou: I protect you; I take upon myself all thehatred of France; evil times are come for kings; sosoon as I am gone, all the insults which are now leveledat Madame de Pompadour will be addressed to the king.”

Among the many desperate attempts which were madefrom time to time to dethrone her, the following isthe most curious:—­

M. d’Argenson and Madame d’Estrade hadresolved upon raising to the throne of the favoritethe young and beautiful Madame de Choiseul, wife ofthe court usher. The intrigue was conducted withso much art that the king granted an interview.At the hour fixed upon for the meeting a great agitationreigned in the cabinet of the minister. M. d’Argensonand Madame d’Estrade awaited the event withanxiety; Quesnai, physician to the king and to thefavorite, was also present. All at once Madamede Choiseul rushed into the room; Madame d’Estraderan to meet her with open arms.

“Well!” she exclaimed.

“Yes,” replied Madame de Choiseul; “Iam loved; she is going to be dismissed.He has given me his royal word on it.”

A burst of joy resounded through the cabinet.Quesnai was, as we know, the friend of Madame de Pompadour;but he was at the same time the friend of Madame d’Estrade.M. d’Argenson imagined that in this revolutionhe would remain neuter at least, but he was mistaken.

“Doctor,” said he, “nothing changesfor you; we trust that you will remain with us.”

“Monsieur le Comte,” coldly replied Quesnai,rising from his seat, “I have been attachedto Madame de Pompadour in her prosperity, and I shallremain so in her disgrace;” and so saying heleft the room.

This Quesnai, of whom we have just made mention, wasa man of uncouth and rustic manners, a true Danubianpeasant. He inhabited a little entresolabove the apartments of Madame de Pompadour at Versailles,where he would pass the whole of his time absorbedin schemes of political economy. Quesnai, however,did not want for friends, as he could boast of theesteem of all the most illustrious philosophers ofthe day. For those persons who did not go tocourt would come once a month to dine with the courtphysician. Marmontel, in his Memoirs, relatesthat he has dined there in company with Diderot, D’Alembert,Duclos, Helvetius, Turgot, and Buffon,—­agoodly array of intellect. Thus on the groundfloor they deliberated on peace and war, on the choiceof ministers, the suppression of the Jesuits, theexile of the parliament, and the future destinies ofFrance; while above stairs those who had not power,but who possessed ideas, labored unwittingly at thefuture destinies of the world. What was concoctedin the rez-de-chaussee was demolished in theentresol. It would frequently happen,too, that Madame de Pompadour who could not receivethe guests of Quesnai in her own apartments, wouldascend to those of her physician to see and chat withthem.

Every Sunday morning Madame de Pompadour receivedat her toilet all the artists, literary men, and greatpersonages of the court, who had the entreeof her apartments. Marmontel relates that on thearrival of Duclos and De Bernis, who never misseda single Sunday, she would say to the first, witha light air, “Bon jour, Duclos;”to the second, with an air and voice more amiable,“Bon jour, abbe:” accompanyingher words occasionally with a little tap on his cheek.Artists and men of letters were invariably betterreceived than the titled courtiers of France; whilemany of the nobility were truly lords-in-waiting, thetwo Vanloos, De la Tour, Boucher, and Cochin, hadnever to remain in the antechamber. The accountof her first and only interview with Crebillon isinteresting. Some one had informed her that theold tragic poet was living in the Marais, surroundedby his cats and dogs, in a state of poverty and neglect.“What say you!” she exclaimed; “inpoverty and neglect?” She ran to seek the king,and asked for a pension for the poet of one hundredlouis a-year from her privy purse. When Crebilloncame to Versailles to thank her, she was in bed.“Let him come in,” she exclaimed, “thatI may see the gray-headed genius.” At thesight of the fine old man—­Crebillon wasthen eighty years of age—­so poor and yetso proud, she was affected to tears. She receivedhim with so touching a grace that the old poet wasdeeply moved. As he leaned over the bed to kissher hand, the king appeared. “Ah, madame,”exclaimed Crebillon, “the king has surprisedus! I am lost!” This sally amused LouisXV. vastly; Crebillon’s success was decided.

Madame de Pompadour passed her last days in a stateof deep dejection. As she was now in the declineboth of her favor and of her reign, she no longerhad friends; even the king himself, though still submittingto her guidance, loved her no more. The Jesuits,too, whom she had driven from court, overwhelmed herwith letters, in which they strove to depict to herthe terrors of everlasting punishment.[E] Every hourthat struck seemed to toll for her the death-knellof all her hopes and joys. On her first appearanceat court, proud of her youth, her beauty, and herbrilliant complexion, she had proscribed rouge andpatches, saying that life was not a masked ball.She had now reached that sad period of life when shewould be compelled to choose between rouge or the firstwrinkles of incipient old age. “I shallnever survive it,” she used to say, mournfully,

[Footnote E: The fear of losing her power, andof becoming once more a bourgeoise of Paris,perpetually tormented her. After she had succeededin suppressing the Jesuits, she fancied she beheldin each monk of the order as assassin and a poisoner.—­Memoireshistoriques de la Cour de France.]

One night, during the year 1760, she was seized witha violent trembling, and sitting up in bed, calledMadame du Hausset.

“I am sure,” she said, “I am goingto die. Madame de Vintimille and Madame de Chateaurouxboth died as young as myself: it is a speciesof fatality which strikes all those who have lovedthe king. What I regret least is life,—­Iam weary of flatteries and insults, of friendshipsand hatreds; but I own to you that I am terrifiedat the idea of being cast into some ditch or other,whether it be by the clergy, by Monseigneur the Dauphin,or by the people of Paris.”

Madame du Hausset took her hands within her own, andassured her that if France had the misfortune to loseher, the king would not fail to give her a burialworthy of her rank and station.

“Alas!” rejoined Madame de Pompadour,“a burial worthy of me!—­when we recollectthat Madame de Mailly, repenting of having been hisfirst mistress, desired to be interred in the cemeteryof the Innocents; and not only that, but even underthe common water-pipe.”

She passed the night in tears. On the followingmorning, however, she resumed a little courage, andhastened to call to her aid all the resources of artto conceal the first ravages of time; but in vain didshe seek to recover that adorable smile which twentyyears before had made Louis XV. forget that he wasKing of France.

From this time forth she showed herself in Paris nomore; and at court she would only appear by candle-light,and then in the apparel of a Queen of Golconda, crownedwith diamonds, her arms covered with bracelets, andwearing a magnificent Indian robe, embroidered withgold and silver. She was always the beautifulMarchioness de Pompadour, but a closer inspectionwould show that the lovely face of former days wasnow but a made-up face, still charming, but like arestored painting, showing evident symptoms of havingbeen here and there effaced and retouched. Itwas in the mouth that she first lost her beauty.She had in early life acquired the habit of bitingher lips to conceal her emotions, and at thirty yearsof age her mouth had lost all its vivid brilliancyof color.

Some persons have stated that Madame de Pompadourdied from the effects of poison, administered eitherby the Jesuits, who never ceased persecuting her withanonymous letters, or by her enemies at Versailles;but this story is not deserving of credit. Mostpersons are agreed that Madame de Pompadour died simplybecause she was five and forty years of age; and owingas she did all her power but to the charm of her beauty,its loss she was unable to survive. She sufferedfor a length of time in silence, hiding ever undera pallid smile the death she already felt in her heart.At length she took to her bed—­that bed fromwhich she was fated to rise no more. She wasthen at the Chateau of Choisy; neither the king norhis courtiers imagined that her disease was serious,but she herself well knew that her hour was come.She entreated the king to have her removed to Versailles;she wished to die upon the throne of her glory—­todie as a queen in the royal palace, still issuing herorders to the troop of servile courtiers who wereaccustomed to wait humbly at her footstool.

Like Diana de Poitiers, Gabrielle d’Estrees,and Madame de Maintenon, she died in April. Thecure of the Madeleine was present during her lastmoments. As the old man was preparing to retire,after giving her the benediction, she rallied fora moment, for she was then almost dead, and said tohim, “Wait a bit, Monsieur le Cure, we will gotogether.” These were her last words.

Up to this time the king had testified at least thesemblance of friendship and gratitude toward Madamede Pompadour, but no sooner had she breathed her lastthan he began to consider how he could, in the speediestmanner possible, get rid of her mortal remains.He gave immediate orders for the removal of the bodyto her house in Paris. As the conveyance wasabout to start, the king, who was standing at one ofthe windows of the Chateau, seeing a violent hailstormbreaking over Versailles, said, with a smile, halfsad, half ironical, “The marchioness will havebad weather for her journey!”

That same day Madame de Pompadour’s will wasopened in his presence. Although she had longsince been far from his heart, he could not restraina tear at the reading of the document.

The marchioness, in her will, had forgotten none ofher friends, nor any of her servants; the king himselfwas named. “I entreat the king,” shewrote, “to accept the gift I make him of my hotelin Paris, in order that it may become the palace ofone of his children: it is my desire that itmay become the residence of Monseigneur le Comte deProvence.” This hotel of Madame de Pompadourhas since then been inhabited by illustrious hosts,for it is better known at the present day under thedesignation of the Elysee Bourbon, or rather the ElyseeNational.

Madame de Pompadour had several residences: shehad received from the king an hotel at Paris and oneat Fontainebleau; the estate of Crecy, the chateauof Aulnay, Brimborion sur Bellevue, the seignioriesof Marigny and of Saint-Remy; an hotel at Compiegne,and one at Versailles; without counting the millionsof francs in money bestowed at various times in additionto her regular income, for they never counted francsat Verseilles then.[F] For all this, we find LouisXV. giving the Marquis de Marigny, her brother, anorder for two hundred and thirty thousand francs,to assist him in paying the debts of the marchioness.(Journal of Louis XV., published at the trialof Louis XVI.)

[Footnote F: Except Louis XV., who, it is said,used to amuse himself by making a private treasury.When he lost at play, he used always to pay out ofthe royal treasury.]

The marchioness was interred in a vault of the churchof the Capuchins; by dint of interest and money herfamily had obtained the privilege of having a funeraloration pronounced over her mortal remains. Thisoration was a chef d’oeuvre, which oughtmost certainly to have been preserved for the honorof the Church. Unfortunately, this curious andmost remarkable piece of eloquence was never printed,and history has inscribed but a few lines in its annals.When the priest approached the bier, he sprinkledthe holy water, made the sign of the cross, and commencedhis discourse in the following terms:—­“Ireceive the body of the most high and powerful lady,Madame le Marquise de Pompadour, maid of honour tothe queen. She was in the school of all virtues,”&c. The remainder of this most edifying discourseis lost in oblivion, but surely the force of humbugcould no further go.

Montesquieu’s prediction concerning two remarkablepersonages of the eighteenth century (Voltaire andMadame de Pompadour) is curious,—­curiousalike for its truth, and for the knowledge of the worlddisplayed by it.

One day, while on a visit to Ferney, Montesquieu beingalone in Voltaire’s magnificent saloon, whichopened on the Lake of Geneva, was surprised by MarshalRichelieu (who had come over from Lyons to see howVoltaire would play in the Orphan of China)standing in deep thought before a pair of portraitswhich hung upon the wall.

“Well, Monsieur le President,” said he,“you are studying, I perceive, Wit and Beauty.”

“Wit and Beauty, Marshal!” replied Montesquieu;“you see before you the portraits of a man anda woman who will be the representatives of our century.”

And has not this prediction of Montesquieu’sbeen in some sort fulfilled?—­Historianshave styled the seventeenth century the century ofLouis XIV. Could not the eighteenth be with morejustice designated the century of Voltaire and Madamede Pompadour? For if these two characters becarefully studied, the entire spirit of the age willin them be found faithfully depicted.

But, O vanity of vanities! Madame de Pompadour,with all her wit, and grace, and beauty, after havingstrutted and fretted her little hour on life’sfitful stage, has vanished from the theater of theworld into utter oblivion, leaving, literally speaking,scarcely a trace behind. In the words of Diderotwe may ask, “What now remains of this woman,the dispenser of millions, who overthrew the entirepolitical system of Europe, and left her country dishonored,powerless, and impoverished, both in mind and resources?The Treaty of Versailles, which will last as longas it can; a statue by Bouchardon, which will be alwaysadmired; a few stones engraved by Gay, which willastonish a future generation of antiquarians; a prettylittle picture by Vanloo; and a handful of ashes.”

* * * * *

From Eliza Cook’s Journal.

THE CHURCH OF THE VASA D’AGUA.

One very hot evening, in the year 1815, the curateof San Pedro, a village distant but a few leaguesfrom Seville, returned very much fatigued to his poorhome; his worthy housekeeper, Senora Margarita, aboutseventy years of age, awaited him. However muchany one might have been accustomed to distress andprivation among the Spanish peasantry, it was impossiblenot to be struck with the evidence of poverty in thehouse of the good priest. The nakedness of thewalls, and scantiness of the furniture, were the moreapparent, from a certain air about them of betterdays. Senora Margarita had just prepared for hermaster’s supper an olla podrida, which notwithstandingthe sauce, and high sounding name, was nothing morethan the remains of his dinner, which she had disguisedwith the greatest skill. The curate, gratifiedat the odor of this savory dish, exclaimed,—­

“Thank God, Margarita, for this dainty dish.By San Pedro, friend, you may well bless your starsto find such a supper in the house of your host.”

At the word host, Margarita raised her eyes, and behelda stranger who Accompanied her master. The faceof the old dame assumed suddenly an expression ofwrath and disappointment; her angry glances fell onthe new comer, and again on her master, who lookeddown, and said with the timidity of a child who dreadsthe remonstrance of his parent:—­

“Peace, Margarita, where there is enough, fortwo, there is always enough for three, and you wouldnot have wished me to leave a Christian to starve?he has not eaten for three days.”

“Santa Maria! he a Christian, he looks morelike a robber,” and muttering to herself, thehousekeeper left the room. During this parley,the stranger remained motionless at the thresholdof the door; he was tall, with long black hair, andflashing eyes, his clothes were in tatters, and thelong rifle which he carried excited distrust ratherthan favor.

“Must I go away?” he inquired.

The curate replied, with an emphatic gesture, “nevershall he, whom I shelter, be driven away, or madeunwelcome: but sit down, put aside your gun,let us say grace, and to our repast.”

“I never quit my weapon; as the proverb says,two friends are one, my rifle is my best friend; Ishall keep it between my knees. Though you maynot send me from your house till it suits me, thereare others who would make me leave theirs againstmy will, and perhaps head-foremost. Now to yourhealth, let us eat.” The curate himself,although a man of good appetite, was amazed at thevoracity of the stranger, who seemed to bolt ratherthan eat almost the whole of the dish, besides drinkingthe whole flask of wine, and leaving none for hishost, or scarcely a morsel of the enormous loaf whichoccupied a corner of the table. Whilst he waseating so voraciously, he started at the slightestnoise; if a gust of wind suddenly closed the door,he sprang up and leveling his rifle, seemed determinedto repel intrusion; having recovered from his alarm,he again sat down, and went on with his repast.“Now,” said he, speaking with his mouthfull, “I must tax your kindness to the utmost.I am wounded in the thigh, and eight days have passedwithout its being dressed. Give me a few bitsof linen, then you shall be rid of me.”

“I do not wish to rid myself of you,”replied the curate, interested in his guest in spiteof his threatening demeanor, by his strange excitingconversation. “I am somewhat of a doctor;you will not have the awkwardness of a country barber,or dirty bandages to complain of, you shall see.”so speaking, he drew forth, from a closet a bundlecontaining all things needed, and turning up his sleeves,prepared himself to discharge the duty of a surgeon.

The wound was deep, a ball had passed through thestranger’s thigh, who, to be able to walk, musthave exerted a strength and courage more than human.“You will not be able to proceed on your journeyto-day,” said the curate, probing the woundwith the satisfaction of an amateur artist. “Youmust remain here to-night; good rest will restore yourhealth and abate the inflammation, and the swellingwill go down.”

“I must depart to-day, at this very hour,”replied the stranger, with a mournful sigh. “Thereare some who wait for me, others who seek me,”he added with a ferocious smile. “Come,let us see, have you done your dressing? Good:here am I light and easy, as if I never had been wounded.Give me a loaf—­take this piece of gold inpayment for your hospitality, and farewell.”The curate refused the tendered gold with emphasis.“As you please, pardon me—­farewell.”So saying, the stranger departed, taking with himthe loaf which Margarita had so unwillingly broughtat her master’s order. Soon his tall figuredisappeared in the foliage of the wood about the village.

An hour later, the report of fire-arms was heard.The stranger reappeared, bleeding, and wounded inthe breast. He was ghastly, as if dying.

“Here,” said he, presenting to the oldpriest some pieces of gold. “My children—­inthe ravine—­in the wood—­near thelittle brook.”

He fell, just as half a dozen soldiers rushed in,arms in hand; they met with no resistance from thewounded man, whom they closely bound, and, after sometime, allowed the priest to dress his wound; but inspite of all his remarks on the danger of moving aman so severely wounded, they placed him on a cart.

“Basta,” said they, “he can butdie. He is the great robber, Don Jose della Ribera.”Jose thanked the good priest, by a motion of his head,then asked for a glass of water, and as the prieststooped to put it to his lips, he faintly said, “Youremember.”

The curate replied with a nod, and when the troophad departed, in spite of the remonstrances of Margarita,who represented to him the danger of going out inthe night, and the inutility of such a step, he quicklycrossed the wood toward the ravine, and there foundthe dead body of a woman, killed, no doubt, by somestray shot from the guards. A baby lay at herbreast, by her side a little boy of about four yearsold, who was endeavoring to wake her, pulling herby the sleeve, thinking she had fallen asleep, andcalling her mamma. One may judge of Margarita’ssurprise when the curate returned with two childrenon his arms.

“Santa Madre! What can this mean!What will you do in the night? We have not evensufficient food for ourselves, and yet you bring twochildren. I must go and beg from door to door,for them and ourselves. And who are these children?The sons of a bandit—­a gipsy; and worse,perhaps. Have they ever been baptized?”

At this moment, the infant uttered a plaintive cry:“What will you do to feed this baby? we cannotafford a nurse; we must use the bottle, and you haveno idea of the wretched nights we shall have with him.”

“You will sleep in spite of all,” repliedthe good curate.

“O! santa Maria, he cannot be more than sixmonths old! Happily I have a little milk here,I must warm it,” and forgetting her anger, Margaritatook the infant from the priest, kissed it, and soothedit to rest. She knelt before the fire, stirredthe embers to heat the milk quicker, and when thislittle one had had enough, she put him to sleep, andthe other had his turn. Whilst Margarita gavehim some supper, undressed him, and made him a bedfor the night, of the priest’s cloak, the goodold man related to her how he had found the children;in what manner they had been bequeathed to him.

“O! that is fine and good,” said Margarita,“but how can they and we be fed?”

The curate took the Bible, and read aloud—­

“Whosoever shall give, even a cup of cold water,to one of the least, being a disciple; verily I sayunto you, he shall not lose his reward.”

“Amen,” responded the housekeeper.

The next day, the good father ordered the burial ofthe poor woman, and he himself read the service overher grave.

Twelve years from this time, the curate of San-Pedro,then seventy years of age, was warming himself inthe sun, in front of his house. It was winter,and there had been no sunshine for two days.

Beside him stood a boy, ten or twelve years old, readingaloud the daily prayers, and from time to time castinga look of envy on a youth of about sixteen, tall,handsome, and muscular, who labored in the gardenadjoining that of the priest. Margarita, beingnow blind, was listening attentively, when the youngestboy exclaimed, “O! what a beautiful coach,”as a splendid equipage drove up near the door.

A domestic, richly dressed, dismounted, and askedthe old priest to give him a glass of water for hismaster.

“Carlos,” said the priest to the youngerboy, “give this nobleman a glass of water, andadd to it a glass of wine, if he will accept it.Be quick!”

The gentleman alighted from the coach. He seemedabout fifty.

“Are the children your nephews?” inquiredhe.

“Much better,” said the priest, “theyare mine by adoption, be it understood.”

“How so?”

“I shall tell you, for I can refuse nothingto such a gentleman; for poor and inexperienced inthe world as I am, I need good advice, how best toprovide for these two boys.”

“Make ensigns of them in the king’s guards,and in order to keep up a suitable appearance, hemust allow them a pension of six thousand ducats.”

“I ask your advice, my lord, not mockery.”

“Then you must have your church rebuilt, andby the side of it, a pretty parsonage house, withhandsome iron railings to inclose the whole. Whenthis work will be complete, it shall be called thechurch of the Vasa d’Agua, (Glass ofWater.) Here is the plan of it, will it suit you?”

“What can this mean?”

“What vague remembrance is mine; these features—­thisvoice mean that I am Don Jose della Ribera. Twelveyears ago, I was the brigand Jose. I escapedfrom prison, and the times have changed; from the chiefof robbers, I have become the chief of a party.You befriended me. You have been a father tomy children. Let them come to embrace me—­letthem come,” and he opened his arms to receivethem. They fell on his bosom.

When he had long pressed them, and kissed them byturns, with tears, and half-uttered expressions ofgratitude, he held out his hand to the old priest—­

“Well, my father, will you not accept the church?”

The curate, greatly moved, turned to Margarita, andsaid: “Whosoever shall give even a cupof cold water unto one of the least, being my disciple;verily I say to you, he shall not lose his reward.”

“Amen,” responded the old dame, who weptfor joy at the happiness of her master, and his childrenby adoption, at whose departure she also grieved.

Twelve months afterward, Don Jose della Ribera andhis two sons attended at the consecration of the churchof San Pedro, one of the prettiest churches in theenvirons of Seville.

* * * * *

SONG—­BY MISS JEWSBURY.

There once was a brave cavalier,
Commanded by Cupid to bow;
And his mistress, though lovely, I hear
Had a very Sultana-like brow;
In battles and sieges he fought
With many a Saracen Nero,
Till back to his mistress he brought
The fame and the heart ofa hero:
But when he presumed to demand
The hero’s reward inall story,
His mistress, in accents most bland—­
Desired him to gather moreglory
PoorCamille!

So back went the young cavalier,
(Where dwells such obedience now?)
And he wove amid pennant and spear,
A wreath for that fair cruel brow;
How crimson the roses he sent,
But not with the summer sun’s glow;
’Twas the crimson of battle—­andlent
By a brave heart forever laid low!
Now if such a lover I knew,
And if I might be his adviser,
I would bid him be tender and true,
But certainly bid him be wiser.
Poor Camille!

* * * * *

FROM PETRARCH.

Weeping for all my long lost years,I go,
And for that love which to this world confined
A spirit whose strong flight, for heaven designed,
No mean example might one man bestow.
Thou, who didst view my wonderings and my woe,
Great King of heaven! unseen, immortal mind!
Succor this weary being, frail and blind;
And may thy grace o’er all my failings flow!
Then, though my life through warring tempests passed;
My death may tranquilly and slowly come;
And my calm soul may flee in peace at last:
While o’er that space which shuts me fromthe tomb,
And on my death-bed, be thy blessing cast—­
From Thee, in trembling hope, I wait my doom.

* * * * *

[From Bentley’s Miscellany]

THE FEMALE WRECKER; AND THE HOUSE OF MYSTERY.

A BRACE OF GHOST STORIES.

BY THE AUTHOR OF “THE EXPERIENCES OF A GAOLCHAPLAIN.”

It was a glorious summer’s evening in July.The sun, robed in a thousand hues of gorgeous brilliancy,was setting behind the noble hill which towers overthe little hamlet of Shaldon; light pleasure-skiffs,with tiny sail, were dotted over the bay;[A] the ebbtide was gently laving the hissing strand; and atintervals, wafted by the breeze, came from some merryparty afloat, a ringing, joyous laugh, or some slightsnatch of song. It was an evening which breathedserenity and repose.

[Footnote A: Teignmouth, Devon.]

Seated on one of the benches which skirt that pleasantpromenade[B] were two feeble-looking men, with whomthe summer of life had apparently passed. Theyconversed slowly and at intervals. That the themeinterested both was clear from the earnest tone ofthe one, and the attention rendered by the other.It was connected too in some way with the sea:for, from time to time, the speaker paused and eyedwistfully the slumbering monster at his feet; andmore than once the ejacul*tion was audible—­“thesecret is buried there!”

[Footnote B: The Denne.]

“And you believe this?” said the listener,half incredulously, half respectfully, when his elderlycompanion ceased.

“I do—­firmly.”

The other smiled, and then continued in a lower tone—­

“All delusion! the result of a heated fancy—­alldelusion from beginning to end!”

“What is delusion?” said a tall military-lookingfigure, striding up and joining the group. “Weall have, at one period or other of our lives, tobattle with delusion and succumb to it. Now. sir,”turning to the elder gentleman (his name was Ancelot)and making a courteous bow—­“pray favorme with your case and symptoms.”

The party addressed looked nettled, and replied—­

“Mine was no delusion; it was a stern and solemnreality.”

“Well, give it what name you please,”returned his companion, “only let Major Newburghhear the tale as you narrated it to me.”

“To be again discredited? Excuse me, Trevor,no.”

“Oh! but,” interposed the major, “I’mof a very confiding disposition. I believe everythingand every body. The more extraordinary the narrative,the more faith am I inclined to place in it. Trevor,there, as we all know,” added he, laughingly,“has a twist. He’s a ‘totalabstinence’ man—­a homeopathic man—­aBenthamite, and secretly favors Mesmerism. Withsuch abounding faith upon some points, we will allowhim to be somewhat skeptical upon others. Come,your narrative.”

“At the sober age of two-and-forty, a periodwhen the season of delusion is pretty well over,”said Mr. Ancelot, pointedly, “I found myselfin charge of a notorious fishing-village on the coastof Lincolnshire. It was famous, or rather infamous,for the smuggling carried on in its creeks, and forthe vigilant and relentless wreckers which it numberedin its hovels. ‘Rough materials!’said the bishop, Dr. Prettyman, when I waited uponhim to be licensed to the curacy—­rough materialsto work upon; but by care and diligence, Mr. Ancelot,wondrous changes may be effected. Your predecessor,a feeble-minded man, gave but a sorry account of yourflock; but under your auspices, I hope they will becomea church-going and a church-loving people! Makethem churchmen—­you understand me?Make them churchmen!’... Heaven help me!They needed first to be made honest and temperate—­tobe humanized and Christianized! ‘Church-lovingand church-going!’ The chaplaincy of Newgateis not, perhaps, a sinecure; that of the Model Prisonat Pentonville has, probably, its hours of toil; andthat attached to Horsemonger Lane is not entirelya bed of roses; but if you wish to wear a man’sheart and soul out; to depress his spirits and prostratehis energies—­if you would make him longto exchange his lot with the day-laborer who whistlesat the plow,—­station him as a curate, farapart from his fellows, in a village made up of prize-fighters,smugglers, and wreckers!” To my lonely cure,

with a heavy heart, I went; and by a most recklessand rebellious crew I speedily found myself surrounded—­acrew which defied control. Intoxicating liquorsof all kinds abounded. The meanest hovel smeltof spirits. Nor was there any want of contrabandtobacco. Foreign luxuries, in a word, were rifeamong them. And yet they were always in want—­alwayscraving from their clergyman temporal aid—­inhis spiritual capacity they were slow to trouble him;had ever on their lips the entreaty ‘give’—­’give;’and always protested that they ’were come totheir furthest, and had not a shilling in the worldto help themselves withal.’

“For recklessness, drunkenness, and midnightbrawls, all England could not match that parish.

“To the general and prevailing aspect of poverty,there was one, and that a marked exception. Itpresented itself in the person of Abigail Lassiter—­awidow—­who was reputed to be wealthy, andwith whose means, unscrupulously acquired, a taleof murder was strangely blended. Abigail’shusband had been a smuggler, and she herself was adaring and keen-eyed wrecker. For a season boththrove. He had escaped detection in many a heavyrun of contraband goods; and she had come in for manya valuable ‘waif and stray’ which thereceding waters left upon the slimy strand. Itwas, however, her last venture, which, in her neighbors’language, had made her. Made her, indeed,independent of her fellows, but a murderer beforeher God!... About day-break in a thick mistymorning in April, a vessel, heavily laden, was seento ground on ’The Jibber Sand;’ and afterstriking heavily for some hours, suddenly to partasunder. The sea was so rough, and the wind sohigh, that no help could be rendered from the shore.Midday drew on—­came—­passed, andthe villagers assembled on the heights (their eyesfixed the while on the devoted vessel like vultureswatching for their prey) had at length the satisfactionof seeing the laboring bark yield to the war of theelements, and her timbers float, piecemeal, over thewaters.

“But nothing of any consequence came ashore.A stray spar or two, a hen-coop, two or three emptybarrels, a child’s light straw hat, and a sailor’scap—­these were all.

“The gale held: the wind blew off shore,and at nightfall the wrecking-party, hungry, weary,and out of humor, retired to their cabins. Aboutan hour after midnight heavy rain fell; the wind shifted,and blew inshore. With the first appearance ofdawn, Abigail’s cottage door was seen slowlyto unclose, and she herself to emerge from it, andstealthily creep down to the shore. Once there,a steep sea-wall—­thrown up to protect theadjoining lowlands from inundation—­screenedher from observation. She was absent about anhour, returned apparently empty-handed, reenteredher cottage, nor passed its threshold again duringthe remainder of the day.

“But that was a memorable day for the industrious.My villagers were early astir. Their muddy shorewas strewed with fragments of the wreck; and whenthe tide went down, and the gale moderated, half imbeddedin the Jibber Sand was found ‘goodly spoil.’Packages of costly shawls, hampers of Dutch liqueurs,bales of linen, several kegs of brandy, and two smallcanvas-bags containing bullion, were a few of the ‘waifsand strays’ which keen eyes speedily detected,and stalwart arms as speedily appropriated.

“Later on in the afternoon a very bustling personagemade his appearance, much blown and overheated, whoannounced himself as ’acting under authorityfrom Lloyd’s,’ and ‘representingthe under-writers.’ At his heels, utteringvolleys of threats, and menacing every soul he metwith hideous ‘penalties according to act ofparliament,’ followed a very lady-like younggentleman, with a thin reedy voice, and light downupon his chin, ‘charged with protecting thepublic revenue.’ Well for him in a darknight if he could protect himself!

“Worthy souls! They might as well havespared their well-fed nags, and have remained at homesnugly housed in their chimney-corner. ’’Tisthe early bird that gets the worm.’ Theyhad missed it by hours. The spoil was housed.It was buried in cottage gardens, and cabbages plantedover it. It was secreted among the thatch, whereeven the best trained bird-nesting urchin would havemissed it. It was stored away under more thanone hollow hearth-stone, on which a cheerful wood-firewas crackling and blazing. When were the ‘womenkind’in a wrecker’s village at a loss for expedients?

“But a discovery was made that afternoon, which,for the moment, made the boisterous gentleman fromLloyd’s falter in his denunciations, and hushedthe menaces of the indignant and well-dressed personagewho protected the revenue, and saddened the few heartsamongst us not entirely devoid of feeling.

“On a little knoll—­called in memoryof an unfortunate suicide, ’The Mad Maiden’sKnoll,’—­was found the body of a lady,youthful and fair, and by her side that of a littleinfant, a few weeks old. The babe, carefullyswathed in countless warm wrappers, was lying in arude cradle of wicker-work; this was firmly fastenedto the lady’s waist, who, on her part, had beensecurely lashed to a spar. ’Twas a piteoussight! But one’s sympathies were calledinto still more painful exercise when it was foundthat the unfortunate lady’s corpse had been rifledby some unprincipled marauder; that both ears hadbeen torn, and two of her fingers had been crushedand broken in the attempt to plunder them of the ringswith which they had been laden. Nor was this all.Every part of her dress had been carefully examined.Her stays had been ripped open, and a packet, assumedto be of value, had apparently been taken thence.What strengthened this surmise was the fact that afragment of a purple morocco note-case still adhered

to her dress. This fragment bore the words ingilt letters, ‘Bank Notes;’ below werethe initials ‘F.H.B.’ The sight drewforth general expressions of pity: but pity gaveplace to indignation when the district surgeon joinedthe group, and after a careful examination of thebody, said slowly, ’I suspect—­I morethan suspect—­I am almost positive, thatthis lady reached the shore alive. The windsand waves have not destroyed her. She has perishedby the hand of another. Look here,’ andhe pointed to a small dark rim round the neck, ’thisis the effect of strangulation; and my belief is thatthe corpse before us is that of a murdered woman.’

“The coroner of the district was summoned, ajury empanneled, and the simple facts relative tothe discovery of the bodies of the woman and infantwere briefly placed on record. Few cared to speakopenly. All had an interest in saying as littleas possible. ’Return an open verdict, gentlemen;return an open verdict by all means,’ suggestedthe wary official; ’that is the shortest courseyou can adopt; safe and perfectly legal; it decidesnothing, contradicts nothing, concludes nothing.’No advice could be more palatable to the parties headdressed. ‘Found dead,’ was theready response; ’but by what means, drowningor otherwise; there is no evidence to show.’

“The coroner was delighted.

“’Precisely so; quite sufficient.My gig, and a glass of brandy and water.’”

* * * * *

“No one claimed the bodies. Early intermentwas necessary; and a few hours after the inquest wasconcluded, mother and child were consigned to theirparent earth.

“Six weeks afterward, an elderly man, with amost imperious manner and a foreign accent, came downto the village and asked countless questions relativeto the shipwreck. The unhappy lady, he said, washis niece; and earnest were the inquiries he madetouching a large sum of money, which, to his certainknowledge, she had about her when she went on shipboard.Of this money, as a matter of course, no satisfactorytidings were forthcoming. He then became violent;called the village a nest of pirates; cursed the inhabitantswithout mercy; hoped that heaven’s lightningswould speedily fall, and raze the hamlet to the ground;and indulged in a variety of comments, some just,some foolish, and all angry.

“But with all his anxiety about his niece, andall his burning indignation against her plunderers,he never visited the unhappy lady’s grave; neverdirected a stone to be placed over her; never deploredher fate; never uttered a remark about her infant,save and except an avowal of his unbounded satisfactionthat it had perished with the mother-his ever-recurringsubject of regret was, not that he had lost his niece,but that he had lost her money!

“Oh world! how base are thy calculations, howsordid thy conclusions! The young, the fair,the helpless, the innocent may perish, it matters not.Loss of relatives, of children, of country, of character,all may be borne with complacency but—­lossof money!

“Meanwhile the party who was suspected to havebenefited most largely by the shipwreck, went abouther daily occupations with her usual subdued and poverty-strickenair. There was nothing in Abigail Lassiter’sdress or manner to indicate the slightest improvementin her worldly circ*mstances. She toiled as earnestly,dressed as simply, and lived as sparingly as ever.But quietly and almost imperceptibly a vast changewas wrought in the aspect of her dwelling. Itwas carefully repaired and considerably enlarged,a small piece of pasture land was bought, and thena handsome Alderney cow made her appearance. Agarden of some extent, at the rear of the cottage,was next laid out, and stocked, and last of all acommodious spring cart and clever cob were seen onthe little homestead. But comfort there was none.An invisible hand fought against its inmates.Their career of success was closed. A curse andnot a blessing was henceforth to track them.On a sudden the husband, Mark Lassiter, was betrayedin one of his smuggling expeditions, encountered thecoast-guard where he least expected them, was firedat, captured, and died in jail of his wounds.The eldest son—­’Black Ben,’the pugilist—­killed his man, was accusedof foul play, and compelled to fly the country.Robin, second mate of a merchant vessel then lyingin Hull Docks, still remained to her, and him shehastily summoned home for counsel. Vain precaution!A final separation had already taken place betweenthem. While wondering at his tardy movements,a brief unfeeling letter apprised her that, ’returningto his ship at midnight decidedly the worse for liquor,’Robin Lassiter had missed his footing on the narrowplank connecting the vessel with the shore, falleninto deep water, and had sunk to rise no more.

“These successive bereavements paralyzed her.For the first time the idea seems to have presenteditself, that it was possible adversity might overwhelmher. She confined herself rigidly to her home;said that the moan of the sea wearied and worriedher, and blocked up every window which lookedupon the ocean! For hours she would sit, abstractedly,in silence. Then, wringing her hands, would wakeup with a wistful cry, and repeat—­’Wrongnever comes right! Wrong never comes right!’

“Much as I knew she hated religion, its ministers,its sanctuary, and every object which, by possibility,could remind her that there was a coming future,I yet felt it my duty to make another and a third attemptat an interview. She received me ungraciouslyenough, but not insolently. Her fair, soft, femininefeatures betrayed evident annoyance at my visit, butstill there was an absence of that air of menace andhatred which characterized her in former days.

“‘You visit me?’ was her inquiry;‘why?’

“’To condole with you on the ravages whichdeath has made in your family.’

“Her reply was instant and firmly uttered.

“’Yes; two are gone. Their part isplayed and over. I presume they are at rest.’

“A passing remark followed, in which a hopewas expressed that I should see her at church.

“’Never, until I’m brought there.I shouldn’t know myself in such a place, norwould those who assemble there know me.’

“While framing my reply she continued—­

“’Your visit, sir, is wholly unexpected;I have never troubled the clergy, and I hope theywill not trouble me; I have my sorrows, and I keepthem to myself.’

“‘They will overwhelm you unless aid begranted—­’

“She interrupted me.

“’I seek it not, and therefore have noright to expect it. But why should I detain yousir,’ said she, rising from her seat; ’thereare others who may prize your presence more than Ido.’

“One of Wilson’s little volumes was inmy hand. I proffered it with the remark—­’Youwill perhaps read this in my absence?’

“She declined it with a gesture of impatience.

“’No! no! I seldom read, and my hourlyendeavor now is not to think! This waylies your road, sir. Farewell.’

“A more thoroughly unsatisfactory interviewit is scarcely possible to imagine.

“Two years had rolled away, when, one morning,a message reached me that ‘Dame Lassiter wasill,’ and wished I would ’call in the courseof the day.’ Within the hour came anothersummons: ’Dame Lassiter was much worse,’and begged to ‘see me without delay.’Before midday I was at the cottage. Her soleattendant,—­a bold, saucy, harsh lookinggirl of eighteen,—­awaited me at the threshold.

“‘Right glad am I you’re come,’was her greeting; ’the mistress, sir, has beenasking for you ever since day-break.’

“‘She is worse then?’

“She lowered her voice to a whisper, and continued:—­

“’She’s going! She’llnot hold it long. The doctors have given her up,and there’s no more medicine to be gone for.This last is a sure sign.’

“‘Is she sensible?’

“The girl hesitated.

“‘In times she be,’ was herreply, rather doubtfully given! ’in times shebe; but there’s something about her I don’tquite fancy; the plain fact is, she’s ratherquair, and I shall go up to the village.You’ll not mind being alone, I dare say?’

“And without waiting for a reply this carefuland considerate attendant hurriedly opened the door;went out; and then locked it briskly and firmly onthe outside. I was a prisoner, and my companiona dying woman! For the moment I felt startled;but a hollow moan of anguish, sadly and painfullyreiterated in the chamber above, at once recalled meto my duties, and bade me seek the sufferer.In a room of fair dimensions lay, stricken and emaciated,the once active and dauntless Abigail. On enteringI could with difficulty disguise my surprise at thevariety of articles which it contained, and at the

costliness and splendor of many of them. Thecurtains of the sick woman’s bed were of figuredsilk damask; and though here and there a dark spotwas visible where sea-water, or some other destructiveagency, had penetrated, enough still remained to vindicatethe richness of the fabric and the brilliancy of thecolor. The linen on the bed was of the finesttexture, apparently the production of a Dutch loom,while the vessel which held her night-drink was anantique goblet, indisputably of foreign workmanship,—­itsmaterials silver and mother-of-pearl. Under thewindow, which commanded her flower garden, stood asmall work-table of birds’-eye maple, whichmethought had once stood in the lady’s cabinof some splendidly appointed steamer. Her wash-standwas of mahogany richly carved: on the shelf aboveit stood an ebony writing-desk, inlaid with silver;below was a lady’s dressing case—­ivory—­andelaborately carved. Two cases of foreign birdsof exquisite plumage completed the decoration of theapartment. It is true necessitous sailors andcarousing smugglers might have contributed some ofthe costly articles I saw around me; but as I gazedon them the thought recurred, are not these the wagesof iniquity? Have they not been rifled from thegrasp of the helpless, the drowning, and the dying?

“I spoke. She was in full possession ofher faculties; but manifestly near her end. Iexpressed my sorrow at finding her so feeble; toldher that I had readily obeyed her summons; and askedher whether I should read to her.

“‘Neither read to me,’ was her distinctreply: ’nor pray with me; but listen tome. They tell me I have not many hours to live.If so, I have something to disclose; and some moneywhich I should wish—­I should wish’—­shehesitated and became silent—­’the pointis, am I beyond recovery? If so I should desirethat this money—­’

“‘Under any circ*mstances,’ wasmy reply, ‘confess all; restore all’

“She looked up quickly and said sharply; ‘Whyrestore?’

“‘To prove the sincerity of your regrets.’

“‘Ah, well!’ said she, thoughtfully,’if I could only satisfy myself that recoverywas impossible. I have much to leave behind me;and there are some circ*mstances—­’

“She hesitated and was silent. A minuteor two elapsed and I urged—­

“‘Be candid and be just,—­makereparation while you possess the power.’

“‘You advise well,’ said she, faintly.’I would fain relieve my mind. It is sorelyoppressed, for with regard to my property—­my—­mysavings—­’

“As she spoke there arose, close to us, clearand painfully audible, a low, mocking laugh.It was not akin to mirth. There was no gladnessin its tone. It betokened enmity, triumph, scorn.The dying woman heard it, and cowered beneath itsinfluence. An expression of agonizing fear passedover her countenance. Some minutes elapsed beforeshe could sufficiently command herself to speak oreven listen.

“‘Carry out forthwith,’ said I,in a tone of resolution I could with difficulty command,’carry out your present determination. Makerestitution to the utmost of your power. Restoreall; confess all.’

“‘I will do so and now,’ was herreply.

“Again that bitter, scornful, chilling laugh;and closer to us! To no ebullition of any earthlyemotion can I compare it. It resembled none.It conveyed scorn, exultation, defiance, hatred.It seemed an uncontrollable burst of triumph overa parting and ruined soul. Again, I gazed steadfastlyon the dying woman. A spasm convulsed her countenance.She pointed feebly to some unseen object—­unseenat least by me—­and clasped her hands withan imploring gesture. Another spasm came on-asecond-a third—­and all was silence.I was alone with the dead.”

* * * * *

“And you are persuaded that these sounds werereal and not fanciful, that imagination had nothingto do with the scene?” said the younger of thethree when the aged speaker had concluded.

The reply was immediate.

“I state simply what I heard; that, and no more.No opportunity for trick existed. The cottagehad one door, and but one. The dying womanand myself were the only parties within its walls.We were locked in from without: until the attendantreturned and unclosed the door there was no possibilityof either entering or quitting the dwelling. Iwas alone with the dead for upward of an hour—­noenviable vigil—­when it pleased her unfeelingand gossiping retainer to return and release me.Believe it, say you? I do believe it—­andmost firmly—­as fact and not fancy.”

“And what say you, Major?” pursued thequestioner, turning to his military companion.

“I believe it also, and the more readily fromrecollecting what once occurred to myself. Soonafter my awkward hit at Vittoria, where I receiveda bullet, which I carry about with me to this hour,I was ordered home on sick leave. Landing atFalmouth from a filthy transport, feeble, feverish,solitary and wretched, I was recognized by a formerintimate, who followed me to my inn and insisted upontaking me down with him into ——­shire.Rest and country air, he was sure, would recruit me.In vain I explained the wretched cripple I was.In vain I submitted that the ‘hospital mates,’one and all, entertained the worst opinion of my injury.He would take no denial. It was a case, he contended,not for the knife or the doctor; but for beef-steaksand Barclay’s stout. And this opinion hewould make good, in my instance, against the wholehospital staff at home and abroad. Too weak tocontest the point, I gave in; and promised that, ifliving, that day week should find me at ——­House. The first part of my journey I made outwith comparatively little suffering. The latterpart, where I was obliged to have recourse to a hackchaise, neither wind nor weather tight—­illhung, and badly driven, was torture. At length,unable to endure longer agony, I got out; and biddingthe postboy drive with my luggage to ——­House, limped along across the fields under the pilotageof an old laborer—­it was a work of time—­tomy destination.

“My gray-haired guide, who commiserated my situation,was very inquisitive about ‘the war and LordWellington;’ asked whether all the Spaniardslived on ‘mules’ flesh fried with onions,’as he ’had been told for truth;’ inquiredwhat ‘our side’ thought of ’Boney’scovenant with the devil,’ a covenant, (accordingto his reading,) to this effect, that ’the devilhad given Boney a lease of luck for threescoreand three years, and that when it was up he was tobe shot by a Spanish maiden with a silver bullet.’Many folks, he said, believed all this to be true andsartain; but that he, for his part, ’didnot hold with it: what did I think?’But however talkative about the war, my venerable pilotwas reserved about ——­ House.I asked him if he knew it. ’These fiftyyears and more,’ was his answer. ’TheHouse of Mystery; good people live there now,—­yes,good people, kind people,—­a blessed changefor all about and around the House of Mystery.More he would not utter. At length I reachedthe winning post, hobbled in, received a cordial welcome,and retired early to bed.

“None but those who have lain for weeks in acrowded military hospital, who have battled day byday with death, now flushed with fever, now rackedwith agonizing spasmodic action in every nerve, canconceive the effect of the quiet, the pure air, thebracing freshness of the country. The stillnesswhich reigned around,—­the peaceful landscapebeneath my window,—­the balmy fragranceof the flowers,—­the hush of woods reposingin all the stillness of a summer’s twilight,—­thefaint tinkling of the distant sheep-bell,—­themusical murmur of the rill which gurgled gaily andgladly from beneath the base of the sun-dial,—­thedeer dotted over the park, and grazing lazily in groupsbeneath the branching oaks, made up a picture whichsoothed and calmed me. I went to bed satisfiedthat I should sleep. I did so withouta single twinge till after midnight. Then I wasroused by a grating sound at a distance. It drewnearer, became more and more distinct, and presentlyat a pelting pace, up drove a carriage and four.I say four, because a man used to horses all his life,can, by their tramp, judge, though blindfold, prettyaccurately as to their numbers. I heard the easyroll of the carriage, the grating of the wheels onthe gravel, the sharp pull-up at the main entrance,the impatient pawing of the animals on the hard andwell-rolled road. All this I caught most distinctly.But though I listened keenly I heard no bell ring,no door unclose, no servant hasten to these new arrivals.I thought it odd. I struck my repeater.’A quarter to one. Strange hour, surely,for visitors to arrive! However, no business ofmine. I have not, happily, to rise and do thehonors.’ And, after a yawn or two, and ahurried, though I trust grateful acknowledgment forthe comparative ease I was enjoying, I turned uponmy side and dozed off. I had slept about two

hours when a similar noise again aroused me. Upcame another carriage at the same slapping pace.Pat, pat, pat, went the hoofs upon the hard avenue.The wheels rattled; the gravel grated on the ear; therewas the same quick, sharp, knowing pull-up at themain door, and the same impatient stamp of high-fedsteeds anxious to be off, and eager for the rest andfeed of the stable. I became irritated and angry.’A pretty house,’ said I, ’for aninvalid! Guests arriving at all hours! Moreover,a precious lot of fresh faces shall I have to encounterat the breakfast table. A nice figure I am!My walk particularly straight and lively! I shallbe “the observed of all observers” witha vengeance. I wish with all my soul I had remainedat Exeter. I had there my hospitable friends,the Greens, in “the Barn-field,” to keepan eye to me, while here, carriages are drivingup at a splitting pace from midnight to co*ck-crowing.’And fuming and fretting, chafed and annoyed, I layfeverish and discontented till daybreak.

“The next morning, having taken peculiar painswith my toilet, and having arrived at the inevitableconclusion that I hobbled worse than ever, and wasas infirm as an old gentleman of eighty, I presentedmyself in the breakfast room.

“I expected to find it lined with fresh faces.I was mistaken. The party assembled was the same,without diminution or addition, which I had quittedthe preceding evening. After an interchange ofcivilities I hazarded an inquiry:—­

“‘Where are the new arrivals?’

“‘There are no new arrivals,’ saidmy hostess; ’I hope you are not tired of usalready?’

“‘You allude to an utter impossibility,’was my rejoinder; ’but beyond all doubt twocarriages drove up to the main entrance early thismorning.’

“‘You are our only guest,’ observedmy hostess with an air of peculiar gravity, and evenperceptible annoyance in her manner.

“‘You see us as we are, a quiet familyparty, Mr. Newburgh,’ observed the youngestdaughter hastily, and then adroitly changed the conversation.

“‘Oh,’ thought I, ’I’mon unsafe ground. Some disagreeable people, self-invited,and dismissed at all hazards. Very well. Moic’est egal! What concern have I with thefamily arrangements of another?’

“The second night of my visit drew on.I slept well and soundly till about three in the morning,when my slumbers were suddenly broken by a rapid rushof horsem*n across the lawn, directly under my dressing-roomwindow. ‘Hunting at three in the morningis a rank absurdity,’ was my comment; ’butif I ever heard the sound of horses and horsem*n Idid then. The park gates must have been leftopen, and the farm horses have broken loose.Utter destruction to the lawn, and to the flower beds,and the glorious rhododendrons! What negligentmenials.’ And while murmuring my abhorrenceof such atrocious carelessness, and my deep regretat its results, my eyes closed. The next morningI peeped with apprehension from my window, on whatI presumed would prove a scene of devastation.All was fair and smiling, gaze where I would.Here was the trim and smoothly shaven lawn—­therethe blooming parterre—­beyond the early floweringshrubs not a twig, not a leaf injured. I leftmy room in amazement.

“Below, the papers had arrived. They gavethe details of another and decisive battle. That,and an expedition during the morning to a neighboringRoman encampment, banished the horsem*n of the precedingnight, nor did they recur till I found myself in myroom, exhausted and bent down with pain, at eleven.The fact was I had played the fool and overwalkedmyself, and my avenger, the bullet, began to remindme of his presence in my system. For three mortalhours no poor wretch, save in his death struggle,endured greater agony than I did. At last, a ’compassionthat never faileth,’ bestowed on me an intervalof ease, and I slept. Heavily, I imagine, sincefor some time a strange booming noise droned continuouslyin my ears before it waked me. At last I was roused.I listened. The sound was like nothing I hadever heard before. It seemed as if a heavy-sledgehammer, or huge wooden mallet, carefully muffled inwadding, was at work in the room below me.The stable clock struck four. ‘No mason,’thought I, ’no mason would commence his day’swork at four in the morning. Burglars, perhaps,’and I resolved to give alarm. The noise suddenlyceased, and some three minutes afterward as suddenlyrecommenced in the children’s play-room immediatelyabove me. ’Be they whom they maythey shall be disturbed.’ And I began todress in the dark with all possible expedition.Some partial progress was made when the noise ceasedin the upper room and descended forthwith to my own.An instant afterward it seemed to proceed from thelibrary. In about twenty minutes it ceased altogether.

“‘No mason, no burglar,’ was myconclusion. ’This noise has nothing incommon with either the one or the other. Did myold guide speak accurately when he called this “TheHouse of Mystery?” Whether it be such or no,it is not the house for me. I can’t sleepin it. I must flit; and I will do so with themorning’s light.’

“But with the morning’s light came brightand cheerful faces, kindly inquiries, and renewedhospitality, and with them an abandonment of my menaceddeparture. During the day an opportunity presenteditself of mentioning to my young host the harassingdisturbances of the night, and asking for an explanation.

“‘I can give none,’ was his reply:’after many years residence in the house, andceaseless endeavors to ascertain the cause of theseannoyances, you are as much au fait of theirorigin as myself.’

“‘Is their[sic] no motive, adequateor inadequate,’ I continued, ’which canbe assigned for these nightly visitations?’

“’None beyond the tradition—­apparentlyauthentic—­that an ancestor of ours, a manwhose character will not bear investigation, met hisdeath, unfairly, in an old house on the site of whichthis is built. He was a miser, and presumed tobe extremely wealthy. He lived secluded fromsociety; his factotum and agent being an Italian valet,who was perfectly aware of the ample means of his

master. On a sudden my vicious kinsman disappeared,and shortly afterward the valet. But the storyruns—­tradition it must still be called—­thatthe former was robbed, brutally beaten, and finallywalled up in some recess by his desperate retainer.So immured he died of actual starvation; but accordingto the legend, much of the miser’s wealth continuedhidden about the mansion which the Italian’sfears prevented his carrying off, and which stillremains, snug and safe, in some dusty repository, readyto reward “a fortunate speculator.”I only wish,’ continued he merrily, ’Icould light upon the hoard! Give me a clew, dearNewburgh, and I’ll buy you a troop.’

“‘At any rate,’ said I, ’fromthe mirth with which you treat it, the visitationis not unpleasant.’

“‘You are in error,’ said my entertainer;’the subject is unquestionably annoying, andone which my mother and the family studiously avoid.As for your bed-room—­the porch-room—­Iam aware that parties occupying it have occasionallyheard the strangest noises on the gravel-walk immediatelybelow them. Your hostess was most averse to thosequarters being assigned you; but I thought that theroom being large and lofty, and the steps to it few,you would occupy it with comfort. I am grievedthat my arrangement has proved disagreeable.’And then, finishing off with a hearty laugh, in which,for the life of me I couldn’t join, my hostadded, ’if he be walled up, I am sureyou will say, Newburgh, that he’s a perseveringold gentleman, and makes the most laudable effortsto get out of his cell.’”

“The levity of some persons,” was themajor’s grave aside, “how inconceivable,how indescribable!”

“My visit,” continued he, “lastedabout a fortnight, during the whole of which period,at intervals, the rapping was audible in differentparts of the house. It appeared to me however—­Iwatched attentively—­to come with the greatestfrequency from the hall. Thence it sounded asif an immense mallet, muffled in feathers or cotton,was striking heavily on the floor. The noisewas generally heard between twelve and two. Theblows sometimes followed each other with great rapidity;at other times more slowly and leisurely. Onesingularity of the visitation was this—­thatin whatever part of the house you might be listening,the noise seemed to come from a remote direction.If you heard the blows in the drawing-room, they appearedto be given in the library. And if you heard themin the library, they seemed to be falling in the nursery.The invisible workman was busy always at a distance.Another feature was its locomotive powers. Itmoved with the most extraordinary rapidity. Nothingthat I could think of—­mice, rats, drains,currents of air, dropping of water—­wouldexplain it. If the noise had been caused by theagency of any one of these causes, it would have beenheard in the day time. It never was. Nightwas the season, and the only season in which the ponderous,

but invisible, mallet was wielded. Nothing couldexceed the kindness with which I was treated.No words can do justice to the thoughtful and delicatehospitality which I received. But I declare toyou this mysterious visitation was too much for me.It was impossible to listen to it at night withoutdepression. Perhaps my nerves were unstrung.The tone of my system might be enfeebled. Thefault, I dare say, was in myself. But to lieawake, as I often did, during long hours from pain,and to hear this muffled, hollow, droning, mysteriousnoise passing from room to room about the house—­tolisten to it now above me, now below me, now quiteclose to my chamber door, and in a couple of secondsrising up from the very center of the hall, and tobe all the while utterly unable to account for it,fevered me. I curtailed my visit; but the nursingand kindness I received are graven in my memory.Bearing all these matters in remembrance,” saidthe major firmly; “recollecting my own strangeexperience, how can I discredit Mr. Ancelot’snarrative? I firmly believe it. We aresurrounded by mysteries. The invisible worldenshrouds us. Spirits have their regards intentlyfixed on us, and a very slight vail divides us.Spurn the vulgar error,” said the old veteranstoutly, “that a soldier must be a scoffer.I remember the holy record, and its thrilling declaration;’We are a spectacle unto angels and unto men.’”A pause ensued, which neither of the listeners caredto terminate. At length he spoke again.“The dews are falling. The last pleasure-boathas landed its fair freight upon the Denne. Thebreeze from the sea blows keenly, and warns us elderliesto think of our night-possets and our pillows.Trevor, give me your arm. Happy dog! Youhave no bullet in your back! May you never knowthe agony of existence when even to move some dozenyards is torture!”

* * * * *

We should do our utmost to encourage the Beautiful,for the Useful encourages itself.—­Goethe.

* * * * *

[From the Ladies’ Companion.]

THE LADY LUCY’S SECRET.

BY MRS. NEWTON CROSLAND.

“With clamourous demands of debt,broken bonds,
And the detention of long due debts,
Against my honor.”—­TIMONOF ATHENS

“How in the turmoil of life canlove stand,
Where there is not one heart, andone mouth, and one hand?”
LONGFELLOW

In a charming morning-room of a charming London house,neighboring Hyde-Park, there lounged over the breakfast-tablea wedded pair,—­the rich merchant Farrars,and his young wife, the Lady Lucy. Five yearsof married life had, in most respects, more than realizedthe brightest hopes which had been born and cherishedin the dreaming days of courtship. Till the ageof forty, the active mind of Walter Ferrars had beenchiefly occupied by business,—­not in meanshuffling, speculative dealings, but on the broadbasis of large transactions and an almost chivalroussystem of integrity.

Then, when a secured position and the privileges ofwealth had introduced him to that inner circle ofEnglish society which not wealth alone canpenetrate, but where wealth in some due proportionis an element necessary to hold fast a place, it wasthought most natural and proper that he should choosea wife from the class which seems set apart from therest of womankind like the choice flowers of a conservatory,on whom no rude breath must blow. The youthful,but nearly portionless, daughter of a poor Earl seemedthe very bride decreed by some good angel for themerchant-prince.

But though the nuptials fulfilled nearly all the requirementsof a mariage de convenance, there was in realityvery much more of the ingredients in their heartswhich amalgamate into very genuine “love,”than always meet at the altar; though of course “theWorld” resolutely refused to believe anythingof the sort—­the World, which is capableof so much kindness, and goodness, and justice, amongits individuals, taken “separately and singly,”and yet is such a false, malignant, many-headed monsterin its corporate body! Walter Ferrars had a warmheart, that yearned for affection, as well as a clearhead; and, fascinated as he had been by the youthfulgrace and beauty, the high-bred repose of manner andcultivated talents of the Lady Lucy, he set himselfresolutely to win and keep her girlish heart, notexpecting that the man of forty was to obtain it withoutan effort. Thus, when he assumed a husband’sname, he did not “drop the lover.”His was still the watchful care, made up of the thousandlittle thoughtful kindnesses of daily life, neitherrelaxed in a tete-a-tete, nor increased inpublic. He was the pleased and ready escort forevery occasion, save only when some imperative businessclaimed his time and presence; and these calls nowwere rare, for he had long since arrived at the positionwhen efficient servants and assistants carry out theplans a superior has organized.

Is there wonder that the wife was grateful? Few—­fewwomen indeed are insensible to the power of continuedkindness; they may have a heart of stone for the impetuousimpulsive lover, but habitual tenderness-that seemsso unselfish—­touches the finest chords oftheir nature, and awakens affection that might havelain dormant through a long life, but for this onesweet influence. Thus it was that the wife offive years loved her husband with an almost adoringworship. She had felt her own mind expand inthe intimate communion with his fine intellect; shehad felt her own weaknesses grow less, as if she hadabsorbed some of his strength of character; and shehad recognised the very dawn of principles and opinionswhich had been unknown to her in the days of her thoughtless,ignorant, inexperienced girlhood. And yet withall her love, with all her matured intelligence, shehad never lost a certain awe of her husband, whichhis seniority had perhaps first implanted, and alas!one fatal circ*mstance had gone far to render morbid.

They sat at breakfast. It was early spring, andthough the sunshine streamed through the windows,and from one of them there crept the odors of theconservatory, a bright fire gleamed and crackled inthe grate; and shed a charm of cheerfulness throughthe room. Mr. Ferrars had a newspaper in hishand, but not yet had he perused a line, for his sonand heir, a brave boy of three years old, a very modelof patrician beauty, was climbing his large chair,playing antics of many sorts, and even affecting topull his father’s still rich and curling hair,so little awe had the young Walter of the head ofthe house—­while Mr. Farrars’ parentalglee was like a deep bass to the child’s crowinglaugh. Lady Lucy smiled too, but she shook herhead, and said more than once, “Naughty papais spoiling Watty.” It was a pretty scene;the room was redolent of elegance, and the young mother,in her exquisitely simple but tasteful morning dress,was one of its chief ornaments. Who would thinkthat beneath all this sweetness of life there was stilla serpent!

A post was just in, and a servant entered with severalletters; among those delivered to Lady Lucy were twoor three large unsightly, ill-shaped epistles, thatseemed strange company for the others. An observingstranger might have noticed that Lady Lucy’scheek paled, and then flushed; that she crushed upher letters together, without immediately openingthem, and that presently she slid the ugly ones intothe pocket of her satin apron. Mr. Ferrars readhis almost with a glance—­for they weremasculine letters, laconic, and to the point, conveyingnecessary information, in three lines and a half—­andhe smiled, as after a while he observed his wife apparentlyintent on a truly feminine epistle—­foursides of delicate paper closely crossed—­andexclaimed gaily:

“My dear Lucy, there’s an hour’sreading for you, at least; so I shall ring and sendWatty to the nursery, and settle steadily to the Times.”

But though Lady Lucy really perused the letter, hermind refused to retain the pleasant chit-chat gossipit contained. Her thoughst[sic] were far away,and had she narrowly examined her motives she wouldhave known that she bent over the friendly sheet chieflyas an excuse for silence, and to conceal her passingemotions. Meanwhile the newspaper crackled inher husband’s hand as he moved its broad leaves.

Presently Mr. Ferrars started with an exclamationof grief and astonishment that completely roused hisabsent wife.

“My dear Walter, what has happened?” sheasked, with great anxiety.

“A man a bankrupt, whom I thought as safe asthe Bank of England. Though it is true peopletalked about him months ago—­spoke suspiciouslyof his personal extravagance, and, above all, saidthat his wife was ruining him.”

“His wife!”

“Yes;—­but I cannot understand thatsort of thing. A few hundreds a year more orless could be of little moment to a man like Beaufort,and I don’t suppose she spent more than youdo, my darling. At any rate she was never betterdressed. Yet I believe the truth was, that shegot frightfully into debt unknown to him; and debtis a sort of thing that multiplies itself in a mostastonishing manner, and sows by the wayside the seedsof all sorts of misery. Then people say that whenpay-day came at last, bickerings ensued, their domestichappiness was broken up. Beaufort grew reckless,and plunged into the excitement of the maddest speculations.”

“How dreadful!” murmured Lady Lucy.

“Dreadful, indeed! I don’t know whatI should do with such a wife.”

“Would not you forgive her if you loved hervery much?” asked Lady Lucy, and she spoke inthe singularly calm tone of suppressed emotion.

“Once, perhaps, once; and if her fault werethe fault of youthful inexperience,—­butso much falseness, mean deception, and mental deteriorationmust have accompanied such transactions, that—­inshort, I thank Heaven that I have never been put tothe trial.”

As he spoke, the eyes of Mr. Farrars were fixed onthe leading article of the Times, not on hiswife. Presently Lady Lucy glided from the room,without her absence being at the moment observed.Once in her dressing-room she turned the key, andsinking into a low chair, gave vent to her grief insome of the bitterest tears she had ever shed.She, too, was in debt; “frightfully,”her husband had used the right word; “hopelessly,”so far as satisfying her creditors even out of thelarge allowance Mr. Farrars made her; and still shehad not the courage voluntarily to tell the truth,which yet she knew must burst upon him ere long.From what small beginnings had this Upas shadow comeupon her! And what “falseness, mean deception,and mental deterioration” had truly been hers!

Even the fancied relief of weeping was a luxury deniedto her, for she feared to show the evidence of tears;thus after a little while she strove to drive themback, and by bathing her face before the glass, anddrawing the braids of her soft hair a little nearerher eyes, she was tolerably successful in hiding theirtrace. Never, when dressing for court or gala,had she consulted her mirror so closely; and now, thoughthe tears were dried; she was shocked at the linesof anguish—­those delvers of the wrinklesof age—­which marked her countenance.She sat before her looking-glass, one hand supportingher head, the other clutching the hidden letters whichshe had not yet the courage to open. There wasa light tap at the door.

“Who is there?” inquired Lady Lucy.

“It is I, my lady,” replied Harris, herfaithful maid. “Madame Dalmas is here.”

Lady Lucy unlocked her door and gave orders that thevisitor should be shown up. With the name hadcome a flush of hope that some trifling temporaryhelp would be hers. Madame Dalmas called herselfa French-woman, and signed herself “Antoinette,”but she was really an English Jewess of low extraction,whose true name was Sarah Solomons. Her “profession”was to purchase—­and sell—­thecast-off apparel of ladies of fashion; and few ofthe sisterhood have carried the art of double cheatingto so great a proficiency. With always a rollof bank notes in her old leathern pocket-book, andalways a dirty canvas bag full of bright sovereignsin her pocket, she had ever the subtle temptationfor her victims ready.

Madame Dalmas—­for she must be called accordingto the name engraved on her card—­was alittle meanly-dressed woman of about forty, with brighteyes and a hooked nose, a restless shuffling manner,and an ill-pitched voice. Her jargon was a mixtureof bad French and worse English.

“Bon jour, miladi Lucy,” she exclaimed,as she entered Lady Lucy’s sanctum, “neednot inquire of health, you look si charmante.Oh, si belle!—­that make you wear old clothesso longer dan oder ladies, and have so leetel forme to buy. Milady Lucy Ferrars know she look wellin anything, but yet she should not wear old clothes:no right—­for example—­for detrade, and de hoosband always like de wife well dressed—­ha—­ha!”

Poor Lady Lucy! Too sick at heart to have anyrelish for Madame Dalmas’ nauseous compliments,and more than half aware of her cheats and falsehoods,she yet tolerated the creature from her own dire necessities.

“Sit down, Madame Dalmas,” she said, “Iam dreadfully in want of money; but I really don’tknow what I have for you.”

“De green velvet, which you not let me havebefore Easter, I still give you four pounds for it,though perhaps you worn it very much since then.”

“Only twice—­only seven times in all—­andit cost me twenty guineas,” sighed Lady Lucy.

“Ah, but so old-fashioned—­I do believeI not see my money for it. Voyez-vous, de LadyLucy is one petite lady—­si jolie mais trespetite. If she were de tall grand lady, you seede great dresses could fit small lady, but de leetledresses fit but ver few.”

“If I sell the green velvet I must have anothernext winter,” murmured Lady Lucy.

“Ah! vous avez raison—­when de seasonnouveautes come in. I tell you what—­youlet me have also de white lace robe you show me once,the same time I bought from you one little old pearlbrooch.”

“My wedding-dress? Oh no, I cannot sellmy wedding-dress!” exclaimed poor Lady Lucy,pressing her hands convulsively together.

“What for not?—­you not want to marryover again—­I give you twenty-two poundsfor it.”

“Twenty-two pounds!—­why it is Brusselspoint, and cost a hundred and twenty.”

“Ah, I know—­but you forget I perhapskeep it ten years and not sell—­and besidesyou buy dear; great lady often buy ver dear!”and Madame Dalmas shook her head with the solemnityof a sage.

“No, no; I cannot sell my wedding-dress,”again murmured the wife. And be it recorded,the temptress, for once, was baffled; but at the expirationof an hour, Madame Dalmas left the house, with a hugebundle under her arm, and a quiet satisfaction revealedin her countenance, had any one thought it worth whileto study the expression of her disagreeable face.

Again Lady Lucy locked her door; and placing a bank-noteand some sovereigns on the table, she sank into alow chair, and while a few large silent tears floweddown her cheeks, she at last found courage to openthe three letters which had hitherto remained unreadin her apron pocket. The first—­thesecond, seemed to contain nothing to surprise her,however much there might be to annoy—­butit was different with that last: here was a grossovercharge, and perhaps it was not with quite a disagreeablefeeling that Lady Lucy found something of which shecould justly complain. She rose hurriedly andunlocked a small writing-desk, which had long beenused as a receptacle for old letters and accounts.

To tell the truth, the interior of the desk did notpresent a very orderly arrangement. Cards ofaddress, bills paid and unpaid, copies of verses,and papers of many descriptions, were huddled together,and it was not by any means surprising that Lady Lucyfailed in her search for the original account, bywhich to rectify the error in her shoemaker’sbill. In the hurry and nervous trepidation whichhad latterly become almost a constitutional ailmentwith her, she turned out the contents of the writing-deskinto an easy chair, and then kneeling before it, sheset herself to the task of carefully examining thepapers. Soon she came to one letter which hadbeen little expected in that place, and which stillbore the marks of a rose, whose withered leaves alsoremained, that had been put away in its folds.The rose Walter Ferrars had given her on the eve oftheir marriage, and the letter was in his handwriting,and bore but a few days earlier date. With quickenedpulses she opened the envelope; and though a mistrose before her eyes, it seemed to form into a mirrorin which she saw the by-gone hours. And so sheread—­and read.

It is the fashion to laugh at love-letters, perhapsbecause only the silly ones come to light. Withthe noblest of both sexes such effusions are sacred,and would be profaned by the perusal of a third person:but when a warm and true heart is joined to a manlyintellect; when reason sanctions and constancy maintainsthe choice which has been made, there is little doubtbut much of simple, truthful, touching eloquence isoften to be found in a “lover’s”letter. That which the wife now perused withstrange and mingled feelings was evidently a replyto some girlish depreciation of herself, and containedthese words:—­

“You tell me that in the scanty years of yourpast life, you already look back on a hundred follies,and that you have unnumbered faults of character atwhich I do not even guess. Making some allowancefor a figurative expression, I will answer ‘itmay be so.’ What then? I have nevercalled you an angel, and never desired you to be perfect.The weaknesses which cling, tendril-like, to a finenature, not unfrequently bind us to it by ties wedo not seek to sever. I know you for a true-heartedgirl, but with the bitter lessons of life still unlearned;let it be my part to shield you from their sad knowledge,—­yetwhatever sorrow or evil falls upon you, I must orought to share. Let us have no secrets; and whilethe Truth which gives its purest luster to your eye,and its richest rose to your cheek, still reigns inyour soul, I cannot dream of a fault grave enoughto deserve harsher rebuke than the kiss of forgiveness.”

What lines to read at such a moment! No wondertheir meaning reached her mind far differently thanit had done when they were first received. Thenshe could have little heeded it; witness how carelesslythe letter had been put away—­how forgottenhad been its contents.

Her tears had flowed in torrents, but Lucy Ferrarsno longer strove to check them. And yet theregleamed through them a brighter smile than had visitedher countenance for many a month. A resolve approvedby all her better nature was growing firm within herheart; and that which an hour before would have seemedtoo dreadful to contemplate was losing half its terrors.How often an ascent, which looks in the distance abare precipice, shows us, when we approach its face,the notches by which we may climb!—­andnot a few of the difficulties of life yield to ourwill when we bravely encounter them.

“Why did I fear him so much?” murmuredLady Lucy to herself. “I ought not to haveneeded such an assurance as this to throw myself athis feet, and bear even scorn and rebuke, rather thanprolong the reign of falsehood and deceit. Yes—­yes,”and gathering a heap of papers in her hand with the“love-letter” beneath, she descended thestairs.

There is no denying that Lady Lucy paused at the librarydoor—­no denying that her heart beat quickly,and her breath seemed well-nigh spent; but she wasright to act on the good impulse, and not wait untilthe new-born courage should sink.

Mr. Ferrars had finished the newspaper, and was writingan unimportant note; his back was to the door, andhearing the rustle of his wife’s dress, andknowing her step, he did not turn his head sufficientlyto observe her countenance, but he said, good-humoredly,

“At last! What have you been about?I thought we were to go out before luncheon to lookat the bracelet I mentioned to you.”

“No, Walter—­no bracelet—­youmust never give me any jewels again;” and asLady Lucy spoke she leaned against a chair for support.At such words her husband turned quickly round, startedup, and exclaimed.

“Lucy, my love!—­in tears—­whathas happened?” and, finding that even when hewound his arm around her she was still mute, he continued,“Speak—­this silence breaks my heart—­whathave I done to lose your confidence?”

“Not you—­I—­” gaspedthe wife. “Your words at breakfast—­thisletter—­have rolled the stone from my heart—­Imust confess—­the truth—­I amlike Mrs. Beaufort—­in debt—­frightfullyin debt.” And with a gesture, as if shewould crush herself into the earth, she slipped fromhis arms and sank literally on the floor.

Whatever pang Mr. Ferrars felt at the knowledge ofher fault, it seemed Overpowered by the sense of herpresent anguish—­an anguish that provedhow bitter had been the expiation; and he lifted hiswife to the sofa, bent over her with fondness, calledher by all the dear pet names to which her ear wasaccustomed, and nearer twenty times than once gaveher the “kiss of forgiveness.”

“And it is of you I have been frightened!”cried Lady Lucy, clinging to his hand. “Youwho I thought would never make any excuses for faultsyou yourself could not have committed!”

“I have never been tempted.”

“Have I? I dare not say so.”

“Tell me how it all came about,” saidMr. Farrars, drawing her to him; “tell me fromthe beginning.”

But his gentleness unnerved her—­she feltchoking—­loosened the collar of her dressfor breathing space-and gave him the knowledge he askedin broken exclamations.

“Before I was married—­it—­began.They persuaded me so many—­oh, so many—­unnecessarythings—­were—­needed. Thenthey would not send the bills—­and I—­fora long time—­never knew—­what Iowed—­and then—­and then—­Ithought I should have the power—­but—­”

“Your allowance was not sufficient?” askedMr. Ferrars, pressing her hand as he spoke.

“Oh, yes, yes, yes! most generous, and yet itwas always forestalled to pay old bills: andthen—­and then my wants were so many.I was so weak. Madame Dalmas has had dressesI could have worn when I had new ones on credit instead,and—­and Harris has had double wages to compensatefor what a lady’s maid thinks her perquisites;even articles I might have given to poor gentlewomenI have been mean enough to sell. Oh, Walter!I have been very wrong; but I have been miserablefor at least three years. I felt as if an ironcage were rising around me,—­from which youonly could free me—­and yet, till to-day,I think I could have died rather than confess to you.”

“My poor girl! Why should you have fearedme? Have I ever been harsh?”

“Oh, no!—­no—­but you areso just—­so strict in all these things—­”

“I hope I am; and yet not the less do I understandhow all this has come about. Now, Lucy,—­nowthat you have ceased to fear me—­tell methe amount.”

She strove to speak, but could not.

“Three figures or four? tell me.”

“I am afraid—­yes, I am afraid four,”murmured Lady Lucy, and hiding her face from his view;“yes, four figures, and my quarter received lastweek gone every penny.”

“Lucy, every bill shall be paid this day; butyou must reward me by being happy.”

“Generous! dearest! But, Walter, if youhad been a poor man, what then?”

“Ah, Lucy, that would have been a very differentand an infinitely sadder story. Instead of therelinquishment of some indulgence hardly to be missed,there might have been ruin, and poverty, and disgrace.You have one excuse,—­at least you knewthat I could pay at last.”

“Ah, but at what a price! The price ofyour love and confidence.”

“No, Lucy—­for your confession hasbeen voluntary; and I will not ask myself what I shouldhave felt had the knowledge come from another.After all, you have fallen to a temptation which besetsthe wives of the rich far more than those of pooror struggling gentlemen. Tradespeople are shrewdenough in one respect—­they do not presstheir commodities and long credit in quarters whereultimate payment seems doubtful—­though—­”

“They care not what domestic misery they createamong the rich.”

“Stay: there are faults on both sides,not the least of them being that girls in your stationare too rarely taught the value of money, or thatintegrity in money matters should be to them a pointof honor second only to one other. Now listen,my darling, before we dismiss this painful subjectforever. You have the greatest confidence in yourmaid, and entre nous she must be a good dealin the secret. We shall bribe her to discretion,however, by dismissing Madame Dalmas at once and forever.As soon as you can spare Harris, I will send her tochange a check at Coutts’, and then, for expeditionand security, she shall take on the brougham and makea round to these tradespeople. Meanwhile, I willdrive you in the phaeton to look at the bracelet.”

“Oh, no-no, dear Walter, not the bracelet.”

“Yes—­yes—­I say yes.Though not a quarrel, this is a sorrow which has comebetween us, and there must be a peace-offering.Besides I would not have you think that you had reachedthe limits of my will, and of my means to gratifyyou.”

“To think that I could have doubted—­thatI could have feared you!” sobbed Lady Lucy,as tears of joy coursed down her cheeks. “But,Walter, it is not every husband who would have shownsuch generosity.”

“I think there are few husbands, Lucy, who donot estimate truth and candor as among the chief ofconjugal virtues:—­ah, had you confided inme when first you felt the bondage of debt, how muchanguish would have been spared you!”

* * * * *

JONES ON CHANTREY.[A]

[Footnote A: Sir Francis Chantrey, R. A.;Recollections of his Life, Practice and Opinions.By George Jones, R. A. London, Moxon, 1849.]

The criticisms of Literature in the London Timesare as clever in their way as the other articles ofthat famous journal. It keeps a critic of thePoe school for pretenders, and the following reviewof a recent life of Chantrey the sculptor is in hisvein. It embodies a just estimate of the artist.

A good life of Chantrey would be a welcome and a serviceablecontribution to the general store. Chantrey wasa national sculptor in the sense that Burns was anational poet. His genius, of the highest order,indicated throughout his career the nature of thesoil in which it had been cherished. As man andartist he was essentially British. By his ownunassisted strength he rose from the ranks, and achievedthe highest eminence by the simplest and most legitimatemeans. His triumph is at once a proof of hispower, and an answer to all who, instead of puttingshoulder to the wheel, console their mediocrity byrailing against the cold exclusiveness of aristocraticinstitutions.

Chantrey began life in a workshop. A friend,toward the close of the artist’s life, passingthrough his studio, was struck by a head of Milton’sSatan lying in a corner. “That head,”said Chantrey to his visitor, “was the veryfirst thing that I did after I came to London.I worked at it in a garret, with a paper cap on myhead, and, as I could then afford only one candle,I stuck that one in my cap that it might move alongwith me, and give me light whichever way I turned.”A still severer school of discipline had, previouslyto his appearance in the London garret, given hismind the practical turn chiefly characteristic ofhis life and works. He was born in 1782, at Norton,in Derbyshire, and when eight years old lost his father.His mother married again, and in 1798 proposed toapprentice him to a solicitor in Sheffield. Whilstwalking through that town the boy saw some wood carvingin a shop window. His good angel was with himat the moment, and stood his friend. Chantreybegged to be made a carver, and he was accordinglyapprenticed to a Mr. Ramsay, a wood carver in Sheffield.

At the house of his master the apprentice often metMr. Raphael Smith, known for his admirable crayondrawings. The acquaintance led to a more refinedappreciation of art, and excited in the youth so stronga desire to cultivate it in a higher sphere, thatat the age of 21 he gave to his master the whole ofhis wealth, amounting to L50, to cancel his indentures.Had he waited patiently for six months longer, hisliberty would have been his own, unbought. Leavingthe carver’s shop Chantrey began to study inearnest. He painted a few portraits, which broughthim in a little money, and, with a little more borrowedfrom his friends, he started for London. Here,guided by common sense, he sought employment as anassistant carver. He might have starved had hestarted as a professional painter.

Whilst laboring for subsistence Chantrey still usedhis brush, and also laid the foundation of his comingsuccess by making models in clay of the human figure.He would hang, says his present biographer, piecesof drapery on these models, “that he might geta perfect knowledge of the way, and the best way,that it should be represented. In this mannerhe was accustomed to work, and when he had completedone figure or mass of drapery he pulled it down andbegan to model another from drapery differently arranged;for at that time he never did anything without natureor the material being before him.” In 1808Chantrey’s first imaginative work was exhibited.We have already mentioned it. It was the headof Satan produced in the garret.

For eight years, according to Chantrey himself, hedid not gain L5 by his modeling. A fortunatecommission, however—­the bust of Horne Tooke—­finallyobtained for him other commissions, amounting altogetherTo L12,000. In 1811 “he married his cousinMiss Wale; with this lady he received L10,000; thismoney enabled him to pay off some debts he had contracted,to purchase a house and ground, on which he built twohouses, a studio and offices, and also to buy marbleto proceed in the career he had begun.”In 1812 he executed for the city of London a statuein marble of George III., placed in the council-chamberof Guildhall, and in 1817 he produced the exquisitemonument—­not to be surpassed for tendernessof sentiment and poetic beauty—­of the twochildren whose death this piece of sculpture now commemoratesin Lichfield cathedral. With this achievementthe race was won. In 1818 he was elected an associateof the Royal Academy, and as soon after as the practiceof the Academy admitted he was elevated to the rankof Academican.

From this period until his death, in 1841, the careerof the sculptor was a series of noble and well rewardedefforts. He amassed a fortune, which at his deathhe bequeathed to the Royal Academy for the promotionof British art. He was a favored subject of threesuccessive Sovereigns, and the friend and companionof the most illustrious among his contemporaries.His death was somewhat singular. For two yearshe had been in a declining state of health, but hiscondition had given his friends no immediate alarm.On the 22d of November he wrote to Sir Charles Clarke,from Norwich, expressing his intention to go to townon the following day, and announcing an invitationto Audley-end, which he had accepted for the 8th ofthe following month. On Thursday, the 25th ofNovember, a friend called at his house in London, between5 and 6 o’clock, and was pressed to dine.As he could not do so, Chantrey accompanied his visitoron his way home as far as Buckingham Palace, complainingon the way of a slight pain in the stomach, but atthe same time receiving his friend’s condolenceswith jokes and laughter. The clock struck 7 whenthe friends shook hands and parted. At 9 Chantreywas dead.

Let us regard Chantrey from what point we may, thefeatures that present themselves to the observer bearthe same unmistakable stamp. As sculptor andas man, at home or abroad, in his serious recreationsor pleasurable pursuits, in his temper and socialbearing, Francis Chantrey was a thorough Englishman.Heaven endowed him with genius, and his sound senseenabled him to take the precious gift as a blessing.Sheffield, that reared him, had no cause to be uneasyon his account; the prudence and shrewdness of theNorth were admirably mingled with the aesthetic qualitiesof the South. In the pocketbook which accompaniedthe sculptor on his Italian tour, notes were foundreferring to the objects of art visited on the way,and in the same tablet were accurate accounts of expenditureand the current prices of marble. Avoiding asmuch as possible the treatment of purely poeticalsubjects, Chantrey by the force of simplicity idealizedthe most ordinary topics. He shrank from allegoryby a natural instinct, yet his plain unadorned formshave the elevation and charm of a figurative discourse.“Chantrey,” says Mr. Jones.

“Cast aside every extrinsic recommendation,and depended entirely on form and effect. Hetook the greatest care that his shadows should tellboldly and in masses. He was cautious in introducingthem, and always reduced them as much as might becompatible with the complete development of the figure.He never introduced a fold that could be dispensedwith, rarely deviated from long lines, and avoidedabrupt foldings. His dislike to ornament in sculpturewas extreme.”

In architecture he liked it no better. Superfluousembellishment in this branch of art he held to beeither concealment of inability or a development ofpuerile taste. Fine buildings, he asserted, muststill be fine, if divested of every ornament and leftaltogether bare. Apparent artlessness is theconsummation of art. The busts of Chantrey bearimmortal testimony to the fact.

The manly and courageous view which Chantrey tookof his duties as an artist sustained him in everyattempt he made to impress that view upon his works.He is described as “shrinking from no difficulty,”as being “deterred by no embarrassment thatlabor, assiduity, and good sense could surmount.”His independence was as great as his energy, and bothsmacked of the Saxon blood in his veins. Themanner of the sculptor was rough and unceremonious,but he exhibited as little coarseness in his demeanoras in the massive figures of his chisel, which mightoffend some by their heaviness, but which gratifiedall by their undoubted grandeur and dignity.The quiet yet splendid generosity of Chantrey was equallycharacteristic of his country. He assisted theneedy largely and unobtrusively. Instances ofhis bounty are on record which would do honor to thewealthiest patron of art. How much more lusterdo they shed upon the indefatigable day-laborer?If we follow the sculptor from his studio to the openfields, he is still national to the backbone.He escapes from London to pass days with his rod atthe river side, or to walk with his gun on his arm“from 10 o’clock until half-past 4 withoutfeeling the least fatigue.” Yesterday hekilled two salmon in the Conway, at Llanrwst, andto-day he kills “28 hares, 8 pheasants, 4 partridges—­total,40 head, all from my own gun.” Visit himat home and e is the prince of hospitality. Hisdinners are of the best, and he is never happier thanwhen presiding at them. Like an Englishman, hewas proud of the illustrious society his success enabledhim to summon around him, and, like an Englishmantoo, he had greater pride still in dwelling upon thehumbleness of his origin, and in recounting the historyof his difficult journey from struggling obscurityto worldwide renown.

Now, what we contend for is—­without presumingourselves to attempt anything like a worthy portraitureof Francis Chantrey—­that here, ready-madeto the hand of any man competent to the task of illustratinga life full of instruction for the rising brotherhoodof art, is a subject which it behooved the Royal institutionthat has so largely profited by Chantrey’s liberalityand fame, not to neglect, much less throw away.The book which we have taken for the foundation ofthis notice, written by a Royal Academician, is adisgrace to the Royal Academy. Is then, we ask,no single member of that gifted body competent to saya word or two in plain English for the departed sculptor,that such a melancholy exhibition of helplessnessmust needs be sent forth as a tribute from excellenceto excellence? The life of Chantrey properly writtencould not but prove of the utmost value to Englishmen,and simply because it is the career of a man attainingthe highest distinction by means thoroughly understoodby his countrymen, and by the exercise of an intellectat all times under the salutary influence of a wholesalenational bias. Jones on Chantrey is Jenkins onMilton; the poet of Moses and Son upon the Infernoof Dante—­the ridiculous limping after thesublime.

The great aim of Mr. George Jones, R.A., in his presentundertaking, seems to have been to exhibit his ownvast erudition and his great command of the hard wordsof his native tongue. Indeed, he quotes so muchGreek and Latin, and talks so finely, that it is onlyto be regretted that he does not now and then comedown from his stilts in order to gratify himself witha little intelligible English and his readers withsome homely grammar. It will be our painful dutyto submit to the reader’s notice a specimenor two of Mr. Jones’ peculiar style, which,together with the profound simplicity of his originalremarks, make up as curious a production as it hasever fallen to our lot to read and to criticise.

When our old friend, M. Soyer, declared his convictionthat “to die is a religious duty which everyhuman being owes to his Creator,” and that whenthe parents of a family are suddenly cut off, the unfortunateevent “not only affects the children personally,but their future generations, by destroying all thesocial comfort which generally exists in such families,and probably would cause misery to exist instead ofhappiness,” it occurred to us that sterner truismsin more naked guise it would be difficult to produce.We had not then read Jones. His self-evidentpropositions are perfectly astounding. Here area few of them.

“Chantrey believed that the mind and moralsare improved by the contemplation of beautiful objects.”Who could have supposed it? “Chantrey wasconvinced that variety in building, if under the guidanceof good sense and propriety, tends much to the beautyof a country.” Is it possible? “Chantreybelieved that all which has been done may be exceededwhen genius and ability are equal to the task,for as Raphael has surpassed the lay-figure art ofmost of his predecessors, so no reason exists whyRaphael should not be surpassed.” Had henever spoken again, this idea would have procuredhim a niche next to Francis Bacon. The sculptoractually believed that even the glories of the pastmay be outdone when there are genius and ability enoughin the world to surpass them! Will Mr. Jonesfavor us with the day and precise moment at whichthis wonderful conception entered the great sculptor’smind? We should like to record it. “Chantreyfelt that the blind adoration of right and wrong waslikely to mislead the public.” We reallythink we have heard the remark before. “Chantreyreferred every object to the Creator of all, and admiredwithout limit the works of the Great Artificer, fromthe smallest leaf to the noblest production, and inhis mundane calling aimed at an imitation of thatexcellence of beauty which nature has displayed.”There is nothing like getting at the idiosyncrasiesof the famous. Since Chantrey, according to Jones,has set the example of referring creation to a creator,and of studying nature when be wished to imitate her,we can only trust that the practice may henceforwardbe universally adopted. Chantrey was of opinion—­no,we mistake, this is Jones’ own—­Jonesis of opinion that “although the literary educationof artists ought to be as extensive as possible, yetthey may sometimes require the assistance of thosewhose opportunities and abilities have enabled themto make a deeper research.” Finely said.Jones is a case in point. We do not know theextent of his literary education, but whatever itbe, the assistance of Lindley Murray would, we arecertain, be of infinite service to him at this moment.

We forget how many thousands of pounds, poor Chantreyleft to the Royal Academy. Jones never tiresof lauding the Academy by referring to the munificentbequests; yet this, we repeat, is the return made bythat favored institution, in the person of one ofits chief members, to the no less distinguished andgenerous donor. The life of Chantrey would nothave been difficult in the hands of a moderately informedartist. “Dear Jones, we wanted a man oftaste (d—­n taste), we mean judgment,”and your professed regard for your friend should nothave rested content until it had found one.

* * * * *

SONG.

BY R. H. STODDARD.

I’ve left my native home afar,
Beyond the dark blue main;
And many a mouth may come and go
Ere I return again:
But months and years must come and go
As rolling waves depart,
Ere I forget to give you all
A home within my heart!

I come to you as swallows come,
Across the stormy foam;
My chief delight in alien lands,
To sing my songs of home:
Nor will I once regret my home
And all the sea that parts,
If you will only give me now
A home within your hearts!

* * * * *

[From the Athenaeum.]

VIRGINIA TWO HUNDRED YEARS AGO.[A]

[Footnote A: The Historie of Travaile into VirginiaBritannia; expressing the Cosmographie and Comoditiesof the Country, togither with the Manners and Customesof the People. Gathered and observed as well bythose who went first thither as collected by WilliamStrachey, Gent, the first Secretary of the Colony.Now first edited from the original Manuscript, inthe British Museum, by R. H. Major, Esq., of the BritishMuseum. Printed for the Hakluyt Society.]

This is a suggestive book, with its prophetic motto,—­itsdedication to Lord Bacon, the fit patron of discoverers,—­andits curious map, “described by Captayn JohnSmith,” adorned with ships, and huge whales,and all the land so closely dotted over with tall treesand molehill-sized mountains, and here and there themark of an Indian settlement just visible. WorthyWilliam Strachey, Gent., what would be his surpriseto look over a map of Virginia Britannia,-that “ampletract of land” with “sufficient spaceand ground enough to satisfie the most covetous,”—­inthe year 1850; and to mark the teeming and busy population,the steamboats that navigate the “five faireand delightfull navigable rivers” within theChesapeake Bay, the railroads that intersect the wholecountry and the vast human tide still pouring westward?“This shall be written for the generation tocome,” is his motto; and interesting it is tothe reader to follow him in his narrative of the toilsand privations of the good company to which he wassecretary, and in his full and minute account of theproduce of the country, and its strange inhabitants.Who William Strachey was, Mr. Major, notwithstandingall his diligence, has not been able to ascertain.In his dedication to Lord Bacon, he describes himselfas having been “one of the Graies-Inne Societe,”and his narrative affords ample proof of his beinga man of learning and worth: but of his family,the date of his birth or of his death, we have norecord.

The earlier attempts to colonize North America werenumerous, but all unfavorable. “Diversvoyages” were made thither from the year 1578to the close of the reign of Elizabeth, but withoutsuccess; nor were the first adventurers in the reignof her successor more fortunate.

“At the time of the death of Queen Elizabeth,one hundred and eleven years subsequent to the greatdiscovery of the Western World by Columbus, the Spaniards,on whose behalf his discovery had been made, were thesole permanent settlers in this wide and wealthy continent.In 1606, the French began to make settlements in Canadaand Acadie, now Nova Scotia, but it was not till 1607that the enterprise, which was finally destined tolay the foundation of British occupancy of Americansoil, was undertaken. Twenty-three years hadexpired since the patent has been granted to Sir WalterRaleigh to discover and take possession, with littleless than royal privileges, of remote heathen and barbarouslands, hitherto not actually possessed by any Christianprince; and yet not an acre of American soil had hithertobecome the property of the English..... It wasshortly after this period, viz., A deg. 1605-6,that Richard Hakluyt, the ‘presidium et dulcedecus’ of our Society, to whom, as Robertsonjustly remarks, ’England is more indebted forits American possessions than to any man of that age,’used influential arguments with various gentlemenof condition, to induce them to present a petitionto King James to grant them patents for the settlementof two plantations on the coast of North America.This petition issued in the concession of a charter,bearing date the 10th of April 1606, by which thetract of country lying between the thirty-forth andforty-fifth degrees of latitude was to be dividedinto nearly equal portions, between two companies;that occupying the southern portion to be called thefirst colony (subsequently named the London Company),and that occupying the northern, to be called thesecond colony (subsequently named the Plymouth Company).The patent also vested in each colony a right of propertyover fifty miles of the land, extending along thecoast each side of the point of first occupation,and a hundred miles inland. The chief adventurersin the London or South Virginian Company, with whichas the first settlement we now have principally todo, were Sir Thomas Gates, Sir George Somers, RichardHakluyt, and Edward Maria Wingfield. The commandof the expedition was committed to Captain Newport.”

“By a strange caprice of the king, these instructionswere sent carefully sealed up and inclosed in a box,not to be opened till their arrival in Virginia.”Thus, destitute of a leader at the time when they mostneeded one, they chose the gallant Captain John Smith,so well known from “the romantic tale of hisown life and Englishmen’s lives, for his sake,being saved once and again, by the personal devotionof the generous but ill-requited Pocahontas.”Under him the first permanent settlement of the Englishin America was effected, and James Town built.In 1609 the expedition under Lord Delaware set out;and “under his enlightened and beneficent auspicesthe colony soon assumed a wholesome and active appearance.”Ill health, however, compelled him within two yearsto return to England: but Sir Thomas Dale arrivingsoon after, with a fresh supply of emigrants, thecolony continued prosperous, its affairs subsequentlyretrograded; and Lord Delawarr again went out in theyear 1618,—­but unfortunately only to die,near the bay which still bears his name.

“Finally it was not till 1620, after so manyabortive efforts had been made both by Governmentand powerful bodies to form an establishment in NorthVirginia, that at length it received, under unexpectedcirc*mstances, an influx of settlers which soon renderedit by far the most prosperous of all colonies in NorthAmerica. This was the emigration of a large bandof Puritans, who suffering under the intolerance ofthe English Government, on account of non-conformity,first passed into Holland, and afterward found anasylum in America.”

The “Historie” very properly begins witha description of the land.-the fruitfulness of whichis dwelt on; and a hint is given of the probabilitythat even gold may be discovered,—­and “sureit is that some mineralls have ben there found.”“The temperature of the country” “dothwell agree with the English constitutions;”and moreover, not only all “needful fruits andvegetables which we transport from hence and plantthere thrive and prosper well,” but vines andtobacco and oranges, and probably sugar-canes, willgrow there,—­for the soil is “aromaticall,”and moreover abounds with medicinal plants and drugs.All this is the favorable side of the picture;—­butthen, “the savages and men of Ind” whosestrange appearance and barbarous usages had excitedso much fearful curiosity at home!—­Why,says Master Strachey. “let me truly saie, howthey never killed man of ours, but by our men’sowne folly and indiscretion, suffering themselvesto be beguiled and enticed up into their howses withouttheir armes; for fierce and cunning as they are, stillthey stand in great awe of us.” Among themthe Sasquesahanougs “came to the discovererswith skynns, bowes, arrowes, and tobacco pipes”—­doubtlessthe calumet of peace “for presents.”But the chief object of interest is, “the greatKing Powhatan.”—­already well knownby the name as the father of the interesting Indiangirl, Pocahontas; “the greatnes and boundesof whose empire, by reason of his powerfulnes andambition in his youth, hath larger lymitts than everhad any of his predicessors.”

“The great King” was not deficient inthat important mark of royalty-and which doubtlesscorroborated the opinion, then widely prevailing, thatthese Indians were of eastern origin—­a goodlynumber of wives. Indeed, “he is supposedto have many more than one hundred, all of which hedoth not keepe, yet as the Turk, in one seraglia orhowse, but hath an appointed number, which residestill in every their severall places, amongst whome,when he lyeth on his bedd, one sittith at his headand another at his feet; but when he sitteth at meat,or in presenting himself to any straungers, one sittetnon his right hand, and another on his leaft.”And here we have the picture of the great Powhatan,sitting pipe in hand, “the very moral,”feather-head-dress and all, of the protecting geniusof the tobacconist’s shop, with a rather pretty-lookingwife on each side and twenty more, laughingly huddled

round a huge fire, at his feet. His family wasrather patriarchal; consisting at this time of twentysons and ten daughters, besides “a young one,a great darling,” and Pocahontas, “nowmarried to a private captain.” Some of his“weroances,” or under governors, took somewhatof kingly state on them, and so did their favoritewives. One, a very handsome “savadge woman,”took on her “a shewe of greatnes” in thismanner.—­

“I was once early at her howse (yt being sommertyme), when she was layed without dores, under theshadowe of a broad-leaved tree, upon a pallet of osiers,spred over with four or five fyne gray matts, herselfcovered with a fare white drest deare skynne or two;and when she rose, she had a mayd who fetcht her afrontall of white currall, and pendants of great butimperfect couloured and worse drilled pearles, whichshe put into her eares, and a chayne, with long lyncksof copper, which they call Tapoantaminais, and whichcame twice or thrice about her neck, and they accompta jolly ornament; and sure thus attired, with somevariety of feathers and flowers stuck in their haires,they seeme as debonaire quaynt, and well pleasedas (I wis) a daughter of the howse of Austria behune[decked] with all her jewells; likewise her mayd fetchther a mantell, which, they call puttawus, which islike a side cloak, made of blew feathers, so arteficyallyand thick sewed togither, that it seemed like a deepepurple satten, and is very smooth and sleeke; and aftershe brought her water for her hands, and then a braunchor twoo of fresh greene asshen leaves, as for a towellto dry them. I offend in this digression thewillinger, since these were ceremonyes which I didlittle looke for, carrying so much presentetnent ofcivility.”

The description of the Indian dress does not differfrom the modern accounts; the style of the “ear-rings,”however, seems to have interested Strachey greatly,—­especiallythe “wild beast’s claws” stuck in,and, above all, “a small greene and yellow-coloredlive snake, neere half a yard in length, crawlingand lapping himself about his neck.” Truly,we can scarcely be surprised that the early settlerslooked with suspicion on men who wore such unchristian-likeornaments, and that they more than suspected themto be in league with “the old serpent.”A full description is given of their modes of huntingand fishing; and also of their amusem*nts,—­especiallytheir dances, which resemble those of “frantiqueand disquieted bachanalls.” The writer wasnot able to obtain much information as to their religion.From some scattered hints, it seems to have resembledthe Mexican, both in the human sacrifices and in thesecrecy attending them. They also used a sortof embalming for their kings, whose bodies were keptin one of their temples.

Their principal temple “is at Vtamussack, properto Powhatan, upon the top of certaine red sandy hills;and it is accompanied by two others sixty feet inlength, filled with images of their kings and deviles,and tombes of the predecessors. This place theycount so holy as that none but the priests and kingsdare come therein.” They are not observedto keep any specific days of devotion; but from timeto time the whole population assemble “to makea great fier in the house or fields, and all to singand daunce about yt, in a ring like so many fayries,with rattles and showtes.” This pointsto an eastern source: so does the following:

“They have also divers conjurations: onethey made at what tyme they had taken Captain Smythprisoner, to know, as they reported, if any more ofhis countrymen would arrive there, and what they intended;the manner of yt Captain Smyth observed to be as followeth:first, soe sone as daie was shut in, they kindleda faire great fier in a lone howse, about which assembledseven priests, takinge Captain Smyth by the hand, andappointing him his seat; about the fier they made akynd of enchanted circle of meale; that done, thechiefest priest, attyred as is expressed, gravelybegan to sing and shake his rattle, solemly rowndingand marching about the fier, the rest followed himsilently untill his song was done, which they allshutt up with a groane. At the end of the firstsong the chief priest layd downe certaine grainesof wheat, and so continuyed howling and invoking theirokeus to stand firme and powerful to them in diversvarieties of songs, still counting the songs by theirgraynes, untill they had circled the fier three tymes,then they devided the graynes by certaine number withlittle sticks, all the while muttering some ympiousthing unto themselves, oftentymes looking upon CaptainSmyth. In this manner they contynued ten or twelvehowers without any other ceremonies or intermission,with such violent stretching of their armes, and variouspassions, jestures, and simptoms, as might well seemestang to him before whom they so conjured, and whoevery hower expected to be the hoast and one of theirsacrifice. Not any meat did they eat untill ytwas very late, and the night far spent. Aboutthe rising of the morning starr they seemed to havefinished their work of darknes, and then drew forthsuch provision as was in the said howse, and feastedthemselves and him with much mirth.”

Some part of this narrative reminds us of the conjurationsof the Scandinavian prophetess—­before shepoured forth “the Runic rhyme,” as relatedby Bartolinus; we wish the writer had mentioned whetherthey moved eastward or westward. The prophetesswe have just alluded to, grasped her staff carvedwith Runic characters, all the time, and singing alow monotonous chant, she proceeded, contraryto the course of the sun, round and round the charmedfire. The coincidence is, however, striking.

The first book ends with a high eulogy on the capabilitiesof the country; the probability of its containinggreat mineral wealth, as well as the certainty ofits yielding abundant produce, “for yt hath (evenbeside necessary helpes, and commodities for life)apparent proufs of many naturall riches.”The second book gives a very interesting account ofthe various attempts to colonize this portion of America,from the time of the discovery to the expedition ofLord Delawarr,—­of which Mr. Major has givenan excellent epitome in his introduction.

Looking at the period when this work was probablywritten, and especially at the arguments used by theearnest writer, we cannot but think it likely thatit may have aided the Pilgrim Fathers in their determinationto seek on the farther shores of the Atlantic thatfreedom which was denied them here. Althoughin manuscript, it may have been well known; for wehave several instances of copies being made of worksnot intended for the press. In this instance,two copies are still extant; and the circ*mstanceof that in the Ashmolean Collection being dedicatedto Sir Allen Apsley, Lucy Hutchinson’s father,affords strong probability that it would soon becomeknown to the Puritans, since the wife of Sir Allen,—­aswe learn from her daughter’s delightful memoir,—­wasa warm adherent to their cause. The incidentalbenefits which Strachey anticipates for the nativesby their intercourse with civilized and Christianpeople were strongly dwelt on by the exiles at Amsterdam;and the very motto on the title-page of the work beforeus—­“This shall be written for thegeneration to come: and the people which shallbe created shall praise the Lord”—­wasso often used by them, that in the record of theirsettlement at Plymouth it might almost have been takenfor their motto. If such were the case,if the book before us gave, indeed, the impulse tothat devoted band of settlers, how mighty was itsinfluence:—­for seldom have greater destiniesbeen enshrined in a frail bark than those that freightedthe May-flower!—­Mr. Major merits much commendationfor his careful editorship and his illustrative notes:nor should the excellent etchings by his lady be overlooked,inasmuch as they give additional interest to a veryinteresting volume.

* * * * *

[From the Times.]

THE GREAT LORD MANSFIELD.

Lord Campbell has learned to take a broad and manlyview of the Profession which his own erudition adorns.In his temporary retirement he paid homage to literature;and literature, as is her wont, rewards her worshiperby extending his vision and emancipating his mind.A more intimate acquaintance with the transactionsand passions of the past, a disinterested and unbiasedsurvey of the lives and triumphs of his illustriouspredecessors, has prepared our present Chief Justicefor his eminence by teaching him, above all things,that judicial fame does not arise from a dull thoughperfect knowledge of the technicalities of law, andthat there is all the difference in the world betweena splendid ambition and the groveling prosecutionof an ignoble trade.

It is certainly not extraordinary that the life ofthe great Earl of Mansfield has been contemplatedby his biographer until a sense of humility has beenengendered, and eloquent admiration for transcendentintelligence evoked. From among a host this luminarystands forth. Faultless he was not, as we shallpresently see; but his failings, whatever they mayhave been, in no way obscured the luster of a geniusthat gave sublimity to the most prosaic of pursuits,and, in the teeth of prejudice, vindicated law againstthe toils of the narrow-minded and the opprobriumof ages. What Bacon proved to philosophy Mansfieldin his day became, in a measure, to his own cherishedscience; and, as co*ke affected commiseration for theauthor of the Novum Organum, so the fetteredslaves of forms and rules in later times pitied andreproached Lord Mansfield for his declared unconquerablepreference for the spirit of justice to the unilluminatedletter of the law.

Nature and education prepared William Murray for thevery highest forensic distinction, and his careeris chiefly remarkable for the certain, though gradualsteps, by which he reached it. His success wasthe legitimate and logical result of the means sedulouslytaken to obtain it. Had William Murray failedto win his race, it would have been because he haddropped down dead on the course, or violent hands hadforbidden his progress. The conditions of victorywere secured at starting, in his own person, let thecompetitors be whom they might. The spirit ofthe boy was as ambitious of worldly glory as the spiritof the man looked for undying fame; from first tolast, from the beginning of the century until theclose of it, the same application, the same aptitude,the same self-devotion, and the same clear, unruffled,penetrating judgment, were visible in Mansfield’suseful and protracted life.

The younger son of a poor Scotch lord, whose familyfavored the Stuart cause, William Murray quitted hisschool at Perth on the 15th of March, 1718, beingthen thirteen years of age, and started on the backof a pony for the city of London. His destinationwas the house of an apothecary, who, emigrating fromPerth, had settled in London, and was now commissionedto see the son of his former patron safely depositedat Westminster School, where it was hoped the youngstudent would win, in due time, his Oxford scholarship.Upon the 8th of May, just two months after the journeywas commenced, the pony completed his task, and therider resolutely began his own. He soon distinguishedhimself by his classical attainments, and, accordingto Mr. Welsby, “his superiority was more manifestin the declamations than in any of the other exercisesprescribed by the regulations of the school.”In May, 1723, after a severe examination, WilliamMurray took his place as first on the list of King’sscholars who were to proceed to Christ Church.

At Oxford the student determined to go to the bar,and through the generosity of the first Lord Foley,who supplied him with funds, he was enabled to followa profession for which, as he himself said, he felt“a calling.” He had not been at Oxforda year before he became a member of the Hon. Societyof Lincoln’s inn, although he did not begin tokeep his terms there until he had taken his bachelor’sdegree. At college William Murray was as diligentas he had been at school, and, intent upon renown,he took care to make all study subservient to the onegreat object of his life. He read whatever hadbeen written on the subject of oratory,—­translatedinto English every oration of Cicero, and retranslatedit into Latin, until every thought and expression ofthe illustrious example was familiar to his mind.He applied himself vigorously to original composition,and strengthened his intellect by the perusal of workswhich do not ordinarily fall within the college course.He was still at Oxford in 1727, the year of Georgethe First’s death, and became the successfulcompetitor for a prize when the students of the Universitywere called upon, in the name of the Muses, to mournover the urn of the departed Caesar,—­“ofthat Caesar,” as Mr. Macaulay has it, “whocould not read a line of Pope, and who loved nothingbut punch and fat women.” A rival poetupon this occasion was a lad from Eton. Disappointmentand vexation at defeat, it is said, rankled in thisboy’s bosom, and opened a wound which closedonly with life. Be this as it may, the classicrivalry begun at school between Pitt and Murray becamefiery strife between Chatham and Mansfield, fit fora civilized world to witness and to profit by.

From Christ Church to Lincoln’s-inn was a transferof abode, scarcely a change of habits or of life.Murray was four years nearer to his goal, but thatgoal had still to be reached, and could only be wonby untiring, patient, and ceaseless endeavor.At Oxford he had attended lectures on the Pandectsof Justinian, “which gave him a permanenttaste for that noble system of jurisprudence.”In his chambers he made himself thoroughly acquaintedwith ancient and modern history, applied himself diligentlyto ethics, to the study of Roman civil law, the foundationof jurisprudence, of international law, and of Englishmunicipal law. No drudgery was too laborious,no toil too dull. Expecting, from his northernconnections, to be employed in appeals from Scotland,he made himself master of the law of that country,and when he was not engaged in these and similar pursuits,or at the Courts of Westminster listening to judgments,he would take his chief of all delights in the companyof the juridical writers of France, “that hemight see how the Roman and feudal laws had been blendedin the different provinces of that kingdom.”Not a moment was lost in making preparations for thevictory which it was the purpose of his life to win.

Technical knowledge, however, came to enlighten andinform, not to burden and oppress. The mind ofMurray rejoiced in freedom and exercised itself inlight. Text-books were his handmaidens, he wasnot their slave. The exclusive labors of thegreat masters of his craft occupied his hours, buthe still found time for other more interesting lorecommon to mankind. Craig, Bracton, Littleton,and co*ke, all in their turns were trusty counselorsand dear companions, but as welcome as any to hisstudious hearth was the living presence of AlexanderPope. Murray, while at Westminster, had beenintroduced to the great poet, and had been charmedby his exquisite powers of conversation. Popewas no less struck by the accomplished genius of theyoung Scot, “the silvery tones of whose voice,”it is said, fell like a charm upon every ear.Pope, anxious for the success of the youth, visitedhim at his chambers, in order to teach him elocution.Once, says Lord Campbell, the young lawyer “wassurprised by a gay Templar in the act of practicingthe graces of a speaker at a glass, whilst Pope satby in the character of preceptor.” Teacherand pupil would spend hours together thus occupied.Mr. Pope, writes Bishop Warburton, “had allthe warmth of affection for the great lawyer, andindeed no man ever more deserved to have a poet forhis friend.”

In 1730 Murray paid a short visit to the continent,and on the 23d of November in that year he was calledto the bar in Lincoln’s-inn hall. Neverwas lawyer better armed for the battle of life.How he had qualified himself for the practice of hisprofession we have attempted in our narrow space toshow. With a rooted attachment to that profession,with a lofty ambition and noble desire to serve hiscountry, and a consciousness of strength equal tothe bravest undertaking; with a mind thoroughly imbuedwith the literature of Greece and Rome, as well asof his own country; with a perfect understanding ofthe codes of every civilized nation, ancient and modern;with an intimate knowledge and an accurate appreciationof the peculiarities of our mixed constitution; witha natural dignity of manner that commanded instantrespect; with a clear persuasive power of oratorythat never failed to win the sympathy of all to whomit was addressed; with a voice that in earlier dayshad been compared to the note of the nightingale;with almost every intellectual and physical gift whichnature could confer, and with every gift gratefullyreceived and assiduously improved, William Murray stoodat the threshold of his career and waited calmly forhis opportunity. It is sufficient to say thatthe opportunity came. Twelve years after Murraywas called to the bar, he was appointed Solicitor-Generalby the Government which had risen upon the downfallof Sir Robert Walpole, and which knew how to estimatethe value of so rare an acquisition.

The success of Murray in the House of Commons justifiedthe reputation which the new Solicitor-General hadalready attained at the bar. His first speech,as member for Boroughbridge, fixed his position.He maintained it for fourteen years, when he quittedthe lower house upon his elevation to the bench.When Murray accepted office under the Pelhams, anothermuch more ardent and unscrupulous politician alreadyin the House of Commons was writhing under the vexationof neglect. The Solicitor-General had met theambitious youth before, and the recollection of theirlast parting was hardly likely to insure a cordialor a friendly recognition. Murray’s firsttask in Parliament was to defend the employment ofHanoverian troops, 16,000 of whom had recently beentaken into British pay. Pitt, at the head of the“Boys,” as Walpole called the burningpatriots whose services he had himself respectfullydeclined, and hounded on by the Jacobites and Tories,denounced the steps as “illegal, unconstitutional,a sacrifice of British to electoral interests, anda prelude to the introduction of despotism into thiscountry.” Pitt was created to denounce,Murray to defend. Overwhelming as the torrentof declamation and invective might be which Pitt knewso well how and when to pour forth, the barrier setup against it by the calm dignity, the perfect reasoning,the marvelous self-government, the exquisite tones,and conciliatory manner of Murray, was more than sufficientto protect him against submersion. A divisiontaking place upon the Hanoverian question, Governmentfound themselves in a large majority. Murraywas pronounced to be a match for his rival, and GeorgeII. became suddenly as attached to the one as he hadlong hated and feared the other.

On the 3d of March, 1754, Mr. Pelham, the Prime Minister,died, and, had Murray’s ambition soared in thatdirection, he might at once have stepped into thevacant office. He had long been the prop of theMinistry in the House of Commons, and was by far themost sagacious member of the Government. Throughouthis Parliamentary career, what has happily been calledhis “clear, placid, mellow splendor” hadsuffered no tarnish, and had not been obscured bya single cloud. Always ready, well informed,lucid in argument, and convincing in manner, he hadvirtually assumed the leadership in the House of Commons,and his elevation would in no way have altered theaspect or proceedings of that assembly. The nationrespected him, and the monarch regarded him with morethan common favor. Murray, however, coveted notthe prize. Mr. Macaulay, referring to this periodin one of his masterly essays, attributes the conductof the Solicitor-General to moral infirmity.“The object of Murray’s wishes,”he says, “was the judicial bench. The situationof Chief Justice might not be so splendid as thatof First Lord of the Treasury, but it was dignified,it was quiet, it was secure; and therefore it was thefavorite situation of Murray.” Lord Campbell

states the case more creditably, and, as we think,more fairly to Lord Mansfield. “From a highfeeling,” says the biographer, “that hisdestiny called him to reform the jurisprudence ofhis country, he sincerely and ardently desired to beplaced on the bench, and the especial object of hisambition was to be Chief Justice of England.”We remember that, whilst a lad, and destined by hisparents for the church. Murray, of his own motion,dedicated himself to the study of the law, feelinga “calling” for that profession. WhyLord Mansfield had resisted every temptation in orderto secure the eminence for which, it is not too muchto say, he was in all respects better fitted than anywho have won it, became evident enough within a yearof his appointment to the bench. Moral couragehe lacked; something nobler than its want led himto renounce the Premiership.

What Murray rejected the less capable and not overnice Duke of Newcastle Greedily seized. The Attorney-General,Sir Dudley Ryder, was elevated to the bench, and Murray,gaining a step in professional rank, was by so muchnearer to the consummation of his hopes. Neverwas Ministry so thoroughly weak and so wretchedlyunfortunate. The whole burden of defending itrested in the House of Commons upon the shoulders ofthe Attorney-General, and the feebleness of the Governmentwas all the more painful from the manifest strengthof the great master of sarcasm and invective, theirunflinching opponent, growing in favor throughout thecountry, merciless in his attack at all times, butterrific in his onslaughts upon a foe worthy of hishatred, and capable of defense. Imagination cannotlinger upon a finer picture than is presented in thepersons of these mighty combatants; nor is the effectdiminished by the fact that of their great achievementslittle remains beyond the bare tradition. Weknow that by a word, a gesture, a glance of his eagleeye, Pitt awed the House of Commons, and chilled itinto death-like silence. We have heard how likea torrent his unpremeditated and impassioned oratoryrushed into the hearts of men, expelling rooted convictions,and whatever else possessed them at the moment; howreadily he spoke on all emergencies, how daring werehis strange digressions, how apposite his illustrations,how magnificent and chivalric the form and structureof his thoughts—­how madly spirit-stirringhis high and stern appeals. We have read of theproud bearing of the austere yet gentle commoner, towhom it was a matter of sublime indifference whetherin a debate he rose late or early, first or last,and who ever contented himself with simply followingthe current, and obeying the fine instinct of his ownrapt mind, regardless of the speakers who had gonebefore, or were about to follow him. We havepictured to ourselves the commanding countenance, thecharacteristic action, the patrician manner that belongedto William Pitt as exclusively as his own wild andwayward genius; but records are wanting to establish

all that we feel and know. Fragments of Pitt’soratory only have reached us, and of these but fewcan be pronounced wholly authentic. What thatoratory must have been we learn from its effects.More is not vouchsafed us. What remains to usof Murray’s speeches in Parliament is equallymeager and unsatisfactory, but we may judge of hispower by reflecting upon the character of the assailantwith whom he successfully wrestled. There mustsurely have been wonderful capability of argument,vast knowledge, a faculty of persuasion irresistiblein its winning grace, all combined in the man able,by the mere force of quiet intellectual skill, tobear the brunt of an assault which threatened demolitionin its furious advance, and to turn aside blows intendedfor annihilation. Lord Chesterfield addressinghis son, points to Pitt and Murray as to two greatmodels for imitation. Contemporary history assignsto them the highest place among their fellows.

In 1756 Sir Dudley Ryder died, and Murray immediatelyclaimed the vacant Chief Justiceship. The Dukeof Newcastle was panic-stricken by the announcement.It has it said that from the beginning the Attorney-Generalhad been the mainstay of the Government; but at thisparticular crisis his adherence was essential to itslife. The nation was discontented and sullen,as well it might be. War, carried on in almostevery part of the world, had resulted in lasting disgraceto England. Minorca had been lost to her throughthe folly or cowardice of an English admiral, andelsewhere ignominious defeat had attended her arms.Addresses from the Throne poured in, intimations ofstopping the supplies were thrown out, and unmistakablereferences made to the conduct of the chiefs of theGovernment. Fox, the only capable Minister, resignedhis office in fear and disgust, and, at the very momentwhen Newcastle turned to Murray as to his last hopeand refuge in the coming storm, that cautious andresolute official respectfully demanded the promotionto which he had a right. Alarmed for his placeand his head, the Duke promised the Attorney-Generalenough to make the fortunes of six if he would butforego his purpose. He should have the Duchy ofLancaster for life, tellerships and reversions withoutend for himself and his nephew, Lord Stormont; ifhe would only stay in the House of Commons until theaddress was carried he should have a pension of 6,000l.a-year; offers rose as Murray showed himself morefirm. Temptation came in vain. Murray averredthat he “would on no terms agree to remain inthe House of Commons for one session longer, or onemonth, or one day, even to support the address;”he “never again would enter that assembly.”If he could not be Chief Justice he would not be Attorney-General.That peremptory avowal was enough. To keep Murrayfrom opposition, Newcastle conferred upon the countrythe only great boon he ever bestowed upon it, and madethe Attorney-General Chief Justice of the King’sBench. The poor Duke gained little by the move.Forced in his naked helplessness to resign, he wassucceeded by the Duke of Devonshire, who took careto appoint Pitt Secretary of State, and to give himthe lead in the House of Commons.

Upon the 8th day of November, 1756, Murray was swornin before Lord Chancellor Hardwicke, and created apeer by the title of Baron Mansfield, of Mansfield,in the county of Nottingham, and three days afterwardhe sat for the first time in the Court of King’sBench. “Over that great court,” saysLord Brougham, “he presided for thirty years,and his administration of its functions during thatlong period shed a luster alike upon the tribunaland the judge.” During that period, too,but two cases occurred in which his opinion was notunanimously adopted by his brethren; and of the manythousand judgments which he pronounced but two werereversed. In all his time no bill of exceptionswas ever tendered to his direction, and “allsuitors sanguine in their belief of being entitledto succeed” were eager to bring their causesto be tried before him. There were drawbacksto Murray’s complete success in the House ofCommons; there were qualities which he lacked whilstpracticing at the bar. Mansfield wanted nothingto make up the perfect portrait of a British judge.In the Legislature he was helpless in attack; and bothin the House of Commons and in the House of Lordshe exhibited on more than one occasion a want of moralcourage as humiliating to his friends as it provedprofitable to his foes; at the bar, learned and ablethough he always was, yet wary circ*mspection eventhere cramped his powers and deprived him of the transcendentreputation which other advocates have earned.On the bench there was neither fear nor hesitation,neither undue caution nor lack of energy, to impedehis great intelligence. There he sat, as abovethe common passions of humanity, surveying its doingswith a mind unobscured by prejudice, as wide in itsgrasp as it was masculine it capability. Hisclearness of apprehension, his perspicuity of statement,his perfect self-command, his vast knowledge of everykind, were amongst the least of his qualificationsfor his high station. More preeminently thanall was his heroic and almost chivalric devotion tothe judicial office; his stern and unflinching loveof justice, as distinguished from “the punytechnicalities of an obscure walk;” his superiorityto the favors of the great or to the clamors of themany, and his unquestioned spotless integrity.During a portion of his lengthened judicial careerLord Mansfield held a seat in the Cabinet, but nobodythought of questioning the purity of his judgmentson that account. Toward the close of his judiciallife Lord George Gordon was tried for Inciting therioters who set fire to Lord Mansfield’s houseand destroyed his property. Lord Mansfield wasthe presiding judge on that memorable occasion, andit was upon his exposition of the law of high treasonto the jury, and after his summing up, that Lord GeorgeGordon was acquitted.

“The benefits conferred by this accomplishedjudge upon the Court and upon its suitors,”says one of his biographers,—­

“Were manifold and substantial. He beganby at once so regulating the distribution of the business,as to remove all uncertainty of the matters whichshould be taken up each day, and to diminish both theexpense, and the delay, and the confusion of formertimes. He restored to the whole bar the privilegeof moving in turn, instead of confining this to thelast day of the term. He almost abolished thetedious and costly practice of having the same caseargued several times over, restricting such rehearingsto questions of real difficulty and adequate importance.”The benefits conferred upon the country were far greater.Burke, once quoting an argument of Solicitor-General,Murray, said that “the ideas of Murray go tothe growing melioration of the law by making its liberalitykeep pace with the demands of justice and the actualconcerns of the world—­not restricting theinfinitely diversified occasions of men and the rulesof natural justice within artificial circ*mscriptions,but conforming our jurisprudence to the growth ofour commerce and our empire.”

The statement is just, and a finer panegyric it wereimpossible to write. Our limits, unfortunately,enable us only to indicate the achievements of ChiefJustice Mansfield; but such indications must be given,however briefly. He found the common law of Englanda reproach, and, according to Professor Story, “heput England, America, and the whole civilized worldunder the deepest obligations” by the permanentimprovement which he effected in the system.During the reign of George II. England had becomethe greatest manufacturing and commercial country inthe world, but her jurisprudence had, in the meanwhile,made no provision whatever for the regulation of commercialdealings. When questions arose affecting purchasesand sales, the affreightment of ships, marine insurances,bills of exchange, and promissory notes, it was impossibleto decide them; there were no cases to refer to, notreatises to consult. Lord Mansfield grappledwith the difficulty and overcame it. His judicialdecisions supplied the deficiencies of law and becamethemselves law. His mode of procedure was asphilosophical as it was bold. From every casethat came before him he extracted a general principleof universal application, and availed himself of itnot only to rule the particular case under consideration,but to serve as a guide in all similar cases hereafter;and he would enlarge upon the principle thus broughtout until, as his contemporaries declare, all listenerswere lost in admiration at the strength and stretchof his understanding. Lord Campbell tells usthat the common law of England which Lord Mansfieldhad to administer upon his elevation to the bench,“was a system admirably adapted to the conditionof England in the Norman and early Plantagenet reigns,whence it sprang up.” As high an authorityin America declares that

“Wherever commerce shall extend its social influences,wherever justice shall be administered by enlightenedand liberal rules, wherever contracts shall be expoundedupon the eternal principles of right and wrong, wherevermoral delicacy and judicial refinement shall be infusedinto the municipal code, at once to persuade men tobe honest and to keep them so; wherever the intercourseof mankind shall aim at something more elevating thanthat groveling spirit of barter in which meanness,and avarice, and fraud strive for the mastery overignorance, credulity, and folly, the name of LordMansfield will be reverenced, not only for adaptingthe inefficient system which he found to the exigenciesof his own age in his own country, but for furnishingforever the great laws founded upon everlasting truthand justice to the whole family of man.”

In 1760 George III. ascended the throne, and Mansfieldbecame a member of the Cabinet, of which Bute wasat the head. Ten years afterward the Chief Justiceprudently withdrew from the intimate connection withthe Government, into which he ought never to haveentered, and seven years Before his retirement thebrief, though magnificent authority of Bute, had beenshattered to pieces, and the Minister himself disgraced.But, although Cabinet Councils were henceforward heldwithout the Chief Justice, Lord Mansfield in his placein Parliament stood by the Government, and vigorouslydefended them against a virulent Opposition.Pitt, “blasting his character,” accordingto Horace Walpole, “for the sake of a paltryannuity and a long-necked peeress,” had followedhis ancient rival into the House of Lords, and bythis suicidal act given Mansfield an immense advantage.Chatham, eager enough to tie his victim to the stake,was doomed to bitter disappointment in an arena utterlyunfitted for the exercise of his peculiar powers.The atmosphere of the House of Peers, admirably suitedto the calm dignity and sublime moderation of Mansfield,proved too often nipping frost to the burning declamationof the man whose very look could rouse a more popularassembly, and whose words oftener than once had inspiredit with the noblest sentiments. It was not inthe House of Lords that at this period of his historyLord Mansfield found his most dangerous opponent.A secret enemy had arisen in the outside world amongstthe people, one even more unscrupulous than Chathamin his animosity: one who reveled in his questionableprivilege of striking in the dark, and who justifiedabuse that knew no mercy, and acknowledged no law,by reiterated and fervid appeals to God and his country.The moral courage of Murray had once given way inthe House of Commons, when Pitt, speaking daggers tohim, and suddenly exclaiming, “Judge Festustrembles, he shall hear me another day,” quietlysat down. But his sufferings were nothing comparedwith the torture his weakness underwent beneath therepeated inflictions of the unsparing Junius.

Toward the close of the year 1769 Junius sent forthhis celebrated letter to the King, for the publicationof which criminal informations were laid against Woodfall,as well as against Almon and Miller, who immediatelyreprinted the libel. “Rex v. Almon”was the first case brought to trial, and the juryfound a general verdict of guilty. The defenseset up in the trial against Woodfall was, that theletter was not libellous. The part which LordMansfield took is well known. He contended that

“All the jury had to consider was, whether thedefendant had published the letter set out in theinformation, and whether the inuendos, imputing aparticular meaning to particular words, as that ‘theK——­’ meant His Majesty KingGeorge III., but that they were not to consider whetherthe publication was ‘false and malicious,’these being mere formal words, and that whether theletter was libellous or innocent was a pure questionof law, upon which the opinion of the court mightbe taken by a demurrer, or a motion in arrest of judgment.”

The jury retired, and after some hours deliberationreturned a verdict of “Guilty of the printingand publishing only.” The attempt of LordMansfield to withdraw the cognizance of the questionof libel from the jury to vest it in the court, contrary,as it unquestionably was, both to liberty and law,had high authorities for its justification, and wassupported by the unanimous opinion of the judges whosat at his side. Posterity will acquit the otherwiseupright judge of the moral obliquity of which hisliving enemies, with regard to this proceeding, pronouncedhim guilty, and for which Junius would have crushedthe Chief Justice, had his ability been equal to hiswill.

It behooves the present generation to approach thelucubrations of the redoubted Junius in a spirit ofenlightened discrimination. We must bear in mindthat the poisoned arrows of the unseen combatant weredischarged at a period peculiarly favorable for theexercise of his destructive skill; when startlinginvective was in fashion; when the mercenary actsof the foremost public man excused, if they did notjustify, wholesale and unreflecting chastisem*nt;when the public press was in its earliest infancy,and public writers had not yet educated the audiencewhose good sense now holds the libertinism of eventhe public censor in check, and provides its own bestremedy against the crimes or follies of the pen.Junius but imitated the example of his betters whenhe fastened upon a foe, guilty or innocent, and heapedupon his head every opprobrious term a heated imaginationcould supply. A statesman’s policy had butto be inconvenient to his adversary in order to provethe Minister “hateful,” “execrable,”“abominable,” “wicked,” a traitorto his country, and a conspirator against the libertiesof the people. Pitt honored Walpole with suchvituperation, and when Walpole went out, and Carteretcame in without Pitt, the same expressive language

was transferred by the illustrious commoner from Ministerto Minister, as though no virtue could possibly befound in any Government without his presence.When Junius affected to regard Lord Mansfield as theincarnation of all that is odious in humanity, hispraise of Lord Chatham knew no bounds; yet it is wellknown that under another disguise Junius dealt farseverer blows against the patriot than he ever inflictedupon a man born, as he says, to abet despotism inits hateful attempts to trample upon the people’srights. Nothing can be more inconsistent thanthe accusations brought by Junius against Lord Mansfield.In one and the same breath he charges him with assumingan arbitrary power of doing right; so that if he doeswrong it lies only between him and his conscience;and with condescending to evasive, indirect courses,in the temper of a quibbler. Now the Chief Justiceis something more than a lawyer, now considerably less.At one moment he is setting common law at defiance,at another he is twisting the law to the purposesof corruption, and taking refuge behind the formswhich he is expressly charged with heroically settingat defiance. Had Lord Mansfield been less timorous,Junius might have been less daring. At the closeof one of his letters the reckless assailant writes“Beware how you indulge the first emotions ofyour resentment. This paper is delivered to theworld, and cannot be recalled. The prosecutionof an innocent printer cannot alter facts nor refutearguments. Do not furnish me with further materialsagainst yourself.” Another venomous diatribeends with a similar threat. Dare “to representthis charge as a contempt of the authority of theHouse of Peers, and move their Lordships to censurethe publisher of this paper, and I affirm that yousupport injustice by violence; that you are guiltyof a heinous aggravation, of your offense; and thatyou contribute your utmost influence to promote, onthe part of the highest court of judicature, a positivedenial of justice to the nation!” Junius tradedup on the invincible infirmity of a judge, who mighthave been destroyed by his weakness had he not beenupheld by his unsullied purity and fame.

The attacks of Junius were not without effect on Parliament.A motion was made in the House of Commons for “acommittee to inquire into the proceedings of the judgesin Westminster Hall, particularly in cases relatingto the liberty of the press.” In the Houseof Lords Lord Chatham and Lord Camden re-echoed thecharges of the House of Commons, and while the latterwarned noble lords how they received the opinions inthat House of the “most experienced lawyers”upon questions of law, the former, in his accustomedstyle, threatened to ring again and again “thealarm-bell of liberty,” until he “couldrouse the people to a proper sense of their injuries.”Stung by persecution Lord Mansfield suffered himselfto be betrayed into unaccountable error. Intimatingone day that he had something of importance to bring

to the notice of the House, he moved that their Lordshipsshould be summoned to receive the communication.The appointed day arrived, and the attendance of peerswas unusually large. Lord Mansfield rose amidstprofound and anxious silence. Lord Chatham andLord Camden had calumniated the judges, and they werenow no doubt to be the objects of a vote of censure.Nothing of the kind. Lord Mansfield simply informedthe House that he had left a paper with the clerkassistant containing the judgment of the Court of King’sBench in the case of “the King against Woodfall,”and then, to the astonishment of every one, resumedhis seat. Lord Camden rose and inquired whetherthe noble lord intended hereafter to found any motionon his paper? Lord Mansfield answered “No,”and the House proceeded to other business. Thevery next day Lord Camden resumed the subject.He regarded the conduct of the Chief Justice as achallenge against himself, and he at once acceptedit. In direct contradiction to Lord Mansfieldhe maintained that his doctrine was not the law ofEngland. He had considered the noble lord’s“paper,” and had not found it very intelligible.He begged to propose four questions to the noble andlearned lord, to which he required categorical answers,that their lordships might know precisely the pointsthey had to discuss. The questions were submitted,and Lord Mansfield, instead of meeting them, “withmost abject soothings,” as Horace Walpole gleefullysays, “paid the highest compliments to Lord Camden.”He had the highest esteem for the noble and learnedlord who thus attacked him, and had ever courted hisesteem in return. He had not expected this treatmentfrom his candor. It was unfair; he would not answerinterrogatories. The reply was a signal for relentlesstorment. Not a peer interposed on his behalf.Distressed by his misery, Lord Mansfield sat down,remained still, and in sheer pity for their prey thedogs were called off.

In 1778 Lord Chatham died, and from the departureof the great commoner until his own decease Lord Mansfieldoccupied a more conspicuous place as a judge thanas a politician in the public eye. He continuedto display upon the bench, as heretofore, the keenestperception, a resolute obedience to the dictates ofjustice, high incorruptibility, great learning, andthorough self-devotion to his beloved and chosen occupation.He has been largely accused of favoring, in his earlymanhood, the designs of the Pretender, yet, from thebeginning to the close of his public life, his fidelityto the reigning family could not be called in question.He has been charged with gratifying prerogative atthe expense of law, yet the liberty of the law wasnever more perfect, the rights of the subject werenever more secure, than during his long tenure ofthe judicial office. He has been stigmatized byJunius as an oppressor of men’s consciences,yet no man of his time regulated his conduct witha stricter regard to the humanizing principle of religious

toleration. Had Lord Mansfield been faithlessto the people his death would never have been regardedas an irreparable loss by the whole country; had hebeen a bigot, the world would never have lost thetreasures which it is said were consumed in the houseburnt to the ground by zealous Protestants eager totake the life as well as to destroy the goods of LordMansfield, for no other reason than that he chose tohold the scales of justice fairly and steadily betweenProtestant and Catholic.

In his 82d year, having been absent scarcely a dayfrom court, Lord Mansfield retired to Tunbridge Wellsfor the benefit of his health. The year followinghe resigned his office. For six years longer helived in dignified retirement, occupying himself inhis garden, or refreshing his mind with the worksthat had charmed and instructed his youth. Tothe last he retained his memory, and, dying withouta pain at the close of the century, the man who hadspent his happiest evenings with Pope was destinedto listen to all the horrors of the French Revolution,in common with thousands living at the present hour.Lord Mansfield’s death was mourned as a nationalcalamity; his remains were deposited in WestminsterAbbey, and they lie close to those of the Earl of Chatham.After the stormy conflict of a glorious life, thetwo schoolboy rivals lie side by side in silent andeverlasting repose.

We have freely stated the one great deformity of LordMansfield’s character; his quailing before LordCamden is but a solitary instance of the fault thattarnished his otherwise brilliant career. Whenwe have said that the Chief Justice acted unconstitutionallyin continuing in the Cabinet whilst he held the Judicialoffice, and that, admitted to the friendship and confidenceof his sovereign, he did not scruple to exercise powerwithout official responsibility, we have confessedto the most serious offenses with which he is chargeable.It is not, however, to dwell upon these blemishesof true greatness, or to indulge in idle panegyric,that we have occupied so large a portion of valuablespace, and intermixed with the living doings of todayone striking record of the buried past. The lifeof Lord Mansfield is nothing to us if it yields noprofitable instruction and contains no element of usefulnessfor the generation to whom our labors are addressed.Is it wholly unnecessary to place at this moment beforethe bar of England so noble a model for imitationso sublime an ideal for serious contemplation as thatoffered in the person of the Earl of Mansfield?Is it impertinent to warn our lawyers, that, withoutconfirmed habits of industry, temperance, self-subjugation,unsullied honor, vast knowledge, enlightened and loftyviews of their difficult yet fascinating profession,and a love of the eternal principles of truth andjustice, incompatible with meanness and degradingpractice, true eminence is impossible, and imperishablerenown not to be obtained? Never, at any other

period of our history, has it been so necessary tourge upon the students of the law the example of theirworthiest predecessors. The tendency of the ageis to lower, not to elevate, the standard set up byour ancestors for the attainment of preeminence.That our giants may not be stunted in their growth—­thatthe legal stock may not hopelessly degenerate—­ChiefJustice Campbell does well to impress upon his brethrenthe patient and laborious course—­the highand admirable qualities—­by which Chief JusticeMansfield secured his greatness and his fame.

* * * * *

[From Blackwood’s Magazine.]

MY NOVEL;
OR, VARIETIES IN ENGLISH LIFE.

BY PISISTRATUS CAXTON.

BOOK 1.—­INITIAL CHAPTER; SHOWING HOW MY NOVEL CAME TO BE WRITTEN.

SCENE, The Hall in Uncle Roland’s Tower.TIME,_Night_—­SEASON, Winter.

Mr. Caxton is seated before a great geographical globe,which he is turning round leisurely, and “forhis own recreation,” as, according to Sir ThomasBrowne, a philosopher should turn round the orb, ofwhich that globe professes to be the representationand effigies. My mother having just adorned avery small frock with a very smart braid, is holdingit out at arm’s length, the more to admire theeffect. Blanche, though leaning both hands onmy mother’s shoulder, is not regarding the frock,but glances toward Pisistratus, who, seatednear the fire leaning back in his chair, and his headbent over his breast, seems in a very bad humor.Uncle Roland, who has become a great novel reader,is deep in the mysteries of some fascinating ThirdVolume. Mr. Squills has brought The Timesin his pocket for his own especial profit and delectation,and is now bending his brows over “the stateof the money market,” in great doubt whetherrailway shares can possibly fall lower. For Mr.Squills, happy man! has large savings, and does notknow what to do with his money; or, to use his ownphrase, “how to buy in at the cheapest, in orderto sell out at the dearest.”

Mr. Caxton, musingly.—­“Itmust have been a monstrous long journey. It wouldbe somewhere hereabouts I take it, that they wouldsplit off.”

My Mother, mechanically, and in order to showAustin that she paid, him the compliment of attendingto his remarks—­“Who split off, mydear?”

“Bless me, Kitty,” said my father, ingreat admiration, “you ask just the questionwhich it is most difficult to answer. An ingeniousspeculator on races contends that the Danes, whosedescendants make the chief part of our northern population,(and indeed if his hypothesis could be correct, wemust suppose all the ancient worshipers of Odin,) areof the same origin as the Etrurians. And why,Kitty, I just ask you, why?”

My mother shook her head thoughtfully, and turnedthe frock to the other side of the light.

“Because, forsooth,” cried my father,exploding—­“because the Etrurianscalled their gods ‘the AEsar,’ and theScandinavians called theirs ’the AEsir, orAser! And where do you think he puts their cradle?”

“Cradle!” said my mother, dreamingly—­“it must be in the nursery.”

Mr. Caxton.—­“Exactly—­inthe nursery of the human race—­just here,”and my father pointed to the globe; “bounded,you see, by the River Halys, and in that region which,taking its name from Ees or As, (a word designatinglight or fire) has been immemorially called Asia.Now, Kitty, from Ees or As our ethnological speculatorwould derive not only Asia, the land, but AEsar orAser, its primitive inhabitants. Hence he supposesthe origin of the Etrurians and the Scandinavians.But, if we give him so much, we must give him more,and deduce from the same origin the Es of the Celt,and the Ized of the Persian, and—­what willbe of more use to him, I dare say, poor man, thanall the rest put together—­the AEs of theRomans, that is, the God of Copper-Money—­avery powerful household god he is to this day!”

My mother looked musingly at her frock, as if shewere taking my father’s Proposition into seriousconsideration.

“So, perhaps,” resumed my father, “andnot unconformably with sacred records, from one greatparent horde came all these various tribes, carryingwith them the name of their beloved Asia; and whetherthey wandered north, south, or west, exalting theirown emphatic designation of ‘Children of theLand of Light’ into the title of gods. Andto think, (added Mr. Caxton pathetically, gazing uponthat speck in the globe on which his forefinger rested,)—­tothink how little they changed for the better whenthey got to the Don, or entangled their rafts amidstthe icebergs of the Baltic—­so comfortablyoff as they were here, if they could but have stayedquiet!”

“And why the deuce could not they?” askedMr. Squills.

“Pressure of population, and not enough to liveupon, I suppose,” said my father.

Pisistratus, sulkily.—­“Moreprobably they did away with the Corn Laws, sir.”

“Papae!” quoth my father, “thatthrows a new light on the subject.”

Pisistratus, full of his grievances, and notcaring three straws about the origin of the Scandinavians.—­“Iknow that if we are to lose L500 every year on a farmwhich we hold rent free, and which the best judgesallow to be a perfect model for the whole country,we had better make haste and turn AEsar or Aser, orwhatever you call them, and fix a settlement on theproperty of other nations, otherwise I suspect ourprobable settlement will be on the parish.”

Mr. Squills, who, it must be remembered, isan enthusiastic Free-trader.—­“Youhave only got to put more capital on the land.”

Pisistratus.—­“Well, Mr. Squills,as you think so well of that investment, put yourcapital on it. I promise that you shall have everyshilling of profit.”

Mr. Squills, hastily retreating behind TheTimes.—­“I don’t think theGreat Western can fall any lower; though it is hazardous—­Ican but venture a few hundreds—­”

Pisistratus.—­“On our land,Squills? Thank you.”

Mr. Squills.—­“No, no—­anythingbut that-on the Great Western.”

Pisistratus relapses into gloom. Blanche stealsup coaxingly, and gets snubbed for her pains.A pause.

Mr. Caxton—­“There are twogolden rules of life; one relates to the mind, andthe other to the pockets. The first is—­Ifour thoughts get into a low, nervous, aguish condition,we should make them change the air; the second iscomprised in the proverb, ’it is good to havetwo strings to one’s bow.’ Therefore,Pisistratus, I tell you what you must do—­Writea Book!”

Pisistratus.—­“Write a Book!—­Againstthe abolition of the Corn Laws? Faith, sir, themischief’s done. It takes a much betterpen than mine to write down an Act of Parliament.”

Mr. Caxton.—­“I only said,‘Write a Book.’ All the rest is theaddition of your own headlong imagination.”

Pisistratus, with the recollection of The GreatBook rising before him.—­“Indeed,sir I should think that would just finish us!”

Mr. Caxton, not seeming to heed the interruption.—­“Abook that will sell! A book that will prop upthe fall of prices! A book that will distractyour mind from its dismal apprehensions, and restoreyour affection to your species, and your hopes inthe ultimate triumph of sound principles—­bythe sight of a favorable balance at the end of theyearly accounts. It is astonishing what a differencethat little circ*mstance makes in our views of thingsin general. I remember when the bank in whichSquills had incautiously left L1000 broke, one remarkablyhealthy year, that he became a great alarmist, andsaid that the country was on the verge of ruin; whereas,you see now, when, thanks to a long succession ofsickly seasons, he has a surplus capital to risk inthe Great Western—­he is firmly persuadedthat England was never in so Prosperous a condition.”

Mr. Squills, rather sullenly.—­“Pooh,pooh.”

Mr. Caxton.—­“Write a book,my son—­write a book. Need I tell youthat Money or Moneta, according to Hyginus, was themother of the Muses? Write a book.”

Blanche and my Mother, in full chorus.—­“Ohyes, Sisty—­a book-a book! you must writea book.”

“I am sure,” quoth my Uncle Roland, slammingdown the volume he had just concluded, “he couldwrite a devilish deal better book than this; and howI come to read such trash, night after night, is morethan I could Possibly explain to the satisfactionof any intelligent jury, if I were put into a witness-box,and examined in the mildest manner by my own counsel.”

Mr. Caxton.—­“You see thatRoland tells us exactly what sort of a book it shallbe.”

Pisistratus.—­“Trash, sir?”

Mr. Caxton.—­“No—­thatis not necessarily trash—­but a book of thatclass which, whether trash or not, people can’thelp reading. Novels have become the necessityof the age. You must write a novel.”

Pisistratus, flattered, but dubious.—­“Anovel! But every subject on which novels canbe written is preoccupied. There are novels onlow life, novels of high life, military novels, navalnovels, novels philosophical, novels religious, novelshistorical, novels descriptive of India, the Colonies,Ancient Rome, and the Egyptian Pyramids. Fromwhat bird, wild eagle, or barn-door fowl, can I

“‘Pluck one unwearied plumefrom Fancy’s wing!’”

Mr. Caxton, after a little thought.—­“Youremember the story which Trevanion (I beg his pardon,Lord Ulswater) told us the other night. Thatgives you something of the romance of real life foryour plot—­puts you chiefly among sceneswith which you are familiar, and furnishes you withcharacters which have been sparingly dealt with sincethe time of Fielding. You can give us the countrysquire, as you remember him in your youth: itis a specimen of a race worth preserving—­theold idiosyncrasies of which are rapidly dying off,as the railways bring Norfolk and Yorkshire withineasy reach of the manners of London. You cangive us the old-fashioned parson, as in all essentialshe may yet be found—­but before you hadto drag him out of the great Puseyite sectarian bog;and, for the rest, I really think that while, as Iam told, many popular writers are doing their best,especially in France, and perhaps a little in England,to set class against class, and pick up every stonein the kennel to shy at a gentleman with a good coaton his back, something useful might be done by a fewgood-humored sketches of those innocent criminalsa little better off than their neighbors, whom, howeverwe dislike them, I take it for granted we shall haveto endure, in one shape or another, as long as civilizationexists; and they seem, on the whole, as good in theirpresent shape as we are likely to get, shake the dicebox of society how we will.”

Pisistratus.—­“Very well said,sir; but this rural country gentleman life is notso new as you think. There’s WashingtonIrving—­”

Mr. Caxton.—­“Charming—­butrather the manners of the last century than this.You may as well cite Addison and Sir Roger de Coverley.”

Pisistratus.—­“Tremaineand De Vere.”

Mr. Caxton.—­“Nothing can bemore graceful, nor more unlike what I mean. ThePales and Terminus I wish you to put up in the fieldsare familiar images, that you may cut out of an oaktree—­not beautiful marble statues on porphyrypedestals twenty feet high.”

Pisistratus.—­“Miss Austin;Mrs. Gore in her masterpiece of Mrs. Armytage;Mrs. Marsh, too; and then (for Scottish manners) MissFerrier!”

Mr. Caxton, growing cross.—­“Oh,if you cannot treat on bucolics but what you musthear some Virgil or other cry ‘Stop thief,’you deserve to be tossed by one of your own ’short-horns.’—­(Stillmore contemptuously)—­I am sure I don’tknow why we spend so much money on sending our sonsto school to learn Latin, when that Anchronism of yours,Mrs. Caxton, can’t even construe a line and ahalf of Phaedrus. Phaedrus, Mrs. Caxton—­abook which is in Latin what Goody Two Shoes is in thevernacular!”

Mrs. Caxton, alarmed and indignant.—­“Fie,Austin! I am sure you can construe Phaedrus,dear!”

Pisistratus prudently preserves silence.

Mr. Caxton.—­“I’ll tryhim—­

“’Sua cuique quum sit animicogitatio
Colorque proprius.’

“What does that mean?”

Pisistratus, smiling.—­“Thatevery man has some coloring matter within him, togive his own tinge to—­”

“His own novel,” interrupted my father!“Contentus peragis.”

During the latter part of this dialogue, Blanche hadsewn together three quires of the best Bath paper,and she now placed them on a little table before me,with her own inkstand and steel pen.

My mother put her finger to her lip, and said, “Hush!”my father returned to the cradle of the AEsar; CaptainRoland leant his cheek on his hand, and gazed abstractedlyon the fire; Mr. Squills felt into a placid doze;and, after three sighs that would have melted a heartof stone, I rushed into—­MY NOVEL.

* * * * *

CHAPTER II.

“There has never been occasion to use them sinceI have been in the Parish,” said Parson Dale.

“What does that prove?” quoth the Squiresharply, and looking the Parson full in the face.

“Prove!” repeated Mr. Dale—­witha smile of benign, yet too conscious superiority—­“Whatdoes experience prove?”

“That your forefathers were great blockheads,and that their descendant is not a whit the wiser.”

“Squire,” replied the Parson, “althoughthat is a melancholy conclusion, yet if you mean itto apply universally, and not to the family of theDales in particular, it is not one which my candoras a reasoner, and my Humility as a mortal, will permitme to challenge.”

“I defy you,” said Mr. Hazledean triumphantly.“But to stick to the subject, which it is monstroushard to do when one talks with a parson, I only justask you to look yonder, and tell me on your conscience—­Idon’t even say as a parson, but as a parishioner—­whetheryou ever saw a more disreputable spectacle?”

While he spoke, the Squire, leaning heavily on theParson’s left shoulder, extended his cane ina line parallel with the right of that disputatiousecclesiastic, so that he might guide the organ of sightto the object he had thus flatteringly described.

“I confess,” said the Parson, “that,regarded by the eye of the senses, it is a thing thatin its best day had small pretensions to beauty, andis not elevated into the Picturesque even by neglectand decay. But, my friend, regarded by the eyeof the inner man—­of the rural philosopherand parochial legislator—­I say it is byneglect and decay that it is rendered a very pleasingfeature in what I may call ’the moral topographyof a parish.’”

The Squire looked at the Parson as if be could havebeaten him; and indeed, regarding the object in disputenot only with the eye of the outer man, but the eyeof law and order, the eye of a country gentleman anda justice of the peace, the spectacle was scandalouslydisreputable. It was moss-grown; it was worm-eaten;it was broken right in the middle; through its foursocketless eyes, neighbored by the nettle, peeredthe thistle:—­the thistle!—­a forestof thistles!—­and, to complete the degradationof the whole, those thistles had attracted the donkeyof an itinerant tinker; and the irreverent animal wasin the very act of taking his luncheon out of theeyes and jaws of—­THE PARISH STOCKS.

The Squire looked as if he could have beaten the Parson;but as he was not without some slight command of temper,and a substitute was luckily at hand, he gulped down,his resentment and made a rush—­at the donkey!

Now the donkey was hampered by a rope to its forefeet, to the which was attached a billet of wood calledtechnically “a clog,” so that it had nofair chance of escape from the assault its sacrilegiousluncheon had justly provoked. But, the ass turnedround with unusual nimbleness at the first strokeof the cane, the Squire caught his foot in the rope,and went head over heels among the thistles.The donkey gravely bent down, and thrice smelt orsniffed its prostrate foe; then, having convinceditself that it had nothing farther to apprehend forthe present, and very willing to make the best ofthe reprieve, according to the poetical admonition,“Gather your rosebuds while you may,” itcropped a thistle in full bloom, close to the earof the Squire; so close indeed, that the Parson thoughtthe ear was gone; and with the more probability, inasmuchas the Squire, feeling the warm breath of the creature,bellowed out with all the force of lungs accustomedto give a view-hallo!

“Bless me, is it gone?” said the Parson,thrusting his person between the ass and the Squire.

“Zounds and the devil!” cried the Squire,rubbing himself as be rose to his feet.

“Hush!” said the Parson gently. “Whata horrible oath!”

“Horrible oath! If you had my nankeenson,” said the Squire, still rubbing himself,“and had fallen into a thicket of thistles witha donkey’s teeth within an inch of your ear!”

“It is not gone—­then?” interruptedthe Parson.

“No—­that is, I think not,”interrupted the Squire dubiously; and he clapped hishand to the organ in question. “No, it isnot gone.”

“Thank heaven!” said the good clergymankindly.

“Hum,” growled the Squire, who was nowonce more engaged in rubbing himself. “Thankheaven indeed, when I am as full of thorns as a porcupine!I should just like to know what use thistles are inthe world.”

“For donkeys to eat, if you will let them, Squire,”answered the Parson.

“Ugh, you beast!” cried Mr. Hazeldean,all his wrath reawakened, whether by the referenceto the donkey species, or his inability to reply tothe Parson, or perhaps by some sudden prick too sharpfor humanity—­especially humanity in nankeens—­toendure without kicking; “Ugh, you beast!”he exclaimed, shaking his cane at the donkey, who,at the interposition of the Parson, had respectfullyrecoiled a few paces, and now stood switching histhin tail, and trying vainly to lift one of its forelegs—­for the flies teased it.

“Poor thing!” said the Parson pityingly.“See, it has a raw place on the shoulder, andthe flies have found out the sore.”

“I am devilish glad to hear it,” saidthe Squire vindictively.

“Fie, fie!”

“It is very well to say ‘Fie, fie.’It was not you who fell among the thistles. What’sthe man about now, I wonder?”

The Parson had walked toward a chestnut tree thatstood on the village green—­he broke offa bough—­returned to the donkey, whiskedoff the flies, and then tenderly placed the broadleaves over the sore, as a protection from the swarms.The donkey turned round its head, and looked at himwith mild wonder.

“I would bet a shilling,” said the Parson,softly, “that this is the first act of kindnessthou hast met with this many a day. And slightenough it is, Heaven knows.”

With that the Parson put his hand into his pocket,and drew out an apple. It was a fine large rose-cheekedapple: one of the last winter’s store,from the celebrated tree in the parsonage garden, andhe was taking it as a present to a little boy in thevillage who had notably distinguished himself in theSunday-school. “Nay, in common justice,Lenny Fairfield should have the preference,”muttered the Parson. The ass pricked up one ofhis ears, and advanced its head timidly. “ButLenny Fairfield would be as much pleased with twopence:and what could twopence do to thee?” The ass’snose now touched the apple. “Take it inthe flame of charity,” quoth the Parson, “Justiceis accustomed to be served last:” And theass took the apple. “How had you the heart?”said the Parson, pointing to the Squire’s cane.

The ass stopped munching, and looked askant at theSquire.

“Pooh! eat on; he’ll not beat thee now!”

“No,” said the Squire apologetically.“But, after all, he is not an ass of the parish;he is a vagrant, and he ought to be pounded. Butthe pound is in as bad a state as the stocks, thanksto your new-fashioned doctrines.”

“New-fashioned!” cried the Parson almostindignantly, for he had a great disdain of new fashions.“They are as old as Christianity; nay, as oldas Paradise, which you will observe is derived froma Greek, or rather a Persian word, and means somethingmore than a ‘garden,’ corresponding (pursuedthe Parson rather pedantically) with the Latin vivarium—­viz.grove or park full of innocent dumb creatures.Depend on it, donkeys were allowed to eat thistlesthere.”

“Very possibly,” said the Squire drily.“But Hazeldean, though a very pretty village,is not Paradise. The stocks shall be mended to-morrowday, and the pound too—­and the next donkeyfound trespassing shall go into it, as sure as myname is Hazeldean.”

“Then,” said the Parson gravely, “Ican only hope that the next parish may not followyour example; or that you and I may never be caughtstraying!”

* * * * *

CHAPTER III.

Parson Dale and Squire Hazeldean parted company; thelatter to inspect his sheep, the former to visit someof his parishioners, including Lenny Fairfield, whomthe donkey had defrauded of his apple.

Lenny Fairfield was sure to be in the way, for hismother rented a few acres of grass land from the Squire,and it was now hay-time. And Leonard, commonlycalled Lenny, was an only son, and his mother a widow.The cottage stood apart, and somewhat remote, in oneof the many nooks of the long green village lane.And a thoroughly English cottage it was—­threecenturies old at least; with walls of rubble let intooak frames, and duly whitewashed every summer, a thatchedroof, small panes of glass, and an old doorway raisedfrom the ground by two steps. There was aboutthis little dwelling all the homely rustic elegancewhich peasant life admits of: a honeysuckle wastrained over the door; a few flower-pots were placedon the window-sills; the small plot of ground in frontof the house was kept with great neatness, and eventaste; some large rough stones on either side thelittle path having been formed into a sort of rock-work,with creepers that were now in flower; and the potatoeground was screened from the eye by sweet peas andlupine. Simple elegance all this, it is true;but how well it speaks for peasant and landlord, whenyou see that the peasant is fond of his home, and hassome spare time and heart to bestow upon mere embellishment.Such a peasant is sure to be a bad customer to theale-house, and a safe neighbor to the Squire’spreserves. All honor and praise to him, excepta small tax upon both, which is due to the landlord!

Such sights were as pleasant to the Parson as themost beautiful landscapes of Italy can be to the dilettante.He paused a moment at the wicket to look around him,and distended his nostrils voluptuously to inhalethe smell of the sweet peas, mixed with that of thenew-mown hay in the fields behind, which a slightbreeze bore to him. He then moved on, carefullyscraped his shoes, clean and well polished as theywere—­for Mr. Dale was rather a beau in hisown clerical way—­on the scraper withoutthe door, and lifted the latch.

Your virtuoso looks with artistical delight on thefigure of some nymph painted on an Etruscan vase,engaged in pouring out the juice of the grape fromher classic urn. And the Parson felt as harmless,if not as elegant a pleasure in contemplating WidowFairfield brimming high a glittering can, which shedesigned for the refreshment of the thirsty hay-makers.

Mrs. Fairfield was a middle-aged tidy woman, withthat alert precision of movement which seems to comefrom an active orderly mind; and as she now turnedher head briskly at the sound of the Parson’sfootsteps, she showed a countenance prepossessing,though not handsome,—­a countenance fromwhich a pleasant hearty smile, breaking forth at thatmoment, effaced some lines that, in repose, spoke“of sorrows, but of sorrows past;” andher cheek, paler than is common to the complexionseven of the fair sex, when born and bred amidst arural population, might have favored the guess thatthe earlier part of her life had been spent in thelanguid air and “within doors” occupationof a town.

“Never mind me,” said the Parson, as Mrs.Fairfield dropped her quick courtesy, and smoothedher apron; “if you are going into the hayfield,I will go with you; I have something to say to Lenny—­anexcellent boy.”

Widow.—­“Well, sir, and youare kind to say it—­but so he is.”

Parson.-"He reads uncommonly well, he writestolerably; he is the best lad in the whole schoolat his catechism and in the Bible lessons; and I assureyou, when I see his face at church, looking up so attentively,I fancy that I shall read my sermon all the betterfor such a listener!”

Widow, wiping her eyes with the corner of herapron.—­“Deed, sir, when my poor Markdied, I never thought I could have lived on as I havedone. But that boy is so kind and good, thatwhen I look at him sitting there in dear Mark’schair, and remember how Mark loved him, and all heused to say to me about him, I feel somehow or otheras if my goodman smiled on me, and would rather Iwas not with him yet, till the lad had grown up, anddid not want me any more.”

Parson, looking away, and after a pause.—­“Younever hear anything of the old folks at Lansmere?”

“‘Deed, sir, sin’ poor Mark died,they han’t noticed me, nor the boy; but,”added the widow, with all a peasant’s pride,“it isn’t that I wants their money; onlyit’s hard to feel strange like to one’sown father and mother!”

Parson.—­“You must excuse them.Your father, Mr. Avenel, was never quite the sameman after that sad event,—­but you are weeping,my friend, pardon me:—­your mother is alittle proud; but so are you, though in another way.”

Widow.—­“I proud! Lordlove ye, sir, I have not a bit of pride in me! andthat’s the reason they always looked down onme.”

Parson.—­“Your parents mustbe well off; and I shall apply to them in a year ortwo in behalf of Lenny, for they promised me to providefor him when he grew up, as they ought.”

Widow, with flashing eyes.—­“Iam sure, sir, I hope you will do no such thing; forI would not have Lenny beholden to them as has nevergiven him a kind word sin’ he was born!”

The Parson smiled gravely and shook his head at poorMrs. Fairfield’s hasty confutation of her ownself-acquittal from the charge of pride; but he sawthat it was not the time or moment for effectual peace-makingin the most irritable of all rancors, viz., thatnourished against one’s nearest relations.He therefore dropped the subject, and said,—­“Well,time enough to think of Lenny’s future prospects;meanwhile we are forgetting the haymakers. Come.”

The widow opened the back door, which led across alittle apple orchard into the fields.

Parson.—­“You have a pleasantplace here; and I see that my friend Lenny shouldbe in no want of apples. I had brought him one,but I have given it away on the road.”

Widow.—­“Oh, sir, it is notthe deed—­it is the will; as I felt whenthe Squire, God bless him! took two pounds off therent the year he-that is, Mark—­died.”

Parson.—­“If Lenny continuesto be such a help to you, it will not be long beforethe Squire may put the two pounds on again.”

“Yes, sir,” said the widow simply; “Ihope he will.”

“Silly woman!” muttered the Parson.“That’s not exactly what the schoolmistresswould have said. You don’t read nor write,Mrs. Fairfield; yet you express yourself with greatpropriety.”

“You know Mark was a schollard, sir, like mypoor, poor, sister; and though I was a sad stupidgirl afore I married, I tried to take after him whenwe came together.”

* * * * *

CHAPTER IV.

They were now in the hayfield, and a boy of aboutsixteen, but, like most country lads, to appearancemuch younger than he was, looked up from his rake,with lively blue eyes, beaming forth under a profusionof brown curly hair.

Leonard Fairfield was indeed a very handsome boy—­notso stout nor so ruddy as one would choose for theideal of rustic beauty; nor yet so delicate in limband keen in expression as are those children of cities,in whom the mind is cultivated at the expense of thebody; but still he had the health of the country inhis cheeks, and was not without the grace of the cityin his compact figure and easy movements. Therewas in his physiognomy something interesting fromits peculiar character of innocence and simplicity.You could see that he had been brought up by a woman,and much apart from familiar contact with other children;and such intelligence as was yet developed in him,was not ripened by the jokes and cuffs of his coevals,but fostered by decorous lecturings from his elders,and good little boy maxims in good little boy books.

Parson.—­“Come hither, Lenny.You know the benefit of school, I see: it canteach you nothing better than to be a support to yourmother.”

Lenny, looking down sheepishly, and with aheightened glow over his face.—­“Please,sir, that may come one of these days.”

Parson.—­“That’s right,Lenny. Let me see! why you must be nearly a man.How old are you?”

Lenny looks up inquiringly at his mother.

Parson.—­“You ought to know,Lenny, speak for yourself. Hold your tongue,Mrs. Fairfield.”

Lenny, twirling his hat, and in great perplexity.—­“Well,and there is Flop, neighbor Dutton’s old sheep-dog.He be very old now.”

Parson.—­“I am not asking Flop’sage, but your own.”

Lenny.-"’Deed, sir, I have heard sayas how Flop and I were pups together. That is,I—­I—­”

For the Parson is laughing, and so is Mrs. Fairfield;and the haymakers who have stood still to listen,are laughing too. And poor Lenny has quite losthis head, and looks as if he would like to cry.

Parson, patting the curly locks, encouragingly.—­“Nevermind; it is not so badly answered after all.And how old is Flop?”

Lenny.—­“Why, he must be fifteenyear and more.”

Parson.—­“How old, then, areyou?”

Lenny, looking up with a beam of intelligence.—­“Fifteenyear and more!”

Widow sighs and nods her head.

“That’s what we call putting two and twotogether,” said the Parson. “Or,in other words,” and here be raised his eyesmajestically toward the haymakers—­“inother words—­thanks to his love for his book—­simpleas he stands here, Lenny Fairfield has shown himselfcapable of INDUCTIVE RATIOCINATION.”

At those words, delivered ore rotundo, thehaymakers ceased laughing. For even in lay mattersthey held the Parson to be an oracle, and words solong must have a great deal in them.

Lenny drew tip his head proudly.

“You are very fond of Flop, I suppose?”

“’Deed he is,” said the Widow, “andof all poor dumb creatures.”

“Very good. Suppose, my lad, that you hada fine apple, and you met a friend who wanted it morethan you; what would you do with it?”

“Please you, sir, I would give him half of it.”

The Parson’s face fell.—­“Notthe whole, Lenny?”

Lenny considered.—­“If he was a friend,sir, he would not like me to give him all!”

“Upon my word, Master Leonard, you speak sowell, that I must e’en tell the truth.I brought you an apple, as a prize for good conductin school. But I met by the way a poor donkey,and some one beat him for eating a thistle; so I thoughtI would make it up by giving him the apple. OughtI only to have given him the half?”

Lenny’s innocent face became all smile; hisinterest was aroused. “And did the donkeylike the apple?”

“Very much,” said the Parson, fumblingin his pocket, but thinking of Leonard Fairield’syears and understanding; and moreover, observing, inthe pride of his heart, that here were many spectatorsto his deed, he thought the meditated twopence notsufficient, and he generously produced a silver sixpence.

“There, my man, that will pay for the half applewhich you would have kept for yourself.”The Parson again patted the curly locks, and, aftera hearty word or two with the other haymakers, anda friendly “Good day” to Mrs. Fairfield,struck into a path that led toward his own glebe.

He had just crossed the stile, when, he heard hastybut timorous feet behind him. He turned and sawhis friend Lenny.

Lenny, half crying and holding out the sixpence.—­“Indeed,sir, I would rather not. I would have given allto the Neddy.”

Parson.—­“Why, then, my man,you have a still greater right to the sixpence.”

Lenny.—­“No, sir; ’causeyou only gave it to make up for the half apple.And if I had given the whole, as I ought to have done,why, I should have had no right to the sixpence.Please, sir, don’t be offended; do take it back,will you?”

The Parson hesitated. And the boy thrust thesixpence into his hand, as the ass had poked his nosethere before in quest of the apple.

“I see,” said Parson Dale, soliloquizing,“that if one don’t give Justice the firstplace at the table, all the other Virtues eat up hershare.”

Indeed, the case was perplexing. Charity, likea forward impudent baggage as she is, always thrustingherself in the way, and taking other people’sapples to make her own little pie, had defrauded Lennyof his due; and now Susceptibility, who looks likea shy, blush-faced, awkward Virtue in her teens—­butwho, nevertheless, is always engaged in picking thepockets of her sisters, tried to filch from him hislawful recompense. The case was perplexing; forthe Parson held Susceptibility in great honor, despiteher hypocritical tricks, and did not like to give hera slap in the face, which might frighten her awayforever. So Mr. Dale stood irresolute, glancingfrom the sixpence to Lenny, and from Lenny to thesixpence.

“Buon giorno—­good day to you,”said a voice behind, in an accent slightly but unmistakablyforeign, and a strange-looking figure presented itselfat the stile.

Imagine a tall and exceedingly meager man, dressedin a rusty suit of black—­the pantaloonstight at the calf and ancle, and there forming a loosegaiter over thick shoes buckled high at the instep;an old cloak, lined with red, was thrown over oneshoulder, though the day was sultry; a quaint, red,outlandish umbrella, with a carved brass handle, wasthrust under one arm, though the sky was cloudless;a profusion of raven hair, in waving curls that seemedas fine as silk, escaped from the sides of a straw-hatof prodigious brim; a complexion sallow and swarthy,and features which, though not without considerablebeauty to the eye of the artist, were not only unlikewhat we fair, well-fed, neat-faced Englishmen arewont to consider comely, but exceedingly like whatwe are disposed to regard as awful and Satanic—­towit, a long hooked nose, sunken cheeks, black eyes,

whose piercing brilliancy took something wizard-likeand mystical from the large spectacles through whichthey shone; a mouth round which played an ironicalsmile, and in which a physiognomist would have remarkedsingular shrewdness and some closeness, complete thepicture: Imagine this figure, grotesque, peregrinate;and to the eye of a peasant certainly diabolical,then perch it on the stile in the midst of those greenEnglish fields, and in sight of that primitive Englishvillage; there let it sit straddling, its long legsdangling down, a short German pipe emitting cloudsfrom one corner of those sardonic lips, its dark eyesglaring through the spectacles full upon the Parson,yet askant upon Lenny Fairfield. Lenny Fairfieldlooked exceedingly frightened.

“Upon my word, Dr. Riccabocca.” said Mr.Dale, smiling, “you come in good time to solvea very nice question in casuistry;” and herewiththe Parson explained the case, and put the question—­“OughtLenny Fairfield to have the sixpence, or ought henot?”

“Cospetto!” said the Doctor.“If the hen would but hold her tongue, nobodywould know that she had laid an egg.”

* * * * *

CHAPTER V.

“Granted,” said the Parson; “butwhat follows? The saying is good, but I don’tsee the application.”

“A thousand pardons!” replied Dr. Riccabocca,with all the urbanity of an Italian; “but itseems to me, that if you had given the sixpence tothe fanciullo—­that is, to this goodlittle boy—­without telling him the storyabout the donkey, you would never have put him andyourself into this awkward dilemma.”

“But, my dear sir,” whispered the Parson,mildly, as he inclined his lips to the Doctors ear,“I should then have lost the opportunity ofinculcating a moral lesson—­you understand.”

Dr. Riccabocca shrugged his shoulders, restored hispipe to his mouth, and took a long whiff. Itwas a whiff eloquent, though cynical—­a whiffpeculiar to your philosophical smoker—­awhiff that implied the most absolute but the mostplacid incredulity as to the effect of the Parson’smoral lesson.

“Still you have not given us your decision,”said the Parson, after a pause.

The Doctor withdrew the pipe. “Cospetto!”said he. “He who scrubs the head of anass wastes his soap.”

“If you scrubbed mine fifty times over withthose enigmatical proverbs of yours,” said theParson testily, “you would not make it any thewiser.”

“My good sir,” said the Doctor, bowinglow from his perch on the stile, “I never presumedto say that there were more asses than in the story;but I thought I could not better explain my meaning,which is simply this—­you scrubbed the ass’shead, and therefore you must lose the soap. Letthe fanciullo have the sixpence; and a greatsum it is, too, for a little boy, who may spend itall upon pocket-money!”

“There, Lenny—­you hear?” saidthe Parson, stretching out the sixpence. ButLenny retreated, and cast on the umpire a look of greataversion and disgust.

“Please, Master Dale,” said he, obstinately,“I’d rather not.”

“It is a matter of feeling, you see,”said the Parson, turning to the umpire; “andI believe the boy is right.”

“If it is a matter of feeling,” repliedDr. Riccabocca, “there is no more to be saidon it. When Feeling comes in at the door, Reasonhas nothing to do but to jump out of the window.”

“Go, my good boy,” said the Parson, pocketingthe coin; “but stop! Give me your handfirst. There—­I understand you—­good-by!”

Lenny’s eyes glistened as the Parson shook himby the hand, and, not trusting himself to speak, hewalked off sturdily. The Parson wiped his forehead,and sat himself down on the stile beside the Italian.The view before them was lovely, and both enjoyedit (though not equally) enough to be silent for somemoments. On the other side the lane, seen betweengaps in the old oaks and chestnuts that hung over themoss-grown pales of Hazeldean Park, rose gentle verdantslopes, dotted with sheep and herds of deer; a statelyavenue stretched far away to the left, and ended atthe right hand, within a few yards of a ha-ha thatdivided the park from a level sward of table-landgay with shrubs and flower-pots, relieved by the shadeof two mighty cedars. And on this platform, onlyseen in part, stood the Squire’s old-fashionedhouse, red brick, with stone mullions, gable-ends,and quaint chimney-pots. On this side the road,immediately facing the two gentlemen, cottage aftercottage whitely emerged from the curves in the lane,while, beyond, the ground declining gave an extensiveprospect of woods and cornfields, spires and farms.Behind, from a belt of lilacs and evergreens, youcaught a peep of the parsonage-house, backed by woodlands,and a little noisy rill running in front. Thebirds were still in the hedgerows, only, as if fromthe very heart of the most distant woods, there camenow and then the mellow note of the cuckoo.

“Verily,” said Mr. Dale softly, “mylot has fallen on a goodly heritage.”

The Italian twitched his cloak over him, and sighedalmost inaudibly. Perhaps he thought of his ownSummer Land, and felt that amidst all that fresh verdureof the North, there was no heritage for the stranger.

However, before the Parson could notice the sigh orconjecture the cause, Dr. Riccabocca’s thinlips took an expression almost malignant.

"Per Bacco!" said he; “in every countryI find that the rooks settle where the trees are thefinest. I am sure that, when Noah first landedon Ararat, he must have found some gentleman in blackalready settled in the pleasantest part of the mountain,and waiting for his tenth of the cattle as they cameout of the Ark.”

The Parson turned his meek eyes to the philosopher,and there was in them something so deprecating ratherthan reproachful, that Dr. Riccabocca turned awayhis face and refilled his pipe. Dr. Riccaboccaabhorred priests; but though Parson Dale was emphaticallya parson, he seemed at that moment so little of whatDr. Riccabocca understood by a priest, that the Italian’sheart smote him for his irreverent jest on the cloth.Luckily at this moment there was a diversion to thatuntoward commencement of conversation, in the appearanceof no less a personage than the donkey himself—­Imean the donkey who ate the apple.

* * * * *

Chapter VI.

The Tinker was a stout swarthy fellow, jovial andmusical withal, for he was singing a stave as he flourishedhis staff, and at the end of each refrain downcame the staff on the quarters of the donkey.The Tinker went behind and sung, the donkey went beforeand was thwacked.

“Yours is a droll country,” quoth Dr.Riccabocca; “in mine it is not the ass thatwalks first in the procession, who gets the blows.”

The Parson jumped from the stile, and, looking overthe hedge that divided the field from the road-"Gently,gently,” said he; “the sound of the stickspoils the singing! O Mr. Sprott, Mr. Sprott!a good man is merciful to his beast.”

The donkey seemed to recognize the voice of its friend,for it stopped short, pricked one ear wistfully, andlooked up.

The Tinker touched his hat, and looked up too.“Lord bless your reverence! he does not mindit, he likes it. I would not hurt thee; wouldI, Neddy?”

The donkey shook his head and shivered; perhaps afly had settled on the sore, which the chestnut leavesno longer protected.

“I am sure you did not mean to hurt him, Sprott,”said the Parson, more politely I fear than honestly—­forhe had seen enough of that cross-grained thing calledthe human heart, even in the little world of a countryparish, to know that it requires management, and coaxing,and flattering, to interfere successfully betweena man and his own donkey—­“I am sureyou did not mean to hurt him; but he has already gota sore on his shoulder as big as my hand, poor thing!”

“Lord love ’un! yes; that vas done a playingwith the manger, the day I gave ’un oats!”said the Tinker.

Dr. Riccabocca adjusted his spectacles, and surveyedthe ass. The ass pricked up his other ear, andsurveyed Dr. Riccabocca. In that mutual surveyof physical qualifications, each being regarded accordingto the average symmetry of its species, it may bedoubted whether the advantage was on the side of thephilosopher.

The Parson had a great notion of the wisdom of hisfriend, in all matters not immediately ecclesiastical.

“Say a good word for the donkey!” whisperedhe.

“Sir,” said the Doctor, addressing Mr.Sprott, with a respectful salutation, “there’sa great kettle at my house—­the Casino—­whichwants soldering: can you recommend me a tinker?”

“Why, that’s all in my line,” saidSprott, “and there ben’t a tinker in thecountry that I would recommend like myself, thof Isay it.”

“You jest, good sir.” said the Doctor,smiling pleasantly. “A man who can’tmend a hole in his own donkey, can never demean himselfby patching up my great kettle.”

“Lord, sir,” said the Tinker, archly,“if I had known that poor Neddy had two sitchfriends in court, I’d have seen he was a gintleman,and treated him as sitch.”

"Corpo di Bacco!" quoth the Doctor, “thoughthat jest’s not new, I think the Tinker comesvery well out of it.”

“True; but the donkey!” said the Parson,“I’ve a great mind to buy it.”

“Permit me to tell you an anecdote in point,”said Dr. Riccabocca.

“Well!” said the Parson, interrogatively.

“Once in a time,” pursued Riccabocca,“the Emperor Adrian, going to the public baths,saw an old soldier, who had served under him, rubbinghis back against the marble wall. The Emperor,who was a wise, and therefore a curious, inquisitiveman, sent for the soldier, and asked him why he resortedto that kind of friction. ‘Because,’answered the veteran, ’I am too poor to haveslaves to rub me down.’ The Emperor wastouched, and gave him slaves and money. The nextday, when Adrian went to the oaths, all the old menin the city were to be seen rubbing themselves againstthe marble as hard as they could. The Emperorsent for them, and asked them the same question whichhe had put to the soldier; the cunning old rogues,of course, made the same answer. ‘Friends,’said Adrian, ’since there are so many of you,you will just rub one another!’ Mr. Dale, ifyou don’t want to have all the donkeys in thecounty with holes in their shoulders, you had betternot buy the Tinker’s!”

“It is the hardest thing in the world to dothe least bit of good,” groaned the Parson,as he broke a twig off the hedge nervously, snappedit in two, and flung the fragments on the road-oneof them hit the donkey on the nose. If the asscould have spoken Latin, he would have said, “Ettu, Brute!” As it was, he hung down his ears,and walked on.

“Gee hup,” said the Tinker, and he followedthe ass. Then stopping, he looked over his shoulder,and seeing that the Parson’s eyes were gazingmournfully on his protege, “Never fear,your reverence,” cried the Tinker kindly; “I’llnot spite ’un.”

* * * * *

CHAPTER VII.

“Four o’clock,” cried the Parson,looking at his watch; “half-an-hour after dinnertime,and Mrs. Dale particularly begged me to be punctual,because of the fine trout the Squire sent us.Will you venture on what our homely language calls‘pot luck,’ Doctor?”

Now Riccabocca, like most wise men, especially ifItalians, was by no means inclined to the credulousview of human nature. Indeed, he was in the habitof detecting self-interest in the simplest actionsof his fellow-creatures. And when the Parsonthus invited him to pot luck, he smiled with a kindof lofty complacency; for Mrs. Dale enjoyed the reputationof having what her friends styled “her littletempers.” And, as well-bred ladies rarelyindulge in “little tempers” in the presenceof a third person, not of the family, so Dr. Riccaboccainstantly concluded that he was invited to stand betweenthe pot and the luck! Nevertheless—­ashe was fond of trout, and a much more good-naturedman than he ought to have been according to his principles-heaccepted the hospitality; but he did so with a slylook from over his spectacles, which brought a blushinto the guilty cheeks of the Parson. CertainlyRiccabocca had for once guessed right in his estimateof human motives.

The two walked on, crossed a little bridge that spannedthe rill, and entered the parsonage lawn. Twodogs, that seemed to have sat on watch for their master,sprang toward him barking; and the sound drew thenotice of Mrs. Dale, who, with parasol in hand, salliedout from the sash window which opened on the lawn.Now, O reader! I know that in thy secret heart,thou art chuckling over the want of knowledge in thesacred arcana of the domestic hearth, betrayed bythe author; thou art saying to thyself, “A prettyway to conciliate little tempers, indeed, to add tothe offense of spoiling the fish, the crime of bringingan unexpected friend to eat it. Pot luck, quotha,when the pot’s boiled over this half hour!”

But, to thy utter shame and confusion, O reader, learnthat both the author and Parson Dale knew very wellwhat they were about.

Dr. Riccabocca was the special favorite of Mrs. Dale,and the only person in the whole county who neverput her out by dropping in. In fact, strangethough it may seem at first glance, Dr. Riccaboccahad that mysterious something about him which we ofhis own sex can so little comprehend, but which alwayspropitiates the other. He owed this, in part,to his own profound but hypocritical policy; for helooked upon woman as the natural enemy to man—­againstwhom it was necessary to be always on the guard:whom it was prudent to disarm by every species offawning, servility, and abject complaisance. Heowed it also, in part, to the compassionate and heavenlynature of the angels whom his thoughts thus villanouslytraduced—­for women like one whom they canpity without despising; and there was something inSigner Riccabocca’s poverty, in his loneliness,in his exile, whether voluntary or compelled, thatexcited pity; while, despite the threadbare coat,the red umbrella, and the wild hair, he had, especiallywhen addressing ladies, that air of gentleman andcavalier, which is or was more innate in an educated

Italian, of whatever rank, than perhaps in the highestaristocracy of any other country in Europe. For,though I grant that nothing is more exquisite thanthe politeness of your French marquis of the old regime—­nothingmore frankly gracious than the cordial address of ahigh-bred English gentleman—­nothing morekindly prepossessing than the genial good-nature ofsome patriarchal German, who will condescend to forgethis sixteen quarterings in the pleasure of doing youa favor—­yet these specimens of the suavityof their several nations are rare; whereas blandnessand polish are common attributes with your Italian.They seem to have been immemorially handed down tohim from ancestors emulating the urbanity of Caesar,and refined by the grace of Horace.

“Dr. Riccabocca consents to dine with us,”cried the Parson hastily.

“If Madame permit!” said the Italian,bowing over the hand extended to him, which howeverhe forebore to take, seeing it was already full ofthe watch.

“I am only sorry that the trout must be quitespoiled,” began Mrs. Dale, plaintively.

“It is not the trout one thinks of when onedines with Mrs. Dale,” said the infamous dissimulator.

“But I see James coming to say that dinner isready?” observed the Parson.

“He said that three-quarters of an hourago, Charles dear,” retorted Mrs. Dale, takingthe arm of Dr. Riccabocca.

* * * * *

CHAPTER VIII.

While the Parson and his wife are entertaining theirguest, I propose to regale the reader with a smalltreatise apropos of that “Charles dear,”murmured by Mrs. Dale;—­a treatise expresslywritten for the benefit of THE DOMESTIC CIRCLE.

It is an old jest that there is not a word in thelanguage that conveys so little endearment as theword “dear.” But though the sayingitself, like most truths, be trite and hackneyed,no little novelty remains to the search of the inquirerinto the varieties of inimical import comprehendedin that malign monosyllable. For instance, I submitto the experienced that the degree of hostility itbetrays is in much proportioned to its collocationin the sentence. When, gliding indirectly throughthe rest of the period, it takes its stand at the close,as in that “Charles dear” of Mrs. Dale—­ithas spilt so much of Its natural bitterness by theway that it assumes even a smile, “amara lentotemperet risu.” Sometimes the smile isplaintive, sometimes arch. Ex. gr.

(Plaintive.)

“I know very well that whatever I do is wrong,Charles dear.”

“Nay, I am only glad you amused yourself somuch without me, Charles dear.”

“Not quite so loud! If you had but my poorhead, Charles dear,” &c.

Arch.

“If you could spill the ink anywherebut on the best table-cloth, Charles dear!”

“But though you must always have your own way,you are not quite faultless, own, Charles dear,”&c.

In this collocation occur many dears, parental aswell as conjugal; as—­“Hold up yourhead, and don’t look quite so cross, dear.”

“Be a good boy for once in your life—­that’sa dear,” &c.

When the enemy stops in the middle of a sentence,its venom is naturally less exhausted. Ex. gr.

“Really I must say, Charles dear, that you arethe most fidgety person,” &c.

“And if the house bills were so high last week,Charles dear, I should just like to know whose faultit was—­that’s all.”

“Do you think, Charles dear, that you couldput your feet anywhere but on the chintz sofa?”

“But you know, Charles dear, that you care nomore for me and the children than,” &c.

But if the fatal word spring up, in its primitive freshness, at the head of the sentence, bow yourhead to the storm. It then assumes the majestyof “my” before it; is generally more thansimple objurgation—­it prefaces a sermon.My candor obliges me to confess that this is the modein which the hateful monosyllable is more usuallyemployed by the marital part of the one flesh; andhas something about it of the odious assumption ofthe Petruchian pater familias—­thehead of the family—­boding, not perhaps“peace, and love, and quiet life,” butcertainly “awful rule and right supremacy.”Ex. gr.

“My dear Jane—­I wish you would justput by that everlasting tent-stitch, and listen tome for a few moments,” &c.

“My dear Jane—­I wish you would understandme for once—­don’t think I am angry-no,but I am hurt. You must consider,” &c.

“My dear Jane—­I don’t knowif it is your intention to ruin me; but I only wishyou would do as all other women do who care three strawsfor their husbands’ property,” &c.

“My dear Jane—­I wish you to understandthat I am the last person in the world to be jealous;but I’ll be d——­d if that puppy,Capt. Prettyman,” &c.

Now, if that same “dear” could be thoroughlyraked and hoed out of the connubial garden, I don’tthink that the remaining nettles would signify a button.But even as it was, Parson Dale, good man, would haveprized his garden beyond all the bowers which Spenserand Tasso have sung so musically, though there hadnot been a single specimen of “dear,” whetherthe dear humilis, or the dear superba;the dear pallida, rubra, or nigra; thedear umbrosa, florens, spicata; the dear savis,or the dear horrida;—­no, not a singledear in the whole horticulture of matrimony whichMrs. Dale had not brought to perfection. But this,fortunately, was far from being the case—­thedears of Mrs. Dale were only wild flowers afterall!

* * * * *

CHAPTER IX.

In the cool of the evening Dr. Riccabocca walked homeacross the fields. Mr. and Mrs. Dale had accompaniedhim half way; and as they now turned back to the parsonage,they looked behind, to catch a glimpse of the tall,outlandish figure, winding slowly through the pathamidst the waves of the green corn.

“Poor man!” said Mrs. Dale, feelingly;“and the button was off his wristband!What a pity he has nobody to take care of him!He seems very domestic. Don’t you think,Charles, it would be a great blessing if we couldget him a good wife?”

“Um,” said the Parson; “I doubtif he values the married state as he ought.”

“What do you mean, Charles? I never sawa man more polite to ladies in my life.”

“Yes, but—­”

“But what? You are always so mysterious,Charles dear.”

“Mysterious! No, Carry; but if you couldhear what the Doctor says of the ladies sometimes.”

“Ay, when you men get together, my dear, I knowwhat that means-pretty things you say of us.But you are all alike; you know you are, love!”

“I am sure,” said the Parson, simply,“that I have good cause to speak well of thesex—­when I think of you, and my poor mother.”

Mrs. Dale, who, with all her “tempers,”was an excellent woman, and loved her husband withthe whole of her quick little heart, was touched.She pressed his hand, and did not call him dearall the way home.

Meanwhile the Italian passed the fields, and cameupon the high-road about two miles from Hazeldean.On one side stood an old-fashioned solitary inn, suchas English inns used to be before they became railwayhotels—­square, solid, old-fashioned, lookingso hospitable and comfortable, with their great signsswinging from some elm tree in front, and the longrow of stables standing a little back, with a chaiseor two in the yard, and the jolly landlord talkingof the crops to some stout farmer, who has stoppedhis rough pony at the well-known door. Oppositethis inn, on the other side the road, stood the habitationof Dr. Riccabocca.

A few years before the date of these annals, the stagecoach, on its way to London from a seaport town, stoppedat the inn, as was its wont, for a good hour, thatit* passengers might dine like Christian Englishmen—­notgulp down a basin of scalding soup, like everlastingheathen Yankees, with that cursed railway whistleshrieking like a fiend in their ears! It wasthe best dining-place on the whole road, for the troutin the neighboring rill were famous, and so was themutton which came from Hazeldean Park.

From the outside of the coach had descended two passengerswho, alone insensible to the attractions of muttonand trout, refused to dine—­two melancholy-lookingforeigners, of whom one was Signor Riccabocca, muchthe same as we see him now, only that the black suitwas less threadbare, the tall form less meager, andhe did not then wear spectacles; and the other washis servant. “They would walk about whilethe coach stopped.” Now the Italian’seye had been caught by a mouldering dismantled houseon the other side of the road, which neverthelesswas well situated; half-way up a green hill, withits aspect due south, a little cascade falling downartificial rock-work, and a terrace with a balustrade,and a few broken urns and statues before its Ionicportico; while on the roadside stood a board, withcharacters already half effaced, implying that thehouse was to be “Let unfurnished, with or withoutland.”

The abode that looked so cheerless, and which hadso evidently hung long on hand, was the property ofSquire Hazeldean. It had been built by his grandfatheron the female side—­a country gentleman whohad actually been in Italy (a journey rare enoughto boast of in those days), and who, on his returnhome, had attempted a miniature imitation of an Italianvilla. He left an only daughter and sole heiress,who married Squire Hazeldean’s father:and since that time, the house, abandoned by its proprietorsfor the larger residence of the Hazeldeans, had beenuninhabited and neglected. Several tenants, indeed,had offered themselves; but your squire is slow inadmitting upon his own property a rival neighbor.Some wanted shooting. “That,” saidthe Hazeldeans, who were great sportsmen and strictpreservers, “was quite out of the question.”Others were fine folks from London. “Londonservants,” said the Hazeldeans, who were moraland prudent people, “would corrupt their own,and bring London prices.” Others, again,were retired manufacturers, at whom the Hazeldeansturned up their agricultural noses. In short,some were too grand, and others too vulgar. Somewere refused because they were known so well:“Friends are best at a distance,” saidthe Hazeldeans. Others because they were notknown at all: “No good comes of strangers,”said the Hazeldeans. And finally, as the housefell more and more into decay, no one would take itunless it was put into thorough repair: “Asif one was made of money!” said the Hazeldeans.In short, there stood the house unoccupied and ruinous;and there, on its terrace, stood the two forlorn Italians,surveying it with a smile at each other, as, for thefirst time since they set foot in England, they recognized,in dilapidated pilasters and broken statues, in aweed-grown terrace and the remains of an orangery,something that reminded them of the land they had leftbehind.

On returning to the inn, Dr. Riccabocca took the occasionof learning from the innkeeper (who was indeed a tenantof the Squire’s) such particulars as he couldcollect; and a few days afterward Mr. Hazeldean receiveda letter from a solicitor of repute in London, statingthat a very respectable foreign gentleman had commissionedhim to treat for Clump Lodge, otherwise called the“Casino;” that the said gentleman didnot shoot—­lived in great seclusion—­and,having no family, did not care about the repairs ofthe place, provided only it were made weather-proof—­ifthe omission of more expensive reparations could renderthe rent suitable to his finances, which were verylimited. The offer came at a fortunate moment—­whenthe steward had just been representing to the Squirethe necessity of doing something to keep the Casinofrom falling into positive ruin, and the Squire wascursing the fates which had put the Casino into anentail—­so that he could not pull it downfor the building materials. Mr. Hazeldean therefore,caught at the proposal even as a fair lady, who hasrefused the best offers in the kingdom, catches atlast at some battered old Captain on half-pay, andreplied that, as for rent, if the solicitors clientwas a quiet respectable man, he did not care for that.But that the gentleman might have it for the firstyear rent free, on condition of paying the taxes andputting the place a little in order. If theysuited each other, they could then come to terms.Ten days subsequently to this gracious reply, SignerRiccabocca and his servant arrived; and, before theyears end, the Squire was so contented with his tenantthat he gave him a running lease of seven, fourteen,or twenty-one years, at a rent nearly nominal, on conditionthat Signer Riccabocca would put and maintain the placein repair, barring the roof and fences, which theSquire generously renewed at his own expense.It was astonishing, by little and little, what a prettyplace the Italian had made of it, and what is moreastonishing, how little it had cost him. He hadindeed painted the walls of the hall, staircase, andthe rooms appropriated to himself, with his own hands.His servant had done the greater part of the upholstery.The two between them had got the garden into order.The Italians seemed to have taken a joint love tothe place, and to deck it as they would have done somefavorite chapel to their Madonna.

It was long before the natives reconciled themselvesto the odd ways of the foreign settlers. Thefirst thing that offended them was the exceeding smallnessof the household bills. Three days out of theseven, indeed, both man and master dined on nothingelse but the vegetables in the garden, and the fishesin the neighboring rill; when no trout could be caughtthey fried the minnows, (and certainly, even in thebest streams, minnows are more frequently caught thantrouts.) The next thing which angered the nativesquite as much, especially the female part of the neighborhood,

was the very sparing employment the two he creaturesgave to the sex usually deemed so indispensable inhousehold matters. At first indeed, they hadno woman servant at all. But this created suchhorror that Parson Dale ventured a hint upon the matter,which Riccabocca took in very good part, and an oldwoman was forthwith engaged, after some bargaining—­atthree shillings a week—­to wash and scrubas much as she liked during the daytime. Shealways returned to her own cottage to sleep.The man servant, who was styled in the neighborhood“Jackeymo,” did all else for his master—­smoothedhis room, dusted his papers, prepared his coffee,cooked his dinner, brushed his clothes, and cleanedhis pipes, of which Riccabocca had a large collection.But however close a man’s character, it generallycreeps out in driblets; and on many little occasionsthe Italian had shown acts of kindness, and, on somemore rare occasions, even of generosity, which hadserved to silence his calumniators, and by degreeshe had established a very fair reputation—­suspected,it is true, of being a little inclined to the BlackArt, and of a strange inclination to starve Jackeymoand himself,—­in other respects harmlessenough.

Signor Riccabocca had become very intimate, as wehave seen, at the Parsonage. But not so at theHall. For though the Squire was inclined to bevery friendly to all his neighbors—­he was,like most country gentlemen, rather easily huffed.Riccabocca had, if with great politeness, still withgreat obstinacy, refused Mr. Hazeldean’s earlierinvitations to dinner; and when the Squire found thatthe Italian rarely declined to dine at the Parsonage,he was offended in one of his weak points—­viz.,his regard for the honor of the hospitality of HazeldeanHall—­and he ceased altogether invitationsso churlishly rejected. Nevertheless, as it wasimpossible for the Squire, however huffed, to bearmalice, he now and then reminded Riccabocca of hisexistence by presents of game, and would have calledon him more often than he did, but that Riccaboccareceived him with such excessive politeness that theblunt country gentleman felt shy and put out, and usedto say, that “to call on Riccabocca was as badas going to court.”

But I left Dr. Riccabocca on the high-road. Bythis time he has ascended a narrow path that windsby the side of the cascade, he has passed a trellis-workcovered with vines, from the which Jacheymo has positivelysucceeded in making what he calls wine—­aliquid, indeed, that, if the cholera had been popularlyknown in those days, would have soured the mildestmember of the Board of Health; for Squire Hazeldean,though a robust man, who daily carried off his bottleof port with impunity, having once rashly tasted it,did not recover the effect till he had had a billfrom the apothecary as long as his own arm. Passingthis trellis, Dr. Riccabocca entered upon the terrace,with its stone pavement smoothed and trim as hands

could make it. Here, on neat stands, all his favoriteflowers were arranged. Here four orange-treeswere in full blossom; here a kind of summer-houseor Belvidere, built by Jackeymo and himself, madehis chosen morning-room from May till October; andfrom this Belvidere there was as beautiful an expanseof prospect as if our English Nature had hospitablyspread on her green board all that she had to offeras a banquet to the exile.

A man without his coat, which was thrown over thebalustrade, was employed in watering the flowers:a man with movements so mechanical—­witha face so rigidly grave in its tawny hues—­thathe seemed like an automaton made out of mahogany.

“Giacomo,” said Dr. Riccabocca, softly.

The automaton stopped its hand, and turned its head.

“Put by the watering-pot, and come here,”continued Riccabocca in Italian; and moving towardthe balustrade, he leaned over it. Mr. Mitford,the historian, calls Jean Jacques John James.Following that illustrious example, Giacomo shallbe Anglified into Jackeymo. Jackeymo came tothe balustrade also, and stood a little behind hismaster.

“Friend,” said Riccabocca, “enterpriseshave not always succeeded with us. Don’tyou think, after all, it is tempting our evil starto rent those fields from the landlord?” Jackeymocrossed himself, and made some strange movement witha little coral charm which he wore set in a ring onhis finger.

“If the Madonna send us luck, and we could hirea lad cheap?” said Jackeymo, doubtfully.

“Piu vale un presente che due futuri,”said Riccabocca—­“A bird in the handis worth two in the bush.”

“Chi non fa quondo puo, non puo fare quondovuole”—­("He who will not whenhe may, when he will it shall have nay")—­answeredJackeymo, as sententiously as his master. “Andthe Padrone should think in time that he must layby for the dower of the poor signorina”—­(younglady.)

Riccabocca sighed, and made no reply.

“She must be that high now!” saidJackeymo, putting his band on some imaginary linea little above the balustrade. Riccabocca’seyes, raised over the spectacles, followed the hand.

“If the Padrone could but see her here”—­

“I thought I did!” muttered the Italian.

“He would never let her go from his side tillshe went to a husband’s,” continued Jackeymo.

“But this climate—­she could neverstand it,” said Riccabocca, drawing his cloakround him, as a north wind took him in the rear.

“The orange-trees blossom even here with care,”said Jackeymo, turning back to draw down an awningwhere the orange-trees faced the north. “See!”he added, as he returned with a sprig in fall bud.

Dr. Riccabocca bent over the blossom, and then placedit in his bosom.

“The other one should be there too.”said Jackeymo.

“To die—­as this does already!”answered Riccabocca. “Say no more.”

Jackeymo shrugged his shoulders; and then, glancingat his master, threw his hand over his eyes.

There was a pause. Jackeymo was the first tobreak it.

“But, whether here or there, beauty without money is the orange-tree without shelter. Ifa lad could be got cheap, I would hire the land, andtrust for the crop to the Madonna.”

“I think I know of such a lad,” said Riccabocca,recovering himself, and with his sardonic smile oncemore lurking about the corner of his mouth—­“alad made for us!”

“Diavolo!”

“No, not the Diavolo! Friend, I have thisday seen a boy who-refused sixpence!”

“Cosa stupenda!”—­(Stupendousthing!) exclaimed Jackeymo, opening his eyes, andletting fall the watering-pot.

“It is true, my friend.”

“Take him, Padrone, in Heaven’s name,and the fields will grow gold.”

“I will think of it, for it must require managementto catch such a boy,” said Riccabocca.“Meanwhile, light a candle in the parlor, andbring from my bedroom—­that great folioof Machiavelli.”

* * * * *

RECENT DEATHS.

LOUIS PHILIPPE, EX-KING OF THE FRENCH.

The vicissitudes of kings form an impressive chapterin the history of Europe; and one of the most strikingepisodes in the narrative is the checkered life ofthe last king of France—­one week among themightiest monarchs on the loftiest pinnacle of ambition,he was, the next, an exile in a foreign land—­hispast supremacy almost forgotten.

Louis Philippe died on the morning of the 26th ofAugust, at Claremont, in the presence of the Queenand several members of his family. He had beenmade aware of his approaching dissolution early theprevious day, and receiving with calmness the melancholyintimation, prepared for the final arrangements hewished to make. After a conversion with the Queen,he dictated, with remarkable clearness, the concludingportion of his Memoirs, and then, having caused tobe assembled his chaplain, the Abbe Gaelle, and allhis children and grandchildren who were at Claremont,he received, with resignation and firmness, the lastrites of the Catholic Church. Toward seven inthe evening the debility that had oppressed him appearedto pass off, and fever came on, which continued duringthe night with much violence, but without disturbinghis composure of mind. At eight o’clockin the morning he expired, in the presence of his wife,and of the duch*ess of Orleans, the Count of Paris,the Duke de Chartres, the Duke and duch*ess de Nemours,the Prince and Princess de Joinville, the Duke andduch*ess d’Aureale, and the duch*ess Augusta ofSaxe-Coburg. Thus ended the closing scene ofthe life of Louis Philippe of Orleans,—­thewise and judicious sovereign of a great people, thesoldier of one revolution, the conqueror of a second,and the victim of a third.

Louis Philippe was born in Paris, 6th October, 1773,the eldest son of Philippe Joseph, Duke of Orleans(so well-known under the revolutionary soubriquetof Egalite), by Marie Louise Adelaide de Bourbon hiswife, daughter and heir of the wealthy Duke de Penthievre.At his birth he bore the title of Valois; but afterthe death of his grandfather, in 1785, was styledDuke of Chartres. The care of the young Prince’seducation was assigned to Madame de Genlis, who ablyand admirably performed her important duties.From her guidance Louis Philippe passed at once tothe arena of active life. In 1791, the Prince,then Duke of Chartres, having previously receivedthe appointment of Colonel in the 14th Dragoons, assumedthe command of that regiment, and shortly after, quittingthe garrison of Vendome, proceeded to Valenciennes,where he continued to pursue his military avocations.In the April of the following year, war being declaredagainst Austria, the Duke made his first campaign,fighting with gallantry under Kellerman at Valmy, andwith Dumouriez at Jemappes. But the horrors ofthe Revolution were progressing with giant strides;the unfortunate Louis XVI. was carried to the scaffold,and within a few months after, the Duke of Orleanswas seized on a plea of conspiracy against the Frenchnation, and after a mock trial, consigned to the executioner.A short time previously to the death of his father,the Duke de Chartres had effected his escape throughBelgium into Switzerland, and there was joined byhis sister Adelaide and Madame de Genlis. Ourconfined space precludes the possibility of our dwellingon the romantic events of this period of Louis Philippe’slife, and permits us to glance only at his wanderingsthrough Switzerland, Denmark, Lapland, Finland, America,and England. For one year he held the Appointmentof Professor in the College of Reichenau, at a salaryof fifty-eight pounds; and for that sum undertookto teach history, mathematics, and English. Hebore the name of Chabaud-Latour, and none but thesuperiors of the institution were aware of his rank.The news of his father’s execution reached himwhile quietly instructing the youth of Reichenau,and he instantly threw up his Professorship, and aftera protracted journey through northern Europe, succeeded,by the kind instrumentality of Mr. Gouverneur Morris,the American Ambassador at Paris, in reaching theUnited States. He landed at Philadelphia on the24th October, 1796, and was soon after joined by hisbrothers, Montpensier and Beaujolais. The threebrothers passed the winter in that city, and afterwardmade a journey through the Western States, and visitedGeneral Washington at Mount Vernon. Their residencein this country was not however of very long duration.After an inhospitable reception by the Spanish authoritiesin Cuba, the royal exiles made their way to England,in February, 1800, and thence immediately proceededto Barcelona, in the hope of meeting their mother.

But this object failing, they returned to England,and took up their abode at Twickenham, on the banksof the Thames. In Great Britain they were treatedwith respect and consideration, and were furnishedwith ample opportunities for repose after their excitingadventures. Within a few years, however, the Dukeof Montpensier and the Count Beaujolais both died—­theformer in England, the latter at Malta. LouisPhilippe had accompanied his last surviving brotherto that island, and after his interment sailed forSicily, on the invitation of the King of Naples.There he gained the affections of the Princess Amelia,and their marriage took place in November, 1809.No event of material importance marks the subsequentlife of the Duke, until the year 1814, when, on theabdication of Napoleon, he returned to Paris, andfor a short period was in full enjoyment of his honors.In 1815, Napoleon’s escape from Elba again calledthe Duke of Orleans into active employment, and heproceeded, in obedience to the desire of Louis XVIII.,to take the command of the Army of the North.In this situation he remained until the 24th of March,hen he surrendered his command to the Duke de Treviso,and retired to Twickenham. After the Hundred Days,the Duke of Orleans obeyed the ordinance authorizingthe Princes of the blood to take their seats in theChamber of Peers; but subsequently incurring the jealousyand displeasure of the Court, he resought his old residenceon the Thames, and dwelt there in seclusion until 1817,when he went back to France, and devoted himself tothe education of his children, until the Revolutionof 1830 broke out, resulting in his elevation to thethrone. The subsequent events of his reign, andthe memorable outbreak of 1848, that finally overthrewthe dynasty that the monarch had strained every nerveto establish, are too fresh on the public mind to requirerecapitulation here.

* * * * *

JOHN INMAN.

John Inman, a son of William Inman, was born in Uticain 1805. He had two brothers, William, a commanderin the Navy, and Henry, so well known as one of thefinest artists of this country. John Inman waseducated pretty much by chance; he had the usual countryschooling; but whatever valuable cultivation he hadwas in after-life when he was alone in the world,seeking his fortune. In 1823 he went to NorthCarolina where he taught school for two years.In the spring of 1826, with the profits of his schoolmastership,he went to Europe, and traveled there a little morethan a year. On his return, being admitted tothe bar, he practiced law about two years, when, in1829, he became one of the editors of The Standardnewspaper, which he left in 1830 to conduct the Mirror.In 1833 he was married to Miss Fisher, a sister ofthe popular and estimable actress, Clara Fisher, andabout this time he devoted the leisure left from the

duties of the Mirror office to a paper owned by hisbrother-in-law and himself, called The Spirit ofthe Times. In 1833 he accepted an offer fromthe late Colonel Stone to become one of the editorsof the Commercial Advertiser, of which he becamethe editor in chief upon the death of that gentleman,in 1844. He continued in this post until hisfailing health last spring compelled him entirely torelinquish the use of the pen; and gradually declining,he died on the 30th of August.

Mr. Inman had edited several books, and for two orthree years he conducted the Columbian Magazine.He was for a long time the critical reader of thegreat house of Harper & Brothers, who learned by ahappy experience to confide unhesitatingly in hisjudgment of books. He wrote many tales and sketchesfor the annuals and other publications, and a fewpoems, of which “Byron, a Fragment,” wasthe longest. Of the Columbian Magazine,he wrote with his own hand the whole of onenumber, partly from an ambition to achieve what seemedan impossible feat, and partly from his habit of closeand unremitting labor. He also wrote severalliterary papers for the New York Review.He was a gentleman of the most honorable nature, andof the finest taste and most refined habits. Perhaps there was not connected with the press inthis city a writer of purer English, and very few ofour literary men have had a more thorough knowledgeof French and English literature.

* * * * *

ADONIRAM JUDSON, D.D.

The death of this widely-known and eminently devotedmissionary is announced in an article of The Tribune,to have taken place on the 12th of April, on boardof the French brig Ariotide, bound to the Isle ofBourbon, in which he had taken passage for the benefitof his health. His remains were committed tothe deep on the evening of his death. For sometime past the health of Dr. Judson, which had beenseriously impaired for several years, has been knownto be in an alarming state, and the news of his deceaseaccordingly will not come as an unlooked-for blow uponhis wide circle of friends. Dr. Judson was theson of Rev. Adoniram Judson, a Congregational clergymanin Plymouth county, Mass. He received his collegiateeducation at Brown University, with the original intentionof pursuing the profession of the law, but experiencinga great change in his religious views soon after hisgraduation, he entered the Theological Seminary atAndover. During his residence at this institution,a profound interest in Foreign Missions was awakenedamong the students which resulted in his determinationto devote his life to the missionary service.Leaving his native land, among the first missionariessent forth by the American Board, in company withSamuel Nevill, Luther Rice, and Samuel Nott, he arrivedin Calcutta, in 1812. In consequence of studiesduring the voyage, he was led to change his opinions

on the subject of baptism, and a short time afterhis landing, received the rite of immersion from thehands of one of the English missionaries resident inCalcutta. His sermon on that occasion, which produceda deep impression on the religious world, is a masterpieceof logical argument, Scriptural research and graveeloquence. After connecting himself with the Baptistdenomination, he selected the Burman empire as theseat of his future labors—­at which posthe has remained, with scarcely an interval of relaxation,for nearly forty years. His efforts and sufferingsin the prosecution of his mission are well known.He was a man of high and resolute courage, of remarkableself-reliance, of more than common mental abilityand of devotion to the performance of his duty, almostwithout a parallel in modern times. He had allthe elements of a hero in his composition, and whoeverwould look for a rare specimen of a life consecratedto noble, ideal aims, inspired with an elevated andalmost romantic self-devotion, and daily exercisinga valiant energy more difficult of attainment thanthat which animates the soldier amid the smoke ofbattle, must contemplate the strange and beautifulhistory of the lion-hearted missionary of Burmah.

* * * * *

HENRY WHITE, D.D.

The REV. HENRY WHITE, D.D., Professor of Theologyin the Union Theological Seminary, died in this cityon Sunday, August 25th, in the fifty-first year ofhis age. We obtain the following biographicalfacts from The Independent: “ProfessorWhite was born in Durham, Greene county, in this state.He had nearly reached the age of manhood before commencinga liberal course of education; was graduated at UnionCollege in 1824; studied theology at Princeton, N.J.,and after being licensed to preach the Gospel, wasemployed as an agent of the American Bible Societyin Georgia and the Carolinas. In this servicehe remained during parts of the years 1826 and 1827.In 1827-28 he was engaged as an agent of the samesociety in New York and the vicinity; and during thatperiod he supplied for some time the pulpit of thesecond Presbyterian church in Newark, N.J. InMarch, 1829, he became pastor of the Allen-streetPresbyterian church in this city, in which office heremained until after his appointment to the Professorshipof Theology in the Union Theological Seminary, thennewly formed in this city. He was dismissed fromhis pastoral charge in March, 1837. The laborsof his professorship were begun and carried on forsome years in discouragement. The pecuniary basison which the Seminary rested was inadequate, and therewere arrearages in the salaries. In 1843 ProfessorW. was invited to Auburn, and great anxiety was feltlest he should accept the invitation. But hisown attachment to the Seminary and the entreaties ofhis friends, and an effort which was made to endowhis Professorship with a sufficient permanent fund,induced him to remain, and he held the office as longas he lived.”

* * * * *

SIR MARTIN ARCHER SHEE, P.R.A.

SIR MARTIN ARCHER SHEE, long known in art and letters,and for some years the oldest member as well as thePresident of the Royal Society, died at Brighton,on the 13th of August, in the eighty-first year ofhis age. He was descended lineally from one ofthe Kings of Munster, in the third century, and hisfamily in more recent times has been honorably distinguished.He was born in Dublin, on the 23d of December, 1770.He evinced extraordinary precocity in his art, andwhen but twelve years old obtained of the Irish Academymedals for figures, landscapes and flowers. Theauthor of “Wine and Walnuts,” as quotedin the London Athenaeum, gives the followingaccount of his first appearance in the Great Metropolis:

“I well remember this gentleman on his firstarrival from Ireland to the British metropolis; hewas introduced to the notice of Sir Joshua Reynolds,and to some other distinguished persons by his illustriousFriend and countryman Mr. Edmund Burke. I wasat that time making a drawing in the Plaster Academyin Somerset House, and perfectly recollect the firstevening Mr. Shee joining the students there. Heselected the figure of the Discobolus for his probationaryexercises to procure a permanent student’s ticket.I need not say that he obtained it,—­forit was acknowledged to be one of the best copies thathad yet been seen of that fine figure. I furtherremarked that Mr. Wilton, the then keeper of the RoyalAcademy, was so pleased with the performance that heexpressed a wish to retain it, after Mr. Shee hadreceived his ticket; and Mr. Shee, with that politenesswhich marked his early career, presented it to theworthy old gentleman.”

Mr. Shee became an exhibitor at the Royal Academyfor the first time in 1789. He abstained fromexhibiting in the following year, wisely husbandinghis strength—­worked hard at his art—­gavehis nights and days to Sir Joshua; and in 1791 tookhandsome apartments, and sent four portraits to theExhibition. In 1792 he removed to yet better rooms,and sent in all seven works to the Exhibition.In the same year he walked as one of the studentsof the Royal Academy at the funeral of Sir JoshuaReynolds. In 1793 he reached what is now the fullAcademical number of eight portraits. The Exhibitionof the following year contained his as yet most ambitiousefforts:—­a portrait of a young lady as Mirandain “The Tempest,” and “Jephtha’sDaughter” from the Book of Judges. In 1795he exhibited a portrait of himself,—­anda portrait of Mr. Addington, afterward Lord Sidmouth.In 1797 he exhibited in all ten works; including portraitsof Pope and Fawcett the actors. He continued equallyindustrious for many successive years; and was in suchfavor with his fellow artists that he was electedan Associate of the Royal Academy in 1798, immediately

after the election of Flaxman into the same honoraryrank. The same year, on Romney’s withdrawalfrom London, he removed to the house which that artisthad built for himself in Cavendish Square; and inthis he continued as Romney’s successor to resideuntil age and growing infirmities compelled him towithdraw to Brighton, and abandon his pencil.In 1800, he was elected a full Royal Academician:—­andof his thirty-nine brethren by whom he was chosenhe was the last survivor.

Mr. Shee continued to produce for years with amazingreadiness of hand and fertility in posture. Peopleof all ranks in life went to Cavendish Square, andfor a time Shee was in greater request than eitherBeechey or Hoppner, though not so much so as Lawrence,or even as Owen or Phillips somewhat later. LordSpencer was the first nobleman who sat to him; andhis example was followed by the Duke of Clarence, theDuke of Leinster, the Marquis of Exeter, and others.The ladies flocked less readily around him; for Lawrencehad then, as he continued to have, the entire artistmonopoly of the beauty of Great Britain.

Much to the surprise of his friends, and to the infinitewonder of some of his brethren in the Academy, Mr.Shee made his appearance as a poet by the publication,in 1805, of his “Rhymes on Art, or the Remonstranceof a Painter; in two parts, with Notes and a Preface,including Strictures on the State of the Arts, Criticism,Patronage, and Public Taste”: and the wonderhad not ceased with Nollekins and Northcote, when,in 1809, he published a second poem, in six cantos,entitled “Elements of Art.” It isto these poems that Byron alludes in his “EnglishBards and Scotch Reviewers”:

“And here let Shee and Genius finda place,
Whose pen and pencil yield an equal grace;
To guide whose hand the sister-arts combine,
And trace the poet’s or painter’sline;
Whose magic touch can bid the canvas glow,
Or pour the easy rhyme’s harmoniousflow;
While honors, doubly merited, attend
The poet’s rival, but the painter’sfriend.”

The Quarterly was complimentary, but less kindto the painter than the noble lord.

Mr. Shee appears to have always evinced taste forthe theater; and when his gravity of years and hisposition as a popular portrait-painter forbade hisany longer entertaining a wish to appear there, hebegan to woo the dramatic Muse, and commenced a tragedycalled “Alasco,” of which the scene waslaid in Poland. The play was accepted at CoventGarden, but excluded, it was said, from the stageby Colman, who was then licenser. This is notstrictly true. Colman objected to about eighty-fivelines, which Shee refused to alter. Colman wasequally obstinate; and Shee in 1824 printed his play,and appealed to the public against the licenser ina lengthy and angry preface. “Alasco,”notwithstanding, is still on the list of the unacteddrama.

On the death of Lawrence in 1830, Shee was electedPresident of the Royal Academy, and immediately knighted.His election was by a large majority, though Wilkiewas a candidate; the members being governed in theirvotes rather, it is said, by the necessities of theirannual dinner than by their sense of the merits ofShee as a painter. He excelled in short, well-timedand well-delivered speeches. He was seldom ata loss; and so highly was his eloquence appreciatedwithin the walls of the Academy, that it had beencommon with more than one Royal Academician to remarkwhenever a great speaker was mentioned—­“Didyou ever hear the President—­you shouldhear the President,”—­as if Canningand Stanley had been united in Sir Martin Archer Shee.

He has but little claim to be remembered as a poet.His verse wants vigor, and his examples are deficientin novelty of illustration. The notes to bothhis poems are, however, valuable, and his poetry isperhaps more frequently read for its prose illustrationsthan for the beauty of its versification or the valueof the truths which it seeks to inculcate. Asa portrait-painter he was eclipsed by several or hiscontemporaries,—­by Lawrence and by Hoppner,—­byPhillips, Jackson, and Raeburn. He had a fineeye for color; while his leading want was, proportion,more especially in his heads. Compare his headof Chantrey with the portraits of Chantrey by Jacksonand Raeburn, and the defect is at once obvious; orcompare his head of Mr. Hallam with the head of Mr.Hallam by Phillips, or with the living head—­sincehappily Mr. Hallam is still among us. How, then,it will be asked, is Sir Martin to be remembered:by his poems or by his portraits?—­by hisspeeches or by his annual addresses to the students?The question is not difficult of solution. Hispictures in the Vernon Gallery will not preserve hisname, nor will his portraits viewed as works of Art.His name will scend in the History of Painting asa clever artist with greater accomplishments thanhave commonly fallen to the class to which he belongs,—­andas the painter who has preserved to us the faces andfigures of Sir Thomas Munro, Sir Thomas Picton, SirEyre Coote, Sir James Scarlett, and Sir Henry Halford.There was merit, we may add, in his portrait of thepoet Moore. Principally, however, he will beremembered as one of the Presidents of the Royal Academy.

* * * * *

GERARD TROOST, M.D.

Dr. GERARD TROOST, for a long period one of the mosteminent naturalists of the United States, died onthe 14th of August at Nashville, where he had beenfor twenty years Professor of Chemistry and NaturalHistory in the University of Tennessee. A nativeof Holland, and educated in one of her universities,he devoted himself to the natural sciences. Forthe sake of improvement he visited Paris, and forseveral years was a pupil of the celebrated Hauy.

He removed to the United States about forty yearsago, and in due time became an American citizen.In 1824 and 1825 he was with Robert Owen at New Harmony,and he appears always to have been distinguished foreccentricities of opinion and conduct, but to havecommanded in every situation respect and affection.His entire life was consecrated to geology and thekindred sciences, with what ability and success, hispublished writings and his well-earned reputation athome and abroad may eloquently testify. Amongthe subjects upon which he wrote are, amber of CapeSable, Maryland; the minerals of Missouri; five reportson the geology of Tennessee; meteoric iron from Tennesseeand Alabama; a shower of red matter in Tennessee;meteorites, &c., &c.

* * * * *

PERCEVAL W. BANKS.

This gentleman—­better known as MorganRattler of “Fraser’s Magazine”—­diedin London on the 13th of August. Mr. Banks, thoughonly in his forty-fifth year, was the last of therace of writers, who, with Dr. Maginn, Mr. Churchill,and others, gave a sting and pungency (of a viciousand unwholesome kind however), to the early numbersof that journal. He seldom did justice to hisown talents, for he wrote too often in haste, alwaysat the last moment, and too rarely with good taste.He was by profession a barrister. The world atlarge, who admired the sportive fancy, classical eloquence,and kind yet firm criticism of poor Morgan Rattler,in his later years, will regret the early decease ofone so gifted.

* * * * *

ROBERT HUNT.

Mr. ROBERT HUNT, the eldest brother of Mr. Leigh Hunt,often mentioned in the “Autobiography,”is dead. He was lately nominated by the Queento the brotherhood of the Charter house, but has notlived very long to enjoy the royal bounty. Hewas seventy-six years old when he died.

* * * * *

JOHN COMLY.

JOHN COMLY, an eminent minister of the Society ofFriends, died on the 17th of August at Byberry inPennsylvania, in the seventy-seventh year of his age.“Comly’s Spelling-Book,” and “Comly’sGrammar,” have to thousands now living madehis name “familiar as household words.”

* * * * *

BISHOP BASCOMB.

THE REV. DR. BASCOMB, long eminent for variousabilities, and most of all for a brilliant and effectiveelocution, died at Louisville, Ky., on the 9th ofAugust. He was editor of the Southern MethodistQuarterly Review, and one of the Bishops of the MethodistEpiscopal Church.

* * * * *

COUNT PIRE.

GENERAL COUNT PIRE, one of the most distinguishedofficers of the French Empire, died recently.He fought as a private soldier of the National Guardof Paris, on the barricades, against the insurgentsof June, 1848.

* * * * *

GLEANINGS FROM THE JOURNALS.

The Athenaeum is incredulous upon the subjectof the falling of Table Rock, at Niagara, and in reprintingthe account of the event, thought it necessary tooffer a few remarks upon the credibility of Americanintelligence:—­“Our readers,”says the Athenaeum, “know that we havegreat fears of the American penny-a-liner, and arecarefully on our guard against his feats. Ourown specimens of the class are commonplace artistscompared with their American brethren. The seasonis at hand when we are looking out for the performancesat the former,—­but we expect little frombeyond the old routine. In their sluggish imaginations,the annual pike is doubtless already growing up tohis great dimensions, which, on failure of the accustomedsprings of intelligence, we are soon to find floatingin the newspaper shallows,—­and the preposterouscucumber is probably having an inch added to its stature,which will shortly shoot rankly up where the parliamentaryharvest has been cut down. The most daring thingthat we can expect from these geniuses is, a trickor two perhaps with the Nelson Column. But theAmerican penny-a-liner, our readers know, does thething on the vast scale of his country. He takesdown Niagara at his pleasure,—­and puts itup again in its place, or anywhere else that he will.He transports the great Falls about the soil of hiscountry at halt a crown an adventure,—­andfor five shillings would probably set them playingin the moon.”

* * * *

A “MASONIC SWORD” FOR THE EMPEROR OF HAYTI.—­Amagnificent sword, intended to be presented to theEmperor Soulouque on his installation to the mysteriesof the “Grand Masonic Order of Hayti,”has been made at Birmingham, thirty-two inches inlength. The blade is richly ornamented alongits whole length with devices in blue and gold, bearingthe inscription in French on the one side, “Tothe illustrious F. Faustin Soulouque, Emperor of Hayti,”and on the other, “Homage of the Grand Orderof Hayti.” The hilt is surmounted by animperial crown, and adorned with various masonic emblems.On the shield are richly chased the arms of Hayti,with the motto, “God! my Country, and my Sword,”“Liberty and Independence.” We perceive,also, from the French papers, that a celebrated goldsmithat Paris, has forwarded to Hayti a crown, a scepter,a wand of justice, and a sword of state, manufacturedexpressly for his sable Majesty, at a cost of L20,000sterling. The latter has moreover, commanded,for his coronation, a sky-blue velvet mantle, embroideredwith bees and richly bound with gold lace, and a Courtdress of scarlet velvet, lined with white satin, andtrimmed with the most expensive point lace, “withmost valuable ornaments to match.”

* * * * *

TIME WORKS WONDERS.—­A correspondent Ofthe Melbourne Daily News remarks that in June,1847, he met Prince Louis Napoleon and his cousinJerome Napoleon at Lady Blessington’s. “Thepresident was then living in a very modest house inKing-street, St. James’s-square, and his veryunaffected demeanor led me to form an intimate acquaintancewith him. He appeared to me a person more fondof the ordinary amusem*nts of the metropolis, frequentingthe theaters, casinos, and other similar places, thanan ambitious adventurer. On the following Mayas I was entering the chambers of my solicitor, inLincoln’s Inn Fields, an old gentleman withan umbrella under his arm passed me as I opened theswing doors, and politely removed his hat as I madeway for him. It was Louis Philippe. It isscarce three weeks ago I was ordering a waistcoat ofmy tailor, when two gentlemen entered the shop, andone of them in broken English gave an order for apaletot; I looked up, It was Ledru Rollin and EtienneArago; when they had gone, the worthy tradesman, knowingI had lived much in Paris, asked me if I knew hiscustomer (M. Arago,) and if he could safely givehim credit!”

* * * *

AMERICAN MUMMIES.—­A letter from Ratisbonstates, that the Museum of the Zoological and MineralogicalSociety of that town has made a curious acquisition,—­thatof two mummies found in the sands of the desert ofAtacama in Upper Peru, by Dr. Ried, a Bavarian physicianresident at Valparaiso. These mummies, male andfemale, both of American race, are natural mummies,—­thatis to say, dried without embalming or any other speciesof preparation. The man is in a stooping posture,his head sustained on his hands, and his elbows rentingon his knees. The face has an expression of painwhich seems to indicate a, violent death. Thewoman is stretched at length, with arms crossed onher breast. Both heads are covered with longhair, dark and silky, and divided into an infinityof small plaits. When Dr. Reid discovered thesemummies both had their teeth complete; but duringtheir transport to Europe many of these have fallenout, and were found at the bottom of the cases containingthese curious relics of American antiquity.

* * * *

THE COMMON SLANDERS AGAINST DANIEL WEBSTER are notedin the English Journals in connection with his acceptanceof the Secretaryship of State. “These scandals,”observes the Spectator, “cannot, however,hide from us the fact, that of all public men in America,perhaps with one exception, Mr. Webster ishe who has evinced the greatest knowledge of publicaffairs, the greatest acumen in administration, andthe greatest common sense in emergency. Highintelligence is probably the best of all substitutesfor high honor—­if, indeed, it does not necessarilyinclude that nobler quality.”

* * * * *

COFFINS OF BAKED CLAY OF THE CHALDEANS.—­Mr.Kennet Loftus, the first European who has visitedthe ancient ruins of Warka in Mesopotamia, and whois attached to the surveying staff of Colonel Williams,appointed to settle the question of the boundary linebetween Turkey and Persia, writes thus:—­“Warkais no doubt the Erech of Scripture, the second cityof Nimrod, and it is the Orchoe of the Chaldees.The mounds within the walls afford subjects of highinterest to the historian and antiquarian; they arefilled, nay, I may say, they are literally composedof coffins, piled upon each other to the height offorty-five feet. It has, evidently, been thegreat burial-place of generations of Chaldeans, asMeshad Ali and Kerbella at the present day are of thePersians. The coffins are very strange affairs;they are in general form like a slipper-bath, butmore depressed and symmetrical, with a large ovalaperture to admit the body, which is closed with alid of earthenware. The coffins themselves arealso of baked clay, covered with green glaze, andembossed with figures of warriors, with strange andenormous coiffures, dressed in a short tunic and longunder garments, a sword by the side, the arms restingon the hips, the legs apart. Great quantitiesof pottery and also clay figures, some most delicatelymodeled, are found around them; and ornaments of gold,silver, iron, copper, glass, &c., within.”—­Art-Journal.

* * * * *

ANCIENT PRICE OF LABOR.—­In the year 1352,25th Edward III., wages paid to haymakers were 1d.a day. A mower of meadows, 3d. a day, or 5d anacre. Reapers of corn in the first week of August,2d.; in the second, 3d. a day, and so on till theend of August, without meat, drink, or other allowance,finding their own tools. For threshing a quarterof wheat or rye, 21/2d.; a quarter of barley, beans,peas, and oats 11/2d. A master carpenter, 3d.a day, other carpenters, 2d. A master mason, 4d.a day, other masons, 3d., and their servants, 11/2d.Tilers, 3d., and their “knaves,” 11/2d.Thatchers, 3d a day, and their knaves, 11/2. Plasterers,and other workers of mud walls, and their knaves, inlike manner, without meat or drink; and this fromEaster to Michaelmas; and from that time less, accordingto the direction of the justices.

* * * * *

THE “QUARTERLY REVIEW” suggests that “Ifan additional postage of one penny per letter wereto be charged to every person who prefers making thepostman, or rather the public, wait until his servantshall think proper to open the door to receive a handfulof prepaid letters, which could rapidly be dropped,exactly as they were posted, through a receiving slitinto a tortuous receptacle, from which it would beimpossible for any but the right person to extractthem, the delivery of the correspondence of the countrywould be perfect.”

* * * * * SOME LIBERALSin France have been carrying on a kind of duel by libel,the libel being enforced apparently by its strict truth.Some of M. Thiers’s political antagonists, seekingto annoy him, volunteered to circulate in the formof a card the following advertisem*nt for a lady whoappears to be related to M. Thiers, and also to carryon an honest avocation:—­

“MADAME L. RIPERT,
Sister of M. A. THIERS,
Ex-President of the Council of Ministers, &c. &c.
keeps an excellent table meridionale at 3fr.a-head, wine included.
Breakfast at all hours, at 3fr. 25c.
44, Rue Basse-du-Rempart, Paris.”

The retaliation was a counter-card:—­

“Mdlle. ——­, brevetee dela police, et M. ——­, liberatedconvict, the sister and cousin-germain of M. ——­a thorough-bred Montagnard, continue to carry on theirbusiness, Rue de la Lune. On va en ville.”

These attacks are very mean, and paltry, but it isclear that their castigation is beyond the effectivehandling of the law. Yet society exercises noeffective jurisdiction in the matter; it shields offendersagainst decency and generosity so long as the offenseis committed in subserviency to party.

* * * * *

LANGUAGES OF AFRICA.—­At a religious meetingin London, the Rev. John Clark, formerly missionaryin Jamaica, and afterward in Fernando Po, in Africa,said that at Fernandina there were persons belongingto fifty Different tribes, who understood Englishso well as to be of help to a translator of the Bibleinto their respective languages. He thought theWord of God would have to be translated into two hundredlanguages before all the tribes of Africa will beable to read it in their own tongue. The Mohammedans,who are spread through the length of the continent,have many who can read the Koran in the Arabic characters.If, therefore, the Word of God were translated intotheir tongues and printed in that character, many,not only of the Hovas and the Arabs of the desert,but also of the Foolahs, Mandingoes, and Housah, whoprofessed Mahommedanism, would be able to read concerningJesus Christ.

* * * * *

LETTERS FROM MR. RICHARDSON, the African explorer,have been received in London, dated at Mourzouk, June22d. Mr. R. and his companions were detainedsix weeks waiting for the promised escort of the Touarickchiefs for Soudan by the way of Ghat. They expectto meet the many caravans coming down from the interiorto Ghat. The actual arrival of the chiefs wasgreatly to the astonishment of the Moors and Turksof Mourzouk, who could never believe that the hardybandits of the Sahara would obey the summons of aChristian, and escort English travelers through theunexplored regions of Central Africa. The Turkshad on previous occasions repeatedly invited the Touaricksto visit the town of Mourzouk, but they never woulddo so.

* * * * *

THE PEACE CONGRESS of Frankfort closed its sessionon the 22d of August. However commendable itsapparent object, it cannot be concealed that thisand the preceding congress of the same kind have beenlittle more than processes for the elevation of insignificantpeople into a transient notoriety. This yearthe usual philanthropic resolutions were passed.Victor Hugo, of France, excused himself from attendanceon the score of ill-health; but the country was representedby Emile de Girardin. The congress is to meetnext year simultaneously with the great World’sExposition at London. The most piquant incidentsof the session were the speech of George Copway, averitable American Indian Chief, and the presence,in one of the visitors’ tribunes, of the famousGeneral Haynau, whose victories and cruelties lastyear, in prosecuting the Hungarian war, were the themein the congress of much fine eloquence and indignation.

* * * * *

A PROJECT is on foot for opening a spacious Zoologicaland Botanical Garden in the north part of the islandof New York, immediately on the Hudson. A planof an association for the purpose has been drawn upby Mr. Audubon, a son of the eminent ornithologist—­thesame who lately made an overland journey to California.His courage and perseverance in that expedition havegiven the public a sufficient pledge of the energyand constancy of his character, and his scientificknowledge, educated as he has been from his earlychildhood to be a naturalist, qualifies him as feware qualified, for the superintendence of such an establishment.The spot chosen for the garden is the property ofthe Audubon family, adjoining the Trinity Cemetery,and contains about twenty acres, which is about athird larger than the London Zoological Gardens.

* * * * *

The London Standard having asserted that “Mr.D’Israeli is not nor ever was a Jew,”a correspondent of the Morning Chronicle testifiesthat the Member from Buckinghamshire was at one timea Jew; at least that “he became a Jew outwardly,according to the customary and prescriptive ritesof that ancient persuasion; for a most respectablegentleman (connected with literature) now deceased,has been heard to boast a hundred times that he waspresent at the entertainment given in honor of theceremony.”

* * * * *

Dr. GROSS, who has lately been appointed to the professorshipof surgery in the medical department of the New YorkUniversity, is a gentleman of very eminent abilities,who has long been conspicuous as a teacher and practitionerat Louisville. He is a native of Berks countyin Pennsylvania, is descended from one of the oldDutch families there, and was twelve or fourteen yearsof age before he knew a word of English. In hisspecialite he is of the first rank in America.

* * * * *

ANOTHER FESTIVAL IN GERMANY.—­Near the closeof August, musical and Dramatic ceremonies in inaugurationof the statue of Herder took place at Weimar.On the 24th was represented at the theater the “PrometheusUnbound,” with overture and choruses by M. Liszt.On the 25th, after the inauguration of the statue,Handel’s “Messiah” was performedin the Cathedral, where Herder used to preach, andwhere he lies buried. On the 28th, was givenat the theater the first representation of “Lohengrin,”anew opera, by Herr Wagner, with a prologue writtenfor the occasion by Herr Dingelstedt.

* * * * *

THE WORDSWORTH MONUMENT.—­In a former numberof this journal we noticed the organization of a veryinfluential committee, for raising subscriptions,in order that suitable monuments might be erected tothe memory of the late poet, both in Westminster Abbeyand in the locality which was his chosen residence,and so often his chosen theme. We perceive, withmore regret than surprise, that the amounts advertisedare mean in the extreme. We fear that ten timesthe sums would have been more readily collected, todo honor to a dancer or a singer.

* * * * *

REVOLUTIONARY STAMPS.—­The Secretary ofthe New Jersey Historical Society, W. A. Whitehead,Esq., has received through the Hon. W. B. Kinney,Charge d’Affaires to Sardinia, several of theidentical stamps that were made for use in the Colonies,and which were the immediate cause of the AmericanRevolution. A box of them was recently found inthe Colonial Office in London, where our Ministerprocured them.

* * * * *

There are no lineal descendants of Warren Hastingsin existence. The estates of Mr. Hastings passedinto the sister’s family, and are held at presentby Sir C. Imhoff, who resides at Daglesford House,near Stow-on-the-Wold. The house has much interestattached to it. The whole furniture of one roomis composed of solid ivory.

* * * * *

IN THE LATE MEETING OF THE ACADEMY OF SCIENCES, ofParis, it was announced that the Academy had receivedfrom Mr. Pennington of Baltimore, United States ofAmerica, a manuscript and a printed prospectus Concerninga project of a steam balloon, upon which he wishedthe Academy to decide.

* * * * *

The holder of the appointment of Examiner of Plays,in England, enjoys a salary of $2000 per annum, besidea tax upon every play, interlude, farce, or song,licensed for representation upon the stage. Thisappointment is in the gift of the Lord Chamberlain.

* * * * *

GEORGE CATLIN, the Indian traveler, is soon to sailto Texas from Liverpool, with a large body of emigrants;they will settle on the lands of the Emigration ColonizationSociety.

* * * * *

AGES OF PUBLIC MEN.—­The Duke of Wellingtonis aged 81: Lord Lyndhurst, 78; Lord Dunfermline,74; Mr. Joseph Hume, 73; Lord Brougham, 72; Lord Heytesbury,71; Lord Denman, 71; Lord Campbell, 71; Lord Gough,71; Earl of Haddington, 70; Marquis of Landsdowne,70; Lord Cottenham, 69; Earl of Ripon, 68; Earl ofMinto, 68; Earl of Aberdeen, 66; Viscount Palmerston,66; Right Hon. H. Goulburn, 66; Viscount Hardinge,65; Sir Robert Inglis, 64; Sir John Cam Hobhouse,64; Duke of Sutherland, 64; Sir George Clerk, 63;Duke of Richmond, 59; Mr. Andrew Rutherford, 59; SirJames Graham, 58; Lord John Russell, 58; Right Hon.C. Lefevre, Speaker of the House of Commons, 56; RightHon. Richard L. Shiel, 56; Sir Frederick Thesiger,56; Sir Francis Baring, First Lord of the Admiralty,54; Sir Fitzroy Kelly, 54; Marquis of Normanby, 53;Right Hon. H. Labouchere, 52; Lord Stanley, 51; SirGeorge Grey, 51; Right Hon. T.B. Macaulay, 51;Earl of Clarendon, 50; Sir Charles Wood, 50; Mr. FoxMaule, 49; Lord Ashley, 49; Mr. J.A. Roebuck,49; Earl of Carlisle, 48; Marquis of Clanricarde, 48;Earl Grey, 48; Sir John Jervis, 48; Mr. Cobden, 47;Mr. Benjamin D’Israeli, 45; Right Hon. W. E.Gladstone, 41; Right Hon. Sydney Herbert, 40; Earlof Lincoln, 39; Mr. John Bright, 39; Hon. George A.Smythe, 32; Lord John Manners, 32.

* * * * *

ANCIENT DISCOVERY OF CALIFORNIA.—­In thepopular and unique work, “Notes And Queries,”we find the following paragraph, from a correspondentwho probably gleaned it from the last years Proceedingsof the New-York Historical Society. “Inthe Voyage Round the World, by Captain GeorgeShelvocke, begun February 1719, he says of California,(Harris’s Collection, vol. i., p. 233:)—­’Thesoil about Puerto, Seguro, and very likely in mostof the valleys, is a rich black mould, which, as youturn it up fresh to the sun, appears as if intermingledwith gold dust, some of which we endeavored to purifyand wash from the dirt. But, though we were alittle prejudiced against the thoughts that it couldbe possible that this metal should be so promiscuouslyand universally mingled with common earth, yet weendeavored to cleanse and wash the earth from someof it; and the more we did the more it appeared likegold. In order to be further satisfied, I broughtaway some of it, which we lost in our confusion inChina.’” How an accident prevented thediscovery, more than a century back, of the goldenharvest now gathering in California!

* * * * *

THE PRESIDENT OF PERU has issued a decree, appointingthe Minister of the Home Department, Don Lucas Fonceas,Don Nicolas Pierola, and Don Nicolas Rodrigo, a commissionto select and take charge of articles intended tobe sent to England for exhibition next year.

* * * * *

MR. GLIDDON’S MUMMY.—­We find in theBoston Transcript a long letter from Mr. Gliddon,telling the whole story, which the latest and completeexaminations of papyrus, straps, bandages, &c. haveunfolded about his mummy early this summer in Boston.It seems the said mummy was all right, in the rightcoffin duly embalmed; the body being that of a priestwho died about B. C. 900. The Theban undertakers,in this particular case, were honest; and allsuspicion of fraud on their part is unnecessary andunfair. Mr. Gliddon made a slight mistake, beforethe opening of the coffin, in reading the fragmentsof the inscription; and so got the notion that thecontents were a female body. The frank, manly,good-natured, and generous manner in which Mr. G. explainsthe whole affair and owns his error, should now stopthe laugh, and satisfy everybody.

* * * * *

RACHEL is making a lucrative professional tour inGermany. The last accounts leave her in Berlin.She has lately had built in Paris, not far in therear of the Madelaine, a hotel for her private residence.It is not large, but is a perfect gem of taste, (asthe French understand it) and luxury. She receivesthere a choice circle of gentlemen of all professions.The ladies who frequent her salons are rarer,if not more select. Of course none but ladiesof the same profession, or of equivocal reputation,would enjoy the elegant hospitality of the illustrioustragedienne.

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INDIA RUBBER is now so cheap and common, that thefollowing reference to it in the “New MonthlyReview” for February, 1772, sent to “Notesand Queries” by a correspondent, may causea smile: “I have seen,” says Dr.Priestly, “a substance, excellently adapted tothe purpose of wiping from paper the marks of a blacklead pencil. It must, therefore, be of singularuse to those who practice drawing. It is soldby Mr. Nairne, mathematical instrument-maker, oppositethe Royal Exchange. He sells a cubical piece,of about half an inch, for three shillings;and, he says, it will last several years.”

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CONVENIENT UMBRELLA.-A gentleman residing at Tauntonhas constructed an umbrella on a novel principle,the main feature of which is that it can be carriedin the pocket with ease. He intends sending itto the great Exhibition of next year.

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THE CORRESPONDENT OF THE DAILY NEWS at Constantinople;writing on the 25th ult., says: “Yesterday,the 15th of Ramazan, witnessed a famous ceremony,which consists in adoring the shirt of the prophet,preserved in an apartment of the old Seraglio at Topkapon(Cannon-gate). The Sultan, ministers, and highdignitaries, were admitted to kiss this sacred relic,which will remain exposed during some days for theveneration of the faithful.”

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THE CONTINUED EMIGRATION OF THE IRISH is one of themost remarkable points of contemporary history.Subsequent to, or in consequence of, the great failureof the potato crop in 1846—­that calamitywhich revolutionized Ireland—­not less thana million of people must have left its shores to trytheir fortunes this side the Atlantic. Betweenemigration and the ravages of famine and pestilence,we may calculate that the population of Ireland hasdiminished by at least a million and a half or twomillions since the autumn of 1846. How long theemigration will continue, it is, of course, impossibleto predict, as every new settler in America who prospers,is the agent by which a fresh demand is made uponthe old country. It is one of the best featuresin the Irish character, that, in the new land to whichthey flock, they do not forget the friends or relativesthat they have left behind them, and that every packetcarries money from America for the relief of peoplein Ireland, or to pay their passage out to the forestsor prairies of a world where there is elbow-room forall, and where a willing heart and a stout pair ofhands are the surest passports to independence anda competency.

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DWARKANTH TAGORE was a marvelously intelligent man,greatly in advance of his countrymen—­aman who could discern the value of European civilization,and who devoted his energies and his means to the dutyof grafting them on Hindu society. His richeswere, like all merchants’, in supposition.He had argosies, and lands, and merchandise; but whatwith land rats and water rats, and mortgages, gluttedmarkets, and competitions of all kinds, that whichhad an untellable value to-day, was at a discountto-morrow. His influence in the southern provincesof India maintained the credit of his house whilehe lived; he died bequeathing no atom of his commandingspirit and exquisite tact, and the house which hehad created, together with the Bank he had sustained,fell in the general commercial wreck which afflictedall Calcutta three years ago. Thus much of admirableDwarkanth Tagore.

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MADAME BOULANGER—­the Mrs. Glover of theParis Opera Comique, has a Conspicuous placein the recent foreign obituaries. The French,in their musical comedies, cherish dramatis personaeof a maturity not known on any other musical stage,save among the background figures. “So oftenas we think of the good lady in question, with hardlya note of voice left, but overflowing with quainthumor, and willingly turning her years and ill looksto the utmost account, with a readiness to be absurd,if the part needed, which even a Lablache could notoutdo,—­so often as we recollect her MadameBarnek, in ‘L’Ambassadrice,’and her La Bocchetta in ’Polichinelle,some of our most comic operatic impressions will berevived. Madame Boulanger was buried in the churchof Notre Dame.”

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TRAVELING, in France, like everything else there,has been reduced to science, or rather to art.Companies are now formed at Paris which convey passengersto London and back at an expense of only thirty francs—­aboutsix dollars. They will pay all your expenses forthis sum, and give you four days in London to seeall the lions. It took more time and more moneya few years ago to journey from Paris to Rouen, whichis only a few miles off. These pleasure trains,as they are called, quit Paris on Saturday, crossthe channel in a good steamer on Sunday, reaching Londonin the afternoon, give the voyagers Monday, Tuesday,Wednesday and Thursday in the city, leaving in timeto get back to Paris by Friday night.

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FOUR courses of lectures will be delivered the comingseason before the Lowell Institute, Boston. Oneis to be on Political Economy, by Prof. Bowen,of Cambridge; another course on Natural Religion, byRev. Dr. Blagden, of Boston; another by Prof.Agassiz, subject not known; and the fourth, on theComparative Physical Geography of the United States,and the race that will shortly inhabit these States,by Prof. Guyot.

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The Gazette des Tribunaux announces that M.Libri has ceased to be a member of the Legion of Honor,in virtue of the sentence of the Assize Court of Paris,pronounced on the demand of the Grand Chancellor ofthe order. Since his flight to England, sometwo years and a half since, he has married there.Madame Libri is now in Paris, attempting to recoverpossession of the furniture, and other personal effects,which M. Libri was compelled to leave behind him inhis flight.

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The Opinion Publique has the following:—­“Isit known who at this moment inhabits the small houseat Brompton, occupied some few months since by M.Guizof? It is M. Ledru-Rollin. Thus, M. Ledru-Rollin,an exile, succeeds at Brompton in his house of exile,M. Guizot, whom he succeeded at Paris in the Government.”

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The Committee of the Associate Institution for Improvingand Enforcing the Laws for the Protection of Women,intends to offer a prize of 100 guineas for the bestEssay on the Laws for the Protection of Women.

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DR. T. SOUTHWOOD SMITH, who was the medical memberof the General Board of Health during the period ofthe Orders in Council, has been appointed the secondmember of the Board provided by the English MetropolitanInterment Act.

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The Gazette of Rome, of the 9th, contains thenomination of the Abbe Talbot, son of Lord Talbotof Malahide, and lately priest of St. George’s,Westminster-bridge-road, to the office of camereiresecreto.

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[Illustration: JENNY LIND AT THE CASTLE AMPHITHEATER.]

The arrival of JENNY LIND is the most memorable eventthus far in our musical history. The note ofpreparation had been sounding for half a year; hername, through all the country, had become a householdword; and every incident in her life, and every judgmentof her capacities, had been made familiar, by theadmirable tactician who had hazarded so much of hisfortune in her engagement. The general interestwas increased by the accounts in the chief foreignjournals of her triumphal progress through England,and when at length she reached New-York, her receptionresembled the ovations that are offered to heroes.Her first concert was given at the Castle Amphitheater,on the 11th September, to the largest audience everassembled for any such occasion in America. Therewas an apprehension among the more judicious thatthe performances would fall below the common expectations;but the most sanguine were surprised by the completenessof her triumph. She surpassed all that they hadever heard, or dreamed, or imagined. It was,as the Christian Inquirer happily observes,as if all the birds of Eden had melted their voicesinto one, to rise in gushing song upon the streaminglight to salute the sun. Her later concerts haveincreased rather than diminished the enthusiasm producedby her first appearance. Mlle. Lind is accompaniedby M. Benedict, the well known composer, and by SignerBelletti, whose voice is the finest baritoneprobably ever heard in New York, and whose style isdescribed by the Albion as “near perfection.”The orchestral arrangements for her concerts havenever been surpassed here. Many were deterredfrom being present at her first appearance by a fearof crowds and tumults, but so perfect were Mr. Barnum’sappointments that all the vast assemblies at the Castlehave been as orderly as the most quiet evening partiesin private houses.

The personal interest in Mlle. Lind is almostas great as the interest in the singer. Her charitiesin New York have already reached more than $15,000.and it is understood that all the profits of her engagementin America, not thus dispensed here, are appropriatedby her for the establishment of free schools in Sweden.

Mlle. Lind has given to the Fire Department Fund,$3,000; Musical Fund Society, $2,000; Home for theFriendless, Society for the Relief of Indigent Females,Dramatic Fund Association, Home for Colored and AgedPersons, Colored and Orphan Association, Lying-in Asylumfor Destitute Females, New York Orphan Asylum, ProtestantHalf-Orphan Asylum, Roman Catholic Half-Orphan Asylum,and Old Ladies Asylum, each $500. Total, $10,000.The lives of Mr. Barnum, Jenny Lind, M. Benedict, andSignor Belletti, with all the details of the concerts,have been issued in a pamphlet displaying the usualtyographical richness and elegance of Van Norden &Leslie, Fulton-street.