HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE, No. LXXIX.I)ECEMBER, 18~6.VoL. XIV. THE quaint historian, Diedrich Knicker JLhocker, says it was traditionary in his family, that when the worthy Master Hendrick hudson Iirst laid eyes upon the marvelous beauties of the great waters which now hear his honored name, astonishment and admira- tion wrung from his tacitnrn lips the remark- ahle exclamation, See there That the susceptible navigator really did give expres- sion to his unwonted emotions in these su- preme terms, or at least in words to that Entered cording to Act of Congress, in the year 1506, by Harper and Brothers, in the Clerks Ofijee of the I)is~ trict Court for the Southern District of New Yo~k. VOL. XIV.No. 79.A HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. ef~ct, there is very little doubt; inasmuch as wold. It was in a l)eautiful home, directly the echo thereof has never ceased to be beard overlooking the Hudson, aad commanding the among the hills, through all the two and a half grand panorama of the Catskills, that the In centuries since gone by. Indeed, it has mug, mented paiater Cole lived, and labored, and aad is riaging, more audibly and more elo- died; and where these noble hills first bless the quently every passing day; for enchanting as sight in the ascent of the river, are the bron (I was the vision which dazzled the eyes of the lawns and slopes of Placentia, where that vet - drowsy skipper of the Ha if ilfoon, when the prow eran pioneer in our literature, Paulding, is pass- of that adventurous craft was first turned to- ing a kindly and genial age in elegant seclu- ward the waters of the unknown river, yet from sion among kindred and friends. Not far be- that hour to this, still has the wonder grown. low him is the pleasant abode of Morse, who The mountains yet stand in their ancient dig- has snatched the lightning to bear his name and nity and grandeur, the valleys and glades wear fame through the world. Lossing, the amiable their old sweet smile, and the floods roll on in historian, is near by. Yet below, among the the same simple, quiet, majestic, epic flow; Highlands, a whole flock of singing birds have while about all there has gathered many an built their dainty nests. here, in the village of added grace. Ne~vburgl~, lived the landscape gardener, Down Time has embellished the scene, until the ing, to whose genius the river owes so much silent river and the desert shore are now alike of its horticultural and architectural adornment. musical with the ceaseless hum of busy, happy A little distance southward is his own favorite life; and the rose blooms and breathes every creation, the picturesque villa at Cedar Lawn, where in the once trackless forests. Poetry and the residence of Headley. Poor Downing, who romance have bewitched it with the enchant- was an ardent lover of the Hudson, was gazing meat of song and story, and history with thrill- upon its moonlit charms with even more than lag memories of great and gallant deeds; while his wonted delight, as he sat on the piazza here. at this day there is rapidly growing around it a on the very eve of the fatal day which gave him newer and yet sweeter charm, in its close asso- so early a grave beneath its waters. Between ciation with the actual life, the daily joys and Cedar Lawn and Newbnrgh there is a charm- sorrows of many of those gifted ones whose gen- ing retreatonce the home of the painter Do- ins and works have endeared their names to our randand in the immediate vicinage of the vii- imaginations and hearts. lage, on the other side,...Brown, the It is amidst these charmed scenes that our sculptor, is now setting up his household gods. venerable ox-President Van Buren has cx- His gifted brother of the chisel, Palmer, lives changed the uneasy chair of state for the sung above at Albany. On his broad and elevated fireside seat in his peaceful retreat of Linden- mountain terrace, guarded by the ever-watch- UP TIlE ucuson, inoM ~aovz seNnvslnE. SUNNYSIDE. fal Storm-king, and peering down, down upon crag and cascade, Willis holds intimate and 1ev- ing companionship with Nature at Idlewild; while on the opposite shore, in the heart of the highland group, is heautiful Undereliff, the abode of his friend Morris. The quiet studio of Weir stands upon the grand esplanade of West Point and within the same evening shadow of the crumbling walls of old Fort Putnam is the isl- and home of the fair sisters of the Wide, Wide World. Hereabout, too, lives the polished scholar Gulian C. Verplanek. Yet further he- low, and looking far down upon the broad wa- ters of the Tappan Sea, is Cedar-Hill Cottage, the savory eesiue whence come the dainty viands of the K2iiclcerboclcer Table; while yet nearer to the city, Mr. and Mrs. Sparrowgrass lire and re- count the plcasant incidents of their simple lives. Lower yet, nt Manhattanville, within the limits of the great city, but as yet unprofaned by its touch, is the revered resting-place of that de- voted friend of the feathered world, Audubon. Last, and perhaps the dearest to us of all these houseltold names which come so grateful- ly to our remembrance, doubling the charms of the scene as we journey up the fair river, is that of Irving, who, of all our authors, here fittingly finds a home amidst the altars upon which he has devoutly offered up the love and worship of a long life, and upon which he has reverently placed many of the sweetest fruits of his gen- ius. The Hudson, he says, has ever been to him a river of delight; and here, after many wander- ings, he has set up his rest, thanking God that be was horn upon its hanks. and btou~l;t up in PocAN~Ico 1OIBT, raou LavINOTON. nowa TuE ILi1i)50N, muM ABOVE EUNNT5II)E. 4 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. that companionship with its glorious scenes, from which has come so much of what is best and most pleasant in his nature. It is, he says, in a manner his first and last love, and after all his seeming infidelities he has returned to it with a heart-felt preference over all the other rivers of the world. Through a varied life passed in many climes, he has ever treasured the fondest and most en- thusiastic remembrance of the scenes which brightened his dawning life, and which now shed a mellow radiance upon its decline; and eloquent expressions of this noble attachment are to be found every where throughout his works, though written afar off, now in one land, now in another. Mr. Irving has laid his hearth-stone upon the site of his boyhoods haunts, and amidst the early inspirations of his muse; on the very spot, indeed, which long, long ago he said he should covet, if he ever wished for a retreat, whither he might steal from the world and its distrac- tions, and dream quietly away the remainder of a troubled life. Happily he has not reach- ed his sighed-for haven, wrecked upon the rocks of trouble and disappointment; for, later, we find him writing thence in a spirit of glad content: Though retired from the world, I am not dis- gusted with it. Sunnyside, the apposite and familiar name of Mr. Irvings charming cottage, lies hidden among the jealous trees, some twenty-two or three miles up the Hudson, on the eastern shore of that first and greatest of its famous expan sions, the Tappan Bay. It is a region scarcemy less beautiful, though not so strikiug in its char- acter as the more renowned Highlands. In his- toric story it is equally rich, and far more so in romantic association. In an hours ride, and at almost any hour, the railway will convey you from New York to the station at Irvington, a little walk below the Sunnyside Cottage; or to Tarrytown, the dis- tance of an agreeable ride above. To see the setting of this sparkling little jewel of a home properly, though, you should make your ap- proach by water, which is at all times, in the river travel, the most enjoyable way. One gets but a very inadequate glimpse of the beauties of the hudson by the railroad route; indeed, it seems to us that in process of time the popular estimate of the landscape must grow to be very false and unjust; every body imagining that in their railway glance they have learned all about the subject, when really they remain in most profound ignorance. Even the voyage of the steamer fails to give one a fair idea of the scene. This is to be obtained only by long and loving study, afloat and ashore, in the neighboring val- leys, and on the near and distant hill-tops. Ev- ery new visit which we make to the Hudson as- sures us that we have it yet to see. It is a glorious sight which greets our eyes, as, leaving the noisy city wharf we push our way through the crowding sails out into the broad waters, and onward toward the vailed meeting of the distant shores. On one side stretches the seemingly interminable Island TIlE PALISAnES, raou IavI;eToN. SUNNYSIDE. City, and on the other lie the suhnrhan villages and villas of New Jersey, now crowning rocky heights, and now nestling hy the rivers narrow inarge, until we reach those grand columnal walls, the famous Palisades, happily contrast- ed, in all the journey of twenty miles to the Tappan Bay, by the village and cottage-dotted slopes of the opposite shore. The Palisade rocks form the speciality of the landscape in this part of the Hudson; and so, still, in all the views looking south from the vicinage of Mr. lirvings dwelling. They are admirably seen from the shore at Irvington, and again, over a richly cultivated intervale, from the bill terraces above. Both situations give equally attractive glimpses of the river, overlooking that topo- graphical will-o-the-wisp Point-no-Point, the villages of Irvington and Tarrytown, and the mystic precincts of Sleepy Hollow. Three miles away across the wide bay are the busy little towns of Nyack and Piermont, with their back- ground of hold hills, led by the brave Tower Rock. Piermont is the river terminus of the ~reat Erie Railway, and it was in the sanguine expectation of advantage as a lighter to the freights of this road that the opposite village of Irvington, once Dearman, was laid out. It came to pass, however, that the Erie highway found an outlet elsewhere, and Jrvington re- mains to this day but little more than it was at firsta capital beginning. The neighboring village of Tarrytown has drawn off all its springs of local business, insomuch that it possesses only one small store, aticl not even an apology for a hotel. Tarrytown, in the reckoning of this fast age, is an ancient burgh, mossed and lichened with old traditions and historic reminiscences. Mr. Irving tells us, in his Legend of Sleepy Hol- low, not, he says, to vouch for the truth, but to iso precise and authentic, that there is a story that in the olden time its name was given to it by the good housewives of the adjacent country from the inveterate propensity of their hushands to linger about the village tavern on market days. Tarrytown, and all the country round, was a region of stirring incident and interest in the days of the Revolution. Then it was scarcely less bustling, both river and shore, than now, when it has become the environs of a metropo- lis and the crowded highway of commerce. it lay between the territory of the enemy, who occupied the city and island of New York, and the patriot forces encamped under the High- lands at Peekskill, and was the ill-fated Africa into which both parties carried the war, under the marauding banners of the chivalric Skin- ners and Cow Boys, claiming to serve respect- ively under carte blanche American and British commissions; and with such zeal, says Mr. Ir- ving, with his characteristic pleasantry, as oft- en to make blunders, and to confound the prop- erty of friend and foe, neither of them, in the heat and hurry of a foray, having time to ascer- tain the politics of a horse or cow which they were driving off into captivity; or when wring- ing the neck of a rooster, to trouble them- selves whether he crowed for Congress or King George. here, in the quiet bay, lay the armed ships of the foe, stealthily watching for an opportunity to slip throu~h the guarded pass of the High- lands, and thus gaining possession of the river, to open a communication with their forces in Canada. With what anxious hearts must not Washington and his brave men, from theh threatened position above, have watched the moves of this deadly gameso nearly lost through Arnolds treacherous play. It w~ s in this immediate vicinity, the very spot now marked by a monument in the heart of Tarry- town, that the possession of the river was se- cured to the patriots by the timely arrest of Andrb. This region was the theatre also of the closing scene of the sad drama thus opencd. Here, just across the river at old Tappantown, hidden from view by the intercepting hills of Piermont, the unfortunate soldier was tried and executed. The house from which he was led to the gallows is still in good condition, and is no~ ~ wayside inn, under the name of the Old Stone House of 76. We visited it last summer on the occasion of a ball given in coutmemoration eoiav-xo-rosav, racar Icv~NeToN. HARPEWS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. of the capturc. Of the tronbies and trials of the people of this portion of the river when the enemys ships anchored in their hays, and of other revolutionary incidents of the vieinaae Mr. Irving gives ns detailed and gra~)hic ac- connts in the second volume of his Life of Washington. In Wolferts Roost onr anthor narrates an ancient legend of the Tappan Sea, so pleasant in itselg and so marked with the qniet humor with which he tells snch a story, that we are tempted to repeat it. Even the Tappan Sea, he says, in front (of Sunnyside), was said to he haunted. Often in the still twilight of a summer evening, when the sea would be as glass, and the opposite hills would throw their purple shadows half across it, a low sound would be heard as of a steady vigorous pull of oars, though not a craft was to be descried. Some might have supposed that a hoat was rowed along unseen nuder the deep shadows of the op- posite shores; but the ancient traditionists of the neighborhood knew better. Some said it was one of the whale-boats of the old water- guard, sunk by the British ships during the war, but now permitted to haunt its old cruising grounds; but the prevalent opinion connected it with the awful fate of Rambout Van Dam, of graceless memory. He was a roystering Dutch- man of Spiling Devil, who, in times long past, had navigated his boat alone one Saturday the whole length of the Tappan Sea, to attend a quilting frolic at Kakiat, en the western shore. Here he had danced and drunk until midnight, when he entered his l)oat to return home. He was warned that he was on the verge of Sunday morning; but he pulled off nevertheless, swear- ing be would not land until he reached Spiting Devil if it took him a mouth of Sundays. lie was never seen afterwards; but may be heard plying his oars, as above mentioned, being the Flying Dutchman of the Tappan Sea, doomed to ply bctwcen Kakiat and Spiting Devil until the day of judgment. With this peep at the surroundings, let us now look for the cottage itself; for it must, like its occupant, be looked for, lying, as it does, like modest violet in hedge-row bid, and ventur- ing to peep out from its timid seclusion only, as Mr. Irving himself describes it, with half- shut eyes. When once congratulated upon the absolutism of his jealonsly-vailed domain, Yes, said lie, in his pleasant way, and strain- ing his eyes to take in the whole wide compass, to wit, the little tree-encircled farm, yes, Im monarch of (dl I survey I mvmui visTAs, FI{OM TIlE LAWN. SUNNYSIDE. 7 The most imposing view (th~ugh, as we have intimated, it is not the cue of Sunnyside to be imposing) is that of the east side, seen in our initial picture, and approached by a shady lane, through the simple bnt characteristic gateway beneath. This is the only carriage access. The nearest way to reach it from the station at [rvington is on the railroad track, up to the foot of the lawn upon which the cottage stands. Among our 1)ictures is a view of this approach, also of the little glimpse of the south end or porch, which it once afforded and still would, if a few obscuring houghs were to he trimmed away. We have preserved, too, a sketch of the rustic stile and path which leads from the rail- road up the bank, and opens upon that part of the lawn where we picked up our picture of the north and west side of the cottage, and the group of vistas up, down, and across the river. It is a sweet scene of rural simplicity and comfort which is disclosed to us by either ap- proach; as the open sunlit lawn, so affection- ately embraced by its protecting trees and shrub- herv, which, though permitting little peeps here and there from within, deny all vagrant ob- servation from without. One can scarcely be- lieve himself as thickly surrounded as he really is here by crowding cottage and ca~tle, so en- tire is the repose and seclusion of the spot. Years ago, when Mr. Irving first took up his abode at Sunnyside, he was all alone by himself, yet now every inch of the adjacent country is gardened, and lawned, and villaed, to the ex- treme of modern taste and wealth; yet all so charmingly nuder the rose, that you always stumble upon the evidences unexpectedly, as you dreamingly pursue the thicket-covered and brook-voiced wood-paths. It is like the dis- covering of birds-nests amidst forest leaves. Seen from the opposite shore of the river, the whole hillside is glittering with sun-tipped roof and tower, hut like the Seven Cities of the En- chanted Island, it all vanishes as you approach. The cottage, with its crow-stel)ped gables and weathercocks overrun with honey-suckle and eglantine, with the rose-vine and the clinging ivy, is a wonderfully unique little edifice, totally unlike any thing else in our land, but always calling up our remembrances or our fancies of merrie rural England, with a hint here and there at its old Dutch leaven; in the quaint weather- cocks, for instance, one of which actually veered, in good old days gone by, over the great Vander Ileyden Palace in Albany, and another on the top of the Stadt house of New Amsterdam. A latly would be apt to call the Sunnyside cottage aE)ar,1 MO) WEST )AI)R OF TOE (OTTAOJ 8 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. the dearest, cosiest, dunningest, snuggest lit- tle nest in the world. Mr. Irving describes it as a little old-fashioned stone mansion, all made up of gable-ends, and as full of angles and corners as an old cocked hat. It is said, in fact, he continues, to have been modeled after the cocked hat of Peter the Headstrong, as the Escurial was modeled after the gridiron of the blessed St. Lawrence. A gentleman passing up the river before the trees had so entirely obliterated Sunnyside, was told by an intelligent cicerone that Mr. Irving bad brought the pagodaish-lookiug tower, on the north end, from the ruins of the Albambra. It is cruel, of course, to destroy poetic beliefs, but, to be conscientiously exact, we must, though it pains us, confess that there is reason to think it was conceived and executed by a Tarrytown carpenter, all unknown to fame. As painters are given to using their wives for models, when available, so perhaps Sunnyside was made to sit for our authors pleasant pic- ture of a home on the Hudson, in his story of Mountjoy : a home full of nooks and crooks and chambers of all sorts and sizes; buried among willows, and elms, and cherry-trees, and surrounded with roses and hollyhocks; with honey-suckle and sweet-briar clambering about every window; a brood of hereditary pigeons sunning themselves upon the roof; with the nests of hereditary swallows and martins about the eaves and chimneys, and hereditary bees bumming among the flowers. As in this ro- mantic homestead, so in the dreamy atmosphere of Sunnyside, one might very easily invest all the scene, as did the imaginative Mountjoy, with an ideal character and sentiment; very naturally transform the humming-birds and the bees into tiny beings from fairy land, and see their dainty homes in the flower-cups, and long for Robin Goodfellows power of transformation to be able to compress his form into utter little- ness; to ride the bold dragon-fly, swing on the tall, bearded grass, follow the ant into his sub- terranean abode, or dive into the cavernous depths of the honey-suckle. Before the intrusion of the railroad, which has profaned so much of the river shore, the quiet beach, with its little cove, into which a rural lane debouched, was one of the sweetest features of Sunnyside. This part of the domain is beautified by a sparkling spring, draped, like all the region round, as we shall see by-and-by, in the fairy web of romantic fable. Geoffrey Crayon tells us, in his patient researches into the early history of the neighborhood, that this storied spring was, according to some authori- ties, invested with rejuvenating powers by one of its aboriginal owners, who was a mighty chief- tain and a most cunning medicine-man; while the old Dutch tradition says that it was smug- gled over from holland in a churn by Femme- tie Van Blarcom, wife of Goosen Garret Van Blarcom. She took it up, says the worthy Geoffrey, by night, unknown to her husband. from beside their farm-house near Rotterdam; being sure she should find no water equal to it in the new countryand she was right! You may at this day descend the gentle slope of the green lawn, step over the mos -grown wall, and pushing aside the protecting tendrils, yet imbibe the provident widows Rotterdam nectar; but very likely, with a startling whew and whiz. there will rush past you engine and car, shak z~saw~~ ArPRoAcu TO 5UTNNY5IDE. SLTNNYSII)E. ing the hills around, and mortally terrifying all your growing fancies. The road passes so near to the cottage, though entirely hidden from view, as to drowu the voices within. It must for a while have heen a sore annoyance to the quiet- loviug Prospero of Sunnyside. Happily he is a philosopherand a good-humored oneas well as a dreaming romancer, aud so has made the hest of it, accepting the convenience of the thing as compensation for the poetry it has driven away. It serves him as the always needed moral of the skeleton at the feast, and calls him healthfully hack to mortal mundane fact, when lawless fancy hears him too far away. In the best-tempered view of the matter, however, Poetry and Steam can not be made to harmo- nize. They will always give each other the cold shoulder. The acres of Sunnyside, all told, are not many; and yet so varied is their surface, so richly wooded and flowered, and so full of elfish wind- ing paths and grassy lanes, exploring hillsides and chasin~ merry hrooks, that their numhers seem to he countless; a pleasant deception greatly aided hy that agreeable community of feeling hetween Mr. Irving and his neighbors, which has so hanished all dividing walls and fences, that while you think you are roaming over the grounds of one, you suddenly bring up among the flower-heds of another. Especially is this the case in respect to, the heautiful seat of Mr. Moses H. Grinnell, nearest to Sunnyside on one hand, and the residence of Dr. MeVic~ kar on the other. The woodland of Sunnyside is very happily varied, offering every variety of sylvan growth, heech, hirch, willow, oak, locust, maple, elm, linden, pine, hemlock, and cedar; while on the the lawns are evergreen and flowering shrubs; and, trailing over the vagrant walls and fences, honey-suckle, rose, trumpet-flowers, and ivy. The latter plant, which is very abundant, is of the famous stock of Melrose Ahbey. The gar- den, which is in keeping with its surroundings, is watched by a favorite retainer, for whom Mr. Irving has built a snug cottage, fronting the lawn in face of his own mansion. This little edifice is especially interesting, from its having been designed hy Mr. Irving himself; his only venture, he once told us, as an architect. it brings to mind that only published example of his skill as a painter, the outline picture of the broad Stratford sexton in the Sketch-Book, so boldly signed Geoffrey Crayon, del. lie may have other conceptions in his portfolio, for he is an earnest lover of the pencil, which once dispnted with the pen for the preference as the interpreter of his fancies. He came, indeed, long ago, very near being able to repeat the famous boast, Sono eec/i pittore ! This was during his first visit to Europe, when lie fell in with Allston, as both were entering the earliest years of manhood. As they rambled together among the art-treasures of the Old World, the thought, he says, suddenly presented itselg Why might not he remain there and turn paint- er ? He mentioned it to his friend, who caught at itwith eagerness, and offered him all the assist- ance in his power, with enthusiastic predictions of success. I promised myself, he says, a world of enjoyment in the society of Allston, and other artists with whom he had made me acquainted, and pictured forth a scheme of life all tinted with the rainbow hues of youthful promise. My lot, however, was differently cast. Doubts and fears gradually cooled over my pros- pects; the rainbow tints faded away; I began to apprehend a sterile reality, so I gave up the transient but delightful prospect of remaining at Home with Allston and turning painter. We can not regret this early disappointment when we think of the happy results of his devotion to the more successful rival art. We have referred to the welcome presence at Sunnyside of the picturesque English-like lane. Among our pencil memoranda the reader will find two illustrations of this attractive feature, looking toward and from the little cove where lies the widow Femmeties wizard spring. We have preserved, also, some passages in the merry Tar COTTAG non nat nAmazOxa. lATh mon TUE lIAILwAv. 10 HARPEWS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. brookiet which trips so gaylv through the woods yet, like many small peOple of mighty spirit, to meet the river at their rendezvous hy the cove, valuing itself greatly upon its antiquity. Pleas- They will he easily found, with other scenes of ant are his fliuciful pictures of the spot, in the 1he same type. Our picture of the wood-path old fahulous age of Indian rule, when the un- stile, though not a literal portrait, is a fair ox sophisticated inhabitants live(l by hunting and ample of one of the most charming features of I fishing, occasionally recreating themselves with a the landscape. little tomahawking and scalping. And divert- Separated from the lawn around the cottage ing, too, is his story of the second epoch in its hy the helt of trees in which stands the garden- history, in the good Dutch days of Peter Stuy- ers dwelling, is another open area occupied hy vesant, when it fell into the hands of that hard- a pretty lakelet expansion of the hrookan headed heros privy counselor, Wolfert Acker, echo of the great hay heyond. The painter gives who inscrihed upon its walls his favorite motto of unity, and harmony, and force to Isis picture hy Lust in Rust (pleasure in quiet), and thus gave distributing throughout the work its leading son- it the name of Wolferts Rust, afterward cor- timent or story and its prevailing color; so, in rupted into Roost hy the uneducated ~vho did the artistic composition of Sunnyside, its chief not understand Dutch; probahly from its quaint feature, the great Mediterranean of the river, cock-loft look, and from its having aweather-cock as Mr. Irving calls the Tappan Bay, with its perched on every gable. The next lustrum in fleet of white sails thick as the passing clouds, its life was in the days of the Revolution, when is repeated hy the little Mediterranean of the it became the homestead of the great family of brookiet and its fleet of snowy ducks. the Van Tassels, hy whose name it was known Before we relieve the readers impatience to down to the time when Mr. Irving came into join the happy circle in-doors, let us glance the possession, and haptized it Sunnyside. briefly at the past history of the Sunnyside cot- The valiant Van Tassel, Mr. Irving tells us. tage. In his own serlo-comico description of was a flagitious rehel in the war-time, and Isis home, Mr. Irving speaks of it as being one Isis Roost was a pestiferous den of the ramp- of the oldest edifices, for its size, in the whole ant marauders of the region. Indeed, so great- country; and as, though of ssnall dimensions, ly assnoyed were the enemy by the usacisina TILC SilvER, FISOM ma aMos. SUNNYSII)E. 11 tious therein concocted, that they made it a special mark of their vengeance, and thumped it into a more fearful effigy of a cocked hat than ever. It was at the Roost that Diedrich Knicker- bocker, according to Mr. Irvings grave story, (bnnd the invaluable state papers rescued by the honghtful and patriotic Wolfert from tbQ archives of the conqnered city of New Amsterdam, upon which his marvelous History of the Dutch Dy- nasty was built; and here he pursued his era- dite researches in the very room which is now our authors sanctum. Katrina, the mischievous heroine of the Le- gend of Sleepy Hollow, and the idol of the rival swains Ichahod Crane and Brom Bones, was of the gallant family of the Van Tassels, and the Roost is supposed to be the very house where was given that famous quilting frolic, in return- ing from which the ill-fated Ichabod was so re- lentlessly pursued by the rollicking Brom Bones, under the awful guise of the 1-Jeadless Horseman. here, in the little garden, grew, no doubt, the veritable pumpkin which so materially assisted in tillS tra~ ic scene! The present aspect of the old church toward which Ichabod flew for sanc- tuary on the niaht of that fearful ride, is seen in one of our pictures. The Roost wore its old Dutch aspect (of which there is a faithful drawing extant) when Mr. [rving purchased the domain. The alterations which he has since made were begun in 1835, and completed in the autumn of the following year, at which time he took possession. The air of graceful simplicity and cozy com- fort which so strongly marks the exterior of the Sunnyside cottage, is felt quite as vividly within doors. It is cut up into just such odd, snub little apartments and boudoirs as the rambling, low-walled, peak-roofed, and gable-ended Out- side promises. The state entrance is by the porch at the 5onth end; the household exit is from the drawing-room, across the piazza, to the lawn on the east or river front. It is on this side of the cottage that the family chat or read the news of the great world, away, on sum- mer days and nights. On the north side of the TOE 50cm END OF TIlE corrxce. drawingroom there is a deliahtfiil little recess, forming a boudoir some six or eight feet square. the whole front of which is occupied by a win- dow looking acress the lawn, and through the up-river vista chronicled in our portfolio. It is, in summer, neatly matted and furnished with little stands of hooks, and flowers, and statuettes, and the lowtoned walls are hung with drawings and sketches by Leslie, Stuart Newton, and othersmementoes of Mr. Irvings sojournings and friendships in Englandwith some of Dar- lays admirable etchings from Rip Van Winkle and the Legend of Sleepy Hollow. It is a little nook which you would set down at once as nu- der special female guardianship. Perhaps it is the veritable chamber haunted by the sleepless ghost of the young lady who, the tradition says, died somewhere in the Roost of by nd green apples. The graceful simplicity which marks the ap- pointments of this Lilliputian sanctum is seen through all the furniture and adornments of the mansion. The spirit throughout is that of refine meutwithout affectation, elegance without display, comfort without waste. This winsome and delicate frame is in delirhtful keeping with the picture of social and do- mestic life within it; for, though a bachelor,Mr. Irving has not, as, in his sweet story of The With, lie tells us a single man is too apt to do run to waste and self-neg- lect; to fancy himself lonely and abandoned, and his heart to fall to ruin, like some deserted man- sion, for want of an inhabitant. On tIme contrary, he has, happily. TilE rommemi. 12 HARPERS NEW MONThLY MAGAZINE. of thought, which al- ways reminds us of cer- tam peculiarities in his movement andhearing, and of an expression coming from his habit of inclining his head a]- ways a little to one side. There is ahout the cot- tage, as about himself, an air of reserve, with- out coldness, which, while cordially inviting approach, creates in- stinctively and willing- ly a respectful defer- ence. The sweet, sun- ny sentiment of his home is ever seen in his genial smile, and his kindly and benevo- lent nature in its aspect of cheerfulness and be- nignity; while its odd twists, and turns, and unexpected vagaries speak of the quaint and whimsical, yet refined and delicate humors of his character. Of Mr. Irvings fin- graiit penchant for dream-land, to which we owe his exquisite fhiry tales of poetic superstition, romance, and chivalry, there is an early and amusingly extrava ant hint of re- g made himself monarch of a little world of love cognition in 1)israelis story of Vivian Grey,~ in the domestic endearments of the kindred he where Geoffrey Crayon is rallied upon a has gathered under his roof, and the reverent mood so obliviously distreit as to he utterly un- affection of the friends who share his generous conscious of being transferred by his wacoish hospitality. friends from one party of pleasure to the revels In the society of his nieces, who have long of another. His humor, cheerful, gently en- been to him as daughters, and of their father, joyable, and lasting, rather than bold, uproar- ~inls elder and only surviving brother; in the ions, and transient, giving the especial charm companionship of tried friends, and in the gun- to another class of his imaginings, runs through ml pleasures of his literary occupations, all all his every-day conversation and gossip. He sweetened by the grateful reminiscences of a was once alluding to the passing away of his long and eminently useful life, his little home, years and youthful strength, when, pointing to let us hope, is to his own heart within as true a the twin elms framing the up-river lawn scene, Sunnyside as it is to the world without, which, years ago, he had planted with his own We have yet to instance beauties and bar- band, Those trees, said be to us, with a quaint monies in our charming picture. It has grown smile, I once carried on my shoulder; but 1 up out of our authors own heart, and both in could not do it now unity and in detail it is a striking reflex of his We recognized the genial, golden-hearted character, and even, fanciful as the parallel may Geoffrey Crayon of our old stolen midnight seem to be, of his physique and manncr. In readings, when, talking of his trees, he re- its very modest yet well-balanced proportions marked that he once entertained the black-wal- we see his figure of healthful manliness, though nut and the butternut, but as they were whining scarcely reaching to the middle stature. There misanthropes, who cowardly shed their autumn is, too, about the odd little mansion, an air of leaves and put on long wintry faces while all quiet, true dignity, mingled with a feeling of their companions were lifeful and merry, be had sly mischievousness; unconscious, yet observ- turned them out. I banished them, said he, ant; dreaming, yet wideawake: silent, yet full as ineorinhible ~roaJers. voaw us THE LANE, EASrwaan. SUNNYSIPE. 13 Of the goodness and loving-kindness of his heart we once heard a gentle anecdote, which we hope it will not he improp- er to repeat. Speaking of the growing deafness of his favorite hrother, who has long heen a member of his family circle at Sunnyside, Alas I said lie, he can not now hear half I say to him; but, thank God, we can yet see cach other! In his professional and private life Mr. Irving has ever been much swayed by i constitutional wayward- iiess of character, now in- dolent and dreaming, now ~mpulsive and active. I have wandered, he says, in his character of Geof- frey Crayon, through different countries, and witnessed many of the shifting scenes of life. I can not say that I have studied them with the eye of a philosopher, but rath- er with the sauntering laze with which humble lovers of the pictur- esque stroll from the window of one print-shop to another; caught sometimes by the delinea- tions of beauty, sometimes by the distortions of c ricature, and sometimes by the loveliness of landscape. In his preface to the last revised edition of the Sketch-Book there are some confessions of this humor in a correspondence, referring to the publication of that woik between himself and his friend Sir Walter Scott He is in London, long years ago, asking Scott s coun- sel, which he intimates is especially desnable .o him, since reverses of fortune have made the uccessful employment of his pen all important. OV OOKINO 5TJNNY5iD Scott, in reply, and acting upon his hint at ne- cessities, generously proposes to him the office, in his gift, of editor of a new weekly periodical then about to be established in Edinburgh, with emoluments to the amonut of five hundred pounds sterling per annum, and the prospect of further advantages. Mr. Irving, in declining this tempting gift, says: I feel myself pecu- liarly unfitted for the situation offered to me, not merely by my political opinions, but by the very constitution and habits of my mind. My whole course of life has been desultory, and I am unfitted for any periodically recurring task, or any stipulated labor of body or mind. I have no command of my talents, such as they are, and have to watch the varyings of my mind as I would those of a weather-cock. Practice and training may bring me more into rule; but at present I am as useless for regular service as one of my own country Indians or a Don Cossack. I must, therefore, keep on pretty much as I have be- gunwriting when I can, not when I would. I shall occasionally shift my residence, and write whatever is suggested by objects before me, or whatever rises in my imagina- tion; and hope to write better and more copiously by-and-by. I am ~)laying the egotist; but I know no hatter way of answering your pro- posal than by showing what a very ma eAnumaus COTTACE. 14 HARPERS NEW MONThLY MAGAZINE. goodfor-nothing kind of being I am. Should active participation in public aiThirs. Though Mr. Constable feel inclined to make a bargain it is said that once, and for a moment, he was for the wares I have on hand, he ~vill encour- moved by friendship to attend a political meet- age me to farther enterprise; and it will be ing across the bay from ~nn~s~~side, to take the something like trading with a gipsy for the stnmp, and hurrah for Tippecanne and Tyler frnits of his prowlings, who may at one time too have nothing bat a wooden bowl to offer, and Mr. Irving is now in his seventy-fourth year, at another time a silver tankard. This va having been born on time 3d of April, 1783, in graney of mind he seems to have conquered, the city of New York, in a honse which but at least for brave intervals, in later years; oth- lately stood on what is now the corner of Will- erwise we should not now possess the frnits of mm and Fnlton streets. his father, who was those sustained and laborious efforts, his classic a native of Scotland, and his mother, an Eu- Columbus, and his Columbus and his Corn- glish lady, had settled in America some twenty panions, and his latest, though we trust not his years before his birth. He is the youngest of last work, the Life of Washington. Still he live sons, who were all addicted to literary pur- is the same retiring lover of quiet and sechision suits, excepting tIme one who now lives, a ith as of yore, shrinking from popular remark. and Imis daughters. under his brothers roof at Sun- cherishing an especi:ml distaste for all or any nyside, OLLN oa yes mmLOOmi. SUNNYSIT)E. 15 William Irving, the eldest of the brothers, was a writer in the famous Salmagundi papers, to which be contributed most of the poetical pieces, the letters and verses from the Mill of Pindar Cockloft. lie was a member of Congress from 1813 to 1819, and died in 1821. lIe was, say the Messrs. Doyckiuck, in their admhable Cyclopiedia of American Litera- ture, a merchant at New York, with the char- acter of a man of wit and refinement, who had added to a naturally genial temperament the extensive resources of observation, and a fresh experience of the world, gathered in his border life. Peter Irving, the second brother, studied and gradu~ ted in medicine, but never practiced. lie established and edited the illoraiisq c/ooni- cle newspaper; wrote a stirring tale of piratical adventure called Giovanni Sfogarro, and as- sisted his brother in the conception of the comic Knickerbocker History. He died in 1838. Ebenezer Irving was once a merchant, but has long since retired from the cares of busi- ness, and is now one of the family at Sunny- side. His son, Theodore Irving, the author of The Conquest of Florida, was formerly Pro- fessor of 1-listory and Belles Lettres in Geneva College, and afterward at the New York Free Academy. lie is now an Episcopal clergyman in Western New York. John T. Irving, the fourth brother, practiced the lirofession of the law so successfully that he rose to the bench, and presided over the Court of Common Pleas in New York for seventeen years. lie died in 1838. his son, John Treat TilS 555500K sao.i nsa LANI. Irving, is well known as the Quod corre- spondent of the Knickerbocker Magazine, in the columns of which were first published his sue- cessfal novels, The Attorney, and Harry I-Larson, or the Benevolent Bachelor. lie has written also a series of spirited Indian Sketch- es reminiscences of an expedition to the Paw- nee tribes. The intimation which this glance at the lit- erary tastes of his brothers gives us of the at- mosphere in which Mr. Irvings boyhood was passed will re~ dily explain the early manifesta- tion of his love of books; and the classic char- acter of the volumes which then happily fell into his hands, reveals the secret of that pure, simple, old-fashioned art which, from his ear- liest efforts, has ever marked his style. his literary dtbet was made in 1804, in a series of essays upon the manners, amusements, and fashions of the town and the time, under the signature of Jonathan Oldstyle. They were contributed to his brothers paper, the Moraiaq Glzronicle, and were afterward issued, though without his approval, in pamphlet form. his career had thus scarcely begun when his health failed, and, apprehensive of a pulmonary complaint, he thought it necessary to remove to the south of Europe. l)nrin~ two years ram- bles amidst the natural beauties and the attract- ive associations of many landsFrance, Italy, Sicily, Switzerland, Flanders, and 1-lollan d he formed that attachment to the Old World which at another time led lsisn from home through the long lapse of seventeen years, and again for an interval of four years. In these residences abroad lie amassed the valu- able material from which has grown so much of his literary labor the Pic- tures and Tales of English Rural Life, in the SketchBook and Bracebridge Hall ; the Memories of Abbotsford auth of Newstead Abbey, in the Crayon I iscellany; the Tales of a Travel- er; and the volumes relating to Colum- lms and to hds Companions, to Grana tla and the Albambra. Through these works are scattered, however, many of Isis choicest American themes; proving that, though far from, lie was not un- mindful of his native home. Before going abroad he began the study of the la~v, which he resumed on his return to New York in 1806. He was the same year admitted to the bar, but with no sequence, as he never prac- ticed the profession. We soon again find him in the literary ranks, contrib- uting, with his brother William is ing, and his friend Jsmes K P ulding, to the Salmagundi, a semi monthly journal of whimwham~ md opinions, humor- ous and satiricd lii this work, which was continued dmiii one y ear, the fol- lies and fancies of the day were attack- e(l with such anusin~ and effective skill that it was eagerlx looked for at the time, 16 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. and is referred to with interest now. It was the most popular and successful American pro duction of the day, and in its rich and racy hn- ruor gave clear promise of the genius afterward developed by its anthors. Mr. Irvings next appearance was two years later, in 1809, with that most nniqne and surprising volume in our literature, Diedrich Knickerbockers History of New York, from the Beginning of the World to the End of the Dutch Dynasty ; which at once elevated the author to the first rank among native writers. It opens with such profound Dogherry gravity that no wonder the unsophisticated reader, not forewarned, took it seriously at its word until its irresistible drollery grew too rampant to be longer masked. A story is told of a solemn judge who smuggled a copy of the work into court, and actually collapsed over it while upon the bench. In his preface to the revised cdi- tion of the work, the author explains all the circumstances under which it was written; how it was his first intention simply to parody a Pretentious Guide-Book to the City, and to 1)urlesque the pedantic lore displayed in certain American works; how, as his material extend- cd, he found that he should have enough to do, if he confined himself, as he did, to the period of the Dutch ascendency only; and how, in his droll pictures of our phlegmatic fathers, he was only in fun, and meant no offense to the gen- eral. When he found, he says, how few of hi5 fellow-citizens were aware that New York had ever been called New Amsterdam, or had ever heard of the names of its early Dutch guy- ernors, or cared a straw about their ancient Dutch progenitors, the matter broke upon him as the poetic age of the city; poetic from its very obscurity; and open, like the early and obscure days of ancient Rome, to all the em- bellishments of heroic fiction. And so well has he availed himself of the doubt and fable of his theme, that he has created pictures and scenes which will forever remain pleasurably associated with all the local recollections of the Gothamites. So happily did he hit the popular fancy, that Diedrich Knickerbocker has al- most become the tutelary saint of his native city; the people, generally, are Knickerbockers; they eat Knickerbocker ices and Knickerbock- er oysters, travel in Knickerbocker coaches and Knickerbocker steamboats, read Knickerbocker magazines, pray in Knickerbocker halls, and, by-and-by, will, no doubt, go to Knickerbocker graves, in hope of a Knickerbocker heaven. The good-humor and good fellowship which the History inspires is made to sweeten many healthful pills of needed satire and sage in- struction; for there are, and always will be, the world over, many dreaming Oloffes, and doubt- ing Walters, and testy Williams, and head- strong Peters. The Knickerbocker completed, we find the current of our authors literary life subsiding for a while, with here and there only a sparkling bubble; among them a Biographical Sketch of Campbell, written at the solicitation of tha poets brotherwho was then residing in New Yorkto help the sale of an American edition of OConnors Child, just received from Lou- ITTLE ManirauaAaaAa. SUNNYSIDE. 17 don. This paper led afterward to a pleasant acquaintance between the American and the English author. In this hzterval of repose Mr. Irving entered into commercial life, as a silent partner of two of his brothers; but the second war with Great Britain soon following, he became infected with the popular enthusiasm, and assumed the cdi- torship of the Anolectic Magazine, in Philadel- phia, for which he wrote a series of succinct and elegant biographies of the American Naval Captains. His patriotic feelings not finding sufficient vent through the quiet channel of the pen, he seized the sword, and donned the epau- let, in the character of aid-dc-camp and mili- tary secretary to Governor Tompkins, of New York, and, for a while, was honorably known as Colonel Irving. Among the connnercial disastors caused by the war, was the destruction of the house of Irving and Brothers, which suddenly cast our authorwho had gone to England on the business of his firm when peace was restored once more U~Ofl his literary resources. lie ucw prepared to bring out his Sketch-Book, P r which he had gathered already so much mate- rial in his experience and observation of En- glish life and manners. Some portions of the work had been already published in America, and the apprehension of a piratical edition in London, where they had attracted very favora- ble notice, accelerated his measures for their issue by hirnself and for his own advantage. It was this occasion that produced the passages of correspondence with Scott to which we have previously referred. Not finding such a pub- lisher as he desired, he determined to print at his own cost and risk; but afterward, through the mediation of Sir Walter, Mr. Murray was induced to take held of it; which he did with so much success that he gave the author two hundred pounds in addition to a like sum which he had already paid for the copyright. This charming budget of talesthe most read, per- haps, of all Mr. Irvings worksgives us every example of those excellences of theme, thought, treatment, and style which have made his fame. It touches all chords of feeling, from the most riant humor to the tenderest pathos. It is not to be wondered at that it histantly made its way both at home and abroad, containing, as it does. among its gems, those masterly expressions of gentle emotion, the Wife and the Broken Heart, and the immortal legends of Rip Van Winkle and Sleepy Hollow. His peaceful little valley, made forever famous as the scene of the last-mentioned fancy, is one of the most attractive features of the landscape al)out the authors home. Apart from its romantic asso- ciations, it is a most interesting spot; one in which the visitor might easily dream dreams for bimselg if they were not already served to his band. In our explorations of its quiet lawns and glens we were surprised to note the raE iwosox, SCOM SLEEPY hOlLOW. Yc,L. XIVNo. 79.B STILE IN vna woons. IS IIAIZPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. literalness with which Mr. Irving had sketched its features. In the close portraiture we could earce persuade ourself that the lank Ichahod and his mischievous urchins, the malicious Brom ~lones and the blooming Katrina, were only hantasies of the hrain; for there, before our very eyes, lay the hrook and the bridge over which old Gunpowder hore his terrified master on that eventful night when he was so relentlessly pur- sued hy the ghostly Hessian; arid yonder, on the hill, stood the old church toward which he fled for sanctuary. There, too, was the homestead, or castle, of the once mighty family of the Phil- psens, its ancient walls and chimneys reflected in the hright waters of the Pocantico; and hid- den away in one of the most secluded haunts of the same lovely stream, far up in the myste- rious valley, we heard the clank of the wheel of Carls Mill. Besides the descriptions of the hollow which are given in the legend, we find in the opening hapter of Wolferts Roost much l)oetic his- tory. There, Mr. Irving tells us how the region won its somnolent name from a charm laid hy a rival chieftain upon its ancient peoplea charm so potent, that they sieep among the rocks and recesses to this day, with their hows and arrows l)eside them. Often, he says, in secluded earts of the valley, where the stream is over- mug hy dark woods and rocks, the plowman, on some calm earl sunny day, as he shouts to ~iis oxen, is surprised at hearing faint shouts from the hillsides in reply; heing, it is said, the spell-hound warriors, who half start from their rocky couches, and grasp their weapons, but sink to sleep again. Carls Mill figures in our authors fancies as the haunted house, oc- cupied hy an old, goblinish-looking negro, from whom, he says, Diedrich Knickerbocker glean- ~d, as he chatted with him on the broken mill- 4one, many valuahle facts, and among them ~the surprising though true story of Ichahod Crane itself. The old church of Sleepy Hol- low was once a pure specimen of the good, solid Dutch architecture, but of late years its harmony had been destroyed hy the incongruous addition of a Greek portico. In speaking of this ancient relk, in the droll chapters from which we have already quoted, Mr. Irving says that it was once graced by two weather-cocks, one l)erched over the belfry and the other over the chancel. As usual with ecclesiastical weather-cocks, each pointed a different way, and there was a per- l)etual contradiction between them on all points of windy doctrine; emblematic, alas! of the Christian propensity to schism and controversy. The drowsy influence, too, of Sleepy Hol- low, lie adds, was al)t to breathe into the sa- cred edifice; and now and then an elder might be seen with his handkerchief over his face to keep off the flies, and apparently listening to the dominic, but really sunk into a summer slum- ber, lulled by the sultry notes of the locusts from the neighboring trees. But lest we too catch the witching influ- ence of the air, which Mr. Irving assures us still affects all who enter the wizard valley, we will hasten to make our way out, and resume the record of our authors literary achievements, which our long digression has so irrelevantly in- terrupted. Mr. Irvings next volumes, written in Paris, were those of Bracebridge Hall. This work is a continuation of the Sketch-Book, C51 ecially of those portions dealing with English rustic life, manners, and pastimes, of which it presents pic- tures never rivaled by Englands own best paint- ers. Our pleasant Christmas introduction to the hearty old Squire and his factotum, Master Simon, in fhe pages of the Sketch-Book, made us glad to imnhJrove their genial acquaintance and that of their worthy neighbors, General hharbot- the and Master Ready Money Jack Tihhetts, un- der the frank and hospitable roof of Bracebridge Hall. We next find Mr. Irving wandering along the Rhine, amid among the German capitals; win- tering in Dresden in 1822, and hack again the following year to Paris. In I 824 he published the Tales of a Traveler, which provoked some faultfinding by the English critics, who had lie come tired of calling Aristides the Just. The:e PiiiimPsEaS CASTLC. SUNNYSIDE. 19 envious shafts, however, proved very harmless, for the puhlie verdict declared the authors orig- inal aad rare genius, well sustained in the strange stories of the Nervous Gentleman, in graphic pictures of literary life found in the Ex leriences of Buckthorne and his Friends, in the romantic episodes in Italian life, and in the novel character of American tradition and adventure. Moore, who during the preparation of this work was with the author in Paris, says, in his Diary, that the puhlisher, Murray, purchased it at the price of fifteen hundred pounds, ad would have given, if it had heen asked, two thousand pounds. The poet also expresses his surprise at the ra pidity with which it was writtenone hundred and thirty printed pages having heen made in the irief space of ten days. This must have heen during one of Mr. Irvings happiest moods; for, as a general thing, we heliev e that literary com- pOsitiOn is a slow and careful process with him. 1-us is the lahorious, though unseen art, which conceals art. By this time Mr. Irvings reputation had spread far and wide, and his works, which had become in universal demand, were translated into all the languages oftheCoutinent. In 1826, two years after the appearance of the Tales of a Traveler, he went to Spain, and took up his residence at Madrid. here, availing himself of the important series of documents then re- cently collected hy Navarrete, he prepared his cbtgant and classic History of the Life and Voyages of Colnmhus and afterward of the Discoveries and Voyages of Columhuss Coin panions. The first of these works gained for him the compliment from George the Fourth of one of two fifty-guinea gold medals which that king had offered for eminence in historical com- position. So well suite(l to the turn of his mind was the dramatic and adventurous spirit of the age and land of Columhus, that Ii is task was one of love ; and without prejudice to philos- ophy and fact, his narratives have all the charms of a tale which is told. So completely, indeed, was his imagination taken with the rom~ nec of his theme, that he was led to give further expression of his interest in a Chronicle of the Conquest of Granada, and an exploration of the loetic marvels of the Alhamhra. Followinu Columhus as he did, step hy step, in his close attendance upon the Spanish monarchs, in court and camp, through all the chan~inu scenes of the Moorish war, up to the final catastrophe hefore the walls of the Moslem capital, he had, like him, hecome al- most an eyewitness of the scenes he was called upon to narrate. Thus, in the Chronicle, while truthfully detailing historical events, he has yet draped all in the airy garb of romance; and from the Alhamhra, that fountain of po- esy, where he was less fettered hy the soher shackles of Fact, and his fancy had freer play, he has drawn xvells of winsome story even plus Arobe qeen Arobie. In this Spanish Sketch- Book, as it has heen called, we read the tales of dauntless chivalry, hold emprise, generous valor, and devotcd love, as though we were, like the poetic Moslems of old, listening to the aISTANT VIEW OF ala 011) CHURCH iN ELFL;Y coicow. 20 hARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. minjed speech of mystic bard and falling siasm was indeed so great, that, bad it so 1lcasO fountain, him, his tour through his native land, which In 1829 Mr. Irving was awakened from his soon followed, might have been one continued dreams in the ruined halls of the Alhamhra, and most sincere ovation. From this display, wh~re he had passed three happy months, by a however, he naturally shruuk, declinin~ all hi- call to the post of Ser~retary of Legation to the vitations save one to a public dinner in his own American embassy in London. This unsolicit- city of New York. ed office he filled until the Minister, Mr. M Lane, From the jourucys in the United States which returned home, when he was left for a while as Mr. Irving made soon after his return home, Uiurq~ d4floires. In his diplomatic character and especially from his rambles over the prai- he officiated at the coronation of William the ries and wildernesses of the Far West, have Fourth, and he received from that monarch and grown his Tour on the Prairies embodied in the royal family, as well as from various distin- the revised and uniform edition of his works guished personages of the court, many marks of recently published by Putnam; in the Cmv high esteem. on Miscellany, his Adventures of Captain At this time, too, the English University at Bonneville, and the Astoria narrative. In Oxford conferred upon him, in compliment to these works, all marked by the anthers habit- his genius, the honorary degree of LL.ID. This nal elegance and grace of style, we have strik- distinction he received in person, and amidst ing pictures of the wild trapper-life and ad- the cordial aeclamations of the students and venture of our Rocky Mountain and Pacific re- graduates, and of a brilliant and learned as- finns. semhlage. In 1837 and 1840 Mr. Irving contributed, at In 18:32 he returned home from his second intervals, to the columns of the Kaickerbecls residence in Europe, which had lasted seventeen Maqazine. Among these papers are, TIme years. The fame which he land acquired in Early Experiences of Ralph Ringwoed, and this long interval won him the heartiest recep- Mountjoy; a I~assage in the Life of a Castle- tion from his countrymen. The public entha builder, which, with other stray waifs from the KEAR VIEW OF THE OLD curuen IN sLEECY hOLLOW. SLTNNYSIDE. English annuals and elsewhere, have been re- cently collected and published, under the title of Wolferts Roost. In the little sketch of The Creole Village, in this volume, he claims to have first used the now common phrase, the almighty dollar ; and as the expression, he ays, has been questioned by some as savor- o g of irreverence, he owes it to his orthodoxy to declare that no irreverence was intended even to the dollar itselg which he is aware is daily becoming more and more an object of wor- s1lp. Among his latest published works is his by iag life of his favorite author, Goldsmith, to whose genius his own has been so often and so appositely compared, and his history of Ma- homet and his Successors, another wave from the flood of his Moslem researches. In February, 1842, he made his third and last visit to Europe, where he passed four years in the honorable position of American Minister at the court of Madrid. Since his return he has lived at the homestead made so attractive in his CAaIs isni., sa siarir liojiuw. works as Wolferts Roost, and now so grace- fully known to us as Sunnyside. Here he is at present, industriously employ- ed upon his Life of Washington. The pub- lication of this noble work was commenced dur- ing the past year (1855). Three volumes have been already issued, in which the charmed read- er is led, with never-flagging lute rest, through the varied and eventful scenes of the Revolution. The fourth and last volume, which it is understood will be devoted to the Presidential life of his hero, will, no doubt, be very soon completed. There is a pleasant and authentic anecdote about the presentation of our author, when a child in arms, to Washington. May it please your Excellency, said his nurse, following the General into a Broadway shop, heres a bairn that was named after ye ! Whereupon he placed his hand kindly on the boys head, and prayed God to bless him; thus perhaps exor- cising the malign influence popularly supposed to accompany the inheritance of a great name. As Washington was the political, so is his name- sake the literary Father of his country. The scope of our paper has permitted a brief allusion only to the characteristics of Mr. Irvings geniusto the fresh- ness and fullness of his inven- tionto the individuality of his conceptionsto his rich poetic fancyto his catholic sympathies, reaching the heart in all its moods, from hearty mirth to pensive sentiment to the simplicity, good sense, honesty, and manliness of his thoughtall heightened by the marvelous ease and grace of his mellow, flowing, softly tinted style; and to that ever- j)resent charm of personality, which, as he himself says of Goldsmith, seems to bespeak his moral as well as his intel- lectual qualities, and makes us love the man, at the same time that we admire the au- thor. Thus have we peeped into the pleasant face of Sunny- side, and conned the magic by which it has bewitched the pub- lic heart. Long after its mod- est walls shall have crumbled away will the charm cling to its memory, for its associations with one who, building always upon the true foundations of lifeTruth and l3eantylias reared to himself a perpetual and fragrant altar in the pan- theon of the worlds litera- ture. HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. OMOA: PICTURESQUE AND INCIDENTAL. OF all the old towns and cities of the New World there are none, perhaps, of which so little is known as Omon, Honduras, which de- serves some notice from the historian or passing traveler for its picturesque position, its beauti- ful and perfectly secure harbor, its unrivaled river water; while the beautiful roads leading toward the ancient city of Valladolid, now Comnyagna, render it a spot of surpassing in- terest, needing but the questionable patronage of the moneyed traveler to trumpet it to the ~ orid as one of the few spots where the luxuries of the St. Nicholas may be forgotten amidst Na- tures bountiful magnificence. It is partially surrounded by hills covered with foliage seen nowhere except iu the tropics. The surface of many colors is dotted by the graceful palm and cocoa-nut, with clumps of plantain-trees here and there breaking the uni- formity of the hills with their heavy fan-like leaves, positively lending a coldness to the at- mosphere during the heat of the day. The harbor is almost land-locked. Perfectly secure except during the prevalence of the south- west winds, which, by-the-way, are so broken by the mountains around the town and along the coast that they are an object of no attention to the vessels in port. And so seldom do they blow over the harbor, that they are mentioned as rare occurrences. The Omon River is beautiful in the extreme. Flowing quietly on for a distance beneath over- hanging shrubbery of most gorgeous coloring, it l)reaks suddenly into a noisy stream, dashing over pebbles and rocks, forming itself into minia- ture cascades perfectly enchanting. Nor does its beauty appeal to the eye only. It is the Esculapius of the town. Far and near are its praises sounded by all lovers of pure and sparkling water. From Vera Cruz to San Juan it is unequaled. And during the dry season at Belize, where they depend upon the rains for drinking-water, it is frequently sent from the Tort, a distance of one hundred and twenty miles, to quench the thirst of the loycl British negroes. It is the delight of the women; for here all the washing for the town is done, and during the day groups of washerwomen may be seen beneath their little palm-leaf huts, hard at work, merry as larks. And woe betide him who is so rashly courageous as to joke them about their personal appearance as they stand kneedeep in the water, punching with their Qsts a. if settling

HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. OMOA: PICTURESQUE AND INCIDENTAL. OF all the old towns and cities of the New World there are none, perhaps, of which so little is known as Omon, Honduras, which de- serves some notice from the historian or passing traveler for its picturesque position, its beauti- ful and perfectly secure harbor, its unrivaled river water; while the beautiful roads leading toward the ancient city of Valladolid, now Comnyagna, render it a spot of surpassing in- terest, needing but the questionable patronage of the moneyed traveler to trumpet it to the ~ orid as one of the few spots where the luxuries of the St. Nicholas may be forgotten amidst Na- tures bountiful magnificence. It is partially surrounded by hills covered with foliage seen nowhere except iu the tropics. The surface of many colors is dotted by the graceful palm and cocoa-nut, with clumps of plantain-trees here and there breaking the uni- formity of the hills with their heavy fan-like leaves, positively lending a coldness to the at- mosphere during the heat of the day. The harbor is almost land-locked. Perfectly secure except during the prevalence of the south- west winds, which, by-the-way, are so broken by the mountains around the town and along the coast that they are an object of no attention to the vessels in port. And so seldom do they blow over the harbor, that they are mentioned as rare occurrences. The Omon River is beautiful in the extreme. Flowing quietly on for a distance beneath over- hanging shrubbery of most gorgeous coloring, it l)reaks suddenly into a noisy stream, dashing over pebbles and rocks, forming itself into minia- ture cascades perfectly enchanting. Nor does its beauty appeal to the eye only. It is the Esculapius of the town. Far and near are its praises sounded by all lovers of pure and sparkling water. From Vera Cruz to San Juan it is unequaled. And during the dry season at Belize, where they depend upon the rains for drinking-water, it is frequently sent from the Tort, a distance of one hundred and twenty miles, to quench the thirst of the loycl British negroes. It is the delight of the women; for here all the washing for the town is done, and during the day groups of washerwomen may be seen beneath their little palm-leaf huts, hard at work, merry as larks. And woe betide him who is so rashly courageous as to joke them about their personal appearance as they stand kneedeep in the water, punching with their Qsts a. if settling

HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. OMOA: PICTURESQUE AND INCIDENTAL. OF all the old towns and cities of the New World there are none, perhaps, of which so little is known as Omon, Honduras, which de- serves some notice from the historian or passing traveler for its picturesque position, its beauti- ful and perfectly secure harbor, its unrivaled river water; while the beautiful roads leading toward the ancient city of Valladolid, now Comnyagna, render it a spot of surpassing in- terest, needing but the questionable patronage of the moneyed traveler to trumpet it to the ~ orid as one of the few spots where the luxuries of the St. Nicholas may be forgotten amidst Na- tures bountiful magnificence. It is partially surrounded by hills covered with foliage seen nowhere except iu the tropics. The surface of many colors is dotted by the graceful palm and cocoa-nut, with clumps of plantain-trees here and there breaking the uni- formity of the hills with their heavy fan-like leaves, positively lending a coldness to the at- mosphere during the heat of the day. The harbor is almost land-locked. Perfectly secure except during the prevalence of the south- west winds, which, by-the-way, are so broken by the mountains around the town and along the coast that they are an object of no attention to the vessels in port. And so seldom do they blow over the harbor, that they are mentioned as rare occurrences. The Omon River is beautiful in the extreme. Flowing quietly on for a distance beneath over- hanging shrubbery of most gorgeous coloring, it l)reaks suddenly into a noisy stream, dashing over pebbles and rocks, forming itself into minia- ture cascades perfectly enchanting. Nor does its beauty appeal to the eye only. It is the Esculapius of the town. Far and near are its praises sounded by all lovers of pure and sparkling water. From Vera Cruz to San Juan it is unequaled. And during the dry season at Belize, where they depend upon the rains for drinking-water, it is frequently sent from the Tort, a distance of one hundred and twenty miles, to quench the thirst of the loycl British negroes. It is the delight of the women; for here all the washing for the town is done, and during the day groups of washerwomen may be seen beneath their little palm-leaf huts, hard at work, merry as larks. And woe betide him who is so rashly courageous as to joke them about their personal appearance as they stand kneedeep in the water, punching with their Qsts a. if settling OMOA: PICTURESQUE AND INCIDENTAL. 23 seine old score with the (lirt, according to the the general question. Pass without drinking we rules laid down in that model book, Fistiana. would not, and to return was a two-mile ride. Let him also be cautious about his compli- Dont pass without drinking her health, I meats, for their replies are not always to be cried, my brain being filled with all sorts of ro- whispered to ears polite. They are as ready mantic ideas, almost imagining the girl was with their rejoinders as the most renowned then seated among the branches commending Irishman. In the language of Young Amer- our enthusiasm. We rode back, filled our flasks ica, I was badly sold on several occasions from the cool mountain stream, again reached the before I could be satisfied. The only instance tree, dismounted, and drank with all the hon- I think it appropriate to record is the following: ors to the memory of the beautiful Baulbina. Why is it, Paula, I said to a nut-bro~vn sefiorita one day, why is it you dont get whiter with such frequent washing ? Because I am fast colorsall wool. But you are just common stuW about sixponce a yard; and are white because you have been bleached out. And she pointed significantly at my long figure and pale face, which was shaded by a sombrero as large as a common umbrella. It would be well to observe here that the native women have a perfect conteml)t for cheap calicoes, preferring plain white when they cant afford the more expensive flounced robes. The roads leading from this snuggery are all delightful. The Royal Road, being the main road to Comayagua, is grand beyond description. Sometimes for miles it is shaded by trees alive with every variety of brilliantly-colored singing- bird. I can conceive nothing more grand or beauti- ful than a position on the mountains three or four leagues from Omna, in one of the many arbor-roads, with the woods in twilight repose; when suddenly the cry of the arreiros, spurring on their mules, breaks through Natures stillness, while their merry call echoes and re-echoes cuLT~zs Teas. among the hills, until Monsieur Pan, if he is The inhabitants of Omoa, like those of most still chasing Mademoiselle Echo, must lose bins- of the tropical towns, are rather indolent, their self among such delicious little nooks that I principal business of the day being the siesta. have often wished I were the heathen god. Nature furnishes the poorer classes with food, Before reaching these hills, the road traverses and the extras are supplied by the small salaries a thickly-wooded plain, about the centre of they receive from the merchants, who constitute which, in the. road, stands a gigantic tree. the Upper Ten of the place. A few of them, Connected with this tree is a quaint legend. It I think, have some of the pure Yankee blood in is stated that Cortdz, while wandering between their veins, and they turn it to good account. this port and Puerto Cabellothen called Na- They have formed themselves into an associa- tividad, became separated from his companions, tion of mule-catchers. Their business is con- and was unable to rejoin them. For a day or ducted principally on the savanna which lies so he strove to reach the shore, guided by the between the town and the castle, covering a sur- sun. At length he came upon the road, which face of two square miles. Their mode of pro- was then nothing but a trail, and saw this large cedure is sharp. If a strange animal is pm tree, beneath which was resting an Indian girl, on the savanna, which is the stabling and graz- who had been to a neighboring stream with her ing ground for the whole district, they assemble water-jar. He begged a drink of her, which en masse and run the l)OO~ animal almost to she gave, and added some tortillas of corn, death, catching him occasionally with the lasso Cortdz having refreshed himself, turned to the merely to inforns him of their relative po~itions. girl and said, Angel ,aio, may this kindness When he has become seftlcient4i wild, the poor of the Indian girl be ever remembered. May beast is freed from this annoyance. This pro- this tree never be passed by the traveler with- cess is repeated frequently, in order that the out taking his refreshing draught ! mules and horses may fear the approach of man: And to the present day this is very generally then, when wanted, the owners are obliged to observed. Indeed, on one occasion, we were employ these scamps to lasso them. Their prh & off on a jaunt, and had reached the tree when we vary from tu elve and a half cents to one dollar. discovered that our flasks were empty! Un- the sum fluctuating according to the wildness fortunate negligence! what is to be (lone ? was of the beast. 24 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. To a Northern man another suhject of inter- est is the market-house, since it appeals direct- ly to the palate. It consists of a few poles firm- ly planted in the ground, roofedwith palm-leaves, the sides heing open for ventilation. It is, in fact, little hetter than a large shed. In the morning it is the life of the town, the rendez- vous for all the old womena perfect School for Scandal. If the character of any nnfortnuate escapes dissection here, he or she is safe for the day at least. The dogs also come in droves, and form a considerable portion of the attend- ance. Every native family claims any numher, from one to one hundred, of these members, each household being known by its dogs; and one can readily discover who is the best customer hy the stray bits that are thrown to the animals. Oc- casionally there is quite an interesting row be- tween the dogs and the Zopilotes, which as- semble in considerable numbers. This bird a species of Turkey Buzzardperforms the du- ties undertaken by the New York Street Com- missioner; but, unlike his Gothamite brother, he does not neglect his work and pocket his salary. He has had the undisputed contract of street-cleaner from time immemorial. It would be well for the tax-ridden New Yorkers to import a lot of these birds. I am ready to give them a first-class certificate for faithfnl- ness and efficiency, and would like a small per- centage on the savings they would effect. The meat at the market is not cut scceadarn crteaz, but into c/wa/cs of dilThrent dimensiofis, and is sold at prices fixed by government decree. The inferior parts are cut into strings, and sold by the yard. This same custom is observed in Nicaragua and New Granada., and I think it is the same in all the Spanish-American coun- tries. If a chunk is short weight, a piece of fat or liver is thrown in to make the thing even. Beef-steaks they know nothing of, nor do they appear to possess the capacity of learning how to cut them. The other day I gave the butc1ie~ a most scientific lecture on the art of slaughter~ ing cattle as practiced in the North, hut the re- sults were so unsatisfactory that I gave up in despair. For steak he sent us some slabs of meat, evidently cut with much care, as the edges were nicely smoothed, and highly orna- mented with the knife. Still the meat was ex- cellent; and as the finest quality cost bntfoer cents per pound, I thought we had every reason to he satisfied. At the market-house congregate many of the beauties of the town, and there is a contin- ual dispute between II and myself about the marketing. lie says he knows more about meat, and can make better bargains. I am sure this is not the case, though on one occasion I did purchase two pieces of meat instead of one; and thinking the meat would spoil if kept for the next day, and knowing the butcher would not return to me my money, I was compelled to present the nicest piece to an individual who wore a spot- less white dress, flounced from the waist to the oround a~a eAaaTYr. OMOA: PICTURESQUE AND INCIDENTAL. 25 Of course, I had certain reasons for giving this individual the preference; and, moreover, thought it an economical proceeding. Phil- lipa then and there, at the market-house, in- vited me to her case to dine, declaring her in- tention of making a fancy dish for my enter- tainment. H could not see the force of my reasoning, hut I suspect it would have heen very clear had he heen included in the invita- tion. I would also ohserve that this seflorita has a way of teaching Spanish that enahies one to make very rapid advancement. A short distance ahove the market-house stands the church, a long, low huilding, erected regardless of architectural rules. The interior is plastered as high as the eaves, hetween which and the walls are wide spaces for ventilation. The floor is also plastered over a hody of ce- ment, of which it is composed, in lieu of hoards. Here the devout Catholics kneel during services, as the place is innocent of chairs, with the ex- ception of one for the Ohispo. Near the main entrance are suspended three hells, which chime on all occasions. They are a nuisance to all except the unfortunates who have endured, as I have, the continual ringing of the hells of the Cathedral at Panama. AMEKLCAN coasues IIESIDENCE. The inhahitants are very pious when the Bishop visits the town, which interesting event occurs annually. He passed through soon after I arrived, and a most novel sight it was to me. There are no carriages in the country, and it would not he sufficiently dignified to offer a mule to the Very Reverend gentleman the Successor of the Apostles so an office-chair was procured, which, after heing suitahly orna- mented with rihhons, was offered for his accept- ance. He mounted the chair, and was carried through the town in this manner, his face and figure heing protected from the sun hy a canopy carried hy four negroes, of such fine proportions that my friend the Doctor said lie would give at least fifteen hundred dollars for either of them. However, as they were not for sale, there was no chance for a speculation of this sort. On the way to the church the people kneeled whenever the procession halted, and more than one muddied dress might have heen seen after they had heen hlessed and were per- mitted to rise. After the Bishop had denounced vice in all its forms, the people were permitted to kiss his hand in token of compliancethe lords of creation heing honored first. Whetli- or this was intended as a token of their supe- rior dignity, or whether the good prelate kept the must agreeahle part of the ceremony for its close, I am uuahle to say. After mass was performed, he was escorted to the residence of one of the merchants of the town, passing under arches which were thrown across the street through which he lied to pass. Our house heing on the line of road, we also erected an arch, from the top of which hung the Amen: a flag festooned. The Bishop smiled as he passed un- der it, with the conviction, no douht, that coming events cast their shadows hefore. Opposite our house is the res- idence of the American Consul, ciseeca AT (32iO 26 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. Augustine Follin, Esq., who was appointed by Andrew Jackson in the year eighteen hun- dred and thirty-one, and has heen reappoint- ed by every succeeding administration; con- sequently he has heen in the consul~ r service longer than any other diplomatic agent of the United States. He is a republican of the old school, sacrificing his private interests whenever they clash with those of his native land. After twenty-four years of gratuitous service, Congress, sn July, 1855, voted him a salary not sufficient- ly large to cover his household expenses, and with this he is compelled to maintain his Vice- Consul in the port of Truxillo. Congress, how- ever, very munificently classed him among con-: suls who are allowed to transact business. During the twenty-four years of his service the American Government was never at one cents expense, every thing being defrayed by Mr. Fol- lin. He is much esteemed by every one here, and many a Central American is rejoiced to call him his Compadre ; and others, who have heen recipients of his kindness, and have become bet- tered in their condition by his never-failing judg- ment, love him with a sincerity quite gratifying to his friends. From President Guadiola to the: a C 0 meanest Carib who paddles along the coast, all acknowledge his goodness. Indeed, while I was ~mong the Carib settlements, I have received marked attention by simply mentioning that I a was a countryman of his. He was appointed after the death of Mr. Hos- suer, who was killed by a cannon-ball during toe insurrection and famous siege of Omna. This was an important event to the Statethe struggle being between the whites and the blacks for supremacy. About the beginning of the year 1831, a notorious character by the name of Gusman was imprisoned in the castle for po- litical oftenses. The dungeons being very damp, the poor rascal soon swelled fearfully, and the Commandante, at the supplication of the people, allowed him to walk daily on the savanna. The scamp, having the education of a gentleman, with the tact of a villain, ingratiated himself so completely into the confidence of the unsuspect- ing officer, that be soon after appointed bhn his private secretary. Of course Gusman bad ac- cess to all the private government matter, which enabled him to answer official notes as suited his party purposes. By this means his plans were soon matured; the negroes aiid the Guatimalans were assembled in the vicinity of the town. About four days previous to the outbreak, be issued a proclaino forbiddin~ the inhabitants to leave their houses after 5 oclock at night. By this means a num- ber of negroes entered the town without attract- ing attention. About 11 oclock in the night I when the first blow w: s~ruck, Gusman ordered ~ome of his own soldiers to arrest him, agreea- bly to the instructions of the psoclamo. He xvent to the residence of the Commandante, and stated he had been arrested by the patrol while bringing an important letter which had just arrived from Comnyagna. The Comman OMOA: PICTURESQUE AND INCIDENTAL. 27 dante suspecting nothiug, hastily dressed him- self to receive the letter, and discharged the pa- trol. The negroes, agreeably to instructions, possessed themselves of the door leading to the arniory as soon as they entered the Comman- dantes apartment. The letterwas from Gusman, informing the Commandante of his movements and plans, telling him, at the same time, that he was a prisoner. He looked at the insurgents for a moment, than rushed for his arms, hut saw he was com- pletely in the power of the enemy. He was seized, carried to the fort, compelled to surren- der it to his captor, and was finally thrown into the same dungeon from which he had, hut a few weeks hefore, released Gusman. When he re- called the treachery of Gusman, and recollected that his assailants had possession of all the gov- ernment secrets, he prayed that he might die. He knew his enemy was an ahle politician atid superior military tactician, who had counted well the results of the villainy in which he had embarked his life and hope. He had heen imprisoned once in the never- to-he-forgotten dungeon of the Castle of San Fernando, and it was reasonable to suppose he had made kmple provisions to guard agniust a second incarceration. And Gusman, to his eternal shame he it spoken, allowed the old man, who had shown him naught hut kindness, to rot in the very dun- geon from which he was so lately rescued! Gusman had formed his plans well before his coup ditcst. He had the support of all the treacherous hands in the State; was promised assistance, and had already received military stores from that enemy to Central American republicanism, Guatimala; and was confident of assistance and support from parties in the other States if he could succeed in his first ef- fortthe capture of the fort. So far he had succeeded. He had disposed of his most formid- ahle enemy, the hrave old Commandante, whose very name engendered fears that could not he quieted so long as he stood opposed to them. But he had not cougted upon resistance from TuE asonusuner ox ruE oAn. the merch uts. Guacimala has always had her claws upon 1-londuras. She is, in fact, an ene- my of progress, a sort of Russo-American bear. The merchants answered her offers of protec- tion as did the Peruvian patriot to the Spanish invaders. They were the owners of all the ves- sels on the coast, which they soon armed and dispatched as cruisers, and were so fortunate as to overhaul several schooners loaded ~ith pro- visions, powder, etc., intended for the revolu- tionists. This was a serious blow for the negro dy- nasty, but the castle was moderately well sup- plied with all the necessaries for a protracted siege. Government troops soon made their appear- ance from the interior, but having no heavy guns, could not make a successful attack on the fort. Still, hostilities were commenced, and shot were thrown almost incessantly from the fort for upward of a month without damage; the guns ranging so high that they cleared the town completely, nor did they know how to remedy the evil. After several thousand shot had been lost in this manner, an Englishman, named Vernon, from Belize, was bribed by the insurgents to explain the mystery. He ordered them to cut about a foot from the front part of the gun-carriages; this was soon done, the guns reloaded, and a ball for the first time raked the town! Previous to this every thing was con- ducted as quietly as if there were no powder within a league of them, nor balls whistling within twenty miles of their housetops. A party were enjoying the luxuries of a good dinner at the house of our friend Mr. Follin, and were in the midst of some jocular conversa- tion, when the first ball that had been thrown into the town, struck the corner of the house and passed completely through it. It entered the bedroom of Mr. Follin, and after taking most unwarrantable liberties with his wardrobe, in- troduced itself without ceremony to the com- pany present. It is true they took considerable notice of the stranger, though they refused to offer him the hand of friendship, so he took French leave in the direc- tion of the Old French Sol- dier, who stood in the corner. The Old General never flinched, and though most of the wall was torn away by the ball, the post to which the bracket was fastened was not touched, and Napoleon smiled quietly at the havoc around him. The old house has been re- built, hut the statue occupies it,s former position, nor will it again be disturbed unless Walker, when he enters Omna, should m et with resistance. After holding the castle for six months, Gusman was starved into terms; was tried by court- martial; shot, and his head hung 28 hARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. in chains from the castle wall, where it re- mained until General Carrera, in 1853, took it down and sent it to Guatimala, together with the head of the first insurgent, which had heen hanging upwards of fifty years. His name has l)een for~otten but his body lies buried on the road hetween the castle and the town. A rough pile of stones was erected over his body, which Time has partially destroyed, though he was less lenient with the iron cage which contained the unfortunate head. About three months after Gusman had been shot, the negroes organized themselves for a final struggle, determined on this occasion to TIlE Efll~OlI. sparc neither man, woman, or child in whose veins a drop of European blood was flowing. A friendly Carih having discovered their plans, laid them hefore the merchants, who immediately enrolled a secret corps, one hundred and twenty strong. The signal for the massacre was to fire one of thcir huts at night; and thinking the whites would, as usual, rush to assist in ex- tinguishing the flames, they were to fall upon them unawares and destroy them. They were then to butcher the women and children in their beds! The alarm was given; the whites, as was ex- pected, rushed to the fire, hut went armed to the teeth, and surrounded the ne- groes, who were marched in a body to the fort. The next morn- ing they were examined, and nineteen of the riiigleaders im- mediately shot. The others, upon promising obedience to the laws, were allowed to return to their homes. This effectually crushod the desire of the negroes for power. Since then they have been as quiet and peaceable as can be expected of the African race. The old Castle of San Fer- nando, so closely connected with the struggles and history of Omon, is, including the breast- works, about fifteen hundred feet long. It is built mostly of huge blocks of coral rocks, in TIlE GATEWAY ON TIlE InEAF3T-Woln(. A GIGANTIC CENTIPEDE. 29 the old Spanish style of architecture. Its walls are about forty feet high and fifteen feet thick, surmounted by coping and bead-work. On ei- ther corner stands a little turret or sentry-box. It was formerly surrounded by a moat of seine deptb, but, like the elevated road which leads to the town, and was once paved, but little re- mains of its former greatness. The breast-works were also strongly built, having two splendid gateways, one on the north, the other on the south side. The northern gate had the date of the building of the fort carved beneath the arms of Spain, but some Vandal has obliterated it. As it now stands, it is a model of the pic- turesque. Trees of some size have sprung into existence among the crevices in its m~ sonry, and clambering vines have insinuated themselves in the cracks, and spreading, appear to be pos- sessed with the desire to hide it altogether, fin- ishing the work which an over-zealous official had begun. In a few years, no doubt, it will have crumbled completely; when the remaining vestige of Spains former greatness on this coast will be the old castle, which, from the material composing its structure, may be as strong two hundred years hence as at the present time. Along the top are distributed a few old can- non picked up at random, regardless of the suitability of the piece. There are two or three so small that at a distance they sound, when fired, like the report of a Kentucky rifle. Yet there are others that might be very effective did the soldados know more of the art of gun- nery. Nearly every time a volley is fired in honor of some saints day, more or less of them are injured. While they were celebrating the 15th of last September, the anniversary of the independence of the Central American States two men were instantly killed, and others badly wounded, by the premature discharge of a can- non, one of the gunners unclosing the vent while the piece was being loaded. They were standing in front of the gun to oh- sel-ve the manner of loading, and the effect of the ramrod on the wad. H , who was making a sketch while a soldier related the in- cidents to me, remarked that the effect ~must have been very striking, the more so from t fact of their using ball to increase the noise of the discharge. I remonstrated with him on the propriety of getting off such bad wit on such se- rious subjects, but twas no use. He said he had a reputation among the artists at home of being a hard joker ; in fact, a bad pun was his card, and he had no idea of changing his address. The castle was built by Spanish American convicts, superintended by the Hidce4gos of the colony, and a very respectable amount of money it cost the Spanish king, though the labor was performed by criminals whose only pay was a sufficient quantity of plantains and rice to keep body and soul together; yet when the commis- sioners sent in their report, the amount was so enormous that the king thought twas built of gold and silver. Some idea may be formed of the expense by a contract, still in existence, for buildin~ a bridge over a small ditch in the upper part of the town. The ditch is so insignificant that it is perfectly dry except during the rainy season. It is about thirty feet long, seven feet in width, and four feet in height, and cost the Spanish government $30,000! What admi- rable Wall Street bears and bulls they would make did they live at the present time! Schuy- icrs affair would be considered as a petty mat- ter of no moment. Omon was built as an entry port for Spanish commerce, after they had abandoned Nativifind, which was too large a harbor to protect a~ninst the English and French pirates who infested the coast, frequently storming large fortifica- tions, and taking them with apparent ease. This was the case with Old Panama, Ilealejo, and other ports in Central America. From 1750 until 1848 the town was a place of con- siderable importance, the supplies for the re- publics passing first through its streets. All the goods for the San Miguel fairs, which are held in the spring or fall of every year, whither merchants repair for their efectosmany journeying hundreds of milespassed through Omon. Then the town was fairly alive with a com- mercial activity that filled the iron chests of more than one of the fortunate residents. It was always filled with merchants from the inte- rior, who had come down for their supplies; and the merry muleteer, strumming his guitar after the labors of the day, or whirling in the crazy fandango, gave it a lively air, which, for my own sake, I regret it has lost. Money being plenty, or, as the darkies say here, too much plenty, the merchants, desir- ous of more gold, commenced the cuttings of the famous Honduras Mahogany Works, and the banks of the Ullun and Chimilicon rivers sup- J)lied thc world with this valuable wood; and so extensive were some of the gangs, that by the non-compliance of an English house to ful- fill the contract held by a merchant here, he lost $300,000. Most of the wood lay at the mouth of the river until it rotted, mingling its precious substance with the waters of the ocean. A GIGANTIC CENTIPEDE. NO one can for the first time look upon a cen- tipede without shrinking back with terror, and exclaiming, involuntarily, that it is one of the most repulsive of insects. In its general form it resembles the serpent, but the posses- sion of innumerable legs gives it the addition- al horror of a monstrous creation. Overcoming our first impressions, and examining it attentive- ly, we find that its body is divided into numer- ous segments of the same length and thickness, each being furnished with a pair of legs, which end in a sharp-pointed claw, backed by three smaller ones, each capable of inflicting a pain- ful inflammatory wound. Its head is ornament- ed with two short antenun, composed of seven joints, illuminated by two granulated eyes, form-

A GIGANTIC CENTIPEDE. 29 the old Spanish style of architecture. Its walls are about forty feet high and fifteen feet thick, surmounted by coping and bead-work. On ei- ther corner stands a little turret or sentry-box. It was formerly surrounded by a moat of seine deptb, but, like the elevated road which leads to the town, and was once paved, but little re- mains of its former greatness. The breast-works were also strongly built, having two splendid gateways, one on the north, the other on the south side. The northern gate had the date of the building of the fort carved beneath the arms of Spain, but some Vandal has obliterated it. As it now stands, it is a model of the pic- turesque. Trees of some size have sprung into existence among the crevices in its m~ sonry, and clambering vines have insinuated themselves in the cracks, and spreading, appear to be pos- sessed with the desire to hide it altogether, fin- ishing the work which an over-zealous official had begun. In a few years, no doubt, it will have crumbled completely; when the remaining vestige of Spains former greatness on this coast will be the old castle, which, from the material composing its structure, may be as strong two hundred years hence as at the present time. Along the top are distributed a few old can- non picked up at random, regardless of the suitability of the piece. There are two or three so small that at a distance they sound, when fired, like the report of a Kentucky rifle. Yet there are others that might be very effective did the soldados know more of the art of gun- nery. Nearly every time a volley is fired in honor of some saints day, more or less of them are injured. While they were celebrating the 15th of last September, the anniversary of the independence of the Central American States two men were instantly killed, and others badly wounded, by the premature discharge of a can- non, one of the gunners unclosing the vent while the piece was being loaded. They were standing in front of the gun to oh- sel-ve the manner of loading, and the effect of the ramrod on the wad. H , who was making a sketch while a soldier related the in- cidents to me, remarked that the effect ~must have been very striking, the more so from t fact of their using ball to increase the noise of the discharge. I remonstrated with him on the propriety of getting off such bad wit on such se- rious subjects, but twas no use. He said he had a reputation among the artists at home of being a hard joker ; in fact, a bad pun was his card, and he had no idea of changing his address. The castle was built by Spanish American convicts, superintended by the Hidce4gos of the colony, and a very respectable amount of money it cost the Spanish king, though the labor was performed by criminals whose only pay was a sufficient quantity of plantains and rice to keep body and soul together; yet when the commis- sioners sent in their report, the amount was so enormous that the king thought twas built of gold and silver. Some idea may be formed of the expense by a contract, still in existence, for buildin~ a bridge over a small ditch in the upper part of the town. The ditch is so insignificant that it is perfectly dry except during the rainy season. It is about thirty feet long, seven feet in width, and four feet in height, and cost the Spanish government $30,000! What admi- rable Wall Street bears and bulls they would make did they live at the present time! Schuy- icrs affair would be considered as a petty mat- ter of no moment. Omon was built as an entry port for Spanish commerce, after they had abandoned Nativifind, which was too large a harbor to protect a~ninst the English and French pirates who infested the coast, frequently storming large fortifica- tions, and taking them with apparent ease. This was the case with Old Panama, Ilealejo, and other ports in Central America. From 1750 until 1848 the town was a place of con- siderable importance, the supplies for the re- publics passing first through its streets. All the goods for the San Miguel fairs, which are held in the spring or fall of every year, whither merchants repair for their efectosmany journeying hundreds of milespassed through Omon. Then the town was fairly alive with a com- mercial activity that filled the iron chests of more than one of the fortunate residents. It was always filled with merchants from the inte- rior, who had come down for their supplies; and the merry muleteer, strumming his guitar after the labors of the day, or whirling in the crazy fandango, gave it a lively air, which, for my own sake, I regret it has lost. Money being plenty, or, as the darkies say here, too much plenty, the merchants, desir- ous of more gold, commenced the cuttings of the famous Honduras Mahogany Works, and the banks of the Ullun and Chimilicon rivers sup- J)lied thc world with this valuable wood; and so extensive were some of the gangs, that by the non-compliance of an English house to ful- fill the contract held by a merchant here, he lost $300,000. Most of the wood lay at the mouth of the river until it rotted, mingling its precious substance with the waters of the ocean. A GIGANTIC CENTIPEDE. NO one can for the first time look upon a cen- tipede without shrinking back with terror, and exclaiming, involuntarily, that it is one of the most repulsive of insects. In its general form it resembles the serpent, but the posses- sion of innumerable legs gives it the addition- al horror of a monstrous creation. Overcoming our first impressions, and examining it attentive- ly, we find that its body is divided into numer- ous segments of the same length and thickness, each being furnished with a pair of legs, which end in a sharp-pointed claw, backed by three smaller ones, each capable of inflicting a pain- ful inflammatory wound. Its head is ornament- ed with two short antenun, composed of seven joints, illuminated by two granulated eyes, form- 30 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. ed by the junction of numerous smaller ones; its month is overlapped by a pair of strong forceps, or hooks, which have openings beneath their points, through whicb, when it bites, a poisonous fluid is injected after the manner of the fang of the death-dealing rattlesnake. The centipede is carniverous in its appetites, and steals about in search of victims and food only in the night. There are two varieties of the lurgest kind, those nearly white inhabiting the ground, those of a li~ht chocolate brown frequenting the decayed bark of diseased trees, or tbat attached to fallen timber. The inhabitants of temperate climates are practically free from these dreaded insects, and are thus compensated, in a degree at least, for the loss of the balmy airs and tropical splen- dors of more Southern climes. A variety of the centipede, however, exists in the North, called Thousand-legs, which fortunately remains al- ways insignificant in size. They are to be more frequently found in regions famous for the accu- mulation of lumber, particularly about saw-mills, and are occasionally met with every where in the rich loam of decaying trees. The South- ern representative, however, is not altogether unknown in the Northern States, for, independ- ent of the specimens preserved in the cabinets of the curious, they are sometimes imported in cargoes of hides, or find a hiding-place among the thousand articles known to commerce. But a few years since, a person employed in unload- ing a vessel at Boston was unexpectedly bitten by one of these dreaded insects, and from the ignorance of himself and those about him of proper remedies, death soon ensued. The centipede is the greatest pest encount- ered in the West India islands, in the countries bordering on the Spanish Main, and the hot- test parts of the American continent. In the vicinity of the Arkansas and Red Rivers in Texas, they are somewhat abundant, reaching about four inches in length, and proving an im- mense annoyance to the settlers. The utmost vigilance is required where they abound, even in the most cleanly houses, to prevent them from finding their way into beds or clothing, to which they seem to be attracted for comfortable lodgment and surrounding warmth. Upon the the appearance of a light, if in an exposed situ- ation, they attempt to make their escape, and run off with great rapidity, but if interrupted, they instantly stand on the defensive, biting se- verely upon the slightest provocation. This hostile disposition renders them very dangerous when once they have taken possession of a bed, for the slightest movement of its occupant, over which they maybe crawling, and who can scarce- ly fail to be disturbed by their pointed claws, in- sures a venomous bite, which will be rapidly re- peated if the enraged insect is not quickly de- stroyed. The bite is exceedingly painful, and is made additionally so by the attending inflam- mation caused by the punctures of the claws. An irritable fever follows, accompanied by de- lirium, and if the patient is of an excitable hab- it, amputation or excision of the bitten part be- comes necessary, or death ensues. Persons ac- customed to the centipede lessen the danger by an immediate application of the cupping- glass, or by pressing the barrel of a large key forcibly over the wounds, which seems to press out the poison, and suspend the activity of the surrounding circulation; the application of am- monia, and frequent doses of it mixed with bran- dy, also act as powerful antidotes. The centipede is hatched from an egg, and comes forth a perfect insect; and what is most re- markable, the young is the subject of great care on the part of the maternal parent, being fostered by her long after they are able to take care of themselves. When first ushered into being they have but six legs, their additional feet, as well as the rings to which they are attached, becoming developed as they advance in age, one ring and one pair of feet marking the passage of a year. The centipede lives longer, and continues to in- crease in strength more than any other insect; it survives through many generations. This fact, and its peculiar organization, makes the centipede remarkable among all the varied races of insect life. The centipede not only exists upon vegetable juices, but as it increases in strength it depends mainly upon crickets, roaches, and beetles for subsistence, and it is in search of these compar- atively harmless creatures that brings it into the habitations of man, where they are sometimes absolutely welcomed in order to extirpate the accumulated vermin. The presence of the cen- tipede is known by the confusion it creates among the different insects in its vicinity, for, unexpectedly, they will be seen in a state of great disorder; the beetles will retreat to their holes, the crickets will stop chirruping, and the roaches, which grow very large in tropical cli- mates, losing all control over their action, will fly madly against the walls, and then falling on the floor become an easy prey to the centipede, which dexterously rips open the body of the roach, devours its interior, and moves on in search of another victim. The accumulation of vermin in tropical coun- tries, in the course of every three or four years, becomes so great about the houses of the inhab- itants, that a point arrives when the plague can no longer be borne. The walls of the adobe buildings seem to be absolutely alive with creep- ing things. Scorpions, centipedes, mice, spiders, snakes, in ten thousand nameless but annoy- ing forms of reptile and insect life, teem up from the floors, arbors, and gardens. The raising of an article of dress, the hasty seizure of a drinking-cup, the picking up of a chip, any sim- ple act of life, in fact, that brings humanity in contact with the things around it, will possibly rouse some hidden-away insect, whose poison- ous fangs will the next instant be in the in- truders flesh. Life becomes unbearable; the plagues of Egypt are upon the land. Suddenly it is announced that a little black ant has madc its appearance: a general exclamation of welcome ensues. The advanced guard of the invincible A GIGANTIC CENTIPEDE. 31 the serpents come coiling in death-agony from their holes; every creeping thing in the vicinity is undergoing martyrdom. There is no chance of escape. The ants are every where, hetween the ceilings, in the walls, over the roog beneath the floors; not a nook or crevice escapes them, not a hole or corner is overlooked. In a few hours the grate- fol lahor of extermination is completed; com- mencing their work at night, hefore the morning ~ dawns they have taken their departnre, leaving ~ behind nothing hut the wrecks of their vie- ~, tims. ucn2 Our illustration represents a centipede taken some months since in Venezuela, South America, and now iu the collection of Dr. I. Deck, of New York city. The drawing is scarcely as I rge as the original, for the formidahle insect could, when living, extend itself to the enormous length of twelve inches. It is helieved to he the largest authenticated one known, although the Indians and residents in the interior testify to having seen them much longer. The deadly centipede of Jamaica, St. Domingo to named from the almost certain death that follows its hiteseldom exceeds five inches in length. If the theory he tine, that the centipede ohtains one ring and one pair of feet each year, the remarkable specimen before us was eighteen years old. When first discovered it was in an attitude of defiance, be- ing worried by a dog; a child then aided in the assault and was mortally wounded; a native then came to the rescue, and succeeded in capturing it, but not un- til his arm was poisoned to such an extent as after- ward to demand amputation. In the examination of the poisonous machinery of insects and reptiles, it is apparent that the destructive principle is the same in all; and that the fang in all possesses a hollow through which the poison flows into the wound the moment the incision is made. The sting of the scorpion is precisely like the fang of the rattlesnake, and performs its deadly work on the same mechanical principles. From the slow progress of the science of entomology, it is yet to he discovered what are the complete uses of insects (more particu- larly the poisonous ones) in the economy of na- ture. From what little is known, however, of cer- tain races, it is but a natural inference, that in the creation of all are to he found demonstrative proofs of Divine wisdom and beneficence. But for the myriads of insect work- ers which perform their part in trop- ical climates, feeding pon decaying ~ vegetable and animal matter, the at- i7 mosphere would soon become so load- ed with noxious vapors as to render the preservation of the human race impossihle. As we become more and more acquainted with the secret work- ings of nature, we are gradually led to the conclusion, that even the deadly driver promises the approach of the grand centipede is not made in vain; that it m st have army. The habitations are deserted by their its useful purposes, and performs a merciful mis- human inmates, and the little ants in count- sion in its allotted pa in the creation; that less numbers cover the locality. Now can be nothing exists, in fact, but what is admirable; witnessed the fluttering of the roaches can there being no room for critical censure, no ha heard the squeaking of the mice and rats; true emotion but spontaneous praise. OTOANTIc CENTIPEaF, na~wx LIFE-SIZE. 32 HARPERS NEW MONThLY MAGAZINE. PASSAGES OF EASTERN TRAVEL. BY AN AMERICAN. WHY should I not pause in this series of sketches to speak of home scenes, when they were the chief burden of our thoughts in Egypt? I say, why not? I am not writing a history of Egypt, neither am I writing a history of my travels. I promised no such thing when I began, and I am very sure I shall do no such thing now. I have but engaged to take you with me along my way, and to make you in some measure the sharer of my wanderings and their incidents. Of these incidents, the letters from home are among the chief. I care not where we are, I am very well assured that with- in a hundred steps of the summit of Ghizeh, should letters from home arrive at the north- east angle of the pyramid, I would turn back and leave the plain unseen until the letters were disposed of. They come like the very persons who send them, and are verily visits from the dear ones, in voice and look. But saddest of all thoughts is that which sometimes oppresses the wanderer, that those letters must be such slow and tardy visitors, and that, even when we are readin~ them there can be no certainty in our minds that all is yet well with those at home. Alas for me, what bitter experience of all this I have had within this year of travel! I read at Beyroot the words of faithful love, the kind, endearing words ofmy father in his own firm hand, and I wrote to him my thanks for all that love. He it was who h d taught me to seek the East with earnest desire. His voice read to me the words of the old poets and historians, and taught me to love Greece for the sake of Homer, and Rome for Virgil and Horace. More than that, from the hours of listening childhood his lips had kept me mindful of Jerusalem; his prayers had led my prayers to the God of Calvary. And while I read his words, and thanked God that the nobleold man was well and strong, and that his love for his youngest boy was full and fresh as ever, and that the cold of the win- ters beyond threescore and ten had not chilled his blood or his love, even then he lay dead in the grave; nay, even then he looked down on me from that heaven which (how often have I thanked God for it in these very words when I was far away from Holy Land!) bends down just as lovingly over all the world, as over the Hill of the Ascension and the Garden of the Grave. Yes, he was dead! and I knew it not; nor knew till long, long afterward, when, one evening under the Acropolis, with the stars shining down on me above the Parthenon, the few words came to me with thunderous tone, He is dead! But I pause not now to speak of this; for he was well when I was in Egypt, and I write of Egypt now. It was one of those nights of calm, majestic beauty with me, as I lay drifting down the lord- ly river, and dreaming of the long line of kings and priests that had drifted thus and dreamed even as I. The stars trod the sapphire floors of Paradise in solemn, grand processions, and the sands of the Great Desert seemed for once, if never before, to be fit for the footsteps of an- gels. Every grain of sand gleamed in the sil- ver light, and, far away over the rolling plains, the soft, low voice of the desert wind, plaintive and melodious, seemed like the voices of spirits whispering strange, sad stories. And that night, far away, in that beloved land that I call home, he whose heart has for so many years beaten close to mine, pulsation for pul~- tion; the friend of boyhood, youth, and manly years; the good, true friend; the stout compan- ion of trial and joy, was drifting on the dark river away, away into that boundless sea whose waves bring stories of the blessed islands and the land of rest. Yes, he too is dead, and I was not there. When I left home he said to me, Philip, when you are at Jerusalem, you will find a pleasant seat on Mount Moriah, among the graves of the old Turks, with your back to the wall, which is the wall of the court of Solomons Temple. Sit down there and call aloud some sunshiny morn- ing. Speak my name. I will hear it wherever I am. Try it, for my sake. I have been in Jerusalem, nor did I forget his direction. I sat there one morning with May by my side, and my Nubian servant Per- rajj before me, and two Bedouins of the Jordan Valley leaning on their long spears at a little distance, and deep, solemn silence was over us all while the sunshine fell on temple wall and Jewish tomb, and I shouted aloud Joe Wil- lis, Joe Willis ! and all was still; and then, across the Valley of Jehosaphat, ri~ht from the tomb of Absalom, came, in the still air, a fhint, far answer, Yes, yes ! and I knew he heard me. May said it was the echo from the Mount of Olives; but I knew it was not, and I called again, louder than before, Joe Willis, are you well ? and the reply came, from the distance above the village of Siloam, above the tomb of the wife of Solomon, indistinctbut who could doubt the voice ?Alls well! and again, more distinctly, Alls well And even so it wasall well! Who can tell me in what shadowy plain of the land of all de- lights, by what river of gladness in the country of their Father, by what fountain, what high rock, what flowerclad bank they two met who had been so long separate? For I know well that, when he reached that land, her lips were first to greet him, her arms first to infold him, her voice the voice of the angel that God sent to lead him to his feet. I say again, I will not apologize for pausing in these articles on life in old Egypt to speak of this event in home-land. I am writing, as I have said before, sketches of life on the Nile, and this is one of the features of it, that while I was rejoicing in health and all the joys of life, my friend was dying in our old House by the River.

32 HARPERS NEW MONThLY MAGAZINE. PASSAGES OF EASTERN TRAVEL. BY AN AMERICAN. WHY should I not pause in this series of sketches to speak of home scenes, when they were the chief burden of our thoughts in Egypt? I say, why not? I am not writing a history of Egypt, neither am I writing a history of my travels. I promised no such thing when I began, and I am very sure I shall do no such thing now. I have but engaged to take you with me along my way, and to make you in some measure the sharer of my wanderings and their incidents. Of these incidents, the letters from home are among the chief. I care not where we are, I am very well assured that with- in a hundred steps of the summit of Ghizeh, should letters from home arrive at the north- east angle of the pyramid, I would turn back and leave the plain unseen until the letters were disposed of. They come like the very persons who send them, and are verily visits from the dear ones, in voice and look. But saddest of all thoughts is that which sometimes oppresses the wanderer, that those letters must be such slow and tardy visitors, and that, even when we are readin~ them there can be no certainty in our minds that all is yet well with those at home. Alas for me, what bitter experience of all this I have had within this year of travel! I read at Beyroot the words of faithful love, the kind, endearing words ofmy father in his own firm hand, and I wrote to him my thanks for all that love. He it was who h d taught me to seek the East with earnest desire. His voice read to me the words of the old poets and historians, and taught me to love Greece for the sake of Homer, and Rome for Virgil and Horace. More than that, from the hours of listening childhood his lips had kept me mindful of Jerusalem; his prayers had led my prayers to the God of Calvary. And while I read his words, and thanked God that the nobleold man was well and strong, and that his love for his youngest boy was full and fresh as ever, and that the cold of the win- ters beyond threescore and ten had not chilled his blood or his love, even then he lay dead in the grave; nay, even then he looked down on me from that heaven which (how often have I thanked God for it in these very words when I was far away from Holy Land!) bends down just as lovingly over all the world, as over the Hill of the Ascension and the Garden of the Grave. Yes, he was dead! and I knew it not; nor knew till long, long afterward, when, one evening under the Acropolis, with the stars shining down on me above the Parthenon, the few words came to me with thunderous tone, He is dead! But I pause not now to speak of this; for he was well when I was in Egypt, and I write of Egypt now. It was one of those nights of calm, majestic beauty with me, as I lay drifting down the lord- ly river, and dreaming of the long line of kings and priests that had drifted thus and dreamed even as I. The stars trod the sapphire floors of Paradise in solemn, grand processions, and the sands of the Great Desert seemed for once, if never before, to be fit for the footsteps of an- gels. Every grain of sand gleamed in the sil- ver light, and, far away over the rolling plains, the soft, low voice of the desert wind, plaintive and melodious, seemed like the voices of spirits whispering strange, sad stories. And that night, far away, in that beloved land that I call home, he whose heart has for so many years beaten close to mine, pulsation for pul~- tion; the friend of boyhood, youth, and manly years; the good, true friend; the stout compan- ion of trial and joy, was drifting on the dark river away, away into that boundless sea whose waves bring stories of the blessed islands and the land of rest. Yes, he too is dead, and I was not there. When I left home he said to me, Philip, when you are at Jerusalem, you will find a pleasant seat on Mount Moriah, among the graves of the old Turks, with your back to the wall, which is the wall of the court of Solomons Temple. Sit down there and call aloud some sunshiny morn- ing. Speak my name. I will hear it wherever I am. Try it, for my sake. I have been in Jerusalem, nor did I forget his direction. I sat there one morning with May by my side, and my Nubian servant Per- rajj before me, and two Bedouins of the Jordan Valley leaning on their long spears at a little distance, and deep, solemn silence was over us all while the sunshine fell on temple wall and Jewish tomb, and I shouted aloud Joe Wil- lis, Joe Willis ! and all was still; and then, across the Valley of Jehosaphat, ri~ht from the tomb of Absalom, came, in the still air, a fhint, far answer, Yes, yes ! and I knew he heard me. May said it was the echo from the Mount of Olives; but I knew it was not, and I called again, louder than before, Joe Willis, are you well ? and the reply came, from the distance above the village of Siloam, above the tomb of the wife of Solomon, indistinctbut who could doubt the voice ?Alls well! and again, more distinctly, Alls well And even so it wasall well! Who can tell me in what shadowy plain of the land of all de- lights, by what river of gladness in the country of their Father, by what fountain, what high rock, what flowerclad bank they two met who had been so long separate? For I know well that, when he reached that land, her lips were first to greet him, her arms first to infold him, her voice the voice of the angel that God sent to lead him to his feet. I say again, I will not apologize for pausing in these articles on life in old Egypt to speak of this event in home-land. I am writing, as I have said before, sketches of life on the Nile, and this is one of the features of it, that while I was rejoicing in health and all the joys of life, my friend was dying in our old House by the River. PASSAGES OF EASTERN TRAVEL. 38 It was in the same room that she died. He had always said it should he so; and when he felt the end approaching, he left his city home, and taking a few of the old servants with him to care for his last wishes, he went up to the old house, and there, in her room, waited the rending of the vail that hid her from him. The moment came when perhaps he least expect- ed it. It was a tempestuous ni~,ht. My letters tell me you have had a winter of storm and cold. You may know the night hy the description. The blasts wailed around the old house, and shook the oaks, and writhed and tossed their leafless branches, and the snow piled fast and furiously over fence, and doorway, and window, and the darkness over all was terrible. Within the house the scene was different. In the old room, whose heavy curtains were unchanged since she died, a dim light shed its uncertain rays on the bed and on the pale face of my dy- ing friend. The stout arm that had so often done good service lay on the covering of the bed, wasted and thin, and the fingers were clasped together quietly and calmly, as it were well they should be, having forever ended their work. A lock of hair, a glorious tress, lay twined among them. How often it had waved in the mountain winds that came down, around that old house! Sometimes I have fancied that tresses of hair were instinct with life, and that they retained a certain portion of the graceful- ness which they derived from their origin. Cer- tainly that tress was exceedingly beautiful. I have seen it often, and have thought so long. It is all of her that was left above the earthall of her that hath not Suffered a sea change Into something rich and strange. His face was already assuming the aspect of that after-life into which he was passing. Noble constantly, it was now more majestic in feature and eye than ever before; and the excellent clergyman who has written me the fullest ac- count of my friends last days, tells me that, on that evening, it was hard to believe, nay, says he, impossible to believe that there was not a certain light invisible to us falling on his face, whereof we perceived only the reflection. Mayhap the good doctor never thought of that old saying, that the soul shines through the face and lights it. Mayhap he was right, and it was supernatural. Have I written that the old house was filled with anxious friends? He, the lonesome old bachelor, fatherless and motherless, and with- out brother or sister, had, nevertheless, more friends to wait on his last wishes than one in a thousand might hope to have whose relatives were legion. I shall not pause to say who they were. The farmers from all the country around were there; for every evening they came up to ask about him, and this evening they waited for the end, which all said was near at hand. VOL. XIV.No. 79.C The tempest was furious. Fast fell the snow, and covered barn and cottage, fence and farm, and it climbed up around the windows of the library, and closed them tight and warm, and even sought to peer into the room in which the dying man was lying. He smiled more clearly at length, for his face had been anxious in its expression for a few moments, and then he lifted the tress of hair to his lips, and laid his hand down again, and his eye sought the eyes of the pastor. My old friend, it is well with me. Tell Philip so. There was one morningone Sun- day morninglong ago, when our old friend Mr. Winter uttered in the pulpit those words of the great Lawgiver of Israel wbich have pass- ed into triumphant song, in every language and every land. Tell Philip that, among my last memories and words, I cherished that; he will remember it; and tell him that I know that my Redeemer liveth, in a sense that Moses or Job could by no means appreciate. How the wind howls! Wilson, my good doctor, Philip Phillips had charge of my wishes in regard to the . disposal of the dust that once was Joseph Willis when such dust shall be. But Philip is a pilgrim to far shrines, and ere he returns, if you lay me elsewhere, some error may occur, and I may not rest where I would. It matters little, it is true; and yet I have an old fancy, an old desire to gratify. I have said that I know that my Redeemer liveth; I know also. that in my flesh I shall see God. That in His time I shall come back to seek and find this dust that you will lay out of sight, and that, although it will be scattered muchsome in grass, and some in trees, and some on winds like thisyet I shall find enough of it to recog- nize the clay wherein I suffered, and enough to make more keen and holy the joy wherein I shall rejoice. And then, when God sends me on that errand, I would fain resume the dress of earth in this valley, and find myself standing by her side first of all men in the resurrection. I have lived for love of Ellen Willis, and I die in full faith that that love is immortal. First of all faces in the resurrection I would look on hers. But why do I linger on these minute descrip- tions of the scene? Enough for me, enough for you who read this, enough for those who have read all I have elsewhere written of Willis, to know tbat he departed, as a good, brave man, with firm hope and unwavering faith. He spoke long and earnestly to all around him; then rested a little space; then, as the wind wailed louder than ever before, he closed his eyes, smiled calmly, and the vail was rent in twain, and he no longer saw her as through a glass darkly, but now face to face. I write these lines in the valley of the Ar- veiron, whose terrible harmonies go np to heaven around me. I lift my eyes, and fa~ above me, among the tranquil stars, is the sum- mit of Mont Blanc, unutterably calm. Even so among my memories stands the memory of ~34 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. that one man. I have written thus much of the circumstances of his death, but of my grief I write not. It was not many days afterward that I sat in the great hall of Karnak, near the foot of the smaller obelisk, and remembered how often he had talked to me of that most sublime hall of human building on the face of the earth, and with my pencil I wrote his name a score of times on the stone on which I sat, ~ind the soft sunshine fell on wall and column, and the taper obelisk constantly led my eyes to the heaven into whose blue depths it pointed, and then, then he lay dead in his old house, and ~they were treading lightly around his couch, and the tempest was raving around the walls, and fighting over its old, old battle with the oak- trees and the pines. Before proceeding farther in my sketches of personal adventure, inasmuch as it will be ne- cessary for me hereafter to refer often to the hieroglyphical records of Egyptian history, I propose just here to devote some space to an account of these records and their character, to the end that those who are not already familiar with them may know whence is derived the very accurate knowledge now,possessed by Egyptian scholars on many points of history which would seem to be buried hopelessly in the rubbish of distant ages. Perhaps if I do this, those who read these articles may not be disposed to re- gret the startling coincidences between the scriptures of the Old Testament and the sculp- tures of Egypt which the traveler each day totices. It is not uncommon even at this late day to hear intelligent persons, and scholars of no mean attainments, laughing or sneering at the idea that the hieroglyphics of the Egyptian monuments can be read with much ease, or even at alL It is very true that there are few living men who can read them, and it is much to be regretted that the minds of American scholars have not been more devoted to this subject, in which as yet the English and French are far in advance of us. It was greatly to be hopedthat the Egyptian Museum in New York would turn attention in that direction, and cer- tainly no more interesting subject lies open to the student. Imagine for a moment the possi- bility that on one of those strangely carved pieces of rock which lie heaped up in the rooms of Dr. Abbott, there is recorded the story of Joseph, in characters of his own period, by fingers that had felt his kingly grasp. Imagiuc that on another is written, deep in the stone, the history of the kings of Israel, and the fato of the lost tribes ; and on another the pious words of Jeremiah, and on yet another the elo- quence of Mark. The stranger to Egyptian study laughs at this, and says, it is easy to imagine it but it is nQt likely to be true. Why not, my friend? I stood last winter before a wall where I read the characters that were recorded on it more than two thousand years agoyea, in the days when Solomons voice had not ceased to be remem- bered; and I read thereon, among the kings whom Skiskak the Egyptian led captive, the ea~un HALL ~m onmisx, KALNAK. PASSAGES OF EASTERN TRAVEL. discoveries have been based the ___ a claims to a priority of the English over the French in the interpreta- tion of hieroglyphics. But this claim was lost by a subsequent publication of Dr. Young. For mEROGLYPHIc NAME OF EGYPT. although he had thus taken the first step toward the true method. name of Jibe King of Judab. Of this record I he was so entirely destitute of confidence in shall speak more at length hereafter, but I his own hypothesis, that in 1823, nearly four recur to it now to show the strong probability years later, he published his belief that the that elsewhere among these countless records Egyptians did not make use of an alphabet may exist written histories of men whose names to represent sounds and articulations before are known to us in Holy Writ, or other confirma- the time of the Greeks and Romans. This tions of those pages of inestimable value. Cer- completely estopped him from all future claim tainly this were enough to direct the attention to the discovery, and in point of fact he had of the religious scholar, independently of the discovered little or nothing. With his aid, on abstract historic interest that is connected with his plan, men might have wasted centuries in all remote antiquity. ignorance of the legends on the monuments. The hieroglyphical language of Egypt had At the most, Dr. Young had but found a tool long been a puzzle to the wisest men. That to work with, and it was out of his power to these lines of pictures which were found on all use it. the monuments, from the largest to the smallest, Time, the infallible judge and rewarder of were the connected expressions of ideas there the deserving, has now given to the great French was no doubt in any mind, but to translate them savan the honor that is his due, and the name into words intelligible to modern intellects was of C/iampollioa will always hereafter stand first apparently hopeless. The grand difficulty that as the leader and the greatest of Egyptian was in the way of this discovery was, that all scholars. In 1822 Champollion published his men who attempted the translation of the hiero- memoir on phonetic hieroglyphics, which he had ~lyphics regarded them as necessarily symbolical previonsly read to the Academy of Belles Let- in their design, and never as phonetical. In tres in Paris. other words, they supposed that each picture or To explain this more fully, it will be neces- figure, or each group, represented an idea, in- sary for us to examine for a moment the char- stead of supposing that it represented a sound. acter of the language to be interpreted. It was as if an Arab or a Copt on seeing English The language of the ancient Egyptians was written had supposed that the letter S did but Goptic, literally a dead language, It is hazard- tepresent the idea of a snake, and the letter 0 ing nothing to say that there are not now living of a circle or a sun, not understanding or im- twenty scholars in the world who can be said to agining that each was designed to express an have even an ordinary practical knowledge of utterance of the human larynx. this language, and there is not one who can be It is true that for many years the suggestion, said to be master of it. It was necessary, there- that it was possible that the hieroglyphics might fore, to resuscitate the language as well as to have such value, had been made, but no one had interpret the alphabet. But the alphabet was undertaken to demonstrate it as a fact until the not uniform. The ancient Greek authors had year 1819, when the learned Dr. Young, in described the writings of the Egyptians, and Scotland, published for the first time an article given names to their styles of manuscript and on this subject, and actually gave the names of sculpture. These were three. The hero- certain royal personages from the monuments, glyphic, the Hieratic, and the Demotic. with the phonetic value of the letters composing The first was a language of complete pictures them. It was, in fact, true that he had dis- the second, of outlines derived from the first; covered the value of five characters, and on his and the third, was the character for the people, a aImooLyruIc. 2. IIIERATIc. DEiiOTicj Oil ENCUOIuAL. HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. species of running hand derived from the others. The first was the style of all the monumental sculptures; the second, of the priestly writings; the third, of the ordinary transactions of the people. The examples here given illustrate these three styles. The first is a selection of the characters . in the oval on the wall of the great temple of IllEuoeLvrITIc. Karnak, which I have before alluded to. The second and third are from papyri. There was, therefore, before the student a work certainly unequaled in all the history of cryptography, no less than the deciphering and translatin~ of an s. unknown lan~uage, in an unknown and variable I .-~ -~ character, without the aid of history or book, DEMOTIC ~ EKCIIORIAL. dictionary or grammar. It is not the object of this article to go into -------- any minute detail of the steps which led to the discoveries of Champollion. It can not fail, however, to be interesting to the most ordinary / ~ - 3 ~ ~ readers, to know the general outline of the in- vestigations which opened to the scholars of the nineteenth century after Christ the records of the twentieth and the twenty before his advent. It had already been well settled ~ that the figure now universally ~osarrA STONE. known as the cartouche, being an g oval line inclosing certain char- date or attempted the elucidation of the Egyp- t-~--~ZK acters, was indicative of a royal tian with the aid of the well-known Greek. & -~-- name. An example isheregiven One wishes that the peculiar powers of our poor Lr2Z in the name of PTOLEMY, which friend Poe could have been directed to this stone F will also serve as an example of a in the early part of this century. No one who style of hieroglyphic character in knew his ability in the reading of cryptography, outline not infrequently found on could doubt that he would have solved the difli- the monuments and papyri. culty of the Egyptian alphabet long before it It was, indeed, supposed, as early as 1797, was opened to the eyes of the slow scholars of that these ovals contained proper names; but Europe. this idea of Zoega, contained in his elaborate I am not aware that a translation of the work on obelisks, was never followed to any Rosetta stone has ever been laid before the beneficial result until late in the present cen- American public in other than scientific works. tury, when various Egyptioligists had identified I give a few extracts from it here, using Mr. the names of several historical personages with Gliddens translation. accuracy, and yet, strange to say, without fall- The year IX. (of the reign of the Son of ing on the idea that these names were alphabet the Sun, Ptolemy, ever living, beloved qf Pthah) ically written, the tenth of the month of Macant, the pontiff We now approach the history of the Rosetta and the prophets, those who enter into the stone, which is well known to the world as the sanctuary to clothe the gods, the pterophores, key of the ancient Egyptian language. the hierogrammates, and all the other priests, The French expedition into Egypt collected who from all the temples situated in the coun- great numbers of valuable antiquities, which, by try, have come to Memphis, near the King, for the terms of the surrender at Alexandria, were the solemnity of the taking possession of that handed over to the English. Among these was crown, which Ptolemy, ever living, the well be- a stone, a broken piece of black basalt, whose loved of Ptbab, god Epiphanes most gracious original size had been not far from three feet by prince, has inherited from his father, being as- two, containing an inscription in three different sembled in the temple of Memphis, have pro- characters. The first or upper portion was in nounced, this same day, the following de- hieroglyphic, the second in Demotic or Encho- cree: rial, and the third in Greek. The upper and CoNsIDERINO, that the King Ptolemy, ever lower parts of the stone were broken and injured, living, the well beloved of Pthah, god Epiphanes, while the Demotic was nearly perfect, and al- most gracious, son of the King Ptolemy, and of though it was a matter of the greatest ease to the Queen Arsinoe, gods philopatores (father- make a translation of the Greek portion, it is a loving) has done all kinds of good, both to the matter of the utmost astonishment (and, indeed, temples, and to those who therein make their all discoveries present similar views in retro- habitation; and, in general, to all those who spect) that this stone lay for years before the are nuder his dominions; that being (himselD eyes of the world and no one was able to eluci- a god, born of a god and a goddess, like Horns, PASSAGES OF EASTERN TRAVEL. 37 the son of Isis and Osiris, the avenger of Osiris Egypt, he is glorified and honored, as is jnst~ his father, etc., etc. the god Epiphanes, most gracious sovereign, * * * * * * the present decree shall be engraved on a stela of It has therefore pleased the priests of all the hard Stone, in SACRED CHARACTERS (i. e. in hiero- temples of the land to DECREE, that all the hon- glyphics), in WRITING OF THE COUNTRY (z. e. in ors belonging to the King Ptolemy, ever living, enchorial, or demotic), and in GREEK LETTERS: the well beloved of Pthah, god Epiphanes, most and this stela shall be placed in each of the gracious, as well as those which are due to his temples of the first, second, and third class ex- father and mother, the gods philopatores; and isting in all the kingdom. those which are due to his ancestors, should be It is not necessary that I should pause here to considerably augmented; that the statue of King explain the value of this stone. It was a car- Ptolemy, ever living, be erected in each temple, tam inscription in four languages, for with th~ and placed in the most conspicuous spot, which Greek the French, of course, had French and shall be called the Statue of Ptolemy, avenger the English had English. Collation and com- of Egypt; near this statue shall be placed the parison made it a dictionary. It furnished some principal god of the temple, who will present hundred words in Coptic, and nearly all the him with the arms of victory; and every thing signs necessary to a complete hieroglyphic al- shall be disposed in the manner most appropri- phabet. From comparison it was easy to locate ate. That the priests shall perform, three times the name of Ptolemy and many of the accom- a day, religious service to these statues; that panying words, and thus to commence an alpha- they shall adorn them with sacred ornaments; bet which the rest of the inscription would fill and that they shall have care to render them, in up. the great solemnities, all the honors which, ac- The name of Cleopatra had been already cording to usage, ought to be paid to the other identified in several places on the sculptures, deities; that there be consecrated to King Ptol- and certain other names as well. It was but emy a statue, and a chapel, gilded, in the most necessary to commence a comparison of letters holy of the temples; that this chapel be placed with letters, and the work was fairly com- in the sanctuary, with all the others; and that, menced not concluded by no manner of in the great solemnities, wherein it is customary means. For the investigator was constantly to bring out the chapels from the sanctuaries, puzzled by finding that the letters which should there shall be brought out that of the god Epi- be the same, were the alphabetical idea correct, phanes, most gracious; and that this chapel may were not the same. This was owing to the fact be better distinguished from the others, now and that many signs were used to express the same in the lapse of time hereafter, there shall be sound. It was but a brief affair for the swift placed above it the ten golden crowns of the intellect of Champollion to prepare a complete king, which shall bear on their anterior part an alphabet and grammar of the hieroglyphics. asp, in imitation of those crowns of aspic form, This, then, was the simple result attained. which are in the other chapels; and in the mid- The language of ancient Egypt was written in a dle of these crowns shall be placed the royal phonetic and hieroglyphic character combined. ornament termed USHENT, that one which the The alphabet consists of a very large number of king wore when he entered the Memphis, in the signs indicating the various sounds of the Ian- temple, in order to observe the legal ceremonies guage. The picture of any object, when used prescribed for the coronation; that there be at- for a letter, represented the first sound uttered tached to the tetragon (the cornice? or perhaps in naming the object, as, in English, an acorn cover?) encircling the ten crowns affixed to the might represent the letter a, and a beetle the let- chapel above named, phylacteries of gold (sim- tar b, and so on through the alphabet. But be- ilar to the Hebrew taphilimamulets) with sides this, there were many signs which repre- this inscription: This is the chapel of the sented full ideas, and which determined the Kin,; of that king who has rendered illustrious meaning of those that had been used phonetic- the upper and the lower region; that there be ally. Thus, in the example given of hiero- celebrated a festival; and a great assembly glyphic writing on a previous page, the last (panegyric) be held in honor of the ever living, character represents rolling ground, and is de- of the well beloved of Pthah, of the King Ptol- terminative of the word country, thereby signi- emy, god Epiphanes most gracious, every year; fying that the previous words refer to a cer- this festival shall take place in all the provinces, tam country. And again, the phonetic use of as well in Upper as in Lower Egypt; and shall the characters was often totally disregarded, last for five days, to commence on the first day and they were used symbolically. This is fre- of the month of Thoth; during which, those who quently the case on the obelisks and other mon- make the sacrifices, the libations, and all the uments. other customary ceremonies, shall wear crowns; I insert on the top of the next page an illus- they shall he called the priests of the god Epi- tration taken from the pylon of a temple at I)hanesEuchaflstos (most gracious), and they Thebes, by way of showing the reader in what shall add this name to the others, that they bor- manner the hieroglyphic records are found on row from the deities to the service of whom they the monuments. The cartouches here, which are already consecrated, contain the name of Remeses III., the great And in order that it may be known why, in Sesostris, are not less than five feet in length 35 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. on the pylon tower, and the others in propor- tion. There is no temple wall, or column, or, I had almost said, stone, in Egypt that is not carved with these signs, and the reader will judge of the probabilities of these profuse rec- ords containing historical matter of great value. The discovery made, there was the usual dispute on its value, and then on its origin. Champollion did not live to see his well-estab- lished possession of the honor due to him, but the age gave it at even an earlier day than the age usually admits the claims of genius and ability. But the rapidity of the uses to which his discoveries were put did fully reward him before his death, and he saw the wonderful stores of knowledge contained in Egyptian writ- ings and sculptures open to the eyes of scholars and translated for the benefit of mankind. I can not forbear relating here an anecdote of his visit to Egypt in connection with what I have before written, and with this branch of the subject. Fears had been entertained and expressed that there would not be sufficient confirmation of Scripture found in Egyptian sculpture, and those who but half believed their Bibles were afraid of the monumentsa strange fear that is found in the history of every progressive sci- ence. He whose faith in revelation is ~firm al- ways springs with delight to the investigation of new fields, owing (not hoping) that he will find full confirmation and new assistance to his faith and understanding. Champollion visited Egypt. There is on the south wall of the tem- ple of Karnak a sculptured group, in which a god is represented as offerin~, to a king a host of captured cities and countries. The kings name was known as Sheshonk, or Shishak, as our translation of the Old Testament has it; but although a hundred scholars had seen the rows of captives, no one of them had read here any thing by which to connect this with the Scrip- ture history. Champollion landed at Karnak on his way to Upper Egypt, and remained an hour or two in the vast halls that are the won- der of modem wanderers. But his keen eye was not idle, and as he passed this group, read- ing name by name in it silently, he started as- tonished at the blindness of his friends who were before him, and read aloud to them the name MELEK AITJDAH, or the King of Judah. The oval in which it was inclosed represents a fortified place, and the sign at the bottom, as I have before remark- ed, represents a coun- try. It was like a voice out of the ancient ages, that sound among the ruins of Karnak, as the great scholar read the story of the son of Sol- omon on the wall of his conquerors temple. It was the greatest, as it was almost the first of the new discoveries, and a tribute to the truth of Gods revela- tion that at once con- secrated and sealed the truth of the scholars investigations and their results. That wall at Karnak is the most interesting spot among the fallen temples of the land of the IPharaohs. While other records have been effaced, that one seems to have been kept expressly that the world might discover it, and now it is crum- bling. When I stood before it, a few months ago, I observed that the corner of the stone was badly broken, and the next name, which was perfect in Champollions time, is now complete- ly effaced. This will soon. follow. But hun- dreds of travelers have seen it, and the copies of it are placed on record forever, so that future ages can not doubt that, in the nineteenth cen- tury after Christ, Champollion read on the walls of Karnak, among the captured countries of nEOTOATION OF THE PYLON OF A TEMPLE TO AEMN, BY REMESES IlL MELEK AIUDAH, ELNO OF JUDAH. PASSAGES OF EASTERN TRAVEL. 89 Shishak, the name of the kingdom of Solo- mon, and the name that was hallowed to all eternity afterward when Pilate nailed it to the cross of the last and greatest KING OF THE JEWS. I have thus briefly and very superficially de- scribed the discovery of the Egyptian hiero- glyphics and their interpretation. The question meets us instantly, If you have made this dis- covery, what hinders your readinginstantly, as well as in Greek or Hebrew, all the records of Egypt? The answer is simply this. We do not know Goptic. It is a dead language most em- phatically. Modern Coptic resembles it less than modern Italian resembles old Latin. Hence it is a slow process, and every new record read re- quires an addition to the Coptic dictionary. Therefore it is that the slow process of deci- phering the hieroglyphics continues slow. We may be pardoned here the repetition of a hope that the minds of American scholars may be turned to this subject. For while thus far the entire credit of Egyptian discoveries is due to Europeans, it is undeniable that there remains undiscovered a vast amount of more important matters than have yet been opened, and which will remain unknown until a quicker and more active intellect is devoted to them than has yet been directed that way. Such is the American intellect, and when it shall be once turned to Egyptian research, we may be pardoned the con- fident expectation of great results. The Euro- pean scholars have a great difficulty to contend with which we have not. I allude to the jeal- ousies of each other, which lead them to seek constantly for confirmations of their own ancient ideas in place of new facts, which might possi- bly prove their old ideas false. Thus, at the present time, it is said that an eminent French investigator has in his possession important dis- coveries which he is unwilling to make public lest an equally eminent German should make use of them, and the German delays the publication of a long-promised volume lest the Frenchman should have wherewithal to refute his chrono- logical theories. Of these absurd jealousies our American scholars fortunately know nothing, and when their attention shall be directed to Egypt, we may hope for a more rapid advance than has been yet made in the interpretation of the monuments. I paused to describe the discovery of Chain- pollion, and now, by your leave, will return to the river and our downward course. The sol- emn and magnificent appearance of Abon Sim- hal, the glorious beauty of Phihe, the lofty airy splendor of Koom Ombos, had each in turn im- pressed us with various sentiments of awe and admiration, but it was with an anxiety that I can not well describe, that we left the first cat- aract on our way to Thebes. It was a lonely but a happy life, that on the great river. Jacques and myself could scarce- ly admit our personal identity when we were strolling with our guns over the hills on the desert edge, or when we sat at night on the deck of the boat and listened to the rippling voice of Father Nile. All the recollections of boyhood and youth came crowding on us. We recalled every hour of old years, and wondered at the thought that we were the same persons who used to sit on the rocks at Stonington, and look eastward over the rolling sea by Napatree and Watch Hill, and talk of Eastern lands, even these in which we were now wandering. Sometimes we talked of home, and disputed whether or no there was truth in the existence of those far lands and far scenes of which we dreamed, or wheth- er, after all, it was not all dream, all dream- land. And so we reached Edfou early one morning, and the Eeis being in a desperate hurry to get to land before another boat which was close be- hind us, plumped the Phantom on a sand-bar, where the pelicans and cranes laughed at us for three hours of a bright morning, and the Breeze, the other boat, following us blindly, fell on the same shoal, and stuck fast on the same bar. The men heaved, and pulled, and braced their backs under the boat, and strained their brawny limbs, and looked wistfully at their breakfast on deck, which the Eels wouldnt let them have until they got the boat oW and so the sun went up high, and the chances were that we should lie there till the next flood of the Nile. It was at this moment that Jacques, who had been sit- ting on deck, quietly smoking his chibouk, and had now finished it, called out to Hajji Hassan to make a rope fast to her stern, and take it off across the stream, where three of the men took hold, standing nearly up to their necks in wa- ter. A few easy pulls in that direction started the sand under her keel, and she swung gently oft while the poor wretches who had been work- ing under the sides, swung themselves in with an exclamation, Mishallab 1 and took to their breakfast as if starving. Fifteen minutes morn brought us to the land, at the same spot in which we lay on our way up the river, and we started on foot, while the ladies rode donkeys up to thn village and the temples. The travelers from the other boat were a par- ty of four from Albany, three ladies and a gen- tleman, and they soon arrived, so that them were five American ladies and three gentlemen in the temple at Edfou together. I have spoken of this grand building in the article written on my way up the river, and I shall not pause here to describe it. It is one of those wonders of Egypt best described by saying that a large part of the modern village, a part containing several hundred inhabitants, is situated on the roof of the rear portion, the adytum of the temple. The filth of centuries is accumulated within, and I record here the fact that I did not enter the adytum, as this was the only hole, large or small, in Egypt, which there was any object in entering, that I shrank from. It occurred on this wise. I was loitering around the en- trance, looking at the vast towers of the gate- way, while the ladies sat in a picturesque group 40 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. in the grand court, under the shade of the west- ern corridor. Antika, antika kebeer, antika tieb keteer minhenna ! said an Arab boy to me. I had heard it from so many that I thou,,bt there must be something worth the seeing, and shouting to May that I would return soon, I pushed on after the boy, who led me, with a motley train behind me, up to the village, which was on the roof of the adytum, and through two or three of its dirty alleys. The crowd of wo- men and children began to increase around me, and at length my leader pushed open the board entrance of a mud hut, and told me to follow him. I followed him, and they followed me. They were of all grades, colors, and stages of na- kedness and filth, some fifty Arab or Egyptian women and children, not a man among them, and I looked around me in the dim hut, thinking myself the centre of altogether the worst-look- ing group of humanity that ever radiated around my bumble self. Up to this time I entertained the idea that I was to find an antique for sale, and I had some doubts whether it would turn out to be a mummy or a vasefor every vain- eible curiosity is most diligently concealed from the government officers. But the boy demand- ed now whether I had a candle, and on my re- plying Yes, and producing my never-failing com- panion and some matches, he seized the candle, lit it while I looked on patiently, and then dropping flat on his face on the floor, vanished out of sight. It was magical. I was for an instant in as- tonished silence, till the group began shouting, Antika tieb, tieb keteer ! and pointin~, down- ward, directed my attention to what I had not before observed, that the side wall of the hut was the upper part of the wall of the temple, and that the boy had crawled through a hole about a foot high, by two or two and a half wide, and was actually gone, by this hole in the wall, into the holy of holies, which priests and princes of ancient days were accustomed to enter in. lordly processions of solemn grandeur. I stooped and looked in. The boy was call- ing me. I lay down and worked my way, in snake fashion, far enough to see that I was in a sculptured room, half filled with dust, and straw, and filth, and then seven fleas attacked my feet, seventeen my waist, and seven score my neck, and I retreated to outer light, and the stifling presence of the women and children, who vociferously demanded if it was not a mag- nificent antique, and if my bucksheesh would not be proportionately grand. I scattered some coppers on the floor, whereupon there ensued the usual rough-and-tumble scene, a confused heap of heads, arms, legs, and bodies in the middle of the room, and I came out into the air. As I passed the front of the temple on my way hack to the ladies, a hard-working old case of an Arab whispered in my ear that if I wanted to see some good arrakee, he was just the man who could gratify me. I thought he was, and having on my way up the river observed his close attachment to the old governor, I had thereby an additional explanation of the red face and blear eyes of that functionary of whose diligent pursuit of my brandy I before wrote. Willin~, to see all that was to be seen, I as- sented, and the old fellow led me to the spot. For the benefit of future travelers who may wish a drink at Edfou, I will inform them that it is in the street running from the front of the tem- ple, third door on the left; knock once, and say something low about bucksheesb, and an old womanif she is not dead, as she seemed like- ly to be soona fac-simile of the old man, will open the door, lead you through a court into a smaller court, and exhibit altogether the most primitive still that your eyes will ever rest on, wherein, by aid of dates and fire, there is man- ufactured wherewith to poison the poor devils who lie lazily around the temple to pick up travelers coppers, and insure them a poor re- ception from the Prophet after they are dead. On the whole, however, it was good arrakee that the old man made, although the stuff is detestable. The taste is anise seed, the effect that of the lowest grade of whisky. I tasted and departed. As I came out of the hut into the street, where were now at least a hundred natives crowded around our party, who were purchasing antiques, I saw the old man slide up to Mr. B, the Albany gentleman aforesaid, and whisper as he had to me, and a few min- utes later Mr. B came out of the hut with a comical expression of countenance, and it was difficult to say whether it was owing to the od- dity of the circumstance or the vileness of the tipple. There was a little girl in the crowd, innocent of drapery, who came up to me repeatedly with four coins at a time in her hand, which I re- peatedly purchased before I observed that it was the same child each time. I then saw that there must be a treasury of them somewhere. Obvi- ously she could not carry them about her per- son, that was too manifest, and I made her take me to her home, a mud hut a little way off. It was inhabited by an old woman, who denied en- tirely that she had any more; but persuasion and promises produced the result at length, and she brought me out some hundreds of coins, chiefly of the Eastern empire, but many more valuable. I selected and purchased all that I wished, but the stock will last her for years, and any one wishing for coins may find them there. Street and number I cant give. It was a delicious afternoon. The memory of it haunts me. I can not say why, except that earth, air, and sky were in more perfect unison of beauty that day than ever before. We dined early, and after dinner I took my gun and strolled down the river, leaving the boat to follow when it would. The evening shut in, and I found myself on the beach, where a long point of mud or sand, running two miles down the river, completely shut me off from communication with the boat if she should come along, but as yet I saw nothing of her. Re- PASSAGES OF EASTERN TRAVEL. 41 tracing my steps, with Mohammed Hassan, my constant companion in such walks, close behind me, I took to the point and followed it down, shooting an occasional wild fowl, for Edfou abounds in every species of duck, and the river is filled with geese and various other water fowl, which find excellent feeding ground in the lake and flats back of the village. A boat coming slowly up the river with full sail set, passed close to me, and I exchanged salutes with her owners. She carried English colors. The last rays of the sun lit them joy- ously as she swept on up the stream, and I was left alone with my Arab attendant on the sandy point, and the swift night was coming down ou us, as it always comes in that land of clear air and deep skies. At length it became manifest that it was unsafe to walk farther. The bar on which I was walking was of mud and sand mingled, and had now narrowed to less than two hundred feet, while it oozed and sank un- der my feet at each step that I made in ad- vance. It was that peculiar mud, too, which re- minds one of what, when boys, we called leatli- er-ice, which was apparently tough and strong, and yet would yield under a steady pressure, so that we could run across it, but could not rest on it. I could strike the breech of my gun down heavily and firmly on it, and it would not give, but by tapping it gently I would change the consistency of it to mere loose mud, and then a small circle would sink and leave clear water in its place. Taking our position on the highest point of the ridge, a foot or two above the river level, and changing our feet constantly from place to place, we waited impa- tiently the coming of the boat. The Breeze, Mr. B s boat, shot by us, and he sent me a halloo and a salute, to which I replied by wav- ing my hat, and a few moments later the P/ian- torn was visible leaving the land. It was now a question whether they would see us or not, as it was growing so dark; but the voice is heard an incredible distance over these still waters, and our call was heard and answered more than a mile away, and the small boat came down rapidly for me. But it could not approach within thirty feet of the land, and I waded off to it, declining the proffered shoulders of the men, lest by contact I should take off what is as bad as disease, and much worse than dirt. As I came on board the men lay down to their oars with a will, and it appeared that they had agreed on a race with the crew of the Breeze, which was now far ahead of us. In the evening, as we were seated quietly at our round table, we felt a sudden increase in the velocity of the boat, and, looking out, saw that we were alongside of the other boat, whose crew had waited for us. Then the swarthy Arabs sprang to their oars, and the Reis, seated at the top of the ladder to the upper deck, led them in a song, to which they gave a stout and hearty chorus, while the other boat sang another re- frain; and the two flew through the water at a speed far surpassing any thing I had supl)osed possible with such heavy objects. Now one boat was ahead, and now the other. Now the Breeze led us a half length, and now we came up with her and edged slowly by her. It was impossible to write at the table, so fast did we go, and so much did the boat spring to the strokes of the oars, and the race was not over till we both came to the land under the shade of the sont trees that line the bank at El Kab, the ancient ElLErsivAs, of which the reader ~vill remember I spoke in a former article. Here we had proposed to pass a day, and here we found one of the most interesting point2 in Egypt. The ruins of the ancient city arc more extensive than of any other in Egypt, hut these consist almost solely of crude brick re- mains, walls, and heaps which cover a great space, included within the circuit of a gigantic wall, whose height and thickness must have been cyclopean. It is not in these, however, that the UPWARD BOUND. 42 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. interest of a stay at Eilethyas consists, but in the tombs of the Egyptians with which the bill back of the plain is perforated, some of which are among the most curious and instructive in Egypt. The ordinary reader of works on E,,ypt is ac- customed to wonder and to be incredulous when the historian undertakes to describe the minute details of life and the small incidents of~ every- day occurrence in the early days of this oldest part of the world. But his wonder must cease upon entering the first painted tomb on the Nile, and he becomes satisfied that we have plenty of evidence on all the small affairs of the life of the man whose tomb he now sees. Every incident of that life which appeared deserving of record is here recorded. If he built a house, it is here, and every room numbered and described. If he launched or navigated a boat, it is here, with all its peculiarities. If he erected a statue, the statue is here delineated, and the ways and means of its erection are all fully illustrated. I have here given an outline of one of the drawings on the tomb of a priest at Eiletbyas~ which may serve to show how they transported horses and chariots in old times. Bnt I siiay give a better illustration still from a part of the wall of a tomb at Thebes, now found in the Brit- ish Mnseum. From the first one we learn the size of the cabin of an ancient boat, the position of the rowers and steersman, and the use of the lash to compel the slaves to their work. In the sec- ond we have a farming scene, with the herds- man making his report to the owner. Of the tombs at Eilethyas several are of great interest as containing some of the most ancient records in the Nile valley, and especially for one early list of monarchs, which is yet to be exam- med for the discovery of chrono- logical matter that for the present remains unknown. Rising early in the morning, Jacques and myself stationed our- selves on a knoll, or rather on a part of the ancient wall of the city, which is now but mounds of earth, and watched for the flight of pigeons from the villages to the cornfields. At length they be- gan to pass over our heads, and we had ample practice in shoot- ing at them for half an hour, until we were called to breakfast, and sat down willingly to one of Hajji Mohammeds loaded boards. Never were two ladies in brighter condition than Amy and May, and never were donkeys more miserable brought for ladies to ride on than now awaited them on the bank above the boat. But they were the best that the country afforded, and they mounted, while Jacques and myself de 7 5 aEansMEN Givixe AN ACCOUNT OF TIlE cATTLE. Fig. I. llerdsmen giving an account to the scribe, 3. 2. Auother doiug obeisance to the master of the estate, or to the scribe. 4. Other herdsmen. 5. The driver of the cattle, carrying a rope in his hand. 6. nowing and giving his report to the scribe, 7, over whom is the usual sachel and two boxes. PASSAGES OF EASTERN TRAVEL. 43 dined the proftbr of similar conveyances, and Egyptian scholar has any doubt. Of the char started on foot across the plain, which stretched acter, beauty, and variety of ornaments fonnd away to the foot of the mountain, shooting as some idea may he gathered from the illustrations we went at whatever wild animals we found here given, which are all copies of rings, etc., now haunting the ruins of the ancient palaces of the in various public and private collections. It was in hopes that we might find something valuable that we made constant purchase of all the trifles that the people hrought to us; and, after loading ourselves with earthen figures and images of various sorts, we were coming away, when a woman called me aside, and showed me a hrilliant stone, for which she wanted a copper, and for which I gave her her price. On exam- ination it proved to he a ruby of no small size and of great beauty. That afternoon we cast off from the shore, the Breeze being ahead of us, and Mr. B having come on board our boat. After dinner, while we were quietly sipping our wine, we were roused by the Arabs crying out that there was an American flag ahead, and rushing out on deck we saw a boat coming up with a fresh breeze, and behind it yet another, carrying also the stars and stripes. It was a sight worth see- ing that, and not very common any where in the Eastern world. Four American boats to- gether on the Nile! Of course we all shouted every body must shout under such circumstances. Jacques, and Mr. B , and myself sprang into our small boat and boarded the other boats the ladies having only waved their hands and helped the shouting a little. The Phantom and the Breeze went drifting down the river, and we went up with the new-comers, who could give us late news from home and from the civilized Romans. Half an hour brought us to the foot of the hills, and lending our own assistance to the donkeys, we succeeded in carrying the ladies up the steep ascent to the platform in front of the first and chief roxv of sepulchres, when they dismounted, and we proceeded together to ex- amine the empty chambers that were once fitted up for the long abode of mortality awaiting im- mortality. Neither shall I here pause to describe these tombs. We sat in one of them and welcomed the arrival of the~ party from the Breeze, who now came up, and we looked out on the flow of the river, and up toward Edfou, and down toward Thebes, and again we talked of the grandeur of the sepulchral spots which the men of old time selected, as if they designed to look out on the flow of their lordly river in the solemn nights, when ghosts of all ages have been permitted to walk abroad. I believe that I mentioned, in my description of my voyage up the river, that I passed a morn- ing at this place searching for antiques. We desired to do so again, and having given direc- tions to our boat to drop down the river, we went on to the village, which lay a few miles down the plain, crossing the same broad plateau on which, a few weeks before, I had made my ddat on an Arab horse. I was now on foot, and went along very quietly in the hot sun- shine. At the village we were surrounded by the inhabitants in an instant, and, their curi- osity having been satisfied at first, they brought us what they had collected during our ab- sence up the river. The stranger to Egypt per- haps wonders what sort of an- tiques we can expect to find in such places. Certainly it must be something smaller than a statue or a sphinx, for these are ~lenty, and whoever wishes to load a ship with one or a dozen may do so. But the tombs of Egypt inclose unknown treas- ures of antiquity. Of these, to the traveler, jewelry and ar- ticles of personal ornament are usually most curious and de- ~irable, and the tombs often furnish these of great beauty and value. It is already known to the world that the collection of Dr. Abbott, in New York, contains, nmong other elegant jewelry, the ring which once rested on the fingerof the found- er of the great Pyramid, and of the genniucuess of which no ~cvL ____ in as, SICNET5, azAcELlers, Ann zAa-zuees. 44 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. world to which we had so long been stran- gers; and at length, when darkness came on us, we separated and returned to our floating homes. We shall never forget that row homeward. It was a long, cold, and weary pull, but we sang and talked and smoked, and smoked and talked and sang, and it was bedtime when we overtook the two boats, drifting side by side down the old river. The breeze that blew that night fresh- ened to a gale before morning, and, for the sec- ond time in our downward progress, we were unable to make any advance, and were obliged to make fast to the land, and lie all day waiting a change for the better. THE WHITE HILLS IN OCTOBER. OUR town friends who fly from the heat, and dust, and menacing diseases, and insupport- able ennui of their city resi~ence, during the months of July and August, may have an escape, hut they have little enjoyment. We admire the heroism with which they endure, year after year, the discomforts of a country hotel, or the packing in the narrow, half-furnished bedrooms and rather warm attics of rural lodging-houses, and the general abatement and contraction of creature-comforts, in such startling contrast to the abounding luxuries of their own city palaces. But they are right; the country, at any discount, is better, in the fearful heats of July and August, than the town with its hot, unquiet nights and polluted air. Any hillside or valley in the country, and shelter under any roof in or upon them, with the broad cope of heaven above (not cut into patches and fragments by intervening walls and chimney-tops), and broad fields, and grass, and corn, and woodlands, and their, flow- ers, and freshening dews and breezes, and all Natures infinite variety, is better than every appliance and contrivance for battling with the din, the suffocation, and unrest of city life. Yes, our city friends are right in their sum- mer fli0hts from The street Filled with its ever-shifting train. But they must not flatter themselves that their mere glimpse of country life, their mere snatch at its mid-summer beauty, the one free-drawn breath of their wearied spirit, is acquaintance with it. As well might one who had seen Rosalind, the most versatile of Shakspeare s heroines, only in her court-dress at her uncle, the dukes ball, guess at her infinite variety of charm in the forest of Ardennes. Nature holds her drawing-room in July and August. She wears her fullest and richest dress then; if we may speak flippantly, without offenseto the sim- plicity of her majesty, she is then en pleine toi- lette. But any other of the twelve is more pic- turesque than the summer months. Blustering March, with its gushing streams tossing off their icy fetterschangeful April, with its greening fields and glancing birdssweet, budding, blos- soming Mayflowery Junefruitful September golden, glorious Octoberdreary, thonghtful November; and all of winter, with its stern grandeur and heroic adversity. But let our citizens come to our rural dis- trictsthe more the better for them! Only let them not imagine they get that enough which is as good as a feast. This preamble was naturally suggested by our autumnal life in the country, and by a re- currence to a late delightful passn~,e through the White Hills of New Hampshire. That resort ef people that do pass In travel to and fro, during the intense months of July and August, we found in October so free from visitors that we might have fancied ourselves the discoverers of that upland region of beauty, unparalleled, so far as we know, in all the traveled parts of our country. And for the benefit of those who shall come after us, for all who have their highest enjoyment, perhaps their best instruction, in Natures Free School, we intended to give brief notices of our tour, in the hope of extending the traveling season into October, by imparting some faint idea of the startling beauty of this brilliant month in the mountains, but what we might have said was happily superseded. At a little inn, in a small town, after we came down from the high place, we met a party of friends who had preceded us along the whole route by a day. A rain came on and we were detained to- gether for twenty-four hours. We agreed to pass the evening in a reciprocal reading of the brief notes of our journey. It came last to the turn of my friend, a very charming young per- son, whom I shall take the liberty to call Mary Langdon. She blushed, and stammered, and protested against being a party to the contribu- tion. My only record of the journey, she said, is a long letter to my cousin, which I began before we left home. So much the better, we rejoined. But, she said, it has been written capri- ciously, in every mood of feeling. Therefore, we urged, the more variety. At last, driven to the wall, she threw a mo- rocco letter-case into my lap, sayin~, Take ii and read it to yourselg and you will see why I positively can not read it aloud. So we gave up our entreaties, and I read the letter-journal after I went to my room. The reading cheated me of an hours sleepperhaps because I had just intensely enjoyed the coun- try my friend described, and in the morning I begged Miss Langdons permission to publish it. She at first vehemently objected, saying it would be in the highest degree indelicate to publish so much of her own story as was inextricably inter- woven with the journey. But, dear child, I urged, who that reads our magazines knows you? You will be on the other side of the Atlantic in another month, and before you return this record will be forgotten, for alas! we contributors to monthlies do not write for immortality But for the briefest modality I am not fitted

44 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. world to which we had so long been stran- gers; and at length, when darkness came on us, we separated and returned to our floating homes. We shall never forget that row homeward. It was a long, cold, and weary pull, but we sang and talked and smoked, and smoked and talked and sang, and it was bedtime when we overtook the two boats, drifting side by side down the old river. The breeze that blew that night fresh- ened to a gale before morning, and, for the sec- ond time in our downward progress, we were unable to make any advance, and were obliged to make fast to the land, and lie all day waiting a change for the better. THE WHITE HILLS IN OCTOBER. OUR town friends who fly from the heat, and dust, and menacing diseases, and insupport- able ennui of their city resi~ence, during the months of July and August, may have an escape, hut they have little enjoyment. We admire the heroism with which they endure, year after year, the discomforts of a country hotel, or the packing in the narrow, half-furnished bedrooms and rather warm attics of rural lodging-houses, and the general abatement and contraction of creature-comforts, in such startling contrast to the abounding luxuries of their own city palaces. But they are right; the country, at any discount, is better, in the fearful heats of July and August, than the town with its hot, unquiet nights and polluted air. Any hillside or valley in the country, and shelter under any roof in or upon them, with the broad cope of heaven above (not cut into patches and fragments by intervening walls and chimney-tops), and broad fields, and grass, and corn, and woodlands, and their, flow- ers, and freshening dews and breezes, and all Natures infinite variety, is better than every appliance and contrivance for battling with the din, the suffocation, and unrest of city life. Yes, our city friends are right in their sum- mer fli0hts from The street Filled with its ever-shifting train. But they must not flatter themselves that their mere glimpse of country life, their mere snatch at its mid-summer beauty, the one free-drawn breath of their wearied spirit, is acquaintance with it. As well might one who had seen Rosalind, the most versatile of Shakspeare s heroines, only in her court-dress at her uncle, the dukes ball, guess at her infinite variety of charm in the forest of Ardennes. Nature holds her drawing-room in July and August. She wears her fullest and richest dress then; if we may speak flippantly, without offenseto the sim- plicity of her majesty, she is then en pleine toi- lette. But any other of the twelve is more pic- turesque than the summer months. Blustering March, with its gushing streams tossing off their icy fetterschangeful April, with its greening fields and glancing birdssweet, budding, blos- soming Mayflowery Junefruitful September golden, glorious Octoberdreary, thonghtful November; and all of winter, with its stern grandeur and heroic adversity. But let our citizens come to our rural dis- trictsthe more the better for them! Only let them not imagine they get that enough which is as good as a feast. This preamble was naturally suggested by our autumnal life in the country, and by a re- currence to a late delightful passn~,e through the White Hills of New Hampshire. That resort ef people that do pass In travel to and fro, during the intense months of July and August, we found in October so free from visitors that we might have fancied ourselves the discoverers of that upland region of beauty, unparalleled, so far as we know, in all the traveled parts of our country. And for the benefit of those who shall come after us, for all who have their highest enjoyment, perhaps their best instruction, in Natures Free School, we intended to give brief notices of our tour, in the hope of extending the traveling season into October, by imparting some faint idea of the startling beauty of this brilliant month in the mountains, but what we might have said was happily superseded. At a little inn, in a small town, after we came down from the high place, we met a party of friends who had preceded us along the whole route by a day. A rain came on and we were detained to- gether for twenty-four hours. We agreed to pass the evening in a reciprocal reading of the brief notes of our journey. It came last to the turn of my friend, a very charming young per- son, whom I shall take the liberty to call Mary Langdon. She blushed, and stammered, and protested against being a party to the contribu- tion. My only record of the journey, she said, is a long letter to my cousin, which I began before we left home. So much the better, we rejoined. But, she said, it has been written capri- ciously, in every mood of feeling. Therefore, we urged, the more variety. At last, driven to the wall, she threw a mo- rocco letter-case into my lap, sayin~, Take ii and read it to yourselg and you will see why I positively can not read it aloud. So we gave up our entreaties, and I read the letter-journal after I went to my room. The reading cheated me of an hours sleepperhaps because I had just intensely enjoyed the coun- try my friend described, and in the morning I begged Miss Langdons permission to publish it. She at first vehemently objected, saying it would be in the highest degree indelicate to publish so much of her own story as was inextricably inter- woven with the journey. But, dear child, I urged, who that reads our magazines knows you? You will be on the other side of the Atlantic in another month, and before you return this record will be forgotten, for alas! we contributors to monthlies do not write for immortality But for the briefest modality I am not fitted THE WHITE HILLS IN OCTOBER. 45 to write, she pleaded. I rather smiled at the novelty of one hesitating to write for the public because not fitted for the task, and (thinking of the fools that rushed inthere is small apt- ness in the remainder of the familiar quotation) I continued to urge, till my young friend yielded on my promising to omit passages which relat- ed to the private history of her heartMary Langdon not partaking that incomprehensible frankness, or child-like hallucination which en- ables some of our very bcst writers, Mrs. Brown- ing for instance, to impart, by sonnets and in various vehicles of prose and verse, to the curi- ous and all-devouring public those secrets from the hearts holy of holies that common mortals would hardly confess to a loveror a priest. It is to our purpose, writing as we profess to do pour lutile, that our young friend indulged little in sentiment, and that being a country- bred New England girl, she conscientiously set down the coarser realities essential to the well- being of a travelerbreakfasts, dinners, etc. But before proceeding to her journal, I must introduce my ck!butante, if she who will proba- bly make but a single appearance before the public may be so styled. Mary Langdon is still on the threshold of life at least those who have reached threescore would deem her so, as she is not more than three-and-twenty. The freshness of her youth has been preserved by a simple and rather re- tired country life. A total abstinence from French novels and other like reading has left the purity and candor of her youth unscathed by tboir blight and weather-stain. Would that this tree of the knowledge of evilnot good and evilwere never transplanted into our New World! Beware, ye that eat of it; your love of what is natural and simple will surely die. Mary Langdons simplicity is that of truth, not of ignorance. Her father has given her what he calls a good educationthat means, he says, that she thoroughly knows how to read, write, and cipher, which, he rather tartly adds, few girls brou,~ht up nt French boarding- schools do. As might be suspected, from the practical ideas in her narrative, our young friend has had that complete development of her facul- ties which arises out of the necessities of coun- try life. Mary Langdon is called only pretty, but her prettiness is beauty in the eyes of her friends and lovers; and then she is so buoyant, so free of step, and frank of speech, that while others are slowly winding their way to your affection, she springs into your heart. With due respect to seniority we should have presented Mr. Langdon before his daughter. On being called on for his journal, he said he was not such a confounded fool as to keep one for any portion of his life. He should as soon think of crystallizing soap-bubbles. He had dotted down a few memoranda as warnings to future travelers, and we were welcome to them; though he thought we were too mount- ain mad to profit by them, if; indeed, any body VOL. XIV.No. 79.D ever profited by any bodys else experience. The fact was, the dear old gentleman had left home in a very unquiet state of mind. He hated at all times leaving his home abounding in comfortshe detested travel even under what he termed alleviating circumstances. He was rather addicted to growling. This English instinct came over with his progenitor in the May Flower, and half a dozen generations had not suf- ficed to subdue it. But Mr. Langdons bark is worse than his bite. In truth his bite is like that of a teething childs, resulting from a derangement of sweet and loving elements. We found our old friends memoranda ~ strongly resembling the grumbling of our travel- ing cousins from over the water, that we eon-. eluded to print some portions of it, in order to illustrate the effects of the lights or shadows that emanate from our own minds. Providence pro- vides the banquet; its relish or disrelish depends on the appetite of the guest. But to Mary Lang- dons letter, which, as it was begun before she left home, bears its first date there: LAKE-SIDE, 28 Sept., 1854. Mr DEAR SuE,I have not much more to tell you than my last contained. Carl Her- mann left our neighborhood last week, determ- ined to return by the next steamer to Dussel- dorf. We were both very wretched at this final parting. But as I have often seen people making great sacrifices to others, and then losing themselves, and letting others lose all the benefit of the sacrifice by the ungracious manner of it, I summoned up courage and appeared before my father calm and acquiescing; and (you will think me passionless, perhaps hard-hearted) I soon became so. I read over and over again your arguments, and I confess I was willing to be persuaded by them. But, after all, my point of sight is not yours, and you can not see ob- ~jects in the proportions and relations that I do. Y~u say I have exaggerated notions of filial dutythat I have come to mature age, and ri~ judgment, and that I should decide and act for myselfthat in the nature of things the conjugal must supersede the filial relation, and that I have no right to sacrifice my life-long happiness to the remnant of my fathers days; and that, above all, I am foolish to give in to his preju- dices, andselfishness, you added, dear, and did not quite efface the word. Though I see there is much reason in what you say, I have only to reply that I can not marry with my fathers disapprobation. I can not, and I will not. Our hearts have grown together. God forms the bond that ties the child to the parent, and we make the other; and it shows humen workbeing often fragile, sometimes rotten. Susy, you lost your parents when you were so young that you can not tell what .1 feel for my surviving one. Since my mothers death and the marriage of Alice, he has lived in such depend- ence on me, that I cant tell what his life would be if I were to leave him, and I will not. You tell me this is unnatural, and a satisfactory proof to you that I do not love Carl. Oh, Sue! -. HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. Here must be our first hiatus. We can only say that the outpouring of our young friends heart satisfied us that beneath her serene sur- face there was an unfathomable well of feeling, and that her friend must have been convinced that Loves reason is not always without reason. The letter proceeds: I very well know that every father is prejudiced, Sue, but old men s prejudices become part and parcel of themselves, and they can not be cured of them. My fathers do not spring from any drop of bitterness, for he has not one; nor from egotism, for he has none of it; but, as you know, his early life was in Boston, and his only society is there, and he naturally partakes the opinions of his contempo- raries who, the few surviving among them, deem all foreigners interlopers, outside barbarians, strangers intermeddling with that liberty, equal- ity, and pursuit of happiness which is their ex- clusive birth-right; or rather, I suspect, that in their secret souls they re,ard the theories of their revolutionary fathers as a Utopian dream. A foreign artist above all is, in my fathers eye, a mere vagrant~ who neither deserves nor can attain a local habitation or a name; and thus my poor Carl, with divine gifts, and habits of industry that would make the fortune of a mere mechanic, is thrust aside. Here Mary Langdon begins the narration of her journey, and here we give as notes, a few specimens from her fathers memoranda, that our readers may have the advantage of seeing the same objects from different points of sight, prem~ising that our old friends memoranda were scanty, and repeating that we give but speci- mens. We smile at his petulance more in love than ridicule. We are not fond of showing it off, and only do so in these brief extracts to sub- stantiate our opinion that his traveling temper showed him near of kin to English tourists, who seem to make it a point to turn their plates bot- tom side upward. The father and daughter both record the same facts. The one shows the right and beantiful side of the tapestry, the other the wrong one. Strange that any eye should make the fatal mis- take of dwelling on the last rather than the first I On Monday, 2d of October, proceeds Mary Langdon in her letter to her cousin, we came into Boston, to take the two oclock train for Portland. We had three hours upon our hands, which we pleasantly filled by visits to a studio and a picture-shop; and, finally, our mortal part having given out while we were feasting the, im- mortal, we repaired to a restaurat rs. We groped ou.r way into a little back room in School Street, where, if we did not find luxury or ele- gance, we did what met our reasonable wants wholesome fare and civility.* EXTRACT FROM Mu. LAXODONS JOURNAL. 24 October, Anslo Domino, 1Sb4~ Left my comfort- able lowland home for unknown parts and known re- ~gions of snow and ice. The Lord willing, I am sure of one pleasurecoming home again! We had three mortal hours on our hands this morn- ing in Iloston. I called en my dear old friends, the sur The passage to Portland was dusty but brief, and we arrived there in time to see its beautiful harbor, while the water reflected the rose-tints on the twilight clouds. We, as ad- vised, eschewed the hotel, and were kindly re- ceived at a Miss Joness, a single woman, who so blends dignity with graciousness, that she made us feel like invited guests. One might well mistake the reception of the hostess for the welcome of a friend. Her table has an Ameri- can variety and abundance with the nicety of English appointments. Her house is a model. Its quiet and completeness reminds one of that classic type of comfort, an English inn. Tbe house, with its, high repute, was the inheritanee of two sisters from their mother, of whom we were told an anecdote, which may be apocryphal, but which would harmonize with the bonhommie of Sir Roger de Coverly. The old lady closed her patriarchul length of days serenely; and when she was dying, she requested that the or- der of her household should be in nowise dis- turbed by the event of her decease, but that the gentlemen should play their evening game of whist as usual !~ Tuesday. Miss Joness morning face was as benign as her evening countenance. No lady could have administered hospitality with more refinement. Just as the door of the car- riage that was to convey us to the station was closing, it was reopened, and a rough-hewn, but decent country body was shoved in by the driv- er, who muttered something of there being no other conveyance for her. My father looked awry, not with any thought of remonstrating no native American would do thatbut he was just lighting his after-breakfast cigar, and he shrunk from the impropriety of smoking in such close quarters with a stranger who bore a sem- vivors of the family. Xot one of them, they told me, has yet risked life in a rau-car. Wisdom is not extinct! Called on respected Widow A. Could not see mueh of Sally my old sweetheart, about her; hut we got upon old times, and the color came to her pale, furrowed cheek. Women never forgetloving souls! She gave me a nice lunchpickled oysters, etc., and a glass of old Madeira. Meanwhile the girls were ranging round studios (?), good lack! and picture-shops. This rage for Art has come in with the foreign tongues since my time. Picked them up at a restaurant. What a misnomer! A dainty place of refreshment to he sure; a little dark par- lor behind a shop, with herds rushing in and herds rush- ing out! * EXTRACT FROM SiR. RAucODONS JOURNAL. Came hy rail to Portland, in peril of life and limb. Stirred up with fifty plebeians treading on your toes and jostling your elbows. This modern improvement of cat- tle-pens over a gentlemans carriage with select and elect friends, and time to enjoy a beautiful country, Is the advance of civilization! Travelers now are prisoners under sentence of death, with a chance of escape, their keeper being called a cond tar. Oh! I cry with my old friend Touchstone, when I was at home I was in a better place. Heaven grant me his philosophy to add, Travelers must be content. Portland. Rather a nice house this Miss Joness. Old-fashioned neatness and quiet. But what would our English traveler say to the lady bestowing her own com- pany, unasked, and that of her guest, upon us! Bad but- ter spoiled mytea and breakfast. The girls did net notice It. Youn folks have no sen s. THE WHITE HILLS IN OCTOBER. blance of the sex to which he always pays def- erence. I hope, Madam, he said, a cigar does not offend you? La! no Sir, replied our rustic friend, good-naturedly, I like it. My fathers geniality is sure to be called forth by the touch of a cigar. Perhaps, Madam, he said, with a smile at the corners of his mouth, you would try one yourself? I would, she answered, eagerly, and grasp- ed the cigar my father selected, saying, thank ye kindly. I spose I can light it at the end of yours? My dear fastidious father heroically breast- ed this juxtaposition, and the old lady, uncon- scious of any thing but her keen enjoyment of the unlooked-for boon, smoked away vigorously. Dear Alice, who never loses sight of the duty to wrest a possible mischance from any human beine,, rather verdantly suggested that the cigar might make her sick. Mercy, child! she replied, Im used to pipes. That I had already inferred from her man- ner of holding the cigar. She was soon press- ed by the usual necessity engendered by smok- ing, and half rising from her seat, it was too evident that she mistook the pure plate-glass for empty space. My father let down the glass as if he had been shot; hut she, nowise discom- posed, even by our laughing, merely said, coolly, Why, I did not calculate right, did I? There are idiosyncrasies in Yankeedom there is no doubt of it! Arrived at the cars, our close companionship, and our acquaintance too, ended, except that the womans husband, for she had a husband, some Touchstone whose humor it was to take that no other man would, asked me to put my window down, for his wife was sick! But as I had just observed the good woman munching a bit of mince pie, I thought that coming so close upon the cigar might possibly offend her stomach more than the fresh untainted air, so I declined, as courte- ously as possible, with the answer I have always ready for similar requests, that I keep my win- dow open to preserve the lives of the people in the car. Thats peculiar! I heard her mur- mur; but her serenity was nowise discomposed, either by my refusal or her sickness. Surely the imperturbable good-nature of our people is national and peculiar !* By-the-way, there were notices posted up in these cars which reminded us that we were near the English Provinces, and under their in- fluence. The notice ran thus: Gentlemen are requested not to put their feet on the cushions, and not to spit on the floor; and to maintain a respectable cleanliness, the conductors are re- quired to enforce these requests. Must we wait for the millennium to see a like request and like enforcement pervade our tobacco-chewing country? We found ourselves surrounded by intelligent people of the country l~ebitsafs, who gave us all the local information we asked, told us when we came to Bryants Pond, and that the poor little shrunken stream, that still brawl- ed and fretted in its narrowed channel, was the Androscoggin. At Gorham, seven miles from the Glen House, we left the cars and found a wagon awaiting passengers. The houses are all closed, was the pleasant technical announce- ment of our driver; and he added, cheerfully, The weather has been so tedious that it has burst the bubble on Mount Washington. The bubble ! what the deuce does the man mean! exclaimed my father. I perceived it was a bit of slang wit upon out-of-season people, to terrify them with the bulb having burst, and so I told my father. He solemnly replied that he did not in the least doubt the fact! And as we went on making the ascent, he looked sagely sad; dear Alice, as her hap- py temper is, was bright without the sun.* My father made few and faint responses to our exclamations of delight at the light wreaths of mist that floated far down the mountains, and the massive clouds that dropped over their sum- mits, so that our imaginations were not kept im abeyance by definite outlines. The air was soft, and our steeds, as if considerate ofourenjoyment1 prolonged it by crawling up the long ascent. We came into the Glen House with keen appetites a needful blessing we thoughtwhen Mr. Thompson, the host, with solemn mien informed us he was not prepared for company in Octo- berwe must expect pork and beans. Oh, my poor fathers blank face! yet blanker when we were ushered into a parlor where, instead of the crackling wood fire we had fancied indigenous in these mountains, we found one of those black demons that have taken out of our life all the poetry of the hearth.~ stone. But courage! we can open the stove door and get a sparkle of light and life! 10 ?.M. Before finishing my days journal I must tell you, pour encourager les autres who may risk the closed houses of October, that our host did better than he promised. Our dinner was served in a cozy little room, as neat-. ly as a home dinner; it was hot, which a hotel dinner, in the season, never is; and that the threatened pork and beans turned into tender fowls, fresh eggs, and plentiful accessories of vegetables and pies. William, our wagon-driv * EXTRACT FROM MR. LANODONS JOURNAL. We Were pitched into an open wagon at Gorbam Scottish mistrain impendingchilled to myvery vitals. The driver tells us the bulbs already burst on Mount Washington. Continuous ascent. Not a meadow, ass orchard, or a garden, but dreary mountains shrouded is~ fogs. t Found the Glen House closed, wbfch means tlsat all the comfortable rooms are dismantled and shut up, that take such fare as mine host pleases (pork and beans he promises), thank bim for accommodating you, and pay summer prices. Oh, what fools we mortals are i * EXTRACT FROM MR. LANOI)ON5 JOURNAL. Happy illustration, from a smoking old woman this morning, of the refinements of railroad travel I 48 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. er, was metamorphosed into a waiter, and per- formed his part as if he were native to the manner.* The cloudy evening closed in upon us ear ly. We have eluded its tediousness by reading aloud the Heir of Redeliffe, a charming book, which teaches more irresistibly than the ordain- ed preacher the virtues of forgiveness and self- sacrifice. These Christian graces are vitalized in the lives of Guy and Amy. Amy does right with so much simplicity and so little effort, that one feels as if it were easy to do it; and as my task is as much easier than hers as the lover is less dear than the husband, I will try. You think me cool; I do not feel so. I start and tremble at this howling windit reminds me that Cari is on the ocean. I was here startled by seeing that my father was observing me. My child, he said, you are shaking with cold (not with cold, I could have answered). These confounded stoves, be added, keep one in an alternate ague and fever. Come, waltz round the room with your sister, and get into a glow. So singing our own music, we waltzed till we were out of breath, and Alice has seated herself at picquet with my father, who has a run of luck, point! seizThme! and capote! which puts him into high good-humor, and I may write unmarked. Cari was to write me once more before his embarkation, but I can not get the letter till my return, and I have not the poor consolation of looking over the list of the steamers passengers, and seeing the strange names of those who would seem to me happy enough to be in the same ship with him; and yet, what care they for that! Poor fellow! he will be but sorry company. I find support in the faith that I am doing my duty. He could not see it in that light, and found neither con- solation for himself nor sympathy for me. I almost wish now, when I think of him in his desolation, that I could receive the worldly philosophy my old nurse offered me when, as Carl drove away, she came into my room and found me crying bitterly. She hushed me ten- deriy as she used to do when I was a child, and when I said, Hannah, It is for him, not for myself I feel! Oh! thats nothing but nonsense, child, she said. Men aint that way; they go about among folks and get rid of feelings; its women that stay at home and keep em alive brooding on em! Why should I thus shrink from a conse- quence I ought to desire? But perhaps it will be easier as I go on, if it be true that Each goodly thing is hardest to begin: nut entered in, a spacious court they see, Both plain and pleasant to be walked in. Wednesday morning. My father happened to cast his eyes across the table as I finished my last page, and he saw a tear fall on it. Throwing down his cards, he said, Come, come, children! its time to go to bed; and stooping over me, he kissed me fond- ly, and murmured, Dear, good child! I can not stand it if I see you unhappy. He shall not see me so. I bave risen to- day with this resolution. The rain has been pouring down all night, but at this glorious point of sight, directly under Mount Washing- ton, we are equal to either fategoing on or staying. Mr. Thompson has again surprised us with a delicious breakfast of tender chicken, light biscuit, excellent bread, fresh eggs, and that rarest of beverages at a hoteldelicious coffee, with a brimming pitcher of cream. We wondered at all these things, usnall~ the result of feminine genius, for we had not heard the flutter of a petticoat in the house till we saw our respectable landlady in spectacles gliding through the room. We learned from her that she was the only womankind on the diggings. Every thing is neatly done, so we bless our Oc- tober star for exempting us from the careless and hurried service of the Celtic race. While it rains we walk on the piazza enjoying the beau- tiful and ever-varying effects of the clouds as they roll down the mountains and roll off; like the shadows on our human life, dear Susan, that Gods love does both send and withdraw. The Glen House is on the lowest ridge of the bill that rises opposite to Mount Washing- ton, which, as its name indicates, stands head and shoulders above the other summitshaving no peer. Madison and Monroe come next on the left, and then Jefferson, who appears (char- acteristically?) higher than he is. In a line with Mount Washington on the other side are Adams, Clay, etc. These names (excepting always Washington) do not, with their recent political associations, seem quite to suit these sublime eternal hills; but as time rolls on, the names will grow to be the signs of greatness, and harmonize with physical stability and grandeur. Jeffersons head seems modeled aft- er a European pattern. It runs up to a sharp point, and wants but accumulated masses of ice to be broken into Alpine angles. My father says there are other passes in the mountain more beautiful than this; none can be grand- er My father has been most sweet and tender to me to-day. Whenever he lays his hand upon my head it seems a benediction. And Alice is so kind, projecting future pleasures and sweet solaces for me. You know how I love her little girl. To-day, while we were walking, she heard me sigh, and putting her arm around me, she said, Will you let Sarah come and pass the win- ter with you and father? I trust my look fully answered her. I can not yet talk, even with her, as I do on paper to youa confidential implement is a pen We have all been walking in the lowering * EXTRACT FRoM IJR. LANODONS JOURNAL. Dianer turned out better than I expected; but where but in a Yankee tavern would oae suffer the infliction of a mince pie In October ? THE WHITE HILLS IN OCTOBER. 49 tWjljnht on the turnpike, which is making by a joint stock company, up Monnt Washington. The road, by contract, is to be finished in three years; the cost is estimated at $63,000. The workmen, of course, are nearly all Irishmen, with Anglo-Saxon heads to direct them. The road is, as far as possible, to be secured, by fre- quent culverts, and by Macadamizing it, from the force of winter torrents. But that nothing is impossible to modern science, it would seem impossible to vanquish the obstacles to the en- terprisethe inevitable steepness of the ascent the rocky precipices, etc. We amused ourselves with graduating the intellectual development of the Celtic workmen by their answers to our questions. When is the road to be finished? And faith, Sir, it must be done before winter comes down below. The next replied, When the year comes round. And another, Some time between now and never. Friend, said I to one of them, have you such high mountains in Ireland? Thathavewe, and hi~,herfive mileshigh. Paddy is never overcrowed. Straight up? I asked. By my faith and troth, straight up it is! In what part of Ireland is that mountain? In County Cork. Of course in County Cork! said my father; and we passed on throu0h the dJbris of blasted rocks, stumps of uprooted trees, and heaps of stones, till we got far enough into the mountain to feel the sublimity of its stern solitude, with the night gathering its shroud of clouds about it, and we were glad to pick our way back to our cheerful tea-table at Mr. Thompsons. We had a lona evening before us, but we diversified it (my father hates monotony, and was glad of something different as he called it) by bowl- ingmy father pitting Alice against me. She beat me, according to her general better luck in life.* Thursday mornzng, 6th October. The weather still uncertain, but more beautiful in its effects on the grand mountains in their October glory than I can describe to you. They are grand Mount Washington being higher than Rhigi, and Rhigi and Pilatus are majestic, even in the presence of Mont Blanc and the Jungfrau. The rich coloring of our autumnal foliage is un- known in Europe, and how it lights up with brilliant smiles the stern face of the mountains! Even when the sun is clouded, the beeches that skirt the evergreens look like a golden fringe, and wherever they are they make sunshine in a shady place. The maples are flame-colored, and, when in masses, so bright that you can scarcely look steadily on them; and where they are small and stand singly, they resemble (to compare the greater to the less) flamingos light- ed on the mountain side. There is an infinite diversity of coloringsoft brown, shading off into pale yellow, and delicate May-green. None but a White of Selborne, with his delicately defining pen, could describe them. While we stood on the piazza admiring and exclaiming, the oblig- ing Mr. Thompson brought out a very good tel- escope, and adjusted it so that our eyes could explore the mountains. He pointed out the bridle-path to the summit of Mount Washing- ton. Various obstacles have prevented our at- tempting the ascent. If my father would have trusted us to guides, there are none in October, nor trained horses, for as the feed is brought from below, they are sent down to the lowlands as soon as the season is over. Besides, the sum- mits are now powdered with snow, and the paths near the summits slippery with ice; and though I like the scramble and the achievement of at- taining to a difficult eminence, I much prefer the nearer, better defined, and less savage views below it.* Guided by our good landlord, my eye had followed the path past two huge outstanding rocks, which look like Druidical monuments, to the summit of Mount Washington, where I had the pleasure of descrying and announcing the figure of a man. My father and Alice both looked, but could not make it out. I referred to Mr. Thompson, and his accustomed eye con- firmed the accuracy of mine. Mr. Thompson was much exercised with conjectures as to where the traveler came from. He had seen none for the last few days, in the mountains, except our party, and he naturally concluded the man had made his ascent from the Crawford house. My eye seemed spell-bound to the glass. I men- tally speculated upon the character and destiny of the pilgrim who, at this season and alone, had climbed these steeps. My imagination in- vested him with a strange interest. He had wandered far away from the world, and above it. There was something in his mindperhaps in his destinyakin to the severity of this bar- ren solitude. The spell was broken by a call from my father: Come, Mary! are you glued to that glass? he exclaimed. The rain is over, and we are off in half an hour. And so we were, with Thompson, Junior, forour driverone of our young countrymen who always makes me proud, dear Susan, performing well the task of your inferior with the capacity and self-respect of your equal. Long live the true republican~. ism of New England! My father had been rather nettled in the morning by what he thought an attempt on the part of Mr. Thompson to take advantage of our dependence, and charge exorbitantly for con- * EXTRACT FROM MR. LANCDON5 JOURNAL. Thursdey. Sitting by a window where I see nothing hut these useless mountains. Slept little, and when I slept, haunted by slides, torrents, and all dire misehances. Waked by a gong! Rain and sunshine alternately, so that no mortal can tell whether to go or stay, etc. EXTRACT FROM MR. LANCnONs JOURNAL. Walked out this afternoon amidst precipices and up- rooted trees, where Paddies, the plague of our Egypt, are making a road to the summit of Mount Washington, that men, women, and much cattle may be dragged up there, and there befogged. 50 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. veying us thirty-three miles, to the Mountain Notch; but, on talking the matter over with our host he found that his outlay, with tolls and other expenses, was such that he only made what every Yankee considers his birth-right a good businessout of us. So my father, heing relieved from the dread of imposition, was in happy condition all day, and permitted us, with- out a murmur of impatience, to detain him while we went off the road to see one of the two celebrated cascades of the neighhorhood. It was the Glen-Ellis Fall. We compromised, and gave up seeing the Crystal Fall, a half a mile off the road on the other side, and enjoyed the usual consolation of travelers on like occa- sions of being told that the one we did not see was far best worth seeing. flowever, I hold all These wild leaps of mountain streams to be worth seeing, each having an individual beauty; and advise all who may follow in our traces to go to the top and bottom of Glen-Ellis. I have often tried to analyze the ever-fresh delight of seeing a water-fall, and have come to the conclusion that it partly springs from the scramble to get at the best and all the points of view, setting the blood in the most sluggish veins to dancing; for, as you know, Tout de- pend de Ia rnani~re que le sang circule. I can not describe to you the enjoyment of this days ride. As heart to heart, my fathers serenity answered to my cheerfulness and rewarded it. Our cup was brimming and sparkling. There was a glowing vitality in the western breeze that blew all the clouds from our spirits, and shaped those on the mountain sides into ever-changing beau- ty, or drove them off the radiant summits. We laughed as the vapor, condensing into the small- est of hail-stones, came pelting in our faces as if the elements had turned boys, and threw them in sport! What may not Nature be to us play-fellow, consoler, teacher, religious minis- ter! Strange that any one wretch should be found to live without God in the world, when the world is permeated with its Creator! Our level road wound through the Pinkham woods in the defiles of the mountains, and at every turn gave them to us in a new aspect. It seemed to me that the sun had never shone so brightly, as it now glanced into the forest upon the stems of the white birchesWordsworths Ladies of the Woodand shone on the Mo- saic carpet made by the brilliant fallen leaves. We missed the summer birds, but the young partridges abounded, and, hardly startled by our wheels, often crossed our path. We saw a fox, who turned and very quietly surveyed us, as if to ask who the barbarians were that so out of season invaded his homestead. One of us I will not tell you which, lest you discredit the storyfancying, while the wagon was slowly as- cending, to make a cross-cut on foot through some woodland, saw a bearyes, a bear! face to face! and made, you may be sure, a forced march to the highway. The mountaineers were riot at all surprised when we recounted what we fancied a hair-breadth scape; but quietly told us that three bears had been seen in that neigh- borhood lately, but bears did no harm unless provoked or desperately hungry. It was not a very pleasant thought that our lives depended on the chance of Bruins appetite. This meeting with the foxthe Mercury of~. the woods, and with the bearthe hero of many a dramatic fable, would, in the forests of the Old World, and in prolific Old World fancies, have been wrought into pretty traditions for aft- er ages. I might have figured as the Forsaken, woeful, solitary maid In wilderness and wasteful deserts strayd, set on by the ramping beast! And for the knight, why, it would he easy to convert the wanderer I descried on the summit of Mount Washington into a lover and deliverer, whose allegiance and fast fealty had bound him to our trail. But, alas! there is no leisure in this material age for fancy-weaving; and all our way was as bare of tradition or fable as if no human footstep had impressed it, till we came to a brawling stream near Daviss Cross- ing, which we were told was called Nancys Brook. We heard various renderings of the origin of the name, but all ended in one source mans perjury and womans trust. A poor girl, some said, had come with a woodsman, a collier or tree-feller, and lived with him in the mountains, toiling for him, and singing to him, no doubt, When she his evening food did dress, till he grew tired, and one day went forth and did not come backand day after day she wait- ed, but her Theseus came not, and she was found starved to death on the brink of the little brook that henceforward was to murmur her tragic talc. The sun was set behind the ridge of Mount Willard when we reached the Willey Slide, and Alice and I walked the last two miles to the Mountain Notch. Just after we alighted from the wagon, and while we were yet close to it, at a turn in the road, I perceived a pedestrian traveler before us, who, seeming startled by the sound of our wheels, sprang lightly over a fence. I involuntarily withdrew my arm from Alices, and stood still, gazing after him for the half instant that passed before he disappeared in the forest. Are you frightened? said Alice; this is a lonely road. Shall I hail the wagon? Oh no, I replied. But, she urged, this may be some fugi- tive from justice. Nonsense, Alice. Dont you see by his air that he is a gentleman? No, she saw nothin but that he was light of foot, and anxious to escape observa- tion. I had seen more. I had seen his form who henceforward is to me as if he had passed the bourne whence no traveler returns; or, what is more probable, my imagination had lent to the figure the image that possesses it. Aliceshe is a cautious little womanwas continually look- ing back from fear, I from hope; but we saw THE WHITE HILLS IN OCTOBER. 51 nothing more of the traveler. The apparition sight of a gun; and, besides, I fancy he had had spoiled our walk. The brief twilight of Oc- some sli0ht hope of mending our cheer by a tober was shortened by the mountain-walls on hrace of partridges, so he very cheerfully ac- either side the road. We had no time to look quiesced in Crawfords request. Alice and I for the cascades and funtastic resemblances to plied him with questions, hoping to get some- animals and human profiles that we had been thing out of an old denizen of the woods. But forewarned to observe on the hillsides. The he knew nothing, or would tell nothing. The stars were coming out, and the full moon was tongues in trees were far more fluent than indicated by the floods of light behind Mount his. But even so stony a medium had power Webster when we passed the Notch and came afterivard to make my heart beat. I was stand- upon the level area where the Crawford Houses ing near him at the Falls, and away from the stands. Here we found my father already seat- rest, and I asked him (Sue, I confess I have ed in a rocking-chair, by a broad hearth-stone, either been thinking or dreaming of that fa- and aroaring, crackling fire. And besides these gitive all night!) if he had seen a foot-tray- cheering types of home conteatments he had eler pass along the road last evening or this found a gentleman from the low country, with morning? No; there were few travelers any whom he was already in animated discourse. way in October. He vouchsafed a few more The stranger was a fine, intelligent, genial-look- words, adding, Its a pity folks dont know ing person, who proved to be a clergyman whom the mountains are never so pretty as in Ge- Alice had once before met at the Flume House. tober, and sport never so smart. Was there He is a true lover of Nature, and explorer of ever a sportsman, the dullest, the most impas- Natures secretsa geologist, botanist, etc.; and sive, but he had some perception of woodland he most wisely comes up to the high places, at beauty? While we were talking, and I was all seasons, whenever he feels the need of re- seemingly measuring, with my eye, the depth freshment to his bodily and minds eye. Per- of the water, as transparent as the air, my fa- haps he finds here an arcana for his theology, ther and sister had changed their position and and I am sure that, after a study here, he may come close to me. Oh, said the man, I ~,o home better able, by his high communing, to recollectI did see a stronger on Mount Wil- inform and elevate the minds of others. No lard this morning, when I went out with my teachers better understoodthe sources andmeans gun; he was drawing the mountains: a great of mental power and preparation than Moses and many of the young folks try to do it, but they Mohammed, and their studies were not in the- dont make much likeness. Perhaps this time- ological libraries, but in the deepest of Natures ly generalization of friend Crawford prevented solitudes, my father and Alices thoughts following the Perhaps our friend has no direct purpose be- direction of mine. I know this myth is not yond his own edification in his rambles in the Carl Hermannit is not even possible it should mountains. He is familiar with every known beand yet the resemblance that, in my one resort among them, and most kindly disposed glance, I had fancied to perceive to him and to give us thoroughfare travelers information, the coincidence of the sketching, had invested He made for us from memory a pencil-sketch friend Crawford with a power to make my cheeks of the peaks to be seen from Mount Willard, burn and my hands cold as ice. I stole off, and with their names. We verified them to-day, looked at the deep, smooth cavities the water and found the outline as true as if it had been had welled in the rocks; but I did not escape daguerreotyped. An observation so keen and my sisters womans eye. Mary dear, she a memory so accurate are to be envied, whispered, when she joined me, you are not This house at the Mountain Notch is called so strong as you think yourself. Dear Sn- the Crawford House. The Old Crawford House, san, if I am not strong, I will be patient. Pa- flimiliar to the pioneer travelers in this region, tience, you will say, implies a waiting for some- stands a few rods from it, or rather did, till the thing to come. Well; let it be so. Can a past winter, when it was burned, and its site is spark of fire live under the ashes I have heap- now marked by charred timbers. Old Craw- ed upon it ? fords memory will live, as one of these eternal The rocks are very beautiful at these Falls hills hears his name. He actually lived to a of the Ammonoosuck. The stream, which nei- good old age, and for many years in rather er here can be a river, is now, by the unusual awful solitude here, and at the last with some droughts of the summer, shrunk to a mere rill; of the best blessings that wait on old age but even now, and at all seasons, it must be respect and troops of friends. His son, worth the drive to see it. Worth the drive! whose stature, broad shoulders, and stolid as- A drive any where in these hills paysto peet bring to mind the Saxon peasant of the borrow the slang of this bank-note worldfor Middle Ages, is driver in the season and sports- itself. It is a pure enjoyment. On our return man out of it. He stood at the door this morn- we repeatedly saw young partridges in our path ing as we were driving off to the Falls of the nearly as tame as the chickens of the basse- Ammonoosuck, with his fowling-piece in band, cour. The whir-r-ing of their wings struck a and asked leave to occupy a vacant seat in the spark from our sportsmans eye, and a far wn~,on. My father was a sportsman in his youth easier achievementstartled the blood in my some forty years ago; his heart warms at the fathers veins. The instinct to kill game is, I hARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. believe, universal with man, else how should it still live in my father, who, though he blusters like Monkbarns, is very much of an Uncle Toby in disposition? He sprang from the wag- on, borrowed Crawfords gun, and reminding Alice and me so much of Mr. Pickwick that we laughed in spite of our terror lest he shoul4 kill not the partridge, but himself; but, luckily, he escaped unharmed, and so did the bird! Craw- ford secured two or three brace of them in the course of the mornings drive. I fear we shall relish them at breakfast to-morrow, in spite of our lamentations over their untimely loss of their pleasant mountain-life. I asked our driver how they survived the winter (if haply they escaped the fowler) in these high latitudes. Oh, he said, they had the neatest way of folding their legs under their wings, and lying down in the snow. They subsist on berries and birchen- budsdainty fare, is it not? We found a very comfortable dinner await- ing us, which rather surprised us, as our land- lord, Mr. Lindsaya very civil, obliging per- son, and a new proprietor here, I believe, had promised us but Lenten entertainment; but deeds, not words, seems the motto of these mountaineers. In the afteraQon we drove up Mount Willard Straight up Ben-Lomond did we press but our horses seemed to find no difficulty for themselves, and we no danger in the ascent. I shall not attempt to describe the view. I have never seen any mountain prospect resembling that of the deep ravine (abyss), with its convex mountain sides; the turnpike road looking like a ribbon carelessly unwound, the only bit of level to be seen, and prolonged for miles. The distant mountains that bound the prospect you may see elsewhere, but this ravine, with the traces of the Willey Slide on one side of it, has no parallel. Dont laugh at me for the homeliness of the simileit suggested a gigan- tic cradle. Here, as elsewhere, we were daz- zled by the brilliancy of the October foliage, and having found a seat quite as convenient as a sofathough, being of rock, not quite as easy we loitered till the last golden hue faded from the highest summit; and we should have staid to see the effect of the rising moon on the sum- mits contrasting with the black shadows of night in the abyss; but my father had observed that our driver had neglected the precaution of blanketing his horses, and as a mother is not more watchful of a sucking child than he is of thewell-being of animals, it matters not wheth- er they be his own or anothers, he begged us to sacrifice our romance to their safety. Alice and I walked down the mountain. It was but half an hours easy walk I have forborne talking with Alice on the subject that haunts me. I know I have her sympathy, and that should satisfy me. But this evening, as we were returning, she said, Did you feel any electric influence as we sat look- lug at the view Crawfords stranger sketched this morning? I thought of Carl, I honestly answered, and turned the subject. Alas, Sue, when do I not think of Profile house: Saturday evening. We have again, to-day, experienced the advantage of these open mountaiii vehicles, so preferable to the traveling jails called stage-coaches, which always remind me of Jonahs traveling accom- modations. Again, to-day, we have been en- chanted with the brilliancy of the foliage. It is just at the culminating point of beauty, and I think it does not remain at this point more than three or four days, when you perceive it is a thought less bright. Why is it that no paint- ing of our autumnal foliage has succeeded? It has been as faithfully imitated as the colors on the pallet can copy these living, glowing colors; but those who have best succeededeven Cole, with his accurate eye and beautiful arthas but failed. The pictures, if toned down, are dull; if up to Nature, are garish to repulsive- ness. Is it not that Natures toning is inimi- table, and that the broad oerhanging firma- ment, with its cold, serene blue, and the soft green of the herbage, and brown of the reaped harvest-field, temper, to the eye, the interven- ing brilliancy, and that, within the limits of a picture, there is not sufficient expanse to repro- duce these harmonies ? Saturday evening. We have driven some 23 miles from the Mountain Notch to the Fran- conian hotel to-day. The weather has been delicious. The drive has been more prosaic, or approaching to it, than we have before trav- eled in this hill-country. This October color- ing would make far tamer scenery beautiful; but I can fancy it very bleak and dismal when nlo~v, blow Novembers winds; whereas here, at the Franconian Notch, you feel, as it were, housed and secured by Natures vast fortresses and defenses. The Eagles Cliff is on one side of you, and Mount Cannon (called so from a resemblance of a rock on the summit to a cannon) on the other; and they so closely fold and wall you in that you need but a poetic stretch of the arms to touch them with either hand; and when the sun glides over the arch in the zenith abovebut a four hours visible course in mid-wintervon might fancy yourself sheltered from the sin and sorrow that great eye witnesseth. You will accuse me, I know, dear, rational friend, of being exaltee (vernacular, craclced); but remember, we are alone in these inspiring solitudes, free from the disenchantment of the eternal buzzing of the summer swarms that the North gives up, and the South keeps not back. We were received at the Profile House with a most smiling welcome by Mr. Weeks, the pro tern. host, who promises to make us as com- fortable as is in his power, and is substantia- ting his promise by transferring his dinner-table from the long, uncarpeted dinner-saloon, with its fearful rows of bare chairs and tables, to a well-furnished home-looking apartment, where a fire-place worthy of the Middle Ages is al- ready brightened with a bospitnble fire. The THE WHITE HILLS IN OCTOBER. 53 great rambling hotel is vacant, and its silence unbroken, save by the hastening to and fro of our willing host, who unites all offices of service in his own person, and the pattering of his pret- ty little boys feetthe little fellow following him like his shadow, and, perchance, running away from other shadows in this great empty house. The little fellow makes music to my ear. There is no pleasanter sound than the footsteps of a child I left Alice dressing for dinner. I think Alice would perform the ceremonial of a lady if she were shipwrecked in a desert island, and my father awaiting dinner. Dear father is never the pleasantest company at these seasons when time stands still withal, or, rather, to him keeps a snails fretting pace. Well, I left them both, and went down to the Lakea short walkto greet the Old Man of the Mountain, as they prosaically call the wonderful head at the very summit of the headland cliff; upreared on high over the beautiful bit of water named The Old Mans Punch-Bowl. The nomen- clature of our country certainly does not indi- cate one particle of poetry or taste in its people. There are, to be sure, namesakes of the Old World, which intimate the exiles loving mens- ones, and there are scattered, here and there, euphonious and significant Indian names, not yet superseded by Brownvilles or Smithdales, hut, for the most part, one should infer that pedagogues, sophomores, and boors had presided at the baptismal font of the land. To call that severe Dantescan head, which it would seem impossible that accident should have formed, so defined and expressive is its outline, like the Sphinx, a mystery in the desertto call it the Old Man of the Mountain is irreverence, des- ecration; and this exquisite little lake, lapped amidst the foldings and windings of the moun- tains, whose million unseen spirits may do the bidding of that heroic old Prospero who presides over it; to call this gem of the forest a punch- bowl is a sorry travesty I I paid my homage to him while his profile cut the glowing twilight, and then sat down at the brim of the lake. Dear Susan, The leaning Of the close trees oer the brim Had a sound beneath their leaves; and I will borrow two lines more to help out my meaning; Driftings of my dream do light All the skies by day and night. But truly it is mere drift-wood, not fit even to build a castle in the air. I was startled from my musing by a rustling of the branches behind me, and I turned expectingnot to see a bear or a fox, but my fancies incorporate. The leaves were still quivering, but I saw no apparent cause for so much disturbanceI probably had start- led a brace of partridges from their perch. They brought me back to the actual world, and I came home to an excellent dinner, which I found my father practically commending. Sunday. My father has brought us up to so scrupulous an observance of the Puritan Sab- bath that I was rather surprised this morning by his proposition to drive over to the Flume. His equanimity had been disturbed by finding one of the horscs that had brought us here seem- ingly in a dying condition. He was one of the team that had taken us on to Mount Willard, and my father had then prophesied that he would suffer from the drivers neglect to blanket him. He was in no wise comforted by the ego- tism of an I told you so, but walked to and fro from the stable, watching the remedies ad- ministered and vituperating all youth as negli- gent, reckless, and hard-hearted! I think it was half to get rid of this present annoyance that he proposed the drive to the Flume, say- ing, as he did so, These mountains are a great temple, my children; it matters not much where we stand to worship! We stopped for half an hour at a little fall just by the roadside, call- ed by the mountain-folk The Basin, and by fine people The Emerald Bowla name sug- gested by the exquisite hue of the water, which truly is of as soft and bright a green as an em- erald. The stream has curiously cut its way through a rock white and smooth, and almost polished by its friction, which overhangs the deep circular bowl like a canopy, or rather like a half-uplifted lid, its inner side being mot- tled and colored like a beautiful shell. The stream glides over the brim of this sylvan bowl, and goes on its way rejoicing. We loitered here for half an hour, watching the golden and crimson leaves that had dropped in, and laid in rich mosaics in the eddies of the stream. The morning was misty, and the clouds were driven low athwart the mountains, forming, as Alice well said, pedestals on which their lofty heads were upreared. No wonder that people~ in mountains and misty regions became imagin- ative, even superstitious. These forms, falling, rising, floating over the eternal hills, susceptible of dazzling brightness, and deepening into the gloomiest of earths shadows, are most suggest- ive to a superstitious dreamer. I shall not attempt, my friend, to describe this loveliest of all five-mile drives, from the Profile House to the Flume under the Eagles Cliff, and old Prospero, and beside his lake and the Emerald Bowl, and finished by the most curious, perhaps the most beautiful, passage we have yet seen in the mountains, the Flume thus called probably from a homely association with the race-way of a mill. The ravine is scarcely more than a fissure, probably made by the gradual wearing of the stream. I am told the place resembles the Bath of Pfeffers, in Switzerland; that worlds wonder can scarcely be more romantically beau- tiful than our Flume. The small stream, which is now reduced to a mere rill by the prolonged droughts, forces its way between walls of rock, upreared in huge blocks like regular mason- work. Where you enter the passage it may be some hundred yards wide, but it gradually con- tracts till you may a1n~ost touch either side with 54 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. your outstretched arms. I only measured the height of the rock walls with my eye, and a wo- maa s measure is not very accurateit may be one hundred or one hundred and fifty feet. Tall trees, at the summits, interlace, and where they have fallen, bridge the passage from one side to the other. Rich velvety mosses cover the rocks like a royal garment, and viaes, glittering in their autumnal brightness, laid on them like rich embroidery, so that we might say, as truly as was said of the magnificence of Oriental na- ture, that Solomon ia all his glory was not ar- rayed like one of these. But how, dear Susan, am I to show the picture to you? The sun glancing on the brilliant forest above us, and the indescribable beauty of the shrubs, golden and crimson, and fine purple, that shot out of the crevices of the rocks! It is idle to write or talk about it; but only let me impress on you that this enchanting coloring is limited to the first days of October. I am afraid it may be said of scenery as has been said of lovers tate-a- tcite talks, that it resembles those delicate fruits which are exquisite where they are plucked, but incapable of transmission. As my father can never enjoy any thing selfishly, he was particu- larly pleased with the nice little foot-path won from the mountain-side, and the frequent foot- bridges, that indicate the numbers that have taken this wild ~valk before us. My father f~ncies he enjoys our security from the sum- mer swarms, but his social nature masters his theories. Alice and I were amused this morning, just at the highest access of our enthusiasm, while we stood under a huge rock wedged in between the two walls, on looking back to see my father sit- ting on a bench, arranged as a point of sight, not gazing, but listening profoundlyhis grace- ful person and beautiful old bead inclined in an attitude of the deepest attentionto a loafer who had unceremoniously joined us, and who, as my father afterward rather reluctantly confessed, was recounting to him the particulars of his re- cent wooing of a third Mrs. Smith or Mrs. Brown. And when we returned to our quar- ters at the Profile House and came down to din- ner, we met our landlord at the door, his face even more than usually effulgent with smiles. There has a lady and gentleman come in, he said, and your father has no objection to their dining at table with you. I-us voice was slightly deprecatory. I think he did not quite give us credit for our fathers affability. Of course, we acquiesced, and were afterward edified by our brief acquaintance with the strangersa mother and son, who had come up from the petty cares of city life for a quiet ramble among the hillsto find here A peace no other season knows. The mother wears widows weeds, and has evidently arrived at the melancholy days. As we just now sat enjoying our evening fire, My hearth-stone, she said, was never cold for sev- enteen years; but there is no light there now. My children are diTersed, and he who was dearest and best lies under the clods! My youngest and I hold togetherI can not let him go. The loving companionship of a moth- er and son, who returns to her tenderness the support of his manly arm, never shrinking from the shadows that fall from her darkened and stricken heart, or melting those shadows in his own sunny youthis one of the consoling pic- tures of life. This poor lady seems to have the love of nature, which never dies out. It is pleasant to see with what patience her son cares for the rural wealth she is amassing in her progress through the hills, the heaps of late flowers, and bright leaves, and mosses, though I have detected a boyish, mischievous smile as he stowed them away We had something approaching to an ad- venture this evening on Echo Lake, the loveli- est of all these mountain lakes, and not more than half a mile from our present inn, the Pro- file House. Our dear father consented to go out with us, and let Alice and I, who have been well trained at that exercise on our home lake, take our turns with him in rowing. The lake is embosomed in the forest, and lies close nes- tled under the mountains, which here have va- ried shape and beautiful outline. It takes its name from its clear echoes. We called, we sang, and my father whistled, and from the deep recesses of the hills our voices came hack as if spirit called to spirit, musical and distinct. You know the fascination there is in such a scene. The day had continued misty to the last; the twilights at this season are, at best, short, and while my father was whistlina, one after another, the favorite songs of his youth, we were surprised by nightfall. My father startled us with, Bless me, girls! what are you about? It was he who was most entranced. I can not see our landing-place! Neither with all possible straining could our younger eyes descry it. We approached as near the other shore as we dared, but could go no nearer without the danger of swamping our boat, when suddenly we perceived a blessed ap- paritiona white signalmade quite obvious in the dim light by a background of evergreens. We rowed toward it with all our might, won- dering what kind friend was waving it so ea- gerly. As we approached near the shore it sud- denly dropped and hung motionless, and when we landed we saw no person and heard no foot- step. I untied the signal, and finding it a mans large, fine linen handkerchief?, I eagerly ex- plored the corner for the name, but the name had evidently just been torn off. Strange! We puzzled ourselves with conjectures. My father cut us short with, Tis that young man at the hotel. Young folks like this sort of thing. * But it was not he; we found him reading to his mother, who said she was just about send- ing him to look after us. Thus abruptly ended Mary L~ngdons journal- THE WHITE HILLS IN OCTOBER. 55 letter. The reason of its sudden discontinunnee will be found in our own brief relation of the ex- perience of the following morning (Monday), which ~ve had from all the parties that partook in it. Our friends were to leave the Profile House on Monday, on their return to the lowlands, to go from there to the Flume House, visit the Pool, and then down to the pretty village of Plymouth, in New Hampshire. Mary and her sister were early, and having a spare half hour before breakfast, went down to take a last look at Prospero and his bowl. There they found a crazy, old, leaky boat, with a broken oar, and Mary, spying some dry bits of board on the shore, deftly threw them in and arranged them so that she and her sistcr could get in dry-shod. Alice looked doubtfully at the crazy little craft and hung backthe thought of husband and children at home is always a seda- tivebut her eager sister overcame her scruples, and they were soon fairly out from shore in deep water. They went on, half-floating, half-row- ing, unconscious of the flying minutes. Not so their father, who, after waiting breakfast an eternity (as he saidpossibly some five mm- utes!), came to the lake to recall them. Just as he came in fair sight, for they were not two hun- dred yards from him, the boat suddenly began whirlin~ rounda veering wind rushed upon them. The poor father saw their dilemma, but could not help them. He could not swim. He screamed for help; but what likelihood that any one should hear, or could aid him! Alice, pru- dently, sat perfectly still. The oar was in Marys handshe involuntarily sprang to her feether head became giddy, not so much, she afterward averred, with the whirling of the boat, as with the sight of her poor old father, and the sense that she had involved Alice in this peril. She plunged the oar into the water in the vain hope by firmly holding it of steadyin0 the boat; but she dropped it from her trembling hand, and in reaching after it she too dropped over into the water, and in her struggle she pushed the boat from her, and thus became herself beyond the possibility of her sisters reach. Her danger was Imminentshe was sinkin~,. Her father and sister shrieked for help, and help came! A plash in the water, and a str~ng man, with won- derful preternatural strength and speed, was making his way toward Mary. In one moment more he had grasped her with one hand. She had still enough presence of mind not to em- barrass him by any strug~,les, and shouting a word of comfort to Alice, he swam to the shore and laid Mary in her fathers arms. He then returned to the boat and soon brought it to shore. There are moments of this strange life of ours not to be describedfeelings for which language is no organ. While such a moment sped with father and daughters, their deliverer stood apart. The father gazed upon his darling child, satisfying himself tbat not a hair had perished, but she was only fresher than be- fore, and, as he afterward said, fully recover- ing his wits, he turned to thank the preserver of his children. He was standing half concealed behind a cluster of evergreens. Come forward, my dear fellow, he said; for Gods sake, let me grasp your hand 1 He did not move. Oh, come, urged Mr. Langdon. Never mind your shirt-sleeves; its no time to be par- ticular about trifles. Still he did not move. Oh, come! dearCarl, said Mary, and her lover sprang to her feet. What immediately followed was not told me, but there was no after coldness or reluctance on the part of the good father. his heart was melted and fused in gratitude and affection for his daughters lover. His prejudices were van- quished, and he was just as well satisfied as if they had been overcome by the slower processes of reason and conviction. The truth was, the old bentleman was not to be outdone in magnanimity. Marys filial de- votion had prepared him to yield his opposition, and he confessed that be had, in his own secret counsel with himself, determined to recall Her- mann at the end of another year, if he proved constant and half as deserving as his foolish girl thought him. But Prospero, he said, had seen fit to take the business into his own hands, and setting his magic to work, had stirred up a tempest in his punch-bowl to bring these young romancers together. But by what spell had he conjured up the lover at the critical moment? Hermann confessed that not being able to get off in the steamer of the 29th, he had delayed his embarkation for ten days, and the magic of love the only magic left to our disenchanted world had drawn him to the White Mountains, where he might have the consolationa lover only could appreciate itof breathing the same at- mosphere with Mary, and possibly of seeing her, unseen. Thus he had stood on the sum- mit of Mount Washington, when, by some mys- terious magnetism, Mr. Thompsons telescope had been pointed to it. He was the fugitive fromjustice at Willeys Slide, the ambitious art- ist on Fort Willard, and the friend whose signal had brought them safely to port on Ecbo Lake! Hermauns arrangements for pursuing his studies in Europe were not disturbed. The good father was in the most complying temper. He consented to have the wcddin, within this blessed month of October, and graciously grant- ed the prayer of the young people that he would accompany them in their years visit to Europe. Mary and I are already wedded, said he to me, with a smile of complete satisfaction; we only take this young fellow into the part- nership. It was a bright day in the outer nnd inner world when we parted. And thus ended our October visit to the White hills of New Hamp- shire, but not our gratitude to Him who had held us In his large love and boundless thought. 56 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. If our friend Mary has imperfectly sketched the beauty of the Mountains, she has exaggera- ted nothing. We hope our readers, though perchance oer- wearied now, may make the complete tour of these lovely places, including, as it shonid, the enchanting sail over Lake Winepescago, the beautiful drive by North Conway, and the as- cents of Kiersarge, Chicoaea, Mount Moriab, and the Red Mountain. HOW IT HAPPENED. T HE snow lay on the window-panes, Winds howled along the leafless lanes; Within, the fire shone bright and clear, And Ben sat there and I sat here. I watched the glow upon his cheek, Where summer left a sunny streak; Like pearls the snowy teeth appeared That glistened through his tawny beard. I love you, Dora, murmured Ben; Ah! will you love me back again ? His voice was sweeter than the tune Of bugles played beneath the moon! Itook two filberts from a bowl, Two filberts smooth, and brown, and whole; To each I gave a secret name, And placed them nigh the clearest flame. They hissed and burned upon the bars, And shot a thousand fiery stars: I trembled lest a certain one Should leap, and leave my hopes undone. My fears were vainmy heart was shamed: The nuts with one accordance flamed. They burn together ! quick I cried, And Ben crept closer to my side. They cling together, firm and true; Each burns for each, as I for you. Thus let our lives together glow Nay, Dora! crush that jesting No. The band that stole around my waist, The lips that dared my lips to taste, The breast that hid my blushing cheek, Translated what I did not speak. And now the white snow, come again, Once more peeps through our window-pane, As Ben and I sit side by side, Nor has the flame we burned with died. HOW TO KEEP WELL. WE need not call in the doctor to settle the question how to keep well. When that learned gentleman drives up to the door, we step out and leave the case to him and the un- dertaker. Our office is to dispense the ounce of prevention, and thus save the necessity of swallowing the by no means agreeable or infalli- ble pound of cure, which it may be well to rec- ollect is composed of a great many drugs, very few good remedies, and no specifics. We have no great hope of being listened to by those prodigals of health and life, our countrymen and countrywomen. They are so eager to run their race, that they can find no time to train for the start, or breathe themselves by the road. Neck or nothing, they will be in for the gold cup, even if they break down or die in the struggle. Were it not that we can send our words upon the wings of Haiper, which, like the wind, extends to all the quarters of the globe, the chance of catching an occasional ear might be hopeless. With such aid, however, as that J the Magazine of the million, we are encour- aged to give our countrymen and countrywomen some plain advice, which may save them from disease, the doctor, and death. We are not going to lecture on physiology and the laws of health; we leave these abstruse subjects to Dr. Draper and the savans. We do not pro- pose to lecture at all; it is merely our purpose to show, cursorily, in what respect some of our habits are destructive of health, and bow by changing them we may hope to keep well. American women, as mothers, have a very good character. It is said that no sooner have they passed from the butterfly state of belles into the sober condition of parturient wives, than the maternal instinct becomes wondrously de- veloped. There is no ground for questioning the love of American mothers for their offipring, but it may be doubted whether that love is ju- diciously exercised. The tenacity with which they cling to their babes is a very interesting development of the maternal instinct; but the resolute energy with which they insist upon starving their little dears upon their own meagre supply of mothers nutriment, is more affectionate than wholesome. A town life, with its career of unhealthful excitement, is by no means the best preparation for what is certainly not the least important office of the mother, to supply her infant with nutritious food and plenty of it. If our young girls persist in limiting their vista of matrimonial life to the marriage ring, and in exercising their whole address to secure it, without any regard to the future duties it may impose, they should understand that if they become mothers their infants must starve, or be fed elsewhere than from the maternal sup- ply. By the sentimental aversion of American women to delegate to others a duty they have by their early habits rendered themselves unfit to perform, our weak wives become weaker, and their children never strong. The fashionable French dame is wiser; she sends to the country for a lusty Norman peasant woman, to invig- orate with her wholesome abundance the frail offspring of Parisian luxury. The wisest of all however, is for our young women to live a ra- tional life of simplicity and activity, and thus prepare themselves for a proper performance of a mothers duty. The mortality among infants, which is great in all countries, but greatest in this, is due especially to a want of wholesome nutriment; they are starved to death. Nearly one-half of all who are born die before the age of five! A fearful massacre of the innocents which literally out-herods Ilerod I The Thin

56 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. If our friend Mary has imperfectly sketched the beauty of the Mountains, she has exaggera- ted nothing. We hope our readers, though perchance oer- wearied now, may make the complete tour of these lovely places, including, as it shonid, the enchanting sail over Lake Winepescago, the beautiful drive by North Conway, and the as- cents of Kiersarge, Chicoaea, Mount Moriab, and the Red Mountain. HOW IT HAPPENED. T HE snow lay on the window-panes, Winds howled along the leafless lanes; Within, the fire shone bright and clear, And Ben sat there and I sat here. I watched the glow upon his cheek, Where summer left a sunny streak; Like pearls the snowy teeth appeared That glistened through his tawny beard. I love you, Dora, murmured Ben; Ah! will you love me back again ? His voice was sweeter than the tune Of bugles played beneath the moon! Itook two filberts from a bowl, Two filberts smooth, and brown, and whole; To each I gave a secret name, And placed them nigh the clearest flame. They hissed and burned upon the bars, And shot a thousand fiery stars: I trembled lest a certain one Should leap, and leave my hopes undone. My fears were vainmy heart was shamed: The nuts with one accordance flamed. They burn together ! quick I cried, And Ben crept closer to my side. They cling together, firm and true; Each burns for each, as I for you. Thus let our lives together glow Nay, Dora! crush that jesting No. The band that stole around my waist, The lips that dared my lips to taste, The breast that hid my blushing cheek, Translated what I did not speak. And now the white snow, come again, Once more peeps through our window-pane, As Ben and I sit side by side, Nor has the flame we burned with died. HOW TO KEEP WELL. WE need not call in the doctor to settle the question how to keep well. When that learned gentleman drives up to the door, we step out and leave the case to him and the un- dertaker. Our office is to dispense the ounce of prevention, and thus save the necessity of swallowing the by no means agreeable or infalli- ble pound of cure, which it may be well to rec- ollect is composed of a great many drugs, very few good remedies, and no specifics. We have no great hope of being listened to by those prodigals of health and life, our countrymen and countrywomen. They are so eager to run their race, that they can find no time to train for the start, or breathe themselves by the road. Neck or nothing, they will be in for the gold cup, even if they break down or die in the struggle. Were it not that we can send our words upon the wings of Haiper, which, like the wind, extends to all the quarters of the globe, the chance of catching an occasional ear might be hopeless. With such aid, however, as that J the Magazine of the million, we are encour- aged to give our countrymen and countrywomen some plain advice, which may save them from disease, the doctor, and death. We are not going to lecture on physiology and the laws of health; we leave these abstruse subjects to Dr. Draper and the savans. We do not pro- pose to lecture at all; it is merely our purpose to show, cursorily, in what respect some of our habits are destructive of health, and bow by changing them we may hope to keep well. American women, as mothers, have a very good character. It is said that no sooner have they passed from the butterfly state of belles into the sober condition of parturient wives, than the maternal instinct becomes wondrously de- veloped. There is no ground for questioning the love of American mothers for their offipring, but it may be doubted whether that love is ju- diciously exercised. The tenacity with which they cling to their babes is a very interesting development of the maternal instinct; but the resolute energy with which they insist upon starving their little dears upon their own meagre supply of mothers nutriment, is more affectionate than wholesome. A town life, with its career of unhealthful excitement, is by no means the best preparation for what is certainly not the least important office of the mother, to supply her infant with nutritious food and plenty of it. If our young girls persist in limiting their vista of matrimonial life to the marriage ring, and in exercising their whole address to secure it, without any regard to the future duties it may impose, they should understand that if they become mothers their infants must starve, or be fed elsewhere than from the maternal sup- ply. By the sentimental aversion of American women to delegate to others a duty they have by their early habits rendered themselves unfit to perform, our weak wives become weaker, and their children never strong. The fashionable French dame is wiser; she sends to the country for a lusty Norman peasant woman, to invig- orate with her wholesome abundance the frail offspring of Parisian luxury. The wisest of all however, is for our young women to live a ra- tional life of simplicity and activity, and thus prepare themselves for a proper performance of a mothers duty. The mortality among infants, which is great in all countries, but greatest in this, is due especially to a want of wholesome nutriment; they are starved to death. Nearly one-half of all who are born die before the age of five! A fearful massacre of the innocents which literally out-herods Ilerod I The Thin

56 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. If our friend Mary has imperfectly sketched the beauty of the Mountains, she has exaggera- ted nothing. We hope our readers, though perchance oer- wearied now, may make the complete tour of these lovely places, including, as it shonid, the enchanting sail over Lake Winepescago, the beautiful drive by North Conway, and the as- cents of Kiersarge, Chicoaea, Mount Moriab, and the Red Mountain. HOW IT HAPPENED. T HE snow lay on the window-panes, Winds howled along the leafless lanes; Within, the fire shone bright and clear, And Ben sat there and I sat here. I watched the glow upon his cheek, Where summer left a sunny streak; Like pearls the snowy teeth appeared That glistened through his tawny beard. I love you, Dora, murmured Ben; Ah! will you love me back again ? His voice was sweeter than the tune Of bugles played beneath the moon! Itook two filberts from a bowl, Two filberts smooth, and brown, and whole; To each I gave a secret name, And placed them nigh the clearest flame. They hissed and burned upon the bars, And shot a thousand fiery stars: I trembled lest a certain one Should leap, and leave my hopes undone. My fears were vainmy heart was shamed: The nuts with one accordance flamed. They burn together ! quick I cried, And Ben crept closer to my side. They cling together, firm and true; Each burns for each, as I for you. Thus let our lives together glow Nay, Dora! crush that jesting No. The band that stole around my waist, The lips that dared my lips to taste, The breast that hid my blushing cheek, Translated what I did not speak. And now the white snow, come again, Once more peeps through our window-pane, As Ben and I sit side by side, Nor has the flame we burned with died. HOW TO KEEP WELL. WE need not call in the doctor to settle the question how to keep well. When that learned gentleman drives up to the door, we step out and leave the case to him and the un- dertaker. Our office is to dispense the ounce of prevention, and thus save the necessity of swallowing the by no means agreeable or infalli- ble pound of cure, which it may be well to rec- ollect is composed of a great many drugs, very few good remedies, and no specifics. We have no great hope of being listened to by those prodigals of health and life, our countrymen and countrywomen. They are so eager to run their race, that they can find no time to train for the start, or breathe themselves by the road. Neck or nothing, they will be in for the gold cup, even if they break down or die in the struggle. Were it not that we can send our words upon the wings of Haiper, which, like the wind, extends to all the quarters of the globe, the chance of catching an occasional ear might be hopeless. With such aid, however, as that J the Magazine of the million, we are encour- aged to give our countrymen and countrywomen some plain advice, which may save them from disease, the doctor, and death. We are not going to lecture on physiology and the laws of health; we leave these abstruse subjects to Dr. Draper and the savans. We do not pro- pose to lecture at all; it is merely our purpose to show, cursorily, in what respect some of our habits are destructive of health, and bow by changing them we may hope to keep well. American women, as mothers, have a very good character. It is said that no sooner have they passed from the butterfly state of belles into the sober condition of parturient wives, than the maternal instinct becomes wondrously de- veloped. There is no ground for questioning the love of American mothers for their offipring, but it may be doubted whether that love is ju- diciously exercised. The tenacity with which they cling to their babes is a very interesting development of the maternal instinct; but the resolute energy with which they insist upon starving their little dears upon their own meagre supply of mothers nutriment, is more affectionate than wholesome. A town life, with its career of unhealthful excitement, is by no means the best preparation for what is certainly not the least important office of the mother, to supply her infant with nutritious food and plenty of it. If our young girls persist in limiting their vista of matrimonial life to the marriage ring, and in exercising their whole address to secure it, without any regard to the future duties it may impose, they should understand that if they become mothers their infants must starve, or be fed elsewhere than from the maternal sup- ply. By the sentimental aversion of American women to delegate to others a duty they have by their early habits rendered themselves unfit to perform, our weak wives become weaker, and their children never strong. The fashionable French dame is wiser; she sends to the country for a lusty Norman peasant woman, to invig- orate with her wholesome abundance the frail offspring of Parisian luxury. The wisest of all however, is for our young women to live a ra- tional life of simplicity and activity, and thus prepare themselves for a proper performance of a mothers duty. The mortality among infants, which is great in all countries, but greatest in this, is due especially to a want of wholesome nutriment; they are starved to death. Nearly one-half of all who are born die before the age of five! A fearful massacre of the innocents which literally out-herods Ilerod I The Thin HOW TO KEEP WELL. 57 cians were said to weep at the birth of their in- fants. Would that Americans had no cause! That freedom of movement is essential to vigorous growth and healthy development, is a fact denied by none, we believe, but by onr fash- ionable mothers. The jockey knows better than to train the one-year-old for the course or the road. He gives his colt the free run of the paddock, where it may gallop, roll, and kick up its heels to the utmost of its frolicsomeness, and does not think of bitting or saddling the animal until its joints are knitted and its strength confirmed by full growth. The colt thus becomes the sound horse, and wins the cup or draws the load, according to its destiny. We might have sounder men and women if the early management of children by their parents showed some of the common sense of the horse- jockey. Human colts are, however, trained according to a different principle. They are brought out on the course at the earliest mo- ment, and, all bitted and bridled, are expected to show off their paces before they can well tod- dle on their legs. The children of the present day are like men and women seen through the wrong end of a telescope. They are but reduced copies of their parents in dress and mien. Anna Maria Wilhelmiaa, our youngest, only three years old last birth-day, is an exact miniature of her mother. Each yard of the one has a corre- sponding inch in the other. They revolve in the same annual orbit of fashion, and the bon- nets of both mark the seasons with the reg- ularity of an almanac. If mamma opens the spring with silk and orange buds, ditto Anna Maria Wilhelmina; if mamma blooms in sum- mer with pink satin, and flowers, ditto Anna Maria Wilhelmina; if mamma ripens in autumn with straw and a golden harvest of oat sheaves, ditto Anna Maria Wilhelmina; if mamma closes the year with velvet and lace, ditto Anna Maria Willielmina. Our youngest is naturally our favorite, as her sisters have long since, though not out of their teens, been young ladies, and hav& deserted the old fogyism of parental af- fection for the sweet concourse of young Amer- ica. Well, in a transport of a fathers love the other day we threw down our newspaper, pock- eted our spectacles, and prepared for a romp with Wilbelmina. We had no sooner caught hold of that young lady than, Dont papa, you have broken my hoop; there now, Ill tell mamma, fretfully uttered by the three-year- old, so discomposed our nerves that we dropped her at once, and were glad to retreat again be- hind the newspaper, and put our dimmed eyes under the cover of our gold-rimmed spectacles. It might be thought selfish to protest against this fashionable excess of dress on the score of expense. If it were a matter of dollars and cents only, and husbands are disposed to spend the bet- ter part of their income on the skirts of their wives dresses, and the remainder upon those of their children, we would be willing to await the natural collapse that must ensue; but it is not merely a question of expense. This fashion of overdressing children concerns their health, to save which is our purpose just now. The young should be allowed the greatest possible freedom for the exercise of their limbs, which is quite impracticable if they are stiffened and hooped like a barrel, which can only be moved readily, as we all know, by being first toppled over. Nor is it merely the cut and fashion of the childs dress which obstruct the freedom of its move- ments. The richness of its silks, satins, and ribbons, makes such an expensive toy of the lit- tle one, that the tossing, and tumbling, and rolling in the dirt, which are the natural exer- cises of the child, are sure to incur the threat of the maternal finger. We would advise moth-. ers, if they have any regard for the health of their children, to dress them in linsey-woolsey, or any thing that will bear spoiling or tumbling, and to take the hoops out of their petticoats and put them into their hands. With the contracted trowsers and expanded skirts, our Lilliputian men and women assume the manners and habits of their parents. We hear of childrens parties where the polka and redowa take the place of the old-fashioned blind- mans buff and hunt the slipper; to be caught at which, our infantile beaux and belles would he as much put out as were the Vicar of Wake- fields daughters at Farmer Flamboroughs, when pounced in upon by Lady Blarney, and Miss Caroline Wilhelmina Amelia Skeggs. When witnessing such fashionable abominations as childrens balls, we long to utter old Burchells emphatic Fudge. The uneasy posturing and spasmodic movements of infants polkaing and waltzing in hot, crowded rooms, and long after bedtime, are about as natural as, and no more favorable to health than, the jig of a showmans monkey, going through its dancing lesson on a red-hot plate of iron. Let your young children tumble, and toss, and run at their bent in the free open air, and in the strengthenin6 light of the day, and send them to bed at an early hour tired with natural exercise, not exhausted by excitement, and they will sleep soundly, grow vigorously, and strengthen and beautify with the glow and soundness of health. All forced development ends in abortion, and is contrary to the laws of nature. No one with a wholesome taste will prefer the insipid green peas of winter to the well-flavored ve~etable in its proper season. There are, however, diseased appetites which, impatient of Providence, can not await its good time, and are only to be satisfied with morbid growths. Society is one of these unhealthy gourmands, and forces its products against nature. Its offspring are so many girls and boys immaturely developed into manhood and womanhood, who, like untimely fruits, have neither a strong growth nor a good flavor. They are, moreover, to use an expres- sion of Lord Bacon, easy to corrupt, and can not last. Young America is a man before he is fairly in his teens, and as unconscious of boyhood as 58 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. his sister. He has no recollection of a jacket and pinafore, but has long since been down on the books of his tailor. My tailor, says that precocious young gentleman, as he complacently casts his eyes down upon his fashionably cut trowsers, is the most stylish artist in Broad- way; hes expensive, but hang the expense! his credit is longer than his bills. Leechs sketches in Punch of precocious youth may be carica- tures in England, but they are realities here. Young America is a score of years ahead of his age. He never trundled a hoop, nor spun a top, but he can handle the cue with the skill of a master, and can beat light-fingered Bill at billiards and give him twenty any night, when he is in hand, and hasnt smoked too many regalias or taken too much brandy and water. Before the taste of pap is well out of his mouth, Young America has become a connoisseur at the bar, and can stand more drinks than would stagger a coal-heaver. He is a favorite of fashion, of course, and his name is high on the list of all the ball-givers of the season. He is always welcomed by mammas who have daugh- ters training for the market, and who, as they know that Young Americas father is rich, show a remarkable motherly (in-law) interest in the promising youth, and seem very innocently un- conscious that his affections have been already engagedto the brandy-bottle. That Young America under such a training becomes pale and pasty in the face, like badly-baked pie-crust, weak in the back, dwarfish in stature, and shaky in the limbs, is no more than the natural result of his unwholesome life of youth, where excite- ment and dissipation take the place of healthful activity and nat,,al development. The transition of our daughters from baby- hood, with hardly a consciousness of youth, to maturity of life, is no less rapid than that of our sons, and with no better effect. Girls are no sooner out of their swaddling-clothes than they are carefully reminded that they belong to what the world callsand is responsible for makingthe weak sex. There is no precept more often in the mouth of mamma than Be a little lady nowdont run and make a noise like a boy ; and none, we will venture to add, is more foolish and fatal. Nature never made woman weak, but fashion, with a false idea of delicacy, has. Mothers are so eager to teach their daughters the proprieties of their sex, that they forget that girls, like boys, have bones, muscles, and nerves, which can only be de- veloped into strength by vigorous exercise. If health is the object, we know of no means of at- taining it but by obedience to its laws. If our sons and daughters are to be as the polished corner-stones of the temple, they must first ac- quire the hardness of physical vigor before they can be capable of the desired polish. Parents make a distinction between the sex of their children, as regards their physical education, at too early a period. Air and exercise are essen- tial to both, and the physical habits of the girl should be as robust, until twelve years of age at least, as those of the boy. Any sentimental alarm about the romping of little miss may be quieted by the thought that she is but follow- ing the instincts of nature, which sets in motion every limb and organ of the young, that they may acquire by exercise that development and strength which are necessary for wholesome growth. So let miss halloo, run, and tumble with Tom, her brother, to her young hearts content. This will secure strength of body, which is certainly more favorable to moral health and, necessarily, to delicacy of sentiment than physical weakness. Peter the Great having learned ship-building, and taught his countrymen to build a fleet, was in a hurry to man it. As the Russians were not a sea-faring people, and sailors were accord- ingly scarce, the Emperor bethought himself of an expedient to obtain an immediate supply. He accordingly gathered together at St. Pe- tersburg, from all parts of his wide domin- ions, a large number of youth, and ordered that they should have nothing else but salt water to drink, that they might at once be inured to the sea. They, however, all died in the exper- iment. This Imperial procedure is just as wholesome and very much like the process which prevails with us in the education of youth. We are in such a haste to prepare them for life that we kill them in the operation. The whole system with us is too fastwhether at home, in the school, or the collegeand if we succeed in making smart youth, we can not boast of well- developed men and women. There be some have an over-early ripeness in their years, which fadeth betimes; there are such as have brittle wits, the edges whereof are soon turned, says Lord Bacon. Cobbett is reported not to have given a compulsory lesson to any of his chil- dren until they had reached sixteen years of age. He himself, we believe, did not learn to read until he was a man grown, and with what effect he pursued his studies afterward may be learned from the fact, that he became such a writer of English that no modern author has surpassed him in the correctness and simple vigor of his style. The brain and nerves are the last portions of the human system to receive their full strength of development, and accord- ingly should never be tasked to their utmost capacity in early age. Those infant phenom- ena, the little philo~ophers and encyclopedists in petticoats, who show off their learning so much to the pride of the family and the cunfu- sion of visitors, are apt to be but so many speci- mens of disease. Their brains have been un- naturally and prematurely excited, and their distended intellect, like the growing plant in a contracted pot, will soon break into pieces that which contains it. One who speaks from experience* tells us that to the English university student his exer- cise is as much a daily necessity as his food; that it consists of walks of eight miles in less * Five Years us an English Universitg. J3y CilAnaxe AsToR BRI5TRD. HOW TO KEEP WELL. 59 than two hours, varied with jumping hedges, ditches, and gates, rowing on the river, playing at cricket and foot-ball, and riding twelve miles without drawing bridle. The common standard of a good walker, he says, among the English students, is to have gone fifteen miles in three hours. It is not surprising to learn that, with such vigorous habits, dyspepsia is almost un- known, bilious attacks are not common, and consumption scarcely heard of; and that, with such health, the Cambridge man can read his nine hours a day, and even accomplish with. im- punity the less scholastic feats of heavy sup- pers and strong punch. At our colleges there may be a maximum of punch and suppers, but certainly only a minimum of study and exercise. Contrast the life of the American with that of the English student. Look at that pale-faced, dirty-complexioned youth, flitting like the ghost of a monk from his college cell to chapel or re- citation hall. His very dress is shadowy and unsubstantial. His meagre frame is hung with a limp calico gown, and his feet drag after him in slouchy slippers. Follow him to his room, where he lives his life almost unconscious of the air, earth, or sky, and you see him subside sud- denly iuto that American abomination, a rock- ing-chair, or fall upon his bed, where, with his pipe and a book wearily conned, he awaits the unwelcome call of the bell to lecture. To move he is indisposed; and yet, when at rest, he seems exhausted. He does not sit, but sprawls; and he and his fellows, in their loose and fusty dress, as they listlessly lounge or drawl out their recitations, might readily pass for so many cap- tives of a watch-house, half awakened into so- briety from a nights debauch by a sudden call to give an account of themselves. Unlike the English, the American student knows nothing of vigorous exercise, and to his consciousness a fifteen-mile walk in three hours is as marvelous as the speed of a locomotive to a squatting Turk. Unlike the English student again, to him dys- pepsin, bilious attacks, and consumption are no mysteries. It might be well if this physical indolence secured intellectual activity, but we await patiently for any such evidence in Amer- ican scholarship. That collegiate success is not followed by proportionate advancement ~n life, which is true in this country but nowhere else, may be owing to the fact of the weak tone of health, and consequent diminished powers of intellectual and physical endurance, eneendered by academic habits. It is thus that the freer life of the wilder student, and his naturally in- creased bodily vitality, are oftener preludes to active usefulness than the monkish habits of the more regular. It is stated authoritatively that families re- siding constantly in Paris soon become extinct; that out of the whole native population there are hardly a thousand persons who can trace their ancestors, as inhabitants of Paris, from fa- ther to son, so far back as two hundred years. A Parisian youth of the second or third genera- tion has almost the form and manners of a woman, and if he marries, has seldom any chil- dren that live. Such is the natural effect of a town life, with its emasculating habits. It is the tendency of modern civilization to compress human beings into the density of large cities and towns. Nowhere is this more evident than in these United States, where the silent forest and pathless swamp of to-day become the busy market and the well-trod street of the morrow. Association is the law of our progress, and the single arm no more settles the struggle with nature than the hand-to-hand fight does the modern battle. With this requirement of civil- ization the Americans, with their usual eager- ness to advance, hasten to conform; and though migratory and ceaseless in their flight, they never settle but in flocks. Towns rise and cities are organized with the rapidity of a dream. All this is in accordance with destiny, and the estab- lishment of communities is a law of progress that must be obeyed. This hiving of mankind is doubtless favorable to industry, but it were well, if men must swarm and work like bees, that they should take their turn, like these ex- emplary insects, among the honied flowers. The nervous diseases which are so prevalent in modern times, the insanities, the spinal irri- tations, and the hysterias and hypochondrias, are due unquestionably to the unmitigated town life, which is the result of modern civilization generally, and more especially of that of the United States. So, too, it must inevitably be, as long as our citizens habits are so opposed to the laws of health. If he persists in working his brain without alternation of repose, and in keeping his nerves raw by constant excitement, pain, disease, and death must be the result. Our people live too much in the city, Where wealth accumulates aud men decay, or, at any rate, are far too eager for its excite- ments and dissipation. When, moreover, the citizen migrates for a season to the country, he carries his city habits with him, and his life there is no more than his town life over again, with renewed vigor from fresh excitement. There are no people so little robust in their habits as the Americans. They never walk when they can ride, and always prefer the coach to the less easy back of a horse. The rocking- chair is an American invention, and is ex- pressive of the physical inaction of the people. They are hardly equal to the effort of sitting, and lie on two chairs rather than take their seat on one. They are so hostile to fresh air, that they take it almost as an insult if a window is raised or a door opened, and have an unaccountable preference for the certainty of being smothered to death to the remotest chance of catching a cold. They are emphatically an in-door peo- ple, and only use their legs when forced to keep moving on the tread-mill of daily business. They know little of pleasure, and only of that which is sensuous and stimulating to the nerves. They are unconscious of the delights of the road, the field, and the river, and of that joyous flow of the animal spirits set in motion by the spring 60 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. of the muscles. They prefer those amusements which can be enjoyed without an expenditure of physical force, and accordingly take kindly to cards and other table games. The very words sport and sportsmen have been perverted from their old English si0nifications to mean gaming and gamblers. The American shows a consciousness of physical weakness in distrust- ing his muscular power, and resorting in a quar- ml to the cane or revolver, instead of the old- fashioned appeal to fisticuffs. His speed sur- passes his strength, and if it were not for his pluck he would seldom reach the end of great enterprises. He accomplishes his purposes, but his body is fearfully racked in the struggle. His course is at times rapid in movement, but brief in duration. He may be kept ahead, by the whip and the spur, of all competitors for a short heat, but, like many a promising young horse, he wins his first race to the irreparable ruin of his condition. The costume of the American marks the ef- feminacy of his habits. It is finical, and more adapted to show than service. Its glossy nap and fineness of texture are not suited to the hard muscular rubs of an active physical life. While the robust Englishman sallies out in all weathers in coarse shooting-jacket, leathern gaiters, and hob-nailed shoes, and walks long and vigorously, the delicate American never shows himself but under a clear sky, and saunters gently in the full dress of the finest broadcloth, satin waistcoat, and French boots. The Americans lungs are never inflated with a full breath, and his chest accordingly contracts, and his shoulders bend under their own weight; his muscles shrink, and his legs become lank from disuse; his face waxes pale from in-door life; his brain grows languid from exhaustion, and his nerves are raw and irritable from excitement. All the succulency of health is burnt out of him, and he is parched and shriveled by the fire of his daily life. Lord Lyndhurst, at the age of eighty-four, leading the British Senate, and Lord Palmer- ston, at seventy-two, bearing the whole weight of the administration of the British Govern- ment, appear to us as marvelous examples of vigorous old age; while, in England, a brilliant speech from the one, or a forcible administrative blow from the other, hardly suggests a remark. Old age comes nearly a score of years earlier in America than elsewhere, and men are superan- nuated with us while they are at the height of their usefulness in England. A comparison be- tween the physical habits of the two countries explains the difference. It is not that we work more, but that we play less. The early educa- tion of the English establishes a habit of mus- cular exercise and a taste for out-door life, which so invigorate their bodies and vitalize their animal spirits that physical activity be- comes a necessity of their nature. The founder of Winchester School made it a law of that institution that no boy should have his dinner until he had first run up and down the hill at the foot of which lies that fine Gothic structure built by the glorious old William of Wyckham centuries ago. So early were the English impressed with the necessity of exercis- ing the body as they disciplined the mind. The Englishman must have the freedom of the air to breathe, and the scope of the earth to move upon, or he is as uneasy as a frog un- der an air-pump. He accordingly secures both the one and the other; and though fashion, po- litical ambition, or business take him to Lon- don, he never fails to enjoy his vacation in the country. ~His holiday is as sacred to the En- glish statesman, lawyer, and merchant, as it is to the school-boy; and they would as soon think of going without their daily roast beef and port as without their shooting on the moors, or their country revel at Christmas. The American, however, has hardly an interval of relaxation, although the fourth of July and the first of the year are down in his calendar as holidays, of which, however, he is only conscious from the shock to his nerves by the sudden stoppage to the machinery of business in consequence of the close of his bank. This system of all work and no play, however, is, we are glad to learn, not only unfavorable to health but unprofitable to the pocket. Here is a profit and loss argu- ment which we commend to the attention of our merchants and traders, who certainly, if they ignore physiology, are wide awake enough to the main chance. A manufacturing house in England, starting with the proposition that we ourselves get holidays when we can, de- clare that they have resolved to give their work- men holidays too. This sensible resolution is strengthened, according to their own account, by this very satisfactory profit argument. Un- der the high-pressure system, the laborer works 3110 hours a year; with reasonable holidays, there is a loss of time of 104 hours on each man s work. The same wages are paid for the less time, and, the judicious Englishmen say, with the gain of some hundred pounds by the new system, as the work, with the renewed strength from the holiday, is done in better spirit. Dr. Lancaster, a famous English sta- tistician, has proved that even in London 8000 persons at least lose their health, and 1000 die annually from exhaustion. Who could com- pute the hecatombs sacrificed to the American Moloch of unmitigated work I We have already reminded our fashionable women, on a previous occasion, that their hab- its are admirably adapted for making them what they arerather pretty than beautifulmore shadowy than substantial. Their nerves, like those of the men, are torn into pieces, but not by the anxieties of money-making; the excite- ment of spending it supplies them with their means of wear and tear. If shut out from the freedom of Wall Street, they take their liberty in the Fifth Avenue; and if fathers and hus- bands do toil all day, wives and daughters have their revenge in dissipating all night. Nor is it easy to decide who have the harder work of the two. It is enough for us to know that the THE OLD MANS STORY. 61 courses of both are equally unwholesome; and whether the one wears out his life and the oth- er wastes hers, it is right to protest against the overdone business in the one case, and The toiling pleasure that siekens into pain of the other. It is the excessive excitement of fashion, unmitigated by robust habits, which weakens the body and destroys the health. Our women want the strength and elasticity, engen- dered by healthful out-door life, to stand dissi- pation, and havethat very weakness which gives them the greater proclivity to its temptations. A feeble and diseased body is sure to be accom- panied by a thirst for excitement, and our wo- men, were they more robust, would care less for it, and not suffer so much from its effects. Americans are gregarious, but they are not social. They eat in company, but, like a herd of cattle in a pasture, each one is too much ab- sorbed in chewing his own cud to be conscious of the presence of his fellows. They rush in crowds to the fashionable resort, and are whirled together in a torrent of excitement, but with such rapidity that, like certain headlong streams, though they meet they do not mix. The best influences of society are lo in the vortex of excitement, and what should enliven and strengthen, inflames and weakens. We deprive ourselves of the simple and healthful enjo~ ents of social intercourse for the wild revelry of fash- ionable dissipation. That our men and women should break do under such a high-pressure system, is naturally to be expected, and that they do so is clear from their pale faces, hag- ~ rd expressions, shrunk bodies, frequent ail- ments, and premature old age. We must check our speed. We bring up our children too fast, we work too fast, we dissipate too fast, we eat too fast, live too fast, and, consequently, always ahead of our time, we die too fast. With less forcing in youth and more gradual development, with less eagerness in work and more repose, with more enjoyment and less excitement in pleasure, with diminished straining of the nerves and increased activity of the muscles, such a condition and consciousness of high health will be reached, that knowing, we will not care to inquire How to Keep Well. THE OLD MANS STORY. I AM an old man now. Time has almost done with me. My limbs, which once did their vock so well in supporting my youthful fr~me, now totter under their weight, and my vision is now so dim that all nature is but an indistinct shadow to me. And among the scat- tered gray locks upon my head there remains only here and there a raven hair to tell of the youth now past and gonesad remembrancers of hours which c~ n never come again !and I soon shall sink into my grave, as others have done before me, forgotten, unknown, save to a few whose hearts will still sadden at the recol- lection of me. Think not, dear reader, that these are the querulous complaints of an old dotard, whose last act is an effort to briag him- VOL. XIV.No. 79.E self into notice, that his name may live after him. It is not so. I do not murmur. I am well content that so it should be. I have a better object tlsan the mere seeking of the hub- ble reputation. I want to do you some good before I leave the world. Excuse, then, the simple style of an old man who has forgotten all his flowers of rhetoric, and whose first attempt at authorship is made when he can not even be inspired by Natures beauties, when his head is bowed neath the cares and sorrows of seventy winters; but who, notwithstanding, has still a heart warm for those who yet stand upon the threshold of life inexperienced in the troubles ~and also in the joys which maturer life brings with it. My life has not been an eventful one: the nine path which I have trod others have trod before me. I have climbed its steeps, and toil- ed in the burden and heat of its day; but I have, too, walked in its pleasant valleys, and been re- freshed by its cooling streams. Occasionally a serpent has crossed my path, an adder has stung me. Sometimes a flower has smiled before me in all its beauty, and when I plucked it I have found treacherous thorns; but I do not forget the flowers without thorns which gave to me nothing but pleasure. There was, however, a turning from this well-beaten tracka passage in my lifes history which redeems it from mo- notony, and which may win you as a listener for a little while. This one passage which, through a long vista of forty-nine years, quivers this aged frame with a sickening horror, will send a thrill through your young hearts which will be recbmpense sufficient for any trouble on my part. My life began in the State of Georgia, where my father owned a large plantation. He had started in life with but little, bet by those strange turns and quirks of fortune had amass- ed an immense property. It is not worth while, as it has nothing to do with my story, to enter into a description of the personal appearance, character, and mental qualifications of my dear father. Suffice it to say, that he was a noble, high-souled Southerner, warm-hearted and gen- erous to a degree which, had Dame Fortune be a less constant, would have made and left him a beggar. It might with truth have been said of him that he was without littleness of feeling, and it makes my heart swell with hon- est pride to call him Father. My mother! Oh, what streams of tenderness flow in at the very name, refreshing and mak- ing me young once more! What do I not re- call of her that is beautiful and loving !with her soft brown hair, and smooth pure brow, trav- ersed, even as I first remember it, by lines of care; the deep blue eyes, too, with the shadow over them, showing that life had not been with- out its strifes to her. She had rejoiced in the birth of many chil- dren; but bud after bud had dropped nublos- soming from the parent tree until I alone was left, and upon me was lavished all the tender-

THE OLD MANS STORY. 61 courses of both are equally unwholesome; and whether the one wears out his life and the oth- er wastes hers, it is right to protest against the overdone business in the one case, and The toiling pleasure that siekens into pain of the other. It is the excessive excitement of fashion, unmitigated by robust habits, which weakens the body and destroys the health. Our women want the strength and elasticity, engen- dered by healthful out-door life, to stand dissi- pation, and havethat very weakness which gives them the greater proclivity to its temptations. A feeble and diseased body is sure to be accom- panied by a thirst for excitement, and our wo- men, were they more robust, would care less for it, and not suffer so much from its effects. Americans are gregarious, but they are not social. They eat in company, but, like a herd of cattle in a pasture, each one is too much ab- sorbed in chewing his own cud to be conscious of the presence of his fellows. They rush in crowds to the fashionable resort, and are whirled together in a torrent of excitement, but with such rapidity that, like certain headlong streams, though they meet they do not mix. The best influences of society are lo in the vortex of excitement, and what should enliven and strengthen, inflames and weakens. We deprive ourselves of the simple and healthful enjo~ ents of social intercourse for the wild revelry of fash- ionable dissipation. That our men and women should break do under such a high-pressure system, is naturally to be expected, and that they do so is clear from their pale faces, hag- ~ rd expressions, shrunk bodies, frequent ail- ments, and premature old age. We must check our speed. We bring up our children too fast, we work too fast, we dissipate too fast, we eat too fast, live too fast, and, consequently, always ahead of our time, we die too fast. With less forcing in youth and more gradual development, with less eagerness in work and more repose, with more enjoyment and less excitement in pleasure, with diminished straining of the nerves and increased activity of the muscles, such a condition and consciousness of high health will be reached, that knowing, we will not care to inquire How to Keep Well. THE OLD MANS STORY. I AM an old man now. Time has almost done with me. My limbs, which once did their vock so well in supporting my youthful fr~me, now totter under their weight, and my vision is now so dim that all nature is but an indistinct shadow to me. And among the scat- tered gray locks upon my head there remains only here and there a raven hair to tell of the youth now past and gonesad remembrancers of hours which c~ n never come again !and I soon shall sink into my grave, as others have done before me, forgotten, unknown, save to a few whose hearts will still sadden at the recol- lection of me. Think not, dear reader, that these are the querulous complaints of an old dotard, whose last act is an effort to briag him- VOL. XIV.No. 79.E self into notice, that his name may live after him. It is not so. I do not murmur. I am well content that so it should be. I have a better object tlsan the mere seeking of the hub- ble reputation. I want to do you some good before I leave the world. Excuse, then, the simple style of an old man who has forgotten all his flowers of rhetoric, and whose first attempt at authorship is made when he can not even be inspired by Natures beauties, when his head is bowed neath the cares and sorrows of seventy winters; but who, notwithstanding, has still a heart warm for those who yet stand upon the threshold of life inexperienced in the troubles ~and also in the joys which maturer life brings with it. My life has not been an eventful one: the nine path which I have trod others have trod before me. I have climbed its steeps, and toil- ed in the burden and heat of its day; but I have, too, walked in its pleasant valleys, and been re- freshed by its cooling streams. Occasionally a serpent has crossed my path, an adder has stung me. Sometimes a flower has smiled before me in all its beauty, and when I plucked it I have found treacherous thorns; but I do not forget the flowers without thorns which gave to me nothing but pleasure. There was, however, a turning from this well-beaten tracka passage in my lifes history which redeems it from mo- notony, and which may win you as a listener for a little while. This one passage which, through a long vista of forty-nine years, quivers this aged frame with a sickening horror, will send a thrill through your young hearts which will be recbmpense sufficient for any trouble on my part. My life began in the State of Georgia, where my father owned a large plantation. He had started in life with but little, bet by those strange turns and quirks of fortune had amass- ed an immense property. It is not worth while, as it has nothing to do with my story, to enter into a description of the personal appearance, character, and mental qualifications of my dear father. Suffice it to say, that he was a noble, high-souled Southerner, warm-hearted and gen- erous to a degree which, had Dame Fortune be a less constant, would have made and left him a beggar. It might with truth have been said of him that he was without littleness of feeling, and it makes my heart swell with hon- est pride to call him Father. My mother! Oh, what streams of tenderness flow in at the very name, refreshing and mak- ing me young once more! What do I not re- call of her that is beautiful and loving !with her soft brown hair, and smooth pure brow, trav- ersed, even as I first remember it, by lines of care; the deep blue eyes, too, with the shadow over them, showing that life had not been with- out its strifes to her. She had rejoiced in the birth of many chil- dren; but bud after bud had dropped nublos- soming from the parent tree until I alone was left, and upon me was lavished all the tender- f2 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. ness of her loving heart. There was one other member of our family whom I must mentio~ it was a ward of my fathersa young orphan girl, left to him by an intimate friend when she was but an infant. She was the only being who ever attempted to rival me in the affection of my parents, and we loved each other too fondly for jealousy. From being a pure, fairy- like little being, like, indeed, to a fair flower, we called her Lily. The name suited her well; she was just one to smile and rejoice in the sun- shine, but bend and droop before the storm. She was younger than myselg and I well re- member the pride I took in protecting her. She was afraid of every thing; and I do not believe that any soldiers heart ever throbbed in the excitement of the battle-field with more pleas- urable emotions than did mine when Lily would look to me for protection against some imagin- ary danger. Sometimes it was a rabbit, as timid as herself; sometimes merely a stump, which, in her eyes, was certainly an old and very ferocious man; and sometimes it was but a harmless denizen of the poultry-yard walking toward her. These dangers did not, it is true, require any exercis of courage to enhance their pleasure to my boys spirit; but it was real hap- piness to feel that I was looked to for relief; and I felt myself a man in giving it. Thus our happy childhood passed away, with not a cloud to obscure its brightness, until I was fifteen years old and Lily twelve. Then it was thought advisable that I should go from home to school, and take my first lesson in the minds and man- ners of my fellow-men. I shall never forget our grief in the separation; how Lily clung around my neck, and sobbed as if her little heart would break; and how my dear father took her in his arms, and laughingly bade her cheer upthat Willie would soon come home a man, and she should be his little wife. I saw the surprised eyes and blushing face of the little girl, heard my fathers hearty laugh, and I started off inte the world with a new idea in my head, and a new love in my heart. The suggestion was never absent from me afterward. I looked upon her with different eyes, and peopled dream-land with her image. We wrote to each other; and when I went home at my vacation I found her grown more lovely, but I was conscious of a change in her manner to me. In her letters she would recall old scenes and bring up old associations, but when in actual presence she would avoid all renewal of them. If I wanted to walk, she was sure to be in an industrious mood; if I proposed a private and Confidential conversation, there was sure to be an interesting passage in some book which I must read to her. She was ever ready with an excuse, some device to prevent a renewal of our old familiar intercourse. With my father and mother she was the same mischievous, playful child; but with me she was suddenly trans- formed into the grave, dignified woman. Her manner puzzled, annoyed, and distressed me. It was the day before I was to start for Eu- rope, where I must stay for two years. I had tried in vain to find an opportunity to tell Lily of my feelings toward her. With the utmost freedom, as I had been accustomed to do from a child, I told my mother every thing. It was my first real sorrow. Even now I feel the pres- sure of her soft hand smoothing my cheek as she tried to comfort me. It would be different. Lily was shy; I had grown so tall, and she had lost my identity with the Willie of former years. She advised me to seek an explanation. As I left her room I met Lily crossing the hall. I went up to her, and said, in a playful way, Come, Lily, I want you to go to walk with me this last evening. We will awaken a host of recollections by a stroll in the grove. Now go get your bonnet, and come on I Indeed, Willie, I can not go this evening. I am sorry to deny you, but I must finish this piece of work. I was provoked, and said, almost angrily, Lily, you are capricious, and, I almost be- lieve, cold-hearted; I never did see any body so changed. She looked at me in astonishment. The crita- son tide rushed over her neck and face until the very roots of her hair seemed set in blood. It is you who are changed, she said. You are suspicious of me. You will not be my brother Willie any more. And I am to be tormented from years end to years end be- cause I can not She stopped, and hid her face in her hands, the flush upon her cheek deepening more in shame than anger. I drew nearer to her, but before I could touch her she had flown up the wide staircase, and I heard her door slam. The mystery was to me solved; she loved me only as a brother, had fathomed my wishes, and wished to avoid giving me pain. I started off with a heavy heart. My disappoint- ment was a bitter one; bat in my heart I had to acknowledge that she had acted rightly. From Paris I wrote to her, telling her that I appreciated her motives. I never received an answer to my letter; indeed she never got it. It was far from my intention, dear reader, to make this a love-ste ; and, after all, this is but to act as an introduction to the one grand event I have promised to tell you of. Neither is it my intention to give an account of my travels in Europe; what I saw there other trav- elers have seen, and put down in books. My heart was not in them. My two years were spent in wild longings to get home. I had not been able to shake off or change the feelings I had for Lily. In spite of my most desperate ef- forts I had to acknowledge that I was still hop- ing on. I tried to improve myself in c ery thin~, and did improve.: it was all in the hope that her sisterly affection had worn out in my absence, and would give place to another and a tenderer feeling. She was the nucleus around which all my feelings clustered; in her all my thoughts centred. I mingled in society, hut the dark-eyed daughters of Italy, and the spark- lin~ vivacity of the French women, only brought THE OLD MANS STORY. 63 them into comparison with the infantine loveli- ness and infectious mirth of the companion of my boyhood, and I turned from them in utter dissatisfaction at the contrast. Well, those twoyears flew by on leaden wings; ut they passed at last, and I gladly returned home. I waited a day in New York, that my letter announcing my arrival might be before me. It was a sweet, bright day in early May that I drew near to my fathers house. The carriage had been sent some miles to meet me, and old Juba was winning my thanks and praises by his efforts to hurry me on my journey as much as it was possible. Every thing seemed to have been done with reference to my return; every where I recognized the hand of affection, and even Natures self seemed to join in the general joy the green grass, the smiling flowers, and the joyous note of the bird, 11 seemed to welcome me home. Oh, the magic of the word! My heart seemed to bound within me, and I could not restrain my disposition to leap from the car- riage and return the greetings of my ebony friends with as much heartiness as they were given. Then came the silent embrace of my father, speaking more than volumes of words, and the tearful tenderness of my mother, as she thanked God for bringing me safely home. All this was happiness indeed, but I looked beyond. Behind my mother stood Lily, ldokiug lovelier than ever, in her dress of sky blue, falling in such graceful folds around her slight but beauti- fully rounded figure. Her cheek was a little palerthan when I left, but there was a light in her eye that made my heart bound. Tis true, she was dignified still; but there was a shy, timid consciousness of the possession of feelings which she feared to betray. I was perfectly happy. I had never felt in such spirits. I laughed and talked in the wildest possible manner. At last we separated, or at least Lily left us, and my father, my mother, and myself sat down for a quiet talk. How well do I remember it! We were discussing the changes which had taken place during my absence, and forming plans for the future, when my father said, with rather a meaning smile, And now, my boy, you must begin to look out for yourself a wife. We shall sadly want a daughter when our little Lily is gone. I was thunderstruck. I felt as if crushed by a mountain weight. I looked from one to the other in mnte amazement. At last I managed to ask what was itwhat did he mean? Why, has not Lily written to you, the sly little miux! I thought she would have told you. She went to Richmond last winter and brought back with her an elegant, fine-lookiun fellow, a Dr. Allen, and she has taken a fancy to the name. I think she is doing well, no doubt, but still I shall miss my little lady-bird sadly. I had hoped it would have been different, but there is no accounting for tastes. Well, good- night, Will, my boyI am glad you are at home once more; and the old gentleman picked up his candle and left the room. I do not know how long I lay with my head in my mothers lap, all my hopes blasted, my dream at an end. Not one word was spoken; but softly, softly moved the velvet palm over my fevered brow. I closed my eyes. I felt that she read my heart. She knew its agony, and if any thing could comfort me her silent sympathy did. Every now and then she would stoop down and kiss away the scalding tears which, in spite of my manhood, would flow, and say, Dear child ! or My poor Willie ! But the long hours we sat there she never pried into my secret, only gave me her silent sympathy. At last we parted, and retiring to my room, I threw myself upon my bed and gave way to my bitter grief. I had never had such feelings before. Heart and brain seemed crushed by one stroke. The thick dark- ness of night was nothing to the midnight of my heart. For hours I lay tossing, groaning, and lamenting that I had ever been born. The many blessin~s I had were as nothing. What were they in comparison with what was denied to me? Like a spoiled child, I disdained all my toys because there was one beyond my grasp. Oh, how is that night written deep on my mem- oryburned into my heart! Nfl soft hand to soothe away the anguish, and, alas! I knew not where to find comfort when no earthly friend was near. Hours must have passed before, exhausted by my overwrought feelings, I fell into a strange slumberso deep, that I was unconscious of my own breathing, and yet acutely conscious of ob- jects around. I had my eyes closed, but Ii felt the darkness pressing upon their lids. It seemed as if even my heart stood still. So horrible were my sensations that I longed to rouse my- self, but, like a person in a nightmare, I was un- able to stir; so I lay until it seemed to grow lighter around me, and I heard James (the servant) enter the room. I heard him step carefully and noiselessly for fear of disturbing my slumber. I heard him stop, surprised, at the foot of my bed, at seeing me still dressed as I had been the day before. He seemed at first to hesitate about calling me. He would walk about the room, and then return to the bed as if there was something in my appearance which drew him there. I longed for him to touch me, and arouse me from my horrible nightmare. At last he came close to me and called, Mass William! Mass William ! I did not moveI could not move. He laid his hand on mine. It was icy cold against his, and he rushed, horrified, from the room. All this I felt, but could not move. Then I knew that I was in a living death. Oh, why was it that the agony at my heart did not send the curdling blood through my veins! But no; the same awful stillness reigned throegh my whole frame. Oh, what would I not have given to raise a finger, to move a muscle! I felt that I was indeed a living soul in a dead body. My hands lay crossed serenely over my breast, as if to tell of quiet within; my features, I felt, were placid 64 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. and calm. My frame seemed no longer a part of myself. My soul writhed ia agony and si- lence within its shell. I heard my mothers shriek, my fathers groan; and there was another soundit seemed like a wail of anguish from a breaking heart. Whose was it? And the im- prisoned feelin0s quivered and shook with some- thiry between pleasure and pain, hut they gave no outward sign. I heard the confosion ahout the house; the physician, the minister sent for; orders issued with the greatest rapidity, hut each one heard and felt hy me. I seemed to he a mass of feeling, and each circumstance vibrated painfully against the tightly-strung chord de- scending through my whole frame, and in its descent touching each nerve, sending through me a thrill of the intense anguish, the most exquisite suffering; hut there was the same awful stillness reigning without. They gathered around my bedmy father, my mother, the servants, allI heard their deep sohs. I heard the grief too deep for tears so sudden, so lately in health, and now dead! I shuddered at the word; hut the shell upon the hed was silentquiet as ever. My mothers form pressed the had heside me, her agony giving vent only occasionally in words such as Oh! had he hut heen a child of God, I could have home it; hut death without hope The doctor camo. My eyelids were raised. Through those half-closed portals I gazed once more on the faces I so loved; hut my feelings gave no expression to those film-covered pupils. My vest was undone. I heard the sad declara- tion, in tones of deep sympathy, No pulsation all over! I felt my mother fall lifeless heside meI heard my fathers frenzied expressions of grief, and I was left to he shrouded for the grave. It was done hy the tender, loving hands of our own domestics, amidst many tears over poor Mass Willie; hut this did not prevent the thrill of horror, douhly intense because it only touched within. I was laid upon my own hod, each limb straightened, each fold laid in its place; the windows opened, to prevent, as I shudder- ingly thought, the quick ravages of decay; and with many a sigh and many an expression of grief they left me alone with my own dead hodythe cool hreezes sweeping over my si- lent framethe sun, in its garish hrightness, peeping in and mocking at my sorrow. I re- member, too, a dove outside my window, whose mournful note seemed to goad me to madness. They would drive it away, hut it soon returned and sang to me in its melancholy strain that live-long day. And now I must think how I must stare the evil in the face. ~[ must look he- yond the grave, to which I would soon he taken. I do not remember that I had one hope of heing saved from my living death. There seemed to he such a fixed immovableness ahout my hody that I could not realize motion, and I half believed myself dead. The recollection of my mothers agonized cry of Oh, had he hut been a child of God ! filled me with horror, and the idea of an entrance into the eternal world without preparation came over me with all its dreadful reality. My whole life passed in review hefore me. Alas, what a scene of black rebellion! In vain did I search for one act with which I might hope to appease the great God. They alone fled from me, and I seemed forced to new my sins, which now, for the first time, struck me with their enormity. I hated myself. It seemed just in God to punish me thus severely. All his kind, watchful care came to my view in a new light. Why had I never seen it before and now too late! How could I hope for par- don for a lifetime of sin? Oh no; I must de- spairI could not merit heavenI could never do any thing to show my love and gratitude; and then, in connection with these thoughts, came my mothers teachings, my prayer lisped at her knee, and I repeated Our Father with a sort of tremulous earnestness I had nev- er known before. But still I despaired; I seem- ed the blackest thing alive, and I then under- stood how devils would acknowledge the justice of God in their condemnation. As these and a multitude of other thoughts passed through my mind, I heard the door opened, and my mother stood beside me. I heard her subdued moan of agony; again the soft hand smoothed my brow, and she said, Myboy! mypoor Willie! can it be? Oh! my God, thou alone canst comfort me under this most grievous chastisement. Oh, let me not murmur; let me but see the end to be worked out. Oh, if he bad but given me one word to show that he rested in a Saviour, trust- ed in him, I could have given him up at thy call without one selfish feeling; but nowoh, no hope! no hope! my child! my child ! and shrieking forth her anguish, they tore her from me. Dear mother, when did you ever come near me without imparting comfort? Even now she spoke of a Saviour, upon whom I might rest, in whom I might trust, even sinful as I was and I prayed earnestly to be led in the right path. I had never before prayed from my heart, but now it seemed wrung out. Again I was interrupted by the opening of the door, and felt my length and my breadth measured, with the remark, in a strange voice, that he was a stout carp, to be sure. What could ha been the matter with the poor gentle- man to ha took him off so suddiat f ending with an inquiry as to uho the property would go to now. To tho young lady, I specs, said James; she is jest like old marsters daughter. I suppose, said the stranger, they wants satin lining, silver plateevery thing done up in the fust style ? Never mind expense, said James; every thing must be done in the very most genteele t style. Imagine, if you can, dear reader, what my feelings must have been at hearing myself dis- cussed in this way. The mention of the youn6 lady brought Lily before me. She alone had ThE OLD MANS STORY. 65 stood aloof from the body of her old friend; she did not care enough for her former playmate to induce her to look upon him once again. I pictured her to myself as the fond wifeI thought of her husband rejoicing in my death, because by it Lily would come to him a richly- endowed bride. These thonghts brought fresh grief, and I tried to banish them. I knew that I had given to her the idolatry of my heart, which ought to have been given to my God. Through that long day many came to look upon me. My poor father spent many hours beside me, moaning over the death of his bright- est hopes. At last I felt it grow darkerI knew that the sun was going down. I must pass anoth- er long night, darkness around and within me. I remember that I was trying to pray for sub- mi sion and support, when I felt the sheet lifted from my face, and then I heard the broken- hearted wail which had so chained my attention in the morning. My feelings throbbed with pleasureit was Lily! She had come alone, and such a sound could only come from a loving, breaking heart. Oh Willie! dear Willie! if you could but speak to mebut look at mebut tell me that you died loving, forgiving me; if you could but hear me now telling how I loved you as I can never love any one elsehow from my very h art I have longed for your returm If I only had some one to talk to; but no one loves me now. Dear mamma even shudders when I come near her, and papa does not notice me. I must weep alone. Oh, I am so desolate, so lone- ly and miserable ! I felt the slight pressure of her fl5ure on the bed. Her deep sobs went to my heart. I longed to clasp her to my breast; but my arms were stiff and cold, and refused their aid. I thought that my feelings must make my heart beat, but no; still all was quietmy hands still crossed upon my breast. I must go down to my grave with my only ungratified wish in my grasp. I had only to move to possess it, and I could not. Oh Lily ! I said, or rather thought, why did you come to torment me with vain hopeswhy withdraw my thoughts from eternity? and I made an effort to be happy in the prospect of heaven; but my thoughts would not soar above the breaking heart beside me. I wanted to com- fort herI wanted to tell her to leave me, to pray for consolationI wanted to tell her how, in my hour of darkness, I had found li~hthow, in my writhing agony, I had found rest in my Saviour, but I could not. At last the door opened, and I felt the light from a candle. It was my mothers voice I heard saying, You here, my child ? and I knew that her arm was around the mourner. I heard from Lilys bursting heart the exclamation, Oh, bad he bnt loved me I heard them talk together of me. I heard my mother tell of my long devotion to her, and then the sobs came quicker but more softly. Then my mother pointed her to the light be- yond this darkness the dark cloud brightly edged. She told of her own agony in the morn- ing; and how, in the stillness of her closet, she had been wondrously comfortedhow she had been assured that the child of so many prayers could not be lostshe was comforted by the un- changing God. Every now and then she would hush the quick sobs, as if she were dealing with a little child. There now, my own child, my little Lily, dont cry any more! We will meet our Willie in heaven. We must not murmur at our Fa- thers chastisement. He had to take our idol, in order to draw our rebellions hearts to him- self. Not one word of reproach was uttered nothing which could wound; and presently the sobs ceased, and gently putting her arms around her, my mother led her from the room. Then came the servants bringing candles the watchers, who were old companions of my own; and between their visits and my own re- flections the long night passed not unhappily. My funeral was to take place the next day. I took the most intense interest in all that con- cerned it. I knew the time was drawing near. I heard them set something down upon the bed it was my coffin! I felt myself lifted and laid in it. I remember that my arms had to be pressed close in order that I might lie within its too narrow limits. I remember the painfully- cramped feeling this gave me. I was then car- ried into the parlors. I heard the thick, deep sobs through the two rooms. I heard the trem- ulous hymn, sometimes ceasing from emotion, and then taken up again. I heard the solemn voice of the minister say, Man that is born of woman is of few days and full of trouble. I heard my own funeral sermon, and then the solemn, eloquent supplication to a throne of grace for the bereaved; and then the words, The services will be concluded at the grave. I felt the sheet lifted from my face, and knew that there were many loving eyes fixed upon me; more than one kindly tear fell upon my face. I made a desperate effort to open my eyesand, reader, I succeeded! I have an in- distinct recollection of shrieks, and the min- gling of many voices, and I sank into a state of insensibihty. When I awoke, I was in my own room, and the pale, anxious faces of my moth- er, my father, and Lily were bending over me. They looked wearied and worn, and I knew what they had suffered. Those weeks I spent in bed were the happiest of my life; my grati- tude, my love to God were unbounded, and I felt that a lifetime of service would but feebly testify my change of purpose and feeling. I was at last able to sit up, and day after day was my Lilys sweet face beside me. Oh! so well do I remember one day, when left alone with her, I ealled the blush to her cheek by an allusion to the scene in that very room; and asked her if she would indeed be my little Lily. There was no answer at first, but soon the little Bible beside her was opened, and the hining needle pointed me to what I read: Whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodhest, I will 66 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. lodge: thy people shall be my people, and thy God my G6d. Where thou diest, will I die, and there will I be hurled: the Lord do so to me, and more also, if aught but death part thee and me. This was our betrothal: our marriage was soon after; and we have trodden the path of life side by side. Nor is the little, neat-looking old lady, with well-crimped cap and loving eye, less lovely and beloved to me than the Lily that bloomed in youthful beauty so many years ago. THE VIRGINIA EDITOR. BY A VIRGINIAN. ~HE Virginia Editor is a young, unmarried, -I intemperate, pugnacious, gambling gentle- man. Between drink and dueling-pistols he is generally escorted to a premature grave. If he so far withstands the ravages of brandy and gunpowder as to reach the period of gray hairs and cautiousness, he is deposed to make room for a youth who hates his life with an utter hatred, and who cant keep drunk more than a week at a time. Deposed, he becomes a literary ostrich, and may be seen, with swollen red nose and dimin- ished, calfiess shanks~ migrating from court- house to court-house, laying a newspaper egg, which he leaves to be hatched into life and per- manence by the pecuniary warmth of the party to whom he sells out at a small advance. Or he undertakes an unfinishable series of the Lives of the Governors of Virginia, and beseeches sub- scribers thereto. Should he, by rare good luck and the miraculous interposition of Providence, have saved any money, he buys a property in the country, retires to it, debauches himself with miscellaneous literature, lounges much, does a great deal of nothing at all, becomes curious as to the variety and flavor of his cigars, and writes an occasional nrticle about wheat. Should he get married, he sinks into an obseureand decent citizen, and looks back upon his early career as a horrid dream. Previous to his death, the Virginia Editor makes the most of the short time allotted to him on earth by living at a suicidal velocity. To test the strength of his constitution, by subject- ing it to the influence of the most destructive habits and agencies, appears to be his sole pleas- ure and aim. He is determined not to live longer than he can possibly help. A quiet death at a ripe old age he regards as a disgrace. His first waking moments in the morning are saturated with a number of powerful cocktails, to cure a headache, brought over, as an ac- countant would say, from the previous midnight. Co~ktailed past the point of nervousness and re- morse, he dresses himself, and wends his way to a barbers shop to get shaved, if he shaves at all. Not unfrequently he has himself shaved in bed. Breakfast succeeds, and then, with a cigar in his month, he enters his sanctum, and goes to work; which work consists in hunting for in- sults in his exchanges, and in laying the foun- dation, by means of a scathing article, of a future duel. While employed upon his leading article he suffers no interruption, except from the gen- tleman who brings a note from another gentle- man, whom he (the Editor) grossly insulted at an oyster supper the night before. Having no earthly recollection of any such occurrence, the Editor feels no hesitation (unless he happens to be unusually bilious, or has no affair upon his hands) in saying that he fully and frank- ly withdraws any and every expression reflect- ing upon the character of the gentleman as a gentleman and a man of honor. His editorial labors vary from fire minutes to two hours and a half in duration. If he feels very badly he wont write at all, but goes armed with a stick to a neighboring law-office, and threatens the occupant with a caning unless he has a spicy article in the compositors hands by such an hour. The unhappy barrister complies, and spices the Editor into a scrape, for which the Editor is unaffectedly thankful, swearing he would die without excitement. Before leaving his sanctum he answers a couple of letters which arrived by the last mail. He engages to meet the gallant Democracy of district, and to address them on Au- gust court-day. lIe assures a Constant Reader that the glorious cause is prospering, the skies brightening ; and suggests, as the best means of putting the issue of the canvass the most momentous canvass that ever occurred in the history of the Republicbeyond a doubt, that the Constant Reader shall send in ten new subscribers to the Keepa Pitcliinin. He then huddles a shirt, a case of dueling-pistols, and a bottle of Otard into a small trunk, and goes to the telegraph office to notify a brother Editor that he will be in Washington to-morrow night, waiting for him at the National Hotel. His mind hem thus relieved of business, he has no- thing to do but to wander off to his hotel to look at the register and see if any body has come. Meets there with another Editora red-headed provincial, fresh from the mountains, and al- ready heavily laden with rifle whiskywith whom he proceeds without delay to drink juleps and talk politics until dinner time. After dinner he borrows twice as much money as will take him to Washington and back, re- serving the surplus to bet that night at the faro- bank. In his personal appearance the Virginia Ed- itor vibrates between positive gentility and ab- solute shabbiness, and this irrespective of his condition as to funds. At times lie is smooth and clean of face, immaculate in shirt, perfect of boot and hat; at others he is great in beard and dirt, resembling an uncleansed pressman, or a pirate who has cruised for years upon an ocean of ink. He rarely buys clothes until he is in immediate need of them; and, inasmuch as he lives all over the State, is quite as apt to have on somebody elses clothes as his own. He despises a fashionable, dandified man as he does a man who drinks weak drinks. He vindicates his democracy even in his liquor; believes in

66 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. lodge: thy people shall be my people, and thy God my G6d. Where thou diest, will I die, and there will I be hurled: the Lord do so to me, and more also, if aught but death part thee and me. This was our betrothal: our marriage was soon after; and we have trodden the path of life side by side. Nor is the little, neat-looking old lady, with well-crimped cap and loving eye, less lovely and beloved to me than the Lily that bloomed in youthful beauty so many years ago. THE VIRGINIA EDITOR. BY A VIRGINIAN. ~HE Virginia Editor is a young, unmarried, -I intemperate, pugnacious, gambling gentle- man. Between drink and dueling-pistols he is generally escorted to a premature grave. If he so far withstands the ravages of brandy and gunpowder as to reach the period of gray hairs and cautiousness, he is deposed to make room for a youth who hates his life with an utter hatred, and who cant keep drunk more than a week at a time. Deposed, he becomes a literary ostrich, and may be seen, with swollen red nose and dimin- ished, calfiess shanks~ migrating from court- house to court-house, laying a newspaper egg, which he leaves to be hatched into life and per- manence by the pecuniary warmth of the party to whom he sells out at a small advance. Or he undertakes an unfinishable series of the Lives of the Governors of Virginia, and beseeches sub- scribers thereto. Should he, by rare good luck and the miraculous interposition of Providence, have saved any money, he buys a property in the country, retires to it, debauches himself with miscellaneous literature, lounges much, does a great deal of nothing at all, becomes curious as to the variety and flavor of his cigars, and writes an occasional nrticle about wheat. Should he get married, he sinks into an obseureand decent citizen, and looks back upon his early career as a horrid dream. Previous to his death, the Virginia Editor makes the most of the short time allotted to him on earth by living at a suicidal velocity. To test the strength of his constitution, by subject- ing it to the influence of the most destructive habits and agencies, appears to be his sole pleas- ure and aim. He is determined not to live longer than he can possibly help. A quiet death at a ripe old age he regards as a disgrace. His first waking moments in the morning are saturated with a number of powerful cocktails, to cure a headache, brought over, as an ac- countant would say, from the previous midnight. Co~ktailed past the point of nervousness and re- morse, he dresses himself, and wends his way to a barbers shop to get shaved, if he shaves at all. Not unfrequently he has himself shaved in bed. Breakfast succeeds, and then, with a cigar in his month, he enters his sanctum, and goes to work; which work consists in hunting for in- sults in his exchanges, and in laying the foun- dation, by means of a scathing article, of a future duel. While employed upon his leading article he suffers no interruption, except from the gen- tleman who brings a note from another gentle- man, whom he (the Editor) grossly insulted at an oyster supper the night before. Having no earthly recollection of any such occurrence, the Editor feels no hesitation (unless he happens to be unusually bilious, or has no affair upon his hands) in saying that he fully and frank- ly withdraws any and every expression reflect- ing upon the character of the gentleman as a gentleman and a man of honor. His editorial labors vary from fire minutes to two hours and a half in duration. If he feels very badly he wont write at all, but goes armed with a stick to a neighboring law-office, and threatens the occupant with a caning unless he has a spicy article in the compositors hands by such an hour. The unhappy barrister complies, and spices the Editor into a scrape, for which the Editor is unaffectedly thankful, swearing he would die without excitement. Before leaving his sanctum he answers a couple of letters which arrived by the last mail. He engages to meet the gallant Democracy of district, and to address them on Au- gust court-day. lIe assures a Constant Reader that the glorious cause is prospering, the skies brightening ; and suggests, as the best means of putting the issue of the canvass the most momentous canvass that ever occurred in the history of the Republicbeyond a doubt, that the Constant Reader shall send in ten new subscribers to the Keepa Pitcliinin. He then huddles a shirt, a case of dueling-pistols, and a bottle of Otard into a small trunk, and goes to the telegraph office to notify a brother Editor that he will be in Washington to-morrow night, waiting for him at the National Hotel. His mind hem thus relieved of business, he has no- thing to do but to wander off to his hotel to look at the register and see if any body has come. Meets there with another Editora red-headed provincial, fresh from the mountains, and al- ready heavily laden with rifle whiskywith whom he proceeds without delay to drink juleps and talk politics until dinner time. After dinner he borrows twice as much money as will take him to Washington and back, re- serving the surplus to bet that night at the faro- bank. In his personal appearance the Virginia Ed- itor vibrates between positive gentility and ab- solute shabbiness, and this irrespective of his condition as to funds. At times lie is smooth and clean of face, immaculate in shirt, perfect of boot and hat; at others he is great in beard and dirt, resembling an uncleansed pressman, or a pirate who has cruised for years upon an ocean of ink. He rarely buys clothes until he is in immediate need of them; and, inasmuch as he lives all over the State, is quite as apt to have on somebody elses clothes as his own. He despises a fashionable, dandified man as he does a man who drinks weak drinks. He vindicates his democracy even in his liquor; believes in THE VIRGIMA EDITOR. 67 good old brandy or whisky, calls them strict construction drinks, while in alt liquors he stig- matizes as Compromise drinks, and will have nothing to do with them except to taper off on. There is nothing in his form or features to distinguish him from other men. A physiog- nomist might perhaps detect in his face a bloody good-natnrean amiability easily kindled into angeras if the fierce animal instincts of the man were but imperfectly subdued by the press- nre of social refinements. His negligence in dress Is not greater than his carelessness with regard to another comfort which the majority of mankind deem essential to happiness. He will live upon the best of food, will drink the best liquor, and smoke the finest cigars, but is utterly indifferent as to where or how he sleeps, provided he has a bed- fellow; for he is greatly social, and can not bear ever to be alone. No respectable yonng man living in the same city is secure against an invasion of the Editor at the most inoppor- tune hours of the night. How many sweet dreams have been rudely broken by his assaults upon the front door, or his noisy escalade of the back-window, it would be impossible to tell. lie has a room of his own, originally furnish- ed with some taste and care, but has a mortal antipathy to sleeping in it. Nor is this aver- sion to be wondered at. Through a puddle of newspapers, Congressional speeches, tobacco juice, cigar stumps, broken spit-boxes, and pipe- stems, he wades to a bed whose sheets bade adieu to the washerwoman at a period too re- mote to be recalled, and whose counterpane secretes i primitive tints nuder a sweet and greasy scum of spermaceti and spilled brandy toddies. A candle-stand is drawn conveniently near the yellow pillow, and on it lie, disorder- ly, a candle burned to the socket, a franment- ary volume of Byron, a plug of tobacco, a cork (fellow to others on the floor), an inkstand with- out any ink in it, and a foolscap scrap of un- finished editoriaL Upon the window-sill, near the foot of the bed, stands marshaled a pla- toon of various-sized bottles, from the grena- dier Champagne to the squatty porter and the slab-tided tickler. In the little wardrobe are no clothes, except a skeleton waistcoat gibbeted upon a broken hook, but a number of empty cigar - boxes, a bowie -knife, and a revolver. The odor of this apartment is not inviting. The door is always open, night and day, and it is the common dormitory of all belated roysterers. Any one may sleep here who chooses. Notwithstanding his habits the Editor ob- tains a popularity wholly disproportioned, one would say, to his merits. That he should achieve notoriety is no matter for surprise, when every number of every paper issued in the State con- tains the name of Durringer Thundergust or William Jeems Rawhead, as principal, second, or adjustant of some personal difficulty; but notoriety is one thing, an4 popularity another and very different thing. Habits which would outlaw any other man, enable him to ride rough-shod over the inviola- ble law of custom. Conduct which would damn a man in business, endears him to men in whose creed striot business habits rank next to, if they do not take precedence of, godliness. Grave menthe slaves of routine and proprietyap- pear to take the same delight in witnessing his unbridled eccentricities that inspired the poet Job when contemplating the gambols of the wild ass. There is an airy bravado in his out- rages, a gay candor and naturalness in his ex- cesses, which extract all their sting. As soon quarrel with the habits of a strange bird as with those of a being who is not a man but an Edi- tor, a ad to whom no gauge of human morals is in any particular applicable. His abhorrence of the vice of solitary drink- ing has a good deal to do with this popularity. Scarcely a respectable citizen can be found in the commonwealth with whom he has not, at some time or other, hob-nobbed in a friendly manner. Rather than drink alone he will drink with a negro, provided the negro is at all gen- teel and has a gentleman for his master. His Ethiopian popularity is immense and perfect. It could hardly be otherwise when, from the White Sulphur Springs to the city of Norfolk, he has repeatedly and extravagantly feed every thing answering to the name of waiter. The Virginia Editor is not a pious, nor, strict- ly speaking, a gallant man. Women, children, and preachers he classes under the common head of non-combatants, and views them pretty much in the light in which he regards fliesas species of not very harmful, somewhat abundant insects, perhaps useful, but whose uses are not yet well understood. Still, he makes it a point of honor to place implicit faith in the truth of the Christian religion and the virtue of women; and while he regards the softer sex as, at best, beautiful toys, they are glass toys, and he treads respectfully and gingerly among the frail ves- sels. He clings with sectarian tenacity to the belief in future rewards and punishments; he is too brave and resentful a man to think other- wise. A disbelief in hell he denounces as the poltroonery of infidelity, nor can any casu- istry convince him that a man is not as respQns- ible for his faith as he is for his actions. He loves to talk, and his great theme, after politics, is himself. In himself be has the most nnbounded confidencea confidence which, in the most trying emergencies, scarcely ever de- serts him. Through difficulties that would ap- pall and crush ordinary men, he moves with the smiling abandon of a knight-errant pricking on- ward to meet a dragon, gorgon, or chimera dire. Only in moments of extreme nervous de- pression will he admit himself not competent to the discharge of the most arduous and varied duties of life, and especially of those duties for which he is evidently unfitted. He looks upon himself as pre-eminently a man of businessa practiual man. Rothschild was not his equal in financiering ability; Napoleon nor Hampden 68 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZD~E. could have wearied him in work; Halifax was not his superior in political sagacity. Name any man who has succeeded or failed in any undertaking, he will instantly unfold to you the secret of his success, or the oversights which led to his downfall. But for cards and liquor, himself would have excelled any man of his acquaintance; as it is, see how well he gets along in the world. In trath, his mind is strictly of the nil admi ran order; he worships no man; and his re- gard for himself is only a reluctant indulgence accorded not to what he is, hut to what he ought to he, and would he, hut Ibr cards and liquor. - For this remarkable self-confidence he is in- debted partly to a nature eminently hi,h-spirit- ed, and partly to his position. Like the driver of a locomotive, be wields a poxver infinitely greater than his own. He handles the lever that unlooses the throttle-valve of the mightiest engine on earth, and it is hut natural that he should confound derived with individual power. Disconnect him from his engine, let him con- duct a husiness, other than his own, npon the same loose principles, be would soon discover his error. But then he would lose one of his most delightful traits. The Virginia Editor is ot a profoundly learn- ed man; he is not even a smatterer, in the sense, at least, in which that equivocal compli- ment was paid to Milton. His speciality is politics; and his taste not less than his occu- pation conspire to prevent him acquiring any other knowledge. Of Latin he remembers a few terms, such as cx post facto and ex parts, which he picked up while drifting, for a few weeks, through a law-office. Of Greek he retains nearly the whole alphabet, being only a little uncertain as to the relative shapes of Zeta and Xi, and confusing Phi with Psi. His stock of poetry consists of a few scraps of Hudibras, Byron, and Peter Pindar; he has, besides, a pro- fessional pride and tenderness for the quatrain commencing: Truth, cra d to earth, will rise again 1 It would be impossible to restrain him from quoting this occasionally, and, if it were possi- ble, it would be cruel. His historical information does not extend quite to the times of the Ach n League and the Amphictyonic Council, but dates rather from the Resolutions of 98. With the work- ings of the American Government, from its in- ception down to the present time; with the character, and, to an extent, with the writings of the great men who took prominent part in its formation; with the policy of the party leaders; with the politicians, great and small, of his own times, and with their tactics, he is intimately familiar. In fact, his attainments may be summed up in the word politics, for while he does not underrate those who understand and take an interest in Belles Lettres.and the Arts and Sciences, he frankly confesses that he knows and cares nothing about them himself. So fitted is he for partisan journalisni, and so wedded to it, that it is to be hoped the divine economy has set apart some w ste democratic star, some uncleared portion of the cele tial public domain, some half-settled nebulous Kan- sas as a newspaper heaven for him and his fel- lows. Elsewhere no conceivable use could be found for them. His style in writing varies from the plainest Anglo-Saxon to the most gorgeous high falutin. In general, however, he makes use of ordinary English, and cares little or nothing about nicety and finish. He is better at repartee than at argument, but prefers hard talk to the most polished wit. His humor is peculiar, and con- siderably wider than it is subtle. It has been said by some that the Vir inia Editor is chosen rather for the stoutness of his heart than for the brilliancy of his intellect, and, to be honest, there is some truth in the allegation. A newspaper to be successful in the Old Dominion must not be defective in what they call chivalry; and a long-established paper, having the prestige of high-toned valor, would hardly employ a ready-writing craven in prefer- ence to a brave gentleman less facile with the pen. But the requirements of the public in this regard, and the usages of the papers, have been a thought exaggerated. It is not true, for example, that the man-of- all-work, the C ar of the office, who is em- ployed to sweep out the old papers and trash in the Inorning, receives an additional compensa- tion for sweepi g in the dead Editors lying about the door, who have been killed at v~rious places during the night and brought there, as to a Aforg , for recoanition and distribution. Nei- ther is it true that a paper, in order to keep up its circulation, must have at least one Editor killed a day, and that papers having secured a good Editor, one whom they are unwilling to lose, are in the habit of imposing upon the pub- lic by buying up worthless wretches to assassi- nate in place of him. Equally unfounded is the report that papors impoverished and doing a small business are forced to practice the con- temptible fraud of substituting wooden dummies, manikins, or lay figures in place of bona Jide corpses. These reports have reference, doubt- less, to States further south than Virginia. A propensity for gaming is a part of the Editors constitutionan hereditary int, for which he is no more responsible than, for the age of his grandfather, and which he could as easily get rid of as remove the shape of his legs. The affliction being eminently genteel, he not only bears up under it with manly fortitude, but cherishes it with much regard. lie is not much of a hand at short cards. His delight is to be seated over against a grim, imperturba- ble f 0-dealerto have bets of red checksall over the tablehaifa dozen piddlers of white chips to be leaning over his shoulder and ad- miring his nervea negro to be patiently await- ing the end of the denl to band him a brandy toddy cn a silver waiterfor the game to he THE SHELL ANI) THE PEARL. 69 stoutly contested, and for himself to come out She was proud; and, like a harrier of invisihie right smartly winner. He has no gre~ t f ith death, this pride hedged her inner soul from in cases, but helieves in hetting on three contact with the world. She passcd through its cards at a time, and has a special hankering for ranks from childhood till girlishness gave way to the pot. the full glory of a womanly prime, as stainless After all, and in spite of his many faults, the of folly and worldliness as un angel-guarded Virginia Editor is a gentleman. lie comes of child, hut as little accounted of. They who a good stock, and, however wild he may he, wanted help came to Anne. Children, the never disgraces it by a low or mean action. His poor, the, sick, the wretched, drew unfailing vices are not those of a groveling spirit. If sympathy from her evor-open heart; while soci- his temper is hot, it is not implacable; if his ety pronounced her sarcastic,light-minded, mi- resentment is quick, it never seeks an under- prudent, even unfeelingthough her friends handed revenge. If he prefers a clean bullet- knew better yet only one ever called her hole to a fisticuffish bruising or mangling with a proud, only one interpreted the flash that at bludgeon, that is his own concern. If he is a rare periods burned like destroying fire in her sturdy partisan, he is a ye the venality and the dilatqd eyes, and expanded her delicate figure trimming which disgraces the journalism of to the stature and poise of an empress. In due States nearer the pole than his own. If he time, hut, as became the development of her drinks too much, it is because the liquor he character, after her school-friends were married uses is of the best quality. If he gambles, it is and mothers, Anne Craig loved, and with such because he cant help it. If he lives something utter abandonment of feeling, such entire de- beyond his income, he is doing no more than votion of every faculty to the new worship, all enlightened nations and the majority of great that Marcia, who knew her hut in part, sisters men have done and continue to do. His tastes though they were, trembled for her health and are lavish. An imperial gallon can not be con-. life. tamed in a quart pot. And what political fabric It was not in the power or will of George Ben- was ever reared or maintained in its integrity nett to return such love, lie admired Anne in without the aid of an occasional loan? If he is every point of vkw; her face glowing with not a very good citizen, it is because he wants healths most vivid coloring, the unconscious to be a better Editor. grace of her figure, the bright flashes of her Finally, half an ounce of lead is honorably mirthful fancy, and the keen perception that dis- and satisfactorily adjusted in his heart or brain, tinguished her conversationall fascinated this and the Virginia Editor dies, to the great joy self-centred man, the more because he found of himself and to the intense grief of his party, her so universally misunderstood in society, the faro-dealers, the bar-keepers, and of every and saw, after but a few months acquaintance, body who is entitled to an unexpected fifty cents that she had voluntarily unvailed for him the simply because he is a negro and can run an depths of a heart worth a thousand common errand. The no longer belligerent remains are ones, and the recesses of a mind whose power attended to the tomb by an immense concourse and versatility she had not herself measured of citizens of all rties, and the epitaph, stale or imagined. but true, is, that the community could have For a time, bewitched by these traits, George better spared a better man. Bennett gave himself up entirely to the delight of being so loved. Not himself of the highest THE SHELL AND THE PEARL. intellectual grade or the most perceptive facul- KNE CRAIG was as proud as Diana; but ties, h had yet a wide power of appreciation, A who knew it? She passed with her wide and a fund of vanity, both of which aided him circle of friends for a breathing grace of love, to enjoy thoroughly that spectacle so fascinating tenderness, and humility; a generous and sin- to a man, of a beautiful, intellectual, and spir- gularly self-forgetful woman. If there is pride ituelle wom n utterly absorbed in, and living in that family, said the world, Marcia has it for him. Vainly did Marcia, from the heights all; and so said her closest companio s. of her superior propriety, lecture Anne till she Marcias little head, classically monided, and despuired; vainly did she recall precedent after rich with bands of golden hair, folded in heavy precedent, to show the universal result of a pas- masses above the pure Greek outline of her brow, sion so overflowing and demonstrative: argo- and the cold glitter of her full blue eyes, was a ment and precedent were alike lost on Anne utteriy expressive of indomitable pride as a she could not understand them. p inter of the seven deadly sins could have re- But, Marcia, I love him ! was her one re- quired in a model; while her curved II lost ply, uttered with such pure and wonderina sim- half the beauty of their perfect outline in the pleness, that Marcia, half ashamed, could in no haughty and determined expression that froze wise answer. She could not shake Annes faith their budding scarlet into icy repose. Marcia in George Bennett, or cloud her unworldly mind was proud, it is undeniable; but Anne was more with conventions; so she ceased to try. proud, though the dewy darkness of her eyes, But in time came the first development of the tender wistfulness of look and gesture, the Annes pride. She had been so lost in her own simple passion of her voice, and the p1 ding si- exquisite and abundant emotion, so blissfully lence of her sweetest lips, denied the accusation. h rbored in the ever-present consciousness of

THE SHELL ANI) THE PEARL. 69 stoutly contested, and for himself to come out She was proud; and, like a harrier of invisihie right smartly winner. He has no gre~ t f ith death, this pride hedged her inner soul from in cases, but helieves in hetting on three contact with the world. She passcd through its cards at a time, and has a special hankering for ranks from childhood till girlishness gave way to the pot. the full glory of a womanly prime, as stainless After all, and in spite of his many faults, the of folly and worldliness as un angel-guarded Virginia Editor is a gentleman. lie comes of child, hut as little accounted of. They who a good stock, and, however wild he may he, wanted help came to Anne. Children, the never disgraces it by a low or mean action. His poor, the, sick, the wretched, drew unfailing vices are not those of a groveling spirit. If sympathy from her evor-open heart; while soci- his temper is hot, it is not implacable; if his ety pronounced her sarcastic,light-minded, mi- resentment is quick, it never seeks an under- prudent, even unfeelingthough her friends handed revenge. If he prefers a clean bullet- knew better yet only one ever called her hole to a fisticuffish bruising or mangling with a proud, only one interpreted the flash that at bludgeon, that is his own concern. If he is a rare periods burned like destroying fire in her sturdy partisan, he is a ye the venality and the dilatqd eyes, and expanded her delicate figure trimming which disgraces the journalism of to the stature and poise of an empress. In due States nearer the pole than his own. If he time, hut, as became the development of her drinks too much, it is because the liquor he character, after her school-friends were married uses is of the best quality. If he gambles, it is and mothers, Anne Craig loved, and with such because he cant help it. If he lives something utter abandonment of feeling, such entire de- beyond his income, he is doing no more than votion of every faculty to the new worship, all enlightened nations and the majority of great that Marcia, who knew her hut in part, sisters men have done and continue to do. His tastes though they were, trembled for her health and are lavish. An imperial gallon can not be con-. life. tamed in a quart pot. And what political fabric It was not in the power or will of George Ben- was ever reared or maintained in its integrity nett to return such love, lie admired Anne in without the aid of an occasional loan? If he is every point of vkw; her face glowing with not a very good citizen, it is because he wants healths most vivid coloring, the unconscious to be a better Editor. grace of her figure, the bright flashes of her Finally, half an ounce of lead is honorably mirthful fancy, and the keen perception that dis- and satisfactorily adjusted in his heart or brain, tinguished her conversationall fascinated this and the Virginia Editor dies, to the great joy self-centred man, the more because he found of himself and to the intense grief of his party, her so universally misunderstood in society, the faro-dealers, the bar-keepers, and of every and saw, after but a few months acquaintance, body who is entitled to an unexpected fifty cents that she had voluntarily unvailed for him the simply because he is a negro and can run an depths of a heart worth a thousand common errand. The no longer belligerent remains are ones, and the recesses of a mind whose power attended to the tomb by an immense concourse and versatility she had not herself measured of citizens of all rties, and the epitaph, stale or imagined. but true, is, that the community could have For a time, bewitched by these traits, George better spared a better man. Bennett gave himself up entirely to the delight of being so loved. Not himself of the highest THE SHELL AND THE PEARL. intellectual grade or the most perceptive facul- KNE CRAIG was as proud as Diana; but ties, h had yet a wide power of appreciation, A who knew it? She passed with her wide and a fund of vanity, both of which aided him circle of friends for a breathing grace of love, to enjoy thoroughly that spectacle so fascinating tenderness, and humility; a generous and sin- to a man, of a beautiful, intellectual, and spir- gularly self-forgetful woman. If there is pride ituelle wom n utterly absorbed in, and living in that family, said the world, Marcia has it for him. Vainly did Marcia, from the heights all; and so said her closest companio s. of her superior propriety, lecture Anne till she Marcias little head, classically monided, and despuired; vainly did she recall precedent after rich with bands of golden hair, folded in heavy precedent, to show the universal result of a pas- masses above the pure Greek outline of her brow, sion so overflowing and demonstrative: argo- and the cold glitter of her full blue eyes, was a ment and precedent were alike lost on Anne utteriy expressive of indomitable pride as a she could not understand them. p inter of the seven deadly sins could have re- But, Marcia, I love him ! was her one re- quired in a model; while her curved II lost ply, uttered with such pure and wonderina sim- half the beauty of their perfect outline in the pleness, that Marcia, half ashamed, could in no haughty and determined expression that froze wise answer. She could not shake Annes faith their budding scarlet into icy repose. Marcia in George Bennett, or cloud her unworldly mind was proud, it is undeniable; but Anne was more with conventions; so she ceased to try. proud, though the dewy darkness of her eyes, But in time came the first development of the tender wistfulness of look and gesture, the Annes pride. She had been so lost in her own simple passion of her voice, and the p1 ding si- exquisite and abundant emotion, so blissfully lence of her sweetest lips, denied the accusation. h rbored in the ever-present consciousness of 70 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZIM~. appreciation and love, that the garnishing and position of her idol had passed for symmetry; she had looked at it with love-dimmed vision: who can not pity the obvious result? It mat- ters little to our story what succession of events opened Annes eyes to the truly selfish and hard character of the man she loved; it was hardly so much a succession as a sudden revelation of truths that all at once shone upon the golden mists she had woven about her, and dispelled its glory alike from the face of the image and the sight of the idolater. She was not a woman to dally with offenses against her code of integrity and honor one hour; and George Bennett was surprised out of his usual ease and nww lance, one fine summer day, by a brief; cold, and quiet note from Anne, asking an interview with him that very evening. It is not to be denied that this man, in the full prime of manhood, health, and self-conceit, felt still a little tremulous as he prepared himself for this interview; nor was he more assured on entering the little parlor of the sisters tiny house, where their long orphanage had hitherto passed, to see Anne and Marcia both sitting by the long window, and to be re- ceived with Annes most exquisite courtliness of manner, and Marcias serene pride, too earnest to be cold. Mr. Bennett attempted the usual common- places about the weather, to which Marcia alone replied. Anne sat like a very statue of repose, her hands folded lightly upon each other, her expressive head a little bent, and her eyes, un- fathomable in calmness, fixed upon her guest. Presently there came that annoying period of a conscious conversationthe first pause. Anne made it brief enough. Mr. Bennett, said she, in so clear and un- faltering a tone that her lover started involun- tarily, and felt inwardly withered by the chill which that pure accent and faultless intonation implied Mr. Bennett, I sent for you this aft- ernoon to tell you that my engagement to you is at an end I Now George Bennett was a man, and though he had secretly acknowledged to himself before that hour that his relation to Anne was becom- ing wearyfor the simple reason that she loved him too well, and showed it too innocently yet, when from her lips came the echo of his though , and the passionate, tender, devoted child suddenly revealed herself as the haughty and supreme woman, his prideof how inferior a type to Annes !rose in arms, and the laggard love panted and flew as the prize vanished for which it had so indolently contended, in which it had so prematurely triumphed.. He rose involuntarily. Anne! Miss Craig! is it possible I hear you truly? What have I done to merit so abrupt a dismissal? I accuse you of nothin~, Mr. Bennett; it is enough for me to say that I have hitherto misinterpreted your character entirely; that I can never be your wife, appreciating you as I do now. Mr. Bennett was enraged; with what taunt should he subdue this proud creature, who but yesterday had rested in his arms like a shy and loving child of the forest, and cried bright tears of joy over his return after a brief absence? Suddenly, with this recollection, a thought came to his aid. You have not loved me, Anne, or this could not be. A terrible smile, sharp and writhing, con- vulsed her quiet face, and she said, calmly as before, That is not true, nor do you think it; you know, with absolute certainty, bow utterly and forgetfully I have loved you. There has been no instant of the day that your image has left my mind; no hour when my life did not hang on and tremble for you; no dream of my sleep wherein you were not present, and no waking consciousness that was not of you before myself Anne ! interposed Marcia, with an ex- pression and tone that said, How can you con- fess that ? Anne smiled again, but now with a keen and yet weary smile of a height incomprehensible to both her companions. No, Marcia! I am not ashamed. There is no shame in loving; the blush you desire for me I leave for those who can not comprehend the divine essence of love. Do you think the clear sky is ashamed of shining upon the earth? If a sacred angel stood beside me I should say what I now say, looking into his eyes for appre- ciation, and I should receive it. Mr. Bennett, your o~vn soul testifies to my words; you know well why I release myself from these bonds. I am aware, I regret to say, of your conversation with Captain Moulton, two nights since, in the Avenue. George Bennett turned pale and looked at Marcia. Anne spoke again. My sister is not my confidante in another persons secrets; you need fear nothing. Still she sat, lovely and statuesque, in her quaint high chair; face and figure dilated, in- spired, interpenetrat d with most rare and self- poised dignity, most ethereal pride. The man was like one who dreamed; slowly he rose from his chair and extended a cold hand to Anne. She took it regally, but the nerveless clasp dropped from her own, and without one word of regret they parted forever. What this interview did for George Bennett scarcely belongs to our story. Suffice it to say that he married an heiress within the year,, and had his reward therefor, seeing that he married the heiress and not the woman. For Anne, if she suffered, she demonstrated it in an unusual way; she became cold and grave in society, and for a. long time shrank from her friends with un- concealed distaste of their presence and their caresses. She went out but little into the labo- rious, social amusements of Portland; left sew- ing-societies, literary circles, lectures, and long drawn tea-parties to be ponderously uphorne by THE SHELL AND THE PEARL. TI other hands: her recreation was walking; and no breezy, desolate upland lay within attainable distance whose crisp brown herbage was not trodden by her qnick feet; no hill lifted its round outline against the cold New England sky upo~ whose summit that lithe and lonely fig- ure had not stood, poised like an eagle half intent to soar snuward, just abont to utter its clanging scream of defiance to the wild north wind; nor was there any forest near whose expectant si- lence and odorous depths of shade had not whis- pered and rnstled to her long-drawn breath, and answered, with the passionless sympathy of Nature, every pulse of her rapid heart. She walked till the very forces of muscular life gave way; till her round shape was attenua- ted to absolute wanness; till the blood left cheek and lip for the violet veins that threaded her clear temples and transparent hand, and, faint as death, she could only totter to the end of her garden, and gasp in the summer air for want of the life she had so recklessly lavished. Other tokens of suffering she did not give. She spoke of George Bennett, when it became necessary, in the same clear and cold tone in which she had last spoken to him, and, except for the nt- ter change in her physique, no one could have imagined her pain. Marcia only knew it in part when, awaking in the middle of night, led by that mysterious instinct which re-echoes in the pulses of kindred life, she arose and went to Anne, and found her, night after night, stretch- ed on her little bed before the .open casement, her languid, feverish hand under her cheek, both colorless as the drapery around them, and her large spiritual eyes brimmed with undrip- pine dews, gazing into the darkness with a re- flex gleam in their depths, caught from the quiet constellations beyond. If Marcia spoke, she smiled with a most piteous and touching aspecta look so patient, tender, and strenuous, that Marcia dared not stoop to kiss it for the rain of her own hot tears; could not remon- strate with a voice too broken to be trusted with rational or reproving speech. People said Anne Craig was dying; and so, Indeed, it seemed; but they who said it knew her not. She was not of such malleable i2aetal. For no mortal man should that proud heart and vigorous mind lie down in dust. She was only wounded, not mortally; the child-heartwas smit- ten with death, and its writhing and angnish were protracted long. It was not easy for love, and trust, and sim- pleness to learn at once the serpents wisdom; the dove fluttered and moaned before the glit- tering scales of its new armor; but the strong soul overcame. And at this crisis, when the balance still trembled though bending toward victory, a little excitement from without lent its aid, and by effecting a diversion ended the battleMareia married. Proud as she was, her pride was of a com- mon type; she had an ideal of love and life as all women have, but, like almost all women, had neither the courage nor the integrity to cleave to that ideal. She married Mr. Devereux, partly because he was in love with her, or said he wasa%reason so far laudable as to be accepted for its plausibility by outer judges; partly be- cause she was tired of her lonely and eventless life, and shrank from an unsustained and dis- regarded future; partly because she knew so few men, had seen so little of any better society than was afforded by the narrow cliques of Port- land and the mixed multitude of Fnllerton Beach, where her snmmers were passed, that she took that for love which merited a lesser name, and gave Mr. Devereux the half-troub- led heart that the cripple, not the angel, had stirred. Little as this would have flattered the lover- elect, had ho been a man of deep insight or acute emotions, he was yet quite satisfied with the beautiful Marcias demonstrations; some- thin, regal even in her love, since it was not such love as Annes, that crowned another and not herself. Mr. iDevereux enjoyed the hom- age that was so balanced with dignity, while he gave way to every whim of the capricious beau- ty, whom he worshiped with a true masculine worship, two-thirds passion and one-third pride. Still deceiving herself with the new emotions her acknowledged position awoke in the undis- ciplined heart, yielding utterly to every tender- ness that position was calculated to awake in the idol that found itself shrined and adored, Marcia hid her face from her forsaken ideal, and turned it earthward to the flickering and ruddy flame of a mere/eu dejoje. She kept the tran- quil and delicately-ordered house in a most un- wonted turmoil for weeks with her bridal prep- arations. Gay and ornate garments, trinketry of all kinds, and your only meet, the last fashion, strewed the cool and sleep-haunted rooms above; while in the little parlors every elaboration of art, provided for the mystical re- quisitions of young housekeepers, were paraded long before their legitimate period of display on table and etag& e. The very bridal ceremony partook of Marcia immediate mood; her rooms were garlanded with the most brilliant summer flowersblood-red roses and white lilies, con- trasted with singular vividness and splendor, heaped every cornice in fragrant masses, and looped the simple draperies of the windows. Her own dress afforded no room for contrast, but it was too gorgeous to be bride-like: the heavy folds of the pearl-white robe; the deep and rich vail that drooped from her queenly head; the massively-set clusters of pearls that were Mr. Devereuxs hridal gift, and lay on the slender throat and hung from either delicate ear like the chains of a captivity; her whole aspect, even to its minutest detail, expressed calm ex- ultation and pleasure, tather than the shy tim- idity of a love-subdued girl who is all for love, and the world well lost. The world was well gained to Marcia; nothing dimmed her stately joy; not even the graceful and slight figure that leaned against a casement, and looked with in- expressibly mournful teuderne s at the brilliant 72 HAIlPERS KEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. spectacle. Anne appreciated it, but it could not be averted. From thu time that Marcia left Portland Anne remained there no longer. Sbe accepted the urgent invitation of her sister to visit ber in her own home, and after a few weeks spent in Lagrange, went to New York for tbe winter to fulfill an old promise made to her fathers cous- in, a widow of some wealth, whose children had married and widely dispersed, leaving her to a life she l)referred, lonely as it was, to any sev- erance from the society apd occupations she had shared for a lifetime. In Mrs. Lycils companionship Anne entered New York society, and also entered npon a sin- lar phase of her own development. The pore air of Lagrange had been a potent tonic, and, with a little physical strength, a little helpful excitement,, her mind slowly reasserted its su- premacy; the fever that consumed her gave way to gracious dews of sleep and peace, and before she reached Mrs. Lyclis her attenuated figure began to soften in its fine but too angul ~r out- lines; her tintless lips gathered scarlet in faint waves; her worn and hollow cheek filled and reddened slowly; the light of a new life glittered d~eply in her eyes, now more serene than ten- der, and unfathomably dark; her air and man- ner assumed an ease and quietness of another character th n their previous simple and uncon- scious grace; her animal spirits, so long re- pressed, rose in sp rkling wit, tempered by the most exquisite and feminine kindliness; and her mind, redeemed from its tedious slavery to sorrow and feebleness, now shone in full glory through a fit habitation. Anne Craig blossomed at this late hour, aloe-like, into a belle. With a face more expressive than beautiful, now that the first lines of youth were fled, a figure instinct in eve p~ rt with the soul that inhabited it, a manner too high -bred not to be unusual, and a power of conversation rarely found in an Amer- ican woman, Anne made an impression in so- ciety of a peculiar and characteristic kind. Not upon the fashionists whose boy and girl reign was yet undisputed in the parlors of their over-gentle mammas, but among the real best society that the keen and kindly satirist of Mrs. Potiphar believes in and furtively ac- knowledges, while he makes its puerile contem- poraries writhe under the rod they do not out- grow. Talentsocial, political, and literaryac- knowledged the charm of an intelligent, appre- ciativ~, and well-bred woman; one whose mind, alive to every shade of beauty and truth, was yet practical enough to trace the application of both truth a d beauty to the development of world-wide problems, as well as minute details. The excitement of this mental encounter, the delight of battle with her peers, the luxurious surroundings that chimed so well with her art- istic sense, the opportunity that dress d dec- oration gave for the exercise of her faultless and delicate taste, the minist of all the thousand appliances that frairte social life in its fitting gold, called out the dramatic part of Annes nature, excited to a genial overflow all her re- covering soul, and filled her in mind and body with new health. She was a belle of the high- est grade among those staff-officers of women; innumerable bouquets waited at her toilet for acceptance; every book that rose above the lit- erary horizon was hers before the public had arrived at its possession. Her hours of recep- tion, or rather Mrs. Lyells, were always crowd- ed; her lovers counted themselves by scores, only they did not count themselves as lovers long, for she achieved that most difficult part of a wo- man s careerthe art of converting a lover into a friend, with no intervening refusal and no manteuvres. The child-heart was not all dead, it was reviving. Once only did Mrs. Lycli disturb Annes sweetness of demeanor. They had met George Bennett the night before at a party, with his bride, the heiress. Gossip, hundred-tongued, whispered an old story in the ear of Annos chaperon; and in the morning, when the two ladies, at their late breakf~ st, were talking over the past evenings enjoyment, Mrs. LycIl turned upon Anne with Whos that Mr. Bennett, Anne ? No start betrayed that the question was hard to answer, but that clear, chilling tone came in the reply, An old acquaintance of mine, conAn. 0-h! replied the indefatigable old lady. I was told by somebody or other that you were engaged to the man once.~ So I was, said the same cold voice. What ailed you to break it, eh? Thats a bad plan, child; very impolitic, shrieked out the unsparing duenna. Anne rose like a palm-tree suddenly ring- ing in the desert, and bending a look full of si- lencing pride and power on the little, withered, peering face of her superintending genius, said, as a queen might h~ ye spoken a death-warrant: He deceived me I Mrs. Lyell asked no more questions then or thereafter. In the coni e of time there was an addition to Anne Craigs circle of attendants, who seemed somewhat out of place. Mr. Vandervere wa~ immensely rich; farther no one said any thing of him, for he was a silent man. The only son of an old Manhattan family, he had been edu- cated abroad, and on his majority, returning to his native country, had married a beautiful and silly girl, intended since her own childhood for his wife, at least by her parents, who were his distant relations. After marriage he had re- moved to his country-house on the Hudson, and lived there through all seasons, seeing no com- pany but his own connections, who were a small tribe of themselves, doing nothing for the exte- rior world, but spending his time and his money on the old estate and the additions he had made to it; varying these occupations by teaching his lovely little bride how to manage the tamest of ponies, and how to have patience with the sto THE SHELL AND THE PEARL. 73 pidest of lives, the dull routine of Vandervere Clove. However, the fair and inane Addle had no long time to learn her lesson, for death, who delays not for any manorial rights nor the gen- tler tenures of beauty and affection, in a few short years cropped Ignatius Yanderveres bride from the lawns where she grew like an inex- pressive daisy, and laid her in the family tomb with past generations of Dutchmen. Her has- hand made no excessive show of grief, nor wept for the baby that slept on its mothers arm; so the lookers-on reported, with an injured air, as if it were a social duty to mourn visibly. For two years he kept the decent honors of his widowhood, and then, emerging from the shades of the Clove, took a house in New Yorl-, and the next winter entered at once into society and the charmed circle of Anne Craig. Here he hecame the most devoted of listeners; if he spoke, it was chiefly to Anne, and that in a sort of aside impossible for other ears to hear, yet not unusual enon h to be remarked. To oth- ers he spoke in the same voice; whether he said the same things was scarce questioned, and what Miss Craig thought of her silent attendant no one took the trouble to inquire; or whether that head, so well developedthose dark blue eyes, so covertly humorous and keen, yet at times so ut- terly expressionlessthat mouth, which might ha with or without character uader the heavy mustachewhether all these were mere extern- al signs of nothing within. However that might be, the world of Mrs. Lydils friends lifted all their hands and rolled piteously all their eyes at the mercenary Miss Craig, when her engagement to Ignatius Van- dervere was duly announced, after Easter Week had ren wed the sleeping gayetie~ of the city for a spasm of life before summer should trans- far them to springs or san-shores. Mrs. Lyell was charmed, Anne very quiet. Mr. Vandervere was considered as a million of dollars in her circle; no one had so much as at- tempted to explore his capacities in any other direction; his silence passed for dullness, his reserve for stupidity, and Miss Craigs engage- ment for the greatest catch among the juve- niles, and the greatest pity among her friends. She went duly through the usual routine of a ftaacfr; received bouquets from one hand o ly bouquets that might hava let a little light into the subject had any of her artist-friends been permitted to see them, so exquisitely were the flowers arranged, so poetically selected. Some- times a white rose set in a cloud of deep purple violets, odorous as concentred spring; some- times a stainless camelia in a circle of its own buds, all surrounded with gorgeous pansies; roses of tn-o colors, in graceful alliance with the honey-suckle of May; or group of wild flowers so arranged as to seem scarce parted from their native fields and woods. Could a million of dollars do this? Mr. Vandervere did it. There were also stately drives into the country, with Mrs. Lycli, lost in Indi~ shawls, in one corner of the carriage for propriety; rides in which Mr. Vandervere had no need to teach his companion, already a fearless and graceful horsewoman; and the usual lavishing of jewelry and books on the idol of the hour. But Annes jewels were selected as curiously as her flowers. No cameos, mosaics, or enamel adorned her toilet: pearls strung like beads, clear rubies linked with gold, sapphires set in frosted cords of silver, opals, mystical and Ori- ental, set in squares of black and gold, mixed like talismanic charactersall these, in turn, were offered to her gracious acceptance. Marcia, in her home, now beginning to de- velop its hard reality, hearing of Annes engage- ment, sickened to the soul with a foreknowledge of what she thought awaited her sister, and wrote her a bitterly pathetic letter. Anne replied by an invitation to her wedding, which, at Mrs. Lycils express request, was to take place from her house. Marcia did not comeher husbands illness prevented, and the wedding was very pri- vate. Annes one bridemaid spoke of it in no measured terms as ye stupid. The bride was cold and calm, not even mag- nificent; her dress, a profusion of simple and delicate lace, clothed her like clouds of mist, and a vail of like material fell in countless fok~ from the braids of her dark hair, over the stat- uesque cheek and graceful outline; one spray of the conventional orange-flower confined the drapery above her brow, and gave the nun-like vesture its bridal type. Immediately after the ceremony Mr. and Mrs. Vandervere left town for the usual routine of life at watering-places. Report was open- mouthed with every detail that it could collect of both bride and groom.. Marcia heard of Anne as the most attractive and distinguished arrival at every new place whither the sara e of fashion rolle ; but she could gather nothing of her demeanor or apparent feeling froi such pub- licities, and poor Mrs. Devereux, already begin- ning to be restless in the hastily riveted yoke of her bondage, feared, out of her o experience, for Anne Vandervere, knowing well how great were that brides capacities of suffering. Autumn came, and the no longer bridal party, still including Mrs. Lycil, went to pass the gold- en months of that most tranquilly happy season at Vandervere Clove. Here Marcia was asked to join them, but her husband bad not yet r~cov- ered from the tedious and fretful illness that had kept them both frofi~ the wedding, and it was not till Anne had established herself for the win- ter in the city that the sisters met. Marcia, with her fair little baby, left her husband at home, ~~nd went to spend the holidays with Anne. Some delay of letters prevented Mrs. Vander- vera from meeting Marcia till she was safely set down in the luxurious drawing-room of her sis- ter Fifth Avenue palace, and had seat up her name by the servant who admitted her. Marcia was still herseig in spite of hard lessons, and as she looked about on the luxury that surrounded her, the pity so str nuously nursed for her sisters 74 IIAHPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZII{E. fate grew weaker fast. Surely one could marry the Beast of fairy tale to attain such appliances, and Anne was hy no means the Beauty. Perhaps she changed her mind concerning the latter judgment when the door opened quick- ly, and Anne advanced to meet her, joy gleam- ing from every line of her picturesque face, and her dressjust arraneed for a dinner-party adding the inexpressible charm of fitness to a grace it did not hide or outshine. Ah! could this indeed be Anne whom she had last seen lanauld and thin? this princess, whose deep velvet draperies hid her light feet, and fell from her round waist in such folds of light and shad- ow, while the white and rounded arms, polished and moulded like Indian ivory, the hare throat and shoulders vailed with filmy lace and clasped with jewels, were as exquisitely shaped as those of a statue. Was this the tender-eyed Anne, whose soft hair, gathered in a shining coiffure and decked with a rose-red camelia, fell ahout a noble and health-tinted face, whose proud eyes shone calm and regnant beneath the broad forehead unlined by care? Marcia sighed for surprise and joy, while Anne, clasping the baby in her arms, led her sister up the wide staircase to her rooms, and aft- a renewed and heart-warm welcome, left her to rest and dress till they shouldmeet at dinner. 4t dinner Marcia met Mri Vandervere, and herquick feminine insight was at once charmed with his quiet, yet warm reception, and his thoroughly gentlemanly manner in that place where a gentleman is best testedhis own house. As the days of her visit wore on, Marcia~s feeling of half-envious admiration at Anne s position gave way to a more painful, a more womanly emotion. She at least had thought she loved her husband; had gone through the honeyed attentions of her early matrimony with no distaste; she had been faithful to her own delusion, though at last she began to ac- knowledge it was a delusion. But Anne and Mr. Vandervere! what statues were these to call themselves man and wife! They treated each other with the most thoron~h good-breed- ing. Not one observance of society was neg- lected; they conversed like courteous acquaint- ancesno more. Marcias keen eye detected no shadow of a caress passing between them, no tender look, no blush, no shy smile. Her ear perceived no affectionate tone, no inflection of softness in either voice. They were married. Ah! was that all? Better a self-deception like her ownbetter a dream of love than its utter absence. Yet thi imperceptibly restored her somewhat shaken confidence in Anne. If she had married for money, at least she had been honest; she had been bought, and wore her chains royally, and lavished the price of her freedom, but owned the slavery. It was like Anne; upright to the last. Yet how could she have married for money? However, Marcia knew that this state of things had emanated from her sister only; for one night when Anne came down dressed for a party, to challenge the criticisms of her husband and sister, after Mr. Vandervere, dropping the paper from before his face, had pronounced the thing very pretty, and sunk back iuto stocks and markets, while Marcia turned her beautiful sister from side to side, uttering little exclama- tions of delight over the black lace dress and mystical set of opals that so well suited both dress and wearer, all at once Mrs. Devereux caught a glimpse of her brother-in-law in the treacherous mirror beyond him. The paper was not before his eyes now they were raised to Annes beautiful and expressive face with a look of love, intense even to adorationa look that spoke all the worship of an utterly-absorbed soul. Poor Ignatius ! was thenceforth the chime of Marcias thoughts; yet vainly did she try, in the pain and fullness of her heart, to open her lips to Anne. Somethingshe knew not whatkept them shut when she longed to speak. But the shell was too rough, too firmly closed; a heavier hand than the tiny grasp of affection must force it apartand the hand came. Marcia left her sisters house for a time to visit Mrs. LyclI, who lived in another part of the city, and her husband joined her there after a few weeks. Still she continually saw Anne, and saw no more than ever. One day, toward the middle of Lent, when now the time of Mr. and Mrs. Devereuxs return had almost come, they went to dine at Mr. Vanderveres, to meet a party of gentlemen. As Marcia entered the house, leaving Mr. iDevereux to give his orders to the coachman, C6cile, Annes maid, came quickly toward her from the upper ball, with a face like death, and a thoroughly terrified air. Ah! le hon Then I shrieked she, cest Ma- dame Devereux, ah, goot Madame! if you have love my mistress, you shall go rite, oh, ver quick, up lescalier. Ah! she have been kill wid Monsieur I Cold with terror, Marcia flew up stairs, arid found herself, she knew not how, in Annes dressing-room. The door of her chamber was ajar, and Marcia, pausing on the threshold, saw Ignatius Vandervere stretched apparently life- less on the floor, and Anne on her knees beside him,, holding his head in her arms, the blood from a rough wound on his temple pouring in waves over her rich dress, while she vainly en- deavored to stanch it by the pressure of her fingers, and lavished the wildest kisses on cheek and lip, and called her husband by the tender- est names man knowsas if death could be bribed by love to return his seizure. Beside her lay a large fragment of the plaster cornice a heavy group of fruit and flowersstained with blood, betraying the cause of that fearful group. Marcia paused but one instant. Her presence of mind was always great, and now it was need- ed. While the rest of the household were thrown into utter confusion, she assumed the lead as calmly as if it were nothing new; had the most skillful surgeon of the city at hand as soon as it was possihle, arranged every thing in order with perfect tact and quiet, and having gra THE SHELL AKD THE PEARL. ~0 ciously and gracefully dismissed her sisters guests, ~vent once more to her room to hear the surgeons opinion, and see what was to be done for Anne or her husband. She found Mr. Yandervere still unconscious, and the surgeon very careful what be said; while Anne, still blood-stained and half crazed, sat with dilated eyes by the bedside, and hung open-mouthed upon the surgeons words~ You must persuade Mrs. Yandervere to leave my patient, Madam, said he to Ilarcia. I wish, with the aid of the gentleman I have sent for, to examine his wound; and really I can not answer for his life if any agitation super- induces fever. He will probably become con- scious under our treatment, and must not see that face of all others. Anne rose before Marcia could speak. Her sister led her, tottering, into another room, re- moved the stiffened garments, undid the jewels from her throat and hair, bathed her burning head, and made her lie down. Oh, could she have shed one tear! but her eyes were like shining stones, and her lips scarlet as in a fever. Happily, after a most endless-seeming hour, the surgeon entered with a smile. There is no danger now, said he; but be bas lost blood terribly, and must be quiet for weeksas helplessly quiet as an infantlest fever should undo all that nature would have done. Annes eyes grew softer and dimmer with ev- ery word. She rose from the heaped cushions where Marcia had placed her. May I see him ? she said, in an inexpress- ibly touching and infantile whisper. Not to-night, said Dr. Grey. You shall see him and take care of him in the morning, if you sleep well. I shall stay with him to-night. He spoke in a coaxing, caressing tone, as if she were a child in armsshe, the proud Mrs. Vandervere, whom he had heard of afar off as a sort of ice-queen! He forgot those stories now. Anne smiled, a happy, tired smile, sank back on the pillows and slept, while Marcia sat be- side her full of wonder. What did it all mean? In the long weeks that followed, all the wo- man in Annes nature shone out. The most tender, patient, gentle, and untiring of nurses, lier husband had no wish she did not anticipate, uttered no sigh she was not at hand to receive. If ever a man in the prime of health and life found weakness and pain a pleasure, Ignatins Yandervere found them so. Nor did Marcia find fault with Anne any more for being unde- monstrative. Only the remembrance that she was married, not merely engaged, to the man upon whose looks and words she seemed to hang for every breath of life, prevented a recurrence of the old lectures given in George Bennetts days; but Marcia held that a wife might afford to be more impulsive than a.fianc~e. Whether it was a true policy that dictated her fiat, judge ye who are married! Some mouths after, as Anne and Marcia sat to0ether in a long piazza of the house at Van- dervere Clove, Anne having on her knees a lit- tle shape of tinted wax done up in lawn and lace, which she called by the stately name of lWnatius, the sisters had a conversation, long deferred by one, long expected by the other. Marcia, said Anne, pretending to think a fly was eagerly invading the slumbers of her man-child, and bending down so that her face was in the shadow of a trumpet-creepers deep green branch; Marcia, you thought I did not love my husband when you came to see us in New York, didnt you ? Why, AnneI dont knownot exactly that. You did think so, Marcia; why can not you be honest? Moreover, I meant you should. Now let me tell you a little about it. I loved George Bennett in those old times, as you know, but when I discovered that he had deceived me in a way I have no right to explain, that love died. I suffered in its death, but no love sur- vives that wound; it might, had I owed him any duty, have become that poor ghost, habitual affection; but there were no such bonds in this case, so I became free, and bitterly incredulous of loving againnot only incredulous, but afraid, till I knew Ignatius. I did love him, after I knew him, as I must love a man before I could marry him. I had opportunities of judging his character that were not known to any of my friends but Mrs. Lyell. She was a distant con- nection of his, and he came to her on a stand- ing invitationthe renewal of a boyish habit every Sunday to dine, and generally staid the evening. In those long talks that we had while our cousin agreeably dozed in her arm-chair, I learned to respect and admire Ignatius, not only for his manly character, his strong and thor- oughly-disciplined mind, his complete educa- tion and unusual learning, but most of all for his rigid principles and practice of truth and honor. I found him deeply read, and well trained in all the requisites of a mans educa- tion, having a just and noble estimate of wealth and its usesa gentleman in the best sense of the word, and possessed of a strong, pure, ardent heart, tender and true, that lay at my mercy after three months of almost daily intercourse had made us known to each other as two true people must be known. I loved him before I knew it; and when he asked me to marry him, in his own noble way, simply and directly, taking the whole alternative in his own hands, not tamperingwith mymaiden- ly delicacy in the effort to save his pride by draw- in~, out some expression of my feeling before he would commit himself, I was moved to the very depths of my heart; but I refused himthough, in justice to us both, I told him that I loved him aswell as he could desire, hut that his wealth was a final objection. Ah! shall I ever forget that face, flushed with agony to the deepest red, and then pale as death? He walked to the win- dow one moment, and then returning, sat down beside me, and taking my hand, said, in a calm, but inexpressibly fervent tone, Anne, you love me. 76 HAIllPEWS NEW MONTHLY IAGAZINE. Had this been a question, I should have half hated him. But he knew me; it was the most lordly assertion, and he went on: You are the proudest woman I ever knew, though perhaps I am the only person who ap- preciates your character in that one point. Are you not proud enough to do me justice? If I were poor you would not hesitate; why is wealth any greater objection? It is not poverty or riches I ask you to marry, but me. My money is a circumstance not even of my moulding. I am a livin~ soul, and I ask my fellow-soul to own the bond between us: are you just to deny it? I could not answer hun, for he as right. I will not wait for your reply to-day, said he. I will come again to-morrow. So, without even saying good-by, he left me, and the next time he came he staid longer. Yet I accepted him on this conditionthat he should neither give nor receive one sign of af- fection to or from me in the presence of a third person. If the world chose to think I had mar- ried for money, they should at least never be- lieve me a hypocrite. I would keep my truth even in appearances; I did not perceive that I was shutting myself up in a lie. I meant to have shown my true self to you, Marcia, but your letter grieved me bitterly, for I saw that you too credited the worlds version of my match, and this confirmed a resolution that I found hard to keep even then, so ardently had my whole soul gone out toward Ignatius; but if my own sister misjudged me, what should ever undeceive my mere acquaintances? That terrible day crushed my fine plan to atoms. Marcia, my child-heart has come back. I was wrong, but I am right nowand oh, so happy! My shell is thrown away, and lost forever I And the pearl is miae 1 said her husband, who had been leaning against the pillar behind her for five minutes, seen only by Marcia. Ignatius! I am ashamed of you! Listen- ers, you know Her lips were suddenly silenced; and the neglect d piece of wax-work uttered a tiny scream, whereat the strong and tender arms of Ignatius Yandervere lifted wife and baby togeth- er from the low divan, and carried them in be- yond the dampness of the dews just banging in mid-air. The sound of Mr. John iDevereuxs cold and arrogant voice, coming from the direc- tion of the ttables, heralded Isis approach, and Marcia sighed. A PRINCE OF INTRIGUE.* To H. do Beausuarchais the United States owe more in every respect than to any other person on this side of the Ocean.SsLA5 DEAnE to the C re at Philadelphia. IT is not too much to say that the character of Beaumarchaisof whom M. do Lomdnio has just written a charming biographywas one of the most extraordinary in an age of extraordinary characters; that hi adventures were incredibly romantic at a period when romantic vicissi- tudes were the rule of life rather than the excep- don; and that, considering his rise and his ca- pacity, the part he played in public affairs, and the notoriety he enjoyed during his life, were among the most wonderful phenomena of his times. From a watch-makers workshop he raised himself at one bound to a social intimacy with royal families: from s ifering hardship for the want of a few francs, he passed suddenly into the ranks of the leading financiers of Eu- rope, and as suddenly relapsed into poverty so abject that when he lit a match he blew it out to use again: one day, prostrate beneath an ignominious sentence of Parliament, depriving him of house, home, civil and political rights, and social consideration; the next, a sovereign, an independent power, treating on terms of al- most equality with crowns and republics, and winning naval battles: now a sort of secret agent, employed to do the dirty work of royalty; soon the leader of the friends of liberty, the en- thusiastic champion of popular rights and hu- manity: one week hooted out of daylight by the mob, with shouts of Poisoner! assassin! jail-bird ! the next so intensely loved that his arrest and imprisonment for thirty days almost precipitated the fall of the monarchy: a mer- chant, a courtier, a diplomatist, a lawyer, a song- writer, an admiral, a contractor, an inventor, a banker, a politician, and the most succe~sful dramatic author, next to Moli~re, that Fr nec ever reduced. For us, the extract from Silas Deanes dispatch to Congress, prefixed to this article, imparts a new interest to his biography. We shall see, as we proceed, that the high com- pliment was fully merited. This extraordinary manthis French Alcibiadeswas really the first man in Europe who saw the possibility of the independence of the United States, and la- bored practically to effect that great object. Nor does it diminish his claim on our sympathy to know that for forty years he and his heirs were unpaid creditors of this country. In the year that James Oglethorpe invited the European Protestants to take refuge from perse- cution in his newly-granted colony of Georgia, one of the Protestants to whom the appeal was addressed, an easy-going man, who preferred quiet recantation to uncomfortable constancy, requested the parish priest of the Quartier St. Denis, at Paris, to baptize his infant son by the names of Pierre Augustin. The renegade, as his Iluguenot acquaintance called him, was a worthy watch-maker, named Caron, a man of some reading, and not devoid of intellect, hut eminently conservative. The boy thus admitted into the Catholic fold lived as other boys did till thirteen, then must needsthe young rogue involve himself in an offofre dcaaoer, compro- mise a lady, and leave school. Admitted into his fathers wQrkshop, he works five years at his trade, hut, wilder than ever, exasperates his fa- ther till the latter tur s him out of Isis house. B umerc is a his Ti & Sketch of French Society in the Eighteenth (Jentesry, fr Unpublished Docusnen . By Loess nz Lo ltssn. Trauslated hy Hz~e r S. EnwA us. l2mo. Harper an Brothers.

76 HAIllPEWS NEW MONTHLY IAGAZINE. Had this been a question, I should have half hated him. But he knew me; it was the most lordly assertion, and he went on: You are the proudest woman I ever knew, though perhaps I am the only person who ap- preciates your character in that one point. Are you not proud enough to do me justice? If I were poor you would not hesitate; why is wealth any greater objection? It is not poverty or riches I ask you to marry, but me. My money is a circumstance not even of my moulding. I am a livin~ soul, and I ask my fellow-soul to own the bond between us: are you just to deny it? I could not answer hun, for he as right. I will not wait for your reply to-day, said he. I will come again to-morrow. So, without even saying good-by, he left me, and the next time he came he staid longer. Yet I accepted him on this conditionthat he should neither give nor receive one sign of af- fection to or from me in the presence of a third person. If the world chose to think I had mar- ried for money, they should at least never be- lieve me a hypocrite. I would keep my truth even in appearances; I did not perceive that I was shutting myself up in a lie. I meant to have shown my true self to you, Marcia, but your letter grieved me bitterly, for I saw that you too credited the worlds version of my match, and this confirmed a resolution that I found hard to keep even then, so ardently had my whole soul gone out toward Ignatius; but if my own sister misjudged me, what should ever undeceive my mere acquaintances? That terrible day crushed my fine plan to atoms. Marcia, my child-heart has come back. I was wrong, but I am right nowand oh, so happy! My shell is thrown away, and lost forever I And the pearl is miae 1 said her husband, who had been leaning against the pillar behind her for five minutes, seen only by Marcia. Ignatius! I am ashamed of you! Listen- ers, you know Her lips were suddenly silenced; and the neglect d piece of wax-work uttered a tiny scream, whereat the strong and tender arms of Ignatius Yandervere lifted wife and baby togeth- er from the low divan, and carried them in be- yond the dampness of the dews just banging in mid-air. The sound of Mr. John iDevereuxs cold and arrogant voice, coming from the direc- tion of the ttables, heralded Isis approach, and Marcia sighed. A PRINCE OF INTRIGUE.* To H. do Beausuarchais the United States owe more in every respect than to any other person on this side of the Ocean.SsLA5 DEAnE to the C re at Philadelphia. IT is not too much to say that the character of Beaumarchaisof whom M. do Lomdnio has just written a charming biographywas one of the most extraordinary in an age of extraordinary characters; that hi adventures were incredibly romantic at a period when romantic vicissi- tudes were the rule of life rather than the excep- don; and that, considering his rise and his ca- pacity, the part he played in public affairs, and the notoriety he enjoyed during his life, were among the most wonderful phenomena of his times. From a watch-makers workshop he raised himself at one bound to a social intimacy with royal families: from s ifering hardship for the want of a few francs, he passed suddenly into the ranks of the leading financiers of Eu- rope, and as suddenly relapsed into poverty so abject that when he lit a match he blew it out to use again: one day, prostrate beneath an ignominious sentence of Parliament, depriving him of house, home, civil and political rights, and social consideration; the next, a sovereign, an independent power, treating on terms of al- most equality with crowns and republics, and winning naval battles: now a sort of secret agent, employed to do the dirty work of royalty; soon the leader of the friends of liberty, the en- thusiastic champion of popular rights and hu- manity: one week hooted out of daylight by the mob, with shouts of Poisoner! assassin! jail-bird ! the next so intensely loved that his arrest and imprisonment for thirty days almost precipitated the fall of the monarchy: a mer- chant, a courtier, a diplomatist, a lawyer, a song- writer, an admiral, a contractor, an inventor, a banker, a politician, and the most succe~sful dramatic author, next to Moli~re, that Fr nec ever reduced. For us, the extract from Silas Deanes dispatch to Congress, prefixed to this article, imparts a new interest to his biography. We shall see, as we proceed, that the high com- pliment was fully merited. This extraordinary manthis French Alcibiadeswas really the first man in Europe who saw the possibility of the independence of the United States, and la- bored practically to effect that great object. Nor does it diminish his claim on our sympathy to know that for forty years he and his heirs were unpaid creditors of this country. In the year that James Oglethorpe invited the European Protestants to take refuge from perse- cution in his newly-granted colony of Georgia, one of the Protestants to whom the appeal was addressed, an easy-going man, who preferred quiet recantation to uncomfortable constancy, requested the parish priest of the Quartier St. Denis, at Paris, to baptize his infant son by the names of Pierre Augustin. The renegade, as his Iluguenot acquaintance called him, was a worthy watch-maker, named Caron, a man of some reading, and not devoid of intellect, hut eminently conservative. The boy thus admitted into the Catholic fold lived as other boys did till thirteen, then must needsthe young rogue involve himself in an offofre dcaaoer, compro- mise a lady, and leave school. Admitted into his fathers wQrkshop, he works five years at his trade, hut, wilder than ever, exasperates his fa- ther till the latter tur s him out of Isis house. B umerc is a his Ti & Sketch of French Society in the Eighteenth (Jentesry, fr Unpublished Docusnen . By Loess nz Lo ltssn. Trauslated hy Hz~e r S. EnwA us. l2mo. Harper an Brothers. A PRINCE OF INTRIGUE. 77 The reconciliation is noteworthy, as a picture ef manners. Young Caron persuades three friends to write to his father on his behalf; the angry parent replies, in a tone of much dignity, that he will receive his son on certain condi- tioni, to which he must agree in writing. He stipulates that the youth of eighteen shall get up at six in summer and seven in winter; shall give up music, and work till supper-time; shall spend no evening but Sunday away from home; shall faithfully serve his father as journeyman; shall obey his parents in all things. On his side, the P~re Caron promises to give his son board, lodging, and 18 francs (say $3 60) per month for pocket-money. To these terms the lad agrees, hoping, with the help of the Lord, to keep his promises; and honestly devotes his whole mind to his business. He is rewarded by a fortunate accident: he invents a new escape- ment for watches. The discovery is valuable; young Caron imprudently communicates it to a fellow-workman, who quietly sits down and writes a letter to the Miercure newspaper, in which he announces that /~e has invented a new escapement, describing Carons. This first mishap roused the man in young Caron. He straightway claimed the invention, in a letter to the Mercure; and when the pirate replied, appending to his letter a certificate of character from three Jesuits, Caron appealed to the Academy of. Sciences, and obtained a con-~ elusive judgment in his favor. The case made some little noise, and was an excellent adver- tisement for young Caron. He made a watch for the King, and another for Madame de Pom- padour, who was then at the zenith of her fame this last so small that the diameter of the face only measured four lines and a half. Princes and courtiers were, of course, anxious~o copy his Majesty; Carons watches became all the rage, and their maker obtained that rare and inesti. mable privilege, the entree of the Court. The ice broken, more success followed. Ca- ron w~s tall, handsome, well formed; he had an air of command, and an impetuous bearing, which seemed to fit him for noble society. One day a beautiful lady entered his shop with a watch which she desired him to repair. She was very pretty, and blushed; the watch. was sadly in want of repair; the artist could not think of letting her send for ithe would call with it himself. A few weeks afterward, all Versailles knew that old Monsieur Franquet, the husband of the pretty owner of the watch, had resigned his office in favor of young Caron, who became a servant of the King, under the title of Clerk-controller of the pantry of the Household. A few more weeks and Versailles heard that old M. Franquet had died, and his widow had married M. Caron. It was on the occasion of this marriage that he took the name by which he is best known, that of Beaumar- chais. Within less than a year his wife died. ~he had property which went to her family, Beau- marchais having neglected to register his mar- VOL. XIV.No. 79.F riage contract. He was left penniless. His salary as clerk-controller of the pantryin virtue of which office he was expected to march in to the Kings dining-room, on high days, be- fore the meat, and place the dishes on the table with his own handswas, liveries apart, 450 francs ($90) a year~ His business as a watch- maker had been sacrificed. He lived, however, somehow, and be~an to play the harp, then a new instrument. The Kings daughters heard of him, and begged him to play before them. He complied, and became their daily compan- ion. His experiences at this period throw some light on court life in France during the old Regime. He was almost an inmate of the palace. The King had been seen to rise from his chair and make him sit in it, to play the harp. His daugh- ters could not be happy without Beaumarchais. These charming young ladies, who were so vir- tuous, say their biographers, that they almost redeemed the vices of their fathers court, were always in want of something. One day they wanted music, the next books, the next draw- ings, then bijous, then rare delicacies. They were never satisfied, and their indulgent father Was constantly worried to death by their neces- sities. On one occasion one of the princesses was seized with~ a fancy for some Orleans quin- ces; she bullied the King till he sent a messen- ger at full speed to. the prime minister, who in his haste could think of no one to apply to but the Bishop of Orleans. A courier was sent ofF to Orleans, and the Bishop was roused from his bed at three in the morning by the arrival of the following billet: MoNslnca LEvaQUE,My daughters wish for some eoti~ynac; they want very small boxes; send some, if you have none, I beg you will send directly Into your episcopal town to get some. Let the boxes be very small, and, Monsieur lEvdque, may God have you in his holy keeping. Loui~. When Beaumarchais became the favorite, he was intrusted with the commissions of the Prin- cesses. They kept him busy enough; and what was worse, they never thought of sending money with their messages. Out of his $90 a yeax their young harpist was expected to buy any thing they happened to fancy, and to wait in- definitely for repayment. He submitted to be sponged upon in this royal way until he was, as he says, without a son, and deeply in debt,. To a man of his temper, however, this incon- venience was much easier to bear than the slights he had to endure at the hands of the courtiers. The story of the watch has been told often enough; it will perhaps bear repeti- tion. An insolent courtier, wishing to taunt Beaumarchais with his former trade, begged him to examine his watch, which needed repair~ Beaumarchais coldly observed that he would rather not, as he had grown very awkward of late. The nobleman insisting, Beainnarchais took the watch, opened it, and let it fall heavi- ly, observing, as the owner gazed in horror at the fragments, I told you, Sir, I am very awk- ward. 78 HARPEWS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. Another nobleman, who could not be so easi- ly punished, he was obliged to fight. The duel ended fatally: Beaumarchais killed his man. In despair he flew to the Princesses to beg pro- tection: they hastened to the King; who ob- served, with paternal goodness, Arrange it, my children, so that I shall not hear of the af- fair; so the matter ended. Another courtier, named de Sabli~res, bor- rowed thirty-five louis, of Beanmarchais, and forgot to repayhim. Beaumarchais wrote for the money; the nobleman did not even answer the letter. Beaumarchais then threatened to appeal to the courts: the officer Wrote a magnificent letter, in which he announced his intention of paying the money in persoa on a given day, and taking the same opportunity of chastising the insolent who had forgotten what was due to his rank. But a friend happening to tell the valiant debtor the story Qf Beanmarchais duel, he thought it safer to send the money and keep out of the way. In compensation for these slights, Beaumar- chais made an acquaintance who was better ~worth knowing than a whole army of nobles. This was Paris iDuYerney,thefamous capitalist! This worthy gentleman, ,who had amassed sev- eral millions in trade and speculation, had lat- terly been seized with a rage for military mat- ters. He bad actually drawn a plan of a campaign, and founded a military school at Paris. In this last enterprise his heart was bound np. He thought of nothing but his mil- itary pupils. They were his pride, his pet. Day after day the old financier drove Madame do Pompadourwho had excellent reasons for obliging himto see his school; but he could not persuade the Ring to pay it a visit. Tbis was essential to his happiness. All at once it oc- curred to this old man that the young musician, who was so constantly at court, might be able to serve him. Beaumarchais jumped at the chance of obliging a millionaire, and~very soon achieved the object desired. The KiBg and his daughters.visited the school, and DuVerney was happy. He was not ungrateful. Beaumarchais received as his reward a share of 60,000 francs in his next speculation, and similar shares in others. He began to make money fast. ~is,new friend and patron knew the worid. He pointed out to his pronSg5the advantage of belonging to the privileged class. Beaumar- chais induced his fatherto give up his shop, and purchased~ a royal secretaryship. This office was one of those which conferred noble rank on its incumbent. At a later period, when Beau- marchais was at war with one of his antagonists, he was taunted with being a plebeian. He re- torted indignantly that he was a noble, as he could show by the receipt for thu money he paid. Pu Verney, wishing him to rise still higher, lent him half a million of livres to pur- chase a Grand-Rangership of rivers and forests; but the other Hangers, boing themselves of no very ancient nobility, stood on their pride, and refused to sit with him. Failing in this, he oh- tamed the office of Captaia of the Warren of the Louvre, a post which obliged him to sit in judg- ment on poachers, and to enforce royal decrees on police matters in the neighborhood of Paris. He was scarcely well settled in his new office when he was suddenly obliged to leave Paris. A sister, settled at Madrid, had been slighted by a man namedClavijo, to whom she had been engaged. Beaumarchais posted to Madrid, forced Clavijo to make the amends hoaorablu; afterward, finding him plotting secretly,: pro- cured his dismissal from. an office be held, and his expulsion from society. The affair made some noise, and furnished Goethe with the plot andthe title of one of his dramas. While in Spain, his restless mind found occu- pation at the court. He obtained from the King a contract for victualing all the Spanish troops, and all persons living at the Rings expense. It was an affair of twenty millions a year, and obliged Beauniiarchais to est bush agencies in most of the corn ports of the world. He speaks especially of the supplies he drew: from New England. While the operation was ripening, its author was the gayest of the gay at Mad- rid. He was at every diplomatic party, in ev- ery fete; his s~guedillas were all the rage. The Countess of Buturlin, the Russian embassadress, wrote verses in his honor while her husband lost money to him at brelan. In such a society, a man of Beaumarchais advantages was not without adventures. The love affair which occurred at this stage of his life is one of his most curious expetiences. An orphan named Pauline, heir to an estate worth two millions in St. Domingo, beautifol, ten- der, and accomplished, now begins to figure in his correspondence as my Pauline. She was deeply in love with Beaumarchais. He liked her well enough to send a special agent to St. Domingo to inquire into the real condition of her estate. Meanwhile the ladys ardor seems to have been worthy of her Creole blood; ~She chafed at delays. Beaumarchais wrote her a beautiful letter, full~ of metaphysics and senti- ment, intimating that he could not marry her without knowing whether a rich uncle she had would leave her any thing. Pauline flew to her uncle, threW herself into his arms, suffused in tears and blushes, and protested that her fate was in his hands. The uncle will not check the ardor of his pretty niecewill see Beaumarchais. When it comes to the point, he will give no pledges about his estate. Still the engagement subsists. The St. Domingo estate may turn out well. Beaumarchais is still tender to my Pauline ; ?auline breaks through all restraint, and sets the exam~1e of t toiement. A few ~weeks morethe biographer hopes that Pauline rode safaly through the perils of her positionand news arrives that ihe St. Domingo estate is hopeless. What ~s to be done? Beaumarchais tells Pauline he will mar- ry her, butis in no hurry about it. Meanwhile a Chevalier who has figured for ~onte time as a lover of Julie, Beaumarchais sister, all at once A PRINCE OF INTRIGUE. 79 transfers his affections to Pauline. Beaurnar- with old DuVerney hefore he died. The settle- chais is furious; all the hlood in his veins ment had heen closed hy a document drawn up hoils at the hare idei~ ; surely so great a wretch hy Beaumarchais, and signed hy Du Verney, in as the Chevalier dare not lift his eyes hefore which he acknowledged that he owed Beaumar- the puhlic. Pauline, who a short while he- chais 15,000 livres. This document was now fore has called Beaumarchais the sun of her opposed to the demand of the heir. He pro- day, is now his ohedient, humhle servant, nounced it a forgery. J3eaumarchais produced and hopes he will marry some one who will letters from Du Verney alluding to the trans- make him happy. A few days afterward she action heing signed. The Count replied that marries the Chevalier. these letters were not dated, and referred to an- The hoiliug hlood of Beaumarchais evaporates other matter. The case went into court, and financially. He hrings in a hill against the hap- judgment was rendered in favor of Beaumar- py pair for advances made for the estate at St. chais. Domingo. The Chevalier at first contests it; His adversary appealed. Meanwhile the then admits 24,441 livres 4 sons 4 deniers to he most outrageous stories were circulated hy the due. But he does not pay it. On the con- Counts friends amona the courtiers, who were trary, he dies, and his widow sends a message to to a man jealous of Beaumarchais. It was the sun of her day to say he may make his whispered that he was .a poisonerthat he had mind easy; he will he paid some day. He poisoned old M. Franquet., in order to marry his never was. Beaumarchais clerk wrote off the widow; the widow. herselt in order to enjoy deht, in a husiness-like way, filing some love-, freedom; and his second wife for a similar rein- letters and a portrait of the pretty Pauline as son. These .ahsurd lihels found currency in a vouchers for the 24,441 livres 4 sons 4 dealers, country where there was no free press. . Beau- On his return to France, Beaumarchais em- marchais was looked upon as a swindler and an hraced the profession to which he owes most of assassin. An indiscretion of his own aggra- his modern reputation. He hegan to write plays. vated his unfortunate position. His adversary His first, Eug~nie, was not a master-piece. hinted that the Princesses had hecome aware The author had no literary reputation, the work of his character, and excluded him from their no particular merit. Yet the fatuity of Beaumar- presence. He had no difficulty in ohtaining a chais was such that he could write to the Prin- certificate from them in refutation of this story, cesses to say that all Paris was looking out and their letter he puhlishe~l. His adversary with the greatest impatience for the play, which seized the advantage it offered. Hastening to breathes the most ardent love of virtue, and the King, he demanded whether his Majesty tends to purify our theatre hy making it a school countenanced such gross interference with the of good morals ; adding, that the puhlic at the administration of justice hy his daughters? representation will exalt me to the clouds, He Louis was indignant. The Princesses puhlish- was disappointed; it was hadly received; and ed a card, in which they disclaimed all feeling Frt~ron, the great critic, spoke harshly of it in his of partisanship; and the inference among the paper. Beaumarchais was too wise to he offend- puhlic was that Beaumarchais had either played ed. Tie wrote a deprecatory note to the critic, them a trick or had forfeited their confidence. requesting him to see the play again, and in- A singular accident complicated his troubles. closing a ticket. Fr~rons answer is worth pe- An eccentric nohleman, the Duke de Chaulnes, rusal by modern editors: I am very sensihle, had lately taken much interest in a pretty act- Sir, of your politeness, and very sorry not to ress named Mdnard; indeed he evinced so much profit hy it; hut I never go to see the play with affection for her that he used to heat her in tickets. Do not he offended at my sending you private, lock her up, and ill-use her in various hack the one you have done me the honor to ways. Mademoiselle Minard, tired of his hru- address to me. tality, fled heyond his reach. The Duke fan- Beaumarchais consoled himself hy marrying cied that Beaumarchais had cut him out, and another rich widow, and embarking, in concert quarreled with him. Nothing came of it for with Paris Du Verney, in a large timher specula- some time, till one day, after a long separation, tion. It throve; he made money; he was the Duke called on Mademoiselle M~nard, and happy with his wife; she presented him with a hearing Beaumarchais name mentioned, flew son; his standin0 at court and in the city was into a fury, and swore he would kill him that excellentall prospered with him. This was very day. He rushed out, seized a clerk of the happiest moment of his life. Beaumarchais whom he met, forced him into It was short. Within a few weeks of each his coach, and tore his wig .off and heat him other his friend and patron Du Verney and his with his fist, because he would not tell where wife died. His enemies at court remarked mys- his master might be found. Ascertaining that teniously that Beaumarchais wives were short- Beaumarchais was holding his court at the Cap- lived. Du Verneys heir, the Count la Blache, tainry, the Duke rushed thither, n~nd called to a personal enemy of his, sued him for a balance Beaumarchais on the bench that he must come alleged to he due to the estate of Du Verney. It out directly; he had something of importance happened that Beaumarchais, aware of the in- to communicate, The judge, fearful of disturb- imical feelings of the Count, and apprehensive ance, complied, and accompanied his visitor into of trouble, had had a settlement of accounts an user room. There the l)uke told him that SO HAHPERS ~EW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. he intended to kill him that day, and to tear his heart out with his teeth. Beaumarchais smil- ingly answered that business must go before pleasure, and resumed his seat on the bench. He sat there two hours, hearing cases; his en- raged adversary pacing the room the whole time, and calling out, Will it last much longer ? Whea the Court rose, the Dnke was with diffi- culty restrained from stabbing him on the spot. Beaumarchais succeeded in getting him into his carriage, and drove home for a sword. Iu the house, the Duke would not be held back any longer; he tried tostab Beaumarchais. Foiled in this, he dug five furrows in his cheek with his nails, and tore out his hair by handfuls; and when Beaumarchais struck him with his fist, he exclaimed, furiously, What I you dare to strike a Duke and Peer I The fellow was not got rid of till he had wounded three of Beaumarchais servants, and set the whole neighborhood in an uproar. A commissary of police at last ap- peared and restored quiet. He complacently observes, in his report, that the Duke did not evea say any thing disagreeable to me, but treat- ed me with civility and even consideration. The result of this affair was the imprisonment of the Duke at Vincennes, and that of Beau- marchais hirnse!f at For lEvique! Even at the present day incarceration would be felt as no slight iuconvenience by a party to au important lawsuit; in Beaumarchais time it was almost a fatal calamity. It was then usual in France for suitors to visit judges privately and solicit them; to obtain recommendations from in- fluential persons; to keep public opinion, if not favorable, at least in equilibrium. Half the battle was fought out of doors, and by the suit- ors personally. From this field Beaumarchais was now wholly shut out. His adversary, the Count la Blache, filled Paris with calumnious tales; saw the judges daily; pressed ardently for a judgment. Beaumarchais fumed and chafed in vain in his prison. He sent message upon message to the minister, begging to be al- lowed to go out a few hours during the day. The official at last condescended to reply. He said: This fellow is too insolent; let him leave the affair to his solicitor. After a months imprisonment, Beaumarchais felt the import- auce of saving the case so deeply that he wrote a letter to the minister such as an Eastern cul- prit under sentence of death might address to his Rajab. Every one, says he, praises your indul~ence, Monseigneur, and the good- ness of your heart. The whole of my family, in tears, join their prayers to mine, etc., etc. Could any thing paint the old iRigime better? The petitioner obtained what he desireda few hours liberty in the middle of the day. But it came too late. Judgment was rendered against him, declaring the settlement of ac- counts a fraudulent document, and condemn- ing him to pay a sum of 56,000 livres, with in- terest and costs. The Count instantly seized all his property. Beaumarchais was hurried back to prison, and confined in a~ unwitole some chamber. -. Abject poverty stared him in the face. His father and sister were dependent upon him; their distress surpassed his. All Paris rang with abuse of him as a forger, a cheat, a poisoner, a brawler. To add to all, his little son died, and his health gave way. It appears almost incredible that he should have been imprisoned two years and a half, merely because a frantic madman threatened his life, and that no charge should ever have been made against him. Such, however, was the case. The minister, La Yrilli& e, whose indulgence and goodness of heart were so well known, did not relent till thirty months had elapsed. At the expiration of this fear- fully long period Beaumarchais emerged into open air to find himself involved in a new law- suit of far greater celebrity and importance. During his imprisonment at For LEv~que he had ascertained that the counselor to whom, as referee, his case had been referred by the Par- liament, was one Goiizman, a man, it was said, of questionable moral character. Being unable to see Goiizman himself, Beaumarchais heard, with some pleasure, that his wife had observed that they, the husband and wife, knew the art of plucking the fowl without making it cry out. This was understood as such a remark only could be. Beaumarchais communicated with the lady through the medium of a book- seller, and presented her with 100 louis and a watch worth a like sum. The lady asked for fifteen louis. more for her husbands secretary; pledging herself that the 100 louis and the watch should be returned if Beaumarchais lost his case. The fifteen louis were sent. When the judgment was rendered the lady kept her word, and restored the 100 louis nnd the watch. But, a short while afterward, Beanmarchais dis- covered that the secretary had seen nothing of the fifteen louis he was to have received. Ma- dame Goiizman had kept them for herself. Beanmarchais, perceiving his opportunity, loudly demanded repayment of his fifteen louis. Judge Goiizman met the charge boldly. He charged Beaumarchais with attempting to cor- rupt a judge through the medium of his wife, denied the story of the fifteen louis, and pros- ecuted Beaumarchais before the Parliament. That body naturally took open sides with its counselor. No advocate dared plead Beau- marchais cause. It was indeed desperate. He could not come into court without con- fessing the truth of the charge against him; for how came he to have any claim upon Madame Goi~zman? He was branded as a forger by the judgment in the La Blach~ case. He had just escaped from prison. His name was offensive to mens nostrils. It was this extraordinary concurrence of ad- verse circumstances which elicited the whole of Beaumarchais astonishing abilities. He be- came his own advocate. He wrote his own pleadings. Well aware that to gain the public ear was the true key to success, he wrote them in the same style as his comedies. They beam- A PRINCE OF D~TRIGUE. 81 ed with wit, ran over with sarcasm, fun, and drollery. Not content with assailing Madame Goiizman and her husband, he skillfully plant- ed his battery against the Parliament itself. It was vulnerable enough; its assailant used its un- popularity as his chief weapon of defense. Hap- pily for him his antagonists were outrageous- ly violent. Madame Gdizman began her plea with an apostrophe to Beaumarchais: Atro- cious man 1 and ended it with a row of dots ( ); adding, I dare not call you what you are. On such ground a man of infinite wit, nerve, and experience of the world, like Beau- marchais, was more than a match for a heavy juriscousult like Goizman. He crushed him with irony, invective, cutting satire; dissected him, and mangled his corpse for the amusement of the public. The result was, first, that every body was talking of the case; next, that every body took Beaumarchais side. The echoes of Beaumarchais flagellation of the Go~zmaus were heard all over Europe. Horace Walpole wrote to ask What has be- come of this creature and her villainous hus- band ? Goethe had Beatimarchais pleadings read aloud at Frankfort. Voltaire at Ferney deplored the disgrace brought on the country by Goiizman; Madame du Barry had the inter- views between Madame Goi~zman and Beau- marchais performed in proverbs before the King. The people of Paris talked of nothing else; so fascinated were they by Beaumarchais wit that they could not persuade themselves that he was in the wrong. Grimm observed that people praised the fellow as much as they had hated him a short while ago. On the day when the sentence was to be rendered he was to read a new playnone other than the Barberat the house of the Prince de Monaco. He could not go, for the judges fought all night about the sentence. It was de- livered early next morning. It deprived Goiz- man of his office, and sentenced Madame Goiiz- man and Beaumarchais alike to blame. So far as we can judge of matters so long past and gone, the sentence was a righteous one, in all but its mildness. It ought to have been more severe. But the popularity of Beaumar- chais terrified the Court; and being stanch in their fidelity to their colleague, and having such good grounds against Beaumarchais as his ne- gotiation with Madame Goiizman, the judges would not condemn the unfortunate Goiizman and his wife to any severer penalty than that which overtook their adversary. The lawsuit was a suicidal affair to all parties. Beaumarchais came out of it a victor; but dis- honored, stripped of his political and of half his civil rights, and viewed with suspicion by a large class of society. Poor Goiizman, pros- trated, stunned by his overthrow, lingered in obscurity till he took his place in the cart which bore Andn~ Cbonier to the guillotine. Even the Parliament died of the shock. When it perished, a few months afterward, its epitaph was thus written by a wit of the day: Louis Quinze (Louis XV.) destroyed the old Parliament; qninze louis (fifteen louis) de- stroyed the new. For the Parliament and its counselor there was no recovery; Beaumarchais throve under crushing. It happened that one Morande, a libeler by trade, had lately hit upon the fortu- nate idea of printing the truth about Madame du Barry, then at the zenith of her fame, and the ruler of royalty. The Kings wrath fired up at slanders upon a person of whom, in truth, it would have been no easy task to write a cal- umny. Unfortunately Morande was out of his reachsafely ensconced in London. Neither lettres de cachet tior gardes da corps could catch him there. In this emergency Beaumarchais offered his services. The office was delicate, if not honorable; he obtained permission to test his diplomatic skill. He succeeded. Morande only wanted money. Louis was ready to pay any thing; and so for 20,000 francs down, and a yearly pension (secured on stocks abroad) of 4000 francs, Morande covenanted with Beau- marchais to let his memoirs of the favorite be burnt. The net result of the operation was a respite for Madame du Barry, a complimentary message from the King to Beaumarchais, and a fortune for the shrewd libeler. Beaumarchais had hoped for something more, but a few days after the close of the negotiation Louis XV. died. All was lost once more. I reflect with as- tonishment, says Beaumarchais, in despair, on the strange fate which pursues me. Hap- pily for him, the race of the Morandes was not extinct. It became known in Paris that a Jew, named Angelucci, had in press, in London, an atrocious libel on the youthful Queen of France, the wife of Louis XVI. Beaumarchais flew to the minister, and offered his services again. He found the Jew, and, as he says, used elo- quence that would have melted the heart of a stone. The Israelite seems to have stood the oratory pretty well, for it was only on the re- ceipt of $7000 in hard cash that he surrendered his book. Flushed with successfor this seems to have been considered a great triumphBeau- marchais was returning home, when he heard that the Jew had secreted a copy of the obnox- ious work, and was about to have it printed at Nuremberg. Off he started, foaming with rage, swearing that if he caught the Jew on the road he would strip him of his papers and kill him for the pain he had caused him. The sequel distances Harrison Ainsworth. From town to town the furious diplomatist chased the Jew, who fled with his libel in his pocket as never Jew fled before, till at the entrance of a forest Beaumarchais saw him. Angelucci leaped the fence, and dashed into the wood. Beaumarchais followed with drawn sword. The Jew was on horseback, and had the start. Beaumarchais was beside himself. At last a thicket caught his enemys horse.. Two minutes afterward the pursuer held his victim by the leg, forced him to dismount, dragged the book 82 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. from him, and kicked him contemptuously into were elicited rather favored the hypothesis that the bushes. Returning to his carriage, two rob- the illustrious personage was of the fair sex. bers attacked him. He drew his pistol and Under these circumstances a dispute arose be- pulled the trigger; It hung fire, and a knife tweeu the Chevalier and the French Govern- aimed at his heart would have put an end to meat about the salary of the former. A captain his story bnt for a gold box containing a letter of grenadiers was seat to settle the negotiation: from the King, which he always wore on his he fell in love with the Chevalier, proposed mar- left breast. He was severely wounded: not- riage, and was refused with many blushes. withstanding which, he grappled the robber, Beaumarchais was in London at the time. The threw him, and proceeded to throttle him. At Chevalier sent for him; confided the affair of the sound of the scuffle the fellows companions the salary, and with sobs and tears confessed rushed to the scene, and once more Beaumar- that she was a woman. Beaumarchais was chais life hung on a thread. They were on the touched. He wrote to the King that a girl so point of kuhn, him, when his postillion, uneasy interesting by her courage and her talents de- at his absence, sounded a tantivy on his horn, served better treatment at the hands of Gov- which frightened them off. eminent. There were better reasons still for The adventure was not ended. It was not using her tenderly. She possessed valuable pa- certain that the Jew had not another copy of pers which the King wanted. And, moreover, his libel. He might still stultify the acute di- the subject of her sex was causing much scan- plomatist. As quick as thought Beaumarchais dal, and damaging the credit of the French Gov- turned his horses heads toward Vienna, in order eminent. Beaumarchais was intrusted with a to procure the assistance of Maria Theresa. It mission to her; he was to exact surrender of was no easy matter to obtain an audience with- the papers; to induce her to return to France out credentials or introduction of any kind; but and to resume female apparel; and fbr this to by impudence Beauinarchais managed it: he pay her as little money as he could. The bar- was admitted to a private interview with the gain was soon struck; but, meanwhile, a new Queen. According to his own account he ex- embarrassment arose. The Chevalier wrote hibited so much excitement, vanity, and eccen- him that, when she thought she was only rca- tricity on this occasion, that the reader is less dering justice to his merit,, and ad miring his surprised than Beaumarchais was when the or- talents, she loved him. What to do withthe der came for his arrest. Maria Theresa, judg- amorous she-dragoon Beausnarchais hardly ing by his manner, to which his wound and his knew. He wrote to her that he could not feverish agitation had imparted unusual wild- assume any other character than that of a ness, that he was a maniac, had him quietly man who wished well to her, and implored her locked up in the Austrian fashion, and watched to fulfill her contract and return to France. The night and day. They took away his razor, pen- Chevalier overwhelmed him with more epistles, knife, and scissors, and sent a surgeon to bleed alternating between hate and love; he vowed and purge him. Fancy the frenzy of the se- that she was driving him mad, and he would be cret agent! bullied into marrying her at last. After a After a months imprisonment, letters from couple of years of this work, the Chevalier, Paris explained matters, and ~he was set free. pressed for money, fulfilled her bargain, and He shook the dust from his feet, would not list- went to Paris in female clothes. She lived en to explanations, would not take the money there some time, and was the subject of several the Empress offered him for his journey, and odes, in which she was compared to Joan of Arc rushed,~ boiling with rage, to the French minis- and Minerva: she also wrote books about her- ter to demand redress. M. de Sartines heard self, boastin,, that she had passed through camps, his story, and enjoyed it. When Beanmarchais sieges, battles, and courts, and had still pre- pressed him for an answer, he said simply, served that precious flower of girlhood, etc., etc. Que voulez-v s, mon cher? The Empress In 1810 she died in London. An autopsy was took you for an adventurer ? Which was all made of her body by Dr. Copeland, in presence the satisfaction the diplomatist ever got. of several physicians, who unanimously reported His next adventure was still more original, that the amorous she-dragoon was a perfect- Almost every body has heard of the Chevalier ly-formed man. Happily Beaumarchais was dEon: for those who have not, however, it dead: the shock would have killed him. must be said that about 1770, the French pleni- We now come to a more important part of potentiary at London was a certain Chavahier Beaumarchais career, and one more interesting dEon, of uncertain origin, but who had been a to cis-Atlantic readers. diplomatic agent, a captain of dragoons, an ad- The Battle of Bunker Hill had been fought: vocate, etc., etc. All at once, in the midst of Boston was in a state of siege. In continental the Chevaliers usefulness, a rumor spread that Europe, where none but the well informed were he was a woman. No contradiction appeared. aware that America was an inhabited country, The story got into the newspapers, was the talk very few persons indeed had any correct notion of every club. Shrewd men about town offered of the nature of the contest that was beginning heavy bets that the dragoon-ininisterwas a lady, in the British colonies, or of its probable issue. On reference to the Chevalier, the sporting world Beaumarchais had learned both from Americans obtained no satisfaction; but what few words whom he had met at the house of the famous A PRINCE OF INTRIGUE. 83 Wilkes. First of Frenchmen,. he divined the future and the policy of France. Tkat Power, smarting under the treaty of 1763, desired no- thing so much as an opportunity of revenging itself upon its neighhor, and weakening the pow- ~r of England; and that opportunity, thought Ileaumarchais, was offered by the American troubles. In September, 1775, ten months be- fore the Declaration of Independence, he wrote to the King of France, The Americans are de- termined to suffer every thing rather than give way, and are full of enthusiasm for liberty.... I say, Sire, that such a nation must be invinci- ble; above all, when it has at its back as much country as it can possibly require for retreat ...... I am convinced that the English colo- nies are lost to the mother country. How few Americans knew,, or ventured to think, as much in September, 1775! Early in 1776 this was followed up by other memorials, in which he says, I am obliged to warn your Majesty that the preservation of our possessions in America, and the peace which your Majesty appears to desire so much, de- pend. solely on this one propositionThe Amer- icans must be assisted. The court and King Were slow to be convinced. France was bank- rupt England was powerful. Another war might utterly ruin the former, and leave the latter the mistress of the world. For several weeks Beaumarchais wrote, and argued, and entreated in, vain. At length, some time in May, 1776, an, arrangement was made between Beaumarchais and the Count. de Vergennes for the French Government, by which France and Spain agreed to furnish Beaumarchais with a million of francs each, to set up acommercial house; France was. to give arms and ammu- nition, to be paid. for by Beaumarchais and Beaumarchais was to send to the American col- onies, at his own risk, arms, ammunition, articles of equipment, and all other articles ne- cessary for keeping up the war, such shipments to be paid for by the Americans, not in money, as they have none,~~ b1rt in products of the soil, which De Vergenues promised to help Beau- marchais to sell. Such was the source of the first substantial ~aid the Revolutionary cause re- ceived from abroad. The arrangement was consummated on 10th June, 1776, by the payment of the first, million by France. Spainpaid her million on 11th of Auuust. Two, days after the receipt of the first million, Beaumarchais wrote to Arthur Lee, then in London, and acting (apparently with- out adequate warrant) for Congress, to inform him that the difficulties he had met with in his negotiations with the ministry had led him to decide to form a company, which would send the ammunition and powder to yourfriend. On the very same day, or the next, Silas Deane ar- rived at Paris with full authority from Congress to procure a loan in Europe and assistance from the French Government. On application to the Count of Vergennes, he was told that France could not interfere between the colonies and En. gland, but that he would do well to see Mon.- sienr de Beanmarchais. The two entered into unreserved communication, ~as soon as a relia- ble interpreter could be found, for Beaumarchais knew not a word of English, and Deane not a word of French; and by the 24th, it was ar- ranged that Beanmarchais was to send the arti- cles required by Congress, and that they were to be paid for in American producethe business of appraising the cargoes and fixing the time of payment being left to Congress. Deane wrote to 2Beanmarchais in terms of exuberant joy and gratitude. Nothing could surpass the energy with which the business was commenced, Beaumarchais hired a huge building at Paris, took the name, style, and,firm of Rodrigne Hortale; and Co., purchased from Government clothing and tents for 25,000 men, 200 cannons, guns, mortars, shells, etc., without end; and had, the whole ready for shipment by mid-winter, 1776. Deane had agreed to provide vessels. The owners broke faith with him; at the time appointed no vessels were ready, and ]3eaumarchais had to charter others. Then Deane begged that a few officers might be sent with the munitions. Ver- gennes, of course, would not hear of such a thing; but J3eaumarchais enlisted abou~t fifty, among whom were the Marquis de la Ronerie, Conway, Pulaski, and Steuben. Americas ob- ligations to this Prince of Intrigue are indeed astounding. All was now ready for the departure of the first convoy when Beaumarchais vanity almost ruined the scheme. The same motive which Induced Napoleon to regulate the affairs of the Theatre Fran9ais in a decree dated from the Kremlin, just before the fire, impelled Beau- marchais, who had gone to Havre under an assumed name to superintend the departare of his squadron, to have the Barber .of Se- ville rehearsed in his presence there. English agents took the alarm at his presence at the sea-port. Lords Stormont, the embassador, ful- minated vehement protests against the intrigues of Beaumarchais. Terrified at the prospect of a rupture withEngland, the King forbade Beau. marchais squadron from putting to sea. The order. was too late. The largest of the three ships, the Amp/iitrite, had sailed. More tha~i half the supply of munitions was on board of her. But in the midst of their mutual.congratu- lations Deane and Beaumarchais were thunder- struck by the news that the Amp/i itrite had put into LOrient, at the request of M., Ducoudray, the supercargothe same who so mortally of- fended Greene, Sullivan, and Knox, by claim- ing the command of the artillery, and waa drowned in the Schuylkill. He ~objected to the accommodation. Enraged beyond measure,. Beaumarchais wrote to Dacoudray to leave the~ ship or to submit to the captain; and hurried to Paris to~ obtain the revocation of the order for- bidding his vessels1 o sail. He did obtain it, after some trouble; and at last the first squad- ron sailed~ It arrived in America in tinle for 84 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. the campaign of 1777, and was welcomed with enthusiastic cheers. It was on this occasion that Silas Deane wrote the words which are prefixed to this article. Tronbies soon followed. After shipping two more cargoes, he began to inquire about returns, which were not being advised. Deane could tell him nothing.. He continued to ship, though in a somewhat uneasy frame of mind; and by September, 1777, he estimated that he had transmitted munitions of war to the amount of $1,000,000. He had not yet received even a let- ter from Congress acknowledging receipt of his consignments. He had exhausted his money and credit, and the funds of his friends. He could get no explanation from Deane, who was, in fact, as much surprised as himself. He be- gan to ask himself whether he was not de- luded in believing in the equity and justice of Congres... . Through all these annoyances, the news from America overwhelmed him with joy brave, brave people.! their warlike conduct jus- tified his esteem.... But why did they not ship any tobaccoes? The secret was very simple. When Deane arrived at Paris, Beaumarchais ceased to corre- spondwith Arthur Lee; who, annoyed at being superseded, and unable to succeed in foment- ing a quarrel between Deane and Beaumarchais, revenged himself by informing the Congress that Rodrigue Hortalez, and Co. were fictitious personages, that the real owner of the cargoes was the French government, and that they did not expect any returns. Con,ress did not no- tice Beaumarchais-Hortalez, simply because that body believed him to be a man of strawa myth. It must be admitted that Beaumarchais helped to keep up the impression by closing business let- ters advising shipments and inclosing invoices with such words as these: Gentlemen,~ con- sider my house as the head of all operations useful to your cause in Europe, and myself as the most zealous partisan of your r~ttion, the soul of your successes, and a man most profoundly filled with the respectful esteem with which, etc. In spite of the cavalier treatment of Congress, J3eaumarchais continued to ship cargoes. Just after the breaking out of the war between En- gland and France, he sent to sea ten merchant vessels, convoyedby his largest man-of-war, the Fierlioderigse. As the fleet was sailing jauntily across the ocean it had the good luck to fall in with DEstaing, who was just going to engage Admiral Biron. DEstaing examined the Fier Roderigue through his glass, was pleased with her looks, and quietly signaled her to take her place in the line. There was no disputing the order; The merchautmen were left to the mercy of Providence; the flier Roderigue went in for the fight, lost her captain and thirty-five men, and was knocked all to pieces, with nine shots in the hull, and every cord cut away. Despitehiswarlike ardor, Beaumarchaiswould have had hard work to keep up his spirits on tke day this letter reached him, -but for one which he received on the same day from the Congress. As this is important, in view of the comparative neglect into which Beaumarchias is falling, we give it entire. By e~press order of the C gress sitting at Philadel- phia to M. de Beaumarchais. Ssn,The Congress of the United States of America, grateful for the great efforts you have made in their favor, presents you its thanks and the assurance of its esteem. It grieves for the m - f tunes you have suffered in support of its States. Unfortunate circumstances have prevented the no. complishment of its desires; but it will take the promptest measures for acquitting itself of the debts it has contracted with you. The generous sentiments and the exalted views which alone could dictate a conduct such as yours are your greatest eulogium and are an honor to your character. While by your great talents you have rendered yourself useful to your prince, you have gained the esteem of this rising Republic, and merited the deserved applause of the New World. JoHN JAY, President. A pretty fair certificate for. the Prince of In- trigue. It was followed by a partial payment,.$500,000 in bills of exchange at three years date, on which Beaumarchais had to submit to a heavy discount. At the same time he lost heavily on paper he had received from South Carolina and Virginia, in payment for cargoes sent them. He said that his loss on the Virginia bills was not less than3,000,000 francs; and Jefferson, who was Governor at the time, confessed that he felt deeply grieved that the unfortunate depreciation of paper money should have enveloped in the general loss M~ de Beaumarchais, who has de- served so well of~ us. After this he sent no more cargoes. He began to negotiate, petition, and intrigue, to obtain payment from Congress. Silas Deane fixed his claim at 3,600,000 francs. Mr. Barclay cut it down somewhat. Years rolled on, and n6 moneycame; Beaumarchais lost patience, and wrote a letter to Congress in- sinuating that the United States intended to swindle him. They retaliated by appointing his enemy Arthur Lee to settle the account. Arthur Lee brought Beaumarchais in debtor to the United States in a sum of 1,800,000 francs. The next person to whom the case was referred was Hamilton himself, who made a clear-headed report, allowing Beaumarchais claim to the amount of 2,280,000 francs. Still no money came, the United States government taking the ground that the million given to Beaumarchais by the Count de Vergenucs was intended as a gift to the United States, and that it ought to be deducted from his bill. For years and years he fought and battled unsuccessfully with Con- grass, never losing hope. When, as we shall recount presently, he was an exile, old, and in poverty, he began to fear for his daughters live- lihood, and wrote whole volumes of petitions to Congress, none of which, perhaps, have ever seen the light. One of them begins thus: Americans, I have served you with unwearied zeal; I have received during my life nothing but bitterness for my recompense, and I die A PRINCE OF INTRIGUE. 85 your creditor. Suffer me then, in dying, to be- queath to you my daughter, to endow with a portion of what you owe me. . After adding that if his health improves, he will go to America, he says, Holding out to all the cap of liberty, with which no man more than myself has helped to decorate your heads, I will exclaim to. you, Americans, bestow nims on your friend, whose accumulated services have received but this re- ward. Date obolunt Belisario.~ He never ob- tained satisfaction. Twenty-five years after his death, this daughter came here with her son to plead her case, but fared no better. It was not till Jackson handled the French so roughly about their debts, that Beaumarchais claim then amounting to nearly a million of dollars was galvanized into existence by being filed as a set-off by the French. The heirs of Beaumar- chais were then offered 800,000 francs, say $160,000, in. full for their claims; and they closed the litigation on these terms. M. de Lom~uie, the biographer, is terribly severe and sarcastic on the United States in connection with this matter. He is a sort of heavy Sydney Smith. . No doubt the United States ought to have paid the debt sooner. But even M. de Lom~nie admits that Beaumar- chais received two millions . from France and one from Spain for this country, and gave no account of them. M. de Lominie thinks that he accounted for them privately to the Count of Vergennes, and that all record of the transac-. tion has been lost. This is a bold theory. The weight of circumstantial evidence is on the side of another view, which is, that Beaumarchais got these three millions, never accounted for them, and demanded of the United States repayment of a like sum, as though he had disbursed them out of his own funds. The transaction, howev- er, is not jsarticnlarly honorable to either side.; it would be well if it were forgotten. In order to present a continuous view of his American transactions, we have somewhat an- ticipated events. Hodrigue Hortalez, and Co., notwithstanding their losses in the American service, contin- ued to do a large business. At this time Prance was a highly mercantile nation. Bordeaux, as Arthur Young tells ns, had more commerce than Liverpool. Beaumarchais became one of the largest merchants and .operators in the king- dom. His fleets wereon. every sea. . His balance- sheets footed up several millions. And though the ingenuous M. de Lominie believes that he has discovered, by an examination of his books, that the profits of the firm during its whole ca- reer were only some 50,000 francs, there is reason to believe that the discovery demonstrates nothing but our French friends ignorance of the mystesjes of book-keeping. Beyond all doubt Beaumarchais made a very . large fortune in trade. In 1779 he was in the cabinet of the Prime Minister. Like all men of standing in France at the time, both were intense admirers of Vol- taire. The minister was deploring the want of a good edition of Voltaires works. No pub- lisher dared undertake them; at least half of them were outlawed, and it was penal even to sell them, while the whole collection, filling seventy volumes octavo, involved an enormous outlay. Beaumarchais concurredin M. deMan- repas remarks. The latter, suddenly turning to his visitor, exclaimed, There is but one man in France bold enough to undertake the risk that is yourself! Beaumarchais went out and announced that a Literary, Philosophical, and Typographical Society (consisting of himself) was about to publish Voltaire complete, on a scale of unattempted magnificence. He sent to England for $30,000 worth of type, bought three paper-mills, and dispatched an agent to Holland to learn the latest improve- ments in paper-making there; hired a castle at Kehl, in Baden, and filled it with workmen; then set to work to print two editions of Vol- taire. Anticipating devices which have been common enough in our own day, he laid out $40,000 in prizes to be adjudged by lot among the first 4000 subscribers to the work; and though he never obtained a subscription list of over 2000, the prizes were duly paid over with the first volume. The speculation proved a ru- inous one. Of 15,000 copies printed, not over 2000 were sold. He lost, he says, full a million of francs. This satisfied him with book-making. With the lesson on his mind, he settled down at Paris as a speculator and financier, and probably re- paired his losses. At all events, he appears as the banker of a host of personages, noblemen, literary men, and others, who needed a banker not to keep but to lend money. He had always been generous. . During the War of Independ- ence it appears that .the young French officers Lafayette, Pulaski, De la Ronerie, and others, were always in his debt. His biographer con- scientiously chronicles the names, and often the letters of later borrowers. There was the Prince of Nassau, who was always sending for money, and driving his creditor distracted by leading forlorn hopes, and endangering his valuable life in fifty different ways; and there was his wife, who never could recollect Beaumarchais name, though she wrote to him once a month or often- er, to say that she was again without a son, and would her good Bonmarchais send her a few louis, if he wished her to dine to-morrow ? And there were a host of army officers, naval men, authors, and mere idlers, who wrote to Beaumarchais asking for twenty-five louis as a matter of course, and often obtaining what they wanted, then turning round and abusing him as a man of no principles. One poor fellow, named Dorat,. who wrote mild verse, actually obtained $2000 from the financier, and died without paying any thing. Beaumarchais book-keeper tied up his papers, and labeled them Insolvent Debtors Dead, No. 23, Dorat. The Marriage of Figaro, which is probably the greatest of Beaumarchais playsthough, for some reason, it has never been popular in 86 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. England or this countrywas produced in 1784. Great difficulties, we are told, were experienced in obtaining the permission requisite for the per- formance; but we are inclined to suspect that a considerable share of these difficulties were contrived by the cunning author, who knew well how to create a furore, and pique the cu- riosity of the public. So well was the affair managed that on the day of the performance ladies of the bighest rank dined in the actresses rooms in order to obtain places. Early in the morning the theatre was surrounded by the throng; noblemen fought their way into the house; the police were dispersed, the iron rail- ing torn up, and the doors battered in by the mob. The performance was eminently success- ful. Nobody went away disappointed; and Beaumarchais, who occupied a private -box with two abbos, whom, he said, he bad engaged to afford him spiritual aid in case he died of joy, narrowly escaped the fate he had foreseen. His joy was short-lived. The play was most revolutionary and democratic in tone; it bad given mortal offense to persons of high rank. The King himself did not like it, though be was, without knowing it, a far more dangerous rev- olutionary than the Prince of Intrigue. One Suard wrote criticisms on the work which Beau- marchais was foolish enough to answer. After several attacks and replies, Beaumarchais at last wrote to say that he would take no farther no- tice of Suard. When I have had to conquer tigers and lions, he added, do you think to reduce me to the level of a Dutch housemaid, to bunt every morning the vile insect of the night ~ The paper was instantly carried to the King, who was informed that he was meant by the term tigers and lions. Louis was at cards. Without leaving the table, he wrote on a seven of spades, Arrest M. de Beaumarchais, and confine him at St. Lazare. St. Lazare was a prison appropriated to vag- abonds, disorderly women, and juvenile offend- ers. To send Beaumarchais there was the most outrageous insult that could have been offered him; and the people .of Paris, who had borne oppression of every kind for centuries almost without murmuring, showed such unmistakable signs of rebellion that, four days after the arrest, the King sent orders for the prisoners libera- tion. His piece was performed- by royal com- mand; all the ministers were present. ~ The Barber was produced at the Queens private theatre; Beaumarchais outstanding accounts were promptly settled to his satisfaction. The act itself and the reparation possess his- torical importance. They were the first indi- cation of the practical effects of the revolution- ary education which the French had been re- ceiving for twenty years; they foreshadowed the Revolution. Even the Dragonnades,-says M. do Tocqueville, in his recent work, pro- duced less sensation than Beaumarchais~ four days captivity. To a thinking mind the event was pregnant with awful meaning. - - - It hurt Beaumarchais. Directly afterward, Mirabeau, then a nameless adventurer in search of notoriety, attacked the Paris Water Com- pany of which Beaumarchais was the head. Beaumarchais, from some unaccountable rea- son, allowed himself to be vilified without meas- ure, and made no reply. People began to think him in tbe wrong. New attacks soon followed. It was this mans fortune to involve himself in the most extraordinary adventures. A bank- er, named Koruman, living at Strasburg, had for two years openly connived at an intimacy between his wife and one Daudet, who filled an office which enabled him to be of service to the husband. Daudet lost his office; and at the same time Kornmans affairs became so much deranged that policy compelled his wifes friends to advise the recovery of her portion. At the first mention of the subject Koraman exploded, and obtained a lettre de cachet, by which his wife was imprisoned in the common jail as an adulteress. She was near her con- finement: tbrnst into the society of the most abandoned creatures, she - became so frantic from despair that her life was despaired of. The Prince of Nassau knew her. He appealed to Beanmarchais, who succeeded in obtaining an order for her removal to a Maisoa de Sctnt~. On this Kornman turned all his wrath against him; and his lawyer, Bergasse, a young man of energy with a name to make, expended his powers of vituperation upon Beanmarchais like- wise. It is difficult for us, who bave been train- ed under the Anglo-Saxon methods of adminis- tering justice, to realize the theatrical plan which obtained in Paris under the Old Monarchy. The pleadings - or memorialswhich were oratorical pamphlets addressed as much to the public as to the Courtthe speeches overflowing with ex- travagant rhetoric, and wholly without a paral- lel in the records of British or American foren- sic eloquence; the solicitations of the judges, in private interviews by the suitors personally.; finally, the requisitory, or semi-judicial ha- rangue of the public law-officera sort of com- promise between the sentence of a chief justice -and the remarks of an amicus curice :these are features of the old French Parliamentary Courts which are not easily understood by Americans of our day. One wonders how it was possible to administer justice at all on such a monstrous system. Bergasse, for instance, in suing Beau- marchai~ for his interference, never seems to have thought it necessary to establish that that interference constituted a conspiracy in the proper legal sense of. the - term. But he went back to the stories about his wives, and revived the rnmQrs regarding their deaths; accused him of forging the receipt of Paris Da Verney; charged him with endangering the- foreign re- lations of-the -country in the affair of America; repeated, in short, every calumny which had ever been current on his subject, and invented all the new ones he could think ofcalling him - a man whose sacrilegious existence attests, in -so disgraceful and flagrant a -manner, the de- gree of profound depravity to which we have A PRINCE OF rNTRIGUE. 87 arrived ; and winding up with the magnificent apostrophe: Maiheur x, tu sues le crime! Wretch, you sweat crime ! To all this Beaumarchais answered that M. Kornman had absolutely sold his wife to M. Daudet; and that he, really, had merely put the ministry in the way to perform an act of common humanity and necessity. He won the case. But we shall he inclined to think that the Sicur Bergasse was not so far wrong in speaking of the profound depravity of the times, when we find that the public de- cided against him. The closing scene must have been highly original and dramatic. Ber- gasse ended a speech of several hours with the following peroration: The altar of justice is at this moment to me the altar of vengeance; and upon this altar, henceforth fatal, I swear that thereshall never be peace between us (13cr- gasse and Beaumarchais and his friends); that I will never~ leave them; that I will rest no more; that I will attach myself to them like remorse to the guilty conscience. And you, who preside over this august tribtrnal; you, the friends of morals and of laws; you, Whom we all admire and venerate, receive my oaths ! This was considered iDemosthenic, and Bergasse a made man. When the time came for the public prosecutor to express his conclusions, young Dambray, who had just been appointed to the office, rose to make his maiden speech. The court-room was crowded to suffocation; the heat stifling. After he had spoken for some time, his voice was observed to grow weaker; Beaumarchais and his friends were in despair, for his tone was in their favor, He fainted, and was carried to a window. In a few mo- ments he revived, and requested to be allowed to resume his place. For if the deposition of the SicurS. . . . ., he began in a clear, calm voice, resuming his argument exactly where he had left oW as though no interruption had taken place. Again, a short While afterWard, he faint- ed; was again taken to the window, and as be- fore, when he recovered,: resumed his speech without missing a sentence or an idea. He concluded dead against Kornman, and the Court embraced his view. The public, as we said, decided against him. The highly-seasoned abuse of Bergasse won them over to his side. Beaumarchais fell into bad odor. To console himself, he built him- self a house which cost over $300,000 of our money, and lived royally there, under the new name of Caron Beaumarchais, the Revolu- tion having swept away the de. But in such times, and to such a man, unpopularity is apt to be fatal. The Republiewanted guns. Beau- marchais, then sixty years old and deag offered to go to Holland and buy a lot of 60,000 that were for sale there. The proposal was ac- cepted by Government. Beaumarchais depos- ited three quarters of a million francs as seen- rity, but could not obtain the necessary funds from the Treasury to complete the bargain. While things were in this state; a report spread that hehad the guns in his cellars to use against the patriots. His house was instantly search- ed by a furious mob, and he was thrown into prison. Even here his extraordinary vicissitudes of fortune did not fail him. The State prose- cutor was his enemy; but being a man of no- ble heart, he thought he would revenge himself by setting him free. Beaumarchais stepped out of the Abbaye on the 30th August; on the 2d September the mob massacred every prisoner the place contained. An ordinary man would have been content with this lesson. Not so Beaumarchais. He revived the idea of buying the guns, got a promise of money from the Gov- ernment, started oW borrowed money in En- gland, and effected the purchase. Events flew in these times. The first thing Beaumarchais hears, after concluding the purchase, is that he has been accused by the Convention. He makes ready to return to Paris, surely to be guillotined; but his English friend quietly throws him into the Kings Bench for the mon- ey lent him. Instead of iug grateful for the kindness, Beaumarchais is furious; raises mon- ey, pays the Englishman, and rushes to Paris with a trunk full of memorials, placards, ap- peals, speeches, etc. These he follows up with a big book about himself and the times. Of this M. do Sainte Beuve says, wittily: A sin- gular and unexpected thing happened to Beau- marchaishe became tedious. Tis well he was tedious; for he called Marat a little man with black hair, snub nose, and a frightful coun- tenance. Sent off to Holland to look after those guns, which an English cruiser was watching, lynx- eyed, Beaumarchais found himself proscribed as an emigre. His wife succeeded in having this absurd charge withdrawn; but a few days after- wardthe Government absolutely not knowing what it was doinghis name was again in- scribed on the fatal list, his property was seized, and his family imprisoned. His situation was positively awful. If he stirred from where he was, he was certain of the guillotine. He actually en- dured the pangs of hunger from poverty. His wife and daughters escaped from prison, but they, too, had no money. These were the days of depreciated assignats: wood was 1460 francs a cord, candles 100 francs a pound, potatoes 200 francs a bushel, meat 30, and bread 12 francs a pound. The poor women starved. When the Directory was established, Beau- marchais returned to Paris, and tried to gather up the fragments of his fortune. The Government held 760,000 francs of his as security; he ren- dered his accounts and demanded his money. The Directory would not, could not pay! The rest of his life was consumed in dunning the members without the least benefit. It is sad enough to see the mischief these cares and disappointments wrought in his fine mind. He had become tedious some time be- fore; he now grew profane and foolish. He diverted his old age by writing silly love-songs, and songs thet were worse than silly; dull papers 88 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. on politics, in one of which he proposed himself as commissioner to the United States to settle the pending dispute; and corresponded with people in a style which makes it a matter of deep re- gret that the recipients of his letters did not burn them directly. The old mans mind was gone. Defrauded by almost every person and every State he had dealt with, kept to his last day in agonies of suspense, now elated by hope, now crushed by disappointment, having seen all his illusions fade, and all his projects fail, he iiad cause enough for aberration of intellect; and ~nost assuredly those who judge the character of the man by the follies of the dotard do him griev- ous wrong. He had at times, however, returns of his old spirit. On the 8th May, 1799, he wrote to Talleyrand, in reference to his claim on the Government, that he would deal apart with the murderous commission~~ which had defraud- ed him. The diplomatist was cool; Beaumar- chais tried to rouse him. Now was the time to act. Now he would not obtain not only the money that was due to him, but revenge. There was a whole world of his old power in his ap- peaL Ten days afterward he lay down to sleep, brooding, as usual, over his wrongs and his pros- pects of redress; in the night he had a stroke of apoplexy. No one noticed the accident, and when his servant went to dress him in the morn- inn, he was quite dead. Fortune, resolved that Beaumarchais should illustrate her fickleness to the last, pursued him beyond the grave. His family, acknowledged paupers at his death, found themselves in afflu- ence a year or two afterward, by a proper ad- ministration of his estate. He had in his hap- py days built his own tomb. It stood in his garden, and a group of beautiful trees, which he had nursed with care, overspread it with a thick funeral pall of foliage. He was buried there; but his coffin had been but a short time in its resting-place when the order came to lay out a street through the garden, and directly over the grave. It seemed as though even death could not bring Beaumarchais rest. THE CRYSTAL BELL. IT was a country tavern, and I sat in the bar- room for lack of something better to do. Heaven knows there was little enough to amuse one in that dreary temple of Bacchus. There were five newspapers, the newest a month old, lying on the tableI knew every advertisement in them. There was a picture of the favorite Presidential candidate hanging over the fire- place, which, if it at all resembled the gentle- man in question, entitled him to a glass-case in Barnums Museum rather than to a chair in the White House. A book for registering names lay on a sort of desk in the corner, but since my arrival the pa~,es, though dated, were desti- tute of a single name. Apple-jack, bad gin, nnd blazing brandy in bottles of eccentric colors, filled a glass press behind a counter, which was called by courtesy a bar; and behind this stood a wooden image called by courtesy a landlord. When a man has no books, and no acquaint- ances at a country tavern, he is apt to fall back on the landlord. I have met in my time very amusing landlordslandlords who could talk about fishing, and shooting, and politics, and perhaps retail to you some of the gossip of the neighborhood; for it is wonderful how a man in the strait in which I was, will find amuse- ment in the doings of people he knows nothing about. But the landlord of the Hominy House was not to be relied upon in such an emergen- cy. You were not to take any such liberties with him, Sir, let me tell you. He took you into his house, as it were, under protest. He gave you a bed with an air that seemed to say he regretted doing it, but still he did not like to refuse; and you ate your dinner before him in fear and trembling, lest he should reconsider his hospitality and order you out of the house. Whether it was a natural inflexibility of joints, or whether it was a high sense of per- sonal dignity, I do not know; but certainly General Dubbley, the landlord of the Hominy House, in the village of Hopskotch, New Jer- sey, was the most dignified man I ever saw. The halo which he threw round a glass of whis- ky and water was perfectly wonderful. You might have imagined you were drinking green seal to judge by the lofty expression of his countenance as he handed you the bottle. At the dinner-table he fairly awed the appetite out of one; and I shall never, as long as I live, for- get the thunder-cloud which gathered on his brow when, one day, I unluckily asked to be helped to soup twice. When Lafayette passed through Hopskotcb, General Dubbley was one of the committee that received him. I did not know him at that period, not having been born, but I have formed a theory that from this epoch may be dated his tremendous dignity. Wheth- er this interview with the French patriot had any thing to do with turning the Generals hair green, I can not say; but it is, nevertheless, a fact that he was remarkable for possessing a lock of bright verdant olive on either side of his head. This eccentricity of color, I presume, must remain forever a mystery. As I was saying, I sat in the bar-room. Gen- eral Dubbley stood behind the bar counting the contents of the till with Olympian dignity. Quarter-dollars seemed to become thunder-bolts in his hands. ]I was very weary. Weary of Hopskotcb, weary of Dubbley, weary of the Presidential candidate over the mantle-piece, who seemed to have been born with a patch of strawberries on each cheek; weary of the old newspapers; weary of every thing, in fact, ex- cept the memory of my dear Annie to whom I was engaged, and on whose account I had left New York and immured myself, in mid-winter, at the Hominy House, in order, before our mar- riage, to settle some matters connected with my property, which lay near Hopskotch. I yawn- ed in the very teeth of General Dubbley. The door opened ere my teeth closed again, and a man entered, and, shaking off the snow

88 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. on politics, in one of which he proposed himself as commissioner to the United States to settle the pending dispute; and corresponded with people in a style which makes it a matter of deep re- gret that the recipients of his letters did not burn them directly. The old mans mind was gone. Defrauded by almost every person and every State he had dealt with, kept to his last day in agonies of suspense, now elated by hope, now crushed by disappointment, having seen all his illusions fade, and all his projects fail, he iiad cause enough for aberration of intellect; and ~nost assuredly those who judge the character of the man by the follies of the dotard do him griev- ous wrong. He had at times, however, returns of his old spirit. On the 8th May, 1799, he wrote to Talleyrand, in reference to his claim on the Government, that he would deal apart with the murderous commission~~ which had defraud- ed him. The diplomatist was cool; Beaumar- chais tried to rouse him. Now was the time to act. Now he would not obtain not only the money that was due to him, but revenge. There was a whole world of his old power in his ap- peaL Ten days afterward he lay down to sleep, brooding, as usual, over his wrongs and his pros- pects of redress; in the night he had a stroke of apoplexy. No one noticed the accident, and when his servant went to dress him in the morn- inn, he was quite dead. Fortune, resolved that Beaumarchais should illustrate her fickleness to the last, pursued him beyond the grave. His family, acknowledged paupers at his death, found themselves in afflu- ence a year or two afterward, by a proper ad- ministration of his estate. He had in his hap- py days built his own tomb. It stood in his garden, and a group of beautiful trees, which he had nursed with care, overspread it with a thick funeral pall of foliage. He was buried there; but his coffin had been but a short time in its resting-place when the order came to lay out a street through the garden, and directly over the grave. It seemed as though even death could not bring Beaumarchais rest. THE CRYSTAL BELL. IT was a country tavern, and I sat in the bar- room for lack of something better to do. Heaven knows there was little enough to amuse one in that dreary temple of Bacchus. There were five newspapers, the newest a month old, lying on the tableI knew every advertisement in them. There was a picture of the favorite Presidential candidate hanging over the fire- place, which, if it at all resembled the gentle- man in question, entitled him to a glass-case in Barnums Museum rather than to a chair in the White House. A book for registering names lay on a sort of desk in the corner, but since my arrival the pa~,es, though dated, were desti- tute of a single name. Apple-jack, bad gin, nnd blazing brandy in bottles of eccentric colors, filled a glass press behind a counter, which was called by courtesy a bar; and behind this stood a wooden image called by courtesy a landlord. When a man has no books, and no acquaint- ances at a country tavern, he is apt to fall back on the landlord. I have met in my time very amusing landlordslandlords who could talk about fishing, and shooting, and politics, and perhaps retail to you some of the gossip of the neighborhood; for it is wonderful how a man in the strait in which I was, will find amuse- ment in the doings of people he knows nothing about. But the landlord of the Hominy House was not to be relied upon in such an emergen- cy. You were not to take any such liberties with him, Sir, let me tell you. He took you into his house, as it were, under protest. He gave you a bed with an air that seemed to say he regretted doing it, but still he did not like to refuse; and you ate your dinner before him in fear and trembling, lest he should reconsider his hospitality and order you out of the house. Whether it was a natural inflexibility of joints, or whether it was a high sense of per- sonal dignity, I do not know; but certainly General Dubbley, the landlord of the Hominy House, in the village of Hopskotch, New Jer- sey, was the most dignified man I ever saw. The halo which he threw round a glass of whis- ky and water was perfectly wonderful. You might have imagined you were drinking green seal to judge by the lofty expression of his countenance as he handed you the bottle. At the dinner-table he fairly awed the appetite out of one; and I shall never, as long as I live, for- get the thunder-cloud which gathered on his brow when, one day, I unluckily asked to be helped to soup twice. When Lafayette passed through Hopskotcb, General Dubbley was one of the committee that received him. I did not know him at that period, not having been born, but I have formed a theory that from this epoch may be dated his tremendous dignity. Wheth- er this interview with the French patriot had any thing to do with turning the Generals hair green, I can not say; but it is, nevertheless, a fact that he was remarkable for possessing a lock of bright verdant olive on either side of his head. This eccentricity of color, I presume, must remain forever a mystery. As I was saying, I sat in the bar-room. Gen- eral Dubbley stood behind the bar counting the contents of the till with Olympian dignity. Quarter-dollars seemed to become thunder-bolts in his hands. ]I was very weary. Weary of Hopskotcb, weary of Dubbley, weary of the Presidential candidate over the mantle-piece, who seemed to have been born with a patch of strawberries on each cheek; weary of the old newspapers; weary of every thing, in fact, ex- cept the memory of my dear Annie to whom I was engaged, and on whose account I had left New York and immured myself, in mid-winter, at the Hominy House, in order, before our mar- riage, to settle some matters connected with my property, which lay near Hopskotch. I yawn- ed in the very teeth of General Dubbley. The door opened ere my teeth closed again, and a man entered, and, shaking off the snow THE CRYSTAL BELL. 89 that lay in thick flakes on his coat, advanced to the wood fire that blazed and crackled on the broad hearth, and spread out his hands to the cheering warmth. He was a very seedy- looking man. He had but one coat onan old, threadbare evening coatwhich was tenderly buttoned across a chest which seemed afraid to breathe too lustily lest it should burst the frail buttons. His shoes were old and soaked, look- ing as if he hadfound them after they had been boiled for soup by Lieutenant Strain and his companions on the Isthmus. His trowsers were also wet, and very scanty, and shrank from con- tact with his shoes as if they had been as sensi- tively constituted as the mimosa. Poor fellow! he looked as if he had not had a dinner in his stomach, or a cent in his pocket for a very long time. As he entered, the General raised his head from the till and looked at him severely. I saw the poor man shrink a little, but presently he seemed to muster up sufficient courage to go up to the bar. Can I have a bed here to-night? he asked, in a timid voice. Full, Sir, full ! said the General, frowning until his old eyebrows fairly creaked; be- sides, we seldom have accommodation for stran- gers. The poor man gave a glance at his thread- bare coat, and smiled. But, oh! how sad the smile was! Patient, but very sorrowful! It is a very bad night, said the stranger, ~Aeadingly; and I am not particular as to where I sleep. Any where would do for me. Unphilosophical stranger! A worse method than a confession of heedlessness of comfort could not have been adopted to win the Gener- als favor. If he had blustered up to the bar and shouted for a bed of rose-leaves with-every leaf ironed out, the majestic iDubbley might have overlooked the seedy coat; but not to care where he slept! that settled him. Sorry, Sir, but cant accommodate you ; and with this brief intimation the Jove of Hop- skotch commenced once more to make quarter- dollars look like thunder-bolts. The stranger sighed; looked wistfully at the bright fire; gave another hopeless glance at the wooden Dubbley, and then moved slowly to the door. It was more than I could stand. Olym- pus ha