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The Living age ... / Volume 7, Issue 73 [an electronic edition] Creation of machine-readable edition. Cornell University Library 626 page images in volume Cornell University Library Ithaca, NY 1999 ABR0102-0007 /moa/livn/livn0007/

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The Living age ... / Volume 7, Issue 73 Littell's living age Every Saturday; a journal of choice reading Eclectic magazine The Living age co. inc. etc. New York etc. October 4, 1845 0007 073
The Living age ... / Volume 7, Issue 73, miscellaneous front pages 1-4

L I T T E L LS LIVING AGE. CONDUCTED BY E. LITTELL. VOL. VII. OCTOBER, NOVEMBER, DECEMBER, 1845. WITH A COMPLETE INDEX. BOSTON: PUBLISHED BY W~JTE, PEIRCE & COMPANY. PHILADELPHIA, M. CANNING & Co., 272 Chesnut Street. NEW YORK, WILLIAM TAYLOR, Astor House. PARIS, 0. RIcTI & SoNs, 12 Rue Pot de Fer. 4,. f. AP Zr LI?t 4) INDEX TO VOL. VII. OF LITTELLS LIVING AGE. African Cruiser, Journal of,. 21 Deer Shooting in Canada Alexander, Emperor, Last West 31 Days of 58 Duffys Irish Library, . 107 Athenian Railways, . . 614 Diluvial Epoch 257 Atlantic and Pacific, . ~627 De Foe 299 Authors IDaiighter, 89, 152, 184 Darwins Voyage round the American Fiction, . . 110 World . 416 Factories, . . 372 Dukes, Discontented, . 579 Australia,Eyres Expedition, 1 I~ Desert, Water in, . . 30 Copper, . . 229 Draught, Great 260 American Statesmen, . 297 Dutch Anna 611 Andrew Cleaves 347 Duke of Normandy 17 Anatomy of Sleep, . 431 Eyres Expedition in Aus- Annexation . 468 tralia 117 Abd-el Kader 487 Ethnoloaical Society, . 259 Air, Liquid 19 Every Day Life 466 Engine 113 England and Yankee Land, 491 American Union, Dissolution _______ Invasion of, 539, 546 of _____ Trade of, . . 211 Austrian Railroads, . . 56 European Correspondence, 45, Aviary 66 422, 503, 595 Anti-friction Metals, . 152 Execution without Trial, . 624 Animal Vitality 440 Antarctic Discoveries, 578 Frederick III. of Prussia, 171, Avarice, Gregarious, . 591 434, 504 ________ the Great, . . 434 British Combination against Future State, Thoughts on, 371 the Union 112 France and China, . 464 Blanco White 155 ______ and America, . 440 Bethunes, Dr., Plea for Frous in Stones 48 Study ~ Fish Disease of 229 Bourbons 551 Pusi~n of Parties, . . 459 Blasting 19 Free Trade 486 Bar, Dignity of 56 Fry, Mrs. Elizabeth,. . 587 Birkenhead 504 Brahmins, Crusade against, 622 German Catholic Church, 17,625 Brocks Life and Correspon- German Criminal Trials, . 373 dence 623 Gutta Percha 280 Bamboos 616 Georges, The 393 Garter and Life 533 Correspondence. 9, 57, 153, Gurneyism 219, 297, 489, 537, 585 Great and Little 131 Crisis in Railways, . 16, 18 Gamblers Petition, . . 579 Canada, Defences and Re- Great Events from Trifling sources of 25 Causes 599 Corn Law Leaxue, . . 42 Grasshoppers 616 California and Oregon, 249 Headleys Letters from Italy, 488, 594 Crust of the Earth, . . . 258 20, 425 Clouds, Formation of, . . 261 Hall, Rev. Robert, . . . 521 Copenhagen, Nelsons At- Hursts Poems 37 tack on 288 Hail Stormy 260 ______ the Press at, . 216 Indians, Arm and Employ, . 435 Colonna the Painter, . . ~ Ireland, Protestantism in, . 460 Chesterfields Life and Let- Treason 547 ters Colleges 48 Corn and Chaff, Railroads, . 461 India, Travelling in, . . . 580 Corn and Corn L . 549, 591 Ibrahim, 116 aws, Iron Manufacture, . . . 601 Carrier Pigeon ~ .Iacobinism in the Nursery,. 212 Cavern in Africa 19 Cheerfulness 41 Jerusalem, Newspaper in, . 56 Cottages, Portable, . 56 Jews 88 Conjugal Affection, . 56 Jewish Emancipation, . 621 Collard, Royer 106 Junius 620 Copper in Australia, . 229 Kidders Brazil, . - 245, 320 Canine Sagacity 434 Kenawha Gas 258 Caucasian War 486 Kirklands, Mrs., Western Child-bed Gifts 579 Clearings . 441 Lynchers own Story, . . 38 Latin Hexameter Machine, . 214 Luminousness of the Earth, 279 Large Conceits, Little Wars, 463 Louis XVII 56 Leghorn, StSamer to, 56 Lithography 87 Lowells Conversations, . . 106 Leeches, 244 London in a New Dress, . 593 Lost Child 27 Miltons Blindness, . . . 07 Mesmerisers 109 Mexico and the United States .105. 488 Margaret de Valois, . . . 121 Mary of Scots 182 Montgomery, James, . . 200 Matter and Manner, . . . 488 Mineral Region, Lake Supe- rior 136 Ministerial Differences, . . 547 Madrid 579 Maps in Relief, .. . . . 616 Mandarin and English Lady, 616 Morocco, Anti-Slavery Mis sion 621 Nineveh, Discoveries in the Ruins of 132 Non-jurors, History of, . . 217 Northcote 56 Nile, Barrage of 552 Oregon and California, 219, 464, 488 See Correspondence~ One Pound Notes, . . . 18 Oxford Secession, - . . 5~l6 OConnell 626 Po ETav. Autumn 2Leaf, Advent of Truth, Beautiful Things, Baptism Coming of Christ, Corn Laws, . Cross is Bending, Church, our little, Deafness, . . Desponding Spirit, Entente Cordiale, Exiled Londoner, Exiles Prayer, Evening Chime, Edith Brathwaithe, . 319 590 502 154 600 . 548 . 114 .154. 346 421 344 280 . 392 590 201 Fide et Fortitudine, . . 131 Forest Home in Summer, 200 Feast of the Poets,. . . 234 Fallen Leaves 488 First Grief 600 Glovers and Rovers, . . 538 Gille Machree 343 Georges 393 4 INDEX TO VOLUME VII. Hearts Longings, . . 394 How shall I meet Thee, 481 Indian Summer, . . . 392 Indians 4J5 Longings Lost Child 202 Lonely Tree 213 Live to be Good, . . . 319 Lifes Work 472 628 Mammoth Cave, . . . 53 Marcos Soliloquy, . . 430 Mermaids Home,. . . 520 Meditation, . . . . 598 Nil Desperandum,. . . 599 Our Faith 372 Opera of Every Day Life, 4(16 Old Year 616 Punchs Regency, . 44 Prairie Shadow, . 199 Pimlico Pavilion, . 215 Perseverance 296 Prairie on Fire, . . . 372 Prayer for Missions, . . 584 Respectable Man, . . . 517 Railway Maniac, . . . 467 Rhapsody,. . . 532 Sonnet 472 Sunshine of Life, . . 472 Statues, Lament of, . . 467 Sunday Morning, . . 346 Sordid Sweetheart, . 43 Steam, Song of, . . 41 Stepmother, . 87, 256 Spirit Tryst 115 Serenade 264 Tea and Toast, . 264 Tell me all 599 Vive La Guerre, . . . 30 Woman of Three Cows, . 342 When shall we meet again, 517 PrescottsMiscellanies,. . 18 Punch, 42, 181, 345, 393, 626,610 Poets, Feast of, 234 Pera 327 Poes Tales 343 Plants, Experin)ents with, . 371 Parable 531 Premiers Gout 547 Potatoes, . . . 550, 520, 599 fed people, . . . 462 Persia 19 Paris Academy of Sciences, 37, 120, 202 Physician Wanted, . . . 35 Peels, Sir R., Driving, . . 56 Piracy 216 Pawning Money 465 Prussian Heroine, . . . 468 Poland 504 Quartz, Artificial, . . . 152 Railway Crisis, 16, 18, 55, 461 Railway and Telegraph, 54, 592 Railway Improvement, . . 329 Reproduction of Plants, . . 344 Railway Rhapsody, . . . 532 ______ in Austria, . . 56 _________ in Russia, . . . 261 _______ Effect of, . . . 551 Rheims, Congress in, . . 106 Royal Visiting, . . . . 216 Russian Railway, . . . 261 Religion, New,a land for, . 593 St. Giles and St. James, 11, 203, 469 Story, Justice, Funeral of, 49,616 Seldens Table Talk, . . 69 Science and Religion, . . 180 Shooting Stars and Aerolites, 230 Sophia Dorotbea 293 Study, Plea for 473 Smith, William 505 Sciences, Arts and Manufac- hires 518 Skin, Healthy 530 Spanish Marriage, . . . 550 Stanhopes, Lady Hester, Funeral 552 Sycee Silver 55 Sublime and something more, 113 Site Refusing 114 Sciasconset 229 Scripture Names, . . . 273 Scottish Iron Manufacture, . 601 St. Helena Newspaper, . . 620 Telegraph, Electric, . 54 Thiers Napoleon, . 73 _______ Histories, . 553 Journey 56 Thermometer, Photographic Register 262 Temperance Movement of Modern times 281 Thirlwalls Greece, . . . 296 Tierney, Sir Matthew, . . 520 Talleyrands Retractation, . 625 Transit of Travellers, . . 616 TALaS. St. Giles and St. James, 11, 203, 469 Lynchers Own Story, . 38 The Authors Daughter, 89 152, 184 Andrew Cleaves, . . . 347 Colonna the Painter, . . 395 Dutch Anna, . . . . 611 Duke of Normandy, . . 017 University Movement, . . 459 Volcanoes and Hot Springs, 251 Vecretable Non-conductor, . 136 Vestiges of Creation, . . 551 Wife Selling 40 Walshs, Mr., Letters from Paris, . . 45, 422, 503, 595 What If I 247 Wilsons, Alexander, Poeti cal Works 248 Wilkinson, Jemima, . . . 265 Walpoles Geo. III., . 273 Whale, Rock Nose, . . . 295 Washington by M. Guizot, 438 Willis Dashes at Life, . . 455 Waltzing 530 Weather Panics 19 Wasps, Destruction of, . . 30 Wellingtons Statue, . . 4~7 Zschokke, Autobiography of, 482

The Living age ... / Volume 7, Issue 73 9-56

LITTELLS LIVING AGE.No. 73.4 OCTOBER, 1845. CONTENTS. Correspondence 1. St. Giles and St. Jameschap. 16, . 2. Approaching Crisis 3. Roman Catholic Church in Germany 4. Prescotts Miscellanies 5. Beginning of the End 6. Headleys Letters from Italy 7. Journal of an African Cruiser 8. Defences and Resources of Canada 9. Deer Shooting in Canada West 10. A Lynchers Own Story 11. Selling a Wife 12. Use of the League 13. Punch, Selections from 14. French News and Chat 15. Funeral of Justice Story 16. Railways and Electric Telegraph 17. Railway Speculations POETRYVive La Guerre, 30Song of Regency, 44Mammoth Cave, 53. Jerrolds Magazine, Spectator Examiner United Service Magazine, Picayune Commercial Advertiser, Spectator Punch Mr. Walsh Mr. Sumner Times Spectator Steam, 41Sordid Sweetheart, 43Punchs ScRAPs.Carrier Pigeon, 16One Pound Notes, 18Weather Panics; Persia; Liquid Air; Cavern in Africa; Blasting, 19Destruction of Wasps; Water in the Desert, 30 Paris Academy of Sciences ; Coming of the Mammoth, 37Cheerfulness, 41Disso- lution of the American Union; Irish Colleges; Frogs in Stones, 48Sycee Silver, 55 Advertisement for a Physician; Dignity of the Bar; Austrian Railroads; Louis XVII.; Northcote; Portable Cottages; Thiers; Steamer to Leghorn; Sir R. Peels Driving; Conjugal Affection; Newspaper at Jerusalem, 56. CORRESPONDENCE. IT would be difficult to name a man whose public life has been pleasanter than that of our late Minister to England. Distinguished for learning in early youth; Editor of the most successful American Review; Member of Congress; Gover- nor of his native State, and Minister to Great Britain. Having so fulfilled his last high trust, as to attract the respect of the nation to which he was sent, and to raise his character at home, he has returned to meet the hearty welcome of his friends and fellow-citizens, who are already allot- ting to him one of the most dignified and impor- tant posts in society. THERE are many indications of a commercial crisis in England, which will affect us, although far less than if our currency were unduly inflated. Several articles upon the inordinate Railway spec- ulations have been copied into this number. One painful reflection comes to us when we see how profusely British capital is expended on the conti- nent. Had we managed our American debts with the prompt honor and honesty which common sense dictated, we might have commanded, for the development of the rich treasures of this continent, a thousand millions of the surphls English capital LXXIII. LIVING AGE. VOL. vii. 1 which seeks profitable and safe investment. Upon the subject of a permanent national system of finance, we may in some other place ask the at- teution of the public. THE new series of hooks which is announced below, is likely to be so valuable an addition to the libraries of families, that we should not fulfil our duty if we failed to recommend it very strongly to our readers. The extensive connections of this~ great publishing house, make it certain that what- ever they undertake will have an important influ- ence upon society, and our enthusiasm has often been kindled at the thought of the vast benefits; which it was in their power to confer upon the nation. In their Family Library, amounting to nearly 200 volumes, they printed many. excellent. books. Two volumes have been issued as a beginning of this series: The Elements of Morality, including Polity. By William Whewell, D. D., author of the History and the Philosophy of the Inductive Sciences. This is a good beginning. It would be a suitable present on any occasion. In these volumes the most important questions of humans duty and conduct are so treated as to make at- tractive reading for all classes of society. Their outward appearance is elegantly neat.. PAGE. 9 11 16 17 18 18 20 21 25 31 38 40 42 42 45 49 54 55 CORRESPONDENCE. The paper is solid and beautiful. The type clear and distinct. More than 800 pages are contained in them. As you take up these hooks they feel like English editionswhich shows that in paper, printing and binding, the utmost care has been taken. We hold them 01) as a pattern for Ameri- can publishers. Slovenly printing, upon soft paper, xviii hardly content the public hereafter. MEssRs. HARPER & BROTHERS respectfully beg to announce their intention of immediately com- mencing the publication of a new and attractive series of sterling books, to be issued under the general designation of Harpers New Miscellany, which will be legibly printed, in duodecimo, on fine paper, and bound in extra muslin, gilt. Price Fifty Cents a volume, and issued at short intervals. To render accessible to the million the fullest advantages of popular instruction in the various divisions of human knowledge is the design of the above series. It is apparent in the present day that books of intrinsic value are demanded by the people. Formerly the popular taste preferred mainly works of mere amusement; the great body of readers now seek them as vehicles of general knowledgebooks of a more permanently valuable castdevoted to some of the departments of sci- ence or general literature. A class of books ex- pressly adapted to this demand it is the aim of the publishers to supply, and at a price so exceedingly cheap that every person of ordinary taste and ad- vantages may thus become possessed of a complete Library of the Selectest Literature of the Lan- guage and the Age. In this collection it is intended to include the ~best productions in every department of knowl- .~vdge; popular philosophical treatises on topics of universal interest; the most compact and brilliant historical books; valuable biographical memoirs; modern voyages and travels, & c. ; together with scientific and other collateral divisions; in the se- lection of all which, the most careful discrimina- ~tion will be observed. Bubbles from the Brunnen of Nassau, is the 24th No. of Wiley & Putnams Library. A delightful volume of light and graceful chat and description. Onward! Right Onward! By Mrs. Tuthill 7has been published by Messrs. Crosby & Nichols. Lit is by the author of I 11 be a Gentleman, and Ill be a Lady, which we should have read a dozen times, had we taken the advice of the young people, who read them again and again. Parts 9 and 10 of Dr. Lardners Popular Lec- ~tures on Science and Art, have been published by Greeley & McElrath, who append this notice, which we cordially concur in: The publishers are gratified at the very gene- ral interest which the publication of these Lectures Lhas awakened in the public tnind to subjects con- nected with the Sciences and Useful Arts. If, I however, those persons who have more readily ap- preciated the value of a work of this nature, and have promptly patronized it themselves, would take the pains to recommend it to their friends, and especially to the mechanics and young men of the nation, the circulation and diffusion of useful intelligence would be vastly extended, and the beneficial effects of giving such direction to the public mind speedily discerned upon the pursuits, action and character of the American people. In connection with this subject, we most earnest- ly recommend to our readers Silliman~s Am ican Journal of Science and the Arts, a work of more than twenty years duration, and abundantly praiscd and copied from by the European scientific jour- nalsbut being published by the editor himself, without the aid of bookselling machinery, it needs the good word of all who can appreciate it, in order to attract to it the attention which it would etimmand tinder other circumstances. Ma. LESTERS Medici Series of Italian Prose, is continued, by the publication of The Florentine Histories, by Machiavelli. This name is familiar as a proverb, to the ears of many who have never read a line of his works. Presented in this hand- some form, and at a low price, we shall be well acquainted with them. We understand that the work has been recommended to the students of Harvard University. Mr. Lester has well fulfilled one of the duties of an American Consulwhich is to naturalize here all that he finds good in other nations. WE know of no reason why the following re- commendation should not be acted upon. The Picayune calls it novel, but it is the obvious solu- tion of the question about the Indian settlements. Let them be admitted, when they ask for it, as soon as the conditions of tlte Constitution shall have been complied with. IFJ The Albany Argus suggests a novel idea. It is that of an Indian State admitted to our con- federacy! The rapid advance of the Choctaws and Cherokees in the arts of civilized life, and in education and religious knowledge, has led the friends of the Indian to think of the erection of Indian States. The Argus remarks that these nations are coming into a condition which will be fully worthy of alliance with such a republic as ours, and that there is no reason to doubt that they would do honor to such a relation.Picayune. FROM a publication of the results in about 20 of the largest offices, it appears that the falling off in the gross receipts of the Post Office, has been only about 40 per cent. Now as there have been considerable reductions in the expenses, the loss will probably be little more than there would have been under the old law. This result, at so early a stage of the experiment, is better than we hoped for, fearing that the halfway character of the re- duction would retard its ultimate success. PROF. STUART, of Andover, has in press a vol- ume entitled A Critical History and Defence of the Canon of the Old Testament. The object of the work is to show that our Saviour and his Apostles constantly recognized as of Divine au- thority the books of the Old Testament, the iden- tical books which we now find there, and no others. 10 THE HISTORY OF ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 11 ChAPTER XVI. EVERY guest of the Lamb and Star bore away the confession of the assassin; and full soon scorn- ful, loathing looks beset the path of Robert Willis. The gossiping villagers would stand silent, eyeing him askance, as he passed them. The dullest hind would return his nod and good-morrow with a sullen, awkward air. Even little children cow- ered from him, huddling about their mothers, as the gay homicide would pat their heads, and give them pennies. It did not serve, that Robert Wil- lis, with a roaring laugh, declared the whole a Jesta drunken frolic just to make folks stare. It served not that he would loudly arid laboriously chuckle to think how he had made Blink shake and how, with just a word or so, he had taken everybody in. No; the confession of the mur- derer had sunk into the hearts of his hearers: the tale spread far and wide, and not even butts of ale and Willis tried that Lethewould drown the memory of it. And so in brief time, the miserable wretch was left alone with the fiends. A few, out of pure love of the liquor he bestowed, would still have doubted the blood-guiltiness of their patron; but even they could not long confront the reproaches of their fellows. And so, with a late and hesitating virtue, they wiped their lips of the murderers malt, arid consented to believe him very bad indeed. Willis, as one by one dropt from him, grew fiercely confident; battling with brazen brow the looks of all. Unequal fight! The devil is a co~vard in the end: and so, after a show of scorn- ful opposition, the poor cowed fiend gave up the contest, and Robert Willis went no man knew where. A sad blow was this to Justice Wattles. That he should have spent so mrich moiiey on so hopeless a creature! That he should have gone to the heavy expense of Mr. Montecute Crawley! That at so vast a price he should have saved his kinsman from the gibbetwhen the desperate fool had hung himself in the opinion of all men! It would have been better, far cheaper, to let truth take its coursebut then there was the respecta- bility of the family! After all, it was some poor consolation to the puzzled justice, that however a Willis might have deserved the gallows, he had escaped it: opinion was a hard thing; but at the hardest it was not ti,hteried hemp. Nobody could say that a Willis was ever hanged. Pruth, after all, had not been sacrificed for nothing; and that was some comfort at the least. In due course, the Kent wagon brought St. Giles to London. It was about five oclock on a bright summar morning when St. Giles, with rap- turous eyes, loked upon the borough. Yes, he had returned to his hard-nursing mother, London. She had taught him to pick and steal, and lie, and, yet a child, to anticipate the iniquities of men ; and thenfoolish, guilty riIother !she had scourged her youngling for his naughtiness; believing by the severity of her chastisement best to sho~v her scorn of vice, her love of goodness. And St. Giles, as the w gon crawled along, lay full- length upon the straw, and mused upon the fre- quent haunts of his early days. Sweet and balmy sweet such thoughts! Refreshing to the soul, jaded and fretful from the fight of men, to slake its thirst for peace and beauty, at the fountain of memory, when childhood seemed to have played with angels. What a luxury of the heart, to cast off the present like a foul, begrimed garment, and let the soul walk awhile in the naked innocence of the past! Here is the scene of a happy child- hood. It is full of gracious shapesa resurrection of the gentle, beautiful. We have lain in that field, and thought the larka trembling, fluttering speck of song above usmust be very near to God. That field is filled with sweetest memories, as with flowers. And there is an old-old tree. How often have we climbed it, and, throned amid its boughs, have read a wondrous book; a some- thing beating like a drum at our heart; a some- thing that, confusing us with a dim sense of glory, has filled our soul with a strange, fitful music, as with the sounds of a far-coming triumph ! Such may be the memories of a happy youth. And what, as St. Giles, with his face leaning on his propped hands, gazed from the wagon, what, seeing the scenes of his childhoodwhat saw he l Many things big with many thoughts. Yes; how well he knew that court! Six-and- thirty hours hunger had raged in his vitals, and with a desperate plunge, he had dived into a pocket. It was enipty. But the would-be thief was felt, and hotly pursued. He turned up that court. He was very young, then; and, like a fool, knew not the ins-and-outs of the borough. He ran up the court; there was no outlet; and the young thief was caught like a stoat in a trap. And now St. Giles sees the joy of his pursuer; and almost feels the blow the good, indignant nian, dealt as with a flail upon the half-naked child. Ay, and it was at that post, that his foot slipt when he was chased by the beadle for stealing two potatoes from a dealers sack. Yes; and opposite that very house, the beadle laid about him with his cane; and there it was that the big, raw-boned, painted woman, tore him from the beadles grasp; and giving him a penny, told him with an oath to run for very life. Such were the memoriesyes, every turning had suchthat thronged upon St. Giles, gazing in thought upon his childhood days, from the Kent wagon. And then happier thoughts possessed our hero. He looked again and again at the card given him by St. James; and that hit of paper with its few words was a talisman to his soul; a written spell that threw a beauty and a brightness about the meanest things of London. Human life moved about him full of hope and dignity. He hador would havean interest in the great gamehow great and how small !of men. He would no longer be a man-wolf; a wretched thing to hunt and be hunted. He worild know the daily sweets of honest bread, and sleep the sleep of peace. What a promotion in the scale of life! What unhoped felicity, to be permitted to be honest, gentle! What a saving mercy, to be allowed to walk upright with those he might begin to look upon as fellow-creatures! And as St. Giles thought of this, gratitude melted his very being, and he could have fallen upon his knees on London stones, in thankfulness and penitence. Solitude to him had been a softening teacher. Meditation had come upon him in the far wilds; and the iso- lated, badged, and toiling felon for the first time thought of the mystery of himself; for the first time dared to look in upon his hearta look that some who pass for bold men sometimes care not to takeand he resolved to fight against what seemed his fate. He would get hack to the world. Despite of the sentence thatbade him not to hope, he would hope. Though doomed to he a life-long human instrument, a drudging carcass, he would win back his manhoodhe would return to life a [2 THE HISTORY OF ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. self-respecting being. And this will beat, con- stant as a pulse, within him. And these feelings, though the untutored man could give them no har- monious utterance, still sustained and soothed him; and now, in London streets, made most hopeful music to his soul. And St. Giles passed through old familiar places, and would not ponder on the miserable memories that thronged them. No; with a strong will, he laid the rising ghosts of his boyish days, and went with growing stoutness on. He was hound for St. James-square, and the way before him was a path of pleasure. How changed was Londoubridge! To his boyhood it had been a mass of smoked, grimed stone: and now it seemed a shape of grace and beauty. He looked, too, at the thousand ships that, wherever the sea rolled, with mute gigantic power told the strength, the wealth, and enterprise of England. lie looked, and would not think of the convict craft, laden with crimes, and wrong, and blasphemy, that had borne him to his doom. He passed alohg, through Lombard-street to the bank; and he paused and smiled as he thought of the time when the place seemed to him a place of awful splendor; a visible heaven, and they he thought who went for moneys there, angels ascending and descending; and above all, what a glory it would be to hima fame surpassing all burglarious renownto rob that Bank of England. And then he saw the Mansion- house; and thought of the severe and solemn alderman ~vho had sentenced him to Bridewell. And then St. Giles passed along Cheapside, and stood before St. Pauls church; and then for the first time felt somewhat of its tremendous beauty. It had been to him a mere mountain of stone, with a clock upon it: and now, he felt himself subdued, refined, as the cathedral, like some strange har- ninny, sank into his soul. He thought, too, of Christ and the fishermen and teutmakers Christ had glorifiedfor he had learned to read of them when a felon in the wildernessand his heart glowed with Christian fervor at Christs temple that visible glory made and dedicated to the pur- poses of the Great Teachermost mighty in his gentleness, most triumphant by his endurance, most adorable by the charity that he taught to men, as the immortal link to hold them still to God! Could expression have breathed upon the thoughts oUSt. Giles, thus he might have delivered himself, lie spoke not: but stood gazing at the church, and thinking what a blessing it was upon a land, wherein temples for such purposes abound- ed; where solemn men set themselves apart from the sordid ways of life, keeping their minds calm and undefiled from the chink and touch of money- bags, to heed of nothing but the fainting, bleeding, erring hearts of those who had dwelt upon the earth as though the earth had never a grave. Yes; it was a blessing to breathe in such a land. It was a destiny demanding a daily prayer of thankfulness, to know that Christian charity was preached from a thousand and a thousand pulpits; to feel tjaat the spirits of the apostles, their earnest, truthful spirits, (ere solemnized by inspiration,) still animated bishops, deans, and rectors; and even cast a glory on the worn coats of how many thousand curates! St. Giles, the returned trans- portthe ignorant and sinning man: St. Giles, whose innocence of childhood had been offered to the Mol~ch selfishness of societyeven St. Giles felt all tliis ; and with swelling heart and the tears in his throat, passed down Ludgate-hill, with a fervent devotion, thanking hi Ged who ha brought him from the land of cannibals to the land of Christians. And now is St. Giles aroused by a stream of people passing upward and downward, and as though led by one purpose turning into the Old Bailey. What s this crowd about l he asked of one, and crc he was answered, he saw far down at Newgate door a scaffold and a beam; and a mass of human creatures, crowded like bees, gaz- ing upon them. Whats this? again asked St. Giles, and he felt the sickness of death upon hirti. Whats this B answered a fellow with a sneering leer Why, where do you come from to ask that~ Why, its king Georges new drop, and this is the first day he s going to try it. No more hanging at Tyburn now; no more drinks of ale at the Pound. It s all now to be the matter of a minute, they say. But it will never answer, it never does; any of these new-fangled things. Nothing like the old horse and cart, take my word for it. Besides, all London could see something of the show when they went to Tyburn, while next to nobody can be accommodated in the Old Bailey. But it serves me right. If I had nt got so precious drunk last night, I d been up in time to have got a place near the gallows. Silence! There goes eight oclock. And as the hour was struck by the bells of Christian churchesof churches built in Christs name, who conquered vengeance by charitymen were led forth to be strangled by men, their last moments soothed and made hopeful by Christs clergyman. Indeed, it is long and hard teaching, to make nations truly read the Testament they boast of. There was a sudden hush among the crowd; and St. Giles felt himself rooted where he stood with gaping month, and eyes glaring towards Newgate. The criminals, trussed for the grave, came out. Onetwothreefourfivesix seven-cried St. Giles in a rising scream, numbering the wretches as each passed to his place eightninetenGood God ! how ma- nyland terror-stricken, he could count no fur- ther. And then the last nights bacchanal next St. Giles, took up the reckoning, counting as he would have counted so many logs of wood, so many sacks of coals. Eightnineteneleventwelve thirteenfourteenfifteen. That s all; yes, it was to be fifteen : that little chap s the last. Fif- teen. Reader, pause a moment. Drop not the book with sudden indit~nation at the writer who, to make the ingredients of his story thick and slab, invents this horror. No; he but copies from the chronicles of the Old Bailey. Turn to them, in- credulous reader, and you will find that on the balmy morning of the twenty-third of June, in the year of our Offended Lord, one thousand seven hundred and eighty-four, fifteen human beings were hanged in front of Newgate: death-offerings to the laws and virtuesofmerryEngland. It was the first day, too, of the new drop; and the novel engine must be greeted with a gallant number. Fame has her laurels: why should not Justice have her ropes? There was, too, a pleasantry the devil, if he joke at all, mtist joke after some such fashionin trying the substance and capacity of a new gallows, by so much weight of human flesh convulsed in the death-struggle. And so great was the legislative wit !there were fifteen THE HISTORY OF ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 13 to be atrangled. A great example this to an erring, law-breaking world ofthe strength of timber! The lords of the privy council had met, with good king George the Third at their head, to cor- rect the vices of the land. There was death for the burglardeath for the footpaddeath for the sheep-stealerdeath, death, death for a hundred different sinners. The hangman was the one social physician, and was thought to cure all pec- cant ills. Horrible, ghastly quack! And yet the kings majesty believed in the hideous mounte- bank, and every week, by the advice of his lords of the councilthe wise men of St. James, the magi of the kingdom, the starred ,iid gartered philosophers and phiai thropistsevery week did sacred royalty call in Jack Ketch to cure his soul- sick children! Yea; it was with the hangman s fingers, that the father of his people touched the Peoples Evil. And if in sooth the malady was not allayed, it was for no lack of l)aternal tending, since we find in the Old Bailey Registerthat thing of blood, and bigotry, and ignorancethat, in one little year, in almost the first twelvemonth of the new drop, the hangman was sent to ninety- six wretches, who were publicly cured of their ills in the front of Newgate! And the king in council thought there was no such remedy for crime as the grave; and therefore, by the counsel of his privy sages, failed not to prescribe death- warrants. To reform man was a tedious and un- certain labor: now hanging was the sure work of a minute. Oh, that the ghosts of all the martyrs of the Old Baileyand, though our profession of faith may make some moral antiquarians stare, it is our in- vincible belief that the Newgate calendar has its black array of martyrs; victims to ignorance, per- verseness, prejudice; creatures doomed by the bigotry of the council table; by the old haunting love of blood as the best cure for the worst ills ; Oh, that the faces of all of these could look from Newgate walls! that but for a moment the men who stickle for the laws of death, as for some sweet household privilege, might behold the grim mistake; the awful sacrilegious blunder of the past; and seeing, making amendment for the future. A few minutes, and fifteen human creatures, sanctified with immortal souls, were carcases. The wisdom of the king and lords in council was tnade manifest to the world by fifteen scare-crows to guilt, pendent and swaying to and fro. A few minutes, and the heart of London, ay of the Old Bailey, beat equably as before. The criminals were hanged, cut down, and the mob separated only to meetif it should again please the wisdom of the king in councilfor a like show on the next Monday; Saint Monday being, in the good old hempen times, the hangmans special saints- day. The sufferers were scarcely dead, when St. Giles staggered like a drunken man from the crowd. He made his way down Ludgate-hill, and sick and reeling, proceeded up Fleet-street. He saw, he felt, that people stared at hint; and the thought that lie was an escaped felonthat if dc- tected he would as surely rehearse the bloody scene, as surely as those fifteen corses scarce done strugglingseemed to wither him. He stumbled against a post; then, for a moment gathering energy for the effort, he turned up Shoe-lane, and entered a public-house. A mug of water., mas- ter ; he asked of the landlord. It s a liquor we dont sell, said the host, and I cant afford to give it away. Water! I should think a dram of brandy would be better for your complaint. Why, you look like a blue- bag. Got no catching-sickness, I hope? If so, be so good as to go to another house. I ye never yet had a days illness, and I dont intend to have. Nothing but a little faint, master. I passed, just now, by the Old Bailey, andand it s been too much for me. Well, you must have a coddled sort of heart, you must. I should have gone myself, only I could nt leave the bar; for they dont hang fifteen every day, andwhy, if now you aint as white as if you d run from the gallows your- self. Water, masterwater, cried St. Giles and for the brandy, I 11 take that afterwards. Better take it first, said the landlord, but that s your business. Well, I should nt much like such customers as you, he added, as St. Giles hastily quaffed the lymph. Now, do take some of the real stuff; or, with that cold rubbish, you 11 give yourself the aygur ; and the host pressed the brandy. In a minute; I 11 just sit down a bit, said St. Giles, and taking the brandy, he entered a side-room. It was empty. Seating himself, with the untasted liquor before him, he again saw the vision that had appalled and rooted him in the Old Bailey. He could swear to it; it was clear to his eye as his own hand. All but himself had beheld fifteen felons on the drop, but he had seen sixteen; and the last, the sixteenth, was himself; yes, if in a glass he had ever seen himself. True; it was but a visionbut a vision that foreshadowed a hor- rid truth. lie had escaped from captivity to be hanged for the crime. All the bright promises of the morning had vanished, and, in the bitterness of his thoughts, he already sat in the gloom of Newgate. Thus sunk in misery, lie was uncon- scious of the entrance of a visitor, who, in a few moments, startled him with a greeting. Been to the jug, mate ? A cruel fine day to be hanged on, isnt it? asked the new-coiner. St. Giles looked at the speak~r, who suddenly recoiled from his glance, as from the glare of some wild beast. Why, what s the matter? asked the man. Do you think you 11 know me again, that you stare in that way? Perhaps, you do know me? Not at all, friend; not at all; though ceming suddenly, you startled me a little at first. But instantly, St. Giles recognized his old master and tempter. Tom Blast. Vice had cut still deeper lines in his wicked face; time had crowned him with its most horrid crown, grey hairs ~ipon a guilty head; time sat heavily upon his back, yet St. Giles knew his early tutor; knew the villain who had snared his boyhood, making him a doomed slave for his natural life. Fierce thoughts rose in the heart of St. Giles, as he gazed upon the traitor who had sold him: a moment, and he could have dipped his hands in that old mans blood; another instant and he looked upon him with compassion, with deepest pity. The villain saw the change, and took new confidence. It s lucky times for you, mate, if you can tipple brandy. If I ye had nothing but five- farthing beer since Tuesday, may I be pisoned ! You may have this, for me, said St. Giles, and he gave Blast the brandy, which the old knave greedily swallowed. 14 THE HISTORY OF ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. Should like to meet with one of your sort every day, cried Blast, smacking his lips. Never saw your like afore. Jndeed B asked St. Giles, who, from the tone and manner of Blast, felt himself secure of dis- covery. Indeed1 No, never. You could nt tell me where I could see you to-morrow 3 asked Blast. Why, where may you be foundwhere do you live B questioned St. Giles, quickly. Oh, I live at Horsleydown ; but I so like the look o you, mate, I II meet you here, answered Blast. I m agreeable to anything. Very well, said St. Giles, say at twelve o clock; we 11 have another glass. Stay, you can have another now ; here ~s sixpence for the treat. I must go ; ~ood bye ; and St. Giles was hurrying away, when Blast seized him by the hand, and whilst our hero shrunk and shook at his touch, swore that he was a good fellow, and a regular king. St. Giles releasing himself, re- treated quickly from the house, casting frequent looks behind that he might not be followed by his former friend, whom, it was his hope, despite of the engagement of the morrow, never to behold ~gain. Nevertheless, St. Giles had yearned to have some further speech with Blast. Half-a- dozen tunes the words were at his lips, and then the fear of the chance of detection kept him dumb. And then again he repented that he had not risked the peril, that he might at once have known the fate of his mother. He had heard no word of her. XVas she dead Remembering what was her life, he almost hoped so. Yet she was the only crea- ture of his blood; and, if still living, it would be to him some solacesomething to link him anew to herto snatch her old age from the horrors that defiled it. With these thoughts, St. Giles took his way up the Strand, and feeling a strange pleasure in the daring, was 500fl in Bow-street. lie approached the office: the judgment-seat where he was arraigned for his maiden theft. There at the door, playing with his watch-chain with almost the same face, the same cut clothes, the same flower in his mouth, of fifteen years be- forestood Jerry Whistle, officer and prime thief- taker. A sort of human blood-hound, as it seemed expressly fashioned by madam nature, to watch and seize on evil-doers. He appeared to be sent into this world with a peculiar nose for robbers; scenting them throuoh all their doublings, though they should put seas between him and them. And Jerry performed his functions with such extreme good-humor, seized upon a culprit with such great good-nature, that it appeared ii possible that death should end a ceremony so cordially began. Jerry Whistle would take a man to Newgate as to a tavern: a place wherein human nature might with the fattest and the strongest enjoy itself. As St. Giles approached Whistle, he thought that worthy officer, learned as he was in human countenances, eyed him with a look of remem- brance; whereupon, with a wise boldness, St. Giles stepped up to him, and asked the way to Seven Dials. Straight ahead, roy tulip, and ask a gain, said Jerry; and he continued to suck his pink and chink his watch-chain. In a few minutes, St. Giles was in Shorts Gar- dens. He looked upwards at the third floor; where his first friend, Mrs. Anniseed, had carried him to her gentle-hearted lord, Bright Jem. It was plain they were tenants there no longer. The windows, always bright, were crusted with dust; two were broken, and patched with paper. And there was no flower-pot, with its three-pennywortli of nature from Covent-garden ; no singing-bird. St. Giles, with a sinking of the heart, passed on. It was plain he had lost a part of something that, in his hours of exile, had made England so fair a land of promise to him. He turned his steys towards Seven Dials. He would look at the shop of the muffin-maker: of course he could not make himself knownat least not just nowto that sweet-and-bitter philanthropist, Capstick : but it would be something to see how time had dealt with him. A short space, and St. Giles ap- proached the door; the very threshold he had crossed with basket and bell. Capstick had de- parted ; no muffin graced the window. The shop was tenanted by a small undertaker; a tradesman who had to biggIe with the poor for his price of laying that eye-sore, poverty, in the arms of the maternal earth who, least partial of all mothers, treats her offspring all alike. Can he be dead 3 thought St. Giles, for the moment unconsciously associating his benefactor with the emblems of mortality; as though death had come there, and edged the muffin-maker out. Ere he could think another thought, St. Giles stood in the shop. The master, whistling a jig of the time, was at his work, driving tin tacks into a babys coffin. The pawnbroker would have another gowna blanket, it might befor these tin tacks; but that was nothing: why should wealth claim all the pride of the world, even where pride is said to leave us at the grave 3 Do you know whether Mr. Capsticks alive B asked St. Giles of the whistling workman. Cant say, I m sure, answered the under- taker. I only know I ye not yet had the luck of burying him. I mean the muffin-maker, who lived here before you, said St. Giles; you knew him 3 I ye heard of him, but never seen himnever want. He was a tailor as was ruined last here. I say,cried the undertaker, with an intended joke in his eye I say, you dont want anything in my way 3 St. Giles, making no answer, stept into the street. He then paused. Should he go forward 3 He should have no luck that day, and he would seek no further. And while he so determined, he moved towards his native nookthe fetid, filthy corner in which he first smelt what was called the air. He walked towards Hog Lane. Again and again did he pass it. Again and again did he approach St. Giles Church, and gaze upon the clock. It was only ten ; too early he was sure of thatto present himself in St. James square. Otherwise he would first go there, and return to the lane under cover of the night. He then crossed the way, and looked up the lane. He saw not a face he knew. All he had left were dead ; and new tenants, other wretches, fighting against want, and gin, and typhus, were preparing new loam for the church-yard. No : he would not seek now. lie would come in the eveningit would be the best time, the verybest. With this feeling, St. Giles turned away, and was proqeeding slowly onward, when he paused at a shop-window. in a moment, he felt a twitch at his pocket, and turning, he saw a child of some eight or ten years old, carrying away a silk hand- kerchief that Becky, in exchange for the huswife, had forced upon him. How sudden, and how great was St. Giles indignation at the villain TIlE HISTOBAr OF Sl~. GILES AND ST. JAMES. thief! Never had St. Giles felt so strongly virtu- ous! The pigmy felon flew towards Hog Lane; and in a moment, St. Giles followed him and stood at the threshold of the house wherein the thief had taken shelter. St. Giles was about to enter, when he was suddenly stopt hy a manthat man was Tom Blast. Well, if this is n~t luck ! said Blast spread- ing himselt in the door-way, to secure the retreat of the thief. Who d ha thought we should ha met so soon? All s one for that, said St. Giles. I ye been robbed, and the young thiefs here, and you know it. A thief here! Mind what you re about, young man: do mind what you say, afore you take away the character of a honest house. We ye nothin here but our good name to live upon, and so do mind what you re about. And Blast uttered this with such mock earnestness, looked so knowingly in the face of St. Giles, that, unconsciously, he shrank from the speaker, who continued: Is it likely now, that you could think anybody in this lane would pick a gentle- mans pocket Bless your heart! we re all so honest here, we are, and Blast laughed. I thought you told me, said St. Giles, con- fused, that you lived somewhere away at Hors- leydown. Lor love you! folks as are poor like us have, you know, a dozen town-houses; besides country ones under hedges and hay-stacks. We can easily move about: we have nt much to stop us. And now, to busi~ness. You ye really lost your hand- kercher ? Tisnt that I care about it, said Giles, only you see t was given me by somebody. Given! To be sure. Folks do give away things, dont they All the world s gone mad, I think; people do so give away.~ St. Giles heart fell at the laughing, malignant look with ~vhich Blast gazed upon him. It was plain that he was once again iii the hands of his master; again in the power of the devil that had first sold him. How- somever, continued Blast, if you ye really been robbed, and the thiefs in this house, shall I go and fetch a officer? You dont think, sir, do youand Blast grinned and bowed his head you dont think, sir, as how I d pertect anybody as had broke the laws of my native land Is it likely Only say the word. Shall I go for a officer? No; never mindit does nt matter. Still, I ye a fancy for that handkercher, and will give more than its worth for it. Well, that s like a nobleman, that is. Here, Jingo ! cried Blast, stepping a pace or two into the passage, and bawling his lustiest Jingo, here s the genleman as has lost the handkercher you found; bring it down, my beauty. Obedient to the command, a half-naked childwith the very look and manner of St. Giles former self instantly appeared, with the stolen goods in his hand. He s sich a lucky little chap, this is, said Blast nothin s lost hereabout, that he doesnt find it. Give the fogle to the genlenian; and who knows? perhaps, he 11 give you a guinea for it. The boy obeyed the order, and stood with open hand for reward. St. Giles was about to bestow a shilling, when Tom Blast sidled towards him, and in an affected tone of confidence said Could nt think o letting you do sich a thin. And why not I asked St. Giles, becoming more and more terrified at the bold familiarity of the ruffian. Why not I T is nt right; not at all proper; not at all what I call natral and here Blast whispered in St. Giles ear that money should pass atween brothers. Brothers ! cried St. Giles. Ha, sir ! said Blast, taking his former man ncr you dont know what a woman that Mrs. St. Giles was! She was a good soul, was nt she? You must know that her little boy fell in trou- ble about a pony; and then lie was in Newgate, being made all right for Tyburn, jist as this little feller was born. And then they took and trans- ported young St. Giles; and he never seed his mothernever know d nothin that she d gut a little baby. And she s dead ! cried St. Giles. And, this I will say, answered Blast, coin- fortably buried. She was a good soultoo good for this world. You didnt know St. Giles, did you? said Blast with a laugh. Why do you ask? replied the trembling trans- port. Because if you did, you must see the likeness. Come here, Jingo, and Blast laid one hand upon the urchins head, and with the other pointed out his many traits of resemblance. There s the same eye for a foglethe same nosethe same everything. And oh, is nt he fond o ponies, neither! just like his poor dear brother as is far away in Botany Bay. Dont you see that he ~s the very spit on him B cried Blast. I cant say; how should I know l answered St. Giles, about to hurry off; and then he felt a strange interest in the victim, and paused and asked Who takes care of him, now his mo- thers gone? He has nt a friend in the world but me, said Blast. God help him ! thought St. Giles. And Ithough you d never think itcon- tinued Blast, I love the little varmint, jist as much as if I was his own father. EARLY AssocmArloNsIt is said that at that period of his life when the consequences of his infatuated conduct had fully developed themselves in unforeseen reverses, Napoleon, driven to the necessity of defend- ing himself within his own kingdom, with the shat- tereml remnant of his army, had taken up a position at Brienne, the very spot where he had received the rudiments of his early education, when, unexpectedly, and while he was anxiously employed in a practical application of those military principles which first exercised the energies of his young mind in the col- lege of Brienne, his attention was arrested by the sound of the church clock. The pomp of his impe- rial court, and even the glories of Maren~o and of Austerlitz, faded for a moment from his regard, and almost from his recollection. Fixed for a while mc~ the spot on which he stood, in motionless attention to the well-known sound, he at length gave utterance to his feelings, and condemned the tenor of all his subsequent life, by confessing that the hours them brought back to his recollection were happier than any he had experienced throughout the whole cours of his tempestuous career.Kidd. 15 APPROACHING CRISIS. From the Spectator, 30 Au~ust APPROACHING CRISIS. IN a very useful paper, this morning, the Times raises a note of warning against the dangerous excess of the speculation in railway affairs; sup- plying some striking facts, which show that the real excess is even greater than it appears, more beyond the control of the discreetest among the speculators, and more menacing in its conse- quences. Although the subject has already been discussed in the ~S~pectator, we do not scruple to give our readers an abridgment of tile observa- tions coming from so important a coadjutor. We have carefully investigated the amount of capital embarked in railways, the utimber of shares in the market, and the value of the pre- minnie upon them. It appears that 44 companies have been formed during the last twelve months; of which the total capital engaged is 35,510,0001., the number of shares is 1,086,650, and the total value of the premiums on those shares as quoted is 3,559,0001. We find, further, that there are 58 compa- nies, of which, although neither the number of shares, nor their nominal amount, nor the amount paid up is stated, yet the premiums of such as are quoted (and they are not many) give an average premium of 61. per share: but, adopting as the basis of calculation the facts which appear as to the 44 companies of which the details are before us, we may assume that the capital embarked in these 58 companies is 46,490,0001., the number of shares 1,413,000, and the value of premiums is 4,641,0001. We know further, from the General Share List, that the rise in the price of shares in the 27 companies which have existed more than a year, amounts on the whole to 13,491,- 0001.; the number of shares in such companies exceeding 9,100,000; the total result, then, is, that the number of railway-shares which are the subject of speculation is as follows In 27 old companies 9,100,000 In 44 companies established within twelve months, . . . . . 1,086,650 In 58 new companies 1,413,000 Making a total of shares of . . 11,599,650 The rise of price or premium on which amounts to 15,990,0001. The capital required for the 102 companies in the second and third classes alone amounts to not less than 82,000,0001.; but in ad- dition. to this, which has reference only to rail- ways in the United Kingdom, we are aware of the names of not less than 20 foreign railways, of which shares to the amount of 10,100,0001. are in the London market alone. On account of these latter, remittances have already been made to the continent to an amount of 3,000,0001.; and it is impossible fo estimate the probable remittances in twelve months to come at less than 10,000,0001. of money. It is difficult, indeed, to assign limits to the extent to which demands may be made here with reference to foreign railways; for as the laws of Belgium prohibit the sale of any share in a railway until the works are completed and the operations on the railroad commenced, there is a manifest inducement to the speculator in that country to extend, by every possible means, transactions in this country which in his own are effectually prevented.~ The printed list returned to the House of Coin- mons,of persons holding shares in the spveral railways submitted to parliament, to an amount exceeding 2,0001., which includes women and subordinates in official situations as subscribers for such enormous sums as 50,0001. to 600,0001., shows how few are possessed of the means to realize their engagements. The list of subscri- bers under 2,0001. would very likely prove to be equally fictitious; and speculations in foreign rail- ways stand in the same category. From these facts two circumstances are evidentfirst, that the demand for payments on shares of foreign rail- ways must create at an early period a pressure on the money-market of this country; and secondly, that, independently of such a drain for foreign re- mittance, the sums required for the fulfilment of domestic engagements exceed the surplus capital properly applicable to such purposes, and can only be supplied, if supplied at all, by an extensive sale of other securities. Moreover, in the temporary absence of restriction occasioned by the postponement of the bill for regulating joint-stock banks in Scotland, advan- tage has been taken to establish in that country joint-stock banks on dangerous principles, the profits of which are mainly to depend upon ad- vances to be made upon the security of railway shares. How far these facts differ from those recorded in the history of the South Sea bubble of 1720, excepting in the absence of encouragement from the government, the reader may judge. Those even who deem themselves moderate in their speculations may be dragged into the vortex by the recklessness of others, who, without capital, exist on the probability of an advance in prices, and in their efforts to promote that advance are hastening the explosion. If evidence of such results, taken from later times, be required, we might safely refer to the periods of 18256 and 18356. At both periods inordinate speculations, by means of commercial companies in the one case, and by investments in foreign securities in the other, led to disasters frona which the country did not recover for some years afterwards. From such grievous disasters we believe that there is yet time to escape, if those who hold high stations in the commercial world will only decid- edly discountenance this speculative gambling by not accepting as security fictitious railway stock, and by ~vithholding their countenance as well as their credit from those who are engaged in such hazardous transactions. A SOMEWHAT novel incident occurred very re- cently at the terminus of the South-western Rail- way at Vauxhall. A carrier-pigeon was seen in an exhausted state; it was can ght by hand, but died shortly afterwards. A label was appended to one of its legs, addressed to his Grace the Duke of Wellington, which stated that three pigeons were thrown up at the island of Ichaboc, and bore date July, 1845. The distance is computed to be between two and three thousand miles from the place where the pigeon appears to have been lib- erated, to its destination in London. The bird, with its appendage, was immediately forwarded to Apsley House; and the Duke of Wellington, byan autograph note, the next day courteously acknowl- edged the receipt from the party who sent the bird. It has been stuffed; and in the process it has been discovered that the bird was shot, otherwise there can be no doubt it would have reached home; and it is supposed not to have had strength to cross the Thames. Correspondent of the Morning Post. 16 THE ROMAN CATHOLIC CHURCH IN GERMANY. THE ROMAN CATHOLIC CHURCH IN GERMANY. Too little is known in this country of Ronge, Czersky, and their followers, to supply materials for an estimate of the character and importance of the new schism in the Roman Catholic Church of Germany. But the sect is probably strong and increasing, since the mob have betaken themselves to break windows and pelt princes in its behalf; that being the test by which governments in all ages have agreed to measure the reality and inten- sity of religious or political enthusiasm. To those who have paid attention to the progress of opinion among the Roman Catholics of Germany for the last half-century, the defection of Ronge, and the apparently rapid progress of his doctrines, are not surprising. His secession is no unprepared or isolated event; it is rather the natural conse- quence of a number of preparatory incidents. About 1798, the priest Becker of Paderborn (Westphalia) was imprisoned by order of his ecclesiastical supe- riors, the Prebends of the Cathedral. He never was brought to trial: the prime bishop and his councillors felt that a rash step had been taken, and connived at the old mans escape into a secular and Protestant territory. The rest of his life was wasted in litigation with those who incarcerated but dared not bring a definite charge against him. Extracts (MS.) from his journal, written in con- finement, are in our possession; and it indicates his offence with sufficient clearness. He had been in the habit of instituting Sunday schools; he had expressed a conviction that the religious proces- sions of both sexes from village to village with the images of saints, in the course of which liquor was offered to the pilgrims at every farm-house and accepted by them, were productive of indecorums and graver offences against morality; he was in- volved in a controversy with other priests on the relative importance of such formal observances and the observance of moral duties; discouraged by his superiors, in the heat of argument he did not scruple to glance at the gallantry and general lax- ity of the prebends who owed their stalls to their quarterings ; and finally, he spoke of Luther as a great man, whose rebellion against the church was extenuated by the abuseh against which he had struggled in vain. At that time and since, there have been not a few Beckers among the inferior Roman Catholic clergy, scattered through Germany, uninfluential because they had no com- munication with each other, and because their superiors judiciously refrained from persecuting them. There was another powerful element at work to modify the creed of the German adherents of the Italian Church. Under the empire, ecclesi- astical electors and other prelates possessing secu- lar jurisdiction necessarily had each his staff of secular councillors. Like almost all the literary class of their country, the ablest and most ener- getic of these men were about the beginning of the pre*ment century disciples of the French Revo- lutionary school of politics; and more than one of the dignified clergy themselves had leanings that way. At the disruption of the empire, an elector of Mayence did not scruple to take upon him the office of F~irst Primas of the confederation of the Rhine. Under the protection of these free-think- ing dignitaries and their councils, latent dissent within the church continued to gain ground. The personal impunity with which Hermes, Van Eck, and others have disseminated their neological opin- ions, and the persevering clamorous urgencyof the Silesian priesthood to be allowed to take unto themselves wives, with many other local phainom- ena of a kindred character, have long convinced the observant that reform (or innovation) from within was at hand in the German province of the Romish Church. Rouge and Czersky, like most other ecclesiastical and political reformers, are little more than accidentsthe local weather-flaw, that becomes, in an atmosphere saturated with electricity, the nucleus of a storm. What direction the movement will takewhat consequences it will lead tomay admit, in the quaint language of the author of Urn Burial, of a wide conjecture. Its more immediate effects in Germany will possibly disturb the territorial relations and balance of power in the confederacy. The reigning house in Saxony appears to have opposed itself with keen partisanship to the Ger- man Catholics. The proselytizing spirit of these princes has long rendered them objects of jealousy to the zealously Protestant people over whom they reign. On the other hand, the Prussian govern- ment appears to be countenancing the German Catholics, with just enough of seeming reluctance to take from neighbor princes any ground for remonstrance. The Prussian government and the royal house of Saxony are to all appearance placing themselves at the heads of the opposing parties. The relentless pertinacity with which Prussia has for more than a hundred years kept adding territory to territory, clearly indicates what is likely to be, under these circumstances, the result of any popular commotion; and the insult offered to Prince John, and the blood shed by the soldiers at Leipzig, may be the beginning of one. In a few years, the remaining third* of the Saxon Electorate may be annexed to Prussia. But it is not likely that the effects of the move- ment among the Roman Catholics of Germany will be confined to that country. Though diffused over many lands, the Roman Catholic Church is one body; a disturbance in any part of it vibrates immediately through the whole. In certain states of the public opinion of the church, it is peculiarly liable to be weakened by assaults like that of Rouge. It is not easy to parry an argument that appeals to the evidence of the senses. Many who would pay little attention to abstract reasoning against the miraculous virtues of the holy coat of Treves, are shaken when they are told that there are actually three holy coats in existence, all pos- sessed of equal virtues. By persisting to attribute infallibility to the office of priest, (if not to the office-bearer,) the Romish Church lays itself bare to attacks which cannot reach Protestant sects, who attribute infallibility to Scripture alone, and can always withdraw from an untenable position under the cover of a misinterpretation. A Pro- testant error weakens only the individual, a Ro- man Catholic error weakens the church. The effects of a controversy like that raised by Rouge can be confined to the country or district in which it originates only when the Roman Catholics of other countries are not predisposed to controversy. But over most part of Europe they are at this moment so predisposed. In Switzerland, the Jesuit controversy has opened a door to the secta- ries of Rouge. In France, the University contro- versy has had the same effect. In Belgium, the priests have not always used the influence wisely * A German compendium of Geography says, The present Kingdom of Sazony consists of about one third of the former Electorate. 17 18 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCRLLANI~SBEGINNtNG OF THE END~ which the Revolution threw into their hands. In Ireland, the MHales and Hig~enses are not ill- adapted to be precursors of some Irish Ronge; and the ardor of some ecclesiastical repealers is likely enough to predispose the Catholic aristoc- racy to a schism. As at the time of the Lutheran Reformation, the Italian priesthood will in all probability make it a question of national ascend- ancy in the church; and Austria, from fear of all innovation, will support them. In Italy and the Austrian dominions, the schism is least likely to be felt; though in the latter, German Catholicism may find a point dappui in Trarisylvania, while in the more sequestered districts of Moravia and Bo- hemia the traditional influence of the doctrines of the Moravian Brothers and John of Huss may not yet be utterly extinct. The progress of this new sect is a matter of general interest; for it may alter the relations of internal parties in most European states, and diminish or increase the territories of leading mem- hers of the great European confederation. Biographical and Critical Miscellanies. By WIL- LIAM H. PazscoTr, author of The History of Ferdinand and Isabella, & c. WITH the exception of a life of Brown the novelist, written for Sparks American Biography, this volume consists of a dozen articles by Mr. Prescott, originally published in the North Ameri- can Review. The collection has probably origi- nated in the success which has attended the same kind of reprint in the cases of Sydney Smith, Macaulay, and Jeffrey; hut Mr. Prescotts reviews seem unlikely to attract similar attention in a col- lected shape. The article is the form in which the three writers just mentioned gave their principal prose productions to the world; not surely by accident, or to meet the market for periodical literature, but because their genius and their habits induced them to throw their best thoughts into that particular style of composition. Mr. Prescotts strength lies in another and perhaps a higher line; and these reviews and notices strike us as being rather effusions than studies. It is not to be in- ferred from this remark that they are crude or careless, in despite of the authors intimation that he so esteems them; but that he has not thrown himself into them with all his heart and with all his strength, which are exhibited to most advan- tage in another direction. Indeed, the very ex- cellence of these papers for their original place less adapts them for another. They are strictly notices, especially where the book is new; containing an account of the subject, abridged, condensed, or distilled from the work under notice general remarks, perhaps common-places, upon the subject and its correlatives, where such matter is in placeand a criticism upon the book or hero of the biography, always good-natured and mostly brief. But there is none of that sublimated and searching sense mingled with the scorching facetiousness which gave originality and perma- nence to the views of Sydney Smith, and pre- served them by a salt not Attic but his own. We have looked in vain for the florid brilliancy of nar- rative, disquisition, or illustration, mingled with exaggeration in fact and perhaps paradox in con- clusion, which give such force and spirit to Ma- caulays articles, whether putting forward his own views or dressing up the matter he conveys from his author. In the general characteristics of the notice, Mr. Prescott has more in common with Jeffrey but there is not the refined and critical acumen with the delicate sarcasm, which distin- guished the editor of the Edinburgh; neither are the subjects always so interesting, at least they are not treated so largely or so broadlySpec- tator. THE BEGINNING OF THE END. RECaLEss speculators, when their hills were about to fall due, have been known to draw other bills for larger sums, discount them at a loss, and meet the present liability by incurring a greater at no distant period. Financial operations of tlfs kind have been generally understood to indi- cate the desperation of men whose career was near a close. If this symptom has been rightly interpretcd, there is good ground to apprehend that the general railway crash, which has been anxiously looked forward to by many, cannot be far distant. The parties who have speculated in shares beyond their means are devising plans to raise money for present use at the risk of increased liabilities for the futureif not, indeed, plans for drawing their own necks out of the noose and leaving others dangling as Punch leaves the hangman. Some ingenious Scotchmen are about to open new joint-stock banks or loan companies, for the purpose principally of making advances to assist railway speculators, which the more cautious established banks refuse; and in the prospectuses of some of these companies, the names of gentle- men who occupy conspicuous positions in the list of parties holding railway shares to the amount of 20001. and upwards figure as directors. This is not all the prospectuses intimate that the interim directors are to retain the absolute management in their hands for the first year; and that,as most of the shares are already appropriated, offers for those that have been reserved will only be received from capitalists of unquestionable so- lidity. The conception of this scheme for raising the wherewithal to pay inconvenient calls does honor to the ingenuity of the contrivers. But the deli- cate conception is spoiled by the bungling execu- tion. The hint that none but parties with plenty of cash will be received into the copartoery, and that the management is to be left entirely in the hands of the present partners, is rather too broad. Jeremy Diddlers Sam you have not such a thing as half-a-crown about you ? was a refined finesse in comparison. The private blower of wind-bills and flier of kites does harm within a very limited sphere but joint-stock banks, when the speculation mania is rife, have a Warner~s long range of mis- chief in them. It is consoling to reflect, that in the present imistances recklessness of consequences is not combined vith adequate skill of execution. Spectator, August 30. A BATCH of one-pound notes, amounting to 6321., was paid iiito the Bank on Friday week, by the trustees to the will of James Satcherley, an old man, (a beggar,) who died in a cellar at Shadwell some weeks back. After his decease, the notes and other moneys were found concealed, together with a species of will, in a cupboard. The notes must have been hoarded many years. WEATHELt-PANICS--PEItSIA. 19 WEATHER-PANICS. THE moist and foggy climate of England is pro- verbial with foreigners, and matter of half-melan- choly joke with Englishmen themselves. The perpetual verdure of our fields bespeaks us deni- zens of a rainy zoneinhabitants of an intermit- ting shower-bath. Our speech bewrayeth us; the weather is ever uppermost in our thoughts, and the first thing spoken of when friends meet. Aquarius is our constellation. The natives of such a clime might naturally be imagined as exempt from fear of rain as Mephisto- pheles alleges Faust, the sworn brother of the Devil, ought to be from fear of fire. It is their ele- ment, which they ought to know cannot harm them or theirs. Yet they are as shy of rain as a kitten of dew when it first ventures abroad of a morning. England is a land where short crops occasionally occur, but where the years of utter blight which often lay other lands desolate are scarcely known: despite our frequent wet, raw, and ungenial sum- mers, within the memory of our fathers and fa- thers fathers seed-time and harvest have not failed. Yet to an Englishman a wet month of July immediately conjures up visions of famine with pestilence and bankruptcies in its train. Burns was wrong when he said that they who are constantly on poortiths brink are little terrified by the sight: it is only those who are steeped in it over head and ears who become resigned to their fate. It is in those to whom a chance of emerg- in g seems still open that the fear is strongest, to which the thoughtless Dives and the desperate Lazarus are alike inaccessible. And so with Eng- lishmen and the weather. Were their climate one in which no corn could grow, they would never think of crops; and were it so genial that the crops were always redundant, they would wax insensi- ble to the blessing from sheer excess. But, living in a region to which hope ever comes, and from which fear never entirely departs, they abandon themselves too readily to unmanly fears. They are weather valetudinartans, a nation of Gratianos the wind cooling their broth blows them to an ague. The public is slowly recovering from a sharp paroxysm of this kind. During the last two or three days it has been laid out to dry in the sun and as it warms in the rays, it begins to admit that Englishmen and English crops, like English frogs, take a great deal of drowningSpectator, 23 v. PERsIA.The Journal des D~bats contains a letter from Tehran, giving arapid and highly fa- vorable review of the reforms instituted by Feth- Ali-Shah, the present King of Persia. One pas- sage in the letter is especially interesting. Now that complete harmony reigns between Persia and the nei2hboring states, the king, seconded by Hadji-Mirza-Agassi, [his former tutor and present minister,] continues to ameliorate as much as pos- sible the administration of all public offices. Fol- lowing out the suggestions which have been made, he has established in his palace a school for the French language, in order to train interpreters and translators. This instruction, which has been intrusted to the first secretary-interpreter of the king, will establish new ties of sympathy between Persia and civilized Europe; it will become in time a real normal school which will furnish a machinery for all scientific pursuits. Already sev- ral pupils of this school have been selected by the king to follow the courses of anatomy, medicine, and surgery professed by Mirza-Labal-Khan, a French doctor in the service of Persia, and his majestys first physician. The most distinguished pupils will be sent to France, at the expense of government, to complete their studies, and to com- plete their knowledge of European civilization Many of these young men, belonging to the first families in the court of the shah, have already arrived at Paris; where they will remain for four or five years. AN American writer, whose letter appears in the M orial de Rou~n, describes a miracle of mechanical science, of the wonderful if true class. William Evans has resolved a problem, which must overturn our present system of railway and steam-boat propulsion. By means of enormous compression, he has succeeded in liquifying atmos- pheric air; and then a few drops only of some chemical composition, poured into it, suffice to make it resume its original volume with an elastic force quite prodigious. An experiment on a large scale has just been made. A train of twenty loaded wagons was transmitted a distance of sixty miles in less than an hour and a quarterthe whole motive power being the liquid air enclosed in a vessel of two gallons and a half measure; into which fell, drop by drop, and from minute to minute, the chemical composition in question. Already subscriptions are abundant, and a society is in course of formation. The inventor declares that an ordinary packet-boat may make the pas- sage from Philadelphia to llavre in eight days, carrying a ton of this liquid air. A steani-engine of six-horse-power will produce that quantity in eight hours. THE Constitutionnel mentions the discovery of a remarkable cavern near Guelma, in Africa. This cavern is formed in an immense calcareous rock, and has but one entrance, which is to the north- ward. It descends to a depth of 400 metres (the metre is about a yard) below the surface of the earth, by an inclined plane, the extreme length 1,200 metres. It is furnished with stalactites of a thousand different forms, and the passage is im- peded by huge blocks (if stone which have de- tached themselves from the vault. But that which contributes most to the interest of this immense cavern, is the Latin inscriptions which are carved near the entrance, and which belong to the early ages of Christianity. Most of them are illegible; however, among them may be very distinctly deci- phered the name Donatus. No doobt, the first Christians of Africa took refuge in this place dur- ing the periods of persecution. The Arabs relate the most absurd legends about it; and none of them ever venture in, dreading to be seized by the guardian genius who is supposed to dwell there. However, the French, who explored it, succeeded in persuading the Sheik Deradji-Ben-Kerad to accompany them; previously to which, not a soul is supposed to have disturbed the silence of it for many centuries. IN one of Mr. Hoskens granite quarries, near Penryn, the other day, says the Faimoutli Packet, a fine mass of granite, which admeasures about 14,000 cubic feet, its weight above 1,000 tons, was detached from the surrounding rock by means of a charge of twenty-five pounds of gunpowder. In the explosion, the entire mass was distinctly seen to leap from its natural bed. LETTERS PROM ITAIX. Prom the Examiner. Letters from Italy. By J. T. HEADLEY. Wiley and Putnam. THIS is a very droll book; a perfect picture of young America swaggering about Italian towns, with its hat exceedingly on one side, its hands in its coat pockets, and snatches of an entirely un- known tongue on its lips. The letters present the uncommon feature of not having been origi- nally written with a view to publication. Their inditer is of opinion that they would very proba- bly have been worse written if they had been. in that case (though we question its possibility) they would have been curiosities indeed. In the authors own choice language, they would have been calculated to corner the public pretty considerably. We must take leave to dicker with him, however, (if he will allow us to adopt another of his expressions,) on one or two slight points of fact. We would venture to suggest that the cus- tom which prevails among the washerwomen at Genoa, for instance, of washing clothes in cold water, and in streams and rivers, is not so much attributable to the peculiar and special dearness of fuel in that particular city, as to its being the general practice throughout that small extent uf country which lies between Paris and Sicily. We have a confused recollection of having heard or read that the Strada Nuova, the most remarka- ble street in the same city of Genoa, is both level and straight. The fame of the Roman church of San Giovanni in Laterano has never reached us. We carrie newly to the contemplation of a coin called a scudi. The bajocca is also quite a novel kind of currency. We have never heard of a marble bridge across the Tiber, built by Michael Angelo; though we think we have heard of a lit- tle bridge and castle named after Saint Angelo, who is not generally known to have been identi- cal with the sculptor. The mazzro (so called, perhaps, from having some connexion with the mazzard; it being described by Mr. Headley as the veil of a Genoese woman) is a garment we should of all things like to behold ; the name being singular, and, so far as we know, unique. This entertaining traveller has many styles and methods of communicating his information. Some- times it is remarkably concise; as where he tells us that Terracina is a dirty holethe women blackguards, and the landlord a rascal. Some- times it is of a rather contradictory nature; as where he gives us to understand of a certain Com- modore Morgan that he is every inch a sailor, and consequently that his soldier-like bearing attracts universal attention. Sometimes it is poetical; as where he holds forth on a certain lady (after calculating the value of her diamonds in American dollars) to this agonizing effect; I never saw a being float so through a saloon, as if her body were a feather, and her soul the zephyr that floated in it. Sometimes he dis- plays a sanguine and a hopeful spirit; as when he says of a certain cicerone, after a long con- versation, he began to mistrust I was a sensible man. Mr. Headley takes occasion to observe that the classic land has long been a portion of the scholars dreams ; which would not have been at all an original observation, if he had not meant the dreams of himself. And undoubtedly his ~eholarship is of the dreamiest kind. He sutlo cates the Younger Pliny in a fit of fatal curiosity at Pompeii; and is reminded of nothing so much, on the Appian Way, as of the efforts of the Pe- lasgi to crush the infant empire! But we liked to have forgotten, as Mr. Headley says, two personal anecdotes, which show how easily a modest traveller may confound specialities with generalities. This is the first: The other day I was leaning over the balcony of our window at the hotel, watching the motley groups that passed and repassed, and listening to the strange Genoese jargon that every one seemed to understand but myself, when my attention was attracted by an elegantly dressed woman who was sauntering leisurely along up the street that my window faced. As she came near, her ey~ fell on me, and, her curiosity apparently excited by my foreign look, she steadily scrutinized me as she approached. My appearance might have been somewhat outr~, hut still I did not think it was worth such a particular scrutiny, especially from a lady. But she had not the slightest con- cern about my thouohts on the matter. She wished simply to gratify her own curiosity; so when she had got within the most convenient reconnoitering distance, she deliberately paused, and lifting her quizzing-glass to her eye, coolly scanned me from head to foot. When she had finished, she quietly placed her glass in her belt, and with a smile of self-satisfaction on her face, walked on. And this, the second As I was once coming down from Mount Vesuvius, I passed an Italian lady with her htis- band, who, by their attendants, I took for persons of distinction. I had an immense stick in uty hand, with which I had descended into the crater. As I rode slowly by, she turned to me in the pleasantest manner, and said, Ha un grand bas- tone, signore, (you have got a large cane, sir.) I certainly did not respect her less for her for- wardness! ! (civility,) but on the contrary felt I would have gone any length to have served her. In each of these cases, Mr. Headley may rely upon it, the lady was drawn towards him by an irresistible persotmal attraction. As he himself might write it, It was madnessIt was love. For as a general principle, nothing on earth cami possibly be more unlike the manners and customs of Italian ladies towards strangers in the streets, than these examples. Ho~v Mr. Headley got a reputation for dick. ering may be pleasantly observed in this easy little incident. In bargaining for our meals and rooms, every- thing was so reasonable that we could not com- plain; and for once I did not attempt to heat down the landlord. The entire arrangement of the prices was always left to me in travelling, and I had acquired quite a reputation in dickering with the thieving Italian landlords and vetturini. We made the man specify the (lishes he would give us; and among other things he mentioned an English pudding. This required some discus- sion; but we finally concluded not to trust an Italian in Salerno with such a dish, and had its place supplied with something else. He prom- ised enough; and I was turning away quite satis- fied, when my friends slily hinted at my principle, never to close a bargain with an Italian on his own terms. It would nt do to lose my reputa- tion ; and so turning round, I very gravely said: 20 JOURNAL OF AN. AFRICAN CRUISER. I suppose you will throw in the English pud- ding. He as gravely and with blandness re- plied : Oh, yes. With two other anecdotes, also of a personal complexion, we must repudiate our extracts. This morning I received a note from an American gentleman inviting me to accompany him and his two sisters to the popes palace on the Quirinal. I was at the reading-room when they started, and as the carriage drove up the wheels came somewhat iiear to a peppery, half-crazy English cavalry officer. He began to swear and curse the driver, when I, somewhat piqued at his impudence in the presence of the ladies, stept in and told the driver to move on. The officer immediately tipped his hat to me and apologized, and said in the blandest manner, Mr. H., (call- ing me by name,) I believe your book is not in this library, (referring to the one attached to the reading-room.) How the fellow knew my name puzzled me, and the question and all taking me quite aback, I replied, What did you say, sirl Are you not from New Orleans, and have you not written a work1 I have not the pleasure of hailing from New Orleans, I replied, nor have I been guilty of writing a book. Vesuvius is the scene of what follows: As I sat on the edge of the crater, awed by the spectacle before me, our guide approached with some eatables, and two eggs had been cooked in the steam issuing from one of the apertures we had passed. My friend sat down very deliberately to eat his. I took mine in my hand mechanically, but was too much absorbed in the actions of the sullen monster below me to eat. Suddenly there was an explosion louder than any that had pre- ceded it, hurling a larger, angrier mass into the air. My hand involuntarily closed tightly over the egg, and I was recalled to my senses by my friend calling out very deliberately at my feet to know what I was doing. I looked down, and there he sat quietly picking the sheil from his egg, while mine was running a miniature volcano over his back and shoulders. I opened my hand, and there lay the crushed shell, while the contents were fast spreading over my friends broadcloth. I laughed outright, sacrilegious as it was. So much you see for the imagination yon have so often scolded me about. I had lost my egg, while my friend, who took things more coolly, enjoyed not only the eating of his, but the consciousness of having eaten an egg boiled in the steam of Vesuvius. With this we may take our leave of Mr. Head- lay and his letters; heartily thanking him that since this day of dignity, he has been guilty of writing a book; hoping to find him some day hailing from some other part of the world and tipping our hat to him gratefully for the entertainment it has given us. For whether we find him pluming himself on his aristocratic Ital- ian acquaintances, and having a satisfaction pe- culiar to republicanism in the repetition of their titled names; or weighing and measuring the most unlikely and impossible things by the stand- ards of our country and New York; or crunching the egg he has for lunch on Mount XTesuvins, in the convulsive grasp belonging to that wild imagination which his friends have scolded him about ; or going to the conver- sazioni of unsuspicious governors of cities, and calculating in his book the cost of the refresh- ments there provided, which are not tempting, he says, and may certainly be got for ten dollars a night ;he is ever the same agreeable person. Perhaps his best aspect is, his unconscious illus- tration of the natural acuteness of the common people in Italy, who certainly fooled Mr. Head- ley to the top of his bent~vitness his recorded dialogues with themwhenever he gave them a chance. From the Examiner. Journal of an African Oruiser. By an officer of the U. S. Navy. Edited by NATHANIEL IlAw- TiIORNE. Wiley arid Putnam. Tans journal is freshly and cleverly written, and touches on a scene little hackneyed by journalists or travellers. The most inveterate goer-ahead of even the authors countrymen, stops short at the west coast of Africa. Few visit there, as he drily remarks in his preface, unless driven by stern necessity; and still fewer, when arrived there, are disposed to struggle against the ener- vating influence of the climate, and keep up even so much of intellectual activity as may suf- fice to fill a diurnal page of a common-place book. We may congratulate the officer on his fair amount of activity in that respect. He writes un- affectedly on most subjects, and often with great animation. We will not touch upon his views as to the slave trade; however easy it might be to retort upon his own government that suspicion of insin- cerity and doubtful motive which he does nnt scruple to charge upon the English ; and which, remembering tinexampled sacrifices, and tests of sincerity without parallel, we can very well af- ford to bear. It would certainly not he difficult to show that our officer fails to refute the American abolitionist party, (whose wisdom in any other re- spect we should be chary to affirm,) in his argu- ment on their charge against the United States navy for a manifest reluctance to capture slave- ships. The thing~ is on his lip, but not in his heart. He argtmes stoutly, but the tenor of his volume is against his argument. You see at once that, though stoppage of the slave trade was the colorable niotive of the cruise, all the principal exertions discoverable in the course of it, were exclusively directed to the furtherance and protec- tion of American commerce and American inter- ests in Liberia. As for what he says of England in this matter, it is a mere repetition of the foreign cant long prevalent, especially in France. It has always been a thing incomprehensible to our lively neigh- bors, that a money-getting, money-keeping coun- try, should have spent twenty millions upon an act of humanity. Even M. Thiers, though he cannot countenance the dark Machiavellian charges (if his journalist friends on this head, thinks it decent in the fourth volume of his history, (just issued in Mr. Colburns authorized translation,) to exclaim, with a self-satisfied chuckle, that Eng- lish slave emancipation has proved a total failure! Yet even on this question of slaveryso diffi- cult for any American to approach without the strongest prejudices that birth and education can implantthe author of this lively and well-writ- ten hook does not wholly lose the pervading frank- 21 22 JOURNAL OP AN AFRICAN CRUISER. ness and sailor-like manliness of his character. Observe his confession. When the white man sets his foot on the shore of Africa, he finds it necessary to throw off his former prejudices. For my own part, I have dined at the tables of many colored men in Libe- ria, have entertained them on shipboard, worship- ped with them at church; walked, rode, and as- sociated with them, as equal with equal, if not as friend with friend. Were I to meet those men in my own town, and among my own relatives, I would treat them kindly and hospitably, as they have treated me. My position would give me confidence to do so. But, in another city, where I might be known to few, should I follow the dic- tates of my head and heart, and there treat these colored men as brethren and equals, it would im- ply the exercise of greater moral courage than I have ever been conscious of possessing. This is sad; bdt it shows forcibly what the colored race have to struggle against in America, and how vast an advantage is gained by removing them to an- other soil. He goes further in another passage of his jour- nal, and describes his having found, in a man of color, one of the shrewdest, most active, and most agreeable of Liberian colonists. This was Colonel Hicks: thus described. Once a slave in Kentucky, and afmer~vards in New Orleans, he is now a commission merchant in Monrovia, doing a business worth four or five thousand dollars per annum. Writing an elegant hand, he uses this accomplishment to the best ad- vantage by inditing letters, on all occasions, to those who can give him business. If a French vessel shows her flag in the harbor, the colonels krooman takes a letter to the master, written in his native language. If an American man-of-war, he writes in English, offering his services, and naming some person as his intimate friend, who will probably be known on board. Then he is so hospitable, and his house always so neat, and his table so goodhis lady, moreover, is such a friendly, pleasant-tempered person, and so good- looking, into the bargainthat it is really a for- tunate day for the stranger in Liberia, when he makes the acquaintance of Colonel and Mrs. Hicks. Every day, after the business of the morning is concluded, the colonel dresses for din- ner, which appears upon the table at three oclock. He presides with genuine elegance and taste: his stories are good and his quotations amusing. To be sure, he occasionally commits little mistakes, such, for instance, as speaking of America as his alma mater; but, on the whole, even without any allowance for a defective education, he appears wonderfully well. One circumstance is too indi- cative of strong sense, as well as good taste, not to be mentioned ;he is not ashamed of his color, but speaks of it without constraint, and without effort. Most colored men avoid alluding to their hue, thus betraying a morbid sensibility on the point, as if it were a disgraceful and afflictive dis- pensation. Altogether the colonel and his lady make many friends, and are as apparently happy, and as truly respectable, as any couple here or elsewhere. Now if this hospitable, able, and excellent citi- zen were to present himself in New York, what would be his reception I Suppose him driving as a matter of course to the best hotel. Suppose him tendering his money at the box-door of a the- atre. Suppose him resorting to church, to wor- ship the Creator of all men. What is the im- pression that would be most bitterly conveyed to him in all these places Why, that there may be tolerance or hope for any kind of iniquity in the states of free America, but that of a colored skin. He would be followed by a savage and cold- blooded proscription, which has no limit, no end. He would see it in the gaol and in the hos?ital: and it would follow him to the grave. Wel may our intelligent officer call it sad indeed. The principal topics of the journal comprise sketches of the Canaries, the Cape de Verds, Li- beria, Madeira, Sierra Leone, Cape Coast, and other localities of interest on the western side. The cruise lasted some year and a half; and the cruising ground, we need hardly remind any reader of the truest history on record, embraced the very track of that most famous of all the navi- gators, Captain Robinson Crusoe, when he went trading for ivory, gold dust, and slavesin no fear of anti-piratical ships of war, American or English. From the many curious and graphic notices of native customs and character on the Liberian coast, we select the following. It is to be desired that some missionary should give an account of the degree and kind of natural religion among the native tribes. rrheir belief in the efficacy of sassy-wood to discover guilt or in- nocence, indicates a faith in an invisible Equity. the most ridico- Some of them, however select Ions of animals, the monkey, as their visible sym- bol of the Deity; or, as appears more probable, they stand in spiritual awe of him, from an itlea that the souls of the dead are again embodied in this shape. Under this impression, they pay a kind of worship to the monkey, and never kill him near a burial-place; and though, in other sitna- tions, they kill and eat him, they endeavor to pro- pitiate his favor by respectful language, and the use of charms. Other natives, in the neighbor- hood of Gaboon, worship the shark, and throw slaves to him to be devoured. On the whole, their morality is superior to their religionat least, as between members of the same tribealthough they seem scarcely to acknowledge moral obligations in respect to strangers. Their landmarks, for instance, are held sacred among the individuals of a tribe. A father takes his 5OO~ and points out the stake and stones which mark the boundary between him and his neighbor. There needs no other registry. Land passes from sire to son, and is sold and bought with as undisputed and secure a title as all our deeds and formalities can establish. But, between different tribes, wars frequently arise on disputed boundary questions, and in con- sequence of encroachments made by either party. Land-palavers and Woman-palavers are the great causes of war. Veracity seems to be the virtue most indiscriminately practised, as well towards the stranger as the brother. Ihe natives are cautious as to the accuracy of the stories which they promulgate, and seldom make a stronger asseveration than I tink he be true ! Yet their consciences do not shrink from the use of falsehood and artifice, where these appear expedient. The natives are not insensible to the advan- tages of education. They are fond of having their children in the families of colonists, where JOURNAL OF AN AFRICAN CRUISER. 23 they learn English, and the manners of civilized life, and get plenty to eat. Probably the parents hope, in this way, to endow their offspring ~vith some of the advantages which they 5U~~O5~ the white man to possess over the colored race. So sensible are they of their own inferiority, that if a person looks sternly in the face of a native, when about to be attacked by him, and calls out to him loudly, the chances are ten to one that the native runs away. This effect is analogous to that which the eye of man is said to exert on the fiercest of savage beasts. The same involuntary and sad acknowledgment of a lower order of be- ing appears in their whole intercourse with the whites. Yet such self-abasement is scarcely just; for the slave-traders, who constitute the specimens of civilized man with whom the natives have hitherto been most familiar, are by no means on a par with themselves in a moral point of view. It is a pity to see such awful homage rendered to the mere intellect, apart from truth arid good- ness. It is a redeeming trait of the native character, so far as it goes, that women are not wholly with- out influence in the public councils. If, when a tribe is debating the expediency of going to war, the women come beneath the council-tree, and represent the evils that will result, their opinion will have great weight, and may probably turn the scale in favor of peace. On the other hand, if the women express a wish that they were men, in order that they might go to war, the warriors de- clare for it at once. It is to be feared, that there is ami innate fierceness even in the gentler sex, which makes them as likely to give their voices for war as for peace. It is a feminine office and privilege, on the African coast, to torture prison- ers taken in war, by sticking thorns in their flesh, and in various other modes, before they are put to death. The unfortunate Captain Farwell under- vent three hours of torture, at the hands of the women and children. So, likewise, did the mate of Captain Burkes vessel, at Sinoe. There are many remarks of this kind on the various phases of native habits and life, with the same strange blending of the ludicrous and sor- rowful. On the whole, the condition of the Afri- can is wretched enough; and the officer doubts if the influence of the missionaries, in those portions of the territory where the colonists exercise juris- diction, has been salutary. In points of this kind he speaks with considerable authority, because with evident frankness. We cannot so freely ad- mit his freedom from a certain bias, in speaking of the prospects of the Liberian colony. His sanguine expressions on this head are certainly not borne out by the facts and examples he ad- duces. But we have said enough to direct the readers attention to the volume generally, (it appears to be part of a series, to which Mr. Headleys silly book above noticed seems also to belong, in the shape and on the plan of Mr. Murrays excellent Colonial Library;) and we shall occupy what re- mains of our space with the lively extractable matter it so much abounds in. AN AFRICAN BEAUTY. Sitting with my friend Jack Purser, yester- day, a young woman came up, with her pipe in her mouth. A cloth around her loins, dyed with gay colors, composed her whole drapery, leaying her figure as fully exposed as the most classic sculptor could have wished. It is to be observed, however, that the sable hue is in itself a kind of veil, and takes away from that sense of nudity which would so oppress the eye, were a womao of our own race to present herself so scantily at- tired. The native lady in question was tall, finely shaped, and would have been not a little at- tractive, but for the white clay with which she has seen fit to smear her face and bosam. Around her ankles were many rows of blue heads, which also encircled her leg below the knee, thus sup- plying the place of garters, although stockings were dispensed with. JJer smile was pleasant, and her disposition seemed agreeable: and, cer- tainly if the rest of Jack Pursers wives (for this was one of the nine-and-twenty) be so well-fitted to make him happy, the sum total of his conjugal felicity most be enormous. Jack Purser was a large shrewd Krooman; the representative of a middle class between the sav- age and the civilized the maker of enormous gains by his dealings between the two; and the husband of twenty-nine wives. USES OF A BUSTLE. The most remarkable article of dress is one which I have vaguely understood to constitute a part of the equipment of my own fair country- womenin a word, the veritable bustle. Among the belles of Axim, there is a reason for the ex- crescence which does riot exist elsewhere ; for the little children ride astride of the maternal bustle, which thus becomes as useful, as it is unquestion- ably ornamental. Fashion, however, has evi- dently tnore to do with the matter than con- venience; for old wrinkled grandams wear these beautiful anomalies, arid little girls of eight years old display protuberances that might excite the envy of a Broadway belle. Indeed, fashion may be said to have its perfect triumph and utmost re- finement in this article ; it being a positive fact, that some of the Axim girls wear merely the bus- tle, without so much as the shadow of a garment. Its native name is tarb koshe. And truly, to judge from native specimens of the tarb koshe in our London shop-win- dows just now, one might argue, from a late enor- mous growth in its proportions, a growing ten- dency in civilized life to that Axim fashion of dis- pensing with any other garment. AFRICAN MORALITIES. Should the wife be suspected of infidelity, the husband may charge her with it, and demand that she drink the poisononts decoction of sassy-wood, which is used as the test of guilt or innocence, in all cases that are considered too uncertain for hu- man judgment. If her stomach free itself from the fatal draught by vomiting, she is declared in- nocent, and is taken back by her family without repayment of the dower. On the other hand, if the poison begin to take effect, she is pronounced guilty; an emetic is administered in the shape of soap; and her husband may, at his option, either send her home, or cut off her nose and ears. There is one sad discrepancy in the moral system of these people, as regards the virtue of the women. No disgrace is imputed to the wife who admits the immoral advances of a white man, provided it be done with the knowledge and con- sent of her husband. The latter, in whose eyes JOURNAL OF AN AFRICAN CRUISER. the white man is one of a distinct and superior or- der of beings, usually considers himself honored by an alThir of this nature, and makes it likewise a matter~of profit. All proposals, in view of such a connexion, must pass through the husband; nor, it is affirmed, is there any hazard of wound- ing his delicacy, or awakening his resentment, whatever he his rank and respectability. The violated wife returns to the domestic roof with undiminished honor, and confines herself as rigidly within the limits of her nuptial vow, as if this s~ngnlar suspension of it had never taken place. A SEA-HORROR. As the gig was coming alongside, under sail, the tiller broke, and the coxswain, who was steer- lag, fell overboard. He was a good swimmer, and struck out for the ship, not thirty yards dis- tant, while the boat fell off rapidly to the leeward. In less than half a minute, a monstrous shark rose to the surface, seized the poor fellow by the body, arid carried him instantly under. Two hundred men were looking on, without the power to afford assistance. We beheld the water stained with crimson for many yards aroundbut the victim was seen no more Once only, a few seconds after his disappearance, the monster rose again to the surface, displaying a length of well nigh twenty feet, and then his immense tail above the water, as if in triumph and derision. It was like something preturnatural ; and terribly powerful lie must have been, to take under so easily, and swallow, in a moment, one of the largest and most athletic men in the ship. Poor Ned Mar- tin ! L. E. L.S GRAVE AT CAPE COAST CASTLE. The first thought that struck me was the in- appropriateness of the spot for a grave, and espe- cially for the grave of a woman, and, most of all, a woman of poetic temperament. In the open area of the fort, at some distance from the castle wall, the stone pavement had been removed in several spots, and replaced with plain tiles. Here lie buried some of the many British officers who have fallen victims to the deadly atmosphere of this region; and among them rests L. E. L. Her grave is distinguishable by the ten red tiles which cover it. Daily, the tropic sunshine blazes down upon the spot. Daily, at the hour of pa- rade, the peal of military niusic resounds above her head, and the garrison marches and counter- marches through the area of the fortress, nor shuns to tread upon the ten red tiles, any more than upon the insensible stones of the pavement. It may be well for the fallen commander to be buried at his post, and sleep where the reveill6 and roll-call may be heard, and the tramp of his fellow-soldiers echo and reecho over him. All this is in unison with his profession; the drum and trumpet are his perpetual requiem; the sol- diers honorable tread leaves no indignity upon the dead warriors dust. But who has a right to trample on a womans breast~ And what had IL. E. L. to do with warlike parade And where- fore was she buried beneath this scorching pave- ment, and not in the retired shadow of a garden, where seldom any footstep would come stealing through the grass, and pause before her tablet I There, her heart, while in one sense it decayed. would burst forth afresh from the sod in a profu- sion of spontaneous flowers, such as her living fancy lavished throughout the world. But now, no verdure nor blossom will ever grow upon her grave. If a man may ever indulge in sentiment, it is over the ashes of a woman whose poetry touched him in his early youth, while he yet cared any- thing about either sentiment or poetry. Thus much, the reader will pardon. In reference to Mrs. MLean, it may be added, that, subsequently to her unhappy death, different rumors were afloat as to its cause, some of them cruel to her own memory, others to the conduct of her husband. All these reports appear to have been equally and entirely unfounded. It is well established here, that her death was accidental. SUNDAY IN MADEIRA. Sunday is not observed with much strictness in Madeira. On the evening of that day I called at a friends house, where thirty or forty persons, all Portuguese, were collected, without invitation. Music, dancing, and cards were introduced for the entertainment of the guests. The elder portion sat down to whist; and, in a corner of a large dancing-room, one of the gentlemen established a faro-bank, which attracted most of the company to look on or bet. So much more powerful were the cards than the ladies, that it was found diffi- cult to enlist gentlemen for a single cotillion. After a while dancing was abandoned, and cards ruled supreme. The married ladies made bets as freely as the gentlemen; and several young ones, though more reserved, yet found courage to put down their small stakes. I observed one sweet girl of sixteen, standing over the table, and watching the game with intense interest. Me- thought the game within her bosom was for a more serious stake than that upon the table, and better worth the observers notice. Who should win it?her guardian angel? or the gambling fiend? Alas, the latter! She bashfully drew a little purse from her bosom, and put down her stake with the rest. AN AMERICAN MAN-OF-WARS CREW. The private history of a man-of-wars crew, if truly told, would be full of high romance, varied with stirring incident, and too often dark- ened with deep and deadly crime. Many go to sea with the old Robinson Crusoe spirit, seeking adventure for its own sake; many, to escape the punishment of guilt, which has made them out- laws of the land; some, to drown the memory of slighted love; while others lice from the wreck of their broken fortunes ashore, to hazard another shipwreck on the deep. The jacket of a common sailor often covers a figure that has walked Broad- way in a fashionable coat. An officer sometimes sees his old school-fellow and playmate taken to the gangway and flogged. Many a blackguard on board has been bred in luxury; and many a good seaman has been a slaver and a pirate. It is well for the ships company, that the sins of indi- viduals do not, as in the days of Jonas, stir up tempests that threaten the destruction of the whole. 24 DEFENCES AND RESOURCES OF CANADA. 25 From the United Service Magazine. This is a matter of so recent a date that we shall REMARKS ON THE DEFENCES AND RESOURCES not make any observations upon it; only we fear that some seeds of discord may yet remain among OF CANADA IN THE EVENT OF A WAR, them, which will, no doubt, be fostered by the BY CLAUDIUS SHAW, E5Q., K. S. F., LATE OF THE Sympathizers on the frontiers, and we may not find ROYAL ARTILLERY, the generality of our Canadians quite as loyal as we could wish, as they may consider some of their (Continued from No. 61.) sores not quite healed, and be inclined rather to HAVINO endeavored so far to give a sketch of annoy thami assist; though their hatred for the the localities of Canada, and point out some of time Americans may prevent them from openly assist- blunders which took place during time last war, in ing our enemies, yet perhaps they may take an the hopes that in case of anotimer, these, being opportunity to try and throw the yoke off alto- shown, may be shurmned, we simall next proceed to gether. give a sketch of the inhabitants nmf the different All mlmrough Canada there are at present three districts, whom it was our lot, from the I)ectmliar political parmies one is staunch to tile British circumstances in wlmich we were placed after leav- rule, another is favorable to the Americans, and ing the service, to mix much amormg, and thus had tile third wish for having Cammada an independent opportunities of getting an insiglmt into their char- country. Between these we shall have a difficult acter which does not fall to the lot of many mdi- game to play. viduals. Having been much employed in survey- As this is meant to be more of a descriptive in g in several parts of the province, I camne in than a political sketch, we shall confine ourselves contact with all descriptions of people, from the more to it than the latter, as it is hoped it may be highest rank to the farmers, as my former station instructive to parties roino omit in command or C and connections entitled me to associate with one, otherwise, by makimig them a little acquainted with while my occupation brought me into contact with the nature of the country or people they may have the other. to deal with when they arrive. To follow the same course as in the former part, We have not said much of the principal towns, we most proceed again from below and round nor the society that may be met with in them; no Quebec. doubt the variety is great, as they form a nucleus It is hardly necessary to mention that the coon- in which all parties meet, and it is only by becom- try from Gasp6 to above Montreal was firmerly ing personally acquainted with them that all their included as Lower Canada, and was settled by qualities can be duly appreciated. We shall, French emigrants, as they were the first Europeans therefore, confine ourselves to the different districts who took possession of these parts. No class of as we found them. people could be more happy and contented than Along the fromntier from where the two provinces were these French Canadians at the period the used to divide the country was settled in the first last war broke out. The young men mostly em- instance by old soldiers; but the never-wearying ployed themselves in the fur-trade, going up every soul (If Jonathan soon discovered that our land was year to the north-west country, to take provisions pleasant, and in a short time he calculated to squat. and stores, and bring back peltries, or furs; they Governor Simcoe gave encouragenment to all came home every autumn with plenty of money to comers, and many Americans settled among cur keep them all winter. The old men had culti- people, especially in the neighborhood of Corn- vated their lands, and sufficient food had been wall, Brockville, and along the shores up to raised to maintain their families in abundance all Kingston, bringing their disagreeable habits and~ thie long winter. Plenty of fuel had been cut in manners along with them. the woods, waiting for the snow to enable them We must, however, exclude from this the Glen- to bring it in. The snow fallen, the Canadian garry settlement, where, a few years ago, the thought no more of work till the next spring. Gaelic was spoken as purely as on the shores of Visiting among nemghbors, dancimig, and frolic be- Loch Lochie, and no doubt is still. These may came the order of the day. As long as the snow always be considered good subjects. Many of their lay on the ground nothing else was thought of strange neighbors proved so during the last war,, through all this region. It is impossible that any as they said all their property was on the British people, not even Mr. Polks Arcadians, could be ground, and, as they were very comfortable and more happy. The war broke out; that did not happy, they would defend it. But how are they affect them muchwinter still brought its enjoy- to be judged of now mamiy of these men talk of mentsperhaps some near the large towns, or on indepemidence, and many would rather be one of the immediate frontier, might have found a little the States, than as they are. Some people last. differemice; but they were governed by their old war went over to the States, and gave up their laws; they followed their own religion, and if property ; others, again, remained on their pro- their troublesome neighbors could not agree it was perty, pretended to join the British, but gave in no great fault of theirs. They perhaps did not formation to the enemy. How are these people- love the English government or people, hut they to conduct themselves ~vhien they may split into loved the Americans less; they therefore became three parties l Two to one against the existing loyal subjects, and made good militia; beside, government. they formed some very good fencible regiments. Some few miles back from Brockville a settle The voltigeurs and chasseurs, in their grey cloth- ment of half-pay officers and pensioners was formed ing, formed, from their knowledge of the country, at Perth. This is a very extensive district, and, most efficient troops. After the war they settled may, of course, be relied on in the event of a dis down again in their former happy state; but some turbance. restless beings, such as Papineau and his clique, Above Kingston, along the shores of the Bay got among them, told them things they never of Quint~, a large arm of Lake Ontario, is a set-- dreamt of; they were fairly 0 Connellized, and tlement mostly composed of Germans; they are a~ rebelled! quiet inoffensive race, minding their own business,. LXXIII. LiVING AGE. VOL. VII. 2 DEFENCES AND RESOURCES OF CANADA. and troubling their neighbors but little. They cultivate their rich soil, and live happily amongst each other, caring little for change or innovation. The country above this, till near Toronto, was but little settled at the time of the last war. Well do we remember marching twenty miles without seeing a house now all along here the country is well-settled, chiefly with emigrants from England and Ireland, and everything is much improved. Of course here we may expect many loyal sub- jects ; but no doubt politics run strong, and, from the mixture of parties front all sides, there must be a variety of opinions. The district back of Toronto, along Yonge Street, was formerly settled by Gern~ansa very extraordinary sect. They were some species of Quakers; they never shaved, and their habits were most primitive and simple. The next people who settled among them were sailorsrather an odd mixturebut they agreed very well together. Many emigrants also joined them; and, as these settlements were very impor- tant, it was necessary to place a superior class of people in them. Further up towards the head of Lake Ontario, and through the London District, to the mouth of the river Thames, was settled by a variety of peo- ple, Germans, Yankees, and old soldiers. It has much improved within a few years, and has had a due admixture of settlers from the old country. As the land is of excellent quality, there was great difficulty in procoring grants along here of late years, though formerly whole townships had been given to individuals. This valuable land remained long without improvement, but as they found peo- ple coming out with some capital, they found :means of getting it sold on advantageous terms, both to themselves and the purchasers. The Niagara District is composed of all sorts. This being a kind of peninsula, three sides washed by the waters, it was always the theatre of war, and many Americans became settlers through this ~district. Though there were many loyal subjects mong them, yet there were many factious ones, and there was great difficulty in knowing friends from foes. The inhabitants of the neighborhood of Sand- wich and Amherstburg are similar to the Lower Canadians in language, manners, and religion, though there are more among them who speak the ~English language. Detroit was settled about the same time as Mon- Lreal, by some French soldiers who were dis- charged, and tempted there by the beauty of the country and fineness of the climate. It being situated as low as 420 north latitude, the winters are comparatively short, though the springs are long and cold, from the circumstance of the ice breaking up on Lakes Huron and St. Clair so late, -that it is carried down through the Detroit, and :makes the season very cold and tedious. It may be thought strange that as yet no allusion I has been made to the aborigines of the country, especially, as during the last war they took such a prominent part. It would be most desirable if their ~services could be dispensed with altogether; but we fear it is impossible, as in the first instance their natural taste leads them to bloodshed, and, if they were not taken in by us, they might turn :ao us. The Americans would be sure to em- ploy them; and as they abound so much in their native state in the immediate country in which the waris likely to be carried on, and as manywould conceive their own territories to be in danger, it would be quite impossible to prevent them from taking a share in the operations. Many tribes, such as the Mohawks, Hurons, Chippewas, and others, are so mixed up with our own countrymen through the provinces, and have become partly civilized, cultivating land, and adopting other European customs, that we might look upon them as our fellow-subjects, especially as they swear fealty to their great mother, Vic- toria; that they might be considered at least as allies, and they proved themselves faithful during the last war. Yet their services could not be fully depended upon; as (hey would only take the field when it pleased themselves, and fi~ lit after their own fashion. It would have becit much better could their services have been dispensed with, not oiily for the sake of humanity, but for pure military reasons. They would seldom or never take a lead, but hang upon the skirts of an army, cut off stragglers, plunder and scalp the wounded, and commit all sorts of barbarities They always required arms, ammunition, food, and clothing, and very often after obtaining them they would turn against the hand that gave them; especially if they found their friends in adversity, they would suddenly disappear, if they did not go altogether against them in time of need. Yet with all these well-known disadvantages, we shall be obliged to employ them; for if we do not, the enemy will be sure to use them against us. Yet in some cases they are useful. They are excellent at a surprise, or in cutting off detached posts or parties; but then it is horrible to employ themthey take no prisonersor, if they do, it is only to destroy them by torture. They are fond of the English officers, and will follow them as long as they advance, but in case of a reverse they vanish. Their love of ardent spirits is so great, that they will do anything to obtain theni; and, once pro- cured, they commit the most extravagant excesses during their intoxication. They are also extreme- ly fond of dress. To obtain this they will go great lengths; but everything will go if they can get liquorthey have been known to part with their last article of clothing, in the very depth of winter, in exchange for it. What confidence, therefore, can be placed in such allies? Many of the tribes are now nearly extinct; as the white people have encroached upon their hunt- ing-grounds they have retired further back, or those who have remained among the new comers have adopted all their bad habits, especially drunk- enness. Small-pox has carried off whole villages; so that it is only in the far West that there is any number of them. There they still continue in their wild and savage state. Our government sends out every year great quantities of presents to them, such as blankets, arms ammunition, and clothing of every descrip- tion which they require; but this is of little use, as they will sell them to the settlers for a little spirits. Though this is contrary to law, it is often con- travened, and the poor Indians suffer a winter of misery in consequence. Every man in Canada, from 18 to 60, is obliged to enroll himself as a militiaman, and appears once a year on parade. The queens birthday is the day generally chosen. Officers are regularly appointed to every regiment. So far the system is good. Besides, every man must, or ought to bring fire-arms with him ; but they are totally deficient of discipline, more than knowing whose 26 DEFENCES AND RESOURCES OF CANADA~ 27 company they belong to. Every man, however, is a good marksman, and would soon learn enough to be useful in the bush. Here, indeed, they would have the advantage over regular troops; for if they only knew how to extend and close to the right and left, and advance or retire by word of command, or bugle, they would be sufficiently drilled for any purpose for which they might be wanted; and as it would be only in case of inva- sion, or a disturbance in the immediate neighbor- hood, that the sedentary militia, as they were called last war, would be required to take the field, they would he found sufficiently drilled by the knowledge of a few simple manosuvres. Corps could be formed, such as there were last war, of young men, -ho would enrol themselves, as did three regiments, under the name of incorpo- rated militia, and do duty as regular troops. These corps were highly distinguished, and the officers now receive half-pay. In the militia now will be found many pension- ers and half-pay officers, which was not the case formerly; and as the population is so much in- creased by emigration from the parent country, the, force will be much greater, and as these may gen-. emIly, especially from the rural districts, be con- sidered good subjects, it will be better. Yet there is so much liberty, ceording to the Yankee ideas, crept in among them, and so much of the spirit of radicalism spread through the province, that great precaution must be taken as to whom arms are given, for fear of their being turned against the government. As the late rebellion showed that there were many turbulent characters to deal with, who would willingly take the oppor- tunity of an invasion to either declare themselves independent, or be for joining the United States. The latter is most to be dreaded in the first in- stance, as the independents might resist the others and support the government, and then, after there had been some xvar, they would see their weak- ness, and cling by the present government for some time. There is not the least doubt but that Canada will, in course of time, declare its independence. This is but natural; but it is too soon yet. There is not wealth enough in the country: nor are they sufficiently strong or united to carry such a incas- nrc, or, if carried, to support it. The country is still too thinly populated to guarantee it, and they would be exposed to the insidious attacks of the Americans. As we had frequent opportunities of seeing the American troops, a few remarks upon them may not be unacceptable. The regular army at present is but very small, and that is chiefly employed on the frontiers of the States, on the Indian territories, and has not a disposable man. In their ranks are very few real Americans; they are composed of all nations, and generally the worst characters. It is nothing but the severest discipline that keeps them at all in order. There are a great many English deserters~ among them, who, not liking the work in the States which they were set to, thought it better to become soldiers again than starve. -The Amer- icans generally have a dislike to being soldiers. The business does not at all suit their disposition, for they are never happy unless they are trading and scheming in some way or other; and they con- sidei~ it almost a disgrace to be a soldier, as they conceive a man must be a poor dispirited creature who demeans himself to be under the control of others, as a soldier must be, and that no genuine American, having the true spirit of liberty, would ever degrade himself so far as to be a .ri~ular. Yet every man, who is capable of bearing arms, is a militiaman, and they pride themselves on it. They have several days training every year, and have some idea of discipline; they are good shots, and would be ready the moment war is declared to cross the frontier into Canada. They are proud of military fame, and, as they would con- sider them-selves aggrieved in the present case, they would think themselves patriots, and would fight with the greatest enthusiasm. As Brother Jonathan is not in any way particu- lar about gaining his ends, so long as he succeeds, he will try a plan of thinning our ranks besides fighting; he will entice the men to desert, espe- cially regiments lately arrived from England. As he speaks the same language, he can at any time cross the river, and get among the soldiers, especially when they may be on the march, and are billeted in different houses along the road, and will use every inducement to entice them away: and as these deluded wretches are sure to find themselves deceived by the fine promises that have been made theni, they w~il be obliged to en- list in the American army, and fight against their old comrades. During the last war we did not lose many by desertion, but immediately peace was declared they went over by dozens; dragoons fully equip- pedtheir horses and arms brought them some- thing; and what was very extraordinary, there were instances of old soldiers deserting, who in a few months would have been entitled to their dis- charges and a grant of land. A pay-serjeant of a company deserted : as he took some money with him, there was some little stir made about it. We happened to be acquaint- ed with the American general who commanded opposite, and meeting him one day on our side, he mentioned the circumstance voluntarily him- self, saying that one of his young officers seeing such a fine fellow, had enlisted him; but that as soon as he (the general) had heard of it, he or- dered his immediate discharge. A few days after, some of our officers, going to the American side, called upon the general to pay their re- spects, and the door was opened by this very man, in full American regimentalsthe generals or- derly serjeant! When generals of their regular army do such things, what can be expected from inferiors, or from people who of their own accord would entice soldiers to desert, thinking that they were per- forming a patriotic action, and doing their country a benefit? The regular officers of the American standing army are at present all educated at the Military Academy at West Point, in the state of New York; but their numbers are very small, so that, in the case of a fresh eruption, they would have to raise officers, as they did before, from lawyers without business, broken-down shop-keepers, and all sorts of half-educated idlers. As the system of equality brings the people on sneh a peculiar footing, discipline out of the ranks is hardly to be expected, especially among the troops from the western states. A party of these, last war, landed upon the property of a gentleman in easy circum- stances, who farmed very extensively. As it was early in the morning it was probable many had not breakfasted, for in a few minutes every fowls DEFENCES AND 1{ESOIJRCES OF CANADA. duck, or turkey was killed; they then commenced shooting some half-grown calves, which were feeding io the orchard. The gentlemans brother went up to an officer, and told him that since they had come, he supposed they would eat, but re- quested he would order his men not to shoot the calves, and that he would bring them out a fat ox, which they might have. The officer called to the men, desiring them to desist; but they only laughed at him, and told him to mind his own business. One private asked what he meant by speaking so to him; when he was in the ranks, he said, he was willing to obey him; but off parade, he (the private) guessed he was the best man of the two. What can be expected from such troops as these I They do not fight for pay, or as nierce- naries, but from principle; and they consider themselves as great as their general, and only yield to him perhaps from his being something better educated, or from his having more hard dollars at home. They do not, however, at all scruple to censure or approve of his plans, and every man will give his opinion. American sol- diers are not machines; they have their own ideas of things, and will do pretty much as they fancy; nevertheless, the love of plunder and enterprise will bring thousands of them over the moment war is declared, and the western part of Canada will be immediately invaded, and many of the scenes of last war, such as plundering and burn- ing towns, will be rei~inacted. Scattered all over the United States, especially on the frontiers, are a set of men, who have no regular way of gaining their livelihood, and though they live well, in one sense of the word, yet, when they get up in the morning, they hardly know where or how they are to procure their breakfast; they are always wide awake, ready to snatch at anything to turn a penny, always calcu- lating or scheming about something. Nothing ever comes amiss ; they can turn their hands to anything. During winter they are generally in the forests, lumbering; that is, cutting timber into boards and shingles; as soon as the snow melts, they form these into large rafts, which they float down the lakes and rivers to Montreal, Que- bec, or wherever they can find a market. The money they get for this keeps theum till the fol- lowing autumn, when they go again to the bush; in the. mean time they take up their abode in some village or town on the frontier. Seated in the public-house, they go regularly through all the gradatioims of dram-drinking, from the first morn- ing gum-tickler to the last evening cocktail; all this time they are seldom drunk, nor yet perfectly sober. They are most annoying to strangers, and argumentative with all parties; and on a late occasion these fellows called themselves sympa- t1~izers. In the event of a war these fellows would aboundCanada would be overrun with them. The last affair clearly showed how ready they would be; and hundreds, who had some little idea of right and ~vrong, and might have thought there was some little impropriety in invading a country with which they were not at war, would now have no such scruples, and swarms of them would come from all quarters, and desire nothing better. They are a strong, active, hardy race, and might fairly come under the head of rum customers. They would not be highly disci- plined, but that would make them more formida ble to the unprotected Canadians; as they would have spies in every place, they would always move upon such parts as might be most unpro- tected by our troops. No doubt, proper measures have been taken by our government, a rid full instructions sent out, and troops will soon follow, at least, such as can be spared from home and the West Indies; but the immensity of the frontier, and the distance it would be necessary to move troops, (without calculating upon sending them above Lake Huron,) would take considerable time; and there cannot be the least shadow of a doubt but that Canada will be invaded along all the vulnerable points of its fron- tier; much mischief may be done before we can possibly get troops up the country. The sympa- thizers will have begun; as they are on the spot, they will soon be ready. The American militia are better organized than ours, and being mostly equipped with regular arms and clothing, (which latter they get at their own expense,) they will have every advantage over us. We must call up the pensioners; they are al- ready militia; and being equipped as they are at home, an efficient force will immediately be ob- tained. These can also give instructions to the militia, and many independent and volunteer corps would soon be enrolled among young men in the different districts, who would undertake the more active duties, while the older men would be able to remain at home, to look after the farms, & c., and only turn out in ease of emergency. These men would be found to be more useful than even the regular troops, from their superior knowledge of the country, not only as to the locali- ties, but to the nature of the woods, in which so much fighting must necessarily be carried on ; for though the country is much more cleared than it was last war, yet there are thousands of acres of wood still standing; for suppose a man has a hun- dred acres of laud, they cannot all be under culti- vation, even supposing he had been longenough located upon it, as it is necessary to have a certain quantity (nearly one half) in reserve for fuel, fences, and other things. It is only large proprie- tors, who have many hundred acres, that can afford to cultivate a hundred in one farm; and as the land is all divided into lots of a hundred acres, they generally prefer leaving a proportion of tim- ber upon each lot; so that by this means the country can never be free of wood, and as this is very thick, and still very extensive, it requires some knowledge to be able to find the way through it; and English soldiers, especially those lately arrived, would be very apt to lose their way, and their wily antagonists would soon find means of leading them into ambush. As we have spent some time in the bush, a few hints upon this subject may not be amiss. Every officer going out ought to be provided with a pocket-compass; this should be made to form part of his equipment; it would not be ex- pensive, and could be easily carried. The following general rules may be easily re- membered The St. Lawrence and all the great lakes lie to the south of Canada; so if a person gets into the woods, to come out again he must steer southerly. The bearing of principal forts and points should be taken before entering the bush ; so that they may be more readily found on returning. All the principal rivers empty themselves into the St. Lawrence or the lakes; so that following 28 DEFENCES AND RESOURCES OF CANADA. a water-course is a sure direcion, and now there are few of these that have not mills upon them; so there is every chance of soon coming upon a settlement. On the north side of every tree the bark is more rough than the other; and if there is any moss upon it, it is thickest on that side. Trees have generally an inclination from the west; and the largest branches hang towards the east. These simple rules we have never found to fail, and it is the manner in which the Indians trace heir route for miles through the trackless forest. Another thing should he observed. Having been particularly employed in the business, we may be deemed authority on the subject. There is very little variation of the compass in Upper Canada. At Fort Erie, in 1822, there was no variation, it being a magnetic meridian. Near Fort Mississaqua, on Lake Ontario, which was our next point of observation, there were but a few minutes. At Notawasaga, again, on Lake Huron, there was no variation. At Moy, near Sandwich, the latitude is 42~ 19; the variation 10 28, west- erlythis all to the west of Fort Erie; to the east the variation will be found in much the same ratio; so that the magnetic bearing may generally be taken for any of the purposes above mentioned. All this is very necessary to be known by the British soldiers; for take a new comer out of sight of the clearance, and turn him round once or twice, the chances are against his finding his way out, again, as a person, getting astray, will generally keep walking in a circle. It is not good, when hst, to shout, or discharge fire-arms frequently, as the reverberation and echo in the woods are very apt to make people take a contrary course to what they ought. Troops going to America ought to be clothed in green, brown, or grey; the red jackets and white belts might be left in England; they, with the bright plates, are far too conspicuous, and the Americans too good sharpshooters not to take ad- vantage of them; while they, being clothed in dark uniform, if any, and being hid behind a tree or stump, are not easily distinguished by an un- practised eye, an English soldier would have no ~hance. The number of officers picked off in for- mer wars ought to serve as a warning in this. The Americans are all excellent riflemen, as they have been accustomed to the weapon from their infancy; besides, they set due value upon their ammunition, and never fire till they are sure of their object. An Englishman, not having the same education, is not aware of the value of this article, and, as it costs him nothing, blazes away, frequently without seeing his object, only he knows they are somewhere there, and hopes to hit them. The British soldiers knapsack is much too heavy for service in any country, especially in this; but as they are mostly moved from one established post to another, a light kit might be ordered for the field. While they were in garrison, they could have the enjoyment of their full one, and as in the winter season they require more clothing than at home, arrangements might be entered into for this purpose. The artillery in tlte field are not of so much utility, as the Americans will keep mostly in the bush, where it cannot get; nevertheless, a propor- tion must be employed; as the roads are generally very bad, and the range or distance at which they could see the enemy very short, from the in etven tion of wood, but light guns would be necessary, and howitzers generally the best description ; as they would throw a heavier case or spherical than could be done from long light guns, such as 6 or 9-pounders, and the enemy being generally scat- tered, they would do more execution. If they were even discovered in line or masses, there could be no objection to throwing a few shells among them, and howitzers would always range far enough, though, at the same time, there might be a proportion of long guns. Having so far treated of affairs on shore, we shall conclude, after passing a few remarks upon the most important part necessary for the defence of Canada, viz., the Naval Force. We gave a sketch above of what was the force employed during last ~var, and the probable state in which they may be found at present; besides, since those days tout cela est citangi, and another species of naval warfare has taken place, viz., steam and heavy guns. When the last war broke out, there was only one steam-vessel upon all the Canadian waters; this was the Swiftsure, between Quebec and Mon- trealnow there are several. After the ~var some merchants at Kingston built the Frontenac, to trade on Lake Ontario, and a smaller one ran down as far as Prescott, through the Lake of One Thou- sand Islands. It was not long before the Ameri- cans built a large vessel for the lake, and a smaller one for Ogdensburg. how many there may be now is unknown, but doubtless they must have increased. We well recollect the first on Lake Erie, which the Indians and others at Michili- mackinac went out to assist, conceiving it to be a vessel on fire, of which the masts had already been burnt. There are now eight or ten running from Buffalo to Detroit, Mackina, Green Bay, and other places along the Michigan territory. There are some upon our side; but as the American trade is much greater than ours, they far outnumber us. As they require pretty strong and well-built vessels to navigate these ~vaters, they would all be able to carry guns in proportion to their strength. The Americans are far from being good gunners, and the practice we could make from the heavy howitzers now in use would give us great advan- tages over them, as the accident that happened lately on board the Princeton from one of these guns shows that they cannot make them, and also that they cannot use them when made. We already have plenty of this description of gun made, and our Marine Artillery are well trained to the use of them. The command of the lakes and waters in Canada will always give the side possessing it every ad- vantage; for if the Americans have it, they will be able to land troops on any part, and keep pos- session as long as they choose; while, if we have this advantage, we can prevent them from coming over, and keep them prisoners if they did; hut the we~fare of Canada, as a British province, will en- tirely depend upon having the superiority on the waters. This will equally hold good as regards our mari- time affairs on the ocean ; for though the ostensi- ble ground of contest may be the Oregon Territory, it is roost certain Canada will be the great seat of warfare, from one extremity to the other; and we shall have to fear internal as well as external foes. We hope these few remarks, which are well founded upon personal observations, made during 29 VIVE LA GUERREWASPSWATER IN TIlE DESERT. the time we were upon duty in that country, or from subsequent events, may be of use in case of a war; yet we must also hope that such an event may not take place. However, it is best to be prepared, and if this should be of the slightest use in the way it is intended, our trouble will be amply repaid. VIVE LA GUERRE. A WAR SONG FOR THE FRENCH IN ALGIRR5. IN Dabras caverns hidden Bide the Arabs, and delay To yield, when they are bidden; So cries brave Pelissier Bring fagots of fierce fuel! Frenchmen checked by Arab slaves! We Li have a vengeance cruel! Roast them in their acred caves! We 11 make their fond trust falter! Cast in fagots! Let them flare, Till vengeance bath an altar Fitly furnishd! Five Ta guerre ! Rush the sparks in rapid fountains Up abroad into the sky! From the bases of the mountains Leap the forkd flames mountain-high! The flames, like devils thirsting, Lick the wind, where crackling spars Wage hellish warfare, worsting All the still, astonished stars! Ply the furnace, fling the fagots! Lo, the flames writhe, rush, and tear! And a thousand writhe like maggots In among them! Vi cUt g erre! A mighty wind is blowing Twards the caverns gaping mouth; The clear, hot flames are flowing In and in, to glut its drouth; Flames with winds roar, rave, and battle Wildly battle, rave, and roar; And cries of men and cattle Through the turmoil sadly soar. We are pale! What! shall a trifle, A sad sound, our bold hearts scare? T is long before they stifle! Bring more fagots! Vice Ta guerre! With night began the burning; Look where yonder comes the day! Hark! signals for adjourning Our brave sport. We must obey! But be sure the slaves are weary As the short and sob-like sigh Of gusts on moorlands dreary Float their sinking voices by ; No sound comes now of shrieking;~ Let us show what Frenchmen dare! Force the caves, through vapors reeking Like a kitchen! Vi e Ut guerre! What s thisand this? Pab! sickning, Whether woman, man, or beast. Let us on. The fumes are thickning ! Ho! here s that hath shape at least. How its horny eyes are staring On that infant, seeking food From its broad brown breast, still bearing Smoke-dried stains of milk and blood! At our work do any wonder, Saying, Frenchmen love the fair ? Sucit fair? Ha! ha! they blunder Who thus twit us! Fcc Ta guerre! What s that, so taIl and meagre ?. Nay, bold Frenchmen, do not shrink Tis a corpse,with features eager, Jammd for air into a chink. Whence is that hysteric sobbiu~ ! Nay, bold Frenchmen, do not draw! T is an Arabs parchd throat throbbing. Frenchmen love sweet Mercy s law Make way there! Gi e him breathing! How he smiles to feel the air! His breath seems incense wreathing To sweet Mercy! Five la guerre! And now, to crown our glory, Get we trophies, to display As vouchers for our story, And mementos of this day! Once more, then, to the grottoes! Gather each one all lie can Blisterd blade with Arab mottoes, Spear-head, bloody yataghan. Give room now to the raven And the dog, who scent rich fare And let these words be graven On the rock-side Vies Ia guerre! The trumpet sounds for marching! On! alike amid sweet mends, Morass, or desert parching, Wheresoeer our captain leads! To Pelissier sing praises! Praises sing to bold Bugeaud! Lit up by last nights blazes - To all time their names will show! Cry conquer, kill, and i~avage! Never ask who, what, or where ? If civilized, or savage, Never heed, but Five Ta guerre! DesTrtucrmoN OF WAsPsWe observe, from the Scottish newspapers, that the Earl of Traquair has for several years past given a liberal reward to the children in the neighborhood for the destruction o those troublesome insects during the months of April and May. At that period every wasp is in search of a location for a nest, and if unmolested, would become the parent of thousands. Owing, it may be supposed, to the limited fall of rain or snow last winter, these noxious creatures have been un- usually numerous this season, as the following ac- count will show The children, about fifty in nom- her, were desired by his lordship to attend t Tra- qunir house with their spoil every Saturday aftet-- noon, where they were counted by the gardener. and each one paid so much ~ rdozen. On the 26th April there were delivered 736 dozen, on the 3d May 114 dozen, on the 10th May 59 dozen, and on the 17th May 6431 dozenmakimig in all the incredible number of 18,876 wasps nests in the course of Ibur weeks, and in one parish. It may be presumed, if each of these had been allowed to multiply, how- ever favorable the season may prove, there would have been little fruit or honey left for miles aroumid. WATER IN THE DusEvj.Since the French obtained a footing in Algeria en~in ems have been employed to procure water in the most sterile districts by means of Artesian wells. We learn hum the Revue de Paris, that one of them IXI Fournel, has coma- pleted a minute suive~ and ne assures his govern- ment that the nature of the ~i-ound, at th. foot of the Algerine mountains near the sea-coast, offers facili- ties for extracting la~~e supplies of water from an inconsiderable depth below the surface. If wells can be sunk so as to pmocloce the grand delieratum to agriculture, the face of toe u hole country will he materially chao6ed ~e~et tion ~viil be made to en- croach on the now profitless expanse of the Sahar desert, and many spots, tvhielm are productive of nothing but sand, will afford f for man and pas- tura~e for beasts. There is no reason to doubt that such a happy change may in time be effected; for the Artesiami system, wherever it has been tried., has succeeded. Clmoadme s Liii rooT. 30 t~EER SIIOOTING iN CANADA WEST. From the United Service Magazine. SUMMER AND WINTER DEER SHOOTING IN CANADA WEST. BY SIR J. E. ALEXANDER, K.L.5., 14TH REGT. When morning beams on the mountain streams, Then merrily forth we go, To follow the stag to the slippery crag, Or to chase the bounding roe. I. XENOPHON, the celebrated warrior and historian, and likewise a keen sportsman, thus gave his opinion of huntingthat it tended to make men hardy, both in body and mind, and thence to form the very best soldiers, the chase bearing a closer resemblance to war than any other amusement; that it habituated men to bear fatigue, and the in- clemencies of the weather, kindled their loftier feelings, awoke their courage, and nerved their limbs, which also from exercise became more pliant, agile, and muscular; that it increased the powers of all the senses, kept away careful or melancholy thoughts, and thus by promoting both mental and physical health, produced longevity, and retarded the subduing effects of old age. Vive la chasse ! then, as a fitting recreation for soldiers, and if pursued in moderation, and without unnecessary cruelty to, or indiscriminate slaughter of the game animals, it is undoubtedly deserving of all the commendations accorded to it. The true hunter is generally known by his bronzed complexion, his hands innocent of the tender kid skin, his keen eye, his firm mouth, his independent air and elastic step. Most military men are sportsmen, more or less, and it is quite fitting that released, for a short season, from the duties of their profession, they should he either pursuing their game on leathern or on horses shoes, or by the banks of the dark and silent streams. We have now to treat of the slaying of deer in Western Canada, the land by adoption of thou- sands of Britains hardy sonsa land favored by nature in productiveness of soil, and in water privileges of the first order. Long may revo- lutionary principles be repudiated here, and the enterprizing farmer and merchant, with public bur- dens of the lightest description, duly appreciate and value the form of government and the estab- lishments under which they thrive! The brown deer of North America, the Cervus Virginianus of naturalists, is, like others of its tribe, most graceful in its motions, proceeding usually through the forests of its native haunts in light bounds ; it is found from the shores of the great lakes to those of the Gulf of Mexico. Its weight is a hundred pounds and up~vards, and the prongs of the horns of the male point forwards, in such a way that it is difficult to conceive host it could make its way easily through woods that are at all entangled. But the haunts of this deer are unlike the interlaced vegetation between the tropics; and this beautiful denizen of the wilds is free to roam among the straight and light- seeking stems of the pine, the beech, and the maple. The long and handsome ears of the deer~ are for- ever in motion, and alert to catch the smallest sound; its eyes full, black, and swimming, the gazelle eyes of the Persian poets. These, with its well-shaped head, taper neck, and slender limbs, make it when tame an especial pet with the fair sex. But, alas! for its peace, its venison amply rewards the hunter for his toils, who sallies forth to slay a hart in grease, and a juicy haunch, smoking on an ample trencher, speedily overcomes all scruples about the propriety of look- ing for what is good for food. It was in the glorious summer-tide, when the forests of the Thames river of Canada West were clothed in their gorgeous foliage, when the sight was refreshed with the effects of light and shade on the landscape, with the green leaves of the trees, and the bright blossoms of the flowers in the open glades, when birds and insects were heard on every side, arid when the face of nature was redo- lent of beauty and happine~s, that I mounted a wagon with four companions, all eqoipped in shoot- ing trim, with broad-brimmed summer hats and blouzes, or light shooting jackets, festooned with shot-belts, or powder-flasks, or horns, each grasp- ing a shot-gun or rifle, and bound for a water hunt among the Dorchester pines The laughing, blue-eyed morn, Called blushes to the cheek of every flower, And as the zephyr breezes wandered on, They left a chorus of sweet melody; Each wood and wild had its inhabitants, Which crouching lay within the cavern lair, Or bounded oer the new-made velvet mead. With a rough and ready span of horses, we drove rapidly, albeit with no inconsiderable bump- ing, up the river, passing one of the curiosities of the western wilderness, in the course of formation, namely, a plank road, from the laying of which for miles in various directions, centering in Lon- don, the garrison town for the defence of the shores of Lake Erie, the greatest advantages are expected to accrue to this new country. Viret in aaternum ! The Thames of Canada is a clear and swift-run- ning river, flowing from the borders of the Gore district, over a gravelly and rocky bed, generally fordable above London, hut with here and there deep pools, the haunts of the otter. Below Dela- ware the river is navigable, as it passes on through rich soil, and with steep banks, to Lake St. Chair. At its mouth the land is low and marshy, and here is admirable wild-fowl shooting. Among other finny inhabitants of the Thames, are the shad, pike, maskanongd, (a fish of a large size and of good flavor, though of the pike family,) and the sturgeon, the largest fish of the western waters; several feet in length, slender but power- ful, and covered with tuberches. One of our hunters had some time before signalized himself by riding on the back of a sturgeon, something in the manner of my worthy friend Mr. Waterton, the wanderer in South America, on the back of the crocodile. Scofield had struck his fish- spear into a large sturgeon. which immediately made off with it; Scofield, like a real sportsman, threw himself out of the canoe and held on by the spear, whilst the storgeon, which he occasionally bestrode, carried him down the river; at last, tired and exhausted with the burden, in the tnidst of a great splashing and commotion, the sturgeoa: gave in. At a way-side public-house we refreshed with beer, and ginger-beer, with a lump of ice in the pleasant mixture. 31 DEER SHOOTING IN CANADA WEST. The weather had been hot and favorable for the deer being found in the river, to which the inns- quetoes and flies in the woods drive them in the evenings, but now it threatened rain, and we knew if it fell there would be an end of our sport, for then the deer find pools in the woods, and have no occasion to resort to the river. Passing some clearings garnished with stumps, and inclosed with snake or zi~-zag fences, we entered the shade of the Dorchester pines, extend- ing for several miles up the river. The red squir- rel blithely chirupped and nimbly climbed the resi- nous trunksthe scarlet tanager, with its brilliant body and dark wings, flew across the road, from which rose flights of the beautiful little spring azure butterfly, chasing one another in circles, flitting over arid alighting on thc same spot which they had just quitted. The pine woods on the Thames, and the oak plains, offer to the naturalist, in summer, a rich harvest in flowers, insects, and birds. Among the plants is to be distinguished the rare and most curious Indian cup, or pitcher plant (Sarracenea purpurea,) the leaves of which have their edges united together, so as to form a deep cup filled with water, distilled probably from the moss in which the plant is found. From the circle of pitcher-leaves rises a stem, eighteen inches in height, and crowned with a circular leathery flower with five reddish petals. The use of the water in the pitchers seems to be this, (and it is, indeed, a singular arrangement of the great Creator,) musquetoes are reared therein, for they are seen to issue from the cups in numer- ous flights in spring, whilst to support them in their aquatic stage of life, the small bristles which line the inside of the lip of the cup conduct flies into the watery receptacles, where they are drowned, and are then devoured by the young brood. At the entrance of the Pines, a man met us in a wagon, and one of the hunters said That man has lost his eye-sight with gain- bling. How so i was inquired. It was thas. He had a good farm, which he neglected, to engage constantly in gambling. On one occasion he had sat up eight days and nights consecutively, and he won another mans farm, house, cattle, and a steam-boat, but he became stone-blind from exhaustion, and is now partially recovered, only sufficient to allow him to drive a wagon ! What a warning this to those who waste their nights in changing with each other painted paste- boards! The hunter Pixleys place was at last reached, after a rattling drive of fourteen miles. On the left of the road, and backed by tall pines, was a comfortable block-house. -On one side was a wagon, on the other a well, with the usual lever balanced on a pole to raise the bucket, a log canoe was in front, and on the other side of the road was a commodious barn. Before the door, four men in their shirt-sleeves played at quoits with horse- shoes. Pixley himself stepped forward to wel- come usa picture of manhood, five feet ten inches in height, stout, with black hair and whiskers, un- embarrassed, but modest and civil withal, his rig a low broadbrimmed white hat, dark vest, and moleskin trowsers. At the door was the tidy wife, about whom ~clustered five healthy children. We must go back again to town, said she, for the sake of the children. Nothing else would take me there, said the hunter; I tried to stay in the town before, and I could nt ; I in never happier than in the woods. What game have you in these woods l was asked. Bears, racoons, wolves, deer, and sometime~ a lynx is seen. I killed a lynx here last fall. Till the mid-days repast was ready we prac- tised with our rifles at a mark, a patch of clay on a beech-tree ; Pixleys bullet struck within an inch of this every shot. His brother, James Pixley, was also a prime shot, and with the keenest eye for game tracks. The hunters meal consisted of slices of salt pork, mashed potatoes, good bread and cheese, raspberries from the clearing, and cream, the whole washed down with tea, or brandy and water, according to the taste of the chasseurs. Short pipes and cigars being duly lighted, we set about preparing the jack light for our water hunt. A blackened hoard with a small shelf to it was stuck up in the fore part of the canoe; on the shelf were four large nails to support the light, composed of hard tallow with a large wick. Put- ting ash poles and paddles into the canoe, six stout fellows tackled to, and dragged it through the bush to the bank of the river, behind the house here we found another twenty feet canoe, and seven of us disposing of ourselves in the two, some standing up with the poles and others with paddles, we pushed out into the swift stream. The banks of the Thames were here quite uncut and uncleared, descending gently towards the water and clothed with oak and the broad leaves of the maple; behind these towered the pines. As we poled up stream in our shirt sleeves and trowsers, with a warm jacket at hand for night- work, we saw herons flapping their broad wings as they wended their way up the river before us then wild ducks woul4 be descried in a pool, and making for the shore at the approach of the canoes, before we had time to scatter them with No. 4then a racoon with its bushy tail would be seen scrambling about the trunk of a treered- headed woodpeckers, supporting themselves with their strong feet and short, rigid tails, would ham- mer away merrily with their strong wedge-shaped beaks at the decayed stems, and with their barbed tongues draw out from its concealment the slug- gish grubthe grey and white kingfisher watched on a branch for its prey in the water beneath, and then a musk rat would swim across, steering itself with its broad, black tail, (sometimes they attempt concealment in the water, by attaching themselves to a green branch)whilst over head would float in mid air a noble bald-headed eagle. Such were the denizens of the forest and flood which we saw in our progress of ten miles against the swift current and rapids, with occasional deep and still pools. In the stony and gravelly bed of the river ~vaved aquatic plants or eel grass ; some specimens resembled moss, others myrtle- leaves, and a third sort, soft cucumbers. These plants, for the support and concealment of fishes, are also eaten by the deer during the night season. You see, said Pixley, this flat, formerly cleared, and about five acres in extent; this is called the Racoon Flat. Here, forty years ago, when I was a child, the Indians grew their maize. 32 DIlIi~R SIIOOIING IN CANAflA Wx~Sr. We will pass presently the Maskanong6 Flats, and one or two more, but the Indians have all abandoned these now, though they still come about here to fish and hunt. The red men who wand~r about this part of Canada wear the blanket coat, winter and summer, and a piece of printed cotton twisted round their long black locks, like a loose turban; their legs are cased in blue or crimson leggings. The women wear the blanket wrapped around them from the head to the heel, and are usually seen about the towns and villages, with baskets of stained split wood, or light brooms, for sale. We poled with difficulty up a rapid where a short time before Pixley and two hunters had, in descending, been upset against a tree which lay in the water, and their blankets, coats, hats and guns, tumbled into the stream. After ten miles of hard work, we landed at sunset at a rude bridge, refreshed at a gushing fountain, and col- lecting some chips and dry wood, soon built up a fire, and sat round it telling stories till the night was sufficiently advanced to light the jack. The black bear of Canada, when it attacks, first hugs and then claws down with its hind feet the breast and belly of its victim. Thus Pixleys father one day heard a cry of distress near his house; he rushed out with his gun, and saw an Indian on the ground with his stomach ripped up, and a bear gnawing at his wrists and andes. On old Pixleys approach the bear took to a tree, and locked down over a crutch; the bunter told the Indian to fire, but he could not revenge himself, he was so weak. Pixley then lodged a ball be- tween the eyes of the bear and dropped hire, then carried the Indian to his camp, but he died the same night. Filling the bottom of the canoes with rushes to form a comfortable seat, one canoe lighted up and paddled off noiselessly, the other followed at a considerable interval. The night was quite calni, which was favorable for the jack light. It appeared like a bright star on the water, whilst the board behind it threw the canoe and the hunters completely into shade. The deer, as they stand up to their knees in the water, and occasionally dash a little over them- selves with their feet, to clear away the buzzing musquetoes, lift their heads from grazing on the aquatic grass, and gaze with curiosity on the light till it is quite close to them, that is, within twelve or twenty yards, when the crack of a rifle at once ends their fatal & uriosity. Fireflies sparkled past us and glanced among the trees like the eastern Feast of lanterns ; no sounds were heard but the rippling of the water over the stones, the occasional cry of the whip- poor-will, and the deep bass of the bull-frogs trumpeting forth their serenade. Presently the boom of a distant gun comes up the stream, and we hope for success to our comrades; mosquetoes in myriads fly out from the hush, and play round and dash into our light, so as almost to extinguish it, they looked like a moving halo round it. Pix- ley, dipping his paddle into the water, under the jack, was observed quietly to let it slip out of his hands, and it floated away astern: he lifted his rifle, and pointed tow~trds the left bank of the river; our rifles were immediately cocked without a word being uttered, and the steersman directed the bow towards two greyish objects in the water; a sharp volley awoke the echoes in the river, a splashing was heard with loud breathing; we dash towards the land, then sprang from the canoe among the reeds, and lighting pine chips, searched for the traces of blood; they were soon perceived on the blades of grass and on the bushes; a mortal wound had been inflicted, from the frothy appear- ance of the blood, but the wood was too dense to track it far in the dark; next day, however, a clever terrier, Captain, followed the trail, drove a fine large buck into the water, where it strove with him for half an hour, when two saw- yers, who were engaged at a log near the scene of conflict, put an end to it by smiting our deer on the head with a stone. This was the result of our first water hunt, or manner of killing deer in the dog-days. On another occasion, near the same spot, the first hunters piece missed fire, the second (Mr. Dease, the son of the intrepid Hudsons Bay traveller,) took effect. The first hunter then jumped into water and seized the woonded buck by the horns, the third hunter drew his knife to cut its throat, when with its hind leg it knocked him nine yards off and under water; recovering himself, but los- ing his knife, the three hunters fought with the sturdy beast for twenty minutes; at last, ~vet to the skin, they tired him out, got his head under water and drowned him. After a sound sleep on our straw couches, we rose with the sun, and refreshed with a bucket of water poured over our heads in the open air, then walked off into the woods on a still hunt after the deer again. The still hunt is merely walking noiselessly through the forest, keeping a bright look-out, and searching for deer in the haunts where they are wont to browse in the day-time. A breeze is favorable for the still hunt, as it prevents the step of the hunter from being heard. Where the trees had been hewn down, there were plentiful crops of raspberries, which are greedily eaten by the bears; the mandrake, of mysterious properties, spread its broad leaf at our feet, and the ruby-throated humming-bird was ob- served glittering in the sun, with green and gold coat, now darting through the air like an arrow, or starting and hovering in front of the flowers of balm or clover, like the motions of a dragon-fly. I secured a specimen of this strange summer visit- ant to Canada, and kept it alive for some time, by giving it syrup from the corolla of a flower.* From these snatches of the natural history of this forest it will be seen that it possesses much interest for the lover of nature. A beautiful col- lection of bright-plumaged birds may be made in summer on the banks of the Canadian Thames; and here, instead of feeling dull during a short sojourn, we may exclaim with the poet, T is nought to me, Since God is ever present, ever felt, In the void waste, or in the city full, And where He vital breathes, there must be joy. But to make long tarry in the woods of Brit- ish North America, in the hot months of June, July, and August, requires great endurance, a deep sense of duty, and an object of much greater importance than that of hunting to enable one to hold out. * It is said that an Irishman, newly arrived, and anx- ious to secure a humming-bird, caught a large bee in- stead; it stung him, when he cried out, Holy Moses! how hot its little fut is 1 33 flEER SHOOTING IN CANADA WEST. Lumberers and Indians then flee to the woods, they are so close, and so infested with poisonous flies and mosquetoes. The lumberer fells and squares his timber in the winter, and drives it down the streams on the melting of the snow and ice. The Indians frequent the seacoast in summer, and thus escape the plague of flies. Surveyors in the forests in sftmmer subsist on salt pork, because it is portable, and goes a great way, hard biscuit, and black tea. Spirits are fatal, for they increase the virulence of the poison of the small dipterous black fly; but even without spirits, not many days elapse in June, before the face and hands are poisoned and swollen up from countless bites; day after day, and from morning to night, whilst streaming with perspiration, the attacks are incessant. The mid-day meal is usually eaten in the midst of smokes, produced with wet moss, which assist in keeping at bay the torments; but when swampy ground is ap- proached, or rain is near, such myriads of venom- ous flies arise round the luckless explorer, that his veil is no protection, and he is forced to carry under his arm a smoking torch of cedar-bark. At night he sleeps in his clothes, of course, on fir branches, with his feet to a fire, a light shed of canvass over him, supported by. two forked sticks and a ridge-pole. Occasionally single wolves come and angrily howl at him, but in winter they sometimes attack in troops. At nightfall the hot needle punctures of the black and sand-flies cease, but then the phiebotomist mosqueto wields his long lance. Oh! it is a rare pic-nic for the flies in summer, but a desperate fight fir the explorer, as, axe in hand, and arrayed in millers hat, red shirt, and drill trowsers, he exercises his muscles over the logs, with a modicum of his coarse provisions in his haversack, hewing his way through the thickets, skin and clothes torn, bruised with heavy falls of the prostrate trunks, finding himself at one time up to his middle in a swamp, shortly after this, assisted with spikes on the inside of his lumberers boots, shinning his way to the top of a hundred-feet pine tree, to reconnoitre and mark with his compass his future course ; or, pole in hand, steering a small raft of logs, a catamaran, down the rapids of a forest stream, with no com- panion all this time save his sturdy woodsmen, axing their way, chaining, or carrying the loads in packs. Like the plague of fleas inducing cleanliness, so does the plague of flies induce to clearing and settling the woods ;flies eschew the clearings. To get to the open fields again, after a summer in the woods, constantly seeing the same trunks and the same vast banks of forest, is, indeed, Paradise. Expertus loquor. Ii. (The scene changes to Winter, and to Kin gstort, on Lake Ontario.) The ground has now lost its verdant mantle, is hard and crisp with frost, and covered with snow; the trees, deprived of their glories, extend their naked limbs into the chill air; the music of the groves has ceased, and a death-like silence reigns around. But it is needful not to succumb to the melancholy influence of a Canadian winter, and being absolved from drill and pipeclay for a brief space, (though when duty is to be done, it ought to be performed with zeal and energy, and on no account to be considered a bore,) broks also being laid aside, we adventure to make a break or tx o in the long winter, by engaging in the healthful sport of deer hunting, albeit regret- ting all the while that the lingering savage nature within us inclines us.to slay a buck or twain, and with relish to partake of the venison. Arkright, a hunter skilled in woodcraft, L en- a~ed with his dogs. He brings his sleigh, drawn yapan of stout ponies, and as there is no provant in the forest homestead whither we are about to proceed, saving pork arid potatoes, the sleigh is freighted with half a sheep, bread and biscuit, tea and sugar, pepper and salt, and a small barrel of beer! My brother chasseurs were determined not to trust only to their guns for viands. Covering our nether man with buffalo robes, our upper being encased in blanket coats, or grey Canadian cloth, with the usual hood attached, and grey or black fur caps on our heads, we disposed ourselves in couplets in the sleigh, and with each his rifle between his knees, we trotted blithely away from the garrison. With many a pleasant jest and answering laugh, we slid over the natural railroad of snow and ice, past clearings, and through forests mostly cour- posed of evergreen firs, (thus affording a partial relief to the general white of the landscape,) and at length reached the lake called Loughborough. and the frame dwelling of the hunter Knapp. It was diverting to observe the unloading of the sleigha stalwart Artillero walking into the house with the half sheep on his shoulders, followed by the beer barrel borne aloft by the governor, so termed by his familiars, from at- tachment to his rubicund physiognomy, and his disposition entirely disposed to good fellowship; next followed an A. D. C., a prime shot, carrying buffaloes and a long basket, the contents of which Father Mathew ought not to be cognizant ofthe rear was brought up by rifles, and the munitions of war and of the chase. The wiry old hunter Knapp, with his aquiline nose and long grey locks, his wife, and sons and daughters, received us with friendly greeting, swept out a room for us, and filled up a huge fire of logs in a wide chimney. Forthwith commenced culinary preparations, slices of mutton arid potatoes were duly cooked, item pork, tea drawn, mus- tard scientifically mixed; all the hunters aided and abetted, both in getting up and in doing justice to the feast, after which wrapping ourselves in our buffaloes, each chose what portion of the floor suited him best as to propinquity. to the fire, which a small boy, a sort of forest imp, attended. The youngest of the party, not yet filled out for his lengthto wit, two yardsthough possessing a good spirit for the chase, after donning a night- gown reaching to his ankles (unlike an old hunter who sleeps in his clothes) ensconced himself in the bunk, a long wooden box which serves for a seat by day, and, when opened out forms a coffin-like bed by night. Having used interest with one of the damsels of the house, he had secured no less than three pillows, but which he did not long enjoy, for whilst sitting up to arrange the buffalo about his feet, his two nei~,hbors on the floor, still wide awake, quickly secured the pillows, and fei~ned sleep, whilst he bemoaned his fate for a while en chemise before the fire, his nighteapped-head reach- ing to the Jersey frocks, powder-horns, and hunt- ing-belts which garnished the smoked rafters of our apartment. At early dawn there was a move. Your true .34 DEER SHOOTING IN CANADA WEST. hunter riseth with the lark; but it was laughable to observe the twisting and turning of one or two who had for a long time previously been accus- tomed to indulge in repose after the rosy-fingered Aurora had opened the portals of the morning ; at last, with desperate effort, they sat up, rubbing their eyes and yawning fearfully, and doubtless cursing their folly in joining a party which chose thus to get up in the middle of the night. A meat breakfast was quickly cooked and de- spatched. Knapp and his soiis mustered their dogs, and the hunters went off to place them- selves in pairs, at the runways, or tracks where the deer usually pass, and towards which they would be driven by the dogs. Knapp had lost a son, a fine young man, not long before ; he was passing through the forest with a cousin be- hind him, in Indian file; the latter was carrying his gun on his shoulder, holding it by the muzzle; a twig caught the trigger, and the charge of buckshot was lodged in young Knapps groin; the poor young man died i[i great agony in a few days. Loughborough Lake, where we now sported, is a beautiful expanse of water, twenty miles long, surrounded with fine woods, and studded with islands. A week at Lougliborough in the fall is delightful. Then the woods put on their coat of many colors, most enchanting to behold ; the sugar-maple displays all the shades of red from deep crimson to bright orange; the birch and elm flaunt in yellow livery; the ash and bass- wood in sober brown; whilst the deep green of the fir tribe sets off the glories of the other sons of the forest. The flies do not annoy in October! Now is the tinie to take ones pleasure on the clear water, to launch the skiff or bark canoe, to bait the hook for the savory white fish, to still hunt in the woods, when the wind prevents the noise of the foot- steps being heard on the ash leaves, the first to fall, or else to drive a few deer into the lake, and there with a blow of a paddle to secure what venison is wanted for ones self and friends, and assist the farmers to get the rest for their winter store. None should be wantonly killed. Indis- criminate slaughter of fish, flesh or fowl is un- manly and quite unworthy of a genuine sports- man; humanity ought to temper his ardor in the chase, with all its exhilarating accompaniments. 1 is merry, t is merry in good green wood, When the mavis and merle are singing, When the deer pass by, the hounds are in cry, And the hunters horn is ringing. Though Loughborough Lake was now locked up in ice, and snow-covered, and no wing of bird about or upon it, yet in April, when the ice disap- pears, in a day it would teem with life, and innu- merable wild fowl would disport on its bosom. On our way to the runways, ~ve were met by three loafish looking blades, the chief of whom was Billy Blackaby, an idle, good-humored, but cunning rogue, who neglected his farm for the chase; and whose grey frock, trowsers, and mocassins, were picturesquely ragged and torn. Supporting himself on his long gun, he said that he had met with no sport, and was going home. Afier a short talk, in an undertone, the three trotted off, and soon after we were posted at our stations by Arkright. The aid-de-camp and myself took up our watch at a runway, indicated by the recent tracks of a deer on the snow, passing from north to south, among the pine and spruce-trees. We walked to and fro, partly concealed behind a large hemlock, our shooting irons ready at hand. Not a sound was heard in the wood, save the occasional tapping of woodpeckersnow far off, now loud and close at hand. We waited impatiently for the baying of the dogs; at last, after an houfa delay, the yelp of Prisoner, Knapps favorite hound, was heard. We were instantly on the alert; a few twigs broke near us, and then a fine young buck, upwards ofa hundred pounds weight, with brown sides, white belly, and bushy tail, (longer and fuller than those we see in Europe,) bounded towards us. He was end on, and we fired a little too soon; he was wounded, for blood and hair on the ground showed the grazing ball, but his career was not stopped at the time; he turned to the right, and was soon out of sight among the grey trunks. We follo~ved the blood- stained track, but Billy Blackaby, who had posted himself out of sight at a likely stand, secured the prize and quietly hauled it off, as we next day learned. Whilst we were advising as to future~ pro- ceedings, another yelp was suddenly heard, and a plump roe dashed past us, within twenty yards. A fatal bullet and buckshot sped from two bar- rels, and she plunged forward and fell ; the long hunter, who was near, then rushed up and fleshed his knife in her iieck. Tying her legs together, and thrusting a branch through them, we carried her to the sleigh at the edge of the forest. We were joined by the other hunters; and then, after some friendly exchange of shots from pis- tols, (liquor flasks, but which, if success is de- sired, should be avoided, as pistolling assuredly unsteadies the hand and also makes the extremi- ties more susceptible of cold,) we returned to our den at Knapps where we spent a ;nerry evening with story, jest, and song. One day, when old Knapp was looking for a stick of timber in the woods, lie espied one of his dogs run[iing towards him, seemingly in a fright presently a large wolf appeared in chase, Knapp stepped at once behind a tree, and as the monster, gaunt and grim, passed, Knapp with a dex- terous blow of his tomahawk disabled it in the loins, and then carried home its skin. Dear ! said he to me, you re fond of boating. Well me and my sons will go into the woods and pick out a stick of cedar, and make you a skiff this winter, fourteen feet keel, strong and light, that will whip everything of its size, pulling a pair of oars, on Lake Ontario. The craft was accordingly commissioned. Wolves become dangerous in the New Bruns- wick forest after the first snow-fall ; they then hunt in packs as I previously mentioned. Last October, an explorer of the line of the new mili- tary road, whilst alone, near the Upper Mira. michi river, was suddenly surrounded by a pack of hungry wolves, barking and howling for their prey; he tried to escape, but if his party of axe- men, hearing the savage yells, had not run towards him, he must have been sacrificed. An instance of extraordinary craftiness in wolves was told me by an esteemed friend, of sporting propensities, living near Quebec. He was on one occasion on the wooded heights com- manding a view of the picturesque Lake Mem- phremagog, in the eastern townships of Canada. It was near sun-set, and at some distance below 35 36 DEER ST4OO1~INc* IN CANADA WEST. him was an open meadow whete a solitary deer at a time too when no other bird was near. Their was seen grazing; presently two wolves issued cross bills, which at first appear a defect, are from the forest, and looked towards the deer, admirably contrived for separating the scales of They seemed to be planning an attack, when, after the seeds of the coniferous trees from which they an apparent consultation, one went off and, circling usually derive their sustenance; the bill also as~ round the deer, lay down behind it; the other sists in climbing. wolf then made an open attack; when the deer Hearing that there was a fiddle in the neigh- turned and fled, but as it passed the first wolf, he borhood, we commissioned it, and danced, coy- sprung up and fastened upon the unfortunate ani- ing the buckle more Sco1ic~, till it was time to mal, which thus quickly perished, turn into our buffaloes on the floor. Next morn- My first wolf was encountered on an interesting ing, with three pair of socks and mocassius, we fieldthe plains of Assaye, whilst hunting, not for essayed snow-shoeing; and it was ludicrous to wild animals at the time, but for the remains of witness the mishaps of those who figured on the the mango-tree, shattered with ball and bullct, broad racquettes for the first time; at one moment, and near which the victor, in that bloody and one shoe overlapping the other, the wearer would most remarkable action, for some time stood. be rivetted to the spot, at the next he would be With the assist ance of the potail, or head man of on his knees, or prostrate on his face, among the the village, whose left arm had been hewn off by snow. However, with a little practice of lifting a Mahrattah sabre, the roots were found and a the front of the shoe well up and sliding the after- part dug up. part over the snow, the trick was found out. Turn we from the east to the land of the To get to our hunting-ground, we put our west again. traps on a sleigh, and tramped after it Next day at Knapps we had good sporttwo through the forest; occasionally stopping to hew more deer. We built up a fire to leeward of our way with the axe through the fallen trees, the runways, and resorted to it after the runs, to when the objectionable practice of pistolliug discuss our proceedings and thaw our fingers. with pocket flasks was resorted topour passer The third day w~ts not so goodKnapp, got le temps; nothing unsteadies the hand of a hunter one deer, but we got none; though we rematned so much as this, or renders him more susceptible from ten till dark on sentry at our posts, walking of cold, as we noticed in others, during aforced to and fro, or sketching, seated on a log. One journey in Russia some years before. of our hunters was disabled with a fall on his We took our stations at the runways; Tuttle knee, by hurriedly jumping out of a sleigh, which went round a hill barking like a dog; three does was beginning to go backward down a hill, soon appeared, and one fell. It was eveiiing, and when he thought it should be going up ; he was time to make camp in the snow. An old tree sent into town on straw in the bottom of a sleigh. was first felled as the back-log of our fire; Altogether we got five deer in four days hunt- then two crutches, seven feet out of the ground, ing, and were away six days; we returned rather were set up at the distance of twelve feet from triumphantly, with the legs of our venison stick- each other, and on them was laid a ridge pole; ing up about us in the sleigh, and we immedi- on it rested, at an angle of 450, other poles, and ately cut up and divided the spoil among the on them were carefully disposed hemlock messes and our friends, and were thus able to feathers, or small hranches of the hemlock-pine, gratify par la bouclte, those who had not the op- broken off, and laid like thatch on the sloping portunity to assist at the sport. roof of our wigwam; which was open in front to The last week of deer shooting, the end of the huge fire, and closed at the sides with boughs. January, and snow lying thick on the ground, we Lastly, the snow was shovelled away from our engaged in another hunting scrape, and this lair with wooden spades, formed with the axe, time on snow shoes. Bailie, now our chief and boughs were spread for our bed on the huntsman, and with another aid-de-camp, a royal ground. engineer, and a Highland officer, we took the After our evening meal of pork, biscuit, and roadthe two sleighs laden with ourselves and tea, and hearing strange tales from Nat Lake, with provent and munitions of the chase. We Indian Jim, and other rough woodsmen, who ac- slid along merrily to the music of the sleigh bells, companied us, we tried to sleep; it was not easy and felt all the exhilaration of the bracing air, at first, as the cold was 520 below the freezing- while the sight was gratified by each tree and point, which would rather have astonished a per- branch being crusted over with frosted silver, son first from the old country; at last we all be- consequent on hard and sudden frost succeeding a came unconsciotis under our buffaloes, save those damp fog. who tended the fire. To assist the warmth of the fur robes about our In the morning, after sundry saltatory niove- lower man, and vary our journey, a vigorous ments, running round the trees and springs in the snow-ball fight was maintained between the air, to supple our limbs, somewhat benumbed sleighs, but which the horses did not seem either with the intense cold, we broke our fast, by to understand or to relish. frizzling pieces of meat on the ends of sticks After a drive of seventeen miles we reached in our old Cape fashion of the Karbonatje, and as Tuttles place on Dog Lake. A small log house the sleigh could go no farther, we divided the received us, consisting of two rooms and a porch baggage, and each carrying a portion (the good-hu- in front, to assist in keeping out the cold; mored Sapper shouldering two thirty-five pound round us was an amphitheatre of ridges covered bags) we made tracks for Horseshoe Lake. with trees. It was a quiet, sheltered spot, by the This lake is a fine piece of water in the heart side of a forest lake; at the door, the children of the forest, with islets and rocky shores, arid threw crumbs to some familiar cross-bills, high trees about it; as we passed over it a wild- It was very interesting to notice these winter looking dog rose suddenly from a dark substance visitants from the solitudes of Hudsons Bay, and on the iceit was a deer, which had been run DEER SHOOTING IN CANADA WEST. down, lying fr~zen and half devoured; the dog would not allow itself to be caught, but snarled defiance and seemed an independent hunter. We took up our position for the night in a de- serted lumberers shanty of logs, a considerable part of the roof of this small square hut being wanting, to admit the passage of the smoke; we found in it some old mocassins, a hunters pot and axe, and two hind-quarters of deer. One of these was immediately thawed in a hole made in the ice of the lake, and roasted by means of a string hung from a beam, but during the opera- tion those who sat up to assist were done brown with the soi~oke, which filled the cabin and refused to make its escape. The cold was still intense, and several had to rub snow on frost- bites. Those who came for pleasure thought there must be some mistake ! Next morning we crossed over the ice on the lake, ascended, with some labor, a wooded ridge which ran along its eastern shores, and then posted ourselves at intervals near runways, indi- cated by our hunters, who then went to find and drive the deer. The cold was so great that it was dangerous to touch our guns with the unmittened hand ; the skin would have come off if we had done so; fortu- nately there was no wind, so that the thick grey frieze or blanket coats enabled us to hold out at our stations. I took with me a young forester to assist in looking out; two pair of eyes (and ears) are best on these occasions. We got behind a prostrate log, and looked to our caps; a slight grating sound was heard on the snow on our right, and a fine four-year-old buck bounded at a hand gallop past us. He was broadside on; we levelled and fired. A bullet took effect on his neck; he stumbled for- ward, and struggling for life the hunting knife put an end to his pain. The brawny Tuttle com- ing up, he cut branches and twisted them into withes, then tied the legs of the deer together, and placing the other end of the bush rope round his own body, he dragged him, over the snow to the wigwam, from thence the sleigh carried off the game. The youngest hunter of this party, a pleasant fellow and a keen sportsman, having previously seen so rapid a discharge of pistols and fear- ing the want of ammunition on the way home, had cunningly, as he thought, buried a favorite square bottle of rum in the snow near the wigwam, but not unobserved by our new acquaintances of Dog Lake, for when he now proceeded with glee to dig up his treasure, it was nowhere to be seen, and they all laughed ! A hunting scrape, as it is called in these western regions, is pleasant enough when you see deer and shoot them, but when, as sometimes happens, one stands on a runway, with the ther- mometer considerably minus zero, for half a dozen hours, without a chance of a shot, then might the exclamation of an old campaigning friend of mine be excused D the runway! I 11 give anybody leave to flog me with nettles, or furze bushes, or thorn bushes, if you ever catch me on a runway again in winter. I was fria horrid, could not light my pipe, pistol all fired off, and all 1 saw was a little bird ! We returned from whence we came, satisfied, in the mean time, with our experiences of the Canadian forest, to a glimpse of whose sylvan shades we have taken the liberty of introducing those who may desire to draw on the light deer- skin mocassin, to harden their limbs over the windfalls, or broil their rations at the camp fire, whilst practising the merie arte of wood-craft. PARIs ACADEMY OF SCIENCESThe last two sittings have not presented much interest. M. Muller, of Berlin, was elected corresponding mein- her of the section of zoology and comparative anatomy.A paper was received from M. Le- blanc, relative to some experiments with oxygen and litharge.In a former sitting of the academy, M. Millon gave an account of some experiments as to the influence exercised by very small quanti- ties of foreign substances, in the decomposition ef water by metals. M. Barreswill now explcies this influence in the following manner: We may admit, says he, that if zinc, tin, and lead, are attacked by hydrochloric acid with greater energy under the influence of only a few drops of a solution of the salt of platina, than without this influence, it is because the precipitated metal (platina) in contact with the precipitating metal, constitutes a true voltaic element. In fact, if in- stead of a solution of platina we make use of a piece of platina wire, and touch it with the metal to be dissolved, we obtain the same result. If arsenic accelerates, as we all know it does, the decomposition of water, by zinc, (a phenomenon analogous to the presence of platina,) whilst it checks the action of acids upon iron, this apparent anomaly arises from the fact of the deposit formed upon the zinc being porous, whilst that which covers the iron is impenetrable, like gilding. The proof of this is, that if we scrape a surface of iron thus arsenicated, and replace it in the same liquid. the reiiction becomes stronger than upon the same iron when entirely cleaned for the process. This protecting envelope is not necessarily metallic; it suffices for it to be impenetrable to liquid, adherent, and insoluble in the bath. Thus marble is not dissolved in concentrated nitric acid, because it covers itself with an insoluble coating of nitrate of limeA letter was received from M. Leopold Pills, announcing that he has in his hands some isolated crystals of amphigene and pyronene, which were thrown up from Vesuvius on the 22d of April last, a circumstance never before known, Some of the crystals are as large as hazel-nuts. The Coming of tite Mammoth; The Funeral of Time; and other P ~ By HENRY B. HIaSr. Mr. Hirst is an American, who, during the intervals of his preparation for the bar, amused himself by penning stanzas, which were pub- lished in different periodicals, and are here col- lected, with some apparently original verses. Taken altogether, the poems are occasional or miscellaneous; for though the volume contains several tales, they are brief and simple, little more than an incident told. The Coming of the Mammoth, an Indian tradition, versified, is not an exception to this remark : though the long- est poem in the hook, it is not the most successful. Mr. Hirst is not able to reach the grandeur of the primeval ages of the Red Indians, when the human race was threatened with extinction by the ravages of a giant mammoth, and the Deity himself had a struggle to destroy the creature of his own hands. The other poems are frequently pretty, or some- thing more; they are fluent, harn~onioushtmt echoes. The best, to our liking, are Isahelle and Geraldine ; the style of the last, as well as of some others, caught from Tennyson or Cole- ridge. 37 LIFE AT THE SOUTHA LYNCHERS OWN STORY. From the Picayune. LIFE AT THE SOUTHA LYNCHER S OWN STORY. BY T. M. FIELD. I never fight when angry, gentlemen. James Bowie. I GO hi for reprisals, gentlemenby the ~ter- nal heavens, reprisals! Seize on abolition prop- erty in New Orleans, Natchezwherever found. Seize on the Yankee scoundrels themselves, and exchange them for our own kidnapped slaves nigger for nigger, by thunder! This violent speech, delivered with savage en- ergy, by a thin, wiry-looking manone of a group collected around the stove in the social ball of a Mississippi steamboatwas received with a shont of applause hy all assembled. Good, by gracious ! That s the talk! You re a hoss, judge ! & c., followed the ex- plosion, like a rattle of small thunder, till an enormous figure, in a white hat and blanket coat yet, withal, a good-looking manarose slow- ly, stretched himself, and brushed hack the thick hair from his broad forehead, and then, in quiet, yet evidently pleased accents, said, with a smile Yes, judge, that s the talk, I believe! Gen- tlemen, we 11 take a little something. There was a general demonstration as if to rise, when the barkeeper, who made one of the crowd, and who appeared to be singularly im- pressed with the new doctrine of reprisals, begged the colonel would keep his seat, and drinks should be brought. Sit down, colonel, cried the energetic judge, emptying his mouth of a chew, by way of preparation for one more drink, and at the same time running his heels higher up the stove pipe Sit down; this thing has got to be fixed be- tween the north and the south, and a little talk about it wont be lost. All resumed their seats, the drinks were brought, and, by the spirit with which fresh cigars were lighted, it was evident that the subject had only got fairly under headway in the assembly. It was in the fall of 18. During the preceding summer, a couple of slaves had been seduced, and finally wrested from their masters by the Boston abolitionists, and the numerous southerners then at the north, filled with violent indignation, gave vent to the most furious threats and denuncia- tions. It is not intended here to argtme, or even comment upon the vexatious questions of slavery, but simply to sketch a few features and incidents of south-western character and adventure. It was a cold and rainy night; the steamer plunged along amidst dense shadows, in which the unpractised eye could not even distinguish an outline ; the main cabin was spread with mat- tresses, and the persons around the stove, the last up, deserting some half hour previously a couple of card tables, and falling upon an exciting topic, now promised to make a night of it. Yes, gentlemen, resumed the fiery judge, it may seem like a desperate doctrine, but what except desperation is left us l The crisis must come! My slave is my property, guaranteed to me by the constitution. If Massachusetts Sanc- tions the seizure of our niggers, who shall cry shame on Louisiana, should she retort upon their ships l Another cheer of approval further stimulated the speaker, who rushed into a vehement relation of several other abolition outrages, which led to certain stories of southern vengeance upon abo- lition agents; a sort of vindictive phrenzy spread among the company; fresh drinks were called in; Lynching was a theme upon which all were eloquent, and well known cases of punishment under that summary code were repeated, com- mented and gloated on with a savage eojoyment which promised a rough fate for the next tract dis- tributor which might be caught by any of the party. During this time the colonel, though evidently of kindred sentiments with the company, had pre- served his equanimity; he smoked his cigar de- liberately, listened to the indifferent speakers with an assenting smile, or, may be, a Just so, doc- tor, or a Quite correct, gentlemen ; but, finally, after the relation of a retaliating cal)ture and execution under horribly exciting circumn- stances, he, in mild tones, and with an aspect that indicated anything but ferocity, signified his itmtention to relate a little circumstance himself. Im not a passionate man, gentlemen, said he, drawing up his leg slowly, and adjusting his vast bulk in the chair; I m rather a calm man, and apt to bear putting upon, rather, but I go in for Lynch law, some, for all that. 1 had a little case of my own with one of those abolition gentle- men once, and I acted up to the law fullyon my honor 1 did ,gentlemen. I am a family man, gen- tlemenand a friend who comes to see me, or a stranger wishing to put up, if an honest-looking white man, always finds my house his homne while in it. I keep servants to wait on them, purposelyI do,.gentlemen, and treachery under such circumstances is a mean thin cit s not a white mans act, gentlemen. An emphatic assent was expresssd on all hands. Well, I lost two boys, valuable ser- vants, gentlemen, by entertaining wolves in sheeps clothing, and I determined that the next one who called should be punished some, and I did nt wait long, for, somehow, they had got the hang of my house, gentlemen, and took the ad- vantage of my temper. A very polite stranger, with his wife and a dearborn, came along; he had something, however, the matter with his eyes when I looked at him; and so I put my own servant, Jakea very good boy, gentlemena perfect WHIYE MAN, and whom I never said a cross word to in my lifeI put Jake to tend on them ; and sure enough, after I was in bed, back came the boy to say that the gentlemmian had of- fered to rim off! Well, I told Jake to go with himfirst leaving word which way he was to travel, and then I went to sleep. In the morning, Jakes wifea decent wench, gentlemena per- fect ladycame to tell me all about the arrange- ment; so taking my overseer with me, I started after timem. I should THINK so! Wake snakes! Go ahead, judge ! A dozen eager exclama- tions evinced the zest with which the climax of the story was expected. The narrator, how- ever, proceeded with a sang froid that was inimi- table. I had nt gone but a few miles, when back comes Jake, meeting me. rrhe fox, gentlememm, had smelt a trap and PUT, with his wife and wagon, leaving time boy to take care of himself. Of course I did nt drop the matter, but followed 38 LIFE AT THE SOUTHA LYNCHER~ S OWN STORY. ~39 up and soon got on trail. I tracked him back a good many miles from the river, hut missed him near a lake which was back of our plantation, and lo~t a good deal of time. Towards afternoon, re- turning by another road towards the river, be- tween the bayou and Dr. Bolls new clearing, I heard voices, and in a minute drove right upto a crowd of neighbors, who had got my visitor, his wife, and his dearborn right in the middle of them! The fact is, gentlemen, one or two of them bad got notice that there were wolves about, and were on the lookout for varmint as my ac- quaintance drove in among them. Ha! ha! ha! A general chuckle of de- light was succeeded by a grin of anticipation. I found my friend, gentlemen, talking right and left, like a lawyer, making everything straight and agreeable, when suddenly he caught sight of me, in the next moment of Jake; and, gentle- men, if ever a man gave up the ghost before the breath was out of him, it was that fellow; his eves glazed ; a dark circle settled round them, while his lower lip, blue and quivering as the blood left it, after making an effort, as it wer~, to recall the relaxed jaw to its duty, finally fell with it; and there the man sat, staring at me, motionless, with the exception of his throat, which worked spasmodically in the effort to sup- ply itself with moisture from the parched mouth. Gentlemen, he was the picture of a small rascal caught in a full snap! I first blushed that he was a white man, and then next that he was an American! American hll ! interrupted one of the pilots of the boat, who, perched upon a pile of trunks, had hitherto said nothing; he was a dd Yan- kee, that s what he was ! This distinction was recognized with great applause, of course. The colonel resumed: There was just about a tolerable court on the spot, gentlemen, and it was agreed to try the fel- low right thar. There was evidence besides mine, for one man had followed him up along the plantations for twenty miles; but yet the woman kinder stood between him and his due, and I thought I would question her too. She was young, gentlemen, with a simple lookhad evi- dently neither the heart nor the wit of a woman about her, and at my first questionsomething put it into my head Are you married to this man 1 she burst into tears,and sobbed as if her heart, would break. I had him taken away at once, and out it all camewith no thought of injuring her companion though ; it was the simple impulse to relieve ~ timid mind by confession. She was not his wife. She had taught school in Tennessee, where this man saw her, and first persuading her to aid him in the circulation of abolition tracts, finally seduced and carried her to New Orleans., where, growing more bold as he extended his acquaintance with the country, he bad made another arrangement with the society one of greater profit as of greater risknamely, to run off negroes from the plantations along the coast. Gentlemen, this is a mighty long story bar-keeper Oh, go, no ! Go ahead, colonel. Drinks at the moment were declined, but the shorter ope- ration of taking a fresh chew by way of filling up the pause. I had another question to ask the woman. Do you love this man P said I. The poor crea- ture wept worse than ever, gentlemen ; sh~ said her only desire was to go to some friends in Illi- nois, where she hoped to be welcome and to get along more wisely. He abuses you, then, said I. Oh, said she, I would nt mind that, if I thought he would rit kill me. In short, as I hope to live a mild and considerate citizen, gentlenen, that livid, cowardly scoundrel had, (luring my pursuit of him, after threatening his victimnow his burtbentill she was nearly lifeless, actually attempted to drown hr in the swamp! I need nt tell you, gentlemen, how unanimous the verdict was in this case ; the woman, for whom we sub- sequently made up a subscription, was moved off towards the nearest house: the man, a mighty small figure, anyhoxv, shronk to half his natural size ; discolored as if the last corrupting change had anticipated the grave; his arms bound behind his backand shivering on the ground, too spent to exhibit a spasmwith the rein which lie had lately held in his hand buckled around his neck for a halterlike a thing too abject even to hang awaited the selection of a crotch for him to swing froni. It may be supposed that the picture, the horrid features of which ~vere thus in detail described, had gradually excited the phlegmatic limner; nut at all! His sentences swelled, not from the mere impetuous gathering of ideas, but, as it seemed, from a good-natured desire to make the story as interesting as possible to his hearers, while it in no respect exhibited nervoosness,there was not a flash of passion during the whole narration. This was not the case with the bearers, though. The eyes of the judge seemed bursting from his head in eager expectation, while the chewing operation on his part was for a moment sus- pended; others were like him; a few again, by an eager but painful contraction of the bro~vs, be- trayed a softer natureat any rate, more sensitive nerves. Yes, gentlemen, there was a moments delay in choosing a limb; in the mean time, by way of hanging the culprit with a little life in him, some one had given him a mouthful of whisky, when, recovering his tongue, he began to beg; from begging, gentlemen, he gut to screaming; blood actually trickled from his straining eyes, and it was getting unpleasantno dignity about it An idea struck me! I just climbed up, hand over hand, a pretty stout sapling close by me Im a heavy man, gentlemen, and, as I mounted over, the young tree caine with mebent like a fishing rod rhere was a breathless silence in the company; an enormous roach, peeping from a crack in the panelling, could hardly have crossed without being heard, while each eye was riveted horribly upon the speaker. The culprit, gentlemen, took the idea sooner than any of the others, and his shrieks and ravings were dreadfulreally dreadful ! Another climbed after me, and, with the added weight, down we both came, half hid amongst the high boughs of the top, and the loose end of the rein was made fast in a second. One instant, for Gods sake! I ye got children! For the sake of my soul! half tittered scream, gentlemen, mingled with the rush of the boughs, as we dropped to the ground, and the nigger thief, with a jerk that snapped his neck, flew into the air, describing the half circle as spanned by his halter, and swinging back to us again from the other side ! A long breath was drawn by the whole cam- SELLING A WIFE. pany. The judge was the first to break the succeeding pause. XVeIl, that was an idea! We II drink on that, gentlemen, by thunder ! All moved to the barsome two or three si- lently, the others as to the mere change of enjoy- ment. Colonel, cried the judge, name your liquorthat was an idea! Yes ! exclaimed another, with no less en- thusiasm, a firstrate idea A splendid idea U A glorious idea !~ was the general chorus. Yes, gentlemen, complacently observed the giant, as he raised his glass, I think myself that it was a sweet idea ! SELLING A WIFE. A CORRESPONDENT of the New York Commer- cial, giving to that journal some interesting Sketches of the Midland Counties of England, introduces the follo~ving l)ictnre of a scene in Staf- fordshire amongst the local peasantry, whose con- dition would seem from the sketch to be much de- based and degraded: The town crier, in front of a dirty tavern, rings his bell and gives notice that a womanand her little babbyxvill be offered for salein the market placethis afternoonat four & clockhy her husbandMoses Slatterotherwies Rough Moey. A universal roar of laughter followed this an- nouncement, and all the people answered, hurrah! The women in the street bent double in their con- vulsions of merriment, and the shopkeepers col- lected in twos and threes, congratulated each other on the promised scene, and leaving their shops to the care of their apprentices, retired to the tavern, to drink success to Rough Moey. The crier went to different parts of the town, to make his announcement, and a group of ragged children fol- lowed him. On came the crowd with a hurricane of hurras, as they neared the market place; in the centre three or four fellows with sticks kept back the eager crowd from crushing upon a man, woman, and infantthe lions of the day! The man was a stout, burly fellow, of about forty-five or fifty: his face had been originally deeply marked with small pox, but the smaller im- press of the disease had been literally ploughed out by deep blue furrows, which the horrible fire- damp had left in his face and neck. He had lost one eye, and a wooden stnmp supplied the place of his right leg. The expression of his features was that of a fiend, a brutal animal fiend. The woman ~vas much younger, probably about twenty-three, with as much good looks as was compatible with her slavish occupation in life; a young child of about a year old ~vas in her arms, quite undisturbed by the horrid uproar around. A common hempen halter was put loosely around her neck, the end of which was held by her husband; she was evidently in her best attire; her face was washed, leaving a boundary line of coal dust ex- tending along the edge of the lower jaw, and her hair was gathered up into a knot behind, confined by a blue ribbon, which floated in gallant stream- ers. If one might judge from her appearance, her situation was anything but unpleasant to her feel- ings, and in reply to the encouraging exclamation of Neer mind, Sal! keep up ye artnever say die ! & c., she replied with a merry laugh, and assured them that she would be glad to get rid of the old rascal ; that it sarved her right for marrying such a good-for-nothing scoundrel. At length they arrived at the centre of the market placesome ale was sent for; all the fiddlers and all the hurdy-gurdies were pressed into service, and all struck up in simultaneous discord, before the business was entered upon. After all these preparations were concluded, an inverted tub was brought, on which the woman stood, still holding her child. Another was pro- vided for time auctioneer-husband; a ring was cleared, by some stout fellows with sticks, and the business of the sale commenced. Perhaps some people may shake their heads in doubt at the scene I am attempting to describe. All I can say in answer isI saw it; and it was not the first tinie I had looked on such a scene. I know the law does not allow it, but I saw it done, and am not the apologist, either of the law or the people. I learned, upon inquiry, that jealousy was the cause of the present auction, as it always is of similar transactions. That Rough Moey, in his green old age, had given a pit wench a new gown, and other articles of dress, with a fortnights treat, to marry him; that she had afterwards transferred her affections to a young collier, upon which Moey became jealous and beat her; beating, however, did not cure love, but only awakened thoughts of vengeance. She watched her oppor- tunity, and finding him one night very drunk, she gently unstrapped and removed his wooden leg and thrashed him to her hearts content; whereupon Moey, kno~ving perhaps that love is strong as death, became tired of keeping a woman, the affections of whose young and delicate heart were absorbed by another, and adopted the present mode of procedure, as the only recognized legal method, with which he was cognizant, of transferring her to her admirer. Laerdies and gentlemen, said Moey upon his tub, holding a quart pot in one hand and the halter in the other, and winking with his remaining eye; Laerdies and gentlemen, crc s all your good healths. He took a long, long draught, then in- verted the pot, to show that it was empty, and said Ah-h-h! About one hundred and fifty colliers laughed and said, Thank thee, Moey ! and the same number of women said, Well done, old lad! A young man who was evimlently to be the pur- chaser, supplied the wife with, and she kept up, a running fire of short sentences with the women around. Notwithstanding this bravado, I could see her eyes filled with tears, and her heart was beating fiercely. Her voice faltered at last, and giving her child to the young man, she sat down on the tub, buried her face in her hands and wept bitterly. All laughing suddenly ceased; here was no more joking, but a clamor of abuse that would have overwhelmed Babel, the women, old and young, poured upon Moey. It was very contagious, that feeling of indignation, when once raised, and the mens brows began to contract, when the pur- chaser expectant said, in a rather savage voice, Come, now, old chap; let a a done wi this foolery; go on Laerdies and gentlemen, said Moey, we all on us knows how the matter stands; it canna be helped, so we need nt be so savage about it. Then fortifying himself with another drink, and winking hideously with his remaining eye, he con- 40 THE SONG OF STEAM. 41 tinued Laerdies and gentlemen, I ax lafe to op- l)OS~ to yer notice a very honsome young ooman an a noice little baby, which either belongs to me or somebody else. Here was a general laugh, and good humor was gaining the ascendant. Her s a good cratur, continued Moey, and goes pretty well in arness, with a little flogging. Her can cook a sheeps head like a Christian, and mak broth like as good as Lord Dartmouth. Her can carry a hundred and a half o coals from the pit for three miles; her can sell it well, and l)ut it down her throat in three minits. A general laugh of applause followed this, and the grateful audience pressed more drink on the orator. Now, my lads, continued Moey, roll up and bid spirited ; it s all right, according to law; I brot her thron oh the turnpike, and paid the mon; I brot her withaa halter, an I had her cried ; so there s nothing to pay, and the law consarn s all right; so if yer gie me enough for the ooman I gie yer the young kid into the bargain. Now gentlemen! who bids? Goin, goin, goin, I cant relaycant dwell on this lot as the auctioneer says.~~ The orator ceased, and great cheering fol- lowed his speech. Eighteen pence, cried a voice from the cro~vd. Eighteen pence ! re- peated Morey, only eighteen pence for a full- grown young unman! why youd have to pay the parson seven and six for marrying yer ! an here 5 a wife ready made to yer hands for eighteen pence, eh! who bids B I 11 gie ye half a crown, old rough un, said the young man, who they all knew would he the purchaser. I 11 tell thee wot, Jack, said Moey, if theet make it up three gallons o drink, her s thine; I 11 ax thee naught for the baby, and the baby and the halter s worth a quart. Come, say six shillin ! After a little chaffin about the price, the young man agreed to pay for three gallons of ale; which it was stipulated was to be had forth- with, and in which himself, his newly bought wife and one or two friends were to participate. The bargain being concluded the halter was placed in the young mans hand, and the young woman received the congratulations of numerous dingy matrons; she wiped her eyes, and smiled cheerfully; her new husband impressed a sharp barking kiss on her cheek, by way of ratifying the agreement; and amid shouts and laughter the mob broke up and dispersed; the new wedding party going, I proceeded to my inn. THE SONG OF STEAM. BY G. W. cUTTER. HARNEss me down with your iron bands, Be sure of your curb and rein; For I scorn the power of your puny hands As the tempest scorns a chain. How I laughed as I lay concealed from sight For many a countless hour, At the childish boast of human might, And the pride of human power. When I saw an army upon the land, A navy upon the seas, Creeping along a snail-like band, Or waiting the wayward breeze; When I marked the peasant faintly reel With the toil which he daily bore, As he feebly turned the tardy wheel, Or tugged at the weary oar; LXXIII. LiVING AGE. VOL. VII. 3 When I measured the panting coursers speed, The flight of the courier dove, As they bore the law a king decreed, Or the lines of impatient love I could not but think how the world would feel, As these were outstripped afar, When I should be bound to the rushing keel, Or chained to the flying car. Ha! ha! ha! they found me at last, They invited me forth at length, And I rushed to my throne with thunder blast, And laughed in my iron strength. Oh! then ye saw a wondrous change On the earth and the ocean wide, Where now my fiery armies range, Nor wait for wind or tide. Hurrah! hurrah! the waters oer, The mountains steep decline, Timespacehave yielded to my power The world! the world is mine! The rivers, the sun hath earliest blest, Or those where his beams decline; The giant streams of the queenly West, Or the orient floods divine. The ocean pales whereer I sweep, To hear my strength rejoice, And the monsters of the briny deep Cower, trembling at my voice. I carry the wealth and the lord of earth, The thoughts of his god-like mind, The wind lags after my flying forth, The lightning is left behind. In the darksome depths of the fathomless mine My tiresome arm doth play, Where the rocks never saw the sun decline, Or the dawn of the glorious day. I bring earths glittering jewels up From the hidden cave below, And I make the fountains granite cup With a crystal gush overflow. I blow the bellows, I forge the steel In all the shops of trade; I hammer the ore and turn the wheel, Where my arms of strength are made; I manage the furnace, the mill, the mint; I carry, I spin, I weave; And all my doings I put into print, On every Saturday eve. I ye no muscle to weary, no breast to decay, No bones to be laid on the shelf, And soon I intend you may go and play, While I manage this world by myself. But harness me down with your iron bands, Be sure of your curb and rein, For I scorn the strength of your puny hands As the tempest scorns a chain. Licking Valley Register. CHEERFULNESS. Cheerfulness and festival spirit fills the soul full of harmony; it composes music for churches and hearts; it makes and publishes glorifi-- cations of God; it produces thankfulness, and serves. the ends of charity; and when the oil of gladness. runs over, it makes bright and tall emissions of light and holy fires, reaching up to a cloud, and making joy round about: and therefore, since it is so inno-- cent, and may be so pious and full of advantage, whatsoever can innocently minister to this joy does set forward the work of religion and charity.Jerem~t Taylor. USE 01 TUE LEAGTJEPUNCH. IJSE OF THE LEAGUE. WHATEVER may be thought of the measures and movements of the League, it is at least likely to be the beginning of a mercantile party advocat- ing more comprehensive views than any the nation has yet seen. My more genteel friend, Mr. Bright, as Mr. Cobden calls him, may be a wor- thy antagonist of Mr. Hudson ; hot Mr. Cobden himself belongs to a higher class. Mercantile politicians have hitherto been considered identical with advocates of a special interest. Your mer- chant in parliament was usually a successful trader, whose wealth gave him influence, and who from his experience was heard with respect on facts lying within his own sphere, but from whom no one expected sound views on general principles. The mercantile member of parliament was an oracle to all parties on the actual profit and loss of the shipping or any other branch of trade, and an implicit follower of the political leaders with whose party he had been connected by birth or other accident. He never aspired to develop a theory of trade, or look upon the commerce of the empire as an organic whole. He stuck to his own line of business, and sought to win favors and conces- sions for it by making himself useful to his party. Ricardo the First was almost a solitary exception to this general character. But the mercantile politicians of the League, be their theory right or wrong, regard the whole commerce, and indeed the whole industry of the nation, as an organic whole. They do not ask for favors to one interest at the expense of another. They announce a general law which they assert regulates all industrial and commercial enterprise; and from this general law they endeavor to deduce a system of commercial policy that will give fair play to all. They have been forced to take this high ground by the necessity under which they ~felt themselves at the outset of disclaiming con- nexion with any political party. Yet the neces- sity of enlisting a large body of supporters, and the narrowing influence of an association, may have in part counteracted the effects of this isolation from party; which, moreover, has not always been very faithfully carried into effect. The League ~having one special avowed object, its opinions on every other question have been cut and shaped with care so as to present not even the appearance of discordance with those which they avow with reference to the corn-trade. Again, the League, like every other association, is composed of much sincere enthusiasm, (always respectable,) a few good heads and energetic characters, and an im- mense quantity of rubbish. These influences bias the politicians of the Leagueprevent them from bringing to the investigation of every commercial question that arises minds sufficiently courageous and independent to confess mistakes and oblige them at times to adopt arguments and courses of action which their better judgment and taste would reject, lest they should offend some of their parti- sans. Prom these deteriorating influences, how- ever, time will emancipate the politicians of the League school; experience teaching them the necessity of throwing aside arguments which only expose them to triumphant rejoinders, and desist- ing from tricks of policy which only alienate honest men. And, on the other hand, their very adversaries will be obliged, in self-defence, to adopt those habits of comprehensive investigation and logical argument which are the proper sources of the Leagues strength, wherever it is strong; for dialecticians of this hi,,b class can be success- fully encountered by none but kindred spirits. The contending parties will educate each other, and strike out truth between them. The Leagues hundred thousand pounds, and even its associated members, are matters of com- paratively little moment. There it isa fact, great or little. It will survive till its work i~ accomplished, whatever attacks may be made upon it; and it will not survive much longer, although desperate efforts will be made to give it a prolonged vampyre-like existence by the paid agency it has called into being. But the more comprehensive and systematic method of discuss- ing questions of commercial policy, which it has been such a powerful instrument in extending from makers of books and members of political economy clubs to the great body of the people, will not pass away. These controversies will in future be more and more conducted in tIme spirit of the Cobdens and Barklies, and less in that of the Hudsons and Brights.Spectator, 16 Aug. PUNCH. THE TREASURES OF THE nEEP. THE following intelligencequoted from the Hampshire Telegraphcomes from free-hearted, liberty-loving America By a private letter which has reached us from Gibraltar, we are informed, upon good authority, that 20,000 slave shackles, for men, women, and childrenin all fourteen cart-loadshave been fished up from the wreck of the American war- steamer, Missouri, lately burnt at that port. Now, as the timbers and other relics of our Royal George have been worked into boxes and nick-nacks, we propose to Americansthe traders of the human shambles, the money-seeking breed- ers of Gods likeness in ebony that they should turn the penny with these 20,000 slave shackles. If wrought into utensils for domestic use, or what would still be better, turned into ornaments for the women of America, they would endear to them that sweet principle ~vhich coins money from the marrow and the bones of man. Some of these shackles might also be manufactured into steel clasps for the Bibles of the very religious breeders of the black. is [We presume that this story about the shackles entirely untruebut think it ought to be inves- tigated, and contradicted by authority.Living Age.] THE STATE OF THE ROYAL NURSERY. THE venerable Homer, they say, sometimes nods; but our equally venerable laureat seems to be always snoring. Nevertheless, we cannot help regretting that he should have missed many good chances of coming before the public; among others, that furnished by the Queens Visit to Germany. We consider that in the composition of the following lines, in connection with that event, we are absolutely doing his work for him, and we accordingly expect him to bestow a leaf from his chaplet on us, if not to stand a bottle of his official Malmsey. With this brief preface introduce we our more brief poem; to wit 42 PUNCH. SPECULATION.A SONNET OF THE PALACE. I wonder what the royal children do, Now that their gracious parents are away; Whether like mice, when puss is out, they play, And turn their princely nursery upside down; Presuming on the absence of the crown, Frisking and frolicking, with gambols gay, And shouting Whoop and Hip, hip, hip, hooray ! To use a common phrasetill all is blue? For the blood royal, sure, is human still; And well we know what children are about, What time the darlings know their mother s out. But whither wanders my presumptuous quill? Ha~ly, whilst thus I build my royal rhyme, The babes august are crying all the time. TO SIR E. BULWER LYTTON, BART. Sta,You dedicate the last edition of your Zanoni to Gibson the sculptor, in these words: I, artist in words, dedicate to you, artist whose ideas speak in marble, this well-loved work of my matured manhood. I love it not the less because it has been little understood, and superficially judged, by the common herd. It was not meant for them. Now, Sir Edward, this is not fair to the circu- lating libraries. Its all very well to talk of the common herd, and say it was not meant for them, with a curl of your fine lip; but you know it was meant for everybody who could pay threepeuce for a perusal of the volumesand very popular it has been, especially with ladies-maids and milliners. You call yourself artist in words ; this is not original. There is a man in Oxford Street who calls himself artist in hair, and you ought, in justice, to dedicate your next novel to him. There is an analogy between your work and his, which I cant discover between yours and Gib- sons. His material is as flimsy, his workmanship as dexterous, as your own. He will spin you a land- scape or a cipher, a memento mon or a motto, with equal facilityand it shall be but hair after all. So you, Sir Edward, have spun for us a senti- mental highwayman, a high-so uled felon, a specu- lative seducer, a philosophic dandy, and yet the stuff of all was one and the same self, Sir Edxvard, self. Why are you always complaining? The pub- lic read your novels ; the publishers pay for them: you are a lion at dinners, a thing to point at in the streets. What would man have more? It is all very well to put off a clever pinchbeck imitation for toldwe grant the skill of the workmanship and the workmanbut it is too bad to insist on our acknowledging it to be genuine gold, and to call us common herd, when we give you a sturdy no. Forgive your friendly monitor for the tone he has taken towards you. We have no objection to your considering yourself ill-used; but you become a bore when you are always dinning it in our ears. A play of yours is successfulwe are a dis- criminating public. Your next play is damned we are a common herd. Your Pilgrims of the Rhine makes a hit in Germany; you dedicate one edition to the German public, as philosophical critics, or something of the sort. You must not be allowed to fancy you hold the scales quite so firmly and uncontestedly ; that your 43 works are the gauge and test of artistic judgment and taste, in this way; and it is to remind you of this, that we have taken up our pen, with which, nevertheless, we subscribe ourselves, Your admirer (within limits,) PUNCH. PUNCH ON THE SILEwORN. So dazzling is the magnificence of the ladies dresses at the balls and assemblies of the nubility and gentry, that it is but a safe precaution, on entering one, to put on a pair of green spectacles. The finery, however, in a short time becomes tolerable; and then the now thinking mind in- quires, what did it cost? We refer that question, in a financial sense, to the lordsand gentlemen whom it concerns, and who will discuss it, no doubt, with a due proportion of groans. Fine fashions cost something more than fine fortunes. Silks, it is well known, cannot be produced with- out silkworms; but it is not known as generally that their making up involves the sacrifice of num- bers of those poor things. The silkworms we allude to possess legs and arms, which are not, however, by any means n the condition in which arms and legs ought to be. These said silkworms are very generally kept shut up in close, ill-aired cages, at work, not only from morning to night, but also from morning to morn- ing, in consequence of which they are mostly very sickly, and numbers of them are continually dying off. Need we say that our silkworms are the creatures commonly known as needlewomen? Now the disease most incidental and most fatal to these human silkworms is consumption. It is a shocking, though very common, occurrence, to hear of a young lady destroyed in her prime by the malady just mentioned; whose origin it is no less common to hear ascribed to a cold caught at a ball. Now, as the atmosphere of Almacks is much more consumptive than that of Billingsgame, and as dances in the open air on a village green are considerably less dangerous than at the Hano- ver Square Rooms, we have our doubts about the connection of the disease, in such cases, with cold. The question has been mooted, whether con- sumption is contagious. We do not mean to assert that it is ; and we would not frighten any- body, especially a sensitive young lady, or her anxious mamma, unnecessarily ; but we do declare that we should not, were it consistent with our sex, at all like to be in the frocks of those whose dresses have been worked by consumptive fingers. We shall say no more on this subject, except that we hope we have now thrown out a little hint, which may induce those for whom it is intended to interest themselves, for their own sakes, in behalf of the over-worked silk- worms. SONG OF THE soanin SWEETHEART. I loved thee for thy money, For wealth, they said, was thine; But, finding thou hast none, I Thy heart and hand resign. Think not I wish to pain thee, Deem not I use thee ill I like thee ;but maintain thee, I neither can nor will. I thought thee quite a treasure A boni2 fide sum, 44 And dreamt of joy and pleasure That never were to come The housethe houndsthe horses Thy fortune would allow; The winesthe dozen courses ; That dream is over now! Not for thy charms I wooed thee, Though thou xvast passing fair; Not for thy mind I sued thee, Though stored with talents rare: Thine income t was that caught me For that I held thee dear; I trusted thou dst have brought me Five thousand pounds a year. That hope, alas! is blighted, rphereon I will not dwell; I should have been delighted To wed theebut, farewell! My feelings let me smother, Hard though the struggle be, And try and find another, Rich as I fancied thee. PUNCH 5 aEoENcY. IETRODUcTION. The only man of any mark In all the town remaining, I sauntered in St. James Park, And watched the daylight waning. The Speakers lips, I said, are sealed, They ye shut up both the houses; Sir Robert s gone to Turnabout field, Sir James to shoot the grouses. The queen and all the court are out In Germany and Flanders, And, happy midst his native kraut, My princely Albert wanders. No more the dumpy palace arch The royal standard graces Alone, upon his lonely march, The yawning sentry paces. Beneath an elm-tree, on a bank, I mused, (for tired my hunch was,) And there in slumber soft I sank, And this the dream of Punch was. THE DREAM. I dreamed it was a chair of gold, The grassy bank I sat on; I dreamed Saint Edwards sceptre old I wielded for a baton. Men crowded to my throne, the elm, In reverend allegiance; And Punch was published through the realm, The jolliest of regents. Back came the ministerial rout From touring and carousiug; Back came Sir Bob from Turnabout, And back Sir James from grousing. I turned upon a scornful heel, When Graham asked my favor; I sternly banished Bobby Peel To Turnabout forever. To courtly Aberdeen, I sent A mission influential, To serve the Yankee President As Flnnky Confidential. Lord Brougham and Vaux in banishment I ordered to old Reekie, PUNCH. And Stanley to New Zealand went Ambassador to Heki. And Kelly, whom the world assails, But whom the bar takes fame from, I made Lord Viscount New South Wales Where poor John Tawell came from. And then I asked his grace, the duke, What ministers to go to, On which he generously took The cabinet in tote. O then! all other reigns which shine Upon our page domestic, Were mean and dim compared to mine, That regency majestic. A nd ages hence the English realm Shall tell the wondrous legend Of Punch when at the nations helm, Her Majesty~s high regent. Around my empires wide frontier No greedy bully swaggered, Nor swindling Yankee buccaneer, Nor savage Gallie braggart. For threats and arms were flung aside, And war-ships turned to traders, And all our ports were opened wide, To welcome the invaders. At home the cottier coursed his hare, Beside the duke his neighbor; The weaver got his living fair For his ten hours of labor. And every man without employ Got beefnot bonesto feed on, And every little working boy His page of Punch could read on. And Irishmen learned common sense, And prudence brought them riches; Repeal ceased pilfering for pence In Paddys mended breeches. Old Dan was growu~too rich to beg, And in a union jolly I linked Mac Hale with Tresham Gregg, And Beresford with Crolly. Then gentlemen might earn their bread, And think there was no shame in t; And at my court might hold their head Like any duke or dame in t. A duchess and her governess The same quadrille I clapt in; I asked old Wellington to mess, And meet a half-pay captain. The bar and press I reconciled (They thanked me one and all for t,) Benignantly the Thunderer smiled On Mr. Sergeant Talfourd * * * I know not where my fancy strayed, My dream grew wilderbolder When suddenly a hand was laid Full roughly on my shoulder. It was the guardian of the park The sun was sunk in heaven; Git up, says he, it s after dark, We shuts at half past seven. And so I rose and shook myself, And, satiatus ludi, Resigned the crown to Royal Guelph, And went to tea to Judy. LETTER FROM MR. WALSH. 45 From the National Intelligencer. PARTS OF A LETTER FROM MR. WALSH. PARIs, August 20, 1845. Tuz London Globe of the 18th instant has an editorial article in which it endeavors to show that the Americans would commit enormous folly in fighting for Oregon; that they should be satisfied with continuing to conquer Nature within their already too ample field. The Paris Si~cle of this morning gives an edi- torial column and a half, entitled England and the United States. According to this journal the United States may be incited by their success in the instances of Louisiana, Florida, and Texas, to inordinate territorial cupidity: England is pre- paring to arrest their further aggrandizement by war: her fleets are re~irganized and exercised with this view; she is making all read~t: Sir Robert Peel involved France in the Texas qtiestion, but cannot venture to require of M. Guizot more than neutrality in the event of a rupture: M. Guizot will remain neutral; but France might join the United States without fearing a coalition in the north: the continental po~vers would not again league with England; France has the frames (cadres) for an artny of five hundred thousand men ; she has a large and well-appointed fleet; Paris is impregnably fortified; Great Britain might be revolutionized, and so forth. It is written from Constantinople that the Otto- man Porte is vexed and uneasy at the visit of the Duke of Montpensier, Louis Philippes youngest son, to Mehemet Ali in Egypt. The old entente cordiale between the French government and the viceroy is not forgotten. Lamartines History of the Girondins will soon he issued. The legitimist journal La France, of this day, has an official communication from Froshsdorf, near Vienna, stating that the royal (old Bourbon) family are there in perfect healthy and that the court of Austria is very attentive to its relatives~ particularly to the Count de Chambord, (Duke de Bordeaux,) who has been formally invited to the palace of Schcenbrunn. The only new phasis in the affairs of Ireland is the great Protestant Meeting and Demonstration at Enniskillen. The Dublin Mail (Orange organ) promised the presence of 150,000 Orangemen; but the number on the ground doe,s not seem to have surpassed twelve or fourteen thousand. Some lords and ladies appeared. The speakers declared that the Irish Protestants were able and resolved to defend themselves; all they asked was not to ha betrayed by the British government. The London Globe (whig) of the 16th observes: If the people of Ireland could but agree among them- selves about what is required to remove the miseries of their condition, it would much simplify the difficult problem how that country should be dealt with by the imperial parliament and execu- tive. It is more likely that the Maronites and Druses will agree, concerning the true policy and action of the Ottoman Porte, than the Repealers and the Orangemen in any point whatever. La Presse mentions the project of a French society for the prevention of cruelty to animals. We are, says the Presse, the most inhuman people on earth towards our domestic animals. The prevention of cruelty would conduce to the improvement of breeds. The French, however, are cruel only to animals of burden and draught; they are exceedingly fond and tender of their dogs and cats, monkeys and parrots. A treaty of commerce has been concluded be- tween France and New Grenada, upon the prin- ciple of reciprocity. The Journal des D6bats, of this day, commends the treaty, the direct trade of France with that republic being now of the value of four millions of francs; and the D~bats adds: We must not, in fine, forget that it is on the territory of that state the Isthmus of Panama is to open a new pass for navigation into the seas of Oceania, and that those regions cannot fail to be- come the centre of a very active commerce. These considerations indicate the importance of the con- ventions which we have successively formed with Venezuela, the Equador, Te as! and New Gre- nada. The Jews of P ris make an appeal, through the press, to the good intentions and magnanimity of the Emperor Nicholas in behalf of their oppressed brethren in Russia. The National of this day devotes half of its first page to the impolicy of the French interposition in the Texas case, and to the allegation of the Lon- don Times that Mr. King and Mr. Calhoun attributed to Louis Philippe and M. Guizot assur- ances which were never uttered. The National expected that the Paris ministerial journals would reprove the Times and defend the veracity of the American functionaries. It challenges the Lon- don reviler to adduce some proof of the imputation of falsehood. Assuredly, Mr. King neither mis- understood nor misreported either the monarch or his minister. A translation of General Jacksons will is going the rounds of the French press. The Vienna faculty of physic have instituted a formal inquiry into animal magnetism, with a view to grant or refuse license to practise the art. For several months past Mount Vesuvius has cast up flames, and occasionally lava; of late it has afforded some new and very curious pheno- inena of picturesque light. The private galleries of paintings in this capital are described in a series of femeilletons of the Con- stitutionnel. There are some rich and rare col- lections, which few persons see; but, on the whole, London is more fortunate, and her treasures of the kind more accessible. The London Sun. a paper of high pretensions and rank, relates that a body of fifty slaves left Louisiana with the intention of fighting their way into Pennsylvania! The same geographical oracle has four or five essays to demonstrate the unsound- ness and futility of Mr. Greenhows American claims to Oregon.Colburns United Service Magazine, for this month, comprises an article under the title New Albion, alias Oregon. Its purport is a refutation of the American arguments. If Oregon must go by another name, New & lum- bia would answer as well as New Al/Hon. Let me offer you a pregnant quotation from the elaborate article Although the river Oregon has long since furnished an outlet for the furs of the North- western Company, little has been known or said about this territory in England; many were igno- rant even of its name, although at a period perhaps not very distant, it may take a prominent part in the affairs of the world. The opening of the east- ern ports of China must already have given it im- portance, which will be vastly increased, should a 16 LETTER FROM MR. WALSH~ ship canal, or even a railroad, be brought into rovia with disparaging opinions. The writes activity across the Isthmus of Panama. There are (probably a naval officer) is, however, enamored other considerations which will present themselves, of the settlement at Cape Palmas. lie admire~ connected with the vicinity of the Sandwich the work of the American missionaries, and ye- Islands, and the colonization going on at present grets the injodicions management or insufficient in the Polynesian Archipelago by the French. It means of the French on the whole coast. Many should be borne in mind that, notwithstanding the details, besides, of the practices of the natives of vast extent of our colonies, we hold only this the coast, products, trade, and so forth, render single point from Behrings Straits to Cape Horn; this lively communication worthy of American and although it may not deserve the name of a attention. military post, it ought to become one. We have a daily repast of the movements and Again, let us look at the probable fruits of the enjoyments of the Duke de Nemours and his fai Arctic expedition, which has left our shore~ this duchess, at Bordeaux. They paid a visit to the season. This mission must have another object in vast wine-cellars of Monsieur Guestierthe head view thaa merely to solve the geographical prob- of the celebrated firm under that namewho was 1cm if America is an island. Its chief design, I created a peer of France some months since. presume, will be to ascertain if this passage can be They were conducted, hy torchlight and with all made available for ships or steamers, even for the forms of homage, amid his six thousand regularly space of a mouth or six weeks in the year. Should distributed casks of claret, of all qualities and it ever become practicable, even to that limited dates, and they partook of a subterranean banquet, space, it would be of the utmost value to have a at which specimens of his choicest treasure were port or ports on the entrance to the Pacific, that loyally served and graciously quaffed. The meet- would afford repairs and refreshment after the ing of the French royal party with the Spanish at perilous northwest passa,c. To these advantages Pampeluna is to be forever memorable ; reviews, may be added the absolute uc essity of having free tournaments, bull-fightsall the old and the new access to the Pacific for our fur-dealers, as that is Spanish devices and peculiarities of chivalrous and the shortest route to their best market. These regal hospitality. It may be margined that Nar- reasons, taken separately or together, may appear vaez and De Ia Rosa could trust Isabel and Chris- sufficiently cogent to induce our government to tina, and themselves, in the Basque provinces, take some immediate steps to give the character of which, for six years, warred fanatically in behalf possession to this settlement; the appointment of of Don Carlos against the mother and daughter, a goveroor and of one or two magistrates, with the while the British ministry could not venture their construction of a fort on the right bank of the Ore- queen in Ireland. Scotland, France, Germany gon or Columbia, to give protection to the traders any terra firma other than the Emerald Isle! I from the northwest, the bound. ry lines might then should have mentioned above that eight hundred be settled with the less difficulty. wax-tapers were lighted in Mr. Guestiers vaults In the same number of the Magazine there is a on the visit of the Duke of Nenaours; that their Contin nation of the very interesting Remarks on the contents are estimated at four millions of francs; 51/are- Trade in the Thazils, by Comnaaimder Foote, that the processes of preparing the best wines for R. N. lie is an intelbrent observer and severe consumption were shown; and that one of the censor. I must be permitted to cite a short pas- flasks had the inscription 1753. The dock- sage of his remarks: vaults in London are still more curious and attrac- It can neither be denied aer concealed that tive. the African slave-trade is carried on by means of The chapters sent to England, of the stages and I~nglish capital. In the financial year ending on treats of Queen Victoria on the continent, possess the .31st Decemuber, 1843, the value of English considerable interest for readers acquainted, like goods exported from Braail (in foreign bottoms) to myself, with the localities and the characters. the Portuguese settlements en the coast of Africa Our paper le Commerce argues, at length, that the amounted to 500,000, and t is well known that concourse of crowned heads, grand dukes, and there is no return trade whatever, except in Afri- cabinet statesmen, must be a political assignation; can slaves! The consequence is that our own tariffs, conventions, allianeca, bargains, are at the merchants in the Brazils become indirectly inter- bottom.La Presse, of this day, asserts that, not- ested in the slave-trade. However much their withstanding the man~uvres, blandishments, and own lirivate feelings may revolt from the horrors seducements of the British tacticians, the confer- of this nefarious traffle, yet the payment of their ences of the Zoll-Verein at Carlsruhe will result in just debts frequently depends on the success of a an increase of duties detrimental chiefly to Great few slave vessels. Britain. The same paper, reporting the news by In the Journal des Th~bats of the 12th instant the Cunard steamer, observes that it would be diffi- there is a column of American statistics derived cult to find a case of frustration (check) so coin- from the last report of yotir Commissioner of plete as that of the British and French cabinet Patents. Towards the end, it is said that the cul- and their envoys, in the question of Texas. ture of the mulberry and the raising of the silk- About three thousand carpenters have gone back worm have utterly and ruinously failed in the to their business by compromise with the build- United States. LetFrance, it is added, cease ers. The strike is at an end in other parts of to fear American competition: the Union will be France. for her an immense market. We may hope that The poet and peer, Victor Hugo, was lately the silk-case is not so forlorn with you. What caught in adultery with the wife of an eminent are the natural obstacles to perseverance and sue- portrait-painter, Mr. Biard. He pleaded his privi- cess lege, as a peer, from arrest; the woman was The Paris constitutionnel of the 15th instant sent to prison. Hugo escaped, to travel until the has a copious epistle dated Roadsted of Monrovia, affair should be forgotten. On the 15th instant 14th January, 1845. It relates to the establish- the husbands demand of a separation wa ment of the colony of Liberia, amid describes Mon- brought forward in court, and granted; sentence of imprisonment for three months in a house of correction followed for Madame Biard ; the children were assigned to the husband, the wife, however, to be permitted to see them twice a month, and to have an alimony of twelve hun- dred francs per annum. The National complained in the outset that the gilty peer went scot-free, and will escape in the end with impunity. A year or two ago the poet lost a daughter, and acted and published the most virtuous sentimentality. In the course of the last session of the peers, he de- clined the chairmanship of an important committee, alleging that chagrin for the loss of his mother-in- law disabled him from composing a proper report. You are aware that most, the principal, of Victor I-hugos works are licentious. We must never confide or believe in the practical morality of man or woman whose pen or tongue is immoral. Hugo has a solemn tread and demure air; I have re- marked, also, the plainness of his dress: his coun- tenance has never pleased me. Last winter, at a soire6 of Mr. Guizot, he fixed my attention for some time while he was engaged in conversation with his brother peer de Segur, author of the his- tory of Napoleons Russian Campaigns, and the contrast, to the advantage of the soldier, in mien and whole deportment, struck me with force. The soi-disant Duke of Normandy, who re- sembled Louis 16th remarkably, and who really thought himself the Dauphin, died on the 10th instant, at Delfi, in Holland, at the age of sixty. Othersperhaps not dupessupplied him with money for his personation : at different times, he commanded large sums; the London police offices and the courts became, in the end, quite familiar with the domestic affairs and singular pranks of his royal highness. You have enclosed printed accounts of the sanguinary tumults at Leipsic, provoked by religious fanaticism. Our legitimist oracles affirm that radical and philosophical politics university propagandismare principal stimu- lants. PAnts, August 19, 1845. Some of the French departments propose the establishment of a corps of agricultural engineers, to be educated specially in the way of the engi- neers for the mines. They would be afterwards distributed throughout France for the superintend- ence or aid of improvements in tillage and hus- bandry. Lucien Bonapartes Narrative of the Revolution of the 18th Brumaire, recently published hy his family, is much criticised in the journals. There are striking contradictions between this narrative and Napoleons account of the same event, in the Memoirs dictated at St. Helena. Last week was concluded, at our Court of As- sizes, the trial of a band of thirtymen, women, and boysassociated for as hideous and disgusting profligacy as human nature can perpetrate. Coin- binations of thieves and burglars, more or less numerous each, have been likewise under trial and sentence. Men and females of respectable exterior and in respectable spheres of life often form part of the very worst of these associations for de- bauchery and rapine. The ~i7ourrier Fran9ais reports from official doc- uments that the agricultural population (Euro- pean) of all Algeria does not amount to seven thousand souls ; that the colony is far from raising enough for its subsistence; that in 1844 an impor- tation from abroad of 700,000 hectolitres of girain 47 and of more than thirty-five millions pounds of flour was necessary; that, in the event of a mari- time war, the colony and troops would be starved that Marshal Bugeaud has expended in the five years past five hundred millions of francs, and that the effective of his armies has never been less than eighty thousand men. The central official committee on steam engines appointed the chief engineer of the mines to pursue experiments for determining a mode of obviating or curing the smoke of boilers and engines. It is stated in the Moniteur that he has entirely suc- ceeded. The operation was on Belgian coal, which emits the must smoke. The smoke is consumed (burnt) by means of the abundant introduction of air. Hereafter steam factories will not be uncom- fortable neighbors; the black and thick smoke gives place to a light and whitish vapor. London may rejoice. Versailles is now the rendezvous of many hun- dreds of the present years contingent of conscripts. These groups have always fixed my attention, so many of them seeming mere boysall raw, rustic, or clownish in the extreme degree. The condition of the peasantry and the classes on whom the con- scription chiefly preys, in this department of Seine and Oise, is far better than that of a number of the other departments. Yet I have, within the fort- night past, seen files of conscriptsa hundred and fifty or more togetherarriving in their crude state, whose attire, gait, whole aspect and march, were at least as wretched as those of any gang of negroes whom I ever beheld under any circumstances in the United States; and I was sufficiently familiar with six of the slave States. In a singularly short time these levies are wonderfully metamorphosed; their first changes of person and dress, and their drilling, serve to amuse infinitely the older soldiers of this large garrison. The recruit becomes in his first twelvemoath easy in his uniform and exercises, and quite a spruce military beau, laughs in his turn at the clodhoppers and tatterdemalions of the next year. According to letters from Brazil, the district granted in the province of St. Catharine as a dowry to the Princess of Joinville is about to he cultivated and rendered richly productive, by frce laborers en cage d for the purpose. Forests and precious mines are to he turned to account; dock-yards formed; rice, coffee, sugar to abottnd; and it is to be seen what free labor can effect on the borders of two tropical slave regions. Noes verrons. Last week a manufacturer ofenamnel was arraign- ed in Paris at the Court of Assizes for an attempt to poison two rivals in trade. A distinguished manufacturer of chemical products appeared as a witness to his general character. The attorney general said to the witness: You took pains to- marry the accusedto provide him with a good match. You must have known that for two years he kept under his roof as a concubine a married woman, who has been succeeded by his servant woman in the same relation. Certainly, an-- swered the witness, but those are peccadilloes4 common with bachelors: once married, they quit~ the last courses of youth, and lead another kind~ of life. This view of matters was thought quite reasonable. The enamelist was acquitted, after- five hours deliberation, by the jury: some circum-- stances raised a strong presumption of his guilt;. A number of his relatives and intimates rushed for~ - ward to embrace him, and the servant woman,, Itliiss Catherine, his acknowledged mistress of LETTER FROM MR. WALSH. 48 THE AMERICAN UNIONIRISH COLLEGESFROGS IN STONES. the day, instantly scaled the benches and hugged her master and lover, avec effusion. No scan- dal seemed to he taken on any side. Such incidents exemplify or illustrate morals and manners. DISSOLUTION OF THE AMERICAN UNION. IN the bickerings between Great Britain and the United States, Jonathan is not to have all the ab- surdity to himself: patriotic individuals on this side of the water are bent upon showing that some Englishmen can be as absurd as any American. A very enlightened and philanthropic hudy, the Glasgow Emancipation Society, at their last meet- ing unanimously resolved, That it is the duty of the friends of liberty and equal rights in Great Britain to COMBINE, and, by Christian, peaceful, and bloodless means, to seek the dissolution of the American Union, as the gigantic enemy of freedom and the rights of man. Here is a resolution which will in America be manna to every Hunter~s Lodge, every knot of Sympathizers, every gang of Repealers, every clamorer for the annexation of Canadato all in the Union who hunger for a war with England. If the people of England could adopt or act upon this suggestion, they would violate the first princi- ples of international ethics, and render a stable peace impossible. The plain English of the reso- lution is, that it is the duty of British subjects to combine to effect a revolution in the United States. The flourish about Christian, peaceful and bloodless means, is mere verbiage: revo- lutions are not made with rose-water. Some- thing worse than war against America is de- nounced in the resolutionthe establishment of a propaganda in this country to disseminate among American citizens disaffection and disloyalty to their own government. Who could blame a citizen of the Union for taking fire on reading the resolution l Fancy a missionary hoard estab- lished in the United States to republicanize our own country! Perhaps it is going too far to claim this piece of absurdity as of domestic manufacture. The Eman- cipation Society, by unanimously adopting, made it in one sense their own; but the honor of framing and offering it to the meeting is claimed by an American citizen! Mr. Henry C. Wright, of Philadelphia, has established his title to the authorship, in a letter to the Glasgow Argus; admitting that it may be said he acts the part of a traitor to his country, but adding, my moral obligations are not hounded by time or place. IRISH COLLEGEsThe Dublin correspondent of the Morning chronicle thus announces the settled establishment of the first of the new provincial colleges. The government, I understand, have finally determined upon establishing one of the provincial colleges at Cork. Dr. Bullen, the secretary of the local committee at Cork, has arrived in town, and had an interview with Sir Thomas Fremantle, at Dublin Castle, this day. There is every expec- tation that one of the most extensive and varied private collections of books in the United Kingdom will be given, as an endowment, to the new eel- lege at Cork. This library is the result of thirty years collection by Dr. Murphy, Roman Catholic bishop of Cork, at an immense expenditure, chiefly out of his private fortune. At the meeting of the committee, in Cork, on Saturday, Dr. Bullen made the following statement Through all his pro- ceedings he (Dr. Bullen) had consulted as a pri- vate friend with the Right Reverend Dr. Murphy; and he had been given to understand by him that he intended to devote his immense library of 130,000 volumes to the benefit of the public. Now it so happened, that in the colleges bill a clause had been framed giving permission to private indi- viduals to make donations of such libraries to the colleges. He need not tell the meeting that such a library as that of Dr. Murphy would be an im- mense acquisition to the college. The Armagh Guardian states that Archbishop Crolly has subscribed 1,0001. towards founding a divinity chair in the Ulster College. The correspondent of the Times warns Mr. OConnell that he is losing ground in his opposition to the new colleges. FROGS IN STONES. WE have several apparently well-authenticated instances on record of frogs and toads having been found enclosed in masses of rock, to the interior of which there was no perceptible means of ingress. It has been the fashion, however, with naturalists to dismiss all such cases on the assumption that there must have been some cleft or opening by which the animal was admitted while in embryo, or while in a very young state; no one, as far as we are aware, believing that the sperm or young animal may have been enclosed when the rock was in the process of formation at the bottom of shallow waters. Whatever may be the true theory regard- ing animals so enclosed, their history is certainly one of the highest interest; and without attempt- ing to solve the problem, we present our readers with an instance taken from the Mining Journal of January 18, 1845 :- A few days since, as a miner, named W. Ellis~ was working in the Peny- darran Mine Works, at forty-five feet depth, he struck his mandril into a piece of shale, and to the surprise of the workmen, a frog leaped out of the cleft. When first observed, it appeared very weak, and, though of large size, could crawl only with difficulty. On closer examination, several peculiarities were observed ; its eyes were full- sized, though it could not see, and does not now see, as, upon touching the eye, it evinces no feel- ing. There is a line indicating where the mouth would have been, had it not been confined; but the mouth has never been opened. Several de- formities were also observable ; and the spine, which has been forced to develop itself in angular form, appears a sufficient proof of its having grown in very confined space, even if the hollow in the piece of shale, by corresponding to the shape of the back, did not place time matter beyond a reasonable doubt. The frog continues to increase in size and weight, though no food can be given to it; and its vitality is preserved only by breathing through the thin skin covering the lower jaw. Mr. W. Ellis, with a view of giving his prize as much publicity as possible, has deposited it at the New Inn, Merthyr, where it is exhibited as the greatest wonder in the worlda frog found in a stone forty-five feet from the surface of the earth, where it has been living without food for the last 5000 years !Chambers. MR. JUSTICE STORY. tThe sketch of the juridical and personal charac- ter of Judge Story which we have copied from the Boston Daily Advertiser, was written by his pupil and intimate friend, Mr. Charles Sumner, of the Boston Bar.] TIlE FUNERAL OF MR. JUSTICE STORY. I HAVE just returned from the last sad ceremony of the interment of this great and good man. Un- der that roof, where I have so often seen him in health, buoyant with life, exuberant in kindness, happy in his family and friends, I gazed upon his mortal remains, sunk to eternal rest, and hung over those features, to which my regards had been turned so fondly, from which even the icy touch of death had not effaced all the living beauty. The eye was quenched, and the glow of life was extinguished; but the noble brow seemed still to shelter, as under a marble dome, the spirit that had fled. And is he, indeed, dead, I asked my- self ;he whose face was never turned to me except in kindness, who has filled the world with his glory, who has drawn to his country the hom- age of foreign nations, who was of activity and labor that knew no rest, who was connected by dnties of such various kinds, by official ties, by sympathy, friendship and love, with so many cir- cles, who, according to the beautiful expression of Wilberforce, tonched life at so many points has he, indeed, passed away Upon the small plate on the coffin was inscribed, Joseph Story, died Sept. 10th, 1845, aged 66 years. These few words might apply to the lowly citizen, as to the illustrious judge. Thus is the coffin-plate a register of the equality of man, when he has laid aside the brief distinctions of life. At the house of the deceased we joined in reli- gio us worship. The Rev. Dr. Walker, the pres- ent head of the University, in earnest prayer, commended the soul of the departed to God who gave it, and invoked a consecration of their afflic- tive bereavement to his family and friends. From the house we followed the body, in mournful pro- cession, to the resting-place, which he had selected for himself and his family, amidst the beautiful groves of Mount Auburn. As the procession filed into the cemetery I was touched by the sight of the numerous pupils of the Law School, with countenances of sorrow, ranged with uncovered heads on each side of the road within the gate, testifying by this silent and unexpected homage their last respects to what is mortal in their de- parted teacher. Around the grave, as he was laid in the embrace of the mother-earth, was gath- ered all in our community that is most distin- guished in law, in learning, in literature, in station, the judges of onr courts, the professors of the University, surviving class-mates of the deceased, and a thick cluster of friends. He was placed among the children, who had been taken from him early in life, whose faces he is now beholding in heaven. Of such is the kingdom of heaven are the words which he has inscribed over their names on the simple marble which now commemo- rates alike the children and their father. Nor is there a child in heaven, of a more child-like inno- cence and purity, than he, who, full of years and worldly honors, has gone to mingle with these children. Of such, indeed, is the Kingdom of Heaven. There is another sentence inscribed by him on this family stone, which speaks to us now with a voice of consolation. Sorrow not as those with- out hope are the words which brought a solace to him in his bereavement. From his bed beneath he seems to whisper them among his mourning family and friends; most especially to her, the chosen partner of his life, from whom so much of human comfort is apparently removed. He is indeed gone; but we shall see him once more for- ever. In this blessed confidence, we may find happiness in dwelling on his virtues and fame on earth, till the great consoler Time shall come with healing on his wings. From the grave of the judge, 1 walked a few short steps to that of his classmate and friend, the beloved Channing, who died less than three years ago, aged 63. Thus these companions in early studies, each in after life foremost in the high and important duties which he had assumed, pursuing divergent paths, yet always drawn towards each other by thc attractions of mutual friendship, again meet, and lie down together in the same sweet earth, in the shadow of kindred trees, through which the same birds shall sing their perpetual requiem. The afternoon was of unusual brilliancy, and the fnll-orbed sun gilded with mellow light the fnneral stones through which I wound my way, as I sought the grave of another friend of nty own, the first associate of the departed Judge in the duties of the Law School, Professor Ashmun. After a life crowded with usefulness, he laid down the burthen of ill health which he had long borne, at the early age of 33. 1 remember listening to the flowing discourse which Mr. Justice Story pronounced over the remains of his associate in the college chapel in 1833; nor can I forget his deep emotion, as we stood together at the foot of the grave, while the earth fell, dust to dust, upon the coffin of his friend. Wandering through this silent city of the dead, I called to mind those words of Beaumont on the tombs in Westminster: Here s an acre sown indeed, With the richest, royallst seed That the earth did eer suck in, Since the first man died froni sin. Here are sands, ignoble things, Dropt from the ruined sides of kings. The royalt.y of Mount Auburn is of the soul. The kings that sluniber there were anointed by a higher than earthly hand. Returning again to the grave of the departed judge, I found no one there hut the humble labor- ers, who were then smoothing the sod over the fresh earth. It was late in the afternoon; and the upper branches of the stately trees, that wave over the sacred spot, after glowing for a while with the golden rays of the setting sun, were left in the same gloom which had already settled on the grass beneath. I hurried away, and as I reached the gate, the porters curfew was tolling, to forgetful mnsers, like myself, the knell of parting day. As I left this consecrated spot, I thought of the pilgrims that would come from afar, through long successions of generations, to look upon the last home of the great jurist. From all parts of our own country, from all the lands where law is taught as a science, and where justice prevails, they shall come to seek the grave of their master. Let us guard, then, this precious dust. Let us be happy that, though his works and his example be- long to the world, his sacred remains are placed 49 50 in our peculiar care. Be to us, also, who saw him face to face in the performance of all his vari- ouS duties, and who sustain a loss so irreparable in our own circle, the melancholy pleasure of dwelling with household affection upon his tran- scendent excellences. His death makes a chasm which I shrink from contemplating. He was the senior judge of the highest court of the country, an active professor of law, and a Fellow in the Corporation of Har- vard University. He was in himself a whole triumvirate ; and these three distinguished posts, now vacant, will be filled, in all probability, each by a distinct successor. It is, however, as the exalted jurist, that he is to take his place in the history of the world, high in the same firmament from whence heam the mild glories of Tribonian, of Cajncius, of Hale and of Mansfield. It was his fortune, unlike many of those who have cultivated the law with signal success on the European con- tinent, to be called upon as a judge practically to administer and apply it in the actual business of life. It thus became to him not merely a science, whose depths and intricacies he explored in his closet, but a great and god-like instrument, to be employed in that highest of earthly functions, the determination of justice among men. While the duties of the magistrate were thus illumined by the studies of the jurist, the latter were tem- pered to a finer edge by the experience of the bench. In attempting any fitting estimate of his character as a jurist, he should be regarded in three different aspects, as a judge, an author, and a teacher of jurisprudence, exercising in each of these charac- ters a peculiar influence. His lot is rare who achieves fame in a single department of human action; rarer still is his who becomes foremost in many. The first impression is one of astonish- ment that a single mind, in a single life, should he able to accomplish so much. Independent of the incalculable labors, of which there is no trace, except in the knowledge, happiness and justice which they helped to secure, the bare amount of his written and printed labors is enormous beyond all precedent in the annals of the common law. His written judgments on his own circuit, arid his various commentaries, occupy twenty-seven vol- umes, while his judgments in the Supreme Court of the United States form an important part of no less than thirty-four volumes more. The vast juridical labors of Coke and of Eldon, which seem to clothe the walls of our libraries, must yield in extent to his. He is the Lope de Vega, or the Walter Scott of the common law. We are struck next by the universality of his juridical attainments. It was said by Dryden of one of the greatest lawyers in English history, Heneage Finch, Our law that did a boundless ocean seem Were coasted all and fathomed all by him. But the boundless ocean of that age was a mare clausum compared with that on which the adven- turer embarks in our day. We read in Howells Familiar Letters, that it had been said only a few short years before the period of Finch, that the books of the common law might all be carried in a wheelbarrow! To coast such an ocean were a less task than a moiety of his labors whom we now mourn. Called upon to administer all the different branches of law, which are kept separate in England, he showed a perfect mastery of all. MR. JUSTICE STORY. His was universal empire; and wherever he set his foot, in the wide and various realms of juris- prudence, it was as a sovereign ; whether in the ancient and subtle learning of real law, in the criminal law, in the niceties of special pleading, in the more refined doctrines of contracts, in the more rational systems of the commercial and mari- time law, in the peculiar and interesting principles and practice of courts of Admiralty and Prize, in the immense range of Chancery, in the modern but most important. jurisdiction over patents, or in that most exalted region, the great themes of Pnh- lic and Constitutional Law. There are judgments by him in each of these branches which will not yield in value to those of any other judge, in England or the United States, even though his studies and duties may have been directed to emily one particular department. His judgments are remarkable for their exhaust- ive treatment of the subjects to which they relate. The common law, as is known to his cost by every student, is to be found only in innumerable sand- grains of authorities. Not one of these is over- looked in these learned judgments, while all are combined with care, and the golden cord of reason is woven across the ample tissue. Besides, there is in them a clearness which flings over the sub- ject a perfect day, a severe logic, which, by its closeness and precision, makes us feel the truth of the saying of Leibnitz, that nothing approached so near the certainty of geometry, as the reason- ing of the law; a careful attention to the discus- sions at the bar, that the court may not appear to neglect any of the considerations urged; and a copious and persuasive eloquence which gilds the whole. Many of his judgments will be land-marks in the law; they will be columns, like those of Hercules, which shall mark the progress in juris- prudence of our age. I know ~f no single jud~e, who has established so many. I think it may be said, without fear of question,. that the Reports show a larger num~r of judicial opinions from Mr. Justice Story, which posterity will not wil- lingly let die than from any other judge in the history of English and American law. But there is much of his character as a judge, which cannot be preserved,, except in the faithful memories and records of those, whose happiness it was to enjoy his judicial presence. I refer par- ticularly to his mode of conducting business. Even the passing stranger bears witness to his suavity of manner on the bench, while all the practitioners in the courts, over which he presided so long, attest the marvellous quickness with which he habitually seized the points of a case, often antici- pating the slower movements of the counsel, and leaping, or I might almost say, flying to the con- clusions sought to be established, Napoleons perception in military tactics was not more rapid. All will attest the scrupulous care with vhich he assigned reasons fur every portion of his opinions, showing that it was not he, who spoke with the voice of authority, but the law, whose organ he was. And all will reverence the conscientious devotion and self-sacrifice which he brought to the performance of his responsible duties. In the history of the Enulish bench, there are but two names with combined eminence as a judge and as an author; Coke and hale; unless, indeed, the Orders in Chancery from time Verulamian pen should entitle Lord Bacon to this distinction, and the judgments of Lord Brougham should vindicate the same for him. I3lackstones character as a MR. JUSTICE STORY. judge is lost in the fame of the Commentaries. To Mr. Justice Story belongs this double glory. Early in life he compiled an important professional work; hut it was only at a comparatively recent period, after his mind had been disciplined by the labors of the bench, that he prepared those elabo- rate commentaries, which have made his name a familiar word in foreign countries. Those, who knew him best, observed the lively interest which he took in this extension of his well-earned re- nown; and well he micrht for the voice of distant foreign nations seems to come as from a living posterity. his works have been reviewed with praise in the journals of England, Scotland, Ire- land, France and Germany. They have been cited as authorities in all the courts of Westminster Hall ; and one of the ablest and most learned law- yers of the age, whose honorable career at the bar has conducted him to the peerage, Lord Camp- bell, in the course of debate in the house of lords, characterized their author as the first of living writers on the law. To complete this hasty survey of his character as a jurist, I should allude to his excellences as a teacher of law, that other relation which he sus- tained to jurisprudence. The numerous pupils, reared at his feet, and now scattered throughout the whole country, diffusing each in his circle the light which he obtained at Cambridge, as they hear that their great master has fallen, will feel that they individually have lost a friend. He had the faculty, which is rare as it is exquisite, of interesting the young, and winning their affections. I have often seen him surrounded by a group, the ancient Romans would have aptly called it a coro- na of youths, all intent upon his earnest conversa- tion, and freely interrogating him on any matters of doubt. In his lectures, and other forms of instruction, he was prodigal of explanation and illustration; his manner, according to the classical image of Zeno, was like the open palm; never like the closed hand. His learning is always overflow- ing as from the horn of abundance. He was ear- nest and unrelaxing in his efforts, patient and gentle, while he listened with inspiring attention to all that the pupil said. Like Chaucers Clerk, And gladly wolde he lerne, and gladly tcche. Above all, he was a living example of a love for the lawsupposed by many to be unlovable and repulsivewhich seemed to burn brighter under the snows of advancing years; and such an exam- ple could not fail to touch with magnetic power the hearts of the young. Nor should I forget the lofty standard of professional morals which he inculcated, filling his discourse with the charm of goodness. IJuder such auspices, and those of his learned associate, Professor Greenleaf, large class- es of students of law, larger than any in England or America, have been annually gathered in Cam- bridge. The Law School is the golden mistletoe ingrafted on the ancient oak of the University; Talis erat species auri frondentis opaca Ilice. The deceased was proud of his character as a professor. In his earlier works he is called on the title-page, Dane Professor of Law. It was only on the suggestion of the English publisher, that he was prevailed upon to append the other title, Justice of the Supreme Court of the United States. He looked forward with peculiar delight to the time, which seemed at hand, when he should lay down the honors and cares of the bench, and devote himself singly to the duties of his chair. I have merely glanced at his character in his three differ~ut relation to jurisprudence. Great in each of these, it is on this unprecedented combina- tion that his i~eculiar fame will he reared, as upon an immortal tripod. In what I have written, I do not think that I am biased by the partialities of l)rivate friendship. I have endeavored to regard him, as posterity will regard him, as all must regard him now, who know him only in his vari- ous works Imagine for one moment the irrep- arable loss, if all that he has done were blotted out forever. When I think of the incalculable facilities which are afforded by his labors, I cannot but say with Racine, when speaking of Descartes; Nous courons; mais, sans lui, nous ne marcherions pas. Besides, it is he who has inspired in many foreign bosoms, reluctant to perceive aught that is good in our country, a sincere hotnage to the American name. He has turned the stream of the law refluent upon the ancient fountains of Westminster Hall, and stranger still, he has forced the waters above their sources, up the unaccus- tomed heights of countries, alien to the common law. It is he, also, who has directed, from the copious well-springs of the Roman law, and from the fresher fountains of the modern Continental law, a pure and grateful stream to enrich and fer- tilize our domestic jurisprudence. In his judg- ments, in his books, and in his teachings, on all occasions, he sought to illustrate the doctrines of the common law by the lights of kindred systems. The mind naturally seeks to compare him with other great jurists, servants of Themis, who share with him the wide spaces of fame. In genius for the law, in the exceeding usefulness of his career, in the blended character of judge and author, he cannot yield to our great Master Lord Coke; in suavity of manner and in silver- tongued eloquence he may compare with Lord Mansfield, while in depth, accuracy and variety of judicial learning he surpassed him far; if he yields to Lord Stowell in elegance of diction, he excels even his excellence in the curious explora- tion of the foundations of that jurisdiction which they administered in common and in the develop- ment of those great principles of IJublic law, whose just determination helps to preserve the peace of nations; and even in the peculiar field illustrated by the long career of Eldon, we find him a familiar worker, with Eldons profusion of learning, and with out the perplexities of his doubts. There are many who regard the judicial character of the late Chief Justice Marshal as at an unapproachable height. I revere his name and have ever read his judgments, which seem like pure reason, with admiration and gratitude but I cannot disguise that even these noble memo- rials must yield in high judicial character, in learning, in acuteness, in the variety of topics which they concern, in fervor, as they are far in- ferior in amount, to those of our friend. There is still spared to us a renowned judge, at this nmo- ment the unquestioned living head of American jurisprudence, with no rival near the throne, whose character is as pure as his fame is exalted, Mr. Chancellor Kent, whose judgments and whose works always inspired the warmest eulo- gies of the departed, and whose fame as a jurist furnishes the fittest parallel to his own in the an- nals of our law. It were idle, perhaps, to weave further these 51 MR. JUSTICE STORY. vain comparisons, particularly to invoke the liv- ing. But busy fancy recalls the past, and per- sons and scenes renew themselves in my memory. I call to mind the recent chancellor of England, the model of a clear, grave and conscientious judge, Lord CottenhamI call to mind the orna- ments of Westminster Hall, both on the bench and at the bar, where sit.s Denman, in manner, in conduct and character every inch the judge; where pleaded only a few short months ago the consummate lawyer Follet, whose voice is now hushed in the gravetheir judgments, their argu- ments I cannot forget; but Story was a greater judge than Denman, a more consummate lawyer than Follet, a master of more various learning than Cottenham. It has been my fortune to see or to know the chief jurists of our times, in the classical coun- tries of jurisprudence, France and Germany. I remember well the pointed and effective manner and style of Dupin in the delivery of one of his masterly opinions in the highest court of France; I recall the pleasant converse of Pardessus, to whom commercial and maritime law is under a larger debt, perhaps, than to any other mind, while he descanted on his favorite theme. I wan- der in fancy to the gentle presence of him with flowing silver locks, who was so dear to Ger- many, Thibaut, the expounder of the Roman law, and the earnest and successful advocate of a just scheme for the reduction of the unwritten law to the certainty of a written text. From Heidel- berg I fly to Berlin, where I listen to the grave lecture, and mingle in the social circle of Savigny, so stately in person and peculiar in countenance, whom all the continent of Europe delights to honor; but my heart and my judgment, untravel- led, fondly turn with new love and admiration to my Cambridge teacher and friend. Jurisprudence has many arrows in her golden quiver, but where is one to compare with that which is now spent in the earth! The fame of the jurist is enhanced by the vari- ous attainments which were superinduced upon his learning in the law. His Miscellaneous Writings show a thoughtful mind, imbued with elegant literature, glowing with kindly senti- ments, commanding a style of rich and varied eloquence. There are many passages from these which have become the common-places of our schools. In early life he yielded to the fascina- tions of the poetic muse; and here the great law- yer may find companionship with Selden, who is introduced by Suckling into his Session of Poets, as close by the chair, with Blackstone, whose Farewell to the Muse shows his fondness for poetic pastures, even while his eye ~vas directed to the heights of the law, and also with Mansfield, of whom Pope has lamented in familiar words, How sweet an Ovid was in Murray lost ! I have now before me, in his own hand-writing, some verses which were written in 1833, entitled Advice to a Young Lawyer. As they can- not fail to be read with interest, I introduce them here. Wheneer you speak, remember every cause Stands not on eloquence, but stands on laws Pregnant in matter, in expression brief, Let every sentence stand with bold relief; On trifling points nor time nor talents waste, A sad offence to learning and to taste; Nor deal with pompous phrase; nor eer suppose Poetic flights belong to reasoning prose. Loose declamation may deceive the crowd, And seem more striking, as it grows more loud; But sober sense rejects it with disdain, As nought but empty noise, and weak, as vain. The froth of words, the schoolboys vain parade Of books and casesall his stock in trade The pert conceits, the cunning tricks and play Of low attorneys, strung in long array, The unseemly jest, the petulant reply, That chatters on, and cares not how or why, Studious avoidunworthy themes to scan They sink the speaker, and disgrace the man. Like the false lights, by flying shadows cast, Scarce seen when present, and forgot, when past. Begin with dignity; expound with grace Each ground of reasoning in its time and place; Let order reign throughouteach topic touch, Nor urge its power too little, or too much, Give each strong thought its most attractive view, In diction clear, and yet severely true. And, as the arguments in splendor grow, Let each reflect its light on all below. When to the close arrived, make no delays By petty flourishes, or verbal plays, But sum the whole in one deep solemn strain, Like a strong current hastening to the main. But the jurist, rich with the spoils of time, the exalted magistrate, the orator, the writer, all van- ish when I think of the friend. Much as the world may admire his memory, all who knew him shall love it more. Who can forget his bounding step, his contagious laugh, his exhilarating voice, his beaming smile, his countenance that shone like a benediction What pen can describe these what artist can preserve them on canvass or in marble l He was always the friend of the young, who never tired in listening to his flowing and mellifluous discourse. Nor did they ever leave his presence without feeling a warmer glow of virtue, a more ins~)iring love of knowledge and truth, more generous impulses of action. I first knew him while I was in college, and remember freshly, as if the words were of yesterday, the eloquence and animation, with which, at that time, in a youthful circle, he enforced the beauti- ful truth, that no man stands in the way of an- other. The world was wide enough for all, he said, and no success, which may crown our neigh- bor, can affect our own career. It was in this spirit that he run his own race on earth, without jealousy, without envy; nay more, overflowint~ with appreciation and praise of labors which com- pare humbly with his own. In conversation, he dwelt with warmth upon all the topics which interest man; not only upon law, but upon litera- ture, upon history, upon the characters of men, upon the affairs of every day; above all, upon the great duties of life, the relations of men to each other, to their country, to God. High in his mind, above all human opinions and practices, were the everlasting rules of Rig/ic; nor did he ever rise to a truer eloquence than when con- demning, as I have inure than once heard him re- cently, that evil sentiment Our country, be she right or wrong which, in whatsoever form of language it may disguise itself, assails the very foundations of justice and virtue. He has been happy in his life; happy also in 52 MAMMOTH CAVE. his death. It was his hope, expressed in health, that he should not be allowed to linger superflu- ous on the stage, nor waste under the slow pro- gress of disease. He was always ready to meet his God. His wishes were answered. Two days before his last illness he delivered in court a masterly judgment on a complicated case in equity. Since his death, another judgment, in a case that had been argued before him, has been found among his papers ready to he pronounced. I saw him for a moment only on the evening preceding his illness. It was an accidental meet- ing away from his o~vn housethe last time that the open air of heaven fanned his cheeks. His words of familiar, household greeting, on that oc- casion, still linger in my ears, like an enchanted melody. The morning sun saw him on the bed from which he never rose again. Thus closed, after an illness of eight days, in the bosom of his family, without pain, surrounded by friends, a life, which, through various vicissitudes of dis- ease, had been spared beyond the grand climac- teric, that cape of storms in the sea of human ex- istence; Multis ille bonis flebilis occidit, Nulli flebilior quam mihi. He is gone, and we shall see him no more on earth, except in his works, and in the memory of his virtues. The scales of justice, which he had held so long, have fallen from his hands. The untiring pen of the author rests at last. The voice of the teacher is mote. The fountain, which was ever flowing and ever full, is now stopped. The lips, on which the bees of Hybla might have rested, have ceased to distil the honeyed sweets of kindness. The body, warm with all the affec- tions of life, with love for family, and friends, for truth and virtue, is now cold in death. The jus- tice of nations is eclipsed ; the life of the law is suspended. But let us listen to the words, which, though dead, he utters from the grave: Sorrow not as those without hope. The righteous judge, the wise teacher, the faithful friend, the loving father, has ascended to his Judge, his Teacher, his Friend, his Father in Heaven. C. S. From the Louisville Journal. MAMMOTH CAVE. nv GEORGE D. PRENTICE. ALL day, as day is reckoned on the earth, I ye wandered in these dim and awful aisles, Shut from the blue and breezy dome of heaven, While thoughts, wild, drear, and shadowy, have swept Across my awe-struck soul, like spectres oer The wizards magic glass, or thunder clouds Oer the blue waters of the deep. And now I 11 sit me down upon you broken rock, To muse upon the strange and solemn things Of this mysterious realm. All day my steps Have been amid the beautiful, the wild, The gloomy, the terrific. Crystal founts, Almost invisible in their serene And pure transparencyhigh, pillard domes With stars and flowers all fretted like the halls Of Oriental monarchsrivers dark And drear and voiceless as oblivions stream, That flows through Deaths dim vale of silence All fathomless, down which the loosened rock Plunges until its far-off echoes come Fainter and fainter like the dying roll Of thunders in the distanceStygian pools Whose agitated waves give back a sound Hollow and dismal, like the sullen roar In the volcanos depthsthese, these have left Their spell upon me, and their memories Have passed into my spirit, and are now Blent with my being till they seem a part Of my own immortality. Gods hand, At the creation, hollowed out this vast Domain of darkness, where nor herb nor flower Eer sprang amid the sands, nor dews nor raiiis Nor blessed sunbeams fell with freshening power, Nor gentle breeze its Eden-message told Amid the dreadful gloom. Six thousand years Swept oer the earth crc human foot-prints marked This subterranean desert. Centuries Like shadows came and passed, and not a sound Was in this realm, save when at intervals, In the long lapse of ages, some huge mass Of overhanging rock fell thundering down. Its echoes sounding through these corridors A moment, and then dying in a hush Of silence such as brooded oer the earth When earth was chaos. The great mastodon, The dreaded monster of tile elder world, Passed oer this mighty cavern, and his tread Bent the old forest oaks like fragile reeds, And made earth tremble.Armies in their pride Perchance have met above it in the shock Of war, with shout and groan and clarion blast, And the hoarse echoes of the thtinder gun; The storm, the whirlwind and the hurricane Have roared above it, and the bursting cloud Sent down its red and crashing thunder-bolt; Earthquakes have tramliled oer it in their wrath, Rocking earths surface as the storm-wind rocks The old Atlantic ;yet no sound of these Eer came down to the everlasting depths Of these dark solitudes. How oft we gaze With awe or admiration on the new And unfamiliar, but pass coldly by The lovelier and the mightier! Wonderful Is this lone world of darkness and of gloom, But far more wonderful yon outer world Lit by the glorious sun. These arches swell Sublime in lone and dim magnificence. But how sublimer Gods blue canopy Beleaguered with his burning cherubim Keeping their watch eternal ! Beautiful Are all the thousand snow-white gems that lie In these mysterious chambers gleaming out Amid the melancholy gloomand wild These rocky hills and cliffs, and gulfsbut far More beautiful and wild the things that greet The wanderer in our world of lightthe stars Floating on high like islands of the blest The antumn sunsets glowing like the gate Of far-off Paradisethe gorgeous clouds On which the glories of the earth and sky Meet and commingleearths unnumbered flowers All turning up their gentle eyes to heaven The birds, with bright wings glancing in the sun, Filling the air with rainbow miniatures The green old forests surging in the gale The everlasting mountains on whose peaks The setting sun burns like an altar-flame And ocean, like a pure heart rendering back Heavens perfect image, or in his wild wrath Heaving and tossing like the stormy breast Of a chained giant in his agony. 53 54 RAILWAYS AND THE ELECTRIC TELEGRAPH. From the Times. RAILWAYS AND THE ELECTRIC TELEGRAPH. WE may see by what the railway has done, what may be done, what must be done, and what undoubt- edly will be done. With little more risk to the two or three individuals employed than what is now daily incurred by thousands of women on their way to market, and with [10 greater expense than a few bushels of coke, and the wear and tear of a few iron rods and bars, England has now, in all human probability, been twice traversed almost from north to south within eighteen hours, two or three of which were spent in the metropolis. Consider what this implies. From the southern coast to Edinburgh and back is become the easy work of twenty-four hours. From the Lands- end to John OGroats house is brought within the same compass. The whole of this island is now, to all intents and purposes, as near the metropo- lis as Sussex or Buckingbamshire were two cen- turies ago. The midland counties are a mere suburb. With the space and resources of an em- pire we enjoy the compactness of a city. Our roads are contracted into streets, our hills and dales into municipal parks, and our thousand leagues of coast into the brief circumference of a castle wall. Nineveh, it is said, was three days journey across. Great Britain is one in its long- est dimension. For questions of distance we are as mere a spot as Malta or St. helena, as one of the Channel Islands, or as any one of those minute though famous insular states in the ancient tEgean. One peaceful circumvalhation includes the huiidred cities of the island. A hundred op- posite ports are blended into one Pirteus, and to every point of the compass diverge the often-tra- versed long walls, that unite them with our un- girded acropolis. But even these distances, slight as they are, are already about to be annihilated in one chief respect for the communication of intelligence. The electric telegraph in a few years will bring, as it were, the whole population under one roof, and into one room. The metropolis will instantane- ously transmit and receive information from every important point in the island. For every great need or emergency, the very farthest point will soon communicate its tidings or its wants, and will receive immediate reply, announcing the certain arrival of the assistance or commodity re- quired within twenty-four hours. The island will thus become one nervous system, with a scarcely less quick and infallible action than the human frame. Our metropolis will be the sensorium of one acutely sensitive and intelligent fabric. The most northern or western part will communi- cate its sensations as immediately as the finger or the eye transmits its noiseless tidings to the brain. A pulsation, a glance, quick as lightning, quick as thought, passes from Caithuess to the Admiralty, and thence to Penzance. From Dover to Holyhead takes less time than the writing these two words. Termini a thousand miles apart, with a hundred intermediate stations, may, if it be found necessary, receive all in one moment of time the official announcement of orders. The head will transmit its intentions to the remotest members as quickly as it receives their intelli- gence. The tables or the walls of a l)arlor in Downing Street will be the retina of an empire. On a few dials xvill appear the continual reflex of a nations history. Compare the two discoveries, and contemplate their joint operation. The contingency of ~var affords the easiest though the least probable as well as the least agreeable mode of illustration. Our neighbors still talk of invasion. Their dream of flotillas has passed into a dream of war steamers. An army at Cherbourg is to receive orders at sunset on what part of our southern coast it is to land at sunrise. Be it so, kind neighbor. We will not deny you the harmless gratification which has given eternal celebrity to one at least of your royal names. But mark what followsnot what follows, but what occurs simultaneously in every port and city of this charmed isle. No sooner are fifty funnels seen in the offing than every soldier and citizen in the kingdom is waked froni his bed with the news of their number and desti- iiation. Before the first boat has touched the beach, if it does nut already find the shore bristling with bayonets, one current of strong indignation has set in to that devoted point from every quarter, north and south, east and west. By no6n, what- ever progress the landing or march may then have made, every soldier whom it may be con- sidered proper to spare from all England south of the Trent, will be stationed between the enemy and the metropolis. The yeomanry and the mili- tia will be wherever it may be wished to dispose them. Twelve hours will be sufficient to bring the whole military force of England within sight of the.foe, and another six will add all Scotland. The next sunrise will, if it be thought fit, see the end of the campaign as far from the shore as fifty thotisand men are likely to have proceeded. fh whole steam fleet of the Briiish empire will be present at their redmbarkation. The vision is marvellous, but not irrational. We see no flaw in the calculation. Portsmouth or Falmouth can communicate with Manchester or Newcastle in ten seconds, and it will do so when the poles are up and the wires hung. Man- chester can send tenthousand men to the southern coast within twelve hoursat least it will be able when the rails are laid down. Woolwich can send thither, within that time, a thousand ton of material. An army can traverse the southern coast from Kent to Cornwall in one night. There is no impossibility or improbability, or considera- ble difficulty in the way. What becomes then, of the menaced invasion l MAGNITUDE OF RAILWAY SPECULATIONS. On a moderate estimate, the railways already in existence and to be executed may be taken to cost 150,000,000 The gross profit on that cap- ital, at 8 per cent., would be 12,000,000 From which a deduction of 35 per cent. for expenses (the lowest expenditure of any large company) would a- mount to 4,200,000 Leaving the net profit of . 7,800,000,or not quite St per cent. upon the capital. In other words, to afford the shareholders in all our completed and projected railways a return of rather less than St per cent. upon their outlay, the public must annually expend 12,000,0001. in rail- way travelling alone. The word million comes glibly from the tongue, but conveys no tangible image to the MAGNITUDE OF RAILWAY SPECULATIONS. 55 mind. An effort is required to realize to the imagination the magnitude of the sum which must be annually spent on railway travelling to yield our speculators a moderate profit on their capital. Let any one attempt distinctly and ar- ticulately to count aloud from one to a million: he will find it hard work to enunciate on the average one thousand numbers in the hour, and would con- sequently require a hundred days for ten hours a day to count the million. The mechanical opera- tion of telling over a million of sovereigns piece by piece would occupy a full month, at the rate of 3,600 an hour for ten hours a day. The joint earnings of 1,830 agricultural laborers with their 7s. a week for thirty years each, not a working- day left out, would be less than a million of pounds sterling. The joint earnings of 640 me- chanics at 20s. a week, toiling each as uninter- mittingly during the same period, would not amount to a million of pounds sterling. The pay of 90 British geiieral officers at 11. a day, would not in thirty years amount to a million of pounds sterling. So much of toil, and danger, and expo- sure to the elementsso much of patient, perse- vering, and more or less skilful industryso much of valor, and accomplishment, and high spirit, as represented by moneymay be bought for a million of pounds sterling. And our railway-projectors and speculators cal- culate upon drawing twelve of these millions an- nually from the pockets of the public. In other words, they expect that twelve millions of people half the population of the Three Kingdoms, men, women, and children(at lid, per mile) will each travel 160 miles by railway every year, and pay them 20s. a head. Or they expect that one million people will travel 1,920 miles each in the course of the year, and pay them 121. a head. Or they expect that one hundred and twenty thousand people will each travel 16,000 miles by railway every year, and pay them 1001. per head. Be it remembered, too, that railway-travelling constitutes but a fraction of the whole annual travelling of the nation. Our railways, existent and in projection, embrace not one half of the surface and population of Great Britain; and even in the rail~vay districts there is active competition from steam-boats, omnibuses, cabs, vans, spring- carts, & c. & c. The steam-boats of the Thames and tIme Clyde carry more passengers than the Greenwich, Blackwall; and Glasgow and Green- ock Railways. In the great towns, not only the wealthier classes as a badge of station and for amenity, but tradesmen for professional purposes, keep vehicles, which when travelling on business or for pleasure they from sheer economy generally employ in preference to other modes of convey- ance. In the rural districts, landowners and far- mers do the same. Again, the price of a railway- ticket is only part of the outlay of the railway- traveller on conveyances. In most cases it im- plies the additional expense of short-stage, cab, or bus, to convey him to and from the railway, or from one railway to another. Our sanguine projectors and speculators pay little heed to these considerations; though the brokers who are agents in the transfer of shares often ask each other in wonderment, where all the travellers are to come from. Put the question to any dabbler in railway stock, and he replies with an Oh, with the increase of locomotive facilities travelling will increase indefinitely. It may be so: hitherto the theory has held good: yet there must be some natural limit to the activity of the principle. Men do not travel for travellings sake, but on business or for pleasureto earn money, or to spend it; and what possible facility will set men in motion where these motives ate wanting. The enormous amount of money invested in rail- ways would seem to imply that some classes of Englishmen are expected to live on railways, as some classes of Chinese live on their canals. To render these umidertakings remunerative, a numer- ous portion of society would need, like the fabled birds of paradise, to keep always on the wingto spend their lives darting from town to town with the velocity of swallows in a summer-evening. The boldness and extent of these aggregate under- takings conveys a magnificent idea of the re- sources and enterprise of Britain; but their very magnitude lies like a load on the ima, ination, while the incessant restlessness and swift move- ments they presuppose in such a numerous class of the community make the head giddy only to think of.Spectator, 16 Aug. Now that the most eventful session of Parliament recorded in railway history has reached its close, we are enabled to announce, from our official returns, the following as the great results of its legislation. Par- liament has sanctioned the construction of 2 090 miles of new railways in England and Scotland, and of 560 miles in Ireland. This is in effect to double the extent of the railways of Great Britain, exclusive of Ireland. The capital authorized to be raised in shares for this purpose amounts to 31,680,000l., ex- clusive of 6,800,0001. required for the Irish lines; making in all 34,480,0001. The cost of the new rail- ways per mile will be thus very much less than that of existing lines. The average of the new is nearly 15,0001. per mile, and that of the old exceeds 30,0001. per mileRailway Chronicle. Accoaniren to the Times, it has been estimated that no less a sum than ten millions sterling must be sent out of this country in the course of the year, to pay the calls on foreign railway shares; and speculators are warned of the effect which that may have upon the money-market. To show the extraordinary nature of railway spec- ulation in Glasgow, we may mention, that on a line near this city, on which a deposit of 21. lOs. was re- quired per share, they soon ran up to a premium of Si. and 101. per share; and on Monday they were quoted as high as 23l. and 241., but on the day fol lowing they fell to t7l.; and now they are running up again, in consequence of what is called time or bear bargains, ruinous to some, but profitable enough to others; and this is a feature, we are afraid, which pervades too many of them. Sober business is now shoved aside, and speculationspeculation- railway shares and railway deposit, scrip and premi um, seem to be the order of the dayScotch Reform- ers Gazette. THE tenders for the purchase of the Sycee silver were opened yesterday, according to the terms of the notice in which the metal was offered to public com- petition. The result was, that 400,000 ounces were awarded to a person who had bid 60 1-16d. per ounce for that quantity only, while the rest was awarded to another firm (said to be the Messrs. Eothschild) who had offered 60d. for the entire quantity. These prices are extremnely high; being exclusive (accord- ing to the terms of the contract) of all the gold above five grains in the pound Troy which may be found in the silver, and which will have to be paid for separately at a fixed rate. Times. SCRAPS. A VERY tempting offer has been made to the medical profession. A nervous invalid is ad- vertising for a medical gentleman, of good edneation, and cheerful manners, to eat and ride with him, to walk and talk with him, and to shave and dress him! Terms, fifty pounds a year. MR. SERGEANT DAVY, eminent in the last cen- tury, was once upbraided with lowering the dignity of the profession by accepting silver as fees from a client. I took silver, he said, be- cause I could not get gold: hut I took every rap the fellow had; and if you ~ 11 that lowering the dignity of the profession, I dont know what the dignity is.Morning Post. AusTRIAN RAILRoADsThe opening of the great line of railroad from Vienna to Prague is definitively fixed for the 20th of this month, (Aug.) The entire corps diplontatique have been invited to accompany the emperor upon the expedition, which is to take place on the occasion of the solemnity of opening this new and important line. It will be possible to ac- complish the whole distance from Vienna to Prague in one day; but upon this occasion the first days journey will be ended at Brunn, where the emperor, with his whole brilliant coridge, will be received by the Moravian authorities; speeches will be held and banquets given. The next day the Austrian court will arrive at Prague, where festivities and various solemnities will take place for two days. On the 25th it is proposed that the emperor, with his train of dis- tinguished guests, should return to Vienna. A GREAT QuasTtoN SETTLED av AN IF.Several of the journals have announced the death, in Hol- land, on the 10th instant, of the person called the Duc de Normandie, and who pretended to be the Dauphin son of Louis XVI. M. Ilebert, ex-director general des postes of the army of Italy, writes on this subject to some of our Paris contemporaries IF the Duc de Normandie be the same person that I saw in Roi~e,in May, 1810, on arrest, and under- going an tnterrogatory in the cabinet of General Radet, general of gendarmerie, he was really the son of Louis XVI. I derive this conviction from that of General Radet, who interrogated the pretender, and read the documents of which he was the bearer. General Radet sent this pretender to Paris. Count Miollio, governor of Route, was necessarily acquainted with this arrest, and the trace of it must be found in his papers, as also in those left by General Radet. Galignani. As the Duke of Clarence was once sitting to Northeote, he asked the artist if he knew the prince regent. No, was the brief reply. Why, said the duke, my brother says he knows you Oh, answered Northcote, thats only his braa Cincinnati, 30 Aug. A NEW and novel branch of business has recently been commenced by some of our enterprising build- ers, the manufacture of portable cottages for the south and west. I saw three of these cottages on Fourth street the other day, which were intended for the Nashville market. They are abont twelve feet wide by twenty long, and are divided into two apart- ments. They are constructed chiefly of panel work, so that they can be taken to pieces for transportation, and put up again with little trouble. They cost at the yard of the builder $200. It is said that a saving of near 50 per cent. can be utade by emigrants gotng south or west by buying cottages here, instead of purchasing lumber and building when they arrive at A LIGHT IN THE EAST-A newspaper is about to their places of destination; and the manufacture of be established in the city of Jerusalem. Solomon, these cotta0es promises to become an extensive with all his xvi~doin branch of business in our city. Globe. never dreamt of such a thino- M. TillERs has taken his departure for Spain; whither, as his editors have taken care to notify, he is repairing, in order personally to inspect the fields of battle he will describe in his next volumes of the Histoire du Consulat de lEmpire. THE North Star steam ship arrived at the Brunswick Wharf, Blackwall, a few days since, with a cargo and passengers from the port of Leg- horn. This was understood to be an experimental trip, being the first voyage ever made by a steam- vessel to or from that place and the port of Lon- don. Times. Sta ROBERT HAS HARD WORKThe problem, how- ever, is, how Sir Robert Peel gets the tories to assist him in carrying for the liberals; how he gets them to follow Itim against all their most stubboru preju- dices, and many of their most important (fancied) interests. Leigh Hunts clever description of pigs under the control of their driver is the aptett repre- sentation of this curious cross-grained case. Unwilling was their subjection, but more in sorrow than in anger. They were too far gone for rage. Their case was hopeless. They did not see why they should proceed, but they felt themselves bound to do so; forced, conglomerated, crowded on- wards, irresistibly impelled by fate and Jenkins. Of- ten would they have bolted under any other master. They squeaked and grunted as in ordinary; they sidled, they shuffled, they half stopped; they turned an eye to all the little outlets of escape; but in vain. There they stuck, (for their very progress was a sort of sticking,) charmed into the centre of his sphere of action, lying their heads together, but to no purpose - looking all as if they were shrugging their shoulders, and eschewing the tip-end of the whip of office. Much eye had they to their left leg; shrewd backward glances; not a little anticipative squeak, and sudden rush of avoidance. It was a superfluous clutter, and they felt it; but a pig finds it more difficult than any other animal to accomtnodate himself to circum- stances. Being out of his pale, he is in the highest state of wonderment and inaptitude. He is sluggish, obstinate, opinionate, not very social; has no destre of seeing foreign parts. Think of him. in a multitude forced to travel, and wondering what the devil it tS that drives him! judge by this of the talents of his driver.Ezaminer. THE FRENCH-iEST TIlING WE HAVE SEEN GOR SOME TIME.Our spirited contemporary of the Etats Unis. tells the following Parisian bit of gossip.A couple very well known in Paris are at present arranging terms of a separation, to avoid the scandal of a judi- cial divorce. A friend has been employed by the hus- band to negotiate the matter. The latest mission was in reference to a valuable ring given to the husband by one of the sovereigns of Europe, and which he wished to retain. For this, he would make a cer- tain much desired concession. The friend made the demand. What ! said the indignant wife, do you venture to charge yourself with such a mission to me? Can you believe that I could tear myself from a gift which alone recalls to me the days when my husband loved rite? No! this ring is my only souve- nir of happiness forever departed. T is all(and here she wept)that I now possess of a once fond husband. The friend insisted. The lady supplicated, grew obstinategrew desperatethreatened to submit to a l)ublic divorce as a lesser evil thait parting with this cherished ringand at last confessed thatshe had sold it six months before! 56

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The Living age ... / Volume 7, Issue 74 Littell's living age Every Saturday; a journal of choice reading Eclectic magazine The Living age co. inc. etc. New York etc. October 11, 1845 0007 074
The Living age ... / Volume 7, Issue 74 57-104

LITTELLS LIVING AGE.No. 74.il OCTOBER, 1845. CONTENTS. PAGE. Correspondence 57 1. Last Days of the Emperor Alexander, Atheneeum 58 2. Miltons Blindness C~4arnbers Journal 67 3. Seldens Table Talk Christian Observer 69 4. Thiers History of Napoleon Taits Magazine 73 5. The Authors Daughter Mary Howilt 89 SCRAPS and PoETitv.Gurneyism; Aviary, 06Lithography; The Stepmother, 87The Longing; Jews, 88. COllllE~PONIlEN CE. THE long-continued drought so far lessened the water in Charles River, that Messrs. Curtis were unable to supply us with paper in season, and we have to apologize to our readers for some tempo- rary irregularity. The rain which has fallen, is, we hope, sufficient to prevent a return of the dif- ficulty. THE opinion that the death of the Emperor Alexander was occasioned by poison, has been so prevalent as to give much interest to the narrative of his Last Days, which we copy from the Athe- nnum. HARPER & BROTHERS go on rapidly with their Illustrated Bible. It has reached No. 39, and ex- tends into the Apocrypha. They have also published The American Shepherd: being a history of the sheep, with their breeds, management, and diseases, by L. A. Morrell. This looks very much as if our American manufacturers would shortly do with wool, what they have already done with cotton. No. 11 of the Encyclopcedia of Do- mestic Economy nearly comj)letes this excellent book, which contains valuable directions for all departments. After so much that is solid, a little recreation may be allowable, and the same house sends us, The Bosom Friend, a novel. From the motto, A bosom serpenta domestic evilwe suppose that the friend is worse than naught. Wiley 4- Putnams Library of Choice Reading, No. 25, contains the second part of Hazlitts Table Talk. Their Library of American Books, Nos. 4,5 and 6, are The Wi~rwam and the Cabin: by W. Gilmore Sims. Big Abel and Little Manhat- tan: by Cornelius Mathews. Wanderings of a Pil~rim under the Shadow of Mont Blanc: by George B. Cheever, D. D. All these books are very attractive in their appearance, and promise much gratification to the reader. We regret that Lxxiv. LIVING AGE. VOL. vii. 4 we are forced to postpone the gratification of our own taste. Ma. LESTERS Medici Series of Italian Prose, No. 4, is, The Citizen of a Republic, what are his rights, his duties, and privileges, and what should be his education. By Ansaldo Ceba, a Genoese Republican of the 16th Century. Dedicated to John Quincy Adams. Hunts Merchants Magazine and Commercial Revi ought to be read by every young man of business, and contains abundant materials for the study of legislators. Southern Literary Messenger has been sent to us by Messrs. Redding & Co. ARTIFICIAL SToNE.At Augsburg, anoth& r architect, Herr Alois Steiermann, has invented an artificial stone ; which, for solidity, is said to sur- pass the best free-stone, is one third its cost, and to which any form can be given in the manufac- tore. It is composed of river-sand, clay, and a cement whose composition is the inventors secret.. It has been submitted to the proof of air, pressure,. and fire, and resists them all. The King of Ba- varia has given his gold medal of civil merit to Herr Steiermann, for this useful invention. Athen~um. THE QUEEN, breaking through the rigid etiquette of an English court, and catching something of the spirit of the people among whom she found herself,. has ventured to pay a visit to a mere literary Professor. This courtesy, the first of the kinds which Literature, Science or the Arts have receiv- ed from her Island-Majesty, she paid to Dr. Bis choff, at Bonn. We fear, however, that literature must not plume itself on this recognitionfor Dr.. Bisehoff was the director of Prince Alberts studies during his residence at that University. It is con solatory to know, that as this visit to a foreign Professor had a special grace of its own, it wilil take nothing from the grace of any personal recog nition that may hereafter occur to her majesty of such titles at home.Athenceum. LAST DAYS OF THE EMPEROR ALEXANDER. From the Athenisum. THE LAST DAYS OF THE EMPEROR ALEX ANDER. BY ROBERT LEE, M.D., F.R.S. ON the 5th of November, 1824, I arrived at Cologne on my way from London to Odessa, to join the family of Count Woronzow, in the capacity of physician to his excellency. The weather had been very tempestuous during the whole journey from England, and torrents of rain had fallen. The Rhine had overflowed its banks to a greater extent than had ever before been remembered. From the cathedral arid spire of the town-house the inundation presented a striking and melancholy spectacle. The whole level country was covered with water, and the river with the wrecks it was floating away. The following day, many miles before reaching Andernach, the road was inundated by the Rhine, and it was necessary to embark in a boat and be towed up the stream by a number of men on the shore. The rope by which it was dragged against the rapid current frequently became entangled among the chimneys of houses and tops of trees, when suddenly getting loose, the boat ran great risk of being upset, to the extreme danger of the passengers. The night had begun to set in long before this dangerous voyage was completed, and the river was becoming more and more rapid, rushing against our boat with increasing violence. The darkness had increased so much that every object around us bad become indistinct, and our situation truly perilous, when the full moon unexpectedly rising above the moun- tains of the Rhine, our apprehensions of danger were removed, and our feelings of anxiety lost, :m admiration of the ma0nificence of the scenery around us. Having reached Coblentz about midnight I crossed the river with difficulty the following after- noon to Ehrenbreitstein, from whence my journey was continued to Francfort without interruption. I saw from a hill between Limburg and Wiesba- den, to a distance, as far as the eye could reach, the Rhine and the Maine, like two arms of the sea covering the whole of the flat country, and it was estimated that no less than 50,000 persons were ruined by this extensive inundation. Passing through Wurtzbnrg and Nuremberg, I reached Ratisbon on the 15th of November. The wind blew and the rain fell without ceasing during the whole of my journey from Francfort. The Danube bad risen as much above its ordinary level as the Rhine, and was rushing with its character- istic impetuosity, fearfully increased at this time, through all the fifteen arches of the old bridge of Ratisbon. It appeared to me surprisiiig that this structure, which had been built seven hundred years before, should be able to withstand the force of such a mighty torrent. A frightful and disastrous inundation also took place at this tinie at St. Petersburgh, of which the following description has been furnished me by my friend IDr. Gibbs, of Exeter, then residing at St. Petersburgh The autumnal equinoctial gales most generally prevail at St. Petersburgh from the south-west, by which the waters of the Gulf of Finland and Neva are much increased. So it xvas in 1824, and for some weeks the wind continued from nearly the same quarter. The night of the 18th of Novem- ber was very stormy, and at daylight of the 19th it blew a hurricane from W.S.W., by which the stream of the river, the upper part at least, was reversed, and the waters, running higher than ever remembered, soon caused the lower parts of the city and neighborhood of the enibouchure to be inundated. At nine oclock in the morning I attempted to cross the Voskresenskoy bridge of boats on my xvay to the General Naval Hospital, on the Wybnrside, but was unable, owing to the great elevation. I then paid some professional visits, and at eleven called on Prince Narishkin, who had already given orders to remove the furni- ture from his lower apartments, the water then being above the level of the Fontanka canal oppo- site to his residence. From this time the rise was rapid, and at half-past eleven, when I returned to my house, in the great Millione, the water was gushing upwards through the gratings of the sewers, filling the streets and court-yards with which every house is provided. A servant took me on his back from the droshky, my horses at that time being above their knees, and conveyed me to the landing of the staircase. The wind now blew in awful gusts, and the noise of the tempest with the cries of the people in the streets was terrific. It was not long ere boats were seen in the streets with vast quantities of fire-wood and other articles floating about. As there was an asceiit to my coach-house and stables, the water there attained but to four feet in depth; in most, however, it was necessary to get both horses and cows up to the landing places of the stairs in order to save them, though the loss of animals was great. Now and then a horse was seen swiniuiing across from one pavement to another, the deepest part of the streets of St. Petersburgh being in the centre. The number of rats drowned on this occasion was inconceivable, and of dogs and cats not a few. The crisis seemed to be from one to three in the afternoon, at which hour the wind having veered round a couple of points to the northward, the waters began to abate, and by four oclock the tops of the iron posts, three feet in height, by the side of the pavement made their appearance. The reflux of the water was tre- mendous, causing much damage, and carrying off fire-wood, boards, lumber, and all sorts of rubbish, with various articles of furniture. Froni the com- mencement of the inundation the report of the sig- nal cannon, fired first at the Galleyhaven, at the entrance of the river, then at the admiralty dock- yard, and lastly at the fortress, WB5 continued at intervals as a warning to the inhabitants, and added not a little to the horror of the scene. At five oclock, persons were seen on the pavements carrying lanterns, and the rattling of equipages was heard an hour afterwards. The depth of water in the different parts of the city varied from four to nine and ten feet; but along the border of the Gulf of Finland, and especially in the low suburb of the Galleyhaven before alluded to, the depth was from fourteen to eighteen feet, and many of the small wooden houses built on piles were carried a~vay, inmates and all. A few were floated up the Neva, rocking about with poor creatures clinging on the roof. Some of these perished ; others were taken off, at a great risk, by boats from the admiralty yard, which had been ordered out by the express command of his im- perial majesty, who stood during the greatest part of the day on the balcony of the winter palace, giving the necessary orders. The government ironworks, near the shore of the gulf, and two 58 LAST DAYS OF TIlE EMPEROR ALEXANDER. miles distant, Were almost annihilated, and the loss of life was great. This establishment was after- wards removed to the left and elevated bank of the Neva, five versts above the city. Vessels of vari- ous kinds, boats, timber, & c., floated over the parapets of the quays on the banks of the Neva and canals, into the streets and squares, aad were for the most part afterw rds broken up for fuel. As the lower part of most houses in St. Peters- burgh is occupied by shopkeepers and artixans of various descriptions, so these unfortunate people sustained much loss, and until their dwellings were considered to be sufficiently dried by means of stoves, found refuge and maintenance with their neighbors in the upper apartments. A German shoemaker with his family, lived below me, and in this way became my ~uests for the space of eight days. The wind continued providentially to get round to the north during the night of the 19th, and a smart frost taking place on the following morning, rendered the roads and streets extremely slippery, but doing much good by the dryness it produced. On the 20th, the Emperor Alexander, ever benevolent and humane, visited those parts of the city and suburbs most afflicted by this catas- trophe, and in person bestowed alms and consola- tion to the sufferers, for the most part of the lower classes, and in every way afforded such relief, both then and afterwards, as won for him the still greater love and admiration of his people and of the foreign residents in St. Petersburgh. To assist the emperors benevolent views, a subscrip- tion was entered into, and the British residents came forward, as usual, with their wonted liber- ality. As nothing official was published as to the actual loss of lives on this melancholy occasion,it is impossible to state otherwise than by report. The authorities were shy on this subject; but from what information I could obtain, twelve or fifteen hundred persons must have perished. Owing to the damp and unwholesome state of the lower parts of the houses and cellars, the mortality during the subsequent winter was nearly doubled, from typhus chiefly, as also from affection of the lungs; and many dated their rheumatic pains and various other maladies to the sufferings they then underwent. The effects of this calamity were still visible more than a year after, when I visited St. Peters- burgh, subsequent to the death of the Emperor Alexander. The red painted lines on the houses still remained to mark the height to which the waters had risen. In the inundation of 1752, the waters of the Neva rose eleven feet, and in that of 1777, the most extensive and destruc- tive that had ever before occurred, they rose fourteen feet above the ordinary level of the river. The Danube and the surrounding country were covered by a dense fog during my journey from Ratisbon to Vienna, where I arrived on the 21st of November, 1824, and set out for the Russian frontier on the 29th. The same evening I reached Brijun, the capital of Moravia, where I remained till the 2d of December, the anniversary of the battle of Austerlitz, which was fought near this town, nineteen years before. Here I met an Aus- trian cavalry officer, on his way from Italy to Gallicia, who was in the battle, and gave a vivid description of it. He said it commenced between eight and nine oclock in the morning, and was nearly over by mid-day, and that in the very short space of four hours 40,000 men were either killed; 5~) wounded, or made prisoners. It was the first battle in which the Emperor Alexander had been present, and from an eminence near the field lie saw a great part of his arumy destroyed, and the remainder retreating in confusion upon Austerlitz, pursued by the enemy. His troops fought, I was assured, with the most determined bravery, and that the victory which the French gained was due entirely to the transcendant military genius of Napoleoti. When the Russian and Austrian columims were descending from the heights which formed the key of their position, and were march- ing round the French, to attack their right wing, and cut off their communication with Vienna, Na- poleon encouraged the allies to make this false movemetit, and before it was completed, he drove his masses of infantry, like a wedge, against their flank and centre, cut their army into two parts, and afterwards quickly routed them, as Lord Nel- son had before done to the French fleet at Trafal- gar, after breaking their line. Europe felt the shock of the battle of Austerlitz like that of an earthquake. Henceforth we may close the map of Europe for half a century, said Mr. Pitt, on receiving the fatal tidings. But Alexander, though defeated, was not wholly vanquished on this occasion. He persevered, till his allies ceased to co5perate with him, and the entire subjugation of his empire was threatened, to discharge the solemn obligations he had sworn to fulfil during his nocturnal visit with the King of Prussia, a month before, to the tomb of Frederick the Great. After the battle of Friedland, lie was compelled to yield to the force of circumstances which he could not control, and it is difficult to believe, that if Alex- ander had been desirous to conceal from the Eng- lish government the secret articles of the treaty of Tilsit that they could have succeeded (by any bribe, however great) in obtaining so speedily a perfect knowledge of the means by which Eng- land was saved. The capture of the Danish fleet, which followed this discovery, there can be no doubt inspired the emperor with secret hope and joy. I continued my route through Poland by Cracow and Lemberg to Brody, and there eimtering Russia, traversed the Ukraine to Odessa, where I arrived on the 8th of January, 1825. The winter soon set in with groat severity ; the Black Sea on that coast was froxen, and the communication with Constantinople and the Mediterranean entirely cut off. At the end of January a great quantity of snow fell and lay, both on the land and sea, till the commencement of April, when the ice floated away to the south, and vegetation began to appear on the steppe. Odessa, which had no existence half a century before this period, now contained upwards of 36,000 inhabitatits and carried on an extensive commerce with Turkey and tb~ coun- tries in the south of Europe. In tho ~wns of the town were seen Greeks, Jews . ~ssians, Poles, Germans, French, Aineri~~a~, and English, in the costumes of their rcs~ectmve nations. The gover- nor general, Count Worouzow, was surrounded with military and civil officers, who had either dis- tinm~uishmed themselves in the public service or were eminent for their rank and talents. The dreary amid monotonous winter months of Scythia passed quickly and agreeably away in the society of those who had served in the Persian, Turkish, and French wars ; and who had witnessed both the burning of Moscow and the capture of Paris. Society at Odessa seemed as free and unrestrained 60 LAST DAYS OF THE EMPEROR ALEXANDEg. as in London, and there was nothing app~ rent to a stranger from which it could at this time be sus- pected that a conspiracy existed to destroy the Emperor Alexander, and subvert the government of the country. During the summer I visited Kief, and the greater part of the country extending between the Dnieper an(l the Duiester, which was at that time suffering from the ray ges of locusts. They ap- peared in the Crimea in 181 , and had continued in it until 1823that year the crops were com- pletely devoured by them. From thence they spread westward as far as Beasarabia, and to the north upwards of 300 miles from the sea, and in the autumn of 1824, their eggs had been deposited in the earth, not only in these fertile Itrovinces, but throughout the whole tract of country extend- ing eastward from the Dnieper beyond the Don, to the Cancassus. I had seen their ova during the winter dug out of the earth, when they presented the appearance of clusters of small yellow sacs or bags. In the month of May the young ones began to issue from the ground in myriads, at which time they did not exceed the fifth of an inch in length, and could only crawl along the surface. In a few weeks they had greatly enlarged, and could leap considerable distances, like grasshop- pers. By the end of June they were able to fly a short way, and before the end of July they mounted high into the air and took long flights. At first they were of a blackish hue, and their heads were disproportionately large, but after- wards they became of a clear brown color, with wings of grey or rosy red. In some places they covered the ground completely, and were in a state of rest, but in others they were going slowly before the breeze, and resembled at a distance a sheet of gently flowing water. Around Novomi- gorod, in travelling from Biala Cerkiew, near Kief, to Odessa, the road was deeply covered with them, and they rose as our carriages approached, ~vith a peculiar rattling noise, and in such numbers that they filled the air like flakes of snow in a storm. They swarmed in the streets of Odessa, in the vineyards, and on the surrounding steppe, at the beginning of August, and masses of the (lead bodies of those drowned in the sea, covered the shore. There were everywhere two distinct varieties of these insects, one about three inches, and the other of half that length. The first kind was observed to bear a much greater proportion to the other near the sea, than at a remote distance. There was a third variety, of a green color, but it xvas extremely rare, and in some places wholly ~vanming. In the neighborhood of Odessa, on the steppe, I observed vast numbers of a peculiar species of Sphex, or Ichneumon fly, employed in killing and burying the locusts. The fly insidiously sprung upon the locust, apply- ing its long and powerful legs around the body, so that the victim could not expand its wings and escape. When exhausted with fruitless efforts to fly, the sphex applied the strong nippers with which its mouth is furnished around the neck of the locust and thrusting the dart with which it is also provided between the head and body in a few seconds deprived the locust of life. This dart I found to consist of two sharp spears, with a small tube between them, but whether connected or not with a poisonous sac was not ascertained. The fly remained for some time attached to the body of the locust after it was dead, probably for the purpose of depositing its ova within it. The sphex afterwards dragged the locust into a small grave it had previously dug in the ground for its reception, and covered it carefully with earth. The ultimate extinction of the locusts here obvi- ously would be effected by this means, if none other were provided by nature for the purpose. The locusts, I was informed some years after, had entirely disappeared from these extensive steppes. On the 11th August, 1825, his excellency Count WoronZoW an(l his suite embarked at Odessa on board Admiral Greigs yacht, arid sailed for the Crimea. The Counts F. Pablen, Olizar, Potoski, and the Baron de Brunow (now Russian minister in England) were among the number. The fol- lo~ving eveninu we saw the land near Kosloff. At two oclock on the mornin~ of Sunday the 16th, we were off Sevastopole. in the midst of the Black Sea fle t, consistin~ of eight ships of the line and three large frigates. We went ott board the admirals ship, and after examining every part, heard divine service perforumed in the chapel, where all the sailors who could be spared were present. After this, a sham fight took place be- txveen the three frigat s and the yacht. Admiral Greig then formed his own ship and seven other of the line into close order of battle, with all their sails expanded, and many tremendous broadsides were fired. We afterwards dined with the admi- ral, vice-admiral, and captains of the fleet. We parted from Admiral Greig at sunset, and made all sail for Yoursouff, on the south coast. The breeze was favorable, but to~ ards morning it grad- ually died away, the vessel being about ten miles from the point called Criu Metopon, where the temple of Diana is supposed to have stood in the days of Iphigenia. During tIme 17th the weather was beautiful, there was not a breath of air, and the sea ~vas like a placid lake. The following day, when opposite Jalta, the scene suddenly changed by the occurrence of a violent gale from the east, which drove the vessel back, and com- pelled us to take refuge in a bay near Balaclava. We passed the night at a village called Laspi, be- longing to General Poitiers, all tIme inhabitants of which were suffering from fever, and in a wretched condition. On the 19th, taking Tartar horses, we rode through the valley of Baidar, and crossed the Ayla mountains by the passage of Foros, to the south coast, along which we passed eastward by Simeis, Alonpka, Musghor, Derekoy, Nikita, Masandra, and Orianda, to Yoursouff, the seat of Count Woronzow. There are probably no scenes in Europe which surpass in magnificence and beauty those around Aloupka, Masamidra, and Orianda. If there exists on the earth a spot which may be described as a terrestrial paradise, says Dr. Clarke, it is that which intervenes between Kutchukoy and Sudac, on the south coast of the Crimea. Protected by encircling Alps from every cold and bhighting wind, and only open to those breezes which are wafted across the sea from the south, the inhabitants enjoy every advan- tage of climate and situation. From the moun- tains continual streams of crystal water pour down upon the gardens, in which many species of fruit known in the rest of Europe, and many that are not, attain the highest perfection. Neither un- wholesome exhalations, nor chilling winds, nor venomous insects, nor hostile neighbors, infest their blissful territory. During the month of Septeniber, 1825, the whole population of the Crimea between the mountains and the sea, all the inhabitants of this LAST DAYS OP THE EMPEROR ALEXANDER. 61 terrestrial paradise, were in a very sickly condi- tion, and in the villages along the coast between Yoursouff and Simeis, I saw and treated more than a hundred cases of intermittent and remittent fever. Many who had been snifering for months had en- largeinent of the liver and spleen, with jaundice and dropsy. The weather, during the whole time I remained on the south coast of the Crimea, was delightful, and none of those sudden and violent changes were observed which so frequently occur in all the countries situated along the northern shore of the Black Sea. There could be little doubt that the fever which then prevailed on the coast and in the interior of the Crimea, was pro- duced by noxious exhalations from the earth. After visiting all the most interesting places in the Crimea, I embarked on hoar(1 Admiral Greigs yacht at Sevastopole on the 23d September, and returned to Odessa, with Count F. Pablen, on the 1st of October. Count Worouzow at the same time set out for Taganrog, to meet the Emperor Alexander, who had arrived there with the em- press a short time before, with the intention of spendin.g the winter on the shores of the sea of Azoff. Before reaching Odessa, Count Pahlen was seized with severe shiverino, headache, and the other characteristic symptoms of bilious re- mittent fever. The attack was far more violent and dangerous than in any of the cases which had before fallen under my observation, and he nar- rowly escaped with his life. Mr. Rose, an Eng- lish gentleman, who had been in the Crimea with us, was also attacked after our return to Odessa, and died from effusion into the brain. The health of a considerable number of those who had been on the south coast of the Crit ca at the same time, suffered severely for some months after, and in a few fever appeared in a severe form early the following spring. There was evidence to prove hat almost all of us had suffered from malaria. On the 14th of Octo er, 1525, (OS.) at Odessa, I received a letter from Count Worouzow at Ta- ganro g, informing me of the emperors determi- natton to visit the Crimea, and requesting me to meet him at Bereslaw, on the Dnieper. I accord- ingly left Odessa in the afternoon of the same day, with General Bashmakoff, Messrs. Marini and Artemieff. We arrived at Nicolaef in the afternoon of the 15th, and remained a few hours with Admiral Greig, who had just returned from Taganrog. It was a clear, beautiful night, the road was excellent, and we reached Bereslaw the following morning, at seven oclock, where we re- mained during the day. This is a large town on the west bank of the Duieper, which does not dif- fer in appearance from the other towns in the south of Russia. There were many shops or ba- zaars in it, full of every kind of merchandise. Great numbers of wagons laden with salt from the Crimea, were then passing through, and large bodies of troops marching to join the army on the Turkish frontiers. The country around was ex- tremely fertile, but the locusts had committed great havoc the year before, the peasants and landed proprietors being in a state of the greatest distress. We left Bere law in the afterno n, for the isthmus of Perecop, and after passing over an extensive plain of sand like the Llandes, near the Pyrenees, we entered the Crimea, and spent the night at the German colony of Nahitchwan. Here all was order, cleanliness and comfort, the population rapidly increasing, and additional grants of land required. On quitting these intelligent, happy people, the following morning, we were not long in coming among the Nogay Tartars, where all was ignorance, povert.y and wretched- ness. Light and darkness, civilization and barba- rism, were here almost in contact. We remained two nights and a day at Sympheropole, where] had the satisfaction of giving professional aid to the daughter of Count Rostopscbin, a name which will be preserved through all ages in the annals of Russia. On the 20th we left Sympheropole early iii the morning, and passing rapidly over the steppe extending between the town and the mountains, crossed these in a cal~che, by the new road which had lately been made to connect the shore of the Crime with the interior. Many of the soldiers employed in completing this arduous ~vork appeared sickly and depressed. Upwards of a hundred out of five hundred had suffered from fever during the autumn, but in none had the disease assumed a dangerous form. No less than a thousand soldiers had been employed in this important work the year before, and comparatively few of them, it was reported, had suffered from the effects of fever. The face of the country had changed since our former visit to the Crimea. The woods along the Salgir, and on the Chatyr- Dagh, ~vere stripped of their leaves, though on entering the valley of Alushta the trees were still green. From the isthmus of Perecop to Yoursouff where we arrived on the 20th, preparations were being made for the reception of the emperor; the roads were being repaired, and all the cottages and houses in the line were being cleaned and whitewashed. The principal Tartar of the village of Yoursouff had been suffering severely from intermittent fever for several weeks, but the fits were speedily arrested by the calomel and sulphate of quinine which I administered to him. This latter remedy, which had never before been em- ployed in the fevers of the Crimea, often stopped their course so quickly, that some of the ignorant Tartars were disposed to attribute the striking effects to supernatural influence. The following morning we set out for Aloupka. It was like a summers day in England, the ther- mometer in the shade being l~o of Reaumur. The tops of the mountains were, however, covered with dense clouds. The road along the sea-shore to Orianda from Yoursouff never appeared to me so beautiful before, and I could not pass Nikita and Masandra, without halting to admire the glorious scenery. The woods had lost a part of their ver- dure, but there were still many of the trees as green as during the autumn. The wild vine, which climbs to the tops of the highest trees, and the leaves of which were then of a deep red color. formed a striking feature in the scene. The wal- nut and fig trees were still fresh and green. At Aloupka, in the evening, we walked around the gardens, the most romantic in the Crimea, where preparations were being made for planting forty lemon trees in the open air, which had been im- ported the previous year from Italy, and one of them, which had been exposed in the middle of the garden to the intense frost the preceding win- ter, was in a flourishing state. We returned to the Tartar house which was prepared for the em- peror. Boards had been placed around the front of it, and whitewashed. The walls of the two cham- bers for his tnajestys accommodation, had been surrounded with a coarse white linen cloth, and a very neat bed prepared. There were two chairs, 62 LAST DAYS OF THE EMPEROR ALEXANDER. a table, and a couch, and newly glazed windows had been put in. In that climate one could not have desired a better habitation for a night, though it was a common Tartar cottage. We returned to Yoursoufl on the 23d, and on the following day one of the emperors couriers arrived, and arranged all the apartments in the house for his majesty and attendants. On the 25th the emperor arrived at Sympheropole. He went to the service in the cathedral the follow- ing morning, and he arrive] at Yoursouff about four oclock in the afternoon, accompanied by General Diebitch, Sir James Wylie, and a few attendants. When he dismounted from his horse in front of the house at Yoursouff, Count Woron- zow, his aides-de-carnp, secretaries, and myself, xvere standing in a line to receive him. Though apparently active, and in the prime and vigor of life, the emperor stooped a little in walk- ing, and seemed rather inclined to corpulency. He was dressed in a blue military surtout, with epan- lettes, and had nothinci to distiiiguish him from any general officer. He shook Count Woronrow by the hand, and afterwards warmly saluted him, first on one cheek and then on the other. He afterwards shook hands with us all, and then in- quired of me particularly about the health of the counts children at Baila Cerkiew, whom I had seen not long before. He then inquired if I had visited the south coast of the Crimea during the autumn, and if so, how I was pleased with it. Looking up to the mountains above Yoursouff, and then to the calm sea, upon which the sun was shining, his majesty exclaimed, Was there ever such magnificent scenery! I replied that the coast of Italy between Genoa and Nice presented the only scenery I had ever witnessed that could be compared to ita part of Italy which his maj- esty stated he had never visited. I set out from Yoursonff on the morning of the 26th of October, before the emperor, and rode along the coast to Aloupka. It was a sultry day, and the scenery was rendered still more interesting to me than on all former occasions, in consequence of the Tartars having come from all parts of the Crimea to see the emperor, on his way from Your- souff to Aloupka, where he arrived about four oclock. I was informed that a Tartar female complained to his majesty, at Orianda, of her hay- iiig been beaten and ill treated by the superintend- ent; when the offender was ordered to appear before his majesty, he threw himself upon his knees and implored forgiveness. Alexander or- dered him to be arrested, and said, with great sever- ity, that it was an eternal disgrace to injure any female, more especially one in her situation, she being pregnant. The emperor was greatly pleased with Orianda, and immediately determined to pur- chase the estate from Count Kisseloff, and build a palace there. Before coming to Aloupka he vis- ited the vineyards at Martyan, and the Princess Galitzin and Musghor, distrihuting liberally to the poor in his way. Count Woronzow, General Thehitch, Sir James Wylie and myself, with one or two others, had the honor of dining with the errtper r on thisoccasion, the last lie was destined to enjoy. The emperor addressed himself chiefly to Count Worouzow, who was seated next to his majesty, and the greater part of the conversation was carried on in French and English. Again his majesty recurred to the beauties of Qrian(la, and thanked the count for the acquisition he had that day mad for hittt. He expressed the strong displeasure he felt at the cruel treatment the poor Tartar woman had re- ceived from the superintendent, and ordered that he should be severely punished. The death of Mr. Fondane, the governor of Kertche, from con- sumption, had occnrred not long before, and when this was mentioned the emperor said, he thought it would be possible to combine the offices of the governors of Kertche and Theodosia, as the gov- ernment of Taganrog wa much more extensive than the two combined. Co nt Woronzow ob- served, that there would be a difficulty in effecting this, because a great jealousy existed bet een the imihahitants of the two towns, which would be increased by the change. The emperor, on the contrary, thought it might be the means of recon- ciling them to each other. The count said that the people of Theodo ia would never be reconciled to it: that they would consider themselves placed in a situation inferior to that of Kertehe, and that, in his opinion, it was not advisable. The emperor still urged the practicability of the measure, which he said he had fully considered, and the count acquiesced in his majestys decision, by admitting that no great harm could result from the experi- ment. The emperor then made many inquiries respecting the wealth and respectability of the merchants of Theodosia, to ~vhich such answers were given as app ared entirely satisfactory. There were oysters at dinner, and a sniall worm was adhering to the shell (if one presented to his majesty. This was shown to Sir James Wylie, xvho said it was quite common and harmless, and he reminded the emperor of a circumstance which had occurred to them at the congress of Verona. A person at Ycnice had then sent to the emperor to entreat that he would abstain from the use of oysters, as there was a poisonous marine worm or insect in them. This led the conversation to the insects of the Crimea and the Ukraine, of which I had made a considerable collection, and the em- peror inquired of nie if there were scorpions, 5cc- lopendras and tarantulas in the Crimea. 1 said scorpions of large size were not uncommon, and that at Mushor, (lurimig our former visit, we found a scorpion of great strength in the apartment where we passed the night, hut that it was harm- less. Seolopendras of great length I had often seen around Odessa, but not in the Crimea, nor tarantulas, although, as I had been informed, they were not very rare. I heard of no instanee during the autumn in which they had inflicted any injury by their bites or stings. He said, he supposed they were the same as in Italy, and then alluded to the dance for the cure of the bite of the taran- tula; Sir James Wylie reminded his majesty (if the scorpion which was found in his bed at Vero- na, and of the prescription wheb he had the written fur the cure of thin bites of the carbonanm. Then followed a long discussion on hommopa- thy, and the pe uliar views of Hahuemaun, which were at tltat time greatly in vogue, not only in Germany but in Russia. Sir James seemed rather more favor ble to these views than I considered justified by the evidence upon which they were founded He said he be~eved Hahuenmaun, with his extremely minute doses of medicines, cured a many patients as regular physicians did by their great ones, because he at the satne time enjoined a rig rous diet. C. mint Worouzow inquired if Sir James would trust to Hahuemanus method o~ treatment in cases of inflammation of the brain oi wels, or in the fevers of the Crimea. Woul LAST DAYS OF TilE EMPEROR ALEXANDER. the hundredth or the thousandth part of a grain of sulphatp of quinine, he asked, stop the fits of one of these feversl He appealed to me to support the truth of what he said, and I had no hesitation in affirming that large doses of quinine often almost instantaneously arrested these fevers, when small doses proved ineffectual. Again, the emperor expressed how much he was pleased with Orianda, and stated that it was his determination to have a palace built there as expe- ditiously as possible. To my amazement he then amid, after a pause, When I give in my denmis- 5iOfl~ I will return and fix myself at Orianda, and wear the costume of the Taurida. Not a word was uttered by any one when this extraordinary res- olution was announced, and I thought that I must have misunderstood the emperor, but this could nint he, for in a short time, when Count Woronzow proposed that the large open fiat space of ground to the westward of Orianda should be converted into pleasure grounds for his majesty, he replied, I wish this to be purchased for General Diebitch, as it is right that the chief of my 6tat-major and I should be neighbors. During dinner there was also some conversation respecting the chapel which was about to be built at Masandra, and the em- peror inquired whether or not it was to be a Greek chapel. A petition had been presented for a Lu- theran place of worship to be established at Niti- ka, and likewise that at Sympheropole the old Greek church should be converted ijito a Lutheran chapel, after the cathedral xvas finished. The em- peror said he was ignorant of the law upon this point, but that the bishop would inform him wheth- er it was contrary to law to permit a Greek church, when not required for the national religion, to be converted into a Lutheran chapel. If it was not, it ought to be granted, he said; and I had no doubt that the emperors visit to the monastery of St. George on the following day had some reference to this subject. General Diebitch inquired if there were many Lutherans in the Crimea, and particu- larly at Sympheropole, to which Count Woron- zow replied, that if they had been numerous they would ere this have had a chapel of their own. A petition had also been presented by some Roman Catholics at Karasubazar for a piece t)f ground to build a Catholic chapel. The emperor expressed his anxiety that all these petitions should receive due attention and be granted to the fullest possible extent. It appeared, from what was stated on this occasion, that the administration of the empire was conducted by Alexander on the true principles of religious toleration. His majesty made a frugal repast, and drank little wine. When champagne was presented, Count Worouzow said, Sire, may we be per- mitted to drink to the health of her majesty the empress ~ He replied, Most certainly; and all iin:nediately risincr did honor to the toast. On retiring his majesty returned thanks to Count Worouzow for the excellent entertainment be had provided, and, addressing himself to us all, said, with kindness and condescension, Your presence on this occasion has afforded me the greatest satis- faction. He then walked out, and mounted the steps to the flat roof of the house, around which a number of Tartars were collected. He looked at the groups through his eye-glass, and said, What handsome Oriental countenances! what a fine race of men One of the most striking pecu- liarities of the Crimea would be lost if the Tartars were expelled ; I hope they will be encouraged to 63 continue here. An effendi was introduced to his majesty to present a petition, which he did by bending down amid raising his bands to his head, without removing his turban from it. The emperor retired to rest early in the eveii- ing. In the middle of the night a courier arrived, when he arose and transacted business. General Diebitch, who slept in a house close to that in which I was, was twice summoned in the night to wait upon his majesty. I was afterwards in- formed that the despatches brought by the courier were of the highest public importance ; in fact, that they fully revealed to his majesty the ex- istence of a dangerous and extensive conspiracy, of which he had not been previously aware. On the morning of the 27th, after breakfast, the emperor sent a message to say that he desired me to accompany him round the lower garden. After some conversation respecting the illness of the empress, and the proposal that I should visit her majesty professionally at Taganrog, he again called my attention to the magnificence of the scenery around us, and expressed the pleasure he had derived from this visit to the Crimea, and the hope he entertained that at no very remote period its shores would be full of rich vineyards, and con- tain many flourishing villages and towns. I hinted, in the most delicate manner I could, that the frequent occurrence of violent fevers to those who visited the Crimea, and to its constant inhabi- tants, was the only circumstance which appeared to me likely to prevent his majestys anticipa- tions being completely realized. He expressed a strong wish that I should remain in Russia, per- manently attached to Count Woronzow, the value of whose public services he appeared justly to appreciate. At mid-day the emperor and his attendants were on horseback, and, after shaking hands with and taking an affectionate leave of all, he set out for Sevastopole. In a few days, I returned with Count Worouzow to Odessa by Perecop, Beres- law, and Nicolaef, where we remained till the 22d of November, 1825. At eight oclock, on Sunday morning, the 22d of November, Count Woronzow expressed a wish to see me in his library. On going there, the count stated that he had received bad news from Taganrogthat the emperor was dangerously ill. and that I must set out with him, in two hours, to render my assistance with the other physicians. It appeared from a letter of the 7th instant that the emperor had been attacked with symptoms of slight catarrh soon after leaving the Crimea, and that at Oriekoff these had assumed the decided form of remittent feverthat it had increased in severity, and that his majesty refused to take any medicine. Another letter, of the 14th, stated that he was much worseindeed, in great danger and that still he refused to submit to any medical treatment. A third letter, dated Thursday, the 19th, had also been received, from which it ap- peared that the malady had been daily growing worse, and that tdmost all hope of his recovery was past. The count was much afflicted when he communicated this intelligence, and expressed his fear that we should find all over before we reached Taganrog. We started from Odessa at mid-day, and when our carriage was going slowly over the deep sands by the sea-shore, the count said that unpleasant occurrences seldomn came alonethat a. letter had arrived that morning from London, in- forming him of an accident that had endamigered 64 LAST DAYS OF THE EMPEROR ALEXANDER. the life of his father; also, that William Findley, who had been his fathers coachman for upwards of thirty years, had been thrown from his box, and killed on the spot. I knew William Findley well, he added, bursting into tears, and feel how much my father must have suffered on the occasion. We continued our journey to Nico- laef, where we arrived at midnight. The count retired to rest for two hours; but I did not, being anxious to learn from Admiral Greig what conse- quences would be likely to result, in the event of the emperors death, and the accession of his bro- ther Constantine to the throne. We were, of course, unacquainted with the fact, that in 1822, the Grand Duke Constantine had voluntarily waived his title to the succession, and that the next in the line after him should take his place. Admiral Greig requested me to write to him imme- diately after my arrival at Taganrog, which I did, and communicated all the information I could obtain respecting his imperial majestys illness and death. We reached Cherson at seven oclock in the morning. There had been a hard frost during the night. The town was evidently in a state of decay, and many of the houses were roofless. During the previous winter, the forage in the Crimea and country extending along the northern coast of the Black Sea, was exhausted before the spring, and the crops having been destroyed by the locusts and a drought the people had actually been compelled, in some places, to employ the straw thatching of their cottages to feed their cattle. I had previously been informed that the commerce of the place was ruined; that the rise of Odessa had, in fact, been the fall of Cherson. The Dnieper is here as broad as the Danube above Vienna, or the Rhone near the Mediterranean. At a short distance from the gate of the town, we saw an obelisk, which had been erected to the memory of John Howard, who died of fever, near Cherson, on the 20th of January, 1790, and was buried in the open steppe, at a short distance from the town. It was his request that a sun-dial should be erected over his grave; and Admiral Greig informed me that this wish had recently been complied with, and through the admirals exertions chiefly, as I learned from others. We arrived at Bereslaw at two oclock in the afternoon of the 23d, and crossed the Duieper on a raft, the floating bridge having been removed. In the morning of the 24th, we reached Oriekoff, which is on the high road between Taganrog and Warsaw, where the Grand Duke Constantine then was. The postmaster of this place stated that no account had been received of th.e emperors death; but he must have wished to conceal the fact, as at the next post station, we were at once informed that the news of his decease had been received two days before. On Wednesday, the 25th, at seven in the morn- ing, we arrived at Marienpole, a small town on the Sea of Azoff, inhabited by Greeks, who had emi- grated from the Crimea forty years before. We remained an hour at the residence of a military officer of rank, who gave me a general account of the emperors illness. He informed me that bilious fevers were very common in autumn along the whole northern coast of the Sea of Azoff. From Marienpole to Taganrog the country pre- sented a most dreary aspect, and the post-honses and horses were truly wretched. We crossed a small river, and, entering Taganrog at, eight oclock in the evening, were immediately con- ducted by the governor of the town to the house of one of the most respectable merchants. We learned, on arriving, that his majesty died on the 19th of November, and that he had been insensi- ble, and deprived of the power of swallowing two days before his decease. On Thursday, the 26th of November, I went to see his imperial majesty lying in state in the house where he had lived and died. The coffin was placed upon a slightly-elevated platform, and covered by a canopy. The room was hung with black, and the coffin covered with a cloth of gold. There were numerous large wax lights burning in the apartment, and each individual present held a slender lighted wax taper. A priest was standing at the bead of the coffin reading the Evangelists, and I was told that this was carried on day and night. On each side of the body a sentinel was placed with a drawn sword. In the ante-room there was a number of priests putting on their robes, and preparing for the service or mass, which was celebrated twice every day. There were no symptoms of melancholy in this crowded room, and some young military officers even dis- played a degree of levity altogether unsuitable to the solemnity of the scene. The empress, I was informed, remained constantly in an apartment, the door of which opened into that where the body of the emperor was lying, and where the service was performed. Guards were stationed around the house, at the door, as also on the stairs, and in the ante-room. On the evening of Friday, the 27th of Novem- ber, I proceeded, at the request of Count Woron- zow, to the residence of Sir James Wylie, for many years physician to the person of his imperial majesty, for the purpose of obtaining an account of the emperors illness, and the treatment which would have been pursued, had not his majesty strenuously refused all medical assistance. Sir James read to me the whole of the reports of his majestys case, written down by him from day to day, and which contained the fullest and most satisfactory explanation of all the attendant cir- cumstances. These reports were also signed by the other physicians, who coincided in the views entertained by Sir James respecting the nature and proposed treatment of the disease. As these reports were about to be forwarded to St. Peters- burgh for the satisfaction of the government, I could not procure a perfect copy, but the followmn~, are the most important facts they contained, and were noted down by me in short-hand as I heard them. Dr. Reinhold, surgeon to the empress, who had remained with the emperor during the night of the 12th of November, came in when Sir James Wylie was thus occupied, and declared to me in the most unequivocal manner, that he was entirely of the same opinion with the other phy- sicians respecting the nature of the disease, and of the means that would have been employed. The weather suddenly changed on the day the emperor left Aloupka, the 27th of October. A thick mass of clouds covered the mountains in the afternoon, the east wind was cold, and a shower of rain fell. The previous day had been intensely hot on the coast, and at the time the emperor was riding from Voursouff to Aloupka. His majesty was accustomed to travel in an open cal~che with a light military cloak, trustino solely to the vigor of his constitution against the sudden changes of the atmosphere. After quitting Aloupka, he went LAST DAYS O~ TIlE EMPEItOR ALEXANDER. to that part of the road where the ascent of the Merdveen commences, and hesitated for some time whether to proceed by this difficult pass, over the mountains, which are between three and four thou- sand feet high, into the valley of Baidar, or by that of Foros. After a little delay he decided for the former, and arrived at Baidar fatigued, perspiring, and unusually irritable on account of the unruli- ness of his horse. At Baidar, a caldehe awaited him, but no refreshment was preparedhis maitre dh6tel having gone on to Sevastopole. From Baidar, he proceeded to Balaclava, and reviewed Colonel Ravilottis regiment of Greek guards. The emperor again entered his cal~che, and drove to that part where the road turns off to the monas- tery of St. George. Here he mounted a horse and rode to the monastery alone, a distance of at least ten versts. Sir James had gone forward be- fore him to Sevastopole, and the emperor did not arrive there until it was quite dark, having re- mained upwards of two hours at the monastery, where was a bishop and several priests. He entered Sevastopole by torchlight, and before going to the house prepared, went to the church, and afterwards reviewed some troops drawn up in a line along the street through which he passed. His majesty dined alone, and it was said scarcely tasted anything. The following day, at twelve oclock, he examined the barracks, hospital, and forts at Sevastopole, and then set out for Bache- serai. On the journey he was observed to be asleep in the carriage. At Bacheserai, the em- peror also dined alone, and the following morning he informed Sir James Wylie, that he had suffered from an attack of bilious diarrhea in the night, but that he was then perfectly well. Thus, he said, will all my complaints pass away without the help of medicine. Sir James did not state to me the circumstances which led the emperor to believe that medical treatment was of no avail in arresting the progress of disease, and to determine him not to have recourse to its aid. There could be no doubt that the emperor had some peculiar views about the doctrine of predestination, but whether his skepticism respecting the efficacy of medi- cine originated in these opinions, I could not ascertain. His majesty that day went to Chufut Kali, and returned in the afternoon to Bacheserai to meet the Tartar chiefs. Next day he went to Kosloff, and n arriving there Sir James observed that they had passed some marshes which emitted a most dis- agreeable odor. The following night he slept near Perecop, and on the next between the isth- mus and Oriekoff. At this place he was observed by his valet-de-chambre to be ill, but his majesty did not inform Sir James of the circumstance, and the latter saw nothing unusual in the appearance of the emperor the next morning during their visit to an hospital close by this village. But the valet afterwards stated that his majesty had been very ill in the night, and inquired if Sir James did not observe how pale he was. In the carriage with General Diebitch on the road to Marienpole, the emperor was attacked with violent shiverings, and, on arriving there, had a strong and distinct par- oxysm of fever. A warm bed was prepared for him, and he took some hot punch. As the place they were in was of a wretched description, Sir James recommended him to push forward to Ta- ganrog on the following day, and there to take the proper remedies. They reached Taganrog on the 5th of November, 0. 5. On the two follqwing days, the emperor suffered severely from derange- ment of the liver and digestive organs, and experi- enced severe paroxysms of fever. It was evident that he was severely attacked with the bilious remittent fever of the Crimea ; but at this time there w~s no headache or any other symptom of the brain being affected. Four grains of calomel were given, and some purgative medicine, with great but temporary relief of the febrile symptoms, yet his majesty would not consent to a repetition of these remedies, or to the adoption of any other means. On the 8th, the fever continued with un- diminished violence, and as the emperor positively refused to avail himself of the aid of medicine, Sir James requested that Dr. Stofregen, physician to the empress, should be called into consultation. His head had now become burning hot, and a marked change was perceptible in his majestys countenance. When Dr. Stofregen was intro- duced, he said, I am distressed to see your majesty suffering in this manner. Say nothing of my indisposition, replied the emperor, but tell me how the empress is. After being satis- fied on this point, his majesty told Dr. Stofregen that Sir James Wylie considered him in a danger- ous state, but he added, I feel that I am not seriously ill, and that I shall recover without the employment of medical aid. It was the opinion of the physicians, that the emperor should have been bled at this time, and that calomel and cathar- tics should have been freely administered; and this opinion they gave to the emperor in a decided manner, but he would not consent to the employ- ment of any remedies. The paroxysms of fever recurred, but there were occasional remissions when the pulse came down to the natural state; once to 71 and repeatedly to 90, but it was at all times during the progress of the disease extremely small and feeble. On the 13th of the month, and tenth day of the disease, it was again proposed to take blood from the emperor, but he would not submit. On the morning of the 14th, Sir James and the other medical attendants, again urged him to the same purport, but he refused, even to the application of leeches to the head. lie rejected this proposal with the greatest impatience and obstinacy. The empress on her knees implored him to consent, but he would not. At first, he said, I had only an intermittent fever, and now it has been con- verted into a continued fever, and I will trust rather to my constitution than to the means recom- mended. As it was now obvious that his life was in imminent danger, and that he was becom- ing worse and worse, Sir James proposed, late in the evening, that a priest should be brought to him. Sir James was again desired by the em- press, to endeavor to convince his majesty that his life was in the greatest danger, and that as he would not submit to medical treatment, he should think seriously, so long as he retained conscious- ness, of employing spiritual aid. On the morning of the 15th, at five oclock, he was confessed by the priest; and he requested that in this religious act he should be confessed as a simple individual. When this was finished, the priest strongly urged his majesty to employ medical aid, saying that, unless he did so, he would not fulfil the whole of his Christian duty. Between nine and ten oclock he consented, for the first time, to the application of leeches to the temples. The brain had now be- come affected, and he was occasionally delirious, and uttered incoherent expressions. For thirty 65 66 GIYRNEYISMAN AVIARY ON A GREAT SCALE. hours before his death the empress hardly quitted his bed-side. The scene was most affecting when the emperor, on the 19th, expired. The empress had been kneeling by his bed-side, with her eyes fixed upon him, as he gradually became weaker and wea.ker, until nil signs of life were gone. Then, rising, she closed his eyes, and with a handkerchief bound up his head, to support the lower jaw. After this, she folded his arms over his breast, kissed his hand, and then knelt down by tbe side of the dead body for half an hour in prayer to God. Throughont the whole of his majestys illness, she manifested the strongest. attachment to her husband, and at his death was inconsolable. On the post mortem examination of the body being umade, the appearances observed were such as are most frequently met with in those dying from bilious remittent fever, with internal conges- tion. Two ounces of serous fluid were found in the ventricles of the brain, and all the veins and arteries were gorged with blood. There was an old adhesion between the dura and pia mater at the back part, but of no great extent. The heart and lungs were sound, but too vascular. The liver was turgid with blood, and of a much darker color than natural. The spleen was enlarged, and softened in texture. The prevalence of fever in the Crimea during the autumn, the sudden change of the weather when the emperor left the coast, the usual symp- toms appearing in the course of a few days after quitting Perecop, as I had before observed in others, with the subsequent history of the disease and the appearances after death, rendered it cer- tain that the Emperor Alexander was cut off by the bilious remittent fever of the Crimea. During the six weeks I remained at Taganrog after the emperors death, I never heard that any one enter- tained a doubt, or expressed a suspicion that his majestys death was attributable to any other than a natural cause. The physicians who had the care of his majesty were accused by some, without the slightest ground, of mismanaging the case; and I heard the question repeatedly put, Why they did not compel his majesty to submit to their plan of treatment 1 or, in other words as Sir James Wylie expressed it, why they did not com- mit the crime of lise-Majest6 ?a proceeding which no circumstances could ever justify. I enjoyed the best opportunities in the Crimea of observing the devoted attachment of Sir James Wylie to the Em- peror Alexander, whom he had accompanied in all his campaigns; and I conscientiously believe, that on this trying occasion Sir James Wylie dis- charged his arduous professional duty in a manner worthy of his high reputation. GURNEYISM. Tm-mis termof whose meaning perhaps nine- teen tweutieths of our readers are utterly ignorant is applied to a new and particular kind of ma- nuring, which has been employed with signal suc- cess by Mr. Gurney, a farmer in East Cornwall. The operation consists in covering grass land with long stra~v, coarse hay, or other fibrous matter, about twenty pounds to the fall; allowing this covering to lie till the grass spring through it (which it does with astonishing rapidity) to the desired length, and then raking it off to allow the bestial to reach the pasture. The covering is then applied to another portion of the field; the opera- tion of removal and covering being repeated so long as the straw or hay remains sufficiently entire to admit of convenient application. The merits of the system, which is yet in its infancy, were thus stated by Mr. Gurney at a late meeting of the East Cornwall Experimental Club : About seven weeks since, he had covered half a field of grass of three acres in this manner, and about a fortnight ago, when examined, the increase had been found to be at the rate of upwards of 5000 lbs. per acre over the uncovered portion of the field. At that time the straw was raked off and laid in rows twelve feet apart on the field, and 115 sheep were put on the grass, with a view to eat it doxvn as quickly as possible. After they had been there about a week, they were succeeded by 26 bullocks, to eat off the long grass remaining, and which the sheep had left. The field was thus grazed as bare as possible. The same straw was now again thrown over the same portion of the field from which it had been raked; and on inspection that morning, he had found the action going on as powerfully as on the former occasion. He thought the sheep, on first raking off the straw, were not so fond of the grass as they were of that un- covered ; but after twenty-four hours exposure to the sun and air, he t.hought they rather preferred it. He had forty acres now under the operation, and in consequence (if it, lie had had grass when his neighbors had none. Fibrous covering, or Gurneyism, as thus described, is certainly a cheap and convenient mode of manuring ; all that is wanted is only further experiment to test its gene- ral applicability. (7hamhers Journal. AN AvIARY ON A GREAT ScALEIt is a pleas- ing thing to witness, says a correspondent of the Zoologist for March, the confidence and familiarity of the nightingale when protected ; as, for instance, in the promenade at Gradenfeld, in Prussia, a beautiful planted piece of ground, extending nearly a quarter of a mile along both banks of a small stream. In addition to the penalties denounced by the Prussian law against those who rob the nests of the nightingale, a watchman is stationed here dur- ing the breeding season for additional security. This may perhaps appear singular in our matter- of-fact age; but I am confident that no lover of nature who had resided in Gradenfeld, and enjoyed the delicious concerts which these birds maintain both day and night, except from about two to five oclock,- P. H., would refuse his aid to such a cus- tom. Many a bird-fancier is at much greater expense, not to speak of trouble, in keeping a ghost of a nightingale caged; and why should we wonder at the inhabitants of Gradenfeld, with their open-air habits, taking care that their favorite resort shall never become songless 1 Seated on a broad-leaved jassamine, the shrub which generally conceals the nest, the male bird will sing although you pass within four feet of him, eyeing you as if perfectly aware that he is a privileged character. Besides the nightingales, a great variety of other birds find shelter in this privileged place, and being never molested, afford the naturalist excellent opportunities- of observing their habits. Amongst others, the hoopoes generally build here; the golden ori~Ie suspends its curious nest from the highest branches of-the aspen, and breathes out its cheerful flute-notes- at ev-ening; the Bohemian wax-wing is a regularand plentiful winter visitant; whilst a variety of finches and warblers of less- note complete this real happy family. MILTONS BLINDNESS. From Chambers Journal. MILTONS BLINDNESS. WE do not think that any but a blind man could have written the Paradise Lost. We mean a blind man who had once enjoyed sight. Let us try to substantiate this remark, and to show what influence Miltons blindness exerted over his poe- try. That it must have exerted some influence that Miltons poetry must in some respect be dif- ferent from what it would have been had he not been blindcannot be doubted. The slightest peculiarity about an author tinges his writings; and it is only because it rarely happens that the entire character of a persons writings is decided by any one peculiarity, that we are not more ac- customed to regard this influence. But blindness is no ordinary peculiarity. Even if a person who has been in the habit of writing goes to Arabia, and comes back again, all that he writes after- wards will, to a certainty, be affected by that visit to Arabia. How much more will not a change come over the spirit of a mans writings who, after walking for forty-seven years in the light and blaze of day, passes at once and forever into an atmosphere of darkness! That Miltons blindness should not have affected his poetry, that there should not be a marked difference between the poems he wrote before he became blind and those he wrote after, is impossible. The only question is, whether this effect, this difference, can be scertained. We think it can. It is no mere illusive, impalpable peculiarity, of which we are sensible, without possessing the power to lay hold of or describe it; it is easily detected. Nay, we are inclined to put the case so strongly, as to say that Miltons blindness was a requisite to his writ- ing Paradise Lost. When we affirm that Miltons blindness exerted an influence over his poetry, we do not mean merely that it enabled him to withdraw his mind from external objects, and left him at liberty to pursue his daring theme. That was a decided in- fluence, no doubt, but it is not the one on which we lay stress. Neither do we refer to the well- known passages in which Milton deplores his loss of sight. The insertion of a few such passages, if that were all, would not amount to much. Nor, lastly, do we refer to the influence which Miltons blindness must have exerted over his verse, in re- spect of its havin~ obliged him to compose at length mentally, and then dictate, although this is by no means an insignificant consideration. We propose to show that Miltons blindness affected his poetry in a way more specific and remarkable than any of these; that Miltons whole manner of conceiving and describing external objects is that of a blind man ; and that this manner of conceiving and de- scribing things was so peculiarly suitable for his great poem, that it might be made a question whether Miltons blindness did not actuate his choice of a subject. The conception which will be most familiar to a blind man, will be that of infinitely extended blackness. The world outside will be to him like what it would be to a man with the use of his eyes standing alone on a mountain-top in a very dark night, and looking upward. Now, a blind man who has once enjoyed sight will carry with him into his own black atmosphere a memory full of images of what he has seen; and when he tries to describe things by their appearance, it will be by an effort of recollection. He will amuse himself by painting, on the dark canvass stretched before him, those objects which he has most pleasure in recollectingthe white gable of his own cottage, the faces of his wife and chil- dren. The power of love will keep the recollec- tion of such objects as these bright and vivid, while all other images are growing dimmer and dimmer. But there is a certain class of images, the recollection of which in a state of blindness would always continue to be easy and pleasura- ble. It would be difficult for a person who had been blind for some time to recall the appearance of such a flower as the violet; whereas he would retain to the last a remarkably vivid conception of white or luminous objectsa lamp, the mouth of a furnace, a streak of light, the sun, the moon, a ball of glowing iron, the ground covered with snow, the winter sky studded with stars. In fact, a man who had grown blind would excel a person still retaining the use of sight in all that kind of description which consists in the contrast of white and black, of light and darkness. Now, this power of dealing with light and darkness, as it were in masses, is exactly that which would be a qualification for writing such a poem as the Paradise Lost. Three fourths of the description in that poem are precisely of the kind in which a blind man would be predminently apt and power- ful. The beings whose actions form the subject of the poem are angels, described as moving to and fin in the universe, surveying creation from some remote point beyond its limits, or descrying a silver star in the distance far away, and wing- ing their flight towards it. This sort of descrip- tion must be easier to a man to whom space and blackness are the same thing, than it could possi- bly be to a man to whom space is colorless, or, at the most, a sort of faint blue transparency. The most important descriptions in the Paradise Lost consist, at bottom, of contrasts of blackness with light, light in the form of masses, or particles, or streaks, or discs. To proceed to instances. It would be quite possible to prefix to the Paradise Lost a plate or diagram of the universe as Milton conceived it mapped out. At first, according to the poet, the whole infinity of space was divided into two huge regions or hemispheres, an upper and a lower, the one all light, the other all darkness. The upper or illuminated half was heaven, the abode of the angels, then the only creatures existing. The under half was chaos or night, a thick, black, turbulent element, as of universes in a state of pulp. No beings resided in it. But after the fall of the angels, space was laid out anew, and instead of otily two regions, there came to be four. The bottom of chaos was converted into hell; and at the top, where chaos pressed against heaven, a huge cavity was scooped out of the blackness, into which the light rushed down. This cavity was mans universe. The principle of gravitation being imparted to it, all the matter within the swoop of this right-royal principle left the pulpy form in which it had hitherto existed, and coagulated into balls or planets. Then the Divine impulse came, and the balls spun round each other, the planets round their suns, and the moons round their planets. So that, bounded above by heaven, and beneath by the chaos out of wbich it had been cut, there existed now a new azure universe powdered with stars and streaked with galaxies. It was destined to be the resi- dence of a new race of creatures. Hell, the resi 67 MILTONS BLINDNESS. dence of the fallen portion of the old race, was separated from it by chaos. This is the fundamental conception of the Para- dise Lost. The infinity of space thus divided, first into two, and afterwards into four regions, is the scene in which the action of the poem is laid. Now, such a gigantic conception could not have occurred to any except a blind man; or if it had occurred to any one else, he could not have sustained it consistently throughout the poem. But how consistently has Milton sustained it! Thus, when he describes the ront of the rebel angels driven before the Messiahs thunder, the crystal wall of heaven Rolled inward, and a spacious gap disclosed Into the wasteful deep; the monstrous sight Struck them with terror backward; hut far worse Urged them behind, headlong themselves they threw Down from the verge of heaven ; eternal wrath Burnt after them to the bottomless pit. it was Miltons blindness that gave him this grand figure. Reading the passage, one sees chaos, as it were, an infinite mass of solid blackness, and the descent of the angels through it like a red hissing fiery funnel. So in many other passages; that, for instance, describing the creation of mans universe; or the following one, describing Sa- tans glance into chaos, when, standing at the mouth of hell, he prepares to launch into it in quest of the new universe Before their eyes in sudden view appear The secrets of the hoary deep, a dark Illimitable ocean, without bound, Without dimension, where lenoth breath height, and And time, and place, are lost, where endless night And chaos, ancestors of nature, hold Eternal anarchy, amidst the noise Of endless wars, and by confusion stand. If this passage had not the tone of a narrative, it might pass for a Lamentation on Blindness. Making his way through chaos, Satan at last emerges into the light of the new universe. Di- recting his flight first to the sun There lands the fiend; a spot like which, per- haps, Astronomer in the suns lucent orb, Through his glazed optic tube, yet never saw. This splendid image of Sata~i alighting on the sun being like a spot dimming its disc, we can hardly conceive presenting itself to the mind of any but a blind man; but how readily to his! The following is the poets description of the creation of light Let there be light, God said; and forthwith light Ethereal, first of things, quintessence pure Sprung from the deep; and from her native east, To journey through the a~ry gloom begun, Sphered in a radiant cloud. In this passage the influence of the poets blind- ness appears in two ways. In the first place, as in the former passages, the conception is that of a blind man. All at first is profound darkness, a black atmosphere; but forthwith there arises a vapor-like something in the east, which slowly creeps westward through the gloom, like a mist from the sea. This is light. In the second place, there is a sort of sentimental lingering in the description, unlike what would be natural in the case of a poet not afflicted with that calamity, which made light so dear to Milton, and all the circumstances of its appearance so delightful to his memory. Besides the passages we have selected, fifty or sixty others might be given. The only sort of description which five sixths of the poem required, or would tolerate, is precisely that in which the power Miltons blindness gave him of contrasting light and darkness on the great scale, and of con- ceiving luminous objects, enabled him to excel. No, doubt, if a man having the use of his eye- sight had dared to attempt the subject of the Par- adise Lost, he would, as a matter of necessity, have been obliged to deal with blackness and fire, chaoses and galaxies, just as Milton has done. No doubt, also, there are poets, not blind, whose imagination is at home in the vast arid gigantic, who figure to themselves the earth as a brown little ball wheeling through space, and whistling as it wheels. Thus Shakspeare speaks of striking flat the thick rotundity o the world. Still, none except a blind man could have been so consistent throughout in that sort of description as Milton. But not only does he, more than any other poet, contrast fire and blackness on the great scale; he employs the same contrast as a means of representing what it would never have occurred to any but a blind man to represent in that way. Thins, when Satan, seized in Paradise by Ithuriel and Zephon, is brought before Gabriel and his band of angels, he dares them to battle While thus lie spake, th angelic squadron bright Turned fiery red, sharpened in mooned horns Their phalanx, and began to hem him round. Who hut a blind man could have fancied the ap- pearance of the band of angels hemming Satan in like that of a crescent moon l But luminousness with Milton served as a means of describing every- thing. Satan, starting up when touched by Ithn- riels spear, as he was sitting in the shape of a toad at Eves ear, is compared to the explosion of a powder magazine. Brilliancy is Miltons sy- nonyme for beauty. The eyes of the serpent are glowing carbuncles, his neck is verdant burnished gold. The locks of the unfallen angels are in- wreathed with beams of light; and their golden harps hang by their sides glittering like quivers. But deduct those five sixths of the Paradise Lost in which the descriptions are all grand and giganticof spirits warring in heaven, toiling through chaos, or winging from star to starthere remains still one sixth of the poem in which, leav- ing the regions of space, tIme poet condescends on our dear particular planet, and outpours his imagi- nation in rich and luscious descriptions of earths own scenes and landscapes, the fragrant woods, the blooming gardens, the daisied banks, and green overarching bowers of Edens Paradise. How are these passages of rich vegetable de- scription to be accounted forl Suns and moons and chaoses were easy: but whence got he the trees, and shrubs, and flowers ~tliat blind old man. If we examine Miltons earlier poemsthose TABLE-TALK OF EMINENT MEN. 69 which he wrote before he became blindwe shall From the Christian Observer. find their characteristic to be luscious and flow- ery description. In this respect we know no one TABLE-TALK OF EMINENT MEN :SELDEN. so like him as the poet Keats. Take, for in- Muon of information and entertainment is to he stance, the following exquisite passage from Ly- found in the Table-Talk (as it is called)the cidas familiar conversationof eminent men, treasured Return, Sicilian muse, up by those who have held intercourse with them, And call the vales, and bid them hither cast and posthumously published their choice sayings. Their bells and flowerets of a thousand hues. The lively discourse of a powerful mind, quickened Ye valleys low, where the mild whispers use by colloquial intercourse, is often more striking Of shades and wanton winds, and gushing brooks, than lucubrations laboriously committed to paper. On whose fresh lap the swart star sparely looks Brilliant sparkles coruscate; and gold-dust and Throw hither all your quaint enamelled eyes, diamonds are scattered with lavish prodigality; so that a by-stander is sometimes fain to prefer the That on the green turf suck the honeyed showers, racy effervescence of the rapid mental fermentation, And purple all the ground with vernal flowers; to the heavy evaporated potion. Nor are the Bring the rath primrose, that forsaken dies, thoughts necessarily less solid for being spontane- The tufted crow-toe, and pale jessamine, . ously thrown off; for they m~y have been growing The white pink, and the pansy freaked with jet, for years, till occasion occurred for using them, The glowing violet, and the ardor of conversation gave zest to the The musk rose, and the well-attired woodbine, delivery. In ~vriting, a man often refines and cor- With cowslips wan, that hang the pensive head, reds, till he debilitates what was redolent of grace And every flower that sad embroidery wears; and spirit in the conception. Bid amaranthus all his beauty shed, It is no wonder, then, that both in early and And daffodillies fill their cups with tears, modern times collections of the remarkable sayings To strew the laureat hearse where Lycid lies.~ of wise men have bee[t accounted among the most There is not a passage like this in all the Para- precious records of human wisdom. The ancients dise Lost. If the poet, after being blind for some have left us some valuable collections of this kind; time, had attempted to rival it, he could have ac- among which (not to include the ihspired maxims complished the feat only by the help of a book on of Solomon, who spake three thousand prov- botany. Here is the passage describing Eves erbs,) the conversational outporings of Socrates, nuptial bower in Paradise, and we may be sure as noted by Plato and Xenophon, are the most that on this occasion Milton would lavish his rich- interesting and delightful. rrhe Germans, the est beauties Italians, and the French, have many repositortes of this kind; the Jews, and even the Turks, are The roof not destitute of them; and England is rich in Of thickest covert was, inwoven shade, them; indeed Boswells Johnson stands at the Laurel and myrtle, and what higher grew head of the list, ancient or modern. Of firm and fragrant leaf; on either side, The authenticity of many of these collections Acanthus, and each odorous bushy shrub has been disputed. Sometimes the alleged table- Fenced up the verdant wall: each beauteous talk does not coincide with the known opinions of flower, the speaker, as gathered from his life, or as set Iris all hues, roses, and jessamine, forth in his published works. Thus Plato makes Reared high their flourished heads between, and Socrates often Platonize rather than Socratize. wrought Frequently speeches are put into the lips of a great Mosaic; under foot the violet, and good man, so mean, rash, worthless, or inde- Crocus, and hyacinth, with rich inlay, cent, that their admirers cannot bring themselves Broidered the ground, more colored than with to believe they uttered them. In these respects stone portions of the alleged table-ialk of Lord Bacon Of costliest emblem. and of Luther lie under suspicion. But it must be remembered that even wise men do not always Beautiful still; brave recollections of his old exhibit wisdom and that witty men may be se- loves, the flowers. But, alas, alas! the recollec- duced to utter striking rather than judicious say- tions are growing fainter and fewer in the mind ings. Sometimes also the speaker may be jesting, of the blind old man. Yet as the images of his or expressing himself ironically; and frequently youth are growing dimmer and (limmer, he is fast he may throw off in the heat of conversation nearing that life where he shall renew them all opinions or remarks which will not stand the test again, and where, amid the spheres of which he of his own calm investigation. The admiring sung, and thrilling to a hi~Jier music than that pupil is perhaps not select in his gatherings and which his soul loved 50 deoly on earth, his eyes recollections; he embalms much that had better shall no more shut out the light nor the colors of gone to decay; he accumulates rubbish as well as the little flowers, rubies; he possibly mistakes, or misstates, the Miltons earlier poems, we have said, remind words or intention of the speaker; and he injures us of Keats. No poet is so lush in descrip- the fair fame of the object of his veneration, by tion, to use his own word, as poor Keats. He recording much that had better been forgotten: in knew the secrets of the flowers, as if he had been which category we must class whatever is false, the very bee that buzzed among them, and sipped gross, or profane, however intellectually or imagi- their sweets. Now, had Keats suddenly grown natively felicitous. And all this may happen blind, would he not have forgotten the flowers, without any intention to deceive; though some- and would not his fine soul, then pent up and un- times it is to be feared that the love of making a windowed, have employed itself building castles good story has led to intentional exaggeration, to of sunbeams in the darkness within silly fabrication, and to improper would-be wit, TABLE-TALl~ 01? IMINltNT MEN~ for which the person whose name is abused is not answerable. After making ample allowances under these several heads, we do not doubt that most of the celebrated collections of table-talk may, in the main, be a genuine transcript; though so mixed up with fallacy or invention, as not to be tho- roughly authentic. We are led to these remarks by glancing over the table-talk of Selden, published after his death by his amanuensis, Richard Milward. The learn- ed Dr. (David) Wilkins, who edited the collected writings of Selden in 1726, discredited the authen- ticity of this work, declaring that it contains many things inconsistent with Sehlens great learning, his known principles, and his general character. I3ut Milward dedicated the book to Seldens four executors, Sir Matthew Hale, Heywood, Vaughan, and Jewkes, stating that he had been twenty years in the habit of hearing Seldens conversation, and that he was sure these relics of the excellent things that fell from him would be very accepta- ble to those who so well knew, and so greatly admired, this glory of the nation ; and as these eminent lawyers did not repudiate the publication, it was too late for Dr. Wilkins, seventy years after Seldens death, to repudiate it. Many of the remarks are thoroughly Seldenian; and that some are unworthy of so able and learned a man, is no proof that he did not utter something of the kind. Nor are we even surprised that some con- tradict certain of his written opinions; for, iii the course of years mens opinions may vary; besides which, the turn of a conversation may often lead to an inconsistency more apparent than real as a whig may seem to toryize when opposing a radi- cal; or a moderate dissenter to defend the.church when replying to some outrageous misstatement. We have a proof that it was not always easy to discover Seldens real opinion, from what passed relative to his History of Tithes. This work was published in 1618. It is usually considered as denying the divine right ; but Selden does not enounce that conclusion, though he arranges his facts and authorities in such a manner as, upon his premises, to render it inevitable. It does not even appear that he wished to deprive the Church of England of this provision ; for though he rejects the divine right, he learnedly proves and defends the legal title. The book, however, excited the displeasure of the clergy and of the court; and he was accordingly cited before some of the lords of the high commission to make a public submission, which he did in the following words. My good lords, I most humbly acknowledge my error which I have committed in publishing the history of Tithes, and especially in that 1 have at all, by shewing any interpretations of Holy Scriptures, by meddling with councils, fathers, or canons, or by what else soever occurs in it, offered any occasion of argument against any right of maintenance, Jure Divino, of the ministers of the gospel ; be- seeching your lordships to receive this ingenuous and humble acknowledgment, together with the unfeigned protestation of my grief for that I have so incurred both his majestys and your lordships displeasure, conceived against me on behalf of the Church of England. This was popularly con- sidered to be a recantation of his opinion ; but it is not really so ; and next year, in reply to his opponent, Dr. Tillesley, he said: I did most humbly acknowled e that I was most sorry for the publishing of that history, because it had offended; and his majestys most gracious favor towards me received that satisfaction of the fault in so untimely printing it; and I profess still to the world that I am sorry for it. And so I should have been if 1 had published a most orthodox catechism that had offended. But what is that to the doctrinal conse- quences of it, which tIme doctor talks of l Is there a syllable of it, of less truth, because I was sorry for the publishing ofitl He (Dr. Tillesley) hopes, as he says, that my submission bath cleared my judgment concerning the right of tithes. What dream made him hope so l There is not a word of tithes in that submission more than in mention- ing the title of the book; neither was roy judgment at all in question, but my publishing it. Several replies were put forth; but Selden was forbidden by the king to rejoin. lie says: All that will, have liberty, and some use it, to write and preach what they will against me; to abuse my name, my person, my profession, with as many false- hoods as they please; and my hands are tied; 1 must not so much as answer their calumnies. There were several other events in Seldens career which exposed him to the charge of incon- sistency; and sometimes the courtiers considered him on their side, and sometimes the parliament party on theirs. But we must not digress to a sketch of his life and character; our only intention being to give a series of passages from his conver- sations; which we purpose following up in future numbers, by similar contributions from the table- talk of some other remarkable men ; selecting such observations as may seem appropriate to cur pageswhether for adoption, consideration, or re- jection; but not endorsing all that we quote. A few dates may usefully introduce our cita- tions from Selden. That erudite and laborious man was horn in 1581. After passing through Oxford and the ions of Court, he began to give to the world the frnits of his learned researches in law, history, and other studies. The dry titles o~ his many volumes it were tedious to specify. lie was equally at home in heraldic bearings and Arundelian marbles; in the origin of duels and of church courts; in Jewish antiquities and English constitutional law; in Rabbinical lore, and popish edicts and provincial decrees; in Hebre~v and its cognates, and the biography of lord chancellors and keepers from the days of the Conquest. lie could turn his hand from defending the right ef En~laud to the four seas, in his Mare Clausum, against the Mare Liberum of Grotius, to draw up the petition of rights, or articles of impeachment against Archbishop Laud. Lay gentlemen, says quaint Fuller, prefer his Titles of Honor: Lawyers, his Mare Clausum ; Antiquaries, his Spicilegium ad Eadmearum; Clergymen like best his Dc Diis Syris, and worst his History of Tithes; but all acknowledge his wonderfol erudition and fecundity. Yet could he break from his studies, and mix busily in the public struggles of those eventful days; and could then resume them even in a dungeon, except when denied the use of pens, ink, paper, and books ; as happened to him when Charles the First imprisoned him, because in his place in the House of Commons he had stood up for the rights of the subject and the privileges of Parliament; and had assisted to confine the speaker by manual force in the chair, while resolutions were passed in spite of his majestys menaces. Seldens love of letters moderated the barbarous proceedings of some of his rude colleagues in the 73 TAP,LE-TALg OF EMINENT MEN. days of anarchy. Thns, when Archbishop Lauds endowment of the professorship of Arabic at Ox- ford was seized, on the attainder of that prelate, he procured its restitution. When Archbishop Ushers library was confiscated, because his grace had been so graceless as to preach against the in- fallible Assembly of Divines at Westminster, Sd- den saved it from sale and dispersion. When prelacy was abolished, he procnred the transfer of the Lambeth Library to the University of Cam- bridge, where it was kept safely till the restora- tion, and then honestly restored. Many similar services in those days of dilapidation he ren- dered to literature; and also to science and an- tiquities. He continued writiug almost till his death, his last work being published when he was nearly seventy years of age. He died in 1654 but had he lived six years longer, we sincerely believe after all he had witnessedthat he would have cordially concurred in the restoration of monarchy and episcopacy. To our citations from this Table-Talk we will prefix alphabetical headings, for the convenience of reference. We repeat that citation does not always imply approval. Abbeys.Wben the founders of abbeys laid a curse upon those that should take away those lands, I would fain know what power they had to curse me ; it is not the curses that come from the poor, or from anybody that hurt me, because they come from them, but because I do something ill against them that deserves God should curse me for it. On the other side, it is not a mans bless- ing me that makes me blessed, he only declares me to be so; and if I do well, I shall be blessed, whether any bless me or not. Articles .T he nine-and-thirty articles are much another thing in Latin, (in which tongue they were made) than they are translated into English they were made at three several convo- cations., and confirmed by act of parliament six or seven times after. There is a secret concerning them of late ministers have subscribed to all of them, but by act of parliament that confirmed them, they ought only to subscribe to those articles which contain matter of faith, and the doctrine of the sacraments, as appears by the first subscrip- tions. But Bishop Bancroft, (in the convocation held in King James day) he began it, that ministers should subscribe to three things ; to the kings supremacy, to the Common Prayer, and to the Thirty-nine Articles many of them do not con- tain matter of faith. Is it matter of faith how the church should be governed? whether infants should be baptized? whether we have any prop- erty in goods, & e. BibleThe English translation of the Bible is the best translation in the world, and renders the sense of the original best, taking in for the English translation, the bishops Bible, as well as King James. The translation in King James time took an excellent way: that part of the Bible was given to him who was most excellent in such a tongue, (as the Apocrypha to Andre~Downs) and then they met together, and one read the translation, the rest holding in their hands some Bible, either of the learned tongues, or French, Spanisb, Italian, & c.; if they found any fault, they spoke; if not, he read on. Henry the Eighth made a law, that all men might read the Scripture, except servants; but no women, except ladies and gentlewomen, who had leisure, and might ask somebody the mean- ing. The law was repealed in Edward the Sixths days. BishopsAnciently, the noblemen lay with- in the city for safety and security. The bish- ops houses were by the water side, because they were held sacred persons which nobody would hurt. That which is thought to have done the bish- ops hurt, is their going about to bring men to a blind obedience, imposing things upon them, though perhaps small and well enough, without preparing them, and insinuating into their reasons and fancies. Every man loves to know his coin- mander. I wear those gloves, but, perhaps, if an alderman should command me, I should think much to do it: what has he to do with me? Or, if he has, peradventure I do not know it. This jumping upon things at first dash will destroy all: to keep up friendship, there must be little ad- dresses and applications, whereas bluntness spoils it quickly : to keep up the hierarchy, there must be little applications made to men; they must be brought on little by little : so in the primitive times, the power was gained, and so it must be continued. Scaliger said of Erasmus, Si minor esse vomit, major feisset. So we may say of the bishops, Si minores esse voluerint, majores fuissent. The bishops were too hasty, else, with a dis- creet slowness, they might have had what they aimed at : the old story of the fellow, that told the gentleman he might get to such a place, if he did not ride too fast, would have fitted their turn. Bishops in Parliament .Y on would not have hishops meddle with temporal affairs; think who you are that say it. If a Papist, they do in their church ; if an English Protestant, they do among you; if a Presbyterian, where you have no bish- ops, you mean yonr Presbyterian lay elders should meddle with temporal affairs as well as spiritual: besides, all jurisdiction is temporal, and in no church but they have some jurisdiction or other. The question then will be reduced to magis and minus; they meddle more in one church than in another. Bishops are now unfit to govern because of their learning; they are bred up in another law, they run to the text for something done amongst the Jews that nothing concerns England: it is just as if a man would have a kettle, and he would not go to our brazier to have it made as they make kettles, but he would have it made as Hiram made his brass-work, who wrought in Solomons temple. To take away bishops votes, is but the begin- ning to take them away ; for then they can be no longer useful to the king or state. It is but like the little wimble, to let in the greater auger. Ob- jection. But, they are but for their life, and that makes them always go for the king as he will have them. Answer. This is against a double charity, for you must always suppose a bad king and bad bishops. BooksIt is good to have translations, be- cause they serve as a comment, so far as the judg- ment of the man goes. Quoting of authors is most for matter of fact; and then I write them as I would produce a witness, sometimes for a free expression; and then I give the author his due, and gain myself praise by reading him. 72 TABLE-TALK OF EMINENT MEN. To quote a modern Dutchman, where I may u8e a classic author, is as if I were to justify my reputation, and I neglect all persons of note and quality that know me, and bring the testimonial of the scullion in the kitchen. CeremonyCeremony keeps up all things; it is like a penny-glass to a rich spirit, or some ex- cellent water; without it the water were spilt, the spirit lost. 6hurck of Rome.Before a jugglers tricks are discovered, we admire him, and give him money, but afterwards we care not for them; so it was before the discovery of the juggling of the Church of Rome. Catholics say, we, out of our charity, believe they of the Church of Rome may he saved; but they do not believe so of us; therefore, their church is better, according to ourselves First, some of them no doubt believe as well of us, as we do of them, but they must not say so; besides, is that an argument their church is better than ours, because it has less charity? ClergyThough a clergyman have no faults of his own, yet the faults of the whole tribe shall be laid upon him, so that he shall be sure not to lack. The clergy (Laudean) would have us believe them against our own reason, as the woman would have had her husband against his own eyes ; What! will you believe your own eyes before your own sweet wife? Confessioeol.Jn time of parliament it used to he one of the first things the house did to petition the king that his confessor might be removed, as fearing either his power with the king, or else, lest he should reveal to the pope what the house was in doing, as no doubt he did, when the Catho- lic cause was concerned. The difference between us and the Papists is, we both allow contrition; but the Papists make confession a part of contrition; they say a man is not sufficiently contrite till he confess his sins to a priest. Why should I think a priest will not reveal confession? I am sure he will do anything that is forbidden him, haply not so often as I. The utmost punishment is deprivation ; and how can it be proved that ever any man revealed confession when there is no witness? and no man can be wit- ness in his own cause. A mere gullery ! There was a time when it was public in the church, and that is much against their auricular confession. Conscience.He that hath a scrupulous con- science, is like a horse that is not well weighed he starts at every bird that flies out of the hedge. Consecrated PlacesAll things are Gods already; we can give him no right by consecrating any that he had not before, only we set it apart to his service just as a gardener brings his lord and master a basket of apricots, and presents them his lord thanks him, perhaps gives him something for his pains; and yet the apricots were as much his lords before as now. Yet consecration has this power: when a man has consecrated anything to God, he cannot of himself take it away. DevilsCasting out devils (by the Romish clergy) is mere juggling; they never cast out any but what they first cast in: they do it where, for reverence, no man shall dare to examine it; they do it in a corner, in a mortice-hole, not in the market-place; they do nothing but what may be done by art; they make the devil fly out of the window, in the likeness of a bat or a rat. Why do they not hold him? Why, in the likeness of a bat, or a rat, or some creature? that is, why not in some shape we paint him in, with claws and horns? By this trick they gain much, gain upon men s fancies, and so are reverenced; and cer- tainly, if the priest deliver me from him that is my most deadly enemy, I have all the reason in the world to reverence him. Objection. But if this be juggling, why do they punish impostures? Answer. F or great reason; because they do not play their part well, and for fear others should discover them; and so all of them ought to be of the same trade. Equity.Equity in law is the same that the spirit is in religion, what every one pleases tc make it; sometimes they go according to con- science, sometimes according to law, sometimes according to the rule of court. Equity is a roguish thing; for law we have a measureknow what to trust to ; equity is ac- cording to the conscience of him that is chancellor, and as that is larger or narrower, so is equity. It is all one as if they should make the standard for the measure we call a foot, a chancellors foot; what an uncertain measure would this he One chancellor has a long foot, another a short foot, a third an indifferent foot: it is the same thing in the chancellors conscience. That saying, Do as you would be done to, is often misunderstood; for it is not thus meant that I, a private~man, should do to you, a private man, as I would have you do to me, but do as we have agreed to do one to another by public agree- ment. If the prisoner should ask the judge, whether he would be contented to be hanged, were he in his case, he would answerNo: Then, says the prisoner, do as you would be done to. Neither of them must do as private men, but the judge must do by him as they have publicly agreedthat is, both judge and prisoner have con- sented to a law, that if either of them steal, they shall be hanged. Heli.1here are two texts for Christs de- scending into hell: the one, Psalm xvi., the other, Acts ii., where the Bible that was in use when the Thirty-nine Articles were made, has it bell. But the Bible that was in Queen Elizabeths time, when the articles were confirmed, reads it grave; and so it continued till the new translation in King James time, and then it is hell again. But by this we may gather the Church of England declined, as much as they could, the descent; otherwise they never would have altered the Bible. images. Though the learned Papists pray not to images, yet it is to be feared the ignorant do; as appears by that story of St. Nicholas in Spain. A countryman used to offer daily to St. iNichola& image: at length by mischance the image was broken, and a new one made of his own plum- tree; after that the man forbore. Being com- plained of to his ordinary, he answeredit is true, he used to offer to the old image, but to the new he could not find in his heart, because he knew it was a piece of his own plum-tree. You see what opinion this man had of the image; and to this tended the bowing of their images, the twinkling of their eyes, the Virgins milk, & c. Had they only meant representations, a picture would have done as well as these tricks. It may be with us in England they do not worship images; be- cause living amongst Protestants, they are either laughed out of it, or beaten out of it by shock of argument. It is a discreet way concerning pictures in churches, to set up no new, nor to pull down no old. THIERS HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. IN our number for May we made some remarks upon the first two volumes of M. Thiers new his- tory. The third and fourth volumes now lie be- fore us. We dropped the thread of the narrative at the beginning of the year 1801, when the negotiations had been set on foot which were to close in twelve months with the treaty of Amiens. We are now carried on for three years further, to the corn- mencernent of that new war which was about to be signalized by the bloody days of Austerlitz and Trafalgar. The events thus embraced in the third and fourth volumes of the work present hut at few points the pictures~ue aepect and warlike interest of those which abounded in the earlier volumes and, on the other hand, this second period in the administration of the first consul, comprehending the gradual results of his novel system of organiza- tion, offers itself to our eye with less distinctness of outline than did the facts of the preceding period, in which we saw the vast structure of polity rising swiftly out of the chaotic ruins left by the democratic republic. For the historical stu- dent now, as for France and Europe at the time, the general character of this period is that of re- pose. Yet the quiet was broken by several mighty paroxysms, which give animation and variety to its history and instructive truths as well as adventurous incidents are to be found at many places of our progress. To Brit.ish readers, indeed, no point in the fierce career of the modern Charlemagne is either so important, or so interest- ing, as that which meets us at the close of the year 1803. Some years before this, a poet of our nation, looking abroad with mingled hope and fear upon the bloodshed and anarchy which distracted the European continent, celebrated with thankful reverence that providential destiny, which had placed us on our island-rock, protected by position from the worst evils suffered by neighbors. Not yet enslaved, not wholly vile, Oh, Albion! oh, my mother-isle! Thy valleys, fair as Edens bowers, Glitter green with sunny showers: Thy grassy uplands gentle swells Echo to the bleat of flocks (Those grassy hills, those glittering dells, Proudly ramparted with rocks;) And ocean, mid his uproar wild, Speaks safety to his ISLAND-CHILD! Hence, for many a fearless age, Has social quiet loved thy shore: Nor ever proud invader~s rage, Or sacked thy towers, or stained thy fields with gore! Just seven years after those lines were written, England was on the point of being invaded by the whole host of France; and nothing but a combi- nation of fortunate occurrences saved the nation from a struggle, on its own soil, for its freedom and its very existence. A series of momentous eveiits pass before us in the history of the consulate, before we reach this * History of the Consulate and the Empire of France under Napoleon; forming a Sequel to the History of the French Revolution. By M. A. Thiers, late p rime minister of France, & c. Translated hy D. Forbes Camh- bell, Esq. London: Colburn. Vols. III. and IV. LXXIV. LIVING AGE. VOL. VII. 5 From Taits Magazine. anxious crisis. There are first presented the THIERS HISTORY OF NAPOLEON.* latest acts of hostility which preceded the tempo- rary peace; acts among which the most important was the expulsion of the French from Egypt, pur- chased by the life of the brave Abcrcromby. We then behold the negotiations terminating in that general European peace, which was hailed with such transport in our country as well as in France, but which jealousies on both sides, and domineer- ing ambition on one, were destined to render so short-lived. Napoleon next appears, occupied at home in the great business of his life, the building up of the last of those steps by which he mounted the throne of the Bourbons; or rather, if we would express the truth exactly, obtaining by degrees the consent of the French people, to give the name and trappings of royalty to a power which was already more thoroughly absolute than that of any other sovereign in Europe. He redrganizes the church in France by the concordat and the arrange- ments consequent on it: he palsies the dangerous tribunate by a mixture of intrigue and of intimida- tion: he procures from a vast majority of the nation a grant to himself for life, and to any per- son he might appoint to succeed him, of that des- potic authority which he had already for years exercised without resistance. Afterwards we see him engaged in that arbitrary partition of the con- tinent in which the legitimate sovereigns so eagerly acquiesced, each one more shamelessly greedy than another, and each doomed in his turn to dis- cover that he had been made the tool of a more dexterous diplomatist than himself. The breach speedily follows: and we watch the preparation made on all sides for the war of the third coalition, so disastrous in its results for all the enemies of France, so humiliating for all of them except England. And in the last stage of the history as it lies before us, the two most prominent sec- tions are these : the preparations for the in- vasion of England; and the murder of the Duke our DEnghien. our The manner in which the author treats this diversified series of topics, is such as to justify fully both the favorable opinions on some points, and the hesitating anticipations on others, which we expressed in describin~ his two earlier volumes. But the fears which we hinted have proved to be even better founded than we had supposed they were. Jhe literary merit of the work is well sus~ tamed ; and the interest of the narrative, if not so engrossing as that which the historian was able to give to the tragic horrors of the revolution, is genezally lively, and sometimes exceedingly powerful. But the moral tone is neither loftier nor warmer than that which pervaded the His- tory of the Revolution ; and the deficiency in historical impartiality is to the full as great as we were afraid it would be, when we contemplated the known opinions and the political position of tho late prime minister of France. His unfairness towards England is quite as great as it might have been expected to be in the leader of the French war party. His partizanship of that which was evil in the character and policy of the first consul, is even more thoroughgoing than that which might naturally have been prompted by the reverence for Napoleons memory, so strongly felt at present among the great mass of the French nation. The aversion to the perfidious Albion, in- deed, is consistent with the political system of M.. Thiers, as well as natural to him from national 73 THIERS~ HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. prepossessions; but so much cannot be said for his desire to palliate all the faults and crimes of the great man of his history. This desire betrays him frequently into trains of thought, involving prin- ciples which it is not easy to reconcile with the strong advocacy of popular ri~hts supposed to be undertaken by the party of which he is a chief. The truth is, that such inconsistency must inevi- tably he fallen into, by any one who, professing even the most moderate form of liberal principles in politics, shall attempt to defend the conduct of Napoleon, either towards the French nation, or towards other European states. By a person holding such principles, the defence ought never to be undertaken. The rule of Napoleon over France (however great the genius which conducted its administrative measures, or however glorious the military triumphs it gained for the nation) was really an unlimited despotism the attainment of an unlimited despotism, exercised directly or indirectly, was, not perhaps from the first, but certainly from a very early stage in his extraordi- nary career, the paramount purpose of all that he did in relation to foreign states. These points should always be admitted as the foundation of reasoning upon his pu lic character: and the only important question that remains open is this whether, for those whom he ruled, it was better or worse that they should for a time be subjected to such a despotism as his; a question which, in re- gard to France itself, might not be altogether easy of solution. But, to a Frenchman, the admission upon which such a question is based, must be a very bitter pill, nauseous to the palate, and indigestible for the stomach. It is no wonder that the French are loath to swallow it. Their historians have found out several ways of saving them from the un- pleasant necessity. The most usual method is that which M. Thiers adopts, and ~vhich no one uses with greater dexterity. His countrymen are preminded, again and again, that the idol they worshipped was an idol of their own making, that the throne he sat upon was one xvbich they had built for him. It is shown bow, after those scenes of violence which gave him his first hold of power, every step he took towards absolute sovereignty was cordially acquiesced in, or had even been originally suggested, by the voice of the French nation, speaking either through its authorized representatives, or directly by the personal votes of the citizens. The fact undoubtedly was so: and it is not the least curious fact in this strange history, that the last step of Napoleons rise, (ex- cept the assumption of the imperial title, which was merely a point of form,) was gained by an appeal made, in cool violation of the existing con- stitution, from the, official representatives of the nation to the nation at large. The French his- torians never hint at a reflection which suggests itself instantaneously to observers whose national vanity is not interested in the argument. Suppose Napoleons despotism h~d been reared up, from first to last, by undisguised military violence : sup- pose he had been placed and supported on the throne by the army, in opposition or disregard to the will of the people: might not this have been a state of things less dishonorable for France, than that which actually took place l Is it not a -maller blot on the honor of a nation, to have been enslaved by force, than to have willingly con- sented to slavery l Or, to put the case without any comparison, is not the disgrace which France suffered, by the absolute loss of its freedom, posi- tively aggravated by the fact, that its freedom was not wrested from it, but vohmntarily yielded up l No such thought occurs to a Bonapartist French- man. The humiliation of having had a despotic master is forgotten in the glory of the deeds which the master taught his servants to perform. The mass of the nation, looking back on a time when it was led by Napoleon through a course of conquest such as Europe bad not witnessed for a thousand years, is prouder of having served him like a herd of slaves, than it would have been of co~iperatiug constitutionally in the wisest government of a peaceful sovereign. Nay, the pride of havin~ con- fronted the tempests of the empire is higher now than it was when those tempests blew. There has been time to forget the strait pressure of the ~var taxes, the misery and the bloodshed of the ex- hausting conscriptions, the degradation of foreign invasions and of foreign conquests. In his History, as in the tribune, M. Thiers pays a willing homage to the Bonapartist spirit. Down to the point to which his fourth volume carries us, that is, to the point at which Napoleon was about to be crowned as emperor, be has no- where found occasion to discover that his hero had done any act of which his countrymen had just reason to complain. Our authors favorite manner of contemplating great eventshis way of seeming to look at them as a cool and dispassionate spec- tator, who declines to speculate either on their causes or on their moral bearingsenables him to glide lightly over any spot of his journey, whore the hollow ground might break through beneath an incautious tread. We cannot pause to trace either the political progress of the first consul in the period before us, or the particulars of the manner in which the pro- gress is related. The author sums up his views for us in the closing paragraphs of the third volume, when he has just described, with quiet exactness, the devices by which that skilful tactician, Cambac6r~s, had first gagged the Tribu- nate, and afterwards set the senate at nought, and gained for his master the consulship for life, with the prerogative of appointing his successor. Having arrived at the third year of his consul- ate, he presented himself to the two legislative assemblies, the bearer of peace both on land and at sea, peace with Heaven, amnesty to all the pro- scribed, a splendid code of laws, an effective scheme of public education, and a glorious system of social distinctions. Although he presented him- self with his hands loaded with these gifts, he had, nevertheless, encountered an unexpected, violent, and senseless opposition, attributable partly to worthy, and partly to very unworthy motivesto the envy of some members, and to the love enter- tained by others of a liberty at that time altogether impracticable. Delivered by the wisdom of his colleague, Cambae6rbs, from this opposition, which, in his fury, he would have crushed by vio- lence, he had now at length crowned all his labors, and had succeeded in procuring the national assent to the treaties concluded with Europe, to the (Jon- cordat, his system of lay and national education an(l to the institution Qf the Legion of Honor; and had received, as a reward for all these ser- vices, the chief power for life, and thus attained a greatness equal to that of the Roman emperors. At this instant, he resumed the labor of the Codes, adjusted as arbiter the conflicting interests on the continent, reformed the constitution of Germany,, 7-4 TRIRRs HISTORY OF NAPOLEON~ 7/5 and distributed the territories to the various princes with an equity which was acknoiviedged by all Europe. Now if, dismissing from the mind everything which has happened since, we imagine for a mu- merit this dictator, at that time necessary to the ountry, continuing as wise as he was great, tniting those opposin0 attributes, which the Al- mighty, it is true, has never yet combined in one mortal, that vigor of genius which constitutes a great commander, with th~ t patience which is the distingtrishing feature of the founder of air empire, tranquillizing, by a long repose, the convulsed French nation, and prepari g tie people, by slow degrees,for that liberty which is tire lro~eor e d tie indispensable zearedze t i modern societies; their, Jter having rendered Frince so great, appeasing, instead of irritating the jealousies of the surround- ing nations, establishing the territorial demarca- tions, fixed by the treaties of Luodville and Arniens, upon a settled foundation, as the perma- nent, immutable b~ us upimn which the balance of Europe should rest ; at length terminating his career by an act worthy of the Antonines, by se- lecting, no matter in wh t quarter, the most wor- thy successor, in whose hands to place this or- ganized France, ow pre ared for liberty, and for- ever aggrandized: what man had ever equalled thisl But such a man, conibinirig tire military genius of C~sar, and tire political talents of Au- gustus, with the noble qualities and sublime vir- toes of Marcus Aurelius, would have been more than human; and the rulers assigned to us by Providence are not divine. And yet, at this period, he appeared so mod- erate after having been so victorious, he showed himself so profound a legislator after having proved himself so great a commander, he evinced so much love for the arts of peace after having ex- celled in the arts of ~var, that well might he excite illusions in France and in the world. Only some few amongst the personages who were admitted to his councils, who were capable of judging of futurity by the present, were filled with as much anxiety as admiration, on witnessing the inde- fatigable activity of his mind and body, the energy of his xviii, and the impetuosity of his desires. They trembled even at seeing him do good in the way he did, so impatient was he to accomplish it quickly, and upon an immense scale. The saga- cious Tronchet, who both admired and loved him, and looked upon him as the savinrur of France, said, nevertheless, one day, in a tone of deep feeling, to Cambacdrds, This young man begins like Cresar; I fear that lie will end like him. In animadverting on the strong bias shown by M. Thiers towards Napoleon, and against Eng- land, we make fell allowance for prepossessions, from which even the most dispassionate historian would find it difficult to extricate himself. Neither in regard to tire Emperor of France, nor in regard to the nation which was tire emperors most dan- gerous enemy, do we expect that the writer shall feel as air Englishman would. When a sore place is touched, we do not insist that he shall not wince; when a circumstance is to be related, which flat- ters the national vanity, we do not expect that he shall abstain from exultation. We are prepared to find that the tone of expression throughout the whole work shall be. stich as to show the exist- ence of such feelings; and we di) not quarrel with the feeling, even when it exhibits itself with, a vividness not quite justified by the facts. In re gard to military operations, in particular, much license must be allowed, both to the narration of occurrences, and to the estimate of results. When, frrr instance, the historian describes tire landing of the English army, under Abercromby, at Alexandria, he may be quietly allowed so to arrange his narrative, that the admiration of his readers shall be excited exclusively iii favor of the French; nor is it worth while to cavil with him for denying that the battle ~vas lost, since lie is himself compelled to adnilt that tire victory was decisive en(ru ~, Ii to ~~rest Egypt out (if the hands of the French. Nrrr, to take another example, is it a marter of any consequence that Admiral de Saum:rrez should be represented, in the naval en- ~agemeiit off Cadiz, in the summer of 1801, as having cruelly revenged himself, by an inci- dent, which indeed contributed to his success; but for which, as the narrative of M. Thiers, in the saure page, distinctly shows, the admiral was not, in the slightest degrwe, answerable. In like mariner, it is natural enough that the account given of the actions of Napoleon, shall every-, where be somewhat colored by the writers feel- ings of pride an(l admiration ; feelings, however, which, if xve mistake not, are evinced more amid more openly as the work proceeds. Much, like- wise, that enters into such an account, is matter of taste; and an oration, or a diplomatic paper, which to one man seems n(rble or august, may be thought by anraher to be a piece of stage-trick, or of coarse rhodomontade. We are thus inclined to abstain from all objections to a good deal which appears to us to give too flattering a view of Na- poleons conduct, especially in its moral aspect; (for it is not the wonderful genius of the man, but his character as a moral agent, that we are ever inclined to rate low;) and in the same way we say nothing of some assertions, and many opinions, which are by no means soothing to our national prejudices. We will even give one or two specimens, in which it will be found that there is a considerable sprinkling of truth, fla- vored, however, with so much of pique and ani- mosity, as to disguise the truth from English ap- prehension, till after a strong effort of reflection. It is thus that the historian alludes to some of those causes which led to the rupture of the peace of A miens; a rupture frrr which, as we admit, the English ministry was primarily to blame, although, sooner or later, a breach must have taken place Imagine an envious man witnessing the suc- cess of a dreaded rival; and you will have a tol- erably correct idea of the sentiments with which England beheld the prosperity (if France. That mighty and illuistrious nation had, nevertheless, in its own greatness, wherewithal to console it- self for the greatness (if another. But it was a prey to a singular jealousy. While the successes of General Bonaparte had been an argument against the administration of Mr. Pitt, they had been hailed in England with a sort of applause. But since . these successes, continuerl and height- ened, were those of France herself; since she was seen to grow greater by peace as well as by xvar, by policy as much as by arurs; since in eighteen months the Italian Republic had been seen to become, under the presidency of General Bonaparte, a French province, Piedmont added to our territory with the assent of the continent, Parma and Louisiana increasing our possessions by the mere execution of treaties, lastly, ~er 76 THfERS7 IHST& RY OF NAFOLE@~ many reconstituted by our sole influence; since all this had been seen accomplished peaceably, naturally, as a thing arising fiom a taniversally accepted situatioL, a imanifest spite had seized all English hearts; and this spite was no more dis- sembled than are usually the feelings of a pas- sionate, proud, and free pceple. In another plac , where be has to admit that the first cons.~l had, in his opinion, cot nitted a mistake in policy, he consoles himself by th re- Ilection, that England has fallen into the s me mistake, and is likely enough to fall into it again. Tie is speaking of the expedition against St. Do- mingo. That expedition, undertaken for the pur- pose of preserving, for France, tI e wealthiest of all the West India Islands, had been baffled by the geuius and heroism of the negro Toussaint LOoverture, (a great man, though a barbarian, whose memory is treated by Thiers with a sig- nal injustice as his person was by Napoleon,) and had issued in the mortifying de truc ion of one of the finest armies that the French ever sent out. Such was the sacrifice made by the fir t con- sul to the ancient commercial system f Prance, a sacrifice for which he has been keenly cen ured. Still, to judge soundly of the acts of the heads of governments, we should always take into account the circumstances under the control of which they acted. When peace had been made with the whole world, when the ideas of old commerce poured in again like a torrent, when, in Paris and in all the sea-ports, the merchants, the ruined colonists, loudly demanded the re~stablishmnent of our commercial prosperity;, when they urged the recovery of a posses ion which once constituted the wealih and the pride of the ancient monarchy; when thousands of officers, seeing with mortifica- tion their career cut short by peace, offered to serve in any part of the world where their arms were needed; was it possible to refo e to the re- grets of the former and to the activity of the latter the occasion for restoring the commerce of France? What has En4and not done to preserve North America, Spain to preserve South America? What would not Holland do to preserve Java? Nations never suffered atiy great possession to slip out of their hands, without making an effort to retain it, even though they have no chance of success. We shall see if the American war has furnished the English with a lesson, and if they ~vill attenipt to defend Cam da, whenever that northern colony shall indulge the very natural l)re(lilection which attracts it towards the United States. But these are not the most glaring examples of the unfair and ungenerous spirit which our author displays, in speaking of England. We are weary of fault-fitiding, but canimot avoid pointing out, hastily, two instances, both of which, we must say, surprise us not a little. Let us suppose that M. Thiers were again to be prime minister of France. If, while he is minis- ter, the Duke of Bordeaux were to return to Eng- land, would M. Thiers advise Louis Philippe to insist that the alien law should be put in force against him? If the tory newspapers of London were to libel the king of the French, and to ex- hort his subjects to restore the Bourbons(and the most zealous of them have published such hibels, and such exhortations, hundreds of times, when his newly-raised throne was tottering on its base)would M. Thiers address to Sir Robert Peel a diplomatic note, calling on him to seize the types and presses of Time Morning P r and to throw The Age into the Thames? Napolee. addressed similar demands to the ministry of George III. and made it a ground of quarrel that the demands were refused: and M. Thiers not only thinks the first consuls conduct to have been justifiable, thou~h a little pettish, (justifiable in all resl)ects, except his condescending to write with his o n hand bitter and abusive i adimig arti- cles for The Manite ,) but actually sto ps to give an incorrect and incomplete report, both of the re- ply which the Enohish mnimmistry made to the de- m:mmmd, amid of time teps which they really tmmok in consequence of it. We do not defe id all that Mr. Addin tomi a mmml his colleagnes did in these matters: in them, as in many others, they were alike weak amid imprudent; html they did not do all that they are charged by the French with hay- in0 dune, and they did some thin0s for which tIm French hi brian will n t give them credit. We cannot spare mo for the p rticulars, and content ourselves with r ferrirmg to time sixteenth mink of the history.The point aimuly involved in the case, is the characmer of arm administration, for which no British reader of ordinary intelligence entertains any respect. But the case illustrates aptly, within a narrow compass, the tendency of M. Thiers to take up and to convey inaccurate and unfair impre sOuns, on questions in which the policy of Great Britaimin is cumneerned. The extent to which his juidgmneuit and feehimmes are warped by his Angloph bia, is shown ye more palpably by the next example we shall give. No one needs to be reminded of that cruel decree, by which, on the breaking omit of time war in l8O.~, several thousands of British subjects, travelling or residin, in France, were arrested without warn- ing, and detained as prisoners of war, most (If them till the dethronement of the emperor in 1814. This procedure is universally recognized, except, perhaps, in Paris, as having been nina only cruel, but unjustifiable by the law of nations, amid un- precedented in the history of civilized Europe. Even if it had been less clearly unjustifiable, on diplomnatic principles, yet surely the harshness of it, and the nuisery it bromught upon so many innocent persons and families, might have claimed a word of sympathy. No such word is here ut- tered : we have nothing but tune of the authors cool recitals of the acts which were done, and of the arguments by which the actor justified them and this recital, too, involves in its close a posi- tive misstatement; since it was not the fact tha the arrests were confined to persons in the public service. We quote the paragraph without far- ther comment A circumstance easy enough, it is true, to be funreseen, served greatly to increase the public in- dignation. Almost at the moment of the depart- ure of the two ambassadors, and before any regu- lar manifestation, news arrived that the ships of the English royal navy were capturing French merchautmen. Two frigates had taken in the bay of Audierne a number of trading vessels, which were going to seek refuge at Brest. These first acts were soon followed by many others, hutch- ligence of which arrived from all the ports. It was a violence not at all conformable to the law of nations. There ~vas a formal stipulation on this subject in the late treaty signed between America and France, (30th of September, 1800, Art. 8,) but in the treaty of Amiens, it is true, ,there was nothing of the sort. That treaty eoa TillERS HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 77 tamed rio stip lation for delaying, in case of rup- ture, the commencement of hostilities against ommerce. But this delay resulted from the moral principles of the law f nati ns, placed far above all written stipulations. The first consul, all the ardor of whose character was kindled by this new situati n, determined instantly to use re- )risals, and drew up an arret~, by which he e- dared all the English, travelling in France at the time f the rupture, prisoner.s of war. Since the English, he said, were detert med to visit upon mere traders, innocent of the policy of their gov- ernment, the consequences of t at policy, he was ~uthorized to do the same, and to e ~ure means of exchange by constitutin~ the British subjects actually arreste on the soil of France his prison- ers. This measure, lou ~ a teat d by the con- duct of Great Britain., nevertheless ex ibited a baracter of ri~or whicit was liable to ruffle the l)ublic opinion, and to excite pprehensious of the renewal of the violences of th last w r. M. Cambac6r~s strongly retnonstrated with the first consul, and obtaitred a modaficatio of the pro- jected dispositions. Thank~ t his efforts, th se ispusitions were made t ap~)ly only to such British subjects as were i~ the military service, ir held any commission whatever from the gov- ernment. For the rest, they were not confined, but merely prisouer~ on parole in various fortified places. We pass to the last two units of the fourth volume, which are the most animated and interest- ng piece of narrative the ork has yet furnished. The latter of the two, if it occurred in a history vritten anywhere but in France, would e headed, and headed truly, Tue Murder of the Duke DEnghien. On the pag before us, it is entitled, more prudently, The Cotispiracy of Georges. The drif~ of the narrative is not to he mistaken. It is an attempt, which the writer is hardly at he trouble of disguising, to find palliati its for the troci itS deed, which is th principal event related itt it. The task undertaken is difficult; ?d it is tot surprising that, however dexterously per- drmed, the result should be unsatisfactory. In truth, the only strong point that is made out, is this; n t that Napoleon A witat was ri5bt, but that other p rties, as well as lie did tbinps which were very wrong. Even thL lame defence is de- formed by exaggerations and positive mistakes or misrepresentations. The En~iish n inistry are accused, perseveriogly ed directly, not only of having employed art pai royalist ag nts t fo- ment discontents iii France, especially in the army, and to incite insurrection against the cotisular ov- eminent, (a charge which is unquestionably true,) ut of h ving incited and hired sinch persons to assassinate the first consul. Tinat Napoleon him- elf believed the charge, is very likely; but it is truly marvellous that an honorable and well in- formed man, even though a Frenchman, and a worshipper of the manes of the emperor, should at thi time of day believe and repeat the necusa- tion. Not only is it untrue, ut (we make the assertion advisedly) there is not th slightest proof f its truthnot the slightest proof, even by infer- encein any part of the circumstantial narrative which is presented to us. Yet it is no very unjust retribution, that the meutory of the Engli h minis- try of that time should sniffer by this foul imputa- ti()n. They who stoop to employ dangerou~ and unworthy agents, must be content to share sonic part of the opprobrium whi h the ac~ents e ni by acting on their own responsibility. If English gold was furnished to desperate emigrants, in the hope that it would promote a new revolution in France, by means not involving actual crime; they who f rnished it cannot be held free from all blame, if the assistance given was used for purposes which the givers never contemplated. The equivocal intri~ ii s of Mr. Drake, the British minister at Moni , deserved no better issue th. n the humil- iating and ludicrous exposure hich they received front tIn counter-intrigue conducted by the first consul in person. This p rt of tIne story is told by M. Thiers ith infini zest, and, we believe, with complete accuracy. Bitt Mr. Drakes secret correspondents, (fellows who were in tue pay of Napol on, and who senut to Munich irifomnation which was dictated tin tlncut by liitn,) were not the most dan gerous persotna with wlnom the advisers of George III. allo ed titems ives to e suspected of having dealings. Georacs Cado dal, tine chief of the Chonans of Morbihann, inn Brittany, had made mis escape (ifl the final defe t of his band, and was living in Eng- land. This darin~ and unscrupulous partisan came the principal agennt in a plot which was hatched by th emigrants, fur purposes as to which uhere is still co radi tion among histori al writers. it was cert inly intenided for the overthrow of the consular ~ overnm rnt: it is equally certain that the nuf rtnnate Geuneral Pehegre, lately e~ aped from Cay me, and living in London, was a party to it; that it was al o shared in by some of the confiden- tial advisers of the (Aninnit dArtois; and that Gen- eral Moreau, living at Paris, in retirement, and avowedly a ~.al onitenut, as likewise involved in it. A din to tine royalist writers, nothing was cunotet p1 ted cyonud insurrection and the restura- tioni of the Boor ons; (ir, if any design were entertained agairnst the first consuls life, they must h e been merely the frantic notions of Ceo guns, or others n)f the inferior conspirators, and cannot have been known tin the more elevated per- (nuages i plicated. According to M. Thiens, and others, the main ptnrpose was the taking a ay of Napolemnos life; and the Count dArtois, or sunme other of the princes, was either to he presenit winen the deed was done, or was to show himself mine- dia ely afterwards. Let us now look at the plan of the new con- spira y. There was no longer any chance of get- ting up an insurrection in La Vetud6e; on the other hand, to make a direct attack on the first consul, in the very h art of Paris, seem an qually sure anid speedy means of attainuing the desired end. Tire cunosular gmnverninent being once overt hurown, no other government, a cordiry t(n tine authors of tins project, mold ucc d it hint that of the Bour- bons. Nuns , as the consular gunveronnent was wlrolly vested in the person of General Bona- parte, it was necessary that Ine s oulul be destroyed: this conclusion was inevitable. Bitt he must be destroyed without chance of failure. The dagger, the inifemnial ma hine, and similar nnean-, left too much tin chance; the firmness of the assassins he rt or the steadinness of his hand might fail him; the infernal machine might explode an instant too non or an inismut to late. But there was one nnnde which h d not yet been tried, and upon which, euunisequently, no stigma of ill smuccess rested; that of assembliry a hunidred resnilute men, with the intrepid Georges as their leader; to way - lay the First Cons ls carriage on the minad no St. Cloud o o lalni ison; to atm it his gunurd, num 7~8 TillERS HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. bering only some ten or a dozen horse, disperse it, and kill the first consul in a quasi battle. By this method success was deemed to be certain. Georges, who was brave, who had some military pretensions, and was unwilling to be considered an assassin, required that two of the princes, or at all events one of them, should accompany him, and thus regain his or their ancestral crown sword in hand. Is it credible? These men, perverted by exile, flattered themselves th~ t thus to attack the first consul while surronuded by his guards was not to assassinate him, but to give him battle! They seemed to be on a par with the gallant Arch- doke Charles, combating against G neral Bona- p:~te at Tagliainento or at Wagram; or only interior to him as to number of troops! Wretched sophistry, to which even those who propounded it could have given hot half credence, and which stii~rnatizes those unfortun- Ic Bourbons, not indeed with a natural perversity, but with a perversity acquired amidst the ferocities of civil war, and in the weariness and misery of exile. There was hut one of these men whose part became him, Georges Cadoudal. He was a proficient in these surprises, which he had practised in the forest wilds of Brittany; and now, that he was about to exert his science at the very gates of Paris, he did not fear being degraded into the mere herd of vulgar tools, who are made use of and then dis- owned or denounced; for he anticipated having princes for his accomplices. He had thus far se- cured all the dignity which could comport with the part that he was about to play; and he subse- quently showed, by his bearing in the presence of his judges, that it was not he who was degraded by these events. The emigrant actors in the p1 t, whatever its purpose may have been, proceeded to enter France, by stealth, in successive parties. They were car- ried over by Captain Wright, whose tragical fate afterwards exposed Napoleon to one of the darkest suspicions that rest upon his name. All details being titus far arranged, Georges, with a party of Chonans, upon whose fidelity he could rely, set out from London for France. He arid his men were armed, like so many highwaymen; and he carried in a belt bills of exchange to the amount of a million. Not for an instant can it be supposed that the French princes, reduced to all sorts of expedients to supply their own wants, could fur- nish such sums as circulated among the wholesale speculators in conspiracy. Those sums proceeded from the old source, that is to say, from the British treasury. An officer f the Enolish royal navy, Captain \~r~jgj1~ a bold and skilful seaman, in command of a light vessel, took on board at Deal or Has- tings such emigrants as wished to make the French coast, and landed them at such point in France as they chose. Since the first consul had discovered this, and had caused the coast of Brittany to be more strictly watched than ever, Captain Wright had chosen another track, and landed his passen- get-s upon the coast of Normandy. Between Dieppe and Tr~port, in the side of the steep cliff of Biville, was a secret passage, formed in a cleft of the rock, and known only to smugglers. A cable, securely fixed to the toj (if the cliff, descended through this cleft, as far as the surface of the sea. At a certain cry, the con- cealed wardens of this passage let down the cable, the smugglers seized it, and, by its aid, climbed the precipice, two or three hundred feet in height, carrying heavy loads of merchandise upon their shoulders. The trusty followers of Georges had found out this path, arid had readily enough pur- chased the use (if it. To render their secret corn- munication with Paris complete, they had estab- lished a chain of lodging places; sonic in solitary farms, sonic in the chateaux of Norman nobles, faithful and wary royalists, who rarely left their abodes. By these means it wa easy to pass from the channel coast right onward to Paris without once to chine upon a high-road or enterina an inn. Finally, that there might be the less risk of di - covering this secret way to enemies, it was re- served for the exclusive use of the most important personages of the v rty and their immediately fbI- lowers. The money lavished among some of the Norman r yahists, whose shelter was thus secured, the fidelity of others, and, e pecially, the distance of this se ret track from all frequented roads, ren- dered imprudenecs but little to be dreaded, and, for some time, at least, the secret secure. It was by this route that Georges entered Paris, disembarking from Ca ~tain Wrights vessel at the foot of tim cliff of Biville on the 21st of August, 1803, at the very time when the first consul was inspecting the coasts. Following the track of tue smugglers, and accompanied by some of his most trusty lieutenants, lie proceeded from shelter to shelter, till he reached Chaillet, in on of the suburbs of Paris. There a small lodging was prepared for him, whence he could aigiitly steal forth mt Paris, to see his associates, amd make all read to trike the low for which he had returned to France. Georges, we are next told, sou ded t e feelings of the people in La Veudde, and found that no assistance was to be expected from them. Fiche- gin, following Georges hiy the same route he had taiien,lay conceal d in Paris, with M. de Polignac, and some oiher m n of r ok; and communicated with his old friend Morean, ho, however, is sak tin) have shown hintself averse to the rest ration of the dethroned family. The plot, whatever it was, encountered obstacles; and Gel) ges remained in hiding from August, 1803, till J. nuary of the next year. Suspicion was awakened, amid Napoleon became anxious; but he had removed Fon lid from the head of tite police, and his new minister Regnier, served him less efficiently. The first consul had to thank his own sagacity and paticuc for the discovery of the clue. The first consul was still stron~ly persuaded that the men who had conceived the plan of the infernal machine were still more likely to strike some new blow under existin~ circumstances; and, struck by some arrests effected in Paris, La Yen- dde, and Normandy, he said to Murat, then gov- ernor of Paris, and to M. ildal, who ~as at the head of the police: The emigrants are certaimily at their old tricks; there have en several arr sts; let some of the prisoners be selected and sent before a military commission ; and rather than be shot they will tell all that they kno v.~ XVhat we here relate occurred between the 25th and the 30th of Janumary, while interviews were taking place be- tween Pichegrn and Morean, amid just as e con- spiratt)rs were beconuirtg disheartened. The first consul had a list of the arrested individuals laid before huim. In this list he discovered sot e of the agents of Georges, who had preceded or foIl wed him into France, and among themti an ex-d ctor of the Veuddan armies who had landed in Genrinres company in Atigust. After careful con iderati n TillERS1 HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. of the indlvidual cases, the first consul pointed ont five, and said, Either I am greatly mistaken, or we shall find these men both able and willing to give us information. For some time past, no use had been made of the laws formerly enacted for the establishment of military courts; during the peace, the first consul had been desirous to let these laws fall into disuse, bnt, on the renewal of war, he thought it necessary to call them again into existence; and especially against those spies who entered France to watch the preparations making there agaittst England, and some of whom had consequently been arrested, condemned, and shot. The five individuals, whom the first con- sul now selected, were sent to trial. Two of them were acquitted; two, being convicted of crimes punishable with death, were condemned to be shot, attd suffered that punishment without tnaking any cottfession, beyond a bold avowal that they had entered Fratice to serve that legitimate king who would speedily become victorious over his republican foes. They also spoke in most hostile terms against the person of the first consul. The fifth of these individuals, whom the first consul had especially l)oiIited out as being likely to make a clean brea~t, declared, when on the way to exe- cution, that he had some important information to give; and lie was immediately visited by one of the most astute and experienced agents of the police. He confessed everything, declaring that he had landed at Biville cliff in company with Georges himself, as far back as the month of Au- gtist; that they had made their way through the woods, front one hiding-place to another, till they reached Paris, with the intention of murdering the cotisul, in an attack to be made upon his escort by open force; and he pointed out several persons, especially inn-keepers, who were in the habit of harboring Chouans. This confession threw a broad and bright liglat upon the subject. The presence of Georges in Paris was a fact of the utmost possihle importatice: it was not for any unimportant attempt that a persoti so important to his party had lain concealed in the heart of Paris with a band of hirelings. The point of disem- barkation at the cliff of Biville was now known; as t~lso was the existence of a secret road through the wutids, and some, at least, of the secret lodg- togs which gave shelter to the conspirators. A most strange accidetit had revealed a name which put the first consul and the police tipon the track of some very important circumstances. A short time before the period of which we are writitig, a party of Chouans had landed at this same cliff of Biville, and had exchanged shots with the gen- darmerie: a paper wadding which was found on that occasion, was marked with the name of Troche. This Troche was a watchmaker at Eti; and he had a son, a very young man, employed as a corresponding clerk. This youn~ man was privately arrested and conveyed to Paris, where lie was examined and cotifessed all he knew. lie confessed that it was he who had been employed to receive the conspirators at the cliff of Biville, and had guided them to the first stations at which they were to find shelter; he gave an account of those three disembarkations of which we have already spoken ; viz., that of Georges in August, and those of December and Jatmuary, including Pichegro, and Messrs. De Rivi~re and De Polignac. He was unacquainted with the name and rank of the persons to whom he had acted as guide; but lie was able to say that, early in February, a fourth disembarkation was to take place at Biville, he, in fact, being appointed to receive those who were to land. Successive arrests were rapidly made, the first lieutenant of Georges being seized, among others, and intimidated into a confession of all he knew, or suspected. Moreau, too, was put in prison ; a step which gave rise to insinuations that Napoleon watited to get rid of a formidable rival; and these insinuations, reaching the ears of the first consul, irritated him nmch, and helped to tempt him into new seventies. One circumstance, in the deposi- tions of the prisoners, worked on his mind with fatal effect. These men, unwilling to be deemed assassins, hastened to state that they had returned to Paris in the highest company, including the first nobles of the Bourbon court, especially Messrs. IDe Pu- lignac and Dc Rivi~re; and finally, they most dis- tinctly affirnied, that they were to be headed by a prince, whose arrival they had hourly looked for; and that this prince, said to be the Due De Berry, was to accompany the final disembarkation ami- nounced to take place in February. On that point the depositions were to the highest possible degree precise, full, and consist- ent; and the conspiracy grew terribly clear to the eyes of the first consul. He saw the Comte dArtois and the Due de Berry, surrounded by em- igrants, connected by means of Pichegru with the republicans, and maintaining in their service a horde of mercenaries, whom they proposed to lead to his murder by means of an ambush, which they affected to look upon as an honorable and equal battle. Possessed by a kind of fury, the first con- sul had, now, but one wish, the seizure of that prince, who was to reach Paris from the cliff of Biville. The impassioned language in which Bonaparte frequently expressed himself against the Jacobins, subsequent to the affair of the Infer- nal Machine, was now bestowed exclusively upon the princes and nobles who could descend to play such a part. These Bourbons fancy, he ex- claimed, that they may shed my blood like that of some vile animal; and yet, my blood is quite as precious as theirs. I will repay them the alarm with which they seek to inspire me. I pardon Morean the weakness and the errors to which he is urged by a stupid jealousy; hut I will pitilessly shoot the very first of these princes who shall fall into my hands I will teach them with what sort of a man they have to deal. Such was the lan- guage to which lie was constantly giving utterance during this terrible investigation. He was thought- ful, agitated, threatening; and, what was singular in him, he labored less than usual; for the time, he seemed to have entirely forgotten Boulonge, Brest, and the Texel. Colonel Savary, with fifty picked police-sol- diers, watched Biville Cliff, night and day, for weeks, but all in vain. Ne~v measures were taken. The first consul, shrinkimig from no means of attaining his end, resolved to propose a law, the~ nature of which will show what opinion was at; that time held upon the guarantees of individuah liberty, now so carefully guarded. A law was~ proposed to the legislative assembly, enacting that; any person who should shelter Georges Pichegru,. or any one of sixty of their accomplices, who were~ mentioned by name, would he punished, not by~ imprisonment or the galleys, hut by DEATIi audI whoever should see them, or be aware of tlteir 79 80 TillERS HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. hiding-place, and yet fail to denounce them, should the sort of man whom they provoked in attacking be punished with six years imprisonment. This him.: that he feared no more to put a Bourhon to fearful law, which commanded, on paiu of death, death, than to do the same by the merest scum of the commission of a barbarous act, was passed Chouannerie; that be would, ere long, show the without opposition on the very day of its propo- world that all parties were on a level in his sal. ~ eyes; that whoever provoked him, no matter what It is honorable to the citizens of Paris, that but their rank, should feel the whole weight of his ouc of the conspirators was betrayed. This was hand, and that though he had hitherto been the Piche~ru. Georges was discovered soon after- most merciful of men, lie would prove that, when wards and made prisoner, after shootiug one of his roused, he could be one of the most terrible. captors dead on the spot. His deposition tallied No one dared urge a contradiction. rhe con- sadly with the circumstance which already por- sul Lebrun was silent. So also was the consul tended the most bloody part of the catastrophe. Cambac~rds; hut he gave to his silence that char- Georges was taken to the prefecture of police; acter of disapprobation by which he usually up- his first excitement over, this chieftain of conspi- posed the first consul. M. Fouch6, who wished rators had recovered the most perfect coolness. to regain Napoleons favor, and who, though gen- lie was young and powerful: his shoulders were erally disposed to lenity, was very anxious to e~ square, his features full, and rather mild an.d open broil the government and the royalists, warmly ap- than gloomy or ferocious, as they might have been proved the idea of making an example; and M. supposed to be, from the part he had acted. On his Talleyrand, not cruel, indeed, but incapable of op- person were found a dagger, pistols, and sixty thou- posing power, and possessed to a mischievous cx- sand francs in gold and bank notes. Examined on tent of a taste for flattering the wishes of those to the instant, he unhesitatingly told his name, and the whom he was attached, M. de Talleyrand, too, object of his presence in Paris. He had arrived, argued, with M. Fouch6, that too much consid- lie said, for the purpose of attacking the first con- eration had already been shown to the royalists; sul, not by stealing into his palace with four that the lavish kindness shown to them had even assassins, but openly, by main force, and fighting excited mischievous doubts in the minds of the in the open country against the consular guard. revolutionists, and that the time had now come He was to have acted in conjunction with a French when it was necessary to punish severely, and to prince, who was to have joined him in France for punish without exception. With the exception that purpose, but who had not arrived. Georges of the consul Cambac6r~s, every one, either tacitly was in some sort proud of the new character of or in terms, encouraged that anger which needed this plot, which he with much care distinguished no encouragement to render it terrible, perhaj.s from an assassination. But, it was remarked to even cruel. him, you sent Saint R~jant to Paris to prepare The crisis rapidly approached. Napoleon~s own time Infernal Machine. restless and alarmed activity furnished the las. I sent him, replied Georges, hot with no link in the chain of causes which were to prompt detailed instructions as to the means which he was him to a crime. to employ. The first consul, annoyed at not having been A poor explanation, which but too clearly able to lay hold of one of those princes who had showed that Georges had been no stranger to that conspired against his life, now glanced around at horrible crime. However, on every point that the various parts in which they, respectively, had concerned others than himself, this bold conspira- found shelter. One morning, while in his study tor preserved a resolute silence, repeating that with Messrs. de Talleyrand and Fouch6, lie in- there were victims enough already, and that he quired about the various members of that unforto- would not add to their number. * * * * nate family, as pitiable for its errors as for its mis- Would to Heaven that the first consul had fortunes. He was told, in reply, that Louis remained contented with the means lie already XVIII. and the I)uc dAngoul~rne lived at War- possessed of confounding his enemies! He could saw; the Comte dArtois and the Due de Berry in have struck awe into them, by inflicting the pun- London, where, also, were the princes of Cond~, ishments recognized by our laws; still further he with the exception of the third, the youngest and could have overwhelmed them with confusion :~ for most enterprizirtg~ of them, the Due DEnghien, he had obtained abundance of proofs of their guilt. xvho lived at Ettenheim, very near Strasburg, iii He had in his hands even more than was needed which neighborhood it was that Messrs. Taylor, for his safety and reputation. But, as we have Smith, and Drake, the English diplomatic agents, already remarked, though he, at this period, was busied themselves in fomenting intrigues. The well disposed towards the republicans, the royal- I idea that that young prince might make use of the ists had outraged and disgusted him with their in- bridge of Strasburg, as the Comte dArtois had gratitude, and he was resolved that they should intended to make use of Biville Cliff, suddenly feel the full wei:,ht of his power. Besides the flashed across the mind of the first consul ; and he spirit of reven0e, another feelin~, occupied his determined to send an intelligent sub-officer into hearta sort of pride. He openly said to all who that neighborhood to obtain information. There approached him, that he cared as little, perhaps was a sub-officer of gendarmerie, who in his youth rather less, for a Bourbon., than for a Moreau or a had served under the princes of Condd; and he Pichegru; that these princes entertained a notion now received orders to assume a disguise, and to that they were inviolate, and that this notion led proceed to Ettenheim to make inquiries as to the them to involve in their plots unfortunate men of connexions of the young prince, and his way of all ranks, and then to shelter themselves beyond life. The sub-officer accordingly repaired to Et- sea; that they were greatly mistaken in putting tenheim. The young prince had lived there some so much trust in that shelter; and that he should time with a princess of Rohan, to whom he was infallibly finish with seizing some one of them, and warmly attached: and he divided his time between having him shot to death like a common malefac- this attachment and enjoying time pleasures of the tor; that it was requisite to let these prinePs feel chase in the Black Forest. He had been directed TIllERS HISTORY O1~ NAPOLEON. by the British cabinet to repair to the banks of the Rhine, no doubt in anticipation of that movement of which Messrs. Drake, Smith and Taylor had held out ill-founded hopes. This prince expected, then, that he should shortly have to fight against his countrya pitiable task to which he had for some years been accustomed; but nothing proves that he knew anything about the conspiracy of Georges everything that is known about him tends, on the contrary, to the supposition that he was ignorant of it. He often left Ettenheim on sporting excursions, and sometimes, it was said, even to go to the theatre at Strasburg. Certain it is, that these reports had so much of probability that they induced his father to write to him from London a letter strictly cautioning him to greater prudence. In the personal suite of the young prince were certain emigrants, among them a Mar- quis de Thumery. The sub-officer who was sent to make inquiries arrived at Ettenheim in disguise, and made his way even into the very household of the prince, and obtained a whole host of particulars, from which prejudiced jnd~ments might easily draw the most fatal inferences. The young duke was said to be very frequently absent from Ettenheim; sometimes his absence lasted for days, and his journey extended to Strasbnrg. A person in his suite, who was represented as of far more conse- quence than he really was, bore a name which the Germans, who gave these particulars to the sub- officer, mispronounced in such a way, that it sounded like that of General Dumouriez. The person in question was, in reality, the Marquis de Thurnery, of whom we have already made men- tion; and the sub-officer, misled by the German pronunciation, quite honestly took that name to designate General Dumouriez, and this name he put into the report, written under this unfortunate mistake, and immediately despatched to Paris. This fatal report reached Paris on the morning of the 10th of March. On the previous eventng, at night, and on the very morning in question, a no less fatal deposition had been repeatedly made by Leridant, the servant of Georges, and arrested with him. At first this young man had resisted the most pressing interrogations; but at length he spoke out with an apparently complete sincerity; declaring that there was a conspiracy, that a prince was at its head, that this prince either soon would arrive, or had arrived already; and that his own opinion inclined to the latter state of the case, as he had frequently seen, as a visiter of Georges, a yoting and well-dressed man, of distinguished manners, to whom all seemed to pay great re- spect. This depositi~on, repeatedly renewed, and each time with fresh (letails, was laid before the first consul. The report of the sub-officer of gendarmerie was presented to him at the same time; and the coincidences struck his mind with a most lamentable force. The absences of the Due DEn~,hien from Ettenheim immediately connected themselves with the pretended presence of the young Prince in Paris; and that young man, to whom all the conspirators paid so much respect, could not be a prince arrived from London, so strictly as Biville Cliff had been watched. This young man could be ne other than the Due DEn- ghein, travelling from Ettenheim to Paris in eight- and-forty hours, and returning in the same space of time, after having a brief conference with his guilty accomplices. Napoleons decision was formed at once. It 81 was announced to his council, and combated, but ineffectually, by CambacSr~s alone. A detach- ment of troops was sent to seize the Duke DEn- ghien and bring him to Paris; another to present a weak apology to the Grand Duke of Baden, whose territory was to be violated. Both detach- ments set out five days after the meeting of the council. The prince was seized, carried to Stras- burg, and thence to Paris; where, at the Cha- renton gate, his guarded carriage stood from noon till five oclock on the 20th of March, 1804. It was then ordered to the castle of Vincennes. That which ensued is told by M. Thiers with a brevity not to he wondered at, when adopted by one so deeply interested in the fame of his hero. His main purpose would in no way have been pro- moted by particulars, tending either to show the enormity of the crime, or to excite compassion for the victim. The most curious parts of the nar- rative are those which describe Napoleons own demeanor. lie had passed from the alternate anxiety and rage which had at first possessed him. At the approach of the moment of this terrible sacrifice, the first consul desired solitude. On the 18th of March, Palm Sunday, he set out for Malmaison, where, better than elsewhere, he could command quietness and solitude. With the exception of the consuls, the ministers, and his brothers, he received no one. For hours to- gether he walked about by himself, giving to his countenance an expression of calmness which he felt not in his heart. Even his inoccupation proves the agitation to which he was a prey; for during a whole week that he staid at Malmaison, he dic- tated scarcely a single letteran unique instance of idleness in his active life; and yet, only a few days earlier, all the energies of his mind had been be- stowed upon Brest, Boulogne, and the Texel! His wife, who, in common with all his family, was acquainted with the arrest of the prince ; his wife, who, unable to help sympathizing with the Bour- bons, thought with horror of the shedding of royal blood ; his wife, with that foresight of the heart which is peculiar to women, perhaps anticipated that a cruel action would draw down retaliative cruelties upon her husband, her children and her- self, and spoke to him several times about the prince, shedding tears as she thought of his de- struction, which she feared was resolved upon, though her mind revolted from such a belief. The first consul, who somewhat prided himself upon repressing the movements of his heart, naturally so generous and kind, whatever might be said to the contrary by those who did not know him, the first consul repelled these tearful supphications, of which he feared the effect upon his resolve, and replied to Madame Bonaparte in a homely style, which he strove to renderharsh: you area~-o- man, and know nothing about politics; your proper part is to hold your tongue. After the orders have been described, which were issued to the court-martial held at Vincennes, we are told that M. R~al, a councillor of state employed under the minister of police, had been commanded to examine the prisoner personally, and endeavor to ascertain what he knew about the conspiracy; and it is suggested that, if the inter- view had taken place, the innocence of the prisoner must have become evident, and the execution would not have taken place. But his own earnest request for an interview with the first consul him- self was rejected by Savary, who superintended the execution; and R6al and he never met. 82 1~t1IERS HISTOItY OF NAPOLEON. The orders of the morning, to finish all during the night, were positive. A delay could only he procured by the arrival of M. Rdal to interrogate the prince. M. R6al did not make his appear- ance; the night xvas far spent; day was at hand. The prince was taken down into a fosse of the chateau, and there, with a firmness worthy of his race, received the fire of those soldiers of the republic, whom, in the ranks of the Austrians, he had so often fought against. Melancholy reprisals of civil war He was buried upon the very spot where he fell. Colonel Savary immediately set ont to report to the first consul the execution of his orders. On the road the colonel met M. R6al on his way to question the prisoner. This councillor of state, exhausted with fatigue by the continued labor of several days and nights, had given orders to his servants not to disturb him ; the order of the first consul was not placed in his hands until five oclock in the morning; he arrived, but too late. This was not, as it has been said to be, a scheme plan- ned to force the first consul into a crime; not at all, it was an accident, a pure accident, by which the unfortunate prince was deprived of the sole chance of saving his life, and the first consul of a happy opportunity of saving his glory from a stain. A deplorable consequence of violating the ordinary forms of justice! When these forms, invented by the experience of ages to guard human life against the mistakes of judges, when these sacred forms are violated, men are at the mercy of chance, of mere trifles! The lives of accused people, and the honor of governments, are then sometimes dependent upon the most fortuitous coincidences! No doubt, the first consul had formed his resolve; but he was much agitated; and could the voice of the unfortunate Cond6, appealing for life, have reached his ear, that cry would not have been uttered in vain: he would have yielded, and proudly yielded, to his gentler feelings. Colonel Savary arrived at Malmnaison in a state of great emotion. lIis presence gave rise to a painful scene. Madame Bonaparte guessed all as soon as she saw him, and burst into tears; and M. do Caulaincourt, in accents of despair, exclaimed that he was dishonored. Colonel Savary pro- ceeded to the first consnls study, fonnd him alone with M. de Meneval, and gave him an account of what had taken place at Vincennes. The first consul asked, Did M. iR6al see the prisonerl Colonel Savary had scarcely answered in the negative when M. R6al made his appearance, and trernblingly apologized for the non-execution of the orders he had received. Without expressing either approbation or anger, the first consul dis- missed these instruments of his will, went into an apartment of his library, and shut himself up in solitude there for several hours. In the evening, there was a family dinner at Malmaison: all wore serious and saddened coun- tenances, and no one ventured to speak, the first consul himself being as silent as the rest. This silence at length became embarrassing; and, on rising from the table, the first consul himself broke it, addressing himself exclusively to M. de Eon- tanes, who had just arrived. He was alarmed at the event which was noised throughout Paris; but he could not express his feelings where he now was. He listened chiefly, and replied but little. The first consul, speaking almost without interrup- tion, and endeavoring to make up for the silence of his company, discoursed upon the princes of all times, upon the Roman emperors, upon the French kings, upon Tacitus, and the judgments of that historian, and upon the cruelties which were fre- quently attributed to the rulers of states, when these, in fact, only yielded to inevitable necessm- ties. Having by this circuitous route approached the tragical subject of the day, he said They wish to destroy the Revolution in-attack- ing my person. I will defend it, for 1,1, 1am the Revolution. They will be more cautious in future; for they will know of what we are capa- ble. We cannot quote more than one paragraph of the historians closing remarks on this bloody story. Nothing can be more instructively true than the moral drawn from it. The perpetrator of the crime was punished for its commission, even in the progress of the design to which it was to have been subservient. Nothing he had ever done was so effectual in precipitating the new coalition against him. None were satisfied with what had been done at Vincennes, save those hot revolutionists, whose senseless rule the first consul had brought to an end, and who now saw him in a single day reduced almost to their level. None of them any longer feared that General Bonaparte would act for the Bourbons. Sad proof of the frailty of the human mind! This extraordinary man, of so great and accurate an intellect, and of so generous a heart, had lately been so stern in his judgment of the revolutionists and their excesses! He had pronounced upon their frenzy without qualification, and sometimes even without justice. lie bad bitterly reproached them with having shed the blood of Louis XVI., disgraced the revolution, and irreconcilably em- broiled France with Europe! Then he judged calmly; and now, his passions being excited, he had in a single instant paralleled the deed corn- mitted upon the person of Louis XVI., and had placed himself in a state of moral opposition to Europe, which speedily rendered a general war inevitable, and compelled him to go in search of peacea magnificent peace, it is trueto Tilsit, to the other end of Europe! How well calculated are such contrasts to rebuke human pride of intel- lect, and to prove that the most transcendent genius is not safe from the most vulgar errors, if, even for a single instant, it is deprived of self-con- trol and swayed by passion. The investigation, which terminated so foully, had called away Napoleon for a time, and its issue for a time averted the eyes of Europe, from an undertaking of his which, bad it been executed, (whether finally successful or not,) would have been the very greatest of all his military achieve- ments. We allude to his projected invasion of England. Our countrymen, at the time, although they prepared themselves manfully to meet the attack, if it should he made, could hardly believe that the design was seriously entertained. There can, however, be no doubt that it was; arid it is just as clear that the purpose was within an ace of being accomplished. The reasons for undertaking this bold adventure are well and fairly set forth by M. Thiers. It would have been a difficult task, even for the ablest and the most firmly established govern- ment, to maintain a conflict with England. It was easy, it is true, for the first consul to screen himself from her blows; but it was just as easy for England to screen herself from his. England and ThEtIS HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. France had conquered a nearly equal empire, the former at sea, the latter on land. Hostilities hav- ing commenced, England was about to unfurl her flag in both hemispheres, to take some Dutch and Spanish colonies; perhaps, but with more diffi- culty, some French colonies. She was about to interdict navigation to all nations, and to arrogate it to herself exclusively; but, unaided, she could do no more. The appearance of English troops on the continent would but have brought upon her a disaster similar to that of the Helder in 1799. France, on her part, could, either by force or by influence, forbid England access to the coasts of Europe from Copenhagen to Venice, confine her intercourse to the shores of the Baltic alone, and oblige her to bring down from the Pole the colo- nial produce, of which, during the war, she would he the sole depository. But, in this struggle of two great powers, who ruled each on one of the two elements, without having the means of quit- ting them to grapple one another, it was to be feared that they would be restricted to threatening without striking; and that the world, trampled upon by them, would finally rebel against one or the other, for the purpose of withdrawing itself from the consequences of this tremendous quarrel. In such a situation, success must belong to that which should contrive to get out of the element in which it reigned, to reach its rival; and, if that effort proved impossible, to that which should find means to render its cause so popular in the world, as to gain it over to its side. It was difficult for both to attach nations to themselves. For Eng- land, in order to arrogate to herself the monopoly of commerce, was obliged to harass neutrals; and France, in order to close the continent against the commerce of England, was obliged to do violence to all the powers of Europe. To conquer Eng- land, therefore, it was requisite to solve one of these problems: either to cross the channel and march to London, or to sway the continent, and to oblige it, either by force or policy, to refuse all British commodities; to realize, in short, an inva- sion or a continental blockade. We shall see, in the course of this history, by what series of events Napoleon was gradually led from the first of these enterprises to the second; by what a concatena- tion of prodigies he at first approached his aim so as nearly to attain it; by what a combination of faults and misfortunes, he was afterwards hurried away from it, and finally fell. Happily, before reaching that deplorable term, France had achiev- ed such things, that a nation which Providence permits to accomplish them remains forever glori- ous, and perhaps the greatest of nations. Such were the proportions which this war between France and Great Britain must inevitably take. It had been from 1792 to 1801 the struggle of the democratic principle against the aristocratic principle; without ceasing to have this character, it was about to become, under Napoleon, the struggle of one element against another, with much more difficulty for us than for the English; for the whole continent, out of detestation to the French revolution, out of jealousy of our power, must hate France much more heartily than the neutrals hated England. With his keen glance, the first consul soon perceived the drift of this \var; and he took his resolution without hesitating. He formed the plan of crossing the Strait of Calais with an army, and putting an end to the rivalship of the two nations in London itself. We shall find hini for tlmree successive years applying all his faculties to this prodigious enterprise, and remaining calm, confident, even happy; so full of hope was he in anticipation of an attempt, which must either lead to his becoming absolute master of the world, or bury himself, his army, his glory, in the depths of the oceami. But, though the invasion, if successful, would have put an end to the war at once, the obstacles in its way would, for any other man, have been insurmountable. He was too wise to attack Eng- land with any force, short of that which was suffi- cient to make him, temporarily at least, master of the provinces in which he should first land. The transport of an army so large was a tremendous undertaking. It is a vast and difficult operation to carry beyond sea twenty or thirty thousand men only. The expedition to Egypt, executed fifty years ago, the expedition against Algiers, executed in or.r days, are proofs of this. What an undertaking it must be to embark 150,000 soldiers, ten or fifteen thousand horses, three or four thousand pieces of cannon and their carriages! A ship of the line can carry on an average six or seven hundred men, in case the passage takes some days; a large frigate can contain half the number. For embark- ing such an army, there would of course be re- quired 200 sail of the line, that is to say, a chi- merical naval force, which nothing but the con- currence of France and England in the same object could render barely conceivable. An at- tempt to throw 150,000 men into England, if Eng- land had been at the distance of Egypt or the Morea, would consequently have been an impracti- cable undertaking. But there was only the Strait of Calais to cross, that is to say, only eight or ten leagues to go. There was no necessity for em- ploying large ships for such a passage. Neither could they have been employed, if one had had them, for there is not a single port capable of admitting them from Ostend to Havre; neither is there, without going far out of the way, a single port on the other side where they could effect a landing. The idea of small vessels, considering the passage and the nature of the ports, had there- fore at all times occurred to all minds. Besides, these small vessels were adequate to such marine circumstances as were liable to be met with. Loimg observations made on time coast had led to the dis- covery of these circumstances, and to the deter- mination of the vessels best adapted to the pur- pose. In summer, for instaimce, there are in the Channel almost absolute cahos, and long enough to enable one to reckon upon forty-eight hours of the same weather. It would take about that num- ber of homirs, not to cross, but for the immense flotilla in question to work out of harbor. During this calm, the English cruisers being condemned to lie motionless, vessels built to go either with oars or sails might pass with impunity even before an enemys squadron. Winter had also its favorable momnents. The dense fogs of the cold season, being attended with no wind, or scarcely any, offered another chance of crossing in presence of an enemys force, either immovable or deceived by the fog. There was still a third favorable occa- sion, namely, that offered by the equinoxes. It frequently happens that, after equinoctial storms, the wind suddenly subsides, and leaves sufficient time for crossing the strait, before the return of the enemys squadron, which is obliged by the gale to stand off. Such were the circumstances 84 TillERs HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. universally fixed upon by the seamen living on the capable of assisting the mind to foresee the differ- oast of the Channel. ent chances. Admiral Decr~s, a man of superior There was one case, in which, in all seasons intelligence, but disposed to find fault, admitted and in any weather, excepting a tempest, one that, by sacrificing a hundred vessels and ten might always cross the strait: it was when a thousand men, one might probably get over an en- strong squadron of the line could be brought for a counter with an enemys squadron, and cross the few hours by skilful maneuvres into the Channel. strait. One loses them every day in battle, re- Then the flotilla, protected by this squadron, could plied the first consul; and what battle ever prom- sail without being uneasy about the enemys cmi- ised the results which a landing in England an sers. thorizes us to hope for B But the case of a great French squadron Boulogne was fixed upon as the central station brought between Calais and Dover depended on of the flotilla. Thither the vessels were gathered such difficult combinatins, that it could not be at as built ; and the port, and those of two neighbor- all reckoned upon. It was requisite even, to build ing bays, were enlarged and improved for their re- the transpurt flotilla in such a fashion, that it ception. These operatious were performed by tIe might, to appearance at least, dispense with any soldiery, who were encamped about Boulognc; auxiliary force ; for if it had becn demonstrated by and who, encouraged by additional pay as well as its construction that it was impossible for it to keep by the enthusiastic hope of new and miDhiier tri- the sea without an assisting squadron, the secret umphs, labored with the same alacrity as did all of this great operation would have been intmedi- who were engaged in the vast preparations. Dar- ately revealed to the enemy. Aware of this, they ing attempts were incessantly made, by the English would have concentrated all their naval forces in cruisers, to destroy the vessels of the flotilla, the strait, and prevented every man~uvre of either as they lay in harbor, or in their passage French squadrons for the purpose of getting thi- along the coast. Many brave actions were fought; ther? but no serious damage was done to the French Indeed, although the history does not yet carry boats. Extensive works were erected to defend us down so far, we shall learn, hereafter, that it the port and anchorage of Boulogne; and these was on the last of these projects that Napoleon also were constantly attacked, in their progress, really relied; and that all his naval manmuvres by the English sailors. were long directed to the one object, of gaining the Their cruisers, consisting in general of about command of the Straits of Dover for the French twenty vessels, three or four of them seventy-fours, fleet, under cover of which the flotilla of Boulogne five or six frigates, ten or twelve brigs and cutters, might cross to the shores of Kent. and a certain number of gun-boats, kept up an in- Small armed vessels, of three kinds, were built cessant fire upon our workmen. Their balls, everywhere, in France, and in the neibboring passing over the cliff, fell in the harbor and the countries which were then at her disposal. All camps. Though their projectiles had done very of them were flat bottomed, that they might be little damage, still this firing was extremely annoy- floated down rivers to the sea, and carried close ing, and, when a great number of boats were along the defended coast, so as to be beyond the crowded together, might cause great mischief, reach of the English cruisers, perhaps even a conflagration. One night even, These three species of vessels were to be col- the English, advancing most daringly in their pin lected to the number of twelve or fifteen hundred. naces, surprised the workshops in which the mate- They were to carry at least three thousand pieces of rials for the construction of tite wooden fort were cannon of large calibre, besides a great number of preparing, cut in pieces the machines used for pieces of small dimensionthat is to say, discharge driving piles, and did as much mischief to the as many projectiles as the strongest squadron, works as it took several days to repair. The first Their fire was da ngerotts, because it was horizon- consul was greatly irritated at this attempt, and tal, and directed so as to take effect between wind issued fresh orders for preventing the like in fu- and water. When engaged with large ships, they tore. Armed boats, relieving one another like presented a mark difficult to hit, and, on the con- sentries, were to pass the night around the works. trary, fired at a mark which they could scarcely The workmen, encouraged, piqued in their honor, miss. They could move about, divide, and sur- like soldiers whom one is leading against an ene- round the enemy. But if they had the advantages my, were induced to work in presence of the of division, they had also its inconveniences. The English ships, and under the fire of their artillery. order to be introduced into this moving and pro- It was at low water only that the works could be digio usly numerous mass was an extremely diffi- prosecuted. When the heads of the piles were cult problem, in the solution of which Admiral left sufficiently uncovered, by the water, for driv- Bruix and Napoleon were incessantly engaged for ing, the men fell to before the tide was out, and three years. We shall see by and by to what a continued, while it was returning, up to the middle degree of precision in the maneuvres they con- in water, singing as they worked, while the balls trived to attain, and to what point the problem was of the English were flying around them. The resolved by them, first consul, however, with his inexhaustible fer What effect would have been produced by a tihity of invention, contrived new precautions to squadron of large ships, dashing in full sail through keep off the enemy. He caused experiments to be this mass of small craft, running down, upsetting made on the coast, to ascertain the range of heavy all before them, sinking those struck by their balls, cannon, fired at an angle of forty-five degrees, but surrounded in their turn by this swarm of ene- nearly as mortars are fired. The experiment sue- mies, receuving on all sides a dangerous fire of ceeded: twenty-four-pound balls were projected to artillery, assailed by the musketry of a hundred the distance of 2300 fathoms, and the English thousand infantry, and perhaps boarded by intrepid were obliged to keep at that distance. He did soldiers, trained to the maneuvre I It is impossi- still more: thinking incessantly on the same sub- ble to say; for one cannot form any idea of so ject, he first devised an instrument which, at this strange a scene, without any known antecedent, day, occasions frightful ravages, and which appears TITtERS HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. destined to produce powerful effects in maritime warfarehollow projectiles employed against ship. ping. He ordered large shells to be fired at the vessels. These, hursting in the timber-work or the sails, could not fail to produce fatal breaches in the hull, or large rents in the rigging. It is with projectiles which hurst, he wrote, that timber must be attacked. It is not easy to introduce any- thing new, especially where there are old habits to be overcome; and he had to repeat frequently the same instructions. When the English, instead of those solid halls, which dash like lightning through everything hefore them, but limit their ravages to their own diameter, heheld a projectile having, it is true, less impulsion, hut which explodes like a mine, either in the hull of the ship, or on the heads of her defenders, they were surprised, and kept at a great distance. Lastly, to obtain still more se- curity, the first consul devised an expedient not less ingenious. He conceived the idea of establish- ing sub-marine batteries; that is to say, he had batteries of heavy cannon and large mortars placed at low-water mark, which were covered by the sea at high-water, and left uncovered at ebb-tide. It cost great trouble to secure the platforms on which the pieces rested, so as to prevent them from sink- ing into the sand, or being buried by it. This was accomplished, however; and at ebb-tide, which was the time for work, when the English approached to disturb the men, they xvere received with discharges of artillery, poured all at once from the low-water line ; so that the fire advanced or receded, iti a manner, with the sea itself. rhese batteries were employed only while the forts were building ; as soon as they were finished they be- came useless. Before the end of December, 1803, nearly a thousand vessels, of one sort or another, ~vere col- lected in and about the harbor of Boulogne. The troops destined for the expedition were in camp at the same place; and the work of training went on with steadiness and success. Particular care was taken to produce complete harmony between the seamen and the soldiers, by the constant appropriation of the same vessels to the same troops. The dimensions of the nun- brigs and gun-boats had been calculated for them to carry a company of infantry, besides some artil- lery. This was the element employed to deter- mine the general organization of the flotilla. The battalions were then composed of nine companies; the demi-brigades of two war battalions, the third remaining at the depot. The gun-brigs and gun- boats were arranged in conformity with this com- position of the troops. Nine brigs or boats formed a section, atid carried nine companies, or one bat- talion. Two sections formed a division, and car- ried a demi-brigade. Thus the boat or brig answered to the cotnpany, the section answered to the battalion, the division to the demi-brigade. Naval officers of corresponding rank commanded the boat, the section, the division. To produce a perfect coherence of the troops with the flotilla, each division was appropriated to a demi-brigade, each section to a battalion, each brig or boat to a company; and this appropriation, once made, was invariable. Thus the troops were always to keep the same vessel, and to attach themselves to it, as a rider attaches himself to his horse. Land and sea officers, soldiers and sailors, would by these means learn to know and to have confidence in one another, and be the more disposed to render each other mutual assistance. Each company was to 85 furnish the vessel belonging to it with a garrison of twenty-five men, forming a fourth of the com- pany, always on board. These twenty-five men, forming a fourth of the cotnpany, remained on board about a month. During this time, they lodged in the vessel with the crew, whether the vessel went to sea to manmuvre or lay in harbor. There they did all that the sailors themselves did, assisted in working the vessel, and exercised them- selves in particular in the management of the oars and in firing the cannon. When they had passed a month in this kind of life, they were succeeded by twenty-five other soldiers of the same company, who came to devote themselves for the same space of time to nautical exercises. Thus the whole cotnpany in succession took its turn on board the brigs or boats. Each man, therefore, was alter- nately land soldier, sea soldier, artilleryman, sai- lor, and even laboring engineer, in consequence of the works carrying on in the basins. The sailors likewise took part in this reciprocal training. They had infantry arms on board; and, when they were in port, they performed the infantry exercise in the day-time on the quay. They formed conse- quently an accession of 15,000 foot-soldiers, who, after the landing in England, would be capable of defending the flotilla along the coasts where it would be lying aground. By giving them a rein- forcement of about 10,000 men, they might await with impunity on the shore the victories of the in- vading army. * * * After incessantly repeated exercises, all these man~uvres came to be executed with equal promptness and precision. Every day, in all weathers, unless it blew a storm, from 100 to 150 boats went out to man~uvre, or to anchor in the road before the enemy. The operation of sham landing along the cliffs was performed. The men first exerctsed themselves in sweeping the shore by a steady fire of artillery, then in approaching the beach, and landing men,horses, and cannon. Fre- quently, when the boats could not get close to the shore, the men were thrown into the water where it was five or six feet deep. None were ever drowned, such was the dexterity and ardor which they displayed. Sometimes even the horses were landed in the same manner. They were let down into the sea, and men in small boats directed them with a halter towards the shore. In this manner, there was not an accident that could happen in landing on an enemys coast but was provided abainst and several times braved, with the addition of all the difficulties which could be thought of, even those of night, excepting, however, the diffi- culty of the fire; but that would rather he a stimu- lant than an obstacle for these soldiers, the hravest in the world by nature and by the habit of war. This variety of land and sea exercises, these manmuvres intermixed with hard labor, interested these adventurous soldiers, full of imagination and ambition, like their illustrious chief. With con- siderably better fare, thanks to the earttings of their labor, added to their pay, contittual activity, the keenest and most salubrious air, all this could not but give them extraordinary physical strength. The hope of performing a prodigy added a moral force equally great. Thus was gradually trained that incomparable army, which was destined to achieve the conquest of the continent in two years. The first consul spent great part of his time among them. He was filled with confidence, when he saw them so disposed, so alert, so animated with his own feelings. They in their turn received IIISTORV OF NAPOLEON. continual excitement from his presence. They saw him on horseback, sometimes on the top of the cliffs, sometimes at their feet, galloping over the sands, left smooth and hard by the receding tide, ~oing in that manner by the strand from one port to another; sometitnes on board light pin~ n~-ces, going to be present at petty skirmishes be- tween our gun-boats and the English cruisers, pushing them upon the enemy, till he had made their cutters and frigates fall back by the fire of our frail vessels. Frequently he persisted in brav- ing the sea; and once, having determined to visit the anchorage, in spite of a violent gale, the boat, in which he was returoing, sunk nor far from the shore. Luckily the men had footing. The sailors threw theniselves into the sea, and, formino- a close group to ~vithstand the waves, carried him on their shoulders through the billows breaking over their heads. One day, passing over the beach in this man- ner, he was animated by the sight of the coasts of England, and wrote the following lines to Camba- c6r~s, the consul: I have passed these three days amidst the camp and the port. From the heights of Ambleteuse I have seen the coast of England, as one sees Calvary from the Tuilleries. One could dist.inguish the houses and the bustle. It is a ditch that shall be leaped when one is daring enough to try. His impatience to execute this great enterprize was extreme. He had at first thought of the con- clusion of autumn; now lie was for deferring it till the beginning, or, at latest, the middle, of winter. But the labor was evidently increasing; and, some new improvement daily occurring either to him or to Admiral Bruix, lie sacrificed time in order to in- troduce it. The drilling of the soldiers arid sailors was rendered more perfect by these inevitable de- lays, which thus brought along with them their own compensation. The projected expedition might, indeed, have been attempted after these eight months apprenticeship: but it would require six more, if one were to wait till everything was ready, till the equipping and arming were com- pleted, till the training of the landsinen and seamen left nothing more to be desired. But decisive considerations commanded a new delay. The concentration of the fleets was still rmnac- complished; and without having effected this, the condition which lie relied on for securing his pas- sage across the straits, the first consul was too prudent to move. A last condition of success was yet left to be secured; arid this condition the first consul con- sidered equivalent to a certainty of the accom- plishment of his enterprise. These vessels, now tried, were quite capable of crossing a strait ten leagues wide; since most of them had had one hundred or two hundred leagues to go to reach Boulogne, and had frequently by their scattered and horizontal fire replied with advantage to the downward and concentrated fire of the ships. They had a chance of passing, without being seen or attacked, either in the calms of summer or in the fogs of winter; and, under the~most un- favorable supposition, if they were to fall in with the twenty-five or thirty cutters, brigs, and frigates which the English had cruising, they must pass, were it necessary to sacrifice a hun- dred brigs or boats of the two thousand three hundred composing the flotilla. But there w~s a case which appeared to be exempted from every unlucky chance; namely, when a strong French squadron, appearing suddenly in the Strait, should drive the English cruisers from it, keep possession of the channel for two or three days, and cover the passage of our flotilla. With this case, there could exist no doubt: all the objections raised against the enterprise fell at once, excepting that of an unforeseen storm, an improbable chance if the season were judiciously chosen, and, moreover, at all times wholly beyond the reach of calcula- tion. But it was requisite that the third of the squadrons of ships of the line, that of Toulon, should be completely equipped; and it was not so. The first consul destined it to excute a grand combination, the secret of which he communicated to none, not even to his minister of ihe interior. This combination he matured by degrees~ saying not a word about it to anybody, and leaving the English under the impression that the flotilla was to act independently, since it was armed so com- pletely, and brought forward every day against frigates and ships of the line. This man, so daring in his conceptions, was the most liruident of captains in the execution. Though he had 120,000 men assembled at his dis- posal, he would not stir without the co5peration of the Texel fleet carrying 20,000 men, without the Brest fleet carrying 18,000, without the fleets of La Rochelle, Ferrol, and Toulon, charged to clear the Strait by a profound manmuvre. He was anxious to have all these means ready for February, 1804, and flattered himself that he should ; when important events in the interior of the republic suddenly withdrew his attention for a moment from a great enterprise, on which the eyes of the whole world were fixed. * * * * Neither of the two nations suspected the ex- istence of other preparations than those which were publicly and even ostentatiously made. The English, imagining that Brest and Toulon were strictly blockaded, did not dream that a squadron might suddenly make its appearance in the Chan- nel. The French, daily exercised in manmo- vring their gun-boats, were, on the other hand, accustomed to look upon them as the sole means of crossing the Strait. No one suspected the existence of what ~vas,in truth, the most important of the first consuls plan ; though some hoped in France, and some feared in England, some new and sudden invention of his daring and fertile genius, and confidence and anxiety were thus, to a very high degree, excited on either side of the Channel. The youngest among us have heard, from our fathers, how mens blood was stirred in that eventful time; and how anxiety, and courage, and warlike preparations, ran like wildfire through the whole country : and many are still alive whose heads, now gray or bald, were then covered with the military cap, and whose arms, now feeble, were trained to use the musket and the bayonet, in defence of our lmearths and altars. What would have been the issue had the passage of the Straits been effected? Our surviving volunteers will not feel themselves muich flattered by the answer which is given the question, by the historian of our ancient enemy. It must be confessed that, supposing us fairly across the Channel, the preparations niade to re- sist us were not very formidable. Supposing that, between the Channel and London, there could be concentrated 50,000 troops of the line, and from thirty to forty thousand of the army of reserve, and any conceivable number of volunteers added to 86 IAThOGRAPAIC PRINTING ~lU~SS~H~ STEPMO~rHER. them, the force thus formed would., even in actual numbers, have fallen short of the French army that was to cross the Straits. But even supposing the English force to be numerically twice or thrice as g1~eat as it was~ what would such a force avail a~ainst the 150,000 Veterans~ who, in eighteen months, led by Napoleon, combated and beat the armies of entire Europe, at Austerlitz, at lena, and at Friedland; veterans, apparently equal to the English in courage, certainly more skilled and practised in warfare, and four or five times more numerous The land force of England, then, was, in reality, very insufficient; and her chief protection was the ocean still. In any event, whatever might be the final result, the conduct of the English government was already signally pun- ished, by the general agitation of all ranks of the peol)le, by the enforced ~vithdrawal of the working classes from their labor, the merchants from their business, and the nobility and gentry from their lei- sure and their pastimes. The duration of such an agitation for any considerable period would in itself be a great calamity, and might convulse the social system. But neither then, nor afterwards, was the bloody issue tried. The destruction of Napoleons naval resources deranged his plan as originally con- structed; the new coalition carried his. armies again into the heart of the continent; and new obstacles intervened when the design was anew taken up, of humbling the nation whose persever- ing enmity had so often snatched from his grasp the sceptre of universal European sovereignty. The next volume of the work will possess mag- nificent materials for history. It will describe the last steps in Napoleons rise to the imperial throne. It will relate what happened on the bloody field of Austerlitz, and upon the Spanish seas off Cape Trafalgar. LITHOGRAPHIC PRINTING PREssHitherto all attempts to apply to lithography the principle of machinery, introduced in typographic printing about twenty years ago, have been unsuccessful, as it was found impossible to obtain by a machine- press the same precision and regularity of pressure as by the common hand-press. M. Nicolle has not only made a machine so perfect as to give impressions as good as those obtained by hand ; he has gone further, for the impressions thrown off by his machine are superior to those obtained by the ordinary process now in use, whilst in point of rapidity the improvement is so great as to be almost incredible. By the common lithographic process, not more than from 200 to 250 good impressions of designs, or about 1000 copies of lithographic writing can lie obtained in twelve hours; by this new machine, which is also worked by hand, as many as 2000 of the former and 20,000 of the latter can be obtained within the same period of time. The machine occupies but a small space, the ink-rollers are so arranged that the supply as they pass over the stone is regularly distributed, the paper is laid upon the stone by the machinery, and, when printed, thrown off without having any person to lay on and take off, and thus the expense of working is reduced at the same time that the products are so greatly multiplied. The most extraordinary part of the machine, however, is that which provides for the wetting of the stone for each impression. By the ordinary system, the printer is compelled after every impression to moisten the stone with a wet sponge. This is an operation that requires great care, but which, not- Wirhstauditmg, gradually affects the drawing, and before a thousand copies are taken off the delicacy of the outlines is almost destroyed. M. Nicolle has irnagirted a means of Wetting the tone, which, to use a French expression, tient au mnerveil- leux. With a force-pump of his own invention, and by three or four strokes of the piston, lie ex- tracts the moisture from the atmosphere, and throws it upon the stone in the form of fine dew, so that the application of the hand is avoided, and there is great economy of time. This pump is fixed over the stone, and the piston is rapidly worked by the machine. When we were present, this apparatus was not quite completed, and was not, therefore, attached to the machine; but we saw the pump at work by the hand, and could have no reasonable doubt of its perfect success xvhen affixed to the machinery. The air of the printing-room would necessarily soon lose its moisture by the repeated application of the ex- hausting process ; but the moisture may easily be kept up by the simple use of a small charcoal stove and an evaporating dish filled with water. M. Nicolle has patents in France and in England for his invention.Athena3um. THE STEPMOTHER. ST DR. 3OHN S. M CASE. THEY tell me I am motherless! they say my mother died When I was but an infant child, and that I sobbed and cried. They tell me too, that she who sets me often on her knee, Is not my motheryet she is a mother kind to me. Her face is very saintly calm, her eye is very mild She kisses me full oft, and says, I am her pretty child! And often, when she thinks I sleep, her soft hand pale and fair, Is laid upon my infant brow, and then she breathes a prayer. When sickness oer my frame has spent its very weakening powers, She pulls for me, and brings them in, springs earliest, sweetest flowers And when my racking fevers rise, and soothing draughts Id sip, She gently raises up my head, and cools my parching lip. And when she sees that slumbers veil is gather- ing oer my eye, She pats roy cheek, and sings to me the soothing lullaby. And 0! I dream so sweetly then, of angels visits here, And wake and find it truefor she, sweet one, is hovering near. And when I get my little books, she teaches me to spell, Till words so difficult to call I learn so very well And then she sweetly kisses me, and smooths each straggling curl; And makes me love her when she says, You are my own sweet girl. Mother, I love her! from thy home mid heavens eternal rest, 88 POETRYJEWS. Where tears of anguish never fall, nor sorrows heave the breast, I know thou it smile to see thy child bath found a mothers love, In one whose dove-like spirit shall mingle with thine above. THE two pieces which follow are translations of the same original. For ourselves we prefer the first, which was one of a series of a similar kind, which appeared a few years since in Blaekwood. The second we picked up accidentally the other day; and we insert the two now, side by side, as specimens of the working of different minds over the same subject. They are from the German, by SchillerEn. CHRIs. WORLD. THE LONGING. From out this dim and gloomy hollow, Where hang the cold clouds heavily, Could I but gain the clue to follow, How blessed would the journey be Aloft I see a fair dominion, Through time and change all vernal still: But where the power, and what the pinion, To gain the ever-blooming bill l Afar I bear the music ringing, The lulling sounds of heaven repose, And the light gales are dwnward bringing The sweets of f!owers the mountain knows. I see the fruit all golden glowing, Beckon the glossy leaves between; And oer the blooms that there are blo~ving, Nor blight, nor winters wrath bath been. To suns that shine forever yonder, Oer fields that fade not, sweet to flee; The very winds that there may wander, How healing must their breathing be! But lo! between us rolls a river, A death in every billow raves; I feel the soul within me shiver, To gaze upon the gloomy waves. A rocking boat mine eyes discover, But, woe is me! the pilot fails! In, boldly in! undaunted rover! And trust the life that swells the sails. Thou most believe, and thou must venture, In fearless faith thy safety dwells: By miracles, alone, incH enter The glorious land of miracles! YEARNING FOR WONDERLAND. Ah! that I could wing my way Through earths valleydeep and dreary Ah! that I could float all day, Pinions never tired or weary, Oer the everlasting hills, And the ever gushing rills, Where come blight and sorrow never, Ever green and youthful ever! Where heavens harmonies resound, Holy Peace forever singing; Where light Zephyr sports around, Odors from the flower-buds wringing; Through the trees dark foliage dancing Oer the fruit all golden glancing By no wintry blast aifrighted Kissing the soft flowers delighted: Flowers that never lose the sun; Never close the laughing eye; With existence never done; Know not what it is to die! Woe is me! what rolls between l T is a rapid river rushing T is the stream of death, I ween, Wildly tossing, hoarsely gushing; While my very heart-strings quiver At the roar of that dread river! But I see a little boat The rough waters gently riding How can she so fearless float l For I see no pilot guiding. Courage !on! there s no retreating; Sails are spread in friendly greeting. On, then, on in love we trust! The white-armed sails a message bear: There are wonders everywhere: The wondrous faith wherein you stand Must bear you to the Wonderland ! Juws.Last month, was held, at Frankfurt, a congress of Rabbinscomposed of seventy-seven members, representing nearly all the great Hebrew communities of Germanyfor the purpose of agree- ing upon the expurgation from the Judaic worship of those cerernonials and customs which are no longer in harmony with the spirit and manners of the age. We mention the meeting, both as im- portant in itselfan example to other communities than those of the Jewsand that we may have the pleasure of recording the progress of religious tol- erance, as exhibited in the enlightened courtesy and respect paid to the members of the congress, in one of the strongholds of the ancient prejudice against the Hebrew. The Singing Association, composed entirely of Christians, gave a musical festival in their honor, in the garden of their hotel: most of the senators, and a great number of the magistrates and other functionaries, took part in the banquet offered to the Rabbins by the consistory: and the directory of the Grand Theatre produced, for the occasion, Lessings Nat/nan tine Wiseplac- ing their best boxes at the disposition of the con- gress. From Prague, we hear of the death, at the age of seventy-seven, of the Hebrew merchant, Maurice Zedekauera man whose title to a record in pages like ours, consists, not in the princely fortune which was the work of his own honorable toil, but in the noble use which he made of it. Fifty years ago, M. Zedekauer came, penniless, to Prague; and be has left behind him seven millions of florins700,- 000/. In his lifetime, he devoted the larger part of his immense revenues to the encouragement of science, art and national industry, and to the re- lief of the indigent, without distinction of religion or race; and, by his will, be has bequeathed three million of florins300,OOOl.amongst the benevo- lent institutions of all the principal cities of Bohe- mia. He was followed to the cemetery of his natiota, by men of all ranks and beliefsthe poor, of coursethe civil and military authorities of the capitalall its distinguished menand, it is very pleasant to add, many clergymen of various Chris- tian sects. Everywhere, the spirit is passing into dishonor, which would once have spit upon the Jewish gabardine, or trampled on the grave of a man like this. THE AUTHORS DAUGHTER. CHAPTER VIII. Her painful interview with Fanny Jeff kins, and the sad and strange history which that poor and unhappy girl had told her, hung like a dark cloud over the mind of Agnes Lawford, as the next morning she journeyed towards her new home. The pain of parting from her mother, and leaving her own home forever, was mingled with sympathy for her poor humblefriend, we were going to say, and friend it shall he, for Agnes was never more her friend than at this moment. The belief that Fanny had really, like the repentant prodigal, gone to her father, was ihe one cheering ray that brightened the otherwise dark snbject. That voice of agony pleading with her, Be a friend to my child, and keep my secret from all the world ! rung in her cars and in her heart; and determining with herself to wait pa- tiently, and see what circumstances might bring forward, she prayed earnestly, though wordlessly, for help from God, and ability to do that which was best, whatever the duty might be. In this spirit she journeyed on to Leicester, where her uncles carriage met her, together with that very Mrs. Sykes, of whom poor Fanny Jeff kins had told her. Mrs. Sykes informed her, that her lady was gone out that morning, to make calls with Miss Ada, who was going from home in a day or two on a long visit, and therefore she was sent to meet her. It did not seem a very cordial welcom- ing of her among them, Agnes thought, and the thought depressed her. And now, while with a dejected and anxious heart, poor Agnes is making the last ten miles of her journey, let us say a few words to the reader on the exact state of the family, which, at this moment, we understand better than lie does. The father had been now for some years a gouty invalid, who rarely left the house. His sister Colville fancied that she saw in him traces of an impaired intellect; but in that she was mistaken. It is true, however, that the more active manage- ment of his affairs had now been, for some time, in the hands of his eldest son, that Tom Lawford, of whom we have heard something already: still that argued nothing against the sound state of his mind, however infirm his health might be. his sister Colville, who, since the death of her hus- band, the learned archdeacon, and of his wife, had resided with him, had taken upon herself the whole internal domestic management, as was sure to be the ease wherever she came. Many infirmi- ties, however, he had notwithstanding, which made him willing to yield up the reins of govern- ment to any one capable of managing them. Poor man, he required now also much and constant per- sonal attention, and that of a kind which his valet could not give. As he had grown older, he had become much fonder, not of reading, but of listen- ing to hooks; he extremely disliked being left alone; he wished always to have some one with him, his daughter Ada, or Mrs. Colville; but they had no time to spare: and so he fretted and grew peevish, and was a trouble to himself and those about him. And thus his family, who had their own pleasures, and their own occupations, were too busy to have any time for him, and were will- ing enough to escape from his irritability, and fre- quent ill-humor. Mr. Lawford now, as in his younger years he had always done, considered his sister Colville the cleverest of women. Right glad was he therefore, after the death of his wife, that she should take up her abode with him, and thus be the most desira- ble chaperon in the world for his, at that time, two unmarried daughters. All that sister Camilla had done in former years for poor Adolphus, who now was dead and gone, without the world knowing much of his deficiencies, remained in his mind as a debt which the whole family owed to her. She had been a mother to Adolphus; and now, it was with no little gratification that he heard her speak of herself as the mother of his children. As a mother, she had already been looking out in the world for suitable settlements and alliances for them. The Lawfords, however, were not alone the objects of the diplomatic ladys ambition; the Col- villes were so likewise: for if she was a Lawford by birth, she had become a Colville by marriage and though she had no children of her own, the large f mily of younger hrothers and sisters of her husband had, ever since her marriage, been objects of her care. All had, one after another, been well settled and well disposed of long ago,all, except- ing the youngest of the family, Sam, who had been brought up to the church, and had now been his fathers curate for some years. The squire, too, had a son, his second son, Edward, who was destined to the church from his infancy, the appointed future rector of La~vford, when he should have taken orders, and death should have removed the present rector, now well advanced in years. Nobody but the really clever widow of Archdeacon Colville would have known how to manage all points so as to make every one a gainer in this family game at chess. Nothing, however, was more easy to her than this. I-Icr own brother-in-law, Sam, the present. curate of Lawford, should marry her eldest niece~ Mildred, and thus, receiving the living as a part of his wifes fortune, two persons were at once provided for. Mildred and Sam Colville had been brought up, as it were, together; the only wonder was that anybody should think of anything else but; their marriage. Mrs. Colville had always prided herself on the success of all her schemes; there- fore nothing in this world seemed to her more natural than that her dear old father-in-law should quietly drop off, just at the right moment for the young people to have a home ready to receive them. Mildred became Mrs. Sam Colville, and a. little marriage tour of two months, sufficed to put the rectory-house in good order for them. What is to become of Edward I asked his father, when Aunt Colville first proposed to him the marriage between Mildred and her brother-in-law;. dont let us have another poor Adolphus in the- family. But the warning was hardly needful. Aunt Colville had managed all that. Years before,. while Edward was but a boy, she knew that his. inclinations turned rather to the army than the church; and when Edward, with the quick eyes. of youth, saw a lover-like intimacy springing up between the hall and the rectory, as it had done mn the days of the last generation, he opened his heart fully and freely to his aunt, and besought her influence with his father that his destination in life- might be changed. The omnipotent Aunt Colville managed all ac- cording to his wishes, and the young soldier em- barked with his captains commission for the East Indies, feeling unbounded gratitude to his aunt,~ and evincing its continuance by sending to her~ 89 THE AUTHORS DAUGHTER. Delhi scarfs and Indian toys. His career so far had been a brilliant one; and his aunts favorite phrase was, that he had engrafted the laurels of military glory upon the old family tree. Edward, from his boyhood, had been much attached to his young sister Ada, to whom he now wrote of his splendid life in the East, and never ended without saying, that should her course of true love not run smooth, or should she find no one to her mind, she must come out to him. It was a favorite joke of Adas, that she would go to India to her brother; but it was only a joke neither she nor her Aunt Colville had any ideas of anything but an English husband in an English home. Ada was the pride of her annts heart; and, from the first moment of her becoming the head of her brothers household, she resolved that Ada should marry well. She looked round among the county gentry for a suitable husband for her, and none seemed so desirable or so suitable as the one whom destiny, it was believed, had appointed for her. This was their neighbor, Mr. Latimer, of the Hays, a gentleman of large independent fortune, who, having now for several years been Ins own master, had established for himself one of the finest and most unexceptionable of characters. Mr. Latimer, was one who, both for his worth and his wealth, was universally courted. Any one would have been proud of his alliance; many had striven for it, but he seemed hard to please: he required much, very much in a wife; and, quite aware of his own desirableness to some half-dozen at least unmarried young ladies, still preserved his own unspoiled sincerity of character, and would neither be wooed, nor flattered, nor coquetted into coin- pliance. The world said that he required so much un a wife that he never would be suited, nay, he ~began almost to think so himself. Aunt Colville, Ihowever, was not going to be foiled. She had made up her mind that her niece should, in the end, accomplish that which no one else could. She began even to feel sure of success. People ~began to congratulate her on the conquest which her niece bad made; and she began, even in spite of her usual tact and prudence, to speak as if it were as good as settled, when, all at once to the sur- prise of the world, and the unspeakable chagrin of Aunt Colville, l\lr. Latimer announced his intention of spending two years on his West Indian pro- perty. It was very strange, she thou~ht! Two years was so long a period of a lovers life. In two years Ada might be married and gone forever! Could it be possible, after all, that he had no serious thoughts of heror xvas this a ruse on his part to bring the young beauty to terms. She I had coquetted with others-she had shown con- siderable frivolity of characterher anxious aunt had often been displeased and annoyed at her way- wardness and petulance in his presence. Had, then, the two years absence anything to do with this? was it intended to bring her to her senses, or to wean him of a passion which, perhaps, he thought hopeless? Mrs. Colville tried the question in all ways; she redoubled her own attentions to him; talked seriously to Ada; besought of her not to let such a lover escape; spoke of the scandal in the neighborhood, of the triumph of this and that lady; and remembered, with secret vexation, how, in the secure pride of her heart, she had been so unwise as to speak of the connexion as certain. What if he had heard of this, and was now desert- ing the field to prove himself free, and leave the lady a free course with her other lovers? Never had Aunt Colville been in such a dilemma before. That no enemy, however, might triumph, she maintained, as much as possible, the old appear- ance of things,spoke of dear Mr. Latimers departure, as a public calamity; begged him to spend all the time he could possibly spare with them, and took care that he should not lack the opportunity of declaring himself to Ada if such were his wish. It looked exceedingly well that Mr. Latimer spent his last evening at Lawford. Ada was perfectly charming, mild, and gentle, and the very ideal of what Latimers wife ought to be; but for all that, what did he say at parting? that he had no expectation of finding her Miss Lauford on his return. And thus he left the house, and the next day left England, without declaring his passion, or endeavoring to secure her affections to himself in any way. Mrs. Colville was exceedingly angry, but she said not a single word either of her anger or her chagrin to Ada; that she kept for her own breast and for Mrs. Sam Colville, who, since her mar- riage, had risen very high in her aunts opinion. Ada was too proud, whatever her feelings might be, to express them to any living soul. To the world, her aunt spoke of Mr. Latimer as of the dear friend of the family, as of one who had quite a fraternal regard for all the young people; but for Ada she now began to look out for a new con- nexion in the gay world of London, to which now, for the first time, they went during the season. But a great change seemed to have come over the young beauty. It was the working of a deep, earnest love, her aunt imagined ; and therefore, after having again unsuccessfully schemed and planned, she thought it wisest to leave things to themselves, and, in so doing, she returned to her former wishes regarding Latimer. She. was con- vinced that he would not marry whilst abroad; and, in the mean time, the bent which Adas mind seemed to have taken would only prepare her more completely to fascinate him on his return. All would be well, she doubted not, in the end ; hut as diplomacy was her passion, she could not help taking some steps to facilitate that end, and those steps were remarkably easy ones. Mr. Latimer s only sister, to whom he was greatly attached, and some few years older than himself, had been married now several years to a Mr. Acton, a ne- phew of the good old dean, where poor Fanny Jeffkins had first lived in service. Mr. Latimer had spoken much and warmly of his sister to Ada; they met for the first time, since Ada was a mere child, at that large party at the deanery, for which poor Fanny Jeffkins had dressed Ada in her pink dress and tiara of pearls. Both ladies were much pleased with each other. Fortune favored Aunt Colvilles schemes so far, that Mr. Acton pur- chased a small estate in an adjoining county. where he built a cottage ornee, and the family came to reside within the last six months. Like Mrs. Colville, Mrs. Acton perhaps thought that Ada would be a suitable wife for her brother : she in the first place had appeared charmed by her beauty, and nearer acquaintance seemed not to have lessened the effect. Mrs. Colville considered the circumstance of her inviting Ada to her house for a long and intimate visit, to be a sure proof that she was tacitly forwarding the same object. By the time, therefore, when Agnes came to reside at her uncles, Aunt Colville had returned to her old opinions, and regarded Ada unquestionably as the future Mrs. Latimer. She began to take 90 THE AUTHORS DAUGHTER. 91 he most lively interest again in the Hays, and only regretted that she had not obtained a com- mission from its master of general oversight dur- in g his absence. The only confidant in all her schemes and plansnot even excepting Ada her- self, for to her sire hinted nothingwas Mrs. Sam. Mrs. Sam and she spoke between themselves of Adas marriage, as of a settled thing, and never did they pass the gates of the Hays, or come even within sight of its chimneys, without feeling as if Ada were already mistress there. Perhaps, however, the only person, in the whole circle of her acquaintance, of whom Mrs. Colvilie stood at all in awe, was this same Mr. Latimer. She had never ventured to scheme and speculate so boldly and so confidently when he was ar ongst them. There was a decisiou ahout him, a coolness, a m. stery of him~eif, over which, when present, she fel that she had no power. And thus, now that he was away, even in spite f his self-possession at parting, she felt more hopeful and certain, but at the same time more prudent than ever. Ada, during his absence, had refused several offersof this her aunt had in- formed Mrs. Acton; a great change, too, had ome over her; she was no longer a coquette; she was quieter, graver, sadder, perhaps, but cer- tainly not less lovely than when he left. It was vident, Mrs. Colville thought, that Ada was re- serving herself for his return, and she was sat- isfied. In this state of affairs came the news of Mr. Frank Lawfords death in London. Little as had been the intercourse between these two branches of the family, there had been growing secretly, in the depths of the elder Mr. Lawfords heart, a yearning sentiment of good will and pity towards his younger, outcast brother. In the solitude of his sleepless nights he had thought upon him with tenderness; a sentiment that came, he knew not how, of charity and forbearance, prepared him for deeds of kindness. When, therefore, the news came of his brothers sudden death, he stood as it were self-arraigned and condemned for severity and ne,lect. And oh! how hitter is the sense that the time for kindness is gone by forever; that the heart is forever cold which one would now so fain have w rmed and cheered with the kindly flame of our affection. Bitter were the cars which Mr. Lawford shed, and it was with the utmost sincerity that he besought the bereaved mernoers of his brothers family to accept of his aid and his good will. Torn went to the funeral, and brought back such tidings of their hitherto overlooked relatives as only the more strengthened his fathers inclina. tions. It was a very touching, though a very simple letter, which Agnes in the dark hour of bereavement had written to her uncle; but it had spoken eloquently to his heart. We will see what we can do for them, Aunt Colville had said ; we will see if we can- not do something for this poor girl, who really has written such a very proper and affecting letter. She said this, at first, as the thought of the moment, rather to pacify her brother, than any- thing else; but on after consideration, and espe- cially after Tom had returned home, and brought word that this cousin Agnes, whose grief for her fathers death seemed so deep, was a quiet, sensi- ble girl, but not at all handsome, the disposition to serve her seemed to grow amazingly. She can read to my brother, and amuse him; she must have been used to a life of hardship, and living here will be quite an advantageous change to her, thought she to herself. Mr. Lawford, who, like his sister, calculated certainly upon Adas marriage, conceived, as she had already done, tire idea of his niece supplying to him tire l)lace of a daughter, and then, thought he, there is this advantage in her over my daughter, sire will not be leaving me to get married. Ada has so many acquaintances, and is always goio~ out. I am never sure of her for a day; nay, not even for an hour. Poor Franks daughter will he very different; she will have no acquaintance but us, and we will make her happy amongst us. We will find her a home amongst us, said also Mrs. Sam Colville; if she do not suit one she may suit another. She can have had no brighter prospects in life than we can offer her: it was such a thing of my uncle leaving no better provision for Iris children ! Poor man ! said Aunt Colville, with a sigh, he was always improvident; ran counter to all our wishes; and this is no more than any of us expected. However, as my dear archdeacon used to say, we must all have charity one with another; and now poor Frank is dead and gone, let his weaknesses and his errors die with him. Amen ! said Mrs. Sam. And, continued Aunt Colville, I see no objection at all to having this Agnes with us: my brother is always fretful when Ada goes out; he likes to have young people about him; and I have often thought him a little unreasonable towards Ada, for a girl like her is naturally fond of society; and that was one reason why I was so willing for her to go to Mrs. Actons: and there- fore, if my brother takes to Franks daughter, and she turn out tractable and useful, nothing can be better; and she s Irot likely to marry; and as she is not handsome, and has no fortune, there will be no flirting and nonsense of that kind. There is no danger of Tom, said Mrs. Sam, with a very self-satisfying confidence. And then, if she be well educated, as I dare say she is, continued Aunt Colville, in course of time, if anything should happen to my poor bro~ ther, she can t-ke the management of your little ones. Emily will want a governess in a few yearsor Mrs. Acton might take her; for when Ada is married, said she, with a peculiar look, one may reckon the Actons as a part of cur own family. Such were the designs of these two ladies, arid such were their sentinrents towards our poor A g- nes: her uncles, if not unmingled with selfish- ness, were certainly much kinder. his heart yearned towards her; and he meant, in showing good-will towards her, to satisfy his soul, if possible, as regarded her father. The two in tire family who seemed most indifferent with regard to her coming, who Ileither said nor acted anything, were Ada and her brother Tum. Ada, it might be supposed, was so much occupied with the now approaching return of Mr. Latimer, and with the visit she was about to pay to his sister, as to have no thoughts to spare for any less interesting sub- ject. Besides, she was by no means what might be called a transparent characterAda kept many of her thoughts arid feelings to herself. Aunt Colville said, that she had enough, poor girl, to think of; and she did not at all wonder at her THE AtITHOR S DAUGHTER. wish, to set off directly to Mrs. Actons. As for Tom, nobody troubl.ed themselves about him: he went and came, and thought his own thoughts, and acted just as he pleased, wi~hout anybody wonder- ing at anything he did. CHAPTER IX. I am now at Lawford, wrote Agnes to her mother, within a week of her arrival there; at the home of my fathers youth. Ah! so ften as I have heard him describe this place! To me it was as familiar as if I had here a prei~xistence the trees, the brook, the very outline of the distant landscape. How differently do the good people here regard these things to what I do ! To m they are sanctified by the holy spirit of love and death. My dear, dear father! and this was the place where he was born; where be passed the bright days of his childhood, and that happy youth, of which he retained such delightful remembrance. Thank God that his youth was happy! On Sunday, we were at church. I fancied to myself the corner of the pew where my father sat, when he alone of all the family went there; and when he sat and watched the rectors eldest daughter, sitting among her young brothers and sisters, and casting now and then, from above her prayer-book, sly glances at her young lover! And just above the pew is the marble tablet to the memory of his mother. You know not with what a thrill I read of her sudden death, on her fifty- seventh birth-day; it seemed to me as if those two awful days were blended in one : I lived over again their whole agony, and wept bitterly. A beautiful white marble urn, exquisitely designed and executed, stands in the churchyard, between two dark well-grown cypresses, in memory of her. The effect is extremely good. Were I rich, I would place here a monument to my father ;but he needs none! Love has enshrined him in our hearts; and good works, and noble sentiments, in the hearts of thousands besides! The weather, since I came, has been fine for the season ; and, under a mild but leaden Decem- ber sky, I walked out one morning to explore the park and the immediate nei~hborhood. The fallen but undecayed leaves, and sombre but mild color- ing of the landscape, accorded well with my feel- ings. I was quite alone, and enjoyed my ramble greatly. I found the brook, the Merley brook, where my father used to fish; it runs along the bottom of the park, through a succession of wild little dingles, which must be beautiful in spring and summer. It must have been here that my father lay and read in that old copy of Homer, in which, even to the last, he looked with such de- light. I tried to find that bend of the brook where the old willow-tree grew, of which he spoke so often ; but the brook seemed to have so many bends, and all the willows were so old and pictur- esque, that I could not tell which might have been predininently his favorite. Here, too, must be that copse, all covered with moss, and bordered with primroses and violets, which he has described in his Poet, as being the favorite resort of Ver- non in spring-time; for here is the rookery, and Vernon lay among the pnimroses watching the rooks, as you remember, with his Greek Homer in his hand. I cannot tell you the effect which these old haunts produce on my mind: the spirit of these quiet, sylvan scenes, breathes in so much that my father has written, and it makes inc indescribably sad; sad, when I think how he, who, of all mer loved nature so truly, and was so attached to this place, was an outcast from it. I think of the re- freshment it would have been, to have come here and gathered again these primroses by the rivers brim; and those to whom they belong, have let them bloom and die ye r after year, and never have drawn from them a holy, or a refreshing sentiment. Poor Jeff kins, to he, who used to bring my father the first prin~fiowers; who would walk so many miles to gath~.r him the early violets; how sad and desolating a pk cc has Law- ford been to him! God only knows why such things are allowed to he! Pu r Fanny, too! The strange and melancholy spirit of our inter- view saddened my parting with you. My journey here was a gloomy one. My thoughts were en- tirely my own; for a very taciturn and bulky country couple, who were my fellow-travellers, interrupted them by not a single remark. My parting from you, the sense that I had no longer a home, and poor Fannys unhappy fate, lay like dark and brooding clouds upon my heart; the only little cheering beam was, th t the poor for- lorn, and yet, I trust, not God-abandoned prodigal, would that night be restored to her father. had you not left London so soon after me, you proba- bly would have seen him. The next day. Your letter, which this mo- men t has arrived, distresses and alarms me. Jeff- kins, you say, has not seen his daughter! Oh, God forbid that she has deceived us; or that she has again fallen into evil hands! Poor Jeff kins! his attention to you has indeed affected me. How good, how thoughtful, how really delicate is his conduct. Let no one talk of the bad hearts of the poor! Ah, dearest mother, is it not true, that the gratitude of these poor people has often left u mourning l A dark and sad mystery involves Fannys conduct; and my heart bleeds for the anguish, and agonizing uncert inty, which her father must experience. Here, as yet, her name has never been mentioned. You did well not to speak of the strange secret confided to me. It is safe, too, in my keeping; and God, if he design me for an agent of good toward that unhappy de- serted child, will make all known to me at the right time. As yet, however, one part of poor Fannys prophecy seems far from being fulfilled. There is a sort of coldness and distance between my cousin Torn and me. I know why, on my part. I cannot disconnect him, in my mind, from that poor unhappy girl; and feel, as it were, un- pleasantly conscious, in his presence, of the sad secret of which I am the depository. You ask about my cousin Ada. She left home, on a visit of some weeks, the third day after my arrival, and that without our having advanced towards any intimacy. Ada seems to me to be rather a para- dox, a mixture of openness, or perhaps impulse, and decided reserve. She says occasionally abruptly kind things, for which one is not pre- pared, which give the idea that the impulses of her nature are good and kind ; but pride, or reserve, or perhaps timidity, make her general conduct cold, and to me repulsive. Our bedrooms adjoin, divided only by a dressing-room which opens to both, but which she keeps locked. She allowed her maid to pay me all little civilities. I am not an exacting person I would have been thankful. at that time, for but one kind word, or act. As it was, I sat in my solitary bed-room, and wept. Do not think me petulant, or unreasonable; but my 92 TIlE A1~TI1OR S DAUGhTER. heart, for that first night, was desolate, and felt how great had been its bereavement. The family consider Ada very clever. My A ant Colville says that she is a true genius, aud has great intellectual powers. I doubt itat least as far as original talent goes. Handsome, however, she is unquestionablynay, beautiful. She has a fine, oval, Rutherford face, with those peculiar large dove-like eyes, which my father called the family-eves, and which I now see are those of dear little Harry ud here I must put in a parenthesis. I have had a letter from those dear boysa kind beautiful letter. Arthur says that pool Harry is getting up his spirits famously, and has even had a little fl~ht on his own account. Poor Harry! I cannot tell you how I was haunt- ed by the sad expressiou of that d ar childs face as he sat keeping back his tears, while they waited for the coach. Arthur is so handsome and manly, and so capable of defending himself but God, and a good brother help poor Harry with his loving, gentle spirit, that never was meant for a tough warfare with hardship and un- kindness! So much for a little thought, by way of parenthesisI now return to my fair cousin Ada. Ada is the darling of the family, in part from being the youngest, in part also from her being so hand- ome, and from their having the idea of her great abilities. My Aunt Colville says very much to me about Adas powers of mind, and fine character; so also does Mrs. Sam; but as Ada herself, dur- ing the short time we were together, rather shunned than courted intimacy with me, and did not betray any great originality of mind in any way, I cannot speak from my own knowledge. I hear a great deal said of a Mr. Latimer of the Hays, vho is expected in the spring from the West Indies. I suspect him be the fiance of Ada; it is with his sister tha sh is now visiting. According to report Mr. Latimer is the very sum- mit of perfection; but when I consider their notions of perfection, which appear to he personified in Archdeacon Colville, I expectpardon my heresy nothing more remarkable than good looks wealth, which I know he hasand self-possession perhaps self-esteem. You ask of my uncle, a d of my aunt Gel- ville. Nothing could be kinder than my uncles reception of me. I was taken into his rooma sort of inner library, -here he spends most of his time. He said very littlebut words were not needed he kissed melooked into my face, and wept. I wept tooand that abundantly, for my heart indeed was full; and I saw so plainly in my uncle a strong resemblance to my fatherthat peculiar cut of counten nec, which made the last generation of the Lawfords so handsome. It was my fathers face, only much older and without that xpression of superior intellect which gave such a marked character to the face. My uncle wept as he sl)oke of my fathers death, and lamented that politics and other things had separated them. His heart I am sure is kindly interested in me; and with him, in his little library, I feel at home. He is a great invalid, and suffers much from the gout and other maladies. In his intervals of ease I read to him. his own children, he told me, do not like reading aloud, nor will they read what he vants. I read to him the newspaper daily. It comes in at breakfast, which is very late; and as ye are then all together, and mostly alone, I read it aloud, and my Aunt Colville geucrally stays also to Lear i . If my uncle e~e too ill to breakfast with the family, I would take it into his chamber, when his chocolate went in, and read it there: but as yet they say he is in unusual health. We read novels, of which he is very fond, and works of divinity; and he pays inc the compliment of liking my readingso did my dear father. Oh, my uncle knows not how often I have tried to cheat my poor heart into the belief, that I was again in papas library reading to him! They have none of papas works here, nor do I believe that they have, any of them, read a si~gle page of his writing. They all hold extreme opinions in reli- gion and politics ; and no wonder, when Archdeacon Colville is their apostle. his works are here: thirteen volumes, bound in purple morocco, richly gilt. I was readin0 one of them one day, when my Aunt Colville came in; she seemed greatly pleasedthe only time I have ever seen her appear cordially satisfied with me. Her veneration for the archdeacon is extreme; and there are, after all, points of view from which her character is far from unamiable. To me, however, generally speaking, she is cold and harsh: she wishes me to devote myself to my uncle; but I fear that decided kindness towards me on his part will displease her. So also at the rectoryshe wishes me to amuse the children, and to gain their affection; but were I, in mistake, to gain that of their mother, she would hardly forgive me. I must be subservient, humble, and useful to every oneI must give love and devotion, but I must look for none in return. Aunt Colville has a great deal of family pride; but the family consist only of herself, and her elder brother, and his descendants: we, if we would please her, must minister to these; we must have no little aspmrmgs on our own account; what little light we have, we must contribute to the family dory; we mast sink ourselves to exalt themand if we will do this, my Aunt Colville will be as surely our friends and patrons, as ever she was to poor Adolphus. But I must now conclude: I have yet to write to the dear boys. I treasure up every droll anecdote, every conundrum, every amusing trait of character for them, that my letter may amuse them. Ihank God that you are so cheerful, and that you are surrounded by so much love, and so much repose! Ah, I once thought that you and I should never smile again: but the year goes on; and the summer, which, in the dark wintry days, seemed so far oft; will come with its birds, its flowers, and its sunshine ; and thus it is with our hearts! May it only please God, that we, whose hearts are one, may yet form one household; you and I, and those dear boys! I dare not think of it, but try to say, in all submission, Thy will, not mine, be done! Adieu, write often to your own AGNEs. The winter was severe. Christmas came with its carol singers, in the snowy and frosty even- ings; the church-bells chimed forth their sweet psalm-tunes: holly and ivy decorated the hall, and the rectory; the doles of fuel and beef were given to the poor; and the country newspaper, as it always did, made a paragraph about the well- known, seasonable munificence of the Lawfords of Lawford. There was a poetical sort of feudal sentiment about this Christmas at La ford, which had its charm to Agnes; but still she felt that here the poor and the rich were separated, spite of sea- sonable gifts, by a wide gulf, which no sincere kindly sympathy bridged over. Very different was 93 THE AUTHORS DAUGHTER. all this from those little festivals of human love and human brotherhood which each successive Christmas had seen nuder her fathers roof. I will take you with me this morning, said Aunt Colville to Agnes, on the day when the doles were distributed; thinking to impress her with the munificence of the great branch of the family. Aunt Colville, enveloped in velvet and fur, sat in the great carriage, and Agnes took her seat beside her. She was in a very gracious mood, and as they drove along, pointed out the grammar school, and the alms-houses which had been endowed by the family. It is a proud thing, aid nut Coiville, to hs the main branch of an old line of ancestors the direct family line. 1 believe, has no stain upon itall its men were men of honor, who served their God and their king zealously, and unflinch- ingly; and their women were noted for beauty, and purity. I am proud of being a Lawford, said she with dignity ; and though, in the last generation, we had cause to deplore some things connected with the family, yet the main branch has ever retained its upri~,htness. Agnes felt that a sting was contained in her aunts words, and perhaps she might have replied, had they not now reached the village green, where the church-wardens and other officials were dis- tributing the squires bounty; and as the great family coach slowly drove among them, hats were taken off, and a huaza welcomed them. Women, with children by the hand, or at the breast, were carrying away the cuts of beef; and men and big boys were wheeling away coals in barrows or hand-carts. Everybody looked eager, but by no means was there an expression of universal satis- faction on every f cc. Many were discontented; they believed that their neighbors were better sup- plied than themselves; they looked angry and envious. Yes, said Aunt Colville, as she sat in the great family coach, glancing through its plate- glass windows at the discomitented faces around her, it is a privilege to belong to the better classes of society, for there is a natural depravity and hardness about the poor. Pardon me, aunt, said Agnes, eager to vin- dicate the poor as a class, bnt society has always dealt so hardly by the poor, it has made poverty and crime synonymous. TIme rich and the poor are not bound together by deeds of kindness and a spirit of brotherly consideration and forbearance; they are separated by severe laws and enactments, which the rich have made to keep the poor in awe. Oh, aunt, is it not enough to harden amid sour the very heart of poverty, when it craves from its fel- low-man the leave to toil, and that is denied it? Instead of accusing the poor of natural depravity, I only wonder at their forbearance and patience. What can the poor do in such cases but sink into despair, and out of despair plunge imito crime; and then, when we have made them criminals, we drive them farther from us by severe penalties. We make ourselves their oppre~sorswhat won- der then if they hate usl These are dangerous oluiniuns, said Aunt Colville, impatiently, the opinions of levellers and democrats. I know what the poor are, and how impossible it is to reform them. I know a great deal more about them than you do. It is hardly worth while arguing the subject, but still I must say a word or t~vo; for instamice, you say that the rich do not biiid the poor to them by deeds of kindness: what is this very scene which you are witnessing what was it that I did np- wards of thirty years ago? I established Sunday and daily schools in this parish. I took care, at least my excellent father-in-law took care, that every child should be able to read, and should know its catechism thoroughly. lie disseminated tracts; put down public-house , and bowline, greens, and such places, which are frequented by the lowest and idlest el ss of characLer~ he ex- pelled Methodists out of the parish, and estab- lished among the farmers amid the more respecta- ble inhabitants, an association for employing none but such as attended church regularly, and sent their children to school. But all these efforts were vain. Vice and imumorality only the more increased: the use that was made of education was to read infidel books, and the whole neighbor- hood was full of poachers and every species of disreputable characters. It is perfectly absurd to hear you talking in that romantic ~entimentaI way, and it only shows your total ignorance of the subject. I know the pour well, and can safely testify, that there is something emphati- cally correct in styling the wealthy the better classes of society. It seems to me, returned Agnes, in a tone whose gentleness was meant to neutralize the boldness of a dissenting opinion, that the late rectors well-intentioned but somewhat extreme efforts at reforming the parish were very much calculated to produce the effects they did. Aunt Colville literally turned round, and looked Agnes in the face; but spite of this, she con- tinued Men inclined to Methodismand such maybe very good men, and very useful members of soci- etyand men of physical activity, to whom the bowling-green would have furnished an escape- valve for their energies, would, under the changes which the rector introduced, be very likely to be- come poachers; more especially if they could not obtain employment without professing religious opinions, which perhaps they neither understood nor held. These are the kind of notions which I sup- pose my poor brother instilled into your mind, interrupted Aunt Colville, with a reprimandiug countenance. My father was the friend of the poor, said Agnes, in reply; and this I consider as one of his greatest honors. Like Jesus Christ, who was his example, he went among them, and talked with them, and by the force alone of love, amid the persuasion of kindness, healed, if mmot their physi- cal, yet their moral infirmities, which are even worse. The poor, like the beloved apostle, might almost literally be said to rest upon his bosom. I do not admire this way of talking, said her aunt; and such opinions as you seem to hold are not seemly in a young lady. You must remember that you are the mmiece now of Mr. Laxvford of Lawford; and 1 am sure it would grieve him and all your friends here, to hear you expressing any Owenite or Benthamite notions. What would Mrs. Sam thimik, and the Actons, if they heard you talking thus? Your poor father, Agnes, did himself a deal nif mischief by them; and, though I would not willin,,,ly speak ill of the dead, yet there are occasions when silence is criminal, and this I consider to be one of them. For Heavens sake, interrupted Agnes, with impetuous emotion, do not say one word abainat my father. You none of you knew him, none of you can conceive his goodness and his real great- 94 95 THE AUTHOR~ S DAUGHTER. ness; and let me beseech of yon, said she, turn- ing to her aunt with imploring eyes, that what- ever fault you may have to find with me, what- ever displeasure my poor opinions may cause you, that you will breathe no reproaches against my father I There was something very mild and touching in the tone in which Agnes spoke ; and in a softened voice, and laying her hand upon that of Agnes, Mrs. Colville replied: I wish not xvan- tonly to hurt your feelings, Agnes; but you ought to know, that your poor father separated himself from his family, and cut off his own means of usefulness, and his own advancement in life, by abandoning the old hereditary opinions of his fam- ily, and by adopting others which gentlemen ordi- narily do not hold; therefore you must consider how painful, how unpleasant, how revolting it most be to us to have such opinions broached in our presence; and especially by one whom we have placed amongst us, and towards whom we wish to entertain favorable sentiments. I hope, therefore, that you will never let Mrs. Sam hear anything of the kind from your lips ! Agnes made no reply; she bitterly felt her own dependence. A thousand contradictory emo- tions agitated her soul: but her heart was too full for words, and a quiet tear fell from her cheek to her knee. Aunt Colville saw the tear, and was touched by it. We will drop this subject now, she said; but when I have leisure and opportunity, I will relate such instances of depravity which have come under my own eye, as are really shocking to think ofthings which have occurred in Law- fordand Lawford is not nearly so bad as many other places: but even in Lawford, I say, there have occurred cases of womeim abandoning their own children! At Lawford Hall, not so very Jung since, some wicked, unnatural mother left her child but a few weeks old! Such things as these are awful, and enough to bring down the judgments of Heaven! How, when, clear aunt, was a child left at Lawford1 asked Agnes, suddenly roused from the thoughts immediately connected with herself to the remembrance of poor Fanny Jeff kins con- fession. It is a most unpleasant subject, said her aunt, I cannot enter upon it now. Not another word about it now; for I see Mrs. Sam and the children, and we will take them up; but remem- ber, not a syllable about these thin0s before Mrs. Sam ! Time carriage took up Mrs. Sam and the chil- dren; and Agnes was so absorbed by her aunts words, and the thoughts which they gave rise to, that she displeased both ladies by taking no no- tice of the darling Emily, ~vho was destined for her future pupil. Although Aunt Colville had desired that Mrs. Sam might never hear such heterodox opinions fall from Agnes lips, it was not long before that lady herself informed her of them. It w-s no more, they said, than they might have expected: but what would the I3arhams, and the Bridports, and the Actons, and the dean and his lady say, if they heard such sentiments l They had the most benevolent desires for her im- provement; and as her position in the family, for the present at least, seemed to be that of coin- panion and reader to her uncle, they would get him to make her read all the archdeacons works, and such others also as would give her proper views of life and society. There was a deal of good in her, no doubt, they said, and they would do their duty by her; but it was a great deal bet- ter, however, that she should not go much into society with them, and there was a good excuse for her staying at home, and that was attending to her uncle. It is a good thing that my father is so fond of her, said Mrs. Sam, for, poor thing, spite of all her accomplishments, and her talents, and her easy, graceful mannersand one cannot deny her all thesewhile she holds such opinions, even if she wanted a situation to-morrow, I could not give her one. Sam is so fond of catechising, that he would draw out all her opinions, and quar- rel with her the first day. Agnes was set to read the first volume of Arch- deacon Colvilles Essays on Religious Opinion. It was a very heavy book; but the old gentleman felt it his duty, and his sister Colville recom- mended it, that not only it, but the whole thirteen volumes of sermons, essays, and treatises must be gone through from the first page to the last. So she read, and he listened or dozed; and when he was tiredand he was very often as tired of listening as she of readingthe book was laid down, and they began to talk, which he very soon had found to be a pleasant way of spending time. He encouraged her to talk of her parents, of her brothers, of her former home, and of the people she knew in London. Her uncle took a great delight in her society, and missed her when she was absent; he called her pet names, repaid her attentions by a kiss, and said that she was his youngest daughter, and that her very presence near him soothed his pain and his irritation. Poor Agnes, she did not easily tire of talking to her uncle of her home and her family, although she was ofien inclined to weep when she did so; but then the old man grew irritable if she wept, and therefore she soon learned to touch lightly on painful subjects, for both their sakes; and, after the warning which her aunt had given her, care- fully avoided touching on politics or the virtues of the poor. Breakfast, which, as we have said, was not early at Lawford, was taken mostly in the little library where the old gentleman sat, that he might enjoy it with his family; and on these occasions it was, as the reader knows, the duty of Agnes to read from the morning paper the lighter news and police reports, deaths, and casualties, of which he was very fond. One morning, while thus reading, she came upon a paragraph which related that considerable ex- citement was occasioned the day before, on the breaking up of the ice in the river Lea, by the dis- covery of the body of a young woman, which ap- pe~red to have lain there some weeks. The body was first discovered by some boys, and a remark- able circumstance had led to its immediate recog- nition. The father of the young ~voman, who was by trade a silk-weaver Agnes paused for~ half a moment, and then went on. The father was walking on the banks of the river at the time, and joining in the crowd, recognized the body to be that of his daughter. The fathers distress: xv:is inconceivable. The girl, it appeared, was of abandoned character, and had left the house of her father many months before. No injury, which could excite suspicion of murder, was found on the 96 THE AUTHORS DAUGHTER. body, and it was suspected that she had committed suicide, as so many unfortunate females did. A small sum of money was found in her pocket, to- gether with a letter, which, although almost illegi- ble, appeared to be addressed to her father. She wore a small locket round her neck, in which was a lock of dark hair, and a gold ring set with a small emerald. The name of the girl was Fanny Jeffkins Agnes said no more, but drop- ping the paper on her knee, clasped her hands, and burst into tears. Jeffkjns ! exclaimed Aunt Colville can it be that Fanny who lived with Mrs. Sam~ Btit, bless me, Agnes, said she, looking sternly at her niece, what is amiss xvith you ? I was much attached to that poor, unfortunate girl! said Agnes. My dear ! exclaimed her uncle. Not at all to your credit, said Aunt Colville. I cannot explain to you, said Agnes, the peculiar circumstances which make her death affecting to me. You could not understand it; hut, wretched as she was, and abandoned as the world believed her, I was much attached to her; and her father, a man of many virtues and many sorrows, was a friend of my fathers. Aunt Colville looked petrified with horror. Thank Heaven, she said, that there is no one present! for though Tom was there, she considered him like no one. Tom sat with his forehead on his hand, his cup of coffee untouched before him, and seemed to he reading from a book which lay open on the table. Out~vardly he seemed an indifferent auditor of what passed, but in reality he felt as much agitated as Agnes herself. Not exactly a friend of your fathers, my dear, said her uncle, willing, if possible, to shield her from her aunts displeasure. Yes, returned Agnes, firmly, he was so, and one whom my father respected, and perhaps even loved. His attachment to my father was extreme. And this wretched, abandoned creature, in- terrupted Aunt Colville, with indignation, who was hurried to the face of her Maker with all her unrepented sins on her head, was perhaps a friend of yours ! In the truest sense of the word, replied Ag- nes, calmly, and in a voice of deep sorrow, per- haps she was. I, at least, may say truly, that I was her friend; and strange as these words may seem to yoti, they are capable of such explanation as I believe would satisfy even you. I want no explanation, returned Aunt Col- ville. I have said all along that this radicalism, this sympathy and friendship with the depraved lower classes, could not possibly lead to good. I do not at all understand what you can mean by attachment and friendship for abandoned char- acters, Agnes, said her uncle, and we must .have some explanation. Agnes, without so much as glancing at Tom, who still maintained his look of cool indifference, ~began, in a voice low with emotion, to give a slight sketch of her fathers acquaintance with Jeffkins. I must say, interrupted Aunt Colville, before ~she had half finished, that it was not a reputable thing to be, as one may say, hand and glove with a drunken silk-weaver. The distinctions of society uxiust be kept up: rich and poor are ordained by Heaven, and are as much apart as light and dark- -ness! No one has a higher sense of our Chrjstian duties than I have, and I consider it as a something quite revolting, this intimacy and attachment that you talk of. And was this young woman, this Fanny who lived with Mrs. Sam, thisthisthis very dis- reputable young woman, really brought up with you ~ asked her uncle, rousing himself into a lit- tle anger. Not brought up with me, said Agnes; but I frequently saw her as a child. My parents never objected to my seeing her because she xvas poor; and when she grew up, and was so very lovely, and, as we believed, so good, we all of us felt great interest in her Agnes paused. Tom hastily swallowed his coffee, and casting a hasty and anxious glance at his cousin, which she did not see, rose from the breakfast table, fearful lest his countenance might betray him. and stood by the fire with his back to the table. I remember, said Aunt Colville, that your father wrote about her after she left Mrs. Sam. She was a good-for-nothing huzzy, and I beg I may never hear you speak of her as your friend again. There must be distinctions in society there is right and wrong; crime and depravity are not imaginary things; and those who try to palli- ate them, make themselves in some degree parties to them. Poor old Mr. Lawford perceived, by the tone of his sisters voice, how angry she was getting and, wishing to spare his niece, put a random question to her, the most trying he could have hut. And when did you see this unfortunate girl last~ asked he. Tom started as he heard it, and almost turned round. It is a painful subject, uncle, said Agnes. You cannot conceive how painful! Ask me no more about it! But oh, for Gods sake, said she, clasping her hands, and looking imploringly tnto his face, do not impute evil to me! It is true that I knew this poor girl to have been a sin- ner, but I knew also the intense misery which she endured. God is mercifullet man be so too! And for my part, I again beseech of you not to ascribe or impute evil to me. I believe it impossi- ble for you or my aunt to understand perfectly my familys connexion with poor Jeffkins and his un- happy daughter; but indeed there was no pollu- tion in it. Christ himself had familiar intercourse with publicans and sinners, and perniitted his feet to be bathed by the tears of Mary Magdalene ! Nay, nay, Agnes, interrupted her aunt, with increased displeasure, let us have no more of this! If you compare yourself and your family to our blessed Lord, it is high time to put a stop to it. It is not the first time you have done so, and I can tell you that it is nothing short of blasphemy Sit down, and let us have breakfast at once said she, as if determined to put an end to the subject. I have breakfasted, said Tom, hastily, and went out. Allow me to leave the table, said Agnes, rising, and with tears in her eyes. Yes, yes, child, go ! said her uncle, in a hurried but gentle voice. In t he lobby she met Tom. He looked pale and agitated, but passed her without speaking; the next moment he returned, and, offering her his hand, said in a peculiar voice. IDo not, Agnes, let anything which my Aunt Colville said distress you. We all know how good you are. My aunt is a bad-tempered, formal, 01(1 woman. Agnes thought of Toms words through the day. THI~ ATJTHOR~ S DA~JGHTER. His words, it is true, were commonplace enough, but yet the tone in which they were spoken affect- ed her. The remembrance of his poor victim never left her mind, and she sighed as she thought that it was with tones as winning and as kind as these that he had~ betrayed her to her ruin. And what really was Toms state of mind as he went out on that fresh, clear morning into the park, where the first appearances of spring were visible after the dead sleep of winter? What, in- deed it was that of one whose impulses to good are naturally strong, and who now is writhing un- der the vulture-beak of self-accusation, of remorse and sorrow. His feelings were agony, hitter agony. He walked rapidly, as if to escape from himself; and then, finding it impossible to do so, sauntered along, as if in the vain hope that the living anguish that tortured him might leave him behind. Never as yet had Tom Lawford communicated any secret thought to a human being; now for the first time he yearned for a friend whose milder judgment might reconcile him to himself. He thought of Agnes, with her deep, womanly love, her tenderness, her forbearance towards the sin- ner, her pity, and her gentleness; and then the sense of the wrong and the injustice which he had done to that hapless human being, whose life was now his sacrifice, humbled him to the dust, and for the first time he felt how grievously he had offend- ed both God and humanity. CHAPTER X. Weeks went on; and Aunt Colville and Mrs. Sam found more and more cause of displeasure and dissatisfaction in poor Agnes. They talked to her uncle about the distress of mind which she still manifested regarding the un- happy end of that wretched Fanny Jeff kins; but the good old gentleman astonished them by taking her part. It showed, he said, her goodness of heart, her humanity, her Christian charity; and besides this, the conversations he had had with her convinced him that a better girl or a more thorough gentle- woman did not exist. She was reading, he said, Archdeacon Colvilles workshe had no doubt but that in time she would adopt opinions as rational as their own. Aunt Colville was not at all either satisfied or convinced; and anxious for the sake of Mrs. Sams little daughter, she resolved to become a third occasionally at the reading of her late husbands works, that thus she might duly enforce the ortho- doxy which they contained, and also that she might ascertain whether Agnes listened to them in a teachable and becoming spirit. This, how- ever, was not altogether satisfactory to the old gentleman, nor yet to his niece; for, with all due reverence to the memory of his learned brother-in- law, he had always considered his works amazingly heavy reading; and now, in presence of his very observant relict, he had no chance of taking a quiet doze, or of listening to Agnes arguments on the other side the question, and of conceding, in a tone which might pass either for conviction or indo- lence, Well, well, child, we will argue it no fartherperhaps the archdeacon may be wrong after all ! Nothing could be more notoriously quiet than Agnes life at the hall at this time. But her du- ties were few and not unpleasant, and the affection which her uncle evinced towards her was a cheer- 97 ing and heart-gladdening circumstance. At the bottom of her heart, however, lay a sad and de- pressing consciousness which weighed all the more heavily because of the impossibility of making any one her confidant in it. In vain she questioned, directly and indirectly, her aunt regarding the foundling child of which she had spoken; hut the old lady, offended at what she called her lax opinions, would not be communicative. Tier uncle could tell her no more than that the child had been sent to the parish, and that a woman of indifferent character, at that time in the house, who no doubt knew of its parentage, had taken it out with her, and that was all that was known. Mrs. Sykes, Mrs. Colvilles woman, confirmed the same; and Agnes began to fear, that if this were the child of poor Fanny, no occasion would ever offer for her befriending it. Tom had relapsed again into his natural reserve and imperturbabil- ity, with this exception, that he too not unfre- quently came also to hear the reading of the late archdeacons sermons, which he never failed to abuse whenever private opportunity occurred. Now and then, however, Tom would talk of his sister Ada, whose return home was deferred from week to week. Tom was fond of his sister, and seemed to have great pleasure in relating to Agnes anecdotes respecting her. At length spring came, in the full mature burst- ing forth of its flowers and its birds songs, and with it came Ada, and a new life at once began at Lawford. Aunt Colville gave up the readings in the library; receiving callers, or making calls, occupied the mornings, and the evenings were de- voted to parties. A round of gaie ties began, from which the old gentleman, with the nervous irrita- bility of an invalid, withdrew himself, requiring all the more the attention of his niece. The idea never seemed to occur to him, or to anybody else, that he was unreasonable in requiring all her time and attention. Are you happy? asked her mother in many a letter, waiting with an anxious heart for the reply. I am happy, said Agnes, in the affection of my uncle. I am sure that he loves me; he encourages me to talk of my father, and now that my Aunt Colville is too much occu- pied to join our reading parties, I am in hopes that in tinie I may gain permission to read to him my fathers works. My lovely cousin, Ada, is as cold and indifferent in her behavior to me as ever; and yet now and then she has surprised me by some act or word of abrupt kindness and good feeling towards me; and then, when my heart has warmed towards her, she has again repelled me by her haughty coldness. Nothing can be gayer than the hall at this time; every day my Aunt Colville, Ada, and Mrs. Sam go out; the younger ladies often on horseback, attended by their servants, or joining other equestrian ladies and gentlemen of their acquaintance. In a few weeks Mr. Latimer returns home. A great deal is said on this sub- ject. The Actons are now at the Hays to prepare for his reception; and to-morrow, a Miss Bolton, a half-sister of Mr. Acton, and a young lady as I am told of great fortune and beauty, comes here on a visit of a few days. Report says that my Aunt Colville, in her matrimonial speculations, has destined her for the wife of my cousin Tom. Poor Tom! He has come out of that icy shell of coldness and reserve, which are his characteristics, and which, I am beginning to think, hide many good qualities. Tom, under an outward show of great respect, has no love for my Aunt Colville; rilE ATJTlIOa~s DAUGIITEII. he delights in quietly thwarting her; thence, per- haps, the true secret of his little attentions to me. As Agnes said, all was gaiety at the hail. It was a late spring, but one of the most beautiful in nature ; and the rooks in the old elm trees were not busier building their nests, and rejoicing in the sunlighted atmosphere which bathed their tree- tops, than were the inhabitants of the hall them- selves; there were parties on horseback in the mornings, and dinner-parties and dances in the eveninos this was on the outward surface, but there was an under-current of excitement and ex- pectation in the hearts of Aunt Colville and Ada, which, though unconfessed by either lady to the other, w~ s the mainspring of every action and sentiment; and this was the approaching return of Mr. Latimer. Wonderful was the kindness and attention shown to the Actons and to Miss Bolton; nothing was too much to do for them; and many were the drives which Aunt Colville took to the Hays, ostensibly to call on her friend, but to in- dulge, in reality, a sort of pride, by anticipation of the time when Ada might be its mistress. Agnes did not join the gay equestrian parties, nor did any one ask her to do so. She was like a cipher in the house; and the old gentleman, who fancied himself so much more of an invalid since the commencement of the fine weather, shut him- self up entirely in the little library. It did not occur to him that Agnes might like to join in some of the gaiety that was going on, or that it was selfish to require through these fine balmy days her incessant attention. She really is a good creature, said Mrs. Sam, one day aftei~ a long drive, who, having seen her head bending over a book in the little library as they went out, saw it in precisely the same posi- tion on her return. It is her duty, said Aunt Colville, coldly, and her uncle is very fond of her. She has always been used to books and study, and she does not feel the fatigue of it as any one of us should; she is naturally pale. Do you not think her pretty, and very intel- lectual looking 3 asked Miss Bolton. She is a noble creature ! exclaimed Ada, startling every one by her energy, and some day or other I shall tell her so Agnes was sitting at the library window one splendid morning, waiting for the ringing of her uncles bell, which was to summon her to the inner-room, when Tom entered, as if by accident. You here 3 he exclaimed, I thought you were out with the rest of them. No, said Agnes, wondering how he could have thought so; I am waiting to read to my uncle. You II ruin your health, said Tom, with all this reading: I thought I saw you with the rest of them. No ! said Agnes, smiling at what she knew must be a false assertion. But you went out with them yesterday 3 said he. No! said she, and again laughed, for Tom himself was of the yesterdays riding-party. Do you pretend, then, to say that you never go out 3 asked Tom, as if in perfect ignorance of all that went on. At that moment the bell rang, and Agnes turned to go, taking up the seventh volume of Archdeacon Colvilles works from the library table. You shall not sit reading all day long; said Tom decidedly; it is downright tyranny and self- ishness of any one to require it: you look very pale and ill. You shall go and take a walk round the park. I am quite vexed that they are gone without you; I wish I had only known it before! Again the bell rang. Thank you, cousin Tom, said Agnes, sur- prised and somewhat affected by his kindness, but indeed I cannot go this morning; my uncle expects me. It is enough to kill you, said Tom, looking very earnest, and you shall not read this morn- ing. I am not very fond of reading aloud, espe- cially such chop ped straw as this, said he, taking the book forcibly from her, but for once Ill do it.,, I shall read to you this morning, said he, entering his fathers room; Agnes must go out now and then; she looks quite ill; I wonder that Mrs. Sam or Ada never think about her. I told my Aunt Colville a month ago; and Agnes says that she has never been out The old man looked astonished, and asked her if she were ill, and told her rather sharply, that if she were so, she ought to have told him, for, said he, I do not think you have ever found me unreasonable. I am not ill, uncle, returned Agnes. Then why did you complain, child 3 asked he pettishly. Nor did I complain, said she smiling; hut my cousin Tom was so kind. Its only right that she should go out into the fresh air sometimesevery day she ought to said Tom, interrupting her. Yes, yes, to be sure it is, said the old man; but then, who is to read to me 3 I shall read to you, exclaimed Tom. I am not fond of Toms reading, said the old man; but you should have some fresh air. I wonder Mrs. Colville or somebody does not think of it. Nothing touches the heart more than kindness and consideration where it was not expected ; and, as Agnes that morning took the walk which Tom had desired her to take, the thought of poor Fanny Jeffkins and her strange prophecy, He cannot help loving you, and you cannot help loving him,~~ came vividly to her mind. She recalled his whole behavior during the time she had been at Lawford, his outward reserve and pride, and his many little acts of kindness. Nobody evidently thought as much about, or cared as much for her as he did. Her uncle might love her, but there wasa selfish exaction in his love. Her Aunt Colville treated her with harshness as an inferior; Mrs. Sam nar- rowly watched all her words and actions to detect something improper in them. Ada was absorbed by pleasure and her own occupation; she was cold and haughty, and repelled every little attempt of kindness on the part of Agnes. The friends of the house came and went, and no one introduced her to them. Poor Agnes! she wept as she walked on through that primrose-covered copse, of which her father in boyheod had been so fond, and which she had regarded as a place of precious memories; but, strange to say, on that morning her thoughts were not of her father. An inde- scribable sadness lay on her soul, which the gush- ing golden sunshine and the sweet jargoning of the birds among the budding trees, seemed only to mock. A deep and living sense came over her, of her really friendless and forlorn condition, of THE AUTHORS flAtJGHTELI. her state of dependence and isolation, even among her own kindred; she thought of her willingness to love those who would not accept her love; and thea came a dread and apprehension lest she should give her love where her sense of honor had hitherto so strongly forbidden it. On the one hand, the dead body of poor Fanny Jeffkins seemed to warn her back with all her wrongs, and her hapless fall and fate: on the other, stood Fannys betrayer, the one true heart among so many cold ones, with his quiet deeds of kindness, his thoughtfulness, his voice which had such a touching tenderness in itand her heart seemed pleading for him. Oh, gracious Father in Heaven, sighedshe, strengthen me to resist the tempter ; give me strength to distinguish right from wrong, for I am weak and ready to fall ! Strengthened and calmed by her mental prayer, Agnes walked on. In the farthest copse she heard the sound of childrens voices, and soon saw a little group, as she imagined, from the neighbor- ing hamlet, gathering flowers and making chains of dandelion stems, with which they were orna- menting a bright-eyed, auburn-locked cherub of a child, which was seated in the lap of the eldest girl. The baby, which might be about a year and half old, was laughing and screaming with delight, and throwing about his beautiful rounded limbs in an ecstasy of childish glee. It was a lovely pic- turesque group, and instantly arrested both Ag- nes thoughts and steps. What a beautiful child ! said she, putting hack the rich curls from his sunny forehead; is he your brother B asked she, addressing the girl who held him. Yes, said the girl, but with a peculiar hesi- tation in her manner, which made Agnes again question her. Oh yes, Miss, all the same as brother, re- turned the girl colorir.g; mother always reckons him one of the family, said she, and hugged him to her bosom. Agnes seated herself upon a fallen tree beside them, and the two other children, a boy in a some- what ragged suit, and another wild urchin in petti- coats, hetook themselves to a little distance, won- derino what the lady had got to say. Is this beautiful little creature an orphan then? asked Agnes, interested both in the baby and the girl who held him so lovingly in her arms. I dont know, returned she; but the squire sent him to the house when we were there; and as our little baby died, mother took him, and so he has lived with us, and we love him as if he were our own. And where is your mother B inquired Ag- nes. Oh Miss, said the girl, tears at once filling her eyes, mother is very ill, and I must now go to her. I too will go with you, said Agnes, and accompanied the girl with the child in her arms, half a mile farther on, down into a deep, secluded, woodland lane, where, at some distance, stood a green caravan, from the red chimney of which ascended a thin blue smoke. The ragged lad and the urchin in petticoats were not far off. Is that your home 1 asked Agnes, compre- hending at once that these were some of those wandering potters or tinkers which were not un- frequent in the neighborhood, and against whom, as she had heard, her uncle, in the days ot his magistefial activity, had waged war so despe- rately The girl told her, that her father sold brushes and wooden-ware, and went up and down the country, and that her elder brother went with him. Their mother, however, who had been ill some time, and was now a deal worse, was in the cara- van which they saw, and that she would now run and apprize her of the visiter who was coming. Agnes offered to hold the beautiful child, but he clung to his young nurse, and in their absence she tried to make friends with the other two children, who were hiding under the caravan; but at her first word they started up and ran away, and then, half in bashfulness, and half in petulance, threw pebbles and little pellets of earth at her. Presently, however, sbe was invited by the elder girl up the steps of the caravan, and entering, she found an anxious, sorrowful looking woman, with ninny a sign of poverty about her, and who, apparently far gone in consumption, was almost too weak to rise to receive her visiter. Agnes was touched by the first glance at the sick woman and her abode, and seating herself beside her, in- vited her kindly to speak freely of her present and past condition. We belong to the parish of Lawford, said the woman; both my husband and me, and now 1 am come back to die here. Perhaps not, said Agnes, kindly and hope- fully; we have the summer before us. Very true, miss, said she, but I shall not see through the summer; and then God knows what is to become of the children, and little Johnny !that s what preys on my mind ! and with this she wept bitterly. But little Johnny is not your son B inquired Agnes. In one sense, no, said the woman, and that is all the more distressing to me. You see, miss, my own baby diedwe were in the poor- house, for ours has been a hard lifeand as this had no one to own it, neither father nor mother, I took it for my own. My husband was as good and well-meaning a man as ever trod in shoe- leather when we married; but he offended the squire and the rector with joining a political club in Leicester. He was a reading man, and was much sought after at clubs and ale-houses, be- cause he could speak very well. He was then a sort of under bailiff on the squires farm. But envious folks told lies of him to his employer and the rector; and he was young and thoughtless in those days, and would not be warned to avoid even the appearance of evil; so he lost first one place, and then another. And the squires hardness and severity, and the rectors together, awoke in him a spirit of hatred and ill-will. We had children, and we fell into poverty: one article of furniture after another was pawned and sold to get us bread. Nobody would give my husband a character; and our very neighbors, who had known us in our bet- ter days, looked shy on us. Oh, miss, kindness and confidence keep up a mans self-respect more than anything else! We came soon to feel as if our being poor had degraded and debased us! My husband went to Leicester to get employment, but none was to be had. He came back, after an absence of some weeks, famished. It was winter- time; we had four children then livingwhen my husband had left home there were five; but one had died while he was away, and the parish had 99 THE AUTHOR S DAUGHTER. buried it. I expected that my husband would have grieved sorely, but he did not; he shed not a tear: he only said tbat he wished the other four were under the sod with little Bessy. I was ex- pecting to become a mother again almost daily; we had no food ; house-rent was going on; we were in despair; and oh, God help the poor who are driven to despair! It was winter timea black, bitter frostand we were dying of cold and hunger. My husband had become reckless, and almost ferocious. lie called the rich tyrants; and ground and gnashed his teeth when he heard the children c1~y. My time approached, and I sent to old Mrs. Colville to beg help : but she sent me word that she could relieve none but persons of good character. At that moment the children, who had gone out to beg, came home crying for cold and hunger. My husband was roused to fury he went out swearing a fearful oath. The next day we had plenty to eat ; we feastedus and the children: God knows how we had needed food before. The third day after that my husband was taken up for a poacher, and sentenced to six months imprisonment and hard labor, and we were taken into the house. In the midst of disgrace and poverty, and distress of mind, my child was born. The night that it was born I heard the women talking of a young child which had been found at the hall gates~ Agnes started at these words, and breathlessly awaited fur the continuation of the woman s story. It made a great talk in the house, she con- tinued; some said one thing, and some another; but the squire sent the child to the house, and old Mrs. Colville came herself. She was very angry, and said that it was a proof of the wickedness and hard-heartedness of tbe poor, because this child was abandoned by its mother. Some of the poor folks in the house sided with her, and others took against her. I, for my part, who had gone through so much, thought t bat despair, such as we had felt, had perhaps closed the heart of this childs mother against it, and I had pity on both it and her. There was nobody in the house to nurse it but me. They gave me good food, and plenty of it, and my bodily strength soon returned, but my own baby was sickly, and died. My heart clung to the nursling that had no mother to cherish it; so I gave to it my babys name, and said that it should be mine in the place of the one I had lost. Nobody made any objectionMrs. Colville even approved, and sent to me then a bundle of baby-clothes. At length the time came when my husbands imprisonment was at an end. He returned home if home that might be called, which was no more than a roof to cover us. The six months of his imprisonment had changed his very nature. He had associated with men ten times worse than himself; he knew that he was now a branded man, and he was in reality depraved. The se- verest misery that I endured, was in perceiving the change that was come over him. When he heard that my baby was dead, and that in its stead I had adopted another, he was very angry. He refused to let me have ithe threatened to tear it from my breast. It was not ours, he said, and we would not burden ourselves with it. The child was dear to me as my own flesh and blood -. The poor woman paused; she wiped the drops of sweat which stood upon her brow, and seemed overcome and oppressed by the remem~ brance. Agnes listened in breathless interest, and with- out saying a word, wiped away her own tears. It would have broken my heart, continued the woman, after a few moments, to have parted with the child; but fortunately a letter came from some unknown hand, offering to my husband the sum of twenty pounds on condition of his adopting the child, and removing from the parish. Twenty pounds to a man in niy husbands circumstances, was a sufficient inducement to do even more than this. He laid in a little stock of such articles as are used in country-places; and we began our life of wandering. Success attended usbut my husband was no longer the open-hearted man he had been. A hard, cold, griping spirit had taken possession of him; he hated the rich, and had neither compassion for, nor faith in the poor. We now travel about from place to place. The life suits him and the boys. I took cold the first winter we were out; for it is perishingly cold o nights in the caravan. He has bad associates, and is brutal and surly. He never has liked the child, God knows why, though it was the means of his having a livelihood in his hands.When I am gone it will have a hard life among them. But, said Agnes, you have a daughter, a kind-hearted girl, who loves the child. Ah, miss, said the mother with a deep sigh, my husband will bring a stepmother to the caravanI know it all! I have seen her, a stout, strapping quean, the head taller than me. She was in jail when my husband was there, and Heaven knows how she has gained so much influ- ence over him. She has offered to come here to nurse me, and take care of the children; but no ! said she, raising herself, and with an almost fierce expression in her hollow eyes, let her come into the caravan if she dare, while the breath is in my body ! There was something desperate and almost say age in the womans tone and manner; and the little child that was playing on the floor of the caravan, looked up in her face, and terrified, be- gan to cry. Agnes took him on her knee, and soothed him; she stroked his hair and caressed him tenderly. This then was the child that had been committed to her care and love, by his un- happy mother. His father, as the letter from the unknown hand, and the twenty pounds proved, had acknowledged his claim. She fancied that in his clear eyes, and his peach-like complexion, she could trace a resemblance to his wretche(l mother. A deep sympathy, an inexpressible tenderness towards him filled her heart, and while her tears fell upon his curling hair, she clasped him in her arms, and he, no longer afraid, looked up into her face with the beautiful confidence of childhood, and smiled. God knows, said the poor woman, as if sud- denly awoke to a new idea, if I have done well in talking thus freely to you of our affairs, I know not how I came to do itbut surely, miss, you will not in any way betray me ! Indeed I will not, said Agnes, in a tone of warm sincerity, and I will comne again to see you, nor will the child be uncared for; God will send him friends ! With these, and other such words, she took her leave; and the woman, assured and some way comforted by her presence, watched her through 100 THE AUTHORS DATJGHTEIL the open door of the caravan till the windings of the lane concealed her from sight. This strange and unexpected discovery agitated Agnes greatly, and as she hastily pursued her way back to the hall, she endeavored to ascer- tain what was for her the best mode of action; but she could not decide, and with her mind still in a perfect tumult of feeling, she reached the hall amazed and half alarmed to find how long she had been absent. 11cr cousin Toms groom waited at the door with his horse, and the ladies ~vere returned. As she passed the drawing-room door, she heard an eager discussion amon~ them, and presently Adas voice, which said, There is Agnes, ask her. She was called in, and found the table and sofa covered, with materials for splendid evening and ball dresses. Old Mrs. Colville and the young ladies were making purchases for a grand party, which was to take place in the neighborhood in about a fortnight, and by which time it was ex- pected that Mr. Latimer would be returned. Tom was with the ladies, and there was now a differ- ence (if opinion with regard to Adas dress, whether it was to he a silver gauze over pink satin, or a gold-sprigged muslin over white. Ada, secretly remembering the night at the deanery, when she wore the pink brocade, and made so much impression on Mr. Latimer, inclined to a dress of the same color ; her brother, Mrs. Sam, and Miss Bolton, advocated the white. Here is Agnes, let us hear her opinion,~~ said Tom, who from the window had seen her ap- proach. There is no need to ask her ! said Aunt Colville. There is Agnes, ask her ! said Ada, without noticing her aunts words, as she heard her step on the stairs. Agnes ~vas called in, and the important ques- tion proposed to her, and the respective dc- gancies of each dress dwelt upon at some length. Poor Agnes! she was in no state of mind, just then, to enter fully into the merits of a ball dress; besides which, she was alarmed to think of having apparently neglected her uncle so long. They are both beautiful, said Agnes: I do not know indeed to whbrh to give the prefer- ence. But which do you think will suit Ada the best? asked Miss Bolton. Agnes considered for a moment , glancing first at her beautiful cousin, and then at the two dresses as they hung side by side; I think the pink would suit her best, said Agnes, but now in- deed I must go ! Stop ! cried Tom; but Agnes went, and then turning to his sister he inquired if Agnes would not be of the party. how can she? said his aunt, impatiently. She must stop at home with her uncle; you know how difficult he has been to manage this morning; it is thoughtless of her to go out in this way ! rrom began eagerly to say, that his father had not been impatient; and that his having gone out in his bath-chair was a very good thing, and then, ,again turning to his sister, he inquired whether Agnes was noV to be of the party. Ada said she did not know ; she had not been invited; but there was no objection to her going with them. My dear, interrupted Mrs. Colville, how 101 can she go in her mourning, which is very shab- by? Poor thing! she would be very uncomforta- ble in such a party. Ladies can dress themselves with a deal of taste and elegance even in mourning, said Tom, pertinaciously. Certainly, said Ada; and if Agnes really were going, there are some beautiful things even here which would be very becoming to her. Sup- pose, aunt, we were to buy her one. My dear, returned Mrs. Colville, what is the use of taking people out of their sphere. Agnes cannot go out everywhere with us. Be- sides there would not be room in the carriage. In a little while we shall be having little rural par- ties and quiet dinners, said she, recollecting that these things were to Mr. Latimers taste, and then we can take her with us. At present, let her attend to her duties; besides, her position in life does not fit her for general society. But Miss Agnes Lawford, in point of position, is equal to any of us, said Miss Bolton; ~ and I am sure that Mrs. Acton would include her in every invitation she gave. Tom looked approvingly on the young lady; and Mrs. Colville, who seemed not to hear what was said, turned to her favorite niece, and asked whether she had decided on the pink or the white dress. I have decided on the pink dress, said Ada. Tom had that morning induced his father to go out in his bath-chair; the exercise and the fresh air had done him good; he was unusually cheer- ful: declared that he would have no more of Archdeacon Colville that day, and that Agnes must sit down and amuse him. Poor Agnes was not at all in a humor for amusing anybody; her uncle said that she was very dull and stupid, and he could not think what was amiss with her, and really, if walking did her no more good, she had better stay at home. From that day, however, the old gentleman went out daily himself; and Agnes had thus a few hours for leisure if not for enjoyment. The thought of the poor inmates of the caravan was forever present to her mind, and it was not many days before she again betook her- self to the woodland lane, to inquire after the sick woman, and to see the child which had so painful and so peculiar an interest for her. But the lane was solitary from one end to the otherthe cara- van and its people were gone. A fear took pos- session of her mind lest they were gone forever, and she reproached herself for having done so lit- tle, where so much was required from her. Agnes could not but think of her cousin Tom many things obtruded him upon her mind, and nothing more than his kindness and sympathy towards her, so different from the cold, proud Ada. And why is Ada so cold and proud, and why is my Aunt Colville so austere and unkind? 9uestioned she painfully, many a time. Ah, she felt so bitterly that this was not home; and yet all the more did home-affections and home-pleasures cling about her heart! She really had no home she was dependant, and was made to feel her dependance. No one seemed to have sympathy with her or kindness for herno one but her old infirm uncle and her cousin Tom; her uncle she really loved, and was ready to serve with all her mightbut Tom! Ah, poor Agnes! how she feared any insidious, sliding sentiment of love entering her heart for him! The little child, and poor Jeff kins and his daughter, warred in her soul TH~ AUTHORS DAUOllT~fl. against him. He is selfish and cold-hearted, said she, and nothing but my miserable, friendless con- dition makes my heart weakly incline to bin-i! Thus she reasoned and pondered; and all this veasoning and pondering on his character and con- duct might have been perilous to her peace, had she not endeavored to act in an open, straight-for- ward course, and as far as she could see it in the entire fulfilment of her duty. She had come to Lawford with no definite idea of the place she was to occupy in the family, whether she was to be guest, adopted daughter, or humble domestic friend. All was in darkness around her; hut she soon found out one little straight-forward path of duty, and that wa devotion to her uncle; and now, more than ever, she resolved to keep herself to that, and leave the rest to God. For this rea- son, she was careful in no way to obtrude herself on any of the family or their guests; and such hours as were not spent in attendance on her uncle, she spent either in walking or in her own chamber, where she could at least command soli- tude and the indulgence of her own thoughts. A day or two after that on which the dresses for the grand party were purchased, Tom Lawford surprised his sister Ada, by asking her to come into his room where he had something of impor- tance to consult her upon. Her heart beat vio- lently, and she thought that it must be connected with Latimer. I want to take you into my council, Ada, said he, speaking as if with difficulty, which really was the case, for he had done violence to his aatural reserve on this occasion. Ada stood looking at him in silence awaiting his words. My aunt and Mrs. Sam, said he, spoke the other day of Agnes dress not being fit to appear in society in; now, Ada, will you give her a dress l will you get a dress made for her I Ada smiled, and Tom felt ready to repent of what he had done, It would not be agreeable to her, said he, assuming at once an air of boldness and decision, nor should I like her to know that I make her a present. Ada smiled, thinking to herself that her brother was captivated by this quiet and gentle cousin. I admire it in you, Tom, said she, speaking in her occasionally energetic manner, and I will assist you in any way that I can. Agnes is a very good girl, and my heart often reproaches me re- garding her: and her life is dull enough here. But let me see what you have purchased. Tom never felt so awkward in his life before, as when he drew forth a considerable packet, and displayed to his sister the costly dress he had pur- chased. Ada looked at it with surprise, and said not a word. You do not approve of what I have done l said Tom. Yes, I do, with all my heart, said Ada, but what will my aunt say? Oh ! said Tom, at once struck by a new and bright idea, the present is not mine, it is my fathers, only I was commissioned by him to pur- chase it. Very peculiar of my father, said Ada, smiling, to commission you to purchase a ladys dress; but, never mind! I admire your thought- fulness and your kindness, said she, hastily put- ting the things together. Never let any one know, said Tom, that this gift is from me. Above all things, never let her know it, else I should hate to see her wearing it! It is my fathers gift, said Ada, smiling again. And must be kept a profound secret till the night of the party, said Tom; and then she is to go with us. She shall, said Ada. cIIAPItR XI. The days went on, and the time of Mr. Latimers return was at hand. A gnes had heard so much of him, and saw so plainly the excitement which his expected presence occasioned, that she, too, could not help having a great curiosity about him. Her uncle had described him over and over again had described him as handsome, good, and clever, unlike every one else of their acquaintance; the only dra~vback being that he was a little, the least in the world, inclined to Whiggism; but of that, as he grew older, he would mend, said the old gentleman, consolingly. He was so good a land- lord, so wise a magistrate, so fine a scholar, said he; he was quite sure that Agnes had never seen his equal among all the great and learned people that she had seen in London ! Agnes listened; and, spite of her curiosity, a sort of reaction was occasioned in her mind. My uncles ideas of excellence, thought she, are so different from mine, that I am sure to be disappointed. I have seen more men of intellect than any of the good people here, and finer scholars, and more perfect gentlemen: and I know that he will fall far short of my standard of perfection ! This skepticism was, however, a little staggered one morning, when Mrs. Acton, not finding either Mrs. Colville or Ada at home, introduced herself into the library, where Agnes sat with her uncle. This, then, was Mr. Latimers sister, with that bright, intelligent, kind countenance! It was possible that her brother might be like her, and if so, he must be all that his friends described him. Never had any one yet at Lawford shown to Ag- nes the same consideration and attention as this lady; and yet she knew that Agnes was poor, was a dependant in the family. Had she been a countess in her own right, she could not have re- ceived more marked attention. As Mr. Frank Lawfords daughter, said she, to the old gentle- man, when Agnes was absent from the room for a moment, she is to me extremely interestingand what a beautiful countenance she has ! Dear me! we never reckoned her handsome; hardly good-looking, said the old gentleman, quite astonished and yet pleased, for Agnes was very dear to him. With, as it were, an instinctive sense, A gnes felt that Mrs. Acton was a kindred spirit, that she belonged to the class of mind to which she was allied, and with whom she had hitherto lived. A sentiment of inexpressible sadness oppressed her heart, she knew not why, an anxiety, a tenderness that made her long to weep upon the bosom of such a friend. It was as if, for the first time since her fathers death, she breathed the spirit of her own home. Not a word, however, of this was expressed; but Mrs. Aetna might have di- vined it; for, at parting, she pressed a warm kiss on Agnes lips, and expressed a desire that they might often meet, that they might be friends. Mrs. Acton, during her call, mentioned the 102 TIlE AtYTIIOR S DA1ITOHTER. great party which was at band, and said, she hoped that they might meet there. She also con- gratulated Agnes on the friendship that must sub- sist between her cousin Ada and herself. She spoke of Ada with warmth and kindness ; called her a noble and a generous-hearted girl, and said that she considered her as beautiful in mind as in person. Agnes was grieved that she could not respond as warmly as she saw was expected to the praises of her cousin, and felt, as she had often done before, how differently things and characters present themselves to the rich and the poor, to the powerful and the dependent. It was now the last week in May, and the whole country was one gush of mature vernal beauty. Glorious weather, all the world said, for the grand party at Merley Park ! Nothing had heen talked of but this party for weeks; and since the time when Mrs. Acton had expressed a wish and an expectation of meeting Agnes there, the desire to go had taken possession of her mind. Is Agnes going to Merley Park on Wednes- day? asked old Mr. Lawford, one day, of his sister Colville. Agnes heart heat, and she glanced to her aunt for an answer. She has not been asked, said Aunt Colville; but that is not of so much consequence: the question is, can you spare her, and whether she wishes to go ii said she, looking at Agnes, with an expression that said as plainly as words, Of course you do not ! I should very much like to go, replied Ag- nes, decidedly hut timidly. You should? said Aunt Colville, in a tone of hitter surprise; hut there are many things to be considered. I dont very well see how we can make room in the carriage. I dislike crowding on such occasions: there will be Mr. and Mrs. Sam, Ada, and myself. Sam can go with me, said Tom, who was present; or, Mr. and Mrs. Sam can drive toge- ther. And then your dress, continued Aunt Col- ville, it would not do to go badly dressed. I will give her a dress, said her uncle: see that she has a handsome one; I know that Mrs. Acton will expect to see her there. We must see if you are well enough, brother, continued the pertinacious old lady; but you know that you are often very poorly of an evening. You have often kept Ada and me at home; and I know that Agnes would not wish to go, unless it were quite convenient. This is a large party, and I dont know whether we on ht to take an ad- ditional one with us; and there will he plenty of opportunities, besides this, of her going out with us. Agnes felt wounded ; to her it seemed as if no one avished her to go; and with an agitation of voice, which she in vain tried to repress, she re- plied, that she would stay at home. Well, I see no great hardship in it, said Mrs. Colville; and [think it better that you should. No more was said; visitors were announced, and the subject, as Agnes believed, passed from every mind but her own. The day of the party was at hand, and news came to the hall that Mr. Latimer had arrived at home. They expected to meet him for the first time at Merley Park. A stillness and repose seemed, for some days past, to have fallen upon the household at Lawford, as of intense and almost breathless expectation. Ada was unusually calm 103 and pale, and her beautiful countenance had a pen ive, nay, almost anxIous expression, which Agnes interpreted as the expression of intense love. Mrs. Sam had long interviews with Mrs. Coiville, but abotit what nobody knew. The beautiful dresses for the party came home on the day it was to take place, and with them the one for Agnes. Mrs. Cola ille was aniazed. She had no idea, she said, that her brother had really given an order for one. No less surprised was Agnes: a very natural reaction took place in her own mind; she had been unjust to them; they were kinder to her than she had imagined. She was filled with gratitude and love; her counte- nance beamed with happiness. The surprise of such unlooked-for kindness, and the anticipation of now really meeting Mrs. Acton that very night, and seeing Mr. Latinier, filled her with a quiet animation which gave altogether a new expression to her whole person. With affectionate gratitude she hastened to her uncle, to thank him for his munificent present. I know that I owe all this to you, dear uncle, she said ; but much as I should like to go, if I thought you would miss me, or that you were not so well, I would gladly stop at home. What a blessed feeling, capable of every sacri- fice, is that of love and gratitude The old gentleman was as much pleased as she was. He ordered her to put on her new dress, and come down to be looked at. He smiled and kissed her, and said that she really was a very lovely girl, and that be had no idea that she could look so handsome. He insisted on Ada and Aunt Colville coming down to see her. But Aunt Col- ville was at that moment busy; she was in Adas dressing-room, passing judgment on that young ladys dress; for her toilette on this evening was of particular importance, and nothing could exceed its elegance. Have you seen my little Agnes? asked Mr. Lawford, as half an hour afterwards Aunt Colville entered. She is really quite charming ! I have, said Mrs. Colville; but I must tell you, brother, that I had a great deal rather she did not go. It never was my wish that she should we have no room for her in the carriage, and she is not expected. She knows nobody xvho will be there; she will have to sit all the evening without dancing! You do not consider these things ! She 11 get partners, said her uncle, never fear. If I were young, 1 should fall in love with her. Well, Mr. Lawford, said Mrs. Colville, rais- ing herself with dignity, I can tell you, once for all, that I ani not going to take her. I had left the thing quite satisfactorily arranged; she had no expectation, till you put it into her head; and I must tell you that it is no kindness to take her out to such parties. What is she, in fact ?but a sort of domestic ! She is my niece ! said Mr. Lawford, in a towering passion; and I insist upon it that she goes! I shall not take her! said the lady, with de- cision. The two might have proceeded to even fiercer contention, had they not, at this moment, been in- terrupted by Agnes herself, who, still in her new dress, and with eager and delighted astonishment in her countenance, entered avith a set of splendid jet ornaments in her hand. The fact avas, that when she returned to her chamber, and was about to take off her dress, her eye was caught by a 104 THE AUTHOR S DAUGHTER. carefully-wrapped-up packet on her toilette table, I can to get her introdu~1 to partners and people; addressed to herself. She opened it, and found it hut if she knows anything~ of parties of this kind, to contain these ornaments, she knows very well, tht unless a girl have ac- Who had given them to her was her first quaintance in the room, ~6r have great beauty or question. How kind and generous every one was fortune to bring her into n tice, she may sit the to her! thought she; and, believing the donor to whole evening like a cip ~r in the rooni; and I he her cousin Ada, she entered her dressing-room know nothing more painfi~ to witness than that, with a freedom which she had never used befi)re. to say nothing of what the Wing of it must be. I know, dearest Ada, said she, that you Agnes thought to herse~f~that the fact of her have given me these. How beautiful they are being the daughter of Mr ~ rank Lawford would, exactly the ornaments I want. How you all make in such society as she had any knowledge of, give me love you U her distinction enough hut( thus appealed to by I have not given them to you, replied Ada, her aunt, she replied, that s?Pshonld greatly pre- as much astonished as her cousin. I never saw fer staying at home. Poor rl! she never had them before ! really felt till then how the s~ ~ of pride and arro- Then, to whom am I obhigedP asked Agnes. gance can set its foot upon aiiuman heart, and Perhaps to papa, returned Ada, thinking that crush it to the dust. She felt Pkerly humiliated very likely this conjecture was not true, however, she longed to weep freely t~Qiur forth her out- With this, Agnes hastened to her uncle, and raged feelings into some tc4~r, sympathizing entered, as we have seen, in the midst of conten- bosom; but none was near her~ tion regarding herself. In a moment, she saw the Mrs. Colville had gained her ~pint. When did excited and angry countenances of both her rela- she fail of doing so land this b~r~g the case, she tives; and holding the ornaments displayed in her could even flatter. jib hand, she stood for a second, and then, apologizing I must say, Agnes, she ~ i4, that your for her intrusion, was about to withdraw, but her dress is handsome and very becon~eg. I am sure aunt called her back. you are greatly obliged toyour un~j~ andthese, Agnes, said she, I give you credit for a she said, taking up the jet rosary.1~hich hung in great deal of good sense, and perhaps for some Agnes hand these, too, are yoI~ uncles pres- knowledge of the worldIDo you wish in reality ent, I suppose l to go with us this eveningl I came to thank you for them,Pcar uncle. And why not, aiint~ said she. said Agnes, turning to him. 3 Why not? repeated her aunt, with difficulty I know nothing about them, returned he, suppressing her passion. Because, unless you petulantly. They are not of my gV;ing, and I had been especially invited, I consider your duty wish I niigbt not be bothered. to be in atteiidance on your uncle. Whose giving are they, theniiB Kid Auni I do not want her attendance, said the old Colville; but we must see about that ; and, as gentleman, angrily; and I say she shall go! if with the intention of doing so, she left the room Am I to be thwarted in this way? No; I tell Go, Agnes, said her uncle, I can do very you plainly that Agnes shall go, or else Ada shall well without you. stay too ~ Are you angry with me, then? asked she, a Agnes heart beat tumultuously, and she seemed longer able to suppress her emotions. hurled at once into the dust from the pinnacle of No, I am not angry with you, said he, in a delight to which she had been unexpectedly raised. husky voice ; hut I can do without you: not Agnes, said her aunt, almost fiercely, are that I am angry with you, my poor girl, added you going to be a firebrand amongst us? he, seeing her weeping figure before him attired Indeed, I am not, returned Agnes, meekly, in that splendid dress, which so little accorded at least not willingly; and to end the contest, with her state of mind; but I do net wish of my own free will I prefer to remain at home. them to think that I am quite an idiot. Now. You and I, dearest uncle, said she, laying her go ! hand on ihe back of his chair, will have a quiet Not until you have kissed me ! returned evenin together. More she could not say, for Agnes, feeling that she needed this token of her heart was very full. reconciliation and kindness to keep her heart from I know, Mrs. Colville, said the old gentle- breaking. man, that you think me a childish, fanciful old Well, well, said her uncle, kissing her with man, who must have somebody to look after him real affection there is no need for us to quarrel. and amuse him: now, I am not this; and I tell There, now, dont spoil your good looks with cry- you plainly that Agnes shall not be kept at home ing. I wanted everybody to see to-night how for my sake. I do not want her; I do not wish lovely you were. I know they think you a plain her to stay; I can take care of myself, and amuse girl; but you are not so ! myself. I dislike beiiig treated hike a child, Mrs. Agnes smiled at her uncles compliment, and Colville. withdrew. She returned to her chamber, and (~ Mrs. Colville, who had full reliance on Agnes took off the beautiful dress which, but a short time own pride and good sense, replied in a much more before, had filled her with such joy and gratitude. moderate and amiable tone than she had hitherto How differently it looked to her now! The charm spoken in. At our time of life, brother, she and beauty was gone from it; and she felt acutely aid, it is not seemly for us to be disputing about that, let even this dark time pass away, the sting trifles. I think I must have given evidence enough of it would long remain. Anguish of heart and how much your dear childrens interest is at my mortification seemed stitched into every fold, and heart. If, however, you cannot trust our sweet it seemed to her as if she never could put it on Ada to me, you must find another chaperon for again. Those ornaments, toowhich the donor her. But that shall make no difference in my feel- no doubt intended should give her pleasurewere ings towards her; and as to Agnes, I will l~ave it the subject of unpleasant questioning and surmise. to herself. She shall go to-night, if she likes, and She enclosed them again in their case; and, throw- I will be a good chaperon to her, and I will do all ing herself on her bed, wept hisserly.

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The Living age ... / Volume 7, Issue 75 Littell's living age Every Saturday; a journal of choice reading Eclectic magazine The Living age co. inc. etc. New York etc. October 18, 1845 0007 075
The Living age ... / Volume 7, Issue 75 105-152

LITTELLS LIVING AGE.No. 75.iS OCTOBER, 1845. CONTENTS. 1. Mexico and the United States Atheneum 2. Duffys Irish Library Britannia 3. Mesmerisers Athenceum 4. American Fiction 5. British Combination against the American Union, Spectator 6. Eyres Expeditions of discovery in Australia, . . 7. Margaret of Valois Blackwoods Magazine 8. Discoveries in the Ruins of Nineveh Sillimans Journal 9. The Authors Daughterchaps. 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, Mary Howilt SCRAPS.M. Royer Collard; Scientific Corgress at Rheims; Lowells Conversations, 106 Air Engine; Sublime and Something more, 113Site Refusing, 114Ibrahim, 116 Paris Academy of Sciences, 11 Aug., 120Intercourse of the Great and the Little, 131 Vegetable Non-Conductor; Mineral Region of Lake Superior, 136Artificial Quartz; Anti-Friction Metals, 152. POETRY.ThC Cross is Bending, 114The Spirit Tryst, 115Fide et Fortitudine, 131. MEXICO AND THE UNITED STATES. THE Athemeum of 13th September, after giving an account of the dilapidation of Mexico, thus proceeds: In such circumstances nobody can he sur- prised at the ambitious views of the sister republic on the eastern shores of the same continent. As early as 1803, Colonel Aaron Burr made no secret of his intention to revolutionize New Spain. His conduct indeed was disavowed but what satisfac- tion was that to Mexico or Spain, seeing that it ~as approved by government and people l Still the older republic was taught one lessonto act with greater cautionto substitute cunning for open force. In conformity with this policy, a treaty of limits was proposed by him some years afterwards ; and the basis of the proposal deserves especial consideration at the present moment. The whole country north of the river Bravo del Norte and of the thirty-first degree of north latitude, was to be surrendered to the United Statesin other words, there was to be an absolute cession of Texas, New Santander, New Biscay, New Mexi- co, most of Sonora, and Upper California! De- graded as the court of Madtid undoubtedly was, she rejected these unworthy proposals with indig- nation, and directed the colonial provinces to pro- tect themselves against both the open and secret attempts of their insidious neighbor. The cession of the Floridas in 1819, suspended these proceed- ings; but on the downfall of the royal authority, they were resumedwith greater caution indeed, but with greater effect. If any faith is to be placed in the assertion of men who ought to be well informed, concessions of territory have been repeatedly though secretly wrung from the Mexi- can governments, from Iturhide down to Santa Anna. One thing at least is certainthat the agent.s of the United States have for many years been actively employed in preparing the minds of the people in all the northern provinces, and T~XXV. LIVING AGE. voL. vii. 7 especially New Mexico, and Upper California, for an incorporation with the great republic. Nothing could be safer than such intrigues. When unsuc- cessful, they are disavowed ; when likely to lead to a good result, they are uniformly supported. Thus it is with Texas, which, in spite of all the opposition that England conld offer, is an- nexed. And thus it will also be with New Cali- fornia. In 1836 the inhabitants were prevailed on to rise against the authority of Mexico, and to assert their independencea measure necessarily preparatory to annexation. Before a province can treat with an independent state, it must itself be free, or at least pretend to he so, which answers the same purpose ; for no sooner does it declare its independence, than its act is recognized by the cabinet at Washington. In 1841, and the follow- in, year, as we shall soon have occasion to observe, the strides made by those agents, and even by the acknowledged functionaries of the United States, were still more decided. While the question in regard to Texas was pending, a show of moderation was necessary ; but now that it is settled, the intrigues in California will go on with greater vigor, until a new annexation takes place. Whatever our ministers (who seem strangely negli~ent of information full of meaning to everybody else) may say or think of the matter, the aggrandizement is systematic, and its results are inevitable. Tbey are clearly perceived by our author, and by the government which lie serves. All the Spanish provinces of North America will soon form an integral portion of the most ambitious republic the world has yet seen. And we know not, that such a result ought much to be depre- cated. Whatever may he thought of that Utopian. dream, the balance of power, the interests of humanity are paramount to every other considera- tion. In Mexico any change must he for the bet- ter; governmei~t, law, religion, education, indi- vidual happinesseverything must gain by it. However, while as Englishmen we regard the pro PAGE. 105 107 109 110 112 117 121 132 152 io3 CONGRESS AT RIIEIMSLOWELL5S CONVEttSATIONS. ceedings of the American cabinet with indignation, as philanthropists, we can hardly avoid looking with satisfaction to their results. Government is to be valued only as it conduces to the welfare of the governed. Where it does not and cannot answer this obvious end, the sooner it is replaced by another, the better for humanity. We are by no means sure that the United States will gain by her system. To a nation the reverse of mili- tary, and (what is much more serious) without a direct central authority, an indefinite extension of frontier must necessarily be a source of weakness. That frontier in many cases could be defended neither by itself, nor by the union to which it be- longs. Then the div6rsities of character, of feel- ing, and of interests, betx ceo the component parts of such a body politicdiversities the more strik- ing as we recede from a given pointmust daily weaken the bonds of connection between parts so heterogeneous. Such unions, whatever their ostensible political advantages, can never be cor- dial, and therefore, they can never be permanent. In our opinion, the greatest curse that could befall the Anglo-Americans, would be the immediate accomplishment of their own designs. They would lead to a union indeed, unexampled for ex- tent in the history of the world; but it would assuredly not be a union of strength. And the day would not be far distant when the rival inter- ests of the northern and southern states would be brought into fatal collision. THE Paris papers mention the death, on the 4th instant, at his estate of Chateanvicux, in the 82d year of his age, of one of the most distinguished ~hilosophical writers in France, M. Royer Collard. This gentleman was a member of the French -~ Academy, and Professor of Philosophy at the Coli~ge de France; and, as we remember, it is not many months since his published works werc adopted as classical by the university of Paris this being the first instance in which that honor was ever conferred, by the Institution in question, on the writings of a living man. M. Royer Col- lard had other titles to distinction amongst his fellow-c izens; and most of our readers, no doubt, know that he had filled the chair of President in the Chamber of Deputies.The Augsburg Gazette announces the decease, at Rome, of the learned Barnabite Ungarelli; who was Rosselinis instruc- tor in Hebrew, and his pupil in hieroglyphic science. As Order-brother of the Cardinal-Secre tary Lambruschini, he enjoyed peculiar advantages for the study and cultivatio.n of Egyptian antiqui- ties; and his death is especially lamented for the delay which it is likely to occasion in the produc - tion of the projected, and already far-advanced, edition of the Museo Gregoriano Egizio .The Spanish journals speak of the death, at Mondragon, at an age exceeding 80, of one of the patriarchs of - the Basque country, Senhor Juan Jgnacio Iztneta - a poet distinguished by his originalityespe- cially remarkable, it is said, for a very curious work on the warlike dances of the Basques, for which he had a strong predilectionand emphatically known, among his compatriots, as the Basque Bard. The Scientific Congress at Reims assembled, ac- ~.cording to our previous announcement, on the 1st inst. ; and upwards of one hundred native members, with many foreigners of distinction, were then in the town.For the Congress of Scientific Italian about to assemble at Naples, on the 20th inst., the President-General, the Marquis San Angelo, has published a variety of regulations, designed to simplify the relations of the individuals with the body, and lighten, as much as possible, for the occasion, the police regulations applicable to stran- gers.---While on scientific matters, we may mention a fact of some especial interest, in view of the pro- digious demand for iron which the extension of railway works promises to createthat mines of that metal, apparently of great richness and extent, have been discovered in the States of the Church. We live in what may be called emphatically, the age of Iron ; hot the name has another meanin~, in our day, than the mythologieal.Atlseneum, l~ & pt. Conversations on same of time Old Poets, by J. R. LOWELL. THE literature of America still follows in th footsteps of that of England. What Lamb and others have done for the popular mind in this country, the essayists of the United States are now seeking to do for the growing intelligence of the New World. They desire to indoctrinate it with a taste for out old poets, our old dramatists, and our sterling old writers, whose books, like dreams, have made the world of many a studious spirit one and entire, and as of chrysolite, perfect and pure. Mr. Lowell has earned by his own poems the right to converse on poetry, and we therefore willingly listen to his opinions on Chaucer and Chapman, Marlowe, Shakspeare and Ford, and on all others whom he may, as he does, collaterally introduce, whether ancients or moderns. We like his corollaries for the sake of the omain proposition, and also for their own. Keats and Tennyson, Wordsworth and Shelley, are among his idols but Byron he repudiates. What spirit he i: of is accordingly so manifest as to need no illus- tration and imo remark. In disputing with him on matters of taste, it is not with an individual, but with a school, that we should be found conflicting; and the present, therefore, would be an improper occasion to raise the argument. The trimly cathc;- lie minds in the world are, of course, few; and, P the majority of instances, we must be content to make the best of partial views, and to bring our own as supplementary where needed. We canno~ quote from the work, for the groumid it traverses is, in this country, so pr& iccupied, that, notwith- standing its obvious merits, there is much in it as tedious as a thrice-told tale. The writer~s chief fault is, an over refinement and subtlety in his thoughts and mode of expounding them. Athenceum. AN English merchant having built a vessel of seventy tons, gave the command of it to a Chinese named Fowqua, to enable him to levy a species of black mail on the native smuggling-boats engaged in the opium-trade. Suspicions were excited; Fowqua was seized by the Chinese authorities and tortured, and he denounced a hundred persons as - being implicated in the enterprise. TIlE BALLAD POETRY OF IRELAND. 107 From the Britannia. Deifys Iris/n Library. The Ballad Poetry of Ire- land. Edited by CHARLES GAVAN PUFFY, Esq. J. Puffy. Dublin. TAKING Mr. Puffys account of the object of this publication, viz., that of vindicating the character of the native ballads of Ireland, the book, although in other respects having many merits, must be considered a failure. Had its object been to select for distribution a number of well-finished and care- fully-polished poetical compositions, breathing in the majority of cases that air of nationality so touch in vogtie with Young Ireland, but not having many of the characteristics, of the real ballad poe- try aettially current in the country, Mr. Puffy would have well performed his task. The popu- lar songs of Ireland, the ballads really sung by the yeomanry and peasantry, have never found a col- lector, nor will Mr. Puffys volume in any degree assist in that object. The popular ballads of all countries suffer only from attempts to refine them, and Mr. Puffy gives us one or two so disguised in improvements as to present a brilliance and gentility similar to that of some of the old ca- thedrals of his country with their Gothic orna- ments brightly glistening under a new coat of whitewash. The Croppy Boy is evidently one of the pieces which have fallen into the hands of the improver; for in Mr. Puffys version the peasant laments very much in the style of a lacka- daisical hero of the Surrey theatre, about being the last of his name and race. (By the way, we should like to know of what name amongst the irish peasantry any individual could boast of being the last, or within ten thousand of the last.) rr~ version of The Croppy Boy really sung in many parts of Ireland is much more characteristic than this. There is nothing, for instance, in Mr. Puffys version to equal the threat of the hero when about to be transported And if I iver live to return agin to home, Oh! I 11 sharpen toy pike upon some orange bone. We have looked for this in vain as well as for the conclusion In New Genayvay this young man died, In Nexv Genayvay this young man lies, All true Roman Catholics, as they pass by, Say the Lord have marcy on your sowle, my croppy boy. Again, although we are presented with a spank new Nation song, entitled The Nameless One, by J. P. Fraser, describing England as this country Is usually described at the Conciliation-hall, there is not in the book any one of the thousand versions of the S/nan Von Vacht, the most poptilar of all the songs of the Irish peasantry, yet there are tauzas in versions of that song of the highest or- der of heroical poetry. The demand about the invasion by the French, for instance What color will they wearl Says the Shan Van Vocht; What color will they wearl Says the Shan Van Yacht. What color should be seen Where our ruined homes have been, But our own immortal green l Says the Shan Van Vocht. The version of The Boyne Water is execrable trash. There is in it scarcely a stanza of the on- ginal version, which might have been obtained in Ulster with very little trouble. We cannot con- ceive where Mr. Puffy heard of the Orangemen singing a version which talks of Venturing over the water. Venturing is about the last word we fancy which would be popular amongst the Orangemen in describing the passage of the Boyne. The por- tion of original version given in the appendix is frequently sung in Ulster, with the exception, we think, of the compliment in the penultimate line to the mercy of James II. A large selectioii might have been made from the multitudes of characteristic Orange ballads which are extant in Ulster commemorating processions and skirmishes as well as matters of greater historical interest; such as a song of The Apprentice Boys, which we remember to have heard, commencing We are the boys that fear no noise, And never will surrender; We shut the gates of Perry walls On the eighteenth of Pecember, & c. The tragedy of The Battle of Aughrim has not fallen into disuse among the Orangemen, as Mr. Puffy fancies. It has the rare merit, which legislative measure nor administration never pos- sessed, of pleasing both Irish parties; and St. Ruth and Saarsfield are frequently made in Ulster barns to speak most exquisite Scotch. Another Irish song, The Wearing of the Green, might have very appropriately found a place here. Ihe original version, (riot Mr. Currans beautiful bal- lad of the sante name,) is one of the most Irish of Irish songs; witness I met Napoleon Bonaparte, He tuk me by the hand; Says he, How is ould Ireland, And how does she stand P She s thin most unhappy countery That you have ever seen For they re hanging men, and women, For the wearing of the green. The only really Irish 500g in the volume is Mr. Lovers Molly Carew. All the others are written in good wholesome Saxon, with Saxon idioms and Saxon images; and but for the local allusions might have been composed anywhere be- tween Berxvick and the Lands End. The follow- ing stanzas, however, reveal their origin in every line Och hone! by the man in the moon, You taze me all ways That a woman can plaze, For you dance twice as high with that thief, Pat Magee, As when you take share of ajig, dear, with mc. Tho the piper I bate, For fear the owld cheat Would nt play you your favorite tune. And when you re at mass, My devotion you crass, For t is thinking of you, I am, Molly Carew. While you wear, on purpose, a bonnet so deep, That I cant at your sweet purty face get a peep. Oh, lave off that bonnet, Or else I 11 lave on it The loss of my wandering sowl Och hone! weirasthru! Och hone! like an owl, Pay is night dear, to me, without you! 108 THE BALLAD POETRY OF IRELAND. Och hone! dont provoke me to do it; For there s girls by the score That loves meand more, And you d look very quare if some morning you d meet My wedding all marching in pride down the strect; Troth, you d open your eyes, And you d die with surprise To think t was nt you was come to it! And faith, Katty Naile, And her cow, I go hail, Would jump if Id say Katty Naile, name the day, And tho you re fair and fresh as a morning in May, While she s short and dark like a cold winters day; Yet if you dont repent Before Easter, when Lent Is over, I 11 marry for spite, Och hone! weirasthru! And when I die for you, My ghost will haunt you every night. By far the finest composition of this collection is the ballad of Willy Gilliland. It relates to the period when the Popish Charles H. was servino the interests of Mother Church with ingenious de- votion, by persecuting the Protestant Church of Scotland in the name of the Protestant Church of England; trying to drive the people out of Preshytery, which he believed to be heresy, into Prelacy, which he equally helieved to he heresy. Willy Gilliland was one of the persecuted fol- lowers of the Covenant, many of whom took refuge in the north of Ireland, after the gallant but un- fortunate fight at Bothwell Brig, and made no un- worthy addition to a population the most deter- mined and warlike in the British empire. The persecution was carried into Ulster, and it is pain- ful to reflect that bishops, known to posterity by lasting monuments of piety and learning, did not hesitate, in those dark days of Protestantism, to countenance the brutal persecution of the Kirk of Scotland Up in the mountain solitudes, and in a rehel ring, He has worshipped God upon the hill, in spite of church and king; And sealed his treason with his blood on Both- well-bridge he hath; So he must fly his fathers land, or he must die the death; For comely Claverhouse has come along with grim Dalzell, And his smoking rooftree testifies they ye done thetr errand well. In vain to fly his enemies he fled his native land; Hot persecution waited him upon the Carrick strand; His name was on the Carrick cross, a price was on his head: A fortune to the man that brings him in, alive or dead! And so on moor and mountain, from the Lagan to the Bann, From house to house, and hill to hill, he lurked an outlawed man. * * * * * His blithe work done, upon a hank the outlaw rested now, And laid the basket from his hack, the bonnet from his brow, And there, his hand upon the Book, his knee upon the sod, He filled the lonely valley with the gladsome word of God~ And for a persecitted kirk, and for her martyrs dear, And against a godless church and king he spoke up loud and clear. * * * I am a houseless outcast; I have neither bed nor hoard, Nor living thing to look upon, nor comfort save the Lord Yet was the good Elijah once in worse extremity; Who succored him in his distress, He now will st]cc(tr me, He now will sttccor me, I krtow; and, by His holy name, Ill make the doers of this deed right dearly rue the same. My bonny mare! Ive ridden you when CIa- ver se rt)de behind And from tite thumbscrew and the boot you bore me like the wind; And, while I have the life yott saved, on your sleek flank, I swear, Episcopalian rowel shall never ruffle hair! Though sword to wield they ye left inc noneye4 \Vallace wigltt, I wis, Good battle did on Irvine side wi waur weapoi than this. * * * * * And now the gates are opened, and forth in gal- lant show Prick jeering grooms and burghers blythe, and troopers in a row. But one has little care for jest, so hard bested is he To ride the outlaws bonny mare, for this at last is she Down comes her master with a roar, her rider with a groan, The iroti and the hickory are through and throttgh him gone! He lies a corpse; and where he sat, the outlaw sits again, And once more to his bonny mare he gives the spur and rein; Then some with sword, and some with gun, they ride and run amain But sword and gun, atid whip and spur, that day they plied in vain! That the whole of this little volume is not Re- peal and Romanist ballads is an unexpected cour- tesy; still it would have been as well to have omit- ted such doggrel as the glorification over the mas- sacre of 1641, entitled Rory OMoore. Besides, the historical introductions are scarcely less than laughable. They tell us, for instance, that the charge of rebellion against Hugh ONiall, in the time of lames I., is now totally dishelieved and that OMoore, one of the assassins of the Brit- ish in 1641, was descended of a chieftain slain at Mullagbmast, a massacre, the story of which was a pure forgery by Mr. OConnel. The book is got up very creditably, and it is much better, even armed with all their poison and falsification, that the Irish should read such hooks than read no- thing. MESMERISM. 109 1. Notes on a few more Trials with the Mesmerists in a second search for clairvoyance, by JOHN FORBES, M.D. 2. Notes on yet another Trial, by JOHN FORBES, M.D. 3. Human Magnetism, by W. NEWNHAM, Esq., M.R.S.L. 4. The & eress of Prevorst, translated from the Ger- man, by Mrs. CROWE. 5. & nambulism, translated from the German, by J. C. COLQUHOUN, Esq., Advocate. 6. Ales risen in Disease, by H. STORER, M.D. 7. A Discussion on MesmerismPhrenology and Mesmerism, translated from the French. WE have had enough of clairvoyance for a whole life; yet nothing in or connected with it has sur- prised us half so much as the patience of Dr. Forbes in his endeavors to arrive at, what he calls, the truthwhich, with us, is only another form of expression for exposing the fraud. tJui bono? What good can result? If ever there was a case that deserved and received respectful attention it was the Tynemouth affair ;that case, thanks to Dr. Forbes and Dr. Brown, was thoroughly sifted: as our readers will rememher there was not one single assertion in Miss Martineans whole statement relating to Jane that was not absolutely disproved by her own witnesses. Did this satisfy Miss Martinean that she had been imposed on? Not a bit of it. Well, here again the doctor favors us with other exposures; one of them so amusingly conclusive that it is worth recording. George Goble, copying clerk to a most respectable gen- tleman in the Temple, (respectable, no doubt respectable gentlemen and ladies are the tools ~vith which knaves work; as the case of St. John Long and other Old Bailey records testify. What indeed is the value of a witness who is not respect- able?) was discovered to have the faculty of clairvoyance. Accordingly, at said respectable gentlemans solicitation, the doctor consented to be present at a private performance, and was, he admits, very much astonished, though a little dis- appointed, at finding that said copying clerk was an old hand at these tricks, and had formerly exhibited in public, under both Mr. Vernon and Mr. Brooks. Georges great feat was seeing through a solid bodyreading a paper placed in a card-case, and so forth. The doctor, having been taken somewhat unawares on this occasion, pro- posed another performance, which was agreed to; and he went the second time, accompanied by Professors Sharpey and Graham. Of course pre- cautions were now taken, and ii attempt was made not only to test Georges power hut his hoti- esty. George, it appeared, when in his mesmeric trance, was accustomed to throw himself about, after a strange fashion, on the sofa, and a suspicion very naturally crossed the doctors mind that, in this way, he contrived to open the card-case and read the writing. Mr. Sharpey therefore took with him a card-case filled with little bits of cork. George, says the doctor, himself proposed that, to do away with all possible suspicion of un- fair play, the card-case should be tied up. Accord- ingly, George himself tied the, card-case, in the common cross-fashion, with red tape, & c. George immediately proceeded to the sofa, and went through all his wonted manoenvres, pressing the case to his forehead, and breathing on it with marvellous energy and unction. lie was evi~ently in better spirits than during the last experiment, and openly expressed his conviction that he should do it this tune. Ihe sub-puivinary moanipula tions were, of course, not forgotten, and were closely watched. After a considerable time, and often-repeated strong action of the hands, percep- tible through the muscles of the arms, some of our party had a glimpse of the card-case, under the edge of the pillow, without its ligature, and of the ligature without its bo ! Soon after, we were struck by the sudden and unusual stillness and tranquillity of George, still prone on his field of action; his hands remained motionless in their hiding place, his head and face buried in his pil- low, and we began to think lie had gone to sleep when lo! we observed him hurriedly and repeat- edly putting his fingers to his mouth, as if placing something therein, arid, almost at the same inn- ment, we observed some small fragments falling on the floor beneath the sofa, and exactly below the place of the pillow! These pri)ved to be frag- ments of corkmost comminuted, but some still bearing the characteristic form and dimensions of those so ingeniously concealed by Dr. Sharpey in his card-case. Seaching under the pillow, we found some more of them, and also detected the hiatus valde deftendus in the sofa, through which they had found their way to the carpet! The case was now clear; although George made one more effort to deceive us by exposing the card-case above the pillow still tied by the tape, and firmally by placing it on the floor beneath his masters foot. But our patience was at last exhausted; we laid hold of the card-case, and anitouncing Georges roguery arid its detection, we forced still more of the unlucky cork-slips from his hands and from his mouth! Poor George was now fairly beaten and he knew it; all his cunning and impudence, and all his magnetism, deserted him at once ; he woke up in the most natural manner iniaginable, without any de-mesmerising process, and with none of that gentle, progressive unlocking of the senses, exhibited on previous occasions; and throw- ing himself on his knees on the ground, in an agony of shame and terror, confessed his roguery, and implored forgiveness! In doing so, however, the meek and penitent George, like all other ha- bitual culprits when detected, of course strenu- ously asserted that this was his first offence. The cui bano is again on our lips. Was the re- spectable gentleman, who desired to seek the truth, and the truth only, convinced? Why he forthwith wrote to Dr. Forbes, that George was not awake when he fell on his knees and made the confessionthat he subsequently axvakerted him in due mesmeric form ! that he awoke in an agony of tears, quite unconscious of what had passed, and remains so at this moment. Now if we were to allow this nonsense to l)R55 as true, how would it affect the question? Was the re- spectable gentleman hiniself, were Dr. Forbes, Professors Graham and Sharpey all in a me~meric trance, when they saw him open the card-case, and found the fragments of cork in his hands, mouth, and on the floor? One word at parting: Pr. Forbes may rest assured that he cannot minister to riminds so diseasedthat respectable gentlemen or ladies, when they have eaten of the insane root, when they have once declared their faith in burn- bug, are beyond the reach of logic; whether equally beyond the reach of medicine ~ve shall not take on ourselves to determine. The attempt, however, to convince them is not without risk. Dr. Forbes has himself startled us by the admis 110 AMERICAN FICTION. sion that reading the words enclosed in these card-cases would at once establish what is called clairvoyance ! Now in all good humor we must observe that there is a lamentable halt in such reasoningthe reading the words enclosed would have proved only that George was a cleverer fellow than the doctor supposed, and able to outwit a doclor and two professors. Why, we have known common conjurors who would have been more than a match for the whole College of Physicians. Athenceum. From the Athenaum. AMERICAN FICTION. Dashes at Life with a Free Pencil. By N. P. WILLIs. 3 vols. Lougman & Co. Twice-told Tales. By NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. Vol II. Boston, Monroe & Co. THAT we have a kindliness for American litera- ture, the readers of the Athenceum need not now be told, and what description thereof finds favor with us, is also known. One Ballad of Cassan- dra Southwick is, in our estimation, worth a library of imitations of Moore and copies of Mrs. Hemans: one Legend of Sleepy Hollow out- weighs all its tellers treasury of graceful recollec- tions of Brereton Hall or the Alhambra: one scrap of Mistress Mary Clavers Rough and Ready Life in the Backwoods, more precious than whole all3ums full of London and Paris fashions or fancies. No offence, then, to the pleasant, dashing style of Mr. Willisno disparagement of his sketches for what they profess to be, if we say that they belong not to our first-class American literature. His dialogue is brilliant, his descriptions careful and clever. But he is wrong (for England at least) in choosing for his scenery the ball-rooms of May- fair, the green grass of the Chiswick Gardens, and the starry firmament of the Opera House. We do not quarrel with him if to his volume these lines might have been, as motto, affixed: When the dream of life, from morn to night, Was Love, still Love ! If his tales are all of susceptible Romeos or selfish Bertrams, and of ladies who kissed through the lattice ; the tender passion gets so ill-treated in these careful days of ours, that we must not cavil at the artist skilled in its windings, if, enamored of his subject, lie treats of it somewhat too frequently. But we should have been grateful for more fruitage and less flowerwork for more characters, and fewer charming phrases. We should have been glad of them, for one selfish rea- son, if ouly as affording us materials for extract. These, as matters stand, are somewhat wanting. Browns day with the Mimpsons is the story of a citizens genteel wife, entertaining unawares an angel of an American, who can command tickets for Almacks. Miss Jones Son is the farce played off by a London diner-out at Stratford- upon-Avon. Ernest Clay, a bundle of lost leaves front the life of a Don Juan. Then there are one or two Chinese talesbut it is not till we come near to the close of the second volume that we have a glimpse of the new country. Some Passages from a Correspondence (probably contributed to one of the American periodicals) contain a few tangible hits, and intelligible hints: e. g. the following town-pictures I took a stroll or two while in Boston; and was struck with the contrast of its physiognomy to that of New York. There is a look (if staid respectability and thrift in everything that strikes the eye in Boston. The drays, carts, oninibuses, and public vehicles, are well horsed and appointed, and driven by respectable-looking meu. The peo- ple are all clad very warmly arid very inelegantly. The face (if every pedestrian in the street h~s a marked errand in itgentlemen holding their nerves to the screw iill they have achieved the object of being out of doors, and ladies undergoing a constitutional to carry out a system. There are IIO individuals in Bostonthey are all classes. It is a cohesive and gregarious town, and half a dozen portraits would give you the entire popula- tion. Every eye in Boston seems to move in its socket with a checka fear of meeting somethiry that may offend itand all heads are carried in a posture of worthy gravity, singularly contagious. It struck me the very loaves in the bakers win- dows had a look of virtuous exaction, to be eaten gravely, if at all. New York seems to me to dif- fer from all this, as a dish of rice, boiled to let every grain fall apart, differs from a pot of mush. Every man you meet with in our city walks with his countenance free of any sense of observation or any dread of his neighbor. He has evidently dressed to please himself, and he looks about with an eye wholly at ease. He is an integer in the throng, untroubled with any influence beyond the risks of personal accident. There is neither restraint nor curiosity in his look, and he neither expects to be noticed by the passers-by, nor to see anything worthy of more than half a glance in the persons he meets. The moving sights of the city have all the same integral and stand-alone charac- ter. The drays, instead of belonging to a company, are each the property of the man who drives it; the hacks and cabs are under no corporate disci- pline, every ragged whip doing as he likes with his own vehicle; and all the smaller trades seem followed by individual impulse, responsible to nothing but police-law. Boston has the advantage in many things, but a man who has any taste for cosmopolitism, would very much prefer New York. * * I strolled up the Broadway between nine and ten, and encountered the morning tide down; and if you never have studied the physiognomy of this great thoroughfare in its various fluxes and refluxes, the differences would amuse you. The clerks and workies have passed down an hour be- fore the nine oclock tide, and the side-walk is filled at this time with hankers, brokers, and specti- lators, bound to Wall street; old merchants and junior partners, bound to Pearl and Water; and lawyers, young and old, bound for Nassau and Pine. Alt, the faces of care! The days o~rera- tions are working out in their eyes; their hats are pitched fiurward at the angle of a stage-coach with all the load on the drivers seat, their shoulders are raised with the shrug of anxiety, their steps are hurried and short, and mortal face and gait could scarcely express a heavier burden of solici- tude than every man seems to hear. They nod to you without a smile, and with a kind of uncoin- scious recognition; and if you are unaccustomed to walk out at that hour, you might fancy that, if there were not some great public calamity, your friends, at least, had done smiling on you. Walk as far as Niblos, stop at the greenhouse there, and breathe an hour in the delicious atmosphere of flowering plants, and then return. There is no longer any particular current in Broadway. For- AMERICAN FICTION. eigners coming out from the caf6s, after their late breakfast, and idling up and down, for fresh air; country people shopping early; ladies going to their dressmakers in close veils and demi-toilets; errand-boys, news-boys, dons, and doctors, make up the throng. Toward twelve oclock there is a sprinkling of mechanics going to dinnera merry, s~~ort-jacketed, independent looking troop, glancing gaily at the women as they Ilass, and disappearing around corners and up alleys, and an hour later Broadway begins to brighten. The omnibuses go along elopty, and at a slow pace, for people would rather walk than ride. The side streets are tribu- taries of silks and velvets, flowers and feathers, to the great thoroughfare; and ladies, whose proper mates (judging by the dress alone) should be lords and princesand dandies, shoppers, and loungers of every description, take crowded possession of the pav6. At nine oclock you look into the troubled faces of men going to their business, and ask yourself to what end is all this burden of care V and at two you gaze on the universal prodi- gality of exterior, and wonder what fills the mul- titude of pockets that pay for it! 1he faces are beautiful, the shops are thronged, the side walks crowded for an hour, and then the full tide turns, and sets upward. The most of those that are out at three are bound to the upper part of the city to dine; and the merchants and lawyers, excited by collision and contest above the depression of care, join, smiling, in the throng. The physiognomy of the crowd is at its brightest. Dinner is the smile of the day to most people, and the hour ap- proaches. Whatever has happened in stocks or politics, whoever is dead, whoever ruined since morning, Broadway is thronged with cheerful faces and good appetites at three! The world will probably dine with l)leasure up to the last day perhaps breakfast with worldly care for the fu- ture on doomsday morning ! To sum up: the realities of these volumes lie in their last forty pages, where a few poems are col- lected. We cannot treat the verses which follow as make-believe. They will have a place among the Poems of the Heart THOUGHTS WHILE MAKING THE GRAVE OF A NEW- BORN CHILD. Room, gentle flowers! my child would pass to heaven! Ye lookd not for her yet with your soft eyes, O watchful ushers at Deaths narrow door! But lo! while you delay to let her forth, Angels, beyond, stay for her! One long kiss From lips all pale with agony, and tears, Wrung after anguish had dried up with fire The eyes that wept them, were the cup of life Held as a welcome to her. Weep! oh mother! But not that from this cup of bitterness A cherub of the sky has turnd away. One look upon thy face ere thou depart! My daughter! It is soon to let thee go My daughter! With thy birth has gushd spring I knew not offilling my heart with tears, And turning with strange tenderness to thee A loveoh God ! it seems sothat must flow Par as thou fleest, and twixt heaven and me, Henceforward, be a bright and yearning chain Drawing me after thee! And so, farewell! T is a harsh world, in which affection knows No place to treasure up its lovd and lost But the foul grave! Thou, who so late wast sleeping Warm in the close fold of a mothers heart, Scarce from her breast a single pulse receiving But it was sent thee with some tender thought, How can I leave theehere! Alas for man The herb in its humility may fall, And waste into the bright a~d genial air, While weby hands that ministerd in life Nothing but love to usare thrust away The earth flung in upon our just cold bosoms, And the warm sunshine trodden out forever! Yet have I chosen for thy grave, my child, A bank where I have lain in summer hours, And thought 110w little it would seem like death To sleep amid such loveliness. The brook, Tripping with laughter down the rocky steps That lead tip to thy bed, would still trip on, Breaking the dead hush of the mourners gone The birds are never silent that build here, Trying to sing down the more vocal waters: The slope is beautiful with moss and flowers, And far below, seen under arching leaves, Glitters the warm sun on the village spire, Pointing the living after thee. And this Seems like a comfort; and, replacing now The flowers that have made room for thee, I go To whisper the same peace to her who lies Robbd of her child, and lonely. T is the work Of many a dark hour and of many a prayer, To bring the heart. back from an infant gone. Hope must give oer, and busy fancy blot The images from all the silent rooms, And every sight and sound familiar to her Undo its sweetest linkand so at last The fountainthat once struck, must flow forever, Will bide and waste in silence. When the smile Steals to her pallid lip again, and spring Wakens the buds above thee, we will come, And, standing by thy music-haunted grave, Look on each other cheerfully, and say, A child that we have iovd is gone to heaven, And by this gate of flowers she passd away! And now, a word of friendly welcome to Mr. Hawthorne. We have already so often expressed our pleasure in his gem-like tales (being the first, we believe, to recommend them to the notice of En rrlish tale-readers)that none, we apprehend, will mistake for covert censure the recomutenda- tion we must now give him on the appearance of this second volumeto beware of monotony. We do not say this because he chiefly loves the by- gone times of New Englandnor, because of his maumfest propensity towards the spiritual and supernatural (few since Sir Walter Scott telling a ghost-story so gravely well as Mr. Haw- thorne) ; and we love the dreamy vein of specula- tion in which he indulges, when it is natural ; not entered dramatically and of good set purpose by those who think that mohled queen is good, and fantasy a taking device to entertain and engage an audience. But we comiceive our author to be a retired and timid man, who only plays on his two, strings because be lacks courage or energy to. master a third. We have thus given him the sup-. port of friendly counsel, and have only to observe~ that his second volume of Twice-told Tales~ would be equal to his first, were it not too closely like it. 111 BRITISH COMBiNATION AGAINST THE AMERICAN UNION. From the Spectator. BRITISH COMBINATION AGAINST THE AMERI CAN UNION. THE Reverend Henry C. Wrights reclamation against, our comments on his call upon the people of Britain to combine for the dissolution of the American Uni n a previous page,) that no on, (printed contains argument: his letter is mere assertion he thinks thus and wills thus, and assump- tion that his dicta are the dicta of Christianity. Though it is not easy from so illogical and de- clainatory a piece of composition to gather with certainty what the positions are that the writer intends to maintain, they appear to he thesethat every government which tolerates slavery ought to be put down; that a citizen of that government ci)mbinii)g with foreigners to put it down incurs no moral culpability; and that governments can be put down by mere talking, without force or bloodshed. Every government that tolerates slavery ought tu be put down.So long as men confine them- selves to abstractions, ther~ is scarcely any propo- sition, however practically mischievous, that may not be made plausible. Let this axiom be applied to a specific case; for example, the United States. The constitution of the Union is far from perfect, but this at least niay without exaggeration be said in its favor: It has been, (except in occ4sional moments of excitement, which will occur in all countries,) found sufficient to enforce the neces- sary regulations of internal police, and to enable every man to enjoy his property in tranquillity; it has hitherto sufficed to protect the nation from external aggression ; tinder and through its foster- ing influence, literature and science have flour- ished, and education has been widely dissemi- nated; a rare spirit of energy and enterprise has been developed among the citizens. These are no mean blessings to owe to a frame of government: and on the other hand, it must be consideredif this government be put down, what other can be established in its place? The constitution of the United States has been a necessary emanation of the society out of and for which it was framed; no such constitution as Franklin, or Washington, or Hamilton could have wished, but such as the ma- terials t.hey had to work upon enabled them to put together. If Mr. Wright had it in his power to dissolve the Union to-morrow, he could not guar- antec the substitution of any other government. Defacto, then, his cry for its dissolntion is, in plain English, Cast to the winds all the benefits we derive from our existing frame of government, in order to get rid of an oppressive anomaly which is confined to a portion of the Union, and even there leaves a lar~e enjoyment of these advantages. Mr. Wright would deal with governments as the mniralists of the reign of George the Third with menthey could devise no means to prevent stetal- ing but the gallows; he can devise no means to reform one bad institution but the breaking up of the whole social compact. The citizen of a government tainted with slave institutions may combine with foreigners toput down that government. This vague generality must also be tried by the test of a special applica- tion. If true, the American Abolitionist may in- nocently combine with foreigners to compel his fellow-citizens to alter their institutions. Mr. Wright, when he attempts to argue, shrinks from this broad application of his own principle. He says he knows the sensitiveness of American slaveholders to the moral and religious senti- ment of mankind. If they are so sensitive, an apl)eal from this country against slaveholding might possibly have some effect; but an appeal from this country to another portion of the Union to dissolve the established government would not carry with it the general sentiments of mankind, and would raise resistance instead of shame. Mr. Wright deals in ambiguities: he reconimends a combination of foreigners to dissolve the Union; he advances one argument to prove that foreigners may usefully express their reprobation of a specific law of the tTnion ; and then he mainlains that lie has proved his case. He has said nothing t~ prove that foreigners are competent to decide on the best frame of government for a nation ; and, having failed in this, he has not shown that any- thing but evil can come out of their intermeddliii The sentiment of nationality rests upon and strengthens a principle of reason. The maxim that foreigners ought not to meddle wimla the, inter- nal politics of any state, has, like every sotind principle of government, been adopted from a con viction of its utility. If the men who live under a government and feel its pressure do not know how to better themselves, what chance is there that men at a distance, unacquainted with all its de- tails, shall be able to accomplish the task? Be- sides, once admit the primiciple that foreigners may combine to alter the constitution of a state because they disapprove of one of its laws or institutions, where are we to stop? The Russian may com- bine to dissolve the Union because lie disapproves nif its want of an emperor; the A merican to revo- lutionize England because he thinks monarchy an evil. Under the specious pretext of refbrm, the old bad system, (not yet entirely abolished,) of each government supporting underk nd the politi- cal minorities of neighbor states, in order to keep their rulers busy at home, would revive with fresh vigor. Governments can be put down by mere talk- ing, without bloodshed.To call Mr. Wrights flourish about Christian and bloodless means mere verbiage, implied no doubt of the power of Christian principle, if he can so convince the reason and mould the sentiments of individuals as to make real Christians of them, of course they will relinquish slaveholding and all other bad practices. But this is not what he proposes. He calls upon others to combine to force the slave- holders to adopt a policy which their own convic- tions do not dispose them to adopt. The course he proposes aims not at conviction, but at compul- sion. It is true that few reforms have been ac- c?mpl ished by convincing governments; compul- sion, either by actual violence or a demonstration of superior force, has been required : and while even partial reforms have required to be so ex- torted, entire revolutionsand the proposal to dis- solve the American Union contemplates nothing lesshave only been accomplished by actual force and bloodshed. Mr. Wright says he will not notice our personal allusions to himself: it would be difficult to notice allusions that were never made. Of Mr. Wright we know iiothing; and we spoke only of the class to which he either belongs already or is ambitious of belonging. Our remarks had no other object than the exposure of false and mischievous poli~ tics; the assertion of the sound doctrine that com- binations act and do not teach; and that each na 112 NEW LOCOMOTIVE AGENCYSUBLIME, AND SOMETHING MORE. tion is the best and ought to be the sole judge of the form of government most conducive to its peace and prosperity. The most immediate prac- tical application of this doctrine is, that such of our own countrymen as are kept restless by an uneasy redundance of philanthropic sentiment will find enough of wrong to redress and suffering to remove in our own communitywithin the sphere of their own knowledge; and that by setting out Quixote fashion on a crusade against oppression in America, they are more likely to do harm than good, by meddling with matters they can but im- perfectly understand. NEW LOCOMOTIVE AGENCY A letter from Philadelphia, published in the M6morial de Rouen, has the following : William Evans has resolved a problem, which must overturn our present sys- tem of railway and steamboat propulsion. By means of enormous compression, he has succeeded in liquefying atmospheric air and then, a few drops only of some chemical composition, poured into it, suffice to make it resume its original vol- ume with an elastic force quite prodigious. An experiment, on a large scale, has just been made. A train of twenty loaded wagons was transmit- ted a distance of sixty miles, in less than an hour and a quarterthe whole motive power being the liquid air inclosed in a vessel of two gallons and a half measure; into which fell, drop hy drop, and from minute to minute, the chemical composition in question. Already, subscriptions are abundant, and a society is in course of formation. The in- ventor declares, that an ordinary packet-boat may make the passage from Philadelphia to Havre in eight days, carrying a ton of his liquid air. A steam engine, of six-horse power, will produce that quantity in eight hours.According, then, to this project, and another referred to elsewhere in our columns, we are to correspond with Amer- ica in an hour, and reach it in a week! On this new solution of the theory of motion by expansion, the Journal des D& ~ats has some remarks, which we will adopt : This account of the liquefaction of atmospheric air, given in a private letter, the source of which is but vaguely indicated, seems to need the authentic confirmation of the American journalsand at any rate of details somewhat more circumstantial. Not that the fact is theo- retically impossible; all known experiments on the compression of air tending to establish the proba- bility of its liquefaction. But one cannot help asking under what intensity of force it has been producedwhether the agent be a steam-engine, or any other compelling power l Carbonic gas has been liquefied, under a pressure of thirty atmo- spheres, and solidified in the form of ice, under the pressure of forty. But that gas is denser and heavier than airits constituent atoms more close, and consequently more easy of condensation. Al- ready, both in England and France, conclusive ex- periments have been made as to the possibility of propelling trains by the expansive force of com- pressed air; the objection and difficulty consists in the necessity of establishing steam, or other en- gines, at repeated distances, to fill with compressed or liquefied air the recipients destined to be placed on the locomotives instead of the steam-cylinder. That cost and difficulty have, hitherto, prevented the application of the system of compressed air. It is greatly to be desired, then, that the problem in question may have been solved in America; but we must have more full and sure particulars before the scientific or manufacturing world can venture to believe it. What ~eems more extraor- dinary than the liquefaction itself, is the assertion that this air can be contained in a cask, like any other liquidknowing as we do that it can only be maintained, in that state, in recipients of extra- ordinary resistance. Our readers will remember the accident which happened in Paris, at the School of Pharmacy, on the occasion of the lique- faction of carbonic gas. A metallic cylinder of great thickness, which had, two or three times previously, resisted the same experiment, sudden- ly exploded; when one of the operators was killed, and several of the assistants were wounded. Now, air has a resisting and elastic force far greater than that of carbonic acid. Neither is the neces- sity intelligible of that drop of a nameless chemi- cal agent, for the purpose of restoring to the air its expansive action ; since, for that purpose, it will suffice to open it an issueunless, indeed, it is pretended to reduce the air to the condition of a permanent liquidand that no natural philoso- pher will believe, till he has seen it.Athena?um. SUBLIME, AND SOMETHING MOaE. IT is amusing, when the over-righteous are sur- prised into the very offence which they rebuke. Nothing pleases an audience at the play better than the prude detected in a levity, the ascetic in a fit of tipsiness, Joseph Surface with the little French milliner behind the screen. When the Reverend Mr. Richards talks of adultery and other sins, of which we are all guilty, one begs him to speak for himself: but, no doubt, we have all trespassed, we all have owned a grudge against some solemn lecturer on our erroneous little sallies and sweet is the revenge of seein~ him stumble. A pleasant instance occurred at an assize-town lately. A Mr. William Taylor, who, it seems, unites in his own person arts and commerce, was witness in a case before Mr. Justice Cressvvell. When he entered the witness-box, he was asked the usual question, What are you ? He answered, that he was a painter; and, being landlord of a public house, he added, that he was also a pub- lican and sinner. Perhaps he thought his devo- tion to lucre in such a channel rather derogatory to the higher art, and therefore disguised his reply in that facetious form. But his pleasantry could not be tolerated : the awful voice of Justice cried from the bench, What doyou say you are? The smile died away on Mr. Taylors lipspale- ness and blushes strove for the empire over his humorous hut humbled countenance, as ho repeat- ed the now distasteful and melancholy joke, A publican and sinner. The thoughtless audience had laughed before; but now the words fell in the midst of a stern silence. What must have been their surprise when the judge rejoined But we must prepare the reader for the rejoin- der. There is a word never uttered to ears polite save by the licentious poets. Even they some- times veil it, like the decorously prosy, in peri- phrasis or equivoque; as where Shakspeare, a very profane writer, makes the ghost in Hamlet say, I am forbidden to tell tile secrets of the prison-house. But often this writer is less dis- creet, and writes the word outright ; as where he makes Richard of Gloucester say, iDown, down to hell, and say I sent thee there. Indeed, he 113 114 ~SITE-REFUSING ~ THE CROSS IS BENDING. uses that word so often, that the references to it in Mrs. Cowden Clarkes closely-packed Concord- ance to Shakspecre occupy an octavo column and a half!one hundred and fifty-one times does it occur, as Mrs. Cowden Clarke records; to say nothing of the passage in which the word is dis- guised as prison-house. In common parlance, we (taking the we in Mr. Richards compre- hensive and impersonal sense) use some different word for disguise ; saying, for instance, if some insolent companion utters a niaiserie, Go to Bath. Now, when Mr. Taylor faltered, the second time, that he was a publican and sinner, Mr. Justice Cresswellwhat he meant we leave the reader to guess, only repeating his wordstre- mendous Justice Cresswell exclaimed, If you hegin your evidence in that manner, I will send you to a place appointed for sinners! Spectator. ~SITE-REFUSING.~~ LIKE that Yankee who challenged his foe to walk off the Exchange at New York arm-in-arm, the Free Church of Scotland has rushed into a suicidally false position, and has provoked the landlords to do the same. The church requires sites for buildings devoted to its worship: a rea- sonable enough demand, but it is so put as in- evitably to provoke refusal. It is put as a kind of divine right, to he allowed under pain of denun- ciation for impious tyrannya sort of excommu- nication or moral outlawry ; and, possessing some share of spirit, the Scotch landlords withhold obe- dience from a body whose divine right they can- not possibly recognize. For the Presbyterians among the landlords, excepting the comparatively few who have gone with the Secession, must needs regard the Free Church as having with- drawn from the body that is really the depository of divine Kuthority, and as having therefore re- linquished its divine right; while the Episcopa- lians will be still more apt to regard the Free peo- ple as schismatic stragglers from the Catholic Christian Church. Practically inconvenienced by the refusal, and still more exasperated by the denial of authority in such a matter, the Free Church appeals to the state to sustain its right. The claim is one that it would be dangerous and inconsistent for the state to enforce. A well-ordered state will hes- itate before it snatch from the subject his private property on any score, but still more when it is not asked for state purposes. For when the Scotch Free Church withdrew from its connexion with the state, it voluntarily hecame less a public than a private body; relinquishing prerogative as well as stipend. That private body, a congre- gation of Presbyterian Dissenters, demands a piece of land, to purchase; the landowner refuses to sell ; and for the state to interfere, rendering the will of one private interest absolute against another, would be to sanction a principle not ad- mitted into our political system. The landlord perhaps is unreasonable in refusal; but he has the rrrright to do it , and the law is superior to Queen, Lords, and Commons. If, indeed, the Free Church allege that such a law is bad, and that it is better for all to retain a common interest in the land, much may be said in support of such a theory: but then, it must not deal denunciation against Communists and Fourierists; f& r other theories necessarily follow the admission of that theories far wilder than Chartism. To recog- nize its plea would be revolution. On the other hand, it is true that congregations stand and worship in the open air because lhey have not churches to cover their heads. It is true that the followers of that faith cannot obtain for their ark an abode upon the land. Their irri- tation at the slight put upon their religious class a slight personally felt, and most keenlyborrows enthusiasm and justification froni their sacred vo- cation, and their rage becomes a holy furor. There they stand, whole congregations, in trouble, hurt and angered, suffering in the name of their faith. Such men, whether they mean it or not, are revolutionists. And accordingly, the languagr~ of the Free Church leaders is that of revolulion. It is a language held by a large part of the Scot- tish people. That is surely not a safe state of things. If, therefore, their demand is one which it is not safe to enforce with the power of the state, so neither is it one which it is safe to refuse. And the landlords, forming the class of all others most interested in the peace of the country, and, from their education and power, the class most morally responsible for the peace, seem to be awakening to the hazard of their antagonist position. They are beginning to feel the force of the maxim utter- ed to quarrelling children, that the most sensible always gives up first.Spectator, 6 Sept. From a~ Irish Paper. ~THE CROSS IS BENDING. THE following ideas were suggested to my mind by a friend reciting a passage in a speech delivered ata Wesleyan Missionary meeting, by Mr. Dixon, of Sheffield. The passage alluded to was founded on an Eastern opinion, that as midnight passes, the sign (or constellation in the heavens) called the cross, inclines toward the earth. Mr. D. took occasion to apply it in a very beautiful manner to the state of the heathen world, showing that there are various indications of the midnight of heathen- ism having already passed, the cross becoming more conspicuous through the instrumentality of missionary labor, or, to carry out the figure, bend- ing toward them. While I acknowledge the source when I ubtaine~l the idea, I must remar~t that I have taken the liberty of applying it in an experimental way to the various circumstances of the Christian. A traveller in eastern climes Pursued his course oer deserts dreary, His way he knew not, nor the time Of night; and he was faint and weary. He turned him to his Moslem guide, And asked the hour, the sign portending; Be of good cheer, the Turk replied, For midnight~s past the cross is bending. And am I not a traveller too, Oer deserts drear my course pursuing, Till I the better country view, And mount above earths burning ruin l And have I not a guide to tell The hour, while onward I am tending In deepest gloom to cry, All s well; Midnight is pastthe cross is bending l O yes! I still am travelling on From earth to heaven my pathway steering, THE SPIRIT TRYST. 115 With scarce a star to gaze upon No sound of comfort ever hearing, Save when my souls True Light I see, And hear His voice from heaven descending, Hold on thy way, and trust in me; Thy midnight s pastthe cross is bending. Whereer I turn my eye abroad, And see a world in Satan lying, The wise by wisdom know not God, The foolish in their folly dying My heart is pained, and bleeds to see Mans fallen race to ruin tending; Till faith, believing prophecy, Cries, Midnight s pastthe cross is bending. When earthly cares my breast invade, And cloud my anxious brow with sorrow, I cling to hope, but half afraid To think upon the coming morrow; I turn me to my heavenly Guide, And on his counsel still depending, Trust in his love ; am satisfied That Midnight s pastthe cross is bending. When forced to part from those most dear, And roam oer earth a hapless stranger, Lifes nomejous ills alone to bear, Inured to toil, and pain, and danger; When unbelief cries out, Give up The figlitt is all in vain contending ; Jesus sweet voice inspires the hope That Midnight ~ pastthe cross is bending. When conscious of my natures guilt, My soul feels bowed beneath the burden, I look to him whose blood was spilt On Calvarys cross to buy my pardon: On Calvary s blood-stained cross I see Mercy with justice sweetly blending; That sight, my soul! proclams to thee, Thy midnight s pastthe cross is bending. And if, when lifes last pulses beat, And flesh and heart are fast decaying, And Satans rage doth sore beset, I can but hear my Saviour saying As thy day is thy strength shall be; One struggle more, and all is ended My soul from sin and suffering free, Shall shout, Nights pastthe cross bath bended. A COMMERCIAL TRAVELLER. Redditch, Worcestershire, May, 1844. From Frasers Magazine. RHYMES OF THE SCOTTISH HIGHLANDS.THE SPIRIT TRYST. HAIJO off, hand off your hands, Jeanie, I canna bide at hame; And wha wad miss me frae the warld The last o Tullochs name I I haena kith nor friend, Jeanie, Except it be yousel; I canna win the bread I eat, I am sae sma and frail. My hand is weak to shear, Jeanie, My foot is weak to fauld, A sickly bairn, and motherless, And barely twelve year auld. Ye maunna hand me back, J~anie, Frae ganging out the nicht, Ye dinna ken wha cam to me Yestreen at gloamin licht. A wee bit lamb had faan, Jeanie, And slippit i the burn, Sae in my breast I carried it, A shiverin through Glen Dearn; When by the Drumlie Linn, Jeanie, My mother stoppd my way, I droppd the lammie to my feet, I clean forgot to pray. Wi grand and solemn mien, Jeanie, She waved her arm to me, I kennd it was my mothers sel By the love was in her ee. She waved her arm to me, Jeanie, Syne faded into air; Gin ye sold chain rue to the hearth, I must and shall be there. Then dinna baud m~ back, Jeanie, Ye canna thwart my fate, The spirit that appoints xvi man Will find him sune or late. Young Jeanie sighed to hear her speak, But sought her mood to turn, And aye she daffed and dawted her To keep her frae Glen Dearn; And aye she tauld her blythest tale, And sang her blythest sang, To wile awa the midnicht hours 1he midnicht hours sae lang. But she has closed her weary ee, For fast the lassies fled, Her coats up-kilted to her knee, Her plaid about her bead. And fast did Jeanie follow her, But a pursuit was vain; The lassie to the spirit tryst Alang the burn has gane. Sair feard was Jeanie for the tryst, Sair feard was she to turn, She waited on a licbtsoine field, Abune the dark Glen Dearn. A lichtsome field of fragrant hay, Fresh heapd beneath the moon, Where she had lilted a the day, The lang, bricht day o June. The burnie, like a petted bairn, Lay whimperin in its bed; A hapt about wi sloes and fern, Wi rowans archd oerhead. It was an eerie place by day, An eerier place by nicht; The Drumlin Lion, sae chilly gray, Was never glad wi licht. Now while she lookd, and while she list, On you hayfield abune, A cauld wind took her cre she x4ist, A cloud oerlap the moon. And frae the burn a sound arose, 0 waefu water wraith, Like widow mournin in her woes, Or captive in his death. 116 IBRAHIM. Puir Jeanie signed the holy cross, That waefu sound to hear; And a the trees began to toss Their shudderin arms for fear. Then moving in the black ravine, Appeard twa yellow lichts, Sic as on marshes cheat the een, And scare the herd o nichts. The yellow lichts gaed ower the burn, And up the rowan brae, They didna miss a single turn Of a the trodden way. By mony a siller-footed birk, Oer ti]fts o heather sward, They flitted past the solemn kirk, Intill the green kirkyard. They stoppd beside a mossy mound That heaved oer Mhairis mother; And then within the damp cold ground Did vanish, one and other. And loudly did the burnie shriek, And loudly roared the blast And upon Jeanies pallid cheek The blinding rain fell fast. Oh, fearfullie she turnd her hame, Sae drookit, cauld, and wae, Nor sleep upon her eyelids came Until the break o day! Nor lang she slept when by her bed A voice o sadness cried And when she raised her aching head, Pale Mhairi stood beside. I hae kept the spirit tryst, Jenaie I hae seen my mothers face; She met at the haunted hour, And at the haunted place. I wasna feard to look, Jeanie, She seemd sae new frae heaven; Her words o mournfu tenderness, For ill were never given She said, This life is vain, Mhairi, And griefs await my child; And gin ye were as snow is pure, As snow yed be defiled. Oh, sleep wi me at rest, Mhairi! Wi that she took my hand Ye shanna see the levin-cloud Shoot death upon the land. Ye shanna see the tears, Mhairi, And bluid fa doon thegither: Ye shanna hear the coronach Upon the blasted heather. Wi that she let me gae, Jeanie, I fell in deepest swound, And when I waked the sun was high, And weet wi rain the ground. The wrist she held is black, Jeanie, As lvi an iron grasp; I didna feel she hurted me, It was a mothers clasp. Ye see she cas me hame, Jeanie, I am content to gang, A thing sae feckless i the warld, Was never sent for lang. I hae na walth o gear, Jeanie, To will for love o thee, I haena but my mothers cross, 0 carvdd ebonie. Oh, wear that carv~d cross, Jeanie! Ill spirits aye twill chase, T will join your kindly thochts o me To thochts o heavenlie grace. And cover me in the mools, Jeanie, Frae the cauld, and frae the care. The lassie sighed, and laid her doon, And word spake never mair. The bonnie bairn sae early taen, Was dear to a the lave; There never went a sadder train, Than bore her to her grave. Slow, slo~v they went across the burn, And up the rowan brae, They didna miss a single turn Of a the trodden way. By mony a sillerfooted birk, Oer tufts of heather sxvard, They bore her past the solemn kirk, Intill the green kirk-yard. They stopped beside a mossy mound That heaved oer Mhairis mother, They laid the lassie in the ground, To sleep, the one wi other. But Jeanie lived to see the strife Of the Stewarts dying blow, A childless and a widowed wife, To weep Cullodens woe. IBRAiiist.Among the multitude of royal and re- markable men whom peace and its facilities, have brought as visitors to our sea-girdled, but no longer sea-locked, island, few will have excited more interest and curiosity h~ n the soldier, Ibrahimwhose sword helped to cut off a horn of the Crescent, and from its monstrous cantle to carve out an empire fur that half-sage half-savage, Mehemet Ali. Ibrahiin, the hero of a hundred tales, is one of those men whose place in the imagination of the looker-on from afar is not reckoned by the number of his tails. No doubt, the scenery of his exploits helps the singular impres- sion which he makes. With Egypt and Syria for his back-around, his figure, like his fathers, stands in a strange and mysterious relief. His banner waves in the shadow of a darker desert than even war can make, and his march to modern empire is over the graves of empires past. Ages look down, from the pyramid, on the infant sovereignty, to repeat the mag- nificent figure of Napoleon, and the sword of the Pacha is helping to solve the riddle of the Sphynx. Mehemet, himself is like one standing between the living and the dead. Slowly and wearily, do what he will, dawns up over the ruins, moral and natural, of a perished world, the new civilization. Amid its faint and fitful efforts, he is, himself, like Janus, with two aspects-now looking over to Europe, and catch- ing its light upon his facenow turning back to the wilderness, and hiding his features in the gloom of the barbarian past. It is felt,by all men, that the empire which his race have won, and are winning, has been, and has to be, wrested as much from the desert as from the TurkThe health of this prince has been, for some time, failing; and his malady, thounh not understood to be dangerous, is attended with much suffering. Accordingly, he is sent from the Abanas amid Pliarpars of the East, to seek a far Jordan in Italy ;and after passing the winier at the waters of Tuscany ,~ intends, it is said, to visit us, in the spring. He will be an object of great attraction amongst us, we doubt notin spite of some of his deeds, and because of othersunless Mehemet, him- self, or the Grand Turk comes over, to make a diver- sion.Athea~um. JOURNALS OF EXPEDITIONS OF DISCOVERY IN AUSTRALIA. ii? EYRE S JOURNALS OF EXPEDITIONS OF DIS COVERY IN AUSTRALIAA~ THERE are, correctly speaking, two works in these volumes. The Journals of the Expeditions and the notes on the Manners and Customs of the Aborigines treat of different subjects, and in a different manner: the chapters are also separately numbered. They require to be considered apart. The Journals of the Expeditions possess a hu- man interest, in which the works of recent trav- ellers, overlaid with an ostentatious display of learning or science, are rather deficient. The author tells a plain unvarnished tale: he does not seek to obtrude his own person, or to magnify or embellish his exploits and adventures. But his nar- rative of what he did and overcame is more like the stirring stories of Park and Bruce than the tame and bookish diffuseness of modern travellers. Mr. Eyre, as the title-page informs us, was sent out by his fellow-colonists with the sanction of the local government. But the direction of the expe- dition was fixed in accordance with his representa- tions. Having travelled repeatedly over-land from Liverpool Plains to Adelaide and from Sydney to Port Philip and Adelaide, penetrated further north from Adelaide in a direct line than any previous explorer, and examined a considerable part of Western Australia, Mr. Byre had come to the conclusion that most light would be thrown on the conformation of the Australian continent by a jour- ney to its centre, and that Adelaide was the most favorable starting-point for an expedition having that olsject in view. His energetic advocacy of such an enterprise diverted the attention of the colonists from another expedition on which they were earnestly bent. lie was appointed to com- mand a party despatched to plant the I3ritish flag in the centre of Australia, and if possible to cross thence to Port Essington. Mr. Eyre devoted himself and his property to the task. lie broke up his station and of the whole money raised to fit out the expeditiona large sum for so young a settlementone half was paid out of his own pocket. In the prosecution of the enterprise, Mr. Eyre showed that the enthusiasm which had spurred him on to undertake it was combined with judicious foresight, and with an impassioned perseverance, which grew more earnest and resolute as obsta- cles and hindrances gathered round him. it is from his simple, unostentatious statement of what was done and suffered, that we gather this. He tnrned his steps at first to the north. The country immediately to the north of the head of Spencers Golf he found even more desolate than was antici- pated; and his progress in that direction was effect- ually checked at six degrees of latitude north from Adelaide, by the anomalous crescent-formed de- pression of the earths surface, filled apparently with sludge, to which the name of Lake Torrens has been given. The peninsula hemmed in by this Syrtis of modern Australia xvas explored by Mr. Eyre with patient energy. Moving his party successively to those points where water and grass could be obtained, he took upon himself the part * Journals of Expeditions of Discovery into Central Australia, and Over-land from Adelaide to King Georges Sound, in the -ears 1840-I, sent t)y the Colonists of South Australia, with the sanction and so p port of the Govern- ment including an Account of the Manners and Customs of the AhoriAnes and the State of their Relations with Europeans. By Edward John Eyre, Resident Magistrate, Murray River. of pioneer; and, accompanied only by a native boy, explored the waste hundreds of miles ahead of him on every side, being sometimes weeks away front his companions. Finding advance in this direction impossible, he crossed the peninsula behind Port Lincoln, with a view to advance west - ward along the coast and penetrate inland at the first practicable opening. As he held (41 this course, the information of the natives that no water or trees were to be found inland, corroborated by the burning winds that came from the north-east. convinced him that an Australian Sahara wa. interposed between him and the point he wished to reach. Thrice he attempted to tuin the heed of the great Australian ilight ; nod thrice the desert and sultry region drove him back, xvitli the loss of his best horses. At last lie succeeded but, from the character of the country beyoiid hini, it was evident that the party -with its drays could not penetrate it. iDeterniined not to return to Adelaide a baffled man, yet equally resolute not to endanger others unnecessarily, he sent back to the colony the whole of his companions except three native lads who might be supposed familiar xviii such a country, and his faithful overseer, and pre- pared to push onwards to King Georges Sound. It is obvious that when his companions carried this intelligence to Adelaide, the governor and all the colonists regarded the project as conceived in the phrensy of disappointed ambition. With the gen- erous humanity which animates Governor Gawler, Mr. Scott was despatched in the government cot- ter to convey to Mr. Eyre expressions of We fellow-colonists conviction that he had done all that man could do, and to entreat him not to throv away his life. But it is characteristic of Mr. Byte. that resolutions of xxhichu most men would only he capable under strong excitement, are with him adopted in cool blood and by calculation. He had made an estimate of his own forces aiid of the ol)stacles in the way; and the event proved, that in coming to the conclusion he could overcome them. he had not overvalued himself. With his reduced train he pushed onwards. They had to pass over tracts in which no water and only scanty supplies of dry withered grass were to be found for hun- dreds tif milesand the season was midsonimer, within six degrees of the tropic. His oversee - wavered, but Mr. Byre never quailed. IJnxvhole- some food brought on alarming sickness; his only civilized attendant was niurdered by two of his native attendants, and they carried off most of the fire-arms; the faith of the reInaining native was more than questionable: st-ill Mr. Eyre held on undaunted. His ciiurage and self-possession cotii- manded success. In Rossiter Bay, he was received with (hisiliteresied and unbounded hospitality by the captain of a French whaler; who, apprehensive of a war between his country and oursfor even to those distant regions the reckless intrigues of Thiiers and Palmerston had carried alarmen- treated, as the sole expression of Mr. Byres gratitude, that when he reached the English set- tlements he would not niention that there was a French whaler off the coast. Reinvigorated by the kindness and liberality of Captaiii Rossiter, Mr. Eyre, with his native attendant, reached King Georges Souiid with comparative ease, and there terminated a journey of a thousatid miles along an inhospitable and almost inaccessible coastthe last perilous adventure, the climax of the privations of a years wandering in the deserts of Australia. The observatiutis made by Mr. Eyre in the dar 118 JOURNALS OF EXPEDITIONS OF DISCOVERY IN AUSTRALIA. ing jdurney afford grounds for hope that the jute- nor of the mysterious continent he skirted will soon he unveiled. The journeys of Oxlcy, Sturt, Cunningham, and Mitchell, have made us familiar with the south-east corner of Australia, and the e(lges of the desert which seems to separate it from the interior. Governor Greys examination of the west and north-west coasts has revealed the ~1most impossibility of penetrating from that side. The want of a settlement as a point dappui on ihe north or north-east coast forbids the hope of ;~nything being speedily accomplished from that qearter. In so far as mere distance is concerned, Adelaide is unquestionably the most favorable tarting-point for an advance into the interior; and ~{r. Eyre, hy his pertinacious effirts to penetrate Ia the northward, and hy the perseverance with which he has prowled alonE the edge of the desert to the east and to the west in search of an open- ing, has collected such indications as denote almost with certainty the points whence it is possihle to advance, and the character of the country beyond. Lake Torrens appears to he impassable; and thus five degrees of latitude are hermetically sealed. Between the Darling and the eastern extremity of this mass of sludge, there appears the apex of a rising country, over which it may he possible to pass northward; and this route is at present ex- plored hy Captain Sturt, the father of Australian discovery, the generous promoter of the views of Mr. Eyre. From the western extremity of Lake Torrens to the western side of the Great Bight a distance of eight degrees of longitudethe reports of the natives, and the hoJ~ suffocating north-east winds, indicate a belt of low arid des- ert between the coast and the interior. But to the westward of this unpromising region, the appear- ance of flocks of fat parrots, the direction of the storms, and cold hreezes from the north-east, indi- cate an elevated and not unfertile region. Expe- ditions landing on the neighborhood of Cape Arid would have a fair prospect of heing ahle to turn the flank of the desert on the west; as Captain Sturt, hy the latest intelligence, appears to he in a fair way of turning it on the east; and thus reasonable hopes are held out that an availahle interior will he discovered. Any vessel employed to land the exploring party about Cape Arid would nd anchorage, plenty of fish, fresh water, and fire-wood, with a soil and climate favorable to the formation of gardens, ahout Rossiter Bay. By an exhaustive process Mr. Eyre has shown all the points at which the continent cannot be penetrated; a most important though too often an undervalued service. The interest of Mr. Eyres book is not exclu- sively derived from the personal adventures of which it is a narrative. The same charm certainly does not attach to the deserts of Australia as to the daserts of Africa and Asia, in themselves equally repulsive. There is no human interest attaching to Australia. The hearsay notices hy Ilerodotus and the Arahs of the middle ages, of cities and wealth lying beyond the Sahara, lent to the exploration of that waste the charm of solving a riddle; and every baffled traveller lost in the desert, or returning successless, heightened the eagerness to unriddle it. The remains of pillared temples and cities on the edges of the deserts of Meroe and Persia, the history of Cyrus and Alex- ander the Great, nay, the legends of Mandeville and the Arahian Nights F threw he color of imagination over the wastes of Eastern Africa, the high a rid salt-plains of Media, and the low sultry salt-plains of Turkistan. But Austra- lia has for us no history and no traditions, and its few straggling aboriginal tribes are in too low a stage of civilization to awaken spontaneous sym- pathy. Still, natural phenomena and traits of human character did present themselves to our traveller, which heighten the interest of his pages. But the striking scenery and natural phenomena of the country traversed, it must he confessed, arc more interesting than the inhabitants. Mr. Eyre, who for old acquaintance-sake is attached to the latter, argues hard to raise them in our estimation and it must he admitted that he makes out an ingenious case for them; as also that his view a respecting the most just and humane method of dealing with them are eminently practical as well as humane. Still there is no denying that it costs us an effort to take an interest in those imperfect specimens of humanitythat they are rather ob- jects of curious and pitying inquiry than of syn~- pathy. In his notes on the Manners and Customs of the Aborigines, Mr. Eyre has ably though rather diffusely pleaded their cause. In all that he says of them he has our hearty concurrence: the only defect of this part of his work is, that, concentrating his attention on the natives, he scarcely makes the same liberal and philosophical allowance for the shortcomings of the uneducated class of settlers. A few specimens may help to realize the char- acter and contents of this hook still more to our readers; hut nothing short of a perusal of the volumes can enable them fully to appreciate it. A ROBINSON CRUSOE ADVENTURE. I occupied myself in writing and charting during the day, and at night amused myself in taking stellar ohservations for latitude. I had already taken the altitude of Vega, and deduced the latitude to be 32~ 3 23 5.; leaving my arti- ficial horizon on the ground outside whilst I remained in the tent waiting until Altair came to the meridian, I then took my sextant and went out to observe this star also; but upon putting down my hand to take hold of the horizon-glass in order to wipe the dew off, my fingers went into the quicksilverthe horizon-glass was gone, and also the piece of canvass I had put on the grotind to lie down upon whilst observing so low an altitude as that of Vega. Searching a little more, I missed spade, a parcel of horse-shoes, an axe, a tin dish, some ropes, a grubbing-hoe, and several smaller things which had been left outside the tent, as net being likely to take any injury from the damp. It was evident I was surrounded by natives, who hal stolen all these things during the short time I heal been in my tent, certainly not exceeding half hour. The night was very windy, and 1 had heard nothing; besides, I was encamped in tie midst of a very dense brush of large wide-spread ing tea-trees and other bushes, any of which would afford a screen for a considerable number 01 natives. * * * As soon as I missed my horizon-glass, au(l entertained the suspicion of natives being about, I hurried into the tent, and lighting a large blue light, ran with it rapidly through the bushes around me. The effect of this was very beautiful amidst the darkness and gloom of the woods, and for a great distance iii every direction objects could he seen as well as by day: the natives, however, were gone; and I could only console myself by JOURNALS OF EXPEDITIONS OF DISCOVERY IN AUSTRALIA. ii~ firing a couple of balls after them through the underwood, to warn them of the danger of intrud- ing upon me again. I then put everything which had been left outside into the tent, and kept watch for an hour or two; but my visiters came no more. * * * Rising very early, I set to work with an axe to clear away the hushes from around my tent. 1 now discovered that the natives had been concealed behind a large tea-tree not twenty yards from the tent: there were numerous foot-marks there, and the remains of fire-sticks which they had hrought with them, for a native rarely moves at night without fire. THE 5YRTIS OF AUSTRALIA. I penetrated into the basin of the lake for about six miles, and found it so far without surface- water. On entering at first, the horses sunk a little in a stiff mud, after hreaking through a white crust of salt, which everywhere coated the surface, and was about one-eighth of an inch in thickness: as we advanced, the mud hecame much softer, and greatly mixed with salt-water below the surface, until at last we found it impossible to advance a step further, as the horses had already sunk up to their bellies in the bog, and I was afraid we never should he able to extricate them and get them safely back to the shore. Could we have gone on for some distance, I have no doubt that we should have found the bed of the lake occupied by water, as there was every appearance of a large body of it at a few miles to the west. As we advanced, a great alteration had taken place in the aspect of the western shores. The bluff rocky banks were no longer visible, but a low level country appeared to the view at seemingly about fifteen or twenty miles distance. From the extraordinary and de- ceptive appearances, caused hy mirage and refrac- tion, however, it was impossihle to tell what to make of sensible objects, or what to believe on the evidence of vision; for, upon turning hack to re- trace our steps to the eastward, a vast sheet of water appeared to intervene between us and the shore, whilst the Mount Deception ranges, which I knew to be at least thirty-five miles distant, seemed to rise out of the bed of the lake itself, the mock waters of which were laying their base, and reflecting the inverted outline of their rugged summits. The whole scene partook more of en- chantment than reality; and as the eye wandered over the smooth and unbroken crust of pure white salt which glazed the basin of the lake, and which was lit up hy the dazzling rays of a noonday sun, the effect was glittering and brilliant beyond con- ception. UNINTENTIONAL PROVOCATION OF THE NATIVES. Had the natives been away, we could have buried the baggage, and left the dray; but as it was, we had only to wait patiently, hoping they would soon depart. Such, however, was not their intention: there they sat, coolly and calmly facing and watching us, as if determined to sit us out. It was most provoking to see the careless indiffer- ence with which they did this, sheltering them- selves under the shade of a few shrubs, or lounging about the slopes near us, to gather the berries of the mesemb~ryanthemum. I was vexed and irri- tated beyond measure, as hour after hour passed away and our unconscious tormentors still re- mained. Every moment as it flew lessened the chance of saving the lives of our horses; and ~et I could not bring myself to abandon so many things that we could not do without, and which we could not in any way replace. What made the circum- stances, too, so much worse, was that we had last night given to our horses every drop of water, except the small quantity ptit apart for our break- fasts. * * * A movement was now observed amono the natives; and, gathering up their spears, they all went off. Having placed the native boy upon an eminence to watch them, the man and I at once set to work to carry our baggage to the top of a sand- hill, that it might be buried at some distance from the dray. We had hardly commenced our labors, however, before the boy called out that the natives were returning ; and in a little time they all occu- pied their former position. * * Strongly as our patience had been exercised in the morning, it was still more severely tested in the afternoon : for eight long hours had those na- tives sat opposite to us watching. From eight in the morning until four in the afternoon, we had been doomed to disappointment. About this time, however, a general movement again took l)l~ce: once more they collected their spears, shouldered their wallets, and moved off rapidly aud steadily towards the south-east. It was evident they had many miles to go to their encannpment; and I now knew we should be troubled with them no more. THOUGHTLESS PROVOCATION SY THE WHITES. At the time when I left the dep6t on the 11th August, in giving the overseer general directions for his guidance, I had among other matters re- quested him, if he found any natives in the neigh- borhood, to try and get one up to the camp and induce him to remain until my return, that we might, if possible, gain some information as to the nature of the country or the direction of the waters. In endeavoring to carry out my wishes, it seems he had one day come across two or three natives in the plain; to whom he gave chase when they ran away. The men escaped; but he came up with one of the females, and took her a prisoner to the camp, where he kept her for a couple of days, but could gain no information from her: she either could not be understood, or would not tell where there was water, although when signs were made to her on the subject she pointed to the east and to the north-west. After keeping her for two days, during which, with the exception of being a prisoner, she had been kindly treated, she was let go, with the present of a shirt and haiidkerchief. it was to revenge this aggression that the natives had now assembled. * * * The ntimber of natives said to have been seen altogether, including women and children, was between fifty and sixty; and thouph they had yet actually committed no overt act against us, with the exception of trying to steal upon myself and the native boy as we returned, yet they had estab- lished themselves in the close vicinity of our en- campment, and repeatedly exhibited signs of defi- ance, such as throwing dust in the air, shouting and threatening with their weapons, and once or twice, the evening before my arrival, crossing within a very short distance of the tents, as if for the purpose of reconnoitring our position and strength. I determined, however, nothing hut the last extremity should ever induce me to act on the offensive. FAHILY AFFECTION OF THE NATIvES. Not far from the spring, I discovered a poor emaciated native, entirely alone, without either 120 PARTS ACADEMY OF SCIENCES. food or fire, and evidently left by his tribe to per- ish there: he was a very aged man, and from hard- ship and want was reduced to a mere skeleton. How long he had been on the spot where we found him, I had no means of ascertaining, but probably for some time, as life appeared to be fast ebbing away; he seemed almost unconscious of our pres- ence, and stared upon us with a vacant unmeaning gaze. The pleasures or sorrows of life were for- ever over with him: his ease was far beyond the reach of human aid, and the probability is that he died a very few hours after we left him. Such is the fate of the aged and helpless in savage life: nor can we wonder that it should be so, since self-preservation is the first law of nature, and the wandering native, who has to travel always over a great extent of ground to seek for his daily food, could not obtain enough to support his exist- ence if obliged to remain with the old or the sick, or if impeded by the incumbrance of carrying them with him. Still I felt grieved for the poor old man we had left behind us; and it was long before I could drive away his image from my mind, or repress the melancholy train of thoughts that the circumstance had called forth.~ NATIVE GRATITUDE. During the day, Wylie had caught two opos- sums; and as these were entirely the fruit of his own labor and skill, I did not interfere in their disposal: I was curious, moreover, to see how far I could rely upon his kindness and generosity, should circumstances ever compel me to depead upon him for a share of what he might procure. At night, therefore, I sat philosophically watching him whilst he proceeded to get supper ready, as yet ignorant whether I was to partake of it or not. After selecting the largest of the two animals, he prepared and cooked it, and then put away the other where he intended to sleep. I now saw that he had not the remotest intention of giving any to me, and asked him what he intended to do with the other one. He replied, that he should be hungry in the morning, and meaiit to keep it until then. Upon hearing this, I told him that his arrangements were very good; and that for the future I would follow the same system also, and that each should depend upon his own exertions in procuring food ; hinting to him, that as he was so much more skilful than I was, and as we had so very little floor left, I should be obliged to reserve this entirely for myself, but that I hoped he would have no difficulty in procuring as much food as he required. I was then about to open the flour-bag and take a little out for my supper; when he became alarmed at the idea of gettiiig no more, and stopped me, offering the other opossum, and volunteering to cook it properly for me. Trifling as this little occurrence was, it read tue a lesson of caution, and taught me what value was to be placed upon the assistance or kindness of my companion, should circumstances ever place me in a situation to be (lependent upon hirmi. I felt a little hurt, too, at experiencing so little considera- tion from one whom I had treated with the greatest kindness, and who had beeii clothed and fed upon my bounty fqr the last fifteen months NATIVE DELICACIES. I persuaded one of the natives, named Wil- guldy, an intelligent cheerful old man, to accom pany us as a guide; and as an inducement, had him mounted on a horse, to the great admiration and envy of his fellows, all of whom followed us 011 foot, keeping up in a line with the dray through the scrub, and proctiring their food as they weiit alongwhich consisted of snakes, lizards, guanas, bandicoots, rats, wallabies, & c., & c.: aiid it was surprising to see the apparent ease with which, in merely walking across the country, they each procured an abundant supply for the day. In one place in the scrub we came to a large circular mound of sand, about two feet high and several yards in circumference : this they immediately began to explore, carefully throwing away the sand with their hands frotri the centre, until they had worked down to a deep narrow hole, round the sides of which, and embedded in the sand, were four fine large eggs nif a delicate pink color, and fully the size of a goose-egg. I had often seen these hills before, but did not know that they were nests, and that they contained so valuable a prize to a traveller in the desert. The eggs were presented to me by the natives; and when cooked were of a very rich and delicate flavor. The nest was that of a wild pheasant, (Leipoa,) a bird of the size of a hen-pheasant of England, and greatly resembling it in appearance and plumage. These birds are very cautious and shy, and run rapidly through the underwood, rarely flying unless when closely pursued. The shell of the egg is thin and fragile; and the young are hatched entirely by the heat of the sun, scratching their way out as soon as they are born; at which time they are able to shift for themselves.Spectator. PARIS ACADEMY OF SCIENCES. August 11. M. Tourasse gave an account of some experiments made by him, with a new mode of silvering look- ing-glasses, and by which he obtains the same re- sult as by the present mercurial process, without any of its inconveniences and danger to the health of the workman. His process consists in dissolv- mug nitrate of silver in distilled water, adding to it alcohol, ammonia, carbonate of ammonia, and es- sential oil of cassia, and pouring the liquid thus prepared on the ,jass, adding, at the moment of the operation, some essential oil of cloves. By the expiration of two hours, the silver, reduced by these essential oils, covers the glass with a homo- geneous coating of ptire silver.M. Dujardin, the inventor of an electrical telegraph, submitted a plan for rendering this invention valuable as a means of indicating the precise position of a rail- way train upon different parts of the line. He proposes, that, as the locomotive passes by certain places, it shall touch a spring in connection with the wire, and thus communicate with the index of the station by certain signs previously agreed uponA letter was received from M. Coulvier- Gravier, confirming the assertion that the night of the 9th of August is remarkable for the im- mense number of shooting stars that are to be seen. On Saturday night he counted no less than 517 between nine oclock and three in the morn- ing .A letter was received from M. Carbonel, irt which he asserts that he has discovered the means of producing oyster-beds in fresh-water ponds and basins; so that every man who has a few feet of ground to spare for the construction of a basin, may always obtain fresh oysters !Atkeneum. MARGARET OF VALOIS. 121 From Blackwoods Magazine. MARGARET OF VALOlS. ON the eighteenth day of August, 1572, a great festival was held in the palace of the Louvre. It was to celehrate the nuptials of Henry of Na- varre and Margaret of Valois. This alliance between the chief of the Protest- ant party in France, and the sister of Charles IX. and daughter of Catharine of Medicis, perplexed, and in some degree alarmed, the Catholics, whilst it filled the Huguenots with joy and exultation. The king had declared that he knew and made no difference between Romanist and Calvinistthat all were alike his subjects, and equally beloved by him. lie caressed the throng of Jinguenot nobles and gentlemen whom the marriage had attracted to the court, was affectionate to his new brother- in-law, friendly with the Prince of Cond~, almost respectful to the venerable Admiral de Coligny, to whom he proposed to confide the command of an army in the projected war with Spain. The chiefs of the Catholic party were not behind-hand in fol- lowing the example set them by Charles. Catha- rine of Medicis was all smiles and affability; the Duke of Anjon, afterwards Henry III., received graciously the compliments paid him by the Hu- guenots themselves on his successes at Jarnac and Moncontour, battles which he had won before he was eighteen years old; Henry of Guise, whose reputation as a leader already, at the age of two- and..twenty, almost equalled that of his great father, was courteous and friendly to those whose deadly foe he had so lately been. The Duke of Mayenne and the Admiral, the Guise and the Con- were seen riding, conversing, and making parties of pleasure together. It was the lion lying cown with the lamb. On the twenty-second of August, four days after the marriage, in which the Huguenots saw a uarantee of the peaceful exercise of their reli- gion, the Admiral de Coligny was passing through the street of St. Germain lAuxerrois, ~vhen he was shot at and wounded by a captain of petardiers, one Maurevel, who went by the name of Lc Tueur du Roi, literally, the Kings Killer. At midnight on the twenty-fourth of August, the tocsin sound- ed, and the massacre of St. Bartholomew began. It is at this stirring period of French history, abounding in horrors and bloodshed, and in plots and intrigues, both political and amorous, that M. Alexandre Dumas commences one of his most recently published romances. Beginning with the marriage of Henry and Margaret, he narrates, in his spirited and attractive style, various episodes, real and imaginary, of the great massacre, from the first fury of which, Henry himself, doomed to death by the remorseless Catharine de Medicis, was only saved by his own caution, by the inde- cision of Charles IX., and the energy of Margaret of Valois. The marriage between the King of Frances sister and the King of Navarre, was merely one of convenarmce, agreed to by Henry for the sake of his fellow Protestants, and used by Catharine and Charles as a lure to bring those of the religion, as they were called, to Paris, there to be slaughtered unsuspecting and defence- tess. Margaret, then scarcely twenty years of age, had already made herself talked of by her intrigues; Henry, who was a few months younger, but who, even at that early period of his life, pos- sessed a large share of the shrewdness and pru- dence for which his countrymen, the B6arn~se, Lxxv. LIVING AGE. VOL. Vii. S have at all times been noted, was, at the very time of his marriage, deeply in love with the Baroness de Sauve, one of Catharine de Medicis ladies, by whom he was in his turn beloved. But although little affection existed between the royal pair, the strong links of interest and ambition bound them together; and no sooner were they married than they entered into a treaty of political alliance, to which, for some time, both steadily and truly ad- hered. On the night of the St. Bartholomew, a Hugue- not gentleman, the Count Lerac de la Mole, who has arrived that day at Paris with important letters for the King of Navarre, seeks refuge in the apart- ments of the latter from the assassins who pursue and have already wounded him. Unacquainted, however, with the Louvre, he mistakes the door, and enters the apartment of the Queen of Navarre, who, seized ~vith pity, and struck also by the youth and elegance of the fugitive, gives him shelter, and herself dresses his wounds, employing in his behalf the surgical skill which she has acquired from the celebrated Ambrose Par6, whose pupil she had been. One of the most furious of La Moles pursuers is a Piedinontese gentleman, Count Hannibal de Coconnas, who has also arrived that day in the capital, and put up at the same hotel as La Mole. When the latter is rescue.d by Mar- garet, Coconnas wanders through Paris, killing all the Huguenots he can findsuch, at least, as ~vill defend themselves. In a lonely part of the town he is overpowered by numbers, and is rescued from imminent peril by the Duke of Guises sister- in-law, the Duchess of Nevers, that golden-haired, emerald-eyed dame, of whom Ronsard sang La Duchesse de Nevers Aux yeux verts, Qui, 5005 leur paupi~re blonde, Lancent sur nous plus d6clairs Que ne font vingt Jupiters Dans les airs Lorsque Ia temp~te gronde. To cut the story short, La Mole falls violently in love with Margaret; Coconnas does the same with the duchess; and these four personages play important parts in the ensuing narrative, which extends over a space of nearly two years, and into which the author, according to his custom, intro- duces a vast array of characters, for the most part historical, all spiritedly drawn and well sustained., 1\I. Dumas may, in various respects, be held up as an example to our history spoilers, self-styled writers of historical romance, on this side the chanitel. One does not find him profaning public edifices by causing all sorts of absurdities to pass, and of twaddle to be spoken, within their precincts;. neither does he make his kings and beggars, high- born dames and private soldiers, use the very same language, all equally tame, colorless, and devoid. of character. rfhe spirited and varied dialogue in which his romances abound, illustrates and brings out the qualities and characteristics of his- actors, and is not used for the sole purpose of making a chapter out of what would be better told. in a page. In many instances, indeed, it would be difficult for him to tell his story, by the barest narrative, in fewer words than he does by pithy and pointed dialogue. As the sole means of placing his life in corn-- parative safety, henry abjures the Protestant faith, and remains in a sort of honorable captivity at the court of France, suspected by Charles and 122 MARGARET OF VALOIS. detested by Catharine, to whom R6n6 the Floren- tine, her astrologer and poisoner, has predicted that the now powerless prince of Navarre shall one day reign over France. Some days have passed, the massacres have nearly ceased, and the body of Admiral de Coligny, discovered amongst a heap of slain, has been suspended to the gibbet at Moutfaucon. Charles IX., always greedy of spectacles of blood, proposes to pay a visit to the corpse of his dead enemy, whom he had called his father, and affectionately embraced, upon their last meeting previous to the attempted assassina- tion of the admiral by Maurevel, an attempt insti- gated by Charles himself. We will give the account of this visit in the words of M. Dornas. It was two in the afternoon, when a long train of cavaliers and ladies, glittering with gold and jewels, appeared in the Rue St. Denis, displaying itself in the sun between the sombre lines of houses, like some huge reptile with sparkling scales. Nothing that exists at the present day can give an adequate idea of the splendor of this spectacle. The rich silken costumes, of the most brilliant colors, which were in vogue during the reign of Francis I., had not yet been replaced by the dark and graceless attire that became the fashion in Henry IJI.s time. The costume of the reign of Charles IX. was perhaps less rich, but more elegant than that of the preceding epoch. In the rear, and on either side of this magnifi- cent procession, came the pages, esquires, gentle- men of low degree, dogs and horses, giving the royal train the appearance of a small army. The cavalcade was followed by a vast number of the populace. That morning, in presence of Catharine and the IDuke of Guise, and of Henry of Navarre, Charles rthe Ninth had spoken, as if it were quite a natu- ral thing, of going to visit the gibbet at Montfao- con, or, in other words, the mutilated body of the admiral, which was suspended from it. Henrys first impulse had been to make an excuse for not Joining the party. Catharine was looking out for this, and at the very first word that he uttered expressive of his repugnance, she exehaned a glance and a smile with the Duke of Guise. Henry, whom nothing escaped, caught both smile and glance, underwent them, and hastened to cor- rect his blunder. After all, said he, why should I not go? I am a Catholic, and I owe as much to my new ~religion. Then addressing himself to the king: Your majesty may reckon upon me, said he; I shall always be happy to accompany you ~wherever you go. In the whole procession, no one attracted so much curiosity and attention as this king ~vithout a kingdom, this Hoguenot who had become Cath- olic. His long and strongly marked features, his somewhat common tourraure, his familiarity with his inferiorsa familiarity which was to be attrib- uted to the habits of his youth, and which he carried almost too far for a kingcaused him to be at once recognized by the spectators, some of whom called out to him To mass, ilenriot, to mass! To which Henry replied, I was there yesterday, I have been there to- day, I shall go again to-morrow. Ventre-saint- gris! I think that is enough. As for Margaret, she was on horsebackso beautiful, so fresh and elegant, that there was a perfect chorus of admiration around her, sonic few notes of which, however, were addressed to her companion and intimate friend, the Duchess of Nevers, who had just joined her, and whose snow- white steed, as if proud of its lovely burden, tossed its head, and neighed exultingly. Well, duchess, said the Queen of Navarre, have you anything new to tell me? Nothing, madam, I believe, replied Henri- ette. Then, in a lower tone, she added And the Huguenot, what is become of him? He is in safety, replied Margaret. And your Piedmonrese hero? Where is he? He insisted upon being one of the party, and is riding M. de Nevers charger, a horse as big as an elephant. He is a superb cavalier. I allowed him to come, because I thought that your Hugue- not pror6g6 would be still confined to his room, and that consequently there could be no risk of their meeting. Ma foi! replied Margaret, smiling; if he were here, I do not think there would be much danger of a single combat. The Huguenot is very handsome, but nothing elsea dove, and not an eagle; he may coo, but he will not bite. After all, added she, with a slight elevation of her shoulders, we perhaps take him for a Hugue- not, whilst he is only a Brahmin, and his religion may forbid his shedding blood. But see there, duchessthere is one of your gentlemen, who will assuredly be ridden over. Ah! it is my hero ! cried the duchess; look, look ! It was Coconnas, who had left his place in the procession in order to get nearer to the Duchess of Nevers; but, at the very moment that he was crossing the sort of boulevard separating the street of St. Denis from the faubourg of the same name, a cavalier belonging to the suite of the Duke of Alen~on, who had just come up, was run away with by his horse; and, being unable imutediately to check the animal, came full tilt against Cocon- nas. The Piedmontese reeled in his saddle, and his hat fell off. He caught it in his hand, and turned furiously upon the person by whom he had been so rudely, although accidentally, assailed. Good heavens ! said Margaret, in a whisper to her friend, it is Monsieur de Ia Mole! That pale, handsome young man ? cried the duchess. Yes; he who so nearly upset your Piedmon- tese. Oh ! exclaimed the duchess, something terrible will happen! They recognize each other. They had done so. Cocounas dropped the bridle of his horse in surprise at meeting with his former acquaintance, whom he fully believed he had killed, or at any rate disabled for a long time to come. As to La Mole, when he recognized Coconnas, a flush of anger overspread his pallid countenance. For a few seconds, the two men remained gazing at each other with looks which made Margaret and the duchess tremble. Then La Mole, glancing around him, arid understanding, doubtless, that the place was not a fit one for an explanation, spurred his horse, and rejoined the Duke of Alen~on. Co- connas remained for a moment stationary, twisting his mustache till he brought the corner of it nearly into his eye, and then moved onwards. - Ha ! exclaimed Margaret, with mingled scorn and vexation; I was not mistaken then. Oh, this time it is too bad ! And she bit her lips in anger. MARGARET OF VALOIS. 123 He is very handsome, said the duchess, in a tone of commiseration. Just at this moment the Duke of Alen9on took his place behind the king and the queen-mother; so that his gentlemen in order to follow him, had to pass Margaret and the Duchess of Nevers. As La Mole Went by, he removed his hat, bowed low to the queen, and remained bareheaded, waiting till her majesty should honor him with a look. But Margaret turned her head proudly away. La Mole doubtless understood the scornful expression of her features; his pale face became livid, and he rasped his horses mane as if to save himself from falling. Look at him, cruel that you are, said Henri- ette to the queen; he is going to faint. Good! said Margaret, with a smile of im- mense contempt. Have you no salts to offer him ~ Madame de Nevers was mistaken. La Mole re- covered himself, and took his place behind the Duke of Alen9on. The royal party continued to advance, and pres- ently came in sight of the gallows at Montfaucon. The King and Catharine of Medicis were followed by the Dukes of Anjon and Alen~on, the King of Navarre, the Duke of Guise, and their gentlemen; then came Margaret, the Duchess of Nevers, and the ladies, composing what was called the queens flying squadron; finally, the pages, esquires, lackeys, and the peoplein all, ten thousand souls. The guards, who marched in front, placed themselves in a large circle round the enclosure in which stood the gibbet; and on their approach, the ravens that had perched upon the instrument of death flew away with hoarse and dismal croakings. To the principal gallows was hanging a shapeless mass, a blackened corpse, covered with mud and cmagulated blood. it was suspended by the feet, for the head was wanting. In place of the latter, the ingenuity of the people had substituted a bun- dle of straw, with a mask fixed upon it; and in the mouth of the mask some scoffer, acquainted with The admirals habits, had placed a toothpick. It was a sad and strange sight to behold all These elegant cavaliers and beautiful women pass- mug, like one of the processions which Goya has imamnted, under the blackened skeletons and tall grin a gibbets. The greater the mirth of the visit- ors, the more strikin~ was the contrast with the mournful silence and cold insensibility of the corpses which were its object. Many of the party supported with di iculty this horrible spectacle and Henry of Navarre especially, in spite of his pow ers of dissimulation and habitual command over himself, was at last unable to bear it longer. lie took, as a prctext; the stench emitted by these human remains; and al)proachiub Charles, who, with Catharine of ~ edicis, had paused before the body of the admiral Sire, said he, does not your majesty find that the smell of this poor corpse is too noxious to he longer endured? Ha ! think you so, Harry ? cried Charles, vhose eyes were sparklin0 with a ferocious joy. Yes, sire. Then I am not of your opinion. Time body of a (1cad enemy always smells well. By my faith! sire, said Monsieur de Tavan- nes, your majesty should have invited Pierre Ronsard to accompany us on this little visit to the admiral; he would have made an impromptu epitaph on old Gaspard. That will I make, said Charles. And after a moments reflection, Listen, gentlemen, said he Ci-git, mais cest mal entendo, Pour lui he mnot est trop honnete, Ici lamiral est pendu, Par les pieds, ~. faute de tate. Bravo! bravo ! cried the Catholic gentlemen with one voice, whilst the converted Huguenots there present maintained a gloomy silence. As to Henry, he was talking to Margaret and the Duchess of Nevers, and pretended not to hear. Come, sir, said Catharine, who, in spite of the perfumes with which she was covered, began to have enou~h of this tainted atmosphere Come, sir, said she to the king, the best of friends must part. Let us bid adieu to the admiral, and return to Paris. And bowing her head ironically to the corpse by way of a farewell, she turned her horse and re- gained the road, whilst her suite filed past the body of Coligny. The crowd followed the caval- cade, and ten minutes after the kings departure, no one remained near the mutilated body of the admiral. When we say no one, we make a mistake. A gentleman, mounted on a black horse, and who, probably, during the stay of the king, had been unable to contemplate the disfigured corpse suffi- ciently at his ease, lingered behind, and was amus- ing himself by examining, in all their details, the chains, irons, stone pillars, in short, the whole paraphernalia of the gibbet, which, no doubt, ap- peared to him, who had been but a few days at Paris, and was not aware of the perfection to which all things are brought in the metropolis, a paragon of hideous ingenuity. This person was our friend Coconnas. A womans quick eye had in vain sought him through the ranks of the caval- cade. Monsieur de Coconnas remained in admira- tion before the masterpiece of Enguerrand de Marigny. But the woman in question was not the only person who sought Coconnas. A cavalier, remark- able for his white satin doublet, and the elegance of his plume, after looking before him, and on either side, had at last looked back and perceived the tall form of the Piedmontese, and the gigantic profile of his horse, sharply defined against the evening sky, now reddened by the last rays of the setting sun. Then the gentleman in the white satin doublet left the road which the cavalcade was followin~, struck into a side path, and describiub a curve, returned towards the gibbet. He had scarcely done this, when the Duchess of Nevers approached the Queen of Navarre, and said We were mistaken, Margaret, for the Pied- montese has remained behind, and Monsieur de Ia Mole has folloxved him. Mordi! cried Margaret laughing, is it so? I confess that I shall not be sorry to have to alter my opinion.~~ She then looked round, and saw La Mole re- turning towards the gallows. It was now the turn of the two princesses to quit the cavalcade. The moment was favorable for so doing, for they were just crossing a road bordered by high hedges, by following which they would get to within thirty paces of the gibbet. Madame de Nevers said a word to the captain of her guards, Margaret made a sign to Gillonne, her tirewornan and confidant; and these four persons 124 MAItGARET OF VALOIS. took the cross road, and hastened to place them- selves in ambuscade behind some bushes near the spot they were desirous of observing. There they dismounted, and the captain held the horses, wnilst the three ladies found a pleasant seat upon the close fresh turf, with which the place was overgrown. A.n opening in the bushes enabled them to observe the smallest details of what was passing. La Mole had completed his circuit, and, walk- ing up behind Coconnas, he stretched out his hand and touched him on the shoulder. The Piedmon- tese turned his head. Oh ! said he, it was no dream then. You are still alive ? Yes, ~ replied La Mole, I am still alive. It is not your fault, but such is t.he case. Mordieu! I recognize you perfectly, said Coconnas, lo spite of your pale cheeks. You were redder than that the last time I saw you.~ And I recognize you also, said La Mole, in spite of that yellow cut across your face. You were paler than you are now when I gave it to you.~ Coconnas bit his lips, but continued in the same ironical tone. It is curious, is it not, Monsieur de Ia Mole, particularly for a iluguenot, to see the admiral hung up to that iron hook? Count, said La Mole with a bow, I am no longer a Huguenot, I have the honor to be a Cath- olic. ~ Bah U cried Coconnas, bursting into a laugh, you are converted? How very sly of you ! Sir,~ replied La Mole, with the same serious politeness, I made a vow to become a Catholic if 1 escaped the massacre. It was a very prudent vow, returned the Piedmontese, and I conaratulate you on it; is it the only one you made? No, sir, I made one other, replied La Mole, patting his horse with his usual deliberate grace. And it was inquired Coconnas. To hang you up yonder, to that little hook which seems to be waiting fur you, just below Monsieur de Coligny. What ! cried Coconnas, all alive, just as I am No, sir; after passing my sword through your body. Cocounas becam.e purple, and his grey eyes flashed fire. Really, said he, with a sneer; to yonder rail? You are not quite tall enough for that, my little gentleman. Then I will get upon your horse, replied La Mole. Ah! you think, my dear M. Ilannibal de Coconnas, that you may assassinate people with impunity under the loyal and honorable pretext of being a hundred to one. Not so. A day comes when every man finds his man, and for you that day is come now. I am almost tempted to break your ugly head with a pistol shot; but pshaw! I should perhaps miss you, for my hand still shakes with the wounds you so treachero~isly gave me. My ugly head! roared Coconnas, throwing himself off his horse. On fuot! Monsieur le Comteout with your blade ! And he drew his sword. I think your Huguenot called him ugly, whispered the Duchess of Nevers to Margaret. Do you find him soy lie is charming, cried Margaret laughing, and Monsieur de la Moles anger renders him unjust. But hush ! let us observe them. La Mole got off his horse with as much delib- eration as Coconnas had shown haste, drew his sword, and put himself on guard. Ah ! cried he, as he extended his arm. Oh ! exclaimed Coconnas, as he stretched out his. Both, it will be remembered, were wounded in the shoulder, and a sudden movement still caused them acute suffering. A stifled laugh was audible from behind the trees. The princesses had been uuah)le to restrain it when they saw the two cham- pions rubbing their shoulders and grimacing with pain. The laugh reached the ears of La Mole and Coconnas, who had been hitherto unaware of the presence of witnesses, but who now, on look- ing round, perceived the ladies. La Mole again put himself on guard, steady as an automaton, and Coconimas, as their swords crossed, uttered an energetic Mordieu! Aim 9a! exclaimed Margaret, they are in earnest, and will kill one another if we do not l)revent it. This is going tou far. Stop, gentle- men, I entreat you. Let them go on, said Henriette, who, hav- ing already seen Coconnas make head successfully acrainst three antagonists at once, trusted that he would have at least as easy a bargain of La Mole. At the first clash of the steel, the combatants became silent. They were neither of them cumin- fident in their strength, and, at each pass or parry, their imperfectly healed wounds caused them sharp pain. Nevertheless, with fixed amid ardent eye, his lips slightly parted, his teeth firmly set, La Mole advanced with short steady steps upon his adversary, who, perceiving that he had to do with a master of fence, retreatedgradually, it is true. hut still retreated. In this manner they reached the edge of the moat, or dry ditch, on the other side of which the spectators had stationed the.- selves. There, as if he had only retired with the view of getting nearer to the duchess, Coconnas stopped, and marie a rapid thrust. At the same instant a sanguine spot, which grew each secoird larger, appeared 01)011 the white satin of La Moles doublet. Courage ! cried the Duchess of Nevers. Poor La Mole ! exclaimed Margaret, with a cry of sorrow. La 1\Iole heard the exclamation, threw one expressive glance to the queen, and making a skilful feint, followed it up by a pass of lightning swiftness. This time both the women shrieked. TIme point of La Moles rapier had appeared, crim- son raith blood, behind the back of Coconnas. Neither of the combatants fell; they remained on their feet, staring at each other, each of them feeling that at the first movement he made he should lose his balance. At last the Piedmontese, more dangerously wounded than his antagonist, and feeling that his strength was ebbing away with his blood, threw himself forward upon La Mole, and seized him with one arm, whilst with the other hand he felt for his dagger. La Mole mustered all his renmaining strength, raised his hand, and struck Coconnas on the forehead with his sword-hilt. Coconnas fell, but in falling he dragged his adversary after luim, and both rolled into the ditch. Then Margaret and the Duchess of Nevers, seeing that although, apparently dying, they still sought to finish each other, sprang for- 1~IARGARET OF VALOIS. 125 ward, preceded by the captain of the guards. But before they reached the wounded men, the eyes of the latter closed, their grasp was loosened, and, letting fall their weapons, they stretched them- selves out stiff and convulsed. A pool of blood had already formed itself around them. Oh! brave, brave La Mole ! exclaimed Mar- garet, unable to repress her admiration. How can I forgive myself for having suspected you? And her eyes filled with tears. Alas! alas ! cried the duchess, sobbing vio- lently. Say, madam, did you ever see such intrepid champions? Tudieu !What hard knocks! exclaimed the captain, trying to stanch the blood that flowed from the wounds. lola! you who are coming, come more quickly. A man, seated on the front of a sort of cart painted of a red color, was seen slowly approach- ing. Hola ! repeated the captain, will you come, then, when you are called? Do you not see that these gentlemen are in want of assist- ance? The man in the cart, whose appearance was in the highest degree coarse and repulsive, stopped his horse, got down, and stepped over the two bodies. These are pretty wounds, said he, but I make better ones. Who, then, are you ? said Margaret, expe riencing, in spite of herself, a vague and uncon- querable sensation of terror. Madam, replied the man, bowing to the ground, I am Maitre Caboche, executioner of the city of Paris; and I am com.e to suspend to this gibbet some companions for the admiral. And I am the Queen of Navarre; throw out your dead bodies, place our horses clothes in your cart, and bring these two gentlemen carefully to the Louvre. La Mole recovers from his wounds before Coconnas is out of danger. The latter is, in great measure, restored to health through the care and attention which his late antagonist generously lavishes on him; they become intimate friends, and Coconnas is appointed to the household of the Duke of Aleu~on, to which La Mole already belongs. The duke, out of opposition to his brothers, the king and the Duke of Anion, has a leaning towards the Huguenot party. De Mouy, a Protestant leadet, whose father has been assas- sinated by Maurevel, comes in disguise to the Louvre, to communicate with henry of Navarre, in the sincerity of whose conversion the Hugue- nots do not believe. Henry, however, who knows that the walls of the Louvre have ears, refuses to listen to De Mouy, and declares himself Catholic to the backbone; and De Mony, despairing and indignant, leaves the kings apartment. The Duke of Alen~on, who has overheard their con- ference, as Henry suspected, stops the Huguenot emissary, and shows a disposition to put himself at the head of that party and become King of Navarre. There is a great deal of intrigue and znanmuvring, very skilfully managed by Henry, who makes DAlen~on believe that he has no wish to become anything more than a simple country-gentleman, and that he is willing to aid him in his ambitious designs. He proposes that they should watch for an opportunity of leaving Paris and repairing to Navarre. Before the nego- tiations between the two princes are completed, however, the Duke of Anjoy has been elected King of Poland, and has had his election ratified by the Pope; and DAlen~on then begins to think that it would be advisable to remain at Paris on the chance of himself becoming King of France. Charles IX. is delicate and sickly, subject to tre- mendous outbursts of passion which leave him weak and exhausted ; his life is not likely to he a long one. Should he die, and even if the Poles should allow their new king to return to France, DAleneon would have ti~ie, he thinks, before the arrival of the latter, to seize upon the vacant throne. Even the reversion of the crown of Po- land would perhaps be preferable to the possession of that of Navarre. Whilst ruminating these plans, one of the kings frequent hunting parties takes place in the forest of I3ondy, and is attended by all the royal family except the Duke of Anjou, then absent at the siege of La R ochelle. At this hunting party the following striking incidents occur. The piqucur who had told the king that the boar was still in the enclosure, had sl)oken the truth. Hardly was the bloodhound put upon the scent, when he plunged into a thicket, and drove the ani- mal, an enormous one of its kind, from its retreat in a cluster of thorn-bushes. The boar made straight across the road, at about fifty paces from the king. The leashes of a score of dogs were immediately slipped, and the eager hounds rushed headlong in pursuit. The chase was Charles strongest passion. Scarcely had the hoar crossed the road, when he spurred after him, sounding the view upon his horn, and followed by the Duke of Alen~on, and by Henry of Navarre. All the other chasseurs followed. The royal forests, at the period referred to, were not, as at present, extensive parks inter- sected by carriage roads. Kings had not yet had the happy idea of becoming timber-merchants, and of dividing their woods into tailles and futaies. The trees, planted not by scientific foresters, but by the hand of God, who let the seed fall where the wind chose to bear it, were not arranged in quincouxes, but sprang up without order, and as they now do in the virgin forests of America. Consequently a forest at that period was a place in which boars and stags, wolves and robbers, were to be found in abundance. The wood of Bondy was surrounded by a circu- lar road, like the tire of a wheel, and crossed by a dozen paths which might be called the spokes. To complete the comparison, the axle was repre- sented by a carrefour, or open space, in the centre of the wood, whence all these paths diverged, and whither any of the sportsmen who might be thrown out were in the habit of repairing, till some sight or sound of the chase enabled them to reijpin it. At the end of a quarter of an hour it happened, as it usually did at these hunts, that insurmounta- ble obstacles had opposed themselves to the pro- gress of the hunters, the baying of the hounds had become inaudible in the distance, and the king himself had returned to the carrefour, swearing and cursing according to his custom. Well, DAlen~on! Well, Henriot! cried he here you are, mordieu! as calm and quiet as nuns following their abbess. That is not hunt- ing. You, DAlen~onyou look as if you had just come out of a bandbox; and you are so per. fumed, that if you got between the boar and my dogs, you would make them lose the scent. And you, Henriotwhere is yourboar-spear? Where your arquebuss? Sire, replied Henry, an arquebtiss would 126 MARGARET OF VALOIS. be useless to me. I know that your majesty likes pale alternately, and appeared to be straining his to shoot the hoar himself when it is brought to hearing to catch some sound of the chase. bay. As to the spear, I handle it very clumsily. The news from Poland have produced their We are not used to it in our mountains, where we effect, said Henry to himself, and my good hunt the bear with nothing but a dagger. brother-in-law has a plan of his own. He would By the rnordieu, Henry, when you return to like to see me escape, but I shall not go alone. your Pyrenees you shall send inc a cart-load of He had scarcely made the reflection, when bears. It must be noble sport to contend with aii several of the recently converted Huguenots, who animal that can stifle you with a hug. But hark! within the last two or three mouths had returned I hear the d%s! No, I was mistaken. to the court and the Romish church, came up at a The king put his horn to his mouth and sounded canter, and saluted the two princes with a most a fanfare. Several horns replied to him. Sod- engaging smile. The Duke of Alen~on, already denly a piqucur appeared, sounding a different urged on by Henrys overtures, had hut to utter a call. word or make a sign, and it was evident that his The view! the view ! cried the king ; and flight would he favored by the thirty or forty cay- he galloped off, followed by the other sportsmen. aliers who had collected around him, as if to The pi7ueur was not mistaken. As the king oppose themselves to the followers of the Duke of a(lvauced he beard the baying of the pack, which Guise. But that word he did not utter. He was now composed of more than sixty dogs, fresh turned away his head, and, putting his horn to his relays having been slipped at different places near mouth, sounded the rally. which the boar had passed. At last Charles Nevertheless the new-comers, as if they thought caught a second glimpse of the animal, and, prof- that DAlen~ons hesitation was occasioned by the ittng by the height of the adjacent trees, which vicinity of the Cuisards, had gradually placed enabled him to ride beneath their branches, he themselves between the latter and the two princes, turned into the wood, sounding his horn with all arraying themselves in & lielon with a sort of his strength. The princes fidlowed him for some strategic skill, which implied a habit of military time, but the king had so vigorous a horse, and, maneuvres. Guise and his followers would have carried away by his eagerness, he dashed over had to ride over them to get at the Duke of Alen-. such steep and broken ground, and through such ~on and the King of Navarre; whilst, on the dense thickets, that first the ladies, then the Duke other side, a long and unobstructed road lay open of Guise and his gentlemen, and at last the two b fore the brothers-in-law. princes were forced to abandon him. All the Suddenly, between the trees, at ten paces from hunters therefore, with the exception of Charles the King of Navarre, there appeared another horse- and a few piqucurs, found themselves reiissembled man, whom the princes had not yet seen. henry at the carrefour. DAlen~on and Henry were was trying to guess who this person was, when standin0 near each other in a long alley. At the gentleman raised his hat and disclosed the about a hundred paces from them the Duke of features of the Viscount of Turenne, one of the Guise had halted, with his retinue of twenty or chiefs of the Protestant party and who was sup- thirty gentlemen, who were armed, it might have posed to be then in Poiton. The viscount even been thought, rather for the battle-field than the risked a sign, which meant to say Are you hunting-ground. The ladies were in the carrefour coming? But Henry, after consulting the in- itself. expressive countenance and dull eyes of the Duke Would it not seem, said the Duke of Alen- of Aleri~on turned his head two or three times ~on to Henry, glancing at the Duke of Guise with upon his shoulders, as if something in the collar of the corner of his eye, that yonder man with his his doublet inconvenienced him. It was a reply in steel-clad escort is the true king? He does not the negative. The viscount understood it, gave even vouchsafe a glance to us poor princes. his horse the spur, and disappeared amongst the Why should he treat us better than our own trees. At the same moment the pack was heard relations do ? replied Henry. Are we not, you approaching; then, at the end of the alley, the and 1, prisoners at the court of France, hostages boar was seen to pass, followed at a short distance for our party ? by the dogs, whilst after them came Charles IX., The Duke Francis started, and looked at Henry like some dcmon-huntsman, bareheaded, his horn as if to provoke a further explanation ; but Henry at his mouth, sounding as though he would burst had gone further than he was wont, and he re- his lungs. Three or four piqucurs followed him. mained silent. The king! cried DAlen~on riding off to What do you mean, henry? inquired the join in the chase. Henry, encouraged by the duke, evidently vexed that his brother-in-law, by presence of his partisans, signed to them to remain, his taciturnity, compelled him to put the question. and approached the ladies. I mean, brother, answered Henry, that Well, said Margaret, advancing to meet those armed men who seem so careful not to lose him. sight of us, have quite the appearance of guards Well, madame, said Henry, we are hunt- charged to prevent us from escaping. ing the boar. Escaping! Why? How? cried DAlen~on, Is that all ? with a well-feigned air of surprise and simplicity. Yes, the wind has changed since yesterday You have a magnificent jennet there, Fran- morning. I think I predicted that such would be cis, said Henry, following up the subject, whilst the case. appearing to change the conversation. I am These changes of wind are bad for hunting sure he would get over seven leagues in an hour, are they not, sir? inquired Margaret. and twenty from now till noon. It is a fine day Yes, replied her husband, they sometimes for a ride. Look at that cross-roadhow level overturn previous arrangements, and the plan has and pleasant it is! Are you not tempted, Francis? to be remade. For my part, my spurs are burning my heels~ At this moment the baying of the pack was Francis made no answer. He turned red and again heard near the carrefour. The noise and MARGAItET OF VALOIS. 127 tumult rapidly app.oaehing, warned the hunters to boar, whom they seized each by an ear. The he on the alert. All heads were raised, every ear animal, feeling himself co~ff6, as it is termed, was strained, when suddenly the boar burst out of guashed his teeth with pain and fury. the wood, and, instead of plunging into the opposite Bravo, Duredent! Bravo, Risquetout ! vocife- thicket, made strai~ht for the carrefour. Close to rated Charles. Courage, my dogs! a spear! a the animals heels were thirty or forty of the strong- spear ! eat amongst the dogs, and at less than twenty Will you have my arquebuss l said the paces behind these came Charles himself, without Duke of Alencon. cap or cloak, his clothes torn by the thorns, his No, cried the king. Noone does not face and bands covered with blood. Only one or feel the ball go in ; there is no pleasure in that. two pi.7ueurs kept up with him. Alternately One feels the spear. A spear! a spear ! sounding his horn and shouting encouragement to A boar-spear made of wood hardened in the fire the dogs, the king pressed onwards, everything but and tipped with iron, was h nded to the king. the chase forgotten. If his horse had failed him Be cautious, brother ! exclaimed Margaret. at that moment, he would h. ye exclaimed, like Sus, sus, sire ! cried the Duchess of Nevers. Thehard III., My kingdom for a horse ! But Do not miss him, sire. A good thrust to the the horse appeared as eager as his rider. His brute ! feet scarce touched the ground, and he seemed to You may depend on that, duchess, replied snort fire from his blood-red nostrils. Boar, dogs, Charles. And levelling his spear, he charged the aad king dashed by like a ~vhirlwind. boar, who, being held down by the two dogs, could Hallali! hallali ! cried the king as he passed. not avoid the blow. Nevertheless, at the sight of And again he applied his horn to his bleeding the glittering point of the weapon, the animal lips. A short distance behind him came the Duke made a movement on one side, and the spear, of Alen9on and two more piqueurs. The horses instead of piercing his breast, grazed his shoulder. of the others were blown or distanced. and struck against the rock in his rear. Everybody now joined in the pursuit, for it was Mule norns dun. diable! cried the king, I evident that the boar would soon turn to bay. have missed him. A spear! a spear ! And Accordingly, at the end of ten minutes, the beast backin~ his horse like a kni~ht in the lists, lie left the path and entered the wood; but on reach- pitched away his weapon, of which the point had ing a neighboring glade, he turned his tail to a turned against the rock. A piqucur advanced to rock and made head against the dogs. The most give him another. But at the same moment, as if interesting moment of the hunt had arrived. The he had foreseen the fate that awaited him, and was animal was evidently prepared to make a desperate determined to avoid it at any cost, the boar, by a defence. The dogs, fierce and foaming after their violent effort, wrenched his torn ears from the three hours chase, precipitated themselves upon jaws of the dogs, and with bloodshot eyes, brist- him with a fury which was redoubled by the shouts hug and hideous, his respiration sounding like the and oaths of the king. The hunters arranged bellows of a- forge, and his teeth chattering and themselves in a circle, Charles a little in front, grinding against each other, he lowered his head having behind him the Duke of Alen~on, who and made a rush at the kings horse. Charles was ca ied an arquebuss, and Henry of Navarre, who too experienced a sportsman not to have anticipated was armed only with a coutean-de-chasse. The this attack, and he turned his horse quickly aside. duke unslung his arquehuss and lit the match; But he had pressed too hard upon the bit; the henry loosened his hunting-knife in the scabbard. horse reared violently, and, either terrified at the As to the Duke of Guise, who affected to despise boar or compelled by the pull on the bridle, fell field-sports, he kept himself a little apart with his backwards. The spectators uttered a terrible cry. gentlemen; and on the other side another little The kings thigh was nuder the horse. ~roup was formed by the ladies. All eyes were Slack your rein ! cried Henry, slack your fixed in anxious expectation upon the hoar. rein ! A little apart stood a piqucur, exerting all his The king relinquished his bold on the bridle, strength to resist the efforts of two enormous dous seized the saddle with his left hand, and with his who awaited, covered with their coats of mail, right tried to draw his hunting-knife; but the blade, howling savagely, and strug 1 in~ as though they pressed upon by the weight of his body, would not would break their chains, the moment when they leave its sheath. should be let loose upou the boar. The latter did The boar! the boar! cried Charles. Help, wonders. Attacked at one time by forty dogs, DAlen9on! help ! that covered hini like a living wave or many-colored Nevertheless the horse, left to himself, as if he carpet, and strove on all sides to tear his wrinkled had understood his riders peril, made an effort, and bristhin,, hide, he, at each blow of his formi- and had already got up on three legs, when Henry elable tusk, tossed one of his assailants ten feet into saw the Duke Francis grow deadly pale, bring his the air. The dogs fell to the ground ripped up, arquebuss to his shoulder, and fire. The ball, in- and threw themselves, with their bowels hanging stead of striking the boar, now but at two paces out of their wounds, once inure into the m~l6e; from the king, broke the front leg of the horse, whilst Charles, -with hair on end, inflamed eyes, who again fell with his nose upon the earth. At.. and distended nostrils, bent forward over the neck the same moment Charles boot was torn by the: of his foaming steed and sounded a furious hallali. tusk of the boar. In less than ten minutes twenty dogs were dis- Oh ! murmured DAlen9on between his; abled. pallid lips, I think that the Duke of Anjon is: The mastiffs ! cried Charles; the mas- King of France, and that I am King of Poland ! tiffs ! It seemed indeed probable. The snout of them At the word, the piqucur slipped the leashes, boar was rummaging Charles thigh, when the and the two dogs dashed into the midst of the latter felt somebody seize and raise his armas carnage, upsetting the smaller hounds, and with keen bright blade flashed before his eyes, andJ their iron-coated sides forcing their way to the buried itself to the hilt in the shoulder of the brute;; 128 MARGARET OF VALOIS. whilst a gauntleted hand put aside the dangerous tusks which were already disappearing under the kings garments. Charles, who had taken advan- tage of the horse s movement to disengage his leg, rose slowly to his feet, and, seeing himself covered with blood, became as pale as a corpse. Sire, said Henry, who, still on his knees, held down the boar, which he had stabhed to the heart Sire, there is no harm done. I put aside the tusk, and your Majesty is unhurt. Then, getting up, he let go his hold of the hunt- ing-knife, and the hoar fell, the blood flowing from his mouth even more plentifully than from the wound. Charles, surrounded by the alarmed throng, and assailed by cries of terror that might well have bewildered the calmest courage, was for a moment on the point of falling senseless near the dying animal. But he recovered himself, and turning towards the King of Navarre, pressed his hand with a look in which was visible the first gleam of kindly feeling that he had shown during his twenty-four years of existence. Thanks, Henriot, said he. My poor brother! cried DAlen~on, ap- proaching the king. Ab! you are there, DAlen~on? cried Charles. Well, you famous marksman, what is become of your bullet? It must have flattened upon the hide of the boar, said the duke. Eh! mon Dieu! cried Henry, with a surprise that was admirably acted; see there, Francis your hall has broken the leg of his Majestys horse ! What ! said the king; is that true? It is possible, said the duke, in great con- fusion ; my hand trembled so violently. The fact is, that fur an expert marksman you have made a singular shot, Francis. said Charles frowning. For the second time, thanks, Henriot. Gen- tlemen, continued the king, we will return to Paris; I have had enough for to-day. Margaret came up to congratulate Henry. Ma foi! yes, Margot, said Charles, you may congratulate him, and very sincerely too, for without him the King of France would now be Henry the Third. Alas! madam, said the B6arnais, the Duke of Anjou, already my enemy, will hate me tenfold for this mornings work. But it cannot be helped. One does what one can, as M. dAlen9on will tell you. Arid stooping, he drew his hunting-knife from the carcass of the boar, and plunged it thrice into the ground, to cleanse it from the blood. Before leaving the Louvre, on the morning of the boar-hunt, Charles has been prevailed upon by Catharine of Medicis, who, in consequence of the prediction already referred to, has vowed Henrys destruction, to sign a warrant for the King of Navarres arrest and imprisonment in the Bastile. In this warrant she inserts the words, dead or alive, and entrusts its execution to the assassin Macrevel, intimating to him that Henrys death will be more agreeable to her than his capture. Charles, however, learns that his mother has had an interviexv with Macrevel, guesses the fate reserved for Henry, and, as the least troublesome way of rescuing the man who had that day saved his life, he makes his brother-in-law accompany him to sup and pass the night out of the Louvre. Henry does not dare to refuse, although he is expecting a nocturnal visit from IDe Mouy in his apartment, and the two kings leave the palace together. Here is what passes after their depart- ure. It wanted two hours of miduight, and the most profound silence reigned in the Louvre. Margaret and the Duchess of Nevers had betaken theroselve, to their rendezvous in the Rue Tizon; Coconnas and La Mole had followed them; the Duke of Alen~on remained in his apartment, in vague and anxious expectation of the events which the queen-mother had predicted to him ; finally, Cath- anne herself had retired to rest, and Madame de Sauve, seated at her bedside, was reading to her certain Italian tales, at which the good queen laughed heartily. For a long time, Catharine had not been in so complacent a humor. After making an excellent supper with her ladies, after holding a consultation ~vith her physician, and making up the account of her days expenditure, she had ordered prayers for the success of an enterprise, highly important, she said, to the happiness of her children. It was one of Catharines Florentine habits to have prayers and masses said for the suc- cess of projects, the nature of which was known but to God and to herself. Whilst Madame de Sauve is reading, a terrible cry and a pistol-shot are heard, followed by the noise of a struggle from the direction of the Kint. of Navarres apartment. All are greatly alarmed, except Catharine, who affects not to have heard the sounds, aiid forbids inquiry as to their cause, attrib~iting them to some brawling guardsmen. At last the disturbance appears to have ceased. It is over, said Cathariue.Captain, she continued, addressing herself to Monsieur de Nancey, if there has been scandal in the palace, you will not fail to-morro~v to have it seveicly punished. Go on reading, Carlotta. And Catharine fell back upon her pillows. Only those nearest to her observed that large drops of perspiration were trickling dowii her face. Madame de Sauve obeyed the formal order site had received, but with her eyes and voice oiilr. Her imagination represented to her some terrible danger suspended over the head of him she loved. After a short struggle between emotion and eti- quette, the former prevailed; her voice died away, the book fell from her hands, and she fainted. Just then a violent noise was heard; a heavy hur- ried step shook the corridor; two pistok-shots caused the windows to rattle in their frames, and Catharitie, astonished at this prolonged struggle, sprang fi~m her couch, pale, and with dilated eyeballs. The captain of the guard was hastening to the door when she seized his arm. Let no one leave the room, she cried; I will go myself to see what is occurring.~~ What was occurring, or rather what had occurred, was this: De Mony had received, that morning, from Henrys page, Orthon, the key of the King of Navarre~ apartment. In the hollow of the key was a small roll of paper, which he drew out with a pin. It contained the password to be used that night at the Louvre. Orthon had, moreover, delivered a verbal invitation from Henry to Dc Mony, to visit him at the Louvre that night at ten oclock. At half-past nine, Dc Mouy donned a cuirass, of which the strength had been more than once tested; over this he buttoned a silken doublet, MARGARET OF VALOIS. buckled on his sword, stuck his pistols in his belt, and covered the whole with the counterpart of La Moles famous crimson mantle. Thanks to this well-known garment, and to the password with which he was provided, he passed the guards undis- covered, and went straight to Henrys apartment, imitating as usual, and as well as he could, La Moles manner of walking. In the antechamber he found Orthon waiting for him. Sire de Mouy, said the lad, the king is out, but he begs of you to wait, and, if agreeable, to throw yourself upon his bed till his return. De Mony entered without asking any further explanation, and by way of passing the time, took a pen and ink, and began marking the different stages from Paris to Pau upon a map of France that hung against the wall. This he had com- pleted, however, in a quarter of an hour; and after walking two or three times round the room, and gaping twice as often, he took advantage of Henrys permission, and stretched himself upon the large bed, surrounded with dark hangings, which stood at the further end of the apartment. He placed his pistols and a lamp upon a table near at hand, laid his naked sword beside him, and cer- tain not to be surprised, since Orthon was keeping watch in the antechamber, he sank into a heavy slumber, and was soon snoring in a manner worthy of the King of Navarre himself. It was then that six men with naked swords in their hands, and daggers in their girdles, stealthily entered the corridor upon which the door of Ilenrys apartment opened. A seventh man walked in front of the party, having, besides his sword, and a dagger as broad and as strong as a hunting-knife, a brace of pistols suspended to his helt by silver hooks. This man was Maurevel. On reaching Henrys door, he paused, introduced into the lock the key which he had received from the queen-mother, and, leaving two men at the outer door, entered the antechamber with the four others. Ali, ha ! said he, as the loud breathing of the sleeper reached his ears from the inner room, he is there. Just then Orthon, thinking it was his master who was coming in, went to meet him, and found himself face to face with five armed men. At the sight of that sinister countenance, of that Maure- vel, whom men called Tucur du Roi, the faithful lad stepped back, and placed himself before the second door. In the kings name, said Maurevel, ~ where is your master? My master ? Yes, the King of Navarre. The King of Navarre is not here, replied Orthon, still in front of the door. Tis a lie, replied Maurevel. Come! out of the way! The B~arnese are a headstrong race; Orthon growled in reply to this summons, like one of the dogs of his own mountains. You shall not go in, said he sturdily. The king is absent. And he held the door to. Maurevel made a sign; the four men seized the lad, pulled him away from the door-jambs to which he clung, and as he opened his mouth to cry out, Macrevel placed his hand over it. Orthon bit him furiously; the assassin snatched away his hand with a suppressed cry, and struck the boy on the head with his sword-hilt. Orthon staggered. Alarm! alarm! alarm! cried he, as he f?ll 8enseless to the ground. 129 The assassins passed over his body; two re- mained at the second door, and the remaining two entered the bedehamber, led on by Maurevel. By the light of the lamp still burning upon the table, they distinguished the bed, of which the curtains were closed. Oh, ho ! said the lieutenant of the little band, he has left off snoring, it seems. Allons, sus! cried Maurevel. At the sound of his voice, a hoarse cry, resem- bling rather the roar of a lion than any human accents, issued from behind the curtains, which the next instant were torn asunder. A man armed with a cuirass, and his head covered with one of those salades, or head-pieces, that come down to the eyes, appeared seated upon the bed, a pistol in either hand, and his drawn sword upon his knees. No sooner did Maurevel perceive this figure, and recognize the features of IDe Mony, than he became frightfully pale, his hair bristled up, his mouth filled with foam, and he made a step backwards, as though terrified by some horrible and unexpected apparition. At the same moment the armed figure rose from its seat and made a step forwards, so that the assailed seemed to be pursuing, and the assailant to fly. Ah! villain, exclaimed De Mouy, in the holloxv tones of suppressed fury, do you come to kill me as you killed my father? The two men who had accompanied Maurevel into the chamber alone heard these terrible words; but as they were spoken, IDe Motiys pistol had been brought to a level with Maurevels head. Macrevel threw himself on his knees at the very moment that Dc Mony pulled the trigger. The bullet passed over him, and one of the guards who stood behind, and who had been uncovered by his movement, received it in his heart. At the same instant Maurevel fired, but the ball rebounded from De Monys cuirass. Then IDe Mouy, with one blow of his heavy sword, split the skull of the other soldier, and, turning upon Maurevel, attack- ed him furiously. The combat was terrible but short. At the fourth pass Maurevel felt the cold steel in his throat; he uttered a stifled cry, fell backwards, and, in falling, overturned the lamp. Immediately De Mouy, profiting by the darkness, and vigorous and active as one of Homers heroes, rushed into the outer room, cut down one of the guards, pushed aside the other, and, passing like a thunderbolt between the two men stationed at the door of the antechamber, received their fire with- out injury. He had still got a loaded pistol, be- sides the sword which he so well knew how to handle. For one second he hesitated whether he should take refuge in Monsieur dAlen9ons apart- ment, the door of which, he thought, was just then opened, or whether he should endeavor to leave the Louvre. iDeciding upon the latter course, he sprang down the stairs, ten steps at a time, reached the wicket, uttered the password, and darted out. Go up stairs, he shouted as he passed the guardhouse; they are slaying there for the kings account. And before he could be pursued, he had disap- peared in the Rue du Coq, without having received a scratch. It was at this moment of time that Catharine had said to De Nancey Remain here; I will go myself to see what is occurring. But, madam, replied the captain, the dan- ger to which your majesty might be exposed com- pels me to follow. MARGARET OF VALOIS. Remain here, sir, said Catharine, in a more mperative tone than before. A higher power than that of the sword watches over the safety of kings. The captain obeyed. Catharine took a lamp, thrust her naked feet into velvet slippers, entered the corridor, which was still full of smoke, and advanced, cold and unmoved, towards the apart- ment of the King of Navarre. All was again dead silence. Catharine reached the outer door of Henrys rooms, and passed into the antechamber, where Orthon was lying, still insensible. Ah, ha ! said she, here is the page to be- gin with ; a little further we shall doubtless find the master. And she passed through the second room. Then her foot struck against a corpse it was that of the soldier whose skull had been split. He was quite dead. Three paces further she found the lieutenant: a ball in his breast, and the death- rattle in his throat. Finally, near the bed, lay a man bleeding profusely from a double wound that had gone completely through his throat. He was making violent but ineffectual efforts to raise him- self from the ground. This was Maurevel. Catharines blood ran cold; she saw the bed empty; she looked round the room, and sought in vain, amongst the three bodies that lay weltering upon the floor, that of him whom she would fain have seen there. Maurevel recognized her ; his eyes became horribly dilated, and he held out his arms with a gesture of despair. Well, said she, in a low voice, where is he? What has become of him? Wretch! have you let him escape? Maurevel endeavored to articulate; but an un- intelligible hissing, which issued from his wound, was the only sound he could give forth; a reddish frtah fringed his lips, and he shook his head in si~n of impotence and suffering. But speak, then ! cried Catharine; speak, if it be only to say one word. Maurevel pointed to his wound, and again ut- tered some inarticulate sounds, made an effort which ended in a hoarse rattle, and swooned away. Catharine then looked around her: she was surrounded by the dead and the dying; blood was flowing in streams over the floor, and a gloomy silence prevailed in the apartment. She spoke once more to Maurevel, but he could not hear her voice; this time he remained not only silent, but motionless. Whilst stooping over him, Catharine perceived the corner of a paper protruding from the breast of his doublet; it was the order to arrest Henry. The queen-mother seized it, and hid it in her bosom. Then, in despair at the failure of her murderous project, she called the captain of her guard, ordered the dead men to be removed, and that Maurevel, who still lived, should be conveyed to his house. She moreover particularly com- manded that the king should not be disturbed. Oh ! murmured she, as she reentered her apartment, her head bowed upon her breast, he has again escaped me! Surely the hand of God protects this man. He will reign! he will reign ! Then, as she opened the door of her bedroom, she passed her hand over her forehead, and com- posed her features into a smile. What was the matter, madam? inquired all her ladies, with the exception of Madame de Sauve, who was too anxious and too agitated to ask questions. Nothing, replied Catharine; a great deal of noise and nothing else. Oh ! suddenly exclaimed Madame de Sauve, pointing to the ground with her finger, each one of your majestys footsteps leaves a trace of blood upon the carpet ! Thrice foiled in her designs upon Henrys life, the queen-mother does not yet give in. Henry, whom the king has reproached with his ignorance of falconry, has aske dth e Duke of Alen~on to procure him a book on that subject. Catharine hears of this request, and gives DAlen9on a book of the kind requireda rare and valuable work, but of which the edges of the leaves are stuck to- eether, apparently from age, in reality by poison. The idea is old, but its application is novel and very effective. The queen-mother convinces DAleneon that Henry is playing him false, and the duke places the fatal book in the King of Navarres room during his absence, being afraid to give it into his hands. He then reenters his apartment, hears Henry, as he thinks, return to his, and passes half an hour in the agonies of sus- pense and terror. To escape from himself and his reflections, he goes to visit his brother Charles. We have only space for a very short extract, showing the frightful and unexpected result of Catharines atrocious scheme. Charles was seated at a table in a large carved arm-chair: his back was turned to the duor by which Francis had entered, and he appeared ab- sorbed in some very interesting occupation. The duke approached on tiptoe; Charles was reading. Pardieu! exclaimed the king on a sudden, this is an admirable book. I have heard speak of it, but I knew not that a copy existed in France. DAlen~on made another step in advance. Curse the leaves ! cried the king, putting his thumb to his lips, and pressing it on the page he had just read, in order to detach it from the one he ~vas about to read; one would think they had been stuck together on purpose, in order to con- ceal from mens eyes the wonders they contain. DAlen~on made a bound forwards. The book Charles was reading was the one he had left in Henrys room. A cry of horror escaped him. Ha! is it you, DAlen~on ? said Charles; come here and look at the most admirable trea- tise on falconry that was ever produced by the pen of man.~~ DAlen9ons first impulse was to snatch the book from his brothers hands ; but an infernal thought paralyzed the movementa frightful smile passed over his pallid lips; he drew his hand across his eyes as if something dazzled him. Then gradually recovering himself Sirg, said he to the king, how can this book have come into your Majestys hands ? In the most simple manner possible. I went up just now to Henriots room, to see if he was ready to go a hawking. He was not there, but in his stead I found this treasure, which I brought down with me to read at my ease.~~ And the king put his thumb to his lips and turned another page. Sire, stammered DAlen~on, who felt a hor- rible anguish come over him, Sire, I came to tell you Let me finish this chapter, Francis, inter- rupted Charles. You shall tell me whatever you like afterwards. I have read fifty pages already, or devoured them, I should rather say. 130 INTERCOURSE OF THE GREAT AND THE LITTLE. 131 He has tasted the poison twenty-five times ! thonght Francis. My brother is a dead man. He wiped, with his trembling hand, the chill dew that stood upon his brow, and waited, as the king had commanded, till the chapter was finished. The end of Charles IX. is well known. A dreadfnl complaint, a sweat of blood, which many historians attribote to poison, and which the Ho- guenots maintained to be a punishment inflicted on him by heaven fir the massacre of their brethren, rendered the latter months of his life a period of horrible torture. At his death, Henry, having everything to dread from the animosity of Catha- rine, and from that of the Doke of Anjon, Charles soccessor, fled from Paris, and took refuge in his kingdom of Navarre. From the Spectator. INTERCOURSE OF THE GREAT AND THE LITTLE. AT Cobnrg and Gotha the queen has been living en bourgeoisekeeping good hours, eschewing state parade, and dining in a pavilion at a fair, as good citizens were wont to dine in booths at our Bartlemy Fair when it existed. Her majesty, moreover, has been made aware that this, to her new fashion of life is the custom of the country that German sovereigns live thus throoghout the year. Are we to have an importation of this free and easy style of courtly life There are two ob- stacles to its adoption hereone in the character of the Court of St. James, and one in the char- acter of the English people. The sovereigns of Germany are the nobility of the German empire, emancipated from the control of a superior by the abolition of the office of Em- peror. They are landlords as wQll as sovereigns; great part of their revenues are derived from their demesnes; and the means of some scarcely equal the incomes of the wealthiest English nobles. German sovereigns are what English peers might be imagined, were the crown to hill into abeyance, the Duke of Buckingham and his fellows to be- come sovereigns of the counties over which they are lords-lieutenant, and organize their courts in conformity to their revenues and habits while sub- jects. The spirit of the age, and still more the pressure of the times when the German empire was dissolved, prevented the new-made sovereigns from taking full state upon them. They are a kind of cross-breed between the king and the great land-owner managing his own estates. They have had no courtly traditions to unlearnno courtly forms to lay aside. But the court of England, to adopt their style, must change its character by an effort. On the other hand, the people of Germany, as a body, are not politicians. Every Englishman is a politician, and is on good or bad terms with his king or queen according as the sovereigns politics please or displease him. The Duke of Saxe Co- burg is sure of a civil and kindly reception from his half-subjects half-tenants ; but the king or queen of Englands reception from the tax-paying subjects of London, Manchester, or Birmingham, might often depend upon who were ministers for the time being, arid what particular course of poli- cy they were steering. The French, like the English, are politicians; and Louis Philippe and William the Fourth soon found it expedient to give up walking about the streets alone, carmiying their own umbrellas. In France, where the mon archy of the barricades as fettered by no tradi- tional etiquette, the altered relations of king and subject, when the monarch has ceased to stand in any other than a political or an official relation to the people, has materially restricted the free inter- course of king and subjects. It is this that renders an aristocracy so impor- taut an element in a large monarchy. It is not as legislators that our peers (by descent) are in general of much use. Their hereditary legislative authority, by combining political power with the influence of the great proprietor, enables them to play in some measure the same part as the Ger- man sovereigns. They are the crowns deputies to discharge those acts of courtesy, to maiutairt that friendly and familiar intercourse with people of this great eumpire, which the princes of the small territories of Germany keep up in person. This is a duty too much neglected by our nobil- ityand by many who have not the nobles ex- cuse for standing aloof from the people. It is the vice of our age and country for the wealthy to withdraw themselves, as much as possible, from contact with the poor. The laboring classes are paid by the job, not taken into service. Our very domestic servants hold their places by a precarious tenure, and if seized with sickness are sent to the hospital. Any one of the better classes, caught at a fair, would deem it necessary to apologize, and explain that curiosity alone took him there. Two castes have been firmed in society, between which there are no permanent relations, or the sympa- thies which spring from them. At Coburg, the reigning prince and his royal and noble guests moved about the fair as a matter of course: in London, a proposal to resuscitate Bow Fair has elicited eloquent and pathetic remonstrances from the whole respectable class of society. The German fair was a scene of merriment, as vulgar as any cockney could wish, but decorous and inno- cent. The London fair would probably be neither decorous nor innocent, because the absence of the class which piques itself upon correct behavior is a signal for licence. FIDE ET FORTITUDINEAt THOUGH all ar6und is dark and cheerless, And on high my star looks pale, My heart is steadfast still, and fearless, Still my lips disdain to wail. Though all my early hopes lie broken, Though no beacon guide my way; Though Fate deny me every token Of Power, Honor, Glorys ray; Though learning s lost, and genius slighted Though my soul has ceased to soar, Midst blackest clouds for aye benighted, A wreck in space that knows no shore; Though Friendship s dead, ~nd Love lies bleed- ing, Laughter s mute, and Joy bath fled; Though Time and Care are ever breeding Woes to hurtle round my head ; My spirit still stands up undaunted, Still I on myself rely; No craven thought my brain eer haunted, Fate and Fortune I defy !Frasers Magazine. * The motto of the writers family. 132 RUINS OF NINEVEH. Ecom Si1iiman~ Journal of Science. Ruins of Ninevelo: Description of the Discoveries made in 1843 and 1844; in a letter from Rev. AZARIAH SMITH, M. ID., Missionary A. B. C. F.M. THE city of Nineveh, so well known from the facts related in the book of Jonah, was one of the most ancient cities of which we have any record. It is mentioned in Genesis x. 11, and was probably founded within two hundred years after the flood. In its days of prosperity, it is described as having been a city of three days joorney ; i. e., say sixty or s venty miles in circumference, and as having contained more than six score thousand persons that could not discern between their right hand and their left band ; and also much cattle. (See Jonah iii. 3, and iv. 11.) Supposing this number to refer to children, the population of Nineveh could not have been less than 500,000, and from the mention made of cattle, it is probable that the city embraced fields within its limits, both for pasture and tillage. This exceeding ,:,reat city, at that time the capital of the Assyrian empire, was destroyed about the beginning of the seventh century before Christ, and though afterwards rebuilt by the Persians, it never reiittained its former splendor. In the seventh century of the Christian era, it was finally destroyed by the Saracens, and its name and its place would have been quite forgotten, but for the prominence given it by the records of inspiration. Indeed its geographical position has been so much involved in doubt as to render it a worthy subject of scientific inquiry, but the result of the observa- tions of Rich and others has been to fix its locality on the east bank of the river Tigris, (called by the Arabs, Shat,) directly opposite the modern city of Mosul. There, ruined walls of sun-dried brick still remain, varying from fifteen to fifty feet in heighth, and enclosing a space about four miles long and a mile and a half hroad ; the whole of which is strewed with fragments of pottery and other marks indicating the site of an ar6~ient city. Two immense mounds occupy each several acres of this area; one of them is about a mile and a half in circumference, and fifty feet highand the other, though smaller, is sufficiently large to con- tain upon its top and sidesas it does at the pres- ent timea village of two or three hundred houses. The principal mosque of this village is said to cover the tomb of Jonah, and hence the village is called by the Arabs, Nehi Yunis, or the prophet Jonah. On the east side of the en- closed space above referred to, there are two walls, at their southern extremity approximating, and at their northern ahout three quarters of a mile dis- tant from each other. The outer of these appears to be the older one and probably remains from the Assyrian city, while the inner and more modern may have been constructed when the place was rebuilt by the Persians. Just within the outer wall, there is an artificial channel, several yards in width, cut, in some places, through solid rock, and in the enclosed space west of the inner, where are also the two mounds spoken of, foundations still remain, marking the site of buildings, and of arches, which, at different places, once stretched across the Khaussera stream which passes through the ruins from east to west, and a half a mile farther on empties into the Tigris. Several bricks and other fragments covered with ~nscrip- tions in the cuneiform character, and one or two large hlocks, having on them figures in has- relief, have also been found, most of them in con- nection with one or other of the two mounds. All these ruins, together with the general locality of the place, the names of other towns in the vicinity, and above all the name (the prophet Jonah) given by the natives to the village on one of the mounds, has been deemed sufficient warrant for identifying this spot with that once occupied by the city of Nineveh. The greatest objection which has been felt to assigning to these ruins this name, is the size of the area which the walls enclose ; as this is much inferior to the area of Nineveh as described in his- tory. Mr. Rich,* to meet this difficulty, suggests that the walls now standing represent only a palace and royal grounds, and that the populated part of the city was without this enclosure. As there is however no evidence of any wall enclosing such a city as this would suppose, the adoption of the view renders one of two conclusions necessary, viz., that the city was unwalled; or that, while the wall of the palace has been preserved, that of the city has been destroyed. Both of these con- clusions are, in themselves, improbable; but inde- pendent thereof, there are many facts that seem to us to render his theory untenable. The fact that another wall enclosing an area, is found within the territory that such a city must have occupied, and that marks of edifices are rarely if ever found in the space lying between these areas, seems to us to decide the point. Moreover, no one can stand upon one of these ruined walls, and compare the rolling surface without, with the level area within, and the high mounds upon that area, especially as these and the space around them is strewed with fragments of pottery and other ruins, without feel- ing that he is standing upon the ramparts which separated the town from its cultivated fields. If, however, we are warranted by Jonah iv. 11, in supposing that the Nineveb of Scripture included gardens and pasture grounds for much cattle, then it seems not unlikely that there may have beon included under one name, two and even more distinct groups or suburbs of houses, each pro- tected by a wall peculiar to itself. LTnless we adopt some such view as this, how can we suppose a city of three days journey to contain only 120,000 persons who were unable to discern their right hand from their left hand. The view just pro- posed moreover, derives support from the fact that Jonah (ch. iii. 4,) entered into the city a days journeyi. e. according to this supposition, he passed through the gardens which contained only scattered houses, and perhaps even by one or more enclosed suburbs to the main walled town before he began to preach. To remove objections to the view that Nineveh included more than one walled suburb, it may be well to mention some similar cases in modern times. In the single and small district of Tiyary, which lies sixty miles to the north of these ruins, there are no less than three instances of several villages grouped under one name. Rumpta, Kay- laytha and Berawola arc villages composed sever- ally of eleven, seven, and four distinmet and some- what distant groups of houses. By inhabitants of these places, each group is known, at least in the first two instances, by some specific title, but away from home the division is no more recognized as a valid ground for considering them distinct villages, * Residence in Koordistan and Nineveh. RUINS OF NINEVEH. 133 than is the local division of Philadelphia, into Southwark, Kensington, Northern Liberties, & c., a valid ground for calling these districts, in general geography, so many cities. In Berawola this is more remarkable, as the gronps of houses are separated by quite high and steep hills, and as, in this case, even the villagers among themselves seem to have no distinctive name fur the several parts which go to make up the whole village. I refer to these examples, because occurring among a people (the Nestorians) living in the neighbor- hood of these ruins, and who, having long re- mamed undisturbedperhaps even from the time of Ninevehs overthrow, in the inaccessible fast- nesses of their barren mountains, are more likely than any other to have handed down to us un- changed, the customs of those times. Other ex- amples of something similar, and more weighty, because better known, may be found in Beirout, Constantinople, and Trebizond. These are sea- port towns with walls, but a large proportion of their population reside without them. Constanti- nople indeed has enclosed suburbs besides the main walled town, and if these were separated from it and from each other by gardens instead of water, they would exactly illustrate our idea of the places represented by the two ruined enclosures, spoken of as found on the east side of the Tigris near Mosul. The object of the remainder of this article, will be to give a brief account of the late discoveries of Mons. Botta, the French consul of Mosul, in the more eastern and inferior of these ruins. These discoveries were made in a mound about ten miles to the northeast of the village of Nebi Yunis. This mound is about four hundred and fifty feet wide, six hundred feet long, and varies from twenty to forty feet in height. Its area is nearly oval, bnt its surface is somewhat uneven, and its outlines are correspondingly irregular. It is situated in one side of what appm rs to have b3ei a fortified town, (or suburb?) there being still in existence the remains of a mud wall, en- clositig a space a mile square. This ruined wall is in few placesand those apparently towers more than ten feet high, but as there is evidence that it was originally faced with hewn stone, no doubt can exist but that it was built for purposes of defence, and once enclosed a thriving, busy population. But to return to the mound referred to, and which forms, by one of its faces, a part of the northeastern boundary of this enclosure. It has been occupied as far back as modern inquiry can extend, by an Arab village of about a hundred houses, called by the natives Khorsabad. In dig- ing vaults or cisterns for the safe deposit of straw and grain, these people had repeatedly found remains of ancient sculpture, bitt their value not being known, no account of the discovery was made public. In 1843, while Mons. Botta was making excavations in one of the mounds near the Tigris, one of the villagers of Khorsabad inquired of him why he did not come and di~ in their village, for, said he, it is built on a mound like this, which contains more beautiful stones than any you can find here. In due time the work of excavation was transferred according to the villagers recommendation, and the step re- sulted in one of the most interesting discoveries, if we may not say the most interesting discovery of modern times. The whole upper part of the mound has been found to be threaded with walls running at right angles to each other, and etm closing rooms varying from thirty to a hundred and thirty feet in length, and pretty uniformly about thirty feet in breadth. The whole seems to have been but a part of oite building, amid perhaps but a small part, for the walls are broken off in several places by the edge of the mound in a manner which indicates that its area was once much more extensive than it now is. But we will lint venture into the field of conjecture; our object is to de- scribe what has been actually discovered. The point where the excavations were com- menced was near the margin of the mound, about twenty feet above its base, and where the top of what seemed to be a stone wall presented itself On digging along the sides of this, it was found to be composed of a single row of large hewn stones, the top of which had been hroken off by violence or otherwise destroyed. On one side these stones were plain or unfinished, on the other the lower part of the legs of captives, with chaimis around their andes, were represented in has-relief, the latter being the surface designed to he seen, while the former was contiguous to an unburnt brick wall, of which these stones formed the facing. To furnish a good opportunity to examine arid copy these figures, a ditch about four feet wide was dug along in front of the stones, sticks being so placed as to keep them from falling forward. Following the stone work in this manner a little distance, the workmen came to a doorway. Turning around the corner thus presented, they directed the dig- ging inward towards the room, and the walls were found to have been twelve or fifteen feet thick. The doorway thus entered was about eight feet broad, and its floor was formed by a single stone, which was covered with writing in the cuneiform character. 0mm the stones forming the sides of this doorway were immense figures, having an eagles head and wings, with arms and legs like those of a man. The doors were gone, hut circular holes, about ten inches in diameter and as many in depth, were found cut in the floor on each side of the doorway. These holes were so situated in the angles of recesses in the sides of the doorway, as to leave no doubt that they were the receptacles of the pivots on which the doors turned. Those who are familiar with the manner in which the lock-gates of American canals are usually hung, and the recesses into which they fit while boats are passing in and out of the locks, will derive from them a very correct idea of the style of the door- way just described. This doorway being cleared out, the digging was directed along in front of the stone, facing the inner side of the unburut brick wall. In this way, also, the excavations were conducted throughout the whole of the work, which comprised a line of stone facing, ten feet high when the stones were uninjured, and, follow- ing its ramifications, more than a mile in length; the whole of which was covered either with in- scriptions or with has-reliefs. From thirty to sixty laborers were constantly employed for more than six months in the manual labor of excavatiomi alone; and this will show, perhaps better than any statement of measures or other statistics, the actual extent of, and the expense attending, these researches. The number of rooms whose om]tlines were in a tolerably good state of preservation was fifteen, but there were traces of others, as we shall hereafter mention. As the mound increased in heighth toward the centre, the upper part of the stones became more and more perfect, until they were found of their original size, and farther, the RUINS OF NINEVEIT. tops of these were in som~. places nearly or quite ten feet below the surfaee of the mound, making the whole depth of the exeavations in such places Thout twenty feet. In a few instances, however, hese stone slabs were sixteen feet hi~h, being ~oade thus large to accommodate the gigantie figures upon their surface. Although the writer feels that it is quite im- issIble by description to convey an accurate idea of the sculptures found on these stones, yet, in the absence of drawings, he xvill use his best endeavors to supply their plaee.* The largest has-reliefs are of hnnian form, about sixteen feet high. Between the left sides and suspended arms of these, lions re held dangling in the air, while serpents are grasped by the right hand, which hangs extended little forwards. These figures are but few in number. The monsters by the doorway, already described, are the next in size, and others like them are found in several other similar situations. The surface of the whole remaining line of wall, is to a great extent covered with human figures nine feet high. These represent kings, priests, manacled captives, soldiers armed with hows, and quivers of arrows, and servants, some of whom are hearing presents to a king, while others have upon their shoulders a throne or chair of state. Where the figures are not of this large size, they are found in two rows, one ahove the other, and be- tween the rows are inscriptions, generally about txventy inches hroad, each inch representing a line of the writing. But we will leave the inscriptions for the present. The figures above and below them, are grouped together, as if to represent his- torical events. Some ten or more cities or castles are found represented in different rooms, and re- mote from eaeh other, all undergoing the process of being besie0ed, and the enemy without, in every ease, triumphant. LTpon the walls of these castles re men in a great variety of attitudes, some with both hands uplifted, as if imploring for mercy, some engaged in defence, some transfixed with arrows and falling forwards, and some already sur- rounded hy flames, while before them men are sometimes impaled, their countenanees distorted as if in the agonies of death. The besiegers are not only triumphant, but are represented as larger than the besie~,ed in stature and more noble in mien. They also appear in many different forms: while some are shooting arrows at those on the walls, and some with torches are setting on fire the gates, others still are protecting these from the weapons of the besieged, by holding before them round or rectangular shields. In fine, it seems to have been ~he artists design to represent in, upon, and around the castles, every attitude that warriors might he supposed to take in such circumstances. Upon the front of each of these structures a short inscription is found. These are different one from the other, and probably designed to communicate the name by which it was known. As the eastles ~hemselves are only three or four feet high, the fgures here described are of course small. Of ~~gures about the same size with the castles there is also a great variety. Here a two-wheeled chariot of war is seen containing three persons, one in * Mons. Botta, in addition to many other favors, which the writer takes this opportunity to acknowledge, has been so kind as to furnish him with an accurate plan of these ruins, but as the insertion of it here would antici- pate the volumes to he issued by the French government, it is deemed but a just regard to his generosity to with royal apparel drawing a bow, another by his side protecting him with a shield, and the third one guiding the horses, who are four abreast. There a king is seen riding in a similar chariot in time of peace, with an umbrella held over his head by one, and the horses conducted as before by a second attendant, all being in an erect posture. In one place a feast is represented, the guests sitting on opposite sides of tables, and on chairs, in true occi- dental style, while servants are bringing fluid in goblets, which other servants are employed in fill- ing from immense vases; the vases, goblets, chairs and tables all being highly ornamented with carved work. In another place a navy is represented as landing near a city. A number of boats well manned and loaded with timber, are approaching the shore, while others are tinlading timber from other boats, and others still are engaged in build- ing a bridge, or perhaps a sort of carriage-way for the mounting of battering-rams. In the water are seen crabs, fish, turtles, mermaids, and a singular monster shaped like an ox, with a human head and eagles wings. One room, thirty feet square, has its walls completely covered with a hunting scene. Trees, havin the shape of poplars are the most prominent objects. The branches of these abound with birds, and the space which separates them one from another, with wild animals. In this forest or park the king and his attendants are sporting: a bird is transfixed with an arrow while on the wing, and a servant is carrying a fox or hare, the evidence of previous success. But this is perhaps enough to giveall that is attempteda general idea of the scenes repre- sented. The character of the sculpture is in some respects interesting. Some figures but a few inches in length, are so perfect as to have the toe and finger nails plainly distinguishable. Stron passions are sometimes delineated on the faces, the dying appear in agony, arid the dead seem stiff and quite unlike the living, who look as if in actual motion. In general the perspective is indifferent, that of groups bad, and that of the water scene above describedto mention one caseis decidedly out of all reason. The costunie of all the figures is much like that now worn in the East, the kings having a flowintc tunic richly figured, and subjects a simple plain frock, hanging in plaits. The Per- sian cap, almost exactly as it is seen at the present day, is worn by some; rings are quite commonly suspended from the ears, and round bars, appa- rently of iron, and made into helixes haviu5, two or three revolutions, are worn around the arm above the elbow, while the hair and beards of all are curled and frizzled in as nice a manner as it can be done in any of the courts of modern Europe.* Portions of some of the figures are painted red, blue, green, and black; the same is true of the trappings of some of the horses, and generally wherever fire is represented it is made more dis- tinct by coloring the flame ; but with these few * Near the mouth of Nahr el Kelb or Dog River, a stream which empties into the bay north of Beyroot, on a large perpendicular and artificially smoothed surface of a rock are found figures dressed in similar costumes with some of these. Draxvin~s of the two, placed side by side, present so many resenih~ances that one can hardly doubt hut that the artists who made the originals, aimed to depict men of the same age and nation. This striking coincidence, and the fact that the inscriptions at Nahr et Keib are in the same character with those of the ruins at Khorsabad, seems to give sonic light as to the probable events whib l~mh commemorate. 134 exceptions, hardly worth mentioning except on account of their rarity, all the bas-reliefs now de- scribed are of the natural color of the stone from which they project. Heretofore our remarks have referred to has- reliefs only. We have now to speak of a few coniplete sculptures, which are more astonishing than anything yet meI)tioned. These are im- mense monsters, having the form of an ox, with the face, hair and heard of a man, and the wings of a bird. Of these there are upwards of twenty, each cut from a single block of niassive sulphate of lime. They stand generally in single pairs, at the sides of the main entrances of the building, hut at one entrance there are two pairs, and at another three. They differ somewhat from each other in size, but their average will not vary much from fiur feet hroad, fourteen feet long, and fifteen feet high. If the reader will apply these dimensions to the walls of some building, he will be much better able to conceive of the magnitude of these gigantic images, than if his imagination is governed by the mere mention of numbers and measures. 1 he shape of these monsters is not uniform, but some of them exactly resemble the figure men- tioned above in the scene of boats landing before a besieged city; In these the wings of each side extend above the back of the animal until they nearly or quite come together, but in others they are so carved as not to interfere essentially with the natural shape of the ox. Their breasts and sides are generally covered with small figured work, probably representing a coat of mail, and their horns, instead of protruding, are turned around upon the sides of the head so as to form a sort of wreath. As these sculptures stand in every case with a part of one side contiguous to a wall, the artist left that half of the lower portion of the original block as a basis for the support of the rest. This rendered it impossible for him to exhibit the forwards legs both in front and at the side in a natural position ;accordingly, he made five legs, four visible at the side and two in front, but a person looking upon them obliquely sees the whole number at one view. In a recess of a few inches deep, which exists between the fore and hind legs, are found inscriptions of the same kind as those before referred to. A few remarks respecting the inscriptions can- not fail to be interesting. The character is that known as the cuneiform or arrow-headed, and dif- fers but a little from that found on the bricks of Bagdad. They are in lines about an inch broad arid are indented in the stone about a quarter of an inch. Their length, if written in a continuous straight line, would be measured by miles. They read from left to right, like English, and unlike all languages now spoken in the vicinity of these ruins. This fact is determined by the comparison of two passages whose commencements are the same and whose lines are of different length. The number of different characters amounts to some hundreds, and hence it seems unlikely that they represent alphabetic sounds-perhaps the proper names only are thus represented, while the more common words have each their appropriate sign. In the inscriptions upon the castles or cities, the left hand character of each is generally, and if we niistake not, in every case the same. The extent of the records found in these ruins and their rela- tion to the has-relief is such, that there can be no doubt that they will one day be deciphered, and that thus the history of ancient times will have IttXINS OF NINEVEH. 135 been transmitted directly down to us without the possibility of any forgery. That their solution will confirm and throw li~ht upon Holy Writ we may also hope; and especially as there was in Scripture times much intercourse between Assyria and the IJoly Land. In order to ensure the 0reat- est accuracy in the preservation of these records, Mon5, Botta has not only copied them with cx- treme care, but he has had impressions of the1 taken on palier, by means of which the originals can at any time be reproduced by a casting of wax or plaster of Paris. As if to leave nothing undone that would serve to bring these ruins within the reach of the curi- ous, two of the monster oxen which were in a per- fect state of preservation, have been cut in five pieces with the view to send them to Paris, where they are destined to guard the main entrance to the royal (?) Museum. Thirty of the best preserved blocks containing has-reliefs have also been re- moved, and will probably not be separated from their guardian cheruhiin.* These were trans- ported to the Tigris on cannon carriages furnished by the Pasha of Mosul, and from there upon rafts floated by inflated skins, to the mouth of the river, and will he carried eventually around the Cape of Good Hope to their final destination. A small bronze lion, weighing say seventy-five pounds, was the only metallic antiquity found that is wor- thy of notice. It had a staple in its hack which was evidently once connected by a chain with a similar staple fixed in the floor. Besides this the only relics which remain to he noticed are some images made of clay and baked in a furnace. They were found in cavities under a brick pave- ment, which exists in the inner part of each en- trance. This pavement is composed of two layers, and the cavities were formed by leaving out a single brick from the lower layer. For what use these hidden images were intended, can only be a matter of conjecture. Were the tutelary deities, placed there to guard the entrances to this monu- ment of art I To remove any indistinct and incorrect im- pressions that may have been received from, read- ing the above account of these ruins, it may he well to prevent a general view of them in another form. For this purpose, with such light as our observation of their present state affords, we will endeavor to describe the construction and over- throw of this palace, temple, monument of Ninus, or, whatever else it be, this depository of ancient archives. For its base there was erected an oval mound, nearly half a nub in circumference, and twenty feet in heighth above the surroundin,g plain. Over the level surface of this, a layer of sand, brought from the Tigris, was spread about a foot in thickness. This foruied the floor and foun- dation of the whole building, and was made hard by means of stone rollers, (some of which have been found,) in the same manner as the roofs of buildings are treated throughout the southern part of Turkey in Asia at the present day. Besides the doorways, the floor was nowhere covered, ex- cept in such places as were peculiarly exposed for instance, near the walls ;and here are found two layers of kiln-burnt brick, one above and one below the stratum of sand. Upon this foundation thus prepared, the walls of the building were erected. These were of sun-dried brickfrom ten to fifteen feet in thickness, and faced everywhere, * See Art. Oherub in - ohinson, Calm t. 136 RUINS OF NINEVEHSCRAPS. next the floor, both within and without, with blocks Flandin, a French artist. This gentleman, be- of sulphate of lime, ten inches thick, ten feet high, sides being master of his profession, brought to and of different breadths, and these were covered this field extensive experience, acquired in similar on the exposed surface with inscriptions and has- labors among the ruins of Persepolis. his aim in reliefs. Above these blocks or slabs, the wall was performing the part assigned him, has been to faced with a tier of of kiln-dried brick, painted represent with distinctness and accuracy, the size straw-colored on the inside. How high this tier and character of the mound, the ground plan and of bricks extended, we have no roeans of determin- elevation of the walls, and the present state of all ing. Its top must have been at least sixteen feet the has-reliefs and sculptures, leaving injured por- above the floor, as a few of the stones lining the tions and imperfections in the ruins to appear in wall were of this heighth; and probably it was the drawings, and to be restored and improved or considerably higher, else the oxen at the doorways not, as may suit the taste and imagination of those must have reached nearly to the ceiling of the who may examine his records. rooni, and accordingly must have been, as to size, We understand that it is proposed to publish the altogether out of taste. Upon the walls, and inscriptions and drawings in four folio volumes, reaching from one to the other, were immense tim- each volume to contain about a hundred plates hers, (a few preserved fragments of which have half being inscriptions and half plans and draughts. been found,) more than thirty feet in length; and It is sufficient assurance of the character of this UI)Ofl them, to complete the roof, was a layer of forthcoming work, to say that it is in the hauds of earth, probably of considerable thickness. Thus, the French government, and that it will be per- it will be seen, a building was constructed worthy formed in the best style of the best artists of of the simplicity of the first ages of the world, and France. in strange contrast with the sculptures that formed In conclusion, the writer would beg not to he its ornaments, considered accountable for anything more than the Without doubt the building was destroyed by general accuracy of the foregoing statements. fire. Enough charcoal exists among the ruins to The fact that he writes six months after visiting justify this supposition, and also the one that wood the ruins, while several hundred miles distant was employed about the doors and roof. Further, from them, and at intervals of time crowded with the calcination of a portion of some of the stones, other important duties, is his apology fur this and especially of their exposed surfaces, shows this remark. to have been the fact. If, now, there were several l3noOsA, ASIA MINoR, April 5, 1845. feet of earth upon the roof, and if after the falling of this, portions of that part of the wall lined only VEGETABLE NoN-CoNnucToR. Q)The beech with brick tumbled inward, it can easily be seen tree erican paper, under the heading that the rooms were soon filled up with rubbish 50 of says an Am high as to bury the stones that faced the lower be a a thing that ought to he known,is said to part of the wall. In some parts of the building non-conductor of lightning. So notorious is these stones may not have been completely buried, the fact, that the Indians, whenever the sky wears and hence succeeding generations may have found the appearance of a thunder-storm, leave their pur- and removed these portions, without being aware suits, and take refuge under the nearest beech-tree. In T of, or without caring to remove, those which ennessee, the people consider it a complete remain. If this has been the case, it will explain protection. Dr. Becton, in a letter to Dr. Mitchell, the fact that thu outlines of other rooms than those states that the beech-tree is never known to he enumerated in our description can be traced, struck by atmospheric electricity, while other trees although the stones which lined their walls are are often shattered into splinmers.Atlrenrreoi. not to be found. That such stones once existed, MINERAL REGION OF LARE SuPERIoRA letter is inferred from the analogy of the rooms which addressed to M. Elie de Beaumont, of Paris, gives are more perfectly preserved, and from the fact some account of the copper and silver mines re- that the doorways of these rooms, like the other cently discovered at Kewena Point, on the son thorn main passage-ways, are guarded by tIme monster shore of Lake Superior. I found there, he says, oxen before describedwhich were probably so an interesting mineral region. The copper pre- large as to be immovable by any power that the sents itself generally in the metallic state ; fillin pilferer of the works of his predecessors could all the cavities of an amygdaloid trap, disposed in command. banks of great thickness, intersecting the layers of Before closing this account, it will be but a just old red free-stone and of conglomerate which form tribute of merit to say a few words respecting the this portion of the banks of Lake Superior. [he gentlemen who have been engaged in developing metal is found both pure and in combination with the ruins now described. Mons. Botta, the dis- silverenclosing spiculn and grains of pure silver coverer, is son of Botta, author of the I-history withmn its massand silver crystalized, in amigular of the Anmerican Revolution. He has been for globules adhering to the mixed metal. In some many years a traveller in foreign countries, is places, veins of pure silver intersect great masses of acquainted with various langoages, and is by copper, containing a silver alloy of no more than nature a roan of taste amid accurate discrinmination. from one to three in a thmonsand in these cases, the With all these qualifications, however, had he not veins appear to have formed themselves within the ado the investigation & antiquities a study, and mass by a process of segregation. I have found had he riot, by experience in Egypt, become aware pieces of copper and silver so united together that of the value of accurate details in publications they might be beaten (lot imito thin plates. The relating to this, his favorite science, he must often silver, it is supposed, is separated from the copper, have f iled to record facts, the importance of at a high temperature, by some unknown law of which none hut those learned in this branch of segregation. Metallic silver, pure, is also found knowledge are prepared to appreciate. abundantly, diffused thromighout the amygdaloid The work of making the plans and drawing the rock, in small grains, or lumps of the size of a sculptures and has-reliefs, was committed to Mona. pea.Atherneum. THE AUTHORS DAUGHTER. 137 CHAPTER XII. An hour or two afterwards, Agnes put on her bonnet and shawl, resolving, amid the quiet and healing spirit of vernal nature, to enter into calm communion with her own heart, and to take, if it were possible, more cheering and Christian views of the life around her. When she reached the dingle, where she had first seen poor Fanny Jeff- kins child, her thoughts fixed themselves upon that subject; and seating herself upon the fallen tr~e, as she had done on that former occasion, she began to ponder upon the strange destiny which ad linked her to this little friendless human being, and to discover, if she could, a gleam of light, which, amid the utter darkness which at present enveloped her, should point out the true path of her duty regarding it. As she thus sat, her cousin Torn rode slowly up the little bridle-path through the dingle. He looked unusually handsome and ay. and was lash- ing his riding-whip in the exuberance of animal spirits. He did not see Agnes; he had not the least expectation of meeting her there, and the leafy bushes concealed her as he passed ; and, oeeupie(l by his own thoughts, which, whatever they might he, seemed happy ones, he never looked hAtind, and Agnes, with a flushing cheek nd a suddenly-beating heart, watched him till he was out of sight. It was a small incident; but at that moment it caused a great agitation in her feelings. Al- tnighty Father! prayed she, inwardly, preserve my heart from sliding into any unworthy passion. Give me grace to know what is thy will, and ability to do it! Be thou my friend and comforter; for beside thee I have none! She rose up, and walked on in the direction pposite to that which her cousin had taken. She took the path which led to the sequestered wood- nd lane, and presently came to a little sylvan nook, where bubbled up a remarkably fine spring, -vhich was said to possess medicinal virtues, and to which the country people came for water from a great distance. A little girl was filling a bottle as Agnes came up; she was stoopin~, and it was not until she rose that Agnes recognized her to be the girl from the caravan. Oh, miss, said the girl, her countenance sud- denly lighting up, I am so glad to see you. Mother is so badly, she cannot get up now, and I ye come to this spring to fetch her some water; they say it is good for sick folks! I have been to seek for you before, said Agnes; but you were not in the lane. We ye been out for a week, said the girl; but mother s so bad again, and she would come back, for she says she shall die The girl said no more for weeping, but trudged on with her bottle, wiping her eyes, as she went, with the corner of her ragged shawl. And how is the baby ? asked Agnes, cheerfully, walking quickly to keep up with the girl. Oh, miss ! replied she, and cried more than ever. Is the baby ill or dead l asked Agnes, alarmed. No, no, said the girl; bttt when mother s dead what s to become of us Father does not love the baby it makes him cross only to hear him laughing ! God will provide for him ! said Agnes, trust- LXXV. LIVING AGE. VOL. VII. 9 fully; and, without another word, they walked onwards. A strong-built man, with a surly, sun-freckled countenance, in a faded velveteen jacket, and leather leggings, was locking to~etl~er the feet of a bony, ill-conditioned horse, which he seemed to have released from a smaller caravan as Agnes approached. A stiff and choleric-looking bull- terrier sprang, barking fiercely, to meet her as far as his chain would permit. At this the man turned round. rhe lady s come to see mother, said the girl timidly. The man touched his hat and muttered something, but whe titer in good or ill will it was unpossible to say. Agnes followed the girl up the steps of the caravan, hoping that her villanous- looking father would not join them. The dread of him, however, left her when she saw the pallid, and, as it appeared to her, death-stricken counte- nance of the poor woman. The young lady s come to see you, mother, said the girl, bending down to the miseTable bed on which she lay. The woman opened her eyes and welcomed her visiter with a faint smile; at the same moment a lusty little form raised itself from under the quilt, and the baby, roused out of a rosy slumber, looked around hins with gravely wondering eyes. The man, in the mean time, had seated himself on the steps of the caravan, and began smoking from a short and very much discolored pipe. Shut the door, Mary, said the woman, for the smoke is enough to poison one. The girl shut the door, and, taking up the child, sat down with him on a three-legged stool. Her mother, however, bade her take him out, and Agnes amid she were then alone togefuer. She then raised herself in the bed, and fanning her now flushed face with an old handkerchief, thanked Agnes for thus visiting her. I have thought a deal about you, said she, and I dont know what it was that made me at once open my heart to you as I did. I wish to be your friend, said Agnes. God bless you ! returned the woman. I am not long for this life; hut there are some things which are very hard with me. I have made my husband promise that when I die, he will bury me in Lawford churchyard by my own father and mother. They were decent folks, and have a gravestone of their own. It may not matter to m~e after I am gone, but it would make my end easier to know that I should lie near themfor that reason we came here. My husband hates Law- ford, and all the folks in it, and we ye suffered sorely, sure enough, among them; but, for all that, I must be buried in Lawford churchyard. Another thing, however, is hard; he wont let me send for the clergyman, for it s old Colvilles sour who helped the squire to put him in jail, and brought all our troubles on us! But G help me! am I to die without the sacrament, or so much as a prayer read beside me! Oh, niiss, I never thought to have died like a beggar in a ditch! And then there s the baby, continued she, as if her pent-up heart must vent all its troubles. As I told you, it s rightly none of mineGod knows whose it is! But my husband conceits that it belongs to the ball; and though,. as it were, we were paid to take it, he hates it be- cause he hates all the Lawfords; and she that is to be my childrens step-mother when I m gone,. will be the death of the child ! THE AUTHOR~ S DAUOHTER. Agnes thought of the surly-countenanced man, and his hatred to all the Lawfords, and a shudder ran through her; hut of this she said nothing. God will find friends for the child, she re- plied fear not, hut put your trust in God, and he will provide friends for you hoth ! There was an earnestness and an assurance in her voic~ which fixed the womans attention, and, looking at her, she waited as if for farther corn- fort. I can see, continued Agnes, the hand of God at work for you ; only put your trust in him repine not, hut helieve him to he your God and your Saviour. You have put confidence in me put confidence then in Him, who may make me the humble instrument of his mercy to you ! I said that you were an angel of God, re- turned the woman, and I could not help opening my heart to you. Send me only some good man to pray hy mesome good clergyman to administer the sacrament. But let it not he a Colville ! Agnes thought, as she had done from the first, of poor Jeffkiiis. I know a good man, said she, hut he is no clergyman, although, as a Methodist, he has preached up and down among the poor in country-places. He has suffered much, and can sympathize with sorrow and misery. And where is he? asked the woman eagerly. Agnes said that he was in London. God help me ! returned the poor woman, in a tone of disappointment; is there no good man nearer than London I This is the man whom you must see; this is the man who will he both father and mother to the child when you are gone, said Agnes: only, for the liresent, put confidence in God, and in ~nae ! And who are you? asked the woman, and ~why do you thus care for me? My name is of no consequence, returned Agnes, rememhering the hatred which the wo- :man~s husband cherished to all who bore the name of Lawford; believe only this, that God will ~send you comfort through me With this, Agnes, after promising to come again, if possible, look her leave; the man was gone fro1 the steps of the caravan, but the ugly dog growled at her as if in the spirit of his master. It was with quite different feelings that A goes, on her return, thought of the great party at Merley Park, and of the mortification which she had en- dured only a few hours since regarding it. That part & f her duty which had hitherto seemed to her dim and inexplicable, now hogan to reveal itself clearly ; she blessed God that his hand seemed thus unexpectedly leading her to Christian acts of love and service. All cravin~ for her own per- sonal indulgence was appeased; a light and cheer- ful spirit of self-sacrifice and devotion to others infused new vigor into her mind, and made it easy to say, Thy will he done The dinner, however, at the hall was silent and conshained. The only one who seemed quite at his ease was Tom, who laughed and talked with more than his usual gaiety: Ada, who expected within so few hours to meet Mr. Latimer, was silent and thoughtful; so also was her father, who, though he had overcome his excitement of temper, and who knew, on reflection, that it was no use opposing his sister, yet thought it only right for the sake of his own dignity to keep up some show of resentment; whilst Mrs. Colvil~e, as was always the case on such occasions, attended to the proprieties of the table with the gravest of demeanors. The hall-going part of the company went to dress. Where is Agnes? asked Tom, as Ada, beautiful as human skill could make her, came into the drawing-room ready dressed. Agnes at that moment entered, anxious to show her fair cousin that she could feel sympathy and interest in a pleasure which she was not allowed to partake. Why are you not dressed, Agnes ? asked Tom. She stays with my father, said Ada. It is most noble and unselfish of her, continued she; and I wish, Tom, you could have seen how charming she looked in her new dress. I wish you were going, Agnes; I wish, indeed, from v soul that you were, said she, addressing her with such cordial enthusiasm of voice as she had never shown towards her before. Agnes was taken by surprise, and the tear- sprang to her eyes: I cannot wish it now, said she; indeed, dearest Ada, I cannot! These words of yours, this kindness of yours, which my disappointment has won me, are worth txventy balls ! It is very strange, said Tom, in a dissatisfied voice, that my father cannot spare you for one evening only ! At this moment Mrs. Colville entered, dressed and perfumed like a bed of gilhiflowers; and as she came in, she said that the carriage was wait- ing. All three went down stairs. Agnes stood at the window, and saw them, in the clear moon- light of the summer evening, drive away. She watched the carriage till it was out of sight, and felt in the bottom of her heart a blank when she saw it no longer. Her uncle had said, in the morning, that he did not want her that evening. When, however, he sat alone in his little library, he. felt as if he could not do without her. Shall I send for her? thought he to himself, and as he thus was think- ing, Agnes entered. He was evidently so glad to see her; laughed so merrily, and seetned so in- clined to joke even about nothing at all, that spite of the morning, spite of the afternoon, spite of the little yielding of heart which had come over her but a few minutes before, she could not help being infected by the old mans spirit. They were sit- ting opposite to each other, with the little tea- equipage between them, the uncle laughin~ till tears ran down his cheeks, at one of those amusing anecdotes which Agnes used to tell now and then for his entertainment, when the door was flung wide open, and, with an air of the utmost impor- tance, the footman announced Mr. Latimer ! God bless my soul ! exclaimed the old gen- tleman, rising from his chair, and seizing in both his the hand of this unexpected visiter; who thought of seeing you, Mr. Latimer? Only think! all my family are just gone to Merley Park in cx- pectation of meeting you! God bless me ! again exclaimed he, laughing, this is a pretty joke I did not care about going to Morley Park, returned Mr. Latimer; I preferred spending a quiet evening with you. Bravo ! shouted the old gentleman, flinging himself back into his chair. But I forgot, Mr. Latimer, said he, again rising himself, this is my niece, Miss Agnes Lawford. Poor Franks daughteryou have heard of his death perhaps. 138 THE AUTHORS DAUGHTER. 139 Latim~r offered his hand to Agnes, and said that Mrs. A.cton had mentioned her being there. Yes, said the old gentleman, poor Frank has been dead these six or seven monthsperhaps more. Agnes glanced beseechingly at her uncle, for her fathers death was a subject which it was painful for her to hear spoken of. She felt Lat- liners eyes upon her, and blushed deeply, she knew not why. Never was old Mr. Lawford so merry in all his life before. It amused him beyond measure, to think of Mrs. Colville, and his son and daughter, oein~ gone to Merley Park to meet Mr. Latimer, and here he was all the time! Only think, said he, they would not let poor Agnes go, al- though she had got new things, lest she should see you, most likelyand now here you are ! Agnes was miserable, to hear her uncle talk thus; Mr. Latimer tried to ifirn the snbject, but he would revert to it continually. We shall have the laugh against them famously, Agnes, said he. We 11 tell them how well Mr. Latimer is look- ing, and all the rest. My word! but my old lady sister will be ready to swear from vexation, al- Jiough she is Archdeacon Colvilles widow ! Mr. Latimer at length sobered down the old gentleman; and made him listen to some grave details, relating to public affairs. Whilst this is the case, we will briefly describe to our readers the exterior of the person, of whom so much has been said. Jn age Mr. Latimer might be five or six-and-thirty, and was about the middle height, well-made and proportioned. The countenance, however, was a very striking one; as full of firm- ness and decision, as even John Colvilles, but the effect on the beholder was very different. In Col- ville, the first thing which was seen was that strong, determined character, which conveyed vith it the feeling of cool calculation, and an iron, hot selfish, will ; yet whilst you wondered at the totelluctual magnitude of the man, you were not ttracted by him. In Latirner, on the contrary, bat extraordinary power and strength of character which the countenance indicated, was so mellowed, so softened, nay, so almost glorified by a beaming expression of goodness and truth, that you were mediately attracted. You felt that the character of which that countenance was the index was one on which you might rely iii life and death. You fttlt at once tli~ t a perfect gentleman, in the noblest meanin~ of the word, was before you; and vct there s-as. at the same time, such a social, companionable charm and fascination in his man- ner, all was so perfectly natural and true, that nccasionally you forgot even how very superior he was; von were drawn into his sphere, where wuth and goodness were the native element, aiid Kien, it was only by the jarring effect of other per- sons .~ anners and sentiments that you found with now superior a nature you had been in commu- mon. Agnes, perhaps of all human beings, was the one roost cap~ ble of fcelio~ and appreciating the value and beauty of such a character; her own idolized father had been such a one. She sat, as to a dream, and listened to his finely modulated voice; occasionally her eye met his, and there was a kindred expression in it, which touched her Imost to tears. She wondered to herself, whether he had ever read her fathers works; she passed them in review through her mind, and dwelt men- tally upon the particular passages and trains of thought, which she would have liked to read to him, or to hear him read. She thoiyht of Ada, and of the idea which had always suggested itself to her mind, that this was the husband her family desired for her. She thought of Adas cold, re- served, and haughty character, which, until this very evening, had evinced towards her so little kindness and sympathy. Adas conduct to h~r was inexplicable; but then, Mrs. Acton, that worthy sister of such a brother, had spoken mit her with the warmest affection. Yes, there was no doubt of it, Ada would be his wife, his beauti- ful wife; and spite of her coldness and haughti- ness, there was true womanly, noble feeling in her soul and being there, would not a life-long companion, like Latimer, foster it and call it forum into the most beautiful bloom, as the sun calls forth the flowers of summer? Such were the thoughts which passed through the mind of Agnes, whilst Mr. Latimer was ex- plaining at some length, a subject on which her uncle had asked for information. Agnes was roused from her reverie, and the thread of Mr Latimers explanation was broken suddenly by the very audible breathing of the old gentleman, who, buried in a corner of his easy chair, was fast asleep. Agnes and Latimer looked at each other and smiled. My uncle often sleeps in an evening, said she. He used to do so two years ago, returned Latimer, drawing his chair sufficiently near for them to talk without disturbing him. How it was, Agnes really could not tell, but, some way or other, she found herself, with tears on her cheeks, speaking of her father. They had been talking together for an hour. Latimer did not seem to have said very much ; he had not even told her, whether he had read her fathers works, but she felt that he knew his character well, and that be appreciated and loved him. It was the first time that she had ever talked thus freely of her father and her family, since her home had been among strangers. He had asked her partic- ularly of her brothers, and she had told him of Arthur, with his manly beauty, and his bold spirit, and of little Harry, who was timid and lovely as a girl. She had told him of her mother, so go(id and gentle, and (if her excellent uncle in Scotlandall this she told to a stranger, within the first few hours of meeting him; and she might have gone on even farther, had not her uncle awoke, arid, apolmigizing for his little doze, again denianded Mr. Latimers attention. Ag- nes, now, however, thrown back on silence and herself, felt ashanmed and troubled by what she had done; she thought of the impropriety of ham- ing talked so much ; it all seemed folly and im- pertinence to her; she feared appearing ridicu- lous in his eyes, and that deep feeling which had made her tonchingly eloquent at the time, seemed now to her like sentimental garrulity. What will he think of me l How foolish 1 must appear to him ! thought she, and hardly ventured to raise her eyes. lIe too seemed silent and thoughtful. Her uncle insisted on her telling Mr. Latimer that funny anecdote, at which he was lau5hing when he was first announced. Agnes prayed to be excused; she felt as if she could not tell it for the world: hot her uncle declared that he would not excuse her; and then, how like an an~el Latimer seemed! he declared that he would have 140 THE AUTHORS DAUGHTER. the privilege of telling droll anecdotes that night, and nobody should interfere with him. He told many most amusing stories, some of them about the negroes on his own plantation, and Mr. Law- ford declared that he was much improved in story- telling, and that Agnes was not to he named with him. After this, Latimer rose to take his leave, nor could the old gentleman persuade him to stay until the ladies returned, although he promised that if he would, they would all go into the draw- ing-room, which was quite warm, and where was the piano, and Agnes should give him some of the finest music and songs that he had ever heard. But though Latimer declared that of all things he should like to hear Miss Agnes Lawford sing, yet he would not stay. He is a wayward, perverse fellow ! said the old gentleman, when he was gone: but, bless my soul! what a laugh we shall have against Mrs. Colville and the others. CHAPTER XIII. Mr. Lawford had his laugh against his sister Colville the next day; but however annoyed that lady might in reality be, she had tact enough to let nothing of it be seen ; and the old gentleman was n~t sure whether, after all, he had had a triumph or not, more particularly as Mr. Latimer himself made an especial c 11 that morning oit the ladies of the family, which appeare(l greatly to satisfy them, and which occurring whilst he was out in hts bath chair, and A~ nes was in her own chamber, neither one or the other had any part in. Agnes was writing to Jeffkins; it was a difficult task to her, arid while thus doing, very soon after Latimer had taken his departure, the door of the dressing-room, which divided her chamber front her cousins, was soddenly opened, and Ada look- to in, said in her occasionally abrupt manner, but with an expression of affectioiiate tenderness in her countenance, May I come in? or rather, added site, again withdrawing, will you come in here? Agnes, very much astonished, hastily put aside her writing, and entered the roont, which was rather a boudoir than dressiiig-room. Ada seated herself on a sofa, before which stood a xvritiitg-table, and motioned to Agnes to do the same. No doubt, Agnes, she said, my conduct at this montent appears very extraordinary; but I think I can make it ititelligible to you. I know, at all events, that roy colditess and reservethe ltttle sympathy and interest I for a bug time felt towards you, oust have wounded you, and must have given you a very unfavorable idea of my ch:mracter: but I can explain the cause of thisI had strong prejudices against you. Agaitist me ! interrupted Agnes. Yes; I believed myself to have been un- kindly treated by you. Do not interrupt me, said she hastily. I shall in the end explain it all to you, and having resolved to do us both justice by this explanation, let mc go on uninter- ruptedly. You shall ! said Agnes. I met you, continued Ada, with a strong prepossession in your disfavora strong resent- mertt against you; and it is n(tt now any merit in tne to wish to. reconcile us to each other, for I have been fairly conquered and won by yourown goodness. I will not deny to you that I have striven not to like you; to see even sinister mo- tives for your noblest conduct; but it availed not. There is an omnipotence in virtue which muist conquer even the prejudices of wounded vanity and aunbition. It has been your uniform unsel- fishutess and gentleness, whilst you have been here ; yottr willingness to bury, as it were, all your fine accomphishtnents and gifts in nmy poor fathers dreary room, that have made me willing to do you justice : but tiothing, after all, touched me like your cottduct yesterday ; before that every little lingering Iride and unkindness itt my heart gave way. Agnes took her hand without speaking, and with her lie rt upon her lips, kissed it tenderly. And now, continued Ada, for my confes- stun. A mantlitug bluish covered her beautiful face, and she pattsed fbr a moment, as if hardly knoxviutg how to begiut. And into your coitfession, dearest cousitt, said Agites, of course Mr. Latimer comes. Yes, said Ada, as if determined no longer to hesitate; and as you have seen Latimer, yomt caummot wonder at it. Mr. Latiuuuer has remotely, and directly, been the mnaituspring of my action2 from the day when I first saw him. I was then a girl of twelve, and he a young man of five-and- twenty; he was the aduniration of my girlish heart. I went to school, and even there cherished a romantic passion for bun ; had my bosom-friend, and to her confided the knowledge of a little arno- let, which I wore muexm toy hearttwo lines of hic handwriting! Oh, how ridiculous it now seems, said she smiling; two lines of tender poetry which by chance had come into my possessiout. My amulet, or my owut glowing fancy, created a very sentimental and romantic passion, which was only increased by my own family and by circum- stances, when at sevetuteen I rettirned home, and began my career as a youtuug lady, of some little pretensions in the world. Mr. Latimer was the frietid of the family; the most welcome guest at the house, and more welcome to me than to amiy one else. Do not, however, Agnes, run way with the idea that the regard was all on my side; at this mime, and even fuir two years, I believe he had a very sincere regard for toe. To the aston- ishtment, however, of all roy family, Mr. Latimer never made any open declaration of love. Had he been other than himself, my family would lout6 before have bromighit the affair to a conclusion one way or another; but he was not a nuan to be tri- fled with, nor one to be suspected of dishonorable trifling. I huowever knew, what my family did not, the tmute umuotives of his reluctance to avow hiunself. Great as was his regard, perhaps even his love for me, there were many faults in uny character; much triflitug; much female weakness; much wilfulness and vanity, which offended his high and pnire notions of womanly worth, and which he could not tolerate in the woman whom he would make his wife. Ah, what grave lec- tures did he give me, when my family hoped that love was the theme of our discourse! and I, re- bellious and unworthy creature that I was, profited nothing by them! I was piqued that he could not find charms enough in what the world called my beauty, to conceal all my follies and my shorteounings. I ran into excesses of vanity and coquetry, which gave me but little pleasure, on purpose to annoy him. Oh, Agnes, said she, with tears in her eyes, what self-condemnation and sorrow did not this afterwards cause me! THE AUTHORS DAUGHTER. 141 Mr. Latimer, unlike all my family, was well ucquainted with your fatbers writings. Politics and such subjects were rarely introduced in dis- cussion between my family and him, because it was amicably understood that on these they tacitly differed and my Aunt Colville wished for the match too devoutly to have tbe good understand- ing among them endangered by any controversy on politics or such subjects. To me, however, Mr. Latimer often spoke upon them; your father was his apostle; he quoted him, he read to me pas- sages from his works, and kindled iu my imind the utmost enthusiasm for him, although, with a fool- ish perversity of heart, I never would confess the smallest admiration or even approval of his opin- ions. Of coorse he advocated the more solid edu- cation of women ; he cared little, or seemed to care little for my accomplishments, which every one beside praised so much, and yet I knew that he had taste for these things. His wife, he used to say, must be his friend and his companion, not his mere plaything. Such sentiments as these from the lips of the man I loved, awoke in me new views and a new amobitido, although a sort of way- ward pride prevented me from confessing as much. Just at that time I had a new lover, a fashionable man of the world, who offered to all my outward attractions that incense of which Mr. Latiiner was so sparing. I had not the slightest regard for him; but, in the vain wish of piquing Mr. Latimer, I coquetted with him tremendously. My Aunt Col- ville never was so angry with me in all her life before. It is now two years since; and, in the midst of this flirtation, Mr. Latimer announced his intention of leaving England for two years. Jt as to me like the shock of an earthquake, and sobered me directly. We met but twice after- wards; once at a large dinner-party, when it seemed to rue that he shonned me ; and yet never shall I forget his quiet and almost dejected ex- pression of countenanceit spoke volumes to my heart; and the other, the evening before he sailed, at our own house; and, when at parting, he ex- pressed his expectation of finding me married on his return. But for his sake, Agnes, I have kept singlefor his sake, also, my family have not urged my marriage with any of my numerous lovers. When Mr. Latimer was gone, continued Ada, I had time to ponder upon all his teach- ings; and the better part of toy nature, which he had aroused, and had done all in his power to foster, made its voice be heard. I resolved, during his absence, to make myself worthy of him; to surprise him on his return by my improved char- acter and my matured mind. I had only to wish, and my partial friends gratified all my desires; besides which they had some little compassion for me, I believe, thinking that I must suffer from Ir. Latimers coldness or desertion. Pleasure tours were therefore made, and all possible things were done to divert my mind. To their surprise, ho ever, they found that I neither pined nor was sad; the truth was, that I was well pleased with his absence, because in it there was a stimulus to improvement. I had now an object to attain, and for that I strove ardently. I had this little room fitted up as my boudoir, with a good lock on the door to secure me from intrusion ; and hereit is almost laughable to think of itI sat down to study deep things; to mature my understanding; to gain knowledge, that I might be worthy of hini, might prove to hint on his return how sincere were all my endeavors, even if I did not greatly suc- ceed. Mr. Latimer had a high opinion of my powers of mind ; at least, so he always said; and he was so entirely authority with me that I was convinced that my efforts at self-improvement would succeed. And now, dear Agnes, said she, what do you suppose were the first books which I read? They were the works of my uncle! yes, those works which my fantily dreaded, and which Mr. Latimer admired so much ! You wotild smile were I to tell you the little artifice I had recourse to, to get possession of them, but I succeeded; and here they are, said she, opening a deep drawer in her table, and their worn state will convince you of the use I made of them. No one knows to this day that I am possessed of them. I established the system of locking my room; it was my humor, and no one objected. From the time of my ac- quaintance with these glorious works a new life dawned upon me. I began to see things, as it were, from a truer point of view, and they assumed new positions aiid a new relative value. Never shall I forget that timethat breaking in of a new lightthe light of truth My veneration for my uncle was unbounded, but I kept it all to myself; a new bond seemed mysteriously to be woven be- tween Mr. Latimer and myself. I was supremely happy. Every one complimented me on my im- proved looksit was the intelligence of mind in my countenance t.hat iniproved it. I was no longer impatient now for Mr. Latimcrs return; I seemed to have yet so much to do before he came! My Aunt Colville has told you, continued she, after a short pause, that I also am a genius an authoress God help inc ! so I wished to be. Iliad a little talent in poetry. As a child, and at school even, I had written ; my family thought highly of my productions, and even Mr. Latimer, to whom they had been shown, had not disdained to praise them. Poetry was my deliDht; poetry of a high orderShelley, and Byron, and Coleridge, and Wordsworth, and Campbell, and Milton, and Shakspeare :they were my text- books. There they are, said she, turning her beaming countenance towards her handsome book- case, where the most expensive editions of these poets shone in rich bindiiigs and gold. There they are, the immortal seven, whom I, poor aspir- ing worm, tried to emulate! I wroteand a daring, and yet, perhaps, after all, a wise idea took possession of my niind. I copied out most carefully and most elaborately, on hot-pressed paper, and in a handsome book, such poems as I coitsidered my master-piecesand the book was full. With these words, she paused, and opening her desk took ont a handsome, album-like volume, which instantly scented strangely familiar to Agnes eyes. Of all men in England, continued Ada, I longed for the approbation and encouragement of your father. I wrote therefore to him a letter, whiclt I meant to be modest and humble, arid which, I intended, should recomniend myself to him. I think it possible, however, that it was full of self-love and presumption. I concealed my name, avowed my aspirings after distinction, and besought his advice and encouragement, request- ing him to read my volume, and give me his opin- ion thereon. With the most unspeakable impa- tience, I longed for his reply. I counted the days till it should come. I had no doubt but that he 142 THE AUTHORS DAUGHTER. would praise my efforts and request my name. I thought with pride of making myself known to him. I arran~ed the letter I would write. I would confess to him my ardent wish for improvement I would make him my moral and intellectual fatherI would sit at his feet and learn! Never, Agnes, had I h een so proud of my heauty, even when 1 wished most to captivate the proud heart of Mr. Latimer, as when I thought of sending to your father my miniaturethat he inightsee and love his spiritual daughter. I thought of the purses I would net for himof the slippers I would work for him, of the birth-day and Christ- mas presents I would send him !Ah, Agnes, I know how it was; I wanted incense to be offered to my vanity, and how little was I prepared for the answer that was returned ! Agnes sat with her head bowed down, and her heart transpierced with the keenest sympathy: her feelings were intense agonybut she said nothing, and Ada continued. My hot-pressed and handsomely bound vol- ume, and my delicately copied verses, came back, and with them these cold words, in answer to my long and warm epistle.She took a note from between the leaves of the book, and read: Much as my time is necessarily occupied, I have gone through your verses. You ask my ad- vice : it is, in a few words, thisRead more, and write less ; or rather, write not at all. I employ an amanuensis to write, but remain, dear madam, Yours faithfully, FRANK LAwFoan. I remember it! ah, I remember it! exclaim- ed Agnes, in deepest pity for the poor girl. Alas! that ever seemingly unkind words were written to you. But, dearest Ada, my father had so delicate a sense of excellence as made him seem severe, perhaps; but he was not less severe to himself. With an air of painful abstraction Ada ol again at the note, and then, anced folding it together, kept it in her hand, and continued, The words of this note entered my heart like an icy dagger. I had fancied such a different answer; my enthu- siastic admiration of all that was good and great deserved it. I longed for love and encouragement I net with coldness and repulsion ! For one moment consider, dearest Ada, said Aanes, anxious above all things to justify her fithers conduct, which she knew had been wise, that he was continually applied to by young, unknown aspirants, who wished to be encouraged in a path where he knew that failure and mortifi- cation only awaited them. My father knew what the world needs from its authors, and he knew ;~lso that to the Young writer, the first mortification, t!ie first disappointment, even though the unpleas- ant task was imposed upon him, who was in truth nothwig but kindness and love, might save the author from far worse, far more bitter disappoint- roent afterwards. It clay be so; no doubt it is, returned Ada, again speaking in her cold and haughty tone; but the letter which I so ardently had wished for, made me doubt if my golden idol were not claymade me doubt in the truth of noble senti- ments, and that divine enthusiasm for virtue which had been kindled in my soul by your fathers pen. No, Agnes, say wha.t you will, it was a cold, un- feeling letter. Just, it might be; I am come now to believe that it was so; but the effect on my mind at the time, was painful and injurious. Could we only have inure faith in the good that is in every one, how niuch more kindly should we act how touch suffering should we spare each other! How much unkindness and wrong is often thus done to young, generous, and aspiring hearts ! Oh, how true is every word you say! re- turned Agnes, feeling her heart wrung with the deepest sorrow for the pain which had thus been inflicted, and yet knowing so truly what were the motives of her father~s conduct in such cases And how much my father would have loved you had he known you ! had those writings you sent only faithfully portrayed your mind! had he only seen some revelatioii of the nobler qualities within you ; for of all men he had the truest and quickest appreciation of nobility of character. So 1 believed, said Ada; and for thatren- son, when I first became aware that there was within my soul a well-spring of better and higher action, did I so much covet his counsel and his support. But, Agiies, said she, speaking now in a kinder voice, and relaxing from her cold atti- tude, I must confess to you that this letter pro- duced on my mind the worst possible effect. If it mortified niy vanity, it dethroned also my ideal divinity. Those sentiments in his pages, which I before had read with a kindling soul, and which had served as an inspiration to every nobler wish, now seemed to me like tinsel or niere sound. My heart no longer glowed towards the writer. I felt that I had been unkindly treated by him; my en- thusiastic love had been repelledor, more truly. I suppose, said she, smiling, and with tears in her eyes, he wom.mld have said that my vanity was wounded. Agnes thought, as she had often done amid her experience of literary life, how painful it was, and how pitiable, when a young, glowing, enthusiastic mind, without, however, adequate powers, is pos- sessed with a rage for composition, and when the love for poetry is mistaken for its inspiration. She knew many a humiliating history of this kind; and now her heart bled for the suffering which she saw that it had agaimi caused. But she made no remark of this nature. That, indeed, was not the time for it. She was silent; but her eyes spoke the tenderest affection. After a pause, Ada continued Soon after this, the news came of the sudden death of your father. To me it was a far greater shock than to the rest of the family. And then your letter came ;my father wept as he read it. The letter bad to me, however, an interest and an intelligence which nobody else could feel it was written by the daughter of him who had been so much to me. The letter was praised for its fine style, and natu- ral and simple expression. I studied it line by line. I thought what would have been the letter I should have written on the death of such a father. I be- lieved that it might have been like yours, for I saw plainly that your father was all to you which he h~d once been ideally to me. I, too, wept as I read it. But the letter was important to me in another way. I saw by it that you it was who had been your fathers amanuensis. You had written the letter which had wotmnded me so bitterly. Although it bore your fathers signature, for aught I kmme~v the severe judgment might be your own. My brother went to the funeral, and I was impatient to hear his report of you. Bet Tom is reserved, and has imo talent for description; so all I heard was, that your grief for your father was THE AUTHOR~S DAUGHTER. 143 excessive, and that you were not handsome. I tell you his very words, Agnes, said she, smil- ing, and your womanly vanity may perhaps be wounded ; but, as a palliative, however, I will tell you that most of us disagree with Tom, and I am not sure whether hy this time he, too, has not altered his opinion. But, to return to the time when we did not know you. rp0~1~5 report only confirmed the desire of my family to offer you a home with us. Of course, I was not consulted about your coming here; and if 1 had, I perhaps should not have opposed it under existing circum- stances; and yet I must confess to you that my feelings towards you were anything but friendly. You had written that painful letter to meyou therefore knew that a young and an aspiring heart a heart filled with almost bigoted devotion to your fatherhad been repulsed and wounded: for aught I knew, you might have added poignancy to the sting. You, it is true, did not know that I was the poor poetess who had presumed to lay the little offering, my only one, at his feet; but Iknew it, and I knew that it was your hand that had flung it hack! God forgive me, but my resentment was strong! and this must account to you for, and, if it can, excuse mny coldness and my distance to- wards you for so long. 1 orrrive me! oh, forgive me ! exclaimed Agnes, with deep emotion. I acknowledge how little you deserved any severity from us; I ac- knowledge how noble is this candor on your part. It was not, however, continued Ada, I who first did you justiceit was my brother. It was he who first acknowledged your devotion to my father; your gentleness, and your unselfish- ness; your willingness to bury, as it were, all your fine powers of tuind and beautiful gifts in the cheerless room of a testy invalid, to whom you owed no duty. It was Tom who first became con- scious of this ; and then I began really to see Itow excellent you were, how truly you carried out into daily practice all that refined and elevated philoso- phy which your father taught in his pages. I saw in you an emanation of his spirit. I saw in you a realization of that after which I had striven, and I began to think humbly of myselfI began to covet your esteem, and next to determine to win it. This, then, is the truthare we not henceforth friends ~ Ames fell on the neck of her cousin and wept. Oh, Ada ! said she, this generous candor on your part is far nobler than the power to write smooth versesis far nobler than merely the high- est hitellect ! That may be, returned Ada, but I had literary ambitionthat, however, has been hunt- bled: I will now try to do well, and to deserve that affection without which my life would be a blank CtIAPTEIt xmv. This revelation of ingenuous and beautiful char- acter, captivating even in its weaknesses, diffused a sunshine over the soul of Agnes. A new life seemed to have begun for her at Lawford; and, thankful to God for havin~ permitted hearts which had hitherto seemed closed against her, to unfold themselves in affection and beauty, and, thankful, too, in any way to be an agent of Gods provi- dence, she wrote to poor Jeff kins. She comnmu- nicated to him the melancholy interview with his daughter, and the charge which that unhappy girl had laid upon her. The child, she told him, was found. She described to him briefly the character of the people in whose hands it was, the illness of the woman who had hitherto been a mother to it, and her desire for a spiritual comforter. She now conjured him, by the regard which he had felt to- wards her father, by his love to his fellow-suffer- ers, and by the kindness which this woman bad shown to a friendless child, to come and bless her dying spirit; and, as death was about to take front the child the protector which God had hitherto provided, she aj)pealed to every tender sentiment in his soul, and prayed him, for the sake of the bitter and soul-purifying anguish which his unhap- py (laughter had passed through, not to close his heart against her innocent, living representattve. The letter was like the voice of a pitying angel pleading for fallen humanity ; and tIme letter, had it even been written by a pen less eloquent and less heart-inspired than that of Frank Lawfords daughter, would not have failed of its effect. The pride of unforgiving and unpitying manhood had passed away from the soul of poor Jeff kins. The dead form of his unfortunate daughter had obtained full pardon for all her living sins, and this, at the same time, had also produced a great change out- wardly upon him. His iron -~ray L ir was become thin and silvery; his stron~ frame was bowed, as if with the weight of many years; and if some- what of his natural harshness of countenance re- mained, it was so intpressed by the baptisni of sorrow which had passed over him, as to touch every beholder with pity and synipathy. Ilis nmode of life also had undergone a great change. He had withdrawn from all his former associates; he made speeches no longer at political clubs and debating societies; he passed no hard judgments on men or on women: a quiet, subdued, introvert- ed spirit marked his whole demeanor. No one had seen him smile from the day on which Imis daughters body was found. The widowed mother of his young apprentice, Johnny, was the only person who entered his house ; she acted as his housekeeper, but was not his inmate. For weeks sometimes he never had exchanged a word within her, and yet he was not sullen. He would sit for hours looking at the little chair which had been Fannys when a child, and which stood opposite to his own; and some few things of hers, mere trifles, which she had left behim1d hera little silk handkerchief for the neck, a silver thimble, and a red-morocco pocket bookwere to him like sainted relics. Many people remarked, that he never used now his handsome pocket Bible, with gilt edges and silver clasps, but instead of it carried with hint a little shabby one, which had one side of its bind- ing sewed on with black thread ; but they who wondered knew not that this had been Fannys Bible, and had been used by her at school and at church in her brightest and happiest days, before she went to Lawford. Jeffkins bathed the letter which Agnes wrote to him with tears, and long before he had read it through, he had resolved upon the journey. He set his house in order with what speed he might, placed his young apprentice in the hands of a re-- spectable and trust-worthy man of his own trade, and requesting his mother to have a general over- sight of his small possessions, left the door- key with her, and taking a change of raiment vith him, set out for Leicester. Not many evenings after Agnes had written her letter to Jeffkins, the Reverend Sam Colville came in. Every one saw in a mortment that some~ 144 THE AUTHOR~S DAUGHTER. important business had brought him there, and he lost but little time in announcing it. Some of his parishioners had brought him word that a poor woman, the wife of a travelling pedlar, or some- thing of that kind, lay ill in the caravan in Wood- bury Lane, and wished him to go and visit her. Jobody, he said, told hitn who it was, and so when he was at leisure he xvcnt. He said that Flora, his favorite pointer, was with him, and that when he got within reach of the caravan, a great ugly hull-terrier rushed upon her, and would have worried her to death. lie would have killed any nan, he said, who had attacked his dog, and th~ rofore he fell on the terrier with all his might. At that moment the door of the caravan opened, aid out came a felloxv with a villatmous counte- to flee, who in a moment he saw to be the master of the dog. What do you keep such brutes as this ioose for ! exclaimed he call off your dog, or Ill beat his brains out. Keep your stic- off roy dog ! said the man, insolently, descending to where Colville stood. And who do you think the fellow was? asked he, from Mr. Lawford and his family. It was that poaching fellow, Marchmont ! Oh, the wretch ! exclaimed Mrs. Colville. lie s a villanous-looking fellow, continued Mr. Sam Colville, and he doubled up his fists, although he did not raise them, and swore a tre- niendous oath, that he would see me at the devil before I should hurt his dog ! Is this the language you use to a clergy- man? said I. I tell you what, fellow, said ~(, I 11 have you put on the tread-mill for twelve months! and with that he began abusing me satd he hated clergymen worse than the devil; that we were all hypocrites together, and that he wonld not give a figs end for a whole bushel of my prayers ! Dreadful ! said Mrs. Colville. It is insufferable, said Mr. Lawford. These are your radicals, your democrats! satd Mrs. Colville, glancing at Agnes, who took the greatest l)OsSihle interest in the whole his- tory; and if such wretches as these are to be at large, continued she, we shall be no better off than they are in Ireland ! That fellow would commit murder as soon as look at you, continued Mr. Sam; and he as good as threatened it. I told him I would have him summoned, and his license taken from him, and give him that xvhich he should remember the longest (lay lie lived: and with that he hade me do my worst; called nine a tyrant, and blood- sucker, and said that all the seed, breed, and gait erations of Lawfords and (2olvilles were alike; and actually bade me go ahont my business, for tlt. t if I stayed much longer, he would not be an- swerable for the conseqiteuces. I am but flesh and blood, said he, amid there s a long unsettled account between us yet ! said he; and with that, tremhling literally with rage from bead to foot, ud as white as a corpse, he whistled off his ugly dog, and turned into his caravan, and shut the door in my face. It is a thousand pities but the fellow had been transported at once, said old Mr. Lawford; but I think it s a pity, Sam, that you got into -tny brawl with him. I II have a summons for him, said Sam. I conider my life in danger from him, said he; and if you mibject to drawing me out a sumn?ons, .1 11 go at once to Mr. Latimer. I would rather not prosecute the fellow any more, said Mr. Lawford, and that I candidly tell you. Let it drop, Sam, said Tom Lawford, now speaking for the first time; we all kimow how warm you are. The fellow is a hardened brute we all know, and yet he has been living decently and quietly of lateamid you have no witnesses. Bless me, said Sam, wartuly; my charac- ter against a fellow like that, is as good as ten witnesses, before any bench. You 11 do no good, continued Tom; you II only make the fellow tema times your emlemy. You recollect how it was with that Timothy Ran- dal: amid really, Sam, it is not creditable to a clergyman to be always prosecutimig his p~rishion- ers: now take my advice, and let the matter die away quietly. All the family felt that this was good advice, even Mrs. Colville ; and yet the natural prejudice which she had against the poor, suggested to her a new idea with regard to Marchniont. I won- der, said she, where that money came from that seemed to give him a start in the world as it were perhaps he murdered somebody for the money! It was always a very mysterious thing to me. That has nothing to do with the present ques- tiomin, said Tom. 1 thimik it has, interrupted his father. He comes out of jail ; his wife and family out of time workimouse; and then, in a momith or so, he is seen up and diiwn in the country with a pedlars caravan. These things do not come out of nothiming; and, as Sam says, lie is a brutal fellow, likely enough to commit murder. I declare to you, remarked Mr. Sam, that though I am neither physically nor morally want- ing mu courage, yet that is a fellow who would make me fear for my life, and I II have him looked after pretty handily ! Dont tell me, Sam, said Tom, with a per- suasive smile on his lips, that you really were afraid of him! You are not the man to let a fel- low like that frighten you! and, as to what he said about not valuing your prayers, perhaps, if your own parishioners spoke out, you would find the opinion not such a very rare one Tom, exclaimed his amint, horrified at such free-speaking, are you really taking the part of such vagabonds against a gentleman, and a cler- gyman ? The discussion after this grew still warmer, and then Ada came forward as thae advo- cate of peace, of forbearance on the phaa of his poor wifes former good character, and that proof of her benevolence and strong affection in adopting the poor foundling child. The end of it all was, that Mr. Sam was to take counsel with Mr. Lati- trier, whose character as a just and wise magis- trate had always stood so high. The next day Mr. Latimer dined with the Lawfordsquite a family dinnerfor Mrs. Col- ville was determined, as soon as possible, to make this gentleman feel at home among them. It was a very pleasant dinner, and the subject which soon engrossed the whole party was the affair of Marebmont and Mr. Sam Colvihle. Mr. Latimer had dissuaded him from taking any violent meas- ures against the man; and he now told them, that probably, in consequence of the threats of Mr. Sam, Marchmont had removed his caravan omit of Woodhury Lane. This lane ~vas a short cut to Lawford from time turnpike road, leading to TIlE AUTHOR~ S DAUGHTER. 146 the Hays, and Mr. Latimer had ridden up it in comin~, there that day. It was his idea, however, that he was not gone far off, for he had that very morning seen a green caravan on the little com- mon at the hack of his own park. It was the first time that he had seen a caravan there, and he had ~o doubt hut that it was Marchmonts. Mrs. Colville hoped that Mr. Latimers poultry- yard would not suffer. Tom again said something in palliation of the man s conduct; and Ada related to Mr. Latimer the history of the child which the poor wife had adopted. Mr. Latimers noble countenance beamed with delight as he listened to this relation, which Ada nade with enthusiasm, because she saw that he aisproved both it and her. I know, said Agnes, venturing a remark for the first time on the subject, that instances of noble, disinterested benevolence, of self-sacrifice and devotion, are not so very rare among the poor. The charity and kindness of this class one to an- other are enough to make the rich and the so-called charitable blush. I believe, if I may so express it, that were it not for the poor, in many cases the poor must perish. I do not approve of any sanctioning of crime, said Aunt Colville. Ada, Tom, and Mr. Latimer, all seemed eager to testify that Agnes did not sanction any crime, hut merely, asserted the existence of benevolence and virtue among the poor. I firmly believe in its existence myself, said Mr. Latimer, even antong the criminal poor. This conversation gradually died away, and a gayer succeeded. The dessert was on the table: all were gay and unantmous. The setting sun shone into the side windows of the room, and drew attention to its beautiful coloring; and from the laurels of the shrtshbery the mellow tones of rival throstles came audibly. How charming a walk would he ! exclaimed Ada. Acroes looked to her uncle as if for consent. Why do you always look at me, child B asked he, laughing, and then turning to the others, he said, Agnes would make you believe me to be a great tyrant! Yes, yes, go out with them by all means, said he, seeing that his son, and daughter, and Mr. Latimer waited for her to accompany them. The young people passed the window, and Ag- nes nodded to him as she passed. She is a sweet creature, said her uncle, as if thinking to himself, I wonder what I should do without her now They walked on, all four together, towards the settincr sun and in the direction of the dingles at the bottom of the park. A length Mr. Latimer gave his arm to Ada, and Tom of course offered his to Agnes. It was the first time in her whole life that she had thus walked with him. A con- sciousness which was almost painful to her, made this little circumstance more noticeable. The thought of Fanny Jeffkins and her child, accom- panied her as they went on through that very din- gle where she first had seen it, and, following in the wake of the other couple, they sauntered slowly up Woodhury Lane. The lane was empty; scattered straw and rags, and the trampled grass, showed where the caravan had stood. Had Agnes not been so much interested in its inmates, or had not known that her companion was so also, she would naturally enough have spoken on the sub- ject; hut she did not. The place, however, seemed to suggest the thought to her cousin, for he said You have seen perhaps the influence you have had upon me, Agnes. I have adopted your benev- olent opinions and views. They wanted to put that poor Marchmont again in jail: hut as you once said the best way of reforming the world is to make it love goodness. You have reformed me in this way.~~ Nay; said Agnes, anxious to disclaim any power, even for good, over her cousin, and sus- pecting also that the true motives for his forbear- ance towards the man proceeded from the obliga- tion he was under to him regarding the child, there are good and benevolent feelings in your own heart, naturally. I am glad you think so, returned he, cher- ish that idea, Agnes; cherish every idea which makes you think better of me; and in the mean time, I will earnestly endeavor really to deserve your esteem.~~ Tom spoke in that soft persuasive voice which once before had stolen into Agnes heart. It is the voice of the tempter, thought she, and trem- bled. They were now at a turn of the lane where the Merley brook crossed it. Tall, leafy willows sprang up beside it, and cast a shade over the road and the little bridge with its low-parapeted wall, on which,in the soft twilight, they found the other young couple seated. How sweet it is ! said Ada, motioning to her cousin to seat herself by them. She and her companion sat down. They began to talk about beautiful evenings, and of fine de- scriptions of them, and the soft lilac-hued summer twilight, as given by poets and romance writers. The most beautiful one I know, said Mr. Latimer addressing Agnes, and one which I never fail to think of, when I witness the paled sunset about Lawford, is one which, I am stire, is familiar to you also ; and he quoted a short and most eloquent passage, descriptive of the scene and hour, from Mr. Frank Lawfords work entitled The Poet. Agnes heart thrilled to hear her fathers beau- tiful words spoken with so much feeling, and her countenance expressed her emotions. That work, she said, is full of the spirit of the landscape round Lawford. I never thor- oughly felt its exquisite and truthful descriptions until I knew this neighborhood. Ada was almost as well acquainted with this hook as Latimer himself, hut she said nothing. Latimer imagined Agnes to he the only one who could sympathize with him in his admiration of his favorite author. Agnes saw from this little cir- cumstance, that he was ignorant of Adas noble labors during his absence. Entire, open-hearted confidence did not yet exist between them. She wished that she could he the means of bringing it about: but she had given her promise to Ada to reveal nothing. She feared too that her cousin might he wounded by the enthusiasm of his man- ner to her; and this idea ~vas painfully confirmed by Ada rising, and coldly proposing that they should return. They walked again, as they had done at first, all four together, and then having repassed the place where the caravan had stood, and after Lati- mer had approved of Toms resolotion of not harshly attempting Marchmonts reformation by 146 THE AUTHOR~S DAUGHTER. again sending him to jail, even to please the rec- tor, they separated, and Tom and Agnes found themselves considerably in the rear of the others. It seemed to be Tonis wish to delay their return as long as possible, and yet he was by no means in a talkative mood; and while he persisted in quietly sauntering along on the plea of lookin~ for glow-worms, Agnes fell into a train of thought, very n tural indeed. She had not yet heard any- thing from Jeffkins. She had directed him to the woman in the caravan, in this very lane, and now the caravan was gone. To inquire after it in the neighborhood seemed to her a very natoral thing; would it not be equally so to him? Still she was qnite anxious on the subject; and how, at several miles distance, was she herself to see the woman? Whilst she was thus pondering, a dark fi,~ure was seen advancing up the lane in the now deepening twilight, which was rendered still more obscure from the thickly overhanging trees. The figure advanced slowly, and then revealed itself to be that of an elderly nian with a child in his arms. Some villager, thought Agnes, who, after his days work was done, had gone forth into the summer evening with his favorite child, or grandchild. Pray, sir, am I in the right road for Merley Common ? asked the man, suddenly stopping them. Agnes heart seemed to stand still, and then throbbed violently as she at once recognized the voice of her humble friend, about whom she had, even at that moment, been anxious. At once two questions were settled; he had found the woman, and he had taken the child to his bosom! Thank God ! Thank God! ejaculated Agnes in spirit, feeling that the first fruits of her labors of love were before her. Who are you? asked Tom abruptly in reply to the mans question, wondering who should be there, and yet know so little about the neighbor- hood. I am a stranger in these parts, sir, said the man, and will thank you to put me in the right way if I am wrong. Tom Lawford, little imagining his own connex- ion with the two beings before him, gave the information which was demanded. I wonder what he is doing here, and where he comes from, remarked Tom, looking after him with that inquisitive feeling which dwellers in country places, even wealthy ones, have towards strangers. Agnes walked on with a rejoicing spirit, clearly comprehending the cause of Jeffkins being in this place. No doubt he had learned, from the little girl, of her frequeiit visits to the dingle where they had first met, and where he now most likely had been, in the hope of seeing her. And how were they to meet? how could sh& get a note, or mes- sage conveyed to him? The wild thought of enlisting Mr. Latimer in her cause crossed her mind, but only came to show its own wildness and impossibility. Spite of all these little difficulties, however, Agnes felt very happy. Thank God! was the inward voice of her heart. her cousin was charmed with her cheerfulness; she was now quite disposed to hunt for glow-worms with him. It has been a charming walk ! said Tom as they approached the hall. It has indeed! returned Agnes. CHAPTER XV. The next day there was to be a large party at the rectory. It was a party invited to meet Mr. Latimer, and consisted of all their friends and im- mediate uciobbors. The whole family at the hall, including Agnes, were invited; and all were to go, with the exception of the old gentleman, who for some years had very rarely dined from home. Agnes thought that even after all the vexation and mortification of that former occasion, she was in spirits to put on her beautiful new dress. Ada, into whose heart the desire had been sliding for some time, that Agnes should be the wife of her brother, besought her to put on also the elegant jet ornaments. If I only knew from whom they came ! said Agnes. Do not be prudish, returned Ada laughing, they were sent perhaps by some of your London friends, or by your uncle in Scotland. Agnes shook her head. Ada made the wearing of these ornaments a matter of much consequence. She would regard it, she said, as a personal favor to herself, and she would take it unkind if Agnes refused it to her. The truth was, that Ada was acting by the wishes of her brother. He had made a little secret compact with himself, that her wearing or not wearing these ornaments at Mrs. Sams party, should be an omen of the success of his love for her. Do not make such a trifle as this, any evidence of my affection for you, prayed Agnes, who, believing that the ornaments were Toms gift, felt a scruple in accepting them, still more in wearing them ; I will show my affection for you in much more important things. Ah ! said Ada, with a deep sigh, our hap- piness is more influenced by trifles than many peo- ple think; there are many trifles which wring our very hearts! There was a deep earnestness in her words, and an evidence of emotion in her voice, which sur- prised Agnes; and with these words she left the room. The truth was, that several little circum- stancesmere trifleshad troubled her during the foregoing evening. She could not disguise from herself that there was no longer the same devotion of feeling in Mr. Latimers heart toward her, that there had been formerly. He treated her with friendly courtesy but nothing more; not had she found, eagerly as she longed for it, an opportunity of telling him of that which had occupied her dur- ing his absence. There was wanting between them that mutual power of attraction which, with an influence mysterious and irresistible as life itself, draws together kindred hearts. Ada felt that they were separated; she tried to believe that the difference was in herself; but a mere trifle, a word, a manner which could not be described, but must be felt, told her that her influence over him was weakened: still, the frequency of his visits to Lawford, the reluctance he seemed to have in leav- ing them, looked like the devotion of a lover these were the counterbalaiicimmg trifles. And Ada, as our every-day life convinces us, was not wrong whemi she said that our happiness was influenced by trifles. The merest feather shows us which way the wind blows. After breakfast two events occurred which had reference to Agnes. In the first place, a iiote was TIlE AUTHORS DAUGHTER. brought for her to the back-gate. A little girl brought it, and had given it to a groom, with the request that it might he delivered immediately. This note was fortunately conveyed at once to Agnes in her own ch mber. She recognized the handwriting instantly to he that of Jeffkins; the note consisted of but a few words, and was an urgent request that she would see him in the din- gie t the bottom of the park, at four oclock that afternoon. There was no means 01 sending him any answer back, nor did one seem to be expected; but here Presented itself a difficulty; how was it possible that she could he with him at the dingle, jiearly a mile from the hall, at four oclock, for perhaps a long, and at all events a painful inter- view, and yet he hack again in time to dress and o to the rectory for dinner at six It was impos- sIl)le! She turned it over all ways in her mind, and nothing but perplexity caine out of it. In the midst of this she was summoned down stairs to see Mrs. Sam, who wished to speak with her. But, in the first place, we must say that this lady and Mrs. Colville also, like Ada, were not quite satisfied ~Vith Mr. Latimer; they thought, and yet they were very reluctant to acknowledge it, that his eye ilwelt rather more upon Agnes than upon her cousin and for this, (people are so very un- reasonable sometimes!) they blamed Agnes. She tried to attract his attention, they said, and for that reason she must not go to dinner to Mrs. Sams. But we will now see what that lady has to say for herself; she and her Aunt Colville were to- gether in the little library where Agnes was de- sired to come. Agnes dreaded that some awful business was in hand she thought that it must have reference to Jeffkins, and her acquaintance with the people of the caravan; and she went down, not knowing how she could clear herself where so much had to be concealed. But they were not frowning faces that met her: and, on the contrary, they looked quite smiling and depre- cating. Mrs. Sam began by, an apology; she really did not kuow, she said, how to make her peace with Agnes, hut she had some way miscal- culated her guests ; her table would only accom-1 modate a certain number, and she had one lady too many. I will stay at home, said Agnes, with such a cheerful and relieved countenance as instantly made both ladies surmis~ that she had never wished to go; and that was strange and un~rateful in her, they thought. Mrs. Sam said more than was necessary about ncr regret at this untoward circumstance, and her hope that Agnes would come in after dinner for tea. A iies and I will have tea together ! said her good old uncle, renieinbering how amusing Agnes could he when they two were alone together of an evenirm g. Yes, said Agnes, we will have a pleasant evening toonther. Mrs. Sam urged that Agnes should come in, if it were only towards ten oclock. Perhaps I can go to bed a little earlier, said the old gentleman, and set her at liberty for the evening. Your guests will not leave so very early; Sampson can walk over with her, and per- haps you may have a little dance; I dare say Agnes likes dancing. Yes, said Mrs. Sam, and perhaps yoa woold not object, Agnes, to play a quadrille or two if it should be so? Certainly not, remarked Aunt Colville. I am sure that she would be quite glad to gratify you. Perhaps, said Agnes, thinking that probably after her interview with Jeffkins she might be in no humor either for playing or dancing, you may not need meperhaps you would excuse me alto- gether. I think it will amuse you, returned Mrs. Sam. I think you will not refuse Mrs. Sam so small a request, said Mrs. Colville. She shall do just as she likes, interrupted the old gentleman; if at the time she incline to go, she shall go; if not, she shall stay away, and nobody shall be offended ! The servant came in with lettersimportant let- tersletters from Edward in India. The wife and family of his friend Colonel Murray were come over. He begged his family to show them every attention. He had sent valuable presents to every member of his family; and a letter also from Mrs. Murray informed them that, having through pow- erful influence been able, without loss of time, to clear their things through the Customs, the pack- ages intended for them were now sent off, and she hoped that they would arrive, perhaps even before the letters. Nothing could be more charming than Mrs. Murrays letter, excepting those which Edward himself sent. His life in India was a golden one. He had now his Colonelcy; he had gained great reputation, and wealth also, in a late warlike expedition ; and again he repeated his wishthat wish which he seemed to cherish so fondlythat his beloved sister would come out to him. How foolish it is of Edward talking in this way! said Mrs. Colville; hut then, poor fel- low, of course he knows nothing of Adas pros- pects at home. Edwards letter to his sister breathed the same wish. Mrs. Murray, he said, would return in six months, and she had promised to take charge of Ada if she would come out. Ada read the letter and smiled and sighed at the same time. Her heart glowed warmly with affection for this best beloved brother. She knew how he loved her, She folded the letter, and clasping it tightly in her folded hands, pondered upon resolves which lay deep within her own soul. Where is Agnes? asked Mrs. Colville, in an impatient voice, as late in the afternoon she. wanted her to assist in putting aside the splendid Eastern gifts, with which, on the opening of Ed- wards packages, the drawing-room was strewn. Where is Agnes? inquired Ada also, as laden with India inuslins and scarfs, some resem- bling in texture and refulgence of silvery net- work, the opal-colored dragon-flys wing. But Agnes was not at home. Some one had seen her nearly an hour before walking through the shrubbery towards the park. There was no doubt, therefore, but that she had taken her daily walk; and with a little impatience of temper Ada carried the things into her boudoir. Agnes was punctual to Jeffkins appointment. The fallen tree lay a little aside from the road closely concealed from view by the leafy trees and underwood, and to it Agnes conducted her humble friend whom she found awaiting her. She saw at 147 148 THE AUTHORS DAUGHTER. a glance the havoc which misery and sorrow had made in him. His thinned and whitened hair; his wrinkled, and care-worn, and haggard coun- tenance; his stooping, enfeehied figure; how dif- ferent to the hold-fronted, and strong-limhed Jeff- kins of former years! But she was not surprised at all this; she had seen the beginning of this pull- ing down of his human stren~th and pride before she left London; and the sad terminating scene of the tragedy must necessarily have ploughed too deeply into heart and frame not to have left inef- faceahle traces. A faint expression of pleasure, a smile it could not he called, beamed over his coun- tenance, like the pale sunshine of a winters day; and that expression was infinitely touching. It came for a moment, and then was gone again and Agnes saw how unused that face was to any shadow of gladness. He did nut Qifer his hand at first, nor did he trust his voice to utter a word. Agnes, however, offered hers with a gentle kind- ness that called tears to his eyes. He grasped her hand, and turned aside his face to weep. You have found them ! said Agnes, thinking it best at once to face the subject for which they met. Thank Heaven! you have found them poor Mrs. Marchmont and the child May the Lord reward you ! said he. But, II have suffered a deal! The child is like her. God in Heaven! I thought it would have killed me when I saw it first; the same complexion: the same eyes; the same expression! But ~ and here he clasped his hands tightly together, as if keeping back some strong feeling, while he groaned as if from the depths of his soul I have heard much from Mrs. Marchmont, the truth of which I must know. I have heard surmises as to the father of the child. A desire has taken pos- session of me to see him, to speak to himto him! the betrayer of my unhappy daughter! Oh there was no dewy flower more pure than she, until she left meuntil she met with him! There is a heavy debt between us. God knows only how it must be paid! He pressed his hand upon his brow, walked backwards and forwards a few paces, and then continued, You saw my unhappy daughter, Miss Law- ford, the night before you left London. God knows, but most likely you were the last human being in whom she put any confidence, perhaps the last to whom she addressed a word. She loved you, she trusted you when she dared not to trust me. Ah, I was harsh and unsympathizing to her; and bitterly have I been punished! She left to your care the child whom she had abandoned. Tell me then, said he, fixing his eye sternly and searchingly upon Agnes, did she name to you the father of her child? Answer me as you would God at the last judgment! did she, or did she not? I conjure you, by your blessed fathers memory, not to sport with my feelings, hut tell me, yes, orno She did ! replied Agnes. Na e him then? said Jeffkins, in a low but terrible voice. Agnes hesitated. I will know the man, resumed Jeffkins, who dragged that innocent girl to perdition; who blasted her young life with sin and sorrow! I will know the man who has made me childless who has blasted my lifewho has filled my soul with the passions of a demon. Tell me, what is his name, that I may hate him: that I m~y pray God to curse Silence! for Heavens sake ! interrupted Ag- nes with a commanding voice. Is it for this that you have sent for me? In the open sunshine and the frce air of heaven to curse a sinful fellow- creature ! Forgive me ! said Jeffkins, with a pale and agonized countenance; but you know not the hell of hatred and vengeance that is within me. God forgive me ! continued he, for I, too, am a sinner: but I have suffered worse than martyr- dom in the ruin and perdition of my girl ! Oh Miss Agnes, said he, without a tear in his eye, hut with an anguish of heart which made large drops of sweat stand like beads upon his forehcad, all that you were to your father, she was to me! For what was I a proud man? for her! For what did I toil and hoard up my hard-earned gains? for her! She it was who gladdened my nights and my mornings! For her I thought; for her I prayed; for her I would have died! If I were harsh to her; if I denied her even a ribbon, I made myself suffer some privation too! She knew notno one knew, how I loved her! Arid she was worthy of my love; she was pure and loving till that scoundrel met with her, and ruined her! What wonder then is it, that I should curse him! My very nature is changed when I think of him! I believed myself to have been resigned. I thought that I had said in the midst of my afflic- tion and suffering, with my entire heart, Thy will be done! But it was not so! I thirst now for ven- geance. God only keep my hands from shedding blood; but let me have vengeance !~ said he, and ground his teeth together with an expression of ineffable hatred. Alas ! said Agnes, mildly but sorrowfully, how little did I expect this. I thought that the affliction with which you had been visited, had pu- rified, at the same time that it had stricken you! Christ, who endured so much for our sakes, prayed for his murderers ! I too, returned Jeffkins, could have prayed for mine. But there are sufferings far worse than even the most painful and ignominious death, and these I have borne! Do you deem it a light thing to have seen my daughter dead by her own hands a thing of infamy and despite ; to know that she had gone from sin to judgment; that, humbled, outraged, and in despair, she had fled from life which was a burden to her, to death, her only refuge! Is this a light thing to bear? No, it is not light, returned Agnes; hut God lays no burdens upon us, and permits none to be laid, which we have not strength to bear! You have been stricken to the dust, but He has not for- gotten you. He has placed in your hands the child of that unfortunate mother. Her end was bitter; but God is merciful, and in its very bitter- ness I can see her cure. lie who suffered Mary Magdalene to wash his feet with her tears, is not less merciful, is not less full of pity and forgive- ness now than then! Foor Fannys life was lat- terly one of sin ; hut God knows, if the soul con- sented. Do not distrust God, dear friend, said she, laying her hand softly on his arm. I be- lieve that there are greater sinners, against whom the world brings no accusation, than your poor daughtereven as, among her accusers, there was not found one guiltless enough to cast a stone at the woman taken in adultery. These gentle words, like the rod of Moses on the rock in Iloreb, called forth tears. One after another, they chased each other down his hollow THE AUTHORS DAUGHTER. 149 cheeks, and Agnes continued Cod, as I said, has not forgotteo you he has work for you yet to do. He has called you out of your cheerless af- fliction to a high and a holy dutyto preach to the poor, to touch the heart of the sinner by words of love to pray by the dying; to be a father to a child more forlorn than an orphan Is it then for von to cherish hatred and thoughts of vengeance In your soul? lo meditate upon that which may lead to deeds of blood? to take upon yourself the authority of God, who says that vengeance is miue Oh no! yours is a wor of love: you are to be a disciple of Christ, and to labor in his spirit. ud depend upon it that the betrayer of your daughter will be visited by a pang more severe than even that of a dagger. Remorse and repent- ance will visit him. But leave all punishment to God. He has called you to a brighter and a better mission that of love and forgiveness. Jeffkins seated himself on the tree, and bowing his face to his knees wept bitterly. You have saved my soul ! at length he said, raising his head, whilst a mild expression beamed upon bis countenance. I will do thy will, oh Lord You will pray, said Agnes, that your sins be forgiven to you, even ns you forgive those who sin against you. So help me God, I will ! returned Jeffkins. You will forgive him who has been worse even than a murderer to you ! said Agnes. So help me God ! said he, raisitig his eyes nd his hatids to heaven ; and more, even, if that may be ! Behold him, then ! said she, sinking down upon the tree beside him, and laying her hand on his arm. Tom Lawford on horseback, as on the former occasion, rode up the dingle, humniing a low air to himself, and beating time to it with his riding whip. JeTkins seemed at once as if deprived of voli- tion. A pallor stole over his countenance; his eyes ied starting from their sockets; and like a statue, his convulsive breathing alone telling that life as within him, he sat looking at the yonn0 man between the tree-branches as he passed. When he was out of sight, a sort of shudder p~ssed over his frame; and, clasping his hands before his face, he sat for sortie moments in silent, but agonizing communion with his own soul and God. May the Almighty Father bless you, and strengthen you for If is good work atid to your own peace ! said Agnes, witla deep emotion, and clasped hands, as she stood before him. Jeff kins looked her in the face with an ex- preso on of pity It is then a Lawford, as I was toldone who could have had no thought or will ~n .a~ke her his wife ; and at your prayer, and for your sake, I have forgivan him ! Not for my sake, replied Agnes; but for the sake of God, who is the Father of us all, atid of Jesus Christ, who is our Saviour, our Friend, and our Teacher iii all things I have forgiven him, again said Jeff kins. Hand of mine shall never be raised to injure hi1 , nor shall my tongue curse him. But, said he, solemnly addressing Agnes, for the sake of virtue, for the sake of what xvomanhond suffered in the person of my poor girlher downfall and her deathlisten not to him! Let him not win your heart as he has won others! May blessed angels watch over you! and, if the prayers of a poor sinner like me may prevent a mischief or a sorrow, they shall be yours night and morn- ing! He turned him about to go; his countenance was mild, but sorrowful; he stood more erect, and lie trod with a firmer step. He had listened to the voice of God, who had given him a holy vocation, and his whole being was strengthened and en- nobled by it. Again he turned back, and blessed Agnes: she gave him her blessing in return. They parted, and each slowly took their different ways. CHAPTER xvi. The dinner-bell had rung both at the ball and the rectory, where all the guests were assembled, before Agnes reached home. There was no one to dine there that day, but Agnes and her uncle; and the old gentleman was very angry that she had not returned in time to sit down with him. He had taken his soup, and was busy over his boiled capon when she entered. She never had seen him so angry with her before ; and, wha was worse, she could not give any satisfactory account of that which had detained her so long. She had been no farther than the dingle at the bottom of the park, and yet she bad been away quite three hours. It was a very thoughtless thing of her, he said, to go sauntering about by herself in lonesome places in that wayhow could she tell but that she might meet with that fellow Marebmont, and even worse than he? It was very improper of her! He used to think, he said, that Mrs. Colville complained of her outr6 notions withotit cause; but he should not think so any longer now! Through more than half the dinner he scolded her, and through the remainder of it he said nothing at all; and Agiies, who was more occu- pied in mind and more agitated in feeling by her interview with Jeffkins than even by her uncles displeasure, allowed him to maintain his silence unbroken. After his customary after-dinner nap, Agnes went in as usual, just before his hour for tea. She was resolved that the good old man should now have, as far as she was concerned, one of those quietly amusing evenings of which he was so fond He was fortunately one of those persons who can bear to hear the same story ten times over; so, rest)lving to struggle against her own abstraction of mind, and determining not to go to Mrs. Sams that night, she thought over her best stories and her drollest anecdotes, intending to introduce them very cunningly, and to while away his ill-humor by compelling him to laugh. With the tea, how- ever, thtere was brought in a note from Mrs. Sam which was to beg that Agnes would come, with- out fail, and to desire her to bring such and such quadiilles with her, as they all knew she excelled in playing. 1\Iy dear, and my dearest Ag- nes, occurred again and again in the note; but for all that she did not feel flattered into any spirit of compliance. What is it? asked the old gentleman, pet- tishly. Is it from Mrs. Sam? Mrs. Colville left word, said the footman, addressing his master, wlaen she weiit, that Mis~ Agnes must go as soon as possible, and Sampson is now waiting to go back with her. Sampson ~as Mrs. Colvilles own servant, and 150 THE AUTHORS DAUGHTER. had accompanied his mistress to the rectory; he had now brought the note, and waited to attend the young lady hack. I have no wish to go, said she, address- ing her uncle I very much prefer staying with you. It s no use stopping with me, returned the old gentleman; and I insist upon your going Agnes begged at all events to stay with him till after tea ; but he was out of humor, and resolute. lie insisted upon her 0oing, cven though it were only to play for other peoples dancing; he could see nothing unreasonable in it, he said; and, to humor even his ill-humor, and quite against her own inclination, Agnes went out to prepare her .oilette. Sampson respectfully hinted to her, in passing him in the hall, that he was ordered to return in- stantly, and not to forget the music. It was only to play for other peoples dancing that she was sent for, and therefore it seemed to her needless to array herself in her new attire so, making her ordinarily best dress look its best, and with no other ornament than a bou- quet of geranium in her bosom, she set off to the rectory. It was a lovely night; here and there a bird twittered in the trees, as they passed; the grass- hoppers chirped; and the deer, which lay for the night under a broad oak near the road, started up as they passed, and trotted away a few paces. The very soul of repose lay over everything; but Agnes mind was not in a state to receive its influ- ence. She could not cease thinking of Jeff kins and his passion of hatred and revenge, and then, like Balaam, blessing the man whom he came to curse. Light streamed from the rectory windows; and the gay, lau~hing voices of young people, who had walked out of the heated rooms into the lovely flower-scented garden that snrronnded the house, caine like sounds from a totally different world to that in which Agnes mind was thrown. She was now in the garden itself. Lightly-attired forms, each paired with a dark attendant, walked slowly along, laughing aloud, or listening to the low dis- course of the apparently enamored attendant. A~ncs heard that Mrs. Acton was at this party, and ~ r. Latimer also, as the lion of the night. Aim she fancied that she saw in the distance, with Ada leaning on his arm. Happy Ada! sighed she, as she often had done before. But Ada was not in the garden, whatever Lati- mer might be. Ada came up stairs the moment she heard that Agnes was arrived, impatient to see her, and, as she said, to arrange her toilette before ~he went down stairs. But I am not dressed. said A5ncs. da seemed annoyed At all events you have your new ornaments on, remarked she. No, I have not, returned Agnes. I have only come as a piece of mechanism, to play while you dance. I am not at all in a company mood to-night, dear Ada, said she, trying to keep back some tears, which, she could hardly tell wb~, seemed as if they would come into her eyes. Neither am I, said Ada, revealing all at once, spite of her beauty, that some sad and troubling thought was in her heart, and I shall be thankful when this night is over! Bnt, how- ~ver, said she, assuming a sudden gaiety, neither you nor I must go into the room looking doleful. And I wish you had put on your orna- ments! I am quite angry that you have not done so ! They entered the drawing-room, where there were evidently signs of something beyond an im- promptu dance. The moment her Aunt Colville saw her, she came to her also across trie room, her countenance giving evidence of rigorous dis- pleasure. What in the world has possessed you to come dressed in this manner? It is quite a dis- respect to us all? And what could make you stop out so long this afternoon ?you ought to have been back long before it was time for us to go. It was very thoughtless of you ; and now to come dressed that figure ! Never mind my dress, dear aunt, said Ag- nes, assuming a cheerful air: I am only going to p lay. Her cousin also whispered to her, with dissatis- faction in his countenance, that she should have put on her new dress. And Ada says, said he. as if he knew nothing of the matter, that you have some handsonie new ornamentswhy did you not wear them? We all wanted you to look your very best to-night ! Agnes made no reply; she thought of the last time she had seen him, not many hours before, when she had turned alumost the hand of a mur- derer aside from him. How little can one human being understand the heart of anothcr! Torn thought that Agnes was out of humor; and, really out of humor himself, he turned hastily from her to flirt with the silliest girl in the. room. That is Mr. Frank Lawfords daughter, who has sat down to the piano, said George Bridport to the gentleman who stood next to him. The gentleman looked at her through his eye- ~lass She is a devilish pretty figure, said lie, and has beautiful eyes! Pon my word, I think she is a pretty girl ! But devilish ill-dressed for a party like this, said George Bnidport, loud enough for hcr to hear him. At this moment, Mrs. Acton, who was only just then aware of her being in the rooi , seated her- self by her, and talked to her kindly and cheer- fully. Mrs. Sam, in the mean time, had duly informed the company that Miss Agnes Lawford was so gniod as to o er to play a few quadrilles. The young people were delightedthey came flocking in from the arden, bringing a cool, fresh air witl~ them. All was hustle and animation, hews ann smiles, of beseeching and assentine partners ; and now the quadrille was formed, and Agnes began to play. She played beautifolly, people said, re- marking that it was dehightfnl to dance to music like this ; they thought she must he a great musical gemmius. Mr. Latimer danced with Ada. They, too, had only come in as the quadrille was formed, and Agnes had not exchanged a word with him. When the first set was ended, he came to her, and asked her to dance the second with him. Mrs. Acton, at that very moment, was insisting upon taking Agnes place at the piano. The young men would be in despair, if you were to set all thu evening, said she, laughing. My brother, I am sure, would scold me, if I wore to allow you to play the next quadrille. These words were on her lips, as lie in person made his request. TIlE AUTHORS DAUGHTER. 151 Many people thronged about her to thank her for her playing. They had never danced to better music before. She 1 ust be very fond of music, & c. & c. But my dress, said Agnes, appealing to Mrs. Acton. I only came to play, really. Your dress is charmingmost becoming to you,~ whispered she to Agnes ; and then, turning to the admirers of Agnes music, she said, that they must he contented with something less per- fect this time, for Miss Agnes was going to dance. Agnes thought of her aunt, and of Mrs. Sam, and begged again to decline; and Latimer stood and looked at her with a calm and yet admiring countenance, which more than anything else dis- concerted her. I cannot think of your sitting down to the piano, Mrs. Aeton, said Mrs. Sam coming up. Indeed I cannot! Agnes was so good as to offer; it is very good-natured of her: yes, she does play heautifully, said she to some admirer of Agnes musical power. I am not sure, though, that Agnes dances, Mr. Latimer. I be- lieve you do not, Agnes. Of course Agnes ou,~ht to have said no; but she did not, and to prevent any other answer Mrs. Sam went on: I wish now, as the young people seem to enjoy dancing so much, that I had a musician for the night; but I was uncertain whether a dance would be liked. Our rooms are not large, said h~ glancing from one end of her handsome draw- to room to the other. I pray you to intercede for me, said Mr. I atimer, taking hold of Agnes hand, and address- 1 I~ Mrs. Sam; she declines dancing. If she will not he my partner I shall sit down myself, said he laughing. We most not let you sit, said Mrs. Sam, assuming at once a gay humor: you do A nes great honor; and of course she will not decline; but had no idea that she danced, said she, look- ing very significantly at her. Mr. Latimer smiled and bowed, and leading Y ~nes away triumphantly, placed her so that Young Bridport, who was about to dance with da, was her vis-a-vis. Agnes heart beat, and she looked with an expression of ineffable love on er cousin, resolving, even though he were her Part ncr, to absorb as little of his attention as she couldbut there was something sad and inexpli- tote in Adas eyes. The miext moment, a proud nod cold expression came over her features. She s off nded with me, thought Agnes; I am wound- ~CT h~r by dancing with Mr. Latimer. I am per- sos exeitin~ that most painful of all passions, 1 alonsy! goes thoueht how already she had o~eu the means, all innocently as it was, of wound- moo- her cousins pride and ambition: the album- ti~e tolume, and the note came to her mind; and then he noble and inEenuous confession; the noveiling of her love and her hopes. How inex- pressibly dear was Ada to her, as she thought ~ pidly on these things! She saw her beautiful figure in its elegant dress floating along; she took, in passing, the lovely hand, and endeavored by a gentle pressure to convey a feeling of the love and tenderness that was in her heart. But Ada was now laughing gaily with her partner, and looking again the happiest, as well as the loveliest in the room. It is all my own fancy ! thought Agnes. Mr. Latimers dancing with me, affects not Ada; she knows that he does so, as no doubt is the fact, because I am the poorest and the worst- dressed girl in the room She resolved to be as gay as the rest. Young Bridport thought that the eyes of his vis-a-vis were even more beautiful than he had at first imagined, and that really she looked such a thorough-bred gentlewoman, that he could no longer think 11cr ill-dressed. Nothing but the most genera] conversation passed between Mr. Latimer and herself; but when that quadrille was ended she determined to dance no more that night. Many young men, when it was finished, offered themselves as her partners, but she resolutely sat down to the instrument to play. From a cause which was, many people believed, easy of expla- nation, the next quadrille was not nearly so well played as the former one. Mr. Latimer took his place beside her, and Ada, who had declined dancing, sat on the other side of the room. Ad~ seemed neither ehac,rined nor neglected: many admirers, the least enamored of whom by no umeans was the handsome George Bridport, were around her; but for all that, Agnes never lost the thought of her. I wish I could transport you to the vacant chair beside Ada ! thought Agnes, as Mr. Lati- mers hand turned over each succeeding page of her music-hook. Mrs. Colville was winning one rubber after another at whist, so that she saw not what was going forward: lint Mrs. Sam was busily looking after the dancing, and she noticed this malapropos adjustment of persons with great dissatisfaction. You have not played this last quadrille well, said Mrs. Sam, who had determined some time before that there should be no more dancing; but I dare say, dear, you are anxious to get back to papa. She is so attentive to papa, said she, turning to Mr. Latimer, and he is so poorly to- day, it was almost cruel to bring her out. I will now go quietly home, said Agnes, aside to Mrs. Sam. I will umake no adiens. But I know not how we can spare any one to go home with you, said Mrs. Sam, who knew that supper would soon be announced. My servant shall walk with her, said Mr. Latimer, who, unexpectedly to both parties, had heard what passed. Whether Mr. Latimer, however, could not find his servant, or whether he wished for the fresh air, and the cool quiet evening walk, or xvhatever might be his motive, he surprised Agnes, by join- in~ her outside the door, and accosting her with Permit me to be your attendant, Miss Agnes, instead of my servant. I cannot indeed, Mr. Latimer, said Agnes stopping, the distance is so short, arid I quite prefer going alone ; the air is fresh and pleasant after the hot drawing-mom, and there is no danger for nine! lIe took her hand, and drew it vithin his arm with the air of one who will have Ins own way; and yet there was a something in his manner, tender at once and deferential, that troubled her. She recalled the conclusion of her former argu- ments, that lie noticed her, and paid attentions to her, because his benevolence made her very deli- ciences interesting to him ; but on this occasion there surely was something more. Ah, poor Agnes, with a sentiment which she would not have dared to confess to herself, she felt her hand within his and resting upon his arm, amid then she was walk- 152 THE AUTHORS S DAUGHTER. ing step for step by his side. They walked both slowly and sileotly. A tumult of strange emotion was in her heart; a short spiritual combat ensued, and she won or seemed to win, a victory over her- self. My cousin Ada is beautiful ! said she, speak- ing in the strength of her s elf-vanquishment. Very beautiful, said Mr. Latimer emphati- cally. She is a noble creature ! returned Agnes. I think very few persons do her justice; I ques- lien if you do, for she is not a merely beauti- ful girl, but she has hiqh and estimable qualities. I think her one of the most interesting characters I know. I cannot see any fault in her, and I am convinced that she must he greatly improved since you left. Agnes longed to tell the confession she had made, but Adas strict prohibition forbade it. I think very highly of her powers, said Mr. Latimer, in a voice which to Agnes seemed cool and measured, and I know no one more capable of developin, herself nobly than Ada. There was a time, continued he, after a pause, when I tried to use my influence with her; but Ada is one of those who must find the right way herself, and, sooner or later, she will find it, no doubt. She has found it already, said Agnes, warmly: she is as noble as she is beautiful. I wish I could make you think as highly of her as I do myself, added she, feeling almost desperate in her cousins cause. We are nearly at the end of our xvalk, said Mr. Latimer, abruptly, and I must not forget my sisters com mission to me. She came out to bid you good-by, but I prorrmised to do it ~r her, and to beg you to make one o~ a pic-nic party to Brad- gate Parkmerely her own family, your uncles, Mr. and Mrs. Sam, and myself, on Tuesday week. I should like it extremely, said Agnes, if I can goif my uncle can spare me. You must go, and he must spare you, returned Mr. Latimer; for, to tell you the truth, said he, laughing, the party is made for you and me. You, as the entire stranger; I, as the last arrival ; and the party without either of us, would be like Hamlet with the part of Hamlet left out. Agnes hoped to herself that neither he nor his sister would s. y this to any of her uncles family, and this brought them to the hall. I wish Mr. Latimer would be more attentive to Ada, thought she, as she entered her chamber for the night; however, the very next time I go out, I will dress ~,yself in my very best, and make the very most of myself, and owe nothing to com- passiomi ! Yes, so she said; but through the sleepluss night that followed, she took a strict and close survey of the true connexion which existed rela- tively between Mr. Latimer, her cousin, and her- self; and there was something very much more momentous than this or that dress, or this or that casualty, which was the mainspring of Mr. Lati- mers behavior. Then, as regarded herself, how different was her feeling now towards him to what it had been on that first evening of their meeting when she so unwittingly revealed to him all her domestic affections and sorrows Yes, between then and now a very different feeling had sprung up; and very different too was it now, to what it was only comparatively a few hours ago! It was love which she was admitting into her heart And this love, which was so flattering, so seduc- tive, was treachery to her cousinto her who had confided so much to her keepingwho had suffered already so nmuch from her. It appeared to her at that moment almost criminal ; and, if she stole away Latimers heart, however rich the prize, it could only be at the purchase of Adas happiness. Better teii times that I should suffer than do this said she. The true path for her to take, however. seemed hidden from her. She prayed for aid, and all seemed darkness and uncertainty around her. She knew not that which was right for her to do. For one moment it appeared better that she should leave Lawford. In a great measure, if not al- together, her mission as regarded poor Fanny Jeff kins child was fulfilled, if not to the letter. yet fully as to the spirit; and now she had duties to perform to others, to herself, to her cousin, to her uncle, who had been as a father to her! 11cr duty to these was aliketo promote the well-being and happiness of each: but then, would her leav- ing Lawford do this? She knew not. However. she had a true friend and counsellor in her mother. and to her she determined to write. She had related to her all that had hitherto occurred, and now again she would be faithfully candid, and her mothers advice should be her guide. In the mean time, she resolved that nothing should induce her to neglect the most rigid fulfilment of her duty, nor would she give any ground for reproach. Her place was with her uncle, and him alone. She determined to avoid Mr. Latimers society and eveim his sisters, and not to give them aux reason to suspect the treacherous inclinations o~ her own heart. Such were the resolves which, in the stillness of the night, Agnes made she prayed earnestly for time assistance of Heaven to strengthen her in this and all other trials; and, with a stronger and more cheerful mind, she arese the next morning. ARTIFICIAL QUARTZAt the Paris Academy New ANTI-sameTmee IETALs.Gebgaen? men- of Sciences 25 August, a communication was tions the discovery of a new mixture ef metals, received from M. Tihelmen, mining engineer, and called anti-friction, as a smmhstitute for the use of joint director of the royal manufactory of S~vres, brass in the various uses to which that metal ha announcing that he had succeeded in making an been hitherto applied in the manufacture of Ieee- artificial quartz, equal in every respect to the mm. tu- motive and other engines. From the statement of ral crystal. This process is of great simplicity. Messrs. Alicard, Buddiconibe and Co., who have It consists in the evaporation in damp air of sihicie umade the locomotives for the Ronen and Paris and ether. The crystal thims obtained is very hard and other railroads, it appears that this metal, although transparent, and scratches glass. This discovery very much lower in price than brass, and atended will give courage to those chemists who are (If with aim economy of 75 per cent. in the use of oil opinion that even the diamond may be artificially during the working, is of a duration so far beyond obtained. that of brass as to be almost incredible.

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The Living age ... / Volume 7, Issue 76 Littell's living age Every Saturday; a journal of choice reading Eclectic magazine The Living age co. inc. etc. New York etc. October 26, 1845 0007 076
The Living age ... / Volume 7, Issue 76 153-200

LITTELLS LIVING AGE.No. 76.25 OCTOBER, 1845. CONTENTS. CorrespondenceNew ArrangementsNew Books 1. Life of Mr. Blanco White Quarterly Review, 2. Domestic Life of Frederick III. of Prussia, . Christian Observer 3. Science and Religion Athencsum 4. Punch in Chancery Punch 5. New Facts respecting Mary Queen of Scots, Chambers Journal, 6. The Authors Daughterchaps 17, 18, 19, 20, Mary Howilt, 7. James Montgomery, . Boston Atlas, POETRY.Our Little Church; The Baptism, 154The Prairie Shadow, Home in Summer, 200. CORRESPONDENCE WE have great pleasure in making known to our readers that Messrs. WAITE, PEIRcE & Co. have become the Publishers of the Living Age. By the arrangements we have made with this vigorous house, the very great increase of the work in cir- culation, and consequent lnfluence, may be confi- dently anticipated. Our responsibility to the pub- lic is greatly increased, but the accession of strength, which has come to the work, will make our labors cheerful and hopeful. We thank God and take courage. ~ Messrs. Waite, Peirce & Co. will make it an important part of their business to supply yearly subscribers with punctuality. And there is much in the direct intercourse between the Readers and the Editor and Publishers which is very gratify- ing. THE Authors Daughter will be immediately issued in a separate form by Waite, Peirce & Co. THERE are several phrases in the article on Mr. Blanco White, so coarse in the language used by the reviewer towards religious opinions differing from his own, that we should probably have still longer hesitated to publish it, had it not been re- commended to us by a gentleman holding tile opin- ions thus attacked. With this exception, we are glad to publish the article, as the subject is of great interest everywhere, and especially to many persons in this neighborhood who were well ac- quainted with Mr. White. The Encyclopedia of Domestic Economy has been completed by Messrs. Harper. This work is full of practical matters, and is worthy of a place in every family. No. 26 of Wiley and Putnams Library, is Selections from Taylor, Barrow, South, Ful- ler, & c., by Basil Montague. These specimens LXXVI. LIVING AGE. VOL. VII. 10 will make thousands desirous of a better acquaint- ance with great minds. No 27, The Twins and Heart 4y Martin Farquhar Tupper. Of this we do not know anything; but the sound judgment which is evinced in the whole series, is our sufficient warrant for recommending each of the Volumes. PAINE & BuRGEss have sent us the fifth number of the series of Italian Prose, which Mr. Lester has translated from his consular residence at Genoa. It is The Autobiography of Alfieri, arid will probably be still more successful than the volumes which preceded it. THE American Review for October -looks very well. We must pay more attention to this and the rival Democratic Review than we have yet done. Up ham on the Principles of the Interior or Hidden LWe, was strongly recommended to us by a Con- gregational clergyman, as an eminently practical. work: he did not agree in all the doctrines taught in it, but thought the influence of what he supposed incorrect, was as nothing compared with the good to be derived from the eminently devout spirit which breathed through the whole of it. We do not know whether we may not like the work the better for th& faults which to our friends eye were apparent, but we have so much confidence in his praise, that we give it without waiting till we are able to add our own. A lot of books for young people has been sent to us by the same publishers, Waite, Peirce & Co. The titles and handsome bindings are all that we could copy before they were carried away: Mary Wilson; The Rosctte; Tr als of the Heart; The Parsona~, e; Shawmut, (this is all about Boston. The frontispiece is a picture of an Indian, probably the mayor at that time;) The Royal Oak; Pastors~ Stories; Home made Happy. Also, The Strange PAGE. 153 155 171 180 181 182 184 200 199Forest- 154 in Lowell, by J. G. Whittier: (we must now further delay our visit to Lowell till we read this.) A Personal Narrative of Residence as a Mission- ary in Ceylon and Southern Ilindoostan, by James Read Eckard,we think we shall like very much. This, and a little book called Kindness to Animals, have been sent to us by the American Sunday School Union. ONE of the most attractive and valuable books which we have lately seen, has been published by Messrs. Sorin & Ball, Philadelphia: Sketches of Residence and Travels in Brazil; embracing histori- cal and geographical notices of the Empire and its several provinces. By Daniel P. Kidder. In two volumes, with many illustrations. Brazil is becom- ing a great nation, and it is necessary for every man, who wishes to be well informed, to make him- self acquainted with its present and probable con- dition. It has formed one of the most important subjects of debate in the British Parliament, and the necessity of making a commercial treaty with that empire has driven, or probably will drive, Great Britain from some favorite points of her policy in relation to slaveryor will cause her to say to Brazil, as she did t~ China in the spirit of the French RevolutionLet us either trade or fight: Soyons Freres on je t hssomme. This book is by an American missionaryand has attracted great ~attention in England. Next week we shall have an utrticle from the Spectator, and shall follow it with t~others, considering both the subject and the book to be worthy of much room. One of the faults which have been found with the writer, is some- \what an unusual complaint against a traveller ; it is that he has not given so many of his personal opinions as was desirable,he being eminently qualified, from his intimate knowledge and evident ;abiity, to guide the opinions of his readers. OUR LITTLE CHURCH. FROM THE GERMAN OF HRUMACHEa. .0, ONLY see how sweetly there Our little church is gleaming! The golden evening sunshine fair On tower and roof is streaming. ~How soft and tranquil all around! Where shall its like on earth be found? Through the green foliage white and clear It peeps out all so gaily Round on our little villa~e here And down through all the valley. Well pleased it is, as one may see, With its own grace and purity. Not always does it fare so well, When tempests rage and riot Yet even then the little bell Speaks out: Twill soon be quiet! OUR LITTLE CHURCHTHE BAPTISM. Though clouds look black, and pour down rain, The sunshine, brighter, comes again.~~ And when the oigan shines and sounds, With silver pipes all glistening, How every heart, then, thrills and bounds, And earth and heaven seem listening. Such feelings in each hosom swell! But what he feels no one can tell. 0, see in evenings golden fire Its little windows gleaming! Bright as a bride in gay attire With flowers and jewels beaming. Aye, look now! how it gleams and glows, Fair as an apricot or rose Within our little church shows quite Believe mequite as neatly; The little benches, blue and white, All empty, look so sweetly On Sunday none is empty found There s no such church the wide world round! See where against the pillared wall The pulpit high is huilded, Well carved and planned by master-hand, All polished bright and gilded. Then comes the parson undismayed, They wonder he is not afraid. But he stands up a hero, there, And loads them on to Heaven Through all this world of sin and care The flock his God has given: Soft falls his word as dew comes down On a dry meadow parched and brown. But see the sun already sinks, And all the vale is darkling, Only our little spire still blinks With days last golden sparkling. How still and sacred all around! Where shall a church like ours be found? THE BAPTISM. SHE stood up in the meekness of a heart Resting on God, and held her fair young child Upon her bosom, with its gentle eyes Folded in sleep, as if its soul were gone To whisper the baptismal vow in heaven. The prayer went up devoutly, and the lips Of the good man glowed fervently with faith, That it would be, even as he had prayed, And the sweet child be gathered to the fold Of Jesus. As the holy words went on, Her lips moved silently, and tears, fast tears, Stole from beneath her lashes, and upon The forehead of her beautiful child lay soft With the baptismal water. Then I thought That to the eye of God that mothers tears Would be a deeper covenant, which sin And the temptations of the world, and death, Would leave unbroken, and that she would know, In the clear light of heaven, how very strong The prayer which pressed them from her heart had been, In leading its young spirit up to God. Boston Recorder. LIFE OF MR. BLANCO WHITE. 155 From the Quarterly Review. The Life of the Rev. Joseph Blanco White, written by himself; with portions of his Correspondence. Edited by JOHN HAMILTON THOM. In 3 vols. 8vo. London, 1845. Tans is a book which rivets the attention, and makes the heart bleed. We state so much, with- out taking into account the additional power and interest which it most acquire in the minds of many who still live, from personal associations with its author and subject. It has, indeed, with reward to himself, in its substance though not in its arrangement, an almost dramatic character; so clearly and strongly is the living, thinking, acting man projected from the face of the records which he has left. The references to others, accordingly, with which the book abounds, are, by comparison, thrown into the shade; and yet our readers may apprehend that even these are sufficiently signifi- cant, when we add, that among ihe many persons to whom Mr. Blanco White alludes as beloved and intimate friends, perhaps none are more prom- inently named than Mr. Newman, arid, even to a much later period, Archbishop Whately. But, further, the interest of the work is not merely concentrated upon the writer: it is also very much compressed within the limits of his men- tal history; and it embraces his external fortunes, chiefly as they were dependent upon that. His literary tastes and his political labors might justly deserve some detailed notice; but all the space that we can spare must be devoted to matters of deeper import. For his spirit was a battle-field, upon which, with fluctuating fortune and a srngo- lar intensity, the powers of belief and skepticism waged, from first to last, their unceasing war; and within the compass of his experience are pre- sented to our view most of the great moral and spiritlial problems that attach to the condition of our race. A rapid sketch of his history will enable our readers to judge of the delicacy and difficulty of the task we undertake. He was born in 1775, at Seville. A Spaniard, of Irish extraction by the fathers side, he was intended in early years, though he was of gentle blood, for the calling of a mer- chant. His apprenticeship commenced at the age of eight.i But he hated the counting-house and loved his books ;~~2 and naturally enough, we pre- sume, in his position, learning and the church were to him inseparable ideas.3 It is material to apprehend clearly this the first change in the direc- tion of his course: and we remark, that in relating it in 1830, he says, his mind hit instinctively upon the only expedient that could release him from his mercantile bondage.4 Divines declared that he had a true call to the ecclesiastical career. lie readily advanced in the theoretical part of his education, but he regarded the devotional practices with horror.a At fourteen, he was sent to study philosophy with the Dominicans of the college of Seville, whose lectures were founded on Aristotle and Thomas Aquinas. Here occurred his second act of mental rebellion. The system of instruc- tion was odious to him: and a great love of knowledge,6 and an equally great hatred of estab- lished errors, were suddenly developed in his mind. His instructors denied the possibility of a vacuum; and attributed the ascent of liquids by suction to the horror of nature at being wounded 1 Life, I., p. 6. 2 Dohlados Letters, p. 51. 1 Ibid. 4Life, I., p. 8. 1 Ibid., p. 10. 6 Ibid., p. 14. and torn.1 The works of the Benedictine Fey- joo, which had come into his hands, imparted to him the true view of these physical questions. Being rebuked by his teacher, for inattention, in the lecture-room and before the whole class, he started up and denounced the falsity of the doc- trine which was inculcated there. At this time he began to question, except upon matter of reli- gion, all the settled notions of his relatives; and his mother, to whom he gives credit for great penetration, thanked Heaven that Spain was his ilative country; else he would soon quit the pale of the church.2 He was, however, transferred to the university of Seville, where he received more congenial instruction from such members of the Society of the Jesuits as lingered there after the suppression of the order. With his friends he organized a private society for the cultivation of poetry and literature. But he also attached himself to the oratory of St. Philip Neri,~ at which the spiritual exercises of St. Ignatius were practised. He has supplied us with a very remarkable, and appa- rently an impartial, description of them.4 They had a sufficient effect upon him to prevent his abandoning the intention to receive holy orders; yet he went through them with a consciousness, never subdued, of strong dislike.5 The fear of giving pain to his mother, whose domestic influ- ence was supreme, was likewise a principal sup- pI)rt to that intention. She was powerfully sec- onded by her confessor, Arjona, then a devout person, but of whom it is afterwards recorded that he became perhaps an infidel, and certainly a lib- ertine.6 Although young Blanco Whites father secretly reminded him that he was under no com- pulsion, yet, up to the latest moment, he would not, perhaps we should say he dared not, recede. He had, however, at one time proposed to his mother that he should enter the Spanish navy, which had the attraction of a scientific training. The answer was devised with a revolting skill :~ it was, that he might give up the clerical profession, but that if he did he must return to the counting- house. Thus the priesthood was forced upon him as the indispensable condition of an intellectual life. He became virtually committed to it by taking sub-deacons orders at twenty-one, which rendered him incapable of marriage. From that time his intercourse with the world was less closely watched. lie gives a strong opin- ion that the demoralizing effect of the law of com- pulsory celibacy,8 which, according to him, pro- duced the utmost vigilance in guarding youth against lawful attachments, and a coerlparattve indifference to profligacy. It is clear, from his journals at a later period,t that the direction of his mind was towards the formation of domestic ties. In his Autobiography he glances at the injurious consequences of the outward restraint in his own case.0 In iDoblados Letters, where he employs the third person, he has also intinmated them. But he prmtests, and with evident truth, that immorality was not with him a conscious inducement to unbelief.2 He was ordained priest in 1799; and for some Doblado, p. 100. 2 Ibid. 1Life, I., p. 23. 4 Ibid., pp. 3548. 1 Ibid., p. 49. 6 Life, I., pp. 120, 124. 7 Ibid., p. 52. Ibid., pp. 44, 53, and note p. 107; Evidence against Catholicism, pp. 1317. tLife, III., p. 342. 10 Ibid., I., p. 117 and 132. it Doblado, pp. 1202. ~ Life, I., p. 109; and Evidence a~ainst Catholicism p. 6. LIFE OF MIt. BLANCO WHITE. short time after this he seems to have lived under the power of strong devotional influences. He had already become a fellow of the ~o1egio Mayor of Seville. In, 1801 he competed for a canonry at Cadiz ;2 and shortly after this he was elected a chaplain of the Chapel Royal of St.. Ferdinand, attached to the cathedral of SevilleA He does not date with precision his transition to positive and total unbelief; hut it seems, from his Life, to have occurred either in or soon after l8O2.~ He resolved, however, to continue his external con- formity, and to discharge his practical duties in the capacity of confessor, as he hest could. Through the force of sympathy he took part with the nation against the Bonapartes; hut his own opinion was that more improvement would have resulted from the French rule than could be other- wise obtained, lie despaired, however, in his own sense, of Spain; and, on the approach of the French to Seville in 1810, he abandoned his coun- try and his prospects for the hope of mental free- dom and a residence in England. On arriving here, he had, of course, difficulties and discouragements to contend with, hut lie also had friends; and the activity of his mind soon pro- vided him with occupation. He was attracted towards religion by the mildness which he found combined with sincerity in some of it.s professors. The perusal of Paleys Natural Theology be- gan to reanimate his feelings towards God. A service at St. James church affected him power- fully.7 He resumed the habit of prayer. After three years8 of growth he found himself convinced of the truth of Christianity, and he joined the Church of England as the renovated home of his youth.9 When eighteen months more had elapsed, in 1814, he subscribed the articles of the Church of England, and claimed the recognition of his character as a priest. But aft.er this slow and gradual restoration he had hut a very short period of rest. The detail of the records at this period of his life is somewhat scanty, but it appears clearly that, in 1817, he was assailed with constant doubts on the doctrines of the Trinity and the Atonement. In November, 1818, he records his distinct abandonment of the divinity of our Lord. In 1825 he returned to the orthodox be- lief upon that subject. In 1826 he administered the Eucharist and preached; and by an internal act he dedicated himself anew to the sacred office, reviving, as he says, many of the feelings of his ordination. It appears to have been in or after 1829 that he addressed a letter to Neander, in which he returned thanks to God for (as he sup- posed) the final settlement of his religious views. But from or even at this time he was gradually sinking. He thought, in February, 1829,~ the church of England retained too much of the spirit of popery. By March, 1833, he had reduced the Gospel once more to sublime simplicity ; to the reception4 of Christ as our moral king, as our saviour from moral evils or spiritual fears ; and had determined that the doctrine of His divinity, as Doblado, pp. 123-6; and Life, I., pp. 64, 65. 2Life, I., p. 85. Life, I., p. 92. 4 In another place he states that he passed ten years in unbelief before his quitting Si~ain, (Evidence against Catholicism, p. ii,) which took p ace in 1810. 5lbid.,I.,p. 112. 6 Evidence against Catholicism, p. 13. 7 lb., p. 14. 8 lb., p. 18. Life, II., p. 48; and Evidence, p. 20. iO Life, 1., p. 323. lb., p. 349. 12 lb., III., 133. 13 lb., 457. 14 lb., II., 4. it was disputed, could not be essential. Up to May, 1834, he disapproved of definite denials of the Trinitarian doctrines. In December of the same year he recorded himself a deliberate Uni- tarian.3 He determined, with great delicacy of feeling, to remove himself from the house of the Archbishop of Dublin, in which he had been re- siding for some time, before he should separate from the church. In January, 1835, he effected this removal, and placed himself at Liverpool, where he joined the IJnitarian Society. In that town and in its neighborhood he lived until his death, in May, 1841. Here we bring this outline to a close, proposing to take more particular notice of some of the passages of his chequered and dis- astrous career. We may regard Mr. Blanco White in several characters ; first as a witness to facts, and next as the expositor, and still more as the victim of opinions. With regard to the first of these capaci- ties, he had abundant talent, remarkable honesty and singleness of purpose, and large and varied means of information and of comparison from the the several positions which he occupied at different times; and we think that the dispassionate reader of his works will be disposed to place almost im- plicit reliance upon his accounts of all such matters as are the proper subjects of testimony. Regarding him then in this capacity, we natur- ally look in the first instance to the representations which he has given us of the state of things in Spain, and of this the most prominent characteris- tic certainly is the unbelief which he declares to have prevailed among the clergy. We have seeni his view of the operation of the law of celibacy; but he is much more definite and explicit upon the other subject. In Doblados Letters4 he says, A inong my numerous acquaintance in the Span- ish clergy I have never met with any one pos- sessed of bold talents who has not, sooner or later, changed from the most sincere piety to a state of unbelief. Such a circumstance suggests very serious ques- tions with regard to the actual system of the church of Rome, under which it had come to pass; and to us it goes far to explain the phenomenon, when we recollect (for instance) that the immacu- late conception of the Blessed Virgin passed in Spain for an article of the Christian faith, practi- cally no less sacred and certain than the mystery of the incarnation. As to the accuracy of the statement, we believe it may be corroborated by the testimony of Roman Catholic witnesses, par- ticularly with reference to the capitular and digni- fied clergy of Spain as they then were. But the passage also establishes the fact that the state from which the transition took place was usually one of earnest devotion, and that the life of the young priest opened at least in piety. It would seem, therefore, that there was at least a well- meant endeavor to impart a religious education, and to impress the mind of the young candidate for orders with an adequate sense of his voca- tion. He has, however, again and again repeated his assertion with regard to unbelief, in his Prac- tical and Internal Evidence against Catholi- cism :,__ I do attest, from the most certain knowledge, that the history of my own mind is, with little Life, II., 20. 2 lb., I., II., 42. lb., II., 61. 4 Page 126. 156 LIFE OF MR. BLANCO WHITE. 157 variation, that of a great portion of the Spanish clergy. The fact is certain. In another passage he writes still more broadly, hut rather to a matter of opinion than one of fact I have been able to make an estimate of the moral and intellectual state of Spain, which few who know me and that country will, I trust, be inclined to discredit. Upon the strength of this knowledge, I declare, again and again, that very few among my own class (I comprehend clergy and laity) think otherwise than I did hefore my removal to England.2 Arid, once more, in contrast with a different state of things among the English clergy I cannot dismiss this subject without most solemnly attesting, that the strongest impressions which enliven and support my Christian faith are derived from my friendly intercourse with mem- hers of that insulted clergy; while, on the con- trary, I know bnt very few Spanish priests, whose talents or acquirements were above con- tempt, who had not secretly renounced their re- ligion.3 In his Antobiography he particularizes these statements by reference to individuals; but nothing more. It is hut just also to record that, while his evidence hears hard upon the morals of the friars4 in Spain, he declares unequivocally in favor of the Jesuits, both as to their purity of character and the practical effects of their influence :~ arid with re- gard to nunneries, although he states that he never knew souls more polluted than those of some of the professed vestals of the Church of Rome,6 yet he represents the opposite case to he the rule The greater part of the nuns whom I have known were beings of a much higher description females whose purity owed nothing to the strong gates and high walls of the cloister. When we return to Mr. Blanco Whites evi- dence upon the state of religion and of the clergy in England, we must of course make liheral allow- ance with regard to so much as he said at a time when his mind was, as he subsequently considered, carried away by the returning tide of religious sympathies. Indeed, for some time he had rio eye for our faults and shortcomings: and in the very unqualified praises that were bestowed upon his works by some persons of authority,8 we cannot but trace the reciprocal operation of a principle analogous to that of the proverb that forbids us to look a gift horse in the mouth. The mem- bers of all Christian communities must be conscious of the temptation not to scrutinize over-rigidly the pretensions of a convert from a rival per- suasion. Otherwise, we cannot but think that, in the works which Mr. White published while he was ostensibly of the Church of England, there were ominous indications, and a vagueness which now in retrospect tends to warrant the impression that he never at any period recovered an intelli- gent and firm hold even of the great Catholic dog- mas concerning the nature of God. It is consolatory, however, to find that his final lapse could not have been owing to any of his associates among our clergy. For in his Obser- Practical and Internal Evidence, p. 8. 2 Ibid., p. 28. ~ Ibid., p. 60. 4 Doblado, p. 475. lb., pp. 86, 87, and 474. o Life, 1., p. 70. ~ Practical and Internal Evidence, p. 135. B Life, I., pp. 415, 419, 424, 433, 440. vations on Heresy and Orthodoxy, published in 1835, he says, with regard to his friends of that order Without exception, all and every one of them are, to my knowledge, conscientious believers in the divinity of Christ. He writes, indeed, in year l829~ In England unbelief has made a rapid pro- gress, hoth among the higher and the lower classes. In 1835 he states that the days of orthodoxy are certainly goue by,2 and artificial belief4 is easier and more powerful in coniplete popery than in mixed, by which he means Athanasian, ~iProtestantisrrr And again What is called the Protestant religion is nothing but a mutilated system of popery; ground- less, incongruous, and full of contradictions. I am riot at all surprised when I hear that the number of Roman Catholics is increasing. In short, he repeatedly indicates the opinion that, if there is to be fixed dogmatic faith, it will be most naturally sought in the system of the Church of Rome.6 Such is his theory: but he bears very important testimony to the fact that dogmatic faith is most extensively and most tena- ciously held in England, and that too among classes who seem to have surrendered many of its supports. Of course it would be expected that he would regard with horror any assertion of the authority of the church or of the spiritual gifts of the sacred ministry : yet he recognizes the power even of these principles with alarm. He writes, in 1836, to Professor Norton, in America We are, unfortunately, retrograde in this country. The grossest spirit of mysticism and popery has revived at Oxford ; not without perse- cution against those who, though feebly, venture to oppose it.7 So he had written to Mr. Armstrong, in l835~ Orthodoxy poisons every man more or less (in this country perhaps more than where it is merely a name) from the cradle. And to another person,9 I deeply lament that England, a land I love and admire, my second country, should be the spot in Europe most deeply sunk into that refined intolerance which attributes opinions to moral de- pravity. And to Mr. Mill I am convinced that no country in the world suffers more from false notions of religion than England. Spain and Italy are indeed ruined by an established superstition of the grossest kind but they have the advantage that the subject is treated as a mere concession to be made to igno- rance till some more favorable moment may arrive for dislodging the abettors of the nuisance from their ruinous strongholds. But in England the most mischievous, because the most intolerant, superstition has succeeded in disguising itself into something like knowledge and system. It exists in the garb of philosophy, meddling with every- thing, not as a mere matter of fact, hut as reason and right.~~iO We could fill whole pages with extracts ex Preface, p. iz. Life, II., p. 139. 5 In i835, Life, II.,p. 140. 7 Life, II., p. 192. 9 lb., p. 109. 2 Life, I., p. 458. lb., p. 126. 6 lb., III. p. i06. S Tb., II., p. 101 01b.,p. 137. 158 LIFE OF MR. BLANCO WHITE. pressing his most hitter complaints against the uni- versal spirit of Bihliolatry in England.1 He finds the attempt to maintain an authoritative reve- lation, which he thinks so mischievous, to he com- mon to Christian persuasions generally.2 The ordinary idea of God, he says, is anthropomorphic, it is gross idolatry.3 Nay, he repeatedly laments the prevalence and power of superstition even among the lJnitarians.~ All this affords ground for thankfulness; and tends to support the hope that, although the prevalent notions in this coun- try may on several points of religion he inexact although a dangerous licence is assumed of dis- tinguishing hetween different articles of faith according to their supposed importance to the indi- vidual niindalthough even schism and heresy he too manifest among usstill those habits of mind are deeply rooted in the people which are tile fun- damental conditions of Catholic faiththe view, namely, of revelation as something fixed and im- mutable, and the conviction of the ethical charac- ter of Christian dogmas, and of their indissoluble connection with the conduct of life. While this is the case, even though the walls should he thrown down, and the foundations laid bare, still their seat in the heart and mind of man is unas- sailed. So much for Mr. Blanco White as a witness to facts. XVhen we turn to the consideration of his claims as a teacher in divine philosophy, we are alike baffled hy the weakness, the incongruity, and the perpetual defluxion of his doctrines. He was indeed, during the last ten years of his life, in a kind of moral atrophy, incessantly employed upon mental speculation, but qnite incapable of deriving nourishment from that which he devoured with an appetite so ravenous. So that he pined more and more, from year to year: and we can scarcely measure the miserable intensity of his disease when we find him sunk so far below the Unitarian heresy as to write to Mr. Norton, the Unitarian professor, that they differ on essentials ;5 and when the same Mr. Norton, himself a Christian in the Unitarian sense, in his controversy with Mr. Ripley, had completely excluded him (Mr. Blanco White) from the class of Christians,~l under the influence of the spirit of orthodoxy. It was indeed no great wonder that any one should have done so, with whom human language was other than a mockery and a fraud ; for about the same time Mr. Blanco White was surely preparing himself for emanci- pation from the last of his fetters, the name of our religion, or he could hardly have written thus :~ How superior, in various respects, is Islamism to superstitious Christianity! It may shock many, but I must express my expectation that hoth the corrupt church Christianity and Islamism itself will disappear in the course of ages, and that the two religions will return to their primitive source the pure patriarchal and primitive view, the true Christian view, of God and maii !~ And a little further on he institutes a contrast between Paganism and Christianity, in direct dis- paragement of the latter. The contradictions with which his work abounds are indescribable. He indeed wonders at his own intellectual consistency9probably because he had For instance, II., pp. 13, 136, 191, 344 III., p. 380. 2 III., p. 66. ~ III., p. 78. I., pp. 228, 264,275, 276. Life, II., p. 361. 6 lb., III., p. 207. 7 lb., III., 277, note. 8 lb., III., p. 280. lb., III., p. 29. forgotten many of the opinions he had renounced, and because of the remarkable positiveness with which he in most cases adopted for the moment the successive modifications of his views. Even the phenomena of his own mind, which seem to have been latterly his only remaining realities, are stated by him in modes quite irreconcilable with each other. For example, during his later life the constant tenor of his representation is, that his return to what he terms orthodoxy, and what we should call partial belief, for some years between 1812 and 1818, and again between 1825 and 1832, was the effect of his religious sympathies, obtain- ing for the time the mastery over his understand- ing.1 But at the first of ihese peiiods he had taken a directly opposite view; for he embodied his sentiments in the prayer which follows 0 Lord, my heavenly Father, who knowest how much of sin still remains in my heart, root out of my mind, I beseech thee, the habits of unbelief which I often feel in myself, stirring against the full persuasion of my understanding on the truth of thy revelation, and the strong desire of my heart after that perfect and tranquil assurance in the promises of thy Gospel; of which, through the impious conduct of my youth, I have made myself absolutely unworthy. He expresses the same sentiments in Isis Prac- tical and Internal Evidence against Catholicism.3 Now, upon the whole, we believe that there not only may, hut must be, very considerable truth in these earlier statements. Because the fact stands upon record that he had passed (between Spain and England) at least ten years in total unbelief. Was it possible that in so long a period he could fail to form skeptical habits of mind; and had they not time to become to a considerable degree in- veterate? It must be borne in mind that our intel- lectual as well as our moral nature is liable to be powerfully affected by habits previously formed. lATe know, for instance, that a statesman, a divine, and a lawyer, each fairly representing his class, will usually take different views of a subject even where they agree in their conclusion: that they must approach it with distinct predispositions. These predispositions mire the results of their several employments, which propose to them the several ends of policy, law, and divine truth, and modify their common mental acts accordingly. Much more must this be the case where the opera- tive cause cuts so deep, lies so close to the very root of our moral being, as in a case of total unbe- lief combined with the exterior acts of the sacer- dotal profession. But Mr. Blanco White, so far from seeing in these facts of his history any dis- qualification, whether total or partial, for his philo- sophical investigations on moral subjects, rather pleads the tenor of his whole life as Isis grand claim to credit. Thus he writes to Miss L, in 1836 :~ having gone through almost every modifica- tion of the spirit of devotion, except those which l)ear the stamp of gross extravagance, I must pos- sess a practical knowledge of the artful disguises of superstition, which no natural talent, no powers of thought. can give by means of study and medi- tation. It is the results of thiat individual experi- ence, and not any new doctrine or theoretical sys- tem, which I have thought it a duty of Christian friendship to give you without disguise. Life, 1., pp. 320, 340, 363; III., 126. 2 lb., I., p. 319. Page 17. Life, II., p. 262. LIFE OF MR. JILANCO WHITE. It is true he speaks of experience, not of opin- ions; but, in point of fact., thought is mental experience; and if the distinction can be drawn, it is quite irrelevant here, for the very letter from which the citation is taken is one of pure theory. We say, therefore, that when we find Mr. Blanco White systematically ignoring the effect which ten years of unbelief not only might hut must have had upon the habits of his mind, we are driven to conclude that he was, however quick and inquisitive, yet a careless, and therefore a had psychologist. His writings do not indeed present a system of belief or of unbelief sufficiently definite to he the subject of methodical argument throughout; and they are not less irregular and incongruous in sub- stance than they are in form. They are constant to nothin~ but to mutability. They present, how- ever, a remarkable number of curious phenomena, and among them that of an intense satisfaction, an ardor of delight, in the Unitarian creed and wor- ship at the period when he formally joined their societies in Liverpool :1 The service at the Unitarian chapel, Paradise street, has given me the most unmixed delight. (Sunday, Feb. 1st, 1835.) Previously to this he had no conception of the power which sacred poetry, full of real religious sentiment, and free from the mawkish mysticism which so much abounds in some collections, can exert over the heart and mind. * * * If Christianity is to become a living power in the civilized parts of the world, it must be under the Unitarian form. * * * What strikes me niost of all is, what I might call the reality, the true connection with life, which this worship possesses. All that I had practised before seemed to lie in a region scarcely within view. * * * Here the prayers, the whole worship, is a part of my real life. I pray with my spirit, I pray with my understanding also. May I not say, that suffering every hour from the bleeding wounds of my heart, those wounds that even my friends touch roughly, I have been already rewarded for acting in conformity with principle! And there is much more to the same effect. Shall we offer our explanation of the enigma which this outburst of devout gratification in con- nection with the freezing system of the Socinian worship appears to present It is this the wave- tossed swimmer, gasping for breath, had been cast upon a shore; he had not had time to perceive that it was a barren one, and he did not know that an- other billow would soon bear him back to sea. His mind had rest and satisfaction when he exchanged interminable doubts and the disgusts of a false and abstractedly a dishonest position for the definite view, and with the view the confession, of two essential parts of the Catholic faith, the unity of God and the mission of Christ. Thus he exulted in Unitarianism as a starving garrison make a ban- quet upon a supply of ~arbage. But this did not and could not last. The narrow measure even of Unitarian dogma was soon felt to be too broad for him. Blank misgivings, questionings, returned upon him. Skepticism was gorged for the moment; but its appetite too soon revived. Only two years after these raptures2 he wits so perplexed in his view of the being of God, that he said, man could Life, II., p. 92: see also pp. 88, iOi, i2t, 123, i24~ 2 Life, II., p. 283. 159 only turn to the light within him and follow it, for.. getting the dark mystery of his existence. Then he ceased to realize Christianity as an historical revelation. He ceased to perceive the duty of prayer.2 He lost his view of the personal immor- tality of the soul.3 He placed the idea of the Deity somewhere between the Christian belief and Pantheism,~ and declared the latter to be the lesser evil. He reminds us of the long descent in the Inferno, from stage to stage, and circle to circle, each lower and each narrower than the last, until it ends in the eternal ice of Giudecca. The accompaniments, as regarded his owti peace, of this process of destruction, he has feelingly de- scribed in these lines5 (1837) Brother, or sister, whosoeer thou art! Couldst thou but see the fang that gnaws my heart, Thou wouldst forgive this transient gush of scorn, Would shed a tear, in pity wouldst thou mourn For one who, spite the wrongs that lacerate His weary soul, has never learnt to hate. And we trust that his appeal to pity will meet with a universal response. The claim made on his behalf,5 that he should be regarded as a standard-bearer of mankind, calls for firm resist- ance; many of his opinions warrant, and indeed demand from us, a sentiment nothing short of horror; hut the ntan himself, who, if he erred ter- ribly, suffered not less deeply, and who, amidst bewildering error and acute and protracted pain, still cherished many of the sentiments that belong to duty and to piety; he has a right to receive at our hands sympathy and tenderness, and we should leave the dark questions of his destiny there, where alone there is skill to solve them, in The bosom of his Father and his God. There were, it is evident, many signs of noble- ness, both in fragments of his opinions, and in his conduct to the last. After he had become a Unita- rian, he could still discern7 the essential mis- take which lies at the bottom of Paleys system ; and when he was sinking yet lower, he did not cease (in 1837) to appreciate the excellence of Bishop Butlers theory8 of human nature. He recommended that in philosophical inquiries we should be on our guard against selfishness, and rule points in opposition to our inclinations.t He held (1838) that our naturet0 was unable to com- prehend moral truth beyond its own degree of purity. He contended that virtue has an authority and obligatiomi independently of the ideas of our indefinite existence, amid of its securing our happi- ness; and even after he had ceased to retain any determinate belief in our future life, he still clung with happy inconsistency to the idea that in the hands of his Maker he shottld be safe,2 and that God would certainly re~vard the disinterested gen- erosity of a friend.3 lie cherished, with whatever associations, the love of God,4 and maintained re- signation to His ~~iIl,even when it seems almost im- - possible to see how he could have had a dogmatic belief in the existence of a Divine will at all. There was, in short, a disposition to resist the tyranny of self, to recognize the rule of duty, to maintains Life, II., p. 318. 4 lb., II., p. a6i. 6 Introduction, p. x. lb., II., p. 282. lb.3 lb., II., p. 300. ~ lb., III., p. 20. 2 lb., II. lb., III., p. 63,. II)., II., p. 334. 7 Life, II., p. 87. II., p. 270. ~ lb., III.,p. 25... t2 lb., III., p. ior. 4 lb., III., p. i07. 160 LIFE OF MR. BLANCO WHITE. the supremacy of the higher over the lower parts of our nature, which is not always equally observ- able, in less heterodox writers, and which imparts some tinge of consolation to the melancholy and painful retrospect of his life and opinions. There are also circumstances connected with the discharge of activc duty, vhich should not be for- gotten on his behalf. We cannot banish all senti- ments of respect for one who twice in his life, for the sake even of erroneous conviction, and after much lingering and hesitation, severed himself from almost every worldly good. There may he persons who are entitled to condemn and upbraid him ; but such a voice should not come from among those who live in the lap of bodily and mental ease, who have never experienced his trials, and upon whom God has never laid the weight of his afflictions. When he was bed- ridden, in his old age and in the solitude of his lodgingsolitude not the less sensible because lie dwelt in one of the streets of busy Liverpoolhis son, who bears the queens commission, returned from service in India to visit him. It is evident that this period was one of great enjoyment and relief. However, keeping in view his sons pro- fessional prospects, he writes to a friend that he has advised him to return to India ;i and, he adds, but as I shook him hy the hand on Saturday evening, knowing that I should in all probability never see him again, I could hardly contain my anguish within my bosom. Fortunately I was going to bed, where I could give way to my sor- row. And he enters in his journal, June 15th, 1839 Took my last leave of Ferdinand, and felt as if my heart was breaking. He indeed ascribes this paternal act, so tenderly and delicately performed, to his philosophy; we must take leave rather to set it down to the genial instincts of a nature which, speaking according to ordinary usage, we should call evidently an unsel- fish one, and full of kindly affections. We have stated that these volumes do not con- tain any regular system of unbelief; but their author has presented to us very distinctly the par- ticular stumbling-block which first, and also lat- terly, overthrew his faith, and which appears to have been the disposition to demand an amount, or rather a kind, of evidence in favor of revealed reli- gion different from that which the nature of the subject matter and the analogies of our human state entitles us to expect. Let us then advert to the original form of the. delusion to which Mr. Blanco White became a prey on the two greatest occasions of his falling away, separated as they were by an interval of some thirty-five years2a circumstance which he con- ceives to be confirmatory of the justice of his courseas indeed it is, if the argument itself be a sound one, but which has a significancy of quite an opposite nature if it he intrinsically and radi- cally bad. Here then we will give the n~7,rov as he himself, and that apparently with nO small complacency, has stated it, and as he applied itfirst to the authority of the churchsecondly, to the inspiration of Holy Scripture, and the authenticity of its component partsthe two pil- lars, in his view, of the system of Catholicity and orthodoxy.3 I will grant as much as possible to the defend- ~Life, IU.,p. ~s. 2 lb., III., p. 136. lb., lII.,p. 145. ers of the authenticity of the gospels: I will acknowledge that what is alleged against that authenticity does not rise above conjecture. But, premising that the authenticity would not prove the inspiration of those writings, I ask, have the arguments any higher character than probability in regard to authenticity? Can anything but hypo- thetical fitness be pleaded for inspiration l Now the orthodox probabilities have very high probabil- ities against them; the hypothesis is all conjec- tured. And is it upon such grounds that Heaven can have demanded an absolute certainty of belief in the authenticity and divine auth6rity of the whole Bible l The demand would be nionstrous; belief, according to the immutable laws of the human mind, cannot be stronger than its grounds. God, who gave such laws to our souls, could not make it a moral duty for man to act against them. This was written in 1839. He had, however, placed upon record some similar reasoning several years before, and with reference to his first inqui- ries in England soon after the year 1814. The Scriptures, he there says, are time highest authority in matters directly con- nected with Christianity. But even that authority is not entitled to implicit and blind obedience. Why l Because the authenticity of those writings is only an historical probability.tm * * * The case is exactly parallel to that of the Roman Catholic divines when defending the supre- macy and infallibility of Peter and his pretended successors.2 * * * * The foundation of certainty must be certain. Divines would make the Eternal Fountain of Reason more illogical than the weakest man. If God had intended to dwell miraculously among men in a book, as in an oracle, from which we might obtain infallible answers, he would not have left that first foundation of the intemided certainty to probability and conjecture. These quotations, we believe, are sufficient to convey the form and the force of his argument; so that we may at once proceed to state our objec- tions to it. We are surprised at the cool and almost con- temptuous manner in which Mr. Blanco White speaks of the most celebrated work of Bishop But- ler. After commending the sermons of that great writer, he proceeds Butlers Analogy is an inferior work. The argument of analogy, especially when applied to the Christianity of churches, is totally unsatisfac- tory.~ Now we must venture to hazard the conjecture that he had never adequately studied this infe- rior work; of which it appears to us that even the several members, apart from the general argu- ment, are so many distinct and permanent contri- butions to that philosophy which will eiidure as long as the dispensation of our moral state. In his Introduction, Bishop Butler has given a brief view of probable evidence, its nature, scope, and obligatory power, which we think affords materials for the confutation of the sophistry of the argument before us. Philosophizing upon human action, we must collect its laws from a legitimate induction; and we cordially subscribe to the prin- ciple, that God, who has given certain laws to our souls, could not m?tke it a moral duty for man to act against them. Life, I., 279. 2 Compare Practical and Internal Evidence, p. 109. 3 Life, II., P. 282. LIFE OF MR. BLANCO WHITE. 161 Now the argument of Mr. Blanco White appears, constitution of our minds, is such as to exclude all firstly, to confound belief with knowledge; and, doubt. Human language applies the denornina- secondly, to assume that orthodoxy, or the Cath- tion of knowledge to such assent, in cases where olic faith, is connected with belief rather than with this exclusion is entire and peremptory in the action, or with belief apart from action. As to the highest degree. Between that poiot arid the point first: your evidences, says he, are not demon- at which a proposition becomes improbable, and a strative; therefore I cannot believe. This is a just understanding inclines to its rejection, an in- gross inconsequence. We must entreat the reader finity of shades of likelihood intervene. For cx- to remember that in the language of metaphysics ample: where the exclusion of doubt is after con- the term probability includes everything short of sideration entire, but yet not peremptory and absolute and infallible, or properly scientific cer- immediate ; where it depends upon the compre- tainty; and with this single caution we proceed to hensive and continuous view of many particulars; reply, demonstration is the appropriate foundation where it rests upon the recollection of a demon- of knowledge, but probability of belief. stration, of which the detail has escaped from the Assuredly, we are not about to take refuge from memory; where it proceeds from some strong the adversary in pleading the majesty of faith as original instinct, incapable of analysis in the last against reason, in an appeal to theology against resort these are all cases in which doubt might experience, in inventing a new law of credibility be entirely banished, but we should scarcely know fur religious purposes, which shall be inapplicable whether to say our assent was founded on knowl- to common life. There is indeed a dictum in edge or upon belief, the shades of the two, as they vogue with some, where mystery begins religion are commonly understood, passing into one an- ends ; which almost provokes the parody, where other; but generally this distinction would be antithesis begins common sense ends. But our taken between them; that we should call knowl- intention is to charge upon the theory of Mr. edge what does not to our perceptions admit of Blanco White this intelligible and capital offence; degree, and what does admit of it we should call that it, like all the tribe to which it belongs, errs belief, although we might in the particular case against reason, against experience, against the possess it in the highest degree, 51) that it should principles on which the ordinary and uniform have all the certainty of knowledge; Just as we practice of mankind in ordinary life is founded; can readily conceive two stations, the one at the which ordinary and uniform practice, and not the head of a pillar, and the other of a stair, yet of crotchets of a disorderly arid unstable understand- equal altitude. ing, may suffice to show us, with some tolerable Now the fundamental proposition on which we clearness, what really are those laws which God rest, and for the proof of which we appeal, with- has given to our souls, and which it is not only out fear of a disputed reply, to the universal prac not a f [nankind, is this: that the whole system duty to infringe, but the very first and high- tice o est duty to observe in act, and to maintain in un- of our moral conduct, and much also of our con- disputed authority, duct that is not directly moral, rests upon belief First, we hold that it is only by a licence of as contradistinguished from knowledge, and not speech that the term knowledge can be applied to always upon belief in the very hiahest deoree any of our human perceptions. For as nothing which utterly extinguishes doubt, but in every di- can in tire nature of things, properly speaking, be versity of degree so long as any appreciable por- known, except that which exists, or known in any tron of comparative likelihood remains, although manner other than that exact mariner in which it many of these degrees may be hampered with very exists, it follows that knowledge can properly be considerable doubt as they actually subsist in the predicated only of those perceptions which are ab- mind, and many more cases would be open to sen- solutely and exactly true; and further, that it can OUS doubts if they were subjected to speculative be so predicated only by those who infallibly know examination. Arid further, that this, which is them to be true, in strictness, therefore, knowl- indisputable in point of fact, is not less irrefraga- edge is not predicable by us of any one of our own ble in point of reason; and that any other rule for perceptions; whatever number of them may be the guidance of human life would be not irreli- true, we do not infallibly know of any one of them gious, but irrational in the extreme. We take that it is true. Of all the steps in the operations first a case of the highest practical certainty. of our mental faculties, there is not one at which How do we know that the persons who purport to it is abstractedly impossible that error should inter- be our parents, brothers and sisters, really are vene; and as this is nut impossible, knowledge, what they pass for It is manifest that the posi- the certain and precise correspondence of the per- tive evidence producable in each case falls far cipient and the thing perceived, cannot be cate- short of a demonstrative character; nay more, it gorically asserted. If, therefore, without knowl- is perfectly well known that in many cases these edge in its scientific sense there can be no legiti- relations have been pretended where they did not mate belief, this wide universe is a blank, and exist, and the delusion long maintained. And yet nothing can be believed: nothing theological, no- every man carries in his mind a conviction upon thing moral, nothing social, nothing physical. In the subject, as it regards himself, utterly exclu- a word, abstract certainty, in this dispensation, sive of doubt. And those who should raise doubts we scarcely can possess, though we may come in- upon it, in consequence of the want of mathemati- definitely near it: and knowledge and certainty, cal certainty, would be deemed fitter for Bedlam and all similar expressions as practical terms must than for the pursuit of philosophical inquiries. be understood not absolutely but relativelyrela- Here then is an absolute contradiction, supplied tively that is to the limit imposed by the nature of by that universal conviction and practice of man our faculties, and this not with regard to revela- kind, from whence by a legitinrate induction we tion only, but throughout the whole circle of our infer the true laws of our nature, to the theorems experience, of Mr. Blanco White, or perhaps rather to his Nex tto this abstract certainty, comes that kind grand inference from them, namely, that the do- of assent to propositions which, according to the mand made upon men for the reception of Chris- LIFE OF MR. IThANCO WHITE. tianity is greater than can be warranted by the rea- sons on which it purports to rest. But again, there are numberless instances in wbich a very great practical uncertainty prevails, and yet where we must act just as we should if there were no doubt at all. A man with many children will pre- pare them all for after-life, though probably one or more will die before attaining maturity. A tells B th t his house is on fire; A niay have mo- tives for deceiving him, but B, if he be a rational man, quits the most interesting occupation, and goes to see. But there is no end to the multipli- cation of instances; let any man examine his own daily experience, and be will find that its whole tissue is made up of them; or, in the words of that inferior work of Bishop Butler, to us probability is the very guide of life. Mr. Blanco White might indeed have received very useful lessons on this subject from an ingenious and really philosophical brochure of Archbishop Whatelys, entitled Historic Doubts concerning tbe Existence of Napoleon Bonaparte, in which he shows how open to abstract objections are the grounds upon which, as individuals, we receive facts even of common notoriety. Now it will not be enough for the opponent to retort that probability will do for small matters, but that in great ones, and especially in what re- gards the salvation of the soul, we must have demonstration. For the law of credibility, upon which our common and indeed universal practice is founded, has no more dependence upon the magnitude of the objects to which it is applied than have the numbers of the arithmetical scale, which embrace motes and mountains with exactly the same propriety, It is not the greatness or minuteness of the proposition, but the balance be- tween likelihood and unlikelihood, which we have to regard whenever we are called to determine upon assent or rejection. It is true, indeed, that when the matter is very small, the evil of acting against probability will be small also. But this shows that in a practical view the obligation of the law becomes not less but more astringent as the rank of the subject in question rises; because tIme best and most rational method of avoiding a very great evil, or of realizing a very great good, has a much higher degree of claim upon our considera- tion and acceptance in proportion to the degree of the greatness of the object in vmew. But, next, is Mr. Blanco White correct in say- ing that the Christianity of churches demands from all its disciples, at all stages of their pro- gress, an absolute and mathematical conviction I Where did he learn so severe a theology? Hook- er2 has shown in his sermon on the certainty and perpetuity of faith in the elect, of which the doc- trine is by no means lax, that true faith does not imply the exclusion of all doubt whatever. He even says, speaking of revealed truths, of them at some time who doubteth not ~ Bishop Pear- son defines Christian belief to be an assent to that which is credible, as credible. But clearly, much that is on the whole credible is open to a degree of doubt; although it could not be credible unless the doubt were outweighed upon a comparison by tIme evidences in its favor. What, again, is the meaning of Lord, I believe; help thou mine on- belief? There is, in such a case, a conflict within the mind: it is divided, though unequally 1 Introduction to the Analogy of Natural and Revealed Religion, p. 4. 2 Works, III., p. 585, ed. Keble, 1836. divided. This, however, is the exception, not the rule. In general we do not imagine that even the nascent belief of Christians is seriously troubled with substantive doubts; but it clearly has not, and cannot have, nor have the great majority of our most rational acts in common life, a foundation in that philosophical completeness of conviction, which is an essential condition of the permanent and abso- lute freedom from doubt. But in point of fact, the formation of this mature belief, the mode of dealing with temptation when it arises in the form of doubt, is a high portion of the discipline of the soul; all that we need here lay down is this : to hold that an absolute intellectual certainty belongs of necessity to the reception of Christianity, is a proposition altogether erroneous. We shall note one other and gross error, as it appears to us, in this part of the philosophy of Mr. Blarico White. The stages of mental assent and dissent are almost innumerable; but the alterna- tives of action proposed by the Catholic faith are two only. There is a narrow way and a broad one ; in the one or the other of these every man, according to his testimony, must walk. It will not do to say, I see this difficulty about the Chris- tian theory, so I cannot adopt it; and that difficul- ty about the anti-Christian theory, so I cannot em- brace that; I will wait and attach myself to nei- ther. Could our whole being, except the sheer intellect, be laid in abeyance, such a notion would at least be intelligible; but in the mean time, life and its acts proceed: E mangia, e bee, e dorme, e veste panni 1 and not only as to these functions, but also our moral habits are in the course of formation or destruction; character receives its bias; there are appetites to he governed, powers to be employed; and these matters cannot be wholly nor at all adjourned. The discharge of the daily duties of our position absolutely must be adapted either to the supposition that we have a Creator and a Redeemer, or to the supposition that we have not. There is no intermediate verdict of not proven, which leaves the question open: the question to us is, Is there such proof as to demand obedience? and there are no possible replies in act, whatever there may be in word, except aye and no. The lines of conduct are but two, and our liberty is limited to the choice between them. Here it is, therefore, that we perceive the stringent obligation of the law ~f credibility, as applied to the belief of Christianity, upon man. On a subject purely abstract or not entailing moral responsibilities, upon the genera- tion of the present structure of the world by fire or water, upon the theory of vibrations in optics, upon the system of Copernicus or of Descartes, we might have taken refuge in a philosophical sus- pense, while the evidence fell short of demonstra- tion; and even after the proof has been completed, the error of withholding assent is not a fatal one; but the belief which Christianity enforces, it en- forces as the foundation of daily conduct, as the framework into which all acts, all thoughts, all hopes, affections and desires, are to be cast, and by which they must be moulded. Whatever it teaches, for example, concerning the work and the person of our Lord, it teaches not in the abstract, but as holding forth Him whose steps we are to follow, in whom our whole trust is to be reposed, with whom we are to be vitally incor- porated, and whom accordingly we must needs 1 Inferno, xxxiii. 141. 162 LIFE OF MR. ~LANCO WHITE. know even though in a glass darkly, for how can we imitate, or how love, without some kind of vision, and how can definite vision he transmitted from man to man without language; and what are the creeds but the vision of God as He is, transferred into language? So again, whatever the Catholic faith teaches concerning the church, it teaches us concerning the organ hy which these operations are to be effected in us, even as the schoolboy is taught the rules of school in which he is to learn, and the workman those of the art which he is to practise. Now, singular as it is, considering that we have before us the case of a person of such a character and such a posi- tion, we find in Mr. Blanco Whites system no recognition of the fact, we do not say that the Catholic faith is actually connected with Christian practice, (which would be begging the question from him,) but that the Catholic faith is taught by the church as being so connected, as being the proper and exclusive foundation of Christian prac- tice; so that her demand is by no means that of an assent to a scheme of abstract dogmas; it is the demand for our conforming to a new law of heart and life, which new law (as she says) can only take effect under the influence of the faith and by the agency which it provides; it is the old charter of the gospel testifying repentance towards God, and therewith, but only in indissoluble conjunc- tion therewith, also faith in the Lord Jesus Christ. In discussing therefore the reception or rejection of Christianity, according to its credibility or incredibility, we must remember that it purports to be a system of belief and action inseparably combined, and therefore that if it be credible it entails the obligation not of a speculation but of a liractical question, a question to be decided here and now, which cannot be relegated to the region of indifference, but which, even if our understand- ing refuse to act, our conduct must either recog- nize as true, or else repudiate as false. Against this part, then, of Mr. Whites doctrine, we contend, that Christianity does not require the highest degree of intellectual certainty in order to be honestly and obediently received; and that the very same principles which govern our action in common life, cognizable by common sense, are those which, fortified through Gods mercy with a singular accumulation and diversity of evidence, demand our reception of the word and our implicit obedience to it; and that we cannot refuse this demand upon the plea that the evidence is only probable and not demonstrative, without rebellion ~gainst the fundamental laws of our earthly state, as they are established by a truly Catholic consent in the perpetual and universal practice of man- kind. And it is well worthy of remark, that Mr. Blanco White did not deny that probability was in favor of the Christian Revelation. This is plain, from the passages on which we have been arguing. But even at a later time he allowed that the Chris- tian revelation was proved up to a certainper- haps a slightdegree of probability. Upon his own statement, therefore, it stands that he fol- lowed the improbable; and as the evidence was conclusive neither way, he chose that side upon which the lack was greatest; and his doctrine is overturned by the very argument which he has taken for its foundation. From this subject we pass on to observe, that Mr. Blanco White entertained the notion, common with those in his unhappy condition, that the nioral part of the gospel could he separated from its dogmatical part. This we shall show from his own words, and we shall also endeavor to point out the steps by which he arrived at the position, and to blanc e at its consequences. He originally rejected Christianity in Spain, because he could not find the proof of a living infallible judge in questions of religion, and because he found that the Roman Church, which claimed that ch~ racter, had not sustained it in practice.tm X\Then he came to England, the theory of religion presented to him, on which his reviving affections fastened, was one very different from that of the formularies or of the theologians of the English Church, but which has nevertheless, from time to time since the Reformation, obtained various degrees of cur- rency in the popular mind. We cannot describe it more shortly, than by saying, it is a theory which attaches no meaning to those words of the twen- tieth Article: the church bath authority in con- troversies of faith ; and which rightly asserting the supremacy of Scripture, wrongly sub joins to it the supremacy of the individual next to Scripture. But he does not appear, either at that or at any subsequent time, to have examined that view of religion, according to which, without the promi- nent assertion, or even without the assermien at all, of an abstract infallibility, the church, distributed in her regular organization through the earth, is divinely charged with the functions of a moral guide, and instructs the individual believer with a weight of authority varying according to the solem- nity of the subject matter, the particular organ from which the judgment proceeds, and its title to represent her universal and continual sense. He went therefore to the study of Holy Scripture, in the year 1814, with the expectation that he could find, firstly, a mathematical denmonstration of the canon, and, secondly, the limits and definitions of faith so laid down upon its sacred pages as (if we may so speak) almost mechanically to preclude mistake in every case of pious and upright inten- tion. He was naturally much disappointed to find that the authenticity and inspiration of the Bible were themselves questions, like that of the char- acter of the church, and as we have said, like most other questions, to be examined by the light of probable evidence. As in the case (if the church, when he failed to find that sort of infallible teach- ing which would go far to supersede faith and moral discipline, he lost, and never recovered, the very idea of her functions as a spiritual mother; so he first imagined, apparently, that Scripture would be to him all that the church had proposed to be; and when this expectation was falsified, he very speedily lost his hold upon Scripture, as an author- itative document, altogether. Then doctrinal doubts at once began to assault him; his understanding wavered, and he had none of the extrinsic support which he would have derived from the divines and the reformers of the English Church, if it had been his lot to recommence his studies in their school, and if, like them, he had been content to receive, as the legitimate witness to the sense of Holy Scripture, the voice of the universal church. So that he very soon lost any portion of dogmatic faith that he had recovered. But having, as we see from his whole works, much more of affection than of conviction, he naturally clung to the moral I Life, III., p. 406; and II., p. 235. iLife, I.,p. iii. 163 LIFE OF MR. BLANCO WHITE. teaching of Scripture as long as any strength remained. He found the evidence on most contro- verted doctrines so equal, as he thought, that he conceived it best to have no opinion upon them (1818); he imagined the purpose of Scripture was to teach the spirit of Christian morality,~ not to fix a code of opinions; he placed hefore him- self Gods will as a rule of life (1821) ;3 having doubts on the subject of particular and general providence, he put that question as an abstract one! into the catalogue of non-essentials (1822) ;4 and in one year more (1823) he concluded that5 Christianity had no letter, and that the spirit of which it testifies could not he distinguished from conscientious reason. But he does not appear, during that period of declension, to have been shaken as to the morality of the New Testament. Most true indeed it is, that as the church is the bulwark of the canon of the Scripture and the doc- trine it contains, so that doctrine is the bulwark of the whole of its moral law; and there is usually silence for a little space bet~veen the enemys sur- mounting one of these inclosures and the attempt to scale the next. But in the period of his second and final lapse from the Christian faith, which fol- lowed the year 1830, and became rapid from 1833, it is qnite evident that, following the natural order of things, he became less and less firm by degrees as to the morality of the Bible. He began by holding that our duty was to receive Christ as our moral king,6 and to believe in God, and exercise the religious affections towards Him apart from all dogmas as to his objective nature.7 But in 1836 he said Dr. Whately has endeavored to gloss over the false political economy of the Gospels, and indeed of the New Testament altogether, in regard to almsgiving: but the thing cannot be fairly done. Christ and his Apostles thought that to give away everything a man possessed was one of the highest acts of virtue.6 Next he defined prayer to be, properly speaking, a longing or desire, an act of the heart ; and he adds, To make it an act also of the lips, in regard to God, may be excusable, under certain circum- stances. ~ Then he established, incredible as it may appear that such should be the result of almost a whole life of criticism in one form or other, as a rule for judging of the genuineness of passages in the New Testament, the moral consequences which they had produced,0 and their conformity to that reason which he defined to be the voice of God within us. I approve in them what I find worthy of approval, and reject what I see no reason to believe or follow. 12 On this ground we presume, as he does not name any other, he repudiates (in 1834) the narrative of the woman taken in adultery.3 With the lapse of time the evil proceeds. In 1838 he says Soc- rates would have been a very different, evidently meaning an inferior, person, if he had had bodily ill-health to hear; and he proceeds,4 in words which we will not quote, (they simply express the thought,) to the blasphemous remark that the same would probably have been the case with our Lord. This is, indeed, a sentiment quite within the creed Life, I., p. 344. 2 lb., p. 368. ~ Tb .,p.378. lb., p. 398. ~ lb., p. 405. 6 lb., II., p. 4. Th., p. 276. 8 lb., p. 200. 9 lb., II., p. 263. 1~ lb., p. 287. lb., Ill., p. 155. 12 Compare II., 235. ~ Life, I.) ~. 281. 14 lb., III., p. 36. of regular Unitarianism: but it is Unitarianism practically applied, Unitarianism (so to speak) in motion, and thus it strikes more forcibly upon the eye. Some time later, however, he struck at the very foundation of the moral code of Him who inaugurated His great discourse with the text that blessed are the poor in spirit. For Mr. Blanco White writes thus concerning humility in 1840 Humility could not he raised to the catalogue of virtues, except in a society chiefly composed of men degraded by personal slavery, suds as history exhibits the early church. Slaves alone could find such a sanctified cloak for cowardice as humility for it is not a dignified endurance of unavoidable evil, but such a cringing as may allay the anger of an insolent oppressor. Such subu~ission cannot find acceptance in thine eyes, 0 God, for it classes Thee with tise despots of this earth. * * If he (our Saviour) ever uttered the rule of offering the cheek for a second insult, he must have done it under the conviction that the Oriental style he was using could not be misunderstood but by idiots. * * In the multitude of slaves who flocked to the church is to be found the source of that humility which has lowered the standard of modern virtue.2 Then, becoming rabid in his infatuation, he pro- ceeds to stigmatize3 the mean ambition, the low and degraded character, and the worldly views of the martyrs of that Lord who is to be glorified in His saints and admired in them that believe:4 and as if it had been written in heaven that the man who uttered this impiety should not 1)0 suf- fered to do it without at the same time exposing himself to ridicule, while he has thns the Christian church and her achievenients in his eye, he pro- ceeds to complain that thus To create in us a habit of distrust and timidity, is to deprive us of that confidence which is the foundation of all high enterprise.5 Yet he knew something of the power of that system which is thus enfeebled and degraded by the doctrine of humility; for among th~e nsany causes that embittered his last days and made his life a torment, was the belief which he has re- corded that, during his latter days, contrary to the hopes he had once entertained, oxthodoxy was on the advance in the land which he had hoped would be its grave. Lastly, we are obliged to observe, before quitting this part of the subject, Mr. Blanco White appears to have had most feeble ideas of the nature and heinousness of sin as a contravention of the divine will. Of the sins of his own early life he some- times speaks in the terms of penitence, but we do not perceive that the idea of sin as such ever raised in him the horror which belongs to it. in his later life, we usust say that his vehemence against the Christian doctrine of original sin consorts but too well with his faint impressions upon actual sin. Of the former he does not scruple to say that those who can believe in it are beyond the reach of reasoning.6 Upon the latter, besides a scoff in an earlier passage,7 he says There is nothing like pore joy among us. Pleasure constantly assumes the appearance of sin a word which perverts every mind arno us. The Hebrew had a sounder notion of the state of man upon earth. See the opinions and sentiments expressed in the book of Solomon. St. l~vIatt. v. 3. Life, lit., p. 272-4. 273, note. 2 Thess. i. 10. p. 275. lb., III., p. 77. lb., II., p. 298. 8 lb., III., p. 173. 164 LIFE OF MR. BLANCO WHiTE. We esteem these parts of his history as